Sunday, September 29, 2019

HAMILTON FISK part 3

Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.



Hamilton
Fisk
Part 3
By R. Peterson

Walter Havens (Worms) lay sprawled against the door of the Ford F150. A drop of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “What happened?” he moaned and rubbed his face as Hamilton Fisk (Ham) and Dorian Edwards (Creeps) tossed the Adler Damenrad ladies’ bicycle into the back of the truck and crawled into the cab.
            “Looks like you fell asleep,” Creeps told him.
            “I’m bleeding!” Worms suffered minor hysterics when he saw blood smeared on his hand.
            “You must have been dreaming,” Ham sneered. “Our closest enemies are more than a whole block away! Who on Earth in this utterly righteous-city would knock you in the head while you were sitting innocently in a pickup?”
            “We’ll fix your head when we get back under the bridge,” Creeps told him. “Right now let’s get out of here!”

Worms slid the truck sideways on the icy asphalt as he roared from the parking spot onto the far-East end of Second South Street. He checked his rear-view mirror. “You got the bike!” he gasped. “Any trouble?”
            “No,” Creeps said. His pockets were filled with sunflower seeds and he spoke between cracking shells with his teeth. “And that worries me. We got out of that place with a priceless Boogoo and with very little loss of blood!”
            “Pull over up here and we’ll check for his eye.” Ham told Worms.
Worms pulled the truck to the side of the road just past an elementary school where children were skating on a large ice rink.
            “What are we looking for?” Worms was still rubbing his head.
            “A Ptolemaic coin,” Creeps told him. “An ancient Egyptian silver piece with an all-seeing eye on the reverse side. Most birds can home in on the image the eye transmits to them and then report back to their masters.”
All three members of Abra Cadaver got out and searched every inch of the truck especially the underside but could find no trace of Joseph Amati’s tracking device.
            “I don’t know how he did it, but we definitely have an eye on us,” Creeps said pointing to dozens of sparrows landing on nearby telephone wires.
            “Where’s my BB gun when I need it?” Ham grumbled as they climbed back into the truck.

The drove on …. And a flock of sparrows followed.



-------2-------


            Ham looked at the Spanish clock-pendant hanging by a black-iron chain around her neck. “It’s almost one,” she said. “We better grab “Ink” on the way home. Worms had been driving erratically trying to lose the flock of birds which appeared to be growing. He made a hard left onto 400 South. Herman (Inks) Wilson had a job cleaning the Salt Lake City Public Library when it closed each night at six. Worms parked in the near empty lot and waited.
A few of the more than a thousand sparrows that covered the Ford truck and several nearby trees flew when a man with too large eyes and shaky hands rapped on the window. “Are you okay?” He sounded as if he were having a seizure.
            Creeps unrolled his side window. “We bought sunflower seeds in bulk from WinCo,” he said flipping a few cracked shells outside. “They drive these winter birds crazy!”
            “I can call the police if you need!” the man said waving his arms. His red-plaid Andy Cap hat fell-off exposing a handful of long thin hairs struggling desperately to reforest his barren scalp. About a dozen birds flew away, but the truck was still covered. The man waved a cell phone.
            “I wouldn’t do that,” Creeps told him. “I knew a bald-man in Texas called the cops on a swarm of robins ready to fly south. When the Houston Police arrived all they found was a pile of white droppings and a pair of shoes with blood in them.”
            “I’m not bald … but what happened to him?” The man looked at the birds with growing fear.
Creeps couldn’t help himself; he leaned out the window and whispered. “He was spotted wandering barefoot on an Acapulco beach … with a feathered nest and blue eggs stuck on his head!”

Inks arrived and crowded into the front seat. He dropped an armload of books dealing with demonology on the floor. “Who was that old geezer?” Worms asked glancing back at the angry man in the rear view mirror.
            “That was my boss,” Inks said. “Why?”

-------3-------


A cold wind blew gusts of snow under the Second South Street Bridge. Almost a dozen ragged figures were huddled around a burning garbage can. “Thank the spirits you’ve arrived,” Liberty Johnson cackled when Ham, Creeps and Worms walked in. “I’m sure the last cop who stopped by for a social visit called for a shelter bus … even though we all told him we were fine.”
“We parked in a lot two streets over,” Ham told them showing off the bike. “Is everyone ready?”
The sound of vehicles stopping on both sides of the bridge and a cluster of flashing lights made Creeps look. “It’s the Social Services Bus with a police escort,” he said. “Anyone feel like spending the night in a shelter?”
“No,” the answers were unanimous.

Eleven figures held hands as they huddled around the burning barrel. “Don’t forget the bike someone said. Ham reached out and touched it. There was a swirling of heated air around the garbage can. Flames shot from the top as if escaping from a fiery vortex. The eleven began to chant …
Leave the cold, bring on the warm.
Leave the bold, to suffer harm.
Leaf the trees, on distant shores.
Leave me please, where sunlight pours.

The bridge trembled and there was a flash of light. Then suddenly warm air blasted from under both sides of the bridge.


-------4-------

Captain Roger Munds directed his officers to guard all escape routes. The homeless usually would not run but a few might be using drugs. Carefully he made his way down the snowy embankment. The homeless in Salt Lake City were an ongoing problem with no easy answers. What most people didn’t realize was that these people were on the street not for lack of housing or job opportunities but because they could no longer function in society. Many of these ragged people were military veterans cast into the cold by the horrors of war or by something in their past that made them non-functional. It was bad politics to have street people freeze to death in the midst of prosperity. The mayor had ordered that they be transported to temporary shelters on especially cold nights whether they desired it or not.

Captain Munds shone his flashlight all over under the bridge; it was empty. He looked accusingly at two of his officers moving in from the other side. “They didn’t run out this way,” both insisted.
The captain kicked away some of the powder snow that had recently drifted in. A melted ring of ice showed where the burning barrel had been just minutes before. People might run but how could they take a hot metal barrel with them? He was especially interested in the tracks of a bicycle that seemed to just disappear.
“You want us to start searching the streets?” One of the cops asked.
“No,” the captain told them. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “It’s going to be a deadly cold night. I don’t want any of my officers outside … unless they have to be.”


--------5-------

The crying of seagulls and a warm ocean breeze greeted Hamilton Fisk, Walter Havens, Herman Wilson and Dorian Edwards as they sat with the others on folding lounge chairs on a secluded beach near Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Most had already changed from the layered cold weather clothing into swim suits. Herman Wilson was reading from his pile of books and other papers. Every person’s body was bronzed, lean and tanned.
“I’m still not sure if the way we look now is the enchantment … or if that cold street scene was.” Worms said.
“This is real,” Creeps told him opening a can of the Mexican beer Carona. “That other life is just to disguise us from the powers … who think they be.”

Ham took her time examining the antique bicycle parked on the white sand.

Liberty Johnson looked all of eighteen years old as she walked over wearing a blue polka dot bikini that showed off her long shapely legs. “Getting the Adler Damenrad is only half the work,” she said. “The Boogoo must choose us as its new home and you as its new master.”
            “How do we do that?” Ham asked her.
            “First we need to find out everything possible about the previous owner … and then there are exacting rituals to be performed.”

Inks still had his face buried in the books and pages … but he answered. “Joseph Amati and his brother are both members of the Red Point Tridents from Chicago. They are the most blood thirsty coven in the US. These butchers specialize in murder and extortion and are often given contracts by organized crime bosses when they want to send an especially gruesome and gristly message to someone.”
            “Are we safe?” Ham asked.
            “Their magic is very powerful,” Creeps smiled. “But unless they know where their meat is they can’t stick their forks in it.”
Worms was far out in the water with a small wake board trying to catch a wave. After a few minutes Creeps stood up and stared intently.
“What? Do you see a shark?” Ham asked.
            “No, it’s nothing.” Creeps said shading his eyes. “It’s just that I’ve never seen so many gulls clustered around our newest member.”

Liberty lifted a pair of binoculars to her eyes. When she finally lowered them, her expression was somber. “Those aren’t gulls,” she said.



TO BE CONTINUED …
           




Sunday, September 22, 2019

HAMILTON FISK part 2

Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.



Hamilton
Fisk
Part 2
By R. Peterson


Ham held her breath for almost three seconds before her mind recognized the voice behind the gun barrel jammed into the back of her neck. “Creeps! Damn you!” she gasped. Dorian Edwards lowered the gun and laughed as she turned. “I thought you were going to wet your pants.”
“When did you get here?”
“I was standing around outside throwing snowballs at busses. When Joseph Amati left, I came inside. He didn’t even lock his door. I guess he must think he’s invincible.”
“But the door was locked when I came.’
“The old goat must have sensed something was wrong, probably starting to fry on the acid. I also heard that Recluse Spider venom makes you paranoid as hell.”
“He’s in an old time sailor’s rope sleeping net, and it’s protected. I think it came from the Mary Celeste. A name inked on a sewn-on pillow reads Benjamin S. Briggs. When you look in his bedchamber, the room appears to be swaying but the hammock is perfectly still.”
“Then we can’t mess with him?”
“No. When I opened the door my fingers were frozen. It took ten minutes before I could move them.”
“But I can take the bike?”
“I don’t see why not. It would be a good idea to find out where it came from though. I’ve looked in a few of the rooms. Amati, is as we thought a meticulous collector of enchanted objects, but the way he brings his Boogoos to life gives me the creeps.”
“Something gives Creeps the creeps?” Ham laughed. “This I’ve got to see.”
Dorian led her down the hall and opened a door on the left.


-------2-------


It was as if when walking into the room you were transported back two hundred years. Painted lath-walls and hand-woven rugs appeared to be authentic. A grey-haired man sat at a wooden table with an open book before him. Stacks of ancient silver coins littered the splintered surface. A candle flickering in an ornate holder reflected off his open eyes. An open bottle of ink and a quill pen poised in his hand made it appear as if he were about to make a notation in his ledger.
On the other side of the room a tired looking woman in a blue gingham dress snuggled a baby in a dusty rocking chair. A shaggy dog, with a bushy tail lying just under one of the bent-oak runners, appeared to be sleeping.

“Are they enchanted?”
“Long dead and stuffed,” Dorian said, “even the woman and the baby. Amati or his brother does excellent taxidermy work on humans. Every bit of hair and skin is in its proper place and perfectly preserved.”
“Why?” Ham gasped.
“The Boogoo has a spirit inside it that gives it special powers but no cognitive abilities. He duplicates the environment the enchanted object is used to … and tricks it into believing it is home. He then uses whatever special powers the object has … for himself.”
“Which object is the Boogoo?”
“The candle,” Dorian told her, “it has an eternal flame.” He reached out and pinched the wick with his fingers but the light refused to be extinguished.
“What does he do in this room?”
“My guess is, any dealings he has that concerns money he brings to this room. If he places a stock prospectus or some other venture on the table the candle probably flickers or goes out. Then he knows it’s a bad deal.”
Ham reached out and touched the silver holder. “An object like this must be worth a fortune!”
“The merchant who originally owned the Boogoo probably never knew his accumulated wealth came from a simple candle holder. If he had lost it or had it stolen he might have ended up poor.”
“How could he not know?”
“Our lives are full of Boogoos some good … some bad,” Dorian said. “That bed you slept in as a child might have decided who you will grow up to marry as an adult. A tea-cup on a shelf might portend your death. All objects are influential things … they just don’t function the same way we do.”


-------3-------

“You’re right,” Ham gasped as Dorian opened the next door down. “This place really gives me the creeps.”
An enormous, balding man sat smiling inside an ancient claw-foot porcelain container with his huge stomach and lower-half thankfully covered in soap foam. A half-dozen bubbles continually floated into the air and then burst. Two young women dressed in late nineteenth century maid’s attire, complete with appropriate blushes, appeared to be readying towels for his extraction. “The Boogoo is the bathtub,” Dorian said.
“How do you know?”
“You can stuff a lot of things with sawdust to make them appear real,” Dorian said, “but bubbles aren’t one of them.”
“I suppose this room has something to do with sex?”
“That would be my guess,” Dorian said as he gazed at the fastidiously re-created cleavage on one of the young girls.”


-------4-------



“What the hell?” Ham screamed.
They appeared to have walked into a nineteenth century butcher shop. An ancient looking meat-slicer occupied the center of the room. Stacked against the walls were dozens of naked corpses. Some were men with stark looks of terror frozen on their lips. A woman lay sprawled on the floor holding hands with a decapitated child.
A smiling man with greased-back hair stood next to a bucket of bloody water with mop in hand and watched as two others armed with knives trimmed bone and gristle from what looked like human body parts and wrapped the portions in waxed paper.

            “Why human flesh?” Ham almost gagged.
            “Not all immigrants to America in the nineteen century were given forty acres of land to homestead,” Dorian said. “Some were looked upon as merely a form of cattle ready to fill the soup pots that fed the other wretched starving … yearning to be free.”
            “That is so sick!”
Dorian pointed to the mop. “The power of this Boogoo is being able to clean up a man-made sickness so that the world never knows.”
            “I don’t want to see any more!”
“I don’t think we’ll have to,” Dorian said as he closed the door. “Amati’s office is right up here.”

-------5-------


Ham was thankful that this room was only filled with filing cabinets and a desk. No dead were made to appear living. If there was a Boogoo here she didn’t see it. “What are you looking for?”
            “We need to find out who Amati acquired the Adler Damenrad from.” Dorian said. “We know the bicycle can fly … but it might have other powers as well.”

Ham stood in the doorway as Dorian searched through endless files. A catsup smeared McRoast-beef wrapper lay on the floor a few steps farther. She thought she heard a noise at the end of the hall and was just turning. “Got it!” Dorian lifted a handful of papers. “It seems the previous owner died not too long ago … and under suspicious circumstances.”
            “Shhhh,” Ham warned. “I think there’s someone else in here!”
            “Where?”
            “At the far end of the hall!”
“That’s Amati’s bedroom! He must be waking up!”
“How is that possible?”
“Amati murdered all these people hundreds of years ago. He has special powers that keep him alive. A little Recluse Spider venom wrapped in LSD isn’t going to keep him asleep for long.”

Ham and Creep fled down the hallway and flew down the stairs into the antique shop below. Ham was afraid the ancient two-wheeler would be impossible to move, but it lifted easily and the wheels rolled without effort. “The bicycle likes you,” Dorian said as he stuffed the stolen pages into his coat.

-------6-------


They were halfway down the snow-covered street, and almost to the idling Ford F150 where Walter Havens waited, when the door to Joe’s Attic banged open behind them.

A cold wind caused the branches of dormant trees lining the street to briefly sway. Two birds who had decided not to fly south for the winter fell dead on the concrete. For a moment the moon was unable to illuminate the strange and illusive figure standing below. Then he and another began to reflect light.

            “Did you attach the eye so that they can be followed?”
            “I put it in the kid’s pocket after he fell … asleep.” The huge man standing next to Amati grinned showing broken and jagged teeth. A leather-covered length of lead-pipe, with drops of blood smeared at the end, hung by a motorcycle chain from the man’s belt.

Joseph Amati stared at the dark figures as they disappeared into the shadows. He smiled.
“Ho una stanza vuota che ha bisogno di riempito,” he said. “Thank you my brother. I have an empty room that needs filled.”


TO BE CONTINUED …

Sunday, September 15, 2019

HAMILTON FISK

Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.



Hamilton
Fisk
By R. Peterson


            Lawrence Fisk had just been called to serve as Bishop of the thirteenth ward. He was dressed immaculately in a Stafford Executive suit accented by a bright red tie which subtly showed his affiliation with the Utah Republican Party. He carried in his right hand a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants with a highlight on section 111 verse 2 dealing with Salem Massachusetts. Accompanied by his wife Ruth, her sisters Kate and Emma and eight of his nine children he left early for Sacrament Meeting. Before leaving, he’d taken a few minutes to look down into the square concrete walls that had previously formed a coal chute, before the two hundred year old stone-house had been converted to natural gas, and prayed that his last offspring, an adolescent, would sleep away the day.
The courteous and helpful staff at the Neuropsychiatric Institute had assured Lawrence that there was nothing medically wrong with his daughter’s mind at least nothing that might require compulsive incarceration. However, the doctors who had conducted the extensive examinations confided privately to him that they and several of the staff were frightened by her dark and enigmatic aura.
A splintered eight-foot long, two by ten with nailed traction slats every foot along the length leaned against the mold-spotted walls and resembled more of an entrance board to a chicken coop than a stairway but Salt Lake City had very stringent laws concerning child detention. Lawrence hoped the ignominy of his righteous household would remain in the dark and secluded hollow he had created for her and not cause any further embarrassment.


-------2-------


Hamilton Fisk lay on the sweat dampened mattress and listened as the two Chevrolet Suburbans left the driveway. The black wax candle, she’d lit only moments before, illuminated a Siouxsie and the Banshees poster and a female Brown Recluse spider spinning a web in a dark corner of the unfinished ceiling.
She got up slowly and searched through a sewing box on a table near her bed and found a pin. The spider, which she’d fed flies to for weeks, tried to crawl into a crack in the cement wall. Ham used a burnt matchstick to lift the spider from the web and move it nearer the candle flame. She used a pair of thick bifocal glasses stolen from her “aunt” Emma to observe the spider’s tiny mouth-parts as she delicately prodded the chelicerae area with the pin. Ham smiled as the Brown Recluse left a tiny gob of venom on the end of the pin then replaced her on the web. She wiped the pin clean on a quarter-sized slice of thin roast-beef and then put the meat into a plastic bag.
The curtain-less shower was ice cold but she took her time and used plenty of goat milk soap to lather her long ebony hair. All rituals required a cleansing and before midnight she would do nine. She dressed carefully in a mid-thigh black-velvet Dark in Love dress with a low-cut lace up neck and pulled black boots over black leather leggings. A silver-plated Curses Chain  belt with a dagger attached was hooked around her waist. The knife, when drawn from its sheath appeared to be merely a black lipstick holder. Unbeknown to any of the Salt Lake Police officers who had previously questioned and searched her, a hidden latch turned the lipstick holder into a real weapon with a wicked sharp blade.
She used no makeup. The all night McDonalds on second south did not allow it.
Ham stood in the bottom of the cement walls that used to form the coal chute, closed her eyes and listened. She kicked the chicken board with the horizontal slats with her boot. There was no way she was walking up that! She took a moment to make sure that no one was around. Why cause trouble? Slowly she levitated from her basement apartment. Two streets over, two Pit Bull dogs began to growl. The growls turned to shrieks as they were attacked by three black cats.
            “Thank you my pets,” Ham muttered as she ambled down the snow covered sidewalk. “It’s nice to know you have my back.”

-------3-------

            The first city bus could have taken her directly to work but she had the time and she chose the second. She was dropped off just one block from Joe’s Attic a dingy antique store with a vintage bicycle gathering dust in the front window. She shouldn’t have been anywhere near the store but she was drawn to the magic like a moth to a flame. And this was even more dangerous.
            Ham stood at one corner of the dirty glass and peered through the spokes of the 1938 Adler Damenrad ladies’ bicycle on display inside. The store owner had moved the bike to his show window to entice her. Joseph Amati was anything but friendly unless you gave him what he wanted.  The fifty year-old man had almost dragged her into the back room twice when she inquired about the bicycle’s price. “I won’t sell to just anyone and the price isn’t money,” he’d told her as he stared at the snake inked on the back of her hand. Ham knew plenty of guys like him. They considered any girl with a tattoo a whore and made crude advances.
She wanted to make sure he wasn’t where he could see her … so she could inquisition the bike. He was in the back room with a bucket of soapy water washing a dirty shade from a lamp.
            Ham took two 1939 Lincoln wheat pennies from a pouch attached to her belt and pressed them face down against the glass … about two foot apart. She rotated each coin with her middle fingers. Ideally, she should be closer.  It took several tries but then the bicycle wheels began to turn. Joe Amati looked up from the lamp shade he’d been cleaning. The bicycle’s kick-stand must have made a noise on the wooden platform when it moved. Ham ducted down and held her breath. After a couple of minutes she peered over the edge of the window. Amati was gone so was the bucket of water. She placed the pennies wheat side down against the glass and then slowly slid them upward. The bicycle trembled and then finally lifted into the air.
            Ham smiled. The bicycle was the real thing. She just had to figure out how to get it.
She heard a noise and turned a split second before the hot, dirty water hit her head and shoulders. The bicycle in the display window dropped to the floor and tipped over.
Ammonia in the washing solution burned her eyes. “Vattene da qui!” Amati howled. He stood with the bucket in his hands and stared at the top of her wet dress where her sixteen year old cleavage shown. He looked up and down the street then licked his lips. “I have in mind to drag you inside! Darvi una frusta!”
He reached to clamp boney fingers on her shoulder. Ham twisted free then stood-up and shoved him. Amati stumbled three steps backward and fell.
Ham slipped the wheat pennies into her pouch as she ran. Amati cursed as he struggled to his feet. He hurtled the empty bucket. It hit the sidewalk behind her. “Ti prenderò la prossima volta che ti dividi,” he yelled. “La prossima volta ti prendo!”


-------4-------


Ham waited almost twenty minutes for the next bus one block down. A tree, with a few leaves left in late October, kept her partially hidden. She kept staring down the street expecting the Italian perverti to show up … but he didn’t. Her hair had frozen in long stringy tangles.
She got off at the north end of second south. There was a bridge there with friends under it.
Several shopping carts filled with empty bottles were jammed against the cement embankment Three unkempt individuals warmed their hands around a metal trashcan burning broken pallet boards. “Got food?” one of them asked as she passed. “I haven’t been to work yet,” she told him.
            Liberty Johnson was half buried under three ragged blankets. “Are you sick Libby?”
            “Just cold,” the old woman said pulling the blankets tighter.
            “I’ve got it,” Ham showed Libby the piece of meat she’d wiped the spider venom on.
            “How much?”
            “About as big as a pin head,” Ham told her.
The old woman’s arthritic fingers produced a tiny paper square with an image of Disney’s Goofy printed on one side. Ham took it from her.
            “Make sure they are both swallowed at the same time,” Libby said. “The effects should begin thirty minutes to an hour after ingestion.”
Ham carefully worked the LSD into the tiny square of roast beef.
            “I wish I was coming with you,” Libby said. “But I’m getting too old to go creeping.”
            “I’ll tell you all about it when I come back here with my bike,’ Ham told her.
            “Make sure he gives you a receipt,” Libby said. “Terror will make him do anything but when he’s himself again he might have second thoughts.”

Ham arrived for work at the second south McDonalds fifteen minutes early. It was a good thing she did. The regular cook had called in sick and Ham would get an extra twenty-five cents an hour for taking his place. Luck seemed to be on her side but Ham wondered how long it would last.
Her shift ended at midnight and at first she didn’t think he was going to show. She’d followed him for months and knew his routine. Sunday nights at 11:32 on his way home from visiting his mother he always stopped for a McRoast-beef Sandwich, fries and a Coke. She’d gotten this job after formulating a plan to get the bicycle.
            Her pulse quickened as she saw the white station wagon get in line for the drive through. They were extra busy tonight. She waited until both the other employees were busy with customers and then she spooned roast beef onto a bun with her tiny piece of beef on it. She wrapped the sandwich and placed it in the warmer.
            Two Utah State Patrolmen were at the window. Clair, the girl working the registers, took two double cheeseburgers, two fries and then grabbed the roast beef sandwich from the warmer and dropped them into a bag. She handed the bag to the officer driving while she filled two paper cups with coke. Ham was dumbstruck; she just stood there staring.
            “Miss,” One of the officers pushed the wrapped roast beef toward the window. “I ordered a McChicken sandwich!”
            Clair tossed the roast beef back on the warming tray and retrieved the right sandwich. Ham didn’t know she’d been holding her breath until she started to breathe again.
            “I was just trying to do him a favor,’ Clair said as the white station wagon pulled up to the window. “Do you know what the put in them chicken nuggets?”

            “A McRoast beef, a small fry and a large coke,” Joseph Amati recited his order exactly the same way he had at least four times before.
When Clair handed Amati the bag he took the sandwich and fries out then knocked on the window. “These fries are cold,” he complained. “You want me to pay full price for cold fries?”
            “We can take the fries back and not charge you,” Clair explained. “But nobody gets a discount!”
Ham watched Amati take a big bite out of his sandwich.
            “Sporche puttane americane!” Amati growled just before he sped away.
Ham used her cell phone to dial the other members of Abra Cadaver. “He ate it,” she said.

-------5-------


The assistance manager wanted Ham to stay late and help clean up. “I quit,” Ham told her.
Ham was halfway to Amati’s antique store when Worms picked her up in his Father’s Ford F150. “Are you sure he lives alone above his store?” Walter Havens was gripping the steering-wheel so hard his knuckles were white.
            “He has a brother who stays there sometimes but he’s always drunk. If he is there it will be like stepping over a sleeping dog.” Ham was putting on her make-up. A flashlight, on a string, pointed at her chin was around her neck.
            “You got the key?”
Ham smiled as she held up the skeleton-key. “The locksmith didn’t even have to file it. It’s a standard key for nitwits!”

Worms parked a half block from the shop and they walked. Lights were on in the windows above the store. The downstairs was dark but Ham could still see the Adler Damenrad ladies’ bicycle lying on its side in the display window.
            “Maybe we should just bag this,” Worms moaned.
            “That bicycle belongs with me,” Ham told him. “If you got the shakes … wait for me in your dad’s truck.
            “That’s a great idea,” Worms said. He was already running. “I’ll keep an eye out for cops!”
Ham inserted the key in the lock and turned it. At first nothing happened and she swore under her breath. She applied more pressure and the lock mechanism clicked. It sounded at least three times as loud as it should have. Ham inched the door open and then reached up with her right hand to silence the bell. The store smelled of dust, sweat and cigar smoke. The sound of a television came from above.
The stairs to the apartment were at the back behind the cash register. A car went past outside and dark shadows chased each other across the room.
As she ascended the stairs the sound of the television grew louder. It was a good thing because several of the stairs squeaked. She turned on the flashlight that made her face glow.
There was a long hallway and it was dark. Ham hadn’t counted on this. She was halfway down the hall when a door opened behind her. The cold metal of a gun barrel was thrust into her neck. “Scream and I’ll kill you,” the voice said.

TO BE CONTINUED …

Sunday, September 8, 2019

JEEP the ripper part 3

Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.



By R. Peterson


We flung ourselves inside the Dodge Matador, Just as molten-steel from the massive cauldron poured into the mold we’d been standing in. The car was surrounded by steel body molds from a time when most American cars were not made of plastic. “Quick! Light another cigarette!” I yelled. Wesley took a cigarette from the battered package he’d been hording and sighed as he stared at it. “Light it!” I thundered.
            “I should have never started smoking again,” he said. “Now I’ll have to quit all over again!”
            I slapped the back of his head. “Now is not the time to quit!” I screamed. “Jeep the Ripper is somewhere above us and there’s no telling what he’ll do! We need you smoking so we can hop out of here!”
I could hear something mechanical start up and looked upward out my side window. Jeep the Ripper was parked on a platform high above us next to a large crane. A rusty chain with a large magnet attached to the end began to descend rapidly.
Wesley pushed in the lighter embedded in the dash and I felt the hydraulic lifts begin to fill. The car began to bounce and play music the same time the lighter popped out. “Louder!” I screamed.  Wesley carefully adjusted the volume on La Cucaracha just until the car began to bounce sideways. The magnet scraped the bumper but missed us. The crane was turning, trying to snag us. “Louder!” I bellowed. I knocked Wesley’s hand away from the knob and cranked the volume all the way up.
The Dodge Matador leaped into the air just as the magnet brushed the back bumper and we somehow became free. The car bounced out of the mold and I hit the gas. We careened sideways and smashed through a stack of rusty barrels leaking some galvanizing chemical that smelled like it was mostly gasoline. Fumes from petroleum products are one of the most dangerous things in the world. I told Wesley to put out his cigarette … and he tossed it out the window.
I heard Jeep the Ripper roar to life or was that flames? I saw him hurtling down a ramp. This time the furious four wheel drive was going to make sure we didn’t escape.

-------2-------

We thundered down endless corridors with rows of wrecked cars and salvage metal stacked on both sides. Jeep the Ripper had been towing the cars he’d wrecked here for years and melting them down. It was the perfect way to hide his devilishly dirty-work. Twin doors were open the way we’d come in and I headed toward them. Just when I thought we were going to escape, the doors rolled closed. The Ripper was obviously using a remote control. He beeped his horn twice though to confirm my suspicions. The Jeep seemed to be laughing. Wesley lit another cigarette.
I raced and banged through a massive warehouse littered with giant spools of frayed and rusty cable tangled like fishing-line. The CEO of this factory had obviously run this operation into the ground. He’d probably spent money like a wealthy immigrant fresh off the Queen Mary. One of the spools of cable had Brooklyn Bridge stenciled on one side with the words FOR SALE painted over it. “There’s a sucker born every minute!” I horse-laughed like B.T. Barnum. Wesley nodded. He was just finishing his cigarette.
            “He’ll never catch us!” I tried to project a confidence I didn’t feel as I swerved to avoid a stack of broken and leaking freezers. The Dodge Matador slid on the ice, wheel-hopped over a small mountain of exhaust pipes and crashed into a solid wall made of cases of unsold tuna fish cans. The Matador’s engine backfired twice … and then stalled. Decades of old dust filled the air. I could hear the roar of an engine moving up fast behind us … then turning … backing up. Even with my expert police skills, I knew we were in trouble. We were in Jeep the Ripper’s lair and he had all the advantages!
Wesley was slow lighting his next cigarette and the car shuddered as Jeep the Ripper’s tow cable fastened securely onto our back bumper. The Jeep began beeping out Morse code as we were being towed in reverse and Wesley translated it onto his pad. When the honking finally stopped Wesley showed me the message.

Dear Boss,
I was really going to let you slide … but you found out where I sleep. So now I’m going to melt your ride … next time buy a Jeep!
You are going to die!
Jeep the Ripper

-------3-------

Thank God my police radio was still working. I called dispatcher Molly Hubbard. For once, she picked up on the first ring … she seemed to be in an unusually good mood. “Oh! Hi John.”  She was like sunshine to a coal miner. “Just a minute I have my friend Edith on the other line.”
I heard her lay the phone on a table next to a bag of potato chips and her chatter was nonstop between mouthfuls of crunching.
            “This is an eleven ninety-nine!” I boomed. “Officers need assistance!”
            “I’m sorry Edith.” I heard her say. “I need to respond to a call.”
The sounds inside the precinct suddenly became muffled and when I heard a long slow escape of air I realized she was sitting on the phone and releasing melodic amounts of methane gas. She’ll pay for this I vowed. All these calls are recorded. “We’re on our own,” I told Wesley. “We won’t get any help from the station.”
            “That stinks!” he said.
Jeep the Ripper was pulling us up a ramp now, one that led to a platform high above the huge cauldron filled with molten metal. A long line of junk cars dangled from hooks moving along an overhead conveyer and kept the huge stone container filled with scrap metal. Wesley jerked as a 1952 Rambler Station Wagon passed above us. “My first car was a Nash wagon,” he gasped. “Only mine had a huge dent in the passenger side after my date with Cindy Clawson.”
            “I remember her,” I said. “What a dream boat! Wasn’t she the one Butch McPound was sweet on?”
            “That’s the one.” Wesley was still staring at the battered car.
            “So Butch caught up with you two and decided to do a little custom work on his rival’s car?” I shook my head. It wasn’t hard to figure out.
            “No! Cindy kicked in the door right after I stopped at her house,” Wesley confessed. “I’d told her that I drove a Corvette.”
I ordered Wesley to light another cigarette just as his old Nash began to spin. He bent his head and just missed seeing the caved-in door on the passenger side. I was proud of myself. Some memories, like gift-wrapped bombs, are better left unopened.
The Dodge Matador tried to wheel-hop but Jeep the Ripper had us on such a short tow-chain that he bounced instead. The south-of-the border music was louder than ever and the Ripper seemed to be enjoying himself. Little puffs of smoke came from both exhaust pipes timed with the music. Wesley and I both felt like two tamales about to be dipped in hot sauce.
            We were about three floors above the factory floor but there was so much smoke it was hard to see. I suddenly realized the factory was on fire!

-------4-------

            Jeep the Ripper unhooked the tow cable and at first I thought he was going to let us go then I felt the crane with the huge magnet attached bang down on the roof and lift our car into the air. It swung us out over the cauldron filled with molten metal. We tried everything, the music was cranked all the way up and Wesley smoked cigarettes three at a time but still we were like a fresh-caught catfish flopping on the end of someone’s fishing line. It became a contest to see who could scream the loudest. Wesley finally collapsed out of breath and in a sea of tears. “That’s what you get for smoking!” I realized we were close to the end … so I tried to rub my victory in.
            The Ripper was obviously enjoying himself. The four-wheel drive did a little dance of his own … and to our music. I was furious. I unrolled my window, coughed, and then yelled “Why don’t you take a picture … it will last longer!”
            The Jeep paused for a moment and then we saw the red light on the dash-camera mounted to the rear-view mirror turn on. He was taking a video of our agony. In a few years, he was probably going to spread it all over Facebook and U-Tube!
            There seemed to be a problem. I watched the Jeep’s back up lights go on and I realized he was trying to get a wider angle shot. I usually don’t get many brilliant ideas, but my mind was suddenly as dangerous as a water cannon in a fizzy factory. I told Wesley to climb out his window onto the roof and after he lit three more cigarettes he joined me on top of the Matador. We began to dance like Indians calling down rain clouds. The Jeep backed up again. He was determined to get a full screen shot of this! I spun Wesley round and tossed him in the air like a circus act I’d seen as a kid. The Jeep backed up even more. I heard his front wheels spinning frantically as he tried to get traction and finally his helpless horn honking out Morse code as he slipped over the edge and plummeted into the fiery depths below.
            I wanted to toss Wesley a few more times but he insisted on writing down Jeep the Ripper’s last words.

Dear Boss,
Don’t be smug … and think you’ve won. My smashing cars … has just begun!
Until the time … that next we meet! I hope that you … enjoy the heat!
Jeep the Ripper

We watched in horror as a series of warning lights began to flash on the crane controls. The giant magnet would release its cargo in ten seconds. The cauldron filled with molten metal bubbled right below us. I was amazed when Wesley threw the rest of his cigarettes away. “Those things will kill you,” he said.
Five seconds!
I tried my police radio twice … but it was answered and clicked off both times.
Three seconds!
“Take my hand,” I told Wesley. He gave me a brotherly smile and when he reached out I climbed on his shoulders and tried to climb up the crane chain. The chain was slick with old grease … and I’d eaten too many donuts.
One second!
We closed our eyes and waited for the inevitable. Two of Clabber City’s finest were about to meet their end. Our most memorable police cases passed before our eyes. Lost dogs, jaywalkers and that never-to-be-forgotten speeding ticket! We were both surprised when we heard the crane’s motor shut down and a booming Captain Wolfe’s voice. “Dancing on top of a police vehicle!” He thundered. “If there’s so much as a scratch … you’ll pay for it!”

-------5-------

            Two days later we both stood in the captain’s office. “You two are the most miserable excuses for cops that I’ve ever seen,” he bellowed. “If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of Dispatcher Molly Hubbard, after she discovered an erased portion on your call in report, you two would be just a couple of wrinkles in some remanufactured American Motors/ Jeep fenders.
            “The foundry we were in used to make   parts for Jeeps?” I was beginning to put the story together.
            “What did I just say?” the captain growled.
We were placed on three months suspension without pay and the Captain ordered us to work as security at the half-burned foundry to pay for the damage to the Matador. It was December and we were both huddled around a pot-belly stove inside the guard shack trying to stay warm. Wesley and I had been in a vicious fight with Starlings all day that refused to fly south for the winter. We were almost out of bandages and both in need of a bath.
The distant honking we both heard was a series of long and short beeps. It sounded as if it came from somewhere deep inside the still smoking structure. Wesley automatically took out his pad and began to translate the Morse code. I snatched the note from him, opened the door to the stove and threw the paper inside. We were not officially on duty and …white bird poo landed on my shoulder …
We already had a job.

THE END?