Mags Davidson looked at her phone again. The text was brief.
No one else recognized me when I was in. Please don't tell anyone you saw me. I will contact you soon. I promise. Love, JJ.
Not the best at following directions, Mags replied. The response was immediate.
Uh-oh! That number won't work. Please make sure it's a valid US mobile number from a supported provider.
"What the hell?" Mags whispered. Did JJ have a throwaway phone? JJ could barely operate a standard computer keyboard, the likes of which had been in existence for years and years. How would JJ even know to buy a disposable cell phone? Something was off. Something was creepy off, but Mags just couldn't put her finger on it.
Maybe JJ was out of the country. Mags always assumed JJ's mother lived locally, but maybe she didn't. But, weren't cell phones designed to work anywhere in the world? Unless JJ's mother lived on Mars, that didn't seem to be a reasonable explanation.
Mags pulled her Sonic milkshake from her secret hiding place, and took a sip to calm her nerves. The chocolate and banana was heavenly. It was worth risking the wrath of Stockwell to sneak it onto the front end. She'd never been caught.
Until now.
If asked to recount the event, Mags wasn't sure she could explain what had actually happened. A delicious sliver of chocolate and banana concoction slid up the straw, into her mouth and down her throat. Carefully, she lifted the cup to the light to see how much was left, to determine how much she'd have to pace herself to keep the treat alive until the end of her shift.
That's when all hell broke loose!
The bottom fell off the cup.
Mags panicked.
She spun around.
She tried to find something to stop the milkshake eruption.
She failed.
Chocolate and banana milkshake covered nearly the entire Customer Service area.
"Shit," she whispered.
She shoved the ruined cup into the closest garbage receptacle, and spastically tried to clean herself off. Her Tommy shirt was covered with milkshake, as was the floor, the counter, and every customer service necessity implement within ten feet.
The stapler was dripping.
The tape roll was, as well.
About that time, Bernice arrived.
"What the hell happened?" Bernice asked.
"The cup broke. The effing cup broke, and my milkshake is gone. It's dead. It's everywhere, and I wanted it. I needed it! What am I going to do?" Mags squealed.
"Relax. I'll sneak out and get you another one. Let's get this mess cleaned up. Who knows where Stockwell is lurking about. He could be here any minute," Bernice cautioned.
"The Shop Vac!" Mags yelled. "Get the Shop Vac!" In her haste, Mags slid in the puddle of shake, miraculously stayed on her feet, and chest bumped Bernice, transferring a large quantity of milkshake onto the shirt of the younger associate.
"Nice," Bernice said. "Don't move. Let me do it. You could get us both killed."
"Okay," Mags whined. "Oh, my God! Stockwell's coming. He's coming!"
"Get down. Hide. Hide in the mop and broom closet. Quick!" Bernice said, with more calm than she felt.
"That shit is filthy!" Mags groaned.
"Get in there now!" Bernice demanded.
Mags did. She squeezed herself into the Rubbermaid closet and prayed for death.
Bernice could hear Stockwell's phone ringing, that persistent chirping that seemed to live in her ear canals. She heard that chirping everywhere! Quick thinking had always been one of Bernice's best qualities, and it didn't fail her this time. She ducked into the one place she knew the cameras wouldn't see. She looked both ways for customers, finding none, which was an act of God in itself. She checked a second time for Tommy employees. The only one in range was Penelope, and Bernice threw her a look that clearly said....
stand back!
Without a moment's hesitation, Bernice grabbed the primer with the busted lid, the very one she'd taken back as a damaged return, moments before the meeting had begun. She flung it as far and wide as she could, and then ran to the sand bucket. Like a madwoman, she started pouring the sand onto the primer, and the milkshake.
She'd made a bigger mess, but at least this one was explainable.
Stockwell rounded the corner by the light bulb aisle, putting himself in visual range. Remembering the shirt, Bernice crouched, grabbed two handfuls of sand, and rubbed it all over her chest. In her haste, the sand had gone everywhere, and Bernice looked like she'd spent the day at the beach.
Stockwell arrived just as Bernice stood upright, and his jaw went slack.
"What in the Sam hell?" Stockwell whispered.
"Primer accident," Bernice announced, incredibly proud of herself.
"Good Lord. I guess," Stockwell said, finally closing his mouth. "What happened to you?"
"I fell in it," Bernice said.
"You okay?" Stockwell asked.
"Yup," Bernice quipped.
"You are?"
"Yes."
"You don't want to go home?" Stockwell asked, incredulously.
"Not really," Bernice whispered.
"You're possibly legitimately injured, and you aren't asking to leave?" Stockwell looked shocked.
"I'm okay."
"Bernice, you are turning a real corner here. You're like a dark horse. One to watch. I am incredibly impressed by you," Stockwell said. He paused, and seemed to be thinking deeply.
Maybe I should ask Bernice to be my partner. Stockwell thought, but the thought was fleeting. He already had someone in mind, and he'd planned to take his choice aside, as soon as he could.
"Get Penelope to help you clean this up. Thankfully, it's pretty slow right now," Stockwell commented.
"Will do," Bernice said.
Before Stockwell could leave, something rattled in the Rubbermaid closet, something named Mags.
"Shit," Bernice said, under her breath.
"What's that?" Stockwell asked.
Bernice didn't pause for a second. "A spider, sir."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Some huge spider, probably came in with one of the garden center trucks. I put it in a bin and poked some holes in the top. I'm just trying to figure out what to do with it. You want to help?" Bernice asked, trying to hide a sly smile.
"A spider?" Stockwell said nervously. "I don't think I'm the right guy for the job. Let the Garden Center employee know. I'm sure they have some kind of plan for dealing with this kind of thing. How big did you say it is?"
"Well, a little bigger than my hand, but I have pretty small hands," Bernice said, holding up a hand covered with a generous amount of milkshake, primer, and sand.
Stockwell shivered, and took a few steps back, widening the distance between himself and the closet.
"I gotta get to my office. Have Mags watch the desk while you guys clean up," Stockwell said, his voice a bit shaky. His eyes never left the closet.
"She's on her lunch. Went to get a milkshake, I think she said," Bernice said.
"Hmm. I can almost smell it. You smell chocolate and banana, Bernice?" Stockwell asked.
"No, but sometimes I smell peanut butter in the bathroom. Some kind of sensory thing, I think," Bernice said.
"I'm a little hungry. That's probably it. Thanks for cleaning this all up, Bernice. Accidents happen," Stockwell said appreciatively.
"No problem," Bernice said.
She waited a minute and a half until she was sure Stockwell was gone, then she crossed the service area to release Mags from the closet.
"He's gone," she whispered to the slit between the doors.
No answer.
"He's gone," Bernice repeated, a little louder.
Still nothing.
Bernice opened the door, and an unconscious and deathly pale Mags slid out and landed in a heap of milkshake, primer and sand.
Evidently Stockwell wasn't the only one who'd totally bought into the spider story.
****************
Reeve Stockwell let himself into his office. He grabbed the flashlight from his desk drawer, and thoroughly examined every part of the small space.
Where there was one enormous spider, there might be two.
Stockwell shivered again, and set the flashlight down. Unless the damn things could make themselves invisible, he was in the clear. He was blissfully, blessedly, spider free.
He picked up his phone and dialed three numbers. A gruff voice answered.
"Gutz," the voice said.
"Stockwell," Reeve Stockwell replied.
"I didn't do it, sir. I'm not in a position to say who did, but it wasn't me!" Gutz explained.
"Relax. I'm not calling to blame you for anything," Stockwell replied.
Gerald Gutzenheimer was Tommy's very own conspiracy theorist. He raised questions about everything from pot holes to the single-ply toilet paper in the men's room.
Stockwell knew he faced problems bring Gutz into his confidence, but occasionally, Gutz was right. Occasionally, Gutz nailed a conspiracy right on the head.
Surely, Stockwell would have to weed through the bullshit to find anything worth pursuing, but if there was a conspiracy going on at Tommy's, Gutz would figure it out.
"You missed the meeting, Gutz," Stockwell said.
"I was stuck in traffic, sir. A log truck lost its cargo on the highway. I'll be they're in cahoots with the gas stations. I sat in amazement watching my gas gauge dwindle down. I couldn't get close enough to get any info off the truck, but I would have likee to, det me tell you."
Stockwell rolled his eyes.
"You still with me, sir?" Gutz asked.
"I'm here," Stockwell mumbled. "I'm having trouble with this computer. Darn thing keeps freezing."
"Now, that's the kind of thing that really gets me going," Gutz began. "All these computer repair stores, and computer repair websites. I'll bet they're all in cahoots with that Bill Gates fella. That Gates fella probably owns all those sites. That is a technological rip off, let me tell ya."
"Gutz, give it a rest for a minute," Stockwell said. "I might have a true conspiracy to run by you."
"You're suggesting there isn't truth in the two I just mentioned?" Gutz asked, sounding irritated.
"Not at all. I think you're on to something there, but I have one that's more pressing. I'd like to buy you dinner later on, run a few things by you," Stockwell offered.
"Not at one of those chains," Gutz barked. "Those folks are all in cahoots with food providers. Who pays ten bucks for a salad? Half that fancy crap can be picked off the side of the road. Could have picked myself a salad this morning while the highway department was playing with their wood."
Stockwell forced himself not to laugh. "Meet me out front at seven, Gutz."
"My shift ends at eight. Don't be cheatin' me out of an hour's pay, sir."
"Don't worry, Gutz. I'll fix it so you don't lose the hour," Stockwell offered.
"My wife sends her gratitude, sir. In fact, she'll probably send you a nice cheese ball of the month for giving her a night off from cooking duty," Gutz declared.
"I'll look forward to it. See you at seven," Stockwell said.
And he hung up.
And he rolled his eyes.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 63 - Loading the Detectives onto the Crime Fighting Ark - Two By Two
A mere five minutes after the Tool Town meeting was declared a wrap, and the gauntlet had been laid down, and sixty Tool Towners left the meeting room with visions of dollar signs dancing in their heads, Daisy Cates had wedged herself into the tiny closet nestled in the back corner of the tool department.
The closet wasn't designed to hold a Tool Towner. It was basically a design flaw. An office had been planned for the area, but a bunch of drunken contractors got their inches and feet flip flopped, and suddenly, there was a closet where no such closet was needed.
Until today.
Thirty seconds passed before Daisy realized her plan wasn't working as intended. She couldn't reach her cell phone. It wasn't that she couldn't reach her cell phone, it was more that she couldn't move. Somehow, by an act of God, Daisy managed to extract herself from the tiny space, find her cell phone, and wedge herself into the space a second time. She was glad she'd passed on the second donut. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have fit.
Things often work better the second time around, and Daisy had planned well. Her right hand clutched the cell phone, and it was held inches from her face. She dialed a number she'd only had in the phone for a day, and a familiar voice answered.
"H.D. Diggers, let's play in the dirt! How can I help you?"
"Hannah?" Daisy whispered. She wasn't sure why she was whispering. Some unfortunate Tool Towner was cutting blinds half a store away, and the sound was deafening.
"Speak up!"
"Hannah?" Daisy yelled.
"Crazy Daisy, what the heck is up?" Hannah Bandana replied.
"I need to see you," Daisy said.
"Why? Someone else bury something else outside that insane asylum you work in?" Hannah asked.
"No. Something else is going on in here. Something illegal. Mitchell just offered a year's salary to whomever might solve this mystery."
"No shit?" Hannah asked, sounding interested.
"Serious as a hail storm on a poker run," Daisy said.
"So, what's the deal?" Hannah asked.
"I'm not sure. I'm going to find out everything I can. If I can get that money, I can get out of here. I can get that camper I've been eying, and hit the open road," Daisy said, sounding dreamy.
"You've been planning this?" Hannah asked. "This escape?"
"I'm growing more existential by the minute. I've been questioning the meaning of my life," Daisy said, feeling an old connection to Hannah that had been rekindled.
"Me, too. I'm not necessarily digging the way things turned out," Hannah said, chuckling at herself.
The pun wasn't lost on Daisy, but she didn't pause to give in to the humor. "I'm flipping pages on the calendar faster than I ever did, and these little lines on this face of mine are starting to look like a map, a map of all the places I've been, like a roadway of my life."
"You been hitting the weed or something?" Hannah asked.
This time Daisy did chuckle. "No. Hitting the Jim Beam, but no more than usual. Just becoming a deep thinker. I find myself picking up a nut or a bolt, and wondering what I could put together with it, and then I find myself thinking about how things are assembled, and then I start thinking about how life is assembled, how thoughts connect, and how we make our lives into something meaningful."
"You get this from a pile of nuts and bolts?" Hannah asked.
"Yeah," Daisy said. She was beginning to wheeze. The closet was fairly air tight, and Daisy started wondering if she was running out of oxygen.
"And you're not hitting the weed? Not licking a bunch of postage stamps or anything?" Hannah asked, and Daisy smiled.
Suddenly serious, Daisy breathed deeply. The air was stagnant, and stale, and she knew she was running out of time. "Look. I need this money. I need your help, Hannah. Remember years back when we solved the mystery of Rhonda, Ride my Honda. Everyone knew she was up to no good, running around on Big Nose Pete. You and I, we were a couple of Nancy Drews, bugging her phone and setting up surveillance, and what not. We need to do that again. I need you, Hannah. There's a reason you showed up in my life again, and there's a reason it's now. You want to help me or not?"
"I'm going," Hannah barked.
"Okay, bye bye, then," Daisy said.
"Wait! Don't hang up. I'm going with you. I'll help you solve this thing. There's this fella forty miles from here, wants to buy the whole digging business. Let's solve this thing and get you your cash. I'll sell my digging business, and we'll hit the road. I'm going with you," Hannah declared.
"Okay."
"Let's meet up at that crappy place where Toothless Louise works. Can you make it tonight about 7:00?" Hannah asked.
"I'll be there," Daisy replied.
"I gotta go. My diggin' line's ringing," Hannah said. And she hung up.
****************
Mags Davidson couldn't believe her eyes. There, in lane ten, on the front line of Tommy's Tool Town, stood JJ Patricks. Mags darn near killed herself trying to get to her friend.
"What the hell, JJ? What happened to you? I was sure you were dead. I was sure I was next!" Mags babbled. Her eyes welled up, and the tears spilled over.
"I shouldn't have disappeared like I did. I'm sorry," JJ said. A tear slid down JJ's face, and Mags hugged her tightly.
"What happened? Where did you go?" Mags asked.
"My mother died," JJ said, hating herself, as she did every time her mother died.
JJ had spent many years under cover, and counting today, her mother had died ninety-two times. Her mother, who was alive and well in a retirement condominium complex in Tampa Bay, understood.
"It wasn't as a result of that unfortunate Statue of Liberty accident, was it?" Mags asked.
Sometimes the lies got convoluted. Sometimes the stories blended together. JJ couldn't remember a Statue of Liberty incident.
"No," JJ said, avoiding the question entirely. "She was run over in the parking lot at a Piggly Wiggly."
JJ forced herself not to laugh. She loved the Piggy Wiggly death lie. She used it often.
"I certainly hope you're going to sue," Mags said, pouring on the sympathy. The entire ploy was working exactly as it always did. Once the sympathy started, the details weren't all that important. Mags would forget that JJ virtually vanished during a tornado warning. Everyone always did.
"I'm sorry. Will there be a funeral?" Mags asked. "I'd like to be there for you."
"Cremation," JJ lied. It was a good thing her mother liked the heat. She'd been cremated forty-four times. "I'm actually looking for Mr. Stockwell. I'd like to apologize for my absence."
"He's in his office. We just wrapped up a meeting. He looks a little rough. I'm not sure he's feeling well," Mags said. "I can call him and let him know you're here," Mags offered.
"No need. I'd rather just surprise him," JJ said, with an enormous smile.
****************
Reeve Stockwell was shoveling in a fritter like someone who'd just gotten voted off the Survivor Island, when he heard a timid rap on his office door. He figured it was Kitty. He shoved the rest of the fritter into his mouth, and crossed the tiny office.
He opened the door without hesitating, and a very pissed off JJ Patricks stood in the doorway, hands on her slight hips.
Stockwell swallowed so fast he almost choked, and before he could speak, JJ slipped under his arm, and slammed the door.
Reeve Stockwell chased the fritter with a quarter bottle of Mountain Dew, and before he could cap it, his hands started to shake. It might have been the sugar, but it was more likely the five-foot, hormone-filled, very angry FBI agent who was staring him down.
"Would you like a chair?" Stockwell asked.
"No. I'd like to know why there are sixteen messages from an Officer Lowell on my cell phone."
"Oh, that," Stockwell said.
"Oh, that? That's your answer?" JJ asked. She stood over his desk, with both hands planted on his sticky desk calendar.
"I can explain," Stockwell said.
"I highly doubt that. You are the worst CI I have ever had. You practically blew everything in the first few hours. How could you do that?" JJ asked.
"Uh....-"
"You know what your saving grace is, Stockwell?"
Reeve Stockwell didn't speak. He merely shook his head.
"Lowell was laughing in most of the messages. He's going to drop the charges," JJ said.
"He is?" Stockwell asked in a squeak.
"Yes. And for whatever reason, I am prepared to give you another chance. I know I am going to regret this, but I am going to keep you on," JJ said.
"Why?" Stockwell asked, although he was enormously relieved.
"Because you are such a freakin' wing nut that no one would ever suspect you of anything."
"Thank you," Stockwell said, although he couldn't imagine why he said it.
"This time, there are conditions. More than the first round," JJ said.
"And they are?" Stockwell asked.
"Lay off the sugar. You shake like a heroin addict, and frankly, I get a lot more mileage out of a CI who's still alive. Two, and this one is big, get a partner. Find someone you trust, and I want to meet him or her. You need a chaperon, someone who will step in right before you do something as ridiculously stupid as being arrested while carrying an unlicensed firearm, and while wearing some idiotic underpants you say you got from your kid at Christmas."
"Lowell told you that?" Stockwell asked. He could feel the heat in his face.
"Message three. He had to say it about six times. He was laughing so hard he couldn't speak."
"I'm glad he found me so entertaining," Stockwell said, his tone sharp.
JJ pulled out a chair and sat across the desk. She wore a very serious looking expression.
"Reeve Stockwell, look at me. You are smarter than you appear. I can tell. You have the most unused potential of any man I've ever met. That said, you got more than a spoonful of the idiot gene, and it happens. You're like an absent minded professor. There is a third condition. Every time you're faced with making a decision, especially one that might earn me another sixteen messages, I want you to count to ten. I want you to pause long enough to decide if it's wise. Ask yourself a serious of questions. 'Is it going to get me arrested? Is it going to get me killed? Is it going to cause JJ more trouble?' If you're not sure, call me. I don't care what time of day or night it is. Call me. And get yourself a partner. Do it today."
"I will. I have a question of my own," Stockwell said.
"Okay."
"What's a CI?" Stockwell asked.
"A confidential informant. Someone who feeds information to law enforcement."
"Oh," Stockwell said, sounding said.
"This upsets you?" JJ asked.
"I would have felt better if I was a real agent."
JJ laughed.
Stockwell looked struck.
"Don't laugh at me," Stockwell whined.
"You're adorable, Mr. Stockwell."
"I thought you didn't like men."
"I like men just fine. I just didn't want to marry one, and besides, you're adorable like a puppy learning to walk. Your truly dip shit qualities are endearing."
"Thanks. I think," Stockwell said.
"I gotta go. It's going to take me some time to delete my message. Incidentally, there's one more thing we need to talk about."
"What's that?"
"Let's get our stories straight. If anyone asks you what happened to me, tell them my mother died."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Stockwell said.
"Case and point," JJ said with a sigh.
The closet wasn't designed to hold a Tool Towner. It was basically a design flaw. An office had been planned for the area, but a bunch of drunken contractors got their inches and feet flip flopped, and suddenly, there was a closet where no such closet was needed.
Until today.
Thirty seconds passed before Daisy realized her plan wasn't working as intended. She couldn't reach her cell phone. It wasn't that she couldn't reach her cell phone, it was more that she couldn't move. Somehow, by an act of God, Daisy managed to extract herself from the tiny space, find her cell phone, and wedge herself into the space a second time. She was glad she'd passed on the second donut. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have fit.
Things often work better the second time around, and Daisy had planned well. Her right hand clutched the cell phone, and it was held inches from her face. She dialed a number she'd only had in the phone for a day, and a familiar voice answered.
"H.D. Diggers, let's play in the dirt! How can I help you?"
"Hannah?" Daisy whispered. She wasn't sure why she was whispering. Some unfortunate Tool Towner was cutting blinds half a store away, and the sound was deafening.
"Speak up!"
"Hannah?" Daisy yelled.
"Crazy Daisy, what the heck is up?" Hannah Bandana replied.
"I need to see you," Daisy said.
"Why? Someone else bury something else outside that insane asylum you work in?" Hannah asked.
"No. Something else is going on in here. Something illegal. Mitchell just offered a year's salary to whomever might solve this mystery."
"No shit?" Hannah asked, sounding interested.
"Serious as a hail storm on a poker run," Daisy said.
"So, what's the deal?" Hannah asked.
"I'm not sure. I'm going to find out everything I can. If I can get that money, I can get out of here. I can get that camper I've been eying, and hit the open road," Daisy said, sounding dreamy.
"You've been planning this?" Hannah asked. "This escape?"
"I'm growing more existential by the minute. I've been questioning the meaning of my life," Daisy said, feeling an old connection to Hannah that had been rekindled.
"Me, too. I'm not necessarily digging the way things turned out," Hannah said, chuckling at herself.
The pun wasn't lost on Daisy, but she didn't pause to give in to the humor. "I'm flipping pages on the calendar faster than I ever did, and these little lines on this face of mine are starting to look like a map, a map of all the places I've been, like a roadway of my life."
"You been hitting the weed or something?" Hannah asked.
This time Daisy did chuckle. "No. Hitting the Jim Beam, but no more than usual. Just becoming a deep thinker. I find myself picking up a nut or a bolt, and wondering what I could put together with it, and then I find myself thinking about how things are assembled, and then I start thinking about how life is assembled, how thoughts connect, and how we make our lives into something meaningful."
"You get this from a pile of nuts and bolts?" Hannah asked.
"Yeah," Daisy said. She was beginning to wheeze. The closet was fairly air tight, and Daisy started wondering if she was running out of oxygen.
"And you're not hitting the weed? Not licking a bunch of postage stamps or anything?" Hannah asked, and Daisy smiled.
Suddenly serious, Daisy breathed deeply. The air was stagnant, and stale, and she knew she was running out of time. "Look. I need this money. I need your help, Hannah. Remember years back when we solved the mystery of Rhonda, Ride my Honda. Everyone knew she was up to no good, running around on Big Nose Pete. You and I, we were a couple of Nancy Drews, bugging her phone and setting up surveillance, and what not. We need to do that again. I need you, Hannah. There's a reason you showed up in my life again, and there's a reason it's now. You want to help me or not?"
"I'm going," Hannah barked.
"Okay, bye bye, then," Daisy said.
"Wait! Don't hang up. I'm going with you. I'll help you solve this thing. There's this fella forty miles from here, wants to buy the whole digging business. Let's solve this thing and get you your cash. I'll sell my digging business, and we'll hit the road. I'm going with you," Hannah declared.
"Okay."
"Let's meet up at that crappy place where Toothless Louise works. Can you make it tonight about 7:00?" Hannah asked.
"I'll be there," Daisy replied.
"I gotta go. My diggin' line's ringing," Hannah said. And she hung up.
****************
Mags Davidson couldn't believe her eyes. There, in lane ten, on the front line of Tommy's Tool Town, stood JJ Patricks. Mags darn near killed herself trying to get to her friend.
"What the hell, JJ? What happened to you? I was sure you were dead. I was sure I was next!" Mags babbled. Her eyes welled up, and the tears spilled over.
"I shouldn't have disappeared like I did. I'm sorry," JJ said. A tear slid down JJ's face, and Mags hugged her tightly.
"What happened? Where did you go?" Mags asked.
"My mother died," JJ said, hating herself, as she did every time her mother died.
JJ had spent many years under cover, and counting today, her mother had died ninety-two times. Her mother, who was alive and well in a retirement condominium complex in Tampa Bay, understood.
"It wasn't as a result of that unfortunate Statue of Liberty accident, was it?" Mags asked.
Sometimes the lies got convoluted. Sometimes the stories blended together. JJ couldn't remember a Statue of Liberty incident.
"No," JJ said, avoiding the question entirely. "She was run over in the parking lot at a Piggly Wiggly."
JJ forced herself not to laugh. She loved the Piggy Wiggly death lie. She used it often.
"I certainly hope you're going to sue," Mags said, pouring on the sympathy. The entire ploy was working exactly as it always did. Once the sympathy started, the details weren't all that important. Mags would forget that JJ virtually vanished during a tornado warning. Everyone always did.
"I'm sorry. Will there be a funeral?" Mags asked. "I'd like to be there for you."
"Cremation," JJ lied. It was a good thing her mother liked the heat. She'd been cremated forty-four times. "I'm actually looking for Mr. Stockwell. I'd like to apologize for my absence."
"He's in his office. We just wrapped up a meeting. He looks a little rough. I'm not sure he's feeling well," Mags said. "I can call him and let him know you're here," Mags offered.
"No need. I'd rather just surprise him," JJ said, with an enormous smile.
****************
Reeve Stockwell was shoveling in a fritter like someone who'd just gotten voted off the Survivor Island, when he heard a timid rap on his office door. He figured it was Kitty. He shoved the rest of the fritter into his mouth, and crossed the tiny office.
He opened the door without hesitating, and a very pissed off JJ Patricks stood in the doorway, hands on her slight hips.
Stockwell swallowed so fast he almost choked, and before he could speak, JJ slipped under his arm, and slammed the door.
Reeve Stockwell chased the fritter with a quarter bottle of Mountain Dew, and before he could cap it, his hands started to shake. It might have been the sugar, but it was more likely the five-foot, hormone-filled, very angry FBI agent who was staring him down.
"Would you like a chair?" Stockwell asked.
"No. I'd like to know why there are sixteen messages from an Officer Lowell on my cell phone."
"Oh, that," Stockwell said.
"Oh, that? That's your answer?" JJ asked. She stood over his desk, with both hands planted on his sticky desk calendar.
"I can explain," Stockwell said.
"I highly doubt that. You are the worst CI I have ever had. You practically blew everything in the first few hours. How could you do that?" JJ asked.
"Uh....-"
"You know what your saving grace is, Stockwell?"
Reeve Stockwell didn't speak. He merely shook his head.
"Lowell was laughing in most of the messages. He's going to drop the charges," JJ said.
"He is?" Stockwell asked in a squeak.
"Yes. And for whatever reason, I am prepared to give you another chance. I know I am going to regret this, but I am going to keep you on," JJ said.
"Why?" Stockwell asked, although he was enormously relieved.
"Because you are such a freakin' wing nut that no one would ever suspect you of anything."
"Thank you," Stockwell said, although he couldn't imagine why he said it.
"This time, there are conditions. More than the first round," JJ said.
"And they are?" Stockwell asked.
"Lay off the sugar. You shake like a heroin addict, and frankly, I get a lot more mileage out of a CI who's still alive. Two, and this one is big, get a partner. Find someone you trust, and I want to meet him or her. You need a chaperon, someone who will step in right before you do something as ridiculously stupid as being arrested while carrying an unlicensed firearm, and while wearing some idiotic underpants you say you got from your kid at Christmas."
"Lowell told you that?" Stockwell asked. He could feel the heat in his face.
"Message three. He had to say it about six times. He was laughing so hard he couldn't speak."
"I'm glad he found me so entertaining," Stockwell said, his tone sharp.
JJ pulled out a chair and sat across the desk. She wore a very serious looking expression.
"Reeve Stockwell, look at me. You are smarter than you appear. I can tell. You have the most unused potential of any man I've ever met. That said, you got more than a spoonful of the idiot gene, and it happens. You're like an absent minded professor. There is a third condition. Every time you're faced with making a decision, especially one that might earn me another sixteen messages, I want you to count to ten. I want you to pause long enough to decide if it's wise. Ask yourself a serious of questions. 'Is it going to get me arrested? Is it going to get me killed? Is it going to cause JJ more trouble?' If you're not sure, call me. I don't care what time of day or night it is. Call me. And get yourself a partner. Do it today."
"I will. I have a question of my own," Stockwell said.
"Okay."
"What's a CI?" Stockwell asked.
"A confidential informant. Someone who feeds information to law enforcement."
"Oh," Stockwell said, sounding said.
"This upsets you?" JJ asked.
"I would have felt better if I was a real agent."
JJ laughed.
Stockwell looked struck.
"Don't laugh at me," Stockwell whined.
"You're adorable, Mr. Stockwell."
"I thought you didn't like men."
"I like men just fine. I just didn't want to marry one, and besides, you're adorable like a puppy learning to walk. Your truly dip shit qualities are endearing."
"Thanks. I think," Stockwell said.
"I gotta go. It's going to take me some time to delete my message. Incidentally, there's one more thing we need to talk about."
"What's that?"
"Let's get our stories straight. If anyone asks you what happened to me, tell them my mother died."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Stockwell said.
"Case and point," JJ said with a sigh.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 62 - And the Gauntlet is Laid Down
By the following afternoon, the miracles were stacking up the likes of the Virgin Mary appearing on the side of a Troy Bilt.
Stockwell's wife didn't kill him.
Longworth's wife didn't kill him.
Kitty still had the chance of becoming someone's wife.
Kitty Richardson and Reeve Stockwell arrived ten minutes before the regularly scheduled afternoon meeting.
Stockwell made a bee line for his office.
Kitty followed. She knocked timidly.
"Come in," Stockwell mumbled.
Kitty heard scurrying inside the office. When she opened the door, she found Stockwell with a fritter in one hand, and a King Size Snickers in the other.
"Back to this again, are we?" Kitty asked softly.
"Shut up, Yoda," Stockwell said through a mouthful of chocolate.
"What happened at home last night?" Kitty asked cautiously.
"A miracle of biblical proportions," Stockwell replied.
"How so?"
"My wife had a migraine. She took four Advil PM, and slept for twelve hours."
Kitty smiled gently. "You're a lucky man."
"You have absolutely no idea," Stockwell said. "How's everything with you?"
"My mother is inquiring about the status of her Tinkerbell sweatpants."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"She's a corker," Stockwell commented.
"I took those things from a pile of clothes the height of the Eiffel Tower. How could she know they were gone?" Kitty asked rhetorically.
"I'm sorry you have to cope with that."
"Thanks."
"Is it very bad?" Stockwell asked after a long pause.
"What? My credit card balance?" Kitty asked.
"Being you?" Stockwell asked.
"Wow. Thanks. You really know how to cheer a girl up," Kitty said.
"I just meant taking care of two old ladies."
"Ever see movies about people in prisons in Mexico, Turkey, places like that?" Kitty asked.
"Yeah."
"I'd trade with them."
"Jeez."
"All available associates to the meeting room please." The paging system was malfunctioning again, and Stockwell almost flew out of his chair. The volume was deafening.
"Think the HD crew from six miles away heard that?" Kitty asked.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Stockwell said. He ripped the fritter and offered Kitty half.
"Thanks," Kitty said.
Kitty and Stockwell emerged from the office looking like chipmunks, faces stuffed with fritter. They chewed frantically, swallowed, and made it to the meeting room in time to find it filled with Tool Towners. Normally it was like pulling teeth to get Tool Towners to meetings.
"Everyone please sit down," Slick Mitchell said. He looked like he'd been on a two-day bender, and his clothes were wrinkled. Something was seriously wrong.
"Is he dead?" a voice yelled from the back of the room.
"That's rude," Slick Mitchell said. "Mr. Daniels has survived his fall. He is recovering at present, and updates on his condition will be provided to all interested associates."
No one looked interested.
"We have a lot of business, so if there's nothing else," Mitchell said.
"I have something, sir," Wilton Scott said, standing and addressing the crowd. Mitchell rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Wilton proceeded. "I think this is a miracle, something we should be grateful for. The human body is amazing. Why, people have fallen out of airplanes and their chutes haven't opened and they've still survived. Miracles happen every day. Look at that fella who landed the plane on the Atlantic after it was hit by aliens."
"It was the Hudson, and the plane was hit by geese," Mags Davidson said.
"Right. I was merely trying to make a point," Wilton said, sounding hurt.
"Sit down, Wilton. Might I mention that trivia night might be a pleasant outlet for you," Slick Mitchell suggested.
"Thank you, sir," Wilton said politely.
"Okay, let's get the light stuff out of the way, then get into the heavy stuff. I trust you all have ample coverage in your department," Mitchell said.
"Barbie is watching the front," Mags said.
"Is there anyone else on the floor?" Mitchell asked.
No one spoke.
"Terrific," Mitchell said. "All right, people. I need to address a situation in the Garden Center. Whomever is leaving all the Blair Witch shit out there needs to stop it. The night crew is starting to get freaked out, and one guy wants to have a priest do a blessing. I don't need anything else to deal with. If I see you hanging something out there, it better be a bucket of petunias. Anything else, and your butt is fired. Everyone got it?"
"I think I sold one of those the other day," Bernice said. "It was shaped like a star."
"Good going," someone said.
"That's terrific, Bernice. Nobody else sell any of those. Got it?" Mitchell said.
Murmurs of understanding went up from the group.
"Second order of business. I got another complaint about one of our delivery trucks. The neon green is a little hard to miss. It seems we're replacing some kids Motocross style bicycle, because one of you idiots ran over it," Mitchell said, sounding tense.
"The kid wasn't on it, was he?" Mags asked.
"Thankfully no!" Mitchell barked.
"No harm, no foul," Bernice said.
"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!" Mitchell raged, and everyone jumped. "We have to remember that our customers have a choice, and they choose us. Running over their kid's bikes is not the way we want to thank them."
"Maybe we should start carrying bikes. Perhaps we're missing an opportunity," Wilton Scott piped in.
"People, please! You cannot be as idiotic as you all sound. There has to be someone in this room with an ounce of sense." Mitchell stood still. No one moved. "No one? No one with an ounce of sense? No one smart enough to kidnap my sister??"
The room fell quiet.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" Wilton Scott said.
"I've been watching soaps with my mother. She enjoys the company. I wanted to get your attention," Slick Mitchell lied.
He looked rattled, and no one was convinced.
"You all right, sir?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"I'll deal with you later," Mitchell said.
Stockwell fell silent, and wished he'd brought the Snickers bar.
"All right. On to the hard stuff. Something is going on in my store. Something I believe is illegal in nature. Someone in this room might be guilty, although I suspect most of you are innocent, but you might know something you don't realize you know. Has anyone heard of Mickey Burger?" Mitchell asked.
Alejandro nearly flew from his seat, and Mitchell felt a glimmer of hope. Alejandro raised his hand with all the enthusiasm of a third grader who suddenly remembered who invented the cotton gin.
"Yes, Alejandro?" Mitchell said.
"I know Mickey Burger. It's this place out in the Midwest, in Iowa I think. Has these huge burgers with this secret jalapeno sauce that'll give you the squirts, but man that stuff is good. My dad and I were hoping they'd make it a franchise. Did you buy a Mickey Burger, sir?"
"No," Mitchell said, sounding defeated. "Mickey Burger is a person, a person with something to do with what's happening here. Anyone else know this person?"
No one spoke.
"I am going to make all of you an offer. I want you all to become my eyes and ears. It may even be one of our customers who is involved in this, or it may be someone in this room, one of the people who have today off, or one of the four people I suspect are managing our store at present. I will pay one year's salary to anyone who helps me solve this mystery," Slick Mitchell said, and an audible gasp went up from the crowd.
"Whose salary, sir?" Wilton Scott asked.
"Pardon?" Mitchell said.
"Whose salary? Mine or yours?" Wilton inquired.
"Yours, Wilton," Mitchell said.
"What if I make more?" Bernice asked.
"What?" Mitchell said, sounding pissed.
"What if I make more than Wilton? Do I get mine or his?"
Mitchell stared at Bernice, and the young girl shivered. "I WILL PAY ANY ASSOCIATE WHO HELPS ME SOLVE THIS MYSTERY THE EQUIVALENT OF HIS OR HER ANNUAL SALARY." Mitchell yelled.
The room was eerily silent.
Everyone was deep in thought.
Wilton Scott's eyes glazed over. He wanted to take a trip into space. A year's salary would be a good start to saving for such an adventure.
Miles Longworth was grateful that for once, he'd attended a meeting. He needed the money. He had to solve the mystery. Maybe if he brought home a year's salary, his wife would forgive him for ruining everything, as she'd told him at dawn, that he had.
Kitty Richardson smiled. A year's salary would be enough to buy a small cabin in the mountains, and a bunch of goats, and a home health care aide to deal with the wackos back at home.
Aleandro fidgeted. Everyone knew what he was thinking. He'd buy a Mickey Burger, and a year's worth of Pepto.
Reeve Stockwell felt confident. Regardless of his arrest record and his choice of boxers, he was a bona fide FBI agent.
He'd get that money!
Stockwell's wife didn't kill him.
Longworth's wife didn't kill him.
Kitty still had the chance of becoming someone's wife.
Kitty Richardson and Reeve Stockwell arrived ten minutes before the regularly scheduled afternoon meeting.
Stockwell made a bee line for his office.
Kitty followed. She knocked timidly.
"Come in," Stockwell mumbled.
Kitty heard scurrying inside the office. When she opened the door, she found Stockwell with a fritter in one hand, and a King Size Snickers in the other.
"Back to this again, are we?" Kitty asked softly.
"Shut up, Yoda," Stockwell said through a mouthful of chocolate.
"What happened at home last night?" Kitty asked cautiously.
"A miracle of biblical proportions," Stockwell replied.
"How so?"
"My wife had a migraine. She took four Advil PM, and slept for twelve hours."
Kitty smiled gently. "You're a lucky man."
"You have absolutely no idea," Stockwell said. "How's everything with you?"
"My mother is inquiring about the status of her Tinkerbell sweatpants."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"She's a corker," Stockwell commented.
"I took those things from a pile of clothes the height of the Eiffel Tower. How could she know they were gone?" Kitty asked rhetorically.
"I'm sorry you have to cope with that."
"Thanks."
"Is it very bad?" Stockwell asked after a long pause.
"What? My credit card balance?" Kitty asked.
"Being you?" Stockwell asked.
"Wow. Thanks. You really know how to cheer a girl up," Kitty said.
"I just meant taking care of two old ladies."
"Ever see movies about people in prisons in Mexico, Turkey, places like that?" Kitty asked.
"Yeah."
"I'd trade with them."
"Jeez."
"All available associates to the meeting room please." The paging system was malfunctioning again, and Stockwell almost flew out of his chair. The volume was deafening.
"Think the HD crew from six miles away heard that?" Kitty asked.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Stockwell said. He ripped the fritter and offered Kitty half.
"Thanks," Kitty said.
Kitty and Stockwell emerged from the office looking like chipmunks, faces stuffed with fritter. They chewed frantically, swallowed, and made it to the meeting room in time to find it filled with Tool Towners. Normally it was like pulling teeth to get Tool Towners to meetings.
"Everyone please sit down," Slick Mitchell said. He looked like he'd been on a two-day bender, and his clothes were wrinkled. Something was seriously wrong.
"Is he dead?" a voice yelled from the back of the room.
"That's rude," Slick Mitchell said. "Mr. Daniels has survived his fall. He is recovering at present, and updates on his condition will be provided to all interested associates."
No one looked interested.
"We have a lot of business, so if there's nothing else," Mitchell said.
"I have something, sir," Wilton Scott said, standing and addressing the crowd. Mitchell rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Wilton proceeded. "I think this is a miracle, something we should be grateful for. The human body is amazing. Why, people have fallen out of airplanes and their chutes haven't opened and they've still survived. Miracles happen every day. Look at that fella who landed the plane on the Atlantic after it was hit by aliens."
"It was the Hudson, and the plane was hit by geese," Mags Davidson said.
"Right. I was merely trying to make a point," Wilton said, sounding hurt.
"Sit down, Wilton. Might I mention that trivia night might be a pleasant outlet for you," Slick Mitchell suggested.
"Thank you, sir," Wilton said politely.
"Okay, let's get the light stuff out of the way, then get into the heavy stuff. I trust you all have ample coverage in your department," Mitchell said.
"Barbie is watching the front," Mags said.
"Is there anyone else on the floor?" Mitchell asked.
No one spoke.
"Terrific," Mitchell said. "All right, people. I need to address a situation in the Garden Center. Whomever is leaving all the Blair Witch shit out there needs to stop it. The night crew is starting to get freaked out, and one guy wants to have a priest do a blessing. I don't need anything else to deal with. If I see you hanging something out there, it better be a bucket of petunias. Anything else, and your butt is fired. Everyone got it?"
"I think I sold one of those the other day," Bernice said. "It was shaped like a star."
"Good going," someone said.
"That's terrific, Bernice. Nobody else sell any of those. Got it?" Mitchell said.
Murmurs of understanding went up from the group.
"Second order of business. I got another complaint about one of our delivery trucks. The neon green is a little hard to miss. It seems we're replacing some kids Motocross style bicycle, because one of you idiots ran over it," Mitchell said, sounding tense.
"The kid wasn't on it, was he?" Mags asked.
"Thankfully no!" Mitchell barked.
"No harm, no foul," Bernice said.
"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!" Mitchell raged, and everyone jumped. "We have to remember that our customers have a choice, and they choose us. Running over their kid's bikes is not the way we want to thank them."
"Maybe we should start carrying bikes. Perhaps we're missing an opportunity," Wilton Scott piped in.
"People, please! You cannot be as idiotic as you all sound. There has to be someone in this room with an ounce of sense." Mitchell stood still. No one moved. "No one? No one with an ounce of sense? No one smart enough to kidnap my sister??"
The room fell quiet.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" Wilton Scott said.
"I've been watching soaps with my mother. She enjoys the company. I wanted to get your attention," Slick Mitchell lied.
He looked rattled, and no one was convinced.
"You all right, sir?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"I'll deal with you later," Mitchell said.
Stockwell fell silent, and wished he'd brought the Snickers bar.
"All right. On to the hard stuff. Something is going on in my store. Something I believe is illegal in nature. Someone in this room might be guilty, although I suspect most of you are innocent, but you might know something you don't realize you know. Has anyone heard of Mickey Burger?" Mitchell asked.
Alejandro nearly flew from his seat, and Mitchell felt a glimmer of hope. Alejandro raised his hand with all the enthusiasm of a third grader who suddenly remembered who invented the cotton gin.
"Yes, Alejandro?" Mitchell said.
"I know Mickey Burger. It's this place out in the Midwest, in Iowa I think. Has these huge burgers with this secret jalapeno sauce that'll give you the squirts, but man that stuff is good. My dad and I were hoping they'd make it a franchise. Did you buy a Mickey Burger, sir?"
"No," Mitchell said, sounding defeated. "Mickey Burger is a person, a person with something to do with what's happening here. Anyone else know this person?"
No one spoke.
"I am going to make all of you an offer. I want you all to become my eyes and ears. It may even be one of our customers who is involved in this, or it may be someone in this room, one of the people who have today off, or one of the four people I suspect are managing our store at present. I will pay one year's salary to anyone who helps me solve this mystery," Slick Mitchell said, and an audible gasp went up from the crowd.
"Whose salary, sir?" Wilton Scott asked.
"Pardon?" Mitchell said.
"Whose salary? Mine or yours?" Wilton inquired.
"Yours, Wilton," Mitchell said.
"What if I make more?" Bernice asked.
"What?" Mitchell said, sounding pissed.
"What if I make more than Wilton? Do I get mine or his?"
Mitchell stared at Bernice, and the young girl shivered. "I WILL PAY ANY ASSOCIATE WHO HELPS ME SOLVE THIS MYSTERY THE EQUIVALENT OF HIS OR HER ANNUAL SALARY." Mitchell yelled.
The room was eerily silent.
Everyone was deep in thought.
Wilton Scott's eyes glazed over. He wanted to take a trip into space. A year's salary would be a good start to saving for such an adventure.
Miles Longworth was grateful that for once, he'd attended a meeting. He needed the money. He had to solve the mystery. Maybe if he brought home a year's salary, his wife would forgive him for ruining everything, as she'd told him at dawn, that he had.
Kitty Richardson smiled. A year's salary would be enough to buy a small cabin in the mountains, and a bunch of goats, and a home health care aide to deal with the wackos back at home.
Aleandro fidgeted. Everyone knew what he was thinking. He'd buy a Mickey Burger, and a year's worth of Pepto.
Reeve Stockwell felt confident. Regardless of his arrest record and his choice of boxers, he was a bona fide FBI agent.
He'd get that money!
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 61 - Two Men in Crisis
Reeve Stockwell felt the blood drain from his entire body. For the second time in a few hours, he was being arrested.
He thought back to a few weeks prior, back to when his biggest problems were misdemeanor theft, the fictional stories he got to defend an associate's absence, and the chronic mess in the men's room.
Those were some damn fine days.
He supposed he'd wanted this.
He'd wanted to work for the FBI. He'd wanted to be a part of something bigger than nuts and bolts, and neon-clad Tool Towners, some of whom were dumber than bricks.
He relaxed as best he could and felt the cool metal of handcuffs clasped to his wrists.
"Not so fast," a familiar voice said.
Officer Lowell?
Stockwell could only hope.
"Release him," the voice said.
Stockwell turned. The voice belonged to Officer Lowell, the Snickers offering officer who'd arrested him the first time.
"Hello, sir," Stockwell said.
"What you up to this time, Sponge Bob?" the officer asked.
Stockwell grimaced, but said nothing.
"Open container and resisting arrest," the arresting officer stated.
"Resisting arrest!?!" Kitty yelled. "There was no resisting. That is absolute bullshit!"
"This your wife, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked.
"My assistant," Reeve Stockwell whispered.
"Boy oh boy, you got bigger problems than I ever thought. What you doin' messing around with your assistant? Do you know how cliché that is?" Lowell asked with a sharp tone.
"She bailed me out. I am not involved with her. Look at us. Does this look like a romantic encounter? Do you find the Hello Kitty business appealing? Would you be wearing Tinkerbell sweatpants if you were messing around with your assistant?" Stockwell nearly yelled.
His wrists were still cuffed, and his shoulders jerked as he tried to wave his arms unsuccessfully. He looked like he was having a seizure.
"Uncuff this man for crying out loud," Lowell barked.
"Yes, sir," the arresting officer replied. He did as asked, and Stockwell rubbed his wrists violently.
"Now, get lost, Dan. I got this," Lowell said. The arresting officer, now known as "Dan," slinked back to his police car as if he'd just been grounded by an angry father.
A newly free Reeve Stockwell shook his head and groaned.
"Get in my car," Lowell said.
"What? I thought you said I could go," Stockwell whined.
"You are going. You are going home. I am taking you there," Lowell insisted.
"I got this," Kitty said. "He's fine with me. I'll get him home."
"I won't sleep tonight knowing this guy is on the streets. I will take him home," Lowell persisted.
"Go home, Kitty. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," Stockwell said softly. "Thank you for everything. I could never repay you for what you've done."
"You got cash, Sponge Bob?" Lowell asked.
"No, why? You charging me for the lift?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"I'm taking you into WalMart for a shirt and a pair of jeans," Lowell said. "You've got a far better chance of ironing things out with your missus if you're not wearing the Tinkerbell get up."
"You make a valid point," Stockwell replied.
Kitty shrugged and walked to the Chevy. She returned a moment later.
"I thought you were leaving," Stockwell said.
"I wanted to give you this before I left."
Stockwell reached for Kitty's Visa and slid it into his left pocket.
"Thanks," Reeve Stockwell said. "I owe you."
"That's great, because I owe everybody else," Kitty said.
****************
Miles Longworth slinked into his house like a cat burglar. His wife was asleep, and for this, he thanked every saint he could think of. He crept into the guest bathroom, flipped on the light, and dropped his pants. Money flew everywhere, and he dropped to sit on the closed toilet and lowered his face into his hands.
When had it gotten to this point?
How had he let it get so out of control?
He was a junkie, a glutton, a gambling fool, and not the cool kind, hanging out with Kenny Rogers, knowin' when to hold 'em, surrounded by pictures of cigar-smoking dogs, painted on velvet.
He wasn't that kind of guy.
He was a dick.
He scooped up the money and threw it into the empty bathroom garbage can. He tied up the bag and crept to his bedroom.
His wife lay supine, her arm above her head across the pillow.
She was lovely in sleep.
Her hair splayed over the pillow, and time had been kind to her. She looked only slightly different than when they'd met.
She was beautiful,
Miles looked like a thug.
He had a bruise on the side of his face where he'd hit the pile of ceiling tiles.
His hair looked like he'd just auditioned for a very bad, aging boy band.
His shirt was torn.
He was a mess.
He'd robbed her of the kind of life they could have had if he could have just stayed away from the damned horses.
He knew what he had to do, but he could barely face it.
He had to stop. He had to sit in a church basement that reeked of old lady perfume, and Pine Sol, on a cold metal chair, and tell his rotten story to a roomful of strangers. He had to, but there was one thing he needed to do first.
Actually, there were two, but at present, he chose to let sleeping dogs lie. He'd come clean to his wife in the morning.
He left the bedroom, the money still held in his left hand. It wasn't his. He needed to give it back.
He descended the stairs into his man cave.
He took the house phone from its base, and dialed the number.
His call was answered on the first ring.
"Sergeant's desk, Officer Lowell speaking."
He thought back to a few weeks prior, back to when his biggest problems were misdemeanor theft, the fictional stories he got to defend an associate's absence, and the chronic mess in the men's room.
Those were some damn fine days.
He supposed he'd wanted this.
He'd wanted to work for the FBI. He'd wanted to be a part of something bigger than nuts and bolts, and neon-clad Tool Towners, some of whom were dumber than bricks.
He relaxed as best he could and felt the cool metal of handcuffs clasped to his wrists.
"Not so fast," a familiar voice said.
Officer Lowell?
Stockwell could only hope.
"Release him," the voice said.
Stockwell turned. The voice belonged to Officer Lowell, the Snickers offering officer who'd arrested him the first time.
"Hello, sir," Stockwell said.
"What you up to this time, Sponge Bob?" the officer asked.
Stockwell grimaced, but said nothing.
"Open container and resisting arrest," the arresting officer stated.
"Resisting arrest!?!" Kitty yelled. "There was no resisting. That is absolute bullshit!"
"This your wife, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked.
"My assistant," Reeve Stockwell whispered.
"Boy oh boy, you got bigger problems than I ever thought. What you doin' messing around with your assistant? Do you know how cliché that is?" Lowell asked with a sharp tone.
"She bailed me out. I am not involved with her. Look at us. Does this look like a romantic encounter? Do you find the Hello Kitty business appealing? Would you be wearing Tinkerbell sweatpants if you were messing around with your assistant?" Stockwell nearly yelled.
His wrists were still cuffed, and his shoulders jerked as he tried to wave his arms unsuccessfully. He looked like he was having a seizure.
"Uncuff this man for crying out loud," Lowell barked.
"Yes, sir," the arresting officer replied. He did as asked, and Stockwell rubbed his wrists violently.
"Now, get lost, Dan. I got this," Lowell said. The arresting officer, now known as "Dan," slinked back to his police car as if he'd just been grounded by an angry father.
A newly free Reeve Stockwell shook his head and groaned.
"Get in my car," Lowell said.
"What? I thought you said I could go," Stockwell whined.
"You are going. You are going home. I am taking you there," Lowell insisted.
"I got this," Kitty said. "He's fine with me. I'll get him home."
"I won't sleep tonight knowing this guy is on the streets. I will take him home," Lowell persisted.
"Go home, Kitty. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," Stockwell said softly. "Thank you for everything. I could never repay you for what you've done."
"You got cash, Sponge Bob?" Lowell asked.
"No, why? You charging me for the lift?" Reeve Stockwell asked.
"I'm taking you into WalMart for a shirt and a pair of jeans," Lowell said. "You've got a far better chance of ironing things out with your missus if you're not wearing the Tinkerbell get up."
"You make a valid point," Stockwell replied.
Kitty shrugged and walked to the Chevy. She returned a moment later.
"I thought you were leaving," Stockwell said.
"I wanted to give you this before I left."
Stockwell reached for Kitty's Visa and slid it into his left pocket.
"Thanks," Reeve Stockwell said. "I owe you."
"That's great, because I owe everybody else," Kitty said.
****************
Miles Longworth slinked into his house like a cat burglar. His wife was asleep, and for this, he thanked every saint he could think of. He crept into the guest bathroom, flipped on the light, and dropped his pants. Money flew everywhere, and he dropped to sit on the closed toilet and lowered his face into his hands.
When had it gotten to this point?
How had he let it get so out of control?
He was a junkie, a glutton, a gambling fool, and not the cool kind, hanging out with Kenny Rogers, knowin' when to hold 'em, surrounded by pictures of cigar-smoking dogs, painted on velvet.
He wasn't that kind of guy.
He was a dick.
He scooped up the money and threw it into the empty bathroom garbage can. He tied up the bag and crept to his bedroom.
His wife lay supine, her arm above her head across the pillow.
She was lovely in sleep.
Her hair splayed over the pillow, and time had been kind to her. She looked only slightly different than when they'd met.
She was beautiful,
Miles looked like a thug.
He had a bruise on the side of his face where he'd hit the pile of ceiling tiles.
His hair looked like he'd just auditioned for a very bad, aging boy band.
His shirt was torn.
He was a mess.
He'd robbed her of the kind of life they could have had if he could have just stayed away from the damned horses.
He knew what he had to do, but he could barely face it.
He had to stop. He had to sit in a church basement that reeked of old lady perfume, and Pine Sol, on a cold metal chair, and tell his rotten story to a roomful of strangers. He had to, but there was one thing he needed to do first.
Actually, there were two, but at present, he chose to let sleeping dogs lie. He'd come clean to his wife in the morning.
He left the bedroom, the money still held in his left hand. It wasn't his. He needed to give it back.
He descended the stairs into his man cave.
He took the house phone from its base, and dialed the number.
His call was answered on the first ring.
"Sergeant's desk, Officer Lowell speaking."
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 60 - When Walking the Fine Line Between What is Lawful and What is Not, do NOT Wear a Tiara
Reeve Stockwell stared out the window of Kitty's shitty Blazer. He wasn't sure he remembered a more difficult night. To his left sat his own crappy beater, and it seemed a lifetime had passed since he'd left it in the park.
"I should go," he whispered, and he heard Kitty sigh in the dark. "My wife's going to kill me," he added.
A few moments of silence ensued.
"Maybe she won't," Kitty commented.
"She will," Stockwell replied.
"Maybe she'll just be glad you're okay," Kitty said.
"I don't think so," Stockwell commented. "Everything I touch turns to absolute shit. It's amazing, Kitty. Absolutely amazing. Did I ever tell you I once blew up my backyard?"
"No," Kitty said.
"Well, I did. I was grilling hamburgers. Seems innocent, right? I couldn't get the damn burners to stay lit. They just wouldn't, so I had this great idea, spray a little lighter fluid. Heck, maybe they're old and worn out, maybe they just need a little help. So, I went to the garage and got it. I sprayed just a little, I swear, this miniscule amount of fluid, and BOOM!"
Stockwell really emphasized his last word, and Kitty jumped and whacked her head on the Chevy's ceiling.
"Sorry," Stockwell mumbled.
"It's okay. At least finish your story."
"Sure. I should have turned on a light. I didn't realize how much I'd sprayed, and the flame came right up the stream, and singed all the hair off my arms. I screeched like a bunch of menopausal women at a Chippendales show, and threw the can of fluid right at the grill."
"Good Lord," Kitty remarked.
Stockwell smiled. "I don't think the Lord was anywhere around that night. People say there's a special God for idiots, but I don't think so. I was on my own."
"Is there more to this story?" Kitty asked.
"Am I 'Reeve Stockwell?' Of course there's more. So, the can hits the half cooked meat with a plop and the damn grill blew up. Just exploded. Meat flew everywhere. I had about a half pounder on there for myself, and suddenly, my wife's rhododendron went up in flames. Seems the old half pounder had landed at the base of the plant, and it was a particularly dry season, and that thing went up like a Singlewide. The appearance of fire seems to act as a 'wife activation system,' and she comes out of the house screaming about how her aunt planted it like a lifetime ago, and her aunt's dead, and the plant is burning like a fraternity bonfire, and she's holding a paring knife with the devil in her eyes."
Stockwell trailed off, as if the memory was too painful.
"What happened next?" Kitty asked softly.
"She chased me through the yard for ten minutes. She finally caught up with me."
"And?" Kitty said.
"She stabbed me."
"Jesus," Kitty whispered.
"She was wild. Kept on stabbing until she just wore out. Thankfully she only hit me twice, but I was bleeding up a storm, and I'm not a big fan of blood, in case you hadn't figured that out about me. I'm not the manliest guy who's ever lived."
"Stop putting yourself down," Kitty said, looking at her boss.
"My life sucks, Kitty," Stockwell said, looking down at his hands.
"Everyone's life sucks," Kitty replied.
"THAT IS NOT TRUE!" Stockwell practically yelled, and Kitty recoiled against the driver's side door. "Sorry," Stockwell mumbled again. "Your turn."
"My turn?" Kitty said.
"Share a story."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"We're bonding, Kitty. This is what people do, especially after an awful night like tonight. They share stories about their lives. They crack open a beer and they tell stories about their lives, and the people around them laugh, or offer a hug or some girlie thing, and they feel less alone."
"We don't have any beer," Kitty said.
"Let's go get some," Stockwell said. His eyes lit up and his voice sounded less listless.
"I am not going into the store like this," Kitty said.
"Let's go to a WalMart," Stockwell said.
"And end up in a YouTube video?" Kitty quipped.
"Aw hell. Let's just go," Stockwell nearly begged.
"Your car?"
"Who cares. Maybe someone will steal it."
"Have you looked at it lately?"
"You have a good point. Let's just go," Stockwell nearly demanded.
Kitty turned the key and the Chevy started with a distinguishable groan. Five minutes later, they sat in the WalMart parking lot. Neither seemed inclined to move.
"Rock, paper, scissors," Stockwell said suddenly.
"What?" Kitty said.
"If I win, you go in, and I'll pay," Stockwell offered.
"And if I win?" Kitty asked. "You already owe me bail money."
"I'll go and you can pick what we drink, and....." Stockwell trailed off, seemingly wanting to raise the stakes. "I've got it! I'll wear this Barbie tiara." Stockwell grabbed a pink tiara that sat on the dash of the Chevy's dashboard. It was a reminder of a better time, a time when Kitty had spent more time on stage, and less stalking the aisles of Tommy's Tool Town.
"Deal," Kitty whispered.
Seven minutes later, Stockwell was crossing the parking lot in Tinkerbell sweatpants, wearing the tiara, and carrying a six pack of Woodchuck Cider.
"I'm going to have to leave town after this," Stockwell said, as he climbed into the truck.
"Why?"
"My wife's best friend's kid just rang this up for us."
That did it. Kitty started laughing and couldn't stop.
Stockwell cracked open a cider, took a long pull and gagged. "Dear God, how can you drink this?" he asked.
"It's good," Kitty said.
"If you say so."
The second cider tasted better than the first, and halfway through it, Stockwell reminded Kitty she owed him a story.
"Crap," Kitty whispered.
"You owe me," Stockwell said.
"Okay. I had this one boyfriend...," Kitty began.
"Only one?"
"Shut up. Do you want to hear this story or not?"
Stockwell fell silent. Kitty finished off what was left in her bottle. Finally she spoke.
"I fell hard and fast for this guy. He was perfect for me. He loved theater, and all this weird stuff, and he was cute with fabulous hair, and I was in love with him for five years. I was sure we'd get married one day."
"What stopped you?"
"His wife."
"Crap," Stockwell said.
"No kidding."
"He had a wife?"
"He did. That wasn't the worst of it, either. It seems he was involved with someone else the entire time he was supposedly divorcing her, and pledging his undying love for me. He is getting married again."
"Jeez, Kitty."
"I know."
"What's his fiancé's name?"
"No."
"Her name is 'no'?"
"No, I am not going to tell you," Kitty said softly.
"Why not?"
"You'll laugh."
"I might not."
"Okay....."
"So, what's her name?" Stockwell asked again.
"Steven."
"Shit," Stockwell said.
"I know," Kitty whispered.
"No, I mean, shit, here comes cops," Stockwell said, trying to hide the cider.
The officer knocked on the window. "Get out," he demanded.
Stockwell did. Kitty followed.
"You can't drink in the WalMart parking lot. There are open container laws," the officer said.
"We're like the only car," Stockwell said defensively.
"That makes no difference," the officer said.
"We're not hurting anyone," Stockwell said. He could feel three ciders coursing through his veins, and it was almost midnight. He had almost survived the worst night of his entire life. Something in that realization made him reckless, more reckless than usual. "There are rapists, and pedophiles and murderers on the loose, and people who toss bombs into crowds, and kids who shoot babies in schools, and dog fighting rings, and you are seriously going to give us a hard time for having a drink in a truck in WalMart parking lot? Seriously?" Reeve Stockwell's voice rose, and while he had an excellent point, the officer was unmoved by his performance.
"Sir, put your hands behind your back, please," the officer said.
Kitty just stared as Stockwell did as asked.
"You have the right....-"
"To remain silent," Stockwell whispered.
He was still wearing the tiara.
"I should go," he whispered, and he heard Kitty sigh in the dark. "My wife's going to kill me," he added.
A few moments of silence ensued.
"Maybe she won't," Kitty commented.
"She will," Stockwell replied.
"Maybe she'll just be glad you're okay," Kitty said.
"I don't think so," Stockwell commented. "Everything I touch turns to absolute shit. It's amazing, Kitty. Absolutely amazing. Did I ever tell you I once blew up my backyard?"
"No," Kitty said.
"Well, I did. I was grilling hamburgers. Seems innocent, right? I couldn't get the damn burners to stay lit. They just wouldn't, so I had this great idea, spray a little lighter fluid. Heck, maybe they're old and worn out, maybe they just need a little help. So, I went to the garage and got it. I sprayed just a little, I swear, this miniscule amount of fluid, and BOOM!"
Stockwell really emphasized his last word, and Kitty jumped and whacked her head on the Chevy's ceiling.
"Sorry," Stockwell mumbled.
"It's okay. At least finish your story."
"Sure. I should have turned on a light. I didn't realize how much I'd sprayed, and the flame came right up the stream, and singed all the hair off my arms. I screeched like a bunch of menopausal women at a Chippendales show, and threw the can of fluid right at the grill."
"Good Lord," Kitty remarked.
Stockwell smiled. "I don't think the Lord was anywhere around that night. People say there's a special God for idiots, but I don't think so. I was on my own."
"Is there more to this story?" Kitty asked.
"Am I 'Reeve Stockwell?' Of course there's more. So, the can hits the half cooked meat with a plop and the damn grill blew up. Just exploded. Meat flew everywhere. I had about a half pounder on there for myself, and suddenly, my wife's rhododendron went up in flames. Seems the old half pounder had landed at the base of the plant, and it was a particularly dry season, and that thing went up like a Singlewide. The appearance of fire seems to act as a 'wife activation system,' and she comes out of the house screaming about how her aunt planted it like a lifetime ago, and her aunt's dead, and the plant is burning like a fraternity bonfire, and she's holding a paring knife with the devil in her eyes."
Stockwell trailed off, as if the memory was too painful.
"What happened next?" Kitty asked softly.
"She chased me through the yard for ten minutes. She finally caught up with me."
"And?" Kitty said.
"She stabbed me."
"Jesus," Kitty whispered.
"She was wild. Kept on stabbing until she just wore out. Thankfully she only hit me twice, but I was bleeding up a storm, and I'm not a big fan of blood, in case you hadn't figured that out about me. I'm not the manliest guy who's ever lived."
"Stop putting yourself down," Kitty said, looking at her boss.
"My life sucks, Kitty," Stockwell said, looking down at his hands.
"Everyone's life sucks," Kitty replied.
"THAT IS NOT TRUE!" Stockwell practically yelled, and Kitty recoiled against the driver's side door. "Sorry," Stockwell mumbled again. "Your turn."
"My turn?" Kitty said.
"Share a story."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"We're bonding, Kitty. This is what people do, especially after an awful night like tonight. They share stories about their lives. They crack open a beer and they tell stories about their lives, and the people around them laugh, or offer a hug or some girlie thing, and they feel less alone."
"We don't have any beer," Kitty said.
"Let's go get some," Stockwell said. His eyes lit up and his voice sounded less listless.
"I am not going into the store like this," Kitty said.
"Let's go to a WalMart," Stockwell said.
"And end up in a YouTube video?" Kitty quipped.
"Aw hell. Let's just go," Stockwell nearly begged.
"Your car?"
"Who cares. Maybe someone will steal it."
"Have you looked at it lately?"
"You have a good point. Let's just go," Stockwell nearly demanded.
Kitty turned the key and the Chevy started with a distinguishable groan. Five minutes later, they sat in the WalMart parking lot. Neither seemed inclined to move.
"Rock, paper, scissors," Stockwell said suddenly.
"What?" Kitty said.
"If I win, you go in, and I'll pay," Stockwell offered.
"And if I win?" Kitty asked. "You already owe me bail money."
"I'll go and you can pick what we drink, and....." Stockwell trailed off, seemingly wanting to raise the stakes. "I've got it! I'll wear this Barbie tiara." Stockwell grabbed a pink tiara that sat on the dash of the Chevy's dashboard. It was a reminder of a better time, a time when Kitty had spent more time on stage, and less stalking the aisles of Tommy's Tool Town.
"Deal," Kitty whispered.
Seven minutes later, Stockwell was crossing the parking lot in Tinkerbell sweatpants, wearing the tiara, and carrying a six pack of Woodchuck Cider.
"I'm going to have to leave town after this," Stockwell said, as he climbed into the truck.
"Why?"
"My wife's best friend's kid just rang this up for us."
That did it. Kitty started laughing and couldn't stop.
Stockwell cracked open a cider, took a long pull and gagged. "Dear God, how can you drink this?" he asked.
"It's good," Kitty said.
"If you say so."
The second cider tasted better than the first, and halfway through it, Stockwell reminded Kitty she owed him a story.
"Crap," Kitty whispered.
"You owe me," Stockwell said.
"Okay. I had this one boyfriend...," Kitty began.
"Only one?"
"Shut up. Do you want to hear this story or not?"
Stockwell fell silent. Kitty finished off what was left in her bottle. Finally she spoke.
"I fell hard and fast for this guy. He was perfect for me. He loved theater, and all this weird stuff, and he was cute with fabulous hair, and I was in love with him for five years. I was sure we'd get married one day."
"What stopped you?"
"His wife."
"Crap," Stockwell said.
"No kidding."
"He had a wife?"
"He did. That wasn't the worst of it, either. It seems he was involved with someone else the entire time he was supposedly divorcing her, and pledging his undying love for me. He is getting married again."
"Jeez, Kitty."
"I know."
"What's his fiancé's name?"
"No."
"Her name is 'no'?"
"No, I am not going to tell you," Kitty said softly.
"Why not?"
"You'll laugh."
"I might not."
"Okay....."
"So, what's her name?" Stockwell asked again.
"Steven."
"Shit," Stockwell said.
"I know," Kitty whispered.
"No, I mean, shit, here comes cops," Stockwell said, trying to hide the cider.
The officer knocked on the window. "Get out," he demanded.
Stockwell did. Kitty followed.
"You can't drink in the WalMart parking lot. There are open container laws," the officer said.
"We're like the only car," Stockwell said defensively.
"That makes no difference," the officer said.
"We're not hurting anyone," Stockwell said. He could feel three ciders coursing through his veins, and it was almost midnight. He had almost survived the worst night of his entire life. Something in that realization made him reckless, more reckless than usual. "There are rapists, and pedophiles and murderers on the loose, and people who toss bombs into crowds, and kids who shoot babies in schools, and dog fighting rings, and you are seriously going to give us a hard time for having a drink in a truck in WalMart parking lot? Seriously?" Reeve Stockwell's voice rose, and while he had an excellent point, the officer was unmoved by his performance.
"Sir, put your hands behind your back, please," the officer said.
Kitty just stared as Stockwell did as asked.
"You have the right....-"
"To remain silent," Stockwell whispered.
He was still wearing the tiara.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 59 - Fashion Faux Pas - A Felony in Their Own Right
Reeve Stockwell stared out the rear window of the police car. Never in his life did he ever think he'd do such a thing. Home Depot disappeared into the shadows, and he turned and faced front.
"You all right back there, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked.
"I'm hungry, but otherwise okay," Stockwell mumbled.
"I've got half a Snickers, one of those miraculous 2-to-go bars. You want the other half?" Lowell offered.
Stockwell's stomach growled. He accepted graciously.
He ate the bar in three bites, and licked the wrapper. He was ravenous. He figured later on, after he called his wife, and she served him his business on a plate, he'd rent a hotel room, scan the Classifieds for divorce attorneys, and order Room Service. He'd have to act fast, before his wife canceled all the joint credit cards.
"Feeling better, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked, after a few more miles had passed.
"The name's Stockwell. Please don't call me Sponge Bob. If you knew how emasculated I've been inside of just a few hours, you'd call me Mr. Stockwell, just to be polite."
"Rough night?" Deputy Briggs asked, glancing in his mirror, at Stockwell.
"The worst. It started out okay. Actually, this afternoon, life looked pretty good," Stockwell said nostalgically.
"Oh?" Lowell remarked.
"Yeah. My crazy assistant has this crazier grandmother, and for a bit there, I thought she killed my boss. That was one fine hour, let me tell ya. Turns out the guy's not dead, but he's got this amnesia, and he probably won't ever remember what happened today, which will bode very well for all involved." Stockwell rambled, and the inside of the car grew very quiet. "A bit later, all my wildest dreams came true. I was finally the man I knew I could be." Stockwell sighed.
"I assume this was sometime before the moldy waders and that nasty slicker?" Briggs inquired.
"A bit before. Yes." Stockwell sighed, then continued on. "I made my way back to the store, but dropped something in transit. That was pretty much right about when things went to shit. The dog kind. I'd crawled through it. Let me tell you, whoever owns this pooch must feed it Hormel chili, because that was the nastiest thing I've ever smelled, and it had the consistency of that nasty crap you get from a baby on formula."
"Ewww. I know about that. Barfed on my own son once," Lowell commented.
"That shit stops the clock," the deputy agreed.
"Go on, son," Officer Lowell said, although he wasn't much older than Stockwell.
"I ditch the pants, but now I've got a new problem. I'm in a residential area in just my underpants. Not a good scene. Garbage picking proves to be fairly fruitful and I find the waders and the slicker. It's gross, but it's better than being half naked. I finally got my bearings, made my way back to the store, and all hell breaks loose. I think I see a ghost, but it's this grandmother person I mentioned, and she's wearing a nightgown, and I trip, get all wrapped up in satin and bony old legs, and bam, she nails me in the jewels."
"Sheesh," Lowell said.
Stockwell could see Briggs grimace in the rear view mirror.
"All right. Pull over," Lowell said.
Briggs slowed the car and rolled to a stop in front of a brightly lit convenience store.
"You letting me go?" Stockwell asked hopefully.
"No can do, bud. But I'll tell you what I can do. I'll get you another one of those Snickers. You've earned it," Lowell offered.
"Thanks," Stockwell mumbled.
****************
An hour later, Slick Mitchell arrived at his mother's house. He'd promised he'd returned, but hours had passed since he'd given his mother his word. He figured she'd just about given up on him. He was, as such, surprised to see the lights on in the front parlor.
His mother retired at nine, unless she was going out. She watched prime time shows on a television the size of the state of Connecticut, holed up in her bedroom like a pampered mole. She was a creature of habit. Why was she still awake?
Slick knocked softly, then used the key he had in his pocket.
His mother was in the parlor, in her favorite Queen Anne's chair, holding a wine glass. She didn't look at him when he walked into the room.
"Mother?" Mitchell said softly.
Slick Mitchell's mother held a note pad in her right hand. She carefully set her wine glass aside, onto a beautiful mahogany table. When she failed to use a coaster, Slick figured the apocalypse was upon them.
Something was seriously wrong.
"Sit quietly with me for a moment. Pour yourself a drink, Peter," his mother said. He did as told, helping himself to an expensive scotch.
He took the chair across from her and crossed his legs. Finally she looked up. She'd been crying.
She held up a single sheet of paper.
Do not speak.
Slick didn't. He just stared. He had no idea what was happening, but his heart raced. His mother was not one for games. She said what she thought, and although she was usually wrong, she held herself in the highest regard. Her opinion mattered to everyone, or so she thought, and Slick didn't think there was a single sound she loved more than that of her own voice.
Why wasn't she speaking?
She dropped the first sheet of paper into her lap. It fluttered to the floor, soundlessly. She held up another, then another, and another still. Slick felt cold, colder than he'd ever been.
Someone kidnapped Rachel.
This is real.
I talked to her. She's afraid.
They said no police or they'll kill her.
I believe them.
They told me not to tell you. They said your name. They know who you are.
They left that on the porch, after you left.
It has your name on it.
His mother pointed to the table behind him. On it sat a Styrofoam box, the kind you got from a greasy spoon, the kind that held the uneaten half of your heart-attack breakfast, or your sister's ear.
Slick Mitchell shivered.
He didn't want to open the box.
He turned back toward his mother. Tears slid down her face, and he crossed to her and took her hand. She held one more sheet of paper. Slick took it from her.
Please open the box. I have to know if part of my child is inside.
Slick did. He practically ran across the room, but not before tossing the entire double shot of scotch down his throat.
He popped the tabs, and the box sprung open.
Inside was a single item.
A burger.
****************
Reeve Stockwell was booked at 11:30 PM, the evening of November 4th. He was fingerprinted and photographed. In his photo, he looked like a madman. What hair he had was disheveled, his eyes were wild and red, and he had a streak of ink on his left cheek. He was pretty sure that pic wouldn't be going into his wife's scrapbook, although he could see the cover now.
My husband, the felon.
Stockwell had been given a prison orange jumpsuit. He still wore the boxers, but the waders and slicker had been booked into evidence. He sat quietly in an interrogation room, empty, with the exception of an old dial phone and the second half of his Snickers.
He stared at one. Then the other.
He picked up the phone.
She answered on the first ring.
He was brief.
To the point.
She hung up.
Ten minutes later, she was in the lobby.
Two minutes after that, she was standing outside the door. Lowell let her inside.
She wore the hint of a smile.
"Hello, Kitty," Stockwell said. "Thank you for coming. You have no idea what this means to me."
"What the hell happened?" Kitty asked. She looked different. She had showered, understandably, since she'd peed herself in the Plumbing Department. Her hair was still damp. She wore no makeup, which made her look younger, more innocent, and deathly pale. She wore Hello Kitty pajamas, and flip flops, despite the cold weather.
"I can't tell you. I want to, and someday I will, but tonight I just can't. I need you to post bail, just until I can get this sorted out. I need you to take me home, and hug me goodnight, only because my wife is going to kill me, and although you drive me insane, I like you, Kitty. I cannot stand your grandmother, but I like you."
"I like you, too, Mr. Stockwell. That said, orange isn't really your color."
"What did you bring?"
"My choices were limited," Kitty said softly.
"So?"
"Pink sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt," Kitty said.
Stockwell took the bag. The sweatpants had Tinkerbell on them. The sweatshirt was logo free, but still sent a powerful message.
No Nuts is Better. Please Spay and Neuter.
Stockwell found the shirt fitting. He'd been practically castrated by Kitty's grandmother. The pants were absurd.
"Seriously?" Stockwell asked, holding up the pink pants.
"They're my mother's," Kitty whispered.
"Your mother wears Tinkerbell sweatpants?" Stockwell asked.
"Of course not. They bind when she rides her broom. I never got around to returning them."
Stockwell chuckled. The sound was almost foreign, and it seemed to linger in the empty room.
"Can you post bail?" Stockwell asked.
"Do they take Visa?" Kitty asked.
Stockwell smiled. "I'm sure they do."
Kitty left the room. Lowell returned ten minutes later. "You're free to go, Mr. Stockwell. Have your attorney call me tomorrow. If she can make this all go away, like you said she could, I'll be impressed. What did you say her name was?"
"JJ Patricks," Stockwell said softly.
Kitty was waiting out front when Stockwell emerged in the pink pants. She smiled, but said nothing. They exited the building and walked side by side to the parking lot.
"You're number three," Kitty whispered, when they'd climbed into the old Chevy.
"Number three?"
"You're the third guy to use this Visa," Kitty said sadly.
"What were the other two like?" Stockwell asked.
"Let's just say you're my favorite of the bunch, all of this notwithstanding," Kitty said.
Stockwell smiled again. "I have something for you," he said.
He handed her the candy.
"It's your favorite," Kitty whispered.
Stockwell shook his head, his eyes full of sympathy for the pathetic creature at the wheel. "You need it more than I do," he said.
"You all right back there, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked.
"I'm hungry, but otherwise okay," Stockwell mumbled.
"I've got half a Snickers, one of those miraculous 2-to-go bars. You want the other half?" Lowell offered.
Stockwell's stomach growled. He accepted graciously.
He ate the bar in three bites, and licked the wrapper. He was ravenous. He figured later on, after he called his wife, and she served him his business on a plate, he'd rent a hotel room, scan the Classifieds for divorce attorneys, and order Room Service. He'd have to act fast, before his wife canceled all the joint credit cards.
"Feeling better, Sponge Bob?" Officer Lowell asked, after a few more miles had passed.
"The name's Stockwell. Please don't call me Sponge Bob. If you knew how emasculated I've been inside of just a few hours, you'd call me Mr. Stockwell, just to be polite."
"Rough night?" Deputy Briggs asked, glancing in his mirror, at Stockwell.
"The worst. It started out okay. Actually, this afternoon, life looked pretty good," Stockwell said nostalgically.
"Oh?" Lowell remarked.
"Yeah. My crazy assistant has this crazier grandmother, and for a bit there, I thought she killed my boss. That was one fine hour, let me tell ya. Turns out the guy's not dead, but he's got this amnesia, and he probably won't ever remember what happened today, which will bode very well for all involved." Stockwell rambled, and the inside of the car grew very quiet. "A bit later, all my wildest dreams came true. I was finally the man I knew I could be." Stockwell sighed.
"I assume this was sometime before the moldy waders and that nasty slicker?" Briggs inquired.
"A bit before. Yes." Stockwell sighed, then continued on. "I made my way back to the store, but dropped something in transit. That was pretty much right about when things went to shit. The dog kind. I'd crawled through it. Let me tell you, whoever owns this pooch must feed it Hormel chili, because that was the nastiest thing I've ever smelled, and it had the consistency of that nasty crap you get from a baby on formula."
"Ewww. I know about that. Barfed on my own son once," Lowell commented.
"That shit stops the clock," the deputy agreed.
"Go on, son," Officer Lowell said, although he wasn't much older than Stockwell.
"I ditch the pants, but now I've got a new problem. I'm in a residential area in just my underpants. Not a good scene. Garbage picking proves to be fairly fruitful and I find the waders and the slicker. It's gross, but it's better than being half naked. I finally got my bearings, made my way back to the store, and all hell breaks loose. I think I see a ghost, but it's this grandmother person I mentioned, and she's wearing a nightgown, and I trip, get all wrapped up in satin and bony old legs, and bam, she nails me in the jewels."
"Sheesh," Lowell said.
Stockwell could see Briggs grimace in the rear view mirror.
"All right. Pull over," Lowell said.
Briggs slowed the car and rolled to a stop in front of a brightly lit convenience store.
"You letting me go?" Stockwell asked hopefully.
"No can do, bud. But I'll tell you what I can do. I'll get you another one of those Snickers. You've earned it," Lowell offered.
"Thanks," Stockwell mumbled.
****************
An hour later, Slick Mitchell arrived at his mother's house. He'd promised he'd returned, but hours had passed since he'd given his mother his word. He figured she'd just about given up on him. He was, as such, surprised to see the lights on in the front parlor.
His mother retired at nine, unless she was going out. She watched prime time shows on a television the size of the state of Connecticut, holed up in her bedroom like a pampered mole. She was a creature of habit. Why was she still awake?
Slick knocked softly, then used the key he had in his pocket.
His mother was in the parlor, in her favorite Queen Anne's chair, holding a wine glass. She didn't look at him when he walked into the room.
"Mother?" Mitchell said softly.
Slick Mitchell's mother held a note pad in her right hand. She carefully set her wine glass aside, onto a beautiful mahogany table. When she failed to use a coaster, Slick figured the apocalypse was upon them.
Something was seriously wrong.
"Sit quietly with me for a moment. Pour yourself a drink, Peter," his mother said. He did as told, helping himself to an expensive scotch.
He took the chair across from her and crossed his legs. Finally she looked up. She'd been crying.
She held up a single sheet of paper.
Do not speak.
Slick didn't. He just stared. He had no idea what was happening, but his heart raced. His mother was not one for games. She said what she thought, and although she was usually wrong, she held herself in the highest regard. Her opinion mattered to everyone, or so she thought, and Slick didn't think there was a single sound she loved more than that of her own voice.
Why wasn't she speaking?
She dropped the first sheet of paper into her lap. It fluttered to the floor, soundlessly. She held up another, then another, and another still. Slick felt cold, colder than he'd ever been.
Someone kidnapped Rachel.
This is real.
I talked to her. She's afraid.
They said no police or they'll kill her.
I believe them.
They told me not to tell you. They said your name. They know who you are.
They left that on the porch, after you left.
It has your name on it.
His mother pointed to the table behind him. On it sat a Styrofoam box, the kind you got from a greasy spoon, the kind that held the uneaten half of your heart-attack breakfast, or your sister's ear.
Slick Mitchell shivered.
He didn't want to open the box.
He turned back toward his mother. Tears slid down her face, and he crossed to her and took her hand. She held one more sheet of paper. Slick took it from her.
Please open the box. I have to know if part of my child is inside.
Slick did. He practically ran across the room, but not before tossing the entire double shot of scotch down his throat.
He popped the tabs, and the box sprung open.
Inside was a single item.
A burger.
****************
Reeve Stockwell was booked at 11:30 PM, the evening of November 4th. He was fingerprinted and photographed. In his photo, he looked like a madman. What hair he had was disheveled, his eyes were wild and red, and he had a streak of ink on his left cheek. He was pretty sure that pic wouldn't be going into his wife's scrapbook, although he could see the cover now.
My husband, the felon.
Stockwell had been given a prison orange jumpsuit. He still wore the boxers, but the waders and slicker had been booked into evidence. He sat quietly in an interrogation room, empty, with the exception of an old dial phone and the second half of his Snickers.
He stared at one. Then the other.
He picked up the phone.
She answered on the first ring.
He was brief.
To the point.
She hung up.
Ten minutes later, she was in the lobby.
Two minutes after that, she was standing outside the door. Lowell let her inside.
She wore the hint of a smile.
"Hello, Kitty," Stockwell said. "Thank you for coming. You have no idea what this means to me."
"What the hell happened?" Kitty asked. She looked different. She had showered, understandably, since she'd peed herself in the Plumbing Department. Her hair was still damp. She wore no makeup, which made her look younger, more innocent, and deathly pale. She wore Hello Kitty pajamas, and flip flops, despite the cold weather.
"I can't tell you. I want to, and someday I will, but tonight I just can't. I need you to post bail, just until I can get this sorted out. I need you to take me home, and hug me goodnight, only because my wife is going to kill me, and although you drive me insane, I like you, Kitty. I cannot stand your grandmother, but I like you."
"I like you, too, Mr. Stockwell. That said, orange isn't really your color."
"What did you bring?"
"My choices were limited," Kitty said softly.
"So?"
"Pink sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt," Kitty said.
Stockwell took the bag. The sweatpants had Tinkerbell on them. The sweatshirt was logo free, but still sent a powerful message.
No Nuts is Better. Please Spay and Neuter.
Stockwell found the shirt fitting. He'd been practically castrated by Kitty's grandmother. The pants were absurd.
"Seriously?" Stockwell asked, holding up the pink pants.
"They're my mother's," Kitty whispered.
"Your mother wears Tinkerbell sweatpants?" Stockwell asked.
"Of course not. They bind when she rides her broom. I never got around to returning them."
Stockwell chuckled. The sound was almost foreign, and it seemed to linger in the empty room.
"Can you post bail?" Stockwell asked.
"Do they take Visa?" Kitty asked.
Stockwell smiled. "I'm sure they do."
Kitty left the room. Lowell returned ten minutes later. "You're free to go, Mr. Stockwell. Have your attorney call me tomorrow. If she can make this all go away, like you said she could, I'll be impressed. What did you say her name was?"
"JJ Patricks," Stockwell said softly.
Kitty was waiting out front when Stockwell emerged in the pink pants. She smiled, but said nothing. They exited the building and walked side by side to the parking lot.
"You're number three," Kitty whispered, when they'd climbed into the old Chevy.
"Number three?"
"You're the third guy to use this Visa," Kitty said sadly.
"What were the other two like?" Stockwell asked.
"Let's just say you're my favorite of the bunch, all of this notwithstanding," Kitty said.
Stockwell smiled again. "I have something for you," he said.
He handed her the candy.
"It's your favorite," Kitty whispered.
Stockwell shook his head, his eyes full of sympathy for the pathetic creature at the wheel. "You need it more than I do," he said.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 58 - Bad Boys, Bad Boys, Whatcha Gonna Do.....
Miles Longworth and Slick Mitchell stood outside Tommy's Receiving Bay door, awaiting the police. Miles tried to pace, but the numerous bills packed into his trousers made it uncomfortable to move.
Slick Mitchell stared at the ground. He looked seriously ticked off.
"There's a sink hole in the corner of the parking lot," Mitchell said, out of the blue.
"You don't say," Miles replied. He fidgeted, certain a crisp hundred was poking him in the butt. He wasn't sure where the conversation was going, but he wished Mitchell would look away, giving him the opportunity to relocate the Franklin to a more preferable position.
"The strangest ideas go through my head," Mitchell said to the air, as if he'd forgotten Miles was present.
Miles was okay with that.
"Someone is coming from the city to probe this sinkhole, see how deep it goes. You want to know what would make me feel lucky, Miles?" Mitchell asked, looking at Longworth.
"A winning horse, sir?"
"Shut up. I'm trying to be serious here," Mitchell quipped.
"Me, too," Longworth whispered. "What would make you feel lucky?"
A hundred up your butt?
Mitchell fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, he sounded like a different man, a somewhat broken man. It was a tone Miles knew well. He'd used it on his bookie every week for two years running.
"Miles, I'd feel like the luckiest guy in the world if I pulled into the parking lot tomorrow, and this whole damned place had been swallowed up, burned to a crisp down in the core of this cesspool of a planet."
"What about the night crew?" Miles said softly.
"No night crew tonight," Mitchell replied.
"That's good. Wouldn't want to see anyone hurt," Miles said, sounding horrified.
"This is hypothetical, no one is going to be hurt," Mitchell remarked sharply.
The men fell silent again.
Finally Miles spoke. "Say that did happen, boss. Say you came in tomorrow and it was all gone, vanished as if it never existed at all. What would you do?"
"What couldn't I do with a wad of insurance money like that?" Mitchell asked.
"Good point." Miles Longworth stood deep in thought. "What would Tommy think?"
"There you go wrecking my fantasy."
"Sorry," Miles Longworth mumbled.
A siren pierced the night, and both men saw flashing lights approaching. Miles froze. He had a wad of cash in his trousers, cash that wasn't his.
Two men stepped from the police vehicle.
"Gentlemen," the older officer said.
"Thank you for coming," Mitchell said demurely, as if he were hosting a dinner party.
"It's kind of what we do," the younger officer said, and Mitchell leered at him. He introduced himself as Deputy Robber, and Miles fought the urge to laugh.
Cops and robbers?
"What seems to be the problem here?" Robber asked.
"We were in the store, working late, and we heard gun shots," Slick Mitchell explained. He saw no reason for any excessive storyline, so he got right to the point.
"Where were you?" the older officer asked. He introduced himself as Clarke. No one found that funny.
"In there," Miles Longworth said, pointing to the store.
"We gathered that. Where inside the store were you?" Robber man asked. He seemed to be losing his patience, and Miles imagined that somewhere there was an enormous glazed donut with this jerk's name on it.
Mitchell answered the question. "My office is in the back. Miles Longworth here, he was in his office in the front of the store."
"How'd you get the shiner?" Officer Clarke asked.
"We waited it out until we were sure the gunman was gone. I came face to face with him on my way out. He hit me with his gun," Slick Mitchell explained.
"You just happened to leave at the same time?" Robber asked.
"Not exactly," Slick Mitchell replied.
"Then what?" Robber inquired.
"The guy was out here when we exited," Mitchell said.
"Who's 'we'?" Clarke asked.
"Mr. Longworth here, and myself."
"You see anything, Longworth?" Robber asked.
"I did not," Miles replied.
"How come?" Clarke asked.
"Don't know. I was a few paces behind Mr. Mitchell here. I was still inside while he was getting his clock cleaned," Miles said.
"Nice," Mitchell asked. He was getting as frustrated with Miles Longworth as the deputies were, so he decided to have some fun. "I thought you said you saw him."
"Did not," Longworth said.
"Did to," Mitchell quipped.
"Did not!" Longworth repeated.
"Gentlemen, please. You want a basketball, some background music, wanna duke it out like a little High School Musical?" Robber asked, looking enormously pleased by his wit. "Mr. Longworth, did you see this perpetrator, or did you not see him?"
"I did not," Longworth whispered.
"All right. Sir, what's in your pants?" Robber asked.
Miles paled in the lamplight.
"What?" he squeaked.
"You got something in your pants? Looks like you got something stuffed in your pants," Robber said.
Mitchell, Robber, and Clarke all stared at Longworth's pants. Longworth tried to inhale, but found he could no longer breathe. He was up the creek, with nothing more than a bunch of dead guys on green paper.
"I'm incontinent," Miles whispered, alternately embarrassed, and seriously impressed with his ability to think fast on his feet.
"I beg your pardon?" Clarke asked.
"I'm wearing an adult diaper. Would you like to see it?" Miles asked.
"NO!" All three men said in unison.
"All right then," Miles said, exhaling in a rush.
"We're going to search the store. Mr. Mitchell, we'd like you to wait in your vehicle. Lock the doors, please. Mr. Longworth, you are free to go, but I'd suggest you not leave town, and you should seriously think about consulting a urologist. You seem a little young to be hitting the Depends."
"Thanks for the advice," Miles said. He smiled as he waddled away, secretly hoping the Franklins and Grants would stay put.
****************
When Reeve Stockwell opened his eyes, two police officers stood over him.
"Mr. Stockwell?"
"That's me," Stockwell squeaked.
"I'm Officer Lowell, this is Deputy Briggs. Where is the truck?"
"I flew out the back," Stockwell said, finding the strength to sit upright.
"How'd that happen?" Briggs asked.
"Burger gunned the thing after it stalled. I flew right out the back."
"You okay?" Lowell asked.
"I don't know. I don't think anything is broken, but I feel like I was in a train wreck, and I'm really cold. Maybe I've got internal injuries or something," Stockwell surmised.
"You've split your pants, sir," Briggs said.
Lowell laughed out loud.
"I did, didn't I?" Stockwell remarked.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Briggs asked.
"Fishing trip," Stockwell said.
"You went to work dressed for a fishing trip? Where were you planning to fish this late at night?" Briggs asked.
"May I change my answer?" Stockwell said softly.
"This isn't Who Wants to be a Millionaire," Lowell said.
"I know. I'm just confused. It's been a really bad night," Stockwell said. "My wife is going to kill me, if you guys don't, or that Burger maniac doesn't get me." Reeve Stockwell whined like a teenage girl.
"Is that Sponge Bob?" Lowell asked. Stockwell hung his head. He'd dressed in the dark that morning, and a lot had happened in fourteen hours. He felt like it had been fourteen years since he'd reached into his dresser and grabbed a pair of clean boxers. How could he have known he'd grab the Sponge Bob underwear?
"It is. My son got them for me. For Christmas. It was a joke," Stockwell said defensively.
"No one actually wears that shit. You do know that, right?" Lowell said. The laughter the officer was clearly fighting broke free, and Reeve Stockwell began to understand why everyone hated cops. These guys were douche bags. "My kid got me some Winnie the Pooh boxers a few years back. I wrapped those things in what had to be about a week's worth of newspapers, and shoved them in a trash can half a town away. You don't keep that stuff. It always comes back to bite ya," Lowell explained.
Reeve Stockwell scowled. He could never have done that. His son rode his bike in sub zero weather to deliver newspapers to old people who griped no matter where he left the paper. He took that money and bought the Sponge Bob drawers. How could Stockwell have thrown them out?
"I really don't care what you think of them," Stockwell barked. "My son is a teenage boy who worked hard for the money he used to buy them. I'm proud of them. You want to know what happened to me or are we gonna hang out here and talk underpants all night?"
Reeve Stockwell struggled to his feet. The waders were split from stem to stern, and had pretty much disintegrated. He stood in his fiercest competitor's parking lot in his Sponge Bob drawers, and the moldy slicker. The night had grown cold and he shook from the chill. This was NOT how Stockwell pictured the life of an FBI agent, and he had to figure he was doing something seriously wrong.
He tried to pull the slicker tighter around him, and his weapon hit the ground with a plunk.
"What's that?" Lowell asked.
"What's what?" Stockwell replied. He wasn't really a praying man, but he found himself sending messages to his maker at the speed of a texting adolescent.
"Is that your weapon, sir?" Briggs asked. Both men took on a very serious tone, and Stockwell figured they'd turned the corner from underpants to things going very, very bad.
"It is my weapon," Stockwell admitted.
"You have a license to carry concealed?" Lowell asked.
"I don't, but I can explain.....," Stockwell said shakily.
Here we go....
"Reeve Stockwell, you have the right to remain silent-" Briggs began.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered.
Slick Mitchell stared at the ground. He looked seriously ticked off.
"There's a sink hole in the corner of the parking lot," Mitchell said, out of the blue.
"You don't say," Miles replied. He fidgeted, certain a crisp hundred was poking him in the butt. He wasn't sure where the conversation was going, but he wished Mitchell would look away, giving him the opportunity to relocate the Franklin to a more preferable position.
"The strangest ideas go through my head," Mitchell said to the air, as if he'd forgotten Miles was present.
Miles was okay with that.
"Someone is coming from the city to probe this sinkhole, see how deep it goes. You want to know what would make me feel lucky, Miles?" Mitchell asked, looking at Longworth.
"A winning horse, sir?"
"Shut up. I'm trying to be serious here," Mitchell quipped.
"Me, too," Longworth whispered. "What would make you feel lucky?"
A hundred up your butt?
Mitchell fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, he sounded like a different man, a somewhat broken man. It was a tone Miles knew well. He'd used it on his bookie every week for two years running.
"Miles, I'd feel like the luckiest guy in the world if I pulled into the parking lot tomorrow, and this whole damned place had been swallowed up, burned to a crisp down in the core of this cesspool of a planet."
"What about the night crew?" Miles said softly.
"No night crew tonight," Mitchell replied.
"That's good. Wouldn't want to see anyone hurt," Miles said, sounding horrified.
"This is hypothetical, no one is going to be hurt," Mitchell remarked sharply.
The men fell silent again.
Finally Miles spoke. "Say that did happen, boss. Say you came in tomorrow and it was all gone, vanished as if it never existed at all. What would you do?"
"What couldn't I do with a wad of insurance money like that?" Mitchell asked.
"Good point." Miles Longworth stood deep in thought. "What would Tommy think?"
"There you go wrecking my fantasy."
"Sorry," Miles Longworth mumbled.
A siren pierced the night, and both men saw flashing lights approaching. Miles froze. He had a wad of cash in his trousers, cash that wasn't his.
Two men stepped from the police vehicle.
"Gentlemen," the older officer said.
"Thank you for coming," Mitchell said demurely, as if he were hosting a dinner party.
"It's kind of what we do," the younger officer said, and Mitchell leered at him. He introduced himself as Deputy Robber, and Miles fought the urge to laugh.
Cops and robbers?
"What seems to be the problem here?" Robber asked.
"We were in the store, working late, and we heard gun shots," Slick Mitchell explained. He saw no reason for any excessive storyline, so he got right to the point.
"Where were you?" the older officer asked. He introduced himself as Clarke. No one found that funny.
"In there," Miles Longworth said, pointing to the store.
"We gathered that. Where inside the store were you?" Robber man asked. He seemed to be losing his patience, and Miles imagined that somewhere there was an enormous glazed donut with this jerk's name on it.
Mitchell answered the question. "My office is in the back. Miles Longworth here, he was in his office in the front of the store."
"How'd you get the shiner?" Officer Clarke asked.
"We waited it out until we were sure the gunman was gone. I came face to face with him on my way out. He hit me with his gun," Slick Mitchell explained.
"You just happened to leave at the same time?" Robber asked.
"Not exactly," Slick Mitchell replied.
"Then what?" Robber inquired.
"The guy was out here when we exited," Mitchell said.
"Who's 'we'?" Clarke asked.
"Mr. Longworth here, and myself."
"You see anything, Longworth?" Robber asked.
"I did not," Miles replied.
"How come?" Clarke asked.
"Don't know. I was a few paces behind Mr. Mitchell here. I was still inside while he was getting his clock cleaned," Miles said.
"Nice," Mitchell asked. He was getting as frustrated with Miles Longworth as the deputies were, so he decided to have some fun. "I thought you said you saw him."
"Did not," Longworth said.
"Did to," Mitchell quipped.
"Did not!" Longworth repeated.
"Gentlemen, please. You want a basketball, some background music, wanna duke it out like a little High School Musical?" Robber asked, looking enormously pleased by his wit. "Mr. Longworth, did you see this perpetrator, or did you not see him?"
"I did not," Longworth whispered.
"All right. Sir, what's in your pants?" Robber asked.
Miles paled in the lamplight.
"What?" he squeaked.
"You got something in your pants? Looks like you got something stuffed in your pants," Robber said.
Mitchell, Robber, and Clarke all stared at Longworth's pants. Longworth tried to inhale, but found he could no longer breathe. He was up the creek, with nothing more than a bunch of dead guys on green paper.
"I'm incontinent," Miles whispered, alternately embarrassed, and seriously impressed with his ability to think fast on his feet.
"I beg your pardon?" Clarke asked.
"I'm wearing an adult diaper. Would you like to see it?" Miles asked.
"NO!" All three men said in unison.
"All right then," Miles said, exhaling in a rush.
"We're going to search the store. Mr. Mitchell, we'd like you to wait in your vehicle. Lock the doors, please. Mr. Longworth, you are free to go, but I'd suggest you not leave town, and you should seriously think about consulting a urologist. You seem a little young to be hitting the Depends."
"Thanks for the advice," Miles said. He smiled as he waddled away, secretly hoping the Franklins and Grants would stay put.
****************
When Reeve Stockwell opened his eyes, two police officers stood over him.
"Mr. Stockwell?"
"That's me," Stockwell squeaked.
"I'm Officer Lowell, this is Deputy Briggs. Where is the truck?"
"I flew out the back," Stockwell said, finding the strength to sit upright.
"How'd that happen?" Briggs asked.
"Burger gunned the thing after it stalled. I flew right out the back."
"You okay?" Lowell asked.
"I don't know. I don't think anything is broken, but I feel like I was in a train wreck, and I'm really cold. Maybe I've got internal injuries or something," Stockwell surmised.
"You've split your pants, sir," Briggs said.
Lowell laughed out loud.
"I did, didn't I?" Stockwell remarked.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Briggs asked.
"Fishing trip," Stockwell said.
"You went to work dressed for a fishing trip? Where were you planning to fish this late at night?" Briggs asked.
"May I change my answer?" Stockwell said softly.
"This isn't Who Wants to be a Millionaire," Lowell said.
"I know. I'm just confused. It's been a really bad night," Stockwell said. "My wife is going to kill me, if you guys don't, or that Burger maniac doesn't get me." Reeve Stockwell whined like a teenage girl.
"Is that Sponge Bob?" Lowell asked. Stockwell hung his head. He'd dressed in the dark that morning, and a lot had happened in fourteen hours. He felt like it had been fourteen years since he'd reached into his dresser and grabbed a pair of clean boxers. How could he have known he'd grab the Sponge Bob underwear?
"It is. My son got them for me. For Christmas. It was a joke," Stockwell said defensively.
"No one actually wears that shit. You do know that, right?" Lowell said. The laughter the officer was clearly fighting broke free, and Reeve Stockwell began to understand why everyone hated cops. These guys were douche bags. "My kid got me some Winnie the Pooh boxers a few years back. I wrapped those things in what had to be about a week's worth of newspapers, and shoved them in a trash can half a town away. You don't keep that stuff. It always comes back to bite ya," Lowell explained.
Reeve Stockwell scowled. He could never have done that. His son rode his bike in sub zero weather to deliver newspapers to old people who griped no matter where he left the paper. He took that money and bought the Sponge Bob drawers. How could Stockwell have thrown them out?
"I really don't care what you think of them," Stockwell barked. "My son is a teenage boy who worked hard for the money he used to buy them. I'm proud of them. You want to know what happened to me or are we gonna hang out here and talk underpants all night?"
Reeve Stockwell struggled to his feet. The waders were split from stem to stern, and had pretty much disintegrated. He stood in his fiercest competitor's parking lot in his Sponge Bob drawers, and the moldy slicker. The night had grown cold and he shook from the chill. This was NOT how Stockwell pictured the life of an FBI agent, and he had to figure he was doing something seriously wrong.
He tried to pull the slicker tighter around him, and his weapon hit the ground with a plunk.
"What's that?" Lowell asked.
"What's what?" Stockwell replied. He wasn't really a praying man, but he found himself sending messages to his maker at the speed of a texting adolescent.
"Is that your weapon, sir?" Briggs asked. Both men took on a very serious tone, and Stockwell figured they'd turned the corner from underpants to things going very, very bad.
"It is my weapon," Stockwell admitted.
"You have a license to carry concealed?" Lowell asked.
"I don't, but I can explain.....," Stockwell said shakily.
Here we go....
"Reeve Stockwell, you have the right to remain silent-" Briggs began.
"Shit," Stockwell whispered.
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