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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