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.