False Words

by Mark Von Kyling

  False Words

  ALSO BY MARK VON KYLING

  There Will Be Fire

  False Words

  Mark Von Kyling

  Reverberator Books

  False Words. Copyright © 2013 by Mark Von Kyling.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. For more information, email reverberator@artrummedia.com.

  Published by Reverberator Books, an imprint of Artrum Media.

  eBook ISBN–13: 978-1-938107-41-2

  eBook ISBN–10: 1-938107-41-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  For the fried chicken.

  False Words

  Even though he was a very lucky man, Nate Geralds felt terrible. He just couldn’t help but think he was a failure. By all appearances, he seemed like a very successful person though. He was rich, famous and good looking. In fact, he had achieved everything that many others in his field would work all their lives for and still fail to achieve. It was true; he was one of the most read authors in the world.

  But it just didn’t feel right. All of this.

  The world was at his fingertips, most would admit. He realized this completely as he waved to the groundskeeper and drove past the security guard and on up to the workshop which was located behind his fabulous farmhouse on his large Southern estate.

  Yes, it would be the workshop. That damned workshop.

  The workshop was a particular point of contention to him. To him it was symbolic of everything that was wrong. Even so, it, like people’s image of himself, was perfect. Picture perfect. Even though it hadn’t exactly been this, it was the sort of place that looked like it was full of history and had been handed down from generation to generation. It was the kind of place that only a writer could imagine.

  While appearing to be like something from a catalog, the workshop was very well-used—it had once been a blacksmith shop back in the 1800’s. In it, everything was in its place and just…well-worn. Comfortably well-worn. That was the right way to put it. Nowadays it was supposed to be for woodworking. It had antique lathes, planes and hammers and wooden toolboxes and everything a guy like him, one so connected to the past and to his feelings, should have. It was well-suited for a man to work with his hands and make something simple and honest. It was the kind of place where one would build a table or chair. Something nice that would give the person who owned and used it nothing but warm feelings.

  But none of this mattered now. He had been on the phone all day and had realized that there was nothing else he could do with the unease and depression he was feeling. He walked into the workshop and looked around for a piece of paper. He found an old notepad along with a perfectly well-worn pencil over near the rotary-dial phone. He started to write something down, but the words just wouldn’t come. They were confused in his mind. They just didn’t make sense. He just couldn’t get it straight what he wanted to say.

  He couldn’t keep from chuckling at the irony. He gave up and began to go about the business that had brought him here in the first place.

  And with that, he moved a perfectly battered, but still usable chair to the center of the room. He went to the pegboard on the wall and got a vintage extension cord which he hung on one of the rafters of his picture perfect workshop, making sure to get it in place right over the chair. He then wrapped the other end around his neck and stepped up on the chair.

  “Please forgive me,” he said and stepped off.

  And that was that.

  All in all, he had finally achieved legitimate success in at least one thing. The other odd thing was the place of this last achievement. He had always hated woodworking.

  * * * * *

  Why the fuck did Ratledge want to meet here? Parminter hated this place. Well, hate wasn’t exactly the right word. He just didn’t want to come in here anymore.

  But it wasn’t because of the food. It was because of the waitstaff. No, that wasn’t quite it either. It was because of one particular member of the waitstaff, an old waitress who had probably worked there since the beginning of time. He didn’t even know her name, but he liked to refer to her in his mind as, “That Old Woman.” She was extraordinarily territorial and had served to make every eating experience there a bad one.

  But it did feel good to be able to eat the fried chicken again. In fact, he had felt his mouth begin to water just after he had parked his old Jag outside the restaurant. Buster’s Fat Boy had some of the best Southern cooking in the area and it had been a long time since he had been able to come in here. Then he remembered that he had told Ken Ratledge about what had happened the last time he had been here and realized that had to be the reason why the soft son of a bitch had wanted to meet here.

  John Parminter was a man who didn’t have that many friends. Since he had left his writing career in California and had moved back to the South and had become a stock trader, he really never left his house that much. After finding out that he worked from home, one of his neighbors, a retired used car salesman, remarked to him, “People need to be around other people. But just don’t overdo it. If you’re around too many people, you’ll go batshit crazy. Just look at some of them wackos in New York City. Them people’s crazy. But then again not being around enough people will also drive you batshit crazy, too. Just look at them people who hoard animals. The key is to be around the right amount of people. But on the other hand, if you really are crazy, you’ll stand out more here than if you were in a big city because there’ll be just enough people so it’ll count for something. People will actually notice you.” He then shrugged his shoulders. “Ah hell, don’t listen to me. I don’t know shit about anything,” he said before shuffling off.

  Parminter could definitely agree with that, so he could see his point. He neither lived in a big city nor was batshit crazy, but he understood exactly what the guy was talking about. This is why any opportunity—even if it was a lunch meeting with his old high school frenemy, Ken Ratledge—was usually a welcome one.

  Ratledge was a doughy financial expert who lived in his neighborhood and had secretly resented Parminter’s stock trading success. Ratledge was the conventional investment advisor type and wasn’t particularly fond of DIY’ers/daytraders. Even though Parminter technically wasn’t a daytrader, it was Ratledge’s opinion that people like him screwed up the market and made things more unpredictable for the “professionals” as he liked to refer to himself. They also made it harder for him to make commissions. In a sense, he was the type of guy who didn’t like anybody other than himself to succeed. He was the type of person who, if it was in his power, would torpedo the opportunities of anyone he saw as an inferior/rival—real or imagined. And if they succeeded despite this, it made him very angry. Even if it bore no relevance to his own particular situation. Parminter wasn’t even sure why he was even friends with the guy. It was probably because Ratledge was also friends with Parminter’s best friend, Howie Weiss. And the fact that they had known each other since high school probably had a bearing on this as well.

  But that had nothing to do with why he had a problem with this restaurant, Buster’s Fat Boy. A few years earlier, Parminter had been in the habit of coming into the place on a regular basis—sometimes several times a week. It wasn’t for the ambiance, either. The restaurant was not exactly what one would call a high end joint. It had a tiled floor and cheap butcher-block formica tables in the booths and the cheap country whatnots and decorations were in bad need of a good dusting. No, it wasn’t because of that. He just loved the cook
ing. It was greasy, fresh and the chicken was just too good to be true. The problem was that unbeknownst to him, along the way, a waitress, That Old Woman, had taken him on as a regular customer. She had claimed him, so to speak, as hers. She would go outside her station to wait on him and there was no way he would ever get another waitress, even if he tried. While extraordinarily rough around the edges, she was good at what she did, even though she was a little harsh. In fact, she had actually treated him well, doting on him, always making sure that his drink was filled and that he had fresh bread.

  One day, Parminter had gone on a vacation trip to Brazil. Since he didn’t even know That Old Woman’s name, he hadn’t bothered to tell her that he was going to be gone for a few weeks.

  That was when the chicken hit the fan.

  When he had returned from his trip, he had gone to the restaurant as usual and noticed that the waitress was acting very cold towards him. She sloshed his drink out of his glass onto the table and slammed his plate of fried chicken down on the plate. Parminter had been a little put off, but he didn’t say anything. Finally, when That Old Woman had brought him his check, she said. “I guess you found someplace else to eat, huh?” and then walked off angrily.

  Parminter was flummoxed. The woman was angry with him because he hadn’t come in a while. After a little bit of thought, he was able to figure out what was going on. Apparently she was pissed off because she thought she was cheating on her at another restaurant!

  He paid his bill and left. He was so put off that he didn’t come back in for a few weeks but eventually his love of fried chicken became too much for him and he went back, hoping, maybe, that the waitress was no longer irritated at him or would at least let another server have him.

  Of course, he was wrong and as soon as she saw him, she made a bee-line for him, already having his drink ready for him even though he hadn’t ordered it yet.

  “I guess you’re starting to act like a regular again,” she huffed without looking at him and then left abruptly, not even allowing him to order. She knew what he wanted and slammed down the fried chicken a few minutes later.

  That was the last time Parminter had gone into the place. Until now. This fact had caused him much consternation because he had had to rely upon KFC and other places for his favorite fried chicken. While those places had good food, they just weren’t Buster’s Fat Boy.

  He hoped she wouldn’t be in here. That she might have quit or gotten fired. But he knew she would be there. People like her never changed jobs.

  Still, it was early summer and it was beginning to get hot. It was the perfect time for fried chicken and he was willing to take his chances to get the best. He took a deep breath and prepared himself to walk in. Sometimes, a guy just had to suck it up and hope for the best if he was ever to get the thing he most desired.

  As soon as he entered the place, he took a look around. The first thing he noticed was the abundance of burly, rough-looking, overweight construction workers standing at the salad bar, daintily arranging their salads as if each and every one of them was constructing a masterpiece of vegetables and croutons. He also noticed that all of them were applying triple servings of cheese and salad dressing to their works of art. Nothing had changed apparently. He then looked over and saw Ratledge sitting in a booth. Something else had apparently not changed either because lo and behold, who else was serving him? It was That Old Woman. The bastard had probably asked for her section.

  Parminter went over and sat down across from Ken Ratledge. The waitress glared at him as though he was a scorned lover before huffing away.

  “Hello, Ken,” he said, finally

  “Hello, John.”

  The waitress came back a couple minutes later with their drinks. After ordering, they small-talked for a little bit about the stock market while they waited on their food.

  “Have you talked to Howie?” Ratledge asked. Parminter wasn’t surprised. Since he was a mutual friend, he was one of the the only things they had in common aside from their mutual enmity. Howie was a rather shady character whose antics were the source of many conversations.

  “Actually, yes. I heard he’s got some sort of scam out in Hollywood.”

  Ratledge started chuckling. “Oh, yeah. ‘Reverse Potty Training.’”

  Parminter laughed. “Yeah, he got the idea that he could sell the idea of getting people to return to their primal selves to all those movie executives out there. I thought he was crazy, but now he’s got bunch of grown men running around in adult diapers thinking that they’ve got an edge over everyone else.”

  “Only in Hollywood,” Ratledge laughed.

  “Howie definitely has a knack for exploiting people’s stupidity,” Parminter added.

  After a few minutes, the waitress brought their food, smiling, of course, at Ratledge and glaring at Parminter. The smell of the chicken was enough to help him overcome any discomfort the waitress was causing him and Parminter couldn’t start eating the chicken fast enough. He was sure that he looked like some sort of ravenous animal as he tore into his food. The sides of coleslaw and potato logs were also good, but the chicken was out of this world.

  Ratledge also dug in like he had never seen food before, but Parminter was sure that this was only because he was a gluttonous fool rather than having an appreciation for fine fried chicken.

  After their initial hunger had been sated, Ratledge took a breath and finally got down to brass tacks. “John, I wanted to meet with you to ask you if you were interested in going in on a business deal with me.”

  Parminter was shocked. So much so that he almost choked on his water. He also almost forgot about his chicken. Almost.

  “Me?”

  “Sure, John. I mean, I’ve known you since high school and while we have had our differences, I trust you and consider you a friend.”

  “Well, thanks, Ken,” Parminter said suspiciously.

  Ratledge leaned over the table and looked from side to side conspiratorially.

  “I know a guy who’s a great money manager. He’s really got the touch, so to speak. Guaranteed twenty-five percent return. I want to offer you the chance to come in on it.”

  Parminter was taken aback. Did Ratledge really think he was that stupid? It was obvious that he was trying to hook him into a Ponzi scheme and break him. His jealousy knew no bounds. However, Parminter decided to play along just to see where Ratledge was going with this.

  “So how much is the buy in?”

  Ratledge smiled. “It’s pretty exclusive. You have to put in a hundred-thousand.”

  “And what’s your percentage?”

  “Oh, just a finder’s fee which I may waive because you’re such a good friend.”

  Ratledge was so happy he looked like could float. Parminter wanted to smack the grin off his fat face.

  “Well, I’ll have to think about it.” Then he had an idea. “Maybe I’ll ask Robin to come in it with me. She’s got that inheritance.”

  Ratledge sputtered. “Your ex-wife? The cop?”

  “Parminter smiled. “Yeah. She’s always hammering me for financial advice so this would probably be a good start. Your guy probably wouldn’t mind us pooling our resources would he?”

  Ratledge turned white. “I don’t know. I’ll have to get back with you on that. I don’t know if he’s willing to do that or not.”

  Parminter smiled. “Of course, Ken. Just let me know.”

  Just then the waitress came back out and brought the check. Ratledge greedily grabbed it. Parminter was a little surprised but figured that the fat man was only doing this so that Parminter would have to repay him later.

  “Just like old times, isn’t it?” The waitress said to Parminter without looking at him. “You coming in here and eating. Just like a regular, huh?” She then started clearing the plates and cleaning the table as though no one was sitting there. “Gotta get this place clean for the real customers,” she muttered.

  Before Parminter could answer, she snorted and walked away furious
ly.

  “Looks like she’s happy to see you again, John.” Ratledge said, his mood suddenly lifted.

  Parminter shrugged and got the tip money out of his wallet. He could have sworn he heard Ratledge chuckle under his breath.

  * * * * *

  Still a little pissed, Parminter was tempted to call his ex-wife about Ratledge’s shady deal, but decided against it. However, he might mention it later when he went to visit his children. While Ratledge had just tried to screw him out of a considerable amount of money, he didn’t really want to resort to having him arrested or investigated. Ratledge could bring that about by himself. Besides, it was sort of an unwritten rule between them. Sure, they were friends on the surface and while they had their issues, they wouldn’t go so far as to involve a higher authority. Their sniping, backstabbing and attacks had to remain out of the courts. After all, it was the gentlemanly way to behave, Parminter thought. Besides, he really didn’t hate Ratledge. He just didn’t like him very much.

  Instead, Parminter went home and poured himself a whiskey. Then he went to his computer and checked the market. Nothing much was going on that concerned him. He made a couple of notes on some public offerings that were going to occur in the upcoming months and then went into the living room and turned on the TV. All in all, it was a standard work day for him.

  Before he had moved back to area, Parminter had been a writer in California barely scratching out a living but had parlayed the money he had made off the one script he had sold into a fortune after the stock market had crashed. The movie had failed, but he had taken his money and, seeing an opportunity many others didn’t, subsequently bought very low and had sold very high and was now sitting on a small fortune. He had quit writing and now invested full-time. He had found he was much more successful at doing this than he ever had been at writing.