Seeing the photos brought to mind the conversation I had the previous evening with one of my tenants in the three-story apartment building I own on Armour Boulevard.
Maggie and I live on the entire top floor. My dad, John, Bernice, Dad’s current squeeze, the Professor, Willie my maintenance man and best friend, and Jerry The Joker occupy the other units.
It was with Jerry that had I mistakenly shared my upcoming dental escapade.
Jerry fancies himself a standup comic and he has a monologue ready for virtually any topic.
He heard the word ‘dentist’ and was off and running.
“Walt, do you know what’s the best time for a Chinaman to go to the dentist?”
I shook my head.
“Tooth-hurty!”
He plunged ahead.
“Do you know where elephants go for their dental work?”
“No,” again.
“Tuska-loosa!”
His jokes, to quote the lyrics from a song from South Pacific, are 'as corny as Kansas in August,' but the guy has a big heart.
Just then, the door to the inner sanctum opened and a man on wobbly legs staggered into the waiting room.
He was hanging onto a dental assistant with knockers as big as ripe cantaloupes.
Having seen both the receptionist and the dental assistant, I surmised the good dentist didn’t hire based on performance alone.
“Maybe you should sit awhile until the gas wears off,” she suggested, guiding him to a chair.
Gas! I thought. What gas?
“Mr. Williams, the doctor will see you now,” the receptionist said. “Brenda will take you back.”
I followed Brenda and noticed right away that her backside was every bit as fetching as her other obvious attributes.
She seated me in the dental chair and proceeded to hook a thing around my neck that I assumed was to keep the blood and gore from staining the front of my shirt.
In order to fasten the thing, she leaned in and reached around the back of my head, which brought in her ample cleavage within inches of my eyes.
If this exercise was designed to divert the patient’s attention from the approaching discomfort, it was working.
I wondered if this was a technique that was taught in dental school or something that the doctor had picked up on his own.
At that moment, Dr. Friedman entered the room. “I see that you’ve met Brenda,” he said with a knowing smile.
The doctor appeared to be in his mid-to-late fifties with dark hair graying at the temples. He was one of those suave, good looking guys that for some reason always seem to be chick magnets, and who guys like me love to hate because it’s so easy for them.
“So what brings you here today?” he asked.
“Toothache,” I said, stating the obvious. “This one right here,” I said, pointing to a molar on the opposite side of my mouth from the gold crowns.
He peered into my gaping mouth and started poking and prodding the tooth with a sharp instrument that looked like a nut pick.
“Ummm, yes, I see the problem. Let’s give you some nitrous oxide and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
“Nitrous what?”
“You may know it as ‘laughing gas.’ You’ve never had it before?”
“No,” I replied. “The other dentists just stuck a needle in my mouth.”
“Well I can certainly do that,” he said, “but I think you’ll find that the gas is much more pleasant.”
“Sure,” I replied, glad to avoid the 'little pinch.' “Let’s do it.”
He strapped a mask over my nose and turned a valve on a metal cylinder.
I had never been gassed before and wasn’t sure what to expect, but when I took my first deep breath, the feeling that came over me was much like when I finish a margarita at my favorite Mexican restaurant.
It doesn’t take much to get me looped and Maggie says that I’m a ‘silly’ drunk.
With the second deep breath I let out a giggle. “Hey Doc, do you know where elephants go for their dental work? Tuska-loosa! Get it?”
He just smiled.
With the third breath, my attentions were once again directed toward the dental assistant who had brushed my arm handing the doctor an instrument.
“Brenda,” I said with a goofy grin, “wouldn’t it be cool if your last name was Bosom? Then people would say, ‘Look! There goes the Bodacious Brenda Bosom! Heh, heh, heh. That’s called alliteration. I remember that from my college literature course.”
The last thing I remember was Friedman saying, “I think he’s ready.”
The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the waiting room that seemed to be spinning in dizzying circles.
I ran my tongue against the spot where the two gold crowns were supposed to be and felt a sharp ridge.
Apparently, Dr. Friedman’s one-size-fits-all porcelain crowns didn’t quite match up.
When my head was almost back to normal, I whispered, “Ox, come on in. We’ve got him.”
Within minutes my partner entered the room holding the search warrant that had been issued earlier.
Ox addressed a guy that had been quietly waiting his turn. “Better find yourself another dentist, Pal. Dr. Friedman won’t be seeing any more patients for quite awhile.”
He handed me the search warrant. “I’ll watch the receptionist. You go back there and see if you can find your missing teeth.”
I opened the door and found Dr. Friedman with two big handfuls of Miss Brenda.
I figured they were probably celebrating their latest gold strike.
I held up my badge and the warrant.
“Looks like your gold mining days are over, Doc. Take your hands off those things and put them behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
My two gold crowns were in a cup soaking in some liquid.
A search of the office revealed another half-dozen gold teeth extracted from unsuspecting victims.
I never pictured myself as a vengeful guy, but I took great satisfaction in knowing that Dr. Friedman’s type attracted not only the ladies, but members of the prison population as well.
Ox had called for a paddy wagon and when everyone was loaded he gave me a sly grin, “Bodacious? Really?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said truthfully.
"Don’t worry, partner," he said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The captain had given me a couple of days off to get my mouth back to its original condition.
On my first day back, he summoned me into his office.
I was surprised to see Mark Davenport.
I had learned just a year earlier that Mark was my half-brother, the product of an illicit relationship that my dad had during his wild over-the-road trucking days.
At the time, Mark was with the FBI and had come looking for a guy we called Thanatos who was offering euthanasia to dying patients.
He was seeking the man’s services for his suffering mother.
My next meeting was nearly a year later.
Mark had appeared at Police Headquarters, this time as a member of the Department of Homeland Security.
He had solicited our department, and me in particular, to help thwart a terrorist attack at the All Star Game.
I certainly didn’t expect him back so soon.
“Walt,” he said, extending his hand, “good to see you again.”
“I certainly hope it’s not because of another terrorist threat. That last episode came a little too close for comfort.”
“No, not this time,” he replied. “Actually, I’m here on behalf of the Secret Service. They fall under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security.”
“Well, if you’re looking for some hookers,” I said with a grin, “I can refer you to some gals I know at the Shady Lady.”
I could see that hit a sore spot.
“Go ahead and have your fun --- everyone else has. That was not a chapter in our history that we’re proud of.”
; “Sorry,” I said. “What possible interest could the Secret Service have in our department?”
“Not the department, Walt. We need you. Your country desperately needs you for another undercover assignment --- and it IS a matter of national security.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Surely not again!
CHAPTER 2
I looked at the captain dumbfounded.
He just shrugged his shoulders and I could see by the expression on his face that I was not going to like what I heard next.
“Walt,” Mark continued, “I’m sure you’re aware that this is an election year.”
Duh! How could you not know? At least fifteen minutes of every TV hour were filled with campaign propaganda and since the beginning of the year, the newspaper had been reporting primary results ad nauseum.
“So what does that have to do with me?” I asked. “Looks like the slate is set. The president is a shoo-in and the Republican guy seems to have wiped out his remaining challengers.”
“Then I guess you haven’t heard of Benjamin Franklin Foster.”
I shook my head, “Should I?”
“If you haven’t, you soon will. It seems that many Americans aren’t exactly thrilled with either the socialist Democrat or the snooty, rich Republican.”
I could certainly understand that. I could never figure why, out of a population of over 300 million people, we can never come up with two truly qualified candidates to run for the highest office in the free world.
“So who is he?” I asked.
“He’s an independent, not affiliated with any political party, and he’s causing quite a stir.
“His message is ‘reform’ --- everything from the U.S. Tax Code to the abolition of the Electoral College.
“The good news is that his campaign is winning the support of voters. The bad news is that he’s making a lot of enemies.”
“Like who?” I asked.
“Take your pick,” he replied. “It’s in the best interests of both political parties to maintain the status quo. No one wants to admit it, but our government is built like a house of cards. The balance of power is precarious at best and if any one agency or department is affected, the whole thing could come tumbling down.
“The alliances that exist have taken years to form, and they reach from the local precincts to the halls of Congress and even to the White House itself.
“The policies that Ben Foster is promoting would disrupt all of that and no one on either side wants to lose their position and influence.
“There are powerful people out there who want to see the man dead.”
I understood what he was saying.
A year earlier, I had been involved in an undercover operation involving the collusion between a giant pharmaceutical company and corrupt politicians.
An assassin had been sent to kill a holistic physician that was poised to disrupt the 'status quo.'
Our investigation uncovered a tangled web that included a local law firm, the Department of Corrections, the Food and Drug Administration and a U.S. Senator.
“I see your problem,” I said, “but again, what does all this have to do with me?”
He handed me a photo. “Meet Benjamin Franklin Foster.”
I took the photo and it was like I was looking in a mirror.
If my mother had sired identical twins, this guy could have been my brother.
I didn’t know what to say.
I had an idea where this might be going, but the concept was just so outrageous, I quickly dismissed it.
“Here’s the situation,” Mark said. “Once an individual becomes a viable candidate, he is assigned a Secret Service detail.
“We have enough creditable intel to know that the man’s life is in danger and it’s our job to protect him.
“We need you to help.”
There it was --- I was being offered the job of sacrificial lamb.
Mark could see the wheels turning. “I know how this must sound ---.”
“Do you really?” I said, cutting him off. “This Foster guy is important enough that you’re willing to set up a private citizen for his enemies to bump off --- your own flesh and blood, for chrissakes!”
I didn’t mean to say that, but it just came out.
“Then what happens when I’m blown away? Will you have another stooge waiting in the wings?”
“Walt, you’ll have the same protection that we give to the President of the United States.”
“Which president?” I asked sarcastically, “Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Kennedy?”
Mark looked at the captain. “I knew this was a mistake. Sorry I wasted your time. Good to see you again, Walt.”
He rose to leave, but my curiosity got the best of me.
“Exactly how would this work? I’ll always wonder what fantastic scheme you guys had cooked up for me.”
I saw the captain stifle a grin. He knew I’d take the bait.
Mark returned to his chair. “For the next four months, Foster will be cris-crossing the country on the campaign trail. He will be making speeches and personal appearances and most likely participating in debates with the other candidates.
“During those times, he’s on his own. You would accompany Foster everywhere and when his speaking part is over, you would take over to ‘press the flesh’ so to speak, to mingle with the crowd, shake hands and kiss the babies.”
“So he gets ushered off to some safe place and I would get to parade around when the exposure is the greatest.”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Why would anyone in their right mind agree to such an arrangement? It sounds very much like a suicide mission.”
“I can’t answer that, Walt. Why do brave men join the Secret Service when they know that their job might require them to take a bullet for the president? Why do soldiers enlist when they know they may be put in harm’s way in Iraq or Afghanistan? Why do you come to work here every day, knowing that your next car stop might be a guy high on PCP?”
I suppose that I’d never thought about it in those terms.
“Will you do one thing for me?” Mark asked.
“Like what?”
“Ben Foster will be in town tomorrow. All I ask is that you meet the man and hear what he has to say. If you don’t like the guy, just walk away --- no harm, no foul.”
“I suppose that I could do that. Let’s say that after I talk with him, I’m interested. What then?”
Mark and the captain exchanged looks.
“Then we’d have to kill you!”
CHAPTER 3
“Kill me! Oh, this just keeps getting better and better!”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Mark said with a grin. “I was speaking in the figurative sense --- not the literal. We would have to fake your death.”
“But why?”
“Think about it. Powerful people want Foster dead. Your presence would be a closely guarded secret. Only a very few handpicked people would know of your part in this whole thing. If Walter Williams, the body double of Ben Foster, is suddenly not around without a reasonable explanation, someone will put two and two together.”
“So to the world, I would really be dead --- funeral, obituary in the paper, the whole nine yards?”
Mark nodded.
I could see trouble looming on the horizon.
“What about Maggie? I wouldn’t even give this a thought unless she knew the truth. I wouldn’t put her through that for anyone.”
“We figured as much and we would agree --- but no one else!”
Then I thought about Willie and Mary, Dad, Bernice and the Professor. How would they take the news of my death?
“I don’t know --- there are so many people who depend on me --- and Ox! What about Ox?”
“We’ll take care of Ox,” the captain said. “He’ll be devastated, of course, but when this is all over and you’re back home, he’ll be proud of what you’ve done.”
Y
eah, if I make it back, I thought.
“Maggie has to come with me to meet Foster. If she’s not on board with this, I couldn’t do it.”
“Done!” Mark said. “Foster will be at the Marriott tomorrow at three o‘clock. Not a word to anyone except Maggie. No one knows that Foster is anywhere close to Kansas City.”
“We’ll be there,” I replied.
I had no idea how I was going to break the news to Maggie.
She had been adamantly opposed to my last two undercover assignments. One involved infiltrating a suspected terrorist cell and the other had me rubbing shoulders with a drug dealer.
Both nearly got me killed.
During my three and a half years on the force, she had been very supportive, but with each close call, I could see her enthusiasm wavering.
After these latest escapades, someone had pointed out that if I had nine lives like a cat, I had probably used most of them up.
Maggie wasn’t thrilled with that prospect.
When I walked in the door, Maggie greeted me with a hug and a big, wet kiss.
“Made your favorite for supper,” she said proudly. “Tuna casserole with Peach Arbor Mist. Lots of Sun Chips on top --- just the way you like it.”
This wasn’t going to be easy.
I totally avoided the subject during supper. I didn’t want to spoil the tuna casserole.
When the dishes were put away, I said, “Maggie, we need to talk.”
I saw the look on her face.
We had been down this path before.
“What have you done?” she asked. “Or what is it that you’re going to do that I’m not going to like?”
The woman can read me like a book.
“I want you to see something,” I replied.
Before coming home, I had ‘Googled’ Ben Foster and found a photo of him that could have been me.
Maggie pulled up a chair beside me at the computer and when the photo popped up on the screen I saw her mouth drop open.
“Who? --- What?” was all she could get out.
“Just read,” I said, and together we read story after story about the upstart candidate from Montana who was capturing the hearts of more voters every day.
Lady Justice and the Candidate (Lady Justice, Book 9) Page 2