Unfinished others

sketches:

                                                                           THE BAT

                                                                   By Jeffrey B. Smith

               The Bat trembled. He peeped down through the grate at her as he had for the last several mornings. She was busy at her morning toilet and he savored it. Today she seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time as she lathered and lingered and shaved herself in the huge tub.

               That’s good, he thought to himself, for tonight I will have you and, I want you as close to perfect as you can make yourself for me.  And she was close to perfect already.

               He had seen her across the room at the Restaurant in the Hotel of San Diego where he kept a massive suite. He studied her from afar. Their eyes, from across the room, met for an instant as she stood, the man she was with making a gentlemanly display of helping her with her chair. The Bat noted she was perfectly capable of completing the task herself, capable of that and a lot more.

                On long statuesque legs that appeared to have been sculpted from some sort of unblemished honey -toned marble, she strode gracefully out of the room and cast an unfocused look in his direction. The Bat started. The candlelight revealed flashes of incandescent jade flecking eyes of carmelized amber. He’d not seen eyes like that in centuries.

               He watched her from behind. She floated on glossy black stiletto heels with a natural grace unfamiliar to the mass of common women who often seemed to balance on them only by maintaining an awkward studied concentration. The heels were perfect, he noted, for they tilted her pelvis at just the perfect receptive angle.

               Her hair was black, healthy, and in spite of its ebony depths, radiant. Coursing over her shoulders and down her back and onto the little black dress that fit perfectly to her ideal proportions, the overall impression given was of a field of black from her crown to hem. And that hem was itself was strategically located to reveal just enough of the upper inner thigh for an arresting effect . 

               He was certain she studied him too, peripherally, on her exit.

               He knew she would be his.

               All thoughts of the redhead he was dining with left him in that instant. She could be gathered up later. She may be one for his collection, soon she would be on the yacht with the others he had assembled.  The frictions that so amused him were in full fester back on board. Soon they would again leave for exotic ports of call while he manipulated them, all beauties of his own careful selection. At sea he would use them at his leisure, watch them from his secret vents and passages. With money you could always find someone to build anything you desired. And desire is all he was.   

               And though he had desired this little redhead, a photographic artist, he could have her at his leisure. Maybe she would make it to the end of the cruise, maybe not. He liked to surprise himself. Soon one or two would be gone, assumed by the others to have left the cruise, disgruntled, at the last port of call. He would murmur something to one of them in a moment of intimacy and it would spread among the remainders like a contagion.

               And the newly departed would not be much missed by the others, who by the time of her uncomfortable departure would’ve been the sole object of his attentions and thus the enemy of the rest.

               However, their target never would make that port. An exhausted husk, her devoured and dessicated body would flutter like an autumn leave to the ocean floor, unceremoniously heaved form one of the secreted disposal ports he had cleverly designed into his custom mega yacht.

               He looked at the earnest redhead, she was speaking about opening her own gallery. He had been studying her mouth and lips while she spoke. He cared nothing for the content but was absorbed entirely with her mouth and tongue and lips, calculating how he would get her to use them in the ways that would bring him the most pleasures. Maybe showing interest in her gallery dream?

                Across the foyer the lady, who was just now being helped into a soft black leather jacket, a blazer type affair which diminished in no way her spectacular features, had now captured him.

                “I’m sorry,” he murmured intimately as he slipped her a card, “I just now recalled, I have an important call to make, it may take a few minutes. Please excuse me..” Reaching into his jacket he extracted his phone. He stooped and kissed her lips gently, offering a quick slash of tongue, which she found strangely thrilling. A chill ran through her body.

               He smiled at her kindly, “Here, I’ll meet you later in my suite. Make yourself as comfortable as you can. I do so apologize.”

               She fingered the card and then drew it close to her. Her eyes darted in the direction where the exquisite brunette had just been.  She sensed something, was it some kind of deep jealousy? Was that woman a connection to his quick exit? She put these thoughts aside.

               She would stay in his suite for a couple of days before she returned to the arts colony. She would wonder about him for the rest of her days. She suspected his disappearance had something to do with that black haired bitch who sashayed out of the restaurant that night, or, maybe not. Perhaps it was something to do with herself? Some sort of inadequacy? She would replay that evening in her mind, recalling every detail of it and never coming to terms with the event.

               At any rate it was still quite a few days for her. She wore his robes, used his spa, drank his champagnes and liquors, snorted his coke. She puffed his cigars and had a brief intense fling in a laundry room with her masseuse.

               Eventually she had tired of it all and walked out the crystalline revolving door. The doorman knew her by name. She got a kick out of that. She had come that close.

               But The Bat had a short attention span. The red head was expendable and replaceable by any number of others, just as attractive, just as desperate for his attentions. Strange, so many of the real beauties were such easy prey. It was if their very desirability was a too heavy burden. He had often found that hilarious.

                Now, however, his attention was focused on the brunette. She was an exemplary specimen and his hungers rose in him like a tropical fever. He desired her completely.

               While the couple awaited the valet to bring the man’s car, The Bat donned his own leather jacket, black too, it was at the ready on his Ducati Monster, an 1100 Evo, waiting in his own personal, private, parking nook. He spun the engine to life and gloried in its machinery. He loved a well wrought machine. He had a special run of twenty of these identical bikes custom made for himself at the factory in Bologna. High performance to the peak of today’s technological limits, the machine was the very extension of his physiology.

               And his was a singular physiology. Honed over the centuries, a master at every form of martial arts, nearly indestructible, he was perhaps the most formidable creature on the planet. Thus he was exceptionally well suited to his business, which, if he had actually reflected upon it, was killing and death.

               He revved the machine lightly as he swiveled his neck around, hunching his shoulders, loosening up. He listened, across the hedges and the drive to the small talk the couple was making. He tuned his senses to their register.

               The man, obsequious, was clearly feeling a bit at a disadvantage with the woman. Perhaps it was the fact that he was slightly younger than her, and she a fraction taller than him as well. The Bat detected a bit of insecurity in a man who was unaccustomed to that position. His conversation seemed to be focused on, in a studiedly off hand fashion, revealing his good taste in everything material.

               The woman, and The Bat was having a hard time decoding her, was feigning interest with just enough disinterest to make the man uneasy. Was this thinly veiled feigned interest calculated on her part to manipulate the man into his sorry display? Or was it just plain honest nonchalant indifference?

               The Bat was idly curious, observing from nearly a half block away. Regardless of their calculations, The Bat was in the hunt now and all their machinations would soon be moot.

               The man’s car arrived. A Mercedes 300SL. Not a bad car The Bat allowed - but not the 300 AMG - which made this car a shade pitiful. German cars, The Bat sneered. Well engineered for sure, solid performers but, no pinache, no spirit, no style. In his stable The Bat had only Italian cars, Ferrari’s, Lamborghinis, and a Maserati here or there.  All sprinkled around the world to be at his disposal. (He forgot about an Aston Martin DBS Coupe he had stowed in New Zealand.)  Nothing compared to a Ferrari’s engine screaming behind one’s shoulders, the world rushing at the windscreen like a tsunami. Besides, if one had the money, keeping Italian cars in tune was no deterrent whatsoever. German cars were for the poseur who could never afford the maintanence involved with Italian marques.

               The car merged into the street.  The bat let a few cars pass and then he pulled out of the garage. He switched off his lights, he did not require them.  He followed a block behind, knifing through the traffic, startling the dull occupants of nondescript cars rolling towards their own miserable destinies.

               The bat laughed, a deep gutteral rumble that escalated to a fevered howl of delight. His nostrils dialated to funnel the night air into his lungs and he swilled the night through a gaping grin. He swaggered through the throngs on the bike, winding and shifting and leaning it at impossible degrees.  Long elegant wheelies and broadside sweeps, the back end stepping out as he arced through busy intersections, vehicles swerving and skidding about him in shocked surprise, he heard a collision behind him and laughed some more. He roared into the night.

               He relished it all, the speed, the chase, his soon to be sated appetites. He wailed into the wind and effortlessly dodged, at 60 miles per hour, airborne insects he sensed a half block ahead. He did not wish to have a stain on him.

               He was the last of his kind and he was certain of it. There had been thirteen and, even though he himself had called for The Conclave, he could only, dimly, recall the others.

               Except for Otto. He sometimes had inexplicable feelings of nostalgia, or something like that, for dear old Otto. It had been several centuries now. Otto the insatiable. Loved the Bavarian women, Otto. Oh, they would go on binges in the night. Otto would gorge nearly to the point of insensibility. In one night nearly an entire convent, and just the two of them.

               But in the spirit of The Conclave, he had bid Otto a solemn good bye. Otto was looking a bit dejected, his vest again too tight over his expanding girth as The Bat had turned towards the mountains that day to leave. But  upon looking back once he saw Otto brighten a little, framed in the door of the cottage. For over the crest of the hill, on the road to the village, a wagon was approaching. Over the cart a healthy halo of blonde hair was wafting on the breeze, a promising aspect.. The Bat caught a glimpse of Otto licking his lips.

               The Conclave was a brilliant idea, he had often prided himself in it.

               “We must disperse,” he had announced to the other thirteen, “We must, for our own survival, remove ourselves from each other. There will be those out there,” he had gestured towards the arched doorway, robes depended gracefully from his muscled arm, “Who will devine the authors of their loss and, make no mistake, once aroused in numbers, they will pursue us and will find a way to contain us.”

               “But,” he had reasoned, “If was go to the winds we can have our pleasures, where the concentration of activities in aggregate, will not be as apparent as those of a solitary agent.”

               “And,” from this point forward, “Not one of our favors must be left alive. Death to every feeding. By infecting rather than killing, we will seal each our own fate. Competition cannot improve our breed. We are the pinnacle!”

               The agreement was unanimous that night. They were young and full of their new power and jealous to preserve their advantages.

               They would nearly be unanimous later, when, confiding to twelve of the others, he had marshaled them to fall upon and dispatch Aakhep. The Bat had found him to be awkward and often slightly disheveled. Not a credit to his kind. Besides Aarkhep had, at court, once laughed at The Bat.

               So there was 13, now only one. He had last seen one of his brotheren in a shady outdoor café in Rio, perhaps  a 100 years, or more, ago. There sat Darius. It so startled The Bat that he was nearly rendered mute. Darius nodded at the dark beauty who was serving. The Bat was there for the very same reason.

               Darius had mouth the words, “She’s mine,” and grinned. The bat had doffed his top hat. For an instant their gazes locked, it was understood then between them. They were the last of the breed.

               Within 12 hours The bat was on a steamer for the U.S.A.  Chicago, a fine World’s Fair was promised to get under way there very soon. It would bring the best and brightest to that forlorn place and The Bat wished to be there to have his choice among them.

               Shortly thereafter he had the queer sensation that Darius too had met his demise.  What became of Darius and the rest, he could only guess. Discovery of some sort. Not paying attention, they, he supposed. A slip of some kind. Poor planning, not taking their time perhaps. The Bat knew how to take his time.  He knew how to  evaluate risk, he knew how to use his senses to his own prosperity.

               On the bike that night, his senses  were fully heightened and nothing that could be noted escaped him. Up ahead, maybe a half mile, a rat poked his nose out from an alley. He admired its wary smarts. It ducked back as he screamed by.

               Soon the downtown was behind them. Residential neighborhoods and cul de sacs were more the landscape now. Quiet residences back away from the street. He had to back off, he kept closing on the Mercedes. What an oaf this driver was, he would kill him with a blow to the larynx and then have his time with the woman.

               No matter the physical attributes of the man, they were never a match for a  pale, 6 foot , 3 inch, pale, naked man materializing out of nearly then air at their flank. He would drop him like an anvil through ether. He would be stone dead before he hit the hardwood.

               Then he would descend upon the woman. He might let it be difficult. He shivered with excitement. He was in his element in a world that offered him his elements in an inexhaustible bounty.

               The Mercedes had turned into a shadowed lane that curved towards a modest sized but well designed, conceptually well wrought, Craftsman style bungalow situated nicely into the landscape. Perfect.

               He switched off the ignition and glided a block or more to a stop at the cub. There was nobody about, nobody to see. He focused his attention at the bungalow and the couple. To his astonishment she was not inviting the man in. She demurred to the mans barely concealed frustration, something about a presentation in the morning, fatigue, the usual.

               The Bat exhalted in this turn of events. Had they went inside together he would’ve been pressured to gain entry and dispatch the man before he despoiled the woman in some way. And the Bat liked to take his time.

               The man returned to the car after a promised rendezvous was negotiated for a later date. It did not matter, the woman would not be there.

               The man in the Mercedes, on his slow modulated exit down the drive, revealing none of his frustration to the woman who might be watching but as not, had flipped open his phone and left a message, “Honey, yeah, doesn’t look like I’ll be back ‘till sometime next week. Things are in a real mess down here, I don’t know what the hell Rod has been up to….I’ll tell you about it in the morning. Give Meghan a kiss and tell her daddy loves her.”

               The Mercedes turned onto the street towards downtown. The Bat watched it. Another call was made as it sped off, the man now rowing inexpertly through the gear box. “Trudie, hi, this is Chip. Yeah, I just got into town, I was wondering if I might be…..”

               The Bat smiled, he thought differently about him now, it would’ve been a shame to kill a fellow like that. He admired him until he heard him miss the revs on a downshift at the lights a mile away. No, on second thought, he deserved killing.

               He turned his attention to the woman. She was moving about the house.  He entered the hedges and approached the bungalow. He was trembling with anticipation, if not hunger. He had last fed, or “had a drink” as he liked to laugh to himself, when? He never could recall them afterwards, he wasn’t acutely hungry though, so it must’ve been relatively recently. He began to undress, he admired his slim shadow in the moonlight. He looked up at the moon, over his shoulder. He had an idea then. He would make this one special, like he did every so often. In a few nights his senses would be ever more heightened, the night would come when his stoked appetite and the elements would coincide to bring him the ultimate pleasures.

               He donned his jacket again. He made a call and roared back into the night. He brought the Ducati to life.

               A driver was already waiting with a nondescript Chevy that screamed anonymity. A bag, as ordered was in the backseat. He gave the driver an address.

                                                                           SALTY’S

3-31-03

I drive for Andy’s, Andy’s Chips. It used to be Salty’s but in the 80’s that name fell out of favor so they renamed it Andy’s after Salty’s wife. Well, his name wasn’t Salty, it was Ernest Kannisto but he called his chips Salty’s and everyone started calling him that., He came form up by New York Mills and got into the potato business I guess and started in the chip business after WW II and it took off. Well it didn’t really take off like a rocket but more like a plane you could say. Andy’s hold their own here in the upper midwest  and I like them. I buy them myself, in fact I think they are the best potato chip on the market and they are a good outfit to work for. I have run into many guys who don’t buy the product they stock, beer guys mostly, who can’t stand the sight off another Budwieser but gladly drink a Miller for instance. I can understand that, I once worked in a hospital and I would’ve had serious reservations about any of my loved ones going there. It sure helps a guy in his job when he doesn’t despise handling the product, so to speak.           

They call them Andy’s Chips now because of the owner. Ernie, the aforementioned Salty, was married, up until his death, to Andrea Kannisto, (sorry I don’t know her maiden name), and when it was deemed that Salty wasn’t shedding a very healthy light on the company, they named it Andy’s. Shrewdly they  did not change the package and they hardly missed a beat.  

I met Andy once at a big 50^th anniversary picnic up near headquarters there in Moorehead. They had a big tent set up and all of us drivers and other workers were invited and it was fun. She was sitting at a table in the shade and shook our hands. Seemed like a gracious older woman, enjoying the attention. I have heard rumors though that you wouldn’t want to cross her. I doubt I’ll ever have the chance.

I decided to start writing this today because I was pondering things. I do that a lot behind the wheel. It is such a time of solitutde, riding out there between these Minnesota small towns. Even though the spaces are filling up more and more,  there still is miles between them. I have been thinking, it is an interesting time to be alive, I suppose life is interesting whenever it is being lived. At least that is the way it is supposed to be I would trust. Yet, when I am gone, and that is a sure thing, I will be gone, not a whiff of me will be left to show. Oh sure, my kids and subsequent generations will bear witness, and my gravestone too, but what will be left of me? This guy who travels these roads and looks through this windshield and thinks these not too profound thoughts…I know it isn’t much but it still will be all gone someday.

I have no illusions that what I think or say is in any way lofty. I can’t pretend to be that. But I don’t see anybody else out there recording what it’s like to be middle aged and content in the opening round of the 21^st century and not accomplishing too much more than just trying to be satisfied. Seems like the most we hear about is those who aren’t satisified, up there on quests or those who are terribly dissatisfied, whatever. A guy just doing his job and making ends meet and staying of the radar screens does not, by definition, make the news. Yet we are still here, maybe thousands of us and one of us should tell about himself, not claiming to talk for everyone but just capturing what happens.

Today the war lingers on. If your are interested in the war, look in a history book. It is beyond me, and probably just about everybody, to tell you why there is a war. I am opposed to it. I think our leaders are making a mistake. I am trouble about it every hour of the day. Yet I am not fanatically opposed, just sad about it mostly . Get us out of there is all I can think. I don’t believe we can solve these problems. I don’t believe liberty seeds can grow in that earth yet.

As you can see, I am not able to offer a profound conclusion to these world events. The waters are to deep for me to navigate with style.

Today was mild, what little snow we have is melting and the field’s puddled furrow reflect a crystal blue sky. The air is heavy with spring promise. The dogs are out running around, nose to the ground, grinning, tails like antennae, signaling their joy. It as still light when I returned my truck. When I got home and looked up, looked into that black velvet sky, nearly purple with the color of infinity, I had to sadly say goodbye to Orion, the winter watchman. He is leaving for another season. Sorry to see that familiar sky depart. I suppose it is more familiar because those constellations are so striking. But I wonder, could it be that they are so familiar because we have so much dark all winter and these constellations keep us company over those frigid dark hours. Even though I bid them a adeui now, I already can imagine the portent I’ll feel when I first glimpse, not because I anxious for it either, The Palidies on the rise in very Late August some very early morning..  

            

Here’s one I forgot about, don’t even have a name for it. It all comes back to me right now. Hmmmm

Am I depressed? He wondered, not for the first time. He thought back upon what a psychologist had once said in a lecture. “Depression is anger turned on oneself.”

And then, not again for the first time, he asked himself, Am I angry at myself?

Maybe, but not THIS much. If depression was the absence of happiness, well, then, maybe that would be a better description of the way he felt.

He could find little joy, anymore, in any direction he looked.

And he looked over at the desk. Papers, papers, piles of them, requiring attention, signing, consideration, his attention. Another night alone here in the office, then dinner alone, and when he wasn’t alone, he was usually surrounded by way too many people, strangers mostly.

I guess I’m lonely, maybe that’s it, he concluded.

Now even his friend, his oldest and dearest friend, - not to mention his wife, Mona, of course – his goddam Chief of Staff, for chrissakes, was acting all strange on him. Really strange, and not just the usual exasperation because I won’t commit to reelection either, he brooded. That was already an old, but becoming more intense, argument. Something else was bothering Deke, something he couldn’t penetrate.

This now only compounded the president’s nondescript anxieties. What in the hell was Baker going to California for? Just walked in this office here and said he needed a few days off. Refused to go further than that and turned on his heel and headed for the jet.

I’m usually quick on my feet, the president thought, but this really caught me off my game. I’m slowing down , he lamented. What’s going on? A job offer? Was Governor Rose offering him a job? It was no secret she had presidential aspirations and David Baker would know how to get that job done.

It caught him so off guard that all he could mumble was “Why, yes…”

He wanted to ask but Deacon Dave Baker had that look on his face, a look of stubborn resolve that President Whitney recognized from way back, from the backfield itself actually, nearing the end zone in the waning seconds of some high school football game, their little Essex, Minnesota visiting underdog high school football team about to dash some miscalculating bigger town’s  team’s postseason ambitions. A look of resolve he also recognized across the wings of their saber jets, over Korea, again when some long ago fricasseed MIG pilot miscalculated their combined determinations.

He had mentioned something about Mona too. Some kind of little remark. He thought about Mona, where was she tonight? What had she said this morning? He checked his planner. Leaving for North Dakota, about now actually, he looked up at the clock, for an International Peace Garden rededication. Be back day after tomorrow. At least she got around. It takes a lot of effort to get the president on the road. He envied her that, but he was aware she as chafing under the constant security and constant scrutiny.

It was a gradual awareness that had been dawning on him: The job of President sure was a lousy one. Even when things were going good, like they were now. Just the usual strifes in the world, no big conflicts, economy popping right along, his popularity steady if not rising. A reelection bid, in 2 years, would carry him into the 1980’s and to further prosperity and posterity by all indications. He wasn’t interested. He longed for a simpler time. But felt he was being swept on a wanton wave of complexity, thrusting him onwards, unstoppable, inexorable, unforgiving and ultimately destructive.

When was the last time I was happy on the job? The same answer as always greeted him, with another tumultuous wave, this one bearing nostalgia: back in my dad’s mill, Essex Feedmill, serving the public, Feeling the rhythms of the conversations, the tempo of real life, the cadence of the country. He loved serving the public, he longed for that. That’s what this job was supposed to be about but he couldn’t quite tell who he was serving here.

 He was shocked to find he suddenly missed his wife. It wasn’t that they didn’t see much of each other, well, okay, they didn’t really, he had to admit it. Old Deacon Baker’s remark had hit a nerve somehow. He just missed her. No that was not quite right, he needed her, more than missed her.

Something wasn’t right there either, though, and that usually was solid. Now it seemed when he was near her, near anyone for that matter, but most unfortunately around Mona, he couldn’t be, well, fully with her anyone anymore. It waas like he couldn’t get though his own self somehow. Tangled up some way in distractions, he was losing his grip on…experiences, on his life.

He sighed, looked up at the clock again. Replacing his glasses onto the slight bridge of his nose, he sat down tiredly at the huge desk and bent to the squared stack of papers piled there. He’d work another hour. He punched a button on the phone. He was put through immediately to the White House kitchen. He’d dine in front of the T.V. again, just him and Snowball, the First Kitten…was Rockford on tonight? He hoped so.

The chef answered. “Do you think I could have a ham dinner?” asked Presindent of the United States.

“Deacon” Dave Baker strode up to the private jet. A Diplomatic Corps Lear, it would  deposit him in L.A. about 0100. He was uncomfortably conscious of the taxpayer’s money, always. Well tonight that money might be wasted, it might too late already. He boarded the ship and was relieved to see his guest was not there yet. It would be just the two of them riding in this black dart shot across the country tonight. And he was not looking  forward to the company either.

One of “Anvil” Whitney’s rules was about to be bent. Only 2 passengers flying in this expensive bird.. Even years ago when he was a flegling congressman, Anvil had always drilled it into the staff, “Taxpayer’s Money,” making them carpool, turning off the lights, save scrap paper.  Alvin ran a clean ship.

But that ship was entering uncharted waters now and was, most likely, hellbound for destruction. And he had the photos right here in the briefcase that were gonna do it. Perhaps the hottest shots since the Cuban Missile Crises. He shuddered sliightly.

The First Lady had summoned him to her office that very morning.

“Dave,” she said, unsettling him with the gravity of her manner. She turned up the radio as she put a finger to her lips, pointing generally overhead to the ever present, assumed recorders.

 “Something bad,” she started, “It’s real bad….”

(3.) Baker took his seat and pulled down the shade. He didn’t feel like looking out on the world tonight. He glanced at his watch and at that very instant felt the plane tremble as his invited visitor, right on time ,he noted, boarded the steps.

The Maximum Lawman’s eyes swept the interior of the jet. Satisfied he approached Baker’s seat, stooping.

Under usual conditions Baker would’ve stood to greet the stranger but it was clumsy to do so in the cramped quarters of the Lear and, he caught some sort of subtle signal from the man telling him formalities were unnecessary. 

He offered his hand, “Agent Percy. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

The man shook his hand and briefly met his eye. “Not a problem sir.”

Baker felt the man’s reply somehow indicated that he was just following orders. That he had no choice in the matter and had no illusions that he was punched in and on the job so to speak, and further, that pleasantries were a distraction.

Baker nodded to the seat across the isle, the man sat, looked forward. “You can call me Deke, if you want to.” He kind of trailed off, feeling uncomfortable, unbalanced in this man’s presence. “Call me Deke” sounded corny, forced, unnatural. He regretted it.

“Yes sir.” The man replied, still looking forward.

Baker depressed a button on his armrest and nearly immediately he heard the turbines begin to spool up. The flight deck door opened, a young officer emerged, secured the boarding door and disappeared into the cockpit again, affording just a glimpse of the darkness within, spangled with dozens of dimly lit instruments.

Baker wished once again that he was up there in the comfort of a jet cockpit. What was he doing sitting here? The jet began to roll.

He turned to the man, studying him just a minute. Hair short, not perfect. Clothing comfortable, almost fine, fit well to his body but unremarkable. In fact, everything about the man was unremarkable. Intentionally forgettable, the man would go unnoticed in a crowd and would be difficult to recall as an individual. This nondescript appearance was just one of the weapons in this dangerous man’s arsenal, Baker knew.

He’d been around the type before, deadly, analytical, calculating. He knew there must be humanity down there somewhere, at least he hoped there was, but here, now, was a tool for the government to deploy. A tool as lethal, and devoted, as a nuclear submarine.

“I want you to…” Baker paused as he handed the man the briefcase, “To look at these photos. Then I’ll brief you.”

The man took the case without comment, he snapped the clasps smartly and brought out the 8X10 glossies. Baker caught a glimpse of the black and white images there and involuntarily turned away.

He had sat down in her office realizing the First Lady was upset. Her hands were trembling, “I received these in the mail yesterday…actually they were mailed to my sister for me…” she rolled her eyes, “These assholes open everything around here. My sister is cool, she got it to me, unopened but.” She inhaled, there was a choked sound to it, “You better have a look.”

She pushed a manilla envelope across the desk to him. He tipped it up and removed the photos.

He was aghast, “Ramona! What in the devil!”

“Deke,” she sighed and stood up, “It only happened the one time. I swear, gaddam it, only the once. Ever.”

Mona the Mouth they had called her. She could always lace together the language. That thought, combined with the pictures in his lap caused him to feel a strange sense of loss; he mourned the affect this day would forever have on gauzy memories going back to academy days and double dating, an entire innocent past now made instantly obsolete by these shocking photographs.

He looked down, quickly shuffling through them. She is so very beautiful, he thought again, always a striking woman. He licked his lips involuntarily and then suddenly chided himself: what are you thinking? But, he was, after all, a man.

“I spoke at that Yosemite reopening this spring.” She took another deep breath, “Ripley and I go back along way, you know, Stanford actually. He spoke too that day,” she sighed, “His wife couldn’t make it and, he got in touch with me, suggested a picnic, for just an hour or two, some precious time away from these goddam fishbowls we live in.”

He looked up at her, he was aware his mouth was hanging open. What is she telling me, why am I here? He wanted to excuse himself and run down the hallway.

“I don’t think either of us had planned this.” She nodded at the pictures again, “Really, Deke, I swear. It just happened. It just happened. I’ve felt awful ever since and then…then these arrived.” She shook her head and slumped against the wall.

He searched for something to say. “Well, who took these pictures then?”

She turned. “How the hell do I know? We were 10 miles of bad road form anywhere and here’s some guy in the woods with a telephoto? Jesus Deke, he’s asking for a hundred grand.”

Oh my God, it was all dawning on him now, now it was his turn to slump. He looked up at her, “And why am I here, you should be discussing this with your husband.”

“Don’t go lecturing me on what I SHOULD do Deke, I’m sorry, but I don’t need that from you right now, ‘cause you’re not gonna tell me anything I don’t already know. I am gonna tell him, sometime when we can be alone for god sake. Not around this fuckin’ birdcage. We go to the lake next week, that’s when. But, Deke, I’m asking for your help. That’s why you’re here. You love him almost as much as I do. If, if this bastard goes to the papers, like he says, it’ll crush Al. When I stop thinking about my sorry self, I think about him. Deke, he’s already burdened so, what this will do to him, I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t underestimate the man.” Deke said.

“Deke, forgive me for saying it, but fuck all your bromides. Okay?”

Deke half smiled, ruefully, and looked down again at the pictures. Wow. He looked up again, too quickly.

She tilted her head, “What?”

Now what to say? “I didn’t know you smoked.” He flushed, what kind of a dumb ass remark was that?

“I don’t,” she said sadly and turned to the window, “I just needed something to do with my hands, you know… afterwards.”

Then it was Deke’s turn to not know what to do with his hands.

Agent Percy riffled through the stack of photos, at least the first half dozen or so, glanced at the cash, and was silent for a moment.

“Sir, correct me if I’m in error. There is one hundred thousand dollars here. It is for blackmail, to keep the photos out of the press. I believe it to be most likely the second installment, and, the blackmail threat is against the man in the photo, the movie actor, Ripley Rose, real name, if I recall, is Erwin Stang or something like that. Rose can’t cover a hundred grand and is now putting the pressure on the first lady. The incident in the photo occurred May 7^th in the Yosemite region of California. It was the only episode of infidelity, at least during the Whitney presidency. She will be telling the President about this but would like at all costs to keep this out of the public eye and you’ve been asked by her to handle this transaction because of your long term friendship with both the President and the First Lady. You have suspicions that this effort may be futile and are beginning now to make contingency plans and, the First Lady is modest about these photos.” He fingered the scissor cuts that had excised the most intimate portions from the images.

Baker was stunned, “Good Lord, how do you know all that? Is our security that good - or bad, can you guys snoop on everything? And, pardon me, but why would an operative down at Langley, like yourself, be privy to such confidential matters, let alone, a potential issue of National security?”

“Nothing of the sort, sir,” He cleared his throat, becoming slightly more animated, which wasn’t much because of his general bored air of detachment, “I’m a detective, sir, I deduced these things. First, I can estimate sums at a glance and one hundred thousand is nice round number, doable for Mr Rose, at least to the blackmailer’s estimate. Second installment? Usually blackmailers start low to test the waters, get the victim’s attention, measure sincerity and so forth. If the blackmailer had gone after the First Lady, YOU wouldn’t be involved like this and, neither would a lowly ‘operative’ like myself. The entire force of the U.S. Government would be mobilized. Clearly, as an old friend, she went to you for help, Ripley does not have enough cash to cover this demand…although his wife would, but that is another matter. Whereas, the First Lady is rather wealthy. Further, as I recall from the newspapers, Mr Rose appeared at the function with the First Lady in early May, and, I recall they are old aquaintances, high school or college,” He frowned and squeezed his eyes, “Stanford! Yes Stanford. And,” More conspiratorily now, “Rumor has it #2 slipped her detail for a few hours that afternoon. Nothing definite mind you, but heads nearly rolled in the Secret Service, and would’ve if she hadn’t intervened.’

“Now by all accounts, the First Couple have a close, tender actually, relationship, or at least did have,” he nodded down at the photos, “and it is my bet she will tell him about this from a sense of guilt, but moreso, duty, and renewed commitment.”

He continued, “You, like the First Lady, go way back and your devotion to this President is legendary and would therefore be anxious to protect him from the embarrassment and the public emasculation he would suffer should these reach the papers. And, you’re clever enough to be making plans for the fallout in advance should your efforts fail.”

“And,” concluding, with the faintest hint of a smirk, “The First Lady, who is thought in some circles to be a bit of a free spirit, not quite a loose canon, would nevertheless be modest about the graphic nature of these photos. He again flicked the irregular edges of the hastily edited photographs.

“Now correct me where I’m wrong.” The smirk disappeared to be replaced by a dreadful sobriety, “I need to know, so I can do my best job to help you sir.”

My God, Baker thought, what a smartass, but, he admitted, this guy was just what he needed on his side tonight.

“You got one thing wrong,” Baker said quietly.

“Really?” agent Percy raised a brow and sat up slightly, curious, “What’s that?”

“About the cutting. Of the pictures. You got that wrong.”

“Who did it then?’ Percy looked at the photos quizzically.

Baker murmured, “I did.”

(#4)

"Sid, wake up! You gotta look at my ass! Sid! Really, wake up this is big! I figured it out...we're rich! I think."

Sid just about leaped out of the bed. He covered his eyes next, groaning. She hit the ights on her entrance and he had been dreaming about something...something. he was covered with a little film of sweat again. What was it?

"Sid, get the flashilight maybe and a pen maybe too!" She was nude, bent over the side of their bed, her big tattoed titties swinging just in front of his face.

They still looked pretty good, he mused, but give them another 5 years, tops, and they will be sagging like all the other tattoed cows out on the street.

Tattoed Cows. That would be a great name for a band. He was constantly coming up with good names for rock and roll bands. He was going to have a band someday. Might have to wright that one down. He was gonna learn how to play guitar and start a band, someday.

He reached for his pack, shook out a cigarette and looked at her. He raised a brow. He thought, I'm gonna kill her. Someday. He could see it, the wire around her neck, twisting it, twisting it and her bucking like a tattoed cow.

Got to stop thinking those thoughts, he reminded himself. They get you into trouble. you've done good. Nearly 2 years and not in the joint once.But the thoughts were coming back, and more often.

He snapped his lighter shut, took a drag, exhaling, "What the fuck are you talking about?'

"My ass! See? Look. Brandy put it on my ass. You know, I got hight that one night and let her do a practice on my ass. Down there where there was some open space," She looked back over her shoulder and pulled up on a buttock. I can't see it good, besides in the mirror it's backwards and hard to make out."

"What?" he shrugged, frustrated, "What? I mean, are you talkin' about?"

"So I got a little high, and," she giggled a little bit, "You know someitmes I like it when it hurts and , believe me, it hurts when Brandy lays one on ya."

"Anyhow, she was gonna get married, you know, leave, sudden like? Well she asks is she could do a little tat on me to leave a message for the picture guy. Said he asked her to play one of his friggin' games, hide and seek type shit. Well she hid this stuff for him somewhere and she put the clue right here on my ass! She forgetes shit, so this was a way to to forget it? God he's a weird fuckin' guy." She shook her head.

"Picture guy?" Sid shook his head.

"Yeah, you know, the guy that liked to take our pictures. He did the ones of me. Getting the fireskull. You know, for my spread in Illustrated Girlie?"

He took another drag and looked at the ceiling. Good God, here we go with her fuckin' spread again.

"Well he was in the shop today, excited like, dressed up all to the 9's. Wanted to see Brandy, bad. Flo told him she had run off and got married."

"Then he gets really revved and all excited, asking if she lefta key or something, anything for him?"

"Flo looked at me and at Zoey. Knowbody kenw anything about a fuckin' key. So then he just laughs and shrugs it off and says, well someone might stop by someday and if they want the goods...their gonna have to track down Brand, and he really laughed at that, like it was really a big joke on soemone."

The whole time I'm thinking about my ass and I don't say a fuckin' word because this, I know is part of it. Well he asks Zoey if she'd like to do a little modeling for him tonight and pulls out a hundred. A hundred! And says it'll be some street action stuff, kinda like what

Pepper did a few weeks ago."

"Jesus, I heard that and I just about shit! Pepper had to do some Marilyns on Euclid Street, and the taxi driver gives her this package she was supposed to carry, she thought it felt like money, see? She handed it off to some guy below, down in the dark, you know, and he never said a thing, never even shown up a light or nothin'. The guy just disappears, she stands there a while and then just gets back in the cab."

"Remember when that guy comes up, kinda a private eye type and asks Flo and Pepper all those questions about it? I told you about that, didn I? Said he saw he doin that thing the night before. Asked ehr a ll about it. Really poked around the office, pushed Flo around a little and she didn't say shit. It takes more than that dick to waltz her around on anything."

"Flo thought it might've been about dope, but now I figured it out..the picture dude. He 's back today like I said and duded out in the nice duds, flashing cash. Hired Zoey to do another thing tonight. Another payoff, I bet! Something to do with my ass and what Brandy put there. Brandy did a few jobs for him, he likes to photo that stuff, The work is progress, Maybe even on Pepper, " she paused, the shrugged, "Anyways I think he liked to photograph the pain, got off on it a little, you know?"

She laughd, " Brandy would be the one to ask for if you watned a picture of pain. Now look at my ass!"

He peered down with the light, "Looks like a bird with numbers under it." He squinted, pulling the fold apart to lessen the shadow. "Looks like R41386..oh, wait, up here, above the little bird, it's almost hidden in the dragon's tail. There's a 76."

"Write it down. write it down, draw the bird. Just lke it is!"

"Oky stop wiggling.He's a pretty fuckin bad artist." He put the flashlight in his mouth and started drawing.

One of the teachers that came through the joint told him he had good line quality. He was inspired to art for a while after that, drew all kinds of pictures for a while:guitars, choppers, blades. Got lot of respect from the other 'mates there too. But always he ended up drawing coathangers, they kept coing back to him. Coathangers with long shadows, like they were in bright lights. The other guys got a kick out of it, hell they all called him "The Wire" Even though the drawings were great, he didn't like them much. Spooked him.

They sat on the bed looking down at his drawing. Tammy suddenly pointed at the bird. "Look! It's an Eagle....Eagle Banks! Get it? Is there one on 76th? I think so, maybe 75th but Brandy gets that kiind fo shit fucked up....it's a safety deposit box! Thre is something in there that soembody si willing to pay for....we gotta get it, Sid. I know it's worth a fortune. Gotta be. all this running around and action: picture guy's game, the gumshoe dude, picture guy all shook up and then laughing, money jsut dripping off him.....Brandy's got the key and you got to get it for us. The stuff, whatever it is, is in a safety deposit box in the fauckin' Eagle Bank on 75th..or 76th, or is it 77th, on the corner there you know?"

He nodded. He was begining to think she was on to something.

"How am I gonna find Brandy?"

She smiled and winked. She stooped over and rummaged through her jeans and pulled out a scrap of paper. "I copied her address out of Flo's roller file deal. Flow is sappy that way, she had a soft spot for Brandy." She shook her head, "Brandy tried really hard but I think Flo was happy to see her go."

"Whadya think?"

He looked at the scrap, "Looks like I'm goin' ta Howie's Repair in Harvest City...Washington?" Sounded like a long way to go.

"Get going, right now. Get down to the Greyhound. I'll give you some moeny, hurry, I got a feeling that private eye guy will be back, maybe even tomorrow after Zoey does her trick."

He decided he wouldn't kill her. He wouldn't be back. He shoved the address and his drawing into the pocket of his cutoffs. he thought aboutt Brandy. A little scrawny, wirey thing. Wirey. Again, wire.

He smiled. He might be mixing business with pleasure on this trip to bumfuck Washington.

Let’s Review:

Brandi- recently newlywed to Larry. (I called him Dave at first.) Brandi moved wit him to a small town in Washington. She is an erstwhile part time hooker and fulltime tatooist wannabe. Devoted to her man and her craft but more succesful with the former.



We’ll learn more about Larry later.



President Whitney – discouraged, depressed, lost a sense of purpose I suppose. Feels a strange foreboding and rightfully so.



First lady Mona (Ramona) Whitney –Willful, independent and feeling very much remorse about a recnet spur of the moment tryst with Movie Star and former classmate Ripley Rose, husband of Governor Rose of Ca, a potential political rival of the President. A bad mistake, someone took pictures and she is now paying blackmail aimed at Rip Rose regarding the negatives.



Dave Baker, Decaon Dave Baker, Deke- Presidential Chief of Staff. Confused, conflicted, drawn into the web by Mona, now on his way to California to meet with MR Rose and deliver Mona’s ransom money. Has great loyalty to the President and now is irretrievably tossed into a horrible place by Mona’s deciet, no way to honor his loyalty to his friend, high school buddy, teammate, and air force wingman in Korea, President Whitney.



Agent Percy, the Maximum Lawman – Working off the record, on special assignment now to catcht he blackmailer and put this to rest. A background shrouded in mystery and diversion, Baker does not even know the name of the division of what clandestine agency Percy works for.

Flo – don’t know if we’ll meet her but she runs a “model agency” Usually a call girl agency but they do model sometimes for porno movies, mags etc. Just legitimate enough to stay out of the papers, Brandi worked there. The agency includes a tatoo parlor, psychics and so on. Flo if not a bit maternal with her employees is loyal to them.

Tammy – One of Flo’s “models”. Has problems, is masochistic and chemically dependent and nearly covered in tattoos, one of them on her rear end placed there by Brandi before her precipitous departure. Tammy is cunning enough to have divined the tattoo is important and points to something valuable, very valuable.

Pepper – A facelss streetwalker who delivered the first installment of blackamil money, $100,000.

Zoey – Another call girl/model who has been hired by “picture guy”  to deliver the next installment: $100,000. I don’t think we’ll go anywhere with her.

Syd – Ex con, temporarily nonpracticing homocidal maniac and beginning to heat up. Boyfriend of Tammy. On his way to visit Brandi in Washington.

 There  are lots of others we are to meet, I don’t know how to plug them all in but they are there and that is it. I needed this to familiarize myself with this bunch. Time to start making more stuff up now: