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The House
Of Wade Sherman The Great Schaziam Jermon L. Carter Copyright 2006 by Jermon L. Carter Order and get a FREE copy of Which came first Sir the Chicken or the Egg. See Order Details below. BOOK DESCRIPTION “When the promise of eternal happiness was proposed to mankind, on condition of adopting the faith and of observing the precepts of the gospel, it is no wonder that so advantageous an offer should have been accepted by great numbers of every religion, of every rank, and of every province in the Roman empire.” Edward Gibbon (1734-1794) English Historian Wade Sherman, a severely injured Marine hero, is discharged. Upon returning home his cousin, Bob Slade, a very successful pimp, is in turmoil because of a changing political situation, ie, the people whom he has paid to keep his flourishing businesses going are about to be tossed out of office. Knowing this will destroy him, he is in a desperate search for an out. The idea of bringing his business under the auspice of a church comes to mind. But who could start and run it? Wade Sherman, but there is a serious problem. Wade is a former proud Marine officer and gentleman; holder of the Congressional Medal of Honor and the city turned out for his homecoming. Bob, however, is an accomplished conniver. Using his contacts and guile he defeats every move Wade makes to get on his feet, thus forcing him into building this church. What a church! The church titles express it: Wade becomes The Great Schaziam: Bob is the Lesser Noble: One of the main girls is the head of the church' Unhearlded Order of Promiscuous Maidens. Built into it are Bob's "comfort" chambers. Order Details 212 pages, Softcover,$15.95: eBook $6.00. Click HERE to order from Barnes and Noble. Once there type Jermon L Carter as the author. Or click HERE to order from ASGayle and get a FREE copy of Which Came First Sir,the Chicken or the Egg? or HERE to return or go to Main NOTE: If you liked Elmer Gantry you will love the House of Wade Sherman. Chapter 1
She wasn't much to look at — the dame I
picked up at the bar after finishing my swing shift at Charlemagne's. Bird
legs, bony face, bucked teeth — hair extending outward from her head like
it ventured too close to a raging storm. I suppose they called it the storm
effect. Her red watery eyes vacillated slightly too, like a sealed bottle
drifting randomly on a relatively calm sea — a heavy sniff of Brazilian
Angel Dust, no doubt. And her nose looked like someone threw it at her face.Indeed, her greatest assets by far were that she was woman and available. But silhouetted against the dim street light entering my fifth floor apartment, she looked as rapturous as that of the best looking dame in the joint. She was all for loving too — an attribute I adored. I knew I'd cringe with the rising sun, but my feeling at the time was God bless ugly women. Maybe it was four o'clock in the morning when we finally got to sleep. Maybe it was five or even six. Who cared? But what seemed like a minute later, a jolting clamor rocked my apartment. My previously sleeping eyes flung wide open searching in anxious wonderment the darkness between my bed and the closed door that separated my small bedroom from my even smaller living room. Before they focused well, another clamor jarred my place. Light blossomed into my bedroom and I watched in frozen fright the door and a large part of the frame hurl toward me. It came like it was rocket propelled. In a flash it slammed down on the edge of my king size water bed, barely missing me — sending my bed rocking and rolling and my girl and I bouncing up and down like we were frolicking on a trampoline. Two ape-like shadows stormed in instantly over the crashing door and did flying leaps: — Horror enraptured my soul! One landed on my back and rammed cold steel against my Adam's apple. Even in my dazed condition, I could tell it was a razor. At about the same time, my girl screamed from somewhere behind me. I knew the second joker got her. They struck so fast and so furiously I didn't have time to say Jesus wept, not to mention the far more appropriate verbiage I would have laid on them once my mind got straightened out. I'd run into irate husbands before — but this was ridiculous! And she was so blasted ugly —! Momentarily a raspy sounding laughter erupted. It came from my living room. Loudly clicking footsteps followed. They sounded like they were made by boots — probably western boots — and they moved toward my bedroom. I figured he was the main man — the husband. Since the goon's razor was clinging tightly to my Adam's apple, I didn't dare move my head, but I rolled my eyes and saw him. With the light behind him, he appeared as a diminutive shadow stepping in the room through the gaping hole in my wall. He stopped just inside my bedroom: searched the wall briefly. A switch clicked. The overhead light lit him up in all his glorious militarily clad splendor — all three and a half feet of him. He paused and posed at the wall, obviously for effect. His beady eyes focused solidly on me. A large Cuban cigar filled most of his big mouth, but I could tell he was grinning broadly — almost from ear to ear. So it wasn't a husband! They don't grin. My mind suspended in anxious wonderment. “Are you Prader?” he asked suddenly in a medium pitch voice — typical midget format and sound — sauntering the few steps to my bed. He walked with a jerky limp, swinging his short arms back and forth, blowing smoke rings in the air. Stopping inches from my head, he rocked his upper body back and forth slightly — nervous like — acting like he was the very last of the cool dudes. His Army outfit was stiff enough to stand at attention on its own. His stiff hat sat squarely atop his head like it was glued. A silver star decorated its center. He had a pair on his shirt collar — one on each of his lapels. I suspected he had a pair on his hard heel boots and perhaps one or two on his knees. But I couldn't see that low. Clearly someone was bad off for a Brigadier General. I doubted that it was the Army. So I wondered who. The little squirt suddenly took a big draw on his cigar and blew a mouthful of the strong smoke in my face. “Are you Jerry Prader?” he asked. That time he used my whole name. Obviously, he knew me — by my name if not from recognition. “I don't like repeating myself, fellow.” he said, suddenly thumping his hot cigar ashes on my head. My hair sizzled and I smelled it burning. I wanted to kick his little butt so bad my toes went into nervous convulsions. But, in view of my present condition, I settled for verbiage I knew would infuriate him. “Ask your mama!” I expected him to become instantly irate: burst out with a stream of curses: perhaps stomp the floor a few times. But he grinned, then he casually nodded at the ape holding me. Suddenly, my head felt like the ape was jerking my scalp off by my hair, and then he gave my neck a healthy upward swipe with his dull razor. I could swear I felt blood pouring down my chest. The squirt stared at me grinning. I knew he was waiting for a response. Moreover, I suspected that there was a consequence. Not wanting an instant replay, but being severely limited by the razor pressing on my Adam's apple, I spoke as best I could. My words emerged as a gurgle, but the observant squirt understood. “What's that?” he asked grinning. I started to repeat myself using the same method, but the ape suddenly removed the razor and I responded plainly. “What if I am?” He grinned and blew a big smoke ring in the air. “Get a move on, Prader. We're running late. The Boss wants to see you.” My mind suspended again in wonderment. “What Boss?” I asked, after a thoughtful pause. His big grin wiped out and he stared at me like I cursed him. “The Great Schaziam! That's who, dam-it!” he shouted, “The Great Schaziam!” Now, it was clear as mud. “He's got a job for you ass-hole,” the squirt said. Cute — a wimp calling me an ass-hole! But I heard the job part too. Astounding! I glared at him. “You mean to tell me you asses bust into my place in the middle of the night, scare the particular crap out of me, trash my blasted apartment— all that to make a blasted job announcement? Are you for real?” Though I couldn't believe it, his response was predictable, “The Great Schaziam! He’s the Great Schaziam, Prader, dam-it!” I felt like knocking him out, but I cooled it. “So he is! And the theatrics! What about the blasted theatrics?” He paused, obviously bewildered, and I gave him a hint. “My blasted living room, my blasted bedroom doors, the apes, the razors —!” The squirt cast his eyes around my trashed apartment, like he was seeing it for the first time, and responded through a big grin. “Oh, that! We needed the practice, Prader. How'd you like it?” Shocking! “How'd you like a big foot up your butt?” I responded. Shortly, I left my girl getting dressed — without bothering to get her phone number — and went with the squirt and his apes. With him behind the steering wheel, within minutes we were at the old Earl Theater across town. It now looked new, and a sign over it read The People's Temple of Schaziam. The inside was a portrait of splendor. My old pal, Wade Sherman, alias The Great Schaziam, was sitting in a fiery crimson pulpit atop a dazzling structure on the stage that reached up into the rafters. A perpetually burning symbol of striking lightening back-grounded his altar of gilded gold which was partially covered by what many believed was the mythological Golden Fleece. His high back chair was a replica of Saint Peter's — the one the Pope sits on which, according to theology, makes him infallible in matters of faith and morals. I wondered if it worked the same miracles on my old pal, but I doubted it. He was going through his mid—morning rituals. While listening to him intently, a strange feeling came over me. Perhaps I was amazed, maybe a little jealous. But I couldn't help admiring the eloquence with which he whispered down on the mass spread out below him many of the wise sayings, by Confucius, that he and I memorized so many years ago between fights and ducking Glendola's elite. The short expressions rolled off his lips like an old time religion type Baptist Minister. I was impressed! Indeed, Wade Sherman had come a long way in the few months since I last saw him. Jogging peacefully down Wade Sherman Way — a tree lined boulevard named after him — his deep set, usually stolid, eyes danced from one side of the densely wooded road to the other. And his usually stern, rustically handsome face wore the kind of grin some may have called a smile. Each was a rarity for Wade Sherman. He hadn't quite managed a smile in the year since his abrupt discharge from the U.S. Marines. But on this morning he appeared to have finally accepted the idea that there was at least a degree of life after the Marines. The reason was a job. Being a native of Chippewa, that splendid Glendola suburb where it was said “the people walked around with their finger up their butt and nose in the sky contemplating the stars,” Wade wasn't the type that went begging to friends — not to mention calling in I.O.U.'s. But after a frustrating year of facing one personnel manager after another, getting the same old rot, he finally broke down and called his old friend and college roommate, Ralph Wheeler. Ralph's old man had essentially retired, making Ralph the top gun of the prestigious Wheeler Works Incorporated. So over a sumptuous Maine Lobster dinner at the exotic Middle East Restaurant — the place where many years ago they learned the wondrous art of belly-dancing as well as how difficult it is to make-out with Egyptian girls — Ralph imposed on him to accept a position, Executive Vice President of Public Relations. Since over the past eight years Wade's public relations were limited to short term affairs — a few with women, but mostly with enemy soldiers who found themselves in front of his loaded gun — he had grave reservations about his qualifications for the job. But Ralph was persuasive: a hundred thousand dollar annual salary for starters: offices in his personal penthouse in the sky: six administrative assistants selected from the Playboy Clubs. So on that morning Wade definitely had something to smile about. However, as he turned the corner of Wade Sherman Way and headed down the equally picturesque Bradford Lane, his near smile erased. His gleaming eyes fell into their typical steel like gaze, and his face contorted into a frown that made him look like the last of Glendola's angry men. For his eyes had focused on one of Bob Slade's fully extended, sparkling white limousines. It was parked in front of the three story, cliff hanging apartment building where Wade lived. Bob Slade was leaning back against it; dressed in one of his multitude of tailor-made silk lavender suits, a pink silk shirt, and a broad brim lavender hat with a long crimson and white ostrich plume. Though it was a hot July midmorning, his ever-present, sparkling white mink coat draped over his shoulders like a cape. Extending down over his relatively diminutive but agile body, it covered the high top of his keen toed genuine alligator shoes and almost touched the ground. Bob was a close cousin — more like a brother — but whenever he showed up, Wade's world almost fell apart. So Wade tended to equate his presence with Julius Caesar's Ides of March. However, Bob's face lit up in his gleaming white toothy smile as soon as he saw Wade, and he sauntered a few steps to meet him. He walked with a jerky limp, like he had a burr up his butt that stuck with each step. But everyone knew that was his way of walking cool. “Like hey, my man! Like, it's great to see you out and about, dad,” he said excitedly as Wade approached. “Hey! I've been waiting here about an hour, my man. Waiting for you get in, that is. Hey!” He cast his eyes up at the building where Wade lived, paused for effect, and then said, “Like hey, my man! It looks as if — well — what I mean to say, my man, is hey! It appears as if you'll have to park it elsewhere for a while, dad.” Bob had a penchant for crucifying the language. Since Wade hadn't heard his version for several weeks, he paused, staring at Bob, mentally unscrambling his vernacular. Then, turning slowly, he tilted his head, looked up at the building, then back at Bob. “What do you mean, staying elsewhere — I mean staying somewhere else?” he asked in his deep velvet like baritone voice. “What's wrong with my place Bob?” Bob issued a light chuckle, glanced down the street absently, and sauntered a few steps to the car. Wade's deep set eyes rolled slowly and followed him. He sensed that Bob knew something he didn't and soon got impatient. “I asked you, Bob. What's wrong with my place?” Even when annoyed, Wade's words rolled off his lips like he was preaching. However, still looking down the street, Bob leaned back against the big car, folded his arms and rocked slightly. After a long pause, he said, “Like hey my man! Your pad — like it's all locked up, my man. Like the sheriff, hey, the dude's been here dad. Hey! And like he's locked you out my man. Dig?” Wade paused, staring at him, unscrambling his words, and then issued a partial grin. Bob knew he didn't believe him. Sauntering around the car to the other side, he said, “Like hey, my man. Like, the sheriff, he got a hold of me first, you know. Before he locked you out, that is. And like I got one of my dames over here, my man. Like hey, she picked up your duds and things, my man. And like she parked them over at that dame's pad, hey— Susan's pad, my man, hey.” By the time he reached Susan's name, he was on the other side of the car, well away from Wade. For, as he expected, Wade's face flushed into aggressive anger, and he almost shouted. “Susan's place! Now that's just dandy, Bob — just dandy! I ought to knock the crap out of you for that.” “Now hold on, my man, hey! Like, I saved your stuff my man. That's the best I could do, my man. Hey, seeing as how you get so blasted upset about people helping you out. Like hey dad, if I'd paid your back rent for you, hey. You'd be all over my tail by now, my man. So hey! Like, I sent your stuff over to Susan's pad cause I figured that's the only place you'd stay, my man. Like, you and her, hey, like you're two of a kind, my man. Hey, two assholes of a feather like. Hey!” Wade stared blankly through several towering pines overlooking the blue waters of the Glendola River deep in the canyon below. He knew Bob was pretty close to right. Susan and he had something special between them. But up to that point he hadn't bothered to figure it out, and she hadn't appeared to acknowledge its existence. However, for a Chippewaian to admit another person was right about nearly anything was near treason. So Wade turned slowly and looked up at the building. “I told that old bitsy I’d be catching up on my rent next month,” he said. “You mean to tell me she couldn't wait a couple more weeks?” Bob's eyes darted back from the distant horizon and focused on him. “Like hey, out of your government dole checks, my man? Hey! Like, you've been waiting for those things a long time my man. About eight months, hey! Like, they ain't coming my man. Hey, they ain't coming dad.” His eyes flashed on a husky woman who suddenly ran out of her place a few houses down the street and headed for the sidewalk. Dressed in short-shorts and a sheer top that were far too tight, and having a face like the Wicked Witch, his eyes soon flashed beyond her and gazed absently at the far more attractive nothingness on the horizon. “Can't you dig it my man?” Wade stared at him in obvious wonderment. Bob sounded so sure — too sure! “Your Government! It's your blasted Government, my man,” Bob said lightly. “You can't depend on the Government to do nothing right, dad. Like hey, they probably lost your papers, my man.” His roaming eyes suddenly focused back on Wade. “Anyway, my man, hey! You know you're welcome to stay at one of my —” “You can stay at mine,” a female voice suddenly chimed from inside the car. Since the windows were deeply tinted, Wade hadn't noticed that anyone was inside. Surprised, he automatically looked at the car. But realizing his fleeting glance dignified whoever it was, he issued a short sigh and cast his eyes up at the almost cloudless sky. While his face didn't register open disdain, it was obvious that he didn't like presumptuous women. However, she pursued it in her normal way. “You can stay at my place.” Wade looked slowly over the car at Bob. Bob's shiny white teeth were gleaming, and he had a peculiar twinkle in his eyes. Since Bob had never tried to turn him on to a girl, Wade became curious. Still looking at Bob, he moved slowly to the car. Leaning over, he rested his arms in the door's open window and rolled his eyes slowly away from Bob into the car. The soles and heels of a quaint pair of ladies high heel slippers greeted him. The feet they adorned were lying on top of the white ermine covered front seat, and they were purposefully slanted toward him, slightly spread. He couldn't help noticing that she didn't believe in wearing panties. After a brief pause he rolled his eyes up slightly and looked into her voluptuously inviting smile and sparkling blue bedroom eyes. They accentuated a face most people dream about, framed in large blonde curls that bounced life like in the gentle breeze. Expecting he would also examine her chest, she already had her shoulders reared back, emphasizing her provocative pair; the pink tips of which displayed readily through her thin white silk blouse. Wade took a deep breath, exhaled, and then rolled his eyes back up to her face. “You can stay at my place,” she said again convincingly as their eyes met. “Or mine!” another sexy voice chimed. That one came in a strong Asian accent. Wade's eyes rolled slowly from the blonde to the charming Oriental girl sitting across the seat from her. Her bright smile was obviously forced — indicating that she was timid. However, the front of her blue silk blouse was wide open, indicating that she was learning fast. The chocolate colored tips reminded him of his favorite cake. He almost managed a grin. Suddenly glancing briefly at his watch, Bob said, “Like hey, my-man. We've got to get a move on. Like, I can't be late dropping these chicks, my man, hey.” Wade straightened up and cut his eyes across the car at him. So they were occupied! |
The
Maturing Of Tami Bryant A Search for the Just and Pure Mirage Jermon L. Carter, Ph.D. Copyright 2006 by Jermon L. Carter BOOK DESCRIPTION Tami, presumably the illegitimate daughter of the Sam Spade of Maltese Falcon fame, is sick of the ultra ghetto environment in which she lives. Having heard of someone or something known as the The Just and Pure Mirage, she and her best friend decide to run away from home and join him or it. But being the illegitimate daughter of the human emulsifying Sam Spade has its disadvantages. Three bumbling detectives get on her trail immediately, the two-gun slinger midget, Foxx Wise, Gravedigger and Lonesome Pyle. Moreover, following a Wild West type shootout in Providence, RI with a group of Greyhound bus hijackers with a suitcase full of dope, the FBI*s illustrious agent, Hangman Jack Diamond and his partner, Sluefoot McCaneles gets on their trail, but for a different reason. The luggage of a Quaker salesman who befriends the girls has gotten switched on the bus. Rather than containing his flour samples, he is now unknowingly carrying a suitcase full of dope, which Hangman Jack and his crew of associates killed five men to recover. What they recovered, however, is a suitcase full of flour. Hangman Jack is furious. The girls adventures take them through a clan of followers of a very strange ancient Egyptian cult; Under the illustrous stud, Handsome Floyd*s guise of making a movie, they are taken to a mansion of prostitution in Cleveland conducted by the raucous Soul Papa, a man so ugly he almost radiates it: A gold digging ignorant prairie cult heavily influenced by a country novel, Erskine Caldwell's God's Little Acre, and a Black Muslim mosque in Chicago. The ending is very surprising. The book's lesson to all teenagers is, don't run away from home. 175 pages, comb bound, $9.93: e-Book, $3.00. Click Here to order from ASGayle or HERE to return to Main. Chapter 1
The Case of the Runaway Girls The small fellow, swallowed by his executive office chair, had sat behind his modest military surplus desk from early that morning reading a book he found in the desk drawer, The Adventures of Sam Spade. However, for the last few moments his attention had been diverted. Quick clicking steps, obviously made by a woman, had stretched from what he assumed was a parked car across the street. They appeared briefly in the hallway downstairs. Now they were rushing up the steps to the second floor. The idea that she was a James Bond type chick flashed through his mind. Unabashed glee saturated the little fellow’s face and a grin opened almost from ear to ear. But though the idea of having a James Bond type chick as his first client razzed his soul, the little fellow knew it was far fetched. He bought the business so recently that even the sign on the door still carried the former owner’s name, Foxx Wise Private Eye. Consequently, he leaned back in his chair and resumed reading the book. Shortly the little fellow’s face lit up again. “Wow! That Sam Spade cat, that dude’s terrible!” he said. Then he read aloud the few thrilling words, “When we finished blowing away the joint, there wasn’t enough left of the culprits to make a decent ant’s snack.” The words touched the depths of his soul. Just then there was a knock. The little fellow’s eyes clicked on the door in surprised wonder. After a thinking pause, he almost asked the knocker to come in, but he suddenly remembered. Ramming the book in the desk drawer, he grabbed his hat, rammed it on his head and then he grabbed his gooseneck pipe and stuck it in his mouth. Settling back in his high back executive chair, looking much like a diminutive Sherlock Holmes, he announced in a professional vocal tone, “Ah, come in.” The office door swung wide open. The little guy’s eyes bucked. His mouth clearly drooled, and he was obviously suppressing a strong urge to dash around his desk and grab her. For posing in the doorway in all her statuesque splendor was a goddess in her mid-thirties. Her crimson colored leather miniskirt struck about two inches below her panty line; her buxom breasts threatened to bust out of her tight, transparent pink blouse, and a dark hat with a wide brim sat on her head at an angle of about thirty degrees. Casting her dark blue eyes on him from under fluffy blond curls, her moist, ruby red lips flexed into a promiscuously alluring smile and she announced in her sultry, seductive voice, “I’m Godwhatadish.” The surprised fellow’s face mirrored his howling agreement ― God what a dish! Nevertheless, after a staring pause, he cleared his throat and kind of nodded. “What can I do for you?” he inquired casually as though hers was a body his eyes perused several times a day. A light frown flashed over the woman’s face and she stared at him. After a pause, her lips flexed again and she responded through her sexy voice, “I said I’m Godwhatadish.” Clearly, she thought he should have recognized the name, but the blank look on his face radiated otherwise. Casting her eyes briefly on the sign on the opaque glass in his door, she then cast them back on him and said, “You are Wise Fox aren’t you?” twisting toward his desk. Without waiting for him to reply she continued, “Somehow I expected a much larger man, Foxx, being the brother of Sam Spade. What happened to you? Are you sure you weren’t adopted?” The little fellow trembled. Her reference to his size clearly razed his soul. He stared at her in pure disdain. Perhaps he wanted to give her a few derogatory insights on her family. But since she was his first potential client, he grudgingly overlooked her cut and responded calm but affirmatively. “The sign says Foxx Wise, lady! Foxx Wise, not Wise Foxx.” Casting a quick glance back at the sign, which she was reading from the wrong side, she said “Oh, so it does!” Then casting her eyes back on him she continued, “Anyway, why are you sitting here in your office with that thingamajig on your—” “Sherlock Holmes!” he injected, kind of nodding his head in slight disgust. “It’s a custom made Sherlock Holmes hat, my dear, not a thingamajig. I take it off for one thing. I mean—” She issued a light but clear sound of annoyance. “I know what you mean scumbag. So my sister was right about you. You get straight to the point, don’t you asshole?” His eyes flashed on her legs as she took a seat and crossed them. Then they flashed back onto her face. “Your sister,” he inquired in obvious surprise. “Right about what ah—” “Godwhatadish, that’s the name, and about you Foxx,” she said, digging in her purse for a cigarette. “Anyway, that stupid niece of mine—she’s run away again. My sister, Beth, she called this morning; asked me to find you and get you on the case. The last time that little fool ran away, she got all the way to that Gracie Mansion or whatever, all the way in Memphis before you got on her trail. Before you jackals finally caught up with her she was in Cleveland. Maybe you can do better this time, Foxx. She just left.” She was assuming he knew the woman she called Beth, as well as the girl. He didn’t. Consequently, he responded questionably, “I see, your niece?” “Yes, Tami,” she said, casually lighting her cigarette. His silence and blank stare suggested confusion. Her face assumed a lurid bafflement and she stared at him. After a pause, she said “Tami, Tami Bryant! You mean to say you don’t remember your own daughter, I mean your own niece, or whichever?” She made an absent motion with her hands and shook her head slowly from side to side. “That bird-brained baby sister of mine, making it with two scumbag brothers at the same time. She never knew which one of you worthless scum knocked her up. Incidentally, how is he anyway? That brother of yours, I mean. How is he?” The little guy fell into anxious wonderment. She paused, looking at him as though she were looking at a pure dunce, then she said, “Spade, Sam Spade. You’ve only got one brother Wise; one that I know of anyway. You can stop playing your stupid games anytime now Wise.” That time the little fellow’s eyes flashed on the door sign. Then they flashed on the drawer in his desk where he had put the Sam Spade book. He had been slow but he was finally catching her drift. “Oh, Sam,” he said as though he suddenly remembered. “He’s in Hollywood making another movie, a sequel to the Maltese Falcon. Now about this girl—” “Oh!” she injected. “So Sam, he’s in Hollywood making movies and you are here in this dump playing private detective. I caught the devil finding this place Foxx. This dinky little street: empty warehouse, I didn’t know they still had horse trails in Providence.” Foxx cleared his throat loudly in clear annoyance and then inquired, “Have we met before?” “Not likely,” she responded shaking her head. “If I had any idea my sister was making it with a runt like you, I would’ve kicked her butt all over Providence.” The little fellow squirmed. His eyes rolled. Her ribald manner was crucifying his ego but he strained to keep their meeting on a professional level. Rather than scream, he cleared his throat again and inquired, “The girl—when did she leave?” “A day or so ago. I called Billy, that dunce of a brother of hers. He stays so high on weed he never knows what day it is, not to mention something that happened yesterday. But he said she ran away. Jerry was the last one to see her, so he says.” “Jerry?” he inquired. “Yeah, Jerry Costro, that clean-cut scumbag in the first floor rear apartment. According to Billy, Tami is sweet on him; and him living with that Rita slut; a natural bitch standing on the blazing Hoyle every night offering her butt to anything that moves for ten lousy bucks a trick. He ought to be ashamed of himself, sleeping with that whore and a fourteen-year-old girl besides. But what could you expect? All you men are the same, just rotten dogs.” The little fellow flinched, but he responded calmly. “I see. Do you have any other information, pictures, whatever?” Surprised struck her face again. Foxx saw it and rushed to clear it up. “The ones I have are old. She was just a kid then,” he said. “A year?” she intoned through a modulated voice. “She couldn’t have changed that much in a year Foxx. However, she’s a stringy haired, poor, undernourished blonde, like she’s been all her life. She keeps her head in a book. Don’t you remember nothing about her Foxx?” “Ah, she wasn’t doing any reading when we caught her that time in Toledo.” “Cleveland,” she injected. “You caught her in Cleveland fool.” “Yeah, Cleveland, that’s what I meant,” he responded. “Anyhow, I didn’t know she was that deep into books.” “Aren’t most stringy haired, poor, undernourished girls with no kind of shape?” she responded. “What else can they do, except read and day dream Foxx?” For an aunt, she was quite harsh on the kid, but Foxx appeared to ignore it. “Where can I find this Jerry fellow?” he asked. “At the house. You do remember the house, 306 Washington, on top of that steep hill behind the bus station?” “Of course, 306 Washington,” he said taking a mental note. “Did your sister, Beth I mean, did she mention my fee?” Godwhatadish almost laughed. “For finding your own child—niece or whatever? Come-on Foxx!” So there wasn’t a fee. First case a freebie. Bad start. Shortly after she twisted out of his office, the little fellow went to the window. Standing about four feet tall in his western style boots, he could barely see the street directly below, but he watched her put her exotic body into her red Thunderbird on the other side and drive off. As the car disappeared down the narrow street, he glanced at his watch. It was about that time. Going back to his desk, he made a quick phone call, got his London Fog trench coat off the rack, took out a long Cuban cigar and went downstairs lighting it. Shortly a white limousine turned the corner and came toward him. As the little fellow got in the car, the driver said, “So you’ve got something interesting going for us General. Things are quiet at the Temple these days. Too quiet! I could use some action.” “It’s just a dame, a runaway dame. We’ve got to find her,” the little fellow said. “And the name, it ain’t General no more, Digger. It’s Foxx, Foxx Wise. We are in business now, private detectives. So call me Foxx Wise.” Gravedigger’s eyes flashed onto him and then back on the narrow road. “Foxx Wise, eh? Pretty snazzy. Where did you get that one? Oh, the door!” he said, remembering the sign. “That’s the name that was on the door.” “You mean the name that is on the door. I’m not changing it. Foxx Wise was here a long time. His name, that’s what brought us our first case.” “Oh! So you are taking it, the case I mean. How much is in it?” Digger inquired. Foxx issued a light sigh and stared out the windshield blankly. “Nothing much. We’re doing it free.” Digger’s eyes flashed on him as if he was looking at a nut. Foxx noticed the look and added, “It’s Sam Spade’s daughter, niece or whatever. You do know Sam Spade, that cat looking for the Maltese Falcon.” Gravedigger’s eyes shot on him as though he didn’t believe him and then back on the road. “Do you mean the Sam Spade? That blood thirsty, people emulsifying Sam Spade? Do you mean that one?” “That’s who we are finding, Sam Spade’s daughter,” Foxx said somewhat remorsefully. Although Foxx was clearly less than enthusiastic, Lonesome Pyle, the man sitting in the back seat with the Mohawk haircut, tried to smooth it over. “We came prepared, General, I mean Foxx,” he said, opening a large duffel bag sitting on the seat beside him. “We’ve got the hardware: three AK-47s, a Bazooka, a Browning Automatic, a case of grenades. One never knows what’s coming. Here’s yours General, ah I mean Foxx.” Foxx laid the pair of holstered pearl handle replicas of General Patton’s pistols across his sparse lap and continued staring out the window blankly. A thought crossing his mind was that he should have come clean with Godwhatadish, told her who he actually was, and turned down the case. But something about it elated him — working with the big dogs. They didn’t come much bigger than Sam Spade. Upon reaching the Hoyle on Main Street, they started out toward Route 6 but at an intersection downtown, Foxx told Digger to turn left. He did and they immediately confronted the steep Washington Street hill Godwhatadish mentioned. Atop it loomed the towering rococo gables of an old Elizabethan mansion, casting its portrait of period splendor against an almost cloudless blue sky. However, its grandeur mellowed by the foot as they approached, finally becoming just another of the city’s old winsome relics drowning in its own squalor. Digger stopped the car to look for the house number but the first thing he saw was Mike Pastroni. His body stretched across the many times patched cement walkway leading to the front porch, practically hidden amid his collection of aluminum cans, beer bottles, and old newspapers gathered during the day. They constituted payment for tomorrow’s beer and wine. Mike was clearly guarding them as if they were gold. Beyond him on the seriously forward inclining porch was his wife; a forlorn looking creature spread across an old living room chair with a leg embracing one of its arms. Covered only by Mike’s tattered, loose-fitting robe, she was showing all of her privates, but that never bothered Mary. After living with a bruiser like Mike for about eight years, that part of her body was, perhaps, her best looking feature. Foxx issued a deep sigh. “I guess this is it,” Gravedigger said, looking up and down the street for a house with a number. “This has to be 306.” “I suppose so. That thing over there’s 305,” Lonesome said, looking at some relatively small letters on a mailbox that managed to survive in that neighborhood. “If this is what that dame’s running away from, I don’t blame her.” “Let’s go find this Jerry joker,” Foxx said. “He ought to be able to tell us something about the dame; something more than she’s a stringy haired bean pole that likes to read books.” Although Mike appeared to be asleep, without moving his head, his eyes rolled onto the limo when it stopped; stayed on the men as they looked around to confirm the address; then, as they came through the broken gate, his hand eased into his pocket and grasped his knife. However, upon seeing they were going around him, he blew his nose, wiped it on his bare arm and then cast his absent looking gaze across the distance separating the high hill from Route 6 on the far side of town. Foxx sauntered to the porch in his jerking kind of limp, puffing on his giant Cuban cigar. Gravedigger and Lonesome Pyle followed. Pausing at the steps, Foxx stared at the woman then, going up them, he asked her abruptly, “Where’s Jerry Costro?” Mary was in her usual form, a drunken stupor, sound asleep. Consequently, she didn’t respond. Foxx tapped her on her shoulder and asked again, “Where’s Jerry Costro?” Her response was a loud snore. Lonesome, a remarkably impatient man, stepped in front of Foxx and gave her face a firm slap. Her red eyes flung wide open striking the man’s belt buckle. After a pause, her eyes rolled up slowly until they reached his chest. They stopped there for a moment as though she was thinking about her next move. Then she tilted her clearly throbbing head back slowly and carefully, rolling her eyes upward and upward until they finally looked into the face of the towering seven feet plus man with the Mohawk haircut and Indian bead covered vest. Then she got nasty. “You ugly son-of-a —” She had much more to say but Lonesome cut her off. “The name’s Pyle, lady—Lonesome Pyle. We’re looking for, ah—” “Jerry Costro,” Foxx injected. “Where is he?” However, the woman’s glassy eyes and mean looking face was focused on the towering Native American. “Why the hell did you hit me, you stupid —” “Lonesome Pyle, lady, the name’s Lonesome Pyle,” he injected again. She stared at him, released a loud burp and said, “I don’t know nothing about the lonesome part, but you are one hell of a pile. That’s for sure you asshole. If you ever hit me again, you sucker, I’m scattering your dam balls all over this dam porch.” After a staring pause at him, she slowly rolled her eyes onto the diminutive Foxx. “You are Jeff, no doubt,” she said, referring to the Jeff of the comedian team Mutt, the tall one, and Jeff, the short one. The little fellow’s body trembled. His hand automatically shot down to draw his pistol, but he had left them in the car. Instead, he said sharply, “Foxx Wise. The name’s Foxx Wise lady, and don’t you forget it.” Although he was emphatic, her eyes rested on him for a moment as if she couldn’t believe what she heard him say. Then she rolled her aching head slowly and said, “Foxx Wise eh? Sam Spade’s brother eh. What the hell happened to you shorty? Were you adopted or something?” That was the second time in one day somebody questioned his parentage based on his height— Godwhatadish and now her. The little fellow was fit to be tied. Nevertheless, he suppressed effectively a strong tendency to knock her out. Instead, he nearly yelled, “You ugly bitch, where’s Costro, Jerry Costro?” That time, her adrenalin level soared. Her cold stare reflected that she wanted to kick the little fellow squarely in his balls, but after a pause her hand moved lazily toward the front door. “First floor rear,” she said. “That cigar you got there squirt. That’s a Cuban cigar ain’t it? Got another one of them things?” First Jeff and now squirt. Foxx fell into trembling anger. More than one man was walking around missing one or more toes because he called him a squirt. He was tempted to do it again, to her this time. But after a thinking pause he issued a coy grin and reached under his trench coat. Getting one of his long Cuban cigars, he held it out to her. But as she reached for it, he grinned and jerked it back. Her eyes rolled down and she saw his grin. She interpreted it correctly. She obviously wanted to curse him out, but her eyes fell on the cigar. Clearly the concreteness of the cigar outweighed whatever was left of her dignity. So after a pause her eyes rolled down to the man’s fly, paused, and then back into his face. “Hell shortly! You ain’t got nothing to get nothing with,” she said. “My little son’s got more than you’ve got.” Foxx’s grin wiped. Perhaps he wanted to hit her, but just then she said, “Two of them cigars shorty and you’ve got a deal.” Although she was certainly no Godwhatadish, she was woman and clearly available. While Foxx took care of business with her, Gravedigger and Lonesome went down the dimly lit hall to Jerry’s place. Lonesome knocked, but courtesy wasn’t one of Gravedigger’s strong points. He suddenly rammed his size thirteen military combat boot into the door, sending it and much of the frame sailing inside, barely missing the previously sleeping but suddenly wide-awake, highly surprised Jerry Costro. Before he realized the direction from which the explosion erupted, Gravedigger sailed inside, jumped on the nosily bouncing bed and rammed the action end of a pistol in Jerry’s nose. Horror enraptured his soul. Simultaneously, Lonesome Pyle stormed into the small kitchen, throwing chairs and knocking over tables as if he expected to find a Baby Face Nelson or John Dillinger type hiding under them. When they finally realized Jerry wasn’t armed and was alone, Lonesome stuck his pistol under his belt and relaxed, but Gravedigger was adamant. “I take it you are Jerry Costro. Where's Tami Bryant?” Before the frightened man could respond, Lonesome grabbed a framed picture of Jerry’s live-in girlfriend that was sitting on an end table. She was clearly a mature woman, certainly not a winsome looking, stringy haired blonde, but Lonesome shouted, “Is this her?” Jerry automatically shook his head, but then he watched in bewilderment as Lonesome’s face contorted into an angry smirk, and he slammed the picture against the wall scattering broken glass across the room. “Where’s the girl?” Gravedigger yelled. “I—I don't know,” Jerry stammered. “All I know is she wanted twenty-five bucks.” Both men stopped abruptly and their eyes clicked on him. They were obviously awaiting a further response but Jerry was too frightened to understand, so Lonesome responded, “And—” Jerry instantly stammered, “I—I gave it to her. I gave her a hundred and a straight razor.” Lonesome’s eyes flashed on Gravedigger and then back on the frightened man. “She's on her way out to the Midwest.” Jerry said. “I figured she’d need some extra money and something to protect herself. That’s it. You can’t tell what she’ll run into going way out there.” “The Midwest eh?” Lonesome responded. “That’s a lot of territory boy.” He clearly wanted Jerry to be more specific, narrow it down a bit, but Jerry shrugged and said, “That's all I know. Ruth and she left two days ago, in the evening.” That was a surprise. “Ruth?” Lonesome asked. “Yeah, Ruth Bender, a dame that lives on the third floor, Tami’s best friend. She's with her,” Jerry said. “They're on their way out there to get with something or somebody Tami calls the Just and Pure Mirage. I’m sure they were catching the Greyhound.” Gravedigger cast a questioning look at Lonesome, and then both of them stared at Jerry questioningly. Jerry shrugged and said, “They’ve been talking about it several months, this just and pure thing. I don’t know what it is, but I’d say they are just tired of this dump. A new uncle every time they see their mothers: Rarely anything decent to eat. That stupid doped up brother of Tami's hitting on her all the time. Most of the time she sleeps down here.” “With you?” Digger asked. “On the sofa!” Jerry said loudly, cutting his eyes at it. “I'm engaged. That's my girl’s picture that joker just slammed against the wall.” Lonesome Pyle’s eyes automatically followed Jerry’s, saw what remained of the picture and frame, and then they clicked back on Jerry. “Pyle boy, Lonesome Pyle. That’s the name. Just be glad it’s the picture and not you that I slammed against that wall. What are these books here anyway?” he asked, noticing some books lying on the sofa. “Do you read this crap?” “They are hers,” Jerry said, as Lonesome picked them up. “Tami reads a lot.” “Ancient Egypt, God’s Little Acre, Tales of the FBI, Pennsylvania’s Quakers, Iceberg Slim, a blasted pimp book,” Lonesome said, tossing that one across the room. “She don’t care what she reads, does she?” Jerry shook his head. “About this hitting,” Gravedigger injected. “You mean this guy, her brother, he beats up on her?” “No, not beating up on her. Oh, he tries to do that occasionally too but Tami’s quick-tempered and tough. She knows how to fight. It’s sex. That’s what they fight over the most. She’s afraid to sleep in her own bed when he’s high. That’s every time he can steal enough stuff to buy some weed.” “His own sister?” Digger asked. “Half sister,” Jerry said. “Nothing around here is whole.” Gravedigger rolled his eyes on Lonesome. They clearly understood the girls’ plight, perhaps even their reason for running away. “You did good boy,” Gravedigger said, preparing to leave. “Maybe we’ll see you again.” Jerry clearly wasn’t anxious for that to happen. As they entered the main hallway leading to the front door, Medusa, a woman so black her eyes looked like twin moons framed against the blackness of deep space, suddenly came downstairs. Upon passing Mary’s open apartment door, she cast her eyes in briefly and then snapped her head around. Glaring straight ahead, she said loudly, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me. Psalm 23, Verse four.” Lonesome Pyle cut his eyes at Gravedigger and shook his head. |