An Axis Oblique - Chapter Eleven

Now we're getting down to the nitty gritty. I don't know what that means but it sounded good in my head. Must remember to get that thing fixed. Anyhoo, here's Chapter Eleven of my mondo-epic, An Axis Oblique. Only two more chapters to go after this one. Then your free taste is cut-off - chicka! Damn, I wouldv'e made a kick-ass drug-dealer. Never too late, I suppose. Let's see how this writing thing pans out first.



–– Eleven ––

“––whatever the heck you want to see, Harold, I just don’t care anymore…” Brenda’s nauseating drone went on and on…and on… “…a perfectly good Starbucks across the street and you have to opt for some dingy coffee shop, just so you can save a few lousy pennies…” The words stung like spikes in his temples as the intolerable glare through the filthy window took ample care of his retina. “…and then, instead of just admitting you’re too cheap to shell out for two venti peppermint mocha-chinos, you go off on some tangent about malnourished children picking beans in South America for four and a half cents an hour, I mean really…” In search of relief, he pivoted his balding, bulbous head every which way but round; his always-nervous mind threatening to give in to his much-too-fragile senses…
And that’s when he saw it.
“Harold, are you even listening to me?” Brenda’s nasally squawk morphed into one long, androgynous humm… “Harold? Harold!!? What is the matter with you?”
“Do you believe in fate, Brenda?” he whispered, staring gapingly past her.
Brenda Blylevin, his upper-middle-aged consort with premature liver-spots and freshly-touched cherry roots, pulled at her powder-blue sweater; (the one she considered a miraculous alternative to a sensible diet and exercise). “Fate?” she cackled, like he’d just pinched her padded rump. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about destiny. The mysterious convergence of exactly the right place at exactly the right…” Harold looked up at his companion of two and two-third years. She stared into his giddy round eyes as though he’d just put a bullet into her precious Yorkshire terrier.
The man sat a mere thirty feet away, nursing a paper cup of coffee whilst engaged in pleasant conversation with a plain-looking young girl on the right side of pretty. He was cleaned up some; different shirt; perhaps even a shave or two in between…but short of being a cruel figment of his own paranoid imagination, there was no mistaking that grinning fool for the angry schizophrenic who stuck a gun in his grumbling belly and carved a scarcely detectable souvenir into his chafing lower lip. “I think, darling, I may have just stumbled onto mine...”
Brenda continued to stare him down with bitter contempt; then at last, turned her head toward the unseemly couple. “Are you…are you gawking at that girl right in front of me?” she asked accusingly. Poor pathetic Brenda; forever doomed to miss the point.
“Keep your voice down.” He shushed her. “I’m not gawking at her, I’m gawking at…” He huffed. “I’m not gawking, okay? I’m observing…”
“Oh is that what you call it? Well she’s old enough to be your––”
“Would you forget about the goddamed girl,” he bellowed. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Brenda kept staring, desperately trying to piece this together.
“Stop staring,” he blurted a bit harsher than intended; a good thing nonetheless, for no sooner had her shifty pupils bounced back to him, did the man take superficial notice. Harold looked away. Surely he must recognize me, he thought. But to his mild surprise, and utter confusion, the man looked right at Harold Prescott, perhaps with a hint of faint recognition, but nothing more––then returned to his own frivolous flirtations.
“I…don’t believe it...” he muttered.
“Harold, if you don’t tell me what all this is about, I swear I’m going to––”
“The man…” he said calmly. “That man, sitting right over there with the annoying little smirk on his face…he’s the one I told you about…” The clueless woman continued to regard him with an open jaw, as though he were speaking Chinese. “Remember, that policeman I told you about? The one with the split personality? Not to mention small arsenal tucked away in that Oldsmobile rust-bucket…”
“Oh, him!” she squealed, relieved to finally be let in on the big mystery. “Where?” Her gaze shifted back to the mismatched couple. Harold rolled his eyes. “Certainly doesn’t look all that menacing. He doesn’t even look like a police officer…”
“Oh just be quiet, Brenda, don’t you think I know the man who, not two days ago, jammed a gun into my ribs and threatened to put my lights out?”
“Okay, okay, calm down, I believe you,” she said––then managed to slip an ‘if you say so’ under her condescending coffee breath. “Wait, you’re not thinking of…”
For a split second, he found himself actually considering the giddy prospect of confrontation. Surely this would be an ideal place; a public establishment, broad daylight, plenty of witnesses… “No. No, of course not. The man is unstable, I told you. There’s no telling what he might––” He stopped.
Just what pray-tell was he planning to do? He’d been so content simply to have this upper hand; to watch without being watched in return, actual action very nearly escaped him. What a waste it would be.
“I’m gonna get his plate number,” he decided.
“His––? Oh, Harold, no. You said so yourself, the man is dangerous.”
“I can’t let this slip through my fingers,” he said, pouring through his jacket. “Now where in the hell did I––Brenda, do you have a pen in that purse of yours?”
The woman returned to her favorite ‘you’ve completely lost your gutless little mind,’ expression, then began shuffling through her gigantic ‘bubbie-purse.’ “Oh my dear Lord...” she sighed. Harold sat impatiently across from her, narrowly resisting the urge to snap his restless fingers; one eye fixed firmly on the couple in the corner…
“Hold on, I’m looking…” A ruthless frustration came over him before her powder-blue sleeve finally emerged with a sterling silver Cross pen.
“Okay,” he began, snatching it out of her hand and scrambling for a piece of napkin. “I’m gonna slip out discretely and find that piece of shit car of his while you keep an eye on––” But before he could finish, his window, opened barely a crack as it was, began once again, to marginally close…
The man and his young companion were shuffling into their respective coats and exchanging mindless pleasantries. Each had a telling look in their eye, as though in on some delicious conspiracy. Harold was sick to his stomach––and envious as hell. Some guys had all the luck, he thought…and nice guys finished last.
“They’re leaving...” said Brenda with a sigh of relief. “I think it’s for the best, Harold.” But Harold was barely listening. The smarmy stranger formed a cock-eyed smile. For a split second, his eyes danced in Harold’s cold direction yet again. But this time, feeling especially brave, Harold did not look away. That’s right, you bastard. I know exactly who you are; what you are. You can treat me like just another face in the crowd, but we both know the sorted truth. The man held his stare a half-second longer.
“Just forget it, Harold,” she added, supportive as ever. Harold hardly heard; his mind a million miles away as all life shifted into slow motion...
He watched the happy couple stroll across the shop floor, past their tacky booth and out the greasy glass door. He took in every feature; every nuance of the man’s chiseled face. He would not forget it, as Brenda had so callously suggested. Not as long as he lived. Instead he would remember––with every last ounce of his weary being.
–––––––––––––––
Keith held the door for his newest witness/companion/conquest. She might just prove indispensable. On the other hand, (though he would not have shared it with her), her info was most likely useless. He knew all too well that this womanizing dentist’s untimely demise was probably connected––if not directly caused by the questionable actions of the second victim that morning––young Sonny Duval, (or Duvaliente); a most shady individual at the very least. And at most…
Just get back to the girl, you dolt…
_____
“Well, I suppose I could…hold off on my plans for now…if you really think I might be of use…” she had taunted, batting her long wistful lashes.
And the ‘understatement of the year’ award goes to…
“Cynthia, I don’t want you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. And I’m certainly not trying to back you into a corner…” Yet. “I mean, if your heart’s set on putting this town far behind you, Hell, I might just pack a bag and go with you...” Again she laughed. Good God, what a laugh. I wonder how she screams… “It’s just that my conversations with Mrs. McAllister have proved less than forthcoming…”
“Say no more,” she replied, goofy smile still firmly in place.
_____
And it was still there now, in fact. He and the girl traded glances like a couple of horny teenagers as he walked her to her Honda Accord. “Well, guess this is it,” he said sourly. The girl fumbled casually with her car keys before unlocking and shuffling inside. She sat for a second, looking up at him like an eager kitty waiting for her saucer of milk. Keith strategically placed an arm to make it more deliberate of her to break their connection. The impersonal, electronic reminder sang incessantly to indicate the door was not only ajar––but still wide open––in case she had something more to say.
“Guess so,” was all that she did––at first. “Perhaps I should get your number...” Keith raised a brow. “I mean to your office. As soon as I’m, you know, settled. That way you can contact me if you find yourself…in need…” Again he smiled innocently. The girl was blushing now, and he wondered whether she could tell how much he liked it.
“Absolutely.” He played along, fishing for his wallet. Thumbing through the leather slots in search of an extra business card, he flipped nonchalantly past a stack of useless clutter; among which, a laminated driver’s license with a stranger’s face in the center. In the blink between it and the next trivial item, he wondered how he’d come into its possession––and why the face seemed so familiar. At last he came out with the black disposable Bic he kept on hand for just such emergencies.
“This has all my work-related contact information,” he said, scribbling something on the back. “And this is my home number, in case you…” He looked into her stunning brown eyes, “…need it for any reason. Any reason at all.”
She took it.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin that would not leave her face. “Guess in the meantime I’ll try to find a motel nearby, or something…”
Can you say ‘putty’…?
The whole thing couldn’t have gone smoother, he thought with a healthy streak of manly pride as he watched her faded sedan roll slowly out of the parking lot and toward the busy intersection. I can’t wait for next time, a shady voice pronounced deep from within…or perhaps, not so deep as he liked to believe.
A gentle breeze nuzzled his tingling cheek and he closed his eyes to better soak it in. For the first time in years, he felt glad for things like murder, mayhem and darkness. Not because they were good things, of course. In all his years in law enforcement, they’d driven him to unspeakable lengths, dragging him down to levels he could never have foreseen possible to go. But now, those same miserable, despicable forces of nature had led him to her––Cynthia Caldwell––the light at the end of this bloody long tunnel.
The pleasing warmth of winter sunshine infiltrated his senses. He marveled at all that lay in front of him; baffled by how little he’d managed to see before. A peculiar sensation overwhelmed him all of a sudden as he openly stared into the full, blazing sun––similar perhaps, to deja-vu, but not nearly so dismissible. There were other eyes just as intently glued to this beautiful ball of bubbling fire…thousands, he just knew. In this insignificant instance, several independent natures were converging into one; a singular flow of consciousness, from which an entire legion of thought-fueled inertia propelled. Good gravy, when the heck did you become such a tree-hugger…? The uninvited presence reached out from beyond its unspeakable void to slap him silly.
HONK!!! Keith returned just in time to incur the wrath of some sour-faced soccer-mom at the throne of a royal-blue Caravan. It seemed he so happened to be standing in the center of a space. The driver flashed him an angry grimace, as if untouchable inside her fiberglass fortress. It was then that he noticed the handicapped permit resting on the dash and looked swiftly down to a similar symbol, half-covered in slushy rock-salt.
You’re goddamned lucky, lady. If not for the day I’m having I’d bleed you right to the bone and feed on your earlobes for supper… Keith stepped aside with angry eyes: That’s right, bitch. Not gonna be inside that car forever… The woman avoided his stare altogether as she pulled into the coveted space, which seemed to her now, not nearly so important.
She took her sweet time. Keith’s feet remained planted, daring her to try her luck. But the once-aggressive woman could not get out of his heavy sight fast enough. She walked quickly past, hands in her pockets and eyes strait ahead. Keith let her go, as the lion sometimes did with the antelope when his head was tired and his belly full.
In truth, he got off on the fear; absorbed its nourishing energy. The seductive power lifted him over these foul, wretched creatures, who liked to talk a big game, but when push came to shove, typically fell over without incident. The blissful rush accompanied him to his waiting Supreme, just a few spaces down, and seemed somehow to gain potency over the long ride home.
* * *
He could hear the phone as he fumbled with his key––before ceasing abruptly––
The ID screen displayed only a blank space where a number should be. He thought nothing of it, much too preoccupied. The familiar apartment was unusually cold, prompting him to raise the thermostat a few degrees before tending to his eager voice mail:
“Detective Merrimac, this is Arthur Davenport calling on behalf of my client, Hartley Beckonsworth.” Keith barely listened, taking in his surroundings. “Please note that from now on, I, and not Mr. Beckonsworth himself, will be handling all matters, big and small, pertaining to he and/or any members of his family, just so there’s no further misunderstanding. I can be reached in my office Monday through Saturday until five. The number is…”
Keith tucked the obnoxious voice to the back of his mind. Meredith Beckonsworth. Why did that name send a chill down his spine? No, not quite a chill–– More of…a thrill... He shrugged off the nagging sensation with an involuntary shudder.
Two more calls followed: The first, a recording, from some woman congratulating him on his pre-approved Classic Visa, for which he had even less patience. Sexy voice, though... The thought brought him back to Ms. Beckonsworth. Meredith… Melina… Cynthia… Was his mind ever tired.
The next call was the hang-up he’d so narrowly missed. The dial tone filled the room and he sighed in disgust, crossing the hardwood. Does it have to be so hot in here…? He stopped at the thermostat and nudged the room down a couple degrees. His feet crossed the cold kitchen tile and the name flashed again inside his head––Meredith…
_____
Juanita Duvaliente brought the name up as they sipped strong coffee in her kitchen that slight, somber evening. “I don’t know if it will bear any relevance at all but…” Her voice trailed off, allowing her thoughts to catch up. “When Sonny was in school; in college, about seven or eight years ago, there was a girl...” Again she stopped talking. But Keith understood well enough.
She’d never met the young lady, but Sonny had mentioned her––once. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it. But after that strange call from the officer in Willimantic; and those stories on the news, other thoughts had been shamefully entertained.
_____
Mere hours before his progressive rendezvous with sweet Cynthia, he’d placed a call to the father of said girl, last name Beckonsworth, couldn’t be bluer blood, in the unlikely hope he might shed some light on her fresh-faced college suitor, Sonny Duval––particularly his extracurricular activities. A long shot, he knew it. Man’s gotta start somewhere…
CRASH––!!!
The jar of pickles slipped out of his hand and into pieces––
“What the Hell’s a’matter with me?” he mumbled, going for a mop and dustpan.
He had the mess cleaned in no time. In fact, he had little memory at all; only brief flashes. It was almost as though he’d retreated to the back of his mind for a bit. Yes, that was it. But, no. Not retreated exactly. More like…pushed…
A sudden shiver ran through him, and he wondered why it was so cold in there.
Sure someone didn’t just walk across your grave…? There it was again. A thought, which seemed to come, not from his own consciousness, but somewhere deeper down.
At the thermostat, he experienced an odd bout of deja-vu. The needle remained where it had been all day, and yet he was certain he’d raised it. Enough, he scolded himself, and notched it up a few more degrees.
Nothing had changed in his refrigerator. The shelves were bare as ever; even moreso without the pickles. The freezer offered little else. A near-empty drum of Ben and Jerry’s; a few frozen dinners; fish sticks; and a stack of hamburger patties wrapped in foil. Before he could think, his hand reached out and snatched the nearest Hungry Man.
Perhaps, had he more mind for protein, he might just have come across the hearty mystery meal, tucked conspicuously behind all those frozen hamburgers. It too was wrapped in tinfoil and, when the time was just right, would taste heavenly. Smothered in my own secret sauce… the voice whispered softly…careful not to disturb its gracious host.







Stay tuned for a new semi-regular feature I like to call, "What Am I Reading?" Should be good for a few laughs, (I hope), plus maybe even a smidge of insight into what I choose to read and how it influences my wrting at the time. Trust me, it sounds more complicated than it is. Just thought it might give me something to write about, as well as impart a few of my --achem!-- techniques on all of you wanna-be-writers out there, (myself not entirely exluded).

Till we meet again.
Stay literate, my friends. And drink plenty of fluids.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

Well, it's been a bit over a week now and I still haven't got a damn review up for The Simpsons 450th. Well, not really a review, I suppose. More of a round-up.

The episode, entitled,"Once Upon A Time in Springfield," was reasonably solid, (for a 21 year old show). Like many of their gems, this one was Krusty-centric and featured a surprisingly-good guest stint from Anne Hathaway. Here's the official synopsis:

In the landmark 450th episode of THE SIMPSONS, Krusty is approached by two network executives who want to bring on female co-star, Princess Penelope, to increase the show's female demographic. The onstage and behind-the-scenes rapport between Krusty and Princess Penelope grows and before long, Krusty asks for his co-star's hand in marriage. Meanwhile, when Mr. Burns puts a stop to the free donusts at the plant to cut costs, Homer, Lenny and Carl decide to meet with a head-hunter who speacializes in nuclear workers and opens their eyes to opportunities free of draconion donut-cutting measures.

Couldn't have put it much better myself. Guess I'll just highlight a few noteworthy nuggets that stuck in my funny bone.

Upon seeing Princess Penelope for the first time, 'girling up' the Krusty Show, Millhouse remarks: "First girls ruin Sex in the City, now this."

Famed cartoonist extraordinaire, Glen Larson, (The Far Side), guest voices as himself, hired to work in the Cap City Nuclear Plant to whip up fresh cartoons for emplyees to stick on their wall, (and not get).

One hot and heavy Hollywood romance is referred to as, "QueenLatifaRod."
Can you guess the happy couple?

At Krusty's wedding, featuring guest voice, Jackie Mason as, (who else?), Krusty's long-suffering father, Rabbi Haiman Krustofski, Bart wonders where Mr. Teenie is, seeing as he should be Krusty's ring-bearer. Krusty explains he locked him in the Torah room till the wedding was over. We then see Mr. Teenie wreaking havoc on every chosen-person's favourite holy book. (Mmm, that's good sacralige!)

In a last-ditch effort to convince Princess Penelope not to go through with the wedding, Bart pulls out Krusty's first wife, a chain-smoking hippie, (whose name I don't remember), and former catwoman, Ertha Kitt, who is voiced by herself, (apparently). It sure sounded like an impression.
All in all, an episode worthy of syndication, where constant repetition and, perhaps, (illicit drug use), will cement it the title of classic Simpsons gold! Bravo, guys. And thanks for all the laughs.


Immediately after the episode, Fox broadcast an hour-long (psuedo) documentary in honor of The Simpsons 20th anniversary. The special, entitled, "The Simpsons 20th Anniversary Special - In 3D! - On Ice!" was hosted by Morgan Spurlock, of "Supersize Me" fame and was a nice little tribute, though I personally could have used a little more meat. All that aside, it was fun to watch people like, Dan Rather, Mike Judge, Seth McFarlane, (yes, even him), Matt Stone and Trey Parker, and so many more recount their favourite Simpsons moments, or at least stuff they admire about the show.
Like I said, the special was a bit light on analysis and heavy on sentiment, not that I particularly mind that. I just think it's high time somebody with some teeth came out with a real hard look at The Simpsons and it's massive, though largely uncredited impact on, not only the landscape of contemporary TV, but also society in general.
There was some of that, I suppose, by not much. One such example might be Spurlock's visit to a real live nuclear power plant, as well as a brave expedition to uncover the show's most devoted nutjob - I mean, fan. (Hello, kettle? It's me, Pot. Um, yeah, you're black). There was also an ammusing little rant from a representative of the Catholic Church or anti-defammation league or whatever. To be honest, I don't think it was all that serious.
In short, I love The Simpons with all my heart. Always have. Always will. That said, I can't help but think the best thing for it now would be to rest. I still laugh. (At this point, its ingrained in my DNA - damn, I'm gonna have lucky kids), but I truly believe what the show would benefit from most is to be missed. Then, perhaps, in a couple years or so, come out with a new product. Another movie? Maybe. Personally, I'd love to see Mr. Burns as the villain - or Sideshow Bob! Maybe even a series of well-spaced DVD/Blue-Ray adventures. This way, the creative juices, and talent, are given the chance to recharge.
Just my two cents. One thing's for certain. Whether still in production or in memory only, The Simpsons legend will live forever!

Thank God for that.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Nine

Hold onto your hats, kids. Here comes Chapter Nine!


–– Nine ––
January 5, 9:18

“Where are you going?” Nicky whined, as though thoroughly entitled to a full explanation.
“Nowhere special,” Cynthia softly replied. “I just need to get away for awhile.” It was strange for her, being back in that kitchen. So much in it reminded her of Henry.
“But why?” He persisted.
“Honey, could you give us a moment alone please?” His mother tried to alleviate the pressure. For a moment, it seemed as though he had no intention of complying––until in a huff, he stomped off with bitter feet.
“I hate to have to do this to him.” She sighed. “He’s been through so much in such a short time. But that’s exactly why it’s the perfect––I mean, better he hate me than––”
“Me?” The woman must have known it was where she was headed. “With all due respect, Cynthia, it’d be a flat out mistake to make this about me or anyone else. If it’s a fresh start you’re after, do it for yourself. I can handle my own affairs just fine.”
“I didn’t mean…” She began backtracking, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry.”
The woman was looking at her now, much like a stuffy psychiatrist would a juicy fixer-upper sprawled out on her couch. “You mind if I ask you a question?” she asked, (which, technically counted as one). “Why did you come here?”
Cynthia looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
“To Maplewood,” she clarified. “What exactly were you looking for?” The question caught her off guard and she stood frozen for a moment.
“Who says I’m looking for anything?”
The woman raised her brow. “My dear, everybody’s looking for something. I just naturally assumed you had a reason.”
Cynthia held true to her naiveté. Of course she had a reason. She had thousands. Leaving home had, in fact, been the one truly adult decision she’d seen through thus far in an entirely self-indulgent existence. She said none of this out loud, of course. Heaven forbid.
“You know what?” Mrs. McAllister broke in at last. “Never mind. Your reasons are your own business,” and proceeded to empty the dishwasher.
Cynthia wanted to reply. She’d seen a new side to Henry’s nagging other-half these last two weeks; one far more palatable. She didn’t want to impede the woman’s gradual de-clawing with more cold silence. Nevertheless, she had no real response.
“How’s everything with Patrick?” She changed the subject instead.
“Oh I’d say about as inconclusive as ever.” Her tone was considerably lighter. “If only that one had half the vocal capacity of his brother, there’d be no mistaking his road to recovery…or progression into…God only knows…”
“I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Cynthia offered, and stood up. “Anyway, I guess I’d…better be…”
Going. Yes, it was that time indeed. Just like that, she found herself back at the beginning. She had no destination when she set out for what would eventually become Maplewood. She’d just sort of ended up there. Wonder where we’ll end up this time… she mused silently. One thing was certain. Her aim would be a whole lot higher.
–––––––––––––––
Come on baby light my fire…
The chill was like something out of Dostoevsky.
“Hey I’m a person too, man. Least you can do is acknowledge…”
Keith Merrimac looked up. The young man in jet-black eyeliner stood shivering with a soggy cigarette hanging out of his pierced black lips, then moved on to the next nearest nicotine junkie.
It suited him just fine. He was not in the habit of doing favors for pissy street punks on his best days; let alone this freezing motherfucker. What disturbed him was the curious fact he had not even noticed the kid standing there for almost a full minute. By itself, that might not have seemed so unsettling, except…it wasn’t the first such occurrence.
Sounds like someone’s losing his mind…
And there it was again.
He could not quite put his finger on it, but every so often, he felt, or rather…heard…something––someone; thinking thoughts that were not his own…
Or were they?
Real existential stuff there, Sheriff. Not too late to become a philosopher. Look alive first; got yourself a stray kitty at ten o-four…
The vaguely familiar Accord pulled into visitor parking and, after about a half a minute, out stepped the girl with a featured role in his most recent fantasies. Cynthia, the McAllister nanny with the mischievous brown eyes and lightly-streaked hair was slowly approaching. Well what have we here? But, as he stood there in the shallow cold, he knew far better than to look a sumptuous gift horse in her beautiful mouth.
“Hello there.” He stopped her. At first, she swiftly looked him over, confused… “Hi,” she said with measured unease. “Detective…”
“Merrimac. Keith.” License to kill… “Cynthia, right? From the…” She nodded in slow recognition. “Something I can––?”
“Hmm? No. No, not…I mean…yes…” She took a breath. “I’m not really sure, to be completely honest,” she said. “I’ve got some…information…I thought maybe...”
Oh? “What kind of information?”
“Well I don’t…it’s about Henry––Dr. McAllister…?”
Keith could barely contain himself. Her soft, pallid skin looked so warm and inviting. It was all he could do not to reach out and––easy, big fella. They all put their tampons in one wing at a time… “Something you couldn’t disclose before?”
“Well no, it’s not…I just…I mean, I’m sure it’s not even relevant to…” Clearly she was struggling with something. “I was hoping that maybe his wife would have said something by now. But, since I’m kind of on my way out of town for awhile…not exactly sure when I’ll be back…if I’ll be back…”
“Alright.” He put out his cigarette. “How bout we talk inside? Or better yet, there’s a coffee shop right around the corner, if you’d rather someplace...a little less formal…” Her eyes were onto him. He’d seen that look a thousand times before. So practically, had every man…and something about them said loudly and distinctively-clear there was just no way in Hell she was ever going to fall for––
“Okay, sure.”
Keith smiled. “Great. Just let me run upstairs and grab my notebook…”

Was this really going to be all business?
The question dogged him all the way up to his office and then back down again. On his way, he managed a glimpse of her checking hair and make-up in the scratchy plaque bolted into the aging brown brick.
Go get’em, tiger…
He intended to.
*
“So do you come here often?” she asked off a steaming hot sip.
The detective restrained a chuckle. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
“What? No, I didn’t mean…I meant to conduct interviews. For your job?”
“Oh. Oh yes. Well…” he thought about it. “No, not...” and settled on: “Sometimes.” Cynthia smiled again. When at first, he’d suggested the coffee shop, she was somewhat taken aback, but decided to accept solely on faith. If you couldn’t trust a cop, after all… But now that they were actually here, complete with nervous looks and sweaty palms, she had no doubt that this ‘Detective Merrimac’ had more than coffee on his mind.
“So, how do you wanna do this?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You did say something about the McAllister case, didn’t you? I’m all ears…”
“Oh no, not…exactly. It’s actually more about Henry himself. You know, his, um…character…” Cynthia stopped, unsure of how to continue.
Was she really going to do this?
The detective was waiting, looking her dead in the eyes.
Forgive me, Henry...
*
Keith used the next twenty minutes to take it all in. There was gossip awhile back concerning the Todd girl; the cold, empty expression on his face the day of her funeral, but he wouldn’t have guessed it by looking. Sure there were suspicions. Even assumptions. But infidelity was not murder.
“Am I to assume then, that you and Henry were, um…?”
“What? Oh no. No, no, no, we were just friends...” And for a fraction of a second, he detected a wisp of regret in her defensiveness. “Henry never even made a pass at me…” Her eyes shifted down to her coffee.
Hook...
“Find that pretty hard to believe,” he said, recognizing a window when he saw one. When it came to the ladies, he was no slouch himself. The girl tilted her head slightly askew and met his heavy gaze for only an instant…then smiled shyly…
Line…
*
And that was more or less how it began. All he really had to say. Cynthia Bernice Caldwell, vulnerable, angry, consumed with confusion, frustration and most of all loss…was lost herself. In earnest, she hadn’t been fishing for a compliment. She really didn’t have to. This one just jumped in the boat. And, for reasons beyond her clouded comprehension, and perhaps, eventual regret…she did not throw it back.
*
Sinker



Only four more to go and Volume One is in cyberspace. Thanks for reading.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

Hello hello and happy new year!

Okay now that that's outta the way, time for another Simpsons Roundup! New episodes have been few and far between of late but next week ought'a make up for that in a big way with the 450th (yes, you read me right), episode extravaganza, featuring an hour-long documentary hosted by Supersize Me's, Morgan Spurlock to commemorate twenty friekin' years of the yellow first family.

Onto the ep...

Entitled, "Thursdays with Abie", the story centers around much-maligned Grampa, (Abe), Simpson and a new twist on a long-running gag. For years, Grampa has gone on and on about anything and everything in his life, real or imagined, (he once saved Christmas with Mr. Burns and Santa Claus), to an audience of largely deaf ears - and I don't just mean Jasper. In this ep, after a lackluster visit to the Wet'N' Wack World (formerly the John F. Kennedy Naval Museum), Abe parks himself on a 'shark' bench while the family head to the show featuring Slimu the octopus, (some funny bits in there too). On the bench, he meets up with a young reporter, Marshall Goldman, who not only likes Abe's stories, but wants to feature a weekly column around them. Oh my!
The story is somewhat of a parody of "Tuesday's with Morrie", a popular book about a young reporter and a dying man, by Mitch Albom, who turns in a fine guest spot in the episode. (He wanted to steal Abe away for himself, but settled on Ralph instead. Good choice.)
Anyway, as the column gains more notoriety, Homer becomes jealous, having the gall to wonder why Grampa never shared any of his stories with him, like the time he met Clarke Gable, (depicted in classic flashback fashion), and convinced him to read Gone With the Wind. With a little snooping, Homer uncovers a dastardly plot by Goldman to murder Abe in an effort to up the drama and, no doubt, the planned-book sales, (bastard). Never fear though, cuz, good son that he is...eventually...Homer comes to the rescue and together, he and his old dad stop the evil Marshall Goldman and meaningfully reconnect. (tear)
There's also a sub-plot about a stuffed lamb from Mrs. Krabappel's classroom, which Bart takes home - and Lisa accidentally destroys. It's not quite as strong, to be honest, (though experience tells me time and many repeat viewings will make it a whole lot funnier), but it's always nice to see Mrs. K and the 4th grade gang, particularly Nelson, (who sports a fairly unhealthy attachment to the lamb, poor guy), Martin and, of course, Milhouse! (Whazzup!).
Have no fear, faithful readers. All ends well, though, with Grampa letting Homer take the lead in non-sensical whimsy that night around the dinner table.
That's out grampa.

As I said earlier, next week should be a pretty snazy affair. Might have to brush off the old tux and tophat. I can't wait to bask in all the syrupy Simpsons love.

Till then,

D.A.