From the files of Lloyd.
Game five. Illinois (IL) at Nebraska (NE).
27 Sep. 2014 0636
The talk all week has been a litany of otherwise in-tuned and dialed-in Huskerfan imitating Admiral Ackbar, 'It's a Trap!' Theory: It's just to give the peeps something to jaw about in order to bleed off the impending Michigan State excitement. No one wants to say it, but this game is just a glorified practice. McNeese State be damned.
27 Sep 2014 1458
The pre-gaming is more sedate than last wee. The booze is flowing and the hot, young, girlies are still trying their best to look like some sort of football-themed hookers. One I saw had a too-small t-shirt that looked like it read, 'Hus ers', but the rip down the middle, revealing an embarrassing amount of decollatage. Her too-tight jean shorts and too-tall heels completed the look. A look that said, 'name your price' way before it said Go Big Red.
Not that the lads were much better. Too many douchey hats and douchey sunglasses hung jauntily behind the head. Douchey flip-flops with basketball shorts. Almost preferable to desperately hanging on to youth guy in his replica jersey that fit really well when he was in college. Add 20 years and 40 pounds, the 11 on the chest looks like an 0, straining to complete itself.
27 Sep. 2014 1814
Trying to get into the mood. Just can't. Not sure what the deal is. Maybe it's the foregone conclusion nature of this game, in my mind. I do want to see how it unfolds, but it almost feels like I know how the movie ends, the book's final chapter. Maybe I'm getting too old to be wandering around through the pre-game masses. The mass among the masses. Extreme unction for the visitors granted before the last breath has left. The Host consumed by the hosts in the weekly ritual. The Host being brats and burgers. Drink of my blood, for it has ethyl alcohol. Community communion.
27 Sep. 2014 2006
Finally. The wait for this kickoff has been a grind. I dig that it's prime-time, but it's not, really. It's only on the BTN and even then, most of the country is getting other games. Who are we kidding? Most of the country really doesn't care about this game. Maybe a few Heisman voters want to peep in and see how FearAmeer does, but beyond that, this is really a private grudge match between a fan base that I smelling a return to glory and a fan base that is smelling the same old unwashed socks.
27 Sep. 2014 2147
First half is done. FearAmeer is a force to fear. 21 carries, almost 200 yards. The line is just destroying their assignments. If you thought what they did to Miami was impressive, what they did to (IL) was text-book. Chapter 1, 'How to Run-block'. Every time Ameer touches the ball, it seems like he could break it. FearAmeer opens the scoring. Weapons of environmental lethality launched. After one quarter, 127 yards rushing. Leave him in for the whole game, and he'll finish with 500+. Tommy had a rough start, 0-2 and a pick is not how you want to get things going. The pick was a bad one, too. Tommy was rolling right, keeping his eyes downfield, so far, so good, pursuit getting to him, sideline approaching, Tommy stops, plants, throws back across his body, and into a stiff wind. Linebacker picks it off. Tommy still suffers from tunnel vision, at times. He still blocks out defenders from his vision. The Illini continued the tradition of visitors scoring on their opening drive. 41-yard burst right up the gut. MIKE got lost. Cooper got juked. IL makes it 7-7. After Tommy's pick, IL moved right on down the field, again, the D finally holds inside the 10, and snatches a pick back. Huskers drive, again, but Imani Cross fumbles at the end of a play. I say he got face-masked, but what I say doesn't matter. End of one, score is 7-7. Huskers not quite hitting on all cylinders. Illini gaming it, letting it all hang out.
Second quarter. Boom. Illinois ran 15 plays. One was a big pass for a touchdown. Other than that, IL gains 23 yards on 14 plays. Boom number one, FearAmeer from 8 yards out. 14-7, NE. IL throws another pick, which sets up boom number two. FearAmeer from 2 yards out, 21-7 NE. A 3&O sets up Boom number three. 63 yards strike to Kenny, a thing of beauty. First and 10 from their own 37. Tommy fakes the handoff, sets up in the pocket, waits, waits, waits, pressure coming, uncork that big right arm. It looks too long. Wait. What? A quarterback can overthrow a receiver. Yes. but not this time. Right on the numbers. Afrothunder80 for the TD. Message to IL, we can hit this any time we want. 28-7, NE. IL hits their big play, making it 28-14, and Husker fan is still nervous. A made field goal and a missed field goal that had the range but not the accuracy, closes the book on the first half. 31-14. IL wants to go home. Bo won't let them.
27 Sep. 2014 2349
The second half, becomes a battle against topor on offense. Ameer got his 200 and is sitting. Imani plays most of the second half. Imani is a good back. Imani is bigger. Imani is no Ameer. yet. The defense is keeping things fresh, though. Playing with seven defensive backs in 'Dollar" set. It's fun. Illini QB, O'Toole cant solve it. O'Toole tries to read it, but it's like Sanskrit. O'Toole scrambles, O'Toole meets RG4 a couple times. Illini shut out for the second half. Defense figuring it out? For all the fear and loathing of an 'average' defense, they have only given up 8 touchdowns when a game was still in doubt.
Somehow, the fourth quarter is slightly more interesting. Get to see guys that you've never heard of. Ryker Fife getting some experience. Jordy Nelson trying to show why he deserves to move from 4th to 3rd on the depth chart. The defense rolling over the Illini offense like a Labrador that found a dead squirrel in the back yard. Just to finish things, and to prevent another garbage touchdown in the final minute. Pooch turns the dogs loose. Zaire blasts O'Toole on the final play. Game over.
28 Sep 2014 0013
The walk home is soothing. 5-0 soothing. I don't want to think about the 300. Nebraska still won't get any love. Doesn't really deserve any until after Thermopylae, anyway. Just a hunch, but I think that this might just be the first half of a double-header. The sound of 6-0 is almost enough to make one giddy.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Stuck and Bring on the Illini
I was beginning to get a little bit down on the prospects for the case. I could see why the initial investigation had gone exactly nowhere. I was leaning heavily toward the theory that Jamie had just pulled a runner. She was an adult. Maybe she had just gotten fed up with whatever it was that people get fed up with and decided to ditch it all.
The husband and the boyfriend elements were plausible enough pressure points. Hubby was ignoring her, and maybe boyfriend was coming on too strong. Maybe he was pushing for more commitment to him. Maybe he was making the demand for her to get off the fence and go all in with him. That would mean breaking up the happy home and still having to chance running into ex-hubby all the time. There would also be the element of trading down. Would she be willing to trade down to junior level cop income, instead of rising star real estate rainmanker?
That could make someone bolt.
It seemed that Ricky-boy held out hope. He had never gotten the marriage annulled or filed for divorce in absentia. Maybe there was a reason for that. I had to make a mental note to dig deeper on that trench.
The big, man, gorilla in the room was, of course, Detective Jim Tompkins. His role in this affair, ha, made it delicate work and tantalizing, as well. I was pretty sure he wasn't trying to find her just to re-kindle some puppy-love romance from back in the day. That would not sit well with Mrs. Jimbo, and would not look particularly good if he decided to make chief, someday. Average Joes and Janes tend to want their top cop to be a paragon of virtue. Ha, again.
The fact that he dropped this in my lap, also meant that he really didn't know her whereabouts, and didn't make her disappear. He might have contributed to the getaway fund, knowingly or unknowingly, but I was betting heavily against his being an accomplice. His actions during the investigation negated that theory.
What about the old mentor-detective? He was still alive. Maybe I could get something out of him. His name was in the files along with those of the three other girlfriends that still lived here. The leads were narrowing and I was getting ready to drop the whole thing back into Jimbo's lap. But the niggling nagging voices just wouldn't let it go. This one was too interesting, too many almost there elements that kept dodging away, like the images in dreams that slip out right after you wake up.
Maybe I needed a falafel, or a taco.
Maybe I needed to stop worrying so much about the why. Get down an examine just the what. People do weird shit all the time that they can't explain. Usually nothing this big. Usually it's why did I put my car keys in the fridge? Why did I leave the milk on the counter? Why did I decide, that one time, to give that complete stranger a lift?
I hadn't completely ruled out the stranger danger theory, either. There was a possibility that she met up with a Bad Man, who took her and wouldn't let her go. There were biker gangs that had been known to snatch women and trade them like currency. I didn't have any real evidence to suggest that, it was just a possibility.
I decided on falafel.
I ducked into a place, downtown, that has been there, forever. Awesome food and pretty cheap, too. Lloyd was there, collating and analyzing. I sat down with him.
"Is all this work, or hobby related?" I asked as I plopped my styrofoam plate onto the table.
"A little from column A and a little from column B," he replied without looking up. "In the reports, did you see where Jamie's car was found?" he asked, mildly accusatory.
"Yeah, it was right where her friends said they dropped her off at the end of the night."
"Yes, but where, exactly, was that? Think now."
I tried to recall the files. I remembered that it was outside, at a metered spot, which was free after 6 p.m. "The friends said that she parked there because she got lucky since it was only a block away from the bar they were going to start at."
"Well done," Lloyd said, glibly. "It was also right across the street from what prominent transportation node?"
I pulled the map up in my head. There weren't any transportation nodes, in that part of town. Then it hit me. At the time of the disappearance, the bus station was right across the street. "The bus station. Damn it. Why didn't I think of that. It's where the Embassy Suites is, now, right?"
Lloyd just nodded.
"I could see that," I said. "Get in the car, start digging through the purse, wait for the girlfriends to skedaddle, pop the trunk, grab a bag and be on the next bus out of town. I think you're on to something."
Another nod. "Not that you care, and not that it is all that important, but Nebraska is going to crush Illinois."
Sudden change of subject. How very like Lloyd. "Why do you think it will be a crushing?" I asked, almost out of obligation.
"Their run defense is awful and Nebraska's strength is the rushing attack. Not just better, but dominant. I'd be willing to wager that three Huskers will finish the day with 100+ yards rushing."
"Okey, sounds good. What about this being a trap game? A big, emotional win over Miami. last week, and a HUGE game with Sparty, next week, and don't forget the near melt-down against McNeese State."
Lloyd scoffed. "That's the kind of crap radio hosts come up with to keep people listening for a week. Let's make it all we're so weak, we are vulnerable, this bad thing might happen, blah blah blah."
"So, you're not at all concerned?"
"Not in the least. We still won't get much national credit, but the important thing will be that Nebraska will be 5-0 heading into East Lansing and what will be the biggest test, and biggest game of the year, to this point."
"All right, then," I said. "What is your prediction for the final score?"
"Nebraska 59, Illinois 17. Ameer runs for about 150, Tommy 125, Cross 110."
I finished my falafel and decided to track down bus route records.
The husband and the boyfriend elements were plausible enough pressure points. Hubby was ignoring her, and maybe boyfriend was coming on too strong. Maybe he was pushing for more commitment to him. Maybe he was making the demand for her to get off the fence and go all in with him. That would mean breaking up the happy home and still having to chance running into ex-hubby all the time. There would also be the element of trading down. Would she be willing to trade down to junior level cop income, instead of rising star real estate rainmanker?
That could make someone bolt.
It seemed that Ricky-boy held out hope. He had never gotten the marriage annulled or filed for divorce in absentia. Maybe there was a reason for that. I had to make a mental note to dig deeper on that trench.
The big, man, gorilla in the room was, of course, Detective Jim Tompkins. His role in this affair, ha, made it delicate work and tantalizing, as well. I was pretty sure he wasn't trying to find her just to re-kindle some puppy-love romance from back in the day. That would not sit well with Mrs. Jimbo, and would not look particularly good if he decided to make chief, someday. Average Joes and Janes tend to want their top cop to be a paragon of virtue. Ha, again.
The fact that he dropped this in my lap, also meant that he really didn't know her whereabouts, and didn't make her disappear. He might have contributed to the getaway fund, knowingly or unknowingly, but I was betting heavily against his being an accomplice. His actions during the investigation negated that theory.
What about the old mentor-detective? He was still alive. Maybe I could get something out of him. His name was in the files along with those of the three other girlfriends that still lived here. The leads were narrowing and I was getting ready to drop the whole thing back into Jimbo's lap. But the niggling nagging voices just wouldn't let it go. This one was too interesting, too many almost there elements that kept dodging away, like the images in dreams that slip out right after you wake up.
Maybe I needed a falafel, or a taco.
Maybe I needed to stop worrying so much about the why. Get down an examine just the what. People do weird shit all the time that they can't explain. Usually nothing this big. Usually it's why did I put my car keys in the fridge? Why did I leave the milk on the counter? Why did I decide, that one time, to give that complete stranger a lift?
I hadn't completely ruled out the stranger danger theory, either. There was a possibility that she met up with a Bad Man, who took her and wouldn't let her go. There were biker gangs that had been known to snatch women and trade them like currency. I didn't have any real evidence to suggest that, it was just a possibility.
I decided on falafel.
I ducked into a place, downtown, that has been there, forever. Awesome food and pretty cheap, too. Lloyd was there, collating and analyzing. I sat down with him.
"Is all this work, or hobby related?" I asked as I plopped my styrofoam plate onto the table.
"A little from column A and a little from column B," he replied without looking up. "In the reports, did you see where Jamie's car was found?" he asked, mildly accusatory.
"Yeah, it was right where her friends said they dropped her off at the end of the night."
"Yes, but where, exactly, was that? Think now."
I tried to recall the files. I remembered that it was outside, at a metered spot, which was free after 6 p.m. "The friends said that she parked there because she got lucky since it was only a block away from the bar they were going to start at."
"Well done," Lloyd said, glibly. "It was also right across the street from what prominent transportation node?"
I pulled the map up in my head. There weren't any transportation nodes, in that part of town. Then it hit me. At the time of the disappearance, the bus station was right across the street. "The bus station. Damn it. Why didn't I think of that. It's where the Embassy Suites is, now, right?"
Lloyd just nodded.
"I could see that," I said. "Get in the car, start digging through the purse, wait for the girlfriends to skedaddle, pop the trunk, grab a bag and be on the next bus out of town. I think you're on to something."
Another nod. "Not that you care, and not that it is all that important, but Nebraska is going to crush Illinois."
Sudden change of subject. How very like Lloyd. "Why do you think it will be a crushing?" I asked, almost out of obligation.
"Their run defense is awful and Nebraska's strength is the rushing attack. Not just better, but dominant. I'd be willing to wager that three Huskers will finish the day with 100+ yards rushing."
"Okey, sounds good. What about this being a trap game? A big, emotional win over Miami. last week, and a HUGE game with Sparty, next week, and don't forget the near melt-down against McNeese State."
Lloyd scoffed. "That's the kind of crap radio hosts come up with to keep people listening for a week. Let's make it all we're so weak, we are vulnerable, this bad thing might happen, blah blah blah."
"So, you're not at all concerned?"
"Not in the least. We still won't get much national credit, but the important thing will be that Nebraska will be 5-0 heading into East Lansing and what will be the biggest test, and biggest game of the year, to this point."
"All right, then," I said. "What is your prediction for the final score?"
"Nebraska 59, Illinois 17. Ameer runs for about 150, Tommy 125, Cross 110."
I finished my falafel and decided to track down bus route records.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Nebraska 41, Miami 31
From the files of Lloyd.
Game four. Miami, (Fla.) (MiaF) at Nebraska (NE).
20 Sep. 2014 0535
Huskerfan is jacked. Jacked, man. The Hurricanes blew into town with all their brashness and bravado and bullshit. These cats are not the cats of yesteryear. It's not Michael Irvin and Warren Sapp and Vinny Testaverde. These are not the dudes you grew up hating because not only did they act like assholes on the field, they had the audacity to back their shit up with their play. No, these weren't the fearsome tigers of the 80s and 90s; these guys were more like bocats or lynx, still dangerous, but not nearly as much as their progenitors.
I hate discussing games as duels between opposing players of the same position. It doesn't matter if Brad Kaaya will play Better than Tommy Armstrong. It makes no difference if Duke Johnson outduels Ameer Abdullah (as if). The matchups are how Kaaya will handle the noise of the 91,000 people baying for his blood How will Ameer keep moving the chains against a fast, athletic defense?
Those are the kinds of things I seek answers to. Those are the things I hope to gain insight to.
20 Sep. 2014 1347
The crowd downtown is well on their way. The red beer (tomato juice and beer) is flowing in quantities that remind one of a slaughterhouse. Middle aged-moms and pops are tippling their wines. The young and single are tossing brewskies as they flirt and mingle. Hot girls in next to nothing are tossing back shots and petitioning the Lord with prayers of 'Ohmigaw'. Fierce, young laddies are in pursuit, posing and displaying, crushing defenseless aluminum into lifeless, drained recyclable slag. At this rate, the crowd will be at full roar. Maybe volume setting 9. Not 12. Never 12. Seattle is 12 and the old gal on 10th street never gets to Seattle level.
20 Sep. 2014 1905
The was a near riot at the Indian Center. 3,000 drunk kids squared of with some tour buses. Cops got called. City cops, County cops, Statie cops. Inter-agency differences set aside in order to present united front and ride to the rescue. Crowd got restless, crowd got stupid. Too much booze? Ya think? One cop caught a can off her noggin, sent to the Krankenhaus. There's one dude looking at serious offense, Felony Assault on an Officer. Probably best throw of his life. Now he wants it back. Yes, drunken bacchanal at the Indian Center. Irony lost only on those there.
20 Sep. 2014 2014
First half is done. The NE o-line seems to be grind-grind-grinding the MiaF front into a fine powder. Not done yet, but they will break by the third. Ameer to the left, Ameer to the right, Ameer right up the gut, between the tackles. MiaF has no answer. They hit him high, he spins away, the hit him low and he balances for extra yards as he falls. He's smiling. He's feeling it. Ameer is crushing it. It didn't start out so comfortable. MiaF went right down the field to open the scoring. Three straight first downs. Yet another game of the defense looking at each other with 'whatthefuck' faces on the opening drive, again. NE answered. Lightning strike to AfroThunder from 40 yards out. MiaF stopped on an INT. Despite that, Kaaya looks poised. Things got sloppy after that. Both sides traded punts, and Tommy pulled a Taylor and fumbled on the run. MiaF moves at will, goes up by a touchdown. Ameer responds. Touchdown back. Huskers forced a 3&O. More Ameer. Have to settle for a field goal. Since MiaF scored last, Huskers outgained Canes 129-(-1). 25 plays to 3. TOP 12:43-1:109.
20 Sep. 2014 2238
The second half started where the first left off. More Ameer. The mere mention of Ameer has the MiaF d-line cringing. The NE o-line is looking magnificent, standing the tired 'Cane d-lineman up and driving them back. MiaF d-backs getting a workout making all the tackles. Long grinding drives traded. NE jumps out 24-14, about to put the dagger in, but Kaaya and company responds. Steals a march and is right back in it 24-21. Tommy and Ameer are driving back to push lead back out when Tommy throws a pick. Bad pick. Slap you in the helmet bad pick. Mighty Mouse saves the day. Crushes Hurricane hearts. Trevor Roach, filling in for scuffling Josh Banderas, forces the Duke to fumble. Josh Mitchell, all 5-9 and 175 pounds of him scoops and scores. Dagger in the heart.
Canes not quite done, yet. They have to throw, now. Kaaya throws a pick to Nathan Gerry, good return, flags fly. Canes throwning down, scuffle edging on ruckus brewing. Bullshit call on Valentine for roughing the passer. More bullshit as unsportsmanlike penalties offset. Bo turns red. Bo yells. Bo points for emphasis. Bo gets nowhere. Field goal traded for a field goal. 34-24, at this point. Must hold until relieved. Kalu gets a pick. Miami starts shit. Brawling and jawing near the sideline, 'there there there, boys' turns into 'get the fuck back to the sidelines'. Miami imploding, Hurricane force winds only coming from their mouths. The team is a summer breeze. Ameer from 10 yards out Head on a stake. Mount that bitch on the wall.
Game over. Late Miami score. Meaningless. Cosmetic. A slag in Maybelline is still a slag. MiaF is broken, defeated, but they won't shut up. Still talking trash. Husker doesn't know enough to point at the scoreboard and illuminate the Canes. Canes depart. Canes don't shake hands. Canes give crowd the finger. Crowd gives boos back. Crowd sings 'Na Na, hey hey, goodbye'. Crowd full of hatred. Crowd full of vindication. Huskerfan feels that this makes up for the failed two-point conversion when Reagan watched the Orange Bowl from 1600. It doesn't. It's just the next step to 4-0, which hasn't happened since 2011.
20 Sep 2014 2159
Streets are quieting. Bars are rocking. Lads and lasses calling plays, trying to score. Inside trap works well. Passing game needs work. Channel your inner Ameer, lads, and nothing can stop you.
Game four. Miami, (Fla.) (MiaF) at Nebraska (NE).
20 Sep. 2014 0535
Huskerfan is jacked. Jacked, man. The Hurricanes blew into town with all their brashness and bravado and bullshit. These cats are not the cats of yesteryear. It's not Michael Irvin and Warren Sapp and Vinny Testaverde. These are not the dudes you grew up hating because not only did they act like assholes on the field, they had the audacity to back their shit up with their play. No, these weren't the fearsome tigers of the 80s and 90s; these guys were more like bocats or lynx, still dangerous, but not nearly as much as their progenitors.
I hate discussing games as duels between opposing players of the same position. It doesn't matter if Brad Kaaya will play Better than Tommy Armstrong. It makes no difference if Duke Johnson outduels Ameer Abdullah (as if). The matchups are how Kaaya will handle the noise of the 91,000 people baying for his blood How will Ameer keep moving the chains against a fast, athletic defense?
Those are the kinds of things I seek answers to. Those are the things I hope to gain insight to.
20 Sep. 2014 1347
The crowd downtown is well on their way. The red beer (tomato juice and beer) is flowing in quantities that remind one of a slaughterhouse. Middle aged-moms and pops are tippling their wines. The young and single are tossing brewskies as they flirt and mingle. Hot girls in next to nothing are tossing back shots and petitioning the Lord with prayers of 'Ohmigaw'. Fierce, young laddies are in pursuit, posing and displaying, crushing defenseless aluminum into lifeless, drained recyclable slag. At this rate, the crowd will be at full roar. Maybe volume setting 9. Not 12. Never 12. Seattle is 12 and the old gal on 10th street never gets to Seattle level.
20 Sep. 2014 1905
The was a near riot at the Indian Center. 3,000 drunk kids squared of with some tour buses. Cops got called. City cops, County cops, Statie cops. Inter-agency differences set aside in order to present united front and ride to the rescue. Crowd got restless, crowd got stupid. Too much booze? Ya think? One cop caught a can off her noggin, sent to the Krankenhaus. There's one dude looking at serious offense, Felony Assault on an Officer. Probably best throw of his life. Now he wants it back. Yes, drunken bacchanal at the Indian Center. Irony lost only on those there.
20 Sep. 2014 2014
First half is done. The NE o-line seems to be grind-grind-grinding the MiaF front into a fine powder. Not done yet, but they will break by the third. Ameer to the left, Ameer to the right, Ameer right up the gut, between the tackles. MiaF has no answer. They hit him high, he spins away, the hit him low and he balances for extra yards as he falls. He's smiling. He's feeling it. Ameer is crushing it. It didn't start out so comfortable. MiaF went right down the field to open the scoring. Three straight first downs. Yet another game of the defense looking at each other with 'whatthefuck' faces on the opening drive, again. NE answered. Lightning strike to AfroThunder from 40 yards out. MiaF stopped on an INT. Despite that, Kaaya looks poised. Things got sloppy after that. Both sides traded punts, and Tommy pulled a Taylor and fumbled on the run. MiaF moves at will, goes up by a touchdown. Ameer responds. Touchdown back. Huskers forced a 3&O. More Ameer. Have to settle for a field goal. Since MiaF scored last, Huskers outgained Canes 129-(-1). 25 plays to 3. TOP 12:43-1:109.
20 Sep. 2014 2238
The second half started where the first left off. More Ameer. The mere mention of Ameer has the MiaF d-line cringing. The NE o-line is looking magnificent, standing the tired 'Cane d-lineman up and driving them back. MiaF d-backs getting a workout making all the tackles. Long grinding drives traded. NE jumps out 24-14, about to put the dagger in, but Kaaya and company responds. Steals a march and is right back in it 24-21. Tommy and Ameer are driving back to push lead back out when Tommy throws a pick. Bad pick. Slap you in the helmet bad pick. Mighty Mouse saves the day. Crushes Hurricane hearts. Trevor Roach, filling in for scuffling Josh Banderas, forces the Duke to fumble. Josh Mitchell, all 5-9 and 175 pounds of him scoops and scores. Dagger in the heart.
Canes not quite done, yet. They have to throw, now. Kaaya throws a pick to Nathan Gerry, good return, flags fly. Canes throwning down, scuffle edging on ruckus brewing. Bullshit call on Valentine for roughing the passer. More bullshit as unsportsmanlike penalties offset. Bo turns red. Bo yells. Bo points for emphasis. Bo gets nowhere. Field goal traded for a field goal. 34-24, at this point. Must hold until relieved. Kalu gets a pick. Miami starts shit. Brawling and jawing near the sideline, 'there there there, boys' turns into 'get the fuck back to the sidelines'. Miami imploding, Hurricane force winds only coming from their mouths. The team is a summer breeze. Ameer from 10 yards out Head on a stake. Mount that bitch on the wall.
Game over. Late Miami score. Meaningless. Cosmetic. A slag in Maybelline is still a slag. MiaF is broken, defeated, but they won't shut up. Still talking trash. Husker doesn't know enough to point at the scoreboard and illuminate the Canes. Canes depart. Canes don't shake hands. Canes give crowd the finger. Crowd gives boos back. Crowd sings 'Na Na, hey hey, goodbye'. Crowd full of hatred. Crowd full of vindication. Huskerfan feels that this makes up for the failed two-point conversion when Reagan watched the Orange Bowl from 1600. It doesn't. It's just the next step to 4-0, which hasn't happened since 2011.
20 Sep 2014 2159
Streets are quieting. Bars are rocking. Lads and lasses calling plays, trying to score. Inside trap works well. Passing game needs work. Channel your inner Ameer, lads, and nothing can stop you.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
An Outing for Golf
With my bag in hand I strolled around the clubhouse and out onto the course. There weren't too many old duffers hacking around, so if Ricky-boy was here, he wouldn't be too hard to find. I kept to the edges of the fairways, keeping an eye peeled and an ear open for any calls of , 'FORE!'. Last thing I needed was 'Titleist' imprinted on my forehead.
I worked backwards, from the 18th hole, that way I'd be in position to intercept, rather than chase down from behind. I figured he was at least halfway through, so I wouldn't have to cover so much ground. I deftly sidestepped an approach shot on 17. The white-haired hacker who launched it was staring me down as I approached. I held up my tool bag and pointed at it. He looked confused, but shook his head and mounted his trusty electric steed.
I paused on the 16th green. Good vantage point. No Ricky. I heard electric whine and the tinkling of glass and ice. The beer cart pulled up alongside me. "You thirsty, Mister?" an exceedingly cheerful voice asked.
"No, thank you," I replied, almost as cheerfully. "I'm just trying to locate the junction box that controls the hydro-filtration monitoring point. I was told it was on the fritz and it was between the 16th and 15th hole. I have no idea what I'm looking for."
The owner of the cheerful voice gave me a good once-over. She was young, early-20's. She wore the Course's mandatory polo shirt, with the sleeves gathered at the shoulders, the way volleyball players do. She wore khaki shorts that may have been a bit too short and a bit too tight, but they hadn't caused a heart attack, yet. Her long legs were tanned by her long hours of toil in the noon-day sun. She had flip-flops in the cab, but not on her feet. Her toes were polished, and matched her shirt, intentionally or not. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail, which protruded through the back of a ball cap. The brim shaded her eyes, which looked to be a steely blue. The best way I could describe her face is, 'fresh', a certain shape and symmetry that could be the starting point if you were to design wholesome. Her smile, though, has slightly lopsided, and the way she lounged on the plastic seat belied a certain disregard for the straight and narrow.
"Hop in," she said. "I can take you up to 15. I'm not supposed to, but it's not like Mr. 'call me Bill" McGuire is going to drag his lazy ass out of his office to check on me."
I liked this kid.
So I hopped into her little bar on wheels and she zoomed off, cutting course through the smooth seas of the cart path, terrorizing squirrels and blackbirds with equal abandon. "You don't belong here, do you?" she asked, smiling, as she made a gradual left turn.
"Sure, I do," I replied. "I was asked to come out here and do some repairs, I just got a little lost."
"Uh-uh," she clipped. "The groundskeepers have a whole team for stuff like that. Even if they did need to bring in someone from outside, they would have escorted you to the point in question on a cart." She finished my skewering with a big smile.
"Not bad," I said. "Are you sure you're with concessions, and not security?"
"My dad was a cop," she said dismissively. "30 years in three agencies, four, if you count the military. He always taught me that if something looks out of place, it probably is, and it's probably hinky."
"So, are you going to escort me from the premises?" I asked. :If so, you'll win the award for best-looking bouncer I've ever been thrown out, by. Finally, someone takes Lizzie the Lez out of first place."
"Tell me why you're really here, and I'll consider letting you stay. I don't know who Lizzie the Lez, is, but I'm not sure I want to challenge her for the belt."
I blitzed through the Reader's Digest version of the case. Does anyone even read that anymore? I mentioned Ricky-Boy and his missing wife, the girl seemed intrigued.
"Ok," she said. I want to help. This is the most interesting thing to happen here since that state Senator from Chadron 'accidentally' spilled beer on me. I head-butted his nose, 'accidentally'. Beer comes out in the wash much easier than blood."
I really like this kid.
I spotted Ricky-boy and his crew getting ready to tee-off on 15. I had the girl drop me off. She decided to stay and watch the show. "Good afternoon, Mr. Brewer," I greeted, stopping for a moment to snatch a 3-wood out of a bright red Nike golf bag with a white swoosh. "You are a tough man to get a hold of, did you know that?"
"Who are you? What do you want? Do I have to call Security?"
Ah, the Holy Trinity of my life.
"I'm Sam Hammet," I replied, taking some practice cuts with the club. "I've been retained to investigate the disappearance of your wife, Jamie, and you can call if you want, I'm not here to threaten you, and I've been escorted from lots of places, so you know, not scared."
"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "That was a long time ago. The cops tried to pressure me into telling them something that didn't happen. They kept hammering me with 'where did you dump the body', 'how did you do it', 'why did you do it' type questions all night long."
"Yeah, I've read the files on that, " I said, imagining a nice, 300-yard drive. "They did brace you pretty hard. Nothing in the files, not your interview or anyone else's has come up with a plausible theory as to why she jetted."
"Why are you wasting my time?" he asked. "Did you really come all this way to tell me nearly 20-year-old information that was useless then, is still useless now?"
I decided it was time to take a swing at it. There was a dog-leg at 200 yards, so I decided to lay up. "Do you remember an officer by the name of Jim Tompkins?"
"Yes. He's the one that tried to play 'Bad Cop' while the detective played 'Good Cop'.
"Were you aware of any association between Tompkins and Jamie, at the time?"
"No," he said, eyeing me warily.
"So, you never talked with her friend, Stacy, about a suspicion she had regarding the two of them?"
"Look man, I can see where this is heading, so get it off you chest."
"Did you have any reason to believe that Jamie was having an affair?" I held back the with whom, just so I kept one card back.
Ricky-boy reddened, a little. "Yes. I talked to a few people, back then, and that's the conclusion I reached, too. That she ran off with bikers, or gypsies, or a circus, or whoever was actually paying attention to her, because I guess it wasn't me."
"Sorry, man. I had to ask." I was actually feeling a little contrite. It would pass.
"You can leave, now. I'm done talking. Come near me again, anywhere, and I will get your ticket pulled."
I raised my hands, in surrender, dropping the club. I turned and walked back to the cart.
"So how did it go?"
"Another dead end," I said. "This is getting to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. This woman went 'poof' and has not wanted to reappear. The one point it keeps returning to is both the client and the one with the most to lose."
"Now what?" the kid asked, she looked like she was having a ball.
"Home, James. Well, parking lot, anyway," I said.
"The name's Betty, by the way."
"Well, hello, Betty." I fished a card out of my wallet. "You want to become an operative?"
"Maybe. What do I have to do?"
"Just keep your ears open for anything out of the ordinary about Mr. Brewer. Give me a call if you hear anything good."
She smiled a big, dazzling smile. "I can do that. I'll be in touch Mr. Hammet."
"Just call me Sam'" I said as I grabbed the tool bag and headed for the car.
I worked backwards, from the 18th hole, that way I'd be in position to intercept, rather than chase down from behind. I figured he was at least halfway through, so I wouldn't have to cover so much ground. I deftly sidestepped an approach shot on 17. The white-haired hacker who launched it was staring me down as I approached. I held up my tool bag and pointed at it. He looked confused, but shook his head and mounted his trusty electric steed.
I paused on the 16th green. Good vantage point. No Ricky. I heard electric whine and the tinkling of glass and ice. The beer cart pulled up alongside me. "You thirsty, Mister?" an exceedingly cheerful voice asked.
"No, thank you," I replied, almost as cheerfully. "I'm just trying to locate the junction box that controls the hydro-filtration monitoring point. I was told it was on the fritz and it was between the 16th and 15th hole. I have no idea what I'm looking for."
The owner of the cheerful voice gave me a good once-over. She was young, early-20's. She wore the Course's mandatory polo shirt, with the sleeves gathered at the shoulders, the way volleyball players do. She wore khaki shorts that may have been a bit too short and a bit too tight, but they hadn't caused a heart attack, yet. Her long legs were tanned by her long hours of toil in the noon-day sun. She had flip-flops in the cab, but not on her feet. Her toes were polished, and matched her shirt, intentionally or not. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail, which protruded through the back of a ball cap. The brim shaded her eyes, which looked to be a steely blue. The best way I could describe her face is, 'fresh', a certain shape and symmetry that could be the starting point if you were to design wholesome. Her smile, though, has slightly lopsided, and the way she lounged on the plastic seat belied a certain disregard for the straight and narrow.
"Hop in," she said. "I can take you up to 15. I'm not supposed to, but it's not like Mr. 'call me Bill" McGuire is going to drag his lazy ass out of his office to check on me."
I liked this kid.
So I hopped into her little bar on wheels and she zoomed off, cutting course through the smooth seas of the cart path, terrorizing squirrels and blackbirds with equal abandon. "You don't belong here, do you?" she asked, smiling, as she made a gradual left turn.
"Sure, I do," I replied. "I was asked to come out here and do some repairs, I just got a little lost."
"Uh-uh," she clipped. "The groundskeepers have a whole team for stuff like that. Even if they did need to bring in someone from outside, they would have escorted you to the point in question on a cart." She finished my skewering with a big smile.
"Not bad," I said. "Are you sure you're with concessions, and not security?"
"My dad was a cop," she said dismissively. "30 years in three agencies, four, if you count the military. He always taught me that if something looks out of place, it probably is, and it's probably hinky."
"So, are you going to escort me from the premises?" I asked. :If so, you'll win the award for best-looking bouncer I've ever been thrown out, by. Finally, someone takes Lizzie the Lez out of first place."
"Tell me why you're really here, and I'll consider letting you stay. I don't know who Lizzie the Lez, is, but I'm not sure I want to challenge her for the belt."
I blitzed through the Reader's Digest version of the case. Does anyone even read that anymore? I mentioned Ricky-Boy and his missing wife, the girl seemed intrigued.
"Ok," she said. I want to help. This is the most interesting thing to happen here since that state Senator from Chadron 'accidentally' spilled beer on me. I head-butted his nose, 'accidentally'. Beer comes out in the wash much easier than blood."
I really like this kid.
I spotted Ricky-boy and his crew getting ready to tee-off on 15. I had the girl drop me off. She decided to stay and watch the show. "Good afternoon, Mr. Brewer," I greeted, stopping for a moment to snatch a 3-wood out of a bright red Nike golf bag with a white swoosh. "You are a tough man to get a hold of, did you know that?"
"Who are you? What do you want? Do I have to call Security?"
Ah, the Holy Trinity of my life.
"I'm Sam Hammet," I replied, taking some practice cuts with the club. "I've been retained to investigate the disappearance of your wife, Jamie, and you can call if you want, I'm not here to threaten you, and I've been escorted from lots of places, so you know, not scared."
"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "That was a long time ago. The cops tried to pressure me into telling them something that didn't happen. They kept hammering me with 'where did you dump the body', 'how did you do it', 'why did you do it' type questions all night long."
"Yeah, I've read the files on that, " I said, imagining a nice, 300-yard drive. "They did brace you pretty hard. Nothing in the files, not your interview or anyone else's has come up with a plausible theory as to why she jetted."
"Why are you wasting my time?" he asked. "Did you really come all this way to tell me nearly 20-year-old information that was useless then, is still useless now?"
I decided it was time to take a swing at it. There was a dog-leg at 200 yards, so I decided to lay up. "Do you remember an officer by the name of Jim Tompkins?"
"Yes. He's the one that tried to play 'Bad Cop' while the detective played 'Good Cop'.
"Were you aware of any association between Tompkins and Jamie, at the time?"
"No," he said, eyeing me warily.
"So, you never talked with her friend, Stacy, about a suspicion she had regarding the two of them?"
"Look man, I can see where this is heading, so get it off you chest."
"Did you have any reason to believe that Jamie was having an affair?" I held back the with whom, just so I kept one card back.
Ricky-boy reddened, a little. "Yes. I talked to a few people, back then, and that's the conclusion I reached, too. That she ran off with bikers, or gypsies, or a circus, or whoever was actually paying attention to her, because I guess it wasn't me."
"Sorry, man. I had to ask." I was actually feeling a little contrite. It would pass.
"You can leave, now. I'm done talking. Come near me again, anywhere, and I will get your ticket pulled."
I raised my hands, in surrender, dropping the club. I turned and walked back to the cart.
"So how did it go?"
"Another dead end," I said. "This is getting to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. This woman went 'poof' and has not wanted to reappear. The one point it keeps returning to is both the client and the one with the most to lose."
"Now what?" the kid asked, she looked like she was having a ball.
"Home, James. Well, parking lot, anyway," I said.
"The name's Betty, by the way."
"Well, hello, Betty." I fished a card out of my wallet. "You want to become an operative?"
"Maybe. What do I have to do?"
"Just keep your ears open for anything out of the ordinary about Mr. Brewer. Give me a call if you hear anything good."
She smiled a big, dazzling smile. "I can do that. I'll be in touch Mr. Hammet."
"Just call me Sam'" I said as I grabbed the tool bag and headed for the car.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Approaching Rick
I called Rick Brewer's office to try to make an appointment to see him. Ricky-boy was out and when his personal assistant asked me what it regarded, I told her, "Just write down the name, 'Jamie' and hung up.
I flipped through some more files, wondering what my moves after Rick were going to be. There were still four other women from that last night out. I ruled out talking to either set of parents. Their interviews were pretty thorough, and in the case of Jamie's mom, very detailed and pressing for action. Mom's don't hold anything back.
Ricky-boy's P.A. called me back with disappointing news. She told me that Mr. Brewer is unavailable to speak with me, and has no wishes to discuss Jamie with anyone.
I thanked her for getting back to me, so quickly and hung up. Now what to do? I pulled open the desk drawer and poured a measure of liquid contemplation. I drank half of it and leaned back in the chair. I held the glass up and started watching the amber water of life swirling inside. The bourbon eddied and swirled slowly. The layers dancing together in a cosmic waltz as the molecules of water and alcohol, eternally conjoined, but forever separated, whirled through the glass dance-hall.
Boom. It hit me. I'll go old-school and find out where Ricky-boy was.
I bopped across the hall to the title insurance company. I asked Nan, the receptionist, a sweet older English lady if I could borrow her land-line.
She asked me how my spotted dick was. It's a running gag. I told her mine was good, but not half as good as hers. The clucked like a contended hen and handed the phone over.
I dialed up the P.A. again. When she picked up, I went into full-on method acting. Stella Adler would be proud. "This here is J.C. Peacock from OU Realty and Trust, down in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I tell you what, I supposed to meet up with y'all's boss, Ricky, I bet you don't get to call him Ricky, though, no sir. Anyhoo, I was supposed to meet him, and I'll be God-DAMNED if I can remember which golf course around here he said to meet him at. I cant rightly recall if it was Lincoln Country Club, or Firethorn or Pussy Willow or what the hell else the name could be. Could you be a doll and let me know where he's playin' at, and I'll just haul ashes over there."
I called a blitz. Tried to overwhelm her with just enough fact, and a hefty dose of bullshit. Get her off balance, if she made the next moves I anticipated, I'd get the info. It was mean, but the ends justifies the means, sometimes.
It took her a moment to get her thoughts organized, "I'm sorry, Mr. uh, Peacock, was it?" she said, uncertainly. "I don't have your name down in the appointment book for today--"
"I know it's not in the appointment book," I waded in. "I'm probably telling y'all too much, but this isn't exactly a meeting that too many people should get wind of, if you catch my drift. Ricky and me are trying to hammer out a deal that will blow some socks off, for sure."
I could hear her breathing, she was about to do the smart thing and call Rick. I'd be screwed, but she would be safe. It was the proper thing to do. I undermine proper.
"Listen here, sugar," I said, my voice dropping into low frequency, and quieter, to make her listen, "I know you want to do the right thing. I know you want to call Ricky up and ask him about me. You're good at you do. If y'all call him up and ask, that means that the cat's out of the bag and the deal will be as dead as an armadillo baking in the Chickasha sunshine. If y'all tell me where he is, I can go to him, take the blame for being late, and still make sure a deal with lots of little zeroes in it gets done. Y'all don't want to have to face Ricky on a day the biggest deal of his career goes south, would you, darlin'?"
I could sense her squirming. I could just imagine her trying to weigh whether or not to spill. I knew she didn't want to. I almost felt bad, putting her in a tough spot. She came back, suddenly, "Don't you have his business card and contact points in your cell-phone, you could call his private number directly."
I knew she was good. "That's an excellent point, darlin'. Sometimes I'm the worlds smartest dumb guy. I done left my charger all the way back in Tulsa, my cell is dead as hell and I ain't had a chance to go to Best Buy or Radio Shack to get a new one."
"It's weird," she sighed. "He hasn't golfed with anyone in ages...there's nothing in his appointment book about lunch, even..."
She was right there, on the edge. One more little push, should do it. "Look, darlin', I know I'm puttin' you in a real spot, but we both want Mr. Rick to be real happy when the day is done, right? You want to be part of that happiness, right? Let me know where to go and Mr. Rick will come back to the office happier than Barry Switzer at a roadside juke-joint with jar of 'shine in one hand and a sweet young thing in the other."
"Wilderness Ridge," she spilled, the betrayal squirming out of her. "If he's out, golfing, he'd be at Wilderness Ridge. He's a member, there."
"I sure do thank you," I beamed. "Now, don't you worry none, darlin'. Ol' J.C. will make sure that you get taken care of. I never forget a favor."
I hung up. Winked at Nan and thanked her for the phone. "J.C. Peacock of Tulsa, Oklahoma? What sort of devilry are up to?" Nan asked, a twinkle in her eye and a smile.
"Never you, mind, love," I winked back in reply. "Just a wee bit of mischief. Mum's the word, and all that, eh, Moneypenny?"
Nan loved that. She was clucking happily to herself as I left. I had to start coming up with a plan. Getting to Wilderness Ridge was not that big of a deal. Getting on to the grounds, not much of a challenge. Finding Rick and making contact in whatever time I had would be the tricky part.
I grabbed a quick change into some jeans and a t-shirt I had stashed in the office and zipped down to the car, I could be at the course in 20 minutes. I'd plan en route. I was hoping he was actually golfing. If he was just entertaining at the club, the whole trip would be for nothing.
In the car I had a tool-kit, stashed. There are real tools in it, but there are also specialty tools under a false bottom. You'd be amazed about how no-one notices a guy walking around with a tool kit. Next best thing to invisibility. Just don't go too crazy out of context with it.
I parked the car, grabbed the bag, and started walking toward the practice green. If I was lucky, I'd just stroll on in. Yes, that was the big part of my cunning plan. Just walk on in.
I flipped through some more files, wondering what my moves after Rick were going to be. There were still four other women from that last night out. I ruled out talking to either set of parents. Their interviews were pretty thorough, and in the case of Jamie's mom, very detailed and pressing for action. Mom's don't hold anything back.
Ricky-boy's P.A. called me back with disappointing news. She told me that Mr. Brewer is unavailable to speak with me, and has no wishes to discuss Jamie with anyone.
I thanked her for getting back to me, so quickly and hung up. Now what to do? I pulled open the desk drawer and poured a measure of liquid contemplation. I drank half of it and leaned back in the chair. I held the glass up and started watching the amber water of life swirling inside. The bourbon eddied and swirled slowly. The layers dancing together in a cosmic waltz as the molecules of water and alcohol, eternally conjoined, but forever separated, whirled through the glass dance-hall.
Boom. It hit me. I'll go old-school and find out where Ricky-boy was.
I bopped across the hall to the title insurance company. I asked Nan, the receptionist, a sweet older English lady if I could borrow her land-line.
She asked me how my spotted dick was. It's a running gag. I told her mine was good, but not half as good as hers. The clucked like a contended hen and handed the phone over.
I dialed up the P.A. again. When she picked up, I went into full-on method acting. Stella Adler would be proud. "This here is J.C. Peacock from OU Realty and Trust, down in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I tell you what, I supposed to meet up with y'all's boss, Ricky, I bet you don't get to call him Ricky, though, no sir. Anyhoo, I was supposed to meet him, and I'll be God-DAMNED if I can remember which golf course around here he said to meet him at. I cant rightly recall if it was Lincoln Country Club, or Firethorn or Pussy Willow or what the hell else the name could be. Could you be a doll and let me know where he's playin' at, and I'll just haul ashes over there."
I called a blitz. Tried to overwhelm her with just enough fact, and a hefty dose of bullshit. Get her off balance, if she made the next moves I anticipated, I'd get the info. It was mean, but the ends justifies the means, sometimes.
It took her a moment to get her thoughts organized, "I'm sorry, Mr. uh, Peacock, was it?" she said, uncertainly. "I don't have your name down in the appointment book for today--"
"I know it's not in the appointment book," I waded in. "I'm probably telling y'all too much, but this isn't exactly a meeting that too many people should get wind of, if you catch my drift. Ricky and me are trying to hammer out a deal that will blow some socks off, for sure."
I could hear her breathing, she was about to do the smart thing and call Rick. I'd be screwed, but she would be safe. It was the proper thing to do. I undermine proper.
"Listen here, sugar," I said, my voice dropping into low frequency, and quieter, to make her listen, "I know you want to do the right thing. I know you want to call Ricky up and ask him about me. You're good at you do. If y'all call him up and ask, that means that the cat's out of the bag and the deal will be as dead as an armadillo baking in the Chickasha sunshine. If y'all tell me where he is, I can go to him, take the blame for being late, and still make sure a deal with lots of little zeroes in it gets done. Y'all don't want to have to face Ricky on a day the biggest deal of his career goes south, would you, darlin'?"
I could sense her squirming. I could just imagine her trying to weigh whether or not to spill. I knew she didn't want to. I almost felt bad, putting her in a tough spot. She came back, suddenly, "Don't you have his business card and contact points in your cell-phone, you could call his private number directly."
I knew she was good. "That's an excellent point, darlin'. Sometimes I'm the worlds smartest dumb guy. I done left my charger all the way back in Tulsa, my cell is dead as hell and I ain't had a chance to go to Best Buy or Radio Shack to get a new one."
"It's weird," she sighed. "He hasn't golfed with anyone in ages...there's nothing in his appointment book about lunch, even..."
She was right there, on the edge. One more little push, should do it. "Look, darlin', I know I'm puttin' you in a real spot, but we both want Mr. Rick to be real happy when the day is done, right? You want to be part of that happiness, right? Let me know where to go and Mr. Rick will come back to the office happier than Barry Switzer at a roadside juke-joint with jar of 'shine in one hand and a sweet young thing in the other."
"Wilderness Ridge," she spilled, the betrayal squirming out of her. "If he's out, golfing, he'd be at Wilderness Ridge. He's a member, there."
"I sure do thank you," I beamed. "Now, don't you worry none, darlin'. Ol' J.C. will make sure that you get taken care of. I never forget a favor."
I hung up. Winked at Nan and thanked her for the phone. "J.C. Peacock of Tulsa, Oklahoma? What sort of devilry are up to?" Nan asked, a twinkle in her eye and a smile.
"Never you, mind, love," I winked back in reply. "Just a wee bit of mischief. Mum's the word, and all that, eh, Moneypenny?"
Nan loved that. She was clucking happily to herself as I left. I had to start coming up with a plan. Getting to Wilderness Ridge was not that big of a deal. Getting on to the grounds, not much of a challenge. Finding Rick and making contact in whatever time I had would be the tricky part.
I grabbed a quick change into some jeans and a t-shirt I had stashed in the office and zipped down to the car, I could be at the course in 20 minutes. I'd plan en route. I was hoping he was actually golfing. If he was just entertaining at the club, the whole trip would be for nothing.
In the car I had a tool-kit, stashed. There are real tools in it, but there are also specialty tools under a false bottom. You'd be amazed about how no-one notices a guy walking around with a tool kit. Next best thing to invisibility. Just don't go too crazy out of context with it.
I parked the car, grabbed the bag, and started walking toward the practice green. If I was lucky, I'd just stroll on in. Yes, that was the big part of my cunning plan. Just walk on in.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
The rain had been pelting down for some time. I was trying to ignore the yelling dude in the next booth, over. I couldn't tell what he was yelling about, he needed his volume controlled. I wanted to walk up to him, get in his face and whisper 'indoor voice', but decided he was doing a good enough job embarrassing himself in front of the young ladies trying oh so hard to look savvy and sophisticated. He didn't need my help.
Side-bar. If you're trying to look sophisticated and grown-up, don't tuck a t-shirt into your skirt, girly.
The traffic lights were glowing in little pools on the streets. Bikes in their racks were preparing to give their owners wet butt on the way home. Refuse from the streets washed into the storm drain while the human refuse hunched closer to their buildings, embracing cornerstones.
A gust of wind rattled the window as Lloyd blew in.
"Lloyd, my man," I called to him. "Come on over grab a seat and let me buy you something to warm your very core."
He squished into the booth opposite me. Droplets of rain stowing away on his coat. "I'll take some Devil's Cut and a Coke to chase it," he said, a bit distractedly.
"You've been processing, haven't you?" I asked. He had all the usual signs. Hands in his pockets, head slightly down, leaning forward, brow furrowed. He hadn't even wiped the rain from his glasses.
"Yep," he answered, slightly defensively. "I have been looking at the data and a bit at the games and there is one thing that has me worried."
"And that is....."
"Speed, man, speed," he intoned. "I'm not talking about Bennies or Dexys, I'm talking about the raw ability of one player to go faster than another."
"Did you see something you didn't like?"
"AND THEN I WAS LIKE, 'DUDE' YOU ARE SO GOING TO PAY FOR THAT," from the next booth, Loud Guy was slapping the table for emphasis while blond wine drinking girl next to him looked nervous.
Lloyd took a breath and carried on. "Their receiver, Phillip Dorsett has some wheels. He had over 200 yards in receptions last week."
"But that was Arkansas State. I'm betting they don't have anyone on their track team that has that kind of speed. Plus, he's only 5-10, so Mitchell will be on a guy who doesn't have a huge height advantage, for once."
Lloyd nodded, sipping his whiskey. It is interesting stuff, it is made from the alcohol extracted from the barrel. The alcohol that evaporated in the aging process is called the 'Angel's Share', the alcohol absorbed by the wood, the 'Devil's Cut'. "Duke Johnson is a good running back," he resumed. "He is slightly heavier than Ameer, same height, better take-off speed, but not as shifty, and I'm not sure he's as durable as Ameer. He can stretch a defense on eat-west runs and cut back."
"I AM SOOOO FUCKING PSYCHED FOR THIS WEEKEND. THIS GAME IS HUUUUUUGE." The PBR in front of him sweated along with the rest of his booth denizens. It wasn't hot.
Lloyd took a swig of the whiskey and a chased it with his Coke like RG4 on an outside blitz. "Their quarterback is the key to the game," he said, thoughtfully. "He is a drop-back passer, the kind that the Bo-fense usually does really well against. He won't hurt you with his legs, though, which is good. He's a Freshman and has never been in a setting with 91,000 fans baying for blood. I know history is irrelevant to the players, but the crowd will focus their hatred and resentment for all those Orange Bowl losses on the field. They remember the failed two-point conversion. They remember the beat-down in the Rose Bowl. They remember seeing the option get throttled by speed."
"Hopefully they'll remember Cory Schlesinger and the trap dive," I retorted, just a little playfully. "And Warren Sapp kneeling on the sideline after getting punched in the balls--at least, that's his story."
"Yep, he's a talented quarterback, but I'm betting there have been cover schemes and blitz packages that JP has been keeping under wraps, just for this game," Lloyd said, repeating his whiskey and Coke maneuver. "Randy will be his worst nightmare."
"And Randy will elevate the play of the whole d-line against the fat, slow, Miami, o-line. They are not athletic," I contributed. I like adding my bit, every now and then. "What about the Miami defense?"
"They are quick, too," Lloyd said. "I have a feeling Nebraska will have to wear them down. I have a feeling we wont see many 'explosive' plays. No 70-yard touchdown passes on a third-and-eight play. Tommy will have to be patient, and the running backs will have to attack in waves. Two and three and four yard drives by Ameer, Imani and Terrence in the first half, will be six and seven and eight yard gashes in the fourth quarter."
"I LOVE BOOBIES," Loud Guy, yet again. "THEY ARE MY FAVORITE THING. NOT TOO BIG, NOT TOO SMALL. BOOBIES!"
Three girls in the booth. Two flushed. I couldn't see the face of the third. For as loud as Loud Guy was, the girls were piercingly silent.
Lloyd took a long draw of the whiskey. He didn't chase it down. I could see the glow set in.
"Do you think special teams will be a big factor?" I asked.
"I think De'Morney Pierson-El will have at least one big return," Lloyd replied. "It may not go all the way, but it will set up a short field in a key possession."
"So, big picture," I said. What will the outcome be, after processing all your data?"
"The latest line has Nebraska by 7.5," he said. "I think that is about right. It will be hard to make a decision on that point-five. I think it will be 24-17, or 28-21, something like that. It will tick me off if I take Miami, and Nebraska wins 28-20. Not really. The win will allow me to cheerfully watch the cash go away."
"So, Huskers win?" I asked. "Just to be clear."
"Yes. Final score, 24-17."
"SHOW ME YOUR TITS. I LOVE YOUR TITS. TITS ARE AWESOME," Loud Guy, yet again.
Lloyd had had enough. He got up, walked right over to loud guy, bent down and whispered right into his ear. No yelling. It didn't take that long, either. Loud Guy turned white. The blood drained from his face like an elevator with a cut cable. Lloyd pivoted and walked out the door, into the rain. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain bead up on his coat. Loud Guy unsteadily got to his feet, dropped a couple bills on the table, and headed for the other door. The one Lloyd was not standing by. He drifted off into the sopping night, nearly stumbled over one of the refugees and disappeared into the darkness.
I have no idea what Lloyd said. I never ask. I can only handle my own monsters, I don't want to get a glimpse of his.
Side-bar. If you're trying to look sophisticated and grown-up, don't tuck a t-shirt into your skirt, girly.
The traffic lights were glowing in little pools on the streets. Bikes in their racks were preparing to give their owners wet butt on the way home. Refuse from the streets washed into the storm drain while the human refuse hunched closer to their buildings, embracing cornerstones.
A gust of wind rattled the window as Lloyd blew in.
"Lloyd, my man," I called to him. "Come on over grab a seat and let me buy you something to warm your very core."
He squished into the booth opposite me. Droplets of rain stowing away on his coat. "I'll take some Devil's Cut and a Coke to chase it," he said, a bit distractedly.
"You've been processing, haven't you?" I asked. He had all the usual signs. Hands in his pockets, head slightly down, leaning forward, brow furrowed. He hadn't even wiped the rain from his glasses.
"Yep," he answered, slightly defensively. "I have been looking at the data and a bit at the games and there is one thing that has me worried."
"And that is....."
"Speed, man, speed," he intoned. "I'm not talking about Bennies or Dexys, I'm talking about the raw ability of one player to go faster than another."
"Did you see something you didn't like?"
"AND THEN I WAS LIKE, 'DUDE' YOU ARE SO GOING TO PAY FOR THAT," from the next booth, Loud Guy was slapping the table for emphasis while blond wine drinking girl next to him looked nervous.
Lloyd took a breath and carried on. "Their receiver, Phillip Dorsett has some wheels. He had over 200 yards in receptions last week."
"But that was Arkansas State. I'm betting they don't have anyone on their track team that has that kind of speed. Plus, he's only 5-10, so Mitchell will be on a guy who doesn't have a huge height advantage, for once."
Lloyd nodded, sipping his whiskey. It is interesting stuff, it is made from the alcohol extracted from the barrel. The alcohol that evaporated in the aging process is called the 'Angel's Share', the alcohol absorbed by the wood, the 'Devil's Cut'. "Duke Johnson is a good running back," he resumed. "He is slightly heavier than Ameer, same height, better take-off speed, but not as shifty, and I'm not sure he's as durable as Ameer. He can stretch a defense on eat-west runs and cut back."
"I AM SOOOO FUCKING PSYCHED FOR THIS WEEKEND. THIS GAME IS HUUUUUUGE." The PBR in front of him sweated along with the rest of his booth denizens. It wasn't hot.
Lloyd took a swig of the whiskey and a chased it with his Coke like RG4 on an outside blitz. "Their quarterback is the key to the game," he said, thoughtfully. "He is a drop-back passer, the kind that the Bo-fense usually does really well against. He won't hurt you with his legs, though, which is good. He's a Freshman and has never been in a setting with 91,000 fans baying for blood. I know history is irrelevant to the players, but the crowd will focus their hatred and resentment for all those Orange Bowl losses on the field. They remember the failed two-point conversion. They remember the beat-down in the Rose Bowl. They remember seeing the option get throttled by speed."
"Hopefully they'll remember Cory Schlesinger and the trap dive," I retorted, just a little playfully. "And Warren Sapp kneeling on the sideline after getting punched in the balls--at least, that's his story."
"Yep, he's a talented quarterback, but I'm betting there have been cover schemes and blitz packages that JP has been keeping under wraps, just for this game," Lloyd said, repeating his whiskey and Coke maneuver. "Randy will be his worst nightmare."
"And Randy will elevate the play of the whole d-line against the fat, slow, Miami, o-line. They are not athletic," I contributed. I like adding my bit, every now and then. "What about the Miami defense?"
"They are quick, too," Lloyd said. "I have a feeling Nebraska will have to wear them down. I have a feeling we wont see many 'explosive' plays. No 70-yard touchdown passes on a third-and-eight play. Tommy will have to be patient, and the running backs will have to attack in waves. Two and three and four yard drives by Ameer, Imani and Terrence in the first half, will be six and seven and eight yard gashes in the fourth quarter."
"I LOVE BOOBIES," Loud Guy, yet again. "THEY ARE MY FAVORITE THING. NOT TOO BIG, NOT TOO SMALL. BOOBIES!"
Three girls in the booth. Two flushed. I couldn't see the face of the third. For as loud as Loud Guy was, the girls were piercingly silent.
Lloyd took a long draw of the whiskey. He didn't chase it down. I could see the glow set in.
"Do you think special teams will be a big factor?" I asked.
"I think De'Morney Pierson-El will have at least one big return," Lloyd replied. "It may not go all the way, but it will set up a short field in a key possession."
"So, big picture," I said. What will the outcome be, after processing all your data?"
"The latest line has Nebraska by 7.5," he said. "I think that is about right. It will be hard to make a decision on that point-five. I think it will be 24-17, or 28-21, something like that. It will tick me off if I take Miami, and Nebraska wins 28-20. Not really. The win will allow me to cheerfully watch the cash go away."
"So, Huskers win?" I asked. "Just to be clear."
"Yes. Final score, 24-17."
"SHOW ME YOUR TITS. I LOVE YOUR TITS. TITS ARE AWESOME," Loud Guy, yet again.
Lloyd had had enough. He got up, walked right over to loud guy, bent down and whispered right into his ear. No yelling. It didn't take that long, either. Loud Guy turned white. The blood drained from his face like an elevator with a cut cable. Lloyd pivoted and walked out the door, into the rain. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain bead up on his coat. Loud Guy unsteadily got to his feet, dropped a couple bills on the table, and headed for the other door. The one Lloyd was not standing by. He drifted off into the sopping night, nearly stumbled over one of the refugees and disappeared into the darkness.
I have no idea what Lloyd said. I never ask. I can only handle my own monsters, I don't want to get a glimpse of his.
Friday, September 19, 2014
The plan was to have Tompkins meet me at Jake's. Lloyd would be elsewhere. I wanted a public setting, just in case tempers flared. There was always a possibility that I could get cuffed while Jimbo flashed his badge and yelled that he was on the job. He could frog-march me out of the bar and I'd never see the police station.
There was also the possibility that I watch too many movies. After all, this is just Lincoln.
Tompkins glided into the bar. That effortless movement that doesn't even seem to disturb the air. It was a good way to not get noticed. Professional.
He slid into the booth. I had a nice, smoky, Gurkha going, and made no move to defer to his clean living abstinence. I smiled inwardly.
"What did you find out on your citizen-funded excursion to the left coast?" he asked, smiling but with the undertone of a growl. He looked like a tiger sizing up potential prey and calculating if it was worth the effort.
"Three things," I said, blowing a cloud of smoke up toward the beaten copper ceiling tiles. "One: Fresno is a lot like Gaza, but without the charm, a few airstrikes would do wonders. Two: The Huskers can play in California. Three: just because the girl looks hot in a 20-year-old video, doesn't mean she's hot, today."
"So you found Robin?" he leaned into the table. He was playing with the water on the table, moving it around. He was absently separating the drops into droplets, and moving them back into new shapes.
"Yes...and no," I lied as nonchalantly as I could. I blew another cloud, slowly, I let it drift into my face. My eyes stung and watered. I looked uncomfortable. Body language countermeasures. Double-blind deception. Maskirovka, baby.
"You could clear that up, just a bit, now."
"We found the company Robin founded, after she quit being Robin. We talked to the current CEO, she said that the years of being an actress in the 'Adult Entertainment Industry' had taken its toll. She retired, moved to Carmel and shacked up with her cats and shot guns with Clint Eastwood."
"You did go to Carmel to follow up that lead, didn't you?"
"Yeah, sure," I lied. "We tracked her down. Lloyd was very disappointed. Let's just say his image of her smashed head-long into brutal, unyielding reality. People change, even movie people."
"Did she tell you anything useful about Jamie?" he asked, more interested but trying not to show it.
"Not a damn thing." I shook my head, slowly as I blew out another cloud. The smoke eddied and danced in slow swirls before drifting upward and spreading. Be like the smoke, I thought. "That girl is bat-shit crazy. Lloyd thinks it is too much of that primo No-Cal dope. The only flicker of coherence came when we mentioned Lincoln. Other than that, her life since trying to make it big is one big blur of flesh and chemicals."
Tompkins looked at me. He looked through me. It felt like if he just stared hard enough, he'd see Robin sitting behind me, and the cover story would be shot. "All that way, and nothing to show for it."
"I know. Sad, isn't it?" I tried to look crestfallen. "We're not done, yet, though."
"What do you plan to do, now?" he asked. "It's not like you've made a lot of headway on the case."
"Hey now," I mocked indignation. "We tied up one loose end. Sure we went off a bit half-cocked, but we've realized that the husband is probably the best bet. We should have been bracing him, hard, like you wanted to, back in the day."
I was rolling the dice, here. I was going to play on his ego and see if I could roll a 7, natural. "You were making good points and scoring same with your detective-mentor, according to the files."
For an instant, I thought I had come up craps. His eyes searched through the haze, he broke contact, leaned back and smiled. Too bad it was the tiger smile. "Yeah, I was a bit, shall we say, overzealous, at the time. I wanted to find her. I wanted to be sure it wasn't me that she ran away from. I thought that if we went hard after Mr. Brewer, he'd topple and spill."
"I get that," I said, being as good natured and disarming as I could. "I'd have done the same thing. Make him think you've got the goods to send him to play with the big boys in Tecumseh, and he'll tell you if he's wearing lingerie. Shame it didn't work."
"Exactly."
"I should be moseying along. I have a couple more angles I want to try. If those don't work, we might be stuck."
"Who do you have in mind?" he asked. I could tell he was mentally reviewing the files.
"Just the rest of the girls from the hen's night, and 'll see if hubby will be willing to have a chin-wag."
Tompkins' face visibly darkened. "Tread carefully around him. It could be dangerous."
With that, Jimbo glided out, the way he entered. I still had my cigar to finish. I was calculating the odds. I think I rolled an 8. Not a natural winner, but not a tough point to make. I decided to finish my cigar while watching the people, outside. A lot of them had dressed for the nice weather when they left. The rain started and they started scurrying, looking for cover. I could relate.
There was also the possibility that I watch too many movies. After all, this is just Lincoln.
Tompkins glided into the bar. That effortless movement that doesn't even seem to disturb the air. It was a good way to not get noticed. Professional.
He slid into the booth. I had a nice, smoky, Gurkha going, and made no move to defer to his clean living abstinence. I smiled inwardly.
"What did you find out on your citizen-funded excursion to the left coast?" he asked, smiling but with the undertone of a growl. He looked like a tiger sizing up potential prey and calculating if it was worth the effort.
"Three things," I said, blowing a cloud of smoke up toward the beaten copper ceiling tiles. "One: Fresno is a lot like Gaza, but without the charm, a few airstrikes would do wonders. Two: The Huskers can play in California. Three: just because the girl looks hot in a 20-year-old video, doesn't mean she's hot, today."
"So you found Robin?" he leaned into the table. He was playing with the water on the table, moving it around. He was absently separating the drops into droplets, and moving them back into new shapes.
"Yes...and no," I lied as nonchalantly as I could. I blew another cloud, slowly, I let it drift into my face. My eyes stung and watered. I looked uncomfortable. Body language countermeasures. Double-blind deception. Maskirovka, baby.
"You could clear that up, just a bit, now."
"We found the company Robin founded, after she quit being Robin. We talked to the current CEO, she said that the years of being an actress in the 'Adult Entertainment Industry' had taken its toll. She retired, moved to Carmel and shacked up with her cats and shot guns with Clint Eastwood."
"You did go to Carmel to follow up that lead, didn't you?"
"Yeah, sure," I lied. "We tracked her down. Lloyd was very disappointed. Let's just say his image of her smashed head-long into brutal, unyielding reality. People change, even movie people."
"Did she tell you anything useful about Jamie?" he asked, more interested but trying not to show it.
"Not a damn thing." I shook my head, slowly as I blew out another cloud. The smoke eddied and danced in slow swirls before drifting upward and spreading. Be like the smoke, I thought. "That girl is bat-shit crazy. Lloyd thinks it is too much of that primo No-Cal dope. The only flicker of coherence came when we mentioned Lincoln. Other than that, her life since trying to make it big is one big blur of flesh and chemicals."
Tompkins looked at me. He looked through me. It felt like if he just stared hard enough, he'd see Robin sitting behind me, and the cover story would be shot. "All that way, and nothing to show for it."
"I know. Sad, isn't it?" I tried to look crestfallen. "We're not done, yet, though."
"What do you plan to do, now?" he asked. "It's not like you've made a lot of headway on the case."
"Hey now," I mocked indignation. "We tied up one loose end. Sure we went off a bit half-cocked, but we've realized that the husband is probably the best bet. We should have been bracing him, hard, like you wanted to, back in the day."
I was rolling the dice, here. I was going to play on his ego and see if I could roll a 7, natural. "You were making good points and scoring same with your detective-mentor, according to the files."
For an instant, I thought I had come up craps. His eyes searched through the haze, he broke contact, leaned back and smiled. Too bad it was the tiger smile. "Yeah, I was a bit, shall we say, overzealous, at the time. I wanted to find her. I wanted to be sure it wasn't me that she ran away from. I thought that if we went hard after Mr. Brewer, he'd topple and spill."
"I get that," I said, being as good natured and disarming as I could. "I'd have done the same thing. Make him think you've got the goods to send him to play with the big boys in Tecumseh, and he'll tell you if he's wearing lingerie. Shame it didn't work."
"Exactly."
"I should be moseying along. I have a couple more angles I want to try. If those don't work, we might be stuck."
"Who do you have in mind?" he asked. I could tell he was mentally reviewing the files.
"Just the rest of the girls from the hen's night, and 'll see if hubby will be willing to have a chin-wag."
Tompkins' face visibly darkened. "Tread carefully around him. It could be dangerous."
With that, Jimbo glided out, the way he entered. I still had my cigar to finish. I was calculating the odds. I think I rolled an 8. Not a natural winner, but not a tough point to make. I decided to finish my cigar while watching the people, outside. A lot of them had dressed for the nice weather when they left. The rain started and they started scurrying, looking for cover. I could relate.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Bulldogs Bounced.
There was a lot to mull over after the Stacy/Robin revelation. It was looking like our pal, Tompkins was holding out on us. The pieces did fit, to a good degree. If Jimbo had been banging the vic before she was a vic, or even was a vic, for that matter. It not only skewed our investigation, but might have skewed it back when the news was hot off the presses.
By the time we were on the plane, quite a bit had happened. As the Boeing boing-ed into the early morning sky, a sort of elation took over. It was the feeling the dudes in 'Nam must have had when the Freedom Bird took off. Okey, that's not that fair, Vietnam is no Fresno.
Lloyd was giddy. The game had gone so well, he was fidgeting. He was pretty much confined to his seat and was bopping like the kid who knows there is one more piece of birthday cake, but his mom has already said 'no' because kid's pupils are constricted and he says everyone around him looks like a cartoon character.
"Do you think we should confront Jimmy-boy about dalliance with a disappearance?" I asked.
Lloyd had powered up his tablet and was watching De'Morney Pierson-El highlights...again.
Lloyd shook his head. "No way. He still wants to find the girl. His motives may not be as pure as he said, but he wants to find her."
"It doesn't bother you that it seems like we were played to go on this case."
"You were played. I'm just along for the ride. like usual. Does it matter to you how he got you in, as long as the check clears?"
"It's not about the money," I said, giving Lloyd one of my dirtier looks. "If he held out on us--me, what are his motives? What is he hiding, besides what is now obvious?"
"Dunno," Lloyd said, adjusting his seat so he could see his tablet, better. "Maybe that's why we don't confront him. Tell him this was a dead end. That we couldn't even find Stacy. Wasted trip. Big Zero. Dry Well. Tell him there are other leads we need to pursue."
"That might work," I said, the synapses zip-zip-zipping along to what Lloyd was laying down. "He doesn't know what we know."
"Right, you're getting it, now."
We sat in silence for a little while. I was contemplating our next moves, and honestly had no idea what our play was going to be, other than running a misdirection on Tompkins. I closed the lid on that box in my noggin and decided that Lloyd could probably keep me entertained at least until the Rockies if I asked him about the game.
"Happy with the game?" I asked Lloyd, who immediately brightened and sat up.
"About as happy as could be expected. Overall, good game. Offense did pretty well, defense did a good job and special teams was amazing. Love this Pierson-El, kid. His 86-yard punt return for a touchdown was longer than the entire return yardage for the team last season. I think he is a legit contender to be one of the greatest return men in Husker history."
"I wasn't overly happy with the run game," I said. "Yeah, both Ameer and Imani had those big runs, but the production between the tackles wasn't consistent. Fresno was able to disrupt things with their run blitzes, and Ameer was limited to short runs, a lot."
"That's the risk, playing a defensive scheme like that takes. You make it difficult to get a four or five yard run, but if a guy with Ameer's speed gets into the second level, he's gone."
"How about the passing game?" I asked. "I thought Tommy did a good job, and distributed the ball pretty well."
"Tommy was seeing the receivers pretty well. The long pass to Westerkamp was awesome. Great pre-snap read. It was good to see Kenny back out there. Also nice to see that the tight ends are getting into the mix. That will make the inside line-backers respect their presence, which will also help the running game. Moore and Allen need to shake off the rust, they are both getting open, just not coming up with catches."
"Defense, now. Better than you expected?" I asked.
"A little. That one, big, 66-yard run came late against the back-ups. The one guy who had an angle on him stumbled as he turned to pursue, so that didn't look good. I expected them to give up 17, and essentially, they did. The safety was just a weird play that I doubt if I ever see one like it again."
"I know," I agreed. I was surprised when the official initially called it a touchback. I knew when they huddled up that the call was going to be a safety. I don't know what Josh was thinking," I said, shaking my head at the image of Banderas batting the ball into his own end zone. I have been watching football for a looooong time, and I have never seen a play quite like it.
"How about Randy Gregory? He looked good when he had his legs under him."
"Yes, he did. He wasn't in 'game' shape. He's in shape, but getting back into the kind of shape you need for game conditions is still a work in progress. Besides his play, his presence elevates the entire d-line. McDermott and Valentine, in particular, benefit from RG4 being a disruptive force, out there."
"What's up with the linebackers?" I asked.
"They are getting caught up in mis-matches. They are getting stuck covering receivers that are faster than them on the underneath routes. That and they are frozen by the zone-read action, they are still looking for the ball-carrier for too long after the d-linemen have absorbed the blockers. If it weren't for the big guys up front, doing a great job, the linebackers would be looking a lot worse."
"Did the defensive backs play to your liking?"
"Definitely. You don't see receivers running free on vertical routes. The one deep ball Fresno tried had two guys bracketing the intended receiver. The corners are doing well on the outside routes, and are getting better about recognizing and disrupting the bubble screen passes."
I reclined my seat back, making sure the person behind me wasn't going to file a federal lawsuit or throw his vodka and Red Bull at me. I really didn't want to have an unscheduled stop in Denver. my skin crawled at the thought of it.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine keeping Tompkins at arms length while solving a case that might not be solvable. At the very least I had to decide if it needed to be solved.
By the time we were on the plane, quite a bit had happened. As the Boeing boing-ed into the early morning sky, a sort of elation took over. It was the feeling the dudes in 'Nam must have had when the Freedom Bird took off. Okey, that's not that fair, Vietnam is no Fresno.
Lloyd was giddy. The game had gone so well, he was fidgeting. He was pretty much confined to his seat and was bopping like the kid who knows there is one more piece of birthday cake, but his mom has already said 'no' because kid's pupils are constricted and he says everyone around him looks like a cartoon character.
"Do you think we should confront Jimmy-boy about dalliance with a disappearance?" I asked.
Lloyd had powered up his tablet and was watching De'Morney Pierson-El highlights...again.
Lloyd shook his head. "No way. He still wants to find the girl. His motives may not be as pure as he said, but he wants to find her."
"It doesn't bother you that it seems like we were played to go on this case."
"You were played. I'm just along for the ride. like usual. Does it matter to you how he got you in, as long as the check clears?"
"It's not about the money," I said, giving Lloyd one of my dirtier looks. "If he held out on us--me, what are his motives? What is he hiding, besides what is now obvious?"
"Dunno," Lloyd said, adjusting his seat so he could see his tablet, better. "Maybe that's why we don't confront him. Tell him this was a dead end. That we couldn't even find Stacy. Wasted trip. Big Zero. Dry Well. Tell him there are other leads we need to pursue."
"That might work," I said, the synapses zip-zip-zipping along to what Lloyd was laying down. "He doesn't know what we know."
"Right, you're getting it, now."
We sat in silence for a little while. I was contemplating our next moves, and honestly had no idea what our play was going to be, other than running a misdirection on Tompkins. I closed the lid on that box in my noggin and decided that Lloyd could probably keep me entertained at least until the Rockies if I asked him about the game.
"Happy with the game?" I asked Lloyd, who immediately brightened and sat up.
"About as happy as could be expected. Overall, good game. Offense did pretty well, defense did a good job and special teams was amazing. Love this Pierson-El, kid. His 86-yard punt return for a touchdown was longer than the entire return yardage for the team last season. I think he is a legit contender to be one of the greatest return men in Husker history."
"I wasn't overly happy with the run game," I said. "Yeah, both Ameer and Imani had those big runs, but the production between the tackles wasn't consistent. Fresno was able to disrupt things with their run blitzes, and Ameer was limited to short runs, a lot."
"That's the risk, playing a defensive scheme like that takes. You make it difficult to get a four or five yard run, but if a guy with Ameer's speed gets into the second level, he's gone."
"How about the passing game?" I asked. "I thought Tommy did a good job, and distributed the ball pretty well."
"Tommy was seeing the receivers pretty well. The long pass to Westerkamp was awesome. Great pre-snap read. It was good to see Kenny back out there. Also nice to see that the tight ends are getting into the mix. That will make the inside line-backers respect their presence, which will also help the running game. Moore and Allen need to shake off the rust, they are both getting open, just not coming up with catches."
"Defense, now. Better than you expected?" I asked.
"A little. That one, big, 66-yard run came late against the back-ups. The one guy who had an angle on him stumbled as he turned to pursue, so that didn't look good. I expected them to give up 17, and essentially, they did. The safety was just a weird play that I doubt if I ever see one like it again."
"I know," I agreed. I was surprised when the official initially called it a touchback. I knew when they huddled up that the call was going to be a safety. I don't know what Josh was thinking," I said, shaking my head at the image of Banderas batting the ball into his own end zone. I have been watching football for a looooong time, and I have never seen a play quite like it.
"How about Randy Gregory? He looked good when he had his legs under him."
"Yes, he did. He wasn't in 'game' shape. He's in shape, but getting back into the kind of shape you need for game conditions is still a work in progress. Besides his play, his presence elevates the entire d-line. McDermott and Valentine, in particular, benefit from RG4 being a disruptive force, out there."
"What's up with the linebackers?" I asked.
"They are getting caught up in mis-matches. They are getting stuck covering receivers that are faster than them on the underneath routes. That and they are frozen by the zone-read action, they are still looking for the ball-carrier for too long after the d-linemen have absorbed the blockers. If it weren't for the big guys up front, doing a great job, the linebackers would be looking a lot worse."
"Did the defensive backs play to your liking?"
"Definitely. You don't see receivers running free on vertical routes. The one deep ball Fresno tried had two guys bracketing the intended receiver. The corners are doing well on the outside routes, and are getting better about recognizing and disrupting the bubble screen passes."
I reclined my seat back, making sure the person behind me wasn't going to file a federal lawsuit or throw his vodka and Red Bull at me. I really didn't want to have an unscheduled stop in Denver. my skin crawled at the thought of it.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine keeping Tompkins at arms length while solving a case that might not be solvable. At the very least I had to decide if it needed to be solved.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Stepping into Ex-Stacy Productions was like arriving in an oasis. The air was cool and crisp, the sun's glare replaced with ambient lighting, and the scent of artificial pine replaced the oppressive miasma of old urine. It was pretty nice.
Posters for the company's films adorned the walls. I thought they looked like covers for romance novels, with titles like 'The Temptress of Hell Creek", 'Stacy's Night Out" and "Daydreams Come True at Night", I didn't think I was far off.
Lloyd, goggled and craned, his neck stretched as he tried to look at all the posters in one scan. I nudged him. I know he doesn't get out much, but I needed him to be cool.
We stepped up to the desk. A young-ish receptionist with blonde-ish hair scoped us. I could tell she had reviewed us negatively and was prepping her polite-ish, hit the bricks speech. I armed a card and dive-bombed it onto her desk in a preemptive strike.
"Hi, I'm Sam, and this is Lloyd, we came all the way here from Lincoln, Nebraska," I said with my serious, but not too creepy smile. "Buzz the boss-lady and tell her we want to talk to her about Jamie Brewer...please."
She gave us a good, hard scan, then. While she picked up the phone, she was doing her best to figure out if we were who I said we were. She did a pretty good job, the card was the tipping point.
"Ma'am, there are two gentlemen from Lincoln, Nebraska, here to see you," she said with that upward inflection that makes a statement sound like a question. "They say it's about a Jamie Brewer?"
She hung up the phone, stood and un-rumpled, "Follow, me, please," she said and led us through one set of doors and down a short hall. Lloyd didn't mind, one bit. He was locked and had tone as he watched her stride down the hall from behind. Another nudge got him to break lock before she turned back to us and opened the door.
The office was nice, not overwhelming. More framed posters, carpeted floor, real chairs with padding and arm-rests, a nicely solid desk, clean, no papers, or nick-knacks, or pictures. Some potted plants kept things pleasant and the lighting was dim, but not dark.
She stood to greet us, I popped through the profile in my head. She was about 40. Pop. Good shape, well dressed. Pop-pop. Hair shorter, colored, well-styled. Ears same, lips same, eyes, exactly the same. Pop-pop-pop. It was her.
"Which one of you is Sam, and which is Lloyd?" she asked extending her hand as she came to the desk's front.
I held out my hand, "I'm Sam," I said, and this is my associate, Lloyd, I introduced them. Lloyd took her hand. Lloyd blushed a little.
"Jennifer, could you please bring some water for me?" she called out to the receptionist. "Would either of you like something to drink? Water, tea, coffee maybe?"
Before Lloyd could chime in, I waved it off. "No, thanks. We're fine. We'd just like to thank you for agreeing to see us. I know your time is very valuable so we appreciate allowing us to intrude."
Jennifer closed the door to retrieve the water. Lloyd watched her go.
"You're quite the bullshit artist, aren't you?" Stacy/Robin said.
"No, Ma'am, I'm a private investigator--"
"Same thing," she interrupted. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate having to go through formalities and rituals and all that crap. You came in here, trying to be nice, but cut the crap, what is this about Jamie?"
"We've been asked to go over the case," I explained. "Our local boys in blue want it cleared up --
"I just bet they do," she hissed. She was leaning back against the desk, her arms crossed against her chest and her legs crossed at the ankles. Great, making her uncomfortable was not part of the plan.
I decided to retreat a bit, give her space, and leaned back into the chair, I uncrossed my legs and rested my hands on the chair's arms. The chair didn't seem to mind. "We came to talk to you, because one of the interview sheets, at the time, indicated that you had cause to believe that Jamie had bolted, and that you knew why."
Stacy/Robin looked down, she seemed both sad and angry, thoughts rapidly flickered across her face, "You know she was cheating on her douchebag husband, right?"
Poker-face time, "Yes," I said. "But there's no mention in the files of who you thought it was with."
She barked a sharp, short laugh. "Are you sure the cops, sent you out on this case? The thin, blue line closed ranks, back then, I'm surprised they're opening up, now."
I looked over at Lloyd, he shrugged. His shrug confirmed my confusion. "Are you saying that the guy she was cheating with was a cop?" I asked, trying to sound even toned.
"Yes. Initially, that's what I thought she had done, run off with him, new life, fresh start and all that. I understand the appeal of all that. I made it work, too."
"You said, 'initially'," I pressed. "You don't think that now?"
No. Not when I heard that he was doing some of the investigating. He was pretty young, but one of the detectives determined he was a 'bright boy with a future' and let him tag along. When they questioned me, I told them that I had suspicions, but not who. How do you do that when the guy is staring right at you, in your own house and has a gun. It freaked me the fuck out. I bailed that week for Cali."
"You haven't heard from Jamie, at all?"
"Nope. It was a long time ago. My best friend ditched me, and I couldn't even face the guy that I think caused it all to happen."
"What do you remember about that officer?"
"I remember that his name was James, because Jamie thought that it was 'cute' James and Jamie and all that crap."
"Anything else?" I had a weird feeling in my gut, it's where hunches go to get digested and turned into theories. "Was he tall? What did he look like? I just ask because I bet there was more than one James on the force in 1997."
"He was kind of tall, about six-foot or so. He had sandy blonde hair and a mustache that had to be just on the edge of what the police would allow."
The hunch was twisting and churning in my gut. I knew it was just a couple of steps from solidifying.
"Do you remember his last name?"
"No...not really...I know it started with a T"
"Was it 'Tompkins'?" I asked slowly and deliberately.
Stacy/Robin slowly raised her head. Her gaze bore through mine and flamed-seared my brain. "Yes. That's his name. I haven't remembered it for years, but that's it. Tompkins."
I had to catch up to Lloyd. I took my time, I had the keys.
Posters for the company's films adorned the walls. I thought they looked like covers for romance novels, with titles like 'The Temptress of Hell Creek", 'Stacy's Night Out" and "Daydreams Come True at Night", I didn't think I was far off.
Lloyd, goggled and craned, his neck stretched as he tried to look at all the posters in one scan. I nudged him. I know he doesn't get out much, but I needed him to be cool.
We stepped up to the desk. A young-ish receptionist with blonde-ish hair scoped us. I could tell she had reviewed us negatively and was prepping her polite-ish, hit the bricks speech. I armed a card and dive-bombed it onto her desk in a preemptive strike.
"Hi, I'm Sam, and this is Lloyd, we came all the way here from Lincoln, Nebraska," I said with my serious, but not too creepy smile. "Buzz the boss-lady and tell her we want to talk to her about Jamie Brewer...please."
She gave us a good, hard scan, then. While she picked up the phone, she was doing her best to figure out if we were who I said we were. She did a pretty good job, the card was the tipping point.
"Ma'am, there are two gentlemen from Lincoln, Nebraska, here to see you," she said with that upward inflection that makes a statement sound like a question. "They say it's about a Jamie Brewer?"
She hung up the phone, stood and un-rumpled, "Follow, me, please," she said and led us through one set of doors and down a short hall. Lloyd didn't mind, one bit. He was locked and had tone as he watched her stride down the hall from behind. Another nudge got him to break lock before she turned back to us and opened the door.
The office was nice, not overwhelming. More framed posters, carpeted floor, real chairs with padding and arm-rests, a nicely solid desk, clean, no papers, or nick-knacks, or pictures. Some potted plants kept things pleasant and the lighting was dim, but not dark.
She stood to greet us, I popped through the profile in my head. She was about 40. Pop. Good shape, well dressed. Pop-pop. Hair shorter, colored, well-styled. Ears same, lips same, eyes, exactly the same. Pop-pop-pop. It was her.
"Which one of you is Sam, and which is Lloyd?" she asked extending her hand as she came to the desk's front.
I held out my hand, "I'm Sam," I said, and this is my associate, Lloyd, I introduced them. Lloyd took her hand. Lloyd blushed a little.
"Jennifer, could you please bring some water for me?" she called out to the receptionist. "Would either of you like something to drink? Water, tea, coffee maybe?"
Before Lloyd could chime in, I waved it off. "No, thanks. We're fine. We'd just like to thank you for agreeing to see us. I know your time is very valuable so we appreciate allowing us to intrude."
Jennifer closed the door to retrieve the water. Lloyd watched her go.
"You're quite the bullshit artist, aren't you?" Stacy/Robin said.
"No, Ma'am, I'm a private investigator--"
"Same thing," she interrupted. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate having to go through formalities and rituals and all that crap. You came in here, trying to be nice, but cut the crap, what is this about Jamie?"
"We've been asked to go over the case," I explained. "Our local boys in blue want it cleared up --
"I just bet they do," she hissed. She was leaning back against the desk, her arms crossed against her chest and her legs crossed at the ankles. Great, making her uncomfortable was not part of the plan.
I decided to retreat a bit, give her space, and leaned back into the chair, I uncrossed my legs and rested my hands on the chair's arms. The chair didn't seem to mind. "We came to talk to you, because one of the interview sheets, at the time, indicated that you had cause to believe that Jamie had bolted, and that you knew why."
Stacy/Robin looked down, she seemed both sad and angry, thoughts rapidly flickered across her face, "You know she was cheating on her douchebag husband, right?"
Poker-face time, "Yes," I said. "But there's no mention in the files of who you thought it was with."
She barked a sharp, short laugh. "Are you sure the cops, sent you out on this case? The thin, blue line closed ranks, back then, I'm surprised they're opening up, now."
I looked over at Lloyd, he shrugged. His shrug confirmed my confusion. "Are you saying that the guy she was cheating with was a cop?" I asked, trying to sound even toned.
"Yes. Initially, that's what I thought she had done, run off with him, new life, fresh start and all that. I understand the appeal of all that. I made it work, too."
"You said, 'initially'," I pressed. "You don't think that now?"
No. Not when I heard that he was doing some of the investigating. He was pretty young, but one of the detectives determined he was a 'bright boy with a future' and let him tag along. When they questioned me, I told them that I had suspicions, but not who. How do you do that when the guy is staring right at you, in your own house and has a gun. It freaked me the fuck out. I bailed that week for Cali."
"You haven't heard from Jamie, at all?"
"Nope. It was a long time ago. My best friend ditched me, and I couldn't even face the guy that I think caused it all to happen."
"What do you remember about that officer?"
"I remember that his name was James, because Jamie thought that it was 'cute' James and Jamie and all that crap."
"Anything else?" I had a weird feeling in my gut, it's where hunches go to get digested and turned into theories. "Was he tall? What did he look like? I just ask because I bet there was more than one James on the force in 1997."
"He was kind of tall, about six-foot or so. He had sandy blonde hair and a mustache that had to be just on the edge of what the police would allow."
The hunch was twisting and churning in my gut. I knew it was just a couple of steps from solidifying.
"Do you remember his last name?"
"No...not really...I know it started with a T"
"Was it 'Tompkins'?" I asked slowly and deliberately.
Stacy/Robin slowly raised her head. Her gaze bore through mine and flamed-seared my brain. "Yes. That's his name. I haven't remembered it for years, but that's it. Tompkins."
I had to catch up to Lloyd. I took my time, I had the keys.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Fresno. Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno, anymore
Getting to Fresno on short notice is not easy. First I had to convince Tompkins that shelling out 3K for Lloyd and I to go was worth it. Either he really wants to solve this case, he was feeling particularly generous or I am extremely convincing.
My vote is for one of the first two options.
On a Delta plane that was sadly not delta-winged, we bopped from the LNK, over a couple hundred lakes to the Twin Cities, that from the air, look like conjoined twins. From there we waved at our houses as we backtracked to Salt Lake City, by one big lake, keeping a wary eye on the gulls as we landed. One final hop took us to Fresno, airport code FAT. That little tid-bit, according to Lloyd is either sadly accurate, or deliciously ironic, since Fresno has the highest diabetes rate in the country.
We blazed out of the airport and ran smack into a sickening miasma of heat and despair. Rather than the beautiful vista of Yosemite, which you see on your way to baggage claim, you see a sprawling, decaying urban morass. It's like New Orleans without the charm, or the fun, or the history. I looked at Lloyd, he looked back at me with a look that read, 'you wanted to come here, bitch.'
We grabbed the rental wheels and cranked the a/c in order to fight the heat and the weird smell that I can only compare to a port-a-john at a weekend long music festival.
We found our accommodations, The Holiday Motel, on Golden Gate Boulevard. It looked like a nice place, if, by nice, you mean, homeless dudes shuffling around talking to Jesus about Hitler and working girls that have business cards with services offered and prices listed. I tried to prevent Lloyd from making too much eye-contact, but he was loving it.
We got to the room and it was a good thing we had someplace to go. The holes in the wall and the bugs on the bed was unpleasant enough, but when the train rolled by, it was like being in Elwood's apartment in 'Blues Brothers'. I don't want to seem too harsh, but this place could be used to train special forces guys for how to survive in an urban environment on limited resources.
"You know," I said to Lloyd, "we should probably just work out of the car. I don't want to leave anything here, and I didn't bring anything to play Fort Apache with if someone tries to pay us a visit."
"Come on, I kind of like it," he said in a slightly defeated tone. "It's the kind of place that Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson would love...if they were broke...and unemployed...and freshly out of court-mandated rehab."
"Tompkins made these reservations. I'll have to have a word with him when we get back."
"What do you expect for 40 bucks a night, the Ritz."
We went back to the car, shooing the working girls away, who scattered like starlings and called out to us in a polyglot of slang from around the world. Lloyd was beaming, it was like every seedy, pulp-fiction nightmare was springing to life, right in front of him. I know it's usually part and parcel with the gig, but it makes you appreciate how straight and dullsville Lincoln is.
We set off for Ex-Stacy productions. Making our way through a town short on hope and long on despair. It was like driving across the front of an E-Z-Bake oven, but without the prospect of a tasty treat at the end.
We headed across town, marveling at how quickly one could get a free windshield cleaning...at every stop light. Bums and low-lifes milled together on the campus, trying to look like students. Lloyd said those were the students.
As we blazed past Bulldog Stadium Lloyd began to open up about the game. The game that we would maybe get to watch at some gulp & puke near the hotel. "You know," he said, gazing thoughtfully at the stadium, "That place only holds 41,000. It'll be like playing at Kansas State or Iowa State, back in the day. There are lots of Nebraskans in California, I wouldn't be surprised to see us pull a Northwestern or Notre Dame and take over the joint."
"You feeling better about the team, than last week?" I asked.
"It's weird, but getting RG4 back will make a huge impact. He's just a giant, disruptive force, that elevates the effectiveness of the rest of the line. The linebackers disappointed me, a bit, but I still think they are trying to get comfortable with their new roles after Rose got hurt. The backfield played all right, giving up one big play that led to a spark for the Cowboys, but overall they did ok."
We were passing through a part of town that reminded me of Gaza, but without the charm, or local color. Bizarres rather than bazaars lined the streets. The locals seemed to shuffle along in a post-apocalyptic stupor, I half expected them to start groaning, 'braiiins'.
"I think they'll be ok," he continued. The offense struggled to find a rhythm, last week, and some poor execution of third downs really stymied the offense. I think McNeese State might have actually had a more talented defense than Fresno. Both USC and Utah basically scored at will, I don't know if our offense is as good as that, but if the o-line is angry and embarrassed about last week, we could b in for a real show of smash-mouth football."
Ex-Stacy was looming, according to the little voice on the dashboard, the vista had changed, a bit, it started to feel a little bit more like post-war Europe, but I was still a little wary of what I could get for a Hershey bar and a pair of nylons.
"All things considered, the teams, the late start, the crowd, the fact that Derek Carr is starting up-state, all of it, what do you think?"
Lloyd pondered for a moment as pawn shops, payday advance dives and adult toy stores ultra-glided past the windows. "Our offense is better than their defense, especially after getting slapped in the face, last week. Our defense is better, than their offense, but I don't know how much better, I'm thinking they will score a couple of times. Special teams is probably a wash, with Pierson-El still figuring things out. The environment and crowd will not be much of a factor. These guys have experience playing in stadiums that hold over twice as many people as this place does. I'm not worried about intimidation."
"So, give me your final score prediction, and does Ameer get back on track?"
"I don't want to get overconfident, but I think we will drop 42 on them, they just look sloppy and slow. I don't think we'll shut them out, but I think it might be a run away and hide game, jump out to a big lead, then run the ball so we can get the hell out of Dodge. 28-10, at the half, 42-17 final. Ameer gets his 100, but so does Imani, and Newby gets, close."
I nodded in general agreement as we pulled into the parking lot, of a post-post-modern office building, all glass and concrete. The sun reflected off the windows and I was hoping it didn't laser-ize the rental ride. The sign out front included several concerns, including 'Ex-Stacy Productions'.
We bopped into the blessedly cool air.
My vote is for one of the first two options.
On a Delta plane that was sadly not delta-winged, we bopped from the LNK, over a couple hundred lakes to the Twin Cities, that from the air, look like conjoined twins. From there we waved at our houses as we backtracked to Salt Lake City, by one big lake, keeping a wary eye on the gulls as we landed. One final hop took us to Fresno, airport code FAT. That little tid-bit, according to Lloyd is either sadly accurate, or deliciously ironic, since Fresno has the highest diabetes rate in the country.
We blazed out of the airport and ran smack into a sickening miasma of heat and despair. Rather than the beautiful vista of Yosemite, which you see on your way to baggage claim, you see a sprawling, decaying urban morass. It's like New Orleans without the charm, or the fun, or the history. I looked at Lloyd, he looked back at me with a look that read, 'you wanted to come here, bitch.'
We grabbed the rental wheels and cranked the a/c in order to fight the heat and the weird smell that I can only compare to a port-a-john at a weekend long music festival.
We found our accommodations, The Holiday Motel, on Golden Gate Boulevard. It looked like a nice place, if, by nice, you mean, homeless dudes shuffling around talking to Jesus about Hitler and working girls that have business cards with services offered and prices listed. I tried to prevent Lloyd from making too much eye-contact, but he was loving it.
We got to the room and it was a good thing we had someplace to go. The holes in the wall and the bugs on the bed was unpleasant enough, but when the train rolled by, it was like being in Elwood's apartment in 'Blues Brothers'. I don't want to seem too harsh, but this place could be used to train special forces guys for how to survive in an urban environment on limited resources.
"You know," I said to Lloyd, "we should probably just work out of the car. I don't want to leave anything here, and I didn't bring anything to play Fort Apache with if someone tries to pay us a visit."
"Come on, I kind of like it," he said in a slightly defeated tone. "It's the kind of place that Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson would love...if they were broke...and unemployed...and freshly out of court-mandated rehab."
"Tompkins made these reservations. I'll have to have a word with him when we get back."
"What do you expect for 40 bucks a night, the Ritz."
We went back to the car, shooing the working girls away, who scattered like starlings and called out to us in a polyglot of slang from around the world. Lloyd was beaming, it was like every seedy, pulp-fiction nightmare was springing to life, right in front of him. I know it's usually part and parcel with the gig, but it makes you appreciate how straight and dullsville Lincoln is.
We set off for Ex-Stacy productions. Making our way through a town short on hope and long on despair. It was like driving across the front of an E-Z-Bake oven, but without the prospect of a tasty treat at the end.
We headed across town, marveling at how quickly one could get a free windshield cleaning...at every stop light. Bums and low-lifes milled together on the campus, trying to look like students. Lloyd said those were the students.
As we blazed past Bulldog Stadium Lloyd began to open up about the game. The game that we would maybe get to watch at some gulp & puke near the hotel. "You know," he said, gazing thoughtfully at the stadium, "That place only holds 41,000. It'll be like playing at Kansas State or Iowa State, back in the day. There are lots of Nebraskans in California, I wouldn't be surprised to see us pull a Northwestern or Notre Dame and take over the joint."
"You feeling better about the team, than last week?" I asked.
"It's weird, but getting RG4 back will make a huge impact. He's just a giant, disruptive force, that elevates the effectiveness of the rest of the line. The linebackers disappointed me, a bit, but I still think they are trying to get comfortable with their new roles after Rose got hurt. The backfield played all right, giving up one big play that led to a spark for the Cowboys, but overall they did ok."
We were passing through a part of town that reminded me of Gaza, but without the charm, or local color. Bizarres rather than bazaars lined the streets. The locals seemed to shuffle along in a post-apocalyptic stupor, I half expected them to start groaning, 'braiiins'.
"I think they'll be ok," he continued. The offense struggled to find a rhythm, last week, and some poor execution of third downs really stymied the offense. I think McNeese State might have actually had a more talented defense than Fresno. Both USC and Utah basically scored at will, I don't know if our offense is as good as that, but if the o-line is angry and embarrassed about last week, we could b in for a real show of smash-mouth football."
Ex-Stacy was looming, according to the little voice on the dashboard, the vista had changed, a bit, it started to feel a little bit more like post-war Europe, but I was still a little wary of what I could get for a Hershey bar and a pair of nylons.
"All things considered, the teams, the late start, the crowd, the fact that Derek Carr is starting up-state, all of it, what do you think?"
Lloyd pondered for a moment as pawn shops, payday advance dives and adult toy stores ultra-glided past the windows. "Our offense is better than their defense, especially after getting slapped in the face, last week. Our defense is better, than their offense, but I don't know how much better, I'm thinking they will score a couple of times. Special teams is probably a wash, with Pierson-El still figuring things out. The environment and crowd will not be much of a factor. These guys have experience playing in stadiums that hold over twice as many people as this place does. I'm not worried about intimidation."
"So, give me your final score prediction, and does Ameer get back on track?"
"I don't want to get overconfident, but I think we will drop 42 on them, they just look sloppy and slow. I don't think we'll shut them out, but I think it might be a run away and hide game, jump out to a big lead, then run the ball so we can get the hell out of Dodge. 28-10, at the half, 42-17 final. Ameer gets his 100, but so does Imani, and Newby gets, close."
I nodded in general agreement as we pulled into the parking lot, of a post-post-modern office building, all glass and concrete. The sun reflected off the windows and I was hoping it didn't laser-ize the rental ride. The sign out front included several concerns, including 'Ex-Stacy Productions'.
We bopped into the blessedly cool air.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Heading back to Cali
Lloyd hadn't talked to me for a couple of days. He doesn't mind being wrong, now and then, but to be really wrong perturbs him, some. He gets pissed off if you try to make light of it.
I had been trying to cheer him up after McNeese State had refused to go quietly into the early afternoon. I tried the usual angles of, "Hey, a win is a win, right?" and "2-0 is a damn sight better than 1-1 and being the punchline of the week." What really set him off, for whatever reason, was when I said to him, "This team isn't as bad as the team that nearly lost to McNeese State, and they aren't as good as the team that crushed Florida Atlantic."
I really don't know what button I had pushed, but it set him charging out of the office.
I still didn't have a feel for Jamie's husband. He had been busy turning small bundles of money into bigger bundles of money in the shape of dirt for almost 20 years, now. He had gotten into the real estate gig, shortly after college and had angled toward the commercial side from the get-go. Matching clients with their rental space and outlet areas had grown into lining up investors into sinking cash into parcels of land for mini-malls, franchisees, and car dealerships.
He had a long-term plan, too. He would take any extra cash and buy up parcels of land outside of town along the major arterial roads. When possible, he would expand to land adjacent and wait. Like a spider, he was reward for his patience when the big-box stores started arriving. He tripled, and quadrupled his investments. There were some that said his value was in the millions, and it showed.
He drove around town in a tricked out Caddy Escalade (hybrid, of course), Armani suits, Rolex watch, Aviator sunglasses. He was a key donor in local politics, and was occasionally rumored to be in the mix for several offices. I didn't think he'd take they pay cut to sit on the City Council.
At the time of Jamie's disappearance, though, he wasn't the man-about-town, he was, now. He was becoming the guy the firm would bring in to close a tricky deal. The guy who seemed to know what the other person was thinking, and instinctively hinge the negotiations around that.
As good as he was at figuring out his clients, he seemed to have a blind spot regarding Jamie. In the reports taken from the friends she went out with on the night of her disappearance, there seemed to be problems bubbling up with the Brewers. Jamie complained that they never spent any time together, that he was too focused on work. She wanted to start a family, but he wasn't ready, yet. One report, from a friend named Stacy Thurston, suggested that Mr. Brewer was stepping out, but when pressed, clammed up on the name. There was something about Ms. Thurston's report that chewed at me. The other ones all seemed to be alike, but hers stood out. The suggestion of an affair didn't surprise me. That only one of the six women that went out that night made that connection prickled at the edge of my skin. It was like something that you keep glimpsing out of the corner of your eye and when you look at it, head-on, it's gone.
I started digging. Stacy had gone to school with Jamie, and had started making a bit of a name for herself, appearing in local theater and T.V. ads after graduating from college. She stayed in Lincoln for about a year after Jamie's disappearance. and had lit-out west to chase the stars and her dreams. About five years later, she drops out of sight completely. Almost completely. He mom told me that she will still get an occasional call, or a letter, but they are always short on duration and detail.
I looked her up on IMDB, and found nothing. Even after I ran the name her mom said was on her SAG card, Robin Thrush, I only found a few appearances as walk-on roles in soaps and direct to video low-budget dreck.
I was just about to give up on the lead when I happened to see the one of the DVDs being tortured on the rack at Hy Vee. 'Zombie Cheerleaders of Massacre High', in which Stacy played Jenny #3. I plunked down the 5 bucks necessary to release it from its discount purgatory. The kid behind the counter gave me the fish-eye. "Don't judge," I admonished.
I didn't even want or need to watch the movie. I just wanted the contact information for the production company.
I called Tent City Productions and talked to a secretary. Before she could cut me off with the usual nonsense about protecting the talent and all that, I jumped straight to the game. "Hi I'm Vic, Vic Marrow, from over at Twilight Casting and If you could just let me have the name or number of Robin Thrush's agent, we've got a project we'd love to offer her, a part that she is just perfect for, we think it would be the launch of a whole new career..." Do it all in one breath before a person's brain can catch up to their ears.
"Hold on a minute," Julie the laconic secretary said. "Did you say 'Robin Thrush'?"
"Yes. That was the credit in Zombie Cheerleaders."
"Which one was she?"
"The prom queen that got trapped in the bathroom. Tried to fight her way out with her plastic scepter."
"Oh, yeah. she had a pretty good look. Her agent listed here Tony Marchetti--"
"Great," I schmoozed. "If you could just give me his number."
"Won't do you any good. He's doing a stretch in Q."
"San Quentin? What did he do, kill somebody?" I asked, feeling my stealthy, sneaky plan unravelling.
"Not sure. It had something to do with drugs, though. Either distributing or trafficking or whatever they call it. Anyway, he's inside. You can call there if you want to talk to him."
Cute. "No, that won't do me a lot of good, now." I called the hail Mary play. "If she's unrepresented, maybe you could, you know, give me her contact information, if it's not too much trouble."
"We both know that it would be unethical and illegal for me to do that," she said, still bored. "What I can do is this, since you seem to want to help the kid out."
Kid? This secretary was all of 25 years old, and I was looking for a lady who had appeared in a schlock movie years ago for a company that I was surprised to still be in business.
"What I can do is this. I heard that she and some of the other cast had moved up to the Valley and started working up there."
"Oh," I said, suddenly realizing the implication of this new info. "So, she is now in the Adult Entertainment Industry?"
"Ya, that's what I just said."
"Thanks, anyway," I said and hung up.
This brought a whole new dynamic. I had to break the jam if I wanted to progress. I dialed up Lloyd. It went straight to voicemail.
"Lloyd, man. I'm sorry bout my cracks about your Husker predictions. I know you take it very seriously and I hurt your feelings," I said in my really, I'm trying very hard to be sincere voice."
"Ive got a lead, but Ive hit a brick wall. I've been trying to track down Stacy/Robin Thrush and the last bit of info I got was that she had gotten into performing in the Adult Entertainment industry. So I'm stuck, I doubt if I'll be able to weasel any info about and actress from any of those companies."
I hung up and started pawing through the other files. Maybe One of the other friends was still around. I was beginning to get a headache, and beginning to wonder if all this hassle was really worth it. The tiny oppressed sliver of my conscience and my bank account agreed that one must press on.
I got a text from Lloyd. "Looking in wrong place," it read. At least he didn't blow me off.
"What do you mean?"
He sent me a link to XBIZ, the trade paper of the Adult Entertainment Industry. There, on a feature article, was a picture of an older, more secure Stacy Thrush. She wasn't a performer, anymore. She had started a company called Ex-Stacy Productions, some years ago. Ex-Stacy made films for women, by women, a novel idea at the time. She had done quite well for herself, and her headquarters was in Fresno, California.
I texted Lloyd back. "2 things. Thanks. Road trip?"
"K," he buzzed back.
I had been trying to cheer him up after McNeese State had refused to go quietly into the early afternoon. I tried the usual angles of, "Hey, a win is a win, right?" and "2-0 is a damn sight better than 1-1 and being the punchline of the week." What really set him off, for whatever reason, was when I said to him, "This team isn't as bad as the team that nearly lost to McNeese State, and they aren't as good as the team that crushed Florida Atlantic."
I really don't know what button I had pushed, but it set him charging out of the office.
I still didn't have a feel for Jamie's husband. He had been busy turning small bundles of money into bigger bundles of money in the shape of dirt for almost 20 years, now. He had gotten into the real estate gig, shortly after college and had angled toward the commercial side from the get-go. Matching clients with their rental space and outlet areas had grown into lining up investors into sinking cash into parcels of land for mini-malls, franchisees, and car dealerships.
He had a long-term plan, too. He would take any extra cash and buy up parcels of land outside of town along the major arterial roads. When possible, he would expand to land adjacent and wait. Like a spider, he was reward for his patience when the big-box stores started arriving. He tripled, and quadrupled his investments. There were some that said his value was in the millions, and it showed.
He drove around town in a tricked out Caddy Escalade (hybrid, of course), Armani suits, Rolex watch, Aviator sunglasses. He was a key donor in local politics, and was occasionally rumored to be in the mix for several offices. I didn't think he'd take they pay cut to sit on the City Council.
At the time of Jamie's disappearance, though, he wasn't the man-about-town, he was, now. He was becoming the guy the firm would bring in to close a tricky deal. The guy who seemed to know what the other person was thinking, and instinctively hinge the negotiations around that.
As good as he was at figuring out his clients, he seemed to have a blind spot regarding Jamie. In the reports taken from the friends she went out with on the night of her disappearance, there seemed to be problems bubbling up with the Brewers. Jamie complained that they never spent any time together, that he was too focused on work. She wanted to start a family, but he wasn't ready, yet. One report, from a friend named Stacy Thurston, suggested that Mr. Brewer was stepping out, but when pressed, clammed up on the name. There was something about Ms. Thurston's report that chewed at me. The other ones all seemed to be alike, but hers stood out. The suggestion of an affair didn't surprise me. That only one of the six women that went out that night made that connection prickled at the edge of my skin. It was like something that you keep glimpsing out of the corner of your eye and when you look at it, head-on, it's gone.
I started digging. Stacy had gone to school with Jamie, and had started making a bit of a name for herself, appearing in local theater and T.V. ads after graduating from college. She stayed in Lincoln for about a year after Jamie's disappearance. and had lit-out west to chase the stars and her dreams. About five years later, she drops out of sight completely. Almost completely. He mom told me that she will still get an occasional call, or a letter, but they are always short on duration and detail.
I looked her up on IMDB, and found nothing. Even after I ran the name her mom said was on her SAG card, Robin Thrush, I only found a few appearances as walk-on roles in soaps and direct to video low-budget dreck.
I was just about to give up on the lead when I happened to see the one of the DVDs being tortured on the rack at Hy Vee. 'Zombie Cheerleaders of Massacre High', in which Stacy played Jenny #3. I plunked down the 5 bucks necessary to release it from its discount purgatory. The kid behind the counter gave me the fish-eye. "Don't judge," I admonished.
I didn't even want or need to watch the movie. I just wanted the contact information for the production company.
I called Tent City Productions and talked to a secretary. Before she could cut me off with the usual nonsense about protecting the talent and all that, I jumped straight to the game. "Hi I'm Vic, Vic Marrow, from over at Twilight Casting and If you could just let me have the name or number of Robin Thrush's agent, we've got a project we'd love to offer her, a part that she is just perfect for, we think it would be the launch of a whole new career..." Do it all in one breath before a person's brain can catch up to their ears.
"Hold on a minute," Julie the laconic secretary said. "Did you say 'Robin Thrush'?"
"Yes. That was the credit in Zombie Cheerleaders."
"Which one was she?"
"The prom queen that got trapped in the bathroom. Tried to fight her way out with her plastic scepter."
"Oh, yeah. she had a pretty good look. Her agent listed here Tony Marchetti--"
"Great," I schmoozed. "If you could just give me his number."
"Won't do you any good. He's doing a stretch in Q."
"San Quentin? What did he do, kill somebody?" I asked, feeling my stealthy, sneaky plan unravelling.
"Not sure. It had something to do with drugs, though. Either distributing or trafficking or whatever they call it. Anyway, he's inside. You can call there if you want to talk to him."
Cute. "No, that won't do me a lot of good, now." I called the hail Mary play. "If she's unrepresented, maybe you could, you know, give me her contact information, if it's not too much trouble."
"We both know that it would be unethical and illegal for me to do that," she said, still bored. "What I can do is this, since you seem to want to help the kid out."
Kid? This secretary was all of 25 years old, and I was looking for a lady who had appeared in a schlock movie years ago for a company that I was surprised to still be in business.
"What I can do is this. I heard that she and some of the other cast had moved up to the Valley and started working up there."
"Oh," I said, suddenly realizing the implication of this new info. "So, she is now in the Adult Entertainment Industry?"
"Ya, that's what I just said."
"Thanks, anyway," I said and hung up.
This brought a whole new dynamic. I had to break the jam if I wanted to progress. I dialed up Lloyd. It went straight to voicemail.
"Lloyd, man. I'm sorry bout my cracks about your Husker predictions. I know you take it very seriously and I hurt your feelings," I said in my really, I'm trying very hard to be sincere voice."
"Ive got a lead, but Ive hit a brick wall. I've been trying to track down Stacy/Robin Thrush and the last bit of info I got was that she had gotten into performing in the Adult Entertainment industry. So I'm stuck, I doubt if I'll be able to weasel any info about and actress from any of those companies."
I hung up and started pawing through the other files. Maybe One of the other friends was still around. I was beginning to get a headache, and beginning to wonder if all this hassle was really worth it. The tiny oppressed sliver of my conscience and my bank account agreed that one must press on.
I got a text from Lloyd. "Looking in wrong place," it read. At least he didn't blow me off.
"What do you mean?"
He sent me a link to XBIZ, the trade paper of the Adult Entertainment Industry. There, on a feature article, was a picture of an older, more secure Stacy Thrush. She wasn't a performer, anymore. She had started a company called Ex-Stacy Productions, some years ago. Ex-Stacy made films for women, by women, a novel idea at the time. She had done quite well for herself, and her headquarters was in Fresno, California.
I texted Lloyd back. "2 things. Thanks. Road trip?"
"K," he buzzed back.
Friday, September 5, 2014
I sat up in the chair, a little. "How do you know her, Lloyd?" I asked, trying to sound calm. If true, It would be a wild coincidence.
"Years ago, I worked at Lincoln-El. I'd need to take a look at that picture of her, to be sure, but what you've described so far, sounds like a girl that I saw there, a few times. I could be wrong. There were lots of people there."
"What did you do, there?" I asked, a bit surprised that Lloyd had worked there. When I really thought about it though, there was a lot about Lloyd that I didn't know.
"Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that. Mainly I designed circuit boards...and did some assembling...and you know, independent quality inspection." He sounded like he was answering the question but avoiding an answer.
"It's okey, Lloyd," I said evenly. "I don't really care about what you might have done 20 years ago. I'm just interested in anything you might know about this girl. Come on over and look at the picture and tell me if you think it's her."
"Come over?" Lloyd scoffed. "What for? Take a picture of the photo with you phone and send it to me."
I shook me head at myself for not thinking of that, Did as Lloyd asked and hit the send button.
After a couple of minutes, Lloyd's voice chimed back. "Good job, Sam Spade, now if we can just drag you kicking into the 21st Century --"
"Knock it off, Lloyd," I sighed. "Do you know her, or not?"
After a few more moments, Lloyd came back. "Actually, yes." I used to see her around, but I can only think of a couple of times that I talked to her. Well, one time that I talked to her, and one time where she listened in, while I got talked to."
I grabbed pen and pad, ready to take notes. "Okey, details, Lloyd, details"
"The one time, I was outside at lunch. Weird, I know. You know how I feel about the sun. Anyway, I saw her hanging around the smoker's area, and she looked like she was crying, or had been anyway. Against my usual instinct, I asked her if she was all right. She nodded and dismissed me and said everything was ok. Trying to be funny, I said, "Oh, that's right. Crying is usually the socially demonstrable indicator of everything being all right."
I knew he couldn't see me, but I was shaking my head.
"Anyway, I don't know if it was my tone of voice, or what, but she looked at me like I had just dropped her kitten in a wood chipper, flicked her cigarette at me and stormed off."
I was trying not to smile as I imagined the scene. Lloyd had the social skills of gorilla at a garden party, and I was not surprised that it wasn't a recent development.
"Tell me about the other time."
"Oh, that," he said, a bit distantly. "Yeah, she was the witness at my exit interview."
"Go on," I prodded.
"Well, imagine you have a brilliant idea. Imagine this idea would turn the company you work for, from a small, but growing, local business into a heavy hitter that could go toe-to-toe with Raytheon."
"Sounds brilliant," I said, getting more and more intrigued.
"Imagine that this brilliant idea can be made, from parts you have just lying around the shop."
"Getting better."
"Imagine presenting your brilliant idea to everyone up the chain of command and getting stuffed at every turn."
"That would be frustrating."
"Imagine taking your own initiative, and creating a working prototype of your brilliant revolutionary idea."
"That should convince anyone."
"Now, imagine being called into the HR office, with your supervisor, the HR director and a member of her staff, security outside the door, and hearing the words, 'misappropriation of company property', 'termination' and 'federal charges'."
"What the Hell, man?" I asked really trying not to laugh. I knew Lloyd to be brilliant, but not to engage in anything criminal. "What did you make?"
"Let's just put it this way, you know the radar systems they put on cars so you don't back over Billy's bike, or don't created a second door in your garage?"
"Yes", I said, dying of anticipation.
"They are manufactured at L-EL. My design was the genesis of it. Not what I wanted to do with it, but pretty odd how they appreciated my work."
"What were you going to do with it?"
"Seeker head for hand-held, anti-personnel missile," he said, matter-of-factly.
To be honest, I wasn't surprised.
"Very important question, Lloyd. At this meeting where she was present, did you say or do anything that could be, you know, interpreted as a threat or anything?"
"I don't think so. Not to her, anyway. She just sat there, looking uncomfortable, but I think was her discomfort, not mine."
"Okey, come on over and look through these files, with me. See if that sparks any other memories that could lend some background."
I tried to get started on the husband, Rick's file, but didn't get any further than finding out that he was the rainmaker for Land-Grant Real Estate developers. He had been at it for over five years and had landed some big-time deals. He wasn't a member of the million-dollar club, but he was close.
Lloyd half-crashed, half-slammed through the door. His usual entrance. He carefully closed the door, looking slightly embarrassed, as if that had never happened before.
"Glad you made it," I said. "Now, lets get into --"
"I've got to tell you about the Cowboys," he blurted.
"What cowboys?" I asked, a little perplexed by his sudden change of tack. I shouldn't have been, but I was.
"McNeese State. Duh," he said, looking at me as if I were the slow kid who had pasted his hands together...again.
"Oh. Right." I sat back down and chambered a round from the desk bottle. Once Lloyd gets fixated on football, he rolls. Ask him a simple, one line question, and he'll give a 20-minute dissertation if you don't reign him in. "Break it down."
Lloyd went into his zone. He got that far-away look like he was communing with the Oracle of South Bend. If his voice had changed, I would have hit him. "I can't decide if this game is going to be a bigger blow-out than last week, or slightly smaller."
"Firm commitment, there, Lloyd."
"They are the 7th-ranked team in the FCS. I just can't figure out if that makes them better than FAU or not. Either way, this is one of those games where there really is no benefit to Nebraska."
"A win is a win, right?"
"Yes. And no. Everyone expects Nebraska to win by a large margin, so if it is close or if they pull off a Appalachian State-Michigan scenario, it's like losing two games."
"So, what's going to happen?" I asked, hoping he would finish up so we could get back to business.
"It will be a blow-out. There. I decided. McNeese state has a terrible defense, they have trouble stopping FCS opponents. This is also their first game and the Huskers have a ton of confidence. I'm thinking that Ameer will have another 200-yard day. I think the coaches will want to work on Tommy getting better at checking down his pass options. He'll only throw deep if Kenny or Jordan are so wide open that I could throw the ball to them using three tries to get the ball there."
"That would be a sight," I laughed.
"Their offense will actually be pretty good. I'm betting they get to the end-zone a couple of times, possibly both in the first half. Will cause some concern when the ticker scrolls by with Nebraska 21-McNeese State 14."
"That would cause some concern."
"Randy Gregory being out will not be that big of a deal. Jack Gangwish will start in his place, but I don't think hell be going up against a high draft pick left tackle."
"Can we go two games in a row without a turnover?"
"I'd like to say yes, but the odds tell me, no. It might be something silly like a muffed punt, or it will be late in the game when the back-ups are in, but there will be one."
"Hit me with a final score. I need to add to my stash. I added 90 bucks last week and I need to make it grow."
"There is no Vegas line, so you'll have to connect with one of the O-Street bookies," Lloyd said, with a slight hint of disdain in his voice.
"Duly, noted," I said. "What is your prediction, for entertainment purposes only."
"The two drives that were field goals, last week, are touchdowns, this week. 63 for Nebraska. McNeese State has a decent offense, and will make things interesting for a while. Final score, 63-20."
"Thanks for the knowledge, Lloyd. Now, lets get down to business and see if we cant figure out what happened to the lovely miss Jamie, and why Tompkins cares so much."
"Years ago, I worked at Lincoln-El. I'd need to take a look at that picture of her, to be sure, but what you've described so far, sounds like a girl that I saw there, a few times. I could be wrong. There were lots of people there."
"What did you do, there?" I asked, a bit surprised that Lloyd had worked there. When I really thought about it though, there was a lot about Lloyd that I didn't know.
"Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that. Mainly I designed circuit boards...and did some assembling...and you know, independent quality inspection." He sounded like he was answering the question but avoiding an answer.
"It's okey, Lloyd," I said evenly. "I don't really care about what you might have done 20 years ago. I'm just interested in anything you might know about this girl. Come on over and look at the picture and tell me if you think it's her."
"Come over?" Lloyd scoffed. "What for? Take a picture of the photo with you phone and send it to me."
I shook me head at myself for not thinking of that, Did as Lloyd asked and hit the send button.
After a couple of minutes, Lloyd's voice chimed back. "Good job, Sam Spade, now if we can just drag you kicking into the 21st Century --"
"Knock it off, Lloyd," I sighed. "Do you know her, or not?"
After a few more moments, Lloyd came back. "Actually, yes." I used to see her around, but I can only think of a couple of times that I talked to her. Well, one time that I talked to her, and one time where she listened in, while I got talked to."
I grabbed pen and pad, ready to take notes. "Okey, details, Lloyd, details"
"The one time, I was outside at lunch. Weird, I know. You know how I feel about the sun. Anyway, I saw her hanging around the smoker's area, and she looked like she was crying, or had been anyway. Against my usual instinct, I asked her if she was all right. She nodded and dismissed me and said everything was ok. Trying to be funny, I said, "Oh, that's right. Crying is usually the socially demonstrable indicator of everything being all right."
I knew he couldn't see me, but I was shaking my head.
"Anyway, I don't know if it was my tone of voice, or what, but she looked at me like I had just dropped her kitten in a wood chipper, flicked her cigarette at me and stormed off."
I was trying not to smile as I imagined the scene. Lloyd had the social skills of gorilla at a garden party, and I was not surprised that it wasn't a recent development.
"Tell me about the other time."
"Oh, that," he said, a bit distantly. "Yeah, she was the witness at my exit interview."
"Go on," I prodded.
"Well, imagine you have a brilliant idea. Imagine this idea would turn the company you work for, from a small, but growing, local business into a heavy hitter that could go toe-to-toe with Raytheon."
"Sounds brilliant," I said, getting more and more intrigued.
"Imagine that this brilliant idea can be made, from parts you have just lying around the shop."
"Getting better."
"Imagine presenting your brilliant idea to everyone up the chain of command and getting stuffed at every turn."
"That would be frustrating."
"Imagine taking your own initiative, and creating a working prototype of your brilliant revolutionary idea."
"That should convince anyone."
"Now, imagine being called into the HR office, with your supervisor, the HR director and a member of her staff, security outside the door, and hearing the words, 'misappropriation of company property', 'termination' and 'federal charges'."
"What the Hell, man?" I asked really trying not to laugh. I knew Lloyd to be brilliant, but not to engage in anything criminal. "What did you make?"
"Let's just put it this way, you know the radar systems they put on cars so you don't back over Billy's bike, or don't created a second door in your garage?"
"Yes", I said, dying of anticipation.
"They are manufactured at L-EL. My design was the genesis of it. Not what I wanted to do with it, but pretty odd how they appreciated my work."
"What were you going to do with it?"
"Seeker head for hand-held, anti-personnel missile," he said, matter-of-factly.
To be honest, I wasn't surprised.
"Very important question, Lloyd. At this meeting where she was present, did you say or do anything that could be, you know, interpreted as a threat or anything?"
"I don't think so. Not to her, anyway. She just sat there, looking uncomfortable, but I think was her discomfort, not mine."
"Okey, come on over and look through these files, with me. See if that sparks any other memories that could lend some background."
I tried to get started on the husband, Rick's file, but didn't get any further than finding out that he was the rainmaker for Land-Grant Real Estate developers. He had been at it for over five years and had landed some big-time deals. He wasn't a member of the million-dollar club, but he was close.
Lloyd half-crashed, half-slammed through the door. His usual entrance. He carefully closed the door, looking slightly embarrassed, as if that had never happened before.
"Glad you made it," I said. "Now, lets get into --"
"I've got to tell you about the Cowboys," he blurted.
"What cowboys?" I asked, a little perplexed by his sudden change of tack. I shouldn't have been, but I was.
"McNeese State. Duh," he said, looking at me as if I were the slow kid who had pasted his hands together...again.
"Oh. Right." I sat back down and chambered a round from the desk bottle. Once Lloyd gets fixated on football, he rolls. Ask him a simple, one line question, and he'll give a 20-minute dissertation if you don't reign him in. "Break it down."
Lloyd went into his zone. He got that far-away look like he was communing with the Oracle of South Bend. If his voice had changed, I would have hit him. "I can't decide if this game is going to be a bigger blow-out than last week, or slightly smaller."
"Firm commitment, there, Lloyd."
"They are the 7th-ranked team in the FCS. I just can't figure out if that makes them better than FAU or not. Either way, this is one of those games where there really is no benefit to Nebraska."
"A win is a win, right?"
"Yes. And no. Everyone expects Nebraska to win by a large margin, so if it is close or if they pull off a Appalachian State-Michigan scenario, it's like losing two games."
"So, what's going to happen?" I asked, hoping he would finish up so we could get back to business.
"It will be a blow-out. There. I decided. McNeese state has a terrible defense, they have trouble stopping FCS opponents. This is also their first game and the Huskers have a ton of confidence. I'm thinking that Ameer will have another 200-yard day. I think the coaches will want to work on Tommy getting better at checking down his pass options. He'll only throw deep if Kenny or Jordan are so wide open that I could throw the ball to them using three tries to get the ball there."
"That would be a sight," I laughed.
"Their offense will actually be pretty good. I'm betting they get to the end-zone a couple of times, possibly both in the first half. Will cause some concern when the ticker scrolls by with Nebraska 21-McNeese State 14."
"That would cause some concern."
"Randy Gregory being out will not be that big of a deal. Jack Gangwish will start in his place, but I don't think hell be going up against a high draft pick left tackle."
"Can we go two games in a row without a turnover?"
"I'd like to say yes, but the odds tell me, no. It might be something silly like a muffed punt, or it will be late in the game when the back-ups are in, but there will be one."
"Hit me with a final score. I need to add to my stash. I added 90 bucks last week and I need to make it grow."
"There is no Vegas line, so you'll have to connect with one of the O-Street bookies," Lloyd said, with a slight hint of disdain in his voice.
"Duly, noted," I said. "What is your prediction, for entertainment purposes only."
"The two drives that were field goals, last week, are touchdowns, this week. 63 for Nebraska. McNeese State has a decent offense, and will make things interesting for a while. Final score, 63-20."
"Thanks for the knowledge, Lloyd. Now, lets get down to business and see if we cant figure out what happened to the lovely miss Jamie, and why Tompkins cares so much."
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
I got back to the office and signed for the boxes of evidence. Two boxes. Not much when you think about it. Two boxes that was all that was left of a person's life. I lifted off the lid of the first box and eighteen year old dust wafted into my office where it sought out places to alight that had been cleaned only slightly more recently.
I decided that I wanted to get to know as much about Jamie as I could. It seemed like it would be a good idea to try to get inside the head of the one who went 'poof' and was gone, rather than chase competing theories as to who wanted to make her go 'poof'. The cops always looked at everything as if it were a crime, which is good, it's their job. Sometimes they run into something that is not a crime and they end up driving themselves up a wall trying to figure out a motive. Motive is incidental and only really necessary to help juries and TV audiences understand.
I found the file I was looking for and eased back into my chair. I put my feet on the desk and had the desk bottle cocked and loaded. No reason to unload a few rounds, yet, but the day was young.
Jamie Brewer, at the time of her disappearance was a twenty-five year old, working in the Human Resources department at a place called Lincoln L-ectronics. She was working on an MBA from the U., and she had started making her way up the ladder, pretty well. They had listed her income, and after adjusting it for 1997 dollars, it seemed like she was doing pretty well. Not enough to turn heads, but enough to make people go, 'hmm, nice gig'.
I pulled the canvass photo. Big smile; bright, blue eyes; hair that was a bit long and a bit big, she hadn't been quite ready to let the look go. She was pretty. I used to wonder why the photos that were used when searching for missing persons were always of this sort. Happy, smiling, vivacious, a picture taken at a happy moment, or on a day that could make the short lists of Best Days of My Life lists. I knew, now, why people did it. They gave the picture that reflected the missing person at their best, hoping that somehow a charm would get imprinted on the picture and that would help call the person home. Pictures of the person when they were angry, lonely and afraid would be much more helpful, since that's usually the state of mind of who was being sought. But you don't take pictures of those moments.
I stared at the photo a bit longer. I could see her in HR. She had the look of someone who could interview a prospective employee, put them at ease, and tease out those vital bits of information that people try so had to keep to themselves, but really cant help but share. Why they left their last job, really. What attracted you to this firm, really? Are you really as good as your resume claims you are.
I don't know what I was basing that on. She was attractive, slim without being skinny, clear, fresh complexion. The clothes in the picture didn't tell me too much. Slacks and blouse, colors complimentary, glass of wine in hand at some gathering that looked more celebratory than obligatory.
I dug deeper into the file. She had graduated in 1990 from Lincoln East. Good student, but not outstanding. Involved in several clubs and sports. Future Business Leaders of America, French Club, Young Republicans, volleyball, track & field, Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Participation in all of them, but not really outstanding in any of them, except for the FBLA. In that one, she had served as treasurer, vice-president and then, in her senior year, president of the club.
Moving on to her University days, the pattern continued. Business major, A's in all her business classes, but she either didn't work as hard or didn't care as much about the other classes that make one a well-rounded individual in a liberal arts setting. B's and a few C's in the Arts & Science classes. She had joined the Tri-Delts and I couldn't help but think of the old Saturday Night Live bit, 'Delta Delta Delta and I help ya help ya help ya?'
1994 rolled around and Jamie graduated, B.A. in Business Admin. She got the gig at Lincoln L-ectronics and went back to the U. to get her MBA in 1996. The other key moment of 'This Is Her Life' happened in '94, as well, when she married Rick Brewer.
I sat back for a moment before delving into Rick's file. Nothing in Jamie's background seemed to jump out at me. Good, steady gig. No criminal complaints. Nothing in the financials jumped out at me. I was just getting ready to open up the folder when the phone rang. It was Lloyd.
"Lloyd, my man, what's going on?"
"I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, but was I right, or was I right?"
"About what?", I asked, knowing quite well, what he was talking about.
"The game, man. The game. I just about nailed it," he said, almost animatedly, which for Lloyd was close to gibbering insanely.
"What are you talking about?", I asked skeptically. "You were off by a total of 16 points. Yeah, they covered the spread, and you were right about Ameer, but you were way off on the kicking game."
Lloyd scoffed, "I was right about Armstrong rushing for one and passing for two touchdowns."
But you said Ameer would score twice, and one of Tommy's TD passes would be to Kenny Bell."
"Fine," he snapped back. "I guess I wasn't as close as I thought."
"Settle down, man, I was just flipping you some crap." Sometimes Lloyd got a little too much steam built up. "Tell me about your overall impressions. Good game, bad game, what?"
"Probably the most complete season opener since Bo got here. The Offense played well, the defense played well, the special teams played well...enough."
"Yeah, Kenny muffing that punt and still no return game is a bit bothersome."
"The defense, with Randy Gregory out with his knee, did very well, after Flat's opening drive."
"That opening drive didn't really bother me. Offense running plays the defense had never seen, with no tendencies to go on. Let's just say that I was more impressed with how the defense adjusted, more than I was concerned about that first drive."
"A couple of turnovers would have been nice. Roach dropped a sure pick-six, and there was that one fumble that no-one could get a handle on. Speaking of turnovers, though, did you know that this was the first game, for Nebraska, without a turnover since the 2012 opener?"
"I had heard that," I said. "Tommy tried to, twice, and one turned out to be one of the coolest receptions I've ever seen."
"Westerkamp's behind-the-back grab," Lloyd asked, almost enthusiastically. "The pass, that was nearly intercepted by the defender, the ball deflected down and behind him, on a trajectory behind Westerkamp, when he reached behind himself, with both hands, stopped the balls momentum with his right hand, secured it with his left, slightly above butt level, and still had the presence of mind to double-tap his feet before going out of bounds. That one?"
"Sounds about right," I said. "Hey, I know you called for something other than to talk football. What's up?"
"Oh, yeah, that," he said, as if remembering he needed to take some books back to the library. "You know, your missing person, Jamie Brewer?"
"Yeah. What about her?"
"I think I know her."
I decided that I wanted to get to know as much about Jamie as I could. It seemed like it would be a good idea to try to get inside the head of the one who went 'poof' and was gone, rather than chase competing theories as to who wanted to make her go 'poof'. The cops always looked at everything as if it were a crime, which is good, it's their job. Sometimes they run into something that is not a crime and they end up driving themselves up a wall trying to figure out a motive. Motive is incidental and only really necessary to help juries and TV audiences understand.
I found the file I was looking for and eased back into my chair. I put my feet on the desk and had the desk bottle cocked and loaded. No reason to unload a few rounds, yet, but the day was young.
Jamie Brewer, at the time of her disappearance was a twenty-five year old, working in the Human Resources department at a place called Lincoln L-ectronics. She was working on an MBA from the U., and she had started making her way up the ladder, pretty well. They had listed her income, and after adjusting it for 1997 dollars, it seemed like she was doing pretty well. Not enough to turn heads, but enough to make people go, 'hmm, nice gig'.
I pulled the canvass photo. Big smile; bright, blue eyes; hair that was a bit long and a bit big, she hadn't been quite ready to let the look go. She was pretty. I used to wonder why the photos that were used when searching for missing persons were always of this sort. Happy, smiling, vivacious, a picture taken at a happy moment, or on a day that could make the short lists of Best Days of My Life lists. I knew, now, why people did it. They gave the picture that reflected the missing person at their best, hoping that somehow a charm would get imprinted on the picture and that would help call the person home. Pictures of the person when they were angry, lonely and afraid would be much more helpful, since that's usually the state of mind of who was being sought. But you don't take pictures of those moments.
I stared at the photo a bit longer. I could see her in HR. She had the look of someone who could interview a prospective employee, put them at ease, and tease out those vital bits of information that people try so had to keep to themselves, but really cant help but share. Why they left their last job, really. What attracted you to this firm, really? Are you really as good as your resume claims you are.
I don't know what I was basing that on. She was attractive, slim without being skinny, clear, fresh complexion. The clothes in the picture didn't tell me too much. Slacks and blouse, colors complimentary, glass of wine in hand at some gathering that looked more celebratory than obligatory.
I dug deeper into the file. She had graduated in 1990 from Lincoln East. Good student, but not outstanding. Involved in several clubs and sports. Future Business Leaders of America, French Club, Young Republicans, volleyball, track & field, Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Participation in all of them, but not really outstanding in any of them, except for the FBLA. In that one, she had served as treasurer, vice-president and then, in her senior year, president of the club.
Moving on to her University days, the pattern continued. Business major, A's in all her business classes, but she either didn't work as hard or didn't care as much about the other classes that make one a well-rounded individual in a liberal arts setting. B's and a few C's in the Arts & Science classes. She had joined the Tri-Delts and I couldn't help but think of the old Saturday Night Live bit, 'Delta Delta Delta and I help ya help ya help ya?'
1994 rolled around and Jamie graduated, B.A. in Business Admin. She got the gig at Lincoln L-ectronics and went back to the U. to get her MBA in 1996. The other key moment of 'This Is Her Life' happened in '94, as well, when she married Rick Brewer.
I sat back for a moment before delving into Rick's file. Nothing in Jamie's background seemed to jump out at me. Good, steady gig. No criminal complaints. Nothing in the financials jumped out at me. I was just getting ready to open up the folder when the phone rang. It was Lloyd.
"Lloyd, my man, what's going on?"
"I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, but was I right, or was I right?"
"About what?", I asked, knowing quite well, what he was talking about.
"The game, man. The game. I just about nailed it," he said, almost animatedly, which for Lloyd was close to gibbering insanely.
"What are you talking about?", I asked skeptically. "You were off by a total of 16 points. Yeah, they covered the spread, and you were right about Ameer, but you were way off on the kicking game."
Lloyd scoffed, "I was right about Armstrong rushing for one and passing for two touchdowns."
But you said Ameer would score twice, and one of Tommy's TD passes would be to Kenny Bell."
"Fine," he snapped back. "I guess I wasn't as close as I thought."
"Settle down, man, I was just flipping you some crap." Sometimes Lloyd got a little too much steam built up. "Tell me about your overall impressions. Good game, bad game, what?"
"Probably the most complete season opener since Bo got here. The Offense played well, the defense played well, the special teams played well...enough."
"Yeah, Kenny muffing that punt and still no return game is a bit bothersome."
"The defense, with Randy Gregory out with his knee, did very well, after Flat's opening drive."
"That opening drive didn't really bother me. Offense running plays the defense had never seen, with no tendencies to go on. Let's just say that I was more impressed with how the defense adjusted, more than I was concerned about that first drive."
"A couple of turnovers would have been nice. Roach dropped a sure pick-six, and there was that one fumble that no-one could get a handle on. Speaking of turnovers, though, did you know that this was the first game, for Nebraska, without a turnover since the 2012 opener?"
"I had heard that," I said. "Tommy tried to, twice, and one turned out to be one of the coolest receptions I've ever seen."
"Westerkamp's behind-the-back grab," Lloyd asked, almost enthusiastically. "The pass, that was nearly intercepted by the defender, the ball deflected down and behind him, on a trajectory behind Westerkamp, when he reached behind himself, with both hands, stopped the balls momentum with his right hand, secured it with his left, slightly above butt level, and still had the presence of mind to double-tap his feet before going out of bounds. That one?"
"Sounds about right," I said. "Hey, I know you called for something other than to talk football. What's up?"
"Oh, yeah, that," he said, as if remembering he needed to take some books back to the library. "You know, your missing person, Jamie Brewer?"
"Yeah. What about her?"
"I think I know her."
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