by Dave Balcom
She turned to Flynt, “Ron? What’ll you have now that somebody else’s buying?”
“I was thinking a six pack of Jack to go?”
“I don’t think so, big spender.”
“Double Jack ‘n’ Coke, then?”
She turned to Sam.
“I’ll have a pull on that eighteen-year-old Bushmills, darlin’,” he said without hesitation.
She went about the business of pouring the drinks, and then came to Ed, served his Scotch, and pawed around at the bills in front of him... “Looks a bit short, Ed.”
“Even when I win...” Ed shrugged. “What the hell...” he muttered as he opened his wallet and dropped a ten into the pile, “keep the rest.”
She gave him a quick smile, “Thank you, sir.” They both laughed.
The three golfers left the bar and took seats outside around a picnic table under a pergola.
“That’s the beauty of our game...” Sam said to no one in particular to start what had become a beloved part of their post-round routine.
“Yep,” Ron chipped in. “Golf is a microcosm of the human experience...”
Ed finished it off, as the low scorer always did, “Even when you win, you don’t really win.”
They all chuckled as if required, and then Trisker sipped his Irish and settled back in his chair, “How are the kids, Ed?”
“Oh, nothing really new to report; they’re making lives, having babies, working, looking forward to the hunting seasons... nothing really new.”
“That’s quite a family you’ve built – your own three and those two Parker boys. I, along with most of the town, thought you and Rita were nuts when you adopted those two, but now I think the whole community thinks of you folks as the model Elliotsville family. How are all the grandkids?”
“I don’t know; you’d have to ask Rita. She’s way more into that grandparent mode than I am. When they start needing hooks baited and can help set the decoys, I’ll be more interested.”
Flynt was sitting slouched with a knee crossed over the arm of his chair; looking for all the world like the teenager he must have been twenty years earlier. “My dad was the same way. He was real involved when we were growing up, but mostly he was the recreation director.”
Trisker changed the subject, “Speaking of the Parker side of your family, what’s new with Crawford?”
“He’s still hawkin’ cars in St. Louis. He and Clara are going to be up for a weekend after Labor Day... he’s working the Cards’ home stand that weekend, and that’ll about wrap up his radio work until football season.”
“Is he ever going to call games?”
“Who knows? He’s making a living selling cars, but he’s chasing his dream on the radio.”
Flynt piped up, “It’s gotta be hard for him calling college football, though. He was such a talent. I heard nothing but good things about him at the U, but he never really got a chance to shine there.”
“He got the same chance every player gets,” Ed said softly. “He was good enough to make the team at quarterback, but his good didn’t measure up to the great that he competed with every day in practice. It paid for his college degree, and thank God he kept at the books enough to earn one.”
All three men nodded at that. Trisker chuckled, “Was never any question about Matt and the books.”
“No,” Ed said. “He’s a smart man, but he’s chasing his dreams too. That’s what young men are supposed to do.”
“Is that what brought you and Rita here so many years ago?” Flynt asked with a smile.
“Damn right. I’m living my dream.”
Trisker’s voice turned serious, “From what I’m hearing that dream may become a nightmare...”
Ed nodded, “You mean the talk about the young Fiskes taking the company down the road?”
Trisker nodded. Flynt shook his head, “I know those boys; practically grew up with them. There’s no way they’d turn their backs on Adair County. No chance at all.”
Ed wasn’t sure what to say, but finally, as a silence dragged on, he felt compelled to say something. “I don’t have any knowledge one way or the other, guys. But I’ll be surprised if those boys are making that decision without input from their wives, and neither of those young women grew up hundreds of miles from all that a big city can provide.”
Trisker nodded, and looked fondly at his pal, “I know nothing, either; but I’ll be real surprised if they have plans that don’t include their loyal employees here ’bouts.”
As the three finished their drinks, Ed was the first to rise out of his chair.
“Thanks, guys, for the game. I’ve gotta run some errands, mail a couple of things at the post office, and then be home in time to make dinner for Rita.”
“Why don’t you just put your mail out in the box with the flag up?” Trisker asked.
“Guess I don’t like being part of the rural postal delivery grape vine,” Ed said with a grin. “A guy likes to be anonymous from time to time.”
“Those pills come in plain brown envelopes, Ed,” Flynt kidded. “Your postal carrier doesn’t have a clue when she’s deliverin’ a good time pill...”
“You’re an idiot, Flynt,” Trisker said as he backhanded the younger man’s shoulder. “This is out-going mail that the man’s hiding. He doesn’t want the carrier to see the address!”
Flynt looked confused, “Why don’t you just order them over the Internet like everybody else?”
That sent the older two on their way laughing out loud.
As Ed pulled away from the post office he mentally checked his list, and then headed home. He looked forward to having dinner with Rita; anything to keep him from worrying about his job and its future.
Chapter 2
2012
I was at my desk in the Blue Mountains of eastern Oregon on the Tuesday following Memorial Day 2014, struggling to solve a plot problem that was holding up publication of my latest book, when the phone rang and pulled me into Ed Sweet’s world.
“Jim Stanton here,” I said into the phone.
“Jim,” a voice I didn’t recognize answered, “I doubt you’ll remember me, but my name is Ed Sweet, and I was a year behind you in high school.”
“You’re right, Ed. I don’t remember you. Is this some new kind of telemarketing ploy...”
“No, Jim. I remember when you broke your left hand in football practice when you were a sophomore, and I remember when all the guys teased you for ‘screaming like a girl’ at the pain; and I remember you dating Rita Stewart when you were a senior, and I was so envious...”
“Okay, you knew me in high school, but that was, what, fifty years ago?”
“And I’ve watched your writing career from afar and I followed the newspaper accounts of your activities since you left the newspaper business... well, there’s no segue for this, Jim...” he paused so long I started wondering if he’d hung up. “...Jim, I’m in trouble, and I need help.”
Chapter 3
Off the phone, I touched up the notes I had been taking for two hours as Ed had filled me in with what he called the “Cliff Notes version” of his life after high school. As I debated typing my notes up while I could still read what passes as my handwriting, I heard the door between the garage and kitchen open and realized I was hungry.
“Jim?” Jan, my wife of almost two years, called out as I heard her setting packages on the floor just inside the door.
“Up here,” I called, “Need any help?”
“No, not really, but I brought home some killer pastrami and I thought Reuben sandwiches might be a good idea for lunch...”
I was out of my chair and headed down the stairs before she’d finished the sentence.
She smiled at me as I grabbed sacks of groceries and started putting them away.
Our home in the foothills of the Blue Mountains east of Pendleton, Oregon, is a simple open floor plan with a great room overlooking the Columbia basin adjoining the kitchen on the ground floor where there is also a bed
room and full bath. Upstairs there are two more bedrooms with another full bath. My writing area is in the half-room which overlooks the great room and the basin.
“What have you been up to this morning?” She asked me as she started sorting groceries to put away from the makings of our deli-style lunch. “I left for town before you got home from your walk...”
“I put Judy in her kennel – she got to playing in the spring run, and was sopping wet when we got back – and after my shower, I worked on the book until I got a phone call out of my past...”
“Again? Last time that happened, you ended up with a wife, kinda.”
I reached out and tousled her hair, “Piece of luck for me; that was.”
“So who called you this time?”
“Ed Sweet.”
She cocked an eyebrow, “I don’t recall that name, ever.”
“I hardly remembered it myself when he called me...” I went to the little library near the fireplace and pulled out my high school year book, “He was a year behind me in high school... there aren’t many memories of him...” I was thumbing through the book, “Here he is.”
I walked back to the kitchen and placed the book where she could see it without getting Russian dressing on it; “Third guy from the left, top row.”
“Nice looking kid; why did he call you after all these years?”
“Said he had been following me ever since the business up in Mineral Valley, and now he’s got a problem, and wondered if I might help him with it...”
She stopped buttering the outside of the sandwich in preparation for grilling it, and gave me a warm smile that went all the way to her eyes, “Is that so?”
“I don’t think I’m the guy he really needs...”
Her smile didn’t dim a bit, “Really? Tell me about it.” She slid the first sandwich into the frying pan and I heard it sizzle just right.
“There’s not that much to tell, really.”
“Can you pour some ice tea?”
I went to the freezer and filled two glasses with ice, grabbed a pitcher from the fridge, and went to the island where we ate most of our meals. She was putting plates and a bowl of potato chips down as I started to fill the glasses.
“What kind of trouble is he in?”
“It’s complicated, and it sounds serious, but when I suggested he talk to the police, he kinda went stony.”
“Stony?”
“Yeah, you know; if he’d been in the room, I’da seen him freeze up, but even on the phone I could still hear his rejection of that idea in the coldest possible way... all stony.”
She carefully flipped the stacked sandwich and I could see the deep golden crust that had formed on the rye bread. My mouth watered.
“Do we have an open jar of pickles?” She asked.
I went to the fridge, found none, and then went to the pantry adjacent to the garage door and pulled down a quart of garlic dills we’d canned the previous summer. “These should work.”
She placed the first sandwich on a cutting board at the stove, and put the second sandwich into the pan. Then with a nonchalance that testified to her culinary skills she quickly quartered the sandwich and brought it to our seats.
“That looks and smells delicious,” I said in admiration.
“I never thought I’d appreciate sauerkraut,” she said with a giggle, “but Mr. Reuben showed me the error of my ways.”
As we sampled the Russian, kraut, beef, cheese, pickle, and mustard concoction, we made comfort sounds. She interrupted her meal to flip the second sandwich and came back to nibble a chip while she waited for round two.
“So, what’s Ed Sweet’s trouble?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated. I don’t think I can help him.”
She got up and brought back sandwich number two. “I love this stuff in a way that can’t be healthy.”
I looked at her and saw this tall, lean woman with just a touch of gray in her hair and knew her to be a picture of good health. “I don’t think this meal is going to send you to the fat farm.”
She gave me a look; “I’m talking mental health here, Stanton. This kind of penchant for food can’t be good. This will have to hold me for another six months. Any sooner would hint at addiction, and that can’t happen.”
She delivered the joke with a poker face and even tone of voice, and then the whole facade fell apart and we laughed comfortably while we finished our lunch.
After we’d cleaned up the kitchen, we went out to the deck that runs the full width of our home and took a seat in the shade of our pergola.
“Why are you so certain you can’t help him?” Jan asked.
I spread my hands as if to encompass my whole yard and maybe my whole life, “I don’t have time to go running off to rural Missouri and helping some guy I haven’t seen or spoken to since high school.”
She canted her head a bit, “Really? You’re completely absorbed in gardening, foraging, hunting, fishing ... you don’t have any little yen for a bit of investigating or interviewing?”
“Jan, remember? You’re the one who said it was time for us to be a bit boring in our old age, remember?”
“Your memory is lacking a bit in the context department, Mr. Stanton. I made that comment after a year in which you solved two murders, got yourself nearly killed, kidnapped, and lost one of your best friends in a violent episode in which you blamed yourself – yes, a bit of boredom looked appealing at that moment.
“But I don’t think we’ve gotten so old that we can turn our backs on a cry for help. Just think what it must have cost Ed Sweet to call you after all this time; he must feel pretty hopeless. What’s his story?”
“It’s a nice family story that has gone off the rails.” I dug my notes out of my hip pocket and reviewed them for her.
“He married his high school sweetheart, Rita, right after he graduated from Michigan State. She was two years behind him in school, and he was drafted and served in Viet Nam before he went to college. She graduated from Central Michigan with a teaching degree that same summer.
“His first job was with a company in northern Missouri in a place called Elliotsville. They moved there and have never left.
“They have three children, the eldest, Cindy, is married and has two children; Peter is married and has one child; and the youngest, Matt, is married and has one child...”
“Sounds like a solid Midwest family.”
“Along the way, they adopted two boys, Crawford and Riley, and raised them as if they were their own from ages sixteen and fourteen.”
“That must have been difficult, but it speaks volumes about who they are, don’t you think?”
I looked at her to see if she had anything further to add, and she gave me that special smile and shrugged, “Go ahead.”
I returned to the notes, “Both of those boys are married and each has a child, so there are ten members of their ‘next generation,’ counting spouses, and seven grandchildren.”
“I would think the only problem would be where they’d seat them all for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Again I looked through my notes and she waited quietly. Her ability to sit perfectly still is a trait she knows fascinates me; it makes me think of deathly quiet hunters poised for the moment of truth.
“He was the controller at a company called,” I was searching my notes, “J.O. Fiske and Company, the firm he joined out of college. The third generation owners moved the company headquarters to St. Louis, and then out-sourced their business office operations to the Philippines...”
“Oh, no!” The gasp simply erupted from her. “How long had he worked for them?”
“Thirty-five years... he was the company controller for the last fifteen years he was with the firm. He had been hired by the present owners’ father who died late in twenty-eleven, leaving the two boys and their wives free to carry on the company as they saw fit.”
“They must have severed Ed to some extent.”
“They gave him a month’s pay for every
year of service, which will carry him through age sixty-two.”
“What will he do then? Does he have a retirement plan?”
I nodded. “He does, but it took a beating in twenty-oh-eight like every other stock-based plan. But he’s going to do all right...” and with that I gave her my best imitation of her beatific, Cheshire cat smile.
“Why are you smiling like an idiot?”
“Ed, you might say, hit the jackpot earlier this spring.”
“How?”
“You ever hear of the American Tribute Sweepstakes?”
She shook her head, “Is it one of those ‘You may have already won’ deals?”
I nodded, “It is, and last March twenty-eighth, the ATS celebration team visited Ed and Rita and gave them a cool million. Plus he receives five thousand a week for the rest of his life, and by July first he has to name an ‘heir’ who, upon Ed’s death, will receive the five grand a week for the rest of his or her life.”
Jan sat there with a stunned look. “A million on the down stroke and what... two hundred sixty a year after that? What, he needs help spending all that cash?”
“Hardly. Ed says he’s received a threat that if he doesn’t name the right “heir,” he’ll start losing grandchildren at the rate of one a week until he does.”
Her hand flew involuntarily to her mouth and stifled the expletive that was forming. Her eyes were wide with shock and then they changed, and she was glaring at me. “And you said you wouldn’t help him?”
“I didn’t say that at all. I told him he might be advised to involve the police or even the FBI...”
The glare hadn’t let up a bit.
“...and that we’d be in Elliotsville by the first of next week to see what we could do to support him and his family.”
Now she was grinning. “I’ll go start packing.”
Chapter 4
I left Jan sitting in the kitchen making a packing list later that afternoon, and retrieved Judy, the Drahthaar I work for, and we walked down the road to the Nelsons, our only neighbors. Jack is a retired soil scientist; Shirlee is my surrogate mom. They love my pointer as much as I do, and I knew there would be no problem if she was to stay with them for a time. It had become so much a custom that Jack had built a kennel identical to the one at my house to make her more comfortable during visits.
