Lord knows this poor man needs it, so much sorrow in his life.
She said a silent prayer, Lord, please help this man. Help him to smile more and to laugh more and Lord heal this man of his sorrow and infirmaries. Lord, please give this man the power to forget and to abandon this path he has chosen, before it is too late.
He waited for Martha to collect her thoughts and then went back to his somber tone. “Martha, sorry to interrupt your repose. I am not sure if you have it in the book, but I am meeting someone upstairs at eleven this morning.”
“Okay but be back by two, there’s a new patient I’m certain you’ll be happy to meet.”
“Really? Who?” he asked.
“Myrtle Ridley. She seems to have trouble sleeping.”
“Oh my dear Martha, that is one appointment I will definitely not miss.” His smile widened and he snickered.
Seiffert checked the time on his computer, five minutes until eight. He clicked the computer mouse on his desk and the monitor came alive with a closed-circuit television view of the waiting room. It was empty. He looked over at Martha and said, “Either our guess is not very punctual or he has changed his mind.”
Ten seconds later the door inched opened. “Well, Martha our first guest of the day has arrived. Please give me a few moments and I will ring you when I am ready.”
Martha smiled and went to the door. After she had left, Seiffert glanced back at his computer screen and noticed there was a new email from Marie, she had sent a copy to Dwain too. It read:
“Unc and Dwain,
New information. The lock factory is not in Ho Chi Minh City but in Hanoi. The name
of the company is Bright Star Lock and Security and is in the Dong Anh Industrial
Park just north of Hanoi.
Enclosed is the business card template.
Love you both,
Marie”
Seiffert forwarded the email and added: “Dwain, Be in Hanoi by Friday.”
He reached and pressed a button on the speakerphone and said, “Send him in Martha.”
CHAPTER NINE
Jimmy opened his two suitcases and shook his head. His supply of clean clothes was diminishing fast—two shirts and three more pairs of slacks. He shuddered. He didn’t want to pay the hotel’s exorbitant cleaning prices for a few more days of clean clothes. His original schedule was to be in China by the end of the week, but yesterday’s events and today’s meeting were making this impossible.
He took a quick shower and sat on the edge of the bed. Jimmy fished in his computer bag and found the printout of his flight itinerary, located the toll-free number at the bottom of the page and called China Southern Airlines. The lady on the other end was polite. She told him that once his return travel plans to China were more complete, to please call back and advise the changes.
He tapped the button on the phone cradle, got another dial tone and dialed room service. He ordered the “American Breakfast Special” of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. Jimmy wondered what made this an “American Breakfast Special”. While ordering his breakfast, he glimpsed something on the menu and laughed.
“Oatmeal,” he said, mumbling.
The person taking his order heard this and asked, “Do you want oatmeal?”
“No. Just saw it on the menu and it reminded me of something.”
The oatmeal on the menu made him think of his dad. What was eerie to Jimmy is that Mr. Seiffert, in a few short minutes, had touched on that nerve too. For as long as Jimmy could remember his father’s work associates called his dad “Oatmeal Miller.” They even referred to him and his partner, Bud Hammontree, as “Oatmeal and Grits”. Jimmy had heard parts of the story from his dad, other parts from his mother and then other parts from his father’s old colleagues at his dad’s funeral.
James Miller, Sr. and his new bride, moved to South Georgia from western Pennsylvania before Jimmy was born. Joyce Miller suffered from cryoglobulinemia. Abnormal proteins in her blood caused her blood to thicken in the cold, Pennsylvania weather. James wanted to move to a warmer climate. He wanted a job in Florida, the warmer, the better, but long-distance job hunting was a difficult task. After a month of searching, a friend of a friend in Valdosta called him. He told him the sheriff’s department in Lowndes County was hiring. The friend told him he had vouched for him, no need for an interview. He said, “Just pile Joyce and your shit in that old station wagon and come to Georgia.”
James and Joyce did just that. James gave his two-week notice at the Harrisburg Police Department. They stored their worthless items at his mother-in-law’s house and loaded the essentials into their five-year-old, ‘55 Ford Country Sedan station wagon. Two and one-half weeks later they were renting a tiny, white, shotgun house in Remerton, a small town surrounded and landlocked by the city of Valdosta.
James Miller questioned his decision about living in a warmer climate. He and Joyce arrived during the middle of the “dog days” of summer, the hottest and most humid time in South Georgia. A time of year that made even a steamy, Turkish bath feel cooler than an igloo in Alaska. After a while, James and Joyce adjusted to the heat, the humidity, the gnats and the mosquitoes—these latter two were as unbearable as the hot, humid weather.
His fellow deputies were great guys and he soon came to appreciate the term “good old boy”. He became acquainted with the term “good old boy network”, like the “families” up north but not as vicious. The sheriff’s department had a way of turning their head when a case involved one of “the good old boys.” Things here were different, slower but friendlier—a different lifestyle and work ethic, altogether different than “Yankeeland”.
James did not mind being called a “Yankee” he soon learned that his colleagues called anyone that hailed north of Macon a Yankee. The department assigned Bud Hammontree to be his partner. He became a great partner and a great friend. James always called Bud his “brother from another mother.”
James Miller learned to adapt to the southern way of life. But there was something he could not get his mind, or his mouth to accept—the Southern breakfast staple, grits.
Grits, a ground corn cereal made from hominy—the inner, soft, sweet part of the corn kernel. James Miller ordered them with his partner at the local diner the first day on the job. He watched with curiosity as his partner, Bud, took a dollop of butter and placed it in the middle of the grits, followed by generous helpings of salt and black pepper. James followed his partner’s example by adding the same ingredients in the same manner and stirred everything together just as Bud did.
No sooner had he put the first spoonful in his mouth he started looking for a napkin. He spit the mouthful of grits into the paper napkins he pulled from the stainless steel dispenser and took a large sip of water. Miller later told his wife that “it wasn’t the taste but the way they felt in my mouth.”
He got the waitress’s attention and choked out a new order. “Oatmeal? Do you have oatmeal?”
Bud Hammontree burst out laughing with a roar that turned the head of everyone in the diner.
From that day forward everyone called James Miller, “Oatmeal Miller.”
James was a good sport and returned the joke. The next morning he showed up for his shift with three boxes on Quaker Oats in a paper bag. He took them to the break room—which in those days doubled as the interrogation room and placed them on the counter beside the small hotplate. He found a grease pencil and marked the white tops of each of the boxes with the words “Property of Oatmeal Miller”.
Other deputies laughed and howled at this when they saw it. The next morning James “Oatmeal” Miller found three bags of grits sitting beside his oatmeal marked, “NOT the property of Oatmeal Miller”.
The jokes continued over the months. Pictures of the “Quaker Oats Man” covered James Miller’s desk. If James was interrogating a suspect, he started by paraphrasing the Quaker Oats’ commercial. He reversed the words by saying to the suspect, “now don’t lie because if you do, not
hing is better for me than thee.”
Jimmy sat on the bed and stared at his breakfast menu.
How did Seiffert know this? Was it a joke? Maybe, Seiffert was someone who knew my dad. The age was right. Perhaps an old colleague, or someone he put behind bars. Well, he’s gonna see me this morning and I will get answers.
CHAPTER TEN
Viet Jet was like any other budget airline in Asia. If you had luggage, an extra charge. If you wanted something to eat, an additional charge. And even worse—small, cramped seats with no upgrades to comfortable, premium seats.
The Viet Jet staff tried to load the plane by row, from the back to the front. But as soon as the airline called the first rows to board, everyone in the terminal jumped up and crowded the gate, no queue. Chaos, everybody stand and get on the plane.
Dwain Seiffert squeezed his way past the multitude of Chinese tourists and Vietnam nationals as they tried to find their seat assignments while they pushed and shoved, and crammed luggage and shopping bags into the overhead bins.
I wonder when someone will pull a live chicken out of a bag.
He elbowed a few in the kidney as he passed them. Dwain hated flying and he hated flying in Asia even more. He found his seat assignment and squeezed his six-foot-three-inch frame into a seat designed for someone two-thirds his height and half his weight.
Dwain had an aisle seat, he loved aisle seats, but today the aisle seat would become a problem. He settled in, and for a while, was sure he would sit alone.
Ten minutes later an old Vietnamese man came shuffling along looking at the numbers over the seats. He stopped at Dwain’s seat and instead of trying to speak he took his ticket and showed his number to Dwain. Dwain’s long legs made it impossible for the old man to pass. Dwain had to stand in the aisle to let the old man squeeze by to his seat.
The old man gave a toothless smile and nodded at Dwain as he situated himself in the window seat. The empty seat between him and the old man made Dwain happy. He hoped to enjoy this space on the flight to Hanoi. Five minutes later Dwain’s luck ran out, another old man came shuffling by and imitated the same routine as the earlier interruption. Dwain sighed, unfastened his seat belt, stood up and let the man in to fill the empty seat.
The crew made the safety announcements, the jet taxied to the runway and Dwain folded his arms and closed his eyes. He pondered the insane mission he was trying to carry out for his uncle. Dwain, his sister Marie and brother Patrick had met five years earlier at his uncle’s home in Tampa and listened after Thanksgiving dinner to his uncle’s plan. Everyone was in agreement, but Dwain knew that his reason for agreeing to this was far different than his uncle, brother, and sister. They had one agenda, but he had another—money, nothing but money. Money was the one thing that motivated Dwain. He had no old scores to settle like the rest of his family.
One year after the meeting, Dwain stayed behind in Tampa while the rest of his family and Martha, moved to South Georgia. Dwain’s mission in Tampa was easy, just sit and wait for his uncle’s instructions. Over the course of the year he received instructions from his uncle—buy this piece of land, purchase this equipment, contact this old friend and ask for their help. Then three months ago he got orders that shocked him—go to China.
His uncle gave him ten thousand dollars and paid for a first-class ticket to Hong Kong. He told Dwain to move to Guangzhou and wait. While waiting for his next set of orders, Dwain immersed himself into the current Chinese culture. This consisted of visiting KTV Bars (karaoke bars) and selecting a singing companion from the lineup of beauties parading in front of him. Then singing and drinking until well past midnight, arm in arm and sometimes lip to lip with his chosen singing companion.
Dwain loved living in China and had picked up a little of the language. Eight weeks ago his uncle had called and told him to locate a factory an hour south of Guangzhou. The ruse was he was an American importer and was interested in buying their products. While he was there, he was to gather as much intelligence as he could and, if possible, become friends with the owner of the factory.
Dwain located the factory and became close friends with the company’s owner and an even more intimate friend with the owner’s daughter. The more his relationship grew with her, the more her father wanted to know his intentions. He did not care about the plans Dwain had with his daughter. He was more concerned about Dwain’s intentions of buying products from his factory.
The factory owner began pressing him for an order. He called his uncle and asked his advice. Lewis Seiffert instructed his nephew to ask for samples from a small list of miscellaneous products and ship them to the States. He told Dwain to ask if he could buy Harvey Ridley’s patented product, the CereLock 2000 smartphone lock.
The request for samples worked and satisfied the factory owner’s concern about getting an order. When asked about selling the CereLock 2000 to Dwain, he refused. He told Dwain that he could never sell the product to Dwain, and no amount of money could convince him otherwise. He was “a man of honor” and could not breach the honor and trust of Harvey Ridley by selling the CereLock to a third party.
Dwain called his uncle and told him of the factory owner’s decision. Lewis Seiffert advised his nephew to be patient and wait. Two days later, Harvey Ridley was dead. Two weeks later, Dwain was on a plane to Vietnam.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wayne McKenzie paused outside The Ashley and fought to draw the cool, crisp, autumn air into his lungs. After wheezing several times he said, “What the hell” and pulled out another cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket. His barrel chest and brown, nicotine-stained fingers gave away his addiction. Years of smoking had led to emphysema but no cancer.
No cancer, YET.
Wayne’s wife had not been so lucky. Although not a smoker, she breathed his second-hand smoke every day for forty years. The doctors diagnosed her four years ago with lung cancer, six months after the diagnosis she was dead.
After she died, he had tried to quit, but his efforts were self-defeating. The comfort in the cigarettes helped to soothe the misery, grief and guilt for the death of his wife. Wayne was sure his addiction killed her and he could not forgive himself. Many days he sat on his back porch and cried, then go indoors to put the barrel of his pistol in his mouth. One thing saved him from pulling the trigger—the overwhelming desire to have another cigarette.
Six months ago he met a lady, a beautiful woman in her late fifties with raven, black hair mixed with a few strands of gray. He loved her and he wanted to marry her, but he could not subject her to this awful habit of his. Wayne did not want to risk killing another person he loved.
God gave me a second chance at happiness. I better make the best of it. She hates cigarettes and she’s already told me, “It’s her or the smokes.”
He tried everything—cold turkey, nicotine gum, e-cigarettes, and the newest prescription drugs. Nothing worked, he was ready to give up hope but discovered an ad in the local paper advertising hypnotherapy as a cure. Thinking that maybe this was the answer, he called Seiffert’s office which brought him here today, in the middle of November, smoking another unfiltered cigarette. He hoped that hypnotism would end his forty-year addiction.
Wayne took one last drag and then snuffed it out in the ashtray to the right of the giant brass and glass double doors leading into the building. He opened the door and said a silent prayer asking God to let this be the cure, but he was skeptical. He came from an age when people believed chiropractic and hypnotherapy were “quackery”.
The one time he witnessed something called hypnotism was thirty-five years before when the carnival was in town. He sat in the front row that night and remembered the hypnotist and the folks going up on stage. He was making them bark like a dog, walk like a duck, strip to their underwear and other foolishness. Wayne believed it was fake, a show to separate people from their money.
He pushed the UP button on the elevator and exited on the sixth floor. Wayne had no trouble finding Suite 601 and the off
ices of Dr. J. L. Seiffert-Clinical Hypnotherapist. He tried to take a deep breath and calm his nerves, but his lungs battled his efforts. He entered the reception area as Martha was leaving the doctor’s office.
“Mr. McKenzie?” asked Martha.
“Yes ma’am, that’s me,” he said.
“Good. Here’s a form for you to complete. This first visit will take about forty-five minutes. Do you have any questions?”
“Well just one,” he said. “He’s not going to make me cluck like a chicken is he?”
“If I had a dollar for every time a new patient asked me that I could retire!” Martha laughed out loud and handed him the form on a clipboard with a pen.
The form asked for name, address, phone number, and next of kin. There were a few standard medical questions concerning his health. The only thing different from a medical doctor’s questionnaire was the small box at the bottom. It asked, “How Did You Hear About Us?” and underneath a series of check boxes showing “newspaper,” “radio,” “friend” or “other”. Beside the “friend” and “other” boxes were blank lines so the patient could write in an answer.
As Wayne was completing the form, Martha’s phone buzzed. “If you’re finished, the doctor will see you now.”
Wayne handed Martha the form and entered the doctor’s office. His eyes widened. He never expected such lavish settings.
The chair and sofa were dark brown leather and the whole room had the smell of a new, leather wallet. The lights were dim, but several brass lamps in the office gave it the feel of a family living room. Even in its simplicity and coziness, Wayne knew the furnishings were expensive. They made him think of “old” money, like the doctors’ or lawyers’ offices of decades past. The floor was hardwood and covered with a massive oriental rug with red and black markings.
Carnies and Wildcats: Ulciscor Page 6