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.
Friday, September 26, 2014
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.
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