Enjoy Chapter 3 From My Novel, Beatlemaniac – a preview.

                                                          Chapter 3

     The Ways and Means summit lacked substance in Heath’s view. He and his fellow reporters gained little information on how the administrator’s safety steps could put an end to each problem. The uphill battle had begun.

     Once inside the hotel room, his pants received wrinkle-free care, stored away and hung across the proper style hanger; his shirt, though, remained bunched up and tossed to the floor. He pulled the exquisite thick comforter closer to the end of the bed and climbed under the sheets.

     His arm reached for the phone, and he pushed zero.

     “Hotel lobby, may I help you?” beckoned in his ear.

     “Yes, I’m in room 719; can I get a six o’clock wake-up call?”

     “Yes, sir, wake-up call six a.m. for room 719.”

     “No, six p.m. tonight for my wake-up call.”

      “I apologize, sir. Wake-up call at six p.m. this evening for room 719. Anything else I can do for you?”

     “Nothing else, thank you.” Now he was ready to dream. 

                                        ________________________

“Mr. Chapman,” Pattie buzzed his office.

     “Yes, Pattie?”

     “I have another fatality document for payroll that needs your mark. May I bring it with the other opened correspondence?” 

     “Oh geez, again? Sure, I’ll sign the letter first thing.”

     “Be right in, sir.” She drew near his oversized desk, concealed from view by an enormous paperwork pile, and set the latest mail atop yesterday’s heap. With a pleasant voice, she asked, “So, Mr. Chapman, any plans for Father’s Day this weekend?” 

     A sneer grew alongside his mouth as his face turned pale, and to swallow appeared difficult. He leaned back in his chair, looked straight through the letter for his signature, and responded in a bitter voice, “I never met my father. He killed a man before my birth and lies in a miserable, cold, dark cell way too good for him. That monster isn’t worth the weeds that one day will cover his coffin. In my mind, he already died. I claim I never had a father.” He closed his eyes to hold back tears. “I always wanted a father, but nobody deserves to suffer by the man who brought me into this world. He spoils inside a corroded mind, fooled against his right-versus-wrong precept. His regard for others died with his victim.”

     Pattie stood immobile, frustrated by how she often said the wrong things.

     The mayor sensed her discomfort and invited her to sit. “Don’t beat yourself up over my tragedy; I’ve learned to live with it. It’s not your fault the phrase ‘to celebrate Father’s Day’ triggers such ugly hatred inside me. Though I hope it means tremendous amounts of jovial celebration for you.”

     “Oh yes, Mr. Chapman, Father’s Day is always enjoyable, but sorry I brought it up.”

      “Nonsense, Pattie, I’m pleased you considered the happiness you have with your father harmonized with me and my, well, anyway, pleased you had hopes.”

     “I still sense the huge foot in my mouth,” she said.

     The mayor smiled and spoke with a stereotyped American Indian accent, “As your chief, I command heap big foot in mouth go away.”

     From his remark, she released a bigger smile than the one he gave her. “Thank you, chief, I feel better.”

     After he had signed the fatality form, he presented a photo touting a gorgeous Bavaria Sport 360 Open, powerful 30-foot cruiser. “This guarantees your foot will refuse to find its way back inside your mouth, at least over the weekend.”

      “Guarantee?” she said as her cute nose crinkled between her baby blues.

     “Yes, Pattie. The two chiefs will enjoy a fishing trip this Father’s Day weekend.”

     “The two chiefs?” 

     “Police Chief Brown and I plan to party inside my new eight-seat watercraft until we truck back to town Sunday evening.”

     “Oh, how cool, Mr. Chapman, and thank you for my huge foot removal. I’ll leave you with your responsibilities and just a reminder, you have a second interview with Mr. Anthony Barrow for head librarian in less than ten minutes. I placed his file at the front of this morning’s stack.”

     “What would I do without you? Thank you, Pattie, and please close the door.”

     “Yes, sir, and thank you.”

     The mayor wasted no time in reacquainting himself with Mr. Barrow’s favorable reviews, though this exam proved pointless. Barrows prearranged job placement made things efficient and easy. Management’s long look at his work-related strengths helped matters come across as credible, and a male head librarian satisfied equal opportunity. Yet the real kicker, to play by the mayor’s new rules, gained Anthony an edge to clinch the title with a few minor details left unfinished but expected to wrap up in this morning’s talk. Afterward, the official notice to every department and local papers would get the green light.

    Always prompt, Anthony Barrow came a few minutes early. “Mr. Chapman,” buzzed Pattie on the intercom, “your guest awaits.”

     “Thank you, have him come right in.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Filled with confidence, Anthony side-stepped a courtesy knock and strutted inside the mayor’s office with shoulders back and perfect posture. He closed the door and approached the host with a strong, poised handshake. The mayor stood and greeted with like firmness in grip and offered Mr. Burrow a seat. To avoid the slightest doubt, Anthony spoke first as he removed a white sealed envelope from his sports coat pocket. “My part of the deal is all there, Mr. Chapman.”

     “Excellent, Anthony, I’m pleased you accept our agreement. In a few years, your experience here will facilitate qualifications for library director and benefit your future. Still, being put in charge as head librarian for the Ninth Street Branch opens a mere roadmap toward many perks, not to mention your $10,000 sign-on bonus, plus first year $24,000 salary increase, and my promised ten percent annual pay raise.”

     “Yes, Mr. Mayor, the offer, and prospect presented makes me happy. This new position will build the requirements to satisfy scrupulous skills my supervisory colleagues advised.” Anthony wanted to say more but resisted tooting his own horn. He instead pushed the sealed envelope nearer to the mayor’s hand.

     With a smile, Chapman picked up the sealed article and swiped his letter opener along the edge, which released four distinct money orders for $2,500 each. The mayor transferred them to his opened wallet. “I can tell the two of us should get along fine, effective under these advantages. Tell me, Anthony, ever try your luck, man?”

     “No sir, slot machines, cards, dices, and generally Las Vegas have me at the worst disadvantage.”

     “I’m not talking about a game of chance. I suggest trivia intelligence as a means to luck.”

     “Oh, in that case, I’m quite prepared, well read, and a stout Jeopardy buff. What do you have in mind?”

     “The $10,000 we just exchanged. How would you like to get it back? I ask a question, and if you win, I get nothing, but if you lose, I get double in cash by 5 p.m. What do you say?”

     “Not at those prices; too risky.”

     Mayor Chapman reclined in his extravagant executive chair with his fingers linked behind his head and frowned at the ceiling as an impatient scowl surfaced over his face. “I had hopes my search for a replacement would finish with our reunion this morning. Maybe I should reconsider other candidates recommended by our human resource’s administrator?”

     “No, please, Mr. Mayor. I’m your man for the job. Let’s play trivia.”

     “Brilliant, Anthony, and to prove I’m a boss who gives a greater than fair chance, I will increase your odds and ask three questions, but answer just one correctly and you prevent a $20,000 loss. The category is the Beatles.”

     “The musical group?”

     “No, I mean dung beetles that roll and consume mammal feces all around Africa. Yes, the musical group, straight from this book called, Factual Fables of the Fab Four, uncovered last year at a specialized downtown Hollywood antique store that carries old, used, and hard-to- find books of the stars. The proprietor looked close to 100 years old and had no clue this hardcover’s real value could increase a treasure hunter’s fortune. It was published in 1970 and has been out of print since 1971. Do you know about the Beatles?”

     “I’m no expert, but I have read of the band’s lofty achievements.”

     “Your chances just improved. Would you like one question to think over or prefer all three questions and then select the easiest to answer?” 

     Anthony felt a wet dabble along his hairline but ignored the sweat at the risk of looking weak. “Ask all three questions, please.”

     “Okay, each question read from the book confirms a right or wrong response established by the author’s unchallenged answers. Agree?”

     “Yes, I agree, Mr. Mayor.”

     “Another rule––if you know the first answer, you may refuse to hear the other two and have your money returned. I want you to win, so here’s a hint. One of the three is a trick question.”

     “I still should like to hear all three.”

     “Well said, well played. Here we go. Question one: Which Beatles recording often designates Paul McCartney’s favorite song, due in part to spontaneity and also by being the most unusual? Number two:  Name the tune Frank Sinatra referred to as his favorite Lennon-McCartney composition. Question three:  Paul’s songwriting technique always started with chords and melody and later added words to the verses. Name the first ditty Paul completed all the lyrics before adding the melody and chords to finish the tune?”

     “I’m pretty sure about question number two, so my best answer would be the song titled, Something.”

     “Good response, Mr. Barrow; you have my respect in the Beatles fan circle, and I take pleasure giving back your $10,000. Can you answer the other two for me, no penalties if wrong?” 

     Anthony shook his head no.

     “The first answer is the track called, You Know My Name, Look up the Number, found on the B-side to the Let It Be single. For question three, the answer is All My Loving, their first song played on national TV after Ed Sullivan said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles.’” 

     “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but today’s victory leans on my Frank Sinatra familiarity, not the Beatles. The fact is my mother, a devout lover of Old Blue Eyes, cons our entire family into watching Sinatra’s three-hour television special every year on her birthday. An inescapable routine that pampers the woman we all cherish, and a windfall for me thanks to her tradition.”

     “A charming anecdote that placed you a winner today, but far below Beatles trivia par if you expect to win extra cash in the future. Question two, by strange coincidence, scored the trick question.”

     “Oh? How so, Mr. Mayor?”

     “George Harrison penned Something, not Lennon and McCartney; see right here on page 319.” Anthony examined the text directed by his superior. “Understand, I cannot permit this treasured manuscript out on loan; it’s my most prized possession, well worth more than the $4,000 I paid the shopkeeper.”

     “$4,000? Once again, the old saying ‘One man’s garbage equals another man’s treasure’ has rung its cheesy cliché loud and clear.”

     “Take a look at the inside front cover, Anthony, and see just how loud and clear this rings.”

     In plain view, written by a ballpoint pen, read the name Neil Aspinall along with residence and phone number.

     “Neil Aspinall?” questioned Anthony.

     “Neil was the Beatles’ first road manager since the early days and lived with drummer Pete Best before Ringo joined. Neil grew as the Beatles grew, a close confidant to all their business decisions and ran the group’s formed headquarters and its subdivisions. Turn to the next page and knock yourself out.”

     As instructed, Anthony turned the page and gasped. Although the publisher of the hardbound book fastened the inserted blank page, the handwritten note it posted shot lightning speed chills throughout Anthony’s body. The stunned onlooker read aloud, Mr. Aspinall, care of trademark Apple Corps Ltd. I, John Winston Lennon does hereby attest to the best of my recollection, all contents within are of accurate fact. Signed John Ono Lennon, Date: August 8, 1969; Witness signed George Martin, Date: August 8, 1969. “This is an incredible discovery, Mr. Mayor, and in his own handwriting, too. I’m speechless.”

     “You have only touched one-fourth of its riches. Turn the page.” Again, a handwritten note scribbled the same words by a left-hander, addressed to Mr. Aspinall, this time, signed James Paul McCartney, witnessed by George Martin, both dated August 8, 1969. Next page, another handwritten note by the youngest Beatle, indistinguishable to the others, signed and dated by George Harold Harrison, August 8, 1969, along with George Martin as the witness. Another page copied word-for- word for legality principles, this time, handwritten by Ringo but signed as Richard Bernard Starkey, his real name. Witness George Martin, both dated August 8, 1969.

     “A priceless gem,” said Anthony.

     “One more page holds a surprise message; listen to this.” Chapman read aloud, Neil; Clever idea, this project. Wish I’d thought of it, a million plus sellers to boot guaranteed. Any road, Best regards to you and Suzy. Yours Cordially, George Martin.”

    “Wow,” said Anthony. “Wow, wow, wow, wow.”

     His boss joined the marvel depth with nods accompanying an ocean-size smile. “August 8, 1969, dawned the morning they walked across the zebra street markings for the Abbey Road cover. Now you can appreciate why this book never gets borrowed. In its place, you have unlimited online resources and many other available books about the lads of Liverpool to polish your skills before the next match.”

     “Yes, Mr. Mayor, a simple chore for topic research. However, might I ask how often will these competitive pastimes occur, and will it ever risk more than $10,000 per game?”

     “Good question. We should make this easy for ourselves. I suggest four bouts a year, as in four lads, four quarters in the year, and four different seasons. We can even make the odds better and ask four questions rather than three each time we face off. Today’s questions focused on Paul. Next quarter, I will quiz you on John, after that comes George, and then four last questions centered on Ringo. Any protest to these ground rules?”

     “No sir, just what price is at stake?”

     “Relax, Anthony. From here on out, I reckon a safe but also ample size premium, to make things interesting, rests at $4,000. What do you say?” 

     Anthony stood to his feet with his arm extended and said, “I accept 100%. $4,000 as in fab four.”

     “Congratulations, new Ninth Street Branch head librarian. Print announcements of your advance will show by day’s end.”

                         _____________________________________

                                                         

Fredrick Gretsch jumped the stairs two at a time as he climbed the Ash Lyn Administration Building entrance steps. Curious as to the hate

e-mail piles Cynthia Powell discovered, Fred hurried to the elevator.

     One of the local reporters noticed him and matched his pace. “Mr. Gretsch, how do you account for the animosity our citizens hurl onto the employees of Ash Lyn?” 

     Fred turned the tables. “How do you account for it?” 

     Surprised, the reporter fumbled. “I have no idea, Mr. Gretsch, no one will explain their outrage.”

     “You’re a citizen, what’s your hatred against me and my fellow employees?”

     “I assure you, Mr. Gretsch, I have no resentment toward any civil worker, nor do I dispute any month-to-month fees my family pays to help operate services to our home. I want your input on why the people of our community are in revolt?” 

     Fred ran a hand through his hair and gave the elevator door a swift kick. “You raise a question none can answer. Go to the people and ask them; do your undercover work, infiltrate the masses who intend to do harm, and mask your identity so you’re accepted into the scheme. Provide us with the when, where, why, what, and how to help police remove the insurgents.”

     “Mr. Gretsch, do you agree with the mayor’s promise of 17 felony counts charged to anyone apprehended for assault, written or spoken?” 

     “No comment.”

     “Mr. Gretsch, do you believe the mayor has placed extra law enforcement, plus the National Guard, on alert?” 

     “I saw the petition letter addressed to the governor for such a request. If he says he has, I believe him, and I support his act to include them as allies. Please excuse me, I have a meeting.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Gretsch.”

     Fred entered the elevator and glad the reporter stayed outside the door.

     Announced by Cynthia’s secretary, he received access to the director’s office. “Glad you could join me on such short notice, Fred,” said Cyn, “as I suppose you will be more disturbed than ever.”

     “What have you got?”

     She handed him a printed e-mail stack. “Every message speaks of sabotage to city computers caused by ‘clear carbonated liquids’ poured into hard drive towers and along the keyboards, done late at night by janitorial subcontractors.”

     Fred glanced through the first ten messages from the pile and selected some from the bottom. “Happy to say, Cyn, all a hoax, this plan.”

     “How can you be so sure, Fred?” 

     “First: Ash Lyn has a no subcontracts policy. The janitor services under this year’s agreement stipulate cleared background checks to every employee, and those results were inserted into our ID system. No added worker may set foot on city property to do such janitorial service until a renewed contract is in place. Secondly: All janitors must pass by our third shift security post that requires video sign-in, ID verification for entrance approval, and sign-out when finished. Thirdly: Clean-up crews arrive, work, and depart as a trio. So, if an issue comes to light, all three will answer questions and prove two workers’ stories concur, leaving the other as the probable rogue. And fourthly: All these were written by one individual, and I can prove it. Look at his weapons. The orders vary, but let’s review them. 7 Up, Sprite, Cream Soda, and Bubble Up. This page says Bubble Up, 7 Up, Sprite, and Cream Soda. Every message has an e added to the word Cream, spelled c-r-e-a-m-e. Likewise, the sender misspells the word paranoia, using the first syllable as in a pair of shoes or they make a charming pair, spelled p-a-i-r-a-n-o-i-a. My guess is these came from a 13-year-old geek.”

     Cyn’s face showed relief. “Mr. Gretsch, again and again, you help make my job less stressful.”

     “Hold it girl, let’s give credit where credit’s due with one Our Father and three Hail Murrays.”

     “Did you say three Hail Murrays?” 

     “Yes, for Murray the K, my mentor, but when I’m in his presence my respect runs so thick, I’m humbled to call him by his sir name, Mr. Kite.”

                                   ____________________________

                                         

An ice-cold soda sparked upon Lester’s mind. Inside his workplace, the phone rang, and he grew agitated because a certain cold, tranquil liquid must wait a bit longer before being poured down his throat. “Hello, Officer Anthony speaking,” he answered, but the phone died as the message screen displayed: Caller Unknown. He got up, headed for the cooler, and fished through the flavors. The phone rang again. He grabbed the closest, a Cherry Coke, rushed to his desk, and eyed the phone message screen, Caller Unknown. “Hello, Officer Anthony here.”

     “Mr. Anthony, how nice of you to pick up the phone for my expected call that I promised.”

     “Listen, friend, you’ve got me confused with someone else. Nobody expected your call. You dialed the City Jail by mistake, or did you want to confess a crime, pal?” 

     As the officer snickered at his own diminutive stab toward levity, the unknown caller waited with patience for the sarcastic laugh to weaken. “Let’s get a few things straight, Lester Anthony. I am not your pal. I seldom make mistakes and wrote to expect a call soon from whom will tell you to treasure my few words . . . DO AS I SAY, OR GET IT WRONG BUT STILL MIGHT THINK EVERYTHING’S ALL RIGHT.”

     Lester burst a ludicrous belly laugh from his diaphragm.

     Forced to speak above the officer’s annoying snorts and hoots, the caller raised his voice. “I want half of the $20,000 you received as a tip-off to the McKenzie Rigby Mansion drug bust fiasco.

     “What?” replied Lester. His expressed amusement stopped. “Who is this?”  

     “Never mind, pal, just regard me as an equal silent partner.”

     “Like hell I will; you’ve got nerve––or you’re drunk on stupidity.”

     “Let me correct your misguided frame of mind, Mr. Anthony.”

     “You’re misguided, you piece of crap. A tracer is tracking your call, and when I find you, no mercy, no memory, and no life support, cause you’re dead, freak.”

     “Let me help you and hold the line as you search. What do you need, 30 seconds, 60 seconds, longer? Would you like me to count one hippopotamus, two hippopotamuses, and three hippopotamuses until I reach a thousand? Or have you found me already? Are you on your way? Shall I make us tea before you work me over?”    

     Discouraged, but still reluctant to play by the stranger’s rules, Lester said, “Look, man, for a silent partner, a crap load of BS sure knows how to spill from your mouth. Where is this going?” 

     “I expect $10,000 within the next five minutes, transferred to my bank account, or your fingerprints and DNA samples will appear on a few champagne glasses at the Rigby Mansion, inside Rigby’s limo door handle, and on the written letter to offer the DA’s raid facts for a price.”

     “But there was no letter, and I never stepped foot into the mansion or the limo. My dealings between Rigby’s stepfather happened by chance near his home in Scottsdale.”

     “You and I know the truth, yet things we said today, the district attorney shall settle unconvinced.”

     “Look, man, I don’t even have $10,000 to give. I put $17,000 down on a two-acre plot next to Honey Pie Falls.” Lester caught a heavy sigh on the other end and believed he had talked his way clear from this nightmare.

     “Foolish move,” said the stranger. “Your haste to spend my money leaves me no choice. In less than 2 minutes, I’ll claim the $8,000 in your reserves. How regrettable, below my original demand equivalent. Therefore, the DA shall accumulate detrimental evidence by this time tomorrow. Because you’re broke, bail is impossible; on the other hand, you’re known in and around the city jail; I’m sure many acquaintances behind bars will make room for you.”

     “Please don’t do this; I’ll sign over the acres in Honey Pie Falls.”

     “No thanks, Lester, I don’t need land.”

     “How did you know, man? How did you hear about my payoff and savings account?” 

     “I’m privileged to have known just a little extra.” Click.

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Enjoy Chapter 2 From My Novel, Beatlemaniac – a preview.

                                                      Chapter 2

    

Rosemary Cavendish, Head Librarian at the Dennis O’Dell Memorial Library, arrived with ten minutes to spare and key stroked her PC messages found since last night. One particular letter with the subject line, URGENT, OPEN IMMEDIATELY, caught her curiosity. Nosy, she double-clicked the unfamiliar sender. A new box opened with the text:  Treasure my few words of wisdom till we’re together . . . (DO AS I SAY, OR GET IT WRONG BUT STILL MIGHT THINK EVERYTHING’S ALL RIGHT) . . . Expect my phone call soon.

     She assumed comical pyramid shareware filled with amusing stories and jokes would follow. Rushed for time, she typed back: Who is this, I can’t wait to share (Your Momma is so Fat jokes)?

     The mouse clicked send, and off went her respond into cyberspace.

     With her planner open, Rosemary glanced through the day’s agenda and started to prepare each coworker’s assignments. Her PC sounded the electronic message signal as she inked in everyone’s lunch hour. The screen posted, Failure Notice. When opened, she read further, I am sorry, but I tried sending your message without success. I am giving up. This user has no such mailbox address. Please check and correct, then resend. How strange, she thought, I didn’t type the return address, just clicked reply. The e-mail code confirmed both matched to the exact source, #7@japgar.com.

     “No matter,” she said to herself; she knew better than to let humorous e-mails invade her office computer.

                                _____________________________

                                     

Corrections Officer Lester Anthony, at the Ash Lyn City Jail, slouched and stewed at the PC message titled, URGENT, OPEN IMMEDIATELY. He returned a list choked with gutter mouth four-letter word promises as he muttered, “I’ll show this punk what ‘DO AS I SAY’ means.” Satisfied with his point, he clicked send and watched the screen deliver his counter offer.

     Even though the morning cried 8:20 a.m., he opened a new can of Coke and gulped as he neared the trash bucket to empty a few half-filled cans warmed to room temperature. With the older drinks tossed, he said aloud, “Gee, what a waste of taxpayers’ money. Maybe on my patrol, I’ll find a more proper use of the people’s dollar. What harm is there in making criminals’ lives hell? I imagine taxpayers will see me as an idol.”

     Lester freed the clipboard off the peg and glanced through the inmates’ most recent offenses from yesterday. Not a day goes by, he brooded, a dozen or more of these creeps need lessons on how to show some respect, and oh, how I love to teach. After his checklist had identified the guilty, he placed the report sheets in cellblock order nearest to farthest from his workspace.

     As he took his time to finish off the Coke, the officer’s PC tone signal announced e-mail. A swing of the chair to face the computer, he clicked the new arrival and read, I am sorry, but I tried sending your message without success. I am giving up. This user has no such mailbox address. Please check and correct, then resend.   

     He yelled at the monitor, “Resend? I typed all those promises, and I get back resend? What an ass. Who the hell does that guy think he is? If I ever find out, he’s history.”                                  

                                   ______________________________

                                   

David Chapman, Ash Lyn City mayor, showed little interest or concern amidst the Ways and Means Committee meeting. Included for the first time, a few appointed managerial staff from each city department requested their presence to help voice their fears. News media publicized the matter, making the Downtown Nemperor Hotel’s Grand Ballroom top choice as host.

     Tables sized three by seven feet butted together via skirt-decorated linen had been constructed, supporting coffee or tea dispensers and free bottled water courtesy of the hotel. These tables enclosed the rows of chairs like a frame so every seat became easy access to the taker’s beverage. All welcomed the donated liquids since the City Purchasing Department required the largest hall, and it was mandatory to pay the room’s standard rental fees.

     Earlier, the round-robin proceeded smoothly. Most every city concern the committee held in a grievance last quarter, managerial staff took ownership of each and provided ingenious strategies that power-housed the panel to silent approval without objection or debate. The committee then voted they move to the next issue.

     Local reporters and out-of-town media, including Heath Wilson, straightened their backs, honed in, and faced the battle reporters came to cover. Just the topic necessary to give Heath his second wind. All the same, who doesn’t nod off between meetings hours after jet lag?   

     Mr. Chairman spoke with authority. “The floor recognizes Madame

Cynthia Powell, City Administration Services Director.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Cynthia. “To make this difficult topic a little easier to unveil and address, I have grouped by responsibility the entire collection of offensive feedback each department received. And with the approval of all appointed staff managers invited here today, I will present their concerns in a generalized outline.”

     “Acceptable, Madame Powell, however, this committee may wish to address other managers assigned to troubleshoot and hear their take on the challenging matter.”

     “May it please the committee, no one will refuse to take the seat I now secure and welcome your questions.”

     “Thank you, Madame Powell, you control the floor.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I wish to say this outline is not arranged by most important to least because all divisions and subdivisions share equal value. If one suffers, we all suffer; if one succeeds, let the others follow their pattern of workmanship, and all succeed.” She lifted high above her a King James Bible. “From the New Testament, the Apostle Paul wrote: ‘We are all part of one body. If the whole body were an eye where would be the sense of hearing? If the whole body were an ear where would be the sense of smell? And the eye cannot say to the hand I have no need of you, or again the head say to the foot, I have no need of you. So, in a related manner, we city workers, too, are one body with many parts fashioned together all for the purpose that Ash Lyn will thrive and grow. That said, I will start with my own division.”

     Her aide illuminated the PowerPoint presentation, and Cynthia plowed in. “Many elected officials have received threats of invaded homes with physical harm to family members. Yes, we beefed up patrol in their neighborhoods, but as we all know, this alone provides little assurance. Neighborhood Watch programs will deliver new hate crime guidelines within 72 hours.”

   A series of slides depicting a deranged man shooting a lawyer dodging bullets popped on the overhead screen. “The City Attorney’s Office has received payback threats for incarcerated loved ones, yet no names surfaced nor signatures connected to these threats ever appear. A cowardly sign, and yet, a buddy system for attorneys, correction officers, court personnel, and independent contractors who service the court, jail, and prison has our consideration as a safety measure response.”

   Another slide emerged of men pouring tar and filling potholes. “Our Public Works Department Road Maintenance has an extensive list of road-rage threats toward repair crews plus possible damage to our major streets via explosives. Strategic surveillance cameras mounted along our busy avenues, and new portable cameras on order, should be able to document any misgivings that hinder our dedicated highway workers.”

   A new slide appeared of cups and plates soaking inside a kitchen sink. “The Environmental Utilities Department has received many threats to contaminate particles within our water and sewer treatment. We can also confirm our Parks and Recreation Department received this exact threat to all public pools. Even the Department of Animal Control received many warnings about baby alligators tossed into public toilets then flushed. This breach will produce long-term civic safety risks as the creatures grow in size and in numbers.”

     Mayor Chapman stood, his voice raised. “Enough.”

     The Chairman craned his neck with a twist as his face distorted into a scowl aimed at the disruptive agitator and banged his gavel for order. “Madame Powell has the floor, Mr. Mayor. You will take your seat or be escorted out.”

     The forceful mayor continued, “Request to speak, Madame Powell.”

     Cynthia, unsure of any consequences, replied, “I yield to our Mr. Mayor.”

     “Thank you, Madame Powell; thank you, Mr. Chairman. I offer my apologies to the whole room.” He approached one from many wireless microphones. “Madame Powell, just what are these terrorists’ demands?” 

     Cynthia took a breath. “We don’t know. Not a single ultimatum or command has appeared within the text on any duress written messages.”

     The mayor invited Peter Brown, Ash Lyn’s police chief, to stand alongside him. Heath set pen to scribble pad and noted the mayor’s character¬––pushing thirty, fit and trim, a pillar of strength with heroic qualities, but looks approachable and agreeable to listen to.

     “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the mayor said, “as your leader, I will do all within my executive power to squash this abrasive movement that has brought you unmanageable anxiety. The resignation letters I’ve accumulated from your own coworkers stagger the mind. For the time being, I refuse to accept every call for dismissal of duty. A sad day erupts if civil war among city official and resident comes to fruition.” He placed his hand on the man next to him. “Chief Brown has assessed each department’s many fears. Yes, his findings disturb us. However, if it’s a war they want, then it’s a war they get. Our police will not, I repeat, will not––fight alone. My efforts for a call to arms has secured Special Weapons and Tactics and unlimited access to agents from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms; plus, as of this morning, we have also placed the Eleventh Coast Guard District on special alert, if required. Their determined involvement will advance by the acts of the residents.”

     Heath cast his wavering eyes across the room to gauge the crowds’ facial reaction and increased his hand written speed thanks to the adrenaline boost from the public speaker’s caution.

     “I am sickened,” carried on the politician, “by the terms of speech that verbalize a them-against-us attitude. We both are residents, we both are neighbors, we both are Americans, and we both will inflict pain. The police chief and I wish to make this final point damn clear, so you reporters listen in close. Any person apprehended in whichever compromised position, matched or linked to the many threats our employees succumb to, shall inherit charges with all threat allegations acknowledged by Chief Brown. Such person or persons will stand trial and be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Police Chief Brown documented 17 different threats. 17 counts, all felonies, my friends, is equivalent to a long-drawn prison sentence.”

     A low murmur slithered into the air then died at the chairman’s insistent gavel thump.

     Silence restored, the mayor continued, “Today, Madame Powell offered solid sound wisdom from the Good Book. Therefore, I too, offer its wisdom plus its promise. I quote Numbers chapter 32, verse 23b: You can be sure; your sin will find you out. You media members can take my word as a campaign promise accomplished. Now I must return to my office, but I’m confident our determination for liberty will overthrow any aggressor. I yield the floor back to Madame Powell.”

     Heath watched as the mayor hurried past many attendees who supported him with pats on his back as others applauded the man to the exit.

     Before the giant hall grew quiet, the gavel once again pounded the desk. “Order,” said the chairman. “Please take your seats and give us order. You may continue, Madame Powell.” 

                              ______________________________

                                                            

A lost cause atmosphere hung throughout City Hall. Workers no longer desired to excel or pride themselves to place their best foot forward. Even humorous, lighthearted gabs around the water cooler stopped. The brass hats tried to relieve tension and bring back hope, but employees failed to initiate drive for advancement, heaved into a trapped lethargic day-to-day routine pushing endless papers from one pile to the next.

     Patricia Clapton, the mayor’s secretary, once again typed into the city’s payroll procedure form that a senior civil worker surrendered an ill-timed, unanticipated demise. Her blue puppy dog eyes and habit to test the strength of her right index fingernail with teeth caused many a male coworker to drift into mischievous fantasies. However, the crème de la crème pièce de résistance surpassed not just her highlighted blonde hair with bangs, but the cute way her nose crinkled every time she asked a question.

     “What’s up, Pattie?” asked Eppy from the mailroom. He plopped a rubber-banded cluster filled with letters on her desk.

     “Oh, hi, Eppy,” she said in a dark, dismal sigh.

     “That’s it? Oh, hi, Eppy is all you can say? Sheez, so I’m not the knight in shining armor sent to rescue you from this dreaded despondent tower, but I’m also not the evil beast dragging you to the decrepit torture chamber.”

     “I’m sorry, Eppy; for sure you’re still the sweet and considerate guy I appreciate. I was just thinking how death causes more pain to friends and loved ones than to the one dying.”

     “Why?” 

     “I don’t know, probably because of this form letter addressed to our Finance Department. Another librarian passed away.”

     “You don’t say. This librarian was your friend?” 

     “No. I never met the woman, but I realize how awful I would feel if my mom or dad suddenly passed.”

     He lifted her chin to support eye-to-eye contact. “Hey, girl, think how marvelous it is that it wasn’t your parents, and feel bad for the librarian’s children.”

     “This woman had no children, not even a husband. Our records showed her next of kin points to a 90-plus-year-old aunt somewhere along Scotland’s western coastline who suffers from Alzheimer’s.” Her busy, typing fingers paused. “So, Eppy, which of the two do you think suffers more pain, the librarian or the 90-plus-year-old aunt?” 

     “If I had to guess, I’d say neither.”

     “Huh?” 

    “If the aunt has no memory and no recall with family, and thus of love, joy, peace, sorrow, hope, or need, then how can pain, unless it’s physical pain, intrude? And with the librarian, how can emotional pain of being alone trouble her while dying? Physical pain, if any, could inflict her at fading, but once she’s gone, so goes the pain. They both, in a way, get off scot-free. The ones who suffer more are those who miss each loved one in remembrance or guilt.”

     “I see what you mean. That makes perfect sense.” Pattie gestured for him to take a seat. “Want to hear something weird? This marks the third librarian loss in as many months and doesn’t include the library director who committed suicide. Three librarians, all never married, all without family, all more than 60, and all lifeless by heart attack. Freaky, don’t ya think? Like it’s some conspirator’s vendetta against librarians.”

     Eppy rolled his eyes. “Yes, a conspirator traumatized as a young boy, somewhere in the rustic black mountain back wood hills of South Dakota, by a cranky old maid librarian. So, for that reason, he hates to read, and as a result, theorizes he’ll give us all a favor by ridding librarians from the world. Old people die, Pattie. Heart attacks happen to them more than not, and above all, those with no family.”

     “Why, Eppy?” 

     “I don’t know, maybe because they don’t eat right, or no one tells them they should see a doctor.”   

     Unexpectedly, Mr. Chapman arrived, and Pattie offered her usual warm welcome. However, the mayor darted past her desk with a gruff, “Hello, kids,” as he hoofed straight into his office and closed the door.

     “I hate it when he calls us kids,” said Eppy. “He’s no more than 10 years our senior.”

     “If the law says what I gather it says, I became an adult two-and-a- half years ago.”

     “Right on, fair maiden.”

     “Eppy, your mail route visit is my favorite part of the work day, but while Mr. Chapman sits in, I better open and sort this bundle.”

     “I understand, Blue Eyes; I couldn’t live with myself if Grumpy gets upset at you because of me. See ya tomorrow.”

                              ___________________________

                                 

Lester escorted a shackled jailbird to, as some called it, the Water Hole. Paraded while chained brought fun for Les, who was certain it caused more than half the fear to wax on the offender’s mind. He never tired of forcing the men to pace his near impossible stride or to use the stun gun with his target practice promise on a foot-dragger. “Where to, Officer Anthony,” said the prisoner.

     “Schoolhouse.”

     “Schoolhouse? What’s that all about?” 

     “At the Schoolhouse, we teach you how to behave.”

     “Yeah, you got a problem then, cause I don’t read so good.”

     “I don’t have problems at the Schoolhouse.”

     “Why, you always bring an apple to some sweet, sassy, hot mama teacher?” 

     “I’m the teacher.”

     “Well, why don’t you bring in lady teachers and make school time, playtime?” 

     Lester yanked the wrongdoer to an abrupt stop and turned him face-to-face. “You want lady teachers?” 

     “You know I do, dumb ass.”

     “No problem, now turn around and walk.” As they both picked up the pace, Lester triggered his two-way radio. “Anthony to Central” 

     “Go ahead, Anthony.”

     “Request Officers Brambell, Rossington, and Junkin meet me at the Schoolhouse.”

      “Ten-Four.”

      “Ready to learn your prison school ABCs, tough man? Let me give you a simple what to expect from your three lady teachers and me. Subject A requires a painful, yet tolerable for a real man, strip search.”

     “Now wait, Officer Anthony, I played ya a snow job. I ain’t gonna give ya no trouble.”  

     “Subject B requires the essential power wash.”

     “Please, boss, you don’t gots to do this. I’ll do right from now on; I don’t want them lady officers, okay?” 

     “Negative, I need them to assist with your lessons, and the power wash.”

     “What’s a power wash?” he asked wide-eyed.

     “A four-way hose down on your body. Don’t worry too much; we don’t use fire hoses, but we also don’t use fancy massage showerheads either. Subject B will hurt some. And last, Subject C requires the most difficult course to pass.” Again, Lester yanked the restraints and forced the prisoner to turn. Nose-to-nose, Lester continued, “While still dripping from your power wash, you squat with nothing to keep your balance but your toes. Then you must hold your arms straight out from your right and left shoulder unbent and palms up. If any arm lowers or bends, your right palm shall get a severe blow from this club. If the ball of either foot touches the floor, or you lose your balance and your toes no longer provide the sole source of your equilibrium, your left palm shall receive like punishment.”

     Desperate to tender one last plea, the man begged, “Anything I can do boss, please tell me.”

     “You can tell us when you’re balanced. Then we clock you at five minutes, but don’t sweat it, man; nobody gets it right the first time.”

                          _____________________________________

                                                       

“I don’t know the answer,” confessed Madame Powell. “May I refer you to the city’s I.T. Supervisor, Mr. Gretsch?” 

     The chairman called for Mr. Gretsch to come up front. “State your name, please.”

     “Fredrick Gretsch.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Gretsch, we appreciate your attendance. For the continuity of the minutes, will you, Mr. Hessy, please restate your question addressed to Mr. Gretsch?” 

     “Glad to, Mr. Chairman. My question is this––why in this age of electronic development and its advanced stages of trace and locate, don’t we insist senders fill in ID requirements before they launch messages to our city departments?”

     “Mr. Hessy, this question has risen in my personal sessions with I.T. managers seeking defense. Each Ash Lyn website functions for the community’s hand-carry simplicity to contact us for whatever reason, and those reasons, initially, were defined by customer service, such as pay online ability, expertise helps, suggestions, and acceptance for questions and concerns. User-friendliness drove our purpose of guaranteeing public input. Because personal info is unnecessary, privacy to all residents remains by rights, counted on and secured.”

     Hessy double-pounded his tabletop with both fists clenched. “We mustn’t promote secured privacy to radical threat contributors and hate crimes. I insist required Personal ID be taken to a vote by the Council, and we put a stop to these offensive, fearsome messages to our government team.”

     “But, Mr. Hessy, a yes vote won’t stop, as you put it, hate crimes. Many public places offer internet access where the user could fill in an imitated e-mail, or worse, forge a name pertinent to an innocent bystander, yours for example, and you become strained to answer charges that can sooner or later end in a jury trial trapped with simple mistaken identity.”

     Mr. Hessy folded his hands and in part lowered his head with a sigh. “Your point is well received, Mr. Gretsch. I have no further questions.”

          “If nothing further,” said the chairman, “we stand adjourned.”

                                    ___________________________

                         

As Rosemary helped replace the last few chairs used by young mothers from pre-school story time, her name sounded followed by, “Telephone for you.”

     “Tell them one moment.” Satisfied the children’s room looked in tip-top shape, she asked which line held for her and headed to her desk. “Hello, Rosemary speaking, sorry to keep you.”             

     “Rosemary, so nice of you to apologize, but in truth, the wait lasted minimal to the least.”

     “Excellent. How can I help you?” 

     “Your help is vital. Three months ago, I learned the $100,000 grant for the main library arrived from the Chicago American Library Association.”

     “Yes, isn’t it phenomenal?” 

     “More than you know. It will please me further if confirmed the Dennis O’Dell Memorial Branch also received your $25,000 grant punctual ten weeks ago as had the other six branches.”

     “Right again; the grants arrived like clockwork, as promised, from Chicago.”

     “Magnificent news. Please listen carefully and treasure my few words to the wise till we’re together . . . do as I say, or get it wrong but still might think everything’s all right. This is the phone call my e-mail promised.”

     “Oh, as in some mystery spam prank? How did you get my e-mail, and what’s with your return address problem, Mr., um Mister––”

     “Pang. My name is Pang, not Mr. Pang, just Pang. As I said before, please listen.”

     “Okay.”

Pang shuffled a pencil and paper from his shirt pocket. “I necessitate the account number and its password that secure the Dennis O’Dell grant funds.”

     “Yeah, right, and I necessitate the man of my dreams to propose, but we both arrive empty.”

     “I abhor your insubordinate tone. You have a simple choice; I remove either 20% from the Dennis O’Dell grant account balance or 100% from your private reserves at Wells Fargo. To date, the grant fund holds close to $51,000. Your nest egg, on the other hand, contains $197,000. Tell me, which one will it be?” 

     “You’re a fraud,” she said. “Just because you somehow finagled the accounts’ correct totals doesn’t mean you can remove them.”

     “You try my patience; let me prove my extract promise. 20% from your savings account equals $39,400. Please take a look at your funds online.” The keyboard strokes click-clacked as she brought her account info onto the monitor. Stunned into silence, she couldn’t believe her eyes as they unraveled the scandalous affair . . . Wells Fargo account number 909-14-753: Transfer $39,400 to Ping Gou You Han Gung Ci Bank of Hong Kong. Transaction completed and accepted today at 12:08 p.m. local time. New Balance: $157,600.79.

     “I know this behavior is unwelcomed,” he said. “However, with your alliance to supply me the grant fund secret code, your money will return, and if you put your imagination to work, an idea how to conceal the 20% total I do take will come. Agree?”

No return answer.

“Must I remove your entire balance and bid you good day?” 

     “No, no,” she said. “Please, Pang, tell me again what you want me to do; I’m shaking so bad I can’t think.”   

     “Give me the account number and password to the Dennis O’Dell Grant Fund.”

     “Okay, I have it here in my file, give me a few seconds.” 

     “Take twenty seconds if you must.”

     “I found it, Pang, ready?” 

     “Ready.”

     A cold sweat shivered down poor Rosemary’s spine. “Use number 909-28-111 and password Slaggers, with a Capital S.”

     “Slaggers? What is that, dear woman?” 

     “My favorite night spot 40 years ago.”

     “Ah-ah, pining for the good old days, are we?”

     “In a way.”

     “Here is how this will work, Rosemary; I remove $10,200 from the library grant account. After I’m successful, I will return $39,400 back to your reserves. If I fail, your entire savings will evaporate, plus another misfortune shall befall you.” He could hear her dread. “Can you see, next to your desk phone, the snow globe paperweight?” 

     “Yes, Pang, I see it.”

     “Raise it above your head and remove the tiny packet underneath. Don’t touch what’s inside; keep it sealed.” She did as instructed and stared at the transparent aquamarine capsule no larger than a sunflower seed. “If you look close, Rosemary, you will notice a liquid encased within my pretty blue pill. This liquid renders odorless, tasteless, and most honored for its absolute untraceable talent when swallowed. The fluid was designed by a chemist who focused his research on painless methods of pet euthanasia, and he hasn’t a hint how the human heart reacts to his new lethal substance. But I can enlighten you. When given this little blue pill, stomach acids take less than two hours to break the sheath. Then, the heart, aware a dangerous foreign essence has entered the bloodstream, surrenders its will to pump. The result appears quick, painless, and branded by medical examiners as Sudden Cardiac Arrest. I tell you this because three librarians didn’t believe me and since passed on to their maker, diagnosed with heart failure. Will I fail again with the facts you have provided me? Or do you believe in my ability?”

     “I believe you, Pang. You won’t fail; I swear you won’t.”

     “Good, but if you ever disappoint me, Rosemary, or breathe a word to anyone, my little blue pill will somehow enter your bloodstream like it found its way underneath your paperweight.”

     “I won’t disappoint you, trust me.”

     “Thank you, Rosemary. If you’re still coupled to your bank account web page, click refresh, and your balance will show as before we spoke.”

     “How did you ever find so much about me?” 

     “I’m privileged to have known just a little extra.” Click.

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