Chapter Twenty-Two
House looked at his watch. It was 7:00 a.m. Orel Paige had worked a four to twelve the night before. The super cruiser was parked in his driveway. House had borrowed a Nikkon with a zoom lens from the newsroom and stationed himself across the street from Paige's old Victorian house. It was trash day. He had found a refrigerator box on his walk from his house to the Paige residence and brought it along with him. He cut a hole in the side, big enough to poke the lens through, and, now, he was stationed inside, keeping a watch in the house across the street.
The door opened and Sarah Johns came out, carrying her school books. She turned left at the end of the front walk and started down the sidewalk to the school bus stop three blocks away. House could see Paige in one of the large upstairs windows. He appeared to be watching the girl as she walked down the street. House barely fit inside the box. He had to be careful not to move it by squirming.
He had been there since before six. He'd needed the cover of darkness to set up his look-out post. After the girl left for school, traffic picked up on the street between his position and Paige's house. He worried that someone might notice the box and decide that they needed it for something, or maybe some kids would come along on their way to school and decide to play with it. Instead, a dog wandered down the street, sniffed at the box, then lifted his leg on it. Fortunately for House, it was a sturdy box and it didn't leak through, but it did begin to smell.
He dared another look at his watch. It was almost nine. His back ached and he was cold. He wished he could stomp his feet or rub his hands to get the blood circulating, but he couldn't risk it. He wondered how long it would be before the police arrived. Gar would wait until the morning edition was loaded on the trucks, before calling the Chief of Police. That would have been around seven. The Chief, no doubt, would have to review the evidence and make some arrangements before sending officers over to make the arrest. He might even go to court to get a search warrant. Court would open in a few minutes. The District Attorney would have to draw up some papers to convince the Judge to issue a warrant. He started to think he'd over done it, getting there so early. He figured it would be at least another hour. Now, his head started to ache.
A car came down the street and slowed in front of the Paige house. The driver threw something out the passenger-side window onto Paige's lawn and drove off. House used the camera lens to zoom in on it. It was the current edition of The Serena Daily Banner! This was something he and Gar hadn't considered. Even with the camera, House couldn't read the headline, but he knew what it said, "INTERNET STING COP STUNG." Afterall, he had written the lead article, detailing the exploits of Orel Paige right down to the time his game warden brother caught him jacking a deer. He prayed that Paige wouldn't retrieve the paper before the cops came.
A large black dog sauntered down the street. I hope that's not Godzilla, he thought. Much to his relief, as the dog got closer, he could tell it wasn't. The dog sniffed at the box. It must have smelled him inside, because it growled, then barked twice. It sniffed around again, until it got the the spot where the other dog had pissed on the box. It, too, lifted it's leg and let go. Satisfied, it wandered off.
House peeked out the hole to see if Paige had been alerted by the barking. Sure enough, he was at the same upstairs window, looking out. Then he disappeared and, a minute later, the front door opened and he came out in his bath robe and picked up the newspaper. He took it back into the house, without looking at it.
House hoped that he wouldn't read the paper right away, but ten minutes later, the door opened again and Paige emerged fully dressed, carrying an overnight bag. All House could do was take his picture. He got a shot of him leaving the house and another of him getting into the super cruiser. He heard the engine crank and roar to life and he took another shot as Paige started to back down the driveway.
Before he could back all the way out, there was a loud WHOOP as a police car hit its siren briefly and turned onto Paige's street, blocking it. Another patrol car pulled onto the street from the other end and blocked it. House clicked away as the officers got out, weapons drawn, and ordered Paige out of his car. They made him get down on the ground - click! They had him put his hands behind his head - click! Then they cuffed him behind the back - click! They walked him back to his front door - click!
House began to tear at the hole in the box. It was time for him to reveal himself. The tearing sound attracted the attention of the Police Officers who had arrested Orel Paige. As they turned to see what was going on, one of the officers pointed his gun in House's direction. Once he was out of the box, they ordered hin to put his hands behind his head. His camera dangled from the strap around his neck. "I have press credentials," he announced.
The officer who had aimed his gun in House's direction crossed the street to where he was.
"Keep your hands on your head. Where are they?"
"In my back pocket."
The officer patted the pocket then reached in for House's Serena Daily Banner employee I.D. card. "Phew..! What's that smell?"
House explained and asked if he could let his hands down. After the officer looked at his I.D., he told him he could. "Did you get some good shots of us?" He was smiling.
"I got the whole thing."
"Are you the guy who wrote the article in today's paper?"
"The same."
"Congratulations. I never liked that son-of-a-bitch. He climbed over my back on his way up. I'm glad someone finally brought him down."
"You guys got a search warrant?"
"The Chief will be over from Court with it in a few minutes."
"You think he'll let me come inside with you - take a few photos of any evidence you might find?"
"Offer to publish his picture, leading Paige out in cuffs, and he'll let you do anything you want."
***
Later in the day, the Chief went to back court with the District Attorney to publicly consent to the release of the Adderhodlts, without bond. The trial was adjourned for two weeks, a mere formality to allow the District Attorney enough time to further investigate the matter and draw up dismissal papers. The District Attorney also announced that a number of other matters, where Officer Paige was involved, were under review.
When the case of The State of Ohio vs. Harry Kresge came on the calendar, one week later, for a refusal hearing, the courtroom was jam-packed with members of the media and curious towns people. House was seated next to Harry in the first row which was reserved for police officers, attorneys and the press. Seated right behind him were Phil Rowley and Hank Pitts. House scanned the rest of the courtroom, spotting, among others, Morley Stevens, Cal Gardner, Freddie Edwards, Miss Hyacinth and George Sturges. He had noticed Miss Hyacinth's bicycle chained to the courthouse bike rack on his way in.
When the case was called, Harry stepped into the well of the courtroom and announced his appearance, "Harry Kresge, the defendant, pro se."
"Are you ready for a hearing, Mr. Kresge?" the judge asked.
"Ready, Your Honor." Harry looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock, the earliest he'd been in court in his life.
"Mr. District Attorney...?" The judge already knew the answer.
"The State of Ohio is not ready to proceed at this time, Your Honor. We are asking for an adjournment of two weeks.
"May I ask why you are not ready?"
"Your honor, our only witness, Police Officer Orel Paige, is incarcerated at this time and unavailable to testify."
"And why didn't you make arrangements to have the County Jail produce him in court today?"
"Well Your Honor, we expect that he will be invoking the Fifth Amendment. We need time to discuss that matter with his attorney. If he were to appear in court today, he would have the right to have his attorney present. From what we understand, his attorney would not be available today, in any event."
"Approach the bench with Mr. Kresge!" The judge, who had a reputation for sternness, leered down at Harry.
"Your Honor?"
"Here's your license back."
"We would object to that, Your Honor," the D.A. protested.
The judge turned his sights from Harry to the D.A. He ground his teeth as he spoke. "I'm not going to waste one more minute on a case which you have no way of proving. Even if you did manage to get that scum-bucket Paige to testify, I would rule that his testimony was incredible as a matter of law."
The judge handed the license to Harry, then grimaced. "Where the hell'd you get that suit? Is that how they dress for court in New York?"
"A few of the fellas and I are headed down to the track right after this, Your Honor." He turned and looked to where Phil, Hank and House were seated.
The judge nodded at them. "Enjoy your afternoon, gentlemen. And I hope I never see any of you in my courtroom again. Case dismissed!"
Friday, June 27, 2008
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Harry decided that, rather than go straight home, he'd be better off detouring by way of the Blue Moon. It wouldn't look good if a woman drove him home from the jail, especially a young attractive one, who had gone to the trouble of raising a thousand dollars cash bail, while her own husband was still in the county lock-up. He'd get a lift home from someone at the bar.
Audrey drove him there in the same blue car he had spotted behind the Snake pit, the day he first met her. Frankie's car, of course, was back in the custody of Orel Paige. It was the car he had used to chase Harry down the night before.
Harry knew she didn't have a thousand dollars of her own money. He speculated out loud that the bail must have come from contributions by the denizens of the Blue Moon.
"Actually, the money came from Gar Findlay." She explained.
"You're kidding."
"No. You're arrest finally satisfied him that Orel Paige really is dirty. Mr. Findlay had discussed your letters to the editor with the Police Chief. The Chief had convinced Findlay not to publish them, because he thought they would make him look foolish. When the Chief felt that there might be a backlash against his internet patrol, he cut it back to one officer and put Paige back in a police cruiser. When Paige protested, he showed him copies of your letters. Findlay realized that if Paige was getting back at you with this arrest, then he probably framed Frankie and Snake, too."
"How do you know all this?"
"When you were unable to attend, Phil Rowley asked me to go to the meeting at the newspaper yesterday afternoon. He said I could represent Frankie's interests."
"Who else was there?"
"This character they call the House of Pain. He had tapes and pictures and some articles of girl's clothing. I guess you know all about that. This Paige guy is filthier than I ever imagined. Gar asked me to keep it under my hat until they break it in tomorrow morning's paper. He's already called the Public Defender and Frankie and Snake's case has been advanced on the calendar for tomorrow for a bail application. They told me that they will probably get out, pending trial.
When I asked about you, Gar reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. I think he feels responsible for what happened to you. He said I should give you a message from him."
"What is it?"
"You're not a wacko, after all."
***
It was about ten o'clock when Morely Stevens pulled his truck into Harry's driveway to drop him off. The house was dark, but Harry noticed someone peeking through the curtains in the window of Billy's room. Harry hadn't called to tell them that he was out of jail, but he knew that Billy would be looking for him anyway. He could never sleep without Harry in the house. The light came on in the living room and the front door was opened before Harry was halfway up the front walk.
"Harry!" The boy wrapped himself around one of Harry's legs.
"Hi, guy. Miss me?"
"How come Mom didn't know you were coming home?"
"If she had bailed me out, she would have known. That's how it works, squirt."
"Who did bail you out?"
"Some of my friends took up a collection." Harry figured it was simpler to lie than go through a long explanation. "Want something to eat? I'm hungry."
"Okay, make me some oatmeal."
Harry knew the kid must have missed him a lot. Billy hated oatmeal. Whenever Harry made it for him, it was a struggle to get him to finish it. "How about Spam and eggs? We got any left over grits?"
The boy opened the refrigerator and started pulling out the eggs and the bowl with the grits. "If you were in charge, would you eat grits all the time?"
"Who says I'm not in charge?"
"Let's face it, Harry, Mom kicks your butt all the time."
"Is that right? Who was it that wanted to follow me down here when I left home?"
"It doesn't make any difference, she still kicks your butt all the time."
"Yeah, and she's really gonna kick your butt for getting drunk and getting arrested!" Amy wiped the sleep out of her eyes and came over to where Harry was seated at the kitchen table eating his eggs. She must have been awakened by the conversation in the kitchen. She hugged Harry around the neck, letting his stubble scratch against her cheek.
"Okay kids. Go to bed. It's time for Harry to face the music." He put the dishes in the sink and turned out the kitchen light.
The TV was on in the bedroom, but the lights were out. Jenny was snoring. She was curled up on his side of the bed with her head on his pillow. Harry knew she must have missed him. She always complained that his pillow smelled funny. "You smell like cheese," she would tell him. He knew he didn't. It was just another pressure tactic. She was always trying to get him to watch his diet, complaining that he ate too much cheese. As far as Harry was concerned, the Chinese just didn't understand cheese. The kids liked it, though. And that was another sore point.
Jenny stirred as Harry started to take off his pants. "Who bailed you out?"
"The boys." He figured he might as well be consistent.
"I figured they would. It took them this long to get up the money? Com'ere, I want to smell your breath."
Harry was safe. The food he had just consumed covered the smell of the beer he'd had earlier.
"You smell like Spam. Did the kids wake up when you came in?"
"Yeah."
"The little guy's been watching for you all day. They both missed you."
"Why didn't you bail me out?"
"You needed a lesson."
"You were going to let me stay a second night?"
"Maybe..."
Harry finished undressing and started to slip under the covers.
"Oh, no. You dirty thing..."
"Okay, I'll take a shower. I was just tired, is all..."
"You really are a dirty old man, Harry. I bet if I weren't around, you'd never shave and you'd probably bathe about once a week."
In fact, for the six weeks or so that Harry had lived alone in Serena, that had been pretty much the case. When she flew out to scope out the place for the first time, she made him shave off a pretty decent beard. It had come in gray, almost white. She hated the fact that it made him truly look the fourteen years older than her that he was.
Harry took a quick shower and climbed back into bed, just in time for the eleven o'clock news. There was the usual stuff, a shooting, a string of break-ins, a bad accident that backed up the interstate. Then there was footage of Harry, cuffed behind the back, being led by Orel Paige from the police station, to the courthouse across the street. "A Serena man who was arrested for D.U.I. yesterday will be representing himself in County Court," the woman newscaster announced. "For more on that, we take you to our Greene County Bureau." They cut to a shot of a young man with a microphone. The courthouse was in the background. He went on to explain that the man, one Harry Kresge, was actually a lawyer from New York who had recently moved to town.
"Another slow news day," Harry groaned.
"This is great. Now everyone at work will know..."
"What have you been telling them about me?"
"Nothing. They don't ask, I don't tell. I call you my fiancee. That's all."
"They don't know I used to be a lawyer?"
"No. And stop that 'used to be' stuff. You can still be a lawyer."
"I hated being a lawyer, that's why I quit. I'm a writer."
"I hate my job, too, but I go to work every day. Six months and you haven't made a penny. Are you just going to sit there and watch me struggle forever? You could open an office, do some wills or something..."
"Never! We had a deal. You said you'd give me two years."
"Two years? I said that?"
"Yeah, you said that!"
"Never mind... I know you're working hard at it."
"My novel's just about done. Now I've got to try to sell it. If that doesn't work out, there will be another and another, each better than the last. Maybe I can sell a story in between. They keep saying nice things about me over at Esquire."
"Send them something else! I have this feeling that you're just sending them the wrong kind of stories. I see the kind of books you read. Most people don't read that stuff. I think you're trying to be too fancy."
"You mean too intellectual?"
"Yeah, that."
"Ha! I've got to write something new. I'm running out of stuff. They get thousands of stories every month. It's like trying to make it in the N.B.A."
"What's the N.B.A.?"
"Never mind..."
"Turn off the TV, Harry!"
He searched the covers for the remote, then clicked it off. "I love you," he whispered in the dark.
"I love you, too. But I wonder how much you really love me, you old fart. If you really loved me, you wouldn't get arrested. What's going to happen to me and the kids, if you go to jail?"
Harry was already asleep.
Harry decided that, rather than go straight home, he'd be better off detouring by way of the Blue Moon. It wouldn't look good if a woman drove him home from the jail, especially a young attractive one, who had gone to the trouble of raising a thousand dollars cash bail, while her own husband was still in the county lock-up. He'd get a lift home from someone at the bar.
Audrey drove him there in the same blue car he had spotted behind the Snake pit, the day he first met her. Frankie's car, of course, was back in the custody of Orel Paige. It was the car he had used to chase Harry down the night before.
Harry knew she didn't have a thousand dollars of her own money. He speculated out loud that the bail must have come from contributions by the denizens of the Blue Moon.
"Actually, the money came from Gar Findlay." She explained.
"You're kidding."
"No. You're arrest finally satisfied him that Orel Paige really is dirty. Mr. Findlay had discussed your letters to the editor with the Police Chief. The Chief had convinced Findlay not to publish them, because he thought they would make him look foolish. When the Chief felt that there might be a backlash against his internet patrol, he cut it back to one officer and put Paige back in a police cruiser. When Paige protested, he showed him copies of your letters. Findlay realized that if Paige was getting back at you with this arrest, then he probably framed Frankie and Snake, too."
"How do you know all this?"
"When you were unable to attend, Phil Rowley asked me to go to the meeting at the newspaper yesterday afternoon. He said I could represent Frankie's interests."
"Who else was there?"
"This character they call the House of Pain. He had tapes and pictures and some articles of girl's clothing. I guess you know all about that. This Paige guy is filthier than I ever imagined. Gar asked me to keep it under my hat until they break it in tomorrow morning's paper. He's already called the Public Defender and Frankie and Snake's case has been advanced on the calendar for tomorrow for a bail application. They told me that they will probably get out, pending trial.
When I asked about you, Gar reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. I think he feels responsible for what happened to you. He said I should give you a message from him."
"What is it?"
"You're not a wacko, after all."
***
It was about ten o'clock when Morely Stevens pulled his truck into Harry's driveway to drop him off. The house was dark, but Harry noticed someone peeking through the curtains in the window of Billy's room. Harry hadn't called to tell them that he was out of jail, but he knew that Billy would be looking for him anyway. He could never sleep without Harry in the house. The light came on in the living room and the front door was opened before Harry was halfway up the front walk.
"Harry!" The boy wrapped himself around one of Harry's legs.
"Hi, guy. Miss me?"
"How come Mom didn't know you were coming home?"
"If she had bailed me out, she would have known. That's how it works, squirt."
"Who did bail you out?"
"Some of my friends took up a collection." Harry figured it was simpler to lie than go through a long explanation. "Want something to eat? I'm hungry."
"Okay, make me some oatmeal."
Harry knew the kid must have missed him a lot. Billy hated oatmeal. Whenever Harry made it for him, it was a struggle to get him to finish it. "How about Spam and eggs? We got any left over grits?"
The boy opened the refrigerator and started pulling out the eggs and the bowl with the grits. "If you were in charge, would you eat grits all the time?"
"Who says I'm not in charge?"
"Let's face it, Harry, Mom kicks your butt all the time."
"Is that right? Who was it that wanted to follow me down here when I left home?"
"It doesn't make any difference, she still kicks your butt all the time."
"Yeah, and she's really gonna kick your butt for getting drunk and getting arrested!" Amy wiped the sleep out of her eyes and came over to where Harry was seated at the kitchen table eating his eggs. She must have been awakened by the conversation in the kitchen. She hugged Harry around the neck, letting his stubble scratch against her cheek.
"Okay kids. Go to bed. It's time for Harry to face the music." He put the dishes in the sink and turned out the kitchen light.
The TV was on in the bedroom, but the lights were out. Jenny was snoring. She was curled up on his side of the bed with her head on his pillow. Harry knew she must have missed him. She always complained that his pillow smelled funny. "You smell like cheese," she would tell him. He knew he didn't. It was just another pressure tactic. She was always trying to get him to watch his diet, complaining that he ate too much cheese. As far as Harry was concerned, the Chinese just didn't understand cheese. The kids liked it, though. And that was another sore point.
Jenny stirred as Harry started to take off his pants. "Who bailed you out?"
"The boys." He figured he might as well be consistent.
"I figured they would. It took them this long to get up the money? Com'ere, I want to smell your breath."
Harry was safe. The food he had just consumed covered the smell of the beer he'd had earlier.
"You smell like Spam. Did the kids wake up when you came in?"
"Yeah."
"The little guy's been watching for you all day. They both missed you."
"Why didn't you bail me out?"
"You needed a lesson."
"You were going to let me stay a second night?"
"Maybe..."
Harry finished undressing and started to slip under the covers.
"Oh, no. You dirty thing..."
"Okay, I'll take a shower. I was just tired, is all..."
"You really are a dirty old man, Harry. I bet if I weren't around, you'd never shave and you'd probably bathe about once a week."
In fact, for the six weeks or so that Harry had lived alone in Serena, that had been pretty much the case. When she flew out to scope out the place for the first time, she made him shave off a pretty decent beard. It had come in gray, almost white. She hated the fact that it made him truly look the fourteen years older than her that he was.
Harry took a quick shower and climbed back into bed, just in time for the eleven o'clock news. There was the usual stuff, a shooting, a string of break-ins, a bad accident that backed up the interstate. Then there was footage of Harry, cuffed behind the back, being led by Orel Paige from the police station, to the courthouse across the street. "A Serena man who was arrested for D.U.I. yesterday will be representing himself in County Court," the woman newscaster announced. "For more on that, we take you to our Greene County Bureau." They cut to a shot of a young man with a microphone. The courthouse was in the background. He went on to explain that the man, one Harry Kresge, was actually a lawyer from New York who had recently moved to town.
"Another slow news day," Harry groaned.
"This is great. Now everyone at work will know..."
"What have you been telling them about me?"
"Nothing. They don't ask, I don't tell. I call you my fiancee. That's all."
"They don't know I used to be a lawyer?"
"No. And stop that 'used to be' stuff. You can still be a lawyer."
"I hated being a lawyer, that's why I quit. I'm a writer."
"I hate my job, too, but I go to work every day. Six months and you haven't made a penny. Are you just going to sit there and watch me struggle forever? You could open an office, do some wills or something..."
"Never! We had a deal. You said you'd give me two years."
"Two years? I said that?"
"Yeah, you said that!"
"Never mind... I know you're working hard at it."
"My novel's just about done. Now I've got to try to sell it. If that doesn't work out, there will be another and another, each better than the last. Maybe I can sell a story in between. They keep saying nice things about me over at Esquire."
"Send them something else! I have this feeling that you're just sending them the wrong kind of stories. I see the kind of books you read. Most people don't read that stuff. I think you're trying to be too fancy."
"You mean too intellectual?"
"Yeah, that."
"Ha! I've got to write something new. I'm running out of stuff. They get thousands of stories every month. It's like trying to make it in the N.B.A."
"What's the N.B.A.?"
"Never mind..."
"Turn off the TV, Harry!"
He searched the covers for the remote, then clicked it off. "I love you," he whispered in the dark.
"I love you, too. But I wonder how much you really love me, you old fart. If you really loved me, you wouldn't get arrested. What's going to happen to me and the kids, if you go to jail?"
Harry was already asleep.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Harry's decision to refuse the breathalizer was no rash judgment. If he had blown into it, it probably would have shown a blood-alcohol level somewhere close to a .20, well above the state minimum. The consequence of refusal would be the loss of his driving privileges, subject to a hearing, that is, and a presumption at trial, that he had refused the test, because he had known he was intoxicated. If he had taken the test, there would have been witnesses and corroborating evidence, other than Orel Paige. The test, no doubt, would have been administered by someone else, someone with training on the equipment. As it stood, with the refusal, it was Paige's word that he had seen him driving erratically and there had been the smell of alcohol on his breath against his. Harry was banking on the fact that Paige's word was soon to be shown to be questionable.
At his arraignment the next morning, Harry asked to speak to the Public Defender. His request was denied pending proof of his indigence. Harry then elected to represent himself. The judge set bail at one thousand dollars because of Harry's refusal to submit to the breathalizer and the fact that he had lived within the state for less than a year. The judge also took his driver's license.
Harry had been planning on conducting his own defense all along. The reason why he had wanted to speak to the Public Defender was to provide him with the salient details of Officer Paige's lack of credibility in so far as it applied to the Adderholdts' case. Now that would have to wait until Jenny bailed him out.
Jenny was hot when he called. "Stay there! A taste of jail will do you good." Her diatribe covered all the ground from his skipping off to Ohio without her, to his long slide from criminal lawyer to "just plain criminal."
"Listen, I've got to get out. This goes beyond just my dilemma."
"You bet it does! What are the neighbors and the people at work going to think of me, when they find out you've been arrested for drunken driving? Bail you out? Hah!"
This wasn't working out as Harry had hoped. He told himself he should have known better. She never argues the central point, the logical issues. She always sidetracks into the emotional. It always comes down to respect. And she would never let him fight the current skirmish without having to re-fight the entire war.
"Don't you understand that this was a set up? This guy Paige has been laying for me ever since he was taken off that stupid kiddie-porn patrol. You know what he called me? He called me a tassel-loafered shyster! For Christ's sake, I was wearing sneakers when he made me get out of the car and take the position! He's the same one who gave you..."
She cut him off. "Don't try to defend yourself!"
This was always her strongest tactic. Once she said that, there was no use in going on. If he did, she would simply say, "I told you, don't try to defend yourself." So he shut up, didn't offer another word in his defense. There was nothing but the din of prison from his end of the line, inmates yelling, guards shouting, cell doors slamming shut.
She continued, raising all the old complaints, re-fighting all the old battles, getting madder. "Oh, I know your game," she said, after awhile. "You're just going to sit there and say nothing!"
He decided to go for sympathy. "I miss you and the kids."
"Oh right, the kids. I forgot about the kids. Imagine the disgrace when they have to face their classmates in school, tomorrow."
"Are you kidding? Half their fathers have been busted for D.U.I."
"That's it. I told you, don't try to defend yourself." She hung up.
Although he was technically entitled to only one, Harry managed to beg a second phone call. He called the Blue Moon to ask Freddie Edwards to pass the word to Phil and House that he was in the lock-up and wouldn't be able to meet with them at the offices of the Banner that afternoon.
At six o'clock, a guard opened his cell and told him he had been bailed. As he was being released through the visiting area, he braced himself for a furious attack by a very angry Jenny. He decided to act contrite. But when he walked into the reception lobby, the woman who was waiting for him was Audrey Adderholdt.
This is just great, Harry thought, how am I going to explain this?
Harry's decision to refuse the breathalizer was no rash judgment. If he had blown into it, it probably would have shown a blood-alcohol level somewhere close to a .20, well above the state minimum. The consequence of refusal would be the loss of his driving privileges, subject to a hearing, that is, and a presumption at trial, that he had refused the test, because he had known he was intoxicated. If he had taken the test, there would have been witnesses and corroborating evidence, other than Orel Paige. The test, no doubt, would have been administered by someone else, someone with training on the equipment. As it stood, with the refusal, it was Paige's word that he had seen him driving erratically and there had been the smell of alcohol on his breath against his. Harry was banking on the fact that Paige's word was soon to be shown to be questionable.
At his arraignment the next morning, Harry asked to speak to the Public Defender. His request was denied pending proof of his indigence. Harry then elected to represent himself. The judge set bail at one thousand dollars because of Harry's refusal to submit to the breathalizer and the fact that he had lived within the state for less than a year. The judge also took his driver's license.
Harry had been planning on conducting his own defense all along. The reason why he had wanted to speak to the Public Defender was to provide him with the salient details of Officer Paige's lack of credibility in so far as it applied to the Adderholdts' case. Now that would have to wait until Jenny bailed him out.
Jenny was hot when he called. "Stay there! A taste of jail will do you good." Her diatribe covered all the ground from his skipping off to Ohio without her, to his long slide from criminal lawyer to "just plain criminal."
"Listen, I've got to get out. This goes beyond just my dilemma."
"You bet it does! What are the neighbors and the people at work going to think of me, when they find out you've been arrested for drunken driving? Bail you out? Hah!"
This wasn't working out as Harry had hoped. He told himself he should have known better. She never argues the central point, the logical issues. She always sidetracks into the emotional. It always comes down to respect. And she would never let him fight the current skirmish without having to re-fight the entire war.
"Don't you understand that this was a set up? This guy Paige has been laying for me ever since he was taken off that stupid kiddie-porn patrol. You know what he called me? He called me a tassel-loafered shyster! For Christ's sake, I was wearing sneakers when he made me get out of the car and take the position! He's the same one who gave you..."
She cut him off. "Don't try to defend yourself!"
This was always her strongest tactic. Once she said that, there was no use in going on. If he did, she would simply say, "I told you, don't try to defend yourself." So he shut up, didn't offer another word in his defense. There was nothing but the din of prison from his end of the line, inmates yelling, guards shouting, cell doors slamming shut.
She continued, raising all the old complaints, re-fighting all the old battles, getting madder. "Oh, I know your game," she said, after awhile. "You're just going to sit there and say nothing!"
He decided to go for sympathy. "I miss you and the kids."
"Oh right, the kids. I forgot about the kids. Imagine the disgrace when they have to face their classmates in school, tomorrow."
"Are you kidding? Half their fathers have been busted for D.U.I."
"That's it. I told you, don't try to defend yourself." She hung up.
Although he was technically entitled to only one, Harry managed to beg a second phone call. He called the Blue Moon to ask Freddie Edwards to pass the word to Phil and House that he was in the lock-up and wouldn't be able to meet with them at the offices of the Banner that afternoon.
At six o'clock, a guard opened his cell and told him he had been bailed. As he was being released through the visiting area, he braced himself for a furious attack by a very angry Jenny. He decided to act contrite. But when he walked into the reception lobby, the woman who was waiting for him was Audrey Adderholdt.
This is just great, Harry thought, how am I going to explain this?
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The headline of the Serena Daily Banner was to read: "POLICE SEIZE DRUG CAR - BROTHERS' BAIL SET AT $100,000 EACH." House read the lead slugs as they came out of Louie's machine.
"Who made the arrest?" he asked, Louie.
"Let me see..." Louie scanned down the copy he was working from. "Police Officer Orel Paige."
House turned and headed for the fire exit.
"Where you going?" Louie called after him.
"To see Gar."
"You're on a first name basis, now, I see."
***
"That's a fine piece of writing, that bit you did on Hyacinth Haynes," Gar Findlay told him as he came through the door. "We'll run it on Saturday, in the "Life Styles" section. Congratulations on your first story."
"Thanks, but that's not why I'm here. It's about Orel Paige. Remember when you said you had a feeling there was going to be a right time to release that stuff I dug up. How about in connection with today's lead story?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Well then, how about tomorrow, as a follow up?"
"Look, I've decided it's too hot a potato for a small town like this. We can't go around destroying the credibility of our police officers."
"You called it your newspaper man's instinct."
"My instinct tells me to let sleeping dogs lay."
"But what if Officer Paige is lying? What if he planted the drugs just to get the car back?"
"That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? What's one thing got to do with the other? And besides, it's the girl's word against his. She never did produce those photos."
Actually, she had. She had found them on the internet. House's own newspaper man's instinct had told him to hold off on reporting it to Gar, especially after he had heard that he would be playing poker with the Police Chief. And even before that, House's instinct had told him to make a copy of the tape, prior to turning it over to his Editor.
"Yes, sir. And thanks for using my story about Miss Hyacinth."
"That's prize-winning material, you've got there, House. I wouldn't be surprised if the wire services pick it up."
"Thank you, sir." House retreated to the linotype room.
***
The handwriting on the small package looked familiar to Harry. He went into the kitchen and found a steak knife to open it. Inside was an audio cassette and a note: "Check this out and call me if you're interested." Included in the note was an internet URL - http://www.preteentitties.com/images/sarah1.jpg. It was signed Marvin Payne and it had a local phone number.
Harry listened to the tape on his walkman, then booted up his computer and went on the net. He found that in addition to sarah1.jpg, there were almost a dozen other photographs, depicting a poorly disguised Orel Paige in various poses with a young girl. In some of the pictures, they were doing things with his service revolver. In another one, she was painting his genitals with orange paint. When he was through, he dialed the number and asked the woman who answered the phone if he could speak with Marvin Payne.
"Do I know you?" Harry asked the man who came to the phone.
"I don't think so." The man sounded nervous.
"Why did you choose me to send this stuff to?"
"I've read your letters to the editor about the Serena Police and Officer Paige."
"Letters? I thought that only one of those letters was published."
"I work at the paper."
"Are you the one who responded to my letter about the dog."
House hesitated for a moment. "Yes, that was me."
"What do you do at the paper?"
"Sweep up and write stories."
"Well, this is some serious stuff. You blow Officer Paige's credibility all to hell. The problem is how to handle this. Does the editor of the paper know about this?"
"The tape, not the pictures. I held back on telling him about the pictures. There's something else. I have the girl's dress with a stain on it. I thought to get it from her from having read about the President and Monica Lewinsky."
"Where's he want to go with this?"
"Bury it, like he buried your letters. That's why I didn't tell him about the photographs. You're a lawyer, right? You should know what to do about this. Just keep me out of it."
"I'm going to turn it over to the Public Defender. He's the one who's representing the Adderholdt brothers. But I don't see any way to keep you out of this."
"You know Phil Rowley, don't you? From the Blue Moon..?"
"Yes, I know Phil. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Yes, I'm gonna ask him if he can give me a ride over to the Blue Moon. Can we meet over there?"
"Sure. How about in one hour. Call me back if he can't make it." Harry gave him his number.
***
"I know Gar Findlay pretty well. I knew his father. I used to do all the plumbing work over at the paper. Gar is kind of spoiled, you might say. His father had shit under his nails, but he made sure his son didn't. He sent him away to prep school in Massachusetts and later to Columbia to major in journalism. He thought he'd take the paper up a notch, really make something out of it. But Gar was lazy. He always chose the path of least resistance. But he's no fool, mind ya. He can be made to listen to reason." Phil took another sip on his beer.
It was Harry's turn to talk. They were trying to reason with House, who was afraid to apply any muscle to his boss. "There's no way to see that justice is done and keep you and Gar out of this. The Judge and the D.A. are going to demand to know where this tape came from. For Christ's sake, your voice is even on it in a couple places. The best thing to do is to go to Gar and warn him in advance. If he has half the brain Phil here says he has, he will turn this around so that you and he look like heros, and the Chief of Police will do the same thing. Orel Paige will be dismissed from the Police Force and will probably go to jail, where he belongs."
"I'm afraid he's going to fire me."
"Phil and I will be with you to reason with him. Once the cat is out of the bag, I don't see how he can fire you. Let's call him and set up a meeting for tomorrow."
"Okay, but he says you're a wacko," House still sounded hesitant, but smiled when he uttered the word wacko.
Harry grimaced. "Phil, why don't you call him?" And so it was arranged.
***
Phil gave House a lift home, leaving Harry at the bar with Cal and Morely. Harry soon forgot his promise to Jenny, not to stay out too late. It was past supper time. Morely was explaining that for smoother grits, you had to add extra water and boil them longer before leaving them to simmer, when the phone behind the bar rang.
"Harry, it's for you," Freddie announced, stretching the long chord to where Harry was seated.
"You dog!" It was Jenny. She hung up, before he could reply.
"Time to go, boys." Harry handed the phone back to Freddie and climbed down from his stool.
It was dark in the parking lot of the Blue Moon. Harry couldn't have seen Orel Paige's cruiser, poking its nose out from behind the abandoned gas station across the road, even if he had thought to look for it.
***
There was barely enough of a shoulder to pull over on. It didn't matter, though. There wasn't another car on the road.
Paige came to the driver's side window. "Put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them!"
As far as Harry knew, this procedure was usually reserved for armed suspects. "Don't you want to see my license and registration?" he asked in disbelief.
"This ain't New York. Don't try to tell me my job."
So he knows who I am, Harry thought. That part of it didn't surprise him. He put both hands on the top of the wheel. "What now?"
"Shut up!" Paige circled the car in the dark, shining a flashlight into every visible corner of the station wagon's interior. When he was done, he ordered Harry out. "Lay flat on the ground, face down, with your hands on the back of your head!"
"Are you fucking kidding me? For a traffic stop?"
"Do it now!" Paige unsnapped his holster guard and removed his service revolver. He held it at his side, pointed at the ground.
Kresge lay down on the ground. He wished that another car would pass by to witness this absurdity. But none did. "Call for backup! I want witnesses!"
"I'm the one giving the orders." Paige leaned into the car with his flashlight.
"If you try to plant any shit on me, I'll sue your ass!"
"That's just the kind of threat I'd expect from a tassel-loafered shyster like you. Put your hands behind your back!" He reached down and cuffed him. Then he frisked him as he lay on the ground. "I'm taking you in for a breathalizer."
Harry twisted his head around so he could see the cop standing over him. "You can kiss my ass with your breathalizer!"
Paige reached down and jerked Harry to his feet by the hand cuffs. The pain was intense, but brief. Harry managed not to scream. "Anybody ever tell you how stupid you look in that hat?"
"You can bait me all you want, lawyer. The only marks I'm going to leave on you are where the hard bench in the holding cell leaves lines on your ass from having sat in jail all night." He keyed his radio. "This is Paige. I'm on Dayton-Serena Road about a mile west of the speedway. I'm holding a D.U.I. for transport."
"Ain't that a bitch..." Harry mumbled to the night.
The headline of the Serena Daily Banner was to read: "POLICE SEIZE DRUG CAR - BROTHERS' BAIL SET AT $100,000 EACH." House read the lead slugs as they came out of Louie's machine.
"Who made the arrest?" he asked, Louie.
"Let me see..." Louie scanned down the copy he was working from. "Police Officer Orel Paige."
House turned and headed for the fire exit.
"Where you going?" Louie called after him.
"To see Gar."
"You're on a first name basis, now, I see."
***
"That's a fine piece of writing, that bit you did on Hyacinth Haynes," Gar Findlay told him as he came through the door. "We'll run it on Saturday, in the "Life Styles" section. Congratulations on your first story."
"Thanks, but that's not why I'm here. It's about Orel Paige. Remember when you said you had a feeling there was going to be a right time to release that stuff I dug up. How about in connection with today's lead story?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Well then, how about tomorrow, as a follow up?"
"Look, I've decided it's too hot a potato for a small town like this. We can't go around destroying the credibility of our police officers."
"You called it your newspaper man's instinct."
"My instinct tells me to let sleeping dogs lay."
"But what if Officer Paige is lying? What if he planted the drugs just to get the car back?"
"That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? What's one thing got to do with the other? And besides, it's the girl's word against his. She never did produce those photos."
Actually, she had. She had found them on the internet. House's own newspaper man's instinct had told him to hold off on reporting it to Gar, especially after he had heard that he would be playing poker with the Police Chief. And even before that, House's instinct had told him to make a copy of the tape, prior to turning it over to his Editor.
"Yes, sir. And thanks for using my story about Miss Hyacinth."
"That's prize-winning material, you've got there, House. I wouldn't be surprised if the wire services pick it up."
"Thank you, sir." House retreated to the linotype room.
***
The handwriting on the small package looked familiar to Harry. He went into the kitchen and found a steak knife to open it. Inside was an audio cassette and a note: "Check this out and call me if you're interested." Included in the note was an internet URL - http://www.preteentitties.com/images/sarah1.jpg. It was signed Marvin Payne and it had a local phone number.
Harry listened to the tape on his walkman, then booted up his computer and went on the net. He found that in addition to sarah1.jpg, there were almost a dozen other photographs, depicting a poorly disguised Orel Paige in various poses with a young girl. In some of the pictures, they were doing things with his service revolver. In another one, she was painting his genitals with orange paint. When he was through, he dialed the number and asked the woman who answered the phone if he could speak with Marvin Payne.
"Do I know you?" Harry asked the man who came to the phone.
"I don't think so." The man sounded nervous.
"Why did you choose me to send this stuff to?"
"I've read your letters to the editor about the Serena Police and Officer Paige."
"Letters? I thought that only one of those letters was published."
"I work at the paper."
"Are you the one who responded to my letter about the dog."
House hesitated for a moment. "Yes, that was me."
"What do you do at the paper?"
"Sweep up and write stories."
"Well, this is some serious stuff. You blow Officer Paige's credibility all to hell. The problem is how to handle this. Does the editor of the paper know about this?"
"The tape, not the pictures. I held back on telling him about the pictures. There's something else. I have the girl's dress with a stain on it. I thought to get it from her from having read about the President and Monica Lewinsky."
"Where's he want to go with this?"
"Bury it, like he buried your letters. That's why I didn't tell him about the photographs. You're a lawyer, right? You should know what to do about this. Just keep me out of it."
"I'm going to turn it over to the Public Defender. He's the one who's representing the Adderholdt brothers. But I don't see any way to keep you out of this."
"You know Phil Rowley, don't you? From the Blue Moon..?"
"Yes, I know Phil. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Yes, I'm gonna ask him if he can give me a ride over to the Blue Moon. Can we meet over there?"
"Sure. How about in one hour. Call me back if he can't make it." Harry gave him his number.
***
"I know Gar Findlay pretty well. I knew his father. I used to do all the plumbing work over at the paper. Gar is kind of spoiled, you might say. His father had shit under his nails, but he made sure his son didn't. He sent him away to prep school in Massachusetts and later to Columbia to major in journalism. He thought he'd take the paper up a notch, really make something out of it. But Gar was lazy. He always chose the path of least resistance. But he's no fool, mind ya. He can be made to listen to reason." Phil took another sip on his beer.
It was Harry's turn to talk. They were trying to reason with House, who was afraid to apply any muscle to his boss. "There's no way to see that justice is done and keep you and Gar out of this. The Judge and the D.A. are going to demand to know where this tape came from. For Christ's sake, your voice is even on it in a couple places. The best thing to do is to go to Gar and warn him in advance. If he has half the brain Phil here says he has, he will turn this around so that you and he look like heros, and the Chief of Police will do the same thing. Orel Paige will be dismissed from the Police Force and will probably go to jail, where he belongs."
"I'm afraid he's going to fire me."
"Phil and I will be with you to reason with him. Once the cat is out of the bag, I don't see how he can fire you. Let's call him and set up a meeting for tomorrow."
"Okay, but he says you're a wacko," House still sounded hesitant, but smiled when he uttered the word wacko.
Harry grimaced. "Phil, why don't you call him?" And so it was arranged.
***
Phil gave House a lift home, leaving Harry at the bar with Cal and Morely. Harry soon forgot his promise to Jenny, not to stay out too late. It was past supper time. Morely was explaining that for smoother grits, you had to add extra water and boil them longer before leaving them to simmer, when the phone behind the bar rang.
"Harry, it's for you," Freddie announced, stretching the long chord to where Harry was seated.
"You dog!" It was Jenny. She hung up, before he could reply.
"Time to go, boys." Harry handed the phone back to Freddie and climbed down from his stool.
It was dark in the parking lot of the Blue Moon. Harry couldn't have seen Orel Paige's cruiser, poking its nose out from behind the abandoned gas station across the road, even if he had thought to look for it.
***
There was barely enough of a shoulder to pull over on. It didn't matter, though. There wasn't another car on the road.
Paige came to the driver's side window. "Put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them!"
As far as Harry knew, this procedure was usually reserved for armed suspects. "Don't you want to see my license and registration?" he asked in disbelief.
"This ain't New York. Don't try to tell me my job."
So he knows who I am, Harry thought. That part of it didn't surprise him. He put both hands on the top of the wheel. "What now?"
"Shut up!" Paige circled the car in the dark, shining a flashlight into every visible corner of the station wagon's interior. When he was done, he ordered Harry out. "Lay flat on the ground, face down, with your hands on the back of your head!"
"Are you fucking kidding me? For a traffic stop?"
"Do it now!" Paige unsnapped his holster guard and removed his service revolver. He held it at his side, pointed at the ground.
Kresge lay down on the ground. He wished that another car would pass by to witness this absurdity. But none did. "Call for backup! I want witnesses!"
"I'm the one giving the orders." Paige leaned into the car with his flashlight.
"If you try to plant any shit on me, I'll sue your ass!"
"That's just the kind of threat I'd expect from a tassel-loafered shyster like you. Put your hands behind your back!" He reached down and cuffed him. Then he frisked him as he lay on the ground. "I'm taking you in for a breathalizer."
Harry twisted his head around so he could see the cop standing over him. "You can kiss my ass with your breathalizer!"
Paige reached down and jerked Harry to his feet by the hand cuffs. The pain was intense, but brief. Harry managed not to scream. "Anybody ever tell you how stupid you look in that hat?"
"You can bait me all you want, lawyer. The only marks I'm going to leave on you are where the hard bench in the holding cell leaves lines on your ass from having sat in jail all night." He keyed his radio. "This is Paige. I'm on Dayton-Serena Road about a mile west of the speedway. I'm holding a D.U.I. for transport."
"Ain't that a bitch..." Harry mumbled to the night.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Kresge had just started on his second draft beer when Frankie and Snake tracked him down at the Blue Moon. Since Snake wasn't twenty-one and wasn't allowed to sit at the bar, they asked Harry to join them in a booth. They ordered another beer for Harry and cokes for themselves.
"I just picked up the car from the paint shop. I thought you'd like to take a ride." Frankie was gleeful. Snake was smirking like he'd just taken the pot at a high-stakes poker game.
"Did you guys have Cal install Snake's stereo like I suggested?"
"We sure did." Frankie said. Snake just kept smiling and shaking his head.
"I think I'll pass. You see any sign of Orel Paige?"
"It's just like you said. He's gonna shadow me everywhere I go, just waiting for me to fuck up. He's sitting out there in the parking lot right now. He had the paint shop staked out, before I got over there. That's why I'm celebrating with a coke instead of a beer. We'll sit in here for awhile, let him think I'm getting good and tanked. Then when we leave, he'll follow us down the road a bit and pull me over for a field test. Only I'm gonna blow nothing but a zero this time."
"I'd watch it, if I were you. He might not play it by the book."
"What can I do? If he's gonna fuck with me, he's gonna fuck with me..."
"True enough. With a little luck, he'll screw himself. What kind of paint job did you get?"
"I went for the original black, but this time with flames around the air scoop and coming out of the wheel wells."
"Ole Orel must like that. I bet he got a boner the moment she saw you pull it out of the shop."
The two waited about a half-hour before leaving. Frankie looked at his watch.
"That should do it. Thanks for everything, Harry." He shook his hand.
"Yeah, thanks, man." Fish grabbed his hand and shook it, too.
"Just remember, don't call me, if you get arrested."
It was gray and cold in the parking lot. A light drizzle slanted into their faces as the wind rattled what few leaves were left on the trees. Across the road from the Blue Moon Tavern was an abandoned gas station. The nose of Orel Paige's cruiser was just visible from in back of the peeling wood-frame building.
He followed them onto the by-pass and then off the exit for Fairgrounds Road. Frankie didn't really have any reason to go this way, except that he thought he'd inspire Officer Paige with the possibility of a little poetic justice. Sure enough, Paige turned on his flashing blue light and hit his siren one short blast in the exact spot where he had made his original arrest.
Frankie pulled the Camaro onto the grassy shoulder and watched in the rearview mirror as Paige got out of his car and adjusted his trooper-style hat, before coming over to his window.
"Is that beer I smell on your breath, Frankie?"
"No, sir."
"Hand me your license, registration and proof of insurance, and step out of the car."
After he administered the field test he leaned inside the car from the driver's side. Snake was playing the dashboard like a conga drum and chanting one of those derogatory chants the fans sing at baseball games when the home team is thumping the visitors.
"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car too, Snake," this in his most officious police tone of voice. "Both of you put your hands on the trunk and spread your legs." He frisked them, then instructed them to remain that way while he searched the car.
When he was done, he radioed the police station, "This is Officer Paige. I need backup out here by the Fairgrounds. I just apprehended two white males in the act of transporting crack cocaine." He held up a small plastic vial with a red cap, displaying it between his thumb and forefinger so Frankie could see it.
It was his turn to smile. "I'll take my car back, now."
***
Kresge was at home when he learned of the new arrest.
"This is a set-up, Harry!" Audrey Adderholdt screamed into the phone. "Frankie doesn't smoke crack! A little marijuana, some speed every now and then... That's it!"
"Of course it's a set-up. Even those two know better than to carry when they're being followed."
"What am I going to do?"
"Get a lawyer!"
"I got no money."
"Go down to the courthouse for the arraignment, tomorrow. Talk to the Public Defender. Tell him I'll be a witness, if he needs me. That's the best I can do."
Kresge had just started on his second draft beer when Frankie and Snake tracked him down at the Blue Moon. Since Snake wasn't twenty-one and wasn't allowed to sit at the bar, they asked Harry to join them in a booth. They ordered another beer for Harry and cokes for themselves.
"I just picked up the car from the paint shop. I thought you'd like to take a ride." Frankie was gleeful. Snake was smirking like he'd just taken the pot at a high-stakes poker game.
"Did you guys have Cal install Snake's stereo like I suggested?"
"We sure did." Frankie said. Snake just kept smiling and shaking his head.
"I think I'll pass. You see any sign of Orel Paige?"
"It's just like you said. He's gonna shadow me everywhere I go, just waiting for me to fuck up. He's sitting out there in the parking lot right now. He had the paint shop staked out, before I got over there. That's why I'm celebrating with a coke instead of a beer. We'll sit in here for awhile, let him think I'm getting good and tanked. Then when we leave, he'll follow us down the road a bit and pull me over for a field test. Only I'm gonna blow nothing but a zero this time."
"I'd watch it, if I were you. He might not play it by the book."
"What can I do? If he's gonna fuck with me, he's gonna fuck with me..."
"True enough. With a little luck, he'll screw himself. What kind of paint job did you get?"
"I went for the original black, but this time with flames around the air scoop and coming out of the wheel wells."
"Ole Orel must like that. I bet he got a boner the moment she saw you pull it out of the shop."
The two waited about a half-hour before leaving. Frankie looked at his watch.
"That should do it. Thanks for everything, Harry." He shook his hand.
"Yeah, thanks, man." Fish grabbed his hand and shook it, too.
"Just remember, don't call me, if you get arrested."
It was gray and cold in the parking lot. A light drizzle slanted into their faces as the wind rattled what few leaves were left on the trees. Across the road from the Blue Moon Tavern was an abandoned gas station. The nose of Orel Paige's cruiser was just visible from in back of the peeling wood-frame building.
He followed them onto the by-pass and then off the exit for Fairgrounds Road. Frankie didn't really have any reason to go this way, except that he thought he'd inspire Officer Paige with the possibility of a little poetic justice. Sure enough, Paige turned on his flashing blue light and hit his siren one short blast in the exact spot where he had made his original arrest.
Frankie pulled the Camaro onto the grassy shoulder and watched in the rearview mirror as Paige got out of his car and adjusted his trooper-style hat, before coming over to his window.
"Is that beer I smell on your breath, Frankie?"
"No, sir."
"Hand me your license, registration and proof of insurance, and step out of the car."
After he administered the field test he leaned inside the car from the driver's side. Snake was playing the dashboard like a conga drum and chanting one of those derogatory chants the fans sing at baseball games when the home team is thumping the visitors.
"I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car too, Snake," this in his most officious police tone of voice. "Both of you put your hands on the trunk and spread your legs." He frisked them, then instructed them to remain that way while he searched the car.
When he was done, he radioed the police station, "This is Officer Paige. I need backup out here by the Fairgrounds. I just apprehended two white males in the act of transporting crack cocaine." He held up a small plastic vial with a red cap, displaying it between his thumb and forefinger so Frankie could see it.
It was his turn to smile. "I'll take my car back, now."
***
Kresge was at home when he learned of the new arrest.
"This is a set-up, Harry!" Audrey Adderholdt screamed into the phone. "Frankie doesn't smoke crack! A little marijuana, some speed every now and then... That's it!"
"Of course it's a set-up. Even those two know better than to carry when they're being followed."
"What am I going to do?"
"Get a lawyer!"
"I got no money."
"Go down to the courthouse for the arraignment, tomorrow. Talk to the Public Defender. Tell him I'll be a witness, if he needs me. That's the best I can do."
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
"Whatcha doin', Miss Hyacinth?" House's ballpoint was poised above his memo book, as if he were sure something momentous would be forthcoming.
The tiny mulatto woman had just dismounted and was walking her shiny bicycle. It was an old-fashioned Schwinn, complete with chrome fenders and fat whitewall tires. Hyacinth, herself, was decked out in white tennis shoes, bobby-sox, a long pink and white flare skirt and a powder blue sweater. Her silver hair was in a bun. She was eighty-one years old, or at least that's what she would admit to. She rode her bike about a mile from the home to Towne Square every day that the weather would allow.
"I'm ridin' my bike, you damn fool. Cain't you see that fer yerself? I heard you got smart all of a sudden... Heh!"
Before the sudden emergence of his intelligence, House of Pain had often spent his days sitting in front of Dot's Market, when the yellow jackets that liked the garbage cans right next to the bench weren't too bothersome, that is. Once he got smart, however, he had been too busy for such idleness. Now that Gar Findaly was letting him free-lance on his own time, he was taking advantage of a rare afternoon away from the linotype room to do some more investigative reporting.
"Do you ride your bike every day?" He was thinking about doing a human interest piece on this very visible figure about town. Folks didn't really know much about her.
"You know I do. You've been settin' out here enough times to know that without askin'!"
"Would you mind telling me your full name?" He was taking it all down.
"Hyacinth Haynes. Whatchoo doin', House. I heard you been workin' over to the paper. You ain't gonna write nuthin' 'bout me, are ya?" She engaged her kick-stand and sat on the bench next to House. She was just amused enough that someone would take interest in her, that she had decided to play along.
"Where'd you live when you were a young 'un?"
"Out by the town limits on Dayton-Serena Road. Course't didn't have a name back then. Folks just called it the road outta town headin' west or the road to Dayton. Wasn't but one in that direction in them days. My daddy had a house on five acres of land. We grew our own vegetables and raised some pigs and cows. That's how it was in the old days."
Her grandfather, an escaped slave from Alabama, had come to Serena along the underground railroad. He'd found work harvesting corn and decided to stay for planting season. He never did leave. Eventually, he'd married a Shawnee woman and they'd had eight children. Her father had been the youngest of the brood and had benefited from the labors of his older brothers and sisters. He was the only one to graduate from high school. He worked in the hardware store, eventually bought his own truck and had a hauling business on the side. In this way, he was able to save enough money to buy the land on the edge of town, where, with the help of his brothers, he built the house where Hyacinth was born.
Hyacinth's mother was a white woman. She had been widowed during the First World War and was raising two girls on her own. She married Hyacinth's father and they had but one child, another girl. Hyacinth was pampered and treated like a little doll by her mother and her half-sisters, thus the habitual finery. Hyacinth never married. She had been engaged to a handsome white man, a descendant of the owner of the hardware store, but he was lost in the Second World War. From the moment she learned of his death, it was as if she had been frozen in time.
House pulled all of this out of her and much more. He took it all down, careful not to leave out one detail. When he got done writing the piece, it would end up being the saga of the family of a runaway slave, with all the drama of the escape and flight, the romance of meeting and settling down with the Indian woman, the inspiration of the fortitude and hard work to overcome poverty and prejudice, and then the same for the next generation and the one after that.
Two-and-a-half hours passed on the bench in front of Dot's. When they were finished, Hyacinth was exhausted and House's memo book was filled.
"I gots to take me a nap," Hyacinth told him, as she mounted her Schwinn and headed across the parking lot back in the direction of the Golden Age Home.
House sat for awhile, reviewing his notes. After a few minutes, George Sturges came out of the market with a half-gallon of strawberry ice cream and a plastic spoon. He joined House on the bench.
"What you doin', George?"
"What's it look like I'm doin', House? I'm about to eat this half-gallon of strawberry ice cream, same as I do every day. You got a problem with that?"
"You gonna be here for awhile?"
"You've watched me enough times to know how long it takes me."
"Don't let the bees chase you away or nothing like that. I'll be right back." House got up and hurried inside Dot's to buy another memo pad as if he were afraid a good story might get away from him.
"Whatcha doin', Miss Hyacinth?" House's ballpoint was poised above his memo book, as if he were sure something momentous would be forthcoming.
The tiny mulatto woman had just dismounted and was walking her shiny bicycle. It was an old-fashioned Schwinn, complete with chrome fenders and fat whitewall tires. Hyacinth, herself, was decked out in white tennis shoes, bobby-sox, a long pink and white flare skirt and a powder blue sweater. Her silver hair was in a bun. She was eighty-one years old, or at least that's what she would admit to. She rode her bike about a mile from the home to Towne Square every day that the weather would allow.
"I'm ridin' my bike, you damn fool. Cain't you see that fer yerself? I heard you got smart all of a sudden... Heh!"
Before the sudden emergence of his intelligence, House of Pain had often spent his days sitting in front of Dot's Market, when the yellow jackets that liked the garbage cans right next to the bench weren't too bothersome, that is. Once he got smart, however, he had been too busy for such idleness. Now that Gar Findaly was letting him free-lance on his own time, he was taking advantage of a rare afternoon away from the linotype room to do some more investigative reporting.
"Do you ride your bike every day?" He was thinking about doing a human interest piece on this very visible figure about town. Folks didn't really know much about her.
"You know I do. You've been settin' out here enough times to know that without askin'!"
"Would you mind telling me your full name?" He was taking it all down.
"Hyacinth Haynes. Whatchoo doin', House. I heard you been workin' over to the paper. You ain't gonna write nuthin' 'bout me, are ya?" She engaged her kick-stand and sat on the bench next to House. She was just amused enough that someone would take interest in her, that she had decided to play along.
"Where'd you live when you were a young 'un?"
"Out by the town limits on Dayton-Serena Road. Course't didn't have a name back then. Folks just called it the road outta town headin' west or the road to Dayton. Wasn't but one in that direction in them days. My daddy had a house on five acres of land. We grew our own vegetables and raised some pigs and cows. That's how it was in the old days."
Her grandfather, an escaped slave from Alabama, had come to Serena along the underground railroad. He'd found work harvesting corn and decided to stay for planting season. He never did leave. Eventually, he'd married a Shawnee woman and they'd had eight children. Her father had been the youngest of the brood and had benefited from the labors of his older brothers and sisters. He was the only one to graduate from high school. He worked in the hardware store, eventually bought his own truck and had a hauling business on the side. In this way, he was able to save enough money to buy the land on the edge of town, where, with the help of his brothers, he built the house where Hyacinth was born.
Hyacinth's mother was a white woman. She had been widowed during the First World War and was raising two girls on her own. She married Hyacinth's father and they had but one child, another girl. Hyacinth was pampered and treated like a little doll by her mother and her half-sisters, thus the habitual finery. Hyacinth never married. She had been engaged to a handsome white man, a descendant of the owner of the hardware store, but he was lost in the Second World War. From the moment she learned of his death, it was as if she had been frozen in time.
House pulled all of this out of her and much more. He took it all down, careful not to leave out one detail. When he got done writing the piece, it would end up being the saga of the family of a runaway slave, with all the drama of the escape and flight, the romance of meeting and settling down with the Indian woman, the inspiration of the fortitude and hard work to overcome poverty and prejudice, and then the same for the next generation and the one after that.
Two-and-a-half hours passed on the bench in front of Dot's. When they were finished, Hyacinth was exhausted and House's memo book was filled.
"I gots to take me a nap," Hyacinth told him, as she mounted her Schwinn and headed across the parking lot back in the direction of the Golden Age Home.
House sat for awhile, reviewing his notes. After a few minutes, George Sturges came out of the market with a half-gallon of strawberry ice cream and a plastic spoon. He joined House on the bench.
"What you doin', George?"
"What's it look like I'm doin', House? I'm about to eat this half-gallon of strawberry ice cream, same as I do every day. You got a problem with that?"
"You gonna be here for awhile?"
"You've watched me enough times to know how long it takes me."
"Don't let the bees chase you away or nothing like that. I'll be right back." House got up and hurried inside Dot's to buy another memo pad as if he were afraid a good story might get away from him.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
House was alone in his room. He took the letter from his pocket. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he read it again:
To The Editor:
I am writing to protest the reduction of Police staff assigned to patrolling the internet. From what I understand, the number of officers has been reduced from four to just one. That one officer is only at it eight hours per day, therefore there is no longer around the clock coverage, and no double coverage during those important hours immediately after the children come home from school. Furthermore, I understand that the officer who was responsible for the arrest of that child molester from Toledo has been assigned to a regular patrol.
As a Girl Scout Leader, I have recently witnessed what I maintain is the ultimate outcome of the proliferation of kiddie-porn. This past weekend, our troop was holding it's annual Halloween camp-out at the Fairgrounds, when the Scout Leaders' nightmare to end all nightmares happened. The girls were sitting around the campfire telling ghost stories. The adults on the trip had gone inside the mess tent for a cup of coffee. Suddenly, the girls started screaming. I realized, right away, that it was more than what one might expect from the scary tales. I ran outside just in time to see a tall man in a raincoat with some kind of jack-o-lantern mask covering his face. He was holding his coat open to expose his genitals. Now here's the really sick part, (I'll use a seasonal analogy here in order not to be too graphic.) his gourds were painted orange and his stem was painted green.
When he saw me, he quickly closed his coat and ran off into the woods. It is clear that it was the girls who were the target of his sick behavior. Of course, we called the police, but he was gone without a trace by the time they responded.
This is the kind of thing that happens when people are free to do whatever they want to do over the internet. If we had more people like Officer Orel Paige out there to put kibosh on this kind of sick behavior in cyberspace, then the sickos wouldn't be so emboldened as to try it in the real world. When I was a Girl Scout, we didn't have an internet and not once did we encounter degenerate behavior of this sort on any of our camping trips.
Very truly yours,
Louise Mays - Leader of Troop 103
***
House knew Mrs. Mays. He'd had a crush on her his second time through third grade. He had been eleven when she was eight. She had been Weezie Bradstone, back then. He never spoke to her because everyone thought he was just a big dummy. But he knew where she lived because he had followed her home from school one day. It wasn't far from his own house, so he often went there and watched the house in the afternoons to see if he could catch sight of her playing in the yard. When she married, she and her husband moved in with her mother. When her mother died, they continued to live in the same house. As far as he knew, they still lived there. House had it in his mind to finally talk to her. Now that he was a sort of unofficial reporter for the Banner, he had a few questions he wanted to ask her.
A girl opened the door in response to his knock. She looked like she was about twelve years old and, from the resemblance to Louise, she must have been the daughter.
"Hi, I'm Marvin Payne from the Banner. Is your mother home?"
"She's not here right now. Is this about the letter?" She smiled as if she thought she were about to become famous.
"My editor sent me over to follow up on it." House didn't really consider this to be a lie. It was merely a professional untruth, like the times he would call Gar Findaly to ask him when he was going to be officially promoted to reporter and his secretary would tell him he wasn't there.
"She didn't really see much, but I was there."
"Well, what did you see? Do you think you could recognize the man if you saw him again?"
"Not really. It was dark outside the circle of the fire. I could see that he was tall and wearing an pumpkin head mask and a rain coat. When he opened the coat, it was really too dark to see anything."
"Well, where did all that stuff about his... er... things being painted green and orange come from?"
"Oh, that was Sarah Johns. She said that was what she saw."
"Did any of the other girls see that?"
"No, I don't think so. Nobody saw much, but Sarah."
"Do you know where she lives?"
"Uh huh. She lives over on Second Street in a big ole house with her aunt and uncle, the Paiges. I don't know the number, but you can look it up, or else you can wait for my mamma to come home."
"Thanks. That's okay. I'll find it."
***
Sarah Johns moved in with her mother's sister when she was ten years old. She and her mother had been abandoned by her father when she was eight. After that, her mother had taken to hanging out in bars and leaving the child home alone. Neighbors reported it to the police and there was a hearing where it was determined that she was not a fit mother. The family had been notified and close relatives were invited to file petitions for custody. As the Paiges hadn't been able to have children, they were particularly interested in taking the girl. Orel Paige was a Police Officer and his wife, Lucy, worked in the Mayor's Office; they seemed to be the best qualified.
Some time after Sarah turned eleven, she began to sprout firm little mounds with Hershey's Kisses nipples that, like crocuses in spring, seemed to want to poke through every thing she wore. It seemed to her that her uncle had taken particular notice. She often caught him looking at her, he suddenly seemed more affectionate, and he used any excuse he could think of to put his hands on her. Having been starved for fatherly attention, she didn't mind any of this. Actually, she liked it and encouraged it by flirting. It was around this time that Orel Paige was assigned to patrol the internet. Some say he asked for it, that he actually created the job, as it hadn't existed before.
Often, when Paige would come home from work, he would continue his investigations on his home computer. He would work late into the night, hanging out in chat rooms, following hyperlinks to the kind of web sites where he could expect to find pictures. When he found photographs, he would download them onto his hard drive. When the girl would come home from school, she would go on the computer and find the pictures.
By the time she was twelve, she looked all of fifteen. The pictures her uncle was downloading aroused her curiosity. After school, she would go on line and follow the links in her uncle's bookmarks, to the chat rooms and kiddie-porn sites he was investigating. But it wasn't enough.
Early one Saturday morning, as she was passing her aunt and uncle's bedroom, she heard some noises. The door was opened a crack, so she peered in. Later in the day, when her aunt had gone out, she told her uncle, "You should close your door more tightly. As I was going by, this morning, I saw you and my aunt having sex."
"You did? How much did you see?"
"I saw everything from beginning to end." She was smiling.
"Why did you watch for so long?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought it was interesting. Lots of times, I've hidden around the house, under the bed, in the closet, and watched you naked. Lots of times I've caught you playing with your thingie and you didn't even know it."
Later, Paige would confess to the girl that the prospect of her watching had aroused him. The next time he made love to his wife, he had purposely left the door open a crack and all the while they were having sex, he intentionally imagined that she was watching. He told her that he had never come so hard as he did that time, that his wife had even remarked on the vigorousness of his love making.
It wasn't long before he was exposing himself to her. He would often try to get her to play with him, but she refused, so he took to masturbating in front of her while she was watching television or working on the computer. He must have been confused by her hot and cold behavior. One time, when he was wearing just boxers, he was standing on a chair reaching for something on a high shelf in the kitchen, she snuck up behind him and pulled his shorts down around his ankles. Laughing, he pulled his shorts up again and chased after her. She turned and playfully grabbed him by the genitals, then ran to her room, where she locked herself in.
One of the things he did to try to arouse her interest was to show her the pictures he had downloaded from the internet. He didn't know it, but she was already bored with those same pictures.
Apparently, he continued to try everything he could think of to get her to play with him, but it was still no go. Finally, just before Halloween, she was painting decorations on her face in preparation for the annual Girl Scout camp-out. Instead of uniforms, the girls were supposed to wear costumes. Later they would sit around the campfire and tell spooky stories. As she sat on the living room sofa, painting her face orange and green with the aid of a hand held mirror, Paige whipped it out and started playing with himself. It must have been then that he got the idea. He convinced her to paint his balls orange and his dick green. As she was painting on the finishing touches of green with the small camel's hair brush, he ejaculated all over her costume.
That night when her uncle exposed himself to the Girl Scout Troop at the fairgrounds, Sarah hadn't actually been able to see the decorated genitalia. She recognized her uncle from his bearing and his coat and the mask he had bought in K Mart, and she just assumed that she had seen the orange testicles and the green penis she told the others about. She was no longer curious about sex, at least as far as he was concerned. And his advances were getting more aggressive. They were starting to worry her. And she was really pissed about having had to change her costume at the last minute after he messed all over her. She was beginning to hope that he would get caught.
All this was related by the girl in a deadpan monotone on the tape House was playing in Gar Findaly's office.
"This is really something..." Gar was shaking his head. "But damn... It's her word against his."
"She says he took pictures with his digital camera."
"Can she get a copy?"
"She says she's going to look for them on his computer, but it's going to take awhile. He's got lots of disks full of stuff."
"I'm not sure what we've got here and I'm doubly unsure what to do with it," Gar Findaly said as he locked the tape into the small safe in his office. "I think we'll have to sit on it for awhile. I know one thing for sure though, that was a damn fine piece of investigation, House. For now, I'll have to ask you to keep it under your hat. I've got a feeling there's going to be a right time to release this, and I think it's going to be soon. Just call it my newspaper man's instinct."
As House was leaving the Editor's Office, Gar's secretary buzzed in on the intercom, "It's the Chief of Police."
"Tell him I'll get back to him," Gar instructed her.
"He says you still haven't gotten back to him from the last time."
"Tell him I'll see him at the poker game, tonight. I'm too busy right now." He waved to House as he went out the door, then thought better of it and waived him back in. "Be sure and let me know right away, if that girl calls to tell you she found the pictures," he told him.
House nodded and went out the door.
House was alone in his room. He took the letter from his pocket. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he read it again:
To The Editor:
I am writing to protest the reduction of Police staff assigned to patrolling the internet. From what I understand, the number of officers has been reduced from four to just one. That one officer is only at it eight hours per day, therefore there is no longer around the clock coverage, and no double coverage during those important hours immediately after the children come home from school. Furthermore, I understand that the officer who was responsible for the arrest of that child molester from Toledo has been assigned to a regular patrol.
As a Girl Scout Leader, I have recently witnessed what I maintain is the ultimate outcome of the proliferation of kiddie-porn. This past weekend, our troop was holding it's annual Halloween camp-out at the Fairgrounds, when the Scout Leaders' nightmare to end all nightmares happened. The girls were sitting around the campfire telling ghost stories. The adults on the trip had gone inside the mess tent for a cup of coffee. Suddenly, the girls started screaming. I realized, right away, that it was more than what one might expect from the scary tales. I ran outside just in time to see a tall man in a raincoat with some kind of jack-o-lantern mask covering his face. He was holding his coat open to expose his genitals. Now here's the really sick part, (I'll use a seasonal analogy here in order not to be too graphic.) his gourds were painted orange and his stem was painted green.
When he saw me, he quickly closed his coat and ran off into the woods. It is clear that it was the girls who were the target of his sick behavior. Of course, we called the police, but he was gone without a trace by the time they responded.
This is the kind of thing that happens when people are free to do whatever they want to do over the internet. If we had more people like Officer Orel Paige out there to put kibosh on this kind of sick behavior in cyberspace, then the sickos wouldn't be so emboldened as to try it in the real world. When I was a Girl Scout, we didn't have an internet and not once did we encounter degenerate behavior of this sort on any of our camping trips.
Very truly yours,
Louise Mays - Leader of Troop 103
***
House knew Mrs. Mays. He'd had a crush on her his second time through third grade. He had been eleven when she was eight. She had been Weezie Bradstone, back then. He never spoke to her because everyone thought he was just a big dummy. But he knew where she lived because he had followed her home from school one day. It wasn't far from his own house, so he often went there and watched the house in the afternoons to see if he could catch sight of her playing in the yard. When she married, she and her husband moved in with her mother. When her mother died, they continued to live in the same house. As far as he knew, they still lived there. House had it in his mind to finally talk to her. Now that he was a sort of unofficial reporter for the Banner, he had a few questions he wanted to ask her.
A girl opened the door in response to his knock. She looked like she was about twelve years old and, from the resemblance to Louise, she must have been the daughter.
"Hi, I'm Marvin Payne from the Banner. Is your mother home?"
"She's not here right now. Is this about the letter?" She smiled as if she thought she were about to become famous.
"My editor sent me over to follow up on it." House didn't really consider this to be a lie. It was merely a professional untruth, like the times he would call Gar Findaly to ask him when he was going to be officially promoted to reporter and his secretary would tell him he wasn't there.
"She didn't really see much, but I was there."
"Well, what did you see? Do you think you could recognize the man if you saw him again?"
"Not really. It was dark outside the circle of the fire. I could see that he was tall and wearing an pumpkin head mask and a rain coat. When he opened the coat, it was really too dark to see anything."
"Well, where did all that stuff about his... er... things being painted green and orange come from?"
"Oh, that was Sarah Johns. She said that was what she saw."
"Did any of the other girls see that?"
"No, I don't think so. Nobody saw much, but Sarah."
"Do you know where she lives?"
"Uh huh. She lives over on Second Street in a big ole house with her aunt and uncle, the Paiges. I don't know the number, but you can look it up, or else you can wait for my mamma to come home."
"Thanks. That's okay. I'll find it."
***
Sarah Johns moved in with her mother's sister when she was ten years old. She and her mother had been abandoned by her father when she was eight. After that, her mother had taken to hanging out in bars and leaving the child home alone. Neighbors reported it to the police and there was a hearing where it was determined that she was not a fit mother. The family had been notified and close relatives were invited to file petitions for custody. As the Paiges hadn't been able to have children, they were particularly interested in taking the girl. Orel Paige was a Police Officer and his wife, Lucy, worked in the Mayor's Office; they seemed to be the best qualified.
Some time after Sarah turned eleven, she began to sprout firm little mounds with Hershey's Kisses nipples that, like crocuses in spring, seemed to want to poke through every thing she wore. It seemed to her that her uncle had taken particular notice. She often caught him looking at her, he suddenly seemed more affectionate, and he used any excuse he could think of to put his hands on her. Having been starved for fatherly attention, she didn't mind any of this. Actually, she liked it and encouraged it by flirting. It was around this time that Orel Paige was assigned to patrol the internet. Some say he asked for it, that he actually created the job, as it hadn't existed before.
Often, when Paige would come home from work, he would continue his investigations on his home computer. He would work late into the night, hanging out in chat rooms, following hyperlinks to the kind of web sites where he could expect to find pictures. When he found photographs, he would download them onto his hard drive. When the girl would come home from school, she would go on the computer and find the pictures.
By the time she was twelve, she looked all of fifteen. The pictures her uncle was downloading aroused her curiosity. After school, she would go on line and follow the links in her uncle's bookmarks, to the chat rooms and kiddie-porn sites he was investigating. But it wasn't enough.
Early one Saturday morning, as she was passing her aunt and uncle's bedroom, she heard some noises. The door was opened a crack, so she peered in. Later in the day, when her aunt had gone out, she told her uncle, "You should close your door more tightly. As I was going by, this morning, I saw you and my aunt having sex."
"You did? How much did you see?"
"I saw everything from beginning to end." She was smiling.
"Why did you watch for so long?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought it was interesting. Lots of times, I've hidden around the house, under the bed, in the closet, and watched you naked. Lots of times I've caught you playing with your thingie and you didn't even know it."
Later, Paige would confess to the girl that the prospect of her watching had aroused him. The next time he made love to his wife, he had purposely left the door open a crack and all the while they were having sex, he intentionally imagined that she was watching. He told her that he had never come so hard as he did that time, that his wife had even remarked on the vigorousness of his love making.
It wasn't long before he was exposing himself to her. He would often try to get her to play with him, but she refused, so he took to masturbating in front of her while she was watching television or working on the computer. He must have been confused by her hot and cold behavior. One time, when he was wearing just boxers, he was standing on a chair reaching for something on a high shelf in the kitchen, she snuck up behind him and pulled his shorts down around his ankles. Laughing, he pulled his shorts up again and chased after her. She turned and playfully grabbed him by the genitals, then ran to her room, where she locked herself in.
One of the things he did to try to arouse her interest was to show her the pictures he had downloaded from the internet. He didn't know it, but she was already bored with those same pictures.
Apparently, he continued to try everything he could think of to get her to play with him, but it was still no go. Finally, just before Halloween, she was painting decorations on her face in preparation for the annual Girl Scout camp-out. Instead of uniforms, the girls were supposed to wear costumes. Later they would sit around the campfire and tell spooky stories. As she sat on the living room sofa, painting her face orange and green with the aid of a hand held mirror, Paige whipped it out and started playing with himself. It must have been then that he got the idea. He convinced her to paint his balls orange and his dick green. As she was painting on the finishing touches of green with the small camel's hair brush, he ejaculated all over her costume.
That night when her uncle exposed himself to the Girl Scout Troop at the fairgrounds, Sarah hadn't actually been able to see the decorated genitalia. She recognized her uncle from his bearing and his coat and the mask he had bought in K Mart, and she just assumed that she had seen the orange testicles and the green penis she told the others about. She was no longer curious about sex, at least as far as he was concerned. And his advances were getting more aggressive. They were starting to worry her. And she was really pissed about having had to change her costume at the last minute after he messed all over her. She was beginning to hope that he would get caught.
All this was related by the girl in a deadpan monotone on the tape House was playing in Gar Findaly's office.
"This is really something..." Gar was shaking his head. "But damn... It's her word against his."
"She says he took pictures with his digital camera."
"Can she get a copy?"
"She says she's going to look for them on his computer, but it's going to take awhile. He's got lots of disks full of stuff."
"I'm not sure what we've got here and I'm doubly unsure what to do with it," Gar Findaly said as he locked the tape into the small safe in his office. "I think we'll have to sit on it for awhile. I know one thing for sure though, that was a damn fine piece of investigation, House. For now, I'll have to ask you to keep it under your hat. I've got a feeling there's going to be a right time to release this, and I think it's going to be soon. Just call it my newspaper man's instinct."
As House was leaving the Editor's Office, Gar's secretary buzzed in on the intercom, "It's the Chief of Police."
"Tell him I'll get back to him," Gar instructed her.
"He says you still haven't gotten back to him from the last time."
"Tell him I'll see him at the poker game, tonight. I'm too busy right now." He waved to House as he went out the door, then thought better of it and waived him back in. "Be sure and let me know right away, if that girl calls to tell you she found the pictures," he told him.
House nodded and went out the door.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Letter to the Editor of The Serena Daily Banner:
A young man bolted from the crowd at the Founders Day Parade this past Saturday in an attempt to throw himself in front of his own automobile, which, incidentally, had been seized and was being driven by the same Police Officer, who recently attained glory on these pages for his arrest of an alleged child molester from Toledo. He was promptly subdued by his own friends and no arrest resulted. The entire scene was captured by News-Chopper Seven and the footage was played and replayed all weekend, portraying the young man as Public Enemy Number One and rousing community support for more seizures of vehicles which have allegedly been used in the commission of a crime. Talk about a slow news day!
The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States reads as follows:
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
The automobile in question and the manner in which it is frequently displayed around town as a so-called deterrent, is an affront to every citizen of this city. The sign in the windshield implies that it was seized as a tool of the drug trade. As most of us know through the grape vine, that was not the case.
To the young man in question: Running out in front of the car was a foolish act that certainly could never have resulted in the return of your automobile. The way I see it, the statute of limitations on a lawsuit for the return of your automobile, more commonly referred to in the legal profession as a replevin action, has not run out. My advice to you - get a good lawyer and sue the bastards!
Sincerely,
Harry Kresge
***
There was a knock on Kresge's door. He got up from the computer where he had been working on a story and pulled back the curtain on the front window. There was a young man at the door. He was holding a newspaper. It was Snake's brother. Harry thought a moment about whether he should open the door. Finally he decided to do it.
"Are you Mr. Kresge?" Frankie asked.
"The same."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, I'm Harry Kresge. What can I do for you?"
"I read your letter in the paper about my situation."
"You're kidding. They finally published one of my letters? Holy Christ!"
Frankie smiled. "I wanted to know if you could help me."
"Sorry, I'm not licensed to practice in this state."
"I thought maybe you could give me some advice."
"My advice to you is to get a lawyer from Dayton. Someone from outside of Serena who's not connected with the local politicians."
"I tried that. They all want money up front. No one will take this on a contingent fee arrangement."
"Why doesn't that surprise me..? You mind if I look at that?" Harry pointed to the newspaper.
"Come in. Sit down."
As Harry scanned his own letter to the editor, Frankie continued to talk. "I was thinking I might sue them myself. Whatcha call it, pro se? I thought you might help me as a matter of principle. I hear you ain't got no use for Orel Paige, yourself."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"My old lady..."
Harry blushed. "I don't think I mentioned anything about that to her."
"Word travels around here. She's been asking around about you, since you let her in here that time and called 911."
"Oh, you know about that..."
"Don't matter. I probably would have done the same."
"Sounds like your pretty rough on her."
"I suppose so. I been tryin'."
"Your brother ever say anything about me?"
Frankie smiled. "He says you're an asshole."
"Well, fuck him!" Harry's face was red, then redder. "He's the asshole."
"I know, I know. But he ain't had it so easy, living with my mom and all. I think he likes to make noise just to draw attention to himself. He's been largely ignored all his life."
"I tell you what. Don't hit your wife, don't abuse her in any way, including verbally, and get your brother to keep that fucking stereo down, and I'll do all the paper work for you in your name and tell you exactly what to do with it. We got a deal?"
"Hell, I've been thinking about moving my brother in with me, anyway, now that my house is repaired. As for my wife, after she moved in with her mother, I promised her things would be different. She's back and I've been doing a lot better. Deal!"
"I'll need copies of all the papers you have, papers from the cops, papers from the court and the papers for the car."
"I have them back at the house. I've got to go to work, now, but I'll have Audrey drop them, later."
"Fine. I'll be here."
"One other thing..." The smile suddenly faded from Frankie's face as it occurred to him.
"What's that?"
"No funny stuff with my old lady."
***
The layout editor stood at attention in front of Gar Findlay's desk. Gar was waiving a copy of the current edition in his hand and practically pirouetting as he pace behind his chair.
"I swear, Mr. Findlay, it wasn't there when I laid it out. There was a different letter in that column, something about an incident that happened when the Girl Scouts were camping out over to the fairgrounds. Some guy came outta the woods and exposed himself. I'm sure of it."
"Well then, who the hell could have replaced it with this? This wacko's been writing me letters ever since he moved to town and I've shit-canned every one of them." He looked down at the waste basket labelled "Letters To The Editor". It was empty.
"The only one who could have done it is the linotype operator."
"Louie? Louie never even reads what he's typing."
"Louie didn't come in yesterday. He had the flu."
"Louie didn't work? How the hell did we get the paper out on time?"
"House did it. He did everything, wheeled the skids over, cleaned up the place and got the paper out, too."
"You tryin' to tell me that Marvin Payne replaced that Girl Scout letter with a rant from that Kresge nut?"
"I'm not saying that. All's I'm saying is that he put the paper out. Done the whole thing himself."
"Well..." Gar closed his eyes and put the fingertips of both hands to his temples as if he were trying to conjure up the image of House of Pain doing all that work and making editorial substitutions, as well.
"You got a headache Mr. Findlay? I got some aspirins in my desk."
"No, I don't, thanks." He was mellowing. "Listen, don't say anything about this to anyone. We'll let it go for now. Just try to keep any eye on things, will ya?"
"Sure thing."
"One other thing. Is Louie in today?"
"No, he's not."
As the layout editor was leaving, Gar's intercom came on. "It's the Chief of Police," his secretary announced.
"Tell him I'll get back to him! You haven't seen that letter from the Girl Scout Leader, have you?"
Silence from the intercom.
"You know, the letter to the editor we were going to publish yesterday..."
"Oh, that one... No, I haven't."
Gar took the fire stairs to the linotype room. There was a fresh skid of lead ingots next to Louie's machine and a second one right next to it. House was at the far end of the room sweeping.
"How ya doin', House?" Gar had snuck up on him, unnoticed.
House looked up from his sweeping. "Hi, Mr. Findlay. I'm doin' just fine, thank you."
"We keepin' you busy enough up here?"
"Oh yes, sir. Been mighty busy, what with Louie out and all."
"Yes, I hear you did a terrific job for us, yesterday. I didn't know you knew how to work the linotype, just yet. You picked it up pretty fast."
"Thank you, sir."
"We're going to have to give you a raise. We can't have you doing linotype operator's work for janitor's wages."
"Thank you, sir. I can't wait to tell Mamma."
"Just one thing, though..."
"Sir?"
"I don't want you editorializing. You get what I mean?"
At first House looked confused, then a look of cognition crossed his face. "Yes, sir."
"You've got to work as a reporter, before you can be an editor, right? The way you're going, you'll have my job, before I know it."
"Reporter? Yes, sir. Thank you." House put his hand in his trousers pocket to reassure himself that the piece of paper was still there.
Letter to the Editor of The Serena Daily Banner:
A young man bolted from the crowd at the Founders Day Parade this past Saturday in an attempt to throw himself in front of his own automobile, which, incidentally, had been seized and was being driven by the same Police Officer, who recently attained glory on these pages for his arrest of an alleged child molester from Toledo. He was promptly subdued by his own friends and no arrest resulted. The entire scene was captured by News-Chopper Seven and the footage was played and replayed all weekend, portraying the young man as Public Enemy Number One and rousing community support for more seizures of vehicles which have allegedly been used in the commission of a crime. Talk about a slow news day!
The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States reads as follows:
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
The automobile in question and the manner in which it is frequently displayed around town as a so-called deterrent, is an affront to every citizen of this city. The sign in the windshield implies that it was seized as a tool of the drug trade. As most of us know through the grape vine, that was not the case.
To the young man in question: Running out in front of the car was a foolish act that certainly could never have resulted in the return of your automobile. The way I see it, the statute of limitations on a lawsuit for the return of your automobile, more commonly referred to in the legal profession as a replevin action, has not run out. My advice to you - get a good lawyer and sue the bastards!
Sincerely,
Harry Kresge
***
There was a knock on Kresge's door. He got up from the computer where he had been working on a story and pulled back the curtain on the front window. There was a young man at the door. He was holding a newspaper. It was Snake's brother. Harry thought a moment about whether he should open the door. Finally he decided to do it.
"Are you Mr. Kresge?" Frankie asked.
"The same."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, I'm Harry Kresge. What can I do for you?"
"I read your letter in the paper about my situation."
"You're kidding. They finally published one of my letters? Holy Christ!"
Frankie smiled. "I wanted to know if you could help me."
"Sorry, I'm not licensed to practice in this state."
"I thought maybe you could give me some advice."
"My advice to you is to get a lawyer from Dayton. Someone from outside of Serena who's not connected with the local politicians."
"I tried that. They all want money up front. No one will take this on a contingent fee arrangement."
"Why doesn't that surprise me..? You mind if I look at that?" Harry pointed to the newspaper.
"Come in. Sit down."
As Harry scanned his own letter to the editor, Frankie continued to talk. "I was thinking I might sue them myself. Whatcha call it, pro se? I thought you might help me as a matter of principle. I hear you ain't got no use for Orel Paige, yourself."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"My old lady..."
Harry blushed. "I don't think I mentioned anything about that to her."
"Word travels around here. She's been asking around about you, since you let her in here that time and called 911."
"Oh, you know about that..."
"Don't matter. I probably would have done the same."
"Sounds like your pretty rough on her."
"I suppose so. I been tryin'."
"Your brother ever say anything about me?"
Frankie smiled. "He says you're an asshole."
"Well, fuck him!" Harry's face was red, then redder. "He's the asshole."
"I know, I know. But he ain't had it so easy, living with my mom and all. I think he likes to make noise just to draw attention to himself. He's been largely ignored all his life."
"I tell you what. Don't hit your wife, don't abuse her in any way, including verbally, and get your brother to keep that fucking stereo down, and I'll do all the paper work for you in your name and tell you exactly what to do with it. We got a deal?"
"Hell, I've been thinking about moving my brother in with me, anyway, now that my house is repaired. As for my wife, after she moved in with her mother, I promised her things would be different. She's back and I've been doing a lot better. Deal!"
"I'll need copies of all the papers you have, papers from the cops, papers from the court and the papers for the car."
"I have them back at the house. I've got to go to work, now, but I'll have Audrey drop them, later."
"Fine. I'll be here."
"One other thing..." The smile suddenly faded from Frankie's face as it occurred to him.
"What's that?"
"No funny stuff with my old lady."
***
The layout editor stood at attention in front of Gar Findlay's desk. Gar was waiving a copy of the current edition in his hand and practically pirouetting as he pace behind his chair.
"I swear, Mr. Findlay, it wasn't there when I laid it out. There was a different letter in that column, something about an incident that happened when the Girl Scouts were camping out over to the fairgrounds. Some guy came outta the woods and exposed himself. I'm sure of it."
"Well then, who the hell could have replaced it with this? This wacko's been writing me letters ever since he moved to town and I've shit-canned every one of them." He looked down at the waste basket labelled "Letters To The Editor". It was empty.
"The only one who could have done it is the linotype operator."
"Louie? Louie never even reads what he's typing."
"Louie didn't come in yesterday. He had the flu."
"Louie didn't work? How the hell did we get the paper out on time?"
"House did it. He did everything, wheeled the skids over, cleaned up the place and got the paper out, too."
"You tryin' to tell me that Marvin Payne replaced that Girl Scout letter with a rant from that Kresge nut?"
"I'm not saying that. All's I'm saying is that he put the paper out. Done the whole thing himself."
"Well..." Gar closed his eyes and put the fingertips of both hands to his temples as if he were trying to conjure up the image of House of Pain doing all that work and making editorial substitutions, as well.
"You got a headache Mr. Findlay? I got some aspirins in my desk."
"No, I don't, thanks." He was mellowing. "Listen, don't say anything about this to anyone. We'll let it go for now. Just try to keep any eye on things, will ya?"
"Sure thing."
"One other thing. Is Louie in today?"
"No, he's not."
As the layout editor was leaving, Gar's intercom came on. "It's the Chief of Police," his secretary announced.
"Tell him I'll get back to him! You haven't seen that letter from the Girl Scout Leader, have you?"
Silence from the intercom.
"You know, the letter to the editor we were going to publish yesterday..."
"Oh, that one... No, I haven't."
Gar took the fire stairs to the linotype room. There was a fresh skid of lead ingots next to Louie's machine and a second one right next to it. House was at the far end of the room sweeping.
"How ya doin', House?" Gar had snuck up on him, unnoticed.
House looked up from his sweeping. "Hi, Mr. Findlay. I'm doin' just fine, thank you."
"We keepin' you busy enough up here?"
"Oh yes, sir. Been mighty busy, what with Louie out and all."
"Yes, I hear you did a terrific job for us, yesterday. I didn't know you knew how to work the linotype, just yet. You picked it up pretty fast."
"Thank you, sir."
"We're going to have to give you a raise. We can't have you doing linotype operator's work for janitor's wages."
"Thank you, sir. I can't wait to tell Mamma."
"Just one thing, though..."
"Sir?"
"I don't want you editorializing. You get what I mean?"
At first House looked confused, then a look of cognition crossed his face. "Yes, sir."
"You've got to work as a reporter, before you can be an editor, right? The way you're going, you'll have my job, before I know it."
"Reporter? Yes, sir. Thank you." House put his hand in his trousers pocket to reassure himself that the piece of paper was still there.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
It was supposed to be a warning to anyone who would use his motor vehicle in the commission of a crime, especially a drug related crime. The first time Harry saw it was in the parking lot of police headquarters, which is right next to the Serena branch of the Greene County Public Library. It was a late model Camaro painted up in patriotic red, white and blue like a NASCAR racer, only the lettering spelled out POLICE. In the shaded area at the top portion of the windshield there was this message: This vehicle seized in drug arrest! Around Serena that's pronounced vee-hick-ell, with equal emphasis given to each syllable.
To Harry's way of thinking this was a warning to all Americans that the government of the People, by the People and for the People could walk off with their private property without any prior notice and the burden of proof would be on the citizen to prove that he was entitled to get it back. Next to the proliferation of capital punishment, this was the most disheartening legal development of the '90s.
The moment he set eyes on that vehicle, with its supercharger air scoop and its adjustable rear spoiler, he recalled the story of the client whose two-week-old five liter Mustang was seized when her daughter's boyfriend was arrested for smoking a joint in the front passenger seat. In New York they didn't paint them up and advertise them like this. The liberal citizenry would have been up in arms. Instead, they used them in undercover operations Around here, in the land of the Tafts, this was a trophy of the triumph of good over evil.
Not only that, it was displayed in public at every opportunity, including fairs and parades. So Harry wasn't surprised to see it creeping down the street behind the Four-H float and just ahead of the antique tractors as he stood on the sidelines with Billy at the Founders Day Parade. He was surprised, however, to see who was behind the wheel. It was none other than the infamous Orel Paige, waiving as if he were running for public office.
Harry followed the official police hot-rod with his eyes. When it was about a quarter mile down Main Street, too far for him to make out the details, there was some kind of disturbance. It looked like a man had tried to run out into the road in front of the car and was tackled by people from the crowd. As this was going on, the news helicopter from Channel Seven in Dayton happened to be passing over. It swooped down over the incident. News at eleven, Harry thought to himself. He made a mental note to be sure to watch it.
***
Monday afternoons in the Blue Moon were busier than one might expect. After a morning of writing, Harry liked to drop in for a little camaraderie before the kids came home from school. A couple of cool ones would keep him from blowing his stack when the ritalin started to wear off Jenny's ten-year-old.
This afternoon, Harry found Phil, Hank and Morely down at the end of the bar opposite the television. The midday news was on and they were re-running some of the coverage from Saturday's parade. Around here a fender bender was considered big news. Harry joined them and ordered a draft and a tuna sandwich from Freddie Edwards.
"They show the part where the guy tried to run out in the street?" Harry addressed no one in particular.
"Frankie Adderholdt, Snake's brother..." Morely laughed.
Harry thought he was pulling his leg. "Get outta here!"
"He's not kidding." Phil chimed in.
"It's been almost a year since they took his car and he still ain't over it." Morely was shaking his head.
Maybe there's some justice in the seizure laws after all, Harry thought. "What happened?"
Frankie Adderholdt, his kid brother and a couple of their friends had been to the Saturday night drag races at the Serena Speedway. They'd had a couple beers, but they weren't really drunk. When they piled into Frankie's souped up car out in the parking lot, after having seen all those fast cars, they were pretty fired up. Frankie was in the mood to strut his stuff and the other three were urging him on. When they got to Fairgrounds Road it looked pretty deserted, so Frankie put it to the floor on a straight stretch just to show the boys what it could do. Officer Paige was setting in the Fairgrounds parking lot with his lights out when he spotted headlights coming down the road, changing from a pair of dimes to quarters to silver dollars, faster than he could switch his own on and fire up the siren.
Frankie pulled over as soon as he saw the blue light flashing in his rear view mirror, didn't give Paige any trouble at all. But Paige smelled the beer on his breath and took him in for a breathalyzer. The kid blew a point one-one, barely over the legal limit. Paige drew up the seizure papers and took the car on the spot.
They'd been laying for that car since the first time the Police Chief set eyes on it, even though Frankie'd never run one light or gone one mile over the speed limit. The rumble of the racing cam, the headers, the dual exhaust, though all legal, had gotten the chief's blood boiling. Now the car was his. Paige's reward was to pick his own assignment. He chose to cruise the internet instead of the back roads.
Harry told them the story of how he had run into Audrey Adderholdt and how Paige had been the responding officer.
"It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Frankie beats his old lady," Morely said. "He's a piece of shit, there's no doubt about that. But he still didn't deserve what they done to him. And it's just made him meaner. It's a shame about his wife. She's a purty little thing. I remember when she was a cheerleader over to the high school. Doesn't seem that long ago."
Kresge was thinking: First I write a letter to the editor and mention this Officer Paige by name; a few weeks later, he writes Jenny a speeding ticket; then this Adderholdt woman needs my help and it's Paige who responds to the 911 call; then I see him driving that police hot rod in the parade and now this.
Harry muttered something.
"What's that Ole Hoss?" Phil asked.
"Oh I was just talking to myself... You go your whole life thinking there is no plan, then you see how things work out and you have to wonder."
It was supposed to be a warning to anyone who would use his motor vehicle in the commission of a crime, especially a drug related crime. The first time Harry saw it was in the parking lot of police headquarters, which is right next to the Serena branch of the Greene County Public Library. It was a late model Camaro painted up in patriotic red, white and blue like a NASCAR racer, only the lettering spelled out POLICE. In the shaded area at the top portion of the windshield there was this message: This vehicle seized in drug arrest! Around Serena that's pronounced vee-hick-ell, with equal emphasis given to each syllable.
To Harry's way of thinking this was a warning to all Americans that the government of the People, by the People and for the People could walk off with their private property without any prior notice and the burden of proof would be on the citizen to prove that he was entitled to get it back. Next to the proliferation of capital punishment, this was the most disheartening legal development of the '90s.
The moment he set eyes on that vehicle, with its supercharger air scoop and its adjustable rear spoiler, he recalled the story of the client whose two-week-old five liter Mustang was seized when her daughter's boyfriend was arrested for smoking a joint in the front passenger seat. In New York they didn't paint them up and advertise them like this. The liberal citizenry would have been up in arms. Instead, they used them in undercover operations Around here, in the land of the Tafts, this was a trophy of the triumph of good over evil.
Not only that, it was displayed in public at every opportunity, including fairs and parades. So Harry wasn't surprised to see it creeping down the street behind the Four-H float and just ahead of the antique tractors as he stood on the sidelines with Billy at the Founders Day Parade. He was surprised, however, to see who was behind the wheel. It was none other than the infamous Orel Paige, waiving as if he were running for public office.
Harry followed the official police hot-rod with his eyes. When it was about a quarter mile down Main Street, too far for him to make out the details, there was some kind of disturbance. It looked like a man had tried to run out into the road in front of the car and was tackled by people from the crowd. As this was going on, the news helicopter from Channel Seven in Dayton happened to be passing over. It swooped down over the incident. News at eleven, Harry thought to himself. He made a mental note to be sure to watch it.
***
Monday afternoons in the Blue Moon were busier than one might expect. After a morning of writing, Harry liked to drop in for a little camaraderie before the kids came home from school. A couple of cool ones would keep him from blowing his stack when the ritalin started to wear off Jenny's ten-year-old.
This afternoon, Harry found Phil, Hank and Morely down at the end of the bar opposite the television. The midday news was on and they were re-running some of the coverage from Saturday's parade. Around here a fender bender was considered big news. Harry joined them and ordered a draft and a tuna sandwich from Freddie Edwards.
"They show the part where the guy tried to run out in the street?" Harry addressed no one in particular.
"Frankie Adderholdt, Snake's brother..." Morely laughed.
Harry thought he was pulling his leg. "Get outta here!"
"He's not kidding." Phil chimed in.
"It's been almost a year since they took his car and he still ain't over it." Morely was shaking his head.
Maybe there's some justice in the seizure laws after all, Harry thought. "What happened?"
Frankie Adderholdt, his kid brother and a couple of their friends had been to the Saturday night drag races at the Serena Speedway. They'd had a couple beers, but they weren't really drunk. When they piled into Frankie's souped up car out in the parking lot, after having seen all those fast cars, they were pretty fired up. Frankie was in the mood to strut his stuff and the other three were urging him on. When they got to Fairgrounds Road it looked pretty deserted, so Frankie put it to the floor on a straight stretch just to show the boys what it could do. Officer Paige was setting in the Fairgrounds parking lot with his lights out when he spotted headlights coming down the road, changing from a pair of dimes to quarters to silver dollars, faster than he could switch his own on and fire up the siren.
Frankie pulled over as soon as he saw the blue light flashing in his rear view mirror, didn't give Paige any trouble at all. But Paige smelled the beer on his breath and took him in for a breathalyzer. The kid blew a point one-one, barely over the legal limit. Paige drew up the seizure papers and took the car on the spot.
They'd been laying for that car since the first time the Police Chief set eyes on it, even though Frankie'd never run one light or gone one mile over the speed limit. The rumble of the racing cam, the headers, the dual exhaust, though all legal, had gotten the chief's blood boiling. Now the car was his. Paige's reward was to pick his own assignment. He chose to cruise the internet instead of the back roads.
Harry told them the story of how he had run into Audrey Adderholdt and how Paige had been the responding officer.
"It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Frankie beats his old lady," Morely said. "He's a piece of shit, there's no doubt about that. But he still didn't deserve what they done to him. And it's just made him meaner. It's a shame about his wife. She's a purty little thing. I remember when she was a cheerleader over to the high school. Doesn't seem that long ago."
Kresge was thinking: First I write a letter to the editor and mention this Officer Paige by name; a few weeks later, he writes Jenny a speeding ticket; then this Adderholdt woman needs my help and it's Paige who responds to the 911 call; then I see him driving that police hot rod in the parade and now this.
Harry muttered something.
"What's that Ole Hoss?" Phil asked.
"Oh I was just talking to myself... You go your whole life thinking there is no plan, then you see how things work out and you have to wonder."
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
House of Pain was doing so well on his new job at the Serena Daily Banner that orders came down from high command to offer him some overtime. Norm broached the subject at the end of work on the Friday of his third week on the job. "You're a good worker, Bunky. Ya done so good we're gonna give you a chance to earn a little extra money."
The plum Norm had in mind was the dirtiest job at the paper, something that had to be done once-a-month, clean the printer's ink that had accumulated on the various flat horizontal surfaces about the mammoth room that housed the printing presses.
The Banner was one of the last newspaper operations of its kind. Most papers had been using computers and offset printing for twenty-five years. The Banner had replaced its antiquated equipment with insurance money for water damage their machinery suffered when the paper lost its roof in the '75 tornado. Management had lacked the foresight to go high-tech and had simply purchased updated versions of the same linotype machines and printing presses that they had been using all along. So the equipment, although now itself antiquated, was in reasonably good operating condition. Therefore, the Luddites, who currently over-saw operations, lacked any impetus to go modern. That would remain the case until some time in the not-too-distant future, when the last of the linotype operators would either die off, or retire to Florida. Meanwhile, once-a-month, someone would have to go in there and clean up the mess.
Printer's ink has the consistency of a thick, gelatinous grease. It sticks to any surface with which it comes into contact, and, while it wipes off easily enough, it is usually so thick that it requires more wipes than a baby's butt. None of the janitors from the day crew wanted the extra money bad enough to volunteer for the job, and, since they all had seniority over Norm, it usually fell on him. Now he was off the hook. Volunteering wasn't really an option, but he wouldn't tell that to House, unless he declined it. For now, he would make it seem like a reward. Next month, no doubt, would be different.
House reported to work on Saturday night. Norm was there to supervise. The presses were silent because the Banner didn't publish a Sunday edition.
"Cover yourself with these!" Norm pointed to a pile of recently laundered, large-size industrial rags. He showed House how to tie them around his neck, over his head and around his waist. Then he sent him up a thirty foot high wooden folding-ladder to remove the grease from atop the florescent light fixtures which hung on long rods from the ceiling. "You don't have to get them perfectly clean. The object is to get the heavy. Tomorrow, when they run the presses, they'll just start accumulating the gunk all over again."
At first, House was afraid to climb the shaky ladder. The higher he got, the more nervous he became. "Hold it good!" he called down to Norm when he was about a third of the way up. Once he got to the top, he became so engrossed in the cleaning, that he forgot to be scared.
The black goo was about three inches thick on the white enamel tops of the light fixtures. When House was done with the first one, it shone like new.
"What's takin' so long up there?" Norm was looking at his watch. At this rate, House would only half-finish the job, unless Norm helped. "C'mon down! Let me take a look!"
House climbed down and held the ladder while Norm went up to see what had been done. "Damn, House," he called down, "I told you not to do too good a job. It ain't like Findaly's gonna climb up here and inspect!"
They moved on to the next fixture and it was the same thing. House just couldn't get it into his head to do a less-than-perfect job. Norm wrapped himself in rags and started to clean the fixtures he could reach from the cat-walk that ran around the outer wall of the room. That left House to climb the shaky ladder without anyone securing the bottom. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Soon it was House holding the ladder and Norm atop it, wiping away at the stubborn black glop.
On Monday afternoon, Norm came to the paper early to complain to his immediate superior, the day foreman, about House's performance on Saturday night. "He just ain't cut out for this kind of work."
"I thought you told me he was doing a good job." The day foreman had been wise to Norm for some time.
"Well he was, but he's afraid of heights."
"Can he sweep?"
"Hell yes, he can sweep. He's a sweeping fool."
"Does he have any strength to him."
"Hah, I've been of a mind to enter him in the oxen-pull at the county fair."
"I'm going to put him on days. I need a man can haul the lead over to the linotype machines. He can sweep up when he's not doing that. I'm going to give you Jerome. He's been staying out late, getting drunk an awful lot lately. Hasn't been worth a shit around here in the morning. Nights will do him some good."
"But..."
"No buts. It's done. Let Marvin go home early tonight. Tell him to see me at eight tomorrow morning. Jerome starts with you tomorrow night."
***
House's Mama was proud. Of course her boy was never going to make reporter, but, in just a few weeks, he had been offered overtime and put on days. In her mind this was a promotion. And there was something different about House. Not only was his intelligence increasing, he seemed to be getting smarter, if you could separate the two. It was like he was more worldly-wise. There was no doubt about it, the work was doing him good. That business about the beer being responsible was just a rumor. She stopped giving him beer after the first week. All he'd ever needed was a little social interaction and a little respect. She felt bad that she hadn't tried to put him to work sooner, had babied him too much. He had a lot of catching up to do, but he seemed to be doing it by leaps and bounds.
***
House carefully maneuvered the skid, stacked high with lead ingots, across the special vinyl tiled floor. It was a long trip and he had to weave around a number of obstacles. When he got close to the linotype machine, he started to let it down with the hydraulic jack-lift handle.
"Not there! If you leave it all the way over there, I'll walk right-the-fuck outta here."
House was startled. He looked over at the shrunken old man with the green visor who was seated at the keyboard.
"Do you expect me to lift those heavy bars and carry them all the way over here. You ever hear about the linotype operator strikes that shut down all the New York papers in the 50's?" A cigar wagged in his mouth as he talked.
House didn't speak. He looked at the old man in wonderment. He'd never seen such an old man who was still working.
"Move it closer or I'm outta here! Findlay will have your ass, not mine."
House rolled the skid as close as he could get it. Once again, he started to lower it with the handle.
"No good, dummy!" Louie the linotype operator shouted at him. "More forward."
House complied. This time, when he set the skid down onto the floor, there was no complaint.
House turned and looked at the old man. "House," he said.
"What?"
"You can call me House, like most folks do, or you can call me Marvin. Don't call me dummy."
"You that House of Pain fellow I've heard about? I'm Louie. Just put all the skids right there, where you put that one, and you and I won't have any problems."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, Marvin. Now get them empty skids outta here and go get us a couple of Cokes." He handed him two singles.
***
House had hoped to become a reporter, but he liked working with Louie. The linotype operator had taken him under his wing. Every day Louie showed House something new, stuff he never shared with anyone else at the paper. And he treated House with respect. Besides Phil Rowley, Louie was the only one who ever called him Marvin.
"C'mere Marvin, I wanna show you something." It would be some fine point of the trade, a tip, a shortcut, invariably something House would never have thought of on his own. Slowly, but surely, House was learning this dying trade. He even took adult ed typing classes during the evenings over at the high school. In House, Louie saw a way to keep the craft alive. He had never had a son.
***
Gar Findlay called the day foreman into his office. "I want you to take Marvin Payne off sweeping and any other jobs you might have him do and let him work exclusively with Louie. There ain't enough work with Louie to keep a janitor busy all day."
"I know that, but Louie has threatened to quit if we don't let him have House as his apprentice. He'll continue to move the lead and he can sweep up the area around the linotype machines. We just can't let him out of Louie's sight."
Actually, Gar didn't think this was such a bad idea. Louie was really getting up there in years and the other linotype operator was slow and sloppy. Whenever Louie had been out sick, which, fortunately, hadn't been often, they'd run into real problems getting the paper out on time. Having a back-up, even one who could only help out a little, would be a good thing. And House was proving to be surprisingly competent.
House of Pain was doing so well on his new job at the Serena Daily Banner that orders came down from high command to offer him some overtime. Norm broached the subject at the end of work on the Friday of his third week on the job. "You're a good worker, Bunky. Ya done so good we're gonna give you a chance to earn a little extra money."
The plum Norm had in mind was the dirtiest job at the paper, something that had to be done once-a-month, clean the printer's ink that had accumulated on the various flat horizontal surfaces about the mammoth room that housed the printing presses.
The Banner was one of the last newspaper operations of its kind. Most papers had been using computers and offset printing for twenty-five years. The Banner had replaced its antiquated equipment with insurance money for water damage their machinery suffered when the paper lost its roof in the '75 tornado. Management had lacked the foresight to go high-tech and had simply purchased updated versions of the same linotype machines and printing presses that they had been using all along. So the equipment, although now itself antiquated, was in reasonably good operating condition. Therefore, the Luddites, who currently over-saw operations, lacked any impetus to go modern. That would remain the case until some time in the not-too-distant future, when the last of the linotype operators would either die off, or retire to Florida. Meanwhile, once-a-month, someone would have to go in there and clean up the mess.
Printer's ink has the consistency of a thick, gelatinous grease. It sticks to any surface with which it comes into contact, and, while it wipes off easily enough, it is usually so thick that it requires more wipes than a baby's butt. None of the janitors from the day crew wanted the extra money bad enough to volunteer for the job, and, since they all had seniority over Norm, it usually fell on him. Now he was off the hook. Volunteering wasn't really an option, but he wouldn't tell that to House, unless he declined it. For now, he would make it seem like a reward. Next month, no doubt, would be different.
House reported to work on Saturday night. Norm was there to supervise. The presses were silent because the Banner didn't publish a Sunday edition.
"Cover yourself with these!" Norm pointed to a pile of recently laundered, large-size industrial rags. He showed House how to tie them around his neck, over his head and around his waist. Then he sent him up a thirty foot high wooden folding-ladder to remove the grease from atop the florescent light fixtures which hung on long rods from the ceiling. "You don't have to get them perfectly clean. The object is to get the heavy. Tomorrow, when they run the presses, they'll just start accumulating the gunk all over again."
At first, House was afraid to climb the shaky ladder. The higher he got, the more nervous he became. "Hold it good!" he called down to Norm when he was about a third of the way up. Once he got to the top, he became so engrossed in the cleaning, that he forgot to be scared.
The black goo was about three inches thick on the white enamel tops of the light fixtures. When House was done with the first one, it shone like new.
"What's takin' so long up there?" Norm was looking at his watch. At this rate, House would only half-finish the job, unless Norm helped. "C'mon down! Let me take a look!"
House climbed down and held the ladder while Norm went up to see what had been done. "Damn, House," he called down, "I told you not to do too good a job. It ain't like Findaly's gonna climb up here and inspect!"
They moved on to the next fixture and it was the same thing. House just couldn't get it into his head to do a less-than-perfect job. Norm wrapped himself in rags and started to clean the fixtures he could reach from the cat-walk that ran around the outer wall of the room. That left House to climb the shaky ladder without anyone securing the bottom. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Soon it was House holding the ladder and Norm atop it, wiping away at the stubborn black glop.
On Monday afternoon, Norm came to the paper early to complain to his immediate superior, the day foreman, about House's performance on Saturday night. "He just ain't cut out for this kind of work."
"I thought you told me he was doing a good job." The day foreman had been wise to Norm for some time.
"Well he was, but he's afraid of heights."
"Can he sweep?"
"Hell yes, he can sweep. He's a sweeping fool."
"Does he have any strength to him."
"Hah, I've been of a mind to enter him in the oxen-pull at the county fair."
"I'm going to put him on days. I need a man can haul the lead over to the linotype machines. He can sweep up when he's not doing that. I'm going to give you Jerome. He's been staying out late, getting drunk an awful lot lately. Hasn't been worth a shit around here in the morning. Nights will do him some good."
"But..."
"No buts. It's done. Let Marvin go home early tonight. Tell him to see me at eight tomorrow morning. Jerome starts with you tomorrow night."
***
House's Mama was proud. Of course her boy was never going to make reporter, but, in just a few weeks, he had been offered overtime and put on days. In her mind this was a promotion. And there was something different about House. Not only was his intelligence increasing, he seemed to be getting smarter, if you could separate the two. It was like he was more worldly-wise. There was no doubt about it, the work was doing him good. That business about the beer being responsible was just a rumor. She stopped giving him beer after the first week. All he'd ever needed was a little social interaction and a little respect. She felt bad that she hadn't tried to put him to work sooner, had babied him too much. He had a lot of catching up to do, but he seemed to be doing it by leaps and bounds.
***
House carefully maneuvered the skid, stacked high with lead ingots, across the special vinyl tiled floor. It was a long trip and he had to weave around a number of obstacles. When he got close to the linotype machine, he started to let it down with the hydraulic jack-lift handle.
"Not there! If you leave it all the way over there, I'll walk right-the-fuck outta here."
House was startled. He looked over at the shrunken old man with the green visor who was seated at the keyboard.
"Do you expect me to lift those heavy bars and carry them all the way over here. You ever hear about the linotype operator strikes that shut down all the New York papers in the 50's?" A cigar wagged in his mouth as he talked.
House didn't speak. He looked at the old man in wonderment. He'd never seen such an old man who was still working.
"Move it closer or I'm outta here! Findlay will have your ass, not mine."
House rolled the skid as close as he could get it. Once again, he started to lower it with the handle.
"No good, dummy!" Louie the linotype operator shouted at him. "More forward."
House complied. This time, when he set the skid down onto the floor, there was no complaint.
House turned and looked at the old man. "House," he said.
"What?"
"You can call me House, like most folks do, or you can call me Marvin. Don't call me dummy."
"You that House of Pain fellow I've heard about? I'm Louie. Just put all the skids right there, where you put that one, and you and I won't have any problems."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, Marvin. Now get them empty skids outta here and go get us a couple of Cokes." He handed him two singles.
***
House had hoped to become a reporter, but he liked working with Louie. The linotype operator had taken him under his wing. Every day Louie showed House something new, stuff he never shared with anyone else at the paper. And he treated House with respect. Besides Phil Rowley, Louie was the only one who ever called him Marvin.
"C'mere Marvin, I wanna show you something." It would be some fine point of the trade, a tip, a shortcut, invariably something House would never have thought of on his own. Slowly, but surely, House was learning this dying trade. He even took adult ed typing classes during the evenings over at the high school. In House, Louie saw a way to keep the craft alive. He had never had a son.
***
Gar Findlay called the day foreman into his office. "I want you to take Marvin Payne off sweeping and any other jobs you might have him do and let him work exclusively with Louie. There ain't enough work with Louie to keep a janitor busy all day."
"I know that, but Louie has threatened to quit if we don't let him have House as his apprentice. He'll continue to move the lead and he can sweep up the area around the linotype machines. We just can't let him out of Louie's sight."
Actually, Gar didn't think this was such a bad idea. Louie was really getting up there in years and the other linotype operator was slow and sloppy. Whenever Louie had been out sick, which, fortunately, hadn't been often, they'd run into real problems getting the paper out on time. Having a back-up, even one who could only help out a little, would be a good thing. And House was proving to be surprisingly competent.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
When he first noticed it, the blue car was behind the house next door. It had suddenly appeared there as if it was being hidden from the road. Harry wondered how they had managed to park it there. They would have had to remove a section of fence on the other side of the house, then replace it.
The car remained there for three days, during which Harry occasionally noticed a strange young man in the backyard. But for a thick black moustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Snake. On one occasion, he and Snake were in the yard together, using an old paint can for target practice with a crossbow. Silent and deadly, crossbows had always given Harry the shivers. The last thing he needed was for Snake to have access to one of those things.
On the morning of the fourth day, Harry looked out his bedroom window and was surprised to find that the blue car had been moved to the side of the house closest to his. He could see now that it was some sort of sporty model of Chevrolet, a few years old. It was parked nose in, next to the garage, as if to leave room for the other cars of the household to move in and out. It was almost in Harry's side yard.
The kids were in school and Jenny was at work. Harry was home alone. He hadn't been to his P. O. Box for a couple days and he needed some exercise, so he got his bike out of the garage and headed into town. The car was still there when he returned from the Post Office. As he coasted past the house, he could hear the sound of a woman, talking in a loud voice. He imagined an argument. He decided to keep an eye on things.
Later, when he looked out the window to check on it, he found that the car had been turned around and was now facing out as if for a fast getaway. A woman in a red coat with long brown hair was walking away from the car and into the backyard.
Harry made himself a ham sandwich and opened a can of beer to celebrate the acceptance of one of his stories by a small literary magazine. The phone rang. It was an old poet friend, calling from Oregon.
While he was on the phone, loud music started to emanate from the house next door. Harry bet himself that the next time he looked out the window the car and, perhaps, the woman would be gone. But when he hung up, the car was still there.
After talking writing with his friend, Harry felt that he wanted to write something, but it was too noisy to concentrate. He took his horn case down from the shelf in the bedroom closet and began to practice a Mozart rondo for the community band. He was just starting to go through the piece for the fourth time, when there was a loud knocking on the door. If that's the people next door come to complain about my practicing, Harry thought, someone's going to get hurt. He pulled aside the curtains on the picture window next to the front door and peeked out. It was the woman in the red coat. She pounded again and shouted. "Please open up, I need help!"
Harry opened the door and she rushed inside. He closed it behind her and looked her over. He hadn't really seen her before, not enough to take note of the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips, the firm body under her open coat. She must have been in her mid-twenties. He waited for her to gather her composure enough to speak. "Please, whatever you do, don't let him in." She was sobbing.
"I'll call 911."
"No, don't! It'll be alright in a few minutes. He'll calm down."
Just then, the music next door got louder.
"Are we talking about your husband?"
"Yes. He's on something right now. I don't want to involve the police."
"Did he see you come over here?"
"I'm not sure. He might have."
"Does your husband have a thick black moustache?"
"Yes."
"...and a crossbow?"
"Yeah, but he'd never use it against anyone."
Harry turned and went for the phone on one of the end tables. He dialed 911.
"911 operator. What's your emergency?"
"This is Harry Kresge, 25 Tecumseh Drive. There's a domestic dispute going on next door at 27. The wife just ran over here for protection. I believe her husband is armed and dangerous. Please send a car over here, right away."
"What kind of weapon does he have?"
"A crossbow."
"You're kidding..."
"No I'm not. And I've got reason to believe he's high on something."
"Okay, I'll send a car."
"I wish you hadn't done that," the woman in the red coat said. She had sat on the sofa.
Suddenly it dawned on Harry. "Are you related to that crazy Snake that lives over there?"
"He's my husband's brother - and crazy is right. Sometimes I think they're both loony. Correct that, they're both loony."
"We're new in the neighborhood. I've been trying to figure out what goes on over there. You wouldn't mind filling me in, would you?"
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"How about with your mother-in-law?"
The husband must not have seen his wife go to Harry's house, because he never did come to the door. It was a solid ten minutes before the police cruiser arrived. During that time, the woman eagerly gave Harry the low-down on her mother-in-law, with whom she and her husband had just moved in, because the house they were renting had been damaged in the tornado.
The woman was deaf from birth. Snake's father had met her in Germany while serving there in the Army. She could lip-read German, and since he spoke German, they had been able to communicate. They married and he brought her back to the U.S. like any other soldier who married overseas, only with that one additional problem. She went to school and learned American Sign Language, which enabled her to get a job at the local newspaper in her husband's hometown. The newspaper preferred to hire deaf-mute workers to work near the printing presses, because the machinery was so noisy. Workers who weren't bothered by the noise and who could communicate with each other in sign language had a definite advantage.
While working at The Serena Daily Banner, Snake's mother met other deaf people. Over the years she formed a circle of friends who were closely bound together by their uniqueness. She and her husband had four children, Snake being the youngest. Eventually, she grew apart from her husband, who had little in common with her friends. Then she had an affair with one of her co-workers. When her husband found out, he ran off to Cincinnati, leaving her to hold down a job and raise the four children by herself.
As often happens in such situations, the older children raised the younger ones. The oldest was a daughter, who eventually married and moved out. Next was a son, who did the same, married to the woman in the red coat, who was imparting all this information. Audrey was her name. Currently, Snake, age 16 and a sister who was two years older than he, were the only ones left. Snake had essentially been unsupervised for the past two years.
The mother had taken a number of different lovers and the children never knew when she was going to sleep at home or, if she did, with whom she would be sleeping in their own house. Although Cincinnati was only an hour away, the children had little contact with their father. In recent years, Snake had gone to stay with him for two weeks during the summer. Sometimes, the two weeks would be foreshortened by his misbehavior, and the father would put him on the bus and send him back home.
"Where did he get the name, Snake?" Harry asked.
"The family name is Adderholdt. The kids in school picked up on the adder part of it in the fourth grade from some pirate story they were reading. After that no one ever called him by his real name."
"What is his real name?"
"Wolfgang."
With that, Harry spotted a black and gold police cruiser pulling up in front of his house. The door opened and a tall gangly officer in a uniform, which resembled that of a State Trooper stepped out, then reached back into the car and retrieved his trooper-style hat and placed it on his head. As he started for Harry's front door, Harry opened it and greeted him.
"Come on in, officer. This is Audrey Adderholdt, the victim. I'm Harry Kresge, the next door neighbor who called 911."
When Harry spoke his name, the officer's face contorted as if in painful recognition. When he spoke, he spoke only to the woman. "Howdy Ma'am. I'm officer Paige."
Now it was Harry's turn to search his recollection for the familiar sounding name. Then it came to him. Wasn't he the one who had arrested the so-called child molester from Toledo, the one who had given Jenny the speeding ticket? Oy... So he really was back on patrol. Harry wondered if his letter to the editor, although unpublished, had had anything to do with it. From the look on Paige's face when he heard Harry's name, he guessed that it had. Small town... The editor of the paper, no doubt, bowls or fishes, or drinks beer with the Chief of Police.
Harry looked out the window. The noise had stopped and the blue car was gone. "I think he took off."
Audrey managed to convince Officer Paige that the situation was over and that no further action would be necessary. There had been no mention of her husband being high on anything, so Paige was satisfied and left, but not before giving Harry an evil stare that sent chills down his spine. In that instant, there had been an understanding between the two men. They would meet again, and when they did, there would be no witnesses.
Harry watched the cruiser pull away from the curb. "Listen, if you're scared, you're welcome to stay awhile."
"Thanks, but it's over for today. I've been through this with him before. I'll go back over there now. He won't be back until late tonight. My mother-in-law will be home by then."
"Okay, but if you ever need help, just knock."
"Thanks, you're so sweet." She leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was out the door.
Harry watched her cross the lawn and go back into the house next door. He slumped onto the couch and let out a deep sigh. As he waited for his heart to stop pounding, he thought he detected something stirring inside his shorts.
When he first noticed it, the blue car was behind the house next door. It had suddenly appeared there as if it was being hidden from the road. Harry wondered how they had managed to park it there. They would have had to remove a section of fence on the other side of the house, then replace it.
The car remained there for three days, during which Harry occasionally noticed a strange young man in the backyard. But for a thick black moustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Snake. On one occasion, he and Snake were in the yard together, using an old paint can for target practice with a crossbow. Silent and deadly, crossbows had always given Harry the shivers. The last thing he needed was for Snake to have access to one of those things.
On the morning of the fourth day, Harry looked out his bedroom window and was surprised to find that the blue car had been moved to the side of the house closest to his. He could see now that it was some sort of sporty model of Chevrolet, a few years old. It was parked nose in, next to the garage, as if to leave room for the other cars of the household to move in and out. It was almost in Harry's side yard.
The kids were in school and Jenny was at work. Harry was home alone. He hadn't been to his P. O. Box for a couple days and he needed some exercise, so he got his bike out of the garage and headed into town. The car was still there when he returned from the Post Office. As he coasted past the house, he could hear the sound of a woman, talking in a loud voice. He imagined an argument. He decided to keep an eye on things.
Later, when he looked out the window to check on it, he found that the car had been turned around and was now facing out as if for a fast getaway. A woman in a red coat with long brown hair was walking away from the car and into the backyard.
Harry made himself a ham sandwich and opened a can of beer to celebrate the acceptance of one of his stories by a small literary magazine. The phone rang. It was an old poet friend, calling from Oregon.
While he was on the phone, loud music started to emanate from the house next door. Harry bet himself that the next time he looked out the window the car and, perhaps, the woman would be gone. But when he hung up, the car was still there.
After talking writing with his friend, Harry felt that he wanted to write something, but it was too noisy to concentrate. He took his horn case down from the shelf in the bedroom closet and began to practice a Mozart rondo for the community band. He was just starting to go through the piece for the fourth time, when there was a loud knocking on the door. If that's the people next door come to complain about my practicing, Harry thought, someone's going to get hurt. He pulled aside the curtains on the picture window next to the front door and peeked out. It was the woman in the red coat. She pounded again and shouted. "Please open up, I need help!"
Harry opened the door and she rushed inside. He closed it behind her and looked her over. He hadn't really seen her before, not enough to take note of the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips, the firm body under her open coat. She must have been in her mid-twenties. He waited for her to gather her composure enough to speak. "Please, whatever you do, don't let him in." She was sobbing.
"I'll call 911."
"No, don't! It'll be alright in a few minutes. He'll calm down."
Just then, the music next door got louder.
"Are we talking about your husband?"
"Yes. He's on something right now. I don't want to involve the police."
"Did he see you come over here?"
"I'm not sure. He might have."
"Does your husband have a thick black moustache?"
"Yes."
"...and a crossbow?"
"Yeah, but he'd never use it against anyone."
Harry turned and went for the phone on one of the end tables. He dialed 911.
"911 operator. What's your emergency?"
"This is Harry Kresge, 25 Tecumseh Drive. There's a domestic dispute going on next door at 27. The wife just ran over here for protection. I believe her husband is armed and dangerous. Please send a car over here, right away."
"What kind of weapon does he have?"
"A crossbow."
"You're kidding..."
"No I'm not. And I've got reason to believe he's high on something."
"Okay, I'll send a car."
"I wish you hadn't done that," the woman in the red coat said. She had sat on the sofa.
Suddenly it dawned on Harry. "Are you related to that crazy Snake that lives over there?"
"He's my husband's brother - and crazy is right. Sometimes I think they're both loony. Correct that, they're both loony."
"We're new in the neighborhood. I've been trying to figure out what goes on over there. You wouldn't mind filling me in, would you?"
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"How about with your mother-in-law?"
The husband must not have seen his wife go to Harry's house, because he never did come to the door. It was a solid ten minutes before the police cruiser arrived. During that time, the woman eagerly gave Harry the low-down on her mother-in-law, with whom she and her husband had just moved in, because the house they were renting had been damaged in the tornado.
The woman was deaf from birth. Snake's father had met her in Germany while serving there in the Army. She could lip-read German, and since he spoke German, they had been able to communicate. They married and he brought her back to the U.S. like any other soldier who married overseas, only with that one additional problem. She went to school and learned American Sign Language, which enabled her to get a job at the local newspaper in her husband's hometown. The newspaper preferred to hire deaf-mute workers to work near the printing presses, because the machinery was so noisy. Workers who weren't bothered by the noise and who could communicate with each other in sign language had a definite advantage.
While working at The Serena Daily Banner, Snake's mother met other deaf people. Over the years she formed a circle of friends who were closely bound together by their uniqueness. She and her husband had four children, Snake being the youngest. Eventually, she grew apart from her husband, who had little in common with her friends. Then she had an affair with one of her co-workers. When her husband found out, he ran off to Cincinnati, leaving her to hold down a job and raise the four children by herself.
As often happens in such situations, the older children raised the younger ones. The oldest was a daughter, who eventually married and moved out. Next was a son, who did the same, married to the woman in the red coat, who was imparting all this information. Audrey was her name. Currently, Snake, age 16 and a sister who was two years older than he, were the only ones left. Snake had essentially been unsupervised for the past two years.
The mother had taken a number of different lovers and the children never knew when she was going to sleep at home or, if she did, with whom she would be sleeping in their own house. Although Cincinnati was only an hour away, the children had little contact with their father. In recent years, Snake had gone to stay with him for two weeks during the summer. Sometimes, the two weeks would be foreshortened by his misbehavior, and the father would put him on the bus and send him back home.
"Where did he get the name, Snake?" Harry asked.
"The family name is Adderholdt. The kids in school picked up on the adder part of it in the fourth grade from some pirate story they were reading. After that no one ever called him by his real name."
"What is his real name?"
"Wolfgang."
With that, Harry spotted a black and gold police cruiser pulling up in front of his house. The door opened and a tall gangly officer in a uniform, which resembled that of a State Trooper stepped out, then reached back into the car and retrieved his trooper-style hat and placed it on his head. As he started for Harry's front door, Harry opened it and greeted him.
"Come on in, officer. This is Audrey Adderholdt, the victim. I'm Harry Kresge, the next door neighbor who called 911."
When Harry spoke his name, the officer's face contorted as if in painful recognition. When he spoke, he spoke only to the woman. "Howdy Ma'am. I'm officer Paige."
Now it was Harry's turn to search his recollection for the familiar sounding name. Then it came to him. Wasn't he the one who had arrested the so-called child molester from Toledo, the one who had given Jenny the speeding ticket? Oy... So he really was back on patrol. Harry wondered if his letter to the editor, although unpublished, had had anything to do with it. From the look on Paige's face when he heard Harry's name, he guessed that it had. Small town... The editor of the paper, no doubt, bowls or fishes, or drinks beer with the Chief of Police.
Harry looked out the window. The noise had stopped and the blue car was gone. "I think he took off."
Audrey managed to convince Officer Paige that the situation was over and that no further action would be necessary. There had been no mention of her husband being high on anything, so Paige was satisfied and left, but not before giving Harry an evil stare that sent chills down his spine. In that instant, there had been an understanding between the two men. They would meet again, and when they did, there would be no witnesses.
Harry watched the cruiser pull away from the curb. "Listen, if you're scared, you're welcome to stay awhile."
"Thanks, but it's over for today. I've been through this with him before. I'll go back over there now. He won't be back until late tonight. My mother-in-law will be home by then."
"Okay, but if you ever need help, just knock."
"Thanks, you're so sweet." She leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was out the door.
Harry watched her cross the lawn and go back into the house next door. He slumped onto the couch and let out a deep sigh. As he waited for his heart to stop pounding, he thought he detected something stirring inside his shorts.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Spring rain is sweet, like spoiled milk, but autumn rain is acrid, tainted with the tannic acid of dry leaves, angry red over the season of their demise. In early fall, cold dry fronts slide down from Canada, bumping up against the blistering humid heat of the heartland. The conflict takes place over the middle states. The people of Serena, Ohio consider themselves lucky at such a time, if all that results is thunder and rain. But sometimes they are not so lucky and the outcome is a tornado, or two, or three. In the spring of 1975, three twisters crossed paths and linked up, forming one large unusual tornado with winds that behaved with more than the ordinary fury. It leveled much of Serena. Twenty-five years later, a single funnel, which at times measured force four on a scale of five, followed almost the same path as its ancestor, reminding the folks of Serena, once again, of their mortality. This one was of the autumn variety.
The past night, and again in the morning, there was long rolling thunder, the bowling alley kind, in true stereophonic sound. Thunder had never particularly bothered Harry Kresge before. He figured his chances of getting struck by lightning were about the same as his chances of winning the lottery. But ever since the tornado which touched down about a quarter mile from his house, then tore a straight line path, diagonally from Southwest to Northeast Serena, taking out a Walmart, a Chinese restaurant, four churches, about a hundred houses, an IGA supermarket and dozens of barns and silos, any thunder which moved from point A to point B was potentially that freight train of which he had been warned. Kresge was nervous, not that the experience had touched him in a personal way, much more than if he and Jenny and the kids had still been living in New York.
It had been early in the evening on a Wednesday, two weeks before. They had just returned from shopping. The weather reports had warned of thunder showers, but that was nothing unusual for Southwestern Ohio. A cold front was moving in, but it hadn't been particularly hot. Harry remembered thinking that this didn't seem like tornado conditions, not that anyone had brought up the idea of tornados. It was something that had occurred to him on his own. But there was something weird about the sky. The clouds were grayer than usual.
On the drive home, there had been distant thunder and an occasional flash in the far-off clouds. Drops started to appear on the windshield just before they got to their driveway. "Get the perishables into the house first," Harry told Jenny and the kids. We can leave the other stuff until it stops raining."
They had brought home fresh salmon for their dinner. Jenny immediately started it in the electric oven, hoping to finish it before they lost power. Outages during thunder storms had been a common occurrence in three months since they had moved to Serena.
The thunder and lightening moved closer. The lights flickered briefly. A few minutes later they flickered again, only this time it felt like they almost lost them. Harry went for the computer. He was trying to power down when nature finished the job for him. "Shit!" he muttered. "I hope the computer wasn't damaged."
It was the start of dusk, but with the heavy cloud cover it was getting dark early. Harry found some candles and lit them.
"How long will the power be off?" asked Amy, Jenny's teenage daughter.
"How would I know?" Harry was annoyed. All this kid could think about was television and signing on to AOL to chat with her friends from New York. "It could be a few minutes or it could be a few days."
"Oh, that's just great. And what am I supposed to do without electricity?" As usual, she acted as if it were Harry's fault.
"In the past these power failures have lasted for a couple hours. One of the transformers was probably struck by lightening. That's what usually happens. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything."
Jenny's little boy looked out into the back yard. He was looking up at the utility pole by the back fence. "Why don't you call them to come and fix it?"
"No, Bill, it's not that one. It's probably another one, somewhere in the neighborhood." Harry looked out the front window to see if there were any lights in other houses on the street. There weren't.
The salmon had only been in the oven for about five minutes before the power went off. Harry ventured out into the rain and moved the charcoal grill under the eaves. He removed the cover and squirted lighter fluid on the dead coals that were left-over from the last time they grilled. He lit them with a wooden match and covered them again. He came back into the house. "It'll take about twenty minutes for them to heat up enough. Then we can move the salmon onto the grill and I'll put the cover on it. That should do it."
"Oh Harry, don't even bother! It will come out lousy." Jenny was skeptical any time Harry fired up the barbecue.
"I'm not going to waste fifteen dollars worth of salmon."
"Don't be so cheap."
Harry thought about that for a minute. He had never been a cheapskate. No one would ever have accused him of that, back in New York. That was partly what got him in trouble. But when he bolted with only a moderate grub-stake, he had made up his mind to mend his spending ways - to watch his money. In the short time he had lived alone in a cheap one-room apartment in the north end of town, he had cultivated the habit of conserving, especially food. Then Jenny tracked him down and insisted on joining him. By then, she had figured out that he didn't have much money. Now that she was supporting him, he felt a responsibility to conserve her assets as well. He was ever mindful that she had the two kids to look out for.
The salmon seemed to take forever. Using the old coals wasn't such a hot idea, but Harry wasn't about to admit it. By the time he adjudged the fish to be done, they were all hungry. They ate by candle light. Even Jenny had to admit it was good, but only grudgingly. "When you're hungry, anything tastes good."
"What are we going to do now, Harry?" the girl demanded. "This sucks!"
"I don't know. I think it's kind of fun. Hey, at least Snake can't bother us with his stereo."
Harry took a flashlight into the bedroom and located a small transistor radio. He turned it on and set it on the coffee table in the living room.
"Put on Z-93!" the girl demanded.
Harry was having trouble settling on any station with the tiny dial, much less locating a particular station.
"Let me try!" She grabbed the radio and played with the dial.
Finally she located a strong signal. They were running a commercial so it was hard to tell which station it was. Then the announcer came on. "We are taking you back to our reporter in Serena, where one person has been killed and another one hundred have been hospitalized in a scene reminiscent of the big one of 1975.
That was the first they had heard that they had just been missed by a tornado. It had been about two hours since the lights had gone out. They had consumed a candle-lit meal of salmon stuffed with crab meat, washed down with white wine, while ambulances and rescue workers were working frantically to save lives. The reports from scenes around town were being phoned in from cells phones. Each horror the callers reported was worse than the last.
"This is boring," the girl complained. "Put on Z-93!"
***
The thunder stopped about the time Harry got out of bed and started the coffee. What was it Hank Pitts had told him..? He tried to remember. It had something to do with Indian folklore - something about the weather.
Spring rain is sweet, like spoiled milk, but autumn rain is acrid, tainted with the tannic acid of dry leaves, angry red over the season of their demise. In early fall, cold dry fronts slide down from Canada, bumping up against the blistering humid heat of the heartland. The conflict takes place over the middle states. The people of Serena, Ohio consider themselves lucky at such a time, if all that results is thunder and rain. But sometimes they are not so lucky and the outcome is a tornado, or two, or three. In the spring of 1975, three twisters crossed paths and linked up, forming one large unusual tornado with winds that behaved with more than the ordinary fury. It leveled much of Serena. Twenty-five years later, a single funnel, which at times measured force four on a scale of five, followed almost the same path as its ancestor, reminding the folks of Serena, once again, of their mortality. This one was of the autumn variety.
The past night, and again in the morning, there was long rolling thunder, the bowling alley kind, in true stereophonic sound. Thunder had never particularly bothered Harry Kresge before. He figured his chances of getting struck by lightning were about the same as his chances of winning the lottery. But ever since the tornado which touched down about a quarter mile from his house, then tore a straight line path, diagonally from Southwest to Northeast Serena, taking out a Walmart, a Chinese restaurant, four churches, about a hundred houses, an IGA supermarket and dozens of barns and silos, any thunder which moved from point A to point B was potentially that freight train of which he had been warned. Kresge was nervous, not that the experience had touched him in a personal way, much more than if he and Jenny and the kids had still been living in New York.
It had been early in the evening on a Wednesday, two weeks before. They had just returned from shopping. The weather reports had warned of thunder showers, but that was nothing unusual for Southwestern Ohio. A cold front was moving in, but it hadn't been particularly hot. Harry remembered thinking that this didn't seem like tornado conditions, not that anyone had brought up the idea of tornados. It was something that had occurred to him on his own. But there was something weird about the sky. The clouds were grayer than usual.
On the drive home, there had been distant thunder and an occasional flash in the far-off clouds. Drops started to appear on the windshield just before they got to their driveway. "Get the perishables into the house first," Harry told Jenny and the kids. We can leave the other stuff until it stops raining."
They had brought home fresh salmon for their dinner. Jenny immediately started it in the electric oven, hoping to finish it before they lost power. Outages during thunder storms had been a common occurrence in three months since they had moved to Serena.
The thunder and lightening moved closer. The lights flickered briefly. A few minutes later they flickered again, only this time it felt like they almost lost them. Harry went for the computer. He was trying to power down when nature finished the job for him. "Shit!" he muttered. "I hope the computer wasn't damaged."
It was the start of dusk, but with the heavy cloud cover it was getting dark early. Harry found some candles and lit them.
"How long will the power be off?" asked Amy, Jenny's teenage daughter.
"How would I know?" Harry was annoyed. All this kid could think about was television and signing on to AOL to chat with her friends from New York. "It could be a few minutes or it could be a few days."
"Oh, that's just great. And what am I supposed to do without electricity?" As usual, she acted as if it were Harry's fault.
"In the past these power failures have lasted for a couple hours. One of the transformers was probably struck by lightening. That's what usually happens. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything."
Jenny's little boy looked out into the back yard. He was looking up at the utility pole by the back fence. "Why don't you call them to come and fix it?"
"No, Bill, it's not that one. It's probably another one, somewhere in the neighborhood." Harry looked out the front window to see if there were any lights in other houses on the street. There weren't.
The salmon had only been in the oven for about five minutes before the power went off. Harry ventured out into the rain and moved the charcoal grill under the eaves. He removed the cover and squirted lighter fluid on the dead coals that were left-over from the last time they grilled. He lit them with a wooden match and covered them again. He came back into the house. "It'll take about twenty minutes for them to heat up enough. Then we can move the salmon onto the grill and I'll put the cover on it. That should do it."
"Oh Harry, don't even bother! It will come out lousy." Jenny was skeptical any time Harry fired up the barbecue.
"I'm not going to waste fifteen dollars worth of salmon."
"Don't be so cheap."
Harry thought about that for a minute. He had never been a cheapskate. No one would ever have accused him of that, back in New York. That was partly what got him in trouble. But when he bolted with only a moderate grub-stake, he had made up his mind to mend his spending ways - to watch his money. In the short time he had lived alone in a cheap one-room apartment in the north end of town, he had cultivated the habit of conserving, especially food. Then Jenny tracked him down and insisted on joining him. By then, she had figured out that he didn't have much money. Now that she was supporting him, he felt a responsibility to conserve her assets as well. He was ever mindful that she had the two kids to look out for.
The salmon seemed to take forever. Using the old coals wasn't such a hot idea, but Harry wasn't about to admit it. By the time he adjudged the fish to be done, they were all hungry. They ate by candle light. Even Jenny had to admit it was good, but only grudgingly. "When you're hungry, anything tastes good."
"What are we going to do now, Harry?" the girl demanded. "This sucks!"
"I don't know. I think it's kind of fun. Hey, at least Snake can't bother us with his stereo."
Harry took a flashlight into the bedroom and located a small transistor radio. He turned it on and set it on the coffee table in the living room.
"Put on Z-93!" the girl demanded.
Harry was having trouble settling on any station with the tiny dial, much less locating a particular station.
"Let me try!" She grabbed the radio and played with the dial.
Finally she located a strong signal. They were running a commercial so it was hard to tell which station it was. Then the announcer came on. "We are taking you back to our reporter in Serena, where one person has been killed and another one hundred have been hospitalized in a scene reminiscent of the big one of 1975.
That was the first they had heard that they had just been missed by a tornado. It had been about two hours since the lights had gone out. They had consumed a candle-lit meal of salmon stuffed with crab meat, washed down with white wine, while ambulances and rescue workers were working frantically to save lives. The reports from scenes around town were being phoned in from cells phones. Each horror the callers reported was worse than the last.
"This is boring," the girl complained. "Put on Z-93!"
***
The thunder stopped about the time Harry got out of bed and started the coffee. What was it Hank Pitts had told him..? He tried to remember. It had something to do with Indian folklore - something about the weather.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
It was raining. That's why Harry chose that unlikely spot where the by-pass crosses the Little Miami River. It didn't look, even to Harry's untrained eye, like an ideal place to catch fish. But he had sought the shelter of the over-pass as he fished for the first time as an adult.
The Little Miami winds its way back and forth across the bike paths and back roads of Serena on its way to join its meandering bigger brother in Dayton. It was summer and the river was densely populated with suckers, perch, bluegills, large and small mouth bass and the occasional pickerel. But what did Harry know..?
One day he had gone shopping in the Wal-mart in town. As he entered, he noticed that there was some kind of special promotion going on in the front of the store. A small crowd had gathered around a salesman from the Zebco Company, who was demonstrating fishing equipment. Harry joined the group and quietly watched for a few minutes, before wandering about, looking for whatever it was that he had come there for.
When Harry passed again, on his way to check out, the crowd had dispersed and the salesman was standing there alone by his display, probably hoping that someone like Harry would come along. Harry stopped and picked up one of the clear plastic packages and began to examine it. It seemed to have everything one would need to get started fishing right away, everything but the license, that is. There was a two piece fiberglass rod, a spin-casting reel with 8 lb. test line and an assortment of hooks, bobbers and lures.
Harry remarked on the completeness of the package and inquired about the price. They were giving a two dollar discount as part of their promotion. The whole thing came to about twelve bucks. He was hooked.
"I suppose I'll need a license. How do I go about getting one?"
"Oh they sell them just about everywhere. I think you can get one down Main Street at the bait shop. Here, take one of these," the salesman said as he handed Harry something that seemed like a large rolled up poster. "It's a complementary fish chart."
It was a Saturday afternoon. Harry put the fishing equipment into the wagon and walked down Main to get a license. He figured he'd go fishing first thing in the morning. He'd heard somewhere that shortly after sunrise and shortly before sunset were the best times.
When Harry got up early the next morning, it was raining lightly. Maybe the rain will make the fish hungry, he hoped, his enthusiasm not dampened one bit as he parked in a lot near the bike path. He knew the trail came very close to the river just at the point where it passed under the by-pass. The river flowed fast in that stretch, and there were no weeds for the fish to hide in, but he figured it would have to do for the time being. Perhaps some fish would pass by and see his lure and decide to give it a bite. At least he would get to practice his casting. When he had tried it in the back yard, he'd kept getting snagged various obstacles such as the tree, the fence, the barbecue, the lawn chairs. Jenny had a fit.
He chose a lure which was an imitation of the popular "Red Devil" which even Harry had heard of. It was red with a curved white stripe on one side and silver colored on the other. Harry had seen people fishing with these many years before. The word was that when all else failed, the Red Devil would come through for you. Based on the conditions at hand, he decided to go right to it.
Harry fished for about an hour without even one strike. He was pretty sure that he wasn't going to catch a thing. He could just picture himself coming back to the house empty handed and having to face Jenny, who had been less than enthusiastic about this project from the moment he walked in with my newly acquired equipment and hung his fish poster in the living room. But the rain seemed to be letting up, so he decided to stick it out awhile longer.
A few casts later, he felt something hit his lure just as he started to reel in. It didn't put up much of a fight, but he was pretty sure that it was a living creature, as opposed to an old boot or a tire. He was pretty excited. He could hardly wait to get it out of the water to see what it was.
Well, what it was was pretty darn scary. It was long and slender with shiny green scales. It had a long snout and sharp teeth. It was one of the most vicious looking creatures Harry had ever seen. Whatever it was, he couldn't wait to get it home and show it to Jenny and the kids.
When he got back, they were all still asleep. Jenny awoke and came into the living room to find Harry holding the fish up to the chart, trying to figure out what to call it. The closest thing on the chart was called a Great Northern Pike. The colors weren't exactly right, but the shape was the same.
"Why don't you call your friend Morely and ask him?" my wife said. "I seem to recall Sue telling me that Morely used to fish."
"Right! That's right, he does fish." Harry looked at his watch. "They'll be in church right now. I'll have to wait."
Morely Stevens always had a different way of looking at things. He had grown up on a farm outside of town. Harry had been aware that he fished, but he had decided to try his hand at it before mentioning it to him, because he knew Morely would kid him about being from the city and all the usual stuff that would go along with that. But since Harry had caught this prize of a fish, he figured it would be safe to let him know that he had become a fisherman. Harry waited until he figured they were back from church, then he called. Morely answered.
"Morely, it's Harry. Guess what, I went fishing this morning and I caught a Great Northern Pike." Harry's excitement was obvious.
"A Great Northern? Around here? How big is it?"
"Fourteen inches," Harry told him, rounding up from thirteen and a quarter.
"If that's a Great Northern, it must be a baby. I've never heard of anyone catching one around here. I thought they only had them in places like Minnesota. I'll be right over to take a look at it."
While they were waiting, Harry had Jenny take a Polaroid of him in the back yard, holding up his catch. It was starting to feel smaller since he had talked to Morely.
Morely laughed when he saw the fish. "That's a pickerel."
"Oh, they don't have pickerel on my chart," Harry explained. "Can you eat pickerel?"
"Yeah, they're edible, but most folks don't bother because they have so many tiny bones."
Despite his amusement at Harry's novice behavior, Morely's interest was now aroused. "Let me know the next time you're going to go fishing, I'll go with you. There's some pretty good bass fishing around here, if you know where to go. I'll show you."
The next Saturday night Jenny and Harry were visiting over at Morely and Sue's. Harry asked Morely if he wanted to go fishing in the morning.
"Morely can't go fishing," Sue said. "He hasn't renewed his license."
Sue was probably a tad under five feet tall and Morely was about six-two, yet she could snap the whip and make him dance like a trained bear. But every once in awhile, Morely would get ornery and insist on having his own way. Usually, it would cost him in the end.
"That ain't no big deal. In all my years of hunting and fishing, I ain't never once run into a game warden," he said.
"With your luck, the first time you go fishing without a license will be the first time you see one," she whined.
Then Morely hatched this hair-brained scheme. He would dress in the kind of clothing you would not normally wear to go fishing, "My Sunday goin' to church clothes," he said. "If I hear a game warden approaching through the woods, I'll toss my gear into the water and pretend that I'm just standing there, enjoying the view."
"Oh brother, Morely. I'm warning you, if you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out," Sue said.
The next morning Morely showed Harry where to fish. He took him to a spot up river from where he had first gone. The river was wider and slower and very weedy along the banks.
Morely was an old hand at it. First he showed Harry how to use a surface plug, how to cast it out, stop and wait then jerk, reel and stop, jerk, reel and stop, making it look as if the plug is some kind of wounded animal that fell into the water.
They caught about a half-dozen good-size large mouth bass apiece. Each time, a fish would take the plug, it would break water, jumping into the air about two or three feet, then put up a hell of a fight while being reeled in. After that, they agreed to fish together on a regular basis.
When they got back to Morely's house, Sue was still mad. She made Morely promise to get a license the next day.
A few days later, Morely called Harry. It was early evening. Sue was at work. She worked the evening shift as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. "You want to go fishing?"
"Sure." After that last experience, Harry didn't think he'd ever get enough of fishing.
"Pick me up! Sue's got the car and the battery in my truck has been giving me trouble."
When Harry got to Morely's place, he was waiting outside, dressed in his slacks and raincoat, again.
"What's with the outfit? Didn't you get a license?"
"Never got around to it."
"What are you going to tell Sue, when she comes home and finds the refrigerator full of fish?"
"Oh, I told her I already got a license. I'll pick one up, tomorrow."
They went back to the same place where they had had such good luck the first time. This time, they spread out a bit. Morely was a couple hundred feet off to Harry's left in a wooded section, fishing from the river bank. Harry had waded into the weeds in a more open area. Every now and then they would call out to each other.
After awhile, Harry thought he heard two voices in conversation coming from the direction where Morely was fishing. He stopped casting and listened.
He could hear Morely's voice. "You mean this license is expired?" he said to someone.
"I'm going to have to write you a summons," the other voice said.
After a few minutes, Harry heard someone coming in his direction. It was a game warden, in uniform. He was very polite, even though Harry was sure he suspected that he didn't have a license, either. Harry showed him his license, then packed up his gear and went over to where Morely was.
"What are you going to tell Sue?"
"Hell, I ain't gonna tell her about it. I'm sure I can talk my way out of this when I get before the judge," he said, smiling and obviously confident that he would be able to do just that.
Morely looked at the ticket to see when he had to go to court. "Orem Paige," he said.
"What did you say?"
"Would you believe it? The game warden's name is Orem Paige. Must be Orel Paige's brother." Morely was shaking his head.
"What happened to your plan? I thought you were going to throw you rod into the river."
"He was so quiet sneakin' through the woods, he crept up right behind me, before I even knew he was there."
When Morely went to court, his plea of being a poor retired farmer and a veteran of the Korean Conflict did not impress the judge. He was fined twenty-five dollars.
Morely had been so confident that he would beat the case, that he had not brought any money with him. He told the judge he had to go back to his house and get his ATM card, then go to a cash machine and get the money and return.
"Until such time as you return to this court to pay the fine, I am remanding you to the custody of Game Warden Paige. He will accompany you to your house and to the bank and back here."
Orem Paige waited politely on the porch of Morely's house, but insisted that he leave the front door ajar while he was inside getting his bank card.
"Morely, who is that man?" Sue asked.
"Game Warden Orem Paige, ma'am," he introduced himself.
"Oh no, Morely. You lied to me about the license didn't you?"
"Where's my ATM card at?" he asked.
"How much, Morely?"
"Twenty-five dollars," he said, meekly.
Sue was furious. "How much does a fishing license cost?"
Orem Paige answered for him, "Ten dollars, ma'am."
"I would say I hope you've learned your lesson, but I know you haven't. Take an extra ten dollars out of the bank while you're at it and get a license as soon as you leave the courthouse."
Morely got his license. After that he was well behaved as a trained bear.
Sue eventually cooled down and Harry and Morely had a few laughs over at the Blue Moon, recalling how Morely got caught by Orem Paige and then again by Sue. They would come to learn from Hank and Phil that Orem Paige was legendary around Greene County. Rumor had it that he once wrote up his own brother for jacking a deer.
Harry got to be quite the fisherman. As summer wore on, he acquired all the trappings that go along with the sport, the acumen, the equipment, and the stories.
One day he was fishing by himself. He had decided to try a new spot. He was standing on a bridge casting out into the open water of Caesar Creek Lake. He was using a surface plug called a Jitterbug. It had been his most productive bass lure, but on this day, he wasn't having any luck at all. He decided to try some long casts over toward the shore of the lake, where the trees were hanging over the weeds. He was leery of doing this, because he was afraid of getting tangled in the weeds and losing his expensive lure.
He tried a couple casts, but he didn't quite reach the spot he had in mind. He tried again, harder this time. The lure went over a tree branch and the line got tangled, stopping the lure short, about three feet above the water. Just as the lure came to an abrupt stop, the biggest bass Harry ever saw, leaped out of the water and took it in his mouth.
He tried to reel in, but the line was hopelessly tangled. He stood there, helpless, as the fish fought furiously to free itself. Finally, it got loose, leaving his Jitterbug dangling in the tree.
The next day, in the Blue Moon, when Harry told Morely, Phil and Hank what had happened, they all hooted.
"Morely's got him telling fish stories like an old-timer," Hank laughed. "Next thing you know, he'll be giving us his recipe for steamed bass and cheese grits.
"I can't stand grits," Kresge protested.
It was raining. That's why Harry chose that unlikely spot where the by-pass crosses the Little Miami River. It didn't look, even to Harry's untrained eye, like an ideal place to catch fish. But he had sought the shelter of the over-pass as he fished for the first time as an adult.
The Little Miami winds its way back and forth across the bike paths and back roads of Serena on its way to join its meandering bigger brother in Dayton. It was summer and the river was densely populated with suckers, perch, bluegills, large and small mouth bass and the occasional pickerel. But what did Harry know..?
One day he had gone shopping in the Wal-mart in town. As he entered, he noticed that there was some kind of special promotion going on in the front of the store. A small crowd had gathered around a salesman from the Zebco Company, who was demonstrating fishing equipment. Harry joined the group and quietly watched for a few minutes, before wandering about, looking for whatever it was that he had come there for.
When Harry passed again, on his way to check out, the crowd had dispersed and the salesman was standing there alone by his display, probably hoping that someone like Harry would come along. Harry stopped and picked up one of the clear plastic packages and began to examine it. It seemed to have everything one would need to get started fishing right away, everything but the license, that is. There was a two piece fiberglass rod, a spin-casting reel with 8 lb. test line and an assortment of hooks, bobbers and lures.
Harry remarked on the completeness of the package and inquired about the price. They were giving a two dollar discount as part of their promotion. The whole thing came to about twelve bucks. He was hooked.
"I suppose I'll need a license. How do I go about getting one?"
"Oh they sell them just about everywhere. I think you can get one down Main Street at the bait shop. Here, take one of these," the salesman said as he handed Harry something that seemed like a large rolled up poster. "It's a complementary fish chart."
It was a Saturday afternoon. Harry put the fishing equipment into the wagon and walked down Main to get a license. He figured he'd go fishing first thing in the morning. He'd heard somewhere that shortly after sunrise and shortly before sunset were the best times.
When Harry got up early the next morning, it was raining lightly. Maybe the rain will make the fish hungry, he hoped, his enthusiasm not dampened one bit as he parked in a lot near the bike path. He knew the trail came very close to the river just at the point where it passed under the by-pass. The river flowed fast in that stretch, and there were no weeds for the fish to hide in, but he figured it would have to do for the time being. Perhaps some fish would pass by and see his lure and decide to give it a bite. At least he would get to practice his casting. When he had tried it in the back yard, he'd kept getting snagged various obstacles such as the tree, the fence, the barbecue, the lawn chairs. Jenny had a fit.
He chose a lure which was an imitation of the popular "Red Devil" which even Harry had heard of. It was red with a curved white stripe on one side and silver colored on the other. Harry had seen people fishing with these many years before. The word was that when all else failed, the Red Devil would come through for you. Based on the conditions at hand, he decided to go right to it.
Harry fished for about an hour without even one strike. He was pretty sure that he wasn't going to catch a thing. He could just picture himself coming back to the house empty handed and having to face Jenny, who had been less than enthusiastic about this project from the moment he walked in with my newly acquired equipment and hung his fish poster in the living room. But the rain seemed to be letting up, so he decided to stick it out awhile longer.
A few casts later, he felt something hit his lure just as he started to reel in. It didn't put up much of a fight, but he was pretty sure that it was a living creature, as opposed to an old boot or a tire. He was pretty excited. He could hardly wait to get it out of the water to see what it was.
Well, what it was was pretty darn scary. It was long and slender with shiny green scales. It had a long snout and sharp teeth. It was one of the most vicious looking creatures Harry had ever seen. Whatever it was, he couldn't wait to get it home and show it to Jenny and the kids.
When he got back, they were all still asleep. Jenny awoke and came into the living room to find Harry holding the fish up to the chart, trying to figure out what to call it. The closest thing on the chart was called a Great Northern Pike. The colors weren't exactly right, but the shape was the same.
"Why don't you call your friend Morely and ask him?" my wife said. "I seem to recall Sue telling me that Morely used to fish."
"Right! That's right, he does fish." Harry looked at his watch. "They'll be in church right now. I'll have to wait."
Morely Stevens always had a different way of looking at things. He had grown up on a farm outside of town. Harry had been aware that he fished, but he had decided to try his hand at it before mentioning it to him, because he knew Morely would kid him about being from the city and all the usual stuff that would go along with that. But since Harry had caught this prize of a fish, he figured it would be safe to let him know that he had become a fisherman. Harry waited until he figured they were back from church, then he called. Morely answered.
"Morely, it's Harry. Guess what, I went fishing this morning and I caught a Great Northern Pike." Harry's excitement was obvious.
"A Great Northern? Around here? How big is it?"
"Fourteen inches," Harry told him, rounding up from thirteen and a quarter.
"If that's a Great Northern, it must be a baby. I've never heard of anyone catching one around here. I thought they only had them in places like Minnesota. I'll be right over to take a look at it."
While they were waiting, Harry had Jenny take a Polaroid of him in the back yard, holding up his catch. It was starting to feel smaller since he had talked to Morely.
Morely laughed when he saw the fish. "That's a pickerel."
"Oh, they don't have pickerel on my chart," Harry explained. "Can you eat pickerel?"
"Yeah, they're edible, but most folks don't bother because they have so many tiny bones."
Despite his amusement at Harry's novice behavior, Morely's interest was now aroused. "Let me know the next time you're going to go fishing, I'll go with you. There's some pretty good bass fishing around here, if you know where to go. I'll show you."
The next Saturday night Jenny and Harry were visiting over at Morely and Sue's. Harry asked Morely if he wanted to go fishing in the morning.
"Morely can't go fishing," Sue said. "He hasn't renewed his license."
Sue was probably a tad under five feet tall and Morely was about six-two, yet she could snap the whip and make him dance like a trained bear. But every once in awhile, Morely would get ornery and insist on having his own way. Usually, it would cost him in the end.
"That ain't no big deal. In all my years of hunting and fishing, I ain't never once run into a game warden," he said.
"With your luck, the first time you go fishing without a license will be the first time you see one," she whined.
Then Morely hatched this hair-brained scheme. He would dress in the kind of clothing you would not normally wear to go fishing, "My Sunday goin' to church clothes," he said. "If I hear a game warden approaching through the woods, I'll toss my gear into the water and pretend that I'm just standing there, enjoying the view."
"Oh brother, Morely. I'm warning you, if you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out," Sue said.
The next morning Morely showed Harry where to fish. He took him to a spot up river from where he had first gone. The river was wider and slower and very weedy along the banks.
Morely was an old hand at it. First he showed Harry how to use a surface plug, how to cast it out, stop and wait then jerk, reel and stop, jerk, reel and stop, making it look as if the plug is some kind of wounded animal that fell into the water.
They caught about a half-dozen good-size large mouth bass apiece. Each time, a fish would take the plug, it would break water, jumping into the air about two or three feet, then put up a hell of a fight while being reeled in. After that, they agreed to fish together on a regular basis.
When they got back to Morely's house, Sue was still mad. She made Morely promise to get a license the next day.
A few days later, Morely called Harry. It was early evening. Sue was at work. She worked the evening shift as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. "You want to go fishing?"
"Sure." After that last experience, Harry didn't think he'd ever get enough of fishing.
"Pick me up! Sue's got the car and the battery in my truck has been giving me trouble."
When Harry got to Morely's place, he was waiting outside, dressed in his slacks and raincoat, again.
"What's with the outfit? Didn't you get a license?"
"Never got around to it."
"What are you going to tell Sue, when she comes home and finds the refrigerator full of fish?"
"Oh, I told her I already got a license. I'll pick one up, tomorrow."
They went back to the same place where they had had such good luck the first time. This time, they spread out a bit. Morely was a couple hundred feet off to Harry's left in a wooded section, fishing from the river bank. Harry had waded into the weeds in a more open area. Every now and then they would call out to each other.
After awhile, Harry thought he heard two voices in conversation coming from the direction where Morely was fishing. He stopped casting and listened.
He could hear Morely's voice. "You mean this license is expired?" he said to someone.
"I'm going to have to write you a summons," the other voice said.
After a few minutes, Harry heard someone coming in his direction. It was a game warden, in uniform. He was very polite, even though Harry was sure he suspected that he didn't have a license, either. Harry showed him his license, then packed up his gear and went over to where Morely was.
"What are you going to tell Sue?"
"Hell, I ain't gonna tell her about it. I'm sure I can talk my way out of this when I get before the judge," he said, smiling and obviously confident that he would be able to do just that.
Morely looked at the ticket to see when he had to go to court. "Orem Paige," he said.
"What did you say?"
"Would you believe it? The game warden's name is Orem Paige. Must be Orel Paige's brother." Morely was shaking his head.
"What happened to your plan? I thought you were going to throw you rod into the river."
"He was so quiet sneakin' through the woods, he crept up right behind me, before I even knew he was there."
When Morely went to court, his plea of being a poor retired farmer and a veteran of the Korean Conflict did not impress the judge. He was fined twenty-five dollars.
Morely had been so confident that he would beat the case, that he had not brought any money with him. He told the judge he had to go back to his house and get his ATM card, then go to a cash machine and get the money and return.
"Until such time as you return to this court to pay the fine, I am remanding you to the custody of Game Warden Paige. He will accompany you to your house and to the bank and back here."
Orem Paige waited politely on the porch of Morely's house, but insisted that he leave the front door ajar while he was inside getting his bank card.
"Morely, who is that man?" Sue asked.
"Game Warden Orem Paige, ma'am," he introduced himself.
"Oh no, Morely. You lied to me about the license didn't you?"
"Where's my ATM card at?" he asked.
"How much, Morely?"
"Twenty-five dollars," he said, meekly.
Sue was furious. "How much does a fishing license cost?"
Orem Paige answered for him, "Ten dollars, ma'am."
"I would say I hope you've learned your lesson, but I know you haven't. Take an extra ten dollars out of the bank while you're at it and get a license as soon as you leave the courthouse."
Morely got his license. After that he was well behaved as a trained bear.
Sue eventually cooled down and Harry and Morely had a few laughs over at the Blue Moon, recalling how Morely got caught by Orem Paige and then again by Sue. They would come to learn from Hank and Phil that Orem Paige was legendary around Greene County. Rumor had it that he once wrote up his own brother for jacking a deer.
Harry got to be quite the fisherman. As summer wore on, he acquired all the trappings that go along with the sport, the acumen, the equipment, and the stories.
One day he was fishing by himself. He had decided to try a new spot. He was standing on a bridge casting out into the open water of Caesar Creek Lake. He was using a surface plug called a Jitterbug. It had been his most productive bass lure, but on this day, he wasn't having any luck at all. He decided to try some long casts over toward the shore of the lake, where the trees were hanging over the weeds. He was leery of doing this, because he was afraid of getting tangled in the weeds and losing his expensive lure.
He tried a couple casts, but he didn't quite reach the spot he had in mind. He tried again, harder this time. The lure went over a tree branch and the line got tangled, stopping the lure short, about three feet above the water. Just as the lure came to an abrupt stop, the biggest bass Harry ever saw, leaped out of the water and took it in his mouth.
He tried to reel in, but the line was hopelessly tangled. He stood there, helpless, as the fish fought furiously to free itself. Finally, it got loose, leaving his Jitterbug dangling in the tree.
The next day, in the Blue Moon, when Harry told Morely, Phil and Hank what had happened, they all hooted.
"Morely's got him telling fish stories like an old-timer," Hank laughed. "Next thing you know, he'll be giving us his recipe for steamed bass and cheese grits.
"I can't stand grits," Kresge protested.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
