Dan McGinley

Day 124: Tuesday, February 9, 2010: Every ink blot test reveals another cheeseburger.

Severance Pay: Continued from Day 123 . . .

Over 2900 miles east of Bobby, the McCrory household was undergoing a change of routine, Janelle and Ferg watching Fiona get Rhiannon ready for school like a drill sergeant overseeing muster.

“Hat,” she said, and Rhiannon grabbed her knit hat, reporting that gloves were already in the backpack, along with a snack and homework.

“Nunchukas,” Fiona ordered, just to get a look out of her parents.  “Samurai sword.” 

Rhiannon joked how she was going with an automatic weapon today.  “Something that matches my skirt, like a Baretta.”

“We gotta talk,” Janelle said, watching her sister-in-law. “Today.”

“I had nothing to do with that, Janelle.  The girl reads anything that’s not nailed down.  I was getting my hair done last month at Rona’s Hair Styling?  I didn’t notice the Playgirl magazines until it was too late.”

“Big mistake, Aunt Fee.”

Fiona nodded.  “She got a quick anatomy lesson.”

Janelle shook her head.  “No, they overcharge.

“Oh.

“Plus, we gotta talk about sleeping arrangements.”

“Ohhhhhh . . .”

“Yuh.”

“Ahh.”

“Ahh.”

“Okay Rhiannon!  Let’s get out to the bus!”

And Rhiannon kissed her parents good-bye, as the family huddled and planned a new and uncertain future.

-  -  -

1:00 PM: Hartford, Connecticut:  Big Jim watched his guy bringing a gorgeous blonde across the club toward his bar, Jim being called big because he was so damn small, but always acted very big.  His other name was Jack Russell, but only dog people got the joke.

“You’re hired,” he said, thinking she was there to dance.  “Tips get split among the girls.  There’s no competition . . . oh.”

He looked closer.  “I know you.”

“Candy Kane.”

“Candy.”

“Kane.”

“Bobby’s girl.”

Candy pointed a finger and pretended to shoot him. 

Jim waved his guy off.  “Remember me, Candy?”

“Gin and tonic.”

Big little Jim was nodding, sizing her up.  “On the rocks.  I asked Bobby how he found such beautiful bartenders, and he filled me in on his little girl, all grown-up and out of school now.”

“I was learning the club, and you were out there meeting about east coast business.”

“I heard you learned a little too much on that coast; a little too much on this one.”

“Really.”

“You learned a pole out there, and the Ukrainians out here.”

“Dad’s been calling you.”

“Stick around and listen for the phone.  It won’t be long.”

Candy smiled.  “I really got him, huh?”

Jim watched her closely.  “Is this what they teach you in business school?  Piss everybody off?”

Candy shuffled uneasily, looking around.  “He played me like a child.”

“Hey honey?”

She looked his way and thought of a younger Robert Di Nero.  “He’s looking out for you.  Is such a thing criminal today?”

“He lied to me, Jim.”

“And what did he tell you?”

Candy gathered herself and faced him down.  “He told me these people took over, and I was supposed to come out here and see if they would relent the club.”

“Relent the club.”

“Yuh,” Candy was nodding quickly, driving her point home.  “Give it up.”

“Can I let you in on a little secret?”

He gestured for her to huddle close, looking around to make sure they were alone.  “If they took that bar over by force, and you came out here trying to work a deal, they would relent your head from your fucking body.”

Candy looked like a very angry little girl.

“Candy, honey.  The lease they had with your father was running out, and he made a deal to hand you the keys; lock, stock, and barrel.  I don’t know why he didn’t just send you out here to do it, without running a stupid game.”

“Because handing me the keys is no kind of challenge.”

“And you’re a stubborn fucking Sicilian like your mother.”

“See the black roots in my hair?”

“How did you guess the deal was rigged?”

“Call it a hunch.”

Jim smiled. “He must’a shit when you said a raid was coming.”

“The call was immediate.  They ran out of there like angry hornets.”

“Huh,” Jim started.   “Proving your hunch.”

“Stirred the hive up pretty good.”

“Thing is . . . those guys are nuts.”

Candy straightened-up from the bar.  “Like . . . how nuts are we talking?”

“Payback nuts.”

“But they’re leasing.”

“They didn’t teach you about survival in that Russian country, during this cold war era?”

“The cold war’s long over.”

“Says who . . . a tumbling wall?  You see any more businesses flocking to Moscow these days?”

“We uh . . . only studied the exchange rate.”

“In money or blood?”

“But the contract . . .”

“Contract?”

Candy waited for it.

“Candy, it’s not about money or anything like that, it’s about disrespect and fucking them over.  Even the cops hate to mess with these guys, and they have a street code harder to understand then Russian Roulette.  Why do you think we had a cold war for so many years, and things are back to shit?  Nobody understands the motherfuckers.  Presidents go to China before they go to Russia, and those Ching Chong bastards sell their own mothers for a stinking gall bladder.”

“Archie Bunker is in the house.”

“Gimme a minute; I’ll get back to Sicilians.”

“Great.  So now what?”

“Now what?”

Jim looked around.  “Now you kiss ass like Bill Clinton, after putting cigars into other women’s ash trays.”

She balked at that one.

“Call your dad, Candy.”

“Errrr,” she growled, looking away.

“Call your dad.”

“He went behind my back.”

“Then go to the Ukrainians.  You never use business for revenge, and you never use the Ukes.”

She looked at him with a question mark on her face.  “Funny how that rhymes with nukes.”

“You wanna learn some foreign business?  Go ahead and tell them everything, then call Bobby from the Motion.  That will impress people.”

“Serious?”

“You get in trouble, give me a call.”

“You think this is best.”

“I know nothing else, except to call and kiss daddy’s ass.”

“Shit!”

“Go.”

“I’ll see this guy . . . Victor?”

“Listen . . .”  Impatience was seeping through as Jim leaned closer.  “You strut in there like that big dike Sylvester Stallone married . . .”

“Bridget.”

“Right.  You have some drinks and go in there like you own the place, talking loud and looking them right in the eye, got it?  If I send people then it’s gonna get messy again, but if you go in there like ‘I did this and I did that and it was all my fault; I was just mad at dad and screwed up,’ and you shoot a vodka down and smoke a Camel, then everything will be fine.  Trust me.”

“Otherwise.”

“They love conflict, Candy.  They love conflict and sadness and depression and Chekhov, but  they spot weaknesses like sharks to blood.  This is your challenge for real now.  You must speak of family troubles and sadness, but you must also be incredibly strong.  The cherry trees are dying.  Your father is mean and stupid.  Get into character, and do not waver.  You cannot waver.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

Jim held a finger up, ignoring her.  “You must not waver.”

“Look,” Candy said, reaching out.  “My hand does not waver.”

“Wait a sec . . .”

“C’mon!”

Jim snapped his fingers.  DiCaprio in The Departed.”

“Bingo.”

“You go girl!”

“Oh Christ,” Candy said, ordering a Chardonnay.  “You just ruined the moment.”

Jim looked around.  “I’m so out’a touch today.”

To be continued . . .

Day 123: Monday, February 8, 2010:  The cell tower companies want to rent panel space on your belly.

Severance Pay: Continued from Day 122 . . .

Bobby Casseolla, aka Bobby Shenanigans, aka Bobby Bonia, and finally, Robert P. Kane, stared at a tall, gangly man representing the County of Los Angeles Public Health Department holding a very small, football-shaped mouse turd between the sharp pincers of his shiny new tweezers.

“I really don’t understand,” Bobby was explaining.  “We’ve got traps out back, traps under the sinks, traps under the coolers and freezer . . . hold on a sec . . .”

He disappeared beneath his desk, coming up with a little plastic box trap.

“You feeling me?  And we check them every single day.”

“The turd was in a salad, Mister Kane.”

“Shenanigans.”

“What . . . you think someone planted these?”

“My name is Bobby Shenanigans, and yes, it’s a fucking plant.”

The inspector checked his forms, scribbling something down.

“I mean . . . salad’s kind of a dead plant, but the turd was planted.”

“I know what you mean.  About the pubic hair, Mister . . . uh . . .”

“Call me Bobby for chrissakes.”

“The pube, Bobby.”

“Don’t have a trap for those.”

“Apparently not where burgers are concerned.”

Bobby gave it away with five seconds of hesitation.

The man watched him carefully. “Naked women been making those burgers?”

“I never said that.”

“I would like to interview . . .”

“Christ almighty!  The economy’s down; the chef stormed out; my lap girls are passing things on you don’t even want to know, and . . . uh . . . shit.”

“Right.”  Scribble scribble scribble . . .

“I didn’t just say that.”

“Pretty much.”

“I’m out of luck here.”

“Tell you what, Bobby Whatever.  Your license for serving food is hereby revoked for thirty days.  There’s a list of things you need to do . . .”

He handed Bobby a sheet.

“And we’ll see you in a month.”

Bobby ran a thin hand through thin hair.  “I can’t close the kitchen for a month.”

“Not can’t . . . will.”

Now Bobby’s face was in both hands, dragging them down to his chin, shaking his head.  “First my crazy daughter screws up some business out east, and . . . and . . .”

He studied the man closely.  “I just had your people in here . . . like . . . a week ago.”

“Sometimes it’s random.”

“Yeah?”

“Keeps everyone honest.”

“You never gave me a business card.”

The lanky inspector fished his wallet out and handed one over, Bobby studying the small print. 

“Peter Adamovich?  Ukrainian?”

“So it is.”

“This card looks like crap.”

Silence.

Bobby looked up. “Wasn’t there another guy with you?  I swear when you first got in here . . .”

Peter tried to make himself look bigger.  “I really don’t understand what any of these questions . . .”

Bobby’s hand disappeared to press the little red panic button, his other index finger pointing at Peter.  “Don’t fucking move, buddy.”

“Sir, you’re threatening a public health official for the County of Los Angeles, California.  I could make one call and have you arrested right here and now, with your business shut down indefinitely.”

Bobby never heard a word, watching his beautiful beast that was Sonny Fixit coming full tilt toward the door, Bobby hitting his door buzzer just as Peter spewed on about Amendment blah blah blah, and then there was silence, Peter very aware of something massive and terminally angry parked next to him.

“This guy came in with someone,” Bobby said, handing the business card to Sonny.  “I wanna know where he is right now, and I want you to give Toots this card to run on her computer.  See if this dude is really with the County.”

“His bud’s at the loser’s end,” Sonny growled, using a term for certain seats along the runway, near a dark corner.  “He’s pounding vodkas and waving bills at Yolanda.”

Bobby looked at Peter and smiled.  “Busted.”

Sonny shoved the lanky man hard, sending him to flop clumsily against empty beer cases stacked in a corner.

Bobby watched with interest.  “Sonny?”

“It gets better.”

Peter gathered his balance and took a shaky step toward the door, watching both men carefully as Sonny continued.  “The same guy was in here earlier, delivering bread for Ronzy.  He was snooping around the salad area and shit, then a half hour later, another bread guy shows up with “what the fuck” on his face.”

Bobby looked at Peter.  “I told you the chef walked out, but Sonny here has cooking skills, and gets in very, very early to set up.  You didn’t plan on that, huh?  Shitting all over us with planted mouse turds, to come back and claim problems.”

“Hey,” Sonny said.  “Try my chicken cordon bleu.”

Peter tried the door instead, and fooled nobody.

“Buzzer lets you out,” Bobby said.

Sonny smiled ear to ear.  “Buzzer lets me in.”

Bobby picked up his phone and speed-dialed The Perpetual Motion, as Sonny kept smiling at Peter.  It was not a pleasant smile anymore.

“Victor,” Bobby said, winking at Sonny.  “Guess what just happened?”

He listened a minute, saying, “I know, I know my friend, and I sent you a little check to cover expenses.”

He listened some more, nodding and rolling his eyes, asking Victor to repeat a couple things, as the accent was killing him.

“Don’t mention it.  I told you my crazy daughter said she called it in; then pulled a quick disappearing act.  I’m dying to see what the hell’s going on in her pretty little head.”

He listened, looking at Sonny, who was making faces at Peter. 

“Hey!” Bobby said into the phone.  “Everything comes around, and some goddamn health inspectors for the county just revoked my license like, forever.”

He listened some more, saying, “I know, I know!” as Sonny whispered, “This is your lucky day,” to Peter, Bobby finally wrapping things up on the phone.

“So you officially shut us down,” Bobby said, hanging-up as he addressed Peter.

“But we didn’t.”

“Guess what, Mister Sunabitch?  I don’t need a game from your friends out east, so hit the road and pretend you pranked us back.”

Sonny stopped making faces.  “Hey bud,” he said.  “Punch me in the face.”

Bobby held a hand up.  “Not now, Sonny.  Jesus.”

“Bobby.  He looks like he can really hit.”

Bobby covered his face.  “I’m fucking surrounded.”

Peter started looking nervously at both men.  “So you want me to go and pretend we shut you down?”

Bobby’s voice was muffled by hands.  “Please.”

“But everyone’s always checking everyone.  If they find out -”

“Then they think you’re in with us.”

“And I’m dead.”

Bobby’s hands dropped to show droopy eyes, pulled out of shape by his fingers.  “Why are you people so quick to violence?  Can’t you just do business without pain and discomfort?”

 “C’mon,” Sonny said, tapping his left cheek.  “Pound me one right here.”

“Sonny!” Bobby yelled, dropping his hands out of sight.  “Take this bastard out back and do what you want, but don’t forget his little friend sitting at the runway.”

Sonny smiled.  “When this is over, Peter?  You’ll be punching the living hell out of me.”

“Please Sonny . . . there’s been enough violence.”

Sonny turned. “Hey!  That’s a line from Humungus in The Road Warrior.”

Bobby hit his buzzer, and Sonny shoved Peter out into the late morning club.

The tired club owner went to his two way mirror and watched Sonny move like Sully in Monsters Inc., huge arms swinging loose as the big man guided Peter toward the loser’s end, then grabbing Peter’s arm as the other hoisted some guy out of his chair like a construction crane, the startled man swinging away and punching Sonny about four times right in the face.

The attacker suddenly cupped his busted hand like it was on fire, Sonny turning to escort both out the front door, blood streaming from his nose and mouth to the biggest smile Bobby ever saw.

“I’m surrounded,” Bobby repeated, reminded of something as he speed dialed Candy’s cell phone, then her room, then her mother’s house in Del Ray.

“Candy call you lately?”

“No,” Trixie said on the other end; shitty disco music playing in the background.  “Something going on?”

“You tell me,” Bobby barked, slamming the phone.

He really didn’t like Candy’s mother, but now he was banking on birds of a feather, trying to find his only crazy kid.

To be continued . . .

DAY 122: Sunday, February 7, 2010:  You don’t need a bathroom break until after two cases of beer.

Utmost insanity.

I have an vague memory of waking with my head on the keyboard, breaking to eat and walk the dogs, then returning to finish in time for the midnight deadline tonight.  It’s the Amazon writing contest to discover “new” writers (I’m old), so I banged out a few thousand more words and started an editing frenzy that discovered the usual multitude of mistakes and so forth (the italicized first person had to be altered to keep the fast pace going, and match the rest.  Stuff like that).  I finished and submitted at 10:37 pm, after three days of sick night and day typing, so tomorrow I’ll head into Massachusetts to meet crazy friends and light up a gun range with several exotic weapons, and I have no idea why this is fun.  They love black powder and I love long distance, having been trained by a Marine sniper named Bob Koteen out in Minnesota; I’ll try to hit nail heads at a few hundred yards.  I couldn’t shoot anything that breathes, but paper, cans, and nails are fun.  Then I’ll cheer like crazy for the Saints, but enjoy it anyway if they lose.  I have no idea why.  Blah blah here’s more story . . .

Janelle giggled like a small child, loving every second of this family reunion, but when the giggling finally stopped, Rhiannon looked deeply into her mother’s eyes, and smiles turned to silent tears of gratitude, holding each other close.  They were family once again, and later that night Janelle did some serious catching up in the soul kitchen, sitting across from Ferg with Fiona nursing China tea at the island, and little Rhiannon doing homework in the living room, between colorful crayon renderings of a gorgeous genius mother.

“I can sit here all night and tell you the little things I see,” Janelle explained.  “Nervous excitement in Rhiannon’s eyes that require my comforting attention, another kind of nervous excitement from Fiona’s attentive mentoring program . . .”

Janelle trailed off, looking to her sister-in-law.  “Is she full ninja yet?”

“Close.”

“Right.”

There were more smiles and laughter until it came time for Fiona to check Rhiannon’s homework, passing her off to Janelle at bedtime, mother and daughter lying down to cuddle and chat until sleep took the little girl elsewhere, and Janelle quietly switched spots with Fiona, the celebrity patient from Nutmeg Highway creeping out to read her long lost husband.

Ferg explained his dramatic departure from Victory Engineering in detail, and Janelle mentioned the ironic timing of a couple breaking loose from oppression.

“Your job sounds worse than the insane asylum.”

“Good thing I didn’t bring guns.”

“I can sense a fresh energy,” Janelle said, sipping tea from Fiona’s stash.  “I can see a level of intensity coming off you like nothing before; certainly not during the old daily grind with those bottom feeding scumbags.”

“That’s just me needing a shower.”

“Goes without saying.”

Smiles.

“And you,” Ferg said.

“Went very deep to get here.”

“Center of the earth, baby.”

“And you came in the wink of an eye.”

“Like a finger to the moon.”

 “Enter the Dragon.  Very appropriate.”

“If I ever knew what was going on, I would’ve killed to get you out.”

“I almost did.”

“Remind me to change our current health plan.”

“Fuck that,” Janelle said, putting the tea aside.  “Are all your parts in working order?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Ferg watched her closely, a nightmare flash of Candy before his eyes, and a very tense moment when Janelle’s eyes changed, like she saw something there.

Janelle whispered “What,” as if the secret had been found.

Ferg looked down, trying to cover.  “I thought it might be like those prison movies, where it takes a long time for you to come around again with intimacy and all that.”

“Are you nuts?”

He looked up; the ironic nature of her question striking them both at the same time.

Janelle stood.  “To the bat cave . . .”

And they climbed narrow steps to Ferg’s converted attic room, not making the mad and passionate love one would expect after years of separation, but the slow drumbeat of rediscovery, exploring bodies that had changed a bit over the years.

“How the hell did you become so strong and . . . flexible?” Ferg asked, finally exhausted as Janelle rested her head on his chest.

“I had to work a deal,” she breathed, walking long, sinewy fingers across waves of abdominal muscles.  “Horrible sacrifices to get serious workout time.”

His voice caught, thinking of Janelle’s imprisonment.  “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

She rolled onto him then, searching to finally reach down and feel fresh tears starting, his heaving stomach giving them away.  “I know, my Fergus McCrory.  I know everything about you and everything that worries you and everything you feel right now.  It’s nearly impossible to explain the level of sensitivity I’ve obtained, gathering strength in a twelve by twelve room with no communication until those little door slots opened to feed me, and those visits became a very big intrusion over time.”

Ferg held his breath, listening.  A horrible guilt was building now; his wife’s ordeal driving it home.  “Intrusion?”

“It was like a shotgun blast, interrupting meditation and conversations with myself, trying desperately to break free of random, disconnected thoughts to reel them in and get something cognitive and rational going; something that had a flow and sense to it, while over time – over a lot of goddamn time – something pretty fucking clear came across to me in that little room.”

“And what was that?”

She bent near, whispering.  “You were cheating.”

Ferg exhaled slowly, and Janelle inhaled to continue.  “Medical experts told you how my chances for recovery were a million to one; that I was sliding away into dangerous dementia and incurable behavior, so it was perfectly understandable and inspirational for recovery, knowing that my husband was going to move on and that my little girl would live her life without me, eventually seeking comfort in the arms of a surrogate mother, all of this driving me hard for what I had to do.”

Ferg slowly reached up, running his hand through Janelle’s flaxen hair as tears fell to join his own, now coursing down the sides of his contorted face, lips pulled back in a tortured, frozen grimace.

“I had to sweat,” Janelle said.

Ferg stared up to her dark face.  “Sweat?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Like . . . perspire?” 

She was nodding, brushing the tears away.  “Like a ten dollar Mexico City whore.”

They both started breaking from the torturous truth then, nodding and laughing through the sadness, as Janelle continued.  “At first it was just isometrics against padding because of the straight jacket, with a lot of deep knee bends and squat-thrusts – stretching and yoga – but as people started noticing during camera surveillance, a couple of deals were struck with randy orderlies, and my jacket was taken off.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Randy as in . . .”

“YouTube.”

Ferg exhaled.  “Have you seen my little laptop?”

“Not now dear; I’m on a roll.”

“Go.”

“So a deal was struck, and I was prancing for all the world to see, using that canvas jacket as another tool for isometrics, sweating the chemical out – which really wasn’t a chemical by then, but close enough – and starting to see things clearly.

“But even as sanity slowly returned, powerful feelings of vengeance and anger started to grow so that it went on and on and on, taking one new level at a time, my inner self rising to the surface of a very polluted and toxic lake.”

“Damn.”

“And of course, there was the old Boston Bruins.”

Ferg shook his head at another brutal switchback.

“I remembered you playing the senior league with my brothers; all of you guys drinking beers later and watching the old Boston Bruins tapes as I tried to study, then joining you later to wonder what it was all about.  I remembered the history and development, until those incredible years with Orr and Cashman and Cheevers . . .”

She cleared her throat.  “Jesus saves; Esposito scores on the rebound.”

“Who could forget?”

“So I clung to these simple memories dangling like a rope into Hades, climbing and climbing upward to more recognizable patterns and other memories, falling back to the old Bruins when things became distorted, but soon it all started flowing into some kind of crazy sense.  Soon I had more platforms to ascend, and present reality came slowly into view.

“When I was absolutely, positively certain that sanity was finally coming back, I also knew that patience was quickly disappearing, and that trust between the hospital staff and myself had eroded into dangerous territory.  I had to take complete control of their situation.”

Ferg was transfixed and listening to every word now; ready to cry again for the bravery of this woman he had loved so much and was loving now, more than ever.

Janelle whispered in his ear.  “Was she good?”

The change-up question froze Fergus as she giggled, rolling off to look up into darkness, letting the question slam through her husband’s consciousness like an angry hornet, then feeling his weight shift to prop up on one elbow, facing her way.

“That was interesting,” he said, “how you dropped the infidelity question again, after talking about your own experience at the infirmary.”

“Yes,” Janelle said, breathing hard.  “Thanks.”

“And you seem really, really happy.”

“I’m ecstatic.”

“And that would be because . . ?”

“It’s a reverse set-up question that would normally be used to start gaining control, but now is used in order for me to lose control.”

“Control of what?”

“A converted transference caused by jealousy and anger.  Would the word homicidal be overly problematic?”

“In a way.”

“I really have to know about your infidelity, for me to trust you and for you to trust me, after watching my naked performance while trying to make deals with a bunch of underpaid zookeepers.”

Ferg settled down on the bed with a great gush of air, gathering his thoughts.  “Could you really fry my brain?”

She giggled.

“Janelle . . . honey?  The giggling really scares me now.”

She broke into laughter, shaking her head to roll on top of him and sit, reminding Ferg of a position Candy had just recently taken.

And he told her everything, starting with a couple of drunken visits to Perpetual Motion around the holidays, to a happy ending massage down in New London, finally wrapping things up with his recent adventures involving Miss Candas Kane, the post grad mafia princess.  He told her the entire Bonnie and Clyde fiasco, explaining how their strip joint episode ended, with Frenchy’s brand new wife and self-adopted brothers.

 “My turn,” said Janelle, and they were at the laptop in no time, Ferg watching intensely as a very naked-from-the-neck-down black and white Janelle danced about the padded room, wearing her straightjacket as a kind of flowing Muslim Hijab, with one sleeve pulled tightly over her mouth.

“Love the Wayfarers,” Ferg said, enlarging the image on his screen.  “It could really be any super hot, athletic looking crazy person in a rubber room.”

“Indeed; and when the goons thought they were having sex with me?  They never laid a hand.”

“Come again?”

“They did, but only with themselves.”

“No.”

“Oh yes . . . once I got into their heads, it was look but no touch, unless operating their very own tools.”

“I know a guy from work who would love that job.”

“Once they operated each other’s tools.”

“I’ll e-mail him the address right away.”

“Don’t wanna know.”

 “So in essence, you gave them a faceless body, with the feeling of only themselves.”

“That’s deep for you.”

“I’ve been reading Rhiannon’s textbooks.”

“I see.”

 “Candy is over,” Ferg said.  “Dead and gone forever.”

“Maybe for you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Questions, my love.”

“This is where you cook my brain.”

Janelle smiled.  “Not yet.  My only concern is, you weren’t even a day out of work, robbing the cradle of a wild girl and bringing our kid around that.”

“We have Guardian Fiona.”

“Who – by the way – kept this secret very well.”

“For now, and Rhiannon would’ve let something slip; guaranteed.”

“Hmmm . . .”

Janelle pushed away from the desk and stood, Ferg watching his wife’s lissome body stretch and glide away, breaking into perfect ballet spins before slowly returning cat-like, crouching before him like a Saigon street vendor, watching Ferg’s angular, shadowed face.

“I want to know everything about this woman.”

Ferg turned to see the paused image of his wife in a padded cell, dancing for a chance to make deals, knowing there would be other images somewhere because these kinds of people always had backup plans, thinking how she might be affected by such a twisted ordeal.

“You have every right,” he said, turning back.  “You can do whatever you want with this situation.”

“Bingo,” Janelle said.  “That’s the million dollar answer, because it’s not about the girl or what took place between you, it’s about how we both feel and how we’re going to feel now, with my sudden escape from the dungeons of padded hell.”

“Ah.”

“Ah.

“Eee.”

“Ohhhhh,” Janelle said, rising to carefully straddle Ferg’s lap, reaching to close the paused image of herself in another time and place.  “Enough voyeurism.  I just want to hold you tight for like . . . ever.”

She bent forward, and they kissed for a very long time.

To be continued . . .

DAY 121: Saturday, February 6, 2010:  You always like to say, “Don’t get mad, get fatty foods.”

Tonight is a night off, but I’ll be back tomorrow night.  ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.  Too much, eh.  I’ll make up for it.  Promise. 

DAY 120: Friday, February 5, 2010:  The dinosaurs really miss you.

Before we continue, I did something insane today by rising at 5:00 a.m. to start my writing, and just quit an hour ago, at 9:30 p.m.  I edited and uploaded 19 Chapters of this insanity onto the HarperCollins “Authonomy” site, where other authors read your work and make suggestions, etc., and one day an editor or agent may . . . just may . . . totally ignore you.  It’s all good, and so the entire thing is within roughly fifty pages of the ending on: http://www.authonomy.com/   .  Chapters have been swapped a bit (the first chapter is when Ferg loses his job, so it’s more chronological), and just a bit more streamlined, so it moves faster.  If it wasn’t very funny and went on too long, I tossed it.  Not much, but enough to cut some fat.  So here’s the daily fix continued from Day 119 . . . 

As Fiddles finally finished making secret history with himself, pushing the toothless rummy out of his car with a five dollar bill and two cans of Bud, another toothless drunk named Vera held her brand new husband tight in the back of Frenchy’s Suburban, the infamous Wilson brothers passing a big round mayonnaise jar between them, up front.

Five rusted Folgers cans clanked and bounced behind them , and “Hitched to the Bitch” was scrawled with thick shaving cream, flying in beady clumps off the rear window.

“Will ya hold me tighter?” Vera asked, matching whiskey breath with whiskey breath, Frenchy trying desperately to find a little breathing space.  “Will ya tell me that we’re soul mates?”

The lumbering truck hit a frost heave, sending sparks out like fireworks around loud, clanging cans, making a perfect little wedding celebration in their wake.

Something grabbed Frenchy’s aching genitals like that snapping turtle on Mark’s face, and he screamed bloody murder as they clanked and bounced further east, toward Ashford.

“Unrequited love,” Willy confided, his brother beaming with total and drunken abandon, sipping more magic from the fat and fuming mayonnaise jar.  “Romance times ten.”

Eee-hah!

-   -   -

They were eastbound on the highway, Fiona driving her black attack vehicle with Ferg riding shotgun; Janelle in back with her baby girl leaning close, hands clasped tightly.

“Special medication,” Ferg said, looking at Fiona.  “They gave me some very special medication to administer once we get home.  It looks like serious horse tablet sedatives.”

Fiona turned from the road for a second, arching sharp warrior eyebrows with a questioning look as Janelle grinned like the Fairy Queen in back, reading her husband’s tone.

“You know about this?” Fiona asked, looking to the rearview.  “You know what they’re giving you here, and what it’s all about?”

“It’s not for Janelle . . .” Ferg started, waiting for a punch from his sister.  “We all heard about your little game of dodge ball in the big meeting.”

“Some guy made a rude comment, and couldn’t duck my retort.”

“Good arm there, Roger Clemens.”

“I was aiming for his nose.”

Ferg turned back to face his wife, telling her how she hadn’t spoken two words since they left the hospital.

“I don’t like words much anymore,” Janelle said, kissing her daughter’s hair.  “I just love the moment, in all its physical beauty.”

“Sounds like a book on tape.”

Janelle was nodding to some kind of inner music.  “Yeah . . . so let’s go hit a drive thru and see what all this Baghdad Burger crap is about.”

“American falafels and don’t look too closely.  I love the oversized jersey, by the way.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You hated when I had the old hockey games on.”

“Padded rooms do very strange things after a while.”

“I’ve never been in a penalty box that long.”

To be continued . . .

DAY 119: Thursday, February 4, 2010:  You don’t shop for cars; you shop for land movers.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 118 . . .

And how did Manager Rick react to this?

By using it all against them come review time, which was usually three months late anyway.  The last one was just like the one before:

“I could really use a raise,” Fiddles stammered, seated in Rick’s office.  “My car is on the fritz again, and those classes cut into my overtime.”

“You failed those classes,” Rick said, tap-tap-tapping a pencil.  “And I’d would really like to address those so-called twelve hours of overtime claimed in June, when you and Randy worked up in Greenfield?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “That was Randy’s job.  He was the crew chief.”

“And that would be the bus rolling right over him, huh?

“Well . . .”

“You get to take the van home at night, Fids, because your car is always on the fritz, remember?  That van is like a huge bonus, so we’ll leave it at that.  A review is mandatory; a raise is not.  Your job is secure for another year.”

“But Fergus . . .”

“Ferg is vulnerable because he starts pushing buttons when review time rolls past.  Last time he called Boston, and they came down on us pretty hard.  Now he’s overpaid for the work he does, and has officially jumped to environmental, run by a flaky idealist who doesn’t have any real solid backlog.  He’s very vulnerable, and you’re not.”

Fiddles smiled, unconsciously feeling his hooked nose.

Rick leaned closer.  “Are you shaving your eyebrows now?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “I shave my head, so . . .”

“And certain white guys should never, ever do that.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“You included, Fids.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“Your job’s secure.  Get the hell out.”

Tap-tap-tap  . . .

The biscuit was officially his, and Fiddles looked down in despair.  “So . . . are we getting rid of Fergus?”

“It’s not ethical for me to say,” Rick explained, nodding “yes” like a desperate bidder at the auction, throwing in winks for good measure.

Fiddles smiled.  “That’s what you get for jumping to the fucking tree huggers.”

“Maybe you should think about that career move,” Rick said, taunting.  “I heard you’re quite a mover out in the woods.”

Fiddles flushed.  “I better get back to those plans and make sure some angles add up.”

“Yuh.”

And so it went as rumors spread into eventual reality, Fiddles talking during lunch, Rick meeting with Rourke over Boston’s request for someone’s release, and Frenchy preparing special wine, trying to get payback for lectures about beating his boy, and passing out during lunch.

So Ferg was gone for real now, and Uncle Fiddles parked in back of that wonderful little packy store, watching the ballet class stretch and bounce eagerly on flexing toes, the hawkish pervert slamming nips and drinking beer, listening to a CD of Stern calling Gary the Retard; Gary nearly bawling in misery as Arty Lang jabbed his arm with another needle to bring his witty mind up . . . or down.

You can’t even buy this kind of multi tasking thrill Fiddles thought, swatting angrily at his lap.  You only dream of such things in fairy tales.

“So Gary,” Howard was saying.  “Is your thumb really up your ass right about now . . ?”

Ahhhhhhh, Fiddles thought, just now aware of a homeless drunk guy climbing out of that rusted blue dumpster to find himself a place to piss, exciting the hawkish pedophile into even higher levels of self-satisfying ecstasy.

To be continued . . .

DAY 118:  Wedesday, February 3, 2010:  You always point out that “thin” is a four-letter word.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 117 . . .

5:18 pm:  It was not a good day for Uncle Fiddles, who could care less after scoring a fresh case of Budweiser and nips of Southern Comfort, circling around back of the decrepit brick packy store to check on his special little dancers.

Working with Randy was never a good time, the bandy legged foreman micromanaging from the very first second Fiddles stepped into that van, asking if supplies were replenished and onboard; how all the drafting jobs were getting along; slamming the living shit out of everyone else just like he slammed Uncle Fids, when time and distance allowed.

And Randy’s control of the van radio; nonstop sports talk out of Boston or New York, boring the living hell out of Fiddles with averages and statistics and predictions of games and seasons to come, with call-ins from drunks and freaks and unemployed Monday morning armchair quarterbacks who didn’t know jack shit and never would.  Frustrated losers who spent high school gym classes hanging from metal locker room doors, or maybe getting gagged by stretched jock straps.  Fiddles envisioned them all as the pencil-necked, round bellied geeks in Engineering, tossing nerf footballs at lunch to try and reclaim a little missing manhood.

Uncle Fiddles didn’t give a shit about sports.  He wanted Howard Stern and the drugged-out posse playing anal ring toss with angry dwarfs, or nasty hookers taking their tops off.  He wanted to hear that crazy studio crew hassling some auto mechanic with a foreign accent and the New York patience of a rabid pit bull.  Fiddles was in heaven when they tormented mentally handicapped people or chronic alcoholics.  It was right up there with his DVD collection of bum fights and Jerry Springer shows, but not quite as good as those Bangkok web sites late at night, before his wife intercepted a five-hundred dollar viewing bill.

Woops.

Damn fine print is even finer on a computer screen, but those young Asian boys were rockin’ hard, before the home bitch came down on his little pants party.

But even Bangkok couldn’t compare with that special dance studio, where he was heading right now.

He had spotted the big picture window during a torturous overtime gig in October, packing up tripods and Leica GPS equipment in the lot of a decrepit Bristol packy store, walking around back to freeze at the sight of twelve-year-old ballet students stretching at a long, mounted bar.

The twenty-year-old teacher was nothing to scoff at but way too old for Fiddles, who nearly dropped a small, ribbed radio unit while watching that dancing cornucopia, his mouth hanging open as a young boy struggled to get his long, thin leg up, while a pre-pubescent girl scratched at bright white tights.

The other surveyor helping Fiddles would tell everyone later that week, describing how his perverted crew chief stuttered and stammered, saying how he thought the teacher looked pretty familiar – but he wasn’t quite sure – and everyone hearing the story knew different:

Uncle Fiddles was fucked in the head.

It was bad enough he almost blew their account with a nearby university, getting himself banned for staring at students and asking weird questions, but when he willingly started telling people about some of the bizarre things he had done in life, it was nothing short of complete social suicide.

The most popular involved his time in the National Guard, playing a game where everyone masturbated on a biscuit and tried to answer questions relating to Guard regulations; loser eating the biscuit.

Everyone in Survey knew the story, but also wondered why he admitted to such a thing, before they finally discovered his sick and demented reason by comparing notes:

He was trolling for a very special friend.

Why else would Uncle Fiddles say the same damn thing when working way out in deep woods with other surveyors:

“If I blew you right now, nobody would ever know.”

And then of course the creepy stare and quick swipe to his lap, which duly earned Fiddles his present nickname, often changed to something less subtle.

He wasn’t completely idiotic, however, and refrained from ever asking Ferg, out in the woods where the wrong question could get him beaten to within an inch of his perverted life.   He knew Ferg was kind of funny that way.  The man had shown violent tendencies more than once, and Mark never has fully recovered from that snapping turtle incident, picking up a nasal twang that almost approached Fiddles’ in the “nerve grating” category.    

On the other hand, there was that very fateful day when fucked Uncle Fiddles finally spoke before thinking to Randy, pausing beside a bubbling brook with tripods and a shiny chrome prism rod, spring bursting into full bloom with birds chirping and tree frogs peeping when Randy came alive, dropping trou to pump into that bald, hook-nosed head like Elvis dancing stupid. 

Randy kind of snapped out of it later and swore Fiddles to secrecy, so the waddling stalker kept on trolling and tried a quick change-up, going through what many called his “ass pat” phase.  That’s when fears about Ferg were strongly confirmed.

Uncle Fiddles was even less aware of sports protocol than the armchair dweebs in Engineering, having never experienced the quick pat coaches often gave athletes in appreciation of performing outstanding feats.   In his usual demented manner, Fiddles misread the entire protocol and innocent intentions, believing the gesture universally accepted like Visa – MasterCard, offering a special door to quick, cheap thrills.  He wasn’t a complete idiot, but he usually came pretty damn close.

He started patting other men’s asses in the office – lightly at first – quickly graduating to what some regarded as copping a feel, with crews soon alerted and comparing notes once again.

Enter Fergus, leaning over a drafting table to check plans when Fiddles made his move like most cowardly bullies of creepy intensions, banking on a busy office to keep his deft patting move safe from a violent response, but that stupid assumption were greatly misguided.

Fergus spun with the trained grace of a man fully prepared, punching Fiddles so hard in the face that the waddling freak went horizontal before anyone knew what happened; his long, angular nose spouting blood like water at Ceaesar’s Palace, sporting a weird new beak hooking to the south, when shattered bone finally healed.

Ferg was secretly cheered behind closed doors for that one, but like most genetically twisted pedophiles, it didn’t do a damn thing to change Uncle Fiddles’ sexual hang-ups, just curbing ass pats while moving him on to something new and exciting.

The dance studio. 

Children were something else, and even fucked-up Randy tried to distance himself after the gay love episode, blaming Percocet for his “weird” explosion of passion, prescribed for a severe rugby injury sustained over the past weekend, including all weekends before and after.  If Randy came in with miles of white tape wrapped around his baby fat extremities, people were supposed to ask him about rugby.  They rarely did.

Meanwhile, Fiddles was disappointed by Randy’s quick retreat, still working an inside angle to get better treatment, and Randy backed off a little on bully tactics.  Not that Fiddles got hurt much anyway; his brain wasn’t wired that way.  His entire creepy life had been spent adapting to one disappointment after another, while chasing cheap thrills in a sexually structured world. 

First there was the biscuit episodes, which were very popular with certain troop members till Fiddles finally suspected how odds were stacked against him, like, every single time.

“What was the name of our first president?” someone would ask of a soldier, passing him the semen biscuit.

“George Washington.”

The biscuit would be passed along.

“Where’s the White House?” came the next question.

“Washington D.C.”

The biscuit would come to Uncle Fiddles.

“What’s the average number of babies for a Buffy-tufted Marmoset?”

Fiddles would study the biscuit intently.

“Loser jerks on the next one, right in front of us,” someone would say, sparking laughter but total commitment.

Fiddles would kind of smile, creeping them all out.  “Three.  The Buddy Whatever has three babies.”

“Close, Fiddles.  It’s usually gonna be twins.”

Smile.

Groans and covered faces.

Crunch . . .

Then there was his first wife. 

Fiddles knew she was bisexual when they married at a swap group, eagerly anticipating kinky group sex to last for the rest of their twisted and unnatural lives.  Her pregnancy changed all that, and after deciding how Uncle Fiddles was far too creepy as a potential father figure, she divorced him for one of her girlfriends, proving his scary side in a court of law to gain full custody of their little baby boy.

Lots of people breathed a sigh of relief on that one.

Then there was Mark of snapping turtle fame, the rich kid buddy who once woke up next to Fiddles with a tube hooked into one side of his open mouth; leading over to a small nitrous tank, nestled in a pair of sweatpants pulled down around hairy ankles.

Fiddle’s ankles.

The big freak had struck again, and Mark was easily scared into pretending friendship, even at the workplace.

To be continued . . .

DAY 117:  Tuesday, February 2, 2010:  Your only dance move is “The Jello”.

Severance Pay: Continued from Day 116 . . .

Earlier that Day:  A cold November wind blew across the sprawling construction site, grains of sand whispering off a huge steel Caterpillar blade parked close to Randy.  The bitter and bow-legged survey foreman turned away as the youngest Farrenza brother sent another stream of tobacco spit into a shallow foundation hole to repeat his mantra of the day:

“You fucking suck.”

Randy shrugged with an uneasy smile.  “I can’t help it if some pissed-off maniac messes with our points and benchmarks.”

“You could’ve set a traverse up on that highway bound across Buckland Drive, instead of pounding rebar over here in the dirt.  I still don’t understand your reasoning.”

“We wanted to get closer to the hole, without having traffic in front of the survey gun.”

 Vinny looked away, toward the road.  “That bound’s way up on a goddamn slope, and the slope puts you over everything.”

“Try working on a slope all day, shooting steel for sick accuracy.  You end up in spinal traction.”

“Fucking Faggots.  I’ve seen Ferg do it for weeks at a time; no problem at all.”

“Ferg’s not with us any more.”

“No shit.”

Randy looked across the road.  “Neither is the bound.”

Spit flew.  “Uh-huh.”

 “I think he tapped our points and screwed with bench marks, because we let ‘em go.”

“Yeah?” Vinny asked, watching Randy carefully.  “You got any way to prove it?”

“Vandals don’t know this crap, and the way it was done . . . had a lot of tact to it.  He had to know what to hit, and why.”

“Hmmm . . .” Vinny looked around at his crew, who were looking around at the surveyors, who were frantically trying to set points off a bound further down the road.  “You think this boy’s really messing with you?  Why the hell would he do a thing like that?”

“Hard to say . . . he passed on a fat severance agreement and walked the hell out.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Randy said, reveling in the drama.  “Ferg tossed a chair through Rourke’s window and stepped right though.  Haven’t seen him since.”

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Randy shook his head.

Vinny spat and thought about it.  “I kind of like this guy.”

Randy was speechless.

Vinny thought some more.  “Hell . . . I’d like to throw a chair through all of your windows, right about now.”

A club cab pickup slowed coming down Buckland Hills, getting ready to turn.

“Here’s our concrete boys,” Vinny said, breaking away.  “They’re gonna be ripped.”

Another strong breeze kicked up, singing through the parked Cat.  “I better go check on Fiddles,” Randy said.  “Make sure he’s not playing with himself.”

Vinny headed over to the concrete boss like a human lawn sprinkler shooting dirty water, thinking about future problems if Ferg was on the warpath and hitting sites.

And just like that, a spinning cement mixer slowly made the turn off Buckland Hills, raising dust and possible solutions, in a very violent world.

To be continued . . .

DAY 116:  Monday, February 1st, 2010: They wrote a song all about your size, and are still singing.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 115 . . .

Later that evening:

Two doctors walk down the Nutmeg Highway with a security guard, lab coats flared with quick feet in near-perfect unison as they approach a room door and open both slots

“Hey Max.”

The huge body builder is trussed tightly in a triple XL straight jacket, slouched against the far wall as a thread of drool hangs like spider line.  He has already been sedated, eyes glazed with the dazed and distant look of a stoked junkie.

The men enter and kneel before their huge guard as his head flops to one side, trying to focus.

“You gotta listen,” he says through labored breathing.  “Spense has to be punished . . .”

“We know,” one doctor answers softly, patting a huge, bound bicep.  “We’re all over it, Max.”

 “Yes . . . she has to be punished and stopped . . .”

“We know Max, we know . . .”

His head comes up, and there’s a brief moment of recognition as the doctor asks, “Max?  Did Janelle ask you for anything special when you came in here before?”

Max is trying to focus, asking, “Janelle?  Our sweet little Janelle?”

“Yes, Max.  Janelle.  Did she ever ask for things?”

Max puts his head back and starts sniffing like a dog, as the doctor’s hand rests on his massive arm. 

“Max?”

A smile appears, Max asking, “Smell that, gentlemen?  Can you smell these padded walls?”

The two doctors exchange nervous glances as Max drops his head a little, demonic eyes finding the security guard, who wonders why that look seems so familiar.

Max smiles.  “That smell is exactly like the beat-up boards of the old Boston Garden, where you could see chips and puck marks of greatness left behind like the signatures on our Declaration of Independence . . .”

“Shit,” one of the doctors mumble, but Max suddenly stops his brief history lesson, eyes locked on the security guard, who nervously steps back and starts looking around like he may have lost something.

“Hey Teddy!” Max says.  “Tell these guys all about the cool favors we did, for our poor little Janelle . . .”

Both doctors turn in time to see their security guard bolt from the room, Max now laughing and rolling his head like Stevie Wonder.

“Teddy’s a huge Bruins fan,” he explains. “When your brilliant team of experts let him give Janelle that big ol’ Bruins jersey as a present before the so-called meeting, he also delivered matching Sigs in a tight little sports bra double-sling holster rig.”

He starts laughing as drool returns for an encore, and after twelve minutes he’s sleeping like a baby, living out a slow and peaceful recovery from total mind domination, slated for testing later that week.

Spense is another story.

To be continued . . .

DAY 115:  Sunday, January 31, 2010:  You’re too big for coffee to take effect, or even electricity.

Severance Pay; continued . . .                                                                                

 CHAPTER SIX

 IMP IS IN PLAY

The famous east coast lawyer Samuel Smith of Smith, Olive, and Shotenheimer couldn’t believe his ears, nervously hunching and bunching a custom suit into wrinkled elephant skin as he settled closer to a long maple conference table – elbows out and braced – eager little eyes hungrily scanning hospital personnel, and a specialist named Marty who never spoke.  Ferg and Rhiannon were both keeping Janelle company elsewhere, under close supervision.

Fiona was angrily squeezing a rubber hand ball to alleviate raging emotions.  She had been working the same type of ball for several years now, and could break a logger’s wrist in the wink of an eye.  She found out the hard way; immediately banned from sanctioned arm wrestling for life in the United States.  Fiona weighed 123 pounds.

“Super . . . Accelerated . . . Hypnotism,” Smith said, drawing the term out slowly, committing it to memory as a speaker gave him the floor.  “You’re trying to sell me on something never proven by anyone outside of this medical facility; a term you’ve concocted in the last couple of years because my client was able to make you people do outrageous things by . . . let’s see . . .”

He cleared his throat and looked to the ceiling for guidance, recalling the term.  “Blasting dormant images of past events into a person’s active consciousness, ahem; with a distinct pattern of words that overtake and alter their thinking.”

He lowered his broad face and studied the audience closely.  “Benchmarks in the memory bank, I think you told me.  Trigger points.  Close enough?”

Nobody spoke a word as he pushed away and stood to pace slowly, unleashing an audible aerial attack.

“Find the trigger points very quickly, and unleash holy hell upon the here and now.  Last I heard, that’s called a vivid conversation.  Every snake oil salesman and televangelist could be accused of doing the same damn thing.  Audibly unleashing overpowering emotions drawn from shared or general experience has been around since spoken words, and I will not have you twisting it into a specialized weapon used by Doctor McCrory. 

“Thank god you’re a private institution, for so many reasons.”

This was the same Samuel Oscar Smith (S.O.S. of S.O.S.: When You Truly Need Help) who had legally horse whipped the United States Government into handing over a seven figure compensation package to his client, now carefully watched two floors above them in a luxury suite.  The private infirmary was covered indefinitely, and any other medical assistance was provided for Janelle, courtesy of a horrible chemical and the U.S. of A.

When Smith was done negotiating his greedy split, seven figures magically became six on their receiving end, and taxes reduced it even more, but the mortgage was paid off, and their bank account remained prosperous.

What people failed to notice during that fateful day in court was Counselor Smith huddling with his famous client during a prolonged recess, hypnotized beyond belief as impish Janelle coached his attack, Smith nodding like a bobble head doll, utterly trained to seek and destroy during intensive cross examinations.  When she was done frying his brain, Smith could’ve sold fire to the devil for a very high price.  Two hours after the hearing, he was ordering old footage of Boston Bruins hockey games from Amazon.com, for no apparent reason.  He took it all the way back to Eddy Shore, learning new and exciting terms like “penalty killing” and “icing”.  His wife thought it was just stress.

He was on a roll now, letting them have both barrels as a prelude to what could happen in a court of law:  “You’re going to go before a jury and explain this fancy hypnotic term, and then somehow convince them all how petite little Janelle – tortured and weakened by starvation and bounds – could drive people nuts with a short conversation, and mentally control an entire room full of highly trained professionals?”

He started circling the table as if in a courtroom, which was his natural environment.  “You’re going to describe the isolating torture you enforced upon this beautiful, suffering mother, and I’m going to put a little video up on the screen, of today’s final struggle to see her child.”

He held his thumb and index finger up high, less than one inch apart.  “A tiny glimpse of little Rhiannon, her angelic face frozen in absolute terror, with private SWAT team gunners aiming to blow her mother’s head off, with no  . . . official . . . police . . .  in SIGHT!”

He paused for emphasis.  “And that courageous mother was completely unarmed and crying when she ran out, after some security lackey attacked her sister-in-law, right in front of that gorgeous little girl.”

Smith stopped and looked to Fiona, who patted the camcorder tucked in her coat for reassurance. 

“To just . . . SEEEEE . . . her little baby girl.”

The room was silent as Samuel Oscar Smith, renowned prosecutor for the Tiny People versus the Very Huge People, returned to his place and leaned way over the table, taking in the moment, working to his dramatic conclusion.

“Here’s something to consider if this ever goes public:  In a serious maximum security mental health facility, Janelle was able to obtain not one, but two high end automatic handguns . . . a person you considered dangerous and mentally incompetent.” 

He leaned even further.  “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.”

There were a few seconds of silence, until a very nasal voice spoke up from his left; one of the hospital attorneys finally weighing in.

“Once again, we’re recording.”

“Duh.”

The hospital attorney frowned.  “If we release Janelle McCrory and are sadly proven correct in the general populace or – god forbid – at home ( he glanced at Fiona), the consequences could be absolutely catastrophic, and I don’t care how good you are.  We will have this tape, and your head will roll forever and ever, amen.”

“Nicely put.”

“Thank-you.”

Smith got smug.  “But it’s doubtful.”

“Really.”

“You’ve screwed-up in so many ways, I’m still making a grocery list.”

Silence as he smiled; Fiona slowly squeezing the rubber exercise ball with her Kung Fu Hand of Death, regarding the room with spiteful vengeance, rock hard knuckles going from white to red and back again.  In a quick money bet, she could probably clear the room like Bruce Lee.  Suits and lawyers just naturally pissed her off.

Smith cleared his throat. “I have a specialist with me who knows Janelle’s case intimately, and he has just spent the last hour in close contact, examining her state of mind.”

“Brave man,” someone mumbled, and Fiona’s rubber ball thwacked off his forehead like a hard slap, driving him back with serious velocity.

As others tried not to laugh, the victim’s dainty and manicured fingers gingerly checked for blood, dazed eyes glaring across the table with the hurt expression of a little boy.

Fiona was wishing on a throwing star.  “It’s rubber, you idiot.  Now pay attention.”

Smith continued.   “Ahem.  Thanks for a quick physics lesson, Fiona.  You all know Marty Crandall through medical journals, treatments, and the ivy league lecture circuit.”

Marty stood and gave a short bow.

“He’s very eager to sign her out and take full responsibility.”

Smith inhaled deeply to play his final hand.  “So we’re taking this little freak show out of your private hands, and I’m telling you right now that if Janelle isn’t home for supper, this whole thing is going to hit national news tomorrow, and Brian Williams will be speaking her name over and over and over, liked a broken record.  By the time we’re done talking to reporters, they’ll be filming in your goddamned rubber rooms, and half the world will know how you starved and tortured little Janelle, then put two deadly weapons in her possession.”

“We’ll sign those papers right away.”

Everyone except Marty, Smith and Fiona blew a huge sigh of relief.

“Did they just agree?” Fiona asked.

“A little too quickly.”

One of the doctors pumped a fist, and Marty looked around uneasily at a group who had finally found the easy way out of a very tough situation.

Marty may have interviewed and tested the beautiful and charming Janelle, but he hadn’t spent a single second with “No Nonsense” Spense or her kinky lover, Max, both loudly singing show tunes and rolling against every rubber wall in sight.    

Marty also neglected to interview any of the meeting room hostages, who were still very much enslaved to fond memories and an odd assortment of stimulated flashes going off in their brains like Fourth of July fireworks.  No, they did not want Marty near any of those people right now. 

“You da man,” Smith told Marty, bolting from the room like a flea bitten carpetbagger to tabulate a very large bill, making one final mistake before heading back to New York.

In a cocky and fateful move that would come back to haunt his entire life, Marty had ordered the duct tape removed from Janelle’s mouth, and Smith quickly stopped in to say good-bye as Ferg stepped out for a moment, taking Rhiannon down the hall to relieve herself.

Five minutes later, every single fee was dropped, including shuttle flights.

Duct tape was off; the imp was in play.

To be continued . . .