A Twist Of Noir 589 - J.F. Juzwik

GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN - J.F. JUZWIK

He knew the woman was dead before she hit the ground. Even though her throat had been deeply slashed, the amount of blood still surprised and sickened him. As he watched her fall, he realized he too was being watched. He turned and ran from the darkened alleyway onto the busy thoroughfare, narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic. Horns blared, brakes squealed, but he found safe harbor in an unlocked delivery entrance to one of the many downtown food suppliers’ warehouses. He glanced quickly through a crack in the door, and saw he had not been followed. No one would know that it was he in the alley. He took his handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wiped his face and blotted his shirt and pants to remove the blood that had splattered when she was first cut. Perhaps he should just walk home instead of taking the transit; less noticeable that way. He put his handkerchief back in his pocket so he could discard it at home; leaving it here would only bring disaster to his doorstep. They would be on him within the hour because of the DNA. He decided he would wait a few more minutes before he ventured back out on the street. He reached for his wallet to see if he had enough coins for a coffee from one of the sidewalk dispensers, but found his pants pocket was torn and his wallet was nowhere to be found. He frantically turned all his pockets inside out, but knew exactly what had happened. When he had turned to run down the alley, he had run into a pipe sticking out of the wall and got his suit caught up on it. When he had pulled to free himself, the pocket had torn and his wallet had fallen out.  His wallet, with his identi-card inside, that contained his name, address, photo, fingerprints, DNA strip... Now there would be no just walking away.

*

“You need to take this call, Mo, but you might want to take a sip of that lighter fluid you drink first. This one’s a real cutie. Make sure you don’t cover that screen though; you know the fine for one occurrence is more than you make in a year.”

Betts shuddered, and turned around to watch her boss’s face as he accessed the call on his Identifone. The face on the screen was not something to be taken lightly, or at least not without strong drink, so early in the morning.

“Mo Pollniak,” he said quietly, drinking in the horror that was most definitely not going to be his next client. “What is it you need, ma’am?”

He figured the caller probably was a woman, one whose husband had disappeared and she would be trying to hire him to find the poor sap. There is no way, he thought, that I’m going to find that poor jamoke and return him to her. I wouldn’t return a small farm animal to what’s on the other end of that phone line.

“I need you to find my husband,” she began to sob. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. I thought he was just out drinking and would come home since he always has in the past. But, now it’s been a couple of days and I have no idea where he is. I just know something terrible has happened to him. I know the government kidnaps people and experiments on them and then takes their body parts. I just know that’s what happened to him. I can’t pay you too much, but maybe we could work something out. Know what I mean?”

When Mo saw her wink, his stomach lurched. He decided he’d better terminate this call soon if he wanted to keep his breakfast down.

“Ma’am, trust me, those are just crazy rumors since all the restructuring. There’s no plots against people and all that crap. I’m sure your husband will be home before long. I’m afraid, though, that I am really booked up at present, and don’t have the time to devote to another case. I’m really sorry, but don’t worry. I’m sure everything will work out just fine. Thanks for calling. Bye now.”

Mo quickly disconnected and looked at Betts, who was shaking her head.

“You know something? Being your secretary slash receptionist slash assistant never has a dull moment. I won’t even ask why you didn’t take her case because I saw her too. Hopefully, the government did kidnap her husband and is experimenting on him. That state would certainly be a step up for him. There wouldn’t have been much of a payment either. Although, she sounded like she might like to work out a trade...”

Mo put his finger to his lips.

“Don’t say that out loud, Betts, ever. As it is, I’m going to have a hard time getting that picture out of my mind. Let’s pack it up for the day. Maybe I can drum up some paying clients tomorrow.”

“You’ve been saying that every day for as long as I’ve known you,” Betts smiled. “But, I guess anything can happen. See you in the morning.”

Betts got her purse and lunch tote from her desk drawer and started toward the door when the man walked in. She looked him over from head to toe and suddenly wished she was twenty-five and single again. No one that good-looking and dressed half that well had ever set foot in Mo’s office before, let alone in this area of the sector. Why did it have to be five o’clock?

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re getting ready to close for the day,” she began, but Mo waved her off.

“It’s okay, Betts, I can stay. You go on home and I’ll take care of this gentleman.”

Mo gestured for the man to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk, and held out his hand.

“Mo Pollniak, Investigator, at your service. Now, what is it that I can do for you?”

Mo noticed Mr. Smooth-As-Silk hesitated for a split second before offering his hand. Odd. Not accustomed to being personable. Interesting.

“Mr. Pollniak,” the man began, “my name is Jack Stelling and I am in need of your services. I don’t know if you are aware, but you have quite the reputation for locating runaway people using your instincts alone, where even the most technically-equipped firms have failed. That is why I am here. I need you to locate my younger brother. Let me explain.”

‘Runaway’ people, not ‘missing’. ‘Locate’, not ‘find’. More interesting. He had also called Mo ‘Mr. Pollniak’. Mo told everybody to call him by his first name, but this one? His gut told him to keep some distance there.

The man went on to relate how his younger brother had had a falling out with their father after their mother had died and how he had left for parts unknown. Then, their father had become ill and died too, and the man expressed great concern for his brother’s welfare and safety since it seemed likely he was residing in one of the confinement sectors and living among criminals. He had not been able to find any record of him in any of the public sectors, and didn’t feel he would be able to locate him in such a setting.

‘Locate’ again, not ‘find’. This was bordering on intriguing.

The man handed Mo a photograph of his brother, which looked like it had been copied from something. The young man had little, if any, expression on his face, like an ID shot. He then took out his wallet and placed a handful of 50-dollar bills on Mo’s desk.

“I hope this will cover your basic expenses, Mr. Pollniak. I’ll be keeping in touch with you, and if you should need more, just let me know. I don’t want to upset the rest of my family with this, so I’ll contact you. Do you think you would be in a position to assist me?”

Mo envisioned actually being able to pay Betts some of the salary he owed her and maybe get a new desk chair. There was also what his gut was telling him. There was something really sour about this fella, and Mo was determined to find out just what kind of a game he was playing.

“Certainly, Mr. Stelling, was it? Let me see what I can do for you. Why don’t you give me a call in a couple of days?”

After Mo had settled in for the night, he thought about the meeting he had had with the man who called himself Jack Stelling, and the cash advance he had provided. Mo’s clients never paid in advance; fact was, most of them never paid what they owed him because they couldn’t. The man obviously had money, so why not hire one of the more prestigious investigators with all the high-tech gadgets that Mo wanted no part of? If the damn Identifone wasn't required by law, he wouldn’t even own one of those. He didn’t care so much about being seen, but dealing with some of his potential female clients literally face-to-face at times was a burden in itself. But what exactly was Mr. Slick really after? And where in the hell did he get his shoes? Dad had always said that you could tell about a man by the look of his shoes, and the old man was never wrong about anything. And looking at Mr. Suave’s shoes made Mo shudder.

His father had started the business. Mo remembered his dad as someone who could find anyone, regardless of how hard they tried to disappear. He also had the wisdom to make the decision as to whether he should tell his client he had found their loved one. Sometimes people were better off gone, he used to say, best to let them just stay that way. Damn, how he missed that old man, but better he left this world before it had gone straight to Hell. Things had been bad enough with the petty biases, the rampant crime and the senseless wars. And now? The world was divided into quadrants, each quadrant divided into sectors, everyone carrying around their DNA profiles to protect them--but, from what, he wondered.

All police officers had been reclassified as federal enforcers, prisons had been eliminated and certain sectors had been designated for specific levels of criminals. Those who had committed relatively minor crimes could move freely from a minimum security sector to open sectors during specified daylight hours. If found to violate their curfew, however, they would be transferred to a medium security sector, where the restrictions, as well as the environment, were considerably harsher. The only sentence beyond medium security was death. Mo remembered how prisoners would linger 10, 15, and even 20 years alone in a death row cell before being put out of the state’s misery.

While Mo had never agreed with the age-old practice of wasting the government’s money keeping garbage alive, he had to seriously question the current disposition of those convicted of qualifying crimes. Within 30 days of conviction, the order for execution was carried out. Neat, sweet and incredibly humane--lethal injection having remained the preferred method all these years. He viewed the extra 30 days given the prisoner as a twisted joke. They were supposed to use that time to set their affairs in order, visit with family and/or friends, etc. Trouble was, most of them had no family or friends; at least, none that wanted anything further to do with them. And what kind of ‘affairs’ did a multiple murderer or serial rapist have to set in order anyway? Semi-banishment and a no-appeal death sentence hadn’t made a dent in the crime situation any more than the old ways of life imprisonment and work release programs. Mo figured the world had always been a crazy place, and it sure wasn’t getting any saner with each new day.

Betts went ballistic when Mo handed her the cash from last night’s client. She let him know right away that she was taking some of that money. Betts had worked for his father and stayed on after he died. She got paid when there was something to pay her with, which wasn’t often, but she was a gem and a half, and Mo adored her. He told her to keep it all if she needed it, but just put enough aside to buy him a new desk chair. That’s all he needed. She just laughed, but put all the money in her bag except for one bill. She told Mo she’d order him a new chair today. Life was good.

Mo decided to start his search for the young man with Estelle. Estelle had been sentenced to the minimum security sector at least 47 times in the past couple of years, and she was truly a delight and a veritable fountain of information. If there was anyone that seemed in the least bit out of place, Estelle knew them and knew where to find them. He found her having coffee at one of the food distribution centers. When he showed her the photo, she told Mo the young man looked familiar, like she had seen him once or twice, but she couldn’t recall where or under what circumstances. He had seen the flicker of recognition in her eyes, but let it slide. She would give him whatever information he needed when the time was right, of that he was certain. Estelle told him she would let him know if she saw the young man again. He was sure he wouldn't have to wait long--for the young man’s sake, he hoped not. Something just wasn’t right in all this.

Mo knew connecting with Estelle had been the right thing to do. It didn’t take more than a couple of days before he found an envelope that had been shoved under his office door. It contained the photograph he had left with her and a note that said the man’s name was Daniel Stelling. Estelle wrote Daniel was afraid, but that she had told him Mo could be trusted to help him. She convinced him to meet with Mo in three days at midnight in the warehouse closest to the western dock in her sector. Mo expected the one who called himself Jack Stelling to be following up with him soon, and decided he’d speak with Daniel first to see just how badly he wanted to be ‘located’. He also wanted to find out what it was that scared him, but his gut was telling him he already knew.

As expected, Mr. Concerned Big Brother strolled in the next afternoon to get an update. Mo told him he was following a couple of leads and might have something for him in a few days. He asked him to call in four to five days and he might have something for him. The man left without a word. Mo noticed, different shoes. Different, but he still shuddered. He thought about how he was going to approach Daniel, but decided he’d take an old friend for coffee and a little conversation first. Yes. He would definitely need to do that first.

While on his way, he decided to swing by the minimum security sector and slip Estelle a few bucks. She could always get a few extra rations or maybe some warm blankets. The nights were getting colder and she wasn’t getting any younger. When he arrived at the food distribution center where she received her dinner rations, she was nowhere to be found. That wasn’t like her at all. If there’s one thing you could count on like the sun rising every morning, it was Estelle trying to negotiate an extra portion of whatever they were handing out. He saw a couple of men standing off to the side, and one of them was holding a bag that looked remarkably like hers.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I noticed your bag. A dear friend of mine, a lady by the name of Estelle, had one just like that. Would either one of you, by any chance, know where I might be able to find her?” Mo watched them both go very pale and dreaded their answer. One of them spoke very softly.

“Someone killed her, sir,” he said. “Someone killed her. Cut her throat and left her in the street to die.” He turned away, and the other man with the bag followed him.

Mo knew what he had to do. Need to meet with my old friend, he thought, and I need to do it right now.

*

It was close to midnight when he arrived at the warehouse. He expected the area to be deserted at that hour, but that did nothing to erase his feelings of dread. This was, after all, a minimum security sector with non-violent offenders, but the warehouse area by the dock was close to the line that crossed into the public sector, so anyone could go back and forth unnoticed. He found an unlocked door and went in.

“Daniel?” he called. “It’s me, Mo Pollniak. Estelle’s friend. She said you were willing to meet with me? I mean you no harm, Daniel. I only want to help you if you’ll give me the chance. Daniel?”

Mo felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around so fast he made himself dizzy. He grabbed at the figure in front of him and was ready to take a swing when the figure spoke.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pollniak, I’m sorry if I startled you. I’m Daniel. I’m not armed or anything. Are you okay?”

Mo took a deep breath. This kid really needed lessons on how to greet visitors.

“Yes, Daniel, I’m fine. Is there somewhere we could sit down and talk? Something very peculiar has been going on and I believe you are a part of it. Estelle led me to believe you were in the middle of some trouble, so maybe I can help you if you tell me about it. Alright?”

Daniel immediately felt at ease with Mo. Estelle had told him he could trust this man and he had trusted her. They sat down on a couple of benches near the entrance and Daniel told Mo how he had just finished work and decided to take a shortcut through the alley. He had heard yelling, and when he saw a man and a woman arguing, he had stepped back into the shadows, figuring he’d wait until they left and then continue on his way. But, they didn’t stop. The man hit her, she was crying, and he was calling her a slut and saying since he was a Grade IV Enforcer, no one would believe anything she said against him.

Then she threatened to go to his superiors and talk about something Daniel couldn’t make out, and that's when the man pulled the knife. He started slashing at her hands and face, she started gasping, and then he grabbed her by the hair and ran the knife across her throat. Daniel said he knew he had to get out of there before the man saw him, but as he turned to run to the street, he bumped into something sharp and the man heard and saw him, so he just ran.

He thought he would be okay, but later found his pocket had torn when he bumped into the pipe and his wallet had fallen out there in the alleyway, so the killer knew exactly who he was and where he lived. He said he left his home and all his belongings and had been hiding in the minimum security sector trying to figure out what to do, when he met Estelle. Daniel said she had offered him assistance, and set up the meeting with Mo. Daniel asked if there was something Mo could do to help. Mo was planning to tell the kid he’d accompany him to the Supervising Inspector’s office to tell his side when suddenly all the lights in the warehouse came on. The kid jumped to his feet and immediately got behind Mo, who stood and turned toward the door. Thanks for keeping me front and center, kid, he thought, but I have the feeling I’m not the star attraction this evening.

Mo didn’t like the look of the weapon being pointed at him. He had never actually seen one up close and personal before, but he had read an article about them in one of the government’s bulletin updates. One of those damn new gadgets again; this time, one the Feds were issuing to all their street goons. Mo remembered the accompanying disk containing the cutscene showing the gun being test fired. Fucker’ll take your head off at the knees, he thought. This is not good, not good at all.

“Well, well, well, if it isn't Mr. Pollniak and my missing ‘little brother.’ So you found him after all, I see. Pleased to meet you. My name is Matt Hannow, Government Enforcer Grade IV. How have you been, Daniel? Witnessed any murders lately? I suppose he’s told you everything, Mr. Pollniak. Wait a minute. ‘Maurice,’ isn’t it?”

Mo winced. His mother was the only one on the planet he’d ever permitted to call him by his formal name.

“You’re lucky you have that gun, boyo. It’s Mr. Pollniak to garbage like you.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to be so rude right before you die, is there?”

Mo didn’t care much for where this conversation was going.

“How do you figure to get away with killing us both? I don’t know about this poor kid, but anything happens to me, my secretary will hunt you down like a dog.”

Mo hoped he would piss the guy off enough to keep him talking.

“Why did you kill Estelle? What did that lady ever do to you? The worst thing she’d ever done was shoplift a bit of food and some clothes here and there. And that girl in the alleyway. Why’d you slash her up all to hell? Big strong enforcer like you could’ve taken her in all by yourself.”

“Shut your fucking mouth." He aimed the gun directly at Mo’s face. “Estelle? Your snitch? That piece of crap saw me going into your office and asked me why I was bothering you. She said she knew I was an enforcer, but not in my uniform. What was I trying to pull with a good friend of hers? She was going to tell you who and what I was. Now, I couldn’t have that, could I? You’ll be glad to know she suffered. I made sure of that.

“And the whore in the alley? No great national security breach issue there. She was my twice a week good time until she decided she was going to be my seven day a week good time. There’s no way I was going to let some slut fuck up my marriage or my career. She got what she deserved and now, there’s going to be a terrible mishap. We’re all going to take a walk across the line to the public sector by one of the warehouses there. Then, our star witness here, who I have been trying to find because he’s the alleyway killer--he dropped his ID at the scene--finds Mr. Pollniak here snooping around and shoots him. I happen upon the scene and, in defense of my own life, shoot and kill Mr. Stelling. Thus, a murderer is put down, and I receive a commendation.

“Any questions? No? Good. Now, let’s all just step outside and we’ll cross to the public sector down the street a bit and get this over with. I’m late for an appointment with a medal.”

He motioned with the gun for them to leave the building. Daniel made his way to the door and Mo followed. As they stepped out into the crisp night air, they were suddenly hit with a wall of white light. Mo thought the voice on the speaker was deafeningly loud and most comforting.

“Matt,” the voice said, “put your weapon down and step away from the doorway. Do it now, Matt. Don’t make us put you down.”

Mo grabbed Daniel by the shoulders and pushed him into the flood of lights.

“It’s okay, kid,” he said, “it’s gonna be okay now.”

Matt lowered the gun and shielded his eyes.

“Ron, is that you? Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what brought you here, but I caught the bastard that killed that woman the other night and I was bringing him in. This investigator is a friend of his and was trying to help him get way when I found them.”

“Matt,” Ron said quietly, “there’s no need to keep this up. We heard everything loud and clear. Mr. Pollniak was wearing a transmitter and we have the receiver/recorder out here. The gentleman over here is a reporter for the Daily Bulletin’s Crime Forum, and he came to us with an interesting story. He said one of our own was a murderer and if we wanted proof, all we had to do was to show up and wait. How could you, Matt, with all your years of service on the force? How could you?”

Ron walked up to Matt and took the gun from his hands. Matt looked to Mo like he was going to go into shock.

“What is going on? I’ve been set up? Pollniak, you fucking moron. You’ve got a transmitter/receiver pack? You were wired? That’s the only reason I hired you to begin with, you loser. You don’t use any of the available resources, so you’re basically under the radar. Of all the fucking times to decide to get technical. How did you know anyway? I got to that bitch of a sell-out before she had a chance to tell you anything.”

“Your shoes, my man,” Mo smiled. “It was your shoes.”

“What the fuck? My sh...”

One of the lieutenants shoved Matt Hannow into a lockup van. Mo wondered if he would ever figure out the thing with his shoes. Well, he would have at least 30 days to try, wouldn't he?

He found his reporter friend buying coffee from one of the sidewalk dispensers.

“So, Toody, my friend, what do you say you come over to my office in the morning and help me explain to Betts that this gadget you got for me is going to set me back three months worth of her salary.”

Toody shook his head.

“Are you nuts? I'm sticking with the easy gigs--setting up multiple murderers. Where Betts is concerned, you’re on your own.”

Mo had to laugh. Life was good.

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. She is a member of several writers’ networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at J.F. Juzwik’s Blog. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at J.F. Juzwik - Author.

A Twist Of Noir 390 - J.F. Juzwik

BLIND DATE (starring Christopher Grant’s Deaf Guy) - J. F. JUZWIK

Well, today’s been quite the eventful day. I’m still having a hard time believing it, and I was there.

This morning started off pretty much the same as all my other mornings. I was enjoying my usual morning fare: a nice hot high fat, high cholesterol, high sodium, and let’s not forget all the sugar, delightful meal at my favorite haunt. I’ve been coming here for over 20 years and I’ll be coming for another 20. Small, homey, and most of all, private. In my line of work, confidentiality is king. My clients aren’t in the mood to advertise their meetings with me and I’m not much for social networking.

I was on my third java refill thinking about how sweet it would be get away for a few days. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to run away from something, because I never run away from anything. It attracts attention. It’s just that I recently finished a job that ended up being a bit messier than I like. The client was new, but had passed muster, so I took the gig. But, there were a few more individuals involved than originally agreed upon, so it required a bit more effort on the part of yours truly. Mind you, I was never at a disadvantage, but more usually means noise, and noise means trouble. Now, noise doesn’t bother me any. I’ve been deaf since the day I was born. But, I can see it being made--I can feel it. People running around yelling and banging on stuff? Noise.

I got the situation under control as I always do, but I figured my new client owed me a bonus for the extra sweat he’d caused. Oddly enough, he didn’t see it. I didn’t see or feel any noise while I was persuading him to my way of thinking, though. A nice bit of closure there. True, no actual bonus, but closure still. A job well done.

My point being, I needed some R&R, when an old friend that I haven’t seen in years strolled in and joined me at my table. He and I go way back and are in the same line, but it’s not like a competition thing between us. His old lady inherited big bucks from her last sugar daddy, and he’s set for life. He takes the occasional job just to keep a hand in and stay sharp. Most, he turns down flat regardless, if his gut tells him it’s hinky. You know, I think I trust his gut more than I trust anyone or anything in this whole world. If a gig clears his checkpoint, and he’s strapped, he’ll offer it to me. I usually oblige. A friend in need... and all that crap.

When he gave me the deets on this one, I thought he’d jumped the track. He handed me a letter from the prospective client and told me to just read it and consider. He hadn’t met her yet--yeah, it was a dame--but thought this might have some merit. I nodded, shook his hand, blinked, and he was gone. Probably on his way to catch the Concorde to Paris. Again.

The letter read like an advice column plea. It seems a Miss Makafee had decided it was time to seek a better half. She didn’t trust computers--a Big Brother’s Always Watching complex--so she joined a mail order type service. She provided a complete description of herself (blonde, blue eyes, 5 foot and 2 inches, 110 pounds) and listed her favorite activities as watching old movies, drinking hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and walking in the rain.

For a quick sec, I had the urge to marry this hottie myself. It passed.

The response was from a chap who claimed to be a rugged six footer, medium build, with dark hair and eyes. Said he loved old movies and fantasized about them holding hands sipping a mug of cocoa. They set up a meet.

Well, knock me into a week from Thursday. The mope shows up, and he’s 5 feet if he’s an inch. Medium build? Compared to what? A Frigidaire? Dark eyes? Maybe. If you could find them under all those bags hanging around ’em. She didn’t get a chance to quiz him in the likes and dislikes department because when he saw her, he started to laugh. Didn’t say a fucking word to this babe, just laughed, like it was all some sick prank. Little honey starts tearing up, runs out of the joint and catches a cab home. She’s got his number, knows where he lives, and that’s where I come into the picture. Well, not exactly me; it was my guy, but you already know that part.

So, she’s hurt and all, but more than that, she’s pissed all to Hell. She wants him ‘eliminated’. Her word--not mine. Classy dame is my guess. One hitch, though. She’s light on the green. Now, I’ve got as much heart as the next fella, but I don’t get a tax break for charity work. Still, we could meet and see where it went. I don’t take payment in trade, but maybe this chick’s got something I could use. Never know.

Got a bud to take her a note to meet me at the diner at 4, cause 4 is too late for lunch and too early for dinner. If the whole thing turns sour, all I’m out is a cup of Joe, tops.

So, I get there early, and I’m on my fourth refill and she walks in the door carrying the white rose I sent along with the note. First thought that crossed my mind was how could that son of a bitch laugh at her. She took my breath away.

I mean--literally--I couldn’t catch a breath. Five foot and two? Maybe. If she could actually straighten herself upright. There’s a medical name for that, but it escapes me. Saw somebody once with that condition in an old Boris Karloff movie, though. She did have blonde hair alright--or, at least a couple of tufts of it on the right side of her head. I think one of her legs was shorter than the other by a few inches. That might have accounted for the fact that she kinda walked sideways, like, take a step and slide, take a step and slide. You get the picture.

She made it over to my table during my fifth refill, sat down, waved the rose at me, and smiled a funny little crooked smile. In my head, I was counting my meager blessings and wondering what the fuck I was doing there. But the answer soon became very clear. When she winked at me with her one good eye, I knew. I thought about the basic philosophy I’ve lived my whole life with. You make do with what you’ve been given and it’s got to be enough.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a tax break on this one, but bullets are cheap, and somebody really owed her. By the way, I sprang for an early dinner, too.

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology. She is a member of several writers’ networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at J F Juzwik’s Blog. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at J.F. Juzwik - Author - Published Novels.

A Twist Of Noir 388 - J.F. Juzwik

THE GOOD NEIGHBOR - J. F. JUZWIK

Hello. I’m so happy you decided to stop by to visit. I’m always interested in meeting new people. Please sit down, dear, and I’ll make you a cup of hot cocoa. That’s always a nice treat on a chilly winter’s day.

Let me begin by telling you a bit about myself. My complete Christian name is Henrietta Marjorie Corcoran. I am 62 years old and am a retired school teacher. I was married to Mr. Kenneth David Corcoran for going on 40 years. He passed on, oh my, it’s already been 10 years now. He was such a good man--responsible, hard-working, honest, and so helpful to anyone who needed it. We bought the house on Maple Trail a year after we were married and the mister and I lived there together up until he died, and then I stayed on alone right up until all this bad business with the neighbors.

How’s your cocoa, dearie? You ready for a refill? You’re alright then, so I’ll continue.

Mr. Corcoran had always taken pride in his garden. The problem really began when his arthritis took a real hold on him. He was always in a terrible amount of pain whenever he tried to use his hands and he got so he just decided to give up, I think. He stopped tending his flowers and vegetables and the darn weeds just took over and turned it ugly. I never cared much for gardening, so I did the only thing I could do to rid the yard of that ugly patch.

After I disposed of Mr. Corcoran, I paid some high school boys a few dollars to dig up all those unsightly growths and set them out for the trash men to see to. Mr. Corcoran fit nicely in our deep freeze out in the shed so it really wasn’t any trouble at all. Everyone else in the cove had kept their lots up--I couldn’t let ours be the exception.

Life went along swimmingly until that terrible woman moved in next door. My good friend, Helen who had lived in that house, had fallen down her basement stairs a couple of months before, and her son sold it on the first offer. He hadn’t even met the woman who bought his mother’s house--did it all with lawyers. That’s how communities go to the dogs, you see. There’s no direct contact between buyer and seller and you think a decent human being will now be residing in your dead mother’s home, but instead, what moves in is just plain trash, pure and simple.

It’s funny how you take care of one problem and along comes another right behind it. Helen was as sweet as pie until she fell under the spell of the drink. She stopped trimming her grass and bushes and when she put out her cans on pick up day, they overflowed onto the sidewalk. That’s when I decided she needed a reminder of how a good neighbor keeps up with their own. She wasn’t able to keep up with our conversation so I decided she should probably surrender responsibility for the house. The stairs were quick and quiet.

When her son came and did all the trimming, I thought things would get back to the way they should be, but then he sold it to that horrible woman. Cars parking all over the front yard and on the sidewalk during her Saturday night get-togethers. That’s what she called them when I went over to welcome her to the neighborhood and try to explain how things were. She laughed at me--at me--and called me awful names and tried to push me out the door. This was not a fit individual for our community and measures needed to be taken.

When she turned to go back into the kitchen, I picked up the knife that was laying on top of some boxes. They’re very useful for cutting through packing tape, you know. Anyway, I pushed the knife in sort of off center toward her left shoulder and she went down without a sound. It wasn’t hard either. That was just the right spot. But, how was I to know one of her men from last night’s get-together was still there and saw the whole thing. Most unfortunate.

And so. Here we are now. They put me in this cramped little room to wait. All this time to wait. For what. For them to give me a shot so they can put me to sleep like you do to a dog or a cat or something. And why? All because I tried to do the right thing. Listen, hon, when you tell my story, please make sure you let everyone know that I was only trying to keep things clean and safe in my community. That’s all. Just trying to be a good neighbor.

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology. She is a member of several writers’ networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at J F Juzwik’s Blog. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at J.F. Juzwik - Author - Published Novels.

A Twist Of Noir 224 - J.F. Juzwik

BYLINE - J.F. JUZWIK

Originally published at CROOKED, April of 2009

Ralph noticed the room was chilly, and sparsely furnished. He supposed that it was probably intentional on the part of the decorator since no one actually spent very much time in here while they were waiting. The waiting – now, that was the worst part. Listening to the ticking of the clock, wondering what it will feel like when the chemicals start coursing through your veins, wondering what it’s like when you cross over to the other side... In anticipation of the commencement of that final journey, Ralph leaned back against the splintered slats of the wooden chair that had been provided for him, gazed indifferently at the colorless walls, and his thoughts began to drift back to where it all began.

*

Ralph Debumarsey picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and took a long, deep drag. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and blew the smoke out of his mouth in quick, short puffs. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his face as it shone brightly through the window directly in front of his desk. He had opened the curtains all the way, as he always did when he was writing his column. His column? There’s a laugh. No such thing as ‘his column’ here in Swaying Falls. The columns were written, the advertisements were strategically placed, and the local news was ready to roll. Anonymity seemed to be the catchword in this burg, Ralph thought, God forbid the folks knew the reporter’s name. Like his having a byline would violate national security... And, what was with calling this outpost of the damned ‘Swaying Falls’? First and foremost, no falls of any size or shape were visible for hundreds of miles. As far as the swaying crap was concerned, trying to figure that out made Ralph’s head hurt.

Feeling the sun on his face while he was typing helped him to fantasize that he was somewhere else, anywhere else, preparing the final draft of the hottest story his newspaper had ever run. Next to him was a FAX machine that he would use to send it on to his editor, who was waiting on his end, planning to run it down to the presses to make the midnight deadline. His story would headline the morning edition and the calls and telegrams would start pouring in as soon as the paper hit the streets. He would be congratulated for getting the scoop no one else could or had, and his colleagues would regard him with awe at the tremendous personal risks he had taken to get the story in the first place. Just another day in the life of a newsman, he would respond to them all, just another normal day, and he would smile that haunting smile of his, get into his Jag, and head out to his next assignment. Maybe a nuclear missile site in Beirut? Perhaps a revolutionary camp in Central America? Or what about right here in downtown Swaying Falls covering a bank robber who was wearing a bomb and holding a pregnant teller hostage in a second story suite of the Main Street Hotel? Yeah. Uh-huh. Right. Ralph began to laugh out loud, and then caught himself. Crazy people laugh to themselves out loud, he thought, and I’m not quite there yet; the day was still young, though.

He looked at the paper in his typewriter, and wasn’t terribly surprised to see it was still blank. The ‘hot’ story he had to crank out in time to meet his editor’s (the owner of the town’s only general store, Chester Mankowsky) deadline (whenever Chester decided to close the store and go home for dinner) so as to appear in the first edition (the only edition, that became available whenever Chester finished running off a couple hundred copies on his two hundred year old printing press) was difficult to put into words. After all, it wasn’t every day that Spengler’s Feed Store began to carry a brand of feed previously available only in the state of New York. What a coup for Jeremy Spengler and frankly, for Swaying Falls. That will put us on the map, Ralph thought. Hopefully, anyway, since we aren’t on any maps at present. He had to laugh again at that. Well, at least he could still laugh. He figured if the day ever came when he couldn’t find any humor in how ridiculous this town and even himself were, he’d probably end up in the loony bin. Not that that would be such a drastic change...

Ralph decided to heat up another cup of instant on his hot plate. Mrs. Franovsky technically didn’t allow hot plates in her rooming house, but she had never said anything to Ralph about it. He was sure Mrs. Franovsky kinda had the hots for him. Kinda. Maybe? No. Not really. Truth was, Ralph kept peculiar hours mostly, and his esteemed landlady wasn’t too crazy about climbing all those stairs to reach Ralph’s loft to say much of anything to him. Loft? There was another laugh. Ralph’s digs were what had once been a large attic used for storage. The ceiling was level almost all the way around, but in one of the corners, there was a low spot where Ralph had to duck down to get to his small bookcase. He wasn’t sure why it had been built that way since the roof did slant in from the outside in that spot and made the house look lopsided, but, since beggars couldn’t be choosers, he simply adjusted. After all, it was a clean, quiet place to live and he was able to pretty much keep to himself. Not that Swaying Falls was exactly a real estate developer’s dream.

Most of the folks lived in small pre-fab homes scattered in and around town, or in the town’s one apartment complex. Right. Apartment complex? It was one building with eight units in it. While they were cozy, two-bedroom apartments, they were inhabited primarily by twenty-something’s in transition. Their transition being having graduated from high school and not really having any plans to attend community college or begin a career in the family business in town, whatever that may be. They wanted to get out from under mom and pop and have their own place so they could come and go at all hours. They would drive the two plus hours to the city to find work where they could make a decent salary, then come back to Swaying Falls and pay next to nothing in rent and living expenses. This was done, not for any noble reason like saving to buy a home and settle there and begin to give back to their community. Oh, no. True, they did save what money they didn’t spend on liquor and partying, but that was so they could afford what they considered to be a real apartment in the city. Once they could afford to move, they did just that, at record-breaking speed frankly, and neither looked nor came back. This town was dying, Ralph knew that. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot anybody could do about it.

*

He had had his chance a lifetime ago. He had been young, had saved his money and had left Swaying Falls for the big city life and his dream of a career as a newspaper reporter. He possessed good instincts and a flare for the dramatic. He knew he would have to start at the bottom and work his way up, but all he needed was the chance to prove himself to an editor and he would be on his way. When he first arrived, he had picked up a newspaper and checked out the classifieds for a room to rent. He was surprised to find how many there were; most of which were in the most expensive section of the city. Since he had his own car and didn’t have to be concerned with public transportation, he decided he would seek a place to stay in one of the gated communities that skirted the downtown area. Every room that he checked out though was inside the glitzy home of a widow or a divorcee, who was looking for just a little bit more than a paying border. Never really having pictured himself as a ‘boy-toy’, Ralph had felt extremely uncomfortable during each application process. Whether he was employed or had a steady paycheck always seemed irrelevant. He could feel their hungry eyes groping every inch of him as he tried to present himself as a decent, hardworking, moral human being. He envisioned being defiled by these Harpies in the dead of night and then locked in his room, never to be seen or heard from again. Or, at least annoyed when they tried to show him the film of their first, and only, failed screen test from 20 years ago while he was trying to do his laundry.

Ralph thought life had beaten these ladies up pretty badly. After meeting the seventh or eighth one (he’d lost count), their faces, with the drawn-on eyebrows, lopsided fake eyelashes, surgically-implanted cheekbones and chins, and lips that had received about four too many injections that week, became a blur. It was as if they were all the same woman who just beamed herself from kitchen to kitchen throughout the subdivision just waiting for him to arrive. After a couple of days of this, he just knew he couldn’t swallow any more vanilla-flavored coffee and scones, or look at any more polyester jumpsuits with open-toed spiked heels and toenails painted with blood-red polish and dotted with glitter. Maybe this was not the way to go, he decided; time to look for a ’Y’.

He found a clean, quiet room at the back of the second floor. It didn’t take him long to realize that while this was a starting point for him, he’d better make sure it stayed just that. This was not somewhere he needed to remain for long. The other residents were all ex-wannabe something or others, and Ralph believed they were destined to remain that way, but not him; he was different. He was going to set the print world on fire with his dynamic reporting style and controversial commentaries. All he needed was an ‘in’. He would take any position that was available in the newsroom – anything at all, even errand boy to the big shots. Wouldn’t take them long to see what he had to offer. Wouldn’t take long at all...

Eight months later, Ralph was still in his quiet room at the back of the second floor at the “Y”. He had become quite close, in fact, with some of the ex-wannabe something or others. Most of them weren’t all that bad, really. When Ralph’s savings dried up because he couldn’t seem to get on at any of the local papers, a couple of them hooked him up with a position at the burger joint on the corner. It only paid minimum wage, but it wasn’t like Ralph had to spend any of his meager paycheck on gas to get to work. A couple of minutes’ worth of walking and he was there. On his off days, he stayed in his room and slept mostly. What was the point of staying up, after all. No newspaper, periodical, magazine or flyer shop in the city would hire him. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t get a job as a reporter. He couldn’t even get a job mopping floors in any of the media buildings.

Ralph didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. He had personally walked into the office of every editor of every publication in the city. No one had tried to stop him as he made his way through the maze of secretaries and reporters, and as he got closer to the editors’ offices, the excitement in the air was palpable. He could hear the tick, tick, tick of the typewriters, phones constantly ringing on every desk, men and women literally running with articles in their hands trying to meet deadline. He could picture himself as one of them, a pencil behind one ear, a smoke behind the other, sipping on his twelfth cup of stale coffee, his editor putting everything on hold waiting for his brilliant headline copy... By the time he arrived at each editor’s door, his head was swimming. This was the life he was born to live – this was his destiny. Unfortunately, no one had let any of the editors in on that little tidbit of information.

Every ‘interview’ was a carbon copy of the previous one. Ralph would knock on the door and a voice would tell him to ‘come on in’. Friendly, but professionally detached. The voice of someone who controlled the dissemination of daily city-, state-, and world-wide occurrences. Ralph had never met or spoken with an editor, but he just knew they were the heart and soul of the newsroom. They decided who covered what and when, and how much of it actually hit the streets. So much responsibility – so much power. Ralph wasn’t sure if he should sit down or remain standing once he entered, but decided to take his cue from the man he came to see. Once he did enter, however, it didn’t quite turn out the way he had anticipated.

In every newsroom, in every editor’s office, he encountered a basically well-groomed, but extremely psychotic individual, sitting behind a desk covered with several stacks of papers at least 15 inches high each. When Ralph would walk in, the man would glance up with a look of utter confusion on his face, and say ‘what’. Interestingly enough, it was not spoken as a question, but more on the order of a brutal declarative. Once Ralph regained his composure, his response was always the same. He would state, quietly and respectfully, that he was a fledgling reporter looking for an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. He would begin to explain how that had been his dream since he was a youth, and, it was at that point, that Ralph would receive the universal sign of dismissal – the sweep of the raised hand in his direction – and the man behind the desk would retreat back into one of his stacks of papers. Ralph figured it was a bad time; too close to deadline perhaps, so he alternated days and times and kept trying, but to no avail. After months of what he perceived as beating his head against a wall, Ralph decided it was time to go home, and crawl inside the black hole that was Swaying Falls.

Maybe he could speak to Chester Mankowsky about taking him on as a reporter, and about possibly spicing up the town’s paper. While it would be difficult to come up with anything newsworthy there, it would be a beginning – a launching pad of sorts. Perhaps the timing just wasn’t right – planets not aligned right, or some such other thing, Ralph wasn’t certain. But, one thing he knew for sure. He had given it his best shot and since nothing was clicking for him, he’d just go back home and bide his time. He’d save his money, and head for the city lights again. Only this time, he’d probably skip the “Y”, with all its resident losers. There was no way he was going to be the backdoor boy-toy of some divorcee either. Maybe he’d just save up a bit more and he’d get his own apartment or maybe buy a condo. Give it a few months, maybe a year, Ralph thought, and I’ll get on with a paper. I’ll be a bit older, have more experience under my belt, yeah. I’ll just bide my time...

*

Twenty years worth of biding his time later, there he sat. Shortly after Ralph’s homecoming, Chester did take him on, but was adamant about having him forego the byline thing. His was a newspaper of, by, and for the town, and it somehow just didn’t seem moral to try to take credit for sharing important information with one’s family and friends. Ralph knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Chester was completely crazy, but, since beggars can’t be choosers, he decided against an altercation. Nothing would be accomplished; he was certain of that, and no sense making an enemy out of his only employment opportunity in the tri-state area.

And so, he still sat, staring at a blank piece of paper in his typewriter, still trying to figure out how to spark up the feed story. Lord knows it was a hot topic thereabouts and once word got around that was the headline, the papers would be off Chester’s shelves like hotcakes. Ralph decided to wait until he had a second strong cup of coffee. Maybe that would get the juices flowing and he could dig up some shred of enthusiasm for this story. He seriously doubted that, but anything was worth a try. This article did have to be written, and it did have to be written today. Best to finish it and run it over to Chester’s. That way, he could stop thinking about it and head over to that new place that opened just outside of town.

He had heard it was a pretty decent place to eat; of course, anything was a step up from Molly’s Diner. Molly MacDill was a decent enough dame, and Ralph didn’t really have anything against her, but that diner of hers was something right out of a bad movie. Ralph ate there, like most of the townsfolk, but that was because it was the town’s only eatery. Ralph however, preferred to get most of his meals from Molly’s on a to-go basis. The place was usually packed with the I-can’t-wait-to-leave-this-dump twenty-somethings chattering on and on about their hopes and dreams and plans – yes, plans. They actually had plans, and Ralph hated them. He hated each and every one of them with their plans to leave Swaying Falls, get high-paying jobs in the city, buy townhouses and condos, live the good life, live a real life...

Ralph finished his second cup of instant, lit another smoke, sat down at the typewriter and began. No sense in agonizing over it anymore, he thought, just write it. Nobody’s going to read it anyway since Jeremy Spengler already bragged to everyone within earshot of his store’s doorway about carrying the big city brand of feed. He pulled the paper out of the typewriter, folded it and shoved it in his pants pocket and headed over to Chester’s. Drop the article off and head on out to have dinner, he thought, shaking his head in disgust; this was going to be yet another magical night.

Ralph took Main Street going north toward Tippettville. He kept checking both sides of the road looking for the new joint. He couldn’t recall the name, but since it would be the only other place to eat in that part of the county, he was sure he’d recognize it. Tippettville was the closest town to Swaying Falls, but all they had was a soda fountain in their drug store. You could get a burger and some chips and maybe a root beer float, but chances were slim to none of getting a complete meal. Lights appeared in the distance on his left as he crossed the bridge over Wildon’s Creek and as he got closer, Ralph could see the place. The sign was on the roof of the building and flashed the name in alternating red, green, and yellow lights, some of which had already burned out. My, my, my, he started to laugh, another high class joint to be sure. The name, when all the lights came on together, appeared to be Soldano’s. Ralph wasn’t sure what the significance of having the different colored lights was, but there were a lot of cars in the lot, and as far as he was concerned, that was recommendation enough.

The place was pleasant enough, and Ralph recognized several couples from Swaying Falls. He figured the others had to be from Tippettville, since no one in their right mind would drive 50 plus miles from surrounding towns or from the city to come and eat here in Nowheresville, USA. It was classier than Molly’s though; they had a hostess here who seated you. Ralph hadn’t been in a restaurant that had a hostess in years. Maybe tonight wasn’t going to be all bad after all. He was shown to his table, which was in the back of the dining room and next to a table at which a young man sat, alone. Ralph noticed the young man was looking around and jotting things down in a notebook, sipping his iced tea, taking a bite of his meatloaf, a quick drag off his cig, and then jotting again. Ralph had never seen him before and wondered what he was up to.

“Excuse me”, Ralph tapped the young man on the shoulder. “Could I ask you something?”

The young man replied, “Sure, something you need?”

“Oh, no”, Ralph continued, “I was just wondering. I don’t mean to be nosey, but I noticed you looking around and writing things down and I was just wondering if you were one of those, like, food critics or health department people, or something like that?”

The young man smiled broadly.

“Oh, I wish I were something that important. No, actually, I’m a reporter.”

Oh, great, Ralph thought, a freakin’ twelve year old Clark Kent.

“A reporter? For what publication?”

The young man looked down and shook his head.

“Well, none to speak of at the moment. You see, I have always wanted to be a reporter for a newspaper or a magazine, and I haven’t had much luck getting on with the city papers, so I thought maybe if I tried some small town papers, they might give me a chance to prove myself. I don’t know what kind of stuff goes on in this area, so I thought I’d start with the restaurants and write up a sample column rating them. The problem is, this is the only restaurant around for quite a ways, except for the small diner over in Swaying Falls. Are you familiar with Swaying Falls?”

Ralph felt stomach acid creeping up into his throat. Boy, am I ever familiar with Swaying Falls.

“Yes”, Ralph said quietly, “I live there, and you’re never going to believe this, but I’m the reporter for the local paper there.”

Ralph could see the change come over the young man’s face. He was impressed alright – sitting up straighter and eager to hear more. Oh-so-eager.

“Wow, a reporter? A real reporter? This is fantastic. Oh, what am I thinking? My name’s Basil. Basil Hamner.”

He extended his hand and Ralph did the same.

“Ralph Debumarsey here. I report all the news in Swaying Falls. I’ve got kind of an exclusive territory there. You should come by sometime and I’ll show you an issue. Right now, it’s just local stuff, but I’ve got plans to go county-wide and then cover state events. I’ve just got some details to work out.”

Ralph hoped Basil wouldn’t ask too many questions about his plans to go ‘global’ with the Swaying Falls newsletter.

“Wow”, Basil had turned his chair to face Ralph’s table. “I would love to come by sometime. I know it’s in the early stages, but I’d still like to see your operation, your office, you know. Do you think it would be possible for me to accompany you on your rounds some time or when you go out on a call? I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise. It’s just that I’ve never met a real reporter before and I know I could learn so much from you if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along. Not all the time, mind you, I wouldn’t want to bother you, but just sometime? Do you think that would be at all possible, sir?”

‘Sir’. This young man called him ‘sir’. No one had called Ralph ‘sir’ in..., well, no one had ever called Ralph ‘sir’. It felt really good in an odd sort of way. He wondered what the young man would call him if he accompanied Ralph on his ‘rounds’ to the grocer to pick up that week’s specials, to the motel to pick up that week’s continental breakfast menu, to the elementary school to pick up that week’s dessert offerings... Not only that, Ralph couldn’t wait to have Basil tag along with him to his ‘office’ while he wrote his columns. He wondered if the young man would knock himself out on the lower ceiling while climbing over Ralph’s bed so he could sit next to him at his desk. My God, Ralph thought, what the hell am I going to do now?

“Gee, Basil, why don’t you let me have your number and I’ll give you a call and we’ll set something up, okay? Right now, uh, temporarily, I’m working out of a small boarding house attic. That’s a laugh, huh? Anyway, it’s cozy and gives me a place to hang my hat and write undisturbed. When I get a hot lead, I’ll call you and we can meet. It wouldn’t take you long to catch up with me. So, if you’re able to pick up and go on a second’s notice, because that’s how the newspaper game operates, we’ll play it by ear. What do you say?”

Ralph hoped this pain-in-the-ass-eager-beaver would accept him at his word.

“That would be fantastic,” Basil was beside himself with excitement.

He wrote his mobile number on a napkin and handed it to Ralph. Basil dropped some bills on the table and put on his jacket.

“I’ve got to get going, got some calls to make, but you call me any time, day or night, and I’ll be there in a flash. Thanks so much, Ralph. Uh, is it okay if I call you Ralph?”

There in a flash, Ralph thought. Kid must be pissing himself with excitement by now.

“Absolutely”, Ralph said, “wouldn’t have it any other way. You take care, and I’ll be in touch. ‘kay?”

Ralph would swear the kid was glowing as he exited the restaurant – yeah, glowing. Ah, the fervor of the young. He remembered the passion of his youth - one with which he used to view life in general, but now? Well, maybe I can find something to interest this kid, he smiled to himself, something a little more exciting than Spengler’s New York City feed. But where?

Ralph finished his meal, which wasn’t half bad actually, took part of the tip the junior copy boy had left and added it to his own, and left a fiver on top of his bill and made his way outside. He decided this was going to be an all-nighter, trying to figure out some way to keep this Basil character believing he was a real newspaper reporter, and not what he really was: a broken down, old, never-used-to-be, nobody. But, first things first. Ralph realized he had to seriously pee, and no way was he going back inside just to use their bathroom. People knew when you did that, just went in places to use the toilet, and they’d talk about it after you left. He decided to head around to the back of the building and just relieve himself in nature’s own backyard. No one would see him back there, so what harm could it do?

The man came out of nowhere, stumbling, and mumbling something about God and white sand beaches. Ralph was just finishing zipping up his pants when the man shoved him up against the wall. The man smelled like he vacationed in the sewer, and Ralph was terrified he’d faint, and then the man would touch him or worse while he was out. That picture was too much for Ralph to accept without a fight, and he pulled himself up firmly on his feet, grabbed this creature that crawled out of the swamp, and pushed him away with all the strength he could dredge up. A terrible cracking noise filled the air and seemed to echo throughout the valley. Ralph looked down and braced himself, expecting to have to dodge a fist, but the man didn’t move. A pool of blood was beginning to form around his head and shoulders. Even in the dim light, Ralph could see the man’s partially open eyes were fixed in a vacant stare.

“Oh my God”, Ralph gasped, “hey? Are you okay? You pushed me and I couldn’t let you get away with... I thought you were going to... Hey! Answer me!”

Ralph began to nudge the man with his foot, but still the man remained still. Damn, Ralph shuddered, I’ve killed him. He saw part of the large rock the man’s head had hit when he fell and noticed the pool of blood was getting bigger. I’d better not get any of this on me, he thought, I’ve got to get out of here, got to think. Ralph looked around and not seeing anyone, went back, sat in his car and lit a butt from his ashtray. Got to call the Sheriff and just explain, Ralph was telling himself, I mean, it was just an accident. The guy’s probably a nobody, clothes all messed up, hasn’t had a bath in God-knows-when, hanging out by the dumpster in back of a restaurant... Wait a minute! Wait just a freakin’ minute! Why should I set myself up for a lot of grief here, he thought, going to the Sheriff’s office, telling the same story a hundred times, and what am I going to get for all this? Absolutely nothing but a headache and a sleepless night, and tomorrow morning, nobody’s going to remember any of this. But, now, if I went inside the restaurant and hollered for somebody to call the Sheriff because I had just witnessed a, shall we say, murder out back, but can’t identify the killer, well, things might turn out a bit different then. Sure, I’d have to still go to the Sheriff’s office and tell the same story a hundred times, but tomorrow morning, everybody would know about it because I’d go home and write about it for the paper. Oh, yeah, Chester, then you’d sell your weight in papers with that story on the front page, and I would have to put my name on that one so everyone would know it happened to me.

Making sure no one was around, Ralph went back to where the man lay, still bleeding. He looked down and spoke quietly.

“Look, you shouldn’t have come at me like that, but what’s done is done. I can’t afford to screw up what little of a life I have over a stupid accident. Besides, we’ll find out your name and you’ll become kind of immortal when I identify you in my column. Can you even hear me, or are you all the way dead?”

Ralph continued to look down at the man for a moment longer, and tried to figure out how he was going to handle this. He grabbed his own shirt and pulled so as to tear one of his sleeves. This happened, he would say, when he struggled with the assailant. He smudged his face with some dirt, messed up his hair and tore one of his jacket pockets. Yes, indeedy, this will work, he thought, this will work just fine. He started to yell and stomp and pound on the wall at the back of the building, then ran around the corner and in the main entrance, breathing heavily, and flung himself on the candy counter at the front. Everyone in the place was looking at him now. Here we go. Lights, camera...

This was the way it should have been all along, everyone crowding around him, patting him on the back, asking him if he was alright, trying to counsel him after his traumatic ordeal. Ralph was in his element now. He had taken the hands of the cashier in his and, holding back a tear, asked her to call the Sheriff because there was an unfortunate soul out back who had been murdered, yes, he did say murdered, right in front of his very own eyes. She had gone all pale and looked about to keel over, but had managed to hold herself together long enough to pick up the phone and call the Tippettville Sheriff’s Office.

Ralph had never met anyone from Tippettville, with the exception of his newly acquired admirer, Basil, and this lawman of theirs was a real piece of work. He arrived around ten or fifteen minutes after the cashier had called him, and Ralph had been directed to a chair and was sipping a warm glass of some kind of bitter purple wine the manager had given him. As soon as he entered, everyone pointed to Ralph, their hands trembling, all remembering the life and death struggle the two men had just engaged in; the one sipping wine inside who had obviously triumphed over the attacker and the other one lying behind the building who obviously had not.

“I’m Sheriff Dan Posner, from over Tippettville. Someone called in something about an assault?”

He looked over at Ralph, who was holding up his hand.

“Sir, I asked them to call you since we’re closer to your town. There’s a man out in back of this building, dead, I believe, who was murdered by this man I fought with, but he pushed me down and then ran away.”

Ralph believed that was a good start; not too hysterically told, fairly sequential, and vague enough not to trip him up later. The Sheriff motioned for him to remain seated and went out back to investigate. He returned and used his cell phone to call for the town doctor and the funeral home’s hearse to come and pick up the body. He walked over to Ralph, who finished the glass of odd-tasting wine with a shudder.

“Listen, fella, I know you’ve been through a lot this evening, but I’m going to need you to accompany me to the office and give me a statement. Maybe you remember more than you think you do, and maybe you could give us a description of the guy who did that out there. Then again, maybe not, but sometimes there are small details that people think don’t mean anything and they can end up being very helpful. Do you need to see a doctor first? Are you able to drive over, or would you like to leave your car here for the time being and ride over with me?”

Ralph knew he had died and gone to heaven. It’s about time I was treated like I was somebody, he thought, it’s about freakin’ time.

“No, sir”, he tried very hard not to laugh, “I’m able to drive and I don’t believe I’ve been injured. Not like that poor man outside. I don’t know what provoked that confrontation out there, but it’s all just so tragic. Certainly, I’ll follow you over and provide whatever assistance I can.”

Ralph took great pleasure in all the pats on the back he received on the way out, and especially enjoyed the winks he received from a couple of the women. He couldn’t wait to get all this over with and get back to his room so he could write it all up and get the article, his article, over to Chester, so a special edition of the paper could be run. This time, it would be a special edition because it wouldn’t have an anonymously written copy. This time, Ralph’s name would be all over it.

When he arrived home, he immediately got the hot plate going since this was most definitely an occasion for a hot cup of instant. His time in the Sheriff’s office, providing his statement, had been brief, which surprised him. Ralph had thought he would be given the third degree, as it were, but to his delight, the officer didn’t ask him too many questions. It was more a matter of ‘do you take cream and sugar in your coffee, here’s a legal pad and a pen, just write down what happened and sign and date it, and you’re free to go’.

Ralph was stunned. True, he hadn’t murdered anybody; well, killed maybe, but not on purpose, but still, somebody ended up dead. He wondered why that didn’t seem to be too big of a deal. Possibly, the man was homeless and didn’t have any family or friends as Ralph had originally thought, but one would think that wouldn’t matter to law enforcement. After all, a killed person was still a killed person, regardless of their station in life, right? Evidently not here in Tippettville. Odd behavior on the part of a policeman to be sure, but certainly beneficial to Ralph. He had been able to get out of there lickety-split, and would have plenty of time to write his column and get it to Chester so he could get the edition printed by breakfast-time. Residents of Swaying Falls began their meandering right after they had their morning coffee and oat flakes and Chester’s was where the congregating commenced. Everyone would see the paper and Ralph’s column and then they would know – then they would all know.

Ralph wondered if he should call the kid and let him in the big scoop. Yes, but after the paper hit the street, definitely after. He’d tell Basil he’d been traumatized and needed to rest, but of course, the second he’d arrived home, he knew he had to get the column in the hopper. That’s what a reporter does, he’d say, get it down regardless of what you’ve been through. That would impress the hell out of the little boot-licker, but it would also keep him out of Ralph’s hair.

Ralph plumped the pillows on his daybed, put his hands behind his head, laid down and took a deep breath. He closed the curtains by his desk, but the sun was still shining brightly through, although he didn’t care. He was exhausted and it felt great. Sitting at his typewriter to write this column – his column – had been the easiest thing he had ever done. The words flowed smoothly and when it was completed, he didn’t even bother to go over it to make any edits. He could feel the power of it as he held it in his hands. This was what he had been waiting for these past twenty some odd years; this was the beginning, and there was no way Ralph was going to let this slip away from him. No freakin’ way.

*

Swaying Falls is alive and prospering now solely because of me, Ralph laughed out loud, and didn’t care who heard him this time. Coming home to his new digs at the downtown hotel was just another reminder of all he had done for the sorry-ass residents of this fly-speck on the way to oblivion. Those in transition weren’t transitioning anymore. They were putting down roots, and expanding the family businesses. Funny how murder draws them all in, he thought; one would think murder in, and around, a town would drive folks away. Well, ‘one’ would be oh-so-wrong.

It occurred to Ralph that, after the third or fourth one, this whole process was getting easier and less stressful. The latest was what, number six? Let’s see, he thought, first there was the disgusting creep behind Soldano’s, which technically was an accident. If only he could have known the phenomenal effect his passing had on Ralph’s career. As it turned out, the weirdo had been homeless, and no friends or relatives could be located. Those who had been in the restaurant the night it happened had all contributed so he could have a decent burial with a headstone. Ralph, naturally, had been the most generous donor.

Then, there was the old broad in the support shoes, toting the canvas grocery bag, who needed help climbing the stairs in the rundown tenement in which she lived. Ralph had helped her climb the stairs alright; almost made it to the top too, before she tripped over that heavy canvas bag she’d been dragging. Too bad, and messy too. Nasty way to die.

The jogger in the park had been next. He had been hydrating himself from a full flask he carried. Ralph had guessed Crown Royal when it had fallen and spilled on the grass. The approach had gone smoothly with Ralph joining him for a friendly late afternoon jog on the deserted trail. They had shook hands, laughed a bit and the man had even offered Ralph a sip right before he stepped into a hole and fell and hit his head on that water fountain – hard. You could never be too careful; holes in the ground sometimes just appeared out of nowhere.

The hooker and her john turned out to be Ralph’s daily double. They had been getting to know each other behind the sales office of the used car lot on the edge of town. Ralph knew that spot was utilized at that time of night for happy hour, and took a chance. He parked his car at the business next door and crept around and sure enough, there they were, getting ‘happy’. Their focus was not exactly on the world around them, and it had been no problem for Ralph to come up behind the girl and hit her over the head with the pipe he had found leaning up against one of the sheds. When she fell, the man just stood there and looked at Ralph; didn’t make a move or say a thing. Crazy how some people react in a crisis, Ralph thought. When Ralph swung the pipe at his head, and connected, the man didn’t make a sound then, either. He just fell over, quietly. Easy peasy; two for one.

Yes, tonight, number six it was - the dried up old man on his way to the drug store to pick up his asthma inhaler. Old people shouldn’t be out alone at this hour, Ralph thought. Why, something bad could happen to them, couldn’t it? Well, something bad did happen to this one – that’s for sure. Beaten to death with his own cane right there on the sidewalk ten feet from his front door. Darn shame. What’s this world coming to...

What the hell, who’s counting anyway. He already had his book deal signed, sealed and delivered, and he was confirmed on three cable crime documentaries. He was thinking this might be a good time to start scaling back, what with that bottom feeder dogging him all the time. Good ole boy, Sheriff Dan, had mentioned it in passing that he found it suspect that Ralph was always the first on the scene of all those deaths he was reporting on. Ralph had responded, also in passing, that it all came down to a reporter’s instinct, but the flatfoot had appeared less than convinced. Measures would definitely need to be taken.

It had been kind of a kick in the beginning, making those calls to the station, alternating between claiming to be a witness and claiming to be the killer, and leaving tantalizing clues at all the scenes that, of course, led absolutely nowhere. Ralph wouldn’t see Danny Boy for a couple of days, and then, out of the blue, there he’d be: On the street in front of the hotel, a couple of tables over while Ralph was having lunch at Molly’s, sitting in his car staring at Ralph coming out of the grocery... This rummy had hit on Ralph’s last nerve two bodies ago. Time’s come to leave his life as a reporter behind, Ralph thought, and cross over and assume his role of international correspondent. Interviews, film cameos, and possibly a movie of the week; shouldn’t keep them waiting. Ralph knew it just didn’t get any better than this.

The kid was coming along nicely, too, following him around like a lapdog hoping to be thrown a scrap. Contacting Basil following each murder and allowing him to type the articles while Ralph dictated had been a brilliant move. It allowed the little suck-up to feel involved without having any real input or being able to steal any of Ralph’s thunder.

*

The arrest, indictment and trial did all occur with unanticipated precision. He had been charged with six counts of first degree murder. That the death of the perv behind Soldano’s had been added as Murder One truly surprised Ralph. That one, at most, should have been ruled as accidental. At arraignment, he had entered a plea of not guilty, as expected, having been advised by the best the Public Defender’s pool had to offer.

Interestingly enough, bond had been requested and granted; not the norm for a capital case. Of course, this was Tippettville – not the norm by any means. The case was being prosecuted there since the deaths all occurred in, or near, their jurisdiction. The jury, however, was hand-picked from Ralph’s main stomping ground of Swaying Falls, and quite the vindictive bunch they turned out to be. As he watched and listened to them during the selection process, the air was thick with bias, but the judge was deaf, blind, and most assuredly, dumb as hell. There were no jury instructions about not discussing the case until deliberation, and the street corners and shop doorways were constantly abuzz with detailed descriptions of evidence presented and testimony obtained.

From the perspective of these two towns, this was the trial of the century. From Ralph’s point of view, this was the century’s biggest practical joke. Seeing as how a man’s life was hanging in the balance so to speak, that did seem to detract somewhat from the humor of it all, though.

The exhibits and photographs filled the pint-size courtroom vestibule, while most of the spectators stood along the walls and crouched in the aisles between the rows of benches. People brought boxed lunches and coolers filled with soda pop and ice cream bars. Ralph wondered if they were permitted to witness the execution whether they’d bring hot dogs and their toddlers’ bouncy seats along.

The testimony now, that was brutal. People he’d known all his life as quiet, unassuming small-town mopes, suddenly became hateful, accusatory vipers. Ralph had to admit, though, it did surprise him that they obviously took great relish in the fact that their words could send a fellow human being to his death. Talk about not being able to judge books by their covers...

When the verdict was read, everyone in the courtroom cheered, including the judge and all the members of the jury. While Ralph deemed this totally inappropriate, he did find it humorous, in a grotesque sort of way. It was, of course, guilty on all counts, and the sentence was indeed pronounced to be death. No real shock there either, he thought, bloodthirsty bastards, all.

*

So, here we are in the now, he thought, in this limbo, this portal between life and the everlasting. The sedative’s already been administered and soon, his eyes would close for the last time, but no sweet dreams would invade his slumber this night. He remembered the struggle and all the heartache, all to win what prize? A deadly cocktail administered in the State’s death chamber? Did this end justify those means?

Oh, hell, yeah, Ralph thought, hell freakin’ yeah. He did briefly feel a weak tug at his heart for young Basil whose life would be coming to a supposedly painless conclusion soon, but hey: It wasn’t as if he didn’t really know how the game was played. Come on, everybody did. Didn’t they?

It had been laughably easy to set the chump up to take the fall, considering his irritating way of fawning over his self-appointed mentor. The fool had developed tunnel vision from the second Ralph had taken him under his wing. Leaving his butts everywhere, ripe for the taking, only to be strategically placed at the crime scenes... What’s the matter, newsboy, never heard of a new thing called DNA? You pick up a bag and a flask to move them so you can sit on the only chair made available to you, and they show up later on or near a murder victim... Oops, kid, you got to keep up with the times – they do fingerprints these days. Ralph had never visited his protégé on Death Row, and his presence had never been requested. Odd how the boy seemed to passively resign himself to his fate. He had wanted to learn from the best, and he had to know that he did learn from the best. And, at approximately seven minutes after midnight, the kid was about to learn the most important lesson of all.

When all was said and done, it was all about getting the byline; yes, the byline. That was all that really mattered.

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology. She is a member of several writers' networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at J F Juzwik's Blog. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at J. F. Juzwik - Author - Published Novels.

A Twist Of Noir 223 - J.F. Juzwik

A GENTLEMAN CALLER - J.F. JUZWIK

Originally published at CROOKED in May of 2009

Penelope Francis Maitland was a handsome woman. No one had ever remarked to her, or about her, that she was beautiful, or even attractive. Handsome was the word they used to describe the way she looked. But it was always coupled with an attestation of her impeccable personal hygiene. Father had always stressed the importance of maintaining an immaculate state of one’s mind and body at all times. The sessions of intense prayer provided the necessary cleansing of the soul, and the time she spent with Father in his corner room had truly purified her. His big, strong hands on her--in her--preparing her, exorcising the demons that held her captive.

His assuming sole charge of her salvation was what she was most grateful for, and proud of. Mother had never shown any interest in her to speak of, even when Penelope was a child. But, Mother had really begun to distance herself from Father after Sissy was born. By the time Penelope was twelve, and Father had begun her training, Mother was already occupying a separate bedroom, and would only remain in the same room with Father during meals.

Mother had fawned over Sissy some after she came along, but then pulled away from her after the accident, into her own dark, little world. Penelope believed Mother had been lost long before either of her daughters were born.

Margaret Kittering had been a beautiful, young woman of nineteen when she and her parents moved to Lake Meade. Her father had retired with a comfortable pension, and was looking for small-town charm and quietude. Lake Meade certainly had an abundance of both. The residents were very community-oriented, but not averse to newcomers. The Kitterings were welcomed with open arms by all the townsfolk.

Margaret’s mother was a homemaker who really enjoyed caring for her family, and her father derived great personal satisfaction from hanging a birdhouse he had made himself, and seeing the roses he had planted bloom in the spring. Margaret had been concerned as her father’s retirement approached. She had read articles and seen documentaries about men who retired, and a lot of them simply couldn’t cope with it. They no longer felt needed or necessary, and just wasted away and died. Their spouses followed soon after. Margaret’s parents were very close and, even after being married almost 40 years, very much in love. She knew if anything were to happen to Father, Mother wouldn’t be able to go on.

But her fears were totally unfounded. Jeremy Kittering had worked hard all his life as a floor supervisor in a manufacturing plant. He had also been looking ahead and planning how he would spend his time once he no longer had to work. There would be no wasting away for him. He had a tremendous love of the outdoors, and gardening. He loved to read and even tried his hand at writing a bit of poetry now and again. Not that he ever had any plans to get anything published. He would write lovely words just for the pleasure of writing them.

Her mother, Anna, was an elegant woman. That was the word Margaret felt best described her: elegant. Whether she was washing dishes, hanging laundry, or playing the radio and singing along with the lilting ballads, her eyes were always bright, and she always wore a warm smile. She filled their home with love and sunshine, and no matter where they lived, Margaret knew that if her mother was there, all would be right with the world.

Margaret adored her parents, and being with them. She always felt safe and content. She did want, at some time, to meet someone, fall in love, and begin a family of her own. Her greatest hope was that her life with her own family would be as full of happiness as her parents’ had been. When she met Daniel Maitland, she believed her prayers had been answered.

Daniel’s parents had been of loose morals--drinking, smoking, always groping each other like a couple of dogs in heat. He was determined when he was on his own, and had his own family, life would be very different. Prayer would be in their lives on a daily basis, and they would not be corrupted by the evils of the world. There would be no record players, or television, or magazines. The Bible. That was all they needed.

His parents, for all their flaws, had provided well for their son. When they died, the house was paid off, and there were no debts outstanding. There was also a generous annuity, which oddly enough, paid out in spite of the manner of their death.

Daniel was 18 when they committed suicide. He had been staying overnight at a youth retreat sponsored by the church, and a neighbor had heard the shots. No one ever really understood why they had shot each other. They were found close to each other in the sitting room, on the daybed. It appeared as though they were sitting and chatting. They were turned toward each other, leaning against the wall. Only the fact that their faces had been shattered by the gunshots, and the blood spray covering them, confirmed this as a double suicide.

Daniel remained calm when he was told. Everyone thought it was his deep faith that kept him strong during this tragic period. But Daniel was glad they were gone, as now he could begin to live life as it was meant to be lived. Discipline. Hard work. And prayer. When he and his family lived in this house, evil wouldn’t be permitted a place at their table. He would see to that.

Margaret’s parents didn’t care for Daniel Maitland. He was too severe a person. Margaret was accustomed to receiving affection and kindness. It appeared Daniel possessed neither of these qualities. But Margaret knew in her heart that he was just being respectful toward her. He wanted a decent, moral woman to manage his home and raise his children. How she wanted to be that woman. She knew he would loosen up after they were married and in their own home. She would have him laughing and smiling in no time at all.

Margaret’s parents had decided to relocate to Miami after the wedding, leery of leaving their daughter with that cold shell of a man. They had really enjoyed Lake Meade, but now that Margaret would be on her own, and since Daniel had made it abundantly clear that they were to be left to their own devices without interference, perhaps it was time to just enjoy each other. Besides, it was what Margaret wanted, and she had insisted they go, and begin their lives together. She, in turn, would begin hers.

Margaret had been right about one thing. After they were married, Daniel’s attitude toward her did change. He became even colder and more distant. He informed her that they would ‘couple’ only to conceive a child. Couple. When he talked that way, it made her feel as if she were some sort of animal being used to breed. Margaret never told her parents how bad things really got; she knew it would just break their hearts. They had both passed on before the birth of her second daughter anyway. God moves in mysterious ways, she thought at the time. Best they didn’t share the time that followed.

Penelope was a horrid child. Margaret felt guilty at first when she viewed her first born that way, but there was no other way to describe her. She was just horrid. Her appearance was acceptable, at best, but it was her attitude toward her mother, and people in general. The child treated Margaret as if she were in the way in her own home. Constantly following her father around, wanting to be alone with him. Margaret could almost tolerate that, except for the fact that Daniel went along with it. All that time alone with her in his corner room. God knows what was going on in there. In her heart, Margaret knew, but she never went in. Seeing would be too much.

Daniel never touched Margaret. Never put his arms around her. Never kissed her. Margaret prayed hard during their evening sessions. Not for the exorcising of evil that Daniel was ranting about, but for her husband to seduce her. Margaret could feel herself dying inside a little each day, and she wasn’t quite sure what she could do to stop it. She needed somebody to love her. Or at least go through the motions. She resisted temptation over and over again, but being a beautiful woman, young men coming through town would often approach her on her walks or while shopping. One Saturday, she decided to resist no longer.

Who he was didn’t seem important. He was young, good looking, and showered her with compliments. That most wonderful thing about him was the way he put his hands on her. Everywhere. Gentle and warm. He made her feel alive again. Their afternoon together only lasted a few hours, and then he was gone. That was alright with Margaret. She believed she could get by for quite some time on that memory alone. Then she realized she was pregnant. Penelope was ten, and they hadn’t discussed having any more children. But Margaret knew she had to convince Daniel it was time to ‘couple’ again because she wanted another child. Time was of the essence.

When Johanna Marie was born, or ‘Sissy’ as they later called her, Margaret couldn’t have been happier. The timing was a bit off, but she had managed to convince Daniel that Penelope needed a little sister or brother for company. Penelope didn’t want a little sister or brother for company, of course, but Margaret felt that perhaps once the little one came along, maybe she could make some sense out of their lives. Perhaps achieve some balance. Something.

Johanna Marie was a beautiful child. Happy and loving. Nothing like Penelope or her father. Margaret thought, this one is like her father, whatever his name was. It brought a smile to her lips when she remembered that afternoon. Things just might be alright after all, she thought, they just might be alright.

No one knew how Johanna Marie had hit her head so hard when she tumbled out of bed. She was a little past two, and sleeping in a bed by then. But it was low to the floor, and to have hit her head with that much force... The doctor said it was an accident. Things happen like that all the time, he said. Really a shame, though, such a pretty little girl. Probably won’t do much but remain in the home. She’ll have to be cared for and all, and get some sedatives regularly to stop the seizures. Probably live to a ripe old age, but won’t develop mentally or emotionally much. Real shame.

Penelope watched her mother crawl inside a deep, dark hole in her mind after Sissy’s accident. She never came out. Father found her one morning, dead in her bed of an overdose of Sissy’s sedatives. Since life had obviously become just too much for her, Penelope thought, she may as well just pack it in. That’s best.

Sissy wasn’t too much of a bother to care for later on. She didn’t wet the bed or anything, thank goodness. Penelope really didn’t think she could cope with that. Just keep her sedated and quiet in her room. Sometimes when Penelope would walk in, Sissy would just be sitting by the window just staring out. Who knew at what though, since there probably wasn’t much of a mind in there anymore. But she would come down for meals to the kitchen and be able to feed herself. Penelope couldn’t stand the thought of feeding her. It was bad enough cleaning her up now and then with a soapy washcloth. When Father was alive, he told Penelope he would take care of that, but Penelope wouldn’t have it. She just knew Sissy, probable footstool that she was, would try to get Father’s attention and convince him to train her too. Train her for what, mind you. No decent man would want such a thing as she had become. No. Penelope would care for her. She promised Father she would. Always.

When Father died, Penelope took it as a sign. He had taught her that after he was gone, she should seek a decent, moral man as her husband, but never to let him have his way with her. Father had tried for all those years to purify her and prepare her to be clean enough to take her husband, but it was to no avail. Father had told her that Mother had been unclean, and so it passed on to her. He knew when they married that she had been with others, and that if they had daughters, he would have to work very hard to try to erase all the evil that had been born in them. Sissy was a lost cause--the ultimate punishment for Mother’s sins. Penelope had come along quite nicely, but in spite of all of Father’s efforts, she would have to maintain a celibate, childless marriage. Do not pass the evil on, he had told her, keep it unto thyself, and let it die with you. She knew Father had been right--he always was.

Penelope was on her way home from the Pharmacy with more of Sissy’s medicine when she saw him. He stood at the end of the driveway to the house on the hill and waved to her. She nodded and continued on her way home. She had heard someone finally bought that house. It had been so long since anyone lived there, Penelope couldn’t remember the name of the former residents. No matter. Noisy and Godless, they were. Playing music into the night, laughing, children running around in the front yard at all hours. The house was just across the road and had a long driveway as did hers, but one could still hear all the commotion coming from that house. This man looked about 50-ish, and there wasn’t anyone outside with him. Maybe he lived alone. Penelope hoped so. She had gotten used to the peace and quiet, with that house and hers the only ones at the end of the cove.

She had put Sissy’s medicine in the kitchen cabinet and was going to start making lunch when there was a knock on the door. Penelope wondered who would bother them at lunchtime. Once in awhile a salesman would get lost and knock on the door to get directions to find his way back to town, but that was a rare occurrence. Penelope preferred her solitude and made it clear to anyone who showed any sort of interest in socializing, that the Maitlands did not. They kept to themselves, and believed others should do the same.

The town’s folk respected that, and didn’t come around, except to hand out invitations to that annoying Harvest Ball of theirs. Some ridiculous function held each year in early October at the town square. There were streamers, and lights, and music; as if Penelope would allow herself to attend such a blasphemous thing. The story was that new love was revealed on Harvest Ball night. Anyone recently becoming engaged, going steady, or keeping company, shared it with the rest of the town on that night. Everyone would applaud and drink a toast and congratulate them. New love was found there too, as couples danced the night away, romances were born. Penelope knew what went on there. She had heard their noisy ritual. Now it was coming up again next week. Well, she and Sissy would do what they always did on Harvest Ball night. Eat an early supper, pray, and go to bed. Perhaps she’d give Sissy an extra pill tonight so she could get some rest. Sissy was so annoying when she woke up in the middle of the night. Crying and whining. Penelope couldn’t do anything to settle her down. She certainly had no interest in holding her. Yes. Another pill tonight. She’d done it whenever she needed to rest and didn’t want to be awakened in the middle of the night. Surely it won’t do her any harm.

Penelope went to see who was at the door. She moved the curtain ever so slightly to see who was standing there. She would never just open the door. You just never knew these days who could be at your door. Penelope was startled to see the man from the end of the driveway. As soon as he saw her peeking through the curtain, he began to smile and wave again. Penelope opened the door a couple of inches.

“Yes?” she said quietly.

“Hello,” he said, his voice deep and calm. Like Father’s. “I’m your new neighbor, and I wanted to come over and introduce myself. My name’s Chester Wilming, and I’m new to the Lake Meade area. I’m originally from San Diego, but now that I’m retired, I decided to make a real change. Come and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. Goodness. Here I am just chattering away. I just wanted to introduce myself, Ms. Maitland. Not to be a bother to you or your sister. Just to say hello.”

Penelope opened the door wider, letting a cool rush of air into the stale kitchen. Strange feelings were coming over her, and she didn’t understand them. She felt embarrassed by them. But there was something about this man...something familiar...something warm...

“How do you know my name?” she asked. “And how do you know about my sister?”

Chester smiled and said, “Oh, I asked around, Ms. Maitland. I like to know who my neighbors are.”

He looked past Penelope and saw the place settings on the kitchen table.

“Oh, I’m intruding on your lunch. I’m terribly sorry. We can talk another time. Perhaps you and your sister would like to come by some evening to sit on the porch and have some nice, cold lemonade? I think it’s always good to get to know your neighbors. And, if I do say so myself, I make a mean glass of lemonade!” Penelope noticed his eyes sparkled when he smiled. Like Father’s.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “my sister doesn’t go out. She’s... well, she’s ill. She had an accident when she was a child, and she wouldn’t... I mean, she isn’t... She doesn’t go out. I don’t generally... perhaps I could if it was very early evening. Just for some lemonade and conversation, you understand. I don’t get involved with card playing or music or anything like that. Just for some lemonade and conversation. If it was very early.”

Chester thought to himself, what an incredibly sad lady. He had heard talk in town about the two of them, and the whispers about their parents. Still, it’s always good to get to know your neighbors. Since he was making a real change and starting over here, he wanted to start off right. Just lemonade and some conversation. He figured he could handle that.

“Well, well,” Chester smiled. “Is this the other Ms. Maitland? I’m happy to be able to meet you too.”

Penelope turned around and saw Sissy standing there in her gown and robe. Sissy. With that idiot grin on her face. Doing it again. Trying to interfere. Just like when she was little. With Father. Didn’t even bother to put some clothes on. Her gown and robe were flannel and floor-length, but she shouldn’t have come to the door in them. She should have put on some clothes before she came to the door. No. She shouldn’t have come to the door at all.

Penelope grabbed Sissy’s arm and pulled her away from the door.

“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Wilming,” she began.

“Chester,” he said, “please.”

“Well, Chester, then,” she continued. “It’s time for Sissy to have her lunch and her medicine. Perhaps I will find time to stop by for some lemonade and conversation in a little while. Perhaps.”

“I’ll count on you then, Ms. Maitland,” Chester said. “Why don’t we plan for around seven? Supper is finished, and things settle down about that time. Is that alright with you?”

Penelope felt flushed. She prayed hard it didn’t show. Why was this happening to her? Now, after all these years. What kind of evil did she carry in her that she should get so flustered when a man knocks on her door. But, it wasn’t just any man knocking on her door. This one was different. There was so much of Father in him. She could see it. She could feel it. Perhaps he is the one. The one she will spend her life within celibate bliss as Father foretold. Perhaps. Sissy began squirming in her grasp.

“Yes, Chester,” Penelope said quickly. “Seven will be just fine. I’ll be there at seven. Just me. Thank you, and we really to have to get lunch now. Goodbye.”

Penelope quickly closed the door and latched it. She pushed Sissy against the counter, and slapped her face so hard it left the mark of her hand on her cheek.

“No!”, she snarled. “You will not get in the way this time. You had no business being with Father because he was mine. Mother tried to get in the way, but he didn’t want her. You tried to get in the way, and well, you know what happens when you interfere. Or maybe you don’t.”

Penelope grabbed Sissy by her shoulders until Sissy began to flinch.

“You were told you fell out of your bed. You were told you were a clumsy dunce, and you fell out of your bed on the hard floor. But that’s not the way it happened. I caught you watching Father and I through the keyhole in his corner room. That was our private time. I made up my mind you would pay for sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. So, after you went to sleep, I came in your room and pulled you out of the bed and slammed your head on the floor. Hard. Harder than even I had realized. Guess I didn’t know my own strength. You didn’t know any better, you idiot. You were always stupid anyway. And after your ‘accident’, well, let’s just say we didn’t have to worry about you snooping anymore.

“Don’t even think about doing anything like that this time, little miss, if you can think. I won’t have it, do you understand? I think from now on it probably would be better if you had your meals in your room. I’ll bring your meals to you and your medication, and you just stay in there. You have your own bathroom so you won’t need to come out. When it’s time to wash you, I’ll come and take care of everything. We’ll just keep that door of yours locked so you can’t get out and hurt yourself on anything. We wouldn’t want that now, would we? Why, it would be just awful if you had another accident.”

Penelope dragged Sissy upstairs and pushed her on the bed.

“I’ll bring your lunch up in a little while with your pill. You just rest there for awhile.”

Penelope pulled the heavy door shut and turned the key until it clicked. There, she thought, that should keep you.

The lemonade and conversation on Chester’s porch was just as enjoyable as Penelope thought it would be. Chester was very respectful toward her, and behaved like a perfect gentleman. He is the one, she thought, he is. Father said I would know when the proper man crossed my path. She hadn’t been inside his house, nor he inside hers yet. That would never do. Alone with a man in any house wouldn’t do. Not until they were married anyway.

Chester had said that he had come to Lake Meade because he had heard about it from Sheriff Sydney Todd. Penelope wondered why, when Chester had said he was from San Diego, it triggered something in her memory. Sheriff Todd was from San Diego. Evidently, they had known each other there, and when Sheriff Todd decided to come back to his hometown to finish his career in law enforcement, he told Chester about Lake Meade and what a beautiful place it was. Chester had been some kind of engineer, and when he took early retirement, he packed everything up, came to Lake Meade, and bought the house on the hill.

Penelope wondered which house they would live in. She could use a change. Besides, his house seemed larger and a bit more cheerful. Perhaps they would live...

Sissy. My God, she thought. What to do about Sissy. Sure, he would take her in out of kindness, but what kind of a life would they have with her around all the time? ‘She’ll probably live to a ripe old age’, the doctor had said after her accident. What to do, Penelope thought, what to do about Sissy.

The sedatives, she thought. She had just refilled the prescription anyway, so there were plenty. They had worked with Mother years ago. Everyone had believed Mother had taken her own life; just too full of despair. Well, Sissy was capable of taking too many. Penelope only gave her one in the afternoon like she was supposed to. It wouldn’t be Penelope’s fault if Sissy got hold of them from the kitchen cabinet. People knew she wandered about the house--Chester had seen her.

Penelope came in from another pleasant evening on Chester’s porch. Sheriff Todd had been there as well. They were old friends, but Penelope was hoping they would be alone again. The more time they could spend together, the sooner he would see that she was the one to manage his home and share his life with. In prayer and discipline. In that big house. Just the two of them. When she opened the back door, she saw Sissy closing the refrigerator.

“What are you doing in here?” Penelope screamed and slapped Sissy so hard she fell on the floor. “How did you get out of your room? Well, I guess we’ll just have to take care of our little situation, then. Can’t have you wandering around and all, upset and depressed that you are. I told Chester all about it tonight. How worried I was and how I needed to leave early to go check on you.”

Penelope reached down to grab Sissy’s arm and felt the pain go through her arm like it had been set on fire. Sissy had plunged the carving knife in Penelope’s forearm almost all the way through. Penelope grabbed the handle and pulled the knife out, feeling her legs start to give out from under her.

“You bitch!” she screamed. “What is this? A temper? Getting even maybe? I should have finished you off when you were two. Well, now’s as good a time as any!”

Penelope sat at the kitchen table shaking. She had wrapped her arm and the bleeding had stopped. This was going to be hard to explain to a doctor. Maybe she would go to the city to one of those minor emergency places and make up a story. Yes. That would work. And Sissy? She would dispose of her tomorrow. She would clean everything up and just tell people Sissy wandered off. They would search and search, but she would not be found. Perhaps someone picked her up in a car, Penelope would suggest. You just never know what kind of people are out there these days, do you?

She poured another glass of her ‘medicine’. Father would have understood. All the stress and everything. She kept the gin in the refrigerator because it was easier to drink all cold like that. It did have a funny aftertaste tonight though. Oh, well. No matter. She felt warm and relaxed and believed she’d sleep well tonight in spite of all the commotion. After she emptied this pitcher, she would rinse it out good and get rid of whatever that funny taste was.

Her vision started to blur, and as she looked at the pitcher, she saw some white powder that had settled to the bottom. Now, what could that be, she thought. She picked up the pitcher and decided to pour the rest out and rinse it. She almost fell walking to the sink. What’s going on, she thought, I only had a couple of glasses. She started to giggle, until she noticed the cabinet next to the sink was open. The only thing in that cabinet was Sissy’s medicine bottle. The one she had just refilled the other day. But the top was off and the bottle was empty. Empty!

That bitch, Penelope thought as she struggled to stay on her feet. That’s what she was doing in the refrigerator. She put her pills in my medicine. And just to distract me, she cut me with the carving knife. That bitch. Well, I fixed her... I did. I...

*

Sheriff Todd forced the back door open. Chester hadn’t seen either of the Maitland sisters for several days, and they didn’t answer the door, so he called his friend to make sure nothing had happened to them. Nothing could have prepared them for what they found. Penelope Maitland was on the kitchen floor, a glass in her hand that had contained gin and triple the lethal dose of sedatives, they would later learn. And Ms. Sissy Maitland was upstairs on her bed with a carving knife in her throat. Judging by the cut on Ms. Penelope’s arm, it appears they had fought, Ms. Penelope had murdered her sister is a fit of rage, then taken her own life with the overdose.

Sheriff Todd wondered if they would ever find out what Ms. Penelope had done with her sister’s eyes. Perhaps some things are best left a mystery, though.

*

Sydney Todd put the flower in his lapel. He was really ready for Harvest Ball tonight. What a sad week this had been, with the Maitland deaths and all. Such pitiful ladies they were, he thought, and so alone. They really should have attended the Harvest Balls. He had gone to every one since he came back to Lake Meade. Of course, it was only to share the happiness of others until he could share his. But tonight, he would announce his love and share his happiness. He and Chester Wilming had found each other in San Diego. Now, Chester was here, and they would proclaim their love at the Harvest Ball. The people in Lake Meade were an understanding sort. Some people already knew Sydney preferred the company of other gentlemen, but they treated him just like everyone else. Sometimes the high school boys would say rude things when he drove by the school, but they didn’t mean anything by it. It was just to show off or something to each other. They would outgrow that.

He was so happy tonight. Chester was here to stay, and they would be together, and everything would be out in the open. He still felt bad, though, for those Maitland sisters. If only they had come to the Harvest Ball once in awhile. Perhaps they could have met someone. But, if they especially could have come tonight, when Sydney and Chester announced their love to the town. Then, those poor, sad ladies would have seen just what a beautiful thing love can be.

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel, a horror short, and several crime shorts published. Her thriller will soon be appearing in an anthology. She is a member of several writers' networks and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at J F Juzwik's Blog. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at J. F. Juzwik - Author - Published Novels.