| Massive Douchery |
[Aug. 14th, 2009|11:55 pm] |
Wanna hear a secret? I have no idea why I can't delete this journal. None. Not in a ZOMG READ TEH FAQ kind of way but a distant emotional resonance forcing hoarding useless artifacts kind of way. I stopped posting to it years ago and nothing worth really being dialed in and engaged happens on my friends list. Christ, the Livejournal Friends List. Remember when enough of your ACTUAL friends weren't online so you filled your friends list with strange people, half baked Internet celebs and girls sporting D Cups? Now, thanks Facebook you know if your uncle took a shit and you can say maybe to an invite to your high school class reunion. Yay. Rail booze. Finger sandwiches. Awkward conversations and handjobs. I lost track, am I talking about high school reunions or Livejournal? It doesn't matter. Essentially the same. So from the orbiting Salaciousdrift Operational Command Center here's saying "polish the silver, tip your landscaper and remember that even though they can pee nuns won't let you put in more than the tip." Vaya con dios. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 6th, 2008|01:32 pm] |
I will vote Barack Obama before I vote for John "Fucking" McCain.
If the Dems nominate Hillary I may just have to give myself cancer and die. |
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| What I've read so far this year |
[Oct. 4th, 2007|02:06 pm] |
1. Cold in July by Joe R. Lansdale
2. Junky by William S. Burroughs
3. The Stepford Wives by Ira Levin
4. The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell
5. The Tenant by Roland Topor
6. Outside the Dog Museum by Jonathan Carroll
7. Voice of Our Shadow by Jonathan Carroll
8. The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl by Tim Pratt
9. The Speed Queen by Stewart O'Nan
10. Amnesia Moon by Jonathan Lethem
11. Gun, With Occassional Music by Jonathan Lethem
12. The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon
13. My Pet Virus: The True Story of a Rebel Without a Cure by Shawn Decker
14. The Shadows, Kith and Kin by Joe R. Lansdale
15. Mucho Mojo by Joe R. Lansdale
16. Rumble Tumble by Joe R. Lansdale
17. Freezer Burn by Joe R. Lansdale
18. The Boar by Joe R. Lansdale
19. Lost Echoes by Joe R. Lansdale
20. Off Season by Jack Ketchum
21. The Lost by Jack Ketchum
22. The Girl Next Door by Jack Ketchum
23. Hide and Seek by Jack Ketchum
24. She Wakes by Jack Ketchum
25. The Deadly Percheron by John Franklin Bardin
26. Nightfall by David Goodis
27. The Nightwalker by Thomas Tessier
28. The Fates by Thomas Tessier
29. The Search for Joseph Tully by William H. Hallahan
30. Vampire Outlaw of The Milky Way by Weston Ochse
31. Live Girls by Ray Garton
32. Night Life by Ray Garton
33. Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates
34. The Backwoods by Edward Lee
35. The Dark Country by Dennis Etchison
36. The Death Artist by Dennis Etchison
37. The Kill Riff by David J. Schow
38. Crota by Owl Goingback
39. The Rising by Brian Keene
40. City of the Dead by Brian Keene
41. Terminal by Brian Keene
42. The Conquerer Worms by Brian Keene
43. Ghoul by Brian Keene
44. Dead Sea by Brian Keene
46. Vigilantes of Love by John Everson
47. An Occupation of Angels by Lavie Tidhar
48. Moonbane by Al Sarrantonio
49. Horrorween by Al Sarrantonio
50. Hallow's Eve by Al Sarrantonio
51. West Texas by Al Sarrantonio
52. Death's Dominion by Simon Clark
53. Nailed by Lucy Taylor
54. The Auctioneer by Joan Samson
55. Jack Faust by Michael Swanwick
56. Survivor by J.F. Gonzalez
57. The Beloved by J.F. Gonzalez
58. Heart Shaped by Box by Joe Hill
59. You In? By Kealen Patrick Burke
60. Geodesic Dreams by Gardner Dozois
61.The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall
62. Concrete Island by JG Ballard
63. High Rise by JG Ballard
64. Keepers by Gary Braunbeck
65. The Hollower by Mary Sangiovanni |
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| I think the last time |
[Aug. 29th, 2007|01:38 pm] |
I posted a Livejournal entry in an effort to highlight a comic current event it was a rambling tirade about Wisconsin legalizing cat hunting.
Leona Helmsley is:
- Dead
- Rich
- And Leaving 12 Million Dollars to a dog named 'Trouble'
- Ms. South Carolina is a champion for literacy
The last one was a bonus. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 24th, 2007|01:19 am] |
If you haven't seen the magnificent film 'Electra Glide in Blue' please fucking do so. It is undeniable proof that some purpose existed in Robert Blake's birth and one of the few well executed contemporary in setting westerns ever made. hypothetical conversation:
Fucking Loozer: Have you seen Faggot Mountain directed by Angst Lee?
Brian: Good Christ, why would I suggest myself to that bothersome garbage? As if the idea of Annie Proulx owning any writing utencils wssn't irritating enough!
Fucking Loozer: Well.... It has sweeping vistas of mount-tanez like uh John For----
Brian:Just stop right fucking there. John Ford was Doctor Boring. His exteriors were filler to disguise the derth of emotional content in his films. He made one good motion picture. Featured the Duke searchin'.
Fucking Loozer: *sniffles* Well, just because you aren't comfortable with your---
Brian: *punches Fucking Loozer in throat* Oh hi, ypur holier than thou contempt for the opinions of others and the dismissive way you treat other's value system doesn't substitute for good taste. You were about to call me on the carpet for not liking art that feaured homos. Crack a book and read the "Hap Collins and Leonard Pine' westerns and tell me if I dismiss westerns because of queerness. Go 'head. If not skedaddle and leave me to my dog and sunsets. They trump bullshit everytime.
Fin |
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| The First in a Ten Part Series of entries devoid of any worthwhile content at all |
[Jul. 6th, 2007|12:50 am] |
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In which we highlight ten people who write books and you do not read these books and therefore you suck.
What is it about Texas? I had a friend from Detroit in the other day and she can’t fathom why anybody would choose to live here. I can’t fathom why anybody would choose to live in Detroit, so we’re even.
This is the last question from an interview with Joe R Lansdale that I just read. Champion Joe tackles race, religion, sexuality, geographic bigotry and morality with a deftness that would make you think he towers over us like 500 foot tall fucking bull with golden horns. Naw, he's just a dude who leaves me dumbstruck every time I finish a book by him. He's a god damn genius. My biggest regret during my sister's visit was NOT getting her to buy some Mojo Storyteller.
Do yourself a favor; cruise to your local asshole bookstore buy some Joe and call off for the day. It'll be worth it.
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2007|01:05 am] |
In other news Vonnegut is still dead.
And I am still glad. I think I will hire a Mexican to mow my fucking lawn and pay him in copies of Breakfast of Champions. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2007|12:24 am] |
Kurt Vonnegut is a loser and dead.
May you rot in same hell for overblown hacks as Hunter Thompson you self important cocksucker. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 5th, 2007|04:07 am] |
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\old black jokes still picking cotton |
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| Everbody knows the war is over, ever body knows the good guys lost |
[Apr. 5th, 2007|03:43 am] |
now Applewz contolz yer muzic. nexzt ye4t checkklkkkkkkkllkkkkkbookl.
Really.
Seriously. I've paid for more music since iTunes then like forever
Not even since the Dav(idsson)'s sweet 3 4 1 deals at Graverobbers from Outerspace Music Shoppe |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 5th, 2007|01:17 am] |
Bob Clark dead. Andy Sidaris dead. This year is relentlessly sloughing the mighty from the clay. What next? - JG Ballard gonna flip a four wheeler drunk in the desert?
- Joe Bob Briggs face down, ass up in Tacoma?
- Nick Cave has the breakfast of champions?1
1Champions eat bullets. (Papa, RE Howard, Horacio Quiroga, Van Gogh, Cobain and that motherfucker that wrote the books about the fuzzies.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|12:21 am] |
"This saliva is not from any known human or animal species."
OH MY GOD.
LIFETIME ORDERED A SEASON OF THIS. |
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| The Lifetime Network's sweet, sweet poos sow |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|12:15 am] |
Quote from teh new Lifetime show Blood Ties:
"What's the signifigance of a pentagram?"
Am I the only one who thinks this line delivered in all seriousness is as funny as 'What's a nubian?' from Chasing Amy. Also this show takes place in Canadiaiaiaiaiaiaia where gunz are illegal and all the characters look like there about to break bad on Nancy Kerrigan when they gotta break some ass.
PS: Fuck DNA and FUCK DNA ON A VAMPIRE SHOW |
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| List: |
[Dec. 4th, 2006|03:33 pm] |
Item the first: Here's hoping that the whole of Manheim Steamroller gets cancer and dies. Every year I fear turning on a Christmas channel on the radio for fear of their "The Carpenters gets buttfucked by Kraftwerk" brand of bullshit.
Item the second: Here's hoping Jimmy Carter buys some new fucking ties. I saw his stupid ass on CSPAN and he was wearing a BOLO FUCKING TIE. Unless you have the birthright of Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico you do not get to wear a bolo. Longtime residents of Arizona may petition the ghost of Barry Goldwater for the right but it is bestowed sparingly. Dear Carter, fuck you and buy a white suit like any self respecting Jawjuhn.
Item the third: Our new laptop sucks just as much cock as the last. Anybody got a free fucking laptop? I need to write at home bad.
Merry Christmas and if you want cards email your fucking snail mail hizzy.
Gas Mumia. |
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| Dog Days |
[Aug. 18th, 2006|10:22 am] |
Rex was lying on his back and his nuts were bouncing like a pinball on a tilt. Golden Retrievers had little or no respect for the natural order of things. Rex was no exception to this. Most dogs knew that the reason nuts hung between their legs was it allowed to be more discreet with their hairy beanbags. Gordon looked on with disdain and disappointment. He wished that he had better than a fucking Goldie for a constant companion.
“Can I go two hours without seeing you roll over and offer me your tackle box? Would that be too much to ask?” The Great Dane stopped speaking to stoop and pick up the little rubber snowman that filled his afternoons with diversion. When Rex talked about inane shit or rolled over Gordon would chew the rubber snowman and wonder about important things, like when his knees would give out.
“You’re the bitchiest alpha I’ve ever known. Alphas don’t moan and groan and ask their pack to do shit. They just nip at them and growl a little bit. It’s how they make things happen.” Rex wiggled his hips to make his balls flop provocatively. Gordon’s response was to redouble his efforts on the rubber snowman. Inside, he knew the Retriever was right. He was six and starting to feel slower and more willing to let the pack do whatever they wanted. One day soon he would assert control and he would be reminded that his authority had wilted like the flowers Hershey peed on every day.
Hershey was so twisted and contorted in obsessive looking that he looked like chocolate covered pretzel and the only sound that came from his was the throbbing pulse of his licking. He had worn a patch down to nothing near his ass but today was focusing on the area above his tail. He would shoot his paws out at wild angles and rock back and forth licking. Pissing, licking and staring and the ground were Hershey’s forte.
Gordon growled softly and tried to get enough of the rubber snowman in his mouth to make it hurt to chew it. He longed for the days where his owner would take him to the park and all the dogs and people would stare at him. He was a Fucking Great Fucking Dane. No one told him that his eyes would start to go so young and that his knees would ache day in and out. Sometimes he wished he to be smaller like Hershey. Hershey was red nosed Pit Bull and the only health problem Hershey seemed to suffer from was the occasional sneezing fit after he pissed on a flower bed. The god damned bastard.
“You think Pequeño will come out to play today?” Rex tried to engage his maudlin leader in chit-chat about the cul-de-sac Chihuahua. The street was largely the domain of large dogs but Pequeño had moved in last year and made a big splash. He was small, talked fast and knew all the best trash. The problem was that Pequeño’s owner thought Hershey or Jupiter was going to murder the ever-living shit out of the little dog. She was wrong. Hershey was more interested in licking a hole in himself to care and Jupiter hadn’t realized yet that Rottweiler’s were supposed to be vicious, brainless monsters. Jupiter was dull enough yet that he hadn’t realized that he would never catch his tail or that the dog in the mirror would never roll over and show his belly.
“Pequeño only comes over now when he escapes. You know that. That bitch college student is convinced we are going to eat him. He only gets to come out when she talks to herself.” Gordon was pretty smart but he hadn’t figured out headsets for mobile phones. He just perceived an explosion in insanity in the human population. Gordon focused and tried to get the whole rubber snowman in his mouth. If he got lucky he might choke himself to death. He heard light steps that either meant Pequeño or the cul-de-sac cat. He looked up into the coffee colored eyes of Pequeño. The little guy was very particular about rules and order. He was the most respectful dog Gordon had ever known.
“Boss, boss, boss…” He seemed frantic but that was nothing out of the ordinary for Pequeño. He gulped air while shoving the paranoia out of his tiny mouth. He continued, “Boss, I got big news! Trouble!”
Gordon hoped for a rash of Valley Fever or maybe an outbreak of Heartworm.
“The fire hydrant is trying to bite dogs!” The little Chihuahua stretched in a way that resembled laying prostrate. He stared unblinking at Gordon and rotated his jumbo bat ears toward the Dane. The Dane was disappointed; the Chihuahua was loosing his mind. Rex was only occupied with rolling around and chasing tennis balls thrown by humans. Jupiter was dumber than a box of broken dog biscuits and Hershey almost never spoke. His last hope for decent conversation had slipped into a fit of Mexican canine insanity.
“I mean it boss! You see Jupiter anywhere? The fire hydrant got him good! He has to stay inside his yard until her gets better. I saw the fire hydrant bite him! Right on the leg. The leg I say!” The Chihuahua looked like it was going to explode. Maybe if it did explode then it would take Gordon with him.
“I think Jupiter’s away because he just got fixed.” Rex rolled around and stared at the little pooch. Rex made Pequeño uncomfortable. He was the only that had ever lunged at him. Gordon privately thought it was the first worthwhile Rex had contributed to any conversation in weeks.
“Well, well…” The little dog trailed off and stared at a Cactus Wren that was abusing a drainage pipe. Once the bird fleed from view the Chihuahua got back to crying lobo. “That happened too boss! I’m not saying Jupiter didn’t get fixed but the fire hydrant bit him! It did! Boss, do you even remember the hydrant being there last week? Come on boss, be the boss!”
Gordon stared out at the oversized rain drop of asphalt that was the pavement let his gaze drift to the squat yellow stormtrooper that he had yet to piss on. His hips were getting so bad that he tended to piss like a girl these days and he was so depressed that he didn’t even notice when Hershey’s house got painted. The hydrant could be brand new and he would have never known.
“Rex have you peed on the hydrant yet?” Gordon asked the Retriever to report and hope that he would be able to extricate some sense from his response.
“I don’t know big guy.” Simple and worthless.
Hershey licked on and appeared to not care about the potentially death dealing utility device. The Chihuahua snapped his neck quickly from dog to dog gauging reactions. Gordon tried to think back to last month. It was a fog. It was day after day of choking on the snowman and dreading his fifth cup of senior kibble. He looked at the hydrant and couldn’t even believe that he was entertaining the idea it was some kind of stationary carnivore. It was ridiculous.
“Pequeño, this is ridiculous. I think the only stationary carnivores are plants. Those fly-trap things.” The Chihuahua seemed ready for this argument.
“Boss, I know. I know but think if you wanted to catch dogs off guard and eat them then bite them when they are peeing. You know? Maybe it has evolved over the years to look like things dogs pee on. Maybe there used to be ones that looked like trees or rocks. This is just the next step! Boss!” The little guy sounded plaintive and desperate. Gordon started to put it together that until he went over there and pissed on the hydrant Pequeño wasn’t going to shut up about it. The Dane dropped the rubber snowman and hauled himself on aching knees.
“When I piss on that thing are you going to shut up about it?” Gordon’s motivations were less than philanthropic. If he could convince the little rat dog that the hydrant was safe maybe he could squeeze some decent talk from him. Rex bothered to stop flopping around like a drowning cod to watch the exchange and Pequeño seemed overjoyed. Gordon felt a little rush. For the first time in a while he felt like a leader and all he had to was take a whiz. If only everything could be so easy.
“God damn right! I talk about what ever you want boss!” The Chihuahua started to shiver and Gordon couldn’t read him anymore. Those little dogs shivered all the time and didn’t have a lick to do with how they were feeling or what they were thinking.
The Fucking Great Fucking Dane, noble leader of years past, lumbered toward the fire hydrant. It’s shadow seemed a little darker than it should be and it felt like it was pulling in the air around it. Gordon approached softly and noticed that the hydrant seemed to be planted in the cement like flower. The sidewalk puckering around it. It leaned toward Gordon like a sunflower. It had been so long since Gordon had peed on a fire hydrant or a street sign he couldn’t remember if these things were right. He walked around the thing, sniffing. It smelled like the delicious fetid meat of a bird that falls from a tree or garbage before it gets picked up. It didn’t smell metal. Gordon looked over his enormous shoulder to his audience. Pequeño and Rex were lined up like front row at a prize fight and Hershey was still licking. Gordon made an ‘oof’ sound that came out like an aborted bark.
He looked back to the hydrant and then positioned himself for a piss. Gordon felt the waves of pain pulse through his knees and hips as he lifted his leg to spray and at first thought the hissing and wheezing he heard was himself. It was the stationary carnivore. Gordon moved back and his tail sprang up as he barked at the fire hydrant. The conical top of the thing had opened to reveal three rows of sharp teeth that curved inward, also yellow. A purple tongue danced in the bed of teeth and the caps on either arm of the hydrant had popped open to expose serpentine eyes that focused on the dog. Gordon slobbered and growled. He also backed away.
When the dog reached his pack he huffed and sat down as far from the hydrant as possible. Even though the yellow thing had already settled down into an apparent condition of sleep it still bothered Gordon.
“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire god damn life!” Rex and Pequeño nodded in enthused agreement.
“Nobody has ever seen anything that weird! Ayúdeme dios!” The Chihuahua screamed. Hershey looked up from his licking and cleared his throat.
“Guys, we’re talking dogs.” |
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| Should... |
[May. 4th, 2006|09:25 pm] |
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Beth and I throw caution to the wind and dash off to LA on Friday or Saturday and sit in a beautiful, opulent movie palace? Also should I get cancer of the scrotum sack for posting in my layyyymejournal? |
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| Chapter Five |
[Aug. 1st, 2005|10:24 pm] |
Fletcher hit the end button on his mobile phone and surveyed the idiotic anarchy of the police investigation at the estate sale. He knew that there was nothing else to accomplish here, so he climbed back into the Citation, warmed its engine, and sat in its deep comfortable seats plotting a course of action for the next 36 hours. Even if Carson got the gun shipped to him before the end of the day, it would arrive on Monday. Fletcher didn’t want to waste the remainder of Saturday and tomorrow, but he was hesitant to roam too much without packing heat.
The outfit running the estate sale had security on premises the day before. That meant the thief either had enough muscle to roll all of the security guys, or enough money to buy their silence. Either way, Fletcher didn’t want to fuck with someone like that until he was packing heat.
He shifted the car into gear, did a highly illegal k-turn in the middle of the street and started driving to the Market District’s North Lot. Thinking about the two parking lots made Fletcher even angrier. He wished that he was in some bizarre alternate universe where the theft had been orchestrated by the fat desk clerk. Then Fletcher would have an excuse to pistol-whip that son of a bitch to a pulp. Fletcher’s violent fantasy slipped from pistol-whipping to butter churn smashing as he drove. Traffic was calmer than it had been the night before on the way into town.
Fletcher counted better traffic amongst his blessings as he pushed the big green button on the ticket dispenser in front of the parking garage. Fletcher had resolved that the best course of action was to sort through his rolodex and find a regional contact that didn’t really mind flirting with the law. Someone clean enough that he would take Fletcher’s calls, but dirty enough to know who wouldn’t.
He walked down Dogwood Avenue to his hotel, going over the list of every asshole that he had bailed out for petty art- and antique-related crime over the last ten years. He knew all the friendly forgery peddlers, knowledgeable fences and out-and- out thieves that didn’t give a damn about advertising their trade. Some of these guys even walked on the right side of the law when the price was right.
Fletcher noticed a middle-aged Indian man behind the front desk of the Downtowner and he went in to get his parking validated. Fletcher hadn’t decided whether or not to complain about the fat boy from the night before. During the day time the authentic Colonial bell chain was no where to be seen. The middle-aged man had a table of stale doughnuts and coffee sitting on the counter for the guests. From the smell of the doughnuts they were from the same place Fletcher had breakfast and too damn old for human consumption.
“I’d like to get my parking validated.” Fletcher slapped the ticket down on the counter and the man in the powdered wig nodded enthusiastically.
“With pleasure. Has everything been to your satisfaction, sir?” The clerk was wearing a pastel yellow colonial outfit. His powdered wig looked about two sizes too small.
“Well, that kid last night was a complete asshole cocksucker. He did everything he could to avoid helping me. He told me that I couldn’t get validated on the South Lot.”
The Indian nodded sympathetically.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anything that I can do to satisfy you in light of this error?” Fletcher could feel his temperature rising. The Indian last night had done everything possible to piss him off.
“If I can think of something I’ll let you know. Could you send some beer up to room? I have to make a few telephone calls and I’m parched.”
“On the house sir. I apologize for the errors that you encountered last night.” Fletcher was pleasantly surprised. This guy knew everything about treating his customers. If somebody told him to fire his night clerk and convinced him to buy desks for the rooms, then this place would be tolerable.
“What is your room number sir? I’ll have the beer up in a few minutes.” The Indian had already picked up the receiver on his phone to call room service.
“I’m in 214. Name’s Fletcher.”
“Mr. Luke Fletcher, sir?” The Indian replaced the phone in it’s cradle and leaned under the desk and opened a file cabinet.
“That’s me.”
“A fax came for you, sir. It arrived a few minutes ago and I had just filed it when you arrived.” He stood up and handed a folder labeled ‘Fax: Fletcher’ across the counter.
Fletcher opened the folder and read the scribbled note inside. It read:
Ciao! I have heard that you are a man interested in Wythe Pantographs and the Wythe legacy. I would appreciate the opportunity to help you. I think that we should meet tomorrow at The Uplands. Shall we say one o’clock? Grazie.
Fletcher caught the bearclaw from this morning giving him indigestion again. He had been in town for a day and already some son of a bitch was trying to set up a shaky anonymous meeting. He didn’t know quite what to make of it.
“Send up some Pepto with that beer.” Fletcher left the office and went to his room. He sat down on his bed, prematurely exhausted, and opened his attaché case to get his address book. He pulled it out and flipped to the section labeled ‘black hats’. Even though Fletcher had a potential contact and lead on the pantograph, that wasn’t until tomorrow and he didn’t want to sit around doing nothing for the rest of the day.
He was scanning the address book for Washington and Richmond area codes when it came to him, just as the room service showed up. He flipped open his mobile phone and answered the knock at the door. The desk clerk he had seen downstairs a few minutes ago was standing there holding two Dogfish 120 minute IPAs and a bottle of Pepto. In light of the call he had to make, Fletcher was happy he had ordered the Pepto.
He nodded to the Manager who held up his hand to decline to a tip and closed the door. Fletcher opened a beer and took a swig. The Dogfish bit him hard in throat and he coughed.
The Little Bastard was still in Fletcher’s speed-dial. He paged down to the listing for the Little Bastard and hit send.
The Little Bastard picked up the phone almost immediately.
“Well, fuck all. To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of Luke Fletcher’s mediocre conversational skills?”
“Hello, Newton. Do you have time for dinner? I’m in the area and I would love to see you.” Fletcher could feel his balls rising into his stomach as he told the lie to Newton Ainsworth.
“Sure, you’d fucking love to have dinner with me. Did somebody steal something before you did again?” Ainsworth was under the mistaken impression that he and Fletcher did virtually the same thing. The only difference he saw was that he believed Fletcher only stole from the buyer, not the seller. Ainsworth resold the items that he stole, at 1000% mark up on the black market. He was one of the more daring antique thieves.
“I’m in Wythe City for Gallinsky’s to buy this pantograph and somebody stole it last night.” Fletcher had always been pretty good at reading Ainsworth and he was hoping that he would say something to let him know whether or not he actually knew anything.
“You’re in Wythe Fucking City? That’s three hours for me, roundtrip, and that’s if I speed. You are buying me dinner if I come down there.” Fletcher had known since he got the phone out of his pocket that meeting up with Ainsworth would require buying him dinner. Every time he had crossed paths with him in the last five years he had spent money on him. Between food, loans and bail money Ainsworth was into Fletcher for over three grand. Fletcher had no confidence that he would ever see any of that money come back his way.
“Fine. Where do you want to eat?” Parking was such holy hell Fletcher found himself hoping that Ainsworth would name a place to eat in the Market District.
“Do you know Candy Bar on Dogwood?” Ainsworth had always had a sweet tooth and a predilection for American strippers. The limey bastard would find some way of emptying Fletcher’s wallet before the night was over.
“My hotel is on Dogwood. I’m sure that I can find it. See you in two hours?”
“Where are you staying?” Ainsworth had a voice that sounded like he was going to suggest meeting at Fletcher’s hotel but had the potential for malicious intent. The good thing about him was that to his friends and associates the worst that he usually dealt out was a snide laugh.
“The Wythe Colonial Downtowner.”
Ainsworth snidely laughed into the telephone and then hung up. Fletcher sighed and then killed the Dogfish. He stared at the bottle of Pepto and decided that he might need it after he talked with the Brit. Instead, Fletcher chugged the second Dogfish and felt a bit lightheaded. He got up and left his room walking briskly. With two hours until Ainsworth showed up, he had plenty of time to get the beer out of system.
It was kind of hard to not notice Candy Bar. It had been further down Dogwood and that was why Fletcher hadn’t seen it yet. The brick building was painted a bright yellow and had a bronze sculpture of a nude male javelin thrower wielding a giant neon candy bar on the front. The doors to the building were a sloppily carved oak that had been painted a cocoa brown. It looked like Bobby Trendy had been left in charge of a candy factory.
Fletcher swung open one of the enormous chocolate bars and met a staircase painted with as much class. The walls of the stairwell leading up were lined with fine art reprints of children’s book covers and turn-of-the-century ads for chocolate bars. The railing was a heinous plastic rod that looked like it had escaped from 70s dystopian science fiction movie.
As Fletcher ascended the stairs to Candy Bar, he could hear a Tèshomé Meteku record playing. It wasn’t what Fletcher had expected from a candy-themed bar, but after the car rental situation and the pantograph theft, the surprise only dully registered with him. As he entered Candy Bar proper, Fletcher was reminded of every piece of trashy seventies furniture that he passed over at yard sales and community college closings. From a quick count it looked like half the tables had only beanbag chairs. All the tables with chairs were occupied. Fletcher would have to roll around the floor in a beanbag chair like a savage until Ainsworth arrived.
Fletcher walked up to the smooth, plastic bar. It was a long synthetic red log that curved spherically at one end and stopped abruptly at the other. There were neon lights inside the bar so a power cord dangled from the end that was flat. The bar looked like a tampon applicator.
The dipshit behind the counter was wearing the uniform shirt of a pizza delivery chain and he had ironed on a name patch that read ‘Fourtwenty’. He was wearing an ushanka that was so brightly colored as to not be real animal fur. He was wearing women’s reading glasses and his fingernails were painted alternately white and black.
“Welcome to Candy Bar. Do you need to see a menu?” The guy with the piano fingernails was sorting chocolate bars and was distracted by something that wasn’t Fletcher.
“Just give me Canadian whisky and ginger ale.” Fletcher planned to nurse the drink and watch the clientele until Ainsworth arrived.
“What bar would you like to go with that sir?” The retard in the pizza shirt looked at Fletcher.
“What?”
“All drinks are served with a candy bar. Is there a particular candy bar that you would like or would you care to see the menu?”
“I dunno. Give me a Zagnut.” Fletcher grumbled.
“Sir, I believe that you will find that the ginger ale and the Zagnut are a displeasing taste combination. May I suggest a Nielson Jersey Milk bar? I think you will find that it has a maple aftertaste and a hint of cinnamon. It’s a wonderful compliment to your cocktail.” Fletcher hoped that Ainsworth had a head full of cavities.
“Sure, why the Christ not?” Fletcher got out his wallet and paid the ten dollar tab for the drink and candy bar. He decided that if it was ten dollars for the liquor and chocolate combo then he would definitely be nursing this until the Brit arrived.
On Fletcher’s second look around the room, he saw a mahogany Regency-style wheelchair. The wood had been well cared for and all the padding looked to either be in mint condition or one of the best reupholstering jobs that he had ever seen. Fletcher couldn’t see the seat of the chair because a beautiful Hawaiian girl had her ass planted in it.
Fletcher couldn’t remember the last time he decided to talk to a woman because of what she looked like. It was too easy for him to get drawn in by the shit they owned and their obvious good taste. On the rare occasion the woman owning the nice things wasn’t a blight it usually led to whirlwind wooing by Fletcher and high credit card bills.
The girl in the Regency was wearing a light floral print sun dress and cowboy boots. Her hair was pulled back and Fletcher saw that she was wearing a gold and caramel colored choker. Judging by the design and craftsmanship, Fletcher thought that it was Trifari from the seventies. In Fletcher’s eyes this girl was an absolute goddess. Her taste was impeccable.
He tossed back the Canadian whisky and walked over to her. She was sipping a white russian and there was an unfinished Cow Tail on her table. The pragmatic part of Fletcher hoped that hitting on her worked out so that he wouldn’t have to sit on a bean bag chair. She looked downcast.
“Mind if I sit down? I don’t do well with furniture that belongs on Romper Room and it looks you have an empty chair.” She smiled at him.
“Not at all. I think my father may have stood me up, so I could use some company.” Fletcher sat down in a bright orange chair and unwrapped his candy bar.
“I see you have a white russian and a Cow Tail. Was that suggested to you by the candy cop over there?” As far as opening lines go Fletcher had used better.
“It’s one of the house specials. They call it The Whole Cow. It’s alright and it’s the cheapest house drink.”
“I just let the candy cop pick for me. I think he went to school for this shit. He seems very sure of his candy bars. He didn’t want me pulling the trigger on the wrong chocolate.”
She laughed. “I’m Kalia, and I took a chocolate bar safety course, so I am proficient at aiming, loading and firing sweets. I have a lifetime membership in the National Candy Bar Association.”
“I’m Luke.” He almost always introduced himself as ‘Fletcher’, or by his full name. One the rare occasions that Fletcher introduced himself by his first name, he was on the prowl for trim.
“You said your father was supposed to meet you here,” Fletcher continued. “Did he pick or did you pick?” Fletcher was dancing around the question that he really wanted to ask. How the hell did a hundred pound girl get a 19th century wheelchair up a flight of steps without handicap access? It was definitely not the type of question Fletcher would ask when trying to get in a girl’s pants and appraise her old medical equipment.
“He picked. He thinks that by eating at enough hip restaurants and wearing enough flip flops he can be 18 again.” Fletcher could sympathize. His sister was the same way.
“Sounds like a real drag. How much longer are you going to wait for him?” Fletcher doubted that she could be convinced to stick around for the remaining 75 minutes until Ainsworth’s estimated arrival time but he could hope.
She made a face and bit her lip. “How long are you going to be here?” She asked.
“I am meeting someone here in a little over an hour. Care to keep me company until then?”
“Why not?”
The two of them made chit chat for about an hour. Neither broached topics that may have offended the other. Fletcher didn’t ask Kalia how she got her wheelchair up the staircase and she didn’t press him on his flirtations. Neither one revealed much in the way of details about their lives. The conversation was an overwrought mess of double talk and odylic force. Still, Ainsworth never really left Fletcher’s head.
Then the bacon girl showed up.
A girl stood over the table swaying in a nonexistent breeze and holding a plastic tub of uncooked bacon in one hand and a milkshake that looked like vomit in the other. She smelled like sticky girl drinks and Fletcher knew he had seen her before. Her hair was dyed blonde and the prospect of pulling out a chair to sit at the table with Kalia and Fletcher seemed really daunting to the girl.
She put down the vomit shake and pulled out a seat. She planted her drunk ass in an orange chair and started explaining the bacon.
“I have some bacon.” Her voice did that chirping thing that some drunk girls voice’s do. Some guys find it attractive. It just made Fletcher gag.
“I got it from the kitchen here because, because it smells so good and I like bacon.” The bacon girl was pretty but ultimately interchangeable, like a pink spare tire. He still couldn’t place her. She was too young to have been one of his students from when he was teaching undergrad courses up north. He wondered if he had seen her at a sale somewhere.
“I wanted them to cook all the bacon for me.” She paused; either for effect, or to burp back vomit. Fletcher couldn’t tell which. “But my waiter told me that bacon wasn’t on the menu by itself. He said...” She trailed off and stared at the wall. “He said I could get a Payday bar wrapped in fried bacon but I just want the bacon. Does it have to be a scene?”
It hit Fletcher like a hundred pound drunken brick. It was the girl from the plane. Fletcher wondered if this was some kind of cosmic justice.
“Kalia, I believe I may be to blame for this girl’s obvious alcoholism. I gave her wine yesterday on a small aircraft and what I thought would be a one-time brush with the very best vinegar-tasting wine that Virginia has to offer has turned into full blown alcoholism with a possibly related addiction to bacon.”
Kalia grinned at Fletcher. “Then you owe me one for this unsightly intrusion at our table. You’re corrupting the youth.” He thought about the age difference between himself and Kalia.
“Yes, I am.”
Kalia addressed the booze-sponge wielding the pork.
“Whatcha drinking, sweetie? It doesn’t look too appetizing.” The drunk girl looked offended by the question.
“Issa CK fun. Caramello and Kahlua blended together with ice cream and bourbon. Iss really good.” Fletcher cringed inwardly. He was reminded of all the times he went in a Gallinsky’s and saw rich middle-aged mothers having their car keys taken away because they ordered a second margarita. Drinks were getting so big these days, bartenders should peddle scuba gear with them instead of candy bars.
“Will you gook my bacon?” The girl’s control of consonants was rapidly diminishing. She was well on her way to bleating out vowels and chugging her candy mug full of too much booze for just one girl.
“Me?” Fletcher didn’t have time for this bullshit. Ainsworth was going to be here any minute and he was going to be disentangling himself from a drunk girl with a tub of stolen bacon.
“No! Her.” The drunk girl pointed almost accusingly at Kalia and her eyes got big as trailer park satellite dishes. Kalia just seemed amused by the whole thing.
“One second, Kalia.” He smiled at the drunk girl and laid it on thick. “I am going find someone to cook your bacon for you.”
“Really?”
“Really really.” He stood up and walked back over to the tampon applicator bar and got the attention of the bartender.
“There’s a drunk bimbo sitting at my table and she’s bothering both myself and my friend. I also think she stole a tub of your bacon.”
The guy behind the counter looked up and bellowed to someone that was in an unseen back room.
“Hey Sean-Kason! We need you up front. Some girl stole the prep bacon.” It didn’t even surprise Fletcher that the guy behind the counter didn’t mention to the unseen security dude that the bacon thief was bothering customers. A dude emerged from the kitchen who looked like he was 275 pounds and that 100 of that was the spare tire around his waist. Fletcher assumed in a restaurant with a candy theme the shift drink must have been damn fattening. The security guy was bald and had a poorly kept goatee.
Fletcher’s eyes followed him as he shuffled out from behind the counter and when Fletcher turned he saw Ainsworth leaning in the door frame of Candy Bar’s exit. His crooked, half-rotted English teeth were leering at Fletcher’s predicament.
Once Fletcher made eye contact with Ainsworth, the Brit signaled to a booth in the corner. Fletcher cursed under his breath. An hour and a half ago all of the booths had been taken and now that the Brit had arrived one freed up. Fletcher waved goodbye to Kalia and he started navigating through the clusters of tables jammed too close together. He slid into the booth and laid both hands flat on the table. The table was carved to look like a candy bar.
Ainsworth’s wiry frame darted through the poorly laid out restaurant without a second thought. When he sat down, he didn’t even pick up the menu off the table. He waved to the waitress and from Fletcher’s judgment he knew the girl floating from table to table. She saw Ainsworth’s wave and made for the booth. From the booth he couldn’t see the out-of-control plane whore or the crippled Hawaiian temptress. Hopefully she would be there when he was done talking to the Brit.
The waitress arrived and beamed at Ainsworth. Apparently she had seen Fletcher order from the bar and knew that there was no tip there for her so she pretended he wasn’t even there. Fletcher didn’t mind the slight so much. She was wearing a pin that read ‘Liberate OUR troops’.
“Doll, would you be a dear and bring me a triple shot of Patrón and two Carlos V bars?” Ainsworth flashed his corn-colored grill at the waitress and she replied with a smile in much better working order. She turned and moved for the bar, her apron full of orders for overpriced drinks and obscure candy.
“A Carlos V bar? What the fucking Christ is a Carlos V bar?”
“It’s a petite chocolate bar that has a pleasant enough taste. I couldn’t get enough of them when I was down in Mexico a few years ago. Reminds me of the trip.”
“They named a Mexican candy bar after a Spanish king with a Flemish education?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’s just Jim Dandy. I see you left out the part where I had to shoot my way out of a Mexican jail for your benefit.”
“Different trip.”
Fletcher gritted his teeth. He couldn’t help the fact that even his small talk with the man was antagonistic. The Mexican candy bar was a sticky reminder of an unpleasantness that happened six years previous in the town of Creel.
“So did you eat any candy bars on the trip where I shot out a of Chihuahua jail because you had been grave-robbing, you inconsiderate British asshole?” Fletcher found himself wondering if his venom would chase Ainsworth away.
“No. I was too busy making eight million pesos. How about that, you barmy wanker? I offered to fucking cut you in.”
“The man whose grave you desecrated was a hero to the people of Chihuahua. He never lost a match and he was buried in his mask. You could have found one of his older masks, but you dug him up for a fast buck. ”
“My buyer wanted his last mask. There was only one place to look for it. Listen, did you call me here to question my business practices or did you have something to talk about?”
The waitress returned with the Brit’s order and went she bent to put it on the table she gave Ainsworth five good seconds of cleavage. Fletcher couldn’t take the irritation much longer.
“Miss, put that on my tab and bring me the check. We’ll be done soon.” Ainsworth flashed his expired teeth at Fletcher in a sneer and tore open a Carlos V bar. The waitress left to get the check and he reached for his wallet and put two twenties on the table. He didn’t want to have to wait around for change.
“So somebody stole a Wythe pantograph? Don’t that just beat all?” He was almost done with the first candy bar and his hand was wrapped around the tequila.
“Yeah, it beats all. Who did it?” The talk about Mexico had killed Fletcher’s desire to mince words on any topic.
“Haven’t the foggiest.” He looked smug and knocked back the tequila, his eyes glazing for a moment as the Mexican booze worked its way down to his gullet. Fletcher asked the next obvious question.
“If you have absolutely nothing for me, then why did I spend an hour and a half waiting for you in this place? Why did I just buy you candy and liquor?”
“Because you needed to hear me tell you to be careful. Outside of Wythe City people don’t much give a damn for Marshall Wythe or his bloody memorabilia. He’s just another proto-socialist who claimed to invent twenty things that he didn’t,a Virginia berk who squandered his farmland.”
“So you think that whoever stole the pantograph is local?” At least this was a start, Fletcher thought.
“You bet your sweet ass they’re local, and the people here are all twice as cocked in the head as usual when it comes to Wythe. I’ll bet the theft had nothing to do with money and everything to do with your thieves being shit-flinging loony.”
The waitress returned with the check and left again quickly with the money. Fletcher debated the merits of telling Ainsworth about the fax he had received at the hotel and thought better of it. If he knew as little as he was saying, then it would be pointless. Fletcher slid out of the booth and stood up. Ainsworth followed suit.
“It’s been fun, but I have a full day of trying to find a stolen pantograph tomorrow.” Ainsworth leaned against the table as if he was planning to sit back down.
“If it’s all the same to you I think I will stay and try to fuck the waitress. Make the drive worth it.” Fletcher suspected that that was a play for gas money and didn’t respond to it.
“Have fun with it. Later, Ainsworth.” Fletcher turned to leave and as he made his way to the front, he saw that the Hawaiian girl was gone. He felt sadder about it than he anticipated and wondered if the discomfort in his stomach was regret at not getting the girl’s number when he had the chance or if it was the fax gnawing at him. The meeting with the Brit had provided no insight as to what his next course of action should be except that he should be distrusting of all the locals. He was a step away from doing that, anyway. Fletcher decided to go back to his hotel and get drunk in the room and Google for Wythe that night. He was feeling reckless and he decided to go to the anonymous meeting at The Uplands tomorrow.
He would go hung over, cagey, and with a headful of pointless tidbits from the Internet designed to irritate the tour guide. There were worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. |
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| Chapter Four |
[Aug. 1st, 2005|10:23 pm] |
Fletcher sipped his fresh coffee and bit into the glazed bear claw that he had been working on for the last 45 minutes. His waitress glided by and doused the exposed porcelain of his cup with more warm, black coffee. Two tables over, a group of friendly rednecks were blossoming like sunflowers. As soon as they got their morning coffee and their corned beef hash and grits they were hooting and carrying on. From what Fletcher could tell they worked for the power company.
The serenity of Fletcher’s morning was sealed by the fact that someone had left the morning paper unattended on the marble countertop of the diner. He skipped past the news and the stocks and he tucked the sports into his attaché case. He could read that in his hotel room before he went to sleep tonight. The paramount attraction of any local paper was the yard sale section. Fletcher had developed a shrewd eye for reading yard sale advertisements and he knew the vast catalog of caution words. Early in his career, Fletcher had spent many Saturday mornings picking over broken toys and baby clothes for one decent find. He was sharp enough at it now to avoid those types of disappointments. He read the yard sale postings like a priest reads Maccabees. With authority.
From the look of the paper all the action was going to be in a neighborhood called Rose Thicket. This was especially pleasing to Fletcher, because that was where the estate sale was. Once he was done buying for Gallinsky’s, he could spend the rest of the morning dueling with blue-haired bitches over nickel candlesticks. It was a little slice of paradise and it went a long way in erasing his memories of yesterday.
The thing that surprised Fletcher the most in the yard sale section was the listing for the estate sale. It was in color, huge and gawdy. At first glance, it looked like an ad for a Colonial monster truck rally. Huge skewed pictures of sale items exploded out of jagged color fields. Exclamation points covered the page like fleas on a dog. The outfit running the sale had no idea how to draw the wallets. Marketing like this drew the attention of fat women in fanny packs, women who watch too much PBS and now think that every end table is worth millions of dollars. Fletcher would probably end up spending half of what he was allotted for the sale.
Fletcher’s mobile phone squawked like an electric cricket. The phone assigned to him by Gallinsky’s was a god damn annoyance. At least he didn’t have to pay for it. The phone had a camera on it and Fletcher had found the camera so irritating had slipped a patch of electrical tape over it. He didn’t like the camera staring at his wallet in his pocket.
“Really fucking cute, Fletcher. You have done some absolutely juvenile shit in your day but this, this takes the fucking taco.” The senior accountant, Matthew Carson, began his assault on Fletcher’s morning.
“Morning, Matt! How are ya?” Fletcher’s voice was lacquered with insincerity. Conversations between Fletcher and Carson were always a contest to how many different ways one could tell the other to fuck himself. Carson had opened with a surprising lack of creativity.
“Well Matt, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you are at the New York office, right? So it’s about the same time as it is here.” Fletcher was actually having trouble stifling the chuckles that came from waking this asshole up. Getting the desk clerk to call Carson at 6AM had been a brilliant idea.
“I’m in fucking Osaka. I am in fucking Osaka right now.” Fletcher hadn’t known that Carson was abroad. He did a little quick math in his head.
“Isn’t that a 13 hour difference? It must be early evening for you.”
“Yeah, it is. I was down in Ikoo-ta Ma… Ikoo-ta…” Carson’s assassination of Japanese proper nouns was fucking Fletcher’s ear.
“Were you in Ikutamateramachi?” Fletcher had been to Japan a few times, and the bizarre visual buffet of Ikutamateramachi was fun the first time. The last time Fletcher had picked up on strange Oriental girls he had taken them to the cheaper, sleazier Sakuranomiya district. The hotels hadn’t been as flashy, but he didn’t need a rotating cartoon character above the bed while he fucked ambitious young women that sold antique puppets.
“You’re god damn straight I was in the Ikutamateramachi! I was there with a client!” Carson’s voice had turned into a shrill yell. His voice was cracking. Carson was about fifteen years younger than Fletcher.
“Party foul, kid!” Fletcher gave up trying to hide his amusement as he realized what had happened to the ambitious twerp from the home office. He had left his cell phone on in the love hotel because his paranoid business sense made him believe that there could be something more important than ‘sealing the deal’ with his client.
“She was all lined up to get the real estate for us for Gallinsky’s in Osaka. We were going to make a three hole golf course and a puppet theatre. Dine while you sample the pleasures of the Kansai! New and old!” Fletcher wasn’t sure, but he would still lay money that what Carson was yelling at him was straight from the investor’s guide that Gallinsky’s had issued for Japan.
“I know, Matt. I bought the puppets. Remember?” If the deal was absolutely fucked then Fletcher would enjoy rubbing his face in it.
“It was about thirty-five thousand dollars in puppets, right? I’m remembering that right, right?” From a few tables away the rednecks all guffawed as if on cue. One of them had started to sing something.
“Fucking God, man. Aren’t you supposed to be at the sale right now?” The conversation had shifted and Carson was no longer in the mood to discuss his multifaceted sexual and commercial failure.
“It doesn’t start for another hour. I am having a little breakfast. A bear claw and some coffee.”
“Shouldn’t you get checked in or something?” He was sputtering like a busted moped.
“It’s an estate sale in a shitty one-horse town. It’s not Normandy. Getting checked in will take all of fifteen minutes.” He bit into the bear claw and chewed into the phone. Fletcher smacked as he chewed and loudly sipped his coffee.
“You don’t even know where it is.”
“Sure I do! The ad for the sale in the local paper has a giant full color fucking map. I’d have to be blind to not find the place. It also conveniently shows my hotel. Thanks for the hotel, by the way. I really owe you for that one little, buddy.”
“We’ll talk when you get back, Fletcher. I’m tired of your bullshit. I see you didn’t pick up the car at the rental place.” The moped was sputtering to a halt.
“I found alternate transportation.” Fletcher punched the end button on the phone and shoved the phone back in pocket in the same fluid motion that he grabbed his wallet. He peeled out a ten that he had gotten from the ATM earlier that morning and dropped it on the counter. Judging by the ‘Too drunk to fish’ shirt worn by one of the rednecks they were off from their high pressure job at the power company today.
The cricket chirped again from Fletcher’s pocket and he ignored it. Carson would give up, and he would be free to do his job. Grabbing the classified section and his attaché case he passed the free mints and walked out of the diner to the humid, stinking Virginia morning and walked over to the Citation. Another gaggle of rednecks was shuffling into the restaurant. He breathed deep and wondered why the air was so rotten.
“Fellas, what the hell is wrong with air around here? It stinks.” Fletcher reached through the open window and opened the car from the inside and the rednecks turned to meet his question.
“In the summertime you can smell the shit treatment plant.” The rednecks thought this was an adequate answer and they turned again and went into the safe refuge of doughnuts and bacon that the diner offered. Fletcher got into the car and rolled up the windows. He had planned to drive with the windows down today. The grossly loud ad was all the directions to the sale that he needed.
By 10AM, Fletcher was parking the Citation between two neatly mirrored rows of brownstones and fifties two-stories. The cars that lined the street were last decade’s Volvos and a six pack of Mini Coopers. The only Prius’ on the street were the four cop cars and the unmarked vehicle that Fletcher thought was either another cop, or what passed for private security in this hole.
He locked the car and realized that the lights on top of the police cars were violet. Not weather- dirtied blue lights, or even an aggressive purple. They were the same color as boatloads of Hello Kitty diaries around the world.
All of the action was centered around the house where the estate sale was supposed to be. It might have even taken Fletcher a few extra minutes to find the house if it hadn’t had the filth crawling all over it.
Fletcher straightened his tie and walked toward a cop that looked like a lost retard on field trip to the zoo. He was holding a roll of crime scene tape and staring at a tree. He seemed like a winner.
“What’s going on here?” Fletcher barked, turning on what his last girlfriend had affectionately referred to as his ‘grown up voice’. It was the same voice he used when he got tired of fighting with Carson and just wanted to win.
“I’m trying to put up the crime scene tape.” The cop was squinting and it looked like his nose was put on wrong. Fletcher wondered where the cop’s sunglasses were. All cops own really nice sunglasses.
“What was stolen? I was supposed to buy something at this house today, and I am little concerned that I have flown here for nothing.” Fletcher could feel the bear claw in his stomach growing into a whole bear as indigestion took hold.
“An original Marshall Wythe pantograph was stolen.” The cop was still staring at the tree.
“Fuck me and fuck twice more. What did you just say?” Fletcher heard the cop right the first time, but it was the importance of what the cop said that screwed with his head. Fletcher was here for the pantograph, and there was no pantograph to be had. It had been stolen, and these brilliant detectives were now on the case.
“I said a Marshall Wythe pantograph was stolen, SIR. This is a crime scene now.” The cop had moved onto staring at his crime scene tape.
“So why not slap the tape up and clear the area? The sooner you people get your shit together, the sooner the item is recovered and I can buy it and get the hell out of this town.”
“I can’t put the tape on the tree.” The cop looked at Fletcher for the first time.
“Why?”
“Adhesive doesn’t keep the tape up and it’s against the law to staple any bill or notice to a tree in Wythe City. It’s bad for the environment. I have to figure out how to cordon off the area without using the tree and make sure that the tape is still visible to disabled individuals. Wythe City Police Department postings are fully compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
Fletcher couldn’t believe it. The virus of stupidity that appeared to have infected the town had spread to its John Q. Laws. His day was shot and now he would have to call Carson back. He might as well get all the good out of this he could.
“The investigation is ongoing, right? You guys have taken steps, right?” Fletcher realized that he adopted the pattern of speech he normally associated with cops. It was like Fletcher was trying to talk to the cop in his native tongue. He needed to buy that stupid pantograph and get out of town.
“Of course. We solve crimes.” The cop sucked himself up to his full towering height of five and a half feet and Fletcher just nodded disapprovingly.
“What’s with the violet lights? When I pulled up, I thought you guys were the fruit patrol.”
“Our town hall meetings have shown that African-Americans associate red and blue lights with racist police activity, and they find themselves less willing to comply with police requests when they see these reminders of America’s shameful past. The same town hall meetings helped us to discover that community members felt uncomfortable around police officers in sunglasses. They felt they were unable to have meaningful, honest dialogue with an officer of the law when his eyes were obscured.”
Fletcher realized the Cubs would win the World Series before these assholes found the pantograph. A valuable antique marking Virginia’s Colonial past had been stolen by someone who meant business, and these worthless dickheads were worried about sunglasses. He would need to take matters into his own hands.
“Thanks for all your help, sport. I’ll be in touch.” Fletcher walked back to the Citation and dug into his pocket past the car keys and his wallet. The cricket sat nestled in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. He saw that he had one missed call. Carson. He highlighted the frowny face that indicated a missed call and hit the talk button. Carson picked up and his voice was the best growl that a twenty-something bean counter could come up with.
“Fletcher, this had better be absolute fucking gold. I was just going to bed. I am very tired and I have to fix the Ikutamateramachi problem tomorrow.”
“Is this before or after you fix the Wythe City problem?” Fletcher tossed it out there like a conversational hand grenade.
“Wythe City problem?” Carson’s contempt had melted into an unhidden concern. If Wythe City was in bad shape then Carson would be picking up the pieces in two cities. These were things that didn’t go over well with the higher ups.
“Someone stole the Wythe pantograph before the sale.” Fletcher didn’t have a plan yet, but he had promised Gallinsky’s a pantograph and he would deliver.
“Oh fuck me, what’s the situati--” Fletcher cut Carson’s nattering short. He didn’t have time for bullshit. He used his grown up voice.
“It’s going to be alright, Carson. Send me my gun.” |
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