by Joel Travis
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT BLABBERMOUTH:
FIVE STARS! “This author's style of writing is one that makes you keep saying to yourself, "I'll read one more chapter and then I'll stop," but you can't stop reading! Brit, the main character and narrator, has a warped perspective which makes his thoughts extremely funny to read. In my opinion, the humor is what makes the writing of this author stand out from the rest.”
FIVE STARS! “Very entertaining read - hilarious and compelling. The writer has a style which kept me laughing the whole way through the book. Travis is for real and the Brit Moran character needs to live on. Can't wait for his next escapade.”
FIVE STARS! “Finding a gem in the form of an original plot, interesting (if incredibly off-beat) characters, and, best of all—witty, understated dialogue—is an occasion to cherish. This is an wonderful read, good characters (most of them in serious need of professional help of one sort or another!), and outstanding dialogue, the latter reminiscent of one of my favorite authors, Elmore Leonard. Or an even better analogy—remember the characters and dialogue in Joseph Heller's "Catch-22"?”
FIVE STARS! “If you are a fan of Carl Hiaasen or Elmore Leonard, you will enjoy "Blabbermouth". Hilarious dialogue, interesting characters, and a good plot. I read this on my iPad during a flight, and literally got reprimanded for laughing out loud too much. Hope there is a sequel soon.”
FIVE STARS! “The book is full of clever lines - you can't skim it or there will be little things you will miss. I thought it was really fresh and original, something different. An added bonus, you could never guess the solution that Brit unravels at the end.”
FIVE STARS! “The usual 'whodunit' detective book got a really refreshing update here and I was impressed. I couldn't wait to pick up the book each night. I sincerely hope that Moran will be back.”
FIVE STARS! “A friend of mine, who knows how critical I am regarding humorous mysteries, recently recommended Blabbermouth to me. I read it while on vacation and thoroughly enjoyed Brit Moran and his amazing tale. Joel Travis's mystery absolutely drips with sarcasm and it has a plentiful amount of weird and wonderful characters. I highly recommend the book.”
FIVE STARS! “Blabbermouth is a fantastic read. I really enjoyed all the characters and the consistent humor. The story flowed well to keep me on the edge of my seat and wondering what would happen next. I hope the author makes a sequel. Until then I will have already recommended the book to a couple close friends. Let Brit live on!”
FROM PUBLISHERS WEEKLY:
After his compact car is hit by a large truck, Brit Moran believes that his final moments are imminent, and makes a lengthy deathbed confession to operating an illegal sports gambling racket in Dallas for five years. Fortunately, Moran’s injuries are not fatal; unfortunately, his compromising admissions have been heard by a motley assortment of bedside visitors, including a local police detective and the younger brother of Cesar Hernandez, Moran’s backer in his bookmaking business. The book follows, courtesy of Moran’s often hilarious first-person narration, the consequences of his ill-timed frankness, which include assault, vandalism, theft and murder. When the police identify Moran as the prime suspect in the killing, he embarks on an amateurish and offbeat quest for the truth. Readers who like to smile while reading a whodunit should hope that the author manages to enmesh his creation in further investigations.
#
Chapter 1
I should be dead.
I drove a compact sports car which is considerably more compact and not nearly as sporty as a result of the accident. The other fellow drove a truck with more wheels than you'd think he'd need to get where he was going. I ended up on what we all believed to be my deathbed. A crowd of well-wishers gathered around my hospital bed in anticipation of my last words.
You can remember eloquent final words from the history books. For example, it was Revolutionary War hero Nathan Hale who said: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Almost a century later, Civil War hero Stonewall Jackson spoke his parting words from his deathbed: “Let us cross over the river, and rest in the shade of the trees.”
I might have expected that my last words would be just as brief, if not as memorable. Instead, they went on and on and were apparently memorized by all in attendance. The problem is that you don't know exactly how much time you're allotted for your dying remarks. I figured the worst scenario would be to croak before I finished speaking, so I issued a concise confession.
“May God in Heaven forgive me. I ran an illegal sports gambling racket in Dallas for the past five years. What I did was wrong, even if I did profit from it like you wouldn't believe.”
That was all I was going to say. My conscience was clear. I closed my eyes in preparation for the ultimate exit. There was a pause in the action, which no one seemed comfortable with since I didn't pass away. I felt guilty for dragging out my death and using up everyone's spare time. Compelled to say something to fill the dead air, I opened my eyes and continued.
“I couldn't have done it without my financial backer and mentor, Cesar Hernandez. The book detailing our operation can be retrieved from my locker at Joe's Gym on Gaston Avenue. You'll find the locker key in the right front pocket of my trousers. All I ask is that you wait until I expire before you stick your hands in my pants.”
I wasn't wearing any pants. You'd think that would be ample proof that I wasn't thinking clearly—invalidating my confession—but it turns out that these deathbed confessions are widely known to be the most credible kind you can make. In reality, I was garbed in a standard-issue hospital gown. (They call it a gown, though the gowns I've seen cover your ass.)
I closed my eyes again, trying to look peaceful and content in my final moments. I lay there, feeling like I owed my audience a death rattle, yet unable to deliver so much as a cough. Long story short, I rambled on for another half hour. I named names and cited multiple sources. In retrospect, I can assure you that I covered everything.
At this juncture I should recount who was listening to my deathbed confession. There was my brother, Marty, and his lovely wife, Susan. Also all ears were Marty's best friend, Police Detective Forest Gardner, and another friend of Marty's who introduced himself to me as “Ace Monroe.” I remember thinking it was ironic that I was to spend my last precious seconds on earth meeting Ace Monroe, after I had been lucky enough not to know him when I had all the time in the world.
In addition to that group, I was privileged to have the Reverend Means on hand. For some reason Reverend Means was leaning over my face, invading my personal space. He was a man of the cloth, so I let it slide. If a man of the cloth wants to lean over a man of the sloth, I say let him.
Also present, although I was not aware of it at the time, was Julio Hernandez. Julio is Cesar's younger brother. I had always been under the impression from Cesar that the Hernandez brothers had a falling out years ago. I can now verify that Julio and Cesar were at least on speaking terms, which is the way it should be with brothers.
#
I lived to regret my dying words, if that makes
any sense. I granted myself an early release from the hospital—a full week earlier than my doctor had scheduled. I walked out in the middle of the night. It's not as hard as you'd think, even on a trick knee. I probably could have snatched a newborn on the way out if I'd wanted to add to my growing list of worries:
1. Cesar had sent a hateful note to my hospital room.
2. A neighbor called to say that my apartment was being watched.
3. According to Marty, my gym locker had been vandalized.
#
Are you curious to know where I live now that I can't safely return to my apartment? I'll tell you anyway. With no one to guide me and no one to hide me, I am self-reliant. Try it sometime. Just make sure the car you borrow from your brother has a decent heating system.
Eventually the discomfort of living in my brother's 1972 Ford Pinto will outweigh the risk and I'll check into a comfortable hotel. Right about that time, the police will utilize their vast resources and informant network to track me down. In the meantime, I write this journal during daylight and listen to the car radio at night through crackling speakers. I know there are people who are far worse off, but shouldn’t there be more to life at the prime age of thirty-five?
#
Look around you. Swing a stick and see if you don't hit someone who's made mistakes. And what mistakes did I really make? Excuse me for getting pulverized by an eighteen-wheeler. While you're at it, pardon me for having a brother who happens to be best friends with a vice detective. And I'm ever so sorry for making that ingrate Cesar a fortune by working myself to a frazzle.
I keep waiting for Lady Luck to smile upon me. I know she’s out there somewhere. I can hear her laughing in the background as she watches my life unravel at a rapid rate.
I don’t mean to imply that I haven’t had any good luck. I distinctly remember a day thirty years ago when my cat, Whiskerface, came back home after being lost for a whole week. Most of him anyway. We never did find out how he lost his tail. I learned early in life that even on her good days, Lady Luck has a twisted smile.
I'm washed up in this town. If you don't believe me, trot down to your local library and read the lead article in the Metro section of the November 11th edition of the Dallas Morning News. The article concerns the Dallas police and their recent efforts to clamp down on illegal sports wagering right here in the Metroplex. Did the journalist really have to mention me by name in that last paragraph? It's exactly that kind of reckless reporting that turns the public against the media.
Now that you may know anyway, I'll come right out and tell you. My name is Brit Moran. That's Brit, not Bret or any other normal name parents conjure up. Some of the kids in school capitalized on my parents' poor choice by calling me “Twit” instead of Brit. My last name was easily converted from Moran to “Moron.” How would you like to go through your formative years under the name Twit Moron?
My brother called me at seven this morning.
“Marty, you know how hard it is to fall asleep in the bucket seats. What the hell is it?”
“Hey, if you don't want to know, I'll be signing off. No skin off my flabby nose.”
“No, it's okay. What've you got for me?”
“I went down to the gym for a workout and—”
“Cut to the chase. If you ever worked out, your nose wouldn't be flabby.”
“Okay, I went down to the gym to find out about your locker,” he said. “Interested?”
“How is locker thirty-two?”
“Bashed and trashed. But you already knew that. I’m calling to tell you that lovable Joe of Joe's Gym turned up in the same hospital you were in a few days ago.”
I never thought Joe liked me enough to put in a visit. “Didn't you tell him I checked out?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I’m always sitting down. I live in a car. Just tell me the bad news.”
“Listen, Brit. Joe's a patient in the hospital. Some thugs assaulted him at the gym just after closing time one day last week. Then they busted up your locker and took your betbook. Joe's friends at the gym are holding you responsible for the whole incident.”
I swallowed. Even without necks, Joe's workout buddies were an impressive group.
“That doesn't seem right. I was in the hospital. Did you have a chance to talk to them, Marty?” I asked hopefully.
“Personally, I'm afraid of ’em. Being the brother of the one who's responsible and all. I'm sure once you reason with some of the bigger ones, the others will fall in line.”
#
An easily intimidated person might have resorted to panic in my predicament. Not me. I've been around long enough to know that it's darkest just before the dawn. It's also mighty dark after sunset when you have no electricity.
After three nights in the Pinto, I determined that while the police or Cesar's thugs or Joe’s pals could track down all my current friends, they weren't likely to track down my long lost childhood friends. Wouldn't you agree that these are the friends with whom you share your most cherished memories?
If only I could remember some of their names. How could I hook up with my childhood chums if I couldn’t remember their last names? I couldn't exactly cruise through the old neighborhood looking for familiar bicycles.
I was raised in a tenement. When you're a kid you don't know it's a tenement. You don't feel poor because you have nothing to measure by. The rich kids are wealthy enough not to reside anywhere near your school district. You don't know about them, so you don't hate their guts like you do later in college when you're desperately trying to date the same girls.
I know there are advantages to being raised poor. I can't remember any of them now, but I know there must have been some or I'd be bitter. On the other hand, I'm sure there must be dozens of disadvantages to being a rich kid.
Like what if your brand new ten-speed bike got a flat on the way to your private cello lesson. You'd have to place an emergency call. By the time the family butler got off his butt to come to pick you up, you'd miss your lesson.
As a poor kid, I can honestly say that I never missed a private cello lesson. Not one. Put that in your pipe and smoke it in your comfortable recliner, Mr. I Was Rich From Day One. Go ahead, relax. Your eyelids are growing weary. You inherited too much money to tabulate, but counting sheep you can handle. Your fingers gradually relinquish their grasp on the incendiary device you were puffing on a moment ago. Nothing is important enough to disturb the sleep of the blessed. You lost your survival instincts long ago.
Thanks to the National Football League and its compulsive fans, I earned my money. Now let us see if I have my survival instincts.
#
Cesar Hernandez has an extremely foul temper. I wish he'd work on it before someone gets hurt or possibly killed. I'd long known it was a bad idea to cross the man. Twice as bad to double-cross him. Fortunately, I'm not easily intimidated.
Ask anyone and they'll tell you that nothing beats an extended vacation in a foreign country. I had the funds; I needed a companion. In light of Cesar's negative attitude, not to mention the police who were now wasting valuable taxpayer dollars looking for me, I reasonably ruled out my friends from the pre-confession days. If my apartment was being watched, so were those folks. What I required was a fun, dim-witted individual who wouldn’t mind leaving the country with a stranger. I decided it would be a nice gesture to take a stripper along with me.
I had a well-formulated plan or a half-baked idea, depending on how you look at it. First, I'd beat a path to a topless club. In the sports betting business I often had important meetings with my clients in such establishments. Cesar knew all my regular hangouts, so I couldn't risk visiting any of the clubs where I already knew the girls on a first-name basis—Venus, Money, Sassy, Secret, Feather, etc.
Luckily, Dallas has more topless clubs per capita than any city in the United States. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s due to the bounty of beautiful girls with no other marketable skills who were born in Texas eighteen yea
rs ago. Or it could be that the male populace of our city is exceptionally wealthy, immature, and horny.
Out of many listings in the phone book, I selected a club in south Dallas so far off the beaten path that I barely found it. It probably wasn’t normally that hard to locate, but it was a rainy November night and the Pinto’s windshield wipers hadn’t been operational since the late seventies.
This was not a so-called “Gentlemen’s Club.” At least I saw no gentlemen while I was there. The wooden sign that hung askew over the front entrance merely read “Topless,” yet that was enough advertising to draw a capacity crowd of rednecks, drug dealers, and ex-convicts trying to get a fresh start.
You needn’t feel sorry for me for having to spend an evening in such a place. For no matter how dilapidated a topless club looks from the outside, if the building lies within the Dallas city limits, you may rest assured that there are some sexy girls inside. I paid the cover charge and strolled in like I owned the place. If I really had owned the place, I would have made at least one structural improvement. It took only a few strides for me to understand why it was called a “topless” club. The roof leaked.
I wanted to pick out a table stationed as far as possible from those patrons I deemed most likely to smash a beer bottle over my head when they got drunk, or when they mistook me for that guy that offended them last week, or when they just felt like smashing someone over the head with a bottle for the joy that it brings. It wasn’t easy—I kept having to change seats.
Finally situated, I used up the last of my sobriety scouting around for the fun dimwits I mentioned earlier. I made my selections and gathered three sexy young women at my table for a round of drinks. Followed closely by another round. Round and round we went and we didn’t stop until my table was loaded up with loaded strippers.
I asked the petite, blue-eyed blond seated to my left where she was from. She was born and bred in Dallas. I told her that I, too, was from Dallas. When I asked her what high school she had attended (I knew better than to ask what college) she informed me that she had never completed the sixth grade. I commented that she had good grammar for a grammar school dropout. She thanked me for the compliment.
