A-FRAMED SERIES
UNTRUSSED BOOK #1
By Don Ehrhardt
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Published by Smashwords.com
Permission given by
Dana Faye Publishing
2723 St. Hwy. Y
Forsyth, Mo. 65653
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COPYRIGHT © 2007 DON EHRHARDT
REGISTRATION NUMBER TX 6-954-418
ISBN #978-0-9801930-0-8
SECOND EDITION
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions therof in any form whatsoever.
For information contact: Dana Faye Publishing. 2723 St. Hwy.Y Forsyth Mo. 65653
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, organizations, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the extent of anything intended by either the publisher or author. This book again, is pure fiction.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Acknowledgments
First and foremost I would like to thank my wonderful wife for being with me while writing this book. She helped me greatly in proofreading and keeping me on track. We have been married 42 years; by knowing that, she is very patient.
Next I would like to thank my son Brandt for proofreading and rewriting certain areas of the book. He is an English teacher and a published writer.
Kindness to the extreme would be a very fine lady indeed, Penny Hasson. Her edits and comments greatly enriched the content of this book
Susan Marcussen, helped me gain confidence and was the final push that made me publish.
Our friends Clyde and Phyllis Ulm are avid readers and gave me verbal support when I was deciding trying to get started.
I would like to thank my sister Loretta Wright, for being my most long suffering critic. Her comment “Fix it right and this could be the number one best seller” was inspirational.
UNTRUSSED CHAPTERS
1. JUNKYARD DOG
2. THE LETTER
3. QUICK WEALTH
4. SALLY
5. SQUEAKER
6. BACK TO THE STREETS
7. GUESTS
8. POISON IVY
9. THE TRIP
10. SQUEAKERS FORTUNE
11. OCEANSIDE VILLA
12. SAM’S REVENGE
13. THE CAPER
14. THE PAY OFF
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UNTRUSSED
By Don Ehrhardt
CHAPTER 1
JUNKYARD DOG
The sun was just coming up as I walked up to the salvage yard’s greasy chain link gate, and pushed it open. I was to be on the job at six o’clock sharp, and it was five fifty-five by my watch.
I heard a muffled deep growl to my right as soon as I had closed the gate behind me. I raised my eyebrows, realizing what may be in store for me. The growl soon incarnated in the form of a large ragged Rottweiler. Paul, one of Bennie’s junkyard dogs, had emerged with a staggered plop from beneath the front clip of a rusted ‘71 Plymouth, baring his long white turned-in teeth that reflected the morning sunlight; he began intermittent barks that signaled for his brother, Peter, to come help.
“Shit! Bennie, get your dogs put up!” I yelled vainly, realizing that there was no one to hear my frustration. I scanned from side to side, looking for something to hit the dogs with, realizing that I had better find something soon.
Peter or Paul, individually, hadn’t the courage to attack something, even if the prey were small, but when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder they were simply hell on eight legs. I’d seen them pick up a cat and bite it into four pieces with two synchronized chomps.
They were trained to stay on opposing sides of the yard until called by the other.
“Get back, you bastard, or I’ll beat you to death,” I threatened the crouching Paul, all the time knowing I had nothing to beat him with but the meat on my fists.
I kept looking around, both for a weapon and to see if Paul’s partner in crime had arrived yet, and from which direction. Like a prize-fighter cutting off the ring, the dog maneuvered behind me, keeping me from going back through the gate.
At last, I saw it; about two steps behind me--a long hooked, thick-metal, homemade tire iron. My smirk of satisfaction was soon replaced with the “oh-shit” look I had given in many an alley during my growing up years. Peter was closing in.
Peter lunged from behind, at my left leg, and sunk his teeth into the calf muscle. I let out a groan as I limped for the tire iron, dragging the weighty dog with my own tearing flesh.
Paul decided he wanted some of this, too, and leaped for my left arm. I hit him with my fist and arm, knocking him back to the ground; his incisor had pierced through my coveralls, close to the elbow. I lurched again toward the tire iron, all the time dragging my canine dancing partner with me.
“You sons of a bitch. Just give me one more step, and I will give it back to you--lay into you like a carpet man!”
I could hear Bennie, the owner, calling from across the yard, but the two dogs had blood in their mouths now. I knew they weren’t going to stop until I stopped them.
Paul came at me again, vaulting for my left shoulder. My broad shoulders I had acquired, courtesy of Mc Neil Corrections, made more than a mouthful, even for Paul.
His teeth pierced my coveralls, but he didn’t have a good enough grip to sustain his bite long. A heave of my shoulder sent him sliding down the length of my arm snapping at the air as he fell.
The sustained grasp on my calf and the off-balance maneuvering I had done to wrench free of Paul, forced me to one knee. That extra surge forward put me closer to the tire iron. I stretched my six-foot-two frame to its limit and grasped for the hooked metal.
Paul was in midair, leaping for my jugular, as I felt the cold steel on the palm of my hand. I viciously swung the iron toward my own head. I could actually see the expression of Paul’s face change as the open, saliva-dripping mouth of satisfaction closed. The eyes winced as the bar connected with the back of the animal’s head. Paul’s near-lifeless body offered a few final twitches as I started to work on his cohort.
Since Peter was still behind me, attached to my leg, I began whipping the tire iron behind me like some intense jockey in the home stretch of a race for his life.
“Now it’s your turn, buddy—take this.” My first swing caught him in the chest area and didn’t seem to faze him. But the repeated strikes began to have their effect. He released his grip on my leg.
“Take that, you son of a bitch.”
The dog was rolling over trying to regain its footing when I turned the iron vertically, flattened end down, and drove it squarely into the chest of the struggling dog.
The big brown dog screamed and rolled, back and forth, trying to get loose of the metal stake. I yanked it, and on the second jerk it came out, leaving a gaping hole in his side. I could see a broken rib bone sticking out of his hide and bubbling blood spewing from the hole with every breath. He had dragged his dying body out of my sight by the time I had struggled to my feet.
I noticed the shine of the dogs’ blood on my coveralls, and could still feel my blood running down my ankle into my new tennis shoes where the warm blood met the crisp Seattle air.
“Not a bad kill for a thirty-five-year-old Dutch Frenchman,” I muttered to myself, surveying the damage left behind by what used to be the protection around Bennie’s place.
“Anderson, you good for nothing piece of shit! You killed my dogs!”
I threw the tire iron at Bennie’s feet, did an about-face like some soldier, pushed open the gate, and left. As I walked away, I felt drafts of air from the places where the dogs had ripped my coveralls and now allowed air to meet the wet blood. My arm and my shoulder ached. I thought about returning to give Bennie what the dogs had gotten, but decided killing a man over a couple of dog bites wasn’t worth getting the electric chair.
I traipsed down the never-ending railroad tracks toward downtown Seattle. I knew the parole officer would be after me soon for leaving my job at the salvage yard. Taking and keeping the job was one of the conditions of my parole. The railroad tracks were monotonous to walk, but monotony gave way to daydreaming and remembering.
“Hey, Anderson, let’s go swimming at the quarry,” came the voice from James Russet, riding his bicycle up our driveway in the suburb of Chicago, Illinois.
“Sure. Let’s go,” I replied swiping the sweat from my forehead with a backhanded sleeve. “I hope no one has cut down the rope swing. I’m going to swing off it today. I’m thirteen next week and I.....”
“What?”
“Well, I - uhm - I’m going to swim across the quarry.”
“Yeah, sure,” Russet came back with his sarcastic grin. “Phil Conner did it when he was sixteen, but he nearly died in the middle.”
“Yeah, well. I’m gonna do it. Just hide and watch.”
The hot humid days in Illinois made the sweat roll and drip down a body like wax on a burning candle. The only relief from the heat was to hide in the house under an air conditioner or go to the quarry and swim.
James and I sneaked off on most of the real hot days. I say “sneaked” because my parents never knew I went there. Not because they didn’t care. I just didn’t feel they needed to know, and they were usually busy enough without worrying about a kid like me.
I slid off my bike and into my swim trunks. After looking around for some wondering eyes, I scrambled up the old tree.
“Look at this James,” I yelled as I leaped from the worn tree branch and swung out to drop into the icy cold water. It got real sketchy after that. I recalled going under the water. I remembered lying on my side in the sand, throwing up water. After that I closed my eyes and lay on my back with the hot sun beating on my face. I awoke to a gentle female voice.
“Arthur, Arthur talk to us. We want to know if you’re all right.”
I opened my eyes to the most beautiful face I’d ever seen. This was my introduction to Bonnie, the new girl in town I had only heard about. Whether it was the tender sensual voice, the circumstances, or the raging hormones of an adolescent, I decided right then I loved her and always would. I learned later about what had happened ... the submerged log I’d landed on, and that she was the one who jumped in and saved me. James was too scrawny to get me out of the water. She had been swimming on another bank about a hundred yards down and had heard James’ hysterical shouts for help.
Pleasant memories came to a screeching halt as I heard a crunch and stumbled forward, stepping through a rotten portion of one of the railroad tie sending the rest of me forward to feel and smell the oil soaked wood and gravel before me. Congealed blood around my lower leg tugged at the hairs as my leg stretched out. I looked around for an audience.
“Well, shit,” I said with a smile, righting myself and proceeding down the tracks, reminiscing again.
Images appeared like a slide show--the first date, the first kiss, the college nights studying together, our marriage after graduation, and the magnificent A-frame house I had built for us. Bonnie and I made a handsome couple, she with the hour glass figure, tall and shapely in all the right places and her flawless pink cameo-face. And I with my dark olive skin and black curly hair, and face that turned a few heads.
I could envision driving up the newly paved and curbed driveway with its entrance gate, visual monitor and intercom. I would drive up the hundred yards of pavement in my new, dark blue Lexus, buzz the garage door and drive into the four-car garage.
The large fountain off to the right and the “moat,” as Bonnie called it, which completely encircled the house except for the driveway, was etched into my brain. I pictured, room by room, the elegance of our house and the large greenhouse that joined the master bedroom, 6,050 square feet of living space, not including the greenhouse or the indoor swimming pool.
The house’s interior elevated from the kitchen to the living room ... a full eight-and-a-half feet higher than the yard. My eyes narrowed as I recalled the hidden vault I had included in the house. Just below the master bedroom at yard level, made of thick concrete, the vault was a fortress. I had made it so I could enter by using either the master bedroom closet elevator or a combination key pad on the outside of the house that opened the heavy steel yard door. The ground entrance to the vault was obscure. So obscure, in fact, Bonnie had walked the yard for two years without ever noticing it.
I remembered moving to Seattle. Ah, yes! My teeth ground as I recalled James Russet and me setting up our own brokerage business.
I loosened my bite as I mentally wandered to the trading floor of the stock exchange. What an exciting time-trading options and stock! I shook my head as I looked down at the brown ties beneath and before me.
I could see James Russet on the witness stand as he sold me out. He, in his custom 3-piece, going on about some bad stock options I was accused of trading. Who had done the trading? I didn’t have a clue, but it sure as hell wasn’t the guy who spent four and a half years in the pokey. I clenched my jaws again.
“Son of a bitch--James Russet; I will fix that bastard if it is the last thing I ever do.” I was nearing downtown and still daydreaming.
“Hey, you stupid bum, get off the tracks, can’t you see that train coming?” The voice came from a gray-haired train security patrolman walking the street that ran parallel to the tracks. I looked up to see he was right, gave him an obligatory smile and leaped across the rail, then crossed the street to a large parking lot.
I could smell the oil that had leaked from the cars while their owners had watched the ball games. The mid-morning sun was making me sweat on top of the sweat I’d already produced earlier, making the coveralls I had on unbearable. I meandered into an alley and kicked off my shoes. I sat down and began taking my clothes off down to my blue jeans beneath.
Two street ladies in filthy clothes and matted hair started clapping and whistling.
“Hey, hunk, take it all off! We want a real show! That’s right just keep on peeling them off; we want some skin.”
I gave a surly smile and continued.
I transferred my wallet, a little change, and the letter I had received from Bonnie’s lawyer while in prison, to my blue jeans pocket. I threw the torn and bloodied coveralls by a drain pipe and walked on.
The blood had dried to the skin on my hands and arms, and was turning a dark brown color on my shirt and jeans. The small puncture hole by my shoulder resembled a bullet wound since it had bled significantly on both the front and back of my blue plaid shirt. I pulled my thin wallet out again to see how much money I didn’t have. I had reached a new low point in my life. “Let’s see,” I thought to myself. “Ex-con, on the run for jumping parole, fifteen dollars and thirty-five cents, one set of jeans with blood stains, blue denim shirt with blood stains, no home, my wife had probably divorced me, and I had no hope of a job. So what now?” I smiled, wiped the sweat from my thick two inch long black beard, chuckled and shook my head.
The old ladies on the street I had sneered at for whistling and mocking me were in the same condition I was now in. I had to learn a whole new way of life to survive. The thought of eating out of garbage cans started my throat gagging. Never in my life could I have imagined living like them. A Cambridge graduate and living on the street? Who’d ever heard of such a thing?
I was thirsty; the loss of blood and the long walk had taken their toll on me. Sleep. Sleep was on my mind, and I knew I had to find a secure place, or a cop would spot me and my freedom would be over. I walked down two blocks and turned into an alley. A bum was lying next to a dumpster, evidently drunk and passed out from sucking on the bottle. The proof was a large Port Thunderbird wine bottle still in his hand.
“Hey buddy, how about wetting my whistle with some of that wine? I’m dying,” I said, smacking my lips.
The bum had a beard like mine, only a little longer. He smelled like he had shit his pants, and he was dirty to the point of being layered in filth. He had on ragged clothes with holes in them, large black stains on the pant legs, and from his sprawled out position, I could see bare skin peeking out through the holes in the bottoms of both his shoes and his socks.
“Hey, buddy.” I shook him firmly this time and still got no response. The bottle was loose, but cradled in his hands. I needed a drink so badly I took the bottle and drank a couple of swallows. I placed my two fingers on his pale neck; it was cold with no pulse. I was so tired and thirsty I finished the bottle off and took a nap right beside him.
I woke up with my leg, shoulder, and head, hurting like hell. The bum was still there and so was the now empty wine bottle. I examined my wounds. They were swollen and red. The bite holes in my calf muscle were dark red to pink and had begun weeping yellow puss. I squeezed the infected holes on my leg as I yelled at the red-brick damp walls within the alleyway.
My stomach reminded me that I needed food. I looked around like some hysterical child who had lost a puppy. “How do I ...?” Money, I needed money to get food . . . and since the bum was dead already, he didn’t have any need of it. I emptied his pockets and wallet; I took out his driver’s license and saw a picture of me staring back. Well, at least he could have been a cousin with the beard and all. Mr. Allen Fartain, if you don’t have a police or prison record, I will have an unrecorded instant name change.” Allen Fartain---Al, I could get used to that.
I took all of his identity and left mine in his wallet. I thought, by chance, the law wouldn’t check too closely, and declare Arthur Anderson dead. Mr. Allen Fartain had a picture of a fat long-haired teenage girl in his wallet and on the back was hand-written. “I love you, Dad,” it was signed Beth.
My worth had increased to forty-five dollars and fifty cents. I planned to see about my wounds and check the identification of this Allen Fartain. I would then purchase some secondhand clothes. The blood stains and rips on body and clothes were too much and too big.
The sun was going down and I needed something to drink. I slowly walked to the small corner grocery store, bought a six pack of cheap beer and a big bag of pretzels. I wanted a big steak with a large baked potato, but pretzels and beer would do for tonight.
I took my dinner and walked, with great pain, down to the landing. The walkway was clear of people, and one of the areas had a real good view of the sunset. I took my goodies and sat with my legs crossed, eating and drinking, when I heard footsteps behind me.
“H-hey m-Mr., how about s-sharin’ a can of that beer with us?”
I looked back, and saw a big black man and two white men. I was caught in a difficult position, I just smiled. “Sure.”
“My name is Dwayne Jones. Everyone calls me Knuckles,” the black man said in a kind but raspy voice. He pointed to the one with the big nose. “This is Beakman.” He pointed again. “And that’s Cam.”
“W-W here ‘bouts do you live Mr.? B-by the way I d-didn’t catch the name,” Cam boldly stuttered, his head doing a nervous twitch or two for emphasis.
“I guess I live here, at least for now. My name, [thinking quickly], is Allen Fartain,” I said without hesitation. I handed out the beers and that sealed the deal... my name was Allen Fartain from then on.
I saw a quick smile from Cam, and heard a small chuckle from Beakman.
They ran with street names. I couldn’t wait to hear what they were going to call me.
Knuckles started talking about boxing, and I surmised he was an ex-boxer with a few too many ring fights under his belt, and maybe a few too many outside the ring, as well. His raspy voice made me think whiskey had burned the lining out of his vocal cords; however, I could see a lump on the side of his throat from the street light and figured that was probably the reason for his voice quality.
“Y-You know Al, I had a red and white 1955 C-Chevy convertible.” Cam smiled and said, with a tick of his head.
“I had to take a club along with me to keep the girls off”, chimed in Beakman.
“And I just took the ones that got batted away,” Knuckles added with a chuckle.
“C-Cut it out you two. T-This is my story,” Cam said sharply.
“We have heard the same story a thousand times,” the raspy voiced Knuckles interjected, “Give it a rest.”
“I wonder what June is doing this evening. I sure wish she’d ask me out. . . for dinner. . . or somethin’. She loves me. I can tell by the way she always wants to talk,” Beakman swooned as he spoke.
“B-Bullshit Beakman. Y-You do all the talking w-w-when you are with her. S-S-She is just a real nice lady. W-We all are in l-love with her,” Cam smiled as he looked at me.
We drank and ate all the pretzels and swapped stories for a couple of hours.
“We sleep up on Third Avenue and you’re welcome to join us. There are some rough customers on the street. The Third Avenue alley is usually peaceful. There are a couple of stinkin’ bitches that stay there. I don’t think you’d move in with ‘em. You can smell them two before you even see ‘em.” Beakman said as they got up and started to leave.
I got up and followed them to the alley. They pulled out cardboard boxes and covered them with plastic.
“Here Al, take this box and this bag,” Beakman said holding up an extra-large piece of plastic. “Slip the bag over the box, or in the morning you’ll be wet and the box’ll collapse. This box, with plastic, is called a luxury house,” he smiled. “The box without the plastic is called a one-night stand,” he said, making me laugh - something I hadn’t done in a long time. “We aren’t homeless here. These houses, they aren’t as big as normal, but then again, we don’t have to pay taxes on our houses.”
Beakman gave me the first of many lessons on status in a homeless society.
I woke up hungry and cold. My feet and the bottom half of my legs were wet. I hadn’t managed to curl up into the box, like my friends on the street.
I got up and took off hobbling down the street, on my own. I went to a computer store that had pay-by-the-minute on the Internet. I looked up Allen Fartain’s history. I discovered he hadn’t even a parking ticket violation. I took his name and, from that moment on, I was affectionately known as Al, or as Cam had dubbed me, “Fart”.
I stopped by the small grocery store and got a bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, and a coke for lunch. I skipped breakfast entirely and was now really hungry. The thought of already spending ten dollars for the beer, pretzels, bologna sandwich, and chips, had put my mind to thinking. “I will be broke in four days at this rate of spending. How do the homeless make it?” I questioned throughout the day.
Pain began shooting through my leg and shoulder. I hobbled back to the third avenue alley. No one was around, so I walked to the landing. I saw Cam and Knuckles two blocks north of me, so I headed that way.
“Hi, Al,” came the raspy voice of Knuckles.
“W-What the hell is wrong with your leg,” Cam said with concern.
“I got dog bit. My leg is infected, but I don’t have the money for a doctor.” I said as I grimaced.
“L-Let’s go see June,” Cam said, as we turned and went back north.
We went in to Pike’s Market and up the elevator, then got off. We passed five businesses and turned right at the Jonathan Herb Store.
“Hi, Al,” came the familiar voice of Beakman.
He was sitting on a bar stool at the store counter. Behind the counter was a lovely tan-faced lady; with a red and white dew rag on her head. She had on a white blouse with fringe. She reminded me of a gypsy. Her nose was rather sharp, and her hair, black as coal.
“Hi, Beakman. Good to see you again,” I said as I hobbled over beside him.
“I-I-I hope we aren’t interrupting anything imp-p-portant,” Cam interjected.
“June, this is Allen Fartain,” Beakman said with a grin.
June looked deep into my eyes with a piercing gaze.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Allen Fartain,” came June’s lovely voice, as she moved down the counter, and extended a jewel free hand and arm.
I saw in an instant why Cam had said every one of them was in love with her. I thought of kissing the hand I held, but I only shook it gently.
“A-Al needs your attention, June; he was d-dog bit and needs something to draw out the poison.”
June came around from behind the counter and led me to a table.
“Show me the problem,” June demanded.
I pulled up the jean leg, and showed her the puncture wounds. The holes had a more intense redness now, and the yellow puss had covered the holes.
“That bite is pretty deep. I don’t normally suggest getting an antibiotic shot; however, this is bad,” June said with concern, then bit her lip and furrowed her brow; in deep thought.
“I’m afraid I can’t afford a doctor. Well.....uh-do you have anything that could help?” I asked sheepishly.
June went behind the counter and took some powder from a bottle, mixed it with another powder, then rolled it up in some dried leaves.
“Go to a drug store and get some gauze, tape, iodine and ibuprofen. Clean the wounds and put iodine all over and around the wound. Put the leaves and powder directly on the wounds, put on the gauze and tape it down. This should draw out all the poison. Take the ibuprofen for pain and redness.
“How much do I owe you June?”
“Your life, if you get well, and if you don’t ....there is no charge,” She laughed.
I was smitten by the same love bug that had grabbed all my compadres. “What a lovely lady with a kind heart,” I kept thinking as we left.
“That will be ten dollars and fifty cents,” the clerk at the drugstore squeaked between chomps on her gum, extending her hand.
I pulled out my wallet and grudgingly put the money in her hand. I went from the drugstore to the closest alley and put the bandages on my wounds, just like June had advised me.
I watched the street people for the next few days. Not like a fellow street person, but as a scientist studying his experiment. Some “streeties” would observe tourists at outside restaurants like Ivar’s. As soon as the diners emptied their plates into the trash can, a hand from a passerby would reach down and rescue the pieces at the top of the trash containers. Some were even quick enough to rescue ice cream cones. Saving the food to eat later never entered their minds. Usually, they had it eaten by the time the patrons left the dining area.
Burger places were prime eateries; throwing away food that had been left in the bins too long was a common practice. The fresh bread store was another good place for fast hands. Busted loaves and ones that weren’t made to the right size ended up in the alley. Many were left in plain sight for street people to rummage through. Owners never complained about their human scrap recyclers because they knew it was a two-way street . . . or extortion, if one wanted to call it that. It all came down to store windows. The street people kept away from the front windows during the daytime hours, aware of what it might do for business. And business owners, usually new ones, who didn’t want to play this game, or yelled at us, usually got a brick delivered anonymously through their window.
“Hey, buddy, got a dollar for a guy a cup of coffee?”
This trite beggary, once upon a time, would have made my blood boil. I couldn’t figure out why people would be begging. I had never known what it was like to be totally without, and with no possibility of getting off the treadmill of poverty. Most of the street people I met weren’t there by choice, but for a variety of circumstances; drugs child abuse, family violence, failed witness protection, physical and mental disabilities......all examples of reasons for being on the street.
My attitude had certainly changed. I just smiled at the beggar on the corner and walked on. He was strapped for money, and so was I. I hoped I would not be reduced to begging, but I realized it could happen.
I saw out of the corner of my eye someone coming across the street, and I turned to meet him. “H-Hey Fart, why don’t you get more clothes? I saw you shivering this morning. C-Coats at the secondhand store ain’t that high. You can get a c-coat for around f-f-five dollars, and it will keep you from getting s-sick. I’ll go and help you p-p-pick out one, i-if you like?”
“You know what I need on the street better than I do,” I nodded and flashed a smile, “so let,s go.”
Thirty minutes later, Cam and I were in the secondhand store looking at coats.
“T-Try this one on, Fart. This is a s-seaman’s coat. The outside doesn’t absorb the s-stink of the street real bad, and, it’s f-for the most part w-water r-repellent.” I tried it on and it fit.
“Y-You need a shirt. That bandage under the tear in your shirt,” he pointed, “is an automatic s-sign to a c-cop that you’ve been f-fighting,” I nodded in agreement.
“Y-You need a Mariner’s baseball cap. P-People don’t screw with you when they see the hometown team hat.” He passed me the hat and I tried it on.
“Seven dollars and fifty cents,” the teller held out her hand. I slowly pulled out my wallet and counted the money, first into my hand, then hers. I couldn’t help noticing the big diamond on her ring finger, and the three gold necklaces around her neck.
The next morning, I woke up warm and well rested with a smile on my face. That coat was a wonderful investment.
“H-hey Fart, I want you to meet H-Helen. She keeps our coats in her basket during the day. This sure beats us carrying them around or l-leaving them here in the alley for some s-son of a bitch to steal ‘em.”
“Hi, Helen,” I said as I turned my head gasping for air. Her odor was so bad; I could hardly catch my breath.
“Al, that’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I replied while coughing.
“I charge one dollar a week to keep your coat and ride it around in my basket. I’m here every night. I’ve never been robbed and I don’t fool around, unless you have a good bottle of wine,” she said with the rise of one eyebrow, and a grin that exposed her missing front tooth.
I paid her the dollar out of desperation. I wanted to take a breath of fresh air. She left, pushing the basket with my coat. I thought I was going to puke before she disappeared around the corner.
“That has to be the filthiest lady that ever walked. Look at her hair; I doubt that it has ever seen soap. What’s with all the dresses? She had on at least four. A garbage truck smells like perfume compared to her. How would a man ever get next to that?” I spilled to Cam in one breath.
“S-She doesn’t have to worry about men or anything else when she s-smells like that, Fart. She prefers to l-live alone, and she makes sure of that by stinking.”
I thought about Helen, as I watched her walk away pushing the grocery store basket and shuffling her feet along in the rubber boots that were at least five sizes too big. I did remember her face, and it was pretty, except for the missing front upper tooth. She would habitually stick her tongue through it before and after she talked. I would have guessed her age between thirty-two and thirty-five. That would make her about my age, I thought, then shuttered.
“L-Let’s go to the Down and Out and eat dinner. This is Wednesday n-night and they always have s-s-spaghetti and m-meat sauce. Th-Th-That’s my favorite,” said Cam with a big smile on his face.
The pickings along the alleyways and streets had been slim that day. On the way to the Down and Out, we split up to expand our search area. Beakman and Knuckles took one side of the street and Cam and I the other. We had walked two or three blocks when we passed a store that rents nice clothes for weddings and such.
“Do you s-s-smell that?” Cam yelled as he came to a halt, summoning the rest of us to do likewise.
“Smell what?” I replied.
Cam walked around to the side of the building, stuck his hand in a trash can full of shredded paper and pulled out a bottle of champagne, then handed it to me. “Hold it.” He pushed back the tattered sleeve of his coat and put his hand back in the shredded paper, like some magician reaching for that elusive rabbit, and pulled out another bottle. The bottles were open, but both were over three quarters full. I was struck with amazement at the way he had sniffed out the champagne.
He found two cardboard boxes, just a little larger than the bottles, in a
dumpster across the alley, and we carried them to the Down and Out. Cam guided me to the next alley, took the two bottles out of the boxes and then slid them behind the drain pipes. I could smell the strong stench of urine on the brick buildings that lined the alley as I watched him.
“There, they s-should be safe for an hour or so. We’ll c-celebrate our find tonight.” Cam smiled while talking.
Beakman and Knuckles had already gone in to eat. Cam and I went through the single stained wooden door into the building that housed the Down and Out. The doorway stunk of stale cigarette smoke. A big NO SMOKING sign was posted on the outside of the door and on the cream-colored walls inside. I hadn’t been on the street long enough for my nose to become accustomed to the strong body odor and the stale smoke that lingered in the air, despite the large black overhead ceiling fans laboring to stir it.
“S-see the lady serving, Fart? S-She’s one of the nicest ladies I ever m-m-met. She always asks me if I want more. There has to be a special p-place in heaven for a l-lady like her. H-H-her name is Mary-Martha-Keenland.” Cam said, speaking her name fast, as if it were all one word.
“Who is your friend, Cam?” Mary-Martha Keenland asked, looking straight at me.
“This is Allen F-Fartain,” Cam said without hesitation.
“I have seen another Fartain in here that looks a lot like you. D’ ya have any relation around here?”
“No, Ma’am, I don’t. I hope he’s not as poor as I am.”
“Oh, I think he is,” Mary-Martha said as she plopped a large spoonful of spaghetti on my plate.
I searched her face to see if she was suspicious.
“Will that be enough?” she asked.
“Plenty,” I replied, and with that, she turned her attention to the short black man behind me in line, and that was it for any suspicion.
“Put your plate in here a little farther. I don’t want do drip the sauce on the floor,” came the husky voice of a large, sweaty white man with a big spoon and a solemn disposition.
Cam and I found a seat by Knuckles and Beakman. Reverend Bob slapped down the large spoon, on the stainless steel serving table, and all got very quiet.
“I am Reverend Bob Calvin. Praise the Lord for our daily bread. . .” began a short, but effective sermon from this same hulking sauce-scooper. He concluded with a prayer: “Lord forgive us our sins and help us to obey your writings, as we wander through this world and particularly this community. We give thanks for all the ministries that help in your work, distributing the food we are about to enjoy. Help our lives reflect our thankfulness for this food, and Your son, Jesus, who gave us a chance at an eternity, free from the plagues of this world if we are faithful. This we ask in the name of our good brother, Jesus, who came and gave his life for our filthy sins. Amen.”
I had never heard a prayer like that, but I could tell from the man’s voice and expression that it was from the heart.
“Cam, pass the salt... please,” Beakman said, as he sprinkled imitation Parmesan on his spaghetti sauce.
“Knuckles, I-I thought you didn’t like s-spaghetti,” Cam said, as he jerked his head twice.
“I’m hungry, an’ the pickings on the landing weren’t that good on the north end today,” came the rackety voice of Knuckles, at a whisper.
I could see him wince as he finished speaking. I could also see, in the yellow light of the filthy florescent bulbs that shed light on the white painted wooden tables, the large red lump on his throat.
“He needs a doctor and pretty quick or that shit will do him in,” I thought to myself. I considered saying something aloud, but I realized for the have-nots, medical care is just like barking at the moon.
Knuckles’ fists were enormous. Only the end of the fork he held could be seen, since the rest was engulfed in his massive fingers. I had seen a lot of hands and his were, without a doubt, the largest ever. His wrists were gargantuan. I shook my head as I thought of him as a boxer. It seemed like one gentle swat from Knuckles could end a fight in a hurry.
“Seconds,” came the voice of Mary-Martha, and the line started to form instantly. Knuckles moved quickly and made his way into the line. I finished my plate, took it to the washing window, and deposited it on the unwashed stack.
“Thank you Mary-Martha, the food was real good.” She smiled as I walked toward the door.
Helen had just put her tray through the window in front of me. I slowed, but could still smell the awful odor in the air trailing behind her. I stuck my nose to my arm pit and noticed my smell wasn’t that much better. She turned and smiled at me, sticking her tongue though the hole in her upper gum as she went through the front door. I slowed a little more to allow her to leave the entryway, so I wouldn’t be caught close to her, if she stopped. She stopped when she cleared the building, turned, and gave me a little wave.
“Thank you, Lord,” I said to myself as she got her basket and shuffled down the darkened street. The four of us-Knuckles, Cam, Beakman and I, collected the two champagne bottles and went to the landing overlooking the water. We sat and swapped stories, many of them repeats that always popped up as the night wore on, and the bottle was passed. We were all feeling good by the time the two bottles were finished.
After a few days, I fell into their regimen. Each morning, we got up and growled at each other for the first half hour; longer if we had hangovers. We would wander down to the bread store alley, then down to the Down and Out. We all ate breakfast at the Down and Out. Beakman would then go to the Pike’s Market and talk to June, while the rest of us went back to the bread store to get any few-day-old sweet rolls they might have thrown away.
The three of us would then go to the Pike’s Market, meet up with Beakman, and visit June and the regulars who worked there. We sat and talked a lot. We spoke about our pasts, making up lies and etching them into memory, so we could retell them as if they were true. Every now and then, especially with a bottle in hand, the truth would slip out. It was like one of the jigsaw puzzles my mother and I would assemble when I was growing up. I would try to piece each person’s life together in my mind, knowing there were pieces that didn’t belong and pieces I hadn’t seen yet. Nonetheless, it was sporting for me to put together these biographical puzzles.
I was walking just south of Ivar’s, a fish restaurant, when I saw Cam walking toward me. “Hi Cam, where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“J-Just headed to the herb store at P-Pikes Market. I need to see B-Beakman about some shoes. He found a new pair at a w-wedding doorway, you know, w-where everyone takes off their shoes and dances. He said they had h-high arches and a 12 narrow. That is my size and you k-know how narrow my feet are,” Cam said grinning from ear to ear.
We walked up the stairs instead of using the elevator, and finally reached the herb store. I heard Beakman down the hall making his pitch to June long before we actually saw them. We both stopped and listened, wanting to know what kind of a line Beakman was pitching.
“June I have a package of halibut steaks, and I would share them for a little attention tonight.” Cam and I looked at each other, simultaneously shook our heads and sprang into the shop.
“Break it up y-you two,” Cam barked as he walked to the counter.
“Beakman, we have some s-serious business to talk about, and I mean s-serious.”
Beakman laughed “You mean shoe business. Ha. Come along,” he said, waving us to the back part of the store as if he were a salesman. Beakman walked slowly over to the corner beside the back door and opened a brown paper bag, stuck his hand in, and out came a shiny pair of long expensive-looking shoes.
Cam sat down in the floor and removed his old shoes. They had completely worn through just above the arch supports. I could not only see holes, but dirty skin, as well. He must have been in pain every step he took. The sight reminded me of the man whose identity I now wore. I shook my head.
Cam proceeded to put the shoes on, and he couldn’t hide the smile that beamed from his face.
“Now let’s talk price, Cam,” mumbled Beakman.
“Ok,” Cam replied, lowering his head in a humbled gesture. His head was ticking like a fishing cork with a fish on the hook. The ticking abruptly stopped as Cam’s memory was sparked. “T-These shoes are dancing shoes and I-I will give you the same thanks for them you gave me the l-last time it s-s-snowed. Remember, y-you had a hurt leg and I shared my b-b-big brown Maytag #5 w-washer box with you. Remember? And you snored—sounded like a foghorn.”
Beakman nodded and smiled, “You got me there. Guess we’re even then. Glad they fit ya. I was about to unload these puppies on a penguin before I remembered you had feet, skinny feet, like they do.” We all chuckled.
Cam took his old ones and plopped them into the waste can on the other side of the back door.
I noticed two things the whole time they were talking; Cam’s nervous head tick and the enormous nose on Beakman. His nose was a monster nose. It was not only long; it had a sharp bend at the mid point. I did a double take on him the first time I saw it. I thought he had two noses instead of one. Everyone stared at it; it was impossible to notice anything else about him.
“How’s the leg and your shoulder, Al?” June asked with concern.
“You should have been a doctor, June,” I told her, and I could see a smile creep across her face.
She had a smile similar to Bonnie’s, and I thought of Bonnie each time I saw her. My heart ached for Bonnie—at least my memories of Bonnie. So much time had passed and so many things had been done... things I didn’t know if I could tell her, or if she would even want to hear. “She is probably married to someone else now and living in a mansion,” I thought to myself and shrugged.
June was leaning on the counter with her elbow, and had her chin in the palm of her hand. Her face had large pores, but no acne. The pores were uniform and clean. She was a very attractive lady, and the scent of her lotion or perfume, made me want to get even closer.
“Al, I love doctoring people. I like growing my own herbs and health plants. The cost of medical school was just too high for me to go and stay. I’ll continue growing my plants in my small apartment, and maybe someday,” she shrugged, “I can find a bigger place.”
My mind drifted back to the A-frame and the enormous greenhouse attached to our bedroom. Bonnie would fill it with flowers, and the house would smell so good I especially enjoyed the lilies.
“Al! Al, you daydreaming again?” I looked along the counter to see Knuckles.
“Sorry, what were you saying, Knuckles?”
“I said Beakman had better watch out. I think you are making time with June.”
June turned and started dusting off the herbs and health food containers. I didn’t want any conflicts to develop, so I turned back towards the entrance and walked out with a quick, “See ya.” Knuckles and the rest followed.
My street friends had problems, but so did I, and we all, in our own way, helped each other to survive another day.
I awoke wet and shivering the next morning. The previous evening, I’d found a full fifth of whiskey someone had hidden in some old tires behind an auto parts store. We had watched the harbor lights, traded lies, a scant few truths, and ranted and bitched about life’s turns, and why we ran from our families.
My life story included a dead wife, the car wreck that killed her, and how I blamed myself for her death. Pure unadulterated bullshit, but I had plans and those plans didn’t include telling the real-life story of Arthur Anderson. I had been Al Fartain far too long, and my newly acquired friends were comfortable with Al.
I developed a love for Cam, Knuckles, Beakman and June. I was closer to them than I had been to anyone in my life, other than Bonnie.
Sunday morning was a real treat for me at the Down and Out Kitchen. The kitchen was supported through the area churches, I found out. They had rules at the kitchen for getting free meals, and the main one was: Stay awake and listen to the Sunday sermon.
My gut was killing me because of the dry heaves I had suffered through in the alley about an hour earlier. Due to what? I hadn’t a clue. I was munching on the delicious SOS (sausage gravy on toast or a biscuit) that was commonly called shit on a shingle,” except in the Down and Out. Reverend Bob was giving it his all, telling us how we should rise above our condition, throw away our bottles, and give ourselves to the practices of the Lord Jesus Christ.
My life was a wreck, and I thought to myself, only the Lord Jesus Christ could straighten it out, but I had something to straighten out by my own hands before I could lean on his promises. An ironic thing happened at that moment; Mary Martha started playing, “Leaning on The Everlasting Arms”.
We left the Down and Out and went wandering the streets.
“Look at this. Wow!! Look at this. This is my lucky day,” I blurted out to the guys, zipping up my pants as I stepped away from the alley wall.
I skipped a few yards, and reached down to the pavement. “Hey, you guys! Come look at this.”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘piss’. We all do it,” Beakman smiled.
“No, really, Cam, Knuckles, look, look, look. I found a whole paper. I can’t believe it.”
I began to sing and dance around, holding the paper up in the air as if I’d found some key to a locked portal. Cam and Knuckles shook their heads and walked off. News was not important to them, but they knew I could sit and read a paper from front to back and be pleased as punch. They also knew it was a rarity to find a current paper intact. Beakman cared a little about the news, but seeing the other two walk away, I hurriedly caught up to them.
My heart raced as I looked at the front page. There he was, in living color, with a large caption. James Russet Named Broker of the Year by the Board of Trade. It was the Seattle Times, and I was befuddled that a newspaper couldn’t find something more interesting to grab the headline. The caption was in bold letters and James was holding an award in front of himself. My jaw muscle flexed, and my eyes squinted with revenge.
I was so pissed I thought the day couldn’t get much worse, so I retrieved Bonnie’s tattered letter from my front pocket and opened it. I had been carrying the sealed envelope with me since I was released from prison. I was sure the contents included a statement from Bonnie about a divorce. I hadn’t written her while I was in prison. I didn’t have anything that was good to write about, and I wasn’t that good at writing love letters anyway. Bonnie could find . . . should find, somebody else who loves her, and would not be the burden I had been.
Before I had gone to prison, the internal revenue service had seized all our property. They had confiscated all of our holdings and the deposit box contents. I was a broke man, and so was Bonnie. She had gone to live with her parents when another crashing blow came to her life: James Russet sold her father’s commodities that had been called, and it wasn’t in her father’s favor. The transaction costs had bankrupted him, and forced him and his family to return to Arkansas.
The last letter from Bonnie had said that her father was working in a hardware store for minimum wage. They were living in a rented house within walking distance of the store. Bonnie had taken a job with a local insurance agency, and she was lonely, but still loved me deeply.
When I got out of prison, I truly wanted to go get my Bonnie and start a new life, but with what? I was an ex-con now, and couldn’t get a good job. The commodities board would never let me buy, or sell, as an agent. I had spent my time in prison studying the law, so I knew I could get even with that bastard James Russet, but I didn’t want Bonnie getting hurt. I was going to get James, legally or illegally. The revenge against James had outweighed my love for Bonnie. My time spent in prison was spent in the legal aspects of taking down James, but being out of prison without any extra income had made going after him a waiting game. Now I had screwed up my life with Bonnie and couldn’t get my revenge with James. I stood up, pulled my hair while shaking intently, yelled at the top of my voice and then threw the newspaper into the air like some small child throwing a temper tantrum.
“I might just as well get the rest of the shit in my life out in the open,” I yelled then sat down in the alley, leaned back against the piss stink’n alley wall and fingered for the envelope.
THE LETTER
CHAPTER 2
Now was the time. Like some woman enduring the madness of repeated false labors, I had eagerly awaited the arrival of this “child” I had been carrying. I took a deep breath as I removed the crumpled dirty envelope from my back pocket. I opened it, and found another folded envelope inside addressed to me as well. Opening it, a business card fell out with the letter...“Yup, a lawyer,” I thought.
Dear Mr. Arthur Anderson,
We regret to inform you that your good friend and boyhood playmate Samuel Beloit Jr. has died.
The firm of Watson, Bison, and Reed has been declared executor for Mr. Beloit, and you have been named in his will.
I am aware you are currently in a correctional facility and will be released shortly after your receipt of this letter, pending your parole. You may come into our Seattle office as soon as reasonably possible, so that we can discuss with you the will of the late Mr. Beloit, and any fees associated with its execution.
Sincerely,
Jim Reed
The letterhead gave the address of the office they had in Seattle, as well as offices in both New York, and Chicago. My brow furrowed as I tried to recall Samuel.
“This must be a joke,” I thought, and then shrugged. “But what have I got to lose?”
I laughed aloud and stopped abruptly. “Where were the divorce papers?”-the thought came to me and the puzzled look returned to my face.
I had some thinking to do as I walked the landing boards of the sound. I was a little hungry now, so I walked by Ivar’s to see if some nice people had thrown away some French fries or pieces of fish. I was always looking for a bowl of clam chowder, but usually not much luck. The thought of an inheritance lightened my step, but I knew better than to go ape-shit and run clear to the other side of downtown; a meal had become the fundamental need that I had to full before doing anything else.