Meter Maids Eat Their Young: A Love Story

by EJ Knapp

  “Between the two of them, they bought off half the council, the Mayor and the judge and, when Jim Gjerda stood in opposition to the change in the accounting procedure, a key element in his plan, Keller killed him and Cooper convinced the Mayor to appoint someone who would favor the change.”

  “Did the council, the Mayor, know the actual plan? About the hundred and thirty million Keller was trying to make Jaz transfer.”

  “They claim not. I have my doubts but they could be telling the truth. They may have just been happy with the extra income.”

  “Why did he snatch Jaz? That move seemed pretty risky.”

  “The plan had been to ride it out, transfer the money just before the end of the fiscal year. When the riot broke out, Cooper panicked. He skipped town, taking all the information needed for the transfer with him. Keller was desperate, figuring when Cooper landed, he’d make the transfer, leaving Keller holding the bag. He knew nothing about computers so he snatched Jaz in hopes of making her do it.”

  “So Cooper is on the lam.”

  “Not anymore. State police picked him up yesterday morning. Seems he felt part of his severance package should include a city-owned vehicle. What he didn’t know is all city vehicles are LoJacked. Once we determined he’d stolen the car, we tracked him on the GPS and fed the info to the state cops. They had him an hour later. He’s sitting in my jail cell, singing like a bird.”

  I winced at the cliché but thought it better to let it slide.

  “What about Harrison?” I said. “Where did he fit into all this?”

  Marion looked away, emotion clouding his face. Taking a deep breath, he continued.

  “You and Mr. Essex were both right. Harrison had latched on to something, something important. Not the plan itself but, with all the light the newspaper was shedding on council activities, not to mention the Meter Mangler’s constant irritation, his evidence would have brought greater scrutiny to bear, something they couldn’t tolerate at that point.”

  “The tickets,” I said.

  “Bingo. Most of the meter maids were just working stiffs, under a lot of pressure to keep the tickets rolling. It’s a tough economy, jobs are scarce; they did what they were ordered to do.”

  “Just like the Nazis,” I said.

  “I suppose you could see it that way. However, there were upwards of ten meter maids whose job it was to pad the coffers in any way possible. That included writing false tickets which never appeared on anyone’s vehicle.”

  “And only showed up later,” I said, “in the mail ... with an extra fee tacked on.”

  “You’ve got it. Harrison got wind of that and died for the knowledge.”

  “Which explains why Keller came after me when he found out I had the tickets. And HL later. Have you arrested them? And what about Rafe?”

  “We nabbed three. The rest have scattered to the wind. We’ll get them eventually. As for Rafe, Keller had him by the short hairs, used him and then disposed of him when his usefulness stopped.”

  “It was his car, wasn’t it?”

  “It appears that way. The records show it had been booted and towed. We found the keys in his pocket, the car in the garage. What we didn’t find was any record of him ever paying a fine to get it back.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “It’s already happening,” he said. “Tom Philo’s in temporary charge of the DPE.”

  “Philo?”

  “All things considered, he seemed the logical choice.”

  I laughed. “I bet he’s enjoying the hell out of that.”

  “I can’t say how much enjoyment he’s getting out of it but the citizens are certainly happy. He’s had all the parking lots reopened and they’ve begun dismantling the meters Cooper and Keller had installed. Downtown buildings that have been vacant for years are being flooded with lease offers. And all because of you … and the Mangler, of course. There’s even been a suggestion made that Walnut Street be renamed in your honor. A suggestion, I might add, being seriously considered by the new council.”

  “No, no way. I couldn’t show my face in this town if I had to walk down Teller Boulevard.”

  “Avenue, actually, and you may well have to get used to it as there is no real opposition to the idea.”

  “Great. Just what I need. What about the, uh, the Mangler? Anyone figure out who that was?”

  That old ‘you’re so full of bullshit’ look crossed Marion’s face and disappeared just as quickly.

  “Nope. That’s the one mystery remaining.”

  “Pity,” I said. “If they know who ... who he was, maybe they could name the damn street in his honor.”

  “I think arresting him would be the more appropriate move.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this.

  “Well, Teller, it’s been nice chatting with you but I have work to do.”

  He stood up and made to leave.

  “Oh” he said, stopping midway to the door. “I don’t suppose you know the whereabouts of one Jasmine Hoyle?”

  “I thought you weren’t here to badger or cajole?”

  “I’m not. Just curious, is all. She would have been the logical one to head the DPE.”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Right. So you are aware she’s disappeared.”

  “I ... well, that is, I may have heard something along that line, yeah. Maybe Felice mentioned it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it. If you do ... come across ... any information regarding her, I’m sure you’ll let me know right away. We have a few ... questions for her.”

  “Right, Chief. I’ll certainly do that.”

  He turned away and resumed walking toward the door. I swear I heard him mutter ‘When pigs fly’ but I could have been mistaken.

  At the door, he hesitated again, though he didn’t turn to face me.

  “Uh, one last thing, Teller.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh, thanks, you know, for ... that day.”

  He disappeared into the hallway and I lay my head back down on the pillow, stunned and exhausted. Had he just, finally, after all these years, thanked me for saving his life?

  What the hell was the world coming to?

  Onward Into The Fog

  Back when I was in grade school, there were these Nuclear Preparedness drills we were made to wade through. Like fire drills except instead of going outside, you ducked under your desk and tucked your head between your knees. The point of these drills was to protect yourself from imminent nuclear destruction.

  Right.

  I had seen the nuclear testing newsreel footage and knew in my young heart that this was about as useful as holding out your hand to stop a bullet. I came to think of these duck-and-cover moves as bend-over-and-kiss-your-ass-good-bye drills.

  My mother left when I was very young. I have but the vaguest of memories of her: thick, wavy, auburn hair, the smell of cigarette smoke and coffee. My father was an honorable man but a frightened one, barely able to deal with his own troubled feelings much less those of a motherless child. I grew up in a gray world without the physical trappings of love; surviving by my own wit, building crude defenses from the materials available to a pre-teen boy, creating an emotional Frankenstein monster. A monster which lived on long past the time all other such monsters were laid to rest.

  I didn’t do that bad a job at surviving the kidhood game. At least I didn’t turn into a delusional psychopath with a direct line to some ghastly deity telling me to blow up this or kill that. But I wasn’t altogether healthy either, especially when it came to relationships and especially relationships with women.

  Freud would say I was searching for my mother, but what the hell did he know? I think I was looking for that form of unconditional love a mother gives a child. Is it rational to believe that kind of love exists outside the mother-child bond? Before I met Robyn, I would have told you no.

  Up until my path crossed hers, I had never let anyone past my carefully constru
cted defenses. I’d greet them at the door, let some into the foyer and a very select few into the parlor. But that was as far they got. No one wandered the rooms my frightened self occupied. It wasn’t that I was afraid to commit to someone. It was losing them I feared.

  Classic Psych 101. The double bind. Approach/avoidance. Fear of loss. Fear of rejection. Fear. My Frankensteinesque defenses kept me on a bee-to-flower path of lonely promiscuity and emptiness, ever seeking something I would always keep myself from finding.

  Robyn got past those defenses.

  Loved me unconditionally.

  For myself.

  For a while.

  It would be dishonest to say that the five years we spent together were all glorious. That it was a roller-coaster ride is certain, but even the finest roller-coaster has its slow points, its not-so-exciting twists and turns. Indeed, the last three years found us as much apart as together, our together more rocky than romantic. But those first two with her, they set the hook deep.

  When she left, it was like my own private Bimini. The pain of loss exceeding the joy of love. I went deeper into duck-and-cover mode than I had ever been.

  And stayed there much too long.

  Standing on the corner, looking across at the Lincoln Hotel, a weariness came over me, my muscles and bones tired from their long, stationary position. I had loved Robyn with all my heart, but the Robyn that waited in the Lincoln was not the Robyn Cat had loved.

  Maybe the two of them are back there somewhere, arguing, loving, locked in a push-pull dance of uncertainty, but I couldn’t step back in time, return to those days as I had longed to do.

  And, for the first time, I realized, I didn’t want to.

  As I turned away, I felt as if I were unfolding, stretching, reaching. I caught my reflection in a store window and was surprised to see a smile on my face. I hurried home, knowing what I was going to do when I got there.

  Lynn was sitting on the porch when I arrived. She shot from the chair as if launched from a cannon, meeting me at the door. There was a worried look on her face.

  “Lynn,” I said as I stepped past her and onto the porch.

  “Cat, hey,” she said. “You, ah, been to the hotel yet?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t feel the need to tell her of my decision not to go.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s, uh, good.”

  “What’s wrong, Lynn?” I asked.

  “Um, oh shit, Cat. I’m sorry.”

  The next bit came all out in a rush of words.

  “I know how you feel about Robyn and she can be so weird sometimes, and so anyway, I know some people at the hotel and I sort of had them keeping an eye on things and … and … shit!” She stomped her foot on the floor hard enough to raise dust. “She’s not coming, Cat. She bailed out at the last minute.”

  I stared at her for a long moment. And then I started to laugh. Lynn’s jaw dropped. I think that of all the reactions she might have been expecting over this news, laughter was the last of them. I threw my arms around her, as much to hold myself up as to hug her. After a moment, I stepped back far enough to give her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Maybe this means we’re both growing up at last,” I said. “At least I hope so.”

  And I left her there, staring at me, as I walked into the house.

  ***

  I stood across the street from the newspaper, staring at the building, lost in thought.

  I had spent nearly a week in hospital and another, lounging around at home, only leaving long enough to not quite meet up with a ghost who decided not to show up herself. I smiled. Strange how that works.

  I watched the cars go up and down the street, watched people move in and out the front door of the newspaper. My newspaper. The thought made me shudder. No way was I ready to take over the reins of that thing. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. The whole idea of it was so overwhelming that only the constant repetition of the Serenity Prayer kept a full-blown anxiety attack from pinning me to the floor. I had to keep the idea that HL had faith in me to the forefront. He was not a man who was often mistaken.

  The celebration that broke out when I returned to the paper, subdued as it was because of HL’s passing, had certainly bolstered my confidence. It seemed the staff also thought I could run it. In the end, I realized it was only my doubts, my own dark thoughts I had to battle.

  I was out of the Robyn Zone and this time I had a feeling it would be for good. It felt strange to feel that empty hole in my chest closing, knowing I was filling it in with myself and not something outside of me. And stranger still was knowing what I planned to do next. I knew the paper would be in good hands with Felice until I returned. With a last look at HL’s office window, my office window now, I turned and headed home, flipping open my phone and calling a cab as I walked.

  The college kid who would be house-sitting was waiting for me on the front porch. She was the daughter of a friend of Albert and Felice and she said she loved cats. That was enough of a recommendation for me. I handed her the keys, tossed my single piece of luggage in the cab when it arrived, and sat back for the ride to the airport.

  Eight hours later, having checked into my hotel room, showered and changed clothes, I stepped from another cab and stood before the gated entrance of a private beach on St. Thomas Island. I gave my name to the khaki-garbed guard who dutifully checked it against a list of names on a clip board. He looked me up and down once, as if looking for weapons or contraband and then opened the gate. Smiling, I stepped past him and out onto the beach.

  The sand was a brilliant white, glittering like glass, the ocean beyond a deep aquamarine that made my mouth water for something succulent and sweet. A gentle breeze carried the scent of coconut oil mingled with something pleasant I couldn’t identify, coming from the tiny pink flowers engulfing the high stone wall surrounding the beach and stretching ten or fifteen feet into the ocean itself.

  The beach was surprisingly empty of people. It was small, maybe half a mile in length with several cabanas scattered about, only one of which was open and serving drinks. I walked over, searched the drinks menu for something nonalcoholic and settled on a glass of pineapple juice.

  Jaz had written in her note that she would be here every day. On the beach. No guarantees that it would go anywhere, could go anywhere. It was up to me if I wanted to risk it.

  And a risk it was. Despite persistent male belief, a lesbian is as likely to be turned straight by male ardor as she is likely to stroll naked across the face of the moon. People are born gay, not made gay. It’s not something they choose to be or not be. It just is.

  I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and scanned the area. A lone figure strolled along the far side of a small cove, following the water’s edge, forget-me-not blue hair dancing in the warm, soft breeze blowing in from the ocean. What the hell, I thought, moving in her direction. If she was up for giving it a try, who was I not to meet her halfway?

  Felice had said that risk was what life was all about, that the wise and plodding turtle got nowhere if it wasn’t willing to stick out its neck. I’d been hiding in my musty shell much too long. It was time to stick out my head, feel the sun on my face, walk the walk, and see where life would lead me.

  We hope you enjoyed Meter Maids Eat Their Young by EJ Knapp. Please turn the page for a preview of another great book from this author: Stealing The Marbles.

  Stealing The Marbles

  EJ Knapp

  Chapter One

  His eyes narrowed. His dark skin flushed darker. From under his breath came a Greek word having something to do with immorality, someone’s mother and a donkey.

  “Pasty-faced, uptight bastards,” he said aloud. “Sheep! Passive sheep, he called us. The great Athenian general Pericles commissioned the architects Iktinus and Kallicrates and the sculptor Phidias to construct the Parthenon four hundred and forty-seven years before the birth of Christ. Where were the British at this time? I’ll tell you. They were scurrying about in loincloths and a
nimal skins, worshiping trees and howling like rabid dogs at the moon, that is where they were!”

  I sipped my beer in silence as Gerasimos went off on the rant, as I knew he would. There had been a debate on the mainland, at the Zappeion in Athens earlier in the week, over whether the Marbles should be returned to Greece or remain in the British Museum. From what I’d heard, the debate hadn’t gone well, ending in a riot that saw hundreds arrested, including Gerasimos himself, which delayed his return to Kefalonia.

  Diplomatic salvos were now being fired across the European continent between England and Greece. All the newspapers were carrying the story, most staying neutral, others falling on one side of the controversy or another. Because the discussion had been televised, news clips of the melée were featured on every newscast for three days running.

  “That bad, huh?” I said.

  “Worse,” he said, finishing the dregs of his beer and removing another from the bucket. “The Committee for the Return of the Marbles is in complete disarray. Those in England who seemed in favor of discussing the issue will no longer talk to us. And the damn reporters … I live in fear of any stranger who approaches me.”

  He uncapped the bottle, lifted it to his mouth and drained half.

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “Now? Nothing happens now. A hundred and fifty years we’ve sought the return of our antiquities and this fiasco has set us back to square one. Not that I’ve ever believed the Brits would return what rightfully belongs to Greece in the first place.”

  I savored my beer, letting the comment hang in the air. We were sitting at an outside table of the small taverna where we often ate, the air redolent with the scent of grilled lamb and oregano. The faint strains of a Haris Alexiu tune drifted from the kitchen.

  “Can’t you just, you know, go over and take them back?” I asked.

  The look on his face was one you would give a child who insisted that space aliens lived beneath its bed. “Take them back?” he asked.