by Nathan Roden
He rolled onto his side and stared at Joe, who was snoring softly in the moonlight after rolling onto his back. Babe felt some of the sadness pull way, as if the sleeping puppy was leeching it from him. He began to drift toward sleep.
I don’t believe in coincidence, Josh; might be a good thing for you, right now.
Babe woke to the sound of whimpering. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was three-thirty in the morning. Joe was whimpering—still lying on his back with his eyes closed, the apparent victim of a bad dream. Babe sat up and placed a hand on Joe’s chest. Joe woke up, rolled over and shook his head, creating a ‘wap, wap, wap’ with his ears.
“Just a bad dream, buddy. You’re safe here.”
Babe picked Joe up and put him on his bed, where he fell asleep with his head across Babe’s arm.
Babe dreamed that he had fallen asleep on the beach and woke to waves lapping at his face. A moment later he woke for real, being licked across the eyes and nose. The sun peeked into the room. Joe had jumped down from the bed—his front paws now on the edge of the mattress apparently asking to go outside. Babe was happy to find that he wouldn’t have to start from scratch with housebreaking. He swung his feet around to the floor and noticed a small puddle by the door.
Oh well, he thought, so what did I expect? Babe reached for his slippers but they were not there. He found them a minute later under his desk— chewed to pieces.
Babe picked up the shoes and pointed them at Joe.
“No, no, no.”
Joe tried to turn and run at the same time. His over-sized feet slipped on the wood floor. At one point all four feet splayed out and his chin hit the floor, hard. He regained his footing and ran from the room as fast as he could move.
Babe started after him and then stopped. He opened his mouth to call after Joe and once again, he stopped. He didn’t know what to do.
“Jesus, Babe. You fucking dumbass,” he muttered out loud.
He sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
What the hell are you thinking? He’s a puppy for Christ’s sake. Twenty four hours ago he was a homeless BABY, probably because he chewed up some other fucker’s fourteen dollar slippers, and you bring him home and SCOLD him. Ignorant asshole.
Ok, ok, ok, ok.
Babe had always been very hard on himself. And his inner-self used a lot of foul language.
“Joe. I’m sorry, Joe. Where did you go, boy. Come on, boy, I’m sorry,” Babe said, as he crept from room to room. “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s going to be okay. Where did you go?”
He found Joe in the laundry room between the washer and dryer, trembling. Babe got down on one knee.
“Jesus, Joe, I’m sorry. Come on out,” Babe said, holding out a hand.
Joe began to crawl out.
“That’s a good boy. I’m sorry, Joe.”
As soon as Babe said the name ‘Joe’, the dog turned and scrambled back to his hiding place.
What the…
Babe smirked and then shook his head.
‘Joe’ sounds like ‘no’, which is probably what the puppy had heard screamed at him before he had been abandoned.
Isn’t this just great? Excellent job there, Babelton. Babe the Great—Rescuer of Abandoned Animals; Feed the homeless puppy and then bring him home and terrorize him. While you’re at it, why don’t you give him a name that makes him piss himself?
“I’m sorry, boy. I’m not going to yell at you and I’m not going to hurt you. Can I have another chance? Come on out, boy. Come on, Mr. Pendleton. “
The puppy crawled out, and licked Babe on the toe. Babe scratched him behind the ear and then took his head in both hands and kissed him on the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s see if Dad is up yet.”
Seven
Graham Stemple groaned as he rolled from his side onto his back in the middle of the king-sized four-poster bed. The house phone rang into his left ear. His wife left the bed for the sanctuary of the den hours ago. She would be of no help, since she was forbidden to answer the phone when Graham was home. He winced slightly as he reached toward the phone on the bedside table. As usual, the number showed up as “anonymous”.
“Stemple,” he growled into the receiver.
“It sounds like we’ve had a rough night, Mr. Stemple,” Dante Vlada said.
Just who I didn’t want to hear from this morning, Graham Stemple thought, though it wasn’t as if he ever looked forward to hearing from Dante Vlada. He preferred the means of communication they had used for years which involved him decrypting Vlada’s messages, destroying them, and then carrying out whatever mission Vlada had given him. This was followed by his receipt of large sums of laundered cash, which he promptly wired to the offshore accounts that held his off-the-record and virtually untouched fortune.
That “fortune” he planned to tap into early next year after he arranged the elimination of the stupid bitch that was now piddling around in the kitchen. He had narrowed his search to a few South American or Latin American countries where he would relocate and retire, but his body was trying to sabotage his plans. He had ignored the pain in his gut and the blood in the toilet longer than he should have on the grounds that it was simply not fair. He was so close to his ultimate goal, which was to live independently wealthy and free in a tropical paradise without a care in the world.
“What do you want, Vlada? Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten that I’m no longer with the Bureau?” Stemple asked, his temper simmering along with the sweat that poured from his forehead. He was in enough pain that it was overriding the fear that he had of Vlada and his organization.
“No, no, no, Mr. Stemple. I do, however, need to speak with you concerning a matter of some importance— tomorrow night, if you please. Do you remember the picnic area at Lake Cochituate, where we met before?”
“Yeah, I remember. What time?”
“Shall we say ten o’clock?” Vlada said.
Vlada knew that Stemple had another doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon, at which time he would find out about the cancer and the proposed treatment plan. Vlada also knew that Stemple had no relationships of the type that would have him sharing this information with anyone between tomorrow afternoon and tomorrow evening.
Graham Stemple slammed on the brakes of his BMW, sliding on the loose gravel in the parking lot of his favorite local soul-food barbecue hole-in-the-wall. He slammed the car into “Park” and sat, leaving the motor running. The air conditioning was at maximum and the cabin of the car dipped to near fifty degrees. Sweat continued to pour from Stemple’s forehead.
He was unable to piece together coherent thoughts. He had come from a medical specialist’s private clinic where a bored, condescending oncologist had been brought in to break the news; the specialist had looked down his nose and recited from memory a juvenile description of the presence of colon cancer. As he began to expound on the prescribed treatment plan, Graham Stemple stood.
“Go fuck yourself, you fucking Mr. Rogers wannabe piece of shit.”
Stemple drove immediately to the more upscale of his old haunts and threw down cash for the most expensive available prostitute. He had swallowed two Viagras before he left the clinic parking lot. His equipment had not performed without it for the last five years.
Stemple ignored the whimpers of the beautiful young girl, drawing energy from her complaints of “You’re hurting me”.
You think this hurts?
When he was finished he stood and waited for the girl to follow him out of the bed, which she had no intention of doing. The girl lay there, wide-eyed and frightened, with the sheet pulled up around her neck. Stemple stood above her, naked—his belly heaving from the exertion. He held his hand out to her. Trembling, she took his hand and stood.
Stemple drew back his right hand and punched her in the face.
He got dressed, taking his time. He turned one last time at the door. The girl was in the floor in the fetal position with a puddle of blood in front of her mouth.
Her face was ruined and her entire body heaved in convulsions.
Stemple snorted. “You win, anyway. You’re going to live.”
Stemple yanked the car into gear. He wasn’t going to throw in the towel just yet. Maybe he could beat this thing, but the huge daily intake of pork would have to stop.
He had no desire to go home, especially since he had to meet Dante Vlada later. So, he drove out toward Lake Cochituate and stopped in at a little dive where he drank until nine o’clock.
Stemple managed to weave his car into the roadside picnic area at Lake Cochituate at nine twenty. The area was quiet with little traffic. He nodded off.
The bright lights of an approaching vehicle woke him thirty minutes later.
Stemple watched Dante Vlada step from the passenger side of the car and then the car pulled away. Vlada stepped to Stemple’s window.
“Is that our old pal, Hans? Where is he going?” Stemple slurred.
“Moving the car, as a simple precaution. He will join us soon. Come, walk with me, Graham,” Vlada said, opening the door of the BMW.
“So, you have some health problems, Mr. Stemple?” Vlada asked.
“Yeah, afraid so. But I’m not so sure those fuckers know what— hey, who told you— ?” Stemple stopped walking and turned to face Vlada.
He cocked his head and closed one eye.
Vlada smiled and lifted his hands to his side to display his innocence.
“Come now, Mr. Stemple. I am an information junkie and I like for everything to make sense. Is that so wrong?” Vlada said.
Hans had returned from the car.
“I mean,” Vlada said, “you found out that you have cancer so you hire an expensive prostitute, have some angry sex and then destroy her face. You see, it all makes sense.”
“What right do you—“ Stemple started.
He jumped when he felt the stinging sensation on the right side of his neck.
He turned and stared at Hans, who was taking a step backward and holding a syringe.
“What have you—wha—?“ Stemple attempted to say, before he felt his heart race for the final time.
Hans caught him effortlessly and dragged him into the seat of the BMW. He then went about smoothing the trail of heel marks that led up to the car.
“We could just leave him here, Dante. Who would ever doubt that this pig fell victim to a heart attack?” Hans said.
“That is true enough,” Vlada said, as he pulled a spool of fishing line from his pocket. Hans held out his hand. Vlada looked at him and smiled.
“I will prefer the personal touch this evening, Hans. My introduction to Graham Stemple was a pivotal moment for our operation. It would be unfitting that our last moments together be merely another delegated task.”
Vlada prepared Stemple’s car for its final drive. He tied a length of fishing line around the gear selector and turned the steering wheel slightly toward a stand of large trees. He then propped Stemple’s foot to hold the accelerator pedal to the floor and pulled on the line, dropping the powerful car into gear.
“I’ll get the car,” Hans said. “It is going to be a long night. Perhaps we should have made Stemple dispose of the girl first. The stench now reaches into the passenger area.”
“Ah, the futility of the human condition,” Vlada said. “The quality of flesh that once commanded a thousand dollars for the privilege of a two minute penetration—hours later is nothing more than a snack for hungry crustaceans.”
Watching Stemple’s car speed to a fiery end, Vlada said,
“The drug in the syringe was for our benefit as well as Mr. Stemple’s. A fiery car crash provides a more vivid and lasting nightmare for his step-son. The money, Hans?”
“All taken care of,” Hans said. “Stemple had four separate off-shore accounts and according to his latest net searches, he was preparing to disappear within days.”
“Well, he won’t have need of those now, will he, my friend?” Vlada said. “As acting executor of Graham Stemple’s unofficial will and testament, I hereby promise to make very good use of his fortune.”
Eight
Jack pulled open the door of the bar as the sun set behind the mountains. The bartender recognized him immediately and dropped his bar rag. He formed his hands into a letter “T”.
“Hey, it’s Time-Out Jack, everybody. Come on in, buddy. Are we having the usual?”
“You got it, Lenny. ‘Time-out’ beer for ‘Time-Out’ Jack,” Jack said, sliding onto a corner stool at the bar.
Jack was making no excuses to anyone. This was the fifth weekend in a row that he had driven up to this little remote village in New Hampshire. He booked two nights at a variety of different bed-and-breakfasts; some of these were the same places he had first visited with Helen a lot of years ago. But his needs were completely different now.
He didn’t try to reason with himself during the process, because he knew good and well that what he was doing was wrong. But that didn’t really matter and he didn’t really care. He would either get through this or he wouldn’t; simple enough.
I can either turn off the drinking or it gets the best of me, he thought. For the time being, he had no intention of facing his thoughts while staying sober twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.
No mental health professional will condone that plan, so I won’t consult one.
Jack spent his weekends in this quaint little village—drinking heavily on Friday and Saturday nights with a pleasant group of locals. He was beginning to feel comfortable in his new hiking boots and selection of flannel shirts. He spent his days hiking in the obscenely quiet woods, often walking himself sober on Saturday mornings before he started over again on Saturday night.
During Jack’s second weekend in town, the bartender sat down next to him, looked him in the eye, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not from around here.” Jack said. “I just need to sort some things out and get my mind right. I’m calling ‘Time Out’ for a little while.”
It was the kind of town and the kind of place where people loved to assign nicknames.
Jack Englemann had just christened himself.
“Time-Out Jack”.
This was fine by Time-Out Jack.
There were three pubs within reasonable walking distance from the row of bed-and-breakfasts where Jack stayed. He had visited them all. The one where he chose to spend his weekends had a regular gathering of locals, a couple of pool tables, and a juke box with a good selection that wasn’t too fast and wasn’t too loud. It also had a friendly staff that didn’t ask a lot of questions and they would actually sit and have a drink with the customers when business was slow.
Jack left the bar one Saturday night at closing time, as was usual. He had been accepted by the local fraternity after his fifth weekend in a row, and three of his new friends attempted to talk him into going with them to the all-night diner down by the Interstate. He was tempted for a moment, but he was still a law enforcement professional, even after a night of heavy drinking. Riding across town with a drunk driver was just begging for trouble. He begged off, saying “Maybe some other time”.
Jack remembered his professional responsibilities, but he did forget which direction he needed to walk to find the cabin where he was staying for the weekend. His first turn was a wrong turn, and he ended up almost a half mile away in the opposite direction and completely lost.
He was in the middle of the street stumbling in a circle when two patrolmen found him.
Jordan Blackledge bolted to a sitting position in his bed after answering his phone on the second ring. He glanced at the clock on the end table. Two forty A. M.
“What?” he exclaimed, causing Samantha to sit up.
“Yes, this is Jordan Blackledge, Officer— what? Officer Crowley? Holy shit, give me that num— he’s still on the line? Put him on, put him on.
“Yes, this is Jordan Blackledge. Jack Engl— yes, I understand. Give me— I don’t know how long. I’ve never been there, but
I’m leaving immediately. Don’t call anyone el— I’m sorry, you’re right. Just— I’m asking you, please, as a brother, look— we’re all cops here, right? We carry a badge and a piece, and we look out for each other, right? Shit happens sometimes, you know? You hearing me, Brother? I’m leaving right now. I’m putting my pants on right now. Don’t talk to anyone else until I get there, okay? I’m out the door—”
“My God, Jordan,” Samantha said.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Jordan was hopping into his pants while simultaneously trying to put on a shoe.
“That was New Hampshire P.D. in some little Shire two hundred miles from here. They’re holding Jack for Public Intoxication, or Public Nuisance, or whatever— Drunk— Drunk and Disorderly. At two thirty in the morning they can pick whatever charge they want to. They called the PD here after they checked out his I.D. and badge and what I just received is loosely referred to as a ‘courtesy call’, which means I have very little time to get there and head off something really bad. I have to go, Honey.”
“Of course,” Samantha said. “Call me if you need anything, I’ll be home all day.”
“You’re the best, Baby,” Jordan said, attempting to kiss his wife while trying to tie a shoe and put on his jacket at the same time. Samantha pushed him away.
“Yes, I am. Now get out of here before you break something.”
Dante Vlada looked up from his computer screen when he caught sight of the young maid entering the room. She sat the steaming cup of latte ten inches away from his left wrist as she had been taught. The cup itself was worth six months of the girl’s salary.