21 Tales

by Jerry L

  The guy asks me what I do for a living and I tell him I’m a private eye. “How about you?” I ask in return. “Phone company… twenty long years.” He says, taking another drink, “I got off an hour ago… are you here on a case, or just getting in out of the heat?”

  “On a case...” I answer. “Woman thinks her old man is screwing around on her, so she hires me to follow him for a couple of weeks, turns out she’s right. He is screwing around.” I remove the papers from my jacket pocket and lay them on the bar.

  “How did she find out?” This guy asks. Now he’s really looking at the papers, as if they were a pile of fresh shit that just magically appeared.

  “Oh, same old same as always; Match book with phone number on it, woman calls and hangs up, strange perfume, lipstick stains,like I said. Same old shit: Another one bites the dust. She’ll get everything the dumb bastard has!”

  Now, I’m noticing that the guy has turned kinda pale while I’m talking. He drinks the last of his beer and slams the bottle down on the bar causing Murry to look up. The guy is glaring at the papers, he throws a couple of dollars down on the bar and says, “You tell that bitch she can stick those papers up her ass. I wish to hell I’d never seen her sorry ass, let alone married her. She’s welcome to the damn cars the house and all of the rest of that shit!”

  By now I’m only about half listening to what he is saying, because I’m watching a black man who has just entered the bar. The black guy’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he spots the woman in the corner booth. She waves and he makes his way over to the corner booth. He slides in and they kiss. He waves to Murry and orders a drink.

  The guy that I have been talking to is heading towards the door as I pick up the papers and slide off of my stool. I leave Murry a fiver and head towards the two people in the booth. They both look up at my approach thinking that I’m Murry with the drinks.

  I greet him cheerfully like an old friend, “Randy Hargrove… is that you?”

  “Yeah… who are you?” he answers warily. I lay the papers on the table and step back.” These are for you, from your wife. Murry has brought their drinks and as I walk away I hear the black guy say “Oh shit!” several times as he and the woman look through the papers.

  Outside the sun is brutally hot. I put on my sunglasses and get into my car. Across the street I watch as a phone company car pulls jerkily away from the curb. I set the air conditioner on high and head to Mrs. Hargrove’s to pick up my money. On the way it occurs to me that a Mrs. Carr might need my services about now.

  17: Water Street-The day of the Badger.

  O’Hara parked in a loading zone in front of a second-hand furniture store on 123rd and walked around the corner to 1244 Water Street. The neighborhood wore an overall drabness in the blue-gray light of late afternoon and a light rain didn’t make it any prettier.

  O’Hara didn’t like the fall weather, and he didn’t like the Water Street neighborhood, and he really didn’t like following up on assault where some punk kid nicknamed “The Badger” apparently mugged an old man. It seemed like nothing ever went right on Water Street and this just proved it. The neighborhood was a bit dog-eared, but normally didn’t have any crime to speak of, well up to now! What a trifecta; first, the Badger was a good-sized boy, but he second, was also a known crack head, and third, this was Water Street!

  O’Hara ran his finger down the row of names and punched the button alongside a neat white card that simply read “Christopholis.” O’Hara muttered the name, a habit he’d picked up over the last year or so, “Christopholis! Greek!” The handwriting didn’t look like it was learned in PS #12, or any local school for that matter, it was kinda old school, and the card was crisp and neat, unlike some of the markers for Mr. Christopholis’ neighbors. O’Hara wondered if that style of penmanship was taught in Greece.

  From the tinny speaker over the list of tenants came a somewhat distorted, but pleasant sounding male voice, “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Detective O’Hara, 13th Precinct, may I speak with you Sir? It’s about an assault that occurred last night.”

  “Oh!” the tinny voice replied, somewhere between a question and a remark, “The police? Yes of course, please come in.”

  O’Hara shuffled his heavy frame up the worn steps, taking inventory of the old brownstone as he went. Most of the afternoon light was lost as it filtered from a third floor skylight and down the stairwell, casting its grayness over the stairs; the weak light occasionally reinforced by a bare bulb in a wall socket. O’Hara hesitated on the second floor. The door to apartment 2-B was to his left and like its owner’s nameplate in the foyer, stood out from its neighbors. The Letters “B” and “2” were in clean, polished brass, as was the antique doorknob and the plate that surrounded it. Centered in the door was a neat brass frame that held a card identical to the one alongside the button downstairs. There was a neat mat in front of the door.

  As O’Hara reached up to knock, the door opened and the Detective was face to face with a man of his approximate height but perhaps twenty years his senior. The older man had long hair combed straight back, reminiscent of an earlier age, and his eyes were very dark and quite clear as they assessed O’Hara. He was dressed in a worn robe of some dark green heavy material that O’Hara thought made him larger than he actually was and the dark, loose trousers he wore had certainly seen better days. Some spots on the trousers and the old man’s slippers suggested that O’Hara might have interrupted the old man painting.

  The detective deftly flipped his badge case open and flashed his shield, “Are you Aristotle Christopholis?” Without waiting to be asked, O’Hara stepped into the room, cheerfully aglow with the light of two or three lamps holding back the afternoon gloom. O’Hara offered the old man scarce opportunity to see the gold as he reflexively stepped back and away from the policeman.

  The old man simply motioned to a chair, “May I get you a cup of coffee or perhaps tea, Detective? I was just making some. Perhaps you’ll have the chair by the fireplace; you look as if you could dry out a bit.” He hesitated, “And yes I am he.”

  As Christopholis spoke, O’Hara was mentally noting the heaviness of the old man’s accent, then he was able to see all of the Greek for the first time and the Detective stiffened. He could feel that tingling that crept up the back of his neck when something wasn’t quite right.

  “Uh, coffee please. If it wouldn’t be any trouble, do you mind if I ask some questions in the meantime?”

  “No, not at all, please go ahead.”

  O’Hara peeled off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair. Steam began to immediately rise from the damp garment. The policeman kept the old man in his sight as he fished a notebook and pen from his pocket. The old man moved efficiently around a small tidy kitchen and O’Hara asked, “Sir are you the gentleman who filed the complaint with the Precinct last night?

  “Yes, Detective O’Hara, it was I.”

  “That was 10:30, last night Mr. Christopholis?” O’Hara asked?

  The Old man paused long enough to pour hot water into a glass container of a type O’Hara recognized as a French Coffee press. “Yes, that is correct Detective, 10:30.”

  O’Hara had watched as the old man deftly collected the coffee press from the top of the refrigerator, the coffee from a cabinet and a spoon from a drawer and he was distinctly curious. The victim of last night’s mugging reportedly received a broken hand and a severe strain to the other wrist, yet there was clearly nothing wrong with the Greek’s hands.

  “Excuse me Sir, would you mind telling me in your own words exactly what happened last night.”

  The old man poured two cups of coffee, “Certainly Detective, sugar or milk? I’m sorry I don’t drink cream, too much butter fat.”

  “Black is fine, thanks… uh… about last night.”

  The old man motioned toward a chair and took a seat himself, and then he began,

  “About nine-thirty last night I noticed that I was out of tea. I knew I’
d be up for awhile, I don’t seem to need as much sleep as I used to, and I planned to do some reading, so I decided to walk over to Mr. Hoang’s store and get some.”

  O’Hara mentally checked the chronology and it seemed to fit the Police Report.

  “As I was leaving Mr. Hoang’s, a young man stepped from a doorway and pointed a gun at me, then he demanded I give him money. I’m afraid I got a little upset; he looked like he was drinking or maybe using some of that dope. I could see that his eyes were all wild-like and his hand was shaking. I was afraid he would shoot me before I could give him the money, then he began shouting and cursing me.”

  The old man appeared to become agitated with the telling of the story so O’Hara asked, “And what time was that Sir?”

  The old man looked at O’Hara and seemed to calm a bit before answering, “I suppose that was pretty close to ten.”

  “Thank you, please continue.”

  “Well,” The old man began, “like I said, I became concerned that I would get shot….”

  “Yes?” O’Hara asked.

  “Well I took the pistol away from him and I marched him to the Police Station. I gave the gun to the Policeman at the Station.”

  O’Hara’s eyes snapped up from his tablet and he stared at the old man, he was fairly shouting, “You took the gun away from him?”

  “Yes, but, like I said, I was getting concerned. The broken hand was an accident; I didn’t mean to do that. I guess that happened when he tried to strike me.”

  O’Hara was dumfounded, “You broke one hand and sprained the other wrist?”

  “Yes Sir, but like I said it was an accident.”

  O’Hara rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and shook his head, then he turned away, it helped him think. Some punk tried to rob an old man and the old fart sprained one wrist for the kid, broke the other hand, and then duck-walked him to the Police Station.

  O’Hara thought for a minute. A couple years back a wino over on the Boulevard made the mistake of trying to strong arm an old Chinese man. It turned out he was the director of the Shanghai ballet. That old man had laid the wino out with one kick. Of course that kick had landed in the middle of the wino’s forehead, but what the Hell? One kick.

  “Mr. Christopholis are you one of those Karate guys, or maybe into French Kick Boxing, or some Martial Art?”

  The Greek laughed, “No Detective.”

  The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the building caused O’Hara to turn toward the apartment’s door and an old framed poster hanging there halted his attention.

  He rose and without a word to the old man strode across the room and stopped in front of the poster, and then he spun and looked at the old man. “That’s you isn’t it?” O’Hara jerked a thumb toward then poster.

  “Yes, it is I, but many years ago I’m afraid.”

  “You were the World’s Strongest Man! You could snap a brick in half with each hand?”

  The old man hung his head, ”Yes, but the injuries were still an accident; I didn’t mean to hurt the young man.”

  As O’Hara stepped from the foyer of the brownstone onto the sidewalk, into the growing dusk and the rain he looked up and saw the old man’s face at the window. He waived and the old man waved in return, O’Hara doubted the old man saw him grin. The Detective chuckled, they’d never believe this down at the Precinct, but then again, this is Water Street.

  18: Stars fell on Alabama

  Shelly Lynn found the star when she was eight. The next day she started walking the five miles towards town to catch the bus for Kansas City. She was going to meet the other star. The State Patrol picked her up, much to her family’s relief, alongside the highway a few miles from home. She was unharmed and seemed none the worse for wear. A little tired but not exhausted like one might think.

  Pressed for an explanation for her actions she blithely explained that her star had told her to go. Shelly’s father asked to see the star and she reached into her jacket pocket and removed a black stone. The stone was about the size of an elongated tennis ball. It bore a creepy resemblance to a squashed human skull!

  Being a responsible parent, he confiscated it and sent her to her room. Going out in their back yard, he proceeded to throw the ugly stone over the back fence far into the woods.

  Shelly gave it a week to return to normal around her house and collected the stone.

  “Color me blue, paint eyes on me, stick sequins all over me, and name me ‘Mrs. Floogle’.” It then suggested, “Maybe stick a pair of them Barbie shoes on the bottom also.” She followed Mrs. Floogle’s instructions to the letter and it became an inanimate, harmless member of her family.

  About once a year from then on Shelly would casually ask if she was old enough to ride a bus by herself?

  On being told “Certainly Not!” she would say “Well Skrog Me to Skellingsford!”

  After the first such incident her mother asked her husband “Is Skrog a bad word do you think?”

  He answered laughingly “Skrogged if I know!” She hit him with a couch pillow.

  Shelly thought; One thing about Mrs. Floogle… for a rock, she was really smart! On the homework it helped her with, she invariably received an A+. Her own efforts were not nearly as fruitful unfortunately. Of course, Mrs. Floogle was smart… because she never slept. Once she figured out the television the radio signals, and the computer she sat on the book shelf and ‘absorbed’ day and night. The problem was with astrology; Mrs. Floogle knew Venus as Xzutta… Jupiter as MMMMAtz, and about another thousand planets and stars. Shelly’s teachers were in a quandary as to what Shelly really knew! On Shelly’s twelfth birthday after asking her annual question, her mother surprised her by announcing that, “Indeed she was now old enough to ride a bus!”

  Shelly ran to her room and collected her lunch box purse and threw the stone in it. Returning to the living room she announced “I’m ready to go!”

  Her mother and father laughed. Her mother said “You are not going today! You are going to Mobile on Saturday with your Aunt Mable.

  Shelly protested “I need to go to Kansas City, not Mobile. I need to go to 12th street and Vine in Kansas City! Like in the song”

  Her admonished, “It is your birthday… you have guests…!” Shelly stood looking wistfully at the door. Her mother snapped, “Get the ice cream, your dad needs to cut the cake Shelly!”

  On Saturday she and her Aunt Mable boarded the Gray Line bus to Mobile. At their second stop, while Mable in the seat behind her was explaining to a large white woman how one treated Lumbago, Shelly slipped off. The stone directed her to another bus that was boarding passengers to Birmingham. The stone sat her next to a colored preacher and his wife. Shelly was soon telling them how to treat Lumbago. To Shelly’s surprise the question of a ticket never came up.

  They arrived late at night in the Birmingham terminal. Shelly barely had time to bid the preacher and his wife goodbye before boarding the next bus. This time the stone sat her next to a pair of white Catholic nuns. Most of the time though, she slept. On the next leg of her quest, she sat behind the driver from Little Rock to Jefferson City. A brawny Cow Girl and her friend kept her company to Kansas City.

  The Taxi driver forgot to ask her for any money either. He pulled over to the curb announcing, “12Th St. and Vine Sister.” She thanked him and he drove away in a cloud of exhaust.

  “Over there… in the park.” Mrs. Floogle directed. Shelly looked fearfully under a picnic bench. She didn’t recognize the pile of rags as a person until it spoke.

  “It’s about Damn time!” it spat. “It’s in the sack! Now let me alone!”

  Shelly picked up the wrinkled paper sack the dirty hand pointed to. She took out a stone a little larger than her own and put it into her lunch box with Mrs. Floogle.

  The second stone in a completely different voice from Mrs. Froogle directed her to; “Take the other sack beside the man. You are going to need the ‘filthy lucre’ to get back home and he doesn’t need it anymore.�
�

  Before she could ask what ‘lucre’ was Mrs. Floogle informed her, “It’s money Dear… take it!”

  She looked at the old man under the stack of rags and realized that he wasn’t moving. Shelly had never seen a dead person, but she was pretty sure that this one wasn’t alive. She gingerly picked up the other wrinkled sack and ran towards the sign on the corner.

  Stopping at the sign she looked around and opened the sack. She peeked inside. Seeing that it was almost full to the top with money, she quickly closed it. The stones suggested that she go to a second hand store and buy a small suitcase; which she proceeded to do. Shirley next flagged down a taxi and directed the driver to take her back to the bus station. At the station she boarded the first bus heading towards Savanna Georgia.

  Holding her small case in her lap she settled in next to a woman wearing an Air Force uniform. The service woman insisted that Shelly eat a burger and fries three hours later, as the stones directed, she chose a seat next to a huge ‘Biker’ fellow with a beer belly. He explained that his motorcycle was broken and he was forced to ride the bus to his mother’s funeral. He really missed them both. A jittery young white boy kept sneaking peeks at Shelly Lynn and her suitcase until the ‘Biker’ guy caught him.

  The boy moved farther towards the back of the bus after the large man explained exactly what he was going to do with the boy’s ‘jug ears and fat head’ the next time the boy looked their way.

  Arriving in Savannah, just as it was getting dark, Shelly caught a cab to ‘The Pines Motel’. The taxi driver gave her a strange look, “A young black girl shouldn’t be in that part of town after dark!” Mrs. Floogle must have said... or done something? Shelly didn’t know how it worked, but the taxi man said, “Okay Lady, if that’s how it works… I’d be honored to help you folks get home!” he took them to the motel. “Shall I wait Miss.?”