by James Peters
“So, how did it go in there?” Gina said me, her mouth slightly quivering, wanting to smile.
“As well as expected.” I said, adding, “Hey, can you show me more of this town?”
“I knew he’d just love you!” Gina said.
As we drove off, I watched in the truck’s mirror as the giant reverend emerged from the church, tearing off his jacket, throwing it on the ground, and loosening his collar. We turned at the next road and I lost sight of him. With a sigh of relief, I changed the subject. “So, where are we headed?”
“There’s a farmer’s market festival’s going on. We can get some good fresh fruit and vegetables, and lemonade. Sometimes they have musicians playing for coins. There’s always something to do there. Let’s go!”
“Sounds great,” I said. She drove for a few minutes, telling me which farmers had the best strawberries, apples, corn, and beans. I found it cute how excited she could get talking about sweet corn from the McMillan’s. I smiled, thinking how little attention I paid to food. In the Empire, food had become standardized, homogenized, pasteurized, and monotonized to a level of acceptability. The elite few, like the Emperor, hired expert chefs to prepare actual fresh foods imported from the border worlds; the rest of us ate a mixture of proteins, vitamins, minerals, and fiber that probably resembled something in nature, over a hundred thousand years ago. They had been numbered and programmed into the food dispensers over generations. Generally, you’d approach the dispenser. It would recognize you and your dining history, from the proximity sensor injected in your chest at birth. The dispenser would recommend your next meal. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you’d agree with its recommendation, and you’d eat the concoction it offered. Except for option two-hundred and fifty-three. No one ate that. I assumed that it was a joke programmed by a disgruntled programmer at some point. That or the recipe got corrupted over the years. As a kid, you learned to say no to two five three. It became a part of your general education. As no one ever took it, why bother to fix the program? The number became a general code for failure.
“Here we are!” Gina parked the truck and grabbed my hand, leading me around like a puppy. She’d lead me to a stand, talk with the farmers selling their wares, and as we walked away, she’d give me background information on who we just met. She’d tell about the people and why they liked a family and didn’t like another, not in a gossiping way, but deep in detail. I saw fruits and vegetables that I’d never seen before. Simple folks who always smiled handed me samples and insisted I try their wares. This is a barbarian world, outside of the Empire? Perhaps we were the barbarians after all?
We continued until I saw an old man, in a raggedy suit, sitting under a shade tree. He had a musical instrument case open with a few coins in it. “Who’s that man playing the music?” I asked.
“We call him ‘Mumblin Moe’. He plays a four-string guitar. The story is that the other strings broke and he couldn’t afford to replace them. But nobody knows for sure because nobody can understand him. At the end of the day, some farmers bring him food they didn’t sell. He plays music and ‘sings’ to make the time pass.”
I approached and listened. The music had a simple pattern; repetitive but with a few flourishes thrown in and an occasional surprise. He started to sing:
I ain’t got no woman to boil my hambone,
I ain’t got no dog to fetch my shoes,
I ain’t got no shoes anywhere in my home,
I ain’t got not home, just got the blues,
Got the blues, that’s all I’ve got,
In the winter, I’m cold,
In the summer, I’m hot,
Got the blues, that’s all I’ve got,
I’d like to say I’m lucky.
But God knows I’m not.
I got the blues. The no hambonin’ blues.
I turned to Gina. “Why do they call him Mumblin’ Moe?”
She grinned. “You heard him; nobody can tell what he’s saying. I think he’s just making up sounds. Everyone thinks he’s a dummy. But I don’t know; he seems to know how to take care of himself.”
“Trust me, this is the voice of experience. Just because you can’t understand him, it doesn’t make him stupid. I understood most of what he’s saying. I don’t really know why he wants a woman to boil his hambone, though.”
“I think that has a double meaning, Gina said, blushing. “But I don’t know anything about that.”
“What do you say, Moe? Double meaning?”
“You understand me? You’d be the first,” Moe said.
“I’m not from around here. But I’m good with languages.”
“You must be. I ain’t no dummy. Got a bad mouth. My tongue doesn’t work right.”
I turned to Gina. “He’s got a problem with his tongue.”
“How? Did he tell you that?” Gina’s eyes widened. “You really are an angel! You can understand that mumbling, it’s a sign. You are something special, Raka.”
“Honestly, that’s the first time anyone said something like that to me in as long as I can remember.”
Mumblin’ Moe stood up and took me by the hand. “If you can help me, I’ll do anything I can to help you too.”
“I’ll try. I just got here myself and I don’t know what can be done. I won’t forget you, Moe.”
“The name’s actually Jacob. Not sure how they got ‘Moe’ out of that!”
“Jacob, I’m Raka and this is Gina.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. Keep playing your music. People need that, and they appreciate you more than you know. Someday, things will work out for you.”
“Thank you. Anytime you want to talk, please come back, you hear?”
I nodded as we walked away. “Will do.”
Gina squinted as she looked me over. “You really could understand him?”
“Mostly.”
I didn’t tell her that the translator implant had picked up and cleaned every word to perfection. “I got his meaning.”
“You never cease to amaze me.” She squeezed my hand hard and pulled me to her, planting a little kiss on my cheek.
A deep voice yelled from behind me. “Who the hell is this, Gina?!”
You know that sense you get when everything is going too well, and you just know that someone is waiting around the next corner to kick you right in the nuts with a steel-toed boot? Maybe I’m the only one that gets that feeling, but right about then my shitstorm senses tingled.
A bulldog of a man marched toward me. He was barrel-chested, sporting a flat-top haircut, and even through his tight T-shirt, I could see he had pecs wrestling with one another for dominance. He had arms that looked like he could bench-press a small building, and his eyes burned with rage.
Gina formed fists. “Don’t start anything Bill. Bill! Don’t!”
Bill didn’t listen. Before I could react, he threw a punch at me that I deftly took precisely on the chin. My feet left the ground, my head spun around, and I heroically passed out.
***
My eyes fluttered. Gina leaned over me, calling my name. I tried to smile at her only to notice how much my jaw and mouth hurt.
Mumblin’ Moe talked fast. “Oh man, you should have seen it. That little girl kicked that big guy’s ass! He punched you, you fell to the ground, and she just exploded. She spun her leg around and twisted his knee sideways until he hit the ground. I heard a loud pop as if his knee exploded. Then she dove on him, knee to the crotch and her little fists pounding on him in the face, one after another, like she hit a punching bag. He jumped up, with tears in his eyes, screaming a falsetto wail. He limped off like a scolded puppy, snuffling, and crying all the way.
“You did that for me?” I said.
“Did what?”
“Beat that guy up?”
“Nah. That was just Bill. He thinks that he and I have some kind of relationship. We went out a few times and he was nothing but walking hormones. I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore,
but he didn’t take it well. I just scared him off. That’s all.”
I watched as she rubbed her knuckles, and I grabbed her hand. It was red, swollen and scraped up. “Well, thanks anyway. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I know. And things were going so well today. Let’s head home.”
“Moe, er Jacob, take care. We’ll talk again later.”
He tipped his hat toward us and walked off. “Hope so. Take care, you two.”
As we got further away, Gina spoke. “Can you really understand him?”
“Yes.”
She just smiled and started the truck. Besides the sharp pain in my jaw, watching a man being bitten by a venomous snake, it had been a decent day by my standards.
Chapter 9
The Black Pen Makes Its Mark
Luckily for me, the Reverend Goliath, er Goligoth, decided to take a transfer to another church. That is, he transferred to another church after he completed a few years of court-ordered counseling. Apparently, that’s what happens when one ends up on top of the church tower, in one’s underwear, shooting parishioners with a BB gun while screaming ‘I’m the God-damn King Kong up here!’. That and pouring red paint all over his head and chest, swatting at invisible flying demons with a crucifix. At least no one had been seriously injured, with the possible exception of a few flying demons he swore he took down.
After I healed, Gina taught me how to ride a horse. I can’t say that I excelled at it, but I could point the beast in the direction I wanted and mostly not fall off too often in the process. I tried to help with the chores but found I pretty much sucked at all of them. If I could screw it up, I’d do it, unintentionally of course. Henry joked that he’d have me look after the chickens, but was afraid I’d plant them either too close together or too deep. It actually took me hearing that a few times to understand what he meant; you don’t plant chickens, only hogs.
I remember kissing Gina for the first time; the memory is etched in my mind in exquisite detail. We had just returned from a trip into town. She had sold several dozen eggs at the general store and bought a few things for the farm: flour, sugar, and a big bag of feed for the horses. I reached into the truck’s bed to retrieve the feed, she grabbed the other end, and in the process, her hair brushed across my cheek. That simple touch, the unexpected perception in the sensitive nerves of my face sent a shiver down my spine and a warm feeling in my chest. I grabbed her arm, gently but firmly, and pulled her close. Our lips met, and I felt hers nibbling softly on the edges of my mouth. I started to back away after a few seconds and felt her arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back toward her. How long did we kiss; an instant or an eternity? At that moment, nothing else in the universe mattered to me and time seemed to cease as my heart pumped with excitement, and my legs started to shake. We broke the embrace with nervous laughter and Gina wore a sly smile the rest of that day.
Later that week, I overheard Gina and Henry talking about money and how little they had. My arrival had added to their expenses and caused them difficulties. They couldn’t help but be too nice to tell me to shove off, and I didn’t want to go anywhere else. That afternoon, Gina and I left the farm on horseback to a favorite picnic spot. She rode Sable, a strong mare with small light spots on her leg, I rode Thunder, an exceedingly stubborn young male. We unpacked our food under an old Elm tree and talked over sandwiches and lemonade. I’m not one to ‘kiss and tell’, but, I’m telling you, we kissed, a lot.
After a pause, I spoke. “I’ve been thinking. I’m not much help and I don’t think I’m carrying my own mass.”
“You have a funny way of talking, Raka. I love that about you.” Gina took a napkin and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my cheek. “You’re not a problem.”
“Yes, I am. I know I’m costing you money, and not contributing. I need to find a way to earn some.”
“Well, what are you good at?” Gina unfolded some wax paper that covered two cake slices. “What jobs have you had in the past?”
“For some time, I was a reporter. I investigate, discover when someone’s doing something that they shouldn’t, and I report it.”
“We have a newspaper in town. They might pay you to do reporting for them. You better be careful, though; this is a small town. People might not take kindly to everyone knowing what they’re up to.”
“Hmm. Do you think the paper would buy a story like that if I had proof?”
“Perhaps. If they thought a story might sell papers, they might pay you for it.”
“I started in the business as a free-lancer. I think you are rightthough; I should come up with an alias so nobody knows who I really am. That will help protect us. I just need a name, something that would never lead anyone to me.”
Gina’s eyes turned upward. “Something that means business.”
“Something like ‘the black pen’, but in a different way.”
“La plume noire, the black pen,” Gina said.
“Hmm. How about Noire LaPlume? Sounds more like a name. You think anyone will get it?”
“A few. Most locals won’t understand it. But you and I will. You are right about being careful. If you expose the wrong person and they know who you are, you’ll find yourself tarred, feathered, and escorted out of town.”
“Tarred and feathered? Who would…how would…why?”
“Relax. I’ve never seen it done. Let’s say a fellow does something extremely heinous, the story goes that a mob will take him in the middle of the night, tie him up, and pour hot tar on him. Then they cover him with a big barrel of feathers. The tar cools, the feathers stick to his body, and they drop him off somewhere to figure out what to do. Did I mention the part where they strip the guy naked, before pouring the tar on them?”
“No, you left that part out,” I said. That truly is barbarian.
“Yeah, I think they want to make sure that the tar gets in all the most private places. I imagine it is not a fun experience. Relax, Raka, you look like you’re about to fall over! As long as nobody but you and I know who Noire LaPlume is, you’re perfectly safe. We can set up a post office box for you. You can mail your stories to the paper and just give them the post box number. Nobody will ever know.”
“Do you think they’d just pay me like that and not try to stuff me?”
“I think you mean ‘stiff me’ not ‘stuff me’,” Gina said, smiling. “Sure, they’ll probably try to stiff you, so you’ll need to keep your most critical information, like pictures or sworn testimonials to yourself, until you got paid.”
“That could work. I could blank out key information, but give enough to want more. What’s a fair price to ask for?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’d start at fifty dollars. As you get noticed, you can raise your prices.
“Sounds like the good old days. Catch a local official doing something they shouldn’t be doing, and show it to the galaxy.”
“The galaxy?! You have big thoughts, mister!” Gina gave me that ‘I’m studying you’ tight-lipped smile that she gave me whenever I said something odd.
“Just a figure of speech. Show it to the county is more like it.”
“County today, galaxy tomorrow.”
“Sounds like something I’d say.”
“Not really. You’d say some nonsense techno mumbo-jumbo from some science fiction book. Comm-link this or sat-nav that.”
“Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”
“I love it about you. Every once in a while, you talk about stuff that’s impossible, just like they're everyday things. Sometimes I wonder about where you grew up.”
“It’s all just my imagination.” I have to be more careful. She’s catching every little slip I make. I needed to change the subject. “So, have you heard anything more about that guy you beat up? Bill?”
“Yeah, the doctor reattached his tendon and he’s expected to walk normally in a couple years. I heard that he never wants to see me again, so that’s a good thing.”
“I’d agree with that.”
/>
“He’s also got a thing going with a nurse that worked on him. She’s quite older than he is, but apparently, likes them young and dumb.”
“From what I’ve heard, that pretty much sums him up.”
“That’s the truth!” Gina said, laughing. “I’m heading into town to pick up a few things. You want to talk to Moe?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
***
I can’t say that I’m particularly proud of what I did next, but I needed a mole and Mumblin’ Moe fit the bill. Nobody in town thought Moe could talk or understand them, so they talked absolutely freely around him. Moe loved to talk with me; his face would brighten and his smile became infectious as we conversed. I easily turned him into the best source of information I ever had, and he didn’t even know it. I paid him in conversation and friendship, a soda pop and sandwich now and then, and he gave me the town’s hot gossip. I gathered information on who did what to who. I didn’t bother with minor gossip; I waited for the big stories.
I set up a post office box, and before long, I had a story. Minor compared to what I had dealt with in the Empire, but a big deal in this small town. Rumor had it that the town treasurer, Linda Holmes, a voluptuous brunette ex-cheerleader, who had dated almost every man in town at some point, was now romantically involved with the local mechanic, John Tanner, a dark-haired macho type with a scar over his left eye, and arm muscles that bulged as he flexed them, which he often did. The fact they dated meant nothing; in all likelihood, had been predicted by everyone in town. But I found a lot of questionable repairs to the police cars and emergency equipment, all approved immediately and paid for without question. To the order of about three hundred dollars per week. To add fuel to the fire, Mr. Tanner had just bought a new Cadillac, and Ms. Holmes had been on quite a shopping spree, buying new appliances, a mink coat, even paying someone to clean her apartment. I know a scam when I see it; I just needed proof.