“It sounded pretty desperate all right.” Frank said.
“Did you ever meet this guy is Stephen Driscoll?” Clayton asked Frank.
“Two or three times,” Frank answered. “I can’t tell you much about him, but I think Michelle said he was a certified accountant of some sort. I can tell you this; he was a real want-to-be.”
“What’s a ‘want-to-be’?” Clayton asked.
“That’s a poor slob who wants to be a rich slob. The real Mister plastic, you’re the kind, always hanging around the wealthy and playing like he was a heavy hitter, a high roller. He wore a $500 suit and tried to pass it off as an original Ari Monte. It was obviously a knockoff, more than likely made in New York. The same with the shoes, another knockoff of a famous boot maker, the Rolex watch, the same. I don’t blame the guy for trying to better himself, but he was so obvious.”
“Well, crimenellie! What she go with him for so long? Michelle was nobody’s fool, she would have seen right through him. Maybe you should’ve told her.”
“She wouldn’t listen to me anyway, and you are right, she was nobody’s fool. She knew what he was. No, I think she just brought him around to kiss me off.”
Just then Morris pulled up to the curb and Clayton Frank climbed in. “Take us to the country club Morris,” Frank instructed. He turned to Clayton, “I feel like a drink or two is in order for some reason or other.”
“That sounds good to me Frank, and I’ll second that motion,” Clayton added.
The two men rode in silence, each in his own thoughts. But once at Frank’s club and seated across from each other with drink in hand, they resumed the conversation.
“May I ask a personal question Frank? And if I’m sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted just tell me, and I’ll understand.”
“Go ahead Clayton, though I can’t imagine what could be. Fire away.”
“What is your relationship with Michelle? It sounds like you two were getting along very well, you two estranged?”
“No Clayton, not estranged. Far worse than that. She was completely indifferent toward me, you know, distant.” A sad look shadowed Frank’s eyes.
“That’s strange,” Clayton said, while nursing his drink. “She’s always spoken kindly of you, she never let on that your relationship was strained.”
“She showed you one face, and showed me another. Though the whole thing was my fault, of course. I brought all myself. You see, when her mother died I was so lost in my own grief I knowingly shut her out. I buried myself my work and never took time to think of her or her needs. She was only 15 and she needed her mother. While her mother was dead and I was too wrapped up in my own self-pity to help her. Then when her brother was killed in the war it was the same thing all over again. I went crazy with grief. I know it’s no excuse, but I shut her out again, lost in my work or locked away in my study. I just wasn’t there for her when she needed be the most.”
The ordered another drink and then another before, and they knew it the afternoon had passed and it was evening. What the hell, they didn’t have to be anyplace special, so they ordered another round.
“That was a sad story you told me Frank.”
“Oh, you mean about Michelle and me. Well anyway am sorry I even mentioned it. Some things are better left alone.”
“My ears are numb, my tongue is getting thicker and thicker, and I better get something to eat before I make a complete fool of myself.” Clayton looked around for a waiter.
“You’re right Clayton; I don’t want this party to turn into a wake. They had the best New York strip in the Baltimore area, we can order separate here and we can really enjoy. What say we take in the nightclubs, you know, make a night of it.”
Monday morning Frank had to fly to Detroit Michigan, there was a union problem there and it had to be settled before big problems developed. Frank would be gone several days so Clayton just knocked around the state for a little while, got bored and borrowed one of Frank’s cars and drove into the city. He grabbed a lunch at a local restaurant in the city.
Wondering what to do next, he thought of Stephen Driscoll for some reason. Oh hell, why not. He had lots of time, didn’t he? He would take a cab because he would never find Driscoll’s house on his own. Let the cab do the driving. He would just have a quick look around. What would it hurt, anyway?
When the cab pulled up in front of Driscoll’s house, a small two-bedroom bungalow, Clayton slip the driver a $50 bill and told him to come back in an hour or so. Then using the keys he had been given, he let himself in. As soon as he opened the door he was hit with the foulest odor he had ever experienced.
The house was a filthy mess. Newspapers were haphazardly scattered all over the living room. Empty beer bottles were tossed about; some on the coffee table others just lying about. Nearby, several empty bottles of cheap whiskey littered the floor and end tables. The place reeked of the stench of stale cigarette and cigar smoke, stale beer and whiskey and rotten food that had been left out to spoil on the kitchen table. The countertops and sink were crammed with dirty dishes covered with food debris.
Worse than all the rest was the dung that lettered the floor. It looked like dog droppings but he couldn’t’ be sure. He called out as if calling a dog but got no response. He cautiously proceeded down the small hallway to the back of the house, stepping carefully. He looked into the bathroom and found more droppings. The counter top next to the grimy rust-stained sink held men’s toiletries, shaving cream, after shave, razors and deodorant sticks. The commode had been left unflushed.
He called out again, still no response. Next came the bedrooms, which were equally filthy. The room Clayton took to be the master suite was dark and gloomy as the window shades were pulled down tight. It was difficult to see anything. He noticed the porn magazines as he entered the room. The bed was unmade with stained sheets and blankets were hanging off the bed. He had to look twice before he could believe his eyes but there was a large dog on the bed that looked dead, or close to it.
Clayton walked over to where the dog was laying. He thought it was dead at first, but to make sure he placed his hand on its side over the dog’s rib cage. Being very still for a moment…yes, he could feel the dog’s shallow breathing. It was very faint, but nonetheless, it was still there.
“Shit!” Clayton raced to the bathroom to get some water, but found nothing to carry it. He ran to the kitchen, nearly falling as he slipped on the dog dung in the hallway. The dirty dishes in the sink were no help. He found a sauce pan on the sink with dried food encrusted in ti; he grabbed it and filed it with water then ran back to the bedroom. He dipped his hand in the water and wet the dog’s nose, trying to get the animal to drink.
The dog moved its head a fraction and whimpered a little.
“Come on by,” Clayton coaxed. “Take some water, will you? You gotta be thirsty after all this time. Please take a little water for me.”
“Atta boy, we’ll have you up and fit in no time, you’ll see, you’ll see. Come on, now, and have some of this good cold water will you.” Clayton pleaded, gently lifting the dog’s head a little; he put its snout into the pan of water, spilling some on the bed. Slowly the dog opened his eyes a little and tried to lap some water, spilling more. Clayton held the dog in his arms to comfort it the best he could while trying to get it to drink more water. He cursed bitterly at anyone who would leave a dog alone to die like this. He carried the dog to the living room and lay it down on the sofa, then looked out the window to see if by chance the taxi would return early. No chance. He tried again to give the dog a little more water, with better luck. He glanced at his watch; the cabbie wasn’t due back for another 15 minutes. The stink of the place was beginning to make Clayton sick, so he picked up the dog and carried it to the front step. He sat with the dog cradled in his arms and rocked it back and forth. The animal was slowly coming around when the taxi pulled up in front of the house. Clayton leaped to his feet, the large dog dangling in his arms, and ran to the cab.
Chapter 8
“Quick!” he shouted, “take me to the nearest veterinary clinic and I’ll pay all your speeding tickets.
“Hey,” the cab driver said, “That’s my cousin, the best vet in all Baltimore. I know the way blind-folded.” The driver turned to survey the back seat. “What you got there dude, a hurt pooch? Looks dead to me.”
“Can the chatter and just get us there” was Clayton’s answer.
At the animal hospital the vet took one look at the dog and shook his head, giving Clayton an inquiring look.
“The dog was abandoned for two, maybe three weeks. I just now found him in a closed up house. I’ll pay all the bills in advance and please, keep him as long as needed.”
“We’ll do our best for him, but I can’t make any promises. He’s in real bad shape. Right now we need to keep him overnight at least, give him an IV and watch him closely for a while. If he’s better by morning I’d say he has a chance. As for the bill, I couldn’t say what the charges will be until we learn more. They could be considerable.”
“The money is not the issue Doc, just do your best for him and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Good,” the vet said, “I just have a few papers that need to be filled out and signed and we can get started.”
The vet called his assistant and had him take the dog to the back where the examination rooms were in the dog was made as comfortable as possible. Clayton signed the papers and made out a check for $500, left it with the receptionist along with his card and cell phone number on it.
When he left the building it was pouring rain and to his surprise the taxi was still parked outside waiting for him.
“I thought I’d just hang out here for a while to see how things worked out.” The cab driver looked expectantly at Clayton.
The” I’m certainly glad you did, just look at it come down. You, my man, are going to have a very profitable day.”
“What about the dog? Is it going to be all right?” The cabbie asked.
“I hope so. We won’t know for a while yet, the vet said that the next 24 hours will tell. It was badly dehydrated was running a fever. All we can do is what we can do, my friend, and the rest is up to the vet and the dog. And by the way, I thought it strange that if he’s your cousin how is it you didn’t come in and say hi?”
“We’re falling out a while back and we’ll get along that well anymore. He’s a nice enough guy; I just don’t like him you know. A personality conflict I guess. But I got to give him credit; he’s the best vet around. Really cares about animals, he really does.”
“Well, I certainly hope so, because the fats hit the fire, so to speak. Too late to change things now.”
“So, where to now Mister? You want take a lunch break? Is nearly 1 o’clock and raining so hard, there’s nothing else to do.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Lead the way my man, lead the way.”
“And are really nice restaurant not far from here, it’s called the Golden Griddle. Everyone calls the owner Mama, she’s a nice old lady that just loves good food and she will wake you up something in no time flat.”
“Look, if we’re going to spend the day together we may as well get acquainted; I’m Clayton Crawford out of California. And you are?”
“Sure enough. I’m Henry Stockton in the flesh, the one and only. Esquire, if you please, and I have friends in different contacts all over the city. Just say what you want and I can get for you.”
The storm and wind had intensified by now and the rain had become a torrential downpour. Lightning flashed and the thunder was so loud it sounded like nearby cannon fire.
“Well love a duck!” Clayton shouted over the deluge of wind and rain. “Just look at this rain will you. Haven’t seen anything like this for some time and I’ve seen some bad storms come in on the West Coast, believe me.”
“It’s a bad one all right, and if it keeps up it’s going to bring everything to a standstill. We don’t get weather like this too often, but when we do it’s a real humdinger. If it really gets bad and we come to a dead stop, where we can’t get any further, I know some side streets that might still be open to us. That’s one of the perks you get from knowing the city so well.”
“How long have you been driving Henry? l’lI bet you saw just about. You must have some interesting stories to tell.”
“I’ve been driving something with a motor in it for most of my life. First I drove for my dad back in the 70’s. He had a dry cleaning business and I used to pick up and deliver for him. After that I drove a few years for the Army, you know, this big six by’s. So when I got out I figured what the hell, I may as well just keep driving. So, I got me a truck, one of those big jobs. It was a Peterbilt, a big 16 wheeler, not new of course, but like new. New costs a fortune! I got it with a veteran’s small business loan.
“Well, I did all right for a while until the fuel prices kept climbing. It got so bad it didn’t pay me to make those cross-country runs anymore and that’s where the money is with a rig that big. To use one of them for local deliveries would eat you alive, just the maintenance and fuel. I could barely make the payment on it, so I sold it, got out of it completely. I just got enough to pay off my loan and buy a small four-door Honda Civic. Got a city license, strapped the meter on it and started my new business. Must be some 20 years ago or more.”
“Was it hard to get a G.I. loan for that much money?” Clayton asked.
“No, it was pretty easy. You see one I was in the Army I spent some time over-seas in a combat zone until one day I made the mistake of driving over a landmine that the rag-heads had buried in the roadway over there. I was pretty lucky to come out of that one alive, I only lost a leg. The man next to me got the deep six, the silver bullet right up the kazoo. Came home in a body bag.”
“You mean you have a prosthesis? I would have never guessed it. You certainly can’t tell it, I’m not just saying that either, you don’t even let.”
“My Uncle Sam did a real good job putting me back together, and I collect a 30% disability for the rest of my life to boot.”
Traffic had slowed to a crawl, stopping and starting its way in a slow forward process until it finally ground to complete stop. True to his word Henry took a few detours around the flooded and otherwise blocked streets and reached the Golden griddle.
The restaurant was a nice-looking but old building in a so-so neighborhood. It had a stone and glass front with a large green awning running from the curbside to the double glass doors. It was as nice inside as it was outside. It was a long lunch counter as you came through the front doors with 12 very comfortable stools that faced the open kitchen so the patrons could watch the food being prepared. To the right was a single row of deeply rolled leather booths finished in a light-colored sea mist green. Toward the back were eight tables, all with that same sea mist green linen tablecloth and white accented place setting. The whole interior was set off in a green and white motif. Clearly not a high-end eatery, but still very nice and well thought out, even to the green and white window treatments. Further to the rear for the washrooms and pay phone, a small office and exit door to the ally-way. The lunch crowd was gone, so there were only a few people sitting at the long counter.
“Well, what you think of it? This used to be a mom and pop outfit until one day pop in a pretty little teenage waitress absconded. Took off, flew the coop, anyway, you might say, with all the money in the checking account.”
“What can I say, but the guy must have really been an asshole. But it doesn’t look like she took too much hurt, the place is really very nice.”
“Rumor has it that the Dick head ended up in Alaska somewhere working the oil fields. I hope his balls get frostbite and fall off,” Henry was emphatic.
At that, the waitress appeared. She was a tall thin woman in her late 30s with red hair that needed to stop, a pleasant smile and easy manner. The name Charlene was printed on her name tag.
“We haven’t seen much of you lately, Henry,” she said. �
�Where you been keeping yourself, and he was your friend here?”
“Tag, I’d like you to meet Clayton Crawford, Clayton this here redheaded vamp is called Tag, but her given name is Charlene Brooks.”
“I’m confused,” Clayton said, with a charming smile that matched hers. “How is it that you picked up a name like Tag?”
“It’s like this,” she said. “When I was a little girl my daddy would take me everywhere with him. He’d go to the store and I’d go with him. When he went to get a haircut there I’d be also. I was like a shadow, where he was so was I. Stores, barber shops, car dealers, junkyards, never made no difference. Anyway, I was a daddy’s girl and a real tagalong. So that’s what he called me, Tagalong. And after a little while, just Tag in the name sort of stuck.”
“Well, I’ll be dipped in ginger.” Clayton said. “That’s a nice story. Where is your dad now?”
“Oh, he’s gone now, died of cancer, must be four years ago. Now what we you boys have to drink? Can I start you off with coffee or water? I can pour you a nice cup of tea, you know.” She said with that smile again.
After she left with their drink order the two men studied the menu. “Anyway, after the old man took off with the chick and all the money, it left mama flat broke in more ways than one. She had to go to the bank to cover bills and stay in business. It was really tough sledding for a while there, but things worked out in the long run.”
The Crawford Chronicles - Book 1 Page 5