Charlie in My Ear Chapter 1-3

                                      Chapter 1           

                For the first ten years of his life Richard Luck had been blessed with the kind of happiness so terribly rare in the world today.  His parent’s relationship was filled with an endless passion, a passion which was not only shared equally with their son, but multiplied a hundred fold.  His father, Walter Luck, was the owner of a hugely successful financial firm and his mother, Lauren Luck, co-produced a witty television sitcom that had been performing strong, despite being in what many called the “seventh season slump.”  This combination of success translated into a very healthy sum of money, which then translated into a very comfortable home life for the then aptly named Luck family.
         
                Richard had not yet met Charlie.
         
                Yes, at this point in his life Richard was as happy a boy as could ever be found.  His sandy-blonde hair seemed at its most attractive when left to its own volition, creating a mess of loose curls that seemed impossibly neat at the same time.  The same could be said for Richard’s attitude.  Unlike most children born into wealth, he remained blissfully happy without being showered by clothes and toys and video games and all the other monetary items often associated with happiness today.  That’s not to say his parents didn’t try to drown him with presents of all varieties, they just did not realize Richard’s mind was already as tranquil as the most calm of ponds on the most peaceful of days. 

                  In fact his only real fascination lied in books.  He would pour through endless tomes of adventure, betrayal, hope, suffering, strength and weakness.  In particular, the young boy had grown almost frighteningly fond of serial murder novels.  The types where the villain was of such a cold and vicious intelligence it seemed almost improbable the “good guys” would ever bring the “bastards” (as the stories called them which seemed odd to Richard as some of these villains certainly had provable lineage, though only some) down, in fact they sometimes didn’t.  His mother decided, after finding herself disquieted by one of his finished story's synopsis, to delve into some of the novels he had been so horribly engrossed with over the past few weeks.  She did not even finish the first of many gruesome tales when she shut the book in a disgusted horror.  This is what my boy’s been reading?!  Even worse he seemed completely unfazed by its nausea-inspiring content.  Most ten year old boys would get frightened watching Ghostbusters, but her son would turn through these pages as quickly as though they were on a projection reel and he just kept on pushing “next-slide”, “next-slide”, “next-slide.”  Lauren had not yet mentioned this to Walter, she thought she would first just watch the boy a little, see how he behaved at the dinner table, during family game night, and especially at Sunday School, which she had volunteered to teach this year.

              And so she did.  Always keeping one eye on whatever task was at hand, the other on her quickly maturing child.  He remained perfectly polite at the table, with all the “pleases”, “thank-yous”, “sirs”, and “ma’ams” a parent could ever hope to hear.  On game night he would become deeply engaged, tossing dice or dealing cards with all the over-zealous exaggerations of a young boy who was still clearly such a child.  Best of all was his behavior at Sunday School.  His arm shot eagerly skyward for nearly every question asked.  During group-time he would chat up all the students around him, laughing innocently at some joke being whispered in his ear and comparing sketches of Sermon on the Mound and the crowded animals upon Noah’s infamous Ark.  In every way the boy seemed normal.  Kind, polite, inquisitive, patient, confident.  As Lauren tossed all her observations about in her mind she felt herself come at ease.  She could have taken the stories away, told him that Goosebumps was a far more appropriate literary choice for boy’s his age if he wanted something scary.  Could have, but didn’t. 

            Long before Richard was pushed from the warm hovel of his mother’s womb did her and Walter decide they would allow their child full creative freedom.  “Let him be the architect of his own future.”  Walter had said with a proud hand on his wife’s protruding stomach. 

            He would read through the many unsettling epics he had purchased with his allowance money, she would sit a distance off and watch.  Her mind told her all would be well, that her husband was right and she need not interfere.  But deep in her heart, the part buried far beneath all the truths and lies we tell ourselves, the part of your soul too deep in the shadow of our false reality to do anything more than cry to be noticed, she knew it was wrong.  No matter what Lauren told herself she knew.  So long as these reading secessions continued she would never be able to look at Richard as a boy of pure innocence.   

              It was during one of these reading sessions, at a coffee lounge located just outside Richard’s school’s campus, that Charlie had first introduced himself to Richard.  Nothing more than a “Hello, nice to meet you, I’m Charlie” but horrible and unsettling all the same.  It was not long before Charlie was visiting Richard everyday, and not just in the heavily scented interior of the packed lounge, but as he walked home from school, as he played in his backyard, even in public restrooms.  On his eleventh birthday Richard, scared and shaking like a dog awaiting an aggravated blow, told Charlie he did not wish to see him again.  The reaction had been vicious and deep scratches coated his face, reddening his cheeks from a mixture of blood and agitated skin.  But Charlie did leave, and two years later Richard forgot he ever was.   

              Already it seemed that the young girls of his private (and costly) middle school were noticing him.  Excited whispers and feverish giggles would follow whenever he passed a group of female classmates.  “Isn’t he cute?” and “Oh my God I love his hair!” soon trailed him almost as frequently as the squeak from his Donald J. Pilner loafers.  When he told his mother she had shed a few exaggerated tears, held her dear baby boy tight, and explained that no girl would ever be good enough for him (Charlie would later agree with her).  His father had done what most all would do, fix a strong grip on their child’s young shoulders and give out one of the most complimentary and emotional comments a father can articulate clearly, “Gonna be a regular chick-magnet, ladies will be throwing themselves at you in no time, just like your old man”.  He hadn’t been, but told himself he needed to be a hero in his son’s eyes.
         
                His parents would also have been modestly surprised to find Richard excelling in all aspects of schooling, if, that is, they had ever been told.  J.R. Hendrix was synonymous with abundant bank rolls and having any child leave the school for a “better but more homely” education was strictly forbidden.  And so the teachers would alter his tests, ask impossible question only to be awe-struck by his ingenious ability to answer almost all correctly, with the few incorrect so close to being right it was absurdity to not award him as close to full credit as possible.  But the educators of J.R.H.M.S. and their accompanying six-figure salaries seemed in unanimous agreement to stick by absurdity and only pass young Richard by the skin of his teeth, though most of the teachers knew had they been given the same tests not just their teeth would be skinless, but jaw, face, torso and extremities as well.  The jealousy helped with their choice.
         
                  But jealous or not it was still obvious that this was an exceptional boy.  His parents saw it, his peers saw it, even passers-by on the street would say to themselves, “This here looks like a boy built for destiny.”  But none saw his potential more than Charlie.  Charlie who had hidden so discretely for so long, watching all this from the shadows, he knew he need only wait for the most opportune moment to step in and claim young Richard for himself.  And then it struck the cool and calculating Charlie with all the disgusting harshness of a man who abuses his wife.  He could make it happen.  He could make Richard want him, need him, beg for him.  And he would, in all the most horrible and obscene ways possible, he would.
         
                  As Richard sat in his mathematics class a sudden chill so harsh and cruel it seemed to stop his blood still in its journey pierced every inch of his flesh.  He felt watched.  He felt Charlie.
                                                 
                                            Chapter 2
         
                  Detective Paulie McRollie sipped long and hard on his boiling hot coffee from a cheap paper cup.  He welcomed the numbing of his taste buds it produced for two reasons, it masked the horribly cheap flavor the precinct seemed intent on cursing them with, and because it took his mind of the case in hand.  A real sick case.  A real fuckin’ sick case.

         
                  In glorious upper class Cali there never seemed to be much in the way of interesting police work beyond, of course, the frequent pulling over of intoxicated celebrities.  McRollie often supposed that, like everything else in the world today, the more sinister crimes were infamous to the lower income families, while felonies of the more glamorous nature, namely smut and smack, were withheld for those leading a more glamorous lifestyle.  He could almost see middle-class American families hosting faux smut parties.  “Now this here is an exact replica of a higher-end whore, notice you have to really be looking to see the trace lines in the arm and STD’s in the nether regions.  It would normally cost you around seven hundred dollars for a decent screw like this, but this here slut is available for just fifty dollars.” 
         
                  Obscene laughter wheezed from the detective’s lungs as he played out the ridiculous scenario in his head.  It went for a full minute before his irresistibly attractive, and therefore mismatched, partner entered the office door bellowing, “Caught me a big one today, McRollie.”
         
                  With tears of his latest fit still lingering in his eyes, the portly detective turned to his partner with a bemused stare.  “Not another shitty B-lister is it?  You know I hate those cheap movies Liz.  If you can’t make the damn thing right then don’t-”
         
                  But Detective Liz Strata already knew what her plump counterpart would say.  “Yeah, yeah I know.  ‘Then don’t make the shit at all!’  Jesus Paulie you only say it every other day.  And have I ever told you you swear too much.  You have a lady in your presence you know.”  Paulie began his obscene hyena laughter again, but much lighter and shorter this time.  Here it comes, thought Liz.  Can’t make a snappy comeback without going into his bronchitis-inspired chuckle.
         
                “Only every fuckin’ day.  Besides Liz, you know what they say, no ladies on the force.  Only bitches or dicks.  And unless you’re hiding a real goddamn whopper of a secret, I guess that makes you a real goddamn bi-” Paulie and his oversized weight barely managed to avoid a cup of coffee (far cooler than the one he would drink only hours from now) launched in a playful toss towards his still speaking face.
         
                “Don’t you even say it Paulie or I’ll tell your good friend the captain how your last exercise regime really ended.”  A huge and surprisingly warm grin, filled with two rows of slightly off-white teeth, covered McRollie’s face.  Typical beginning to a typical day together.  Any outsider would have thought fists were about to fly, but the two of them knew.  They had spent almost everyday of the past seven years together.  And it was Paulie’s experience that if you can make it past the first two months you could make it for life.  Both secretly believed this to be true.
         
                “All right, you win.  No bitch jokes.  So who was the ‘cocked-out-of-their-mind-but-too-fucking-stupid-to-not-get-behind-the-wheel’ celeb of the day?  Not Uma Thurman is it?  Better not tell me it’s Uma fuckin Thurman!”  For the second time since she walked through the door tonight Liz rolled her eyes (usually were on three or four by now).  Liz knew better than to tell Paulie anything less than pleasant about Uma Thurman, and even pleasant was cutting it close.
         
                “Jesus Paulie it wasn’t Uma Thurman.  James Caan.”
         
                “And I should know this name why?”
         
                “Sonny.”  Empty stare.  “The Godfather.”  A not so empty stare.
         
                “You’re shittin’ me!  The Sonny!  You lucky little bi-, I mean woman.  Well did you get his John Hancock?” 

              “Sure did, right here on his DUI.”  Liz handed a black and white photocopy of the ticket across the cluttered desk to Paulie’s reaching sausage-sized finger. “You know for an actor of his caliber he sure did a lousy job of hiding those four manhattans.”

                Detective McRollie’s entire body seemed to jiggle with excitement.  His father had been a heavy alcoholic, and like any alcoholic he didn’t take a whole lot of interest in his family, particularly Little Paulie.  But on March 24, 1972, the release date of the most important film of Paulie McRollie’s life, things changed a bit for the two of them.


               
                An early-stages-of-puberty Paulie sat on the windowsill of his family’s studio apartment in the downtown district of Los Angelus.  Their brand new color tube television was airing the latest exciting episode of Gunsmoke.  The volume was near max to compete with the torrential rain warring against the thin glass Paulie was perched against (he enjoyed the phantom moisture the glass produced during really nasty storms).  Mumbled words came through as whispers in the noise filled family room/kitchen/dining room/Paulie’s room.  Paulie pointed the heavy “clicker” at the television screen and pressed ‘mute’.  The words returned, no longer mumbled.

              “Lets go Paulie.”  The clear and sober voice of his father sounded almost alien to little Paulie’s ears, but also kind and patient.

              “Where we going dad?”  He had assumed his father was heading out to the bars again, and Paulie would need to wait for him in the car.  Someone would need to drive his poisoned body home at 2AM.  The fact that Paulie was still only thirteen never seemed to register in the mind of Paulie’s Pa, and he doubted his father knew his age anyway.

              A warm smile lit up the face of Mr. McRollie.  He did not know his father was capable of such a serene look.  “We’re heading to the picture house.  We’re gonna see The Godfather.”

              At that time Paulie did not really know anything about any movie by this name.  How quickly that changed.  Together they saw the movie once a week, every week that it played in the cinemas.  And each time Mr. McRollie would grab a tuft of his son’s hair and say, “This, my boy, is a motion picture.  This is what it means to be family.”  And slowly the drinking stopped.  Paulie never found out what truly made his father quit, but liked to believe it was somehow because of their time together, sitting in the dark room of the theatre and watching the Corleons handle their family affairs with an eerie sort of pride.


              “You can keep that copy if you want, McRollie.”  The sound of Liz’s caring voice brought Paulie back to reality with as much shock as Liz felt at seeing her partner with a sentimental look in his eyes.
“Thanks a ton Liz, means a lot to me.”  His bulbous fingers gently folded the photocopy and slid it carefully into his wallet behind what Liz thought was a picture of a younger and more slender Paulie with his father’s arm around his neck.  She wouldn’t ask.  She felt that everyone had a right to their secrets, and The Lord God Almighty knew she had plenty of her own.  “Sorry for zoning there, what’s on the agenda?”
         
                Not a single cuss, Detective Strata thought to herself.  She almost thought she had miss-heard Paulie, surely he dropped a few F-bombs somewhere in there, but her memory showed only a clean and affectionate tone in his speech.
         
              “Not much really.  A few patrol runs, follow up on the-” 
         
                The harsh blaring of a rotary phone interrupted Xthe female detectiveX in mid-speech.
         
                Paulie was the first to reach it. 

                “Detective McRollie, Homicide division.”
         
                A pause.  Liz watched as his eyes grew till they were almost the Xsize of dinner platesX.  She couldn’t hear the speaker, but knew it must be something big.  And terrible. For it was not anticipation that filled those saucer sized eyes, but a look of painful disgust.
         
                Paulie fumbled a bit for the pen in his jacket pocket with one hand, pulled free a small yellow sticky note, which sat on the desk in a small crescent, with the other, and wrote: 72 High Road.  Liz knew the street, really uppity part of town with houses that looked like huge gothic cathedrals.  If whatever had spooked Paulie originated from those five-story mansions they may be in for a long night.  Press loved to show the misery of others, and that disturbing pleasure only amplified when it involved a well-off family.
         
              “We can be there in thirty.”  The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started.  Paulie dropped the clunky handpiece back on the cradle, his eyes still fixed on the scribbled location.  For a time Liz just looked and waited.  Figured he would start running his mouth sooner or later.  If there were any two things people knew about Detective Paulie McRollie, it was that he liked to swear and he loved to “break the news”. 
         
                But the intimate stare her partner seemed persistent on keeping with the peeled sticky-note just kept on persisting and Liz was willing to bet her next two paychecks that the report he had just received was the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost of news worth breaking.
         
                Her curiosity lost its patience.  “Jesus Paulie, you wanna fill me in or you gonna ask that Post-It out for a drink?  Personally I don’t think she’s your type.”
         
                His head snapped up so quick Liz swore she heard a snap.  He still had those quarter-sized eyes, but his speech had returned to its more graceful norm.  “Fuck man!  Shit!  We got a hell of a situation on our hands this time.”
         
                Wasn’t all the information Liz had hoped for but was certainly a start.  “I think ‘hell of a situation’ might be a little vague for my taste.  Just what exactly do we got on our hands here McRollie?  Gunner?  Bodies?  Smugglers?”  Liz didn’t like being out of the loop and McRollie was being about as useful as a knife with no handle.
         
                “Bodies,” Paulie started absentmindedly, but ended in a feverishly quick tone.  “Two of them, or at least that’s what it looks like.  Shit.  ‘Just a pile of parts’ is what Officer Dremol told me.  Skinned and spread out on the floor like a fuckin’ bear rug.  He said he only thought it was two people ‘cause there were only two sets of arms visible from the mess.”  Getting the words out in the open must have been just what the good detective needed because the faint green tint his skin had adopted faded in much the same way darkness fades at dawn, starting with his neck-tie and ending at his receding hairline.  His eyes deflated from twin moons to a pair of small brown motes barely visible under his thick brow, and by the time he spoke his next words he seemed as relaxed as when Liz had first walked through the door. 
         
              “I don’t think you should bother taking that coat off, Strata.  Time,” Paulie pulled back his left sleeve to reveal a remarkably cheap fake-leather and fake-gold wristwatch,  “11PM.  Two fuckin’ hours into the shift and already our asses are tied up for the night.  Keys, I’ll drive.”  It wasn’t a question and Liz didn’t bother to argue.  For all his faults, and there were many, Paulie was one hell of a cop.  His eyes became sharp and focused, his bulky body moved with a strength and speed that would have embarrassed most guys half his age (and a quarter his size).  Liz took out the key ring from her coat pocket and obediently tossed them to Paulie.  He caught the keys in mid-flight, creating a satisfying jingle sound as he gripped them.
         
                Outside the dull and dusty interior of the police headquarters, a beautiful summer night awaited their audience.  The air had cooled significantly from the scorcher it had been only hours earlier, resulting in a gentle warmth that was all at once satisfying.  It was the kind of weather usually associated with a winter afternoon that felt far more like spring, when an unforgiving, cold day was expected but an unexpected warm day had stepped in to substitute.  The sun had long since descended, bearing new, life-bringing light to some part of the world neither of the partners had ever seen.  Pleasant wisps of wind would occasionally make themselves known in the otherwise still and silent air of the evening by nudging the detectives’ hairs about in much the same way an ocean pulls its discarded waves, thrown haplessly onto the shore, back to the sea.  In the distant the wisps turned small pieces of scattered litter into remarkable marionettes on invisible strings, performing a non-sense serenade to a non-existent song. 
         
                Under the 120W beacons located all over the police barracks night became day.  The stony-cement steps the two descended seemed to glow a radiant grey that was interrupted by the occasional red or black or brown pebbles that had been mixed in with the concrete when it was still only powder and sand.  A lush green carpet of Astro-Turf faded from brilliant green to a dark and heavy emerald as it rolled out towards the darkened streets.  Jutting majestically from the picture-perfect rug of grass was a massive stone and marble monolith, polished to an almost gaudy sheen, with the words CALIFORNIA STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS engraved, ten inches tall, and coated in a yellow sparkle that gave the impression of thousands of tiny chips of gold, the type they showed people hunting like crazy for in the era of the gold-rush, surfacing all over the inside of each engraving.  Below was a smaller branding: PRCT: 13.  These letters were not coated in the kingly fool’s gold of its larger brothers but instead were a heavy black that, if not for the small spotlights sprouting amongst various flowers at the base of the stone tower, would have been as black as the night beyond the edge of grass.
         
                  Two rows of impeccably well maintained police cruisers awaited the pair as they passed the buildings left edge.  In the force there was a saying that only four things needed to be kept shining like the sun herself; your badge, your boots, your boom-stick, and, of course, your buggy.  This was a rule each and every office took to heart, and the proof was more than visible.  Light seem to linger forever inside the well polished glass of the lights that crowned the cruisers’ top, bouncing back and forth amongst the many fractions and refractions of glass till they shone so bright a passer-by may have sworn they were on full steam.  XThe bold POLICE which traveled from rear to front stood out clear and strong.X  Several of the labeled parking spaces were barren with the exception of tiny oil stains in the pavement.  One, Paulie noticed, had a fresh stream of coolant traversing the near invisible slope of the asphalt, the waste of some recently departed automobile.  Though tinted, the cars’ windows were clean enough to make out small details of their interiors, despite being painted with the reflections of their surroundings.  Cruiser 10, an all black, unmarked Lincoln used by the higher-ranking personnel, was reflecting one very large and one very slender detective on a collision course with the indifferent automobile.
         
                They entered the cruiser silently.
         
                The car started just as silently.
         
                Lights suddenly sprang to life all over the interior.  Odometer, fuel gauge, digital clock (five minutes had passed since Paulie last checked his imitation timekeeper), radio (off but for a second digital timer which glowed the same dim green but read two minutes faster, Paulie knew it was faster), and GPS.  The Guidance System burst to life with a toneless BEEP that signaled its search for an accessible signal.  After a brief, but horrendously irritating moment of the retched noise a quasi-3D map coated the display with tiny street names, a digital compass and another fucking digital clock.  A compact keyboard lay at the machines base.  Liz wasted no time in entering the address and within seconds a red line began highlighting a route to their destination.  It looked very much like a children’s maze finished with an ugly red crayon.  Except, of course, that children’s mazes seldom landed at a pair of mutilated corpses in the richest neighborhood in town.
         
              Paulie rested his ape-like hand on the shifter and turned to his waiting partner.  “You ready for this?” 
         
              It was a kind question, Liz knew this, even an appropriate one.  Paulie had six years on her and had witnesses some really unholy shit long before they were teamed up.  All this didn’t stop her from being slightly offended, and the need to prove herself, the same need that drove her to a dangerous career when her looks could have married her off to any number of wealthy suitors, started its tickling anticipation that began at her head and quickly spread to all other regions of her body.  The sensation had an odd similarity to a brain freeze one gets from over-indulging on a frozen beverage or snack.
         
              Liz smiled as she (thought she) realized Paulie’s true intention in his question.  To incite her, to get her pumping with the need-to-prove juices so when the horrible gore lay before them both she could keep her cool.  “I think I’ll borrow from your stellar repertoire for a minute.  ‘There’s shit need doin’, so lets get our fuckin’ asses in gear and hit the road.’” 

            Her voice was strong and anxious.  Paulie was not surprised, but also not happy.  She was still new.  Still green.  And, thought Paulie grimly, everyone is still green till you come face to face with some of the fucked-up shit we’re heading to.  So be brave now Detective, cause once we get to where we are going, we’re all gonna find out what you had for lunch.

            “Glad to hear your enthusiasm” lied Paulie.  “Time to ride.”

            Paulie worked the clutch, moved the shifter into place, and headed out of the unnatural glow of the Precinct’s lights and into the darkness of the night, fully aware that, compared to what they were heading to, it was as sunshiny and fucking happy as a Leave it to Beaver rerun.

                                                 
                                              Chapter Three

    Omar’s mind was slipping in and out of sleep like a one-legged drunk ice skating uphill.  He was well aware that being a rookie meant putting up with lousy hours and keeping guard over speed traps that had about as many speeders as the nearby high-class country club had black members (sure they showed up once in a while, but with the help of a stern voice and a small fine they were usually gone for good, both the speeders and the African-Americans; a fact his father, fueled by his anger at the injustice, frequently reminded him of), but he had no idea what a powerful combination the two could be.  For the last seven nights rookie-officer Omar Dremollitousier (Dremol to everyone else) had parked his number fourteen cruiser in the little dirt cove about two miles past the main turn onto High Street.  And for the last seven nights Officer Dremol had watched as an astronomical twenty cars per evening, six of which were the same each night, passed by at their carefully maintained speed of thirty-five miles per hour, which, by some random chance, just happened to be the speed limit.  As they passed his cruiser, which protruded from the straight row of trees like the first stubble of facial hair on a teenager; awkward and out of place but proud none the less, and beyond his line of sight, a.k.a. the radar’s line of sight, the sound of powerful engines pumping significantly harder teased his ears.  He felt like a lion trapped in a cage.  Sure they crept by his watchful eyes when his arms could still reach out and grab them through the prison’s bars, but once they reached a safe distance the taunting and laughing and pointing would begin.

            The intoxicated, handicap ice skater slipped and Omar’s mind stumbled awake.  He looked up to meet his own eyes in the panoramic rearview mirror, the whites contrasted strongly with his black-as-night skin.  He saw the grogginess of sleep beginning to take residence there.  His top eyelid hung helplessly from beneath his brow, a roll-up blind that had found itself stuck half-way.  The dark shadow of his pupils had grown in the dark, but lacked the usual intensity that was far more his character.  After a blank moment of watching himself the rookie officer began to clear his head of the warm blanket of sleep which had tried so desperately to cover him (and oh how he wished it could have.)

            “Snap out of it man!”  Omar was slightly pleased to see his coarse voice sounded more awake than he felt.  Beyond this being his seventh night out on this traffic-barren strip of asphalt, it was also his second triple-shift, the rest were doubles.  Omar bit hard on his bottom lip as he realized he could count the total hours of sleep he had gotten in the past three days with just one and two-fifths of his hands.  “Got a long way to go before morning, Officer.  Now let’s see some life in those eyes!”  The voice was his own but the words had belonged to his drill sergeant from his time with the Guard.  Sgt. Larry Likme and no, I wasn’t laughing at your funny-ass name, SIR!

            The thought of his pompous drill-serg filled him with an unspoken laughter.  “Damn sure would rather have a name no one can pronounce than one that makes me sound like I’m asking for favors I’d rather not see through to the end!”  He smiled at his excited explanation that was intended for no one but himself.  His third second-wind of the evening doused his body with a refreshing jolt.  The sleepy-sensation was still there, just out back having a cigarette.  It would come back refreshed and ready for a second struggle he knew, but for the time being Omar would enjoy his ready-and-waiting feeling.
         
                As his eyes traveled back to the road ahead of him Omar was reminded of the chilling sensation that he was looking at the heavy darkness of the wonderful but near moonless night through a peep-hole created by the bright headlights at the helm of his car.  There seemed to be no fading from light to dark, just “now you see me, now you don’t.”  Omar’s mouth thinned to no more than a paper cut that just happened to sit a little above the chin and a few hairs below the nose.  The scenery could not have been any more bleak.  A thicket of tall birch trees spread across his keyhole view like the curtain of an opera house, knit so tightly Omar thought they must have surely been strung together like the logs of a wooden raft.  He imagined if the curtain were to rise he would find himself looking upon some residence of impossible size, with a driveway as long as the road from which it trickled off, and a yard so vast and level it could house three football stadiums, two baseball fields and a lengthy swimming pool if the weather suited.  Omar could almost see the small islands of carefully shaped shrubs (taking the form of ten-foot dollar signs) scattered about the immense ocean of grass, with flowers surrounding each living sculpture’s base like a crowd of tourists wearing gaudy, colored hats.

         His mind’s eye was just forming the image of the mansion’s very voluptuous and very lonely wife (who was most certainly not his own), lounging libidinously by the pool’s edge and wearing nothing more than a gold necklace weighted down by a single oversized, jewel-encrusted word; Omar, when a horrendous garble of steely sounds overwhelmed and faded out his arousing fantasy.  Officer Dremol thought the noise sounded very much like his two year old boy furiously banging assorted cooking supplies together, ladle with pot seemed to be his instrument of choice.  The intervaled clunk was supported by a higher-pitched noise very similar to the fast-paced flicking of a trading card placed strategically into a bicycle’s rear tire.  He cursed the oddly nostalgic noise for intruding upon him and his very intimate fantasy-woman, while simultaneously remaining thankful for a long overdue change of scenery.

         The rookie watched as the approaching vehicle’s, which he now thought of as The Junker’s, high-beams stretched out longingly to meet his own awaiting headlights.  As The Junker illuminated more and more of the repetitious backdrop the persistent metallic wheezing grew louder and more unpleasant, amplified by the canyon of trees through which it was passing.  When finally the sound seemed to be at its worst The Junker appeared.  It traveled by his tunneled viewpoint so quickly Omar hardly had time to discern any of its details (beyond it was red, had some blurred slogan, and created a real fucking racket).

         For a brief second the sound faded and Omar found himself alone again, with a new thumping noise that sounded at a quick interval, though far slower than the trading-card clicking of only moments earlier.  The sound, he realized, was his own heart; and the reason for the quickened beating was that he had, at long last, a speeder.  Adrenaline diffused into his bloodstream.  It wasn’t a chase, wasn’t a shoot out, but it damn sure was something and something was just what the dozing rookie needed.

         Officer Dremollitousier stole a quick glance at the sounding display of the speed detector.  In the upper left corner the number sixty-two was flashing spastically for attention.  Omar, shaking with excitement, brought the cruiser to drive, made a sharp weighty turn out of the inlet, and sent the little red pointer of his speedometer gauge flying.  The car responded brilliantly.  He tore through the tunnel of carefully maintained foliage at ninety miles per hour, the birch curtain blended into a solid wall of earthly grey.  Two tiny red motes shown like a pair of ominous eyes in the choking darkness, growing larger and brighter with every moment Omar pursued.  He would be on the Junker in thirty seconds.  When his prey was finally close enough for his headlights to make out discernable features in The Junker’s rear, two hideously red van doors with window tint as dark as the officer’s complexion, the bar of lights on the cruisers roof burst into their colorful display.  The alley flashed in strobes of red and blue.  The van slowed, slowed to nearly a crawl, but did not stop.  Fifteen, Omar thought to himself with a satisfied grin, fifteen seconds and the sirens go off.  My first pull-over, man.  Make it good, buddy.

         The cruiser’s bumper was so close to The Junker’s a baseball wouldn’t have fit between the two.  The fifteen seconds passed uneventfully, with The Junker towing the eager police car by an invisible rope, and then the sirens woke up.  Omar had heard them before, of course.  He ran many training circuits with senior officers and had even heard them wailing during some group fieldwork.  They were louder inside the vehicle, always, but tonight was different.  Tonight Omar’s heart was pouring adrenaline laced blood through his arteries like an open floodgate.  Tonight he would make his first solo catch.  Tonight they screamed.  A whopping so intense he thought he must have his head resting on the speaker.  After the siren’s pitch took several rises and dives The Junker made its way to the side of the road.  The cruiser positioned its self behind as though they were two friends parking their vehicles for a night on the town.

         Omar cut the screeching howls short.  The crying echoed for a bit inside the tunnel of brush, but was soon replaced by the same nostalgic click-clunking of only moments earlier.  The rookie grabbed the black mouthpiece from the dashboard and called in his report. 

         “This is Officer Omar Dremollitousier.  I’m about two and a half miles off the southern turn on to High Street.  Have a vehicle pulled over for excessive speeding, red van; make Dodge.  Looks to be around 15 years old, possibly an ’85.  License plate reads commercial.  FISH-4U.  Side of the van has a painting of some smiling fish in an aquarium.  Any read on that plate?”  He spoke with a sureness that surprised himself.  Had he not announced his name the receiver would have thought him to be an officer of much greater experience.  There were none of the familiar pauses in his report that signaled a novice officer, but also none of the drawl of a far too seasoned cop. 

         “Copy that Officer Dremollito-er, Dremol.”  The mouthpiece let out a smooth female voice that sounded pleasant even through the garbled static.  “Plate reads clean.  Company name is Swimming with the Fishes.  The owner is one Marion Kyler.  Confirm identity, Officer.”  Omar gave his consent, reached for the notepad of unmarked traffic tickets, took a deep inhale to calm his excitement, and exited the cruiser.

         As the rookie got closer and closer to The Junker he could see the mural with far more detail.  It was a shoddy job, a group of clown fish with big anthropomorphic eyes and a ridiculous grin that was hugely disproportionate to its body.  An overabundance of bubbles floated around the beaming mascots like chicken pox at its most foul.  The company’s slogan sat suspended directly over the largest of the fish in a whimsical font of dark blue sweeps and spirals.  The colored ad was unattractive, but looked like Rembrandt when compared to the condition of the red paint over which it was plastered.  Omar could clearly see red was not the original coat.  All over cracks and chips defiled The Junker’s exterior.  In areas where the flaking was light a pleasant green coat could still be discerned.  Where the peeling was heavy rust grew desperately outward like a stain, spreading and disintegrating till it had its full with every inch of The Junker’s shell.

         The horrid noise which had first awoke him from his fantasia was remarkably subdued when beside the machine, though an excessive gasoline odor had stepped in to pick up the loss.  It seemed to Omar that the wretched racket was being directed solely behind The Junker, which made him curious as to why it was so loud on approach.

         The rookie thought on this for a moment, dipping into his shallow resources of vehicle maintenance knowledge, and then gave himself a mental slap upside the head.  You got a speeder on your hands and all you can think of is a shitty paintjob and some fucking clunking.  Get your goddamn head screwed on, MAGGOT!  Sgt. Likme’s voice sounded through Omar like thunder and his wandering thoughts soon cemented home.

         Omar’s mind flashed a brief passage from one of his training manuals, ‘a good officer senses everything.  Hesitation in a person’s eyes, twitching of the fingers, even the steadiness of breathing.  Never forget, the good officer senses all.’  Omar had told himself he would be a good cop, he would see everything, miss nothing.  And when the would-be good officer came face to face with The Junker’s occupants he saw everything, and it was way the hell more than he ever wanted.

         “How we doing tonight, Officer?”  The driver spoke with such a thick lisp Omar found the words almost unintelligible.  He was as strikingly tall as he was disquietingly thin and Omar saw that the van’s roof forced the speeder into a vulture’s slouch.  His hair was a greasy black that stood up straight, bright yellow tips coated the last half-inch of each hair.  Small, looped earrings hung like shower-curtain hooks around the edge of his visible, pressed-back ear.  Beads of moisture dotted the Slim Man’s cheeks and brow like a few loan raindrops glued to a cars windshield from a light shower that quit just as quickly as it started.  A far too small fishnet t-shirt revealed the Slim Man’s lower abdomen and possessed sleeves that stopped short just a few inches past the shoulder.  The shapes of his ribs were clearly identifiable through the child’s sized shirt like ripples in a pond.  His long, thin mouth was twisted into an unsettling mockery of a grin that reminded the officer of the sinister smirk of a Great White Shark he had seen on a Discovery program only two weeks ago.  Omar was not surprised to see that the Slim Man’s eyes also seemed to have been transplanted directly from the deadly predator, sparkling a golden yellow that spoke of malice and cunning.

         Omar felt stunned in the gaze of those golden rings.  It was as though his iris’ alone had put a noose on his mind, the more the rookie fought to pull free the greater his immobilization became.  The restraint was built of accusation, shame was the panic it generated.  Shame for looking at the Slim Man, for the discomfort his extreme appearance brought.  Under these powerful eyes he was the judged, and judging was his crime.  The rookie wanted desperately to break this piercing gaze, needed to.  All his senses were being silenced and time vanished entirely.  Omar felt that nothing could save him from those unnaturally golden pools , that for the remainder of his days this haunting guilt would follow and consume him till only the hollow of a man was left.  I’ll be a cripple, thought Omar in a madman’s daze, a handicapped soul and wherever I go people will stare and say, ‘That poor bastard, couldn’t keep his eyes to himself and now he’s a fuckin’ shell of a man.  Pity, but he had it coming.  Should never have looked at the Slim Man that way.’ 

         Something behind the Slim Man caught Omar’s attention and the rookie was freed.  The dire panic Omar had felt so completely melted away like a dream, leaving only a strong shadowy impression like the after-image received when staring directly into the sun.

         The blessed movement that was Omar’s salvation originated from the passenger sitting shot-gun to the man with the damning eyes.  A brief nod of acknowledgement, not respectful but certainly not venomous like the gaze from his cohort, traveled across The Junker’s interior from a man who seemed the complete antithesis of the driver.  It was difficult to approximate height through The Junker’s tiny window, but Omar was willing to wager that the passenger was no taller than four feet, six inches.  What he lacked vertically he made up horizontally.  The Bloating Man’s pillowing chin sat propped on his protruding chest, which was in turn supported by his bulging gut.  An oversized shirt that was more of a nightgown struggled valiantly to keep its seams intact against The Bloating Man’s expanding body.  Exposed legs, with a girth that would rival the waist of most grown men, could be seen from the shirt-nightgown’s bottom, just shy of the thigh’s midpoint (Omar got the impression that were the shirt to end a bit earlier there would be more than bare legs visible.)  His head was the shape of a deflating beach ball or a flowing volcano whose features poured from the top and drooped to his sides.  Hair burst in wild orange curls like spraying lava from his head’s peak.  Plump lips quivered briskly behind a thin mustache. 

                Despite their extreme differences in size, the biggest contrariety of the two was the eyes.  The Bulging Man seemed all at once to be crying, cursing, despairing and pleading.  His irises were a foggy green as though someone had breathed steam over them.  His bottom eyelid hung limp like a wet towel on a clothesline and dark rings were testifying to an excessive lack of sleep.  This was not a man of power like the Slim Man, this was a man of fear and weakness.  A man who showed no desire to control his own destiny, but only a wish to be lead like an obedient dog on a (very short) leash.

                Omar carefully collected his drifting thoughts to refocus on the situation at hand.  He had no idea how long he had been looking at the two passengers, the brief conflict with the Slim Man’s riveted scrutiny made sure of this, but he knew to gawk much longer would be boorish at best, truculent at the worst.
“Much better than yourselves at the moment, appreciate your concern.  License and registration please.”  It took all the rookies dexterity to keep himself from gagging on the spot.  From inside the van a horrid scent contaminated the air, turning it into a syrup.  Omar breathed in thick inhales of the wickedly thick atmosphere that billowed from the van.  The scent needed no consideration to identify.  It was rot.  And not just any rot but the terribly sweet aroma spawned from the decaying deceased.

                  The stench was so distracting to the young officer he completely gazed over the Slim Man’s outstretched hand brandishing the license and registration he had just requested (with fingers that resembled the impossible length and dexterity of a spider’s leg).  Once his mind had adapted to the smell Omar stole the possessions from the driver and eyed them cautiously.  Something certainly seemed out of sort and Omar planned on getting to the core of the matter.  He may still be green with the Staties, but during his active combat with the Guard, and long before the accident that transformed his life, Omar learned to be cool, to stay calm. 


                “If you shits can make it through this first battle without shitting and pissing yourself you may actually be worth a damn.”  Likme’s final lecture had seemed funny at the time, but when that first battle came Omar knew the old fuck wasn’t trying to make anyone laugh.  Knew it by the stains many of his fellow soldiers were brandishing on the front of their neatly pressed uniforms.  Knew by the smell of feces from the young white boy held up beside him in their sand filled deathtrap of a ditch.  When the battle was over and the day was won, Likme stood at the barracks door awaiting their return.  One at a time he had made each young soldier remove their undergarments for all to see.  No one laughed at the yellow and brown stains nearly all the shaking pups were putting on display, but when Omar had taken his turn, when he raised his sparkling clean tightie-whites up for all to see, the silence became mysteriously deeper.  Of the fifty-five soldiers who returned from that first exchange of bullets and blood only three had been worth that useless damn Sgt. Likme had seemed so worked up about.  Omar was one of those three, and to this day he couldn’t understand why he hated himself for it. 

           
                The Slim Man, whose name was Marion Kyler, looked up at Omar through the license’s photograph in much the same way he had just been examined.  A twinge of guilt spat through Omar’s mind as he thought of the poor victim who had the misfortune of standing on the opposite end of the camera that day.  Kyler was twenty-eight as of two months and a day ago.  This surprised Omar at first till he realized that any age would have shocked him, something about the Slim Man had seemed timeless, like he belonged to no demographic at all.  He was, however, unsurprised at the height and weight.  Sixty-seven inches high and a measly hundred thirty-two pounds.  Omar remembered benching twice the weight in his senior year of high school, when his body could still handle doing such things.

              The Slim Man broke Omar’s train of thought.  “Well I’m hoping it’s because you need help with some aquatic critters, but I get the impression that isn’t the case.”

              Omar had become so caught up with the mythos behind this enigmatic man he nearly missed the joke.  “Unfortunately not, Marion.  I’d like to ask you a quick question before proceeding.”

              “Ask away!”  His voice was enthusiastic, his smile had abandoned its coldness for a more sincere look, but those eyes, those goddamn eyes, still burned like glowing coals buried deep in flames.

              “There seems to be a pretty damn nasty stink coming from the back of your van.  I would look for myself but you got those windows on the back tinted so dark I may as well be staring with my eyes shut.  Plus your side windows appear to be conveniently covered with some really excited little guppy.  Now I was wondering if you two gentlemen could possibly explain this for me, save me the trouble of climbing up in there with y’all.”  Omar felt more confident now.  Laughed inside himself for letting some peepers get himself all worked up.  He was particular happy to find his heart beating just the way God intended.  Not a single flitter-flutter to be felt.

         Omar saw the glowing coals in his eyes start blazing like a burning paper factory, but just kept his focus on the man as a whole.  His smile still beamed sincere.  His hand began waving dismissively.  “Hardly even notice it anymore to be honest.  You are partaking in the wondrous aroma of dead fish.  See, we have some pretty high paying clients in this area, sort of pay the bills, yeah?”  The Slim Man shrugged his hunched shoulders, difficult considering his already bent-over position, to suggest a sympathetic understanding.  “Well these clients sometimes have late night emergencies.  Being that we live at our business and all it’s just a simple matter of dressing quick, driving to the castles,” (The Slim Man points his thumb towards the tree curtain) “and taking care of business.  What you are smelling, Officer, is the more icky portion of the career.”  He shrugs again, this time to declare finality.

         Through this dialog Omar never took his eyes off the Bulging Man (the good officer senses everything.)  Omar decided now was as good a time as any to exploit him.  “Perhaps your quiet friend over there can tell me where it was you were working then.  How ‘bout it, man?  Don’t leave me hangin’.”

         “72 High Road.”  Omar was again surprised how different these two were.  The Bulging Man’s voice was an impressive baritone and the rookie thought that if his life had gone a bit different his stunted body could have been up on stage bellowing at other fat people while rich guys rained roses on them.

         For the briefest of moments Omar saw the real Slim Man.  His face contorted evil.  His right hand twitched to signal that a decisive blow was about to be dealt.  Omar’s intuition had been right.  This was information they did not want him to know, and the weakling was the way to get it.

         Omar’s face never shifted expression.  “Real nice house.  O’ course I’ve never been on the inside, imagine in must be damn beautiful.  But that enough chatting, you guys were obviously in a rush to get where you was going, and here I am holding y’all up.  O’ course, we still got that whole rushing matter to attend to don’t we.  You have any idea how fast I clocked you Marion?”

         Shadows of Kyler’s recent upset were still lingering, but on the whole he was back to his falsely pleasant timbre.  “No clue, sir.  Was kinda tired and just wanted to get out of this stink.”  (Omar did not retort the Slim Man’s discrepancy, but would not forget it either.)  “I’ll admit I was going way too fast.  I just really wanna get home, my show comes on at eleven and I only got thirty minutes to get there.  I’ll take the ticket and promise to do the speed limit from now on.”

                Omar thanked the driver for his understanding and promise and made his way back to the vehicle to enter all the appropriate information.  While waiting for validation on the license and registration Omar thought on what had just transpired.  Away from the ostracizing noose the Slim Man’s piercing gaze had lassoed around him, the ex-Guardsman began doubting his own intuition. 

                What did he really know that was so incriminating.  Omar thought on this  question with cautionary skepticism.  They were speeding, but that wasn’t anything incredible or extraordinary.  The degrading Junker had smelt of spoiling flesh, yet there was a perfectly reasonable explanation behind that, dead fish in a van that dealt with fish.  There was the licentious shirt-nightgown the Bulging Man was wearing, that was certainly out of place.  But then Omar recalled the fresh moisture on the speeder’s face and it came to him that they had probably become soaked during whatever obligations their career came with, he had no idea just how large aquariums in those chateaus could be, he imagined quite large. 

            It suddenly came to Omar that he really didn’t have any information worth reporting.  That he wanted to find something startling and so had created the idea, improvising with whatever he happened t observe.  Hadn’t he been suffering from wretched boredom, plus a lucid lack of sleep.  He was green after all.

          An old proverb spliced into his stream of thought: If you hear hoof steps think horses, not zebras.  The rookie took the whole adage a step further, searching for unicorns.

            Omar was about to release the whole idea, let it get pulled away like a paper boat in a rushing streamlet, gone with no intention of salvage.  Would have indeed, until the Slim Man’s twisted expression at his passenger’s revealing of the address stormed and overran his mind the way locusts pillage their targets.  It wasn’t any sort of legitimate inculpation, and when it came to obtaining a warrant it was as helpful as the ocean with dehydration, but to Omar it was all he needed.  He hadn’t gotten this far in life not knowing when he ought to trust himself and when he was just manifesting delirium. 

              As Omar came to his conclusion the smooth female voice filled the vehicle’s interior.  “All the info checks out.  You know what to do from here?”  He assured her he did and they exchanged good nights.

              Omar, with his thoughts now unified, felt extremely sagacious.  He began his trek back to the Junker’s inhabitants.  All around him things came into focus as though he had been wearing an unnecessary pair of glasses through the entire pull-over which he had only just removed.  The officer saw the pair waiting, the Slim Man attempting to mask his choleric impatience, the Bulging Man nursing a blushed cheek that Omar was certain hadn’t been there moments ago.  Both had, under the rookie’s tuned attention, fallacious grins. 

              Omar smiled at the two men, his sincere yet uppity grin was a natural mockery of their own.  The office spoke with an excited chirping.  “Here’s your ticket gentlemen.  Court date’s two weeks from today, August eighth.  Y’all have a fantastic evening.  Enjoy your show and remember, no more speeding.”  He couldn’t help but smile as the two thanked him again and rolled up their tinted window. 
The interior lights of the Junker faded and the nebulous window became a mirror.  Omar was pleased with his telling grin, but became distracted by the sight of his left cheek.  The only external evidence of the accident he fought so hard to keep secret.  A patch of skin three fingers wide and four long screamed of a past injury.  His complexion was strikingly paler at the healed wound and the skin crinkled and curled like scrambled eggs.  For a while after he received the damage it stung raw but now, due to extensive nerve damage, had as much feeling as his shirt or boots.  The truck pulled away and Omar was left to think about the really bad trauma he had suffered.  The one no one could see but Omar always felt.  He put an open palm over the part of his chest above his heart.  The perpetual aching was dulled from the medicine he had taken before his shift, though stronger after his run in with the Junker and its two passengers.

            Omar breathed an agitated side.  He had no idea what his limitations were.  And even worse had no idea how long he could keep his condition hidden. 

            Omar attempted to derail this train of thought.  He knew where these questions led; he had spoken with his wife about them many times.  They made him doubt himself, made him perform without the acuity he was accustomed to, and that was unacceptable. 

          The rookie recalled the Slim Man’s eyes; that terrible fire which had cast his soul ablaze with guilt.  He refocused, recentered.

          Omar had a mission.  His first in a long time. 

          The cruisers air conditioning was still cool when Omar loaded himself into the leather seat.  He let the engine run for a moment; absorbing the weak quake that massaged his body, letting his mind get lost in the non-aria of the running motor.

          Omar came out of the brief trance ready.  Tonight he was going to see just how far his intuition would bring him.  Next stop: 72 High Road.