RUDY

 
 
   I first laid eyes on young Rudy when my flight sat down in Denver to pick up new passengers. I initially pegged him as just another obnoxious child, but I would later realize that he was much, much more than that. Rudy stepped onto the airplane sporting short khacki pants, a striped cotton polo and double-knotted tennis shoes. Orange stains dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. I figured canned ravioli. At three feet tall and perhaps six years old, he immediately established a fan club when he shook his hips like a pint-sized king of rock-and-roll and announced: “Rootie toot tootie, my name is Rudy, and I’m going to Florida!” I just rolled my eyes.
   With his mama dragging him down the aisle, Rudy began high-fiving his way back toward the rear of the plane. Little Rudy. I knew the type. Never still and never quiet. Always into something. Thankfully, the seats behind me were occupied, which meant Rudy wouldn’t be kicking the back of my seat for the next three thousand miles. I glanced at the empty seats beside me and momentarily panicked. Then with a subtle movement I slid the briefcase off my lap and into the near seat. I propped the case open, slumped down in the seat and closed my eyes, and hoped that Rudy’s mother would pass me by. She did, apparently having spotted more empty seats back toward the tail section.
   Rudy continued high-fiving passengers as he passed, and he squealed with delight every time a passenger slapped him back. Someone in the rear must have smelled trouble coming their way and slid their briefcase too, because momentarily Rudy and his mom came traipsing back toward the front of the plane. I could sense their presence as they hesitated at my row, then stepped forward a notch. As Rudy clambered noisily into the seat directly in front of me and his mom slid in beside him, the fuss over Rudy subsided, and the conversation on the plane became a low murmur. Then suddenly, silence.
   I cracked my eyelids to see what the absence of noise was all about. Stepping aboard was a stunning brunette wearing this season’s Antonio Milani in a shimmering blue, and she had an air of celebrity about her. Perhaps it was those huge sunglasses, I couldn’t be sure...but all eyes flicked in her direction. She eased down the aisle and eventually slipped into the seat on the other side of my briefcase. Apparently she felt safe near me. As she buckled up and Flight 1741 taxied to the runway, the boisterous little waif in front of me unfastened his seatbelt, stood and shouted: “A-rootie toot tootie, my name is Rudy!” Some of the passengers cheered him on once again, but I frowned and maintained silence. When the flight attendant instructed him to sit down and buckle up, Rudy stuck his finger over the seat and yelled at me, “Hey, Mister, pull my finger!” Before I could react, Rudy let loose with a wicked outgassing that must have soiled his pants, and he erupted into a raucous fit of  laughter that continued even after he sat down.
   The pilot’s canned speech welcomed us aboard Flight 1741 and as his voice rambled on through the speakers, I felt someone staring. I peered at the beautiful brunette beside me. She smiled briefly, then turned her attention back to the attendant who was concluding the flight safety speech. She continued facing forward as our gleaming aluminum transport revved up against the brake, lurched forward and gained momentum. Her hands gripped the armrests tightly as our plane left the earth and immediately shot skyward. Little Rudy let out a euphoric “Wheee!” and then followed with “Hey, y’all! I’m goin’ to Florida!”  
   I caught the brunette looking in my direction once more, so I opened my eyes all the way and flashed a quick smile. She turned back to the front, but only after quickly glancing at my opened briefcase. I wasn’t concerned, because all she saw, if she saw anything, were a bunch of brochures stamped with my name and address. Slick, glossy brochures about security alarms, motion cameras, infrared cameras, bulletproof glass... the type of brochures that might be found in anyone’s briefcase were they in my trade.
   So here I was, flying back to Jacksonville for my twenty-fifth class reunion, and I’d be staying with my old buddy Chuck Schwartz. In a tit-for-tat arrangement we’d agreed to on the telephone, I would install my newly-developed alarm system in his house for a Beta test, and he’d put me up at his house for a few days. All my alarm gear was securely packed into the underbelly of the airplane along with several changes of clothing and a few incidentals. My life in two suitcases.
   As we continued our upward climb, there was a severe “bump-thump” beneath our feet. The brunette looked in my direction with a big question mark about her face. “Landing gear,” I explained, though I had no idea what had really happened. She seemed to calm down, assuming from my comment and relaxed posture that these noises were normal. But a moment later, another “bump-thump” vibrated the floor beneath our feet, and then it happened a third time. She buried her fingertips tighter into the armrests and turned her head in my direction, now a look of severe concern forming around her mouth.
   She broke the silence: “Is that...?”
   “Landing gear again? Yes, though it sounds like it may be jammed.”
   She stared at me, her expression begging for reassurance.
   “It’s not like we’re going to crash or anything,” I explained, tilting my palms up for some laissez-faire dismissal.
   The brat in front had removed his seatbelt and was now popping his head over the seatback at regular intervals, like a jack-in-the-box with a synchronous pop-up mechanism. “We’re gonna cra-ash... we’re gonna cra-ash...” he sang. Rudy. I really wanted to smack the little shit, but I restrained myself. Instead, I set my cell phone for camera mode and next time he raised his head, I popped a flash in his face.
   “That ought to stop him from bothering us,” I said to the lady and then continued. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Even if the gear is jammed, it won’t affect the rest of our flight. We won’t need the landing gear anytime soon...”
   I paused as she relaxed.
   “...that is,” I went on, “until we get ready to land. Then it’ll be very important.”
   Staring in my direction, she slid her sunglasses down her nose and peered over the top of them as she spoke. “You’re pretty funny. I think.” She held out her hand. “I’m Caroline.”
   “Sam. Sam Sherrouse.” I clasped her hand in mine.
   “Caroline and Sammy...Caroline and Sammy.” Rudy again. I stared at him, then looked back to Caroline.
   “Where are you flying today?”
   She looked at me quizically, then fished through her purse and pulled out her boarding pass. She studied it for a beat and replied: “Oh yeah, here it is. Florida.”
We both grinned, then laughed.
   “So what do you do?” Caroline asked, nodding toward my briefcase.
   “I own a security business in Seattle. Commercial, residential, alarms, government contracts, personal bodyguards, anyone or anyplace that needs to be safe. Investigation, reconnaissance and surveillance. And you?”
   “I just hopped a plane and I’m going to Florida. That’s it.”
   “We’re goin’ to Florida... we’re goin’ to Florida...” came a sing-song voice from the seat ahead as the little eavesdropper popped his chubby little head over the seatback once again.
   I leered at him, made a fist, extended my index finger and popped my thumb up, then pointed my finger at his freckled nose and whispered: “bang!”
   “MAMA!” He screamed so loud that everyone on the plane heard him. “That man’s got a GUN!!!!!”
   As he screamed, I saw the little troublemaker point in my direction... just before my head slammed hard into the back of his seat. My world went dark for a moment, and when I came to, my wrists were bound behind me and the entire plane was in a panic.
   Now I was always taught not to yell “Fire” in a crowded theater, but here’s some new advice... never yell “Gun” on a commercial airliner. The Skymarshalls will snag somebody every time, and they won’t be gentle about it. Caroline was shoved aside, I was jerked from my seat and marched down the aisle to the rear of the plane, my hands still cuffed behind me. I might as well have been Charles Manson on parade, and most passengers leaned away from me when I went by. Those that didn’t, snarled and threatened my very existence. Caroline was cuffed and paraded down the aisle behind me. Bonnie and Clyde. As I looked back at Rudy, I saw him climbing into the overhead compartment above my seat. Laughing.
   By the time we were over Indiana, I’d been searched and had explained it all away...or so I thought. As Caroline and I walked back toward our seats, I noticed the instigator of this whole brouhaha, little Rudy, was now skipping up and down the aisle passing out brochures from my briefcase. When our eyes met, he turned and tried to run, screaming “That man’s gonna GET me!” He dropped an armload of glossy brochures, slipped on them as his little legs pinwheeled, then nose-dived as his feet flew out from under him. “Ouch!” he screamed, then “Owwww” in a pathetic, continuous, drawn-out wail. I hadn’t touched the kid.
   Once again, the Skymarshalls slammed me from behind and I landed face first in the aisle. My nose was bleeding, and I thought it might be broken. Rudy began kicking the top of my head and I felt the cuffs snap shut behind my back. I was lifted to my feet and dragged back to the rear of the plane, while passengers were pointing and telling me that I should be ashamed of myself, that he was only a child. “What’s wrong with you?” echoed in my head as many a passenger assaulted me with that phrase. When the pilot came on the intercom and announced an unscheduled stop at Nashville BNA, every passenger on the plane turned to look at me. I hadn’t done a damned thing to the kid. Yet. Rudy was now slipping and sliding up and down the aisle on my glossy brochures and having a big time. “Wheee!”
   In Nashville, Caroline and I were turned over to TSA Homeland Security agents who placed us in a holding room to await an interview by the DHS chief. When they dragged our suitcases into the room where we were being detained, two words came to my mind: “Oh shit.” I’d been working on a new kind of alarm system, and my suitcase was full of cables and wires and aluminum boxes with LED readouts and sensors and timers. Buzzers and electronic circuit boards. Batteries. Stuff that was supposed to be installed in Schwartz’s house. Fat chance of that happening now. So when the big dog of Homeland Security at BNA popped open my suitcase, he froze. His eyes got real big and he commanded a barely audible “Notify the bomb squad. Now!” Then he quickly left the room.
   Caroline stared at me, her mouth agape, her sweet lips pooched out into a seductive oval. As sexy as that was, I knew that behind those dark glasses was a female brain crunching data at ninety miles per hour, and I knew she would certainly come to the conclusion that she had managed to pal up with a sadistic terrorist, one who would eventually come to be known in aviation history as “Sammy the Bomber.” She slunk down into her seat and just shook her head.
   “It’s not as bad as it looks, Caroline,” I pleaded. “It’s just alarm stuff. Tools of the trade. It’s not what you think.”
   She continued to shake her head, and I noticed tears crawling slowly down her cheeks.
   The bomb squad sent in a small gray remote-controlled robot to retrieve our suitcases. Outside the room, I could hear the airport being evacuated...the announcements, the people running and screaming, the whole place being shut down. The robot carried our suitcases outdoors and to a remote corner of the airstrip. Homeland Security was now bunched into our holding room and crowded against the window. I cringed when Big Dog keyed his radio and gave the command: “Clear to detonate.” Shortly, I heard a muffled explosion, and then an “All clear” came back on the radio.
   Only after that did I have a chance to explain what was in my suitcase and why. I also mentioned the little brat who had caused all this commotion, and cynically stated “and yet while he’s on his way to a fantastic fun-filled Florida vacation, you’ve blown up my alarm system as well as all our clothing, and we’re locked down at BNA in handcuffs.”
   He said nothing until one of his men confirmed that what was in the suitcases was merely breadboard alarm components, along with a few personal items. No explosives. A review of the film from the airplane showed that, indeed, I had done nothing wrong. Big Dog apologized on behalf of the airline, and Caroline asked for a complete incident report because, as she explained it: “Nobody, but nobody’s going to believe this shit!” She folded the report and shoved it hard into her purse.
   By the time it was over and we had been rebooked on the next flight to Florida, we each had a voucher for $200, the max payment for lost or destroyed luggage, we had our phones back and Caroline wasn’t talking to me. I called Chuck and told him I’d be late. I boarded first, found a seat, and wondered if she would take the empty seat beside me. She did, but I believe it was the only empty seat available. Once up to speed and cruising altitude, I opened up the photo gallery on my phone and stared at the little shit who had caused us all this trouble. I studied the closeup of his face so I’d know him next time I saw him, ravioli stains or not.
   “What are you looking at?” asked Caroline, now straining to view the image on my screen. I tilted the phone slightly in her direction so that we could both see. As we looked at the picture, Rudy’s face slowly began to fade, he raised his hand into the frame to wave bye-bye, and we both heard his voice shout “Wheee!” as the screen went blank. Caroline looked at me. “How did you do that?”
   “I promise you, I didn’t do anything. He just disappeared.”
   “That’s weird,” she commented. “Something’s definitely wrong with your camera and you should have it checked.” She went back to surfing the web on her own phone. A few moments later I heard her shriek.“Oh My God!” She turned her cell-phone toward me, and I watched the newscast in horror. On her screen, a video showed Flight 1741 cartwheeling down the Jacksonville runway and finally slamming hard against the tarmac in a tremendous ball of fire. “No survivors,” the newscaster said. While I was watching the video for the third time, still in shock, our pilot informed us that we wouldn’t be landing at Jacksonville, but rather Pensacola, due to problems on Jacksonville’s runway. We finished our flight in silence and I wondered if Rudy had been sent to antagonize me or to save me. Whichever it was, he did it in his own pernicious way, and I can only imagine Rudy yelling “Wheee!” as his airplane tumbled end-over-end in Jacksonville. Rudy knew how to enjoy the moment.
   I attended the funeral for one Rudy Davis, six years old, a week later in Denver, Colorado. I just felt a need to be there. Caroline showed up too. According to the obituary that was printed underneath a photo of the little cherub’s face, Rudy had been in a coma at St. Mark’s Childrens Hospital for three straight months before silently slipping away. But I knew better. Rudy had been on that flight with me and Caroline, and for whatever reason, he’d had us removed from the plane before it crashed. Why he chose to do things the way he did could only be explained by his mother—yes, the same woman who had been with him on that airplane—as she gave his eulogy. She spoke of Rudy’s fascination with magic tricks, his delight in playing pranks, and his ability to have a good laugh, no matter what the circumstance. Her only regret was that she’d not been able to take him to Florida, someplace he’d always wanted to visit. I knew better. Rudy had made it to Florida all right, and he’d had one hell of a fun time getting there.
 

LAURIE

I knew it was a mistake the moment it was over. For whatever reason, I’d stuck my wet finger back into the electrical socket. I guess it was because Jimmy dared me, although the exact details of our conversation just prior to the incident remain unclear. I guess if the fuse hadn’t blown, I’d still be jerking and pissing my pants, right there in front of Laurie. Or maybe I’d be dead.
But it was his idea. It was always his idea. For some reason, he suggested that if I did something brave—really brave—that Laurie just might let me feel her up. How he knew that I hadn’t done it yet, I’ll never know. He just had a sense about things like that. And he was a genius at taking girls away from their boyfriends. Not that he wanted the girl, he just wanted the challenge. That was his high, his euphoria, his reason for existence. Take someone else’s girl, embarrass them in the process, and rub their nose in it. Lots of times, I’d seen him do it in one fell swoop. Spur of the moment. And now, oblivious to me, he was zeroed in on my fifteen year old girlfriend.
His Momma had a reading lamp on her end table. You know, a short lamp with a shade that she used to peruse the TV guide or read Woman’s Day magazine during a television commercial. That type of lamp. Jimmy’s plan, done at his house so that he could “set it up” beforehand, was to show Laurie how brave I was by sticking my finger into a light socket.
Huh?
“Yeah,” he told me, “I’ll take the shade off. The light will still be burning so that she knows the switch is still on. I’ll unplug the cord from the wall, unscrew the bulb, then you tell me to plug the cord back in and you’ll stick your finger in the light socket. Only I’ll plug in a different cord, one that’s not connected to anything. You’ll be sticking your finger into a light socket that’s as dead as a doornail. But she’ll be so impressed that after I leave the room, you can feel her up all you want. Trust me on this!”
The whole thing didn’t make a lot of sense to me. I mean, why would she want to watch me stick my finger in a light socket anyhow? But Jimmy sounded convincing, and I was sure he’d felt up a lot of girls, so he should know….
Afterward, he claimed that it was just an accident, but I knew better. The first time I stuck my finger into the socket, it was dead alright, and I shuddered to feign mild electrocution. And damn, she was impressed. But then Jimmy, that smart-aleck cousin of mine convinced Laurie that she wanted to see it again, this time with a wet finger. And so she asked.
"Huh?"
She was so impressed with my toughness from the first electrocution, she grabbed my hand, extended my forefinger, and placed the tip of it against the back of her tongue, closed her lips around it, and ever so slowly proceeded to pull my erect finger from within the confines of her warm and juicy mouth. That was the most sensuous thing that I had ever felt, and I nearly left a damp spot in the front of my underwear. After that my memory went fuzzy, so I’m not sure of the exact sequence of events that followed but I’m almost sure that son-of-a-bitch dared me, then plugged in the real lamp cord. And like a dumbass, with a big goofy smile on my face, I went and stuck my wet finger back into the socket.
I lay there on his Momma’s couch and it hurt. I was so embarrassed. Especially when Jimmy grabbed Laurie and said “Let’s go get a soda,” then walked right out of his Momma’s living room with my girl on his arm. Laurie was ripe for pickin’, I knew that, and I also knew that within a month or two she’d have been mine. But then, I just imagined Jimmy having his way with her, while I held a blow-dryer to his Momma’s sofa and the front of my pants.
And now, fifty years later, I’m looking at a faded wallet photo of Laurie and wondering what our lives would have been like if Jimmy hadn’t insisted on helping.


.

Hooked on Edie ( a Tale Noir)

   
  I was lying half-conscious in the hospital with a bullet hole in my chest and a morphine drip going wide open when the doctor asked me how I came to be a Private Eye. I wanted to explain to him how most of my career options originated from my Math classes, but I couldn’t speak because of that tube he’d jammed down my throat. And I was fading in and out. I got to thinking about it anyway…
  I was in class, and the teacher said, “Bobby”…that’s me, by the way… she said, “Bobby, suppose you had three apples, and you gave Timmy one apple, how many apples would you have left?”
  She was looking for the number two, but my answer was, “I’d have all three apples left because Timmy could go get his own freakin' apples.” Or I’d tell her that “I’d have two apples and a dollar, ‘cause my apples were worth that much and I damn sure wasn’t givin’ ‘em away!”
  Still on my ass, she said “Okay Bobby, if you had a part-time job that paid three dollars an hour, and you worked twenty-five hours last week, how much money would you have?”
  And of course I answered that I “didn’t have time to work a part-time job, I was too busy selling those damned ol' apples.” The whole class roared, and the teacher was at a loss for words. That’s when I thought I should become a Comedian. A real-life Comedian!
  Truly, I saw no practical use for math, especially Geometry.  I asked my older brother for clarification. He was in college and tried to explain.
  “Suppose you’re in the big game and you’re the Catcher. The score is tied, and the other team has a runner on first. You know he’s gonna steal second on the next pitch. So how far do you have to throw the ball to get the runner out at second base?”
  “Huh?”
  “How far is it from home plate to second base? How far do you have to throw the damn ball, Bobby, to get the runner out at second?”
  “I dunno.”
  “Well, how far is it from home plate to first base?” he asked.
  “It’s ninety feet, everybody knows that!”
  “And from first to second?”
  “Another ninety feet”, I replied.
  “So, from home plate to second base, how far? In a straight line. That’s the question.”
  “I won’t know until I measure it. I’ll step it off in the morning before school.”
  “No, Bobby, you’ll figure it out tonight, with something called the Pythagorean Theorem. That’s a2+b2=c2.”
  “Yeah, the teacher’s had that on the board all week. What’s that got to do with baseball?” I wanted to know.
  “Listen to me, you little shit. You know what a right angle is?”
  “Sort of.”
  “It’s like when one corner of an object makes an exact right-angle turn, ninety degrees.”
  “You mean like a city block?”
  “Or the corner of your math book, or the corner of a baseball card. Does that explain it?”
  “Okay, yeah, I got it. Right angle.”
  “When you have a right triangle and you know how long two of the sides are, you can find out how long the third side is by using the Pythagorean formula. Home plate to first is one side, first to second is another side, and home plate to second base is the unknown. So, two of the sides are 90 feet each. That’s ninety squared, or 8100; plus ninety squared, another 8100; for a total of 16,200. Now, Bobby, find the square root of 16,200.”
  “Square root?”
  “Dammit Bobby, haven’t you been paying attention at school?”
  “Yeah, some. Okay, it’s um, one, two, and, seven. One hundred twenty seven.”
  “Alright then Bobby, it’s 127 feet from home plate to second base. You gotta throw the ball 127 feet to get that fucker out at second base. Now that’s the power of math!”
  “Why doesn’t the teacher talk about baseball? That was pretty simple.”
  “If ya think about it Bobby, you can make ‘em all simple. I’m goin’ to bed. G’night.”
  Monday morning, I went by the ball park on my way to school and stepped it off. Damn, it was 127 feet! That Pythagoras fella sure knew a lot about baseball!
  When I got to class, the teacher put up a problem, and of course, I smarted off…partly because I was a clown, and partly because I knew the answer. I had to act out though, since the other kids were expecting it.
  Finally, exasperated, the teacher handed me the chalk and said “All right smartass! You wanna teach the damn class, you teach the damn class!”
I did. By the end of the period, they would have drunk the kool-aid, even though they knew it was tainted. And I thought, damn, that’s it! I should be a Teacher!
I taught the class a few more days, and by Friday I had everybody’s attention, even the principal’s. My teacher told him that I was the only one who could control the class and make them learn. She asked me to demonstrate, so I put chalk to the board.
   “Roger is sitting on top of the school," I started. "He decides to use his rifle to shoot a watermelon at the bus depot, two blocks away. So if Roger is 160 feet off the ground, and the bus depot is 1500 feet from the schoolhouse, how far does the bullet travel before it hits the target?”
  Heads started scratching, pencils started scribbling, and in just a few minutes every Pythagoras-hatin’ kid in the room had the right answer!
  The teacher went out into the hall with the principal for discussion, so I decided to clown it up a bit— show the kids just how powerful math really was. I added to the problem. “OK class, if Roger’s using a 200 grain bullet that travels 1200 feet per second, and his target is walking from right to left at 3 feet per second, how much of a lead does Roger take to ensure that his target’s head explodes like that watermelon did, shortly after he pulls the trigger?” The class laughed, then howled, then they went to work.
  Some got it, some didn’t. But the point was, they all tried. They had something they could relate to, or at least something interesting. So that was it, I knew I was going to be a Teacher.
  I went home that afternoon knowing I’d have to decide if I’d rather be a Comedian or a Teacher, and never really reached a decision.
  The very next day though—a Saturday—my career decision was made for me when someone climbed to the top of the school, and using a 200 grain bullet, they took out my cousin Jackie at the bus depot two blocks away. Witnesses said he was just walking along at a leisurely pace when Wham! His head exploded like a watermelon! Another witness claimed he saw someone on top of the schoolhouse with a rifle. The police said it was a coincidence, that nobody could hit a moving target from that far away.
  Um, I beg your pardon? It can be done. I can prove it to you on the blackboard. But no, the cops said it was “most likely an errant bullet.” They never even climbed to the top of the schoolhouse to search for clues, the lazy bastards. That’s when I decided that I would become a detective. And I already had 28 suspects, the kids from my class.
  Oh, wait! I also had 28 witnesses who could claim that I laid the whole thing out. An accessory to murder they would claim, the one who “did the math”, right there on the blackboard. I could get twenty years! I’d have to be careful with my approach.
  I put my dreams of becoming a comic or a teacher on the back burner, and sent for a mail-order detective kit. Which turned out to be a rip-off. All they wanted to do was take my money. I’d have to sell a helluva lot of apples at a buck apiece to get back my investment, so I tossed my detective kit into the nearest can and set out on foot to gather clues. Bob’s Investigations I called myself, because Bobby’s sounded too much like my age. I solved that case in nothin' flat.
                                                                                                                                            #
  I’ve worked as a private eye for twenty years since that first case, and never ever looked at a dame like I looked at Edie. She just waltzed into my place a week ago, tossed a mixed green salad on my desk...for you amateurs, that’s a pile of assorted bills...threw down a picture of  “my damn no-good-cheatin’-ass husband! I want pictures of him with his girlfriend. I’ll girlfriend him into the next century!” Those were her exact words, and she made a swinging motion with her fist as she said it.
    Now I’d never been attracted to a dame when she was ranting and raving, because usually she was ranting and raving at ME. But not this time! Not this one! I found her so damned attractive, I just grabbed her and kissed her, then pushed her away. I turned, picked up the picture, and asked “This the no-good-cheatin’-ass-son-of-a-bitch here?”
  “That’s him alright! Job one is to catch him with that girl, and bring me pictures. Job two...get me her name and address. That’s a retainer on your desk, and there’ll be plenty more when I get through with him. He works for National Insurance. You’ll get him for me, won’t you?” That’s when she grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me into her, smashed her lips against mine, and then she was gone. Out the door. No last name, no phone number, no nothin’ but a pile of cash, a picture of her cheatin’-ass husband, and a clue as to where he worked.
  Now ordinarily I sit down with a client and we discuss the particulars of a case; what’s expected of me and especially what’s expected of the client, like money and such as that. But this time I made an exception. Whatever this dame wanted, I aimed to get it for her, even if I never got another dime. I was hooked. Hooked on Edie.
   National Insurance had a big office building here in town. I didn’t know if her husband was a door-to-door salesman or president of the company, and was so shook by Edie that I hadn’t thought to ask. I decided I’d stake out the front entrance and see what happened.
  Day one, nothing. I didn’t see the husband, but I’d only been there a few hours before they closed. Tomorrow I’d get there before they opened and watch every face that went through the door. If he didn’t show, I’d assume that he was door-to-door, and work another angle. Next day, I sat there from sunup to sundown and never saw his face. Never ate lunch, either. I did take one trip to the crapper, though, and while I was sittin’ there takin’ a dump, I saw where Edie had let the cat outta the bag about giving me these jobs. The restroom stall had “EDIE GIVES BOB JOBS” scratched into the paint beside a phone number. I’d need to talk to her about discretion. Anyway, I never saw the cheatin’-ass husband that day, and I went home. He must be door-to-door, so the next morning I got out a phone book and called.
  “I want life insurance. Send someone over. Please.”
  Two hours later, the no-good-cheatin’-ass husband knocks at my door, satchel in hand. It was then that I realized the error of my ways. Now he knew where I lived! I should have borrowed a phony address. I’ve got friends in the real-estate business, you know. I’d even thought about career in Real Estate...
  I opened the door and he introduced himself as Mel Merriman, agent. I introduced myself as Bobby Blatt. He came in and sat on the sofa and pulled out folders and flyers and charts that showed how much I would get if I died; like I’d need money after I was deceased. For only $25 a month, my corpse would collect $1,000 when I croaked…guaranteed! And once I turned 65, my premiums would stop, but I’d still have a full policy, in effect and payable for the rest of my life. “Free Insurance,” he declared, “no questions asked!”
  So, we chit-chatted a while and I convinced him that I wanted to look over the policy, and could he come back tomorrow? He was disappointed in that. He wanted my signature and my first month’s premium before he departed, but I convinced him that I was gonna sign…I just needed some time.
  After he left, I stuck the papers in my pocket and went down to the office and through the front door of Bob’s Investigations. No phone messages and nobody waiting in the lobby.  I sat down and began reading the newspaper, when the front door busted open and in walked Edie. Scared.
  “I confronted him last night,” she cried, “and he denied everything. Then he hit me!” She unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a dark purple bruise right between her big beautiful breasts.
  “Why, that no-good…” I heard myself begin, but Edie flung herself up against me and kissed me hard. I guess she just needed comfort, that’s all. I kissed her back and then she told me she was movin’ out and needed a place to stay. My place.
  “Huh?”
  “Don’t you see, it’s only logical. When we get the goods on him, he’ll have to move out. But until then, I need a place to stay. And if I’m with you, then you won’t have to look for me when you get the evidence. You’ll know right where I am.”
  “Okay,” I heard myself saying, “just for a couple of nights.” I secretly wished for more, but I didn’t want to be drug into the courtroom as a defendant…only as a witness.
  The next morning, Mel’s at my door, knocking. Edie’s still in the bedroom, fast asleep. I’m in my skivvies sipping coffee and reading the morning paper.
  “Good morning,” he said when I opened the door.
  “Umph,” I managed. I wasn’t quite awake yet and needed another minute. We sat down on the sofa, and he asked me to sign…on the dotted line.
  I hadn’t had time to run the numbers on paper, so I did some quick math in my head… let’s see, $25 a month times 12 months, that’s $300 a year. In three years’ time, he’d have collected $900, almost the full value of the policy. After 4 years, I was giving them money I’d never get back, paying them for a full 25 years to get back less than 4 years’ worth of premiums when I croaked. I called him on it! What else could I do?
  “But Mr. Blatt,” he countered, “you do realize of course, that the insurance company has overhead. We have buildings to pay for, cars to buy, we have to pay out money to beneficiaries, then there’s advertising, and of course, the salesman will get a small percentage to compensate him for his time. You wouldn’t want me working for nothing, would you?”
  “But you’re ripping people off.” I stated.
  “No, we’re giving them opportunity to take care of their loved ones when they pass on.”
  “No, you’re ripping people off!”  I was getting a little louder
  “Mr. Blatt, if you’ll just sign the documents, I’ll see to it personally that…”
  “Hell no, I’ve run the math! You’re gonna make, like $6500 profit off me, plus interest. All I’ll get back is a lousy $1000, which I’ll be too dead to spend. How much commission does an agent make, anyway?”
  “Well, it’s just a percentage of the total premium. A long-time agent will…”
  “25 percent?”
  Nothing.
  “30 percent?”
  Still nothing.
  “Forty percent?” He winced when I said that, so I knew.  Right then and there I decided that I would become an insurance salesman, and I told him so. “Hell, that’s what I want to do for a living, sell insurance!” I was loud! And I forgot about Edie in the back room. That is, until the bedroom door opened and she walked out in her panties and one of my shirts, rubbing her eyes.
  Mel’s eyes got real big, and he socked me right in the kisser, no questions asked! That man had a fist as big as a Christmas turkey, and it knocked me over the back of the sofa and onto the kitchen floor. I didn’t know whether to play dead or make a run for it. But Edie! I couldn’t leave Edie, who was now kicking and screaming as Mel was trying to drag her out the door. I reached for my holster, which was lying on the kitchen table, and I pulled my piece.
  “Mel!” I shouted. “Let her go!”
  Mel reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a piece bigger than mine, shoved Edie aside, and fired directly at me. Now I know when I’ve been hit. It’s happened more times that I care to elaborate on, but I was hit. Mel ran out the front door, got into his car and squealed out.
  Edie’s the one that brought me here to the hospital. And I hope she’s waiting for me when I get out. Maybe she’ll even help pay my hospital bill, ‘cause I’m sure it’ll be expensive and I’m nearly broke!
  Over my career, I’ve probably made half-a-million bucks. But I’ve spent more than half that, probably $300,000 on hospital bills, mostly for lead poisoning. That leaves $200,000 for me. Over twenty years, I’ve been averaging about ten grand a year. Hardly enough to get by on. Maybe I should’ve become a comedian, or a teacher, or a real estate agent, or even an insurance salesman. Maybe I should’ve sold apples. But right now, I’m just a Private Eye who’s hooked...hooked on Edie.
           
 
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