White Balloons by Michael Barrington, a double cappuccino

Muriel Lean, the Director of Administration’s wife, was not a woman to be trifled with. Her reputation as a gossip with an acerbic tongue, was well known throughout the expatriate community. She arrived unannounced in the compound. Walking up the veranda steps she hammered on the double doors. Ngutor the houseboy, came rushing from the kitchen where he and the cook had been playing checkers. After offering to take her umbrella, she brushed him aside. ‘Where is madam?’ she asked sharply.

‘If you will kindly wait here for a moment, ma’am, I will find her.’

Raising her scraggly eyebrows, she spoke through clenched gold teeth. “Then be quick, boy. I haven’t got all day to waste standing here in this heat.”

Running through the side door, he knew where she was. The bedroom door was open. She was still asleep, and it was almost past one o’clock. He was taken aback and momentarily unsure of what to do. She was lying almost naked, her mouth wide open, one arm hanging down from the bed. There was a fly, like a beauty spot on her cheek. The mosquito net was pulled to one side. She was wearing frilly lace panties, but her pink brassiere was undone, lying loosely over her firm breasts.

He coughed loudly and gave a little tap on the door. She sighed, opened her eyes, then leaped out of bed, hastily dragging a sheet to cover her breasts.

‘Mrs. Lean is here to see you, madam. She is waiting on the veranda.’

Snatching a blouse from a chair, she watched him with contemptuous anger.

‘Show her into the living room,’ she hissed, ‘and don’t you bother knocking on the door anymore?’

‘The door was open, madam, but I knocked anyway.’

‘That will do,’ she said. ‘I’m getting tired of your insolence. Go and fetch a Perrier and some orange juice.’

She slammed the door behind him.

On the veranda, Mrs. Lean was powdering herself and pulling faces into a small hand mirror. Catching sight of Ngutor, she jumped nervously. After inviting her into the living room, she had no sooner sat down when Cynthia appeared, her hair re-arranged, and wearing a gray silk dress.

‘What a pleasure it is to see you again, Mrs. Lean,’ she said, faking an air of delighted astonishment.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Cynthia flattered her with copious and complementary comments about her summery dress and smart hat. After covering the weather, waiting for the rains, the difficulty in obtaining certain British foods, Mrs. Lean asked about the District Officer, Reggie, Cynthia’s husband, and like most old colonials, resorted to exaggeration, saying how he was the smartest and most competent she had known for many years. Then, she proceeded, almost without a pause, to give a current profile of most of the expatriate directors, heads of departments, and their wives. Next on her mental list were the other European workers and, finally, the various missionaries in the area. None were spared her displeasure. She broke off to share how her husband was recovering from a slight fever, then dismissed Ngutor with a wave of her hand as he poured her orange juice. ‘That is sufficient, boy.’

He watched the game as Cynthia forced a smile. They raised their glasses, put them to their lips and, almost simultaneously, set them down again. They smoked. Mrs. Lean talked about her daughter, who was studying in Paris, then started with her list all over again. Cynthia was bored, and wondered why she had come. They hadn’t seen each other for months.

Ngutor was almost dozing on his feet, standing to attention as discreetly as he could next to the refrigerator, when he heard something new. Mrs. Lean had lowered her voice, and he strained to catch everything.

‘It was yesterday, in the afternoon,’ she was saying, then paused. Both ladies looked askance at Ngutor, and Cynthia blushed. They resumed their conversation.

‘You know,’ Mrs. Lean said, ‘yesterday my houseboys almost jumped out of their skins when I caught them on the veranda, pointing at the Chief of Police who was passing by. They were all talking and laughing about him in Hausa. Of course, I don’t understand a word, and never had any interest in learning their language. When I asked what they were saying, they were embarrassed. Then they explained that in the marketplace Randall was called, The one who can’t keep it in his pants.’

She bent over further towards Cynthia, whispering, then they both turned and looked again towards Ngutor. Cynthia lowered her eyes. What had been said? he wondered. Were they talking about him?

‘They are all like that,’ Mrs. Lean said. ‘They’re nosy and indiscreet. And they are everywhere except when you need them.’

The conversation continued. ‘There is so much talk about you, Cynthia. You really must be more careful. It’s not fair to the rest of us. It affects all our reputations. And your behavior is making a laughingstock of your husband. I have heard that they also have a Hausa nickname for him, but it is so vulgar, I won’t even share it with you. If he ever learns of it, I hate to think what he might do.’

Cynthia pulled out a handkerchief she had tucked into her sleeve and wiped off beads of nervous perspiration from her brow. Then she emptied her glass.

‘But you still have some time, since it’s obvious your husband does not know what is happening. Take my advice and end the relationship. Randall’s wife knows what is going on. He has always been a lady’s man. Even enjoyed local women until you arrived. But I fear that both of you have been somewhat indiscreet.’

The two women got up, went onto the veranda, and talked for a short time.

‘And God forbid, Cynthia, that you ever get pregnant. I hope you are taking precautions.’

The five o’clock bugle sounded at the police barracks as the women walked together to the gate at the main road, where the sentry saluted them both.

Cynthia was furious, and as she strolled back to the house, her hands clenched, all she wanted to do was scream. She felt exposed. In a sense, the only thing she had learned was that the whole of Keffi was now aware of her affair. It was the biggest non-secret in town.

                                                ***

One month after Mrs. Lean’s visit, Cynthia was still angry. There was tension throughout the compound. During the day when her husband, Reggie, was at his office, staff moved cautiously around the compound, and in the house acted as if they were walking on glass. They went about their business quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Each of them had experienced quick changes in her mood, and it was usually accompanied by shouting and accusing them of not working hard enough. When Reggie traveled on safari, it was completely different. She was initially thrilled. The day he was expected to return was usually horrible.

Reggie had been away for over two weeks. Cynthia and the chief of police had made full use of his absence, and there were still five days remaining. She was bored and decided to write some letters, including one to Randall. Sitting at the dining room table, out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Ngutor cleaning the china cabinet. Then she stood up, went over to a vase of flowers, plucked several petals, and placed them in an envelope. He watched her as she moistened the flap with her tongue and sealed it. ‘After lunch, take this to the Chief of Police.’

‘Yes, madam,’ he said, taking it from her.

‘Is my shower ready?’

‘Yes, madam.’

Her door slammed. A few minutes later, there was the sound of glass breaking as something hit the cement floor, and Cynthia shouting, ‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’ Her voice sounded through the door. ‘Boy, bring a broom and clear up this mess.’

Ngutor recognized what it was. He knew exactly where she had taken it from among her many cosmetics. Each one had its place. He had examined all of them, opened them and held them to his nose. But as much as he had wanted to, he had never sampled any. Why so many? He did not know what each was for. When he showered, he sometimes used palm oil on his feet, but he had to beg the cook for it each time, and Olekwu always wanted something in return.

One of her jars of face cream had fallen and shattered, with pieces scattered all over the room. Moving most of it into a small heap while Cynthia sat at her dressing table cleaning her face, he swept under the bed and unexpectedly, brought out not only pieces of glass, but two small rubber bags, like balloons. Realizing that the sweeping had halted, she turned her head, and seeing that he was trying to turn them over with the broom, sprang up and shouted, ‘Leave them alone.’ As she tried to push them back under the bed with her foot, some liquid squirted out.

‘Get out, get out of here!’ she screamed. ‘You stupid idiot, you don’t know what they are. And don’t look at me like that. No, you have no idea what they are, but I know you’ll talk to the other staff about them, then the whole of Keffi will know. So, I’ll tell you.’

Her eyes were blazing. She poked a finger in his face. Ngutor thought she was about to slap him.

‘They’re condoms,’ she shouted. ‘Contraceptives. Do you even understand what that means? Go tell your friends, Con-tra-cep-tives.’ She emphasized each syllable slowly.

‘Remember that word, then it will be all over the marketplace before nightfall. That will make you into a big man. You will be the one with a new and strange story to share.’

Gathering up as much as he could, he hurriedly left the room, thinking that this would be his last day. She was angry with him and would definitely tell Reggie to fire him. A houseboy who knew as much as he did could never be trusted. The Chief of Police had always said so.

Once he heard her in the shower, he returned to sweep up the remaining glass. About to leave, he suddenly noticed a cigarette lighter on the small nightstand next to the bed. It was not hers or Reggie’s. He knew who the owner was. He had seen it before. Realizing he might be able to use it to possibly save his job, he slipped it into his pocket. Why hadn’t madam given it to him so he could deliver it with the letter? Perhaps she hadn’t even noticed it.

All the way to Randall’s office, he could feel it in his pocket. There was no way he could return it to him. It was on the walk home that the details of the plan came into his head. It was risky, but he had to take a chance. Madam wanted him fired, but the master wanted him to stay. The lighter might just keep him employed!

He could hear the laughter, long before he reached the kitchen, where the staff usually sat in the shade, gossiping. He noticed the sentry was not at his post, but assumed he was taking a regulation tea break.

‘Ngutor,’ he said, as soon as he had taken a seat on an old tree trunk, ‘when will you learn the role of the houseboy? One of these days, you will be in real trouble. When will you grasp that for the whites, you only exist to do their work and for no other reason? Look, I am a sentry. I am nothing. I am just a vehicle that carries a rifle. I am not a person, so they don’t have to worry about me standing for hours in the cold, the heat, or the rain. I am never tired, hungry, or thirsty. It’s all about the gun. The gun keeps them safe. You think they bother about the cook?’

He laughed out loud. ‘Think again. They care only about their stomachs. So what did you do to madam this morning?’

‘I understand what you are saying, but what about the little rubber bags…mustn’t the houseboy...?’

Before he could finish, the sentry burst out laughing again. He couldn’t stop. Finally, with tears running down his cheeks, he said, ‘A chance to laugh like this happens only a few times a year.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ngutor asked. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Well, you and madam were arguing this morning over little rubber bags!’ Olekwu the cook added. ‘Isn’t that what you told us?’ He could not continue as he too began to laugh uncontrollably.

‘Come on, tell me, you idiots. What don’t I know?’ Ngutor said irritably.

‘Those whites with their craze for putting clothes on everything even…’ Olekwu could not finish he was laughing so much.

‘Well, to do things properly, a white man puts it on, like a hat or a pair of gloves,’ the sentry said, knowingly, mocking Ngutor’s innocence.

‘That’s it,’ Olekwu added. ‘It’s the right thing for the occasion.’ The two of them burst into another round of laughter.

‘Never mind, Ngutor. It’s always good for us to laugh, wouldn’t you agree? You will not hold it against me, will you?’ the sentry asked.

He smiled, then became serious. ‘You see, your broom went a bit too far. It’s almost as if you had found the chief in bed with madam, or if you had seen her naked. A white woman just can’t let a houseboy see things like that, let alone find, what did she call them, condoms?’ He was struggling not to laugh again.

Cynthia suddenly appeared on the veranda steps.

‘Fetch a broom for me, boy,’ she shouted, advancing towards the group.

Ngutor, quickly ran inside, then reappeared holding one in his hands. Snatching it from him, her blazing eyes told him he knew too much, and she ran into the house.

‘Looks like she is going to clean the bedroom herself,’ Olekwu said.

‘If only she would do her own washing.’ It was Rahila the washerwoman, speaking. ‘I have to clean her sheets after she and her lover have slept together.’ She had remained silent throughout the discussion, but her eyes never left Ngutor. She wanted to talk with him on his own. There was so much more she wanted to know about the white balloons.

About the author

 

Michael Barrington, is an international writer specializing in historical novels. Four Mile House and No Distance Between Us are his latest novels. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories in the USA & UK. He also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net. 

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The Whatevers by Mike Lee, a Guinness

 When Deidre crossed Broadway against the traffic and stepped on the curb, cellphone in hand, it was a transformative, albeit confusing moment, where the choice for Henry was to stare with stunned amazement or suddenly perform surrealist-influenced performance art.

She was a good kid until she chose to manipulate and triangulate, until she was trapped in a corner, like a cheap 1950s wind-up doll, her face and feet buzzing in the air, until it stopped and fell to the floor.

That is Deidre now. Full of rage and somewhat settled identity despite the current persona that may work in Brooklyn, and a few other places, but nowhere else.

Henry fully understood that. He was young once, too. Deidre has a few years left to realize that whatever you think you are on the outside is just a uniform, not a persona. She also didn’t learn the lesson Henry did: that ‘you’re not as smart as you think you are’ either. He hoped she would, but likely won’t.

Henry continued his walk, maintaining his usual pace. He always walked faster than most pedestrians. Even so, he kept his head on a swivel. He hadn’t seen Deidre in years, and kept his head on a swivel just in case the rage she carried was today heavier than overstuffed carry-on luggage.

Behind sunglasses to protect from early-stage glaucoma and just to hide his mood and potential movements from others, he confidently believed he was safe. This came from reading Catch-22 as a young teenager, and the “Yosserian, jump!” He did, and fled to Sweden.

This novel ending stuck with him, and Henry had acted accordingly since.

He shifted over to his left, while Deidre remained half a block ahead. Moments later, she vanished into the crowd.

Henry continued walking and later entered a bookstore. He had to jump this time. Until another moment like this comes along, because there will always be another time.

While browsing the carts the staff used to shelve the recent acquisitions, Henry remembered what a long-dead ex-girlfriend said to him more than 30 years ago. “After I die, I will haunt you.” It stuck with him, and ever since, he has had several Yossarian jumps.

He regretted not breaking up with her after that lunacy. Instead, they got married and had Deidre.

Henry found a book he had been looking for and continued browsing.

About the author

 

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in Blood+Honey, Bristol Noir, Roi Faineant, Wallstrait, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. Also is in the latest CafeLit anthology. 

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Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other Side by Allison Symes, hot chocolate

 

Taking The Pen Away

 

There was once a cracker joke writer

Whose puns made people curse the blighter

So when his pen was taken

He felt forlorn, forsaken

But the world felt oh so much brighter!

 

 

Crossing Time

 

'I suppose you think that was clever', the girl said.

'Of course, why do it otherwise?' I replied.

'You can't hold me back. It doesn't matter what you do.'

'There's not a human born who doesn't long to, you know. I had the courage to try.'

'Or the foolishness! Most of you accept you cannot beat me. You even celebrate me once a year.'

'Yes, it's all lights and fireworks and parties, but you are a cruel devil and I will beat you.'

The girl laughed. 'How? You're not immortal. You can't win a fight with Time. I should know. I also know how long you have. I can see your sands running through.’

Out of nowhere she produced an hour glass and sure enough the sand was running through but I didn't care. I didn't bother looking. I didn't want to know. It wasn't the object of the exercise. I wanted to defy Time and I had.

'I can keep you at bay with this time piece, and keep doing so until it is time for me to go. I like my current age. I will stay this way. That will do.'

I waved the pocket watch in the girl's face as if daring her to take it but she waved it away from me. The watch hands were going backwards. I set them to a week ago last Friday. I wanted to see if I could do it the way the salesman in that strange little shop insisted I could.

And sure enough here I was back where I had been last Friday. Just outside the chip shop, cursing myself for forgetting my coat on what was the coldest night of the year so far. What I hadn't expected was this wraith like girl turning up to berate me.

'There is always a price to pay for crossing Time,' the girl said, sighing. 'I will catch you in the end. Your time will come. And trust me I will make you know it when it does. I don't like cheats. I never have.'

'So be it but my 'time's up' will be at the age I choose.'

'And how are you going to explain that to people? Tell them you've got a funny portrait in your attic?'

I grimaced. I must admit that thought had not occurred to me. But so what? I could always tell people I had found a really good moisturiser!

The girl vanished. I went and got my chips. I was just crossing the road, munching them happily, when a Mini came out of nowhere and sent me crashing across to the other side. The last thing I remember was seeing the girl reappear and she was laughing.

I got one thing right. Time is a cruel devil.

 

 

The Gatekeeper

 

Not many people call on me. A King did once just as his country was at war. He was a good man and I told him what he needed to know. He asked the right question, see.

Yes, I stand here. I look back and I look forward but I cannot tell you what I see. I am bound to the highest power of all and He binds me to secrecy.

Be honest now. What would you do if you knew the future? The temptation to use it for your own ends would be too much.

Oh I know how weak humans are. Some of you think hate is a good thing. I would’ve thought looking back at your own history would tell you otherwise. If you can’t learn from your past which is fixed, why would you learn from the future, which isn’t?

But what do I know? More than I ever dare tell.

I am the gatekeeper. I watch. I see life and death but I join in with neither. My role is a tough one but vital. Nobody abuses time on my watch. Time is a gift. Use her wisely. Go forth then and put your hand in the hand of God. It is what the King did.

Author note: This is a nod to the poem The Gate of the Year by Minnie Louise Haskins, which starts with And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year. King George VI quoted from it in his 1939 Christmas Day speech. The poem still has resonance and always will though I think the gatekeeper’s role would be an incredibly lonely one.

 

                                              Travelling Well

 

You know just where the cold gets when you travel in winter as I do. The Beast from the East is such a good description. It is of no use to man or beast. Not only is there the chill to contend with, the nights draw in so early. Okay, my peak time of travel is midnight (it’s a tradition), but when I’m off duty, I like to see the sun as much as anyone else does.

I take plenty of hot drinks with me but I’m always okay for food. There are loads of mince pies (it’s just as well I love them) and if I got stuck, I could always scoff the carrots left out for my reindeer. Must let someone know reindeers don’t eat carrots. It’s something to do with their teeth but I’ve forgotten what that was now. I guess the kindly thought is there though. Means a lot to me in my job, that does.

I have no choice on when I travel and I’ve got used to it over the centuries. Seeing the Northern Lights is always wonderful and trust me I have the best view ever of those. Cheers me up immensely. Cold, dark nights, bad weather - winter doesn’t have much to commend it, does it? I like to think though I bring a little cheer when it’s needed though.

But at least I don’t get stuck in snow or caught out by heavy traffic. My flying sleigh is pretty unique. But oh I feel the cold, despite all my layers, and I’m not as young as I was. I love the job but, when I get home, kick the old boots off, and my journey’s done for another year, oh the relief! Mrs Claus has a decent meal and hot drinks on standby. (Mince pies are great but not terribly filling and even I can only eat so many of them before I yearn for a juicy steak pie or something). Journeys in winter are made bearable when you’ve someone to come home to and the job you do is worthwhile. Trust me I know. And the admin’s okay. I have a list, I have to check it twice, but I could do that in my sleep now.

Talking of which, another Christmas Eve has come and gone. Time to get my head down for a bit I think. See you next year - or not. Depends what side of my list you’re on!

About the author 

 Allison Symes, who loves quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. She writes for Chandler’s Ford Today and Writers’ Narrative. 

 

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Saturday Sample: Miller and Kelby by Maxine Flam, sparkling white wine

 

Six Murders and Counting

Previous Published by Maudlin House

 

How did I end up here? What time is it? Oh, not again…. This can’t be….Is she dead? ....I gotta get the hell out of here before someone finds me with this person, whoever she is. George picked  his clothes up off the floor, got dressed, and walked out. No one in the building saw or heard him. It was five in the morning; everyone was asleep. That was fortunate for him but not for the victim. I need to figure out what happened. Who is this woman? Why does this keep happening? I don’t understand.

George arrived at his apartment, stripped, and took a long hot shower. There was some blood on his shirt. I better throw the clothes out. I’ll put everything in a garbage bag and drop it in the can in the alley. Today is garbage day. I can’t have anyone thinking that I had anything to do with this because I didn’t. What happened??? Come on…think…I left work yesterday and awoke in this woman’s bed.  But she’s dead….who did it? …That’s it. Someone got into the apartment and killed the woman. Maybe it was a jealous boyfriend or husband? He left me alone. Phew…lucky….I didn’t know her. I don’t know how I got in her bed.  I’m going to have breakfast, dress for work, and go into work like nothing is wrong because there is nothing wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong.          

George decided not to worry about it. Someone else did it and the police will find that person. But what about the other people? There are so many more. Everywhere I go….It must be a coincidence. Yes, that’s what it is…a coincidence. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

 “Someone must have seen something,” said exasperated Detective Joe Miller of the Major Case Squad to his partner Bill Kelby at the scene of the latest murder.

 “No one saw anything at any of the other murders. So why should this be any different?” replied Kelby.

 The bed was covered in blood and a 6” hunting knife was stuck in the back of the latest victim. All the details were the same. Each body was nude – no struggle. There was what looked like semen on the dead woman’s back. “Call forensics and see what they can come up with, perhaps some fingerprints, anything we can use to nail this psycho and ask them to check if this is semen like the others victims,” said Miller.

“How can this happen without anyone seeing something? Would you please explain it to me?” replied Kelby.

“Oh, someone saw something; the murderer saw something. This is so damn frustrating,” said Miller. “He must be covered in blood. How did he walk out of here unnoticed? There aren’t any bloody footprints. What did he do? Fly across the room?”

“Maybe he brought a change of clothes in a suitcase?” said Kelby. “Come on, be serious.”

“Now don’t be funny. Seriously, where are the bloody clothes? He didn’t wash them or leave them behind. What’d he do with them? Bring a garbage bag in his pocket. There isn’t any blood in the shower. How’d he kill them and not get blood on himself? …It makes no sense.” Miller shook his head. “Unless, he murders them while he was nude. Of course, that’s it! His clothes are on a chair or the floor. After he kills them, he dresses and leaves. That’s why there isn’t any blood anywhere else. Maybe there’s some on his body but he showers when he arrives home and tosses the clothes in the garbage. We’re dealing with a sicko.”

“You’re just figuring that out now. This makes five dead bodies and we’re no closer to solving this serial killer than we were on the first murder. Different parts of town, different people, different races, and sexes. I’d like to know where they met. In an era of the swinging 70s’ disco, this twisted person has his pick of places and people. Seriously, this person must be out of his mind,” stated Kelby.

 “This is out of our league. We need to consult the department psychologist on this one as soon as possible,” said Miller 

“Let’s go see Dr. Delmonico,” replied Kelby.

 

 “Well, after reviewing the autopsies and evidence collected, what you have here, in my expert opinion, is two different personalities inhabiting the same body of the killer,” said Dr. Delmonico. “One may know the other exists or then again may not. But you better find this person soon or he’ll kill again and again. You’re up to five. I suspect this isn’t new. He’s probably been killing in other cities. You need to put this on the wire and find out if any place has had a string of unsolved killings that don’t match a pattern.”

“Are you out of your mind?  Do you know how many places there are to contact?” shouted Miller.

“Then you better get started because you haven’t seen anything yet. If this is a repressive personality disorder, and I think it is, then the killer rears its ugly head after having a stressful day. But, back to the murders at hand…let's assume for a moment, he works for a tyrant or lives with a dominant parent or partner, one that abuses him mentally and physically. Let’s also assume he is a submissive personality which means he takes the abuse. The boss puts him down or the mother yells at him for being late or his girlfriend or boyfriend says he can’t do anything right. ‘You lazy, good for nothing so and so,’ someone says for example. Whatever it is, he can’t speak up for himself. The dominant personality comes out. He goes to bars, dances, discos, wherever, and mingles. Wherever people congregate, he’s the life of the party. He isn’t a bad-looking person. I’d even bet he’s nice-looking. He’s probably a good conversationalist with a fun personality, as five people found out when they asked him back to their place for sex. That’s the key. He goes back to their place, never his. He goes with anyone. It doesn’t matter the race or sex. Of the five dead people, four are women:  Black, Hispanic, Asian, Filipina, and one white man. So far, four of the people were traced back to nightclubs and bars in the area. The man was a prostitute. Maybe that was a spur-of-the-moment thing because he couldn’t find someone to hook-up with in the bar.” Dr, Delmonico stopped speaking and looked at the detectives for a moment.

“We checked the flophouse where the man was found dead. They rent by the hour. The flophouse manager was so drunk he didn’t know who was coming or going,” said Kelby.

“We’ve interviewed all the places where the dead people visited and we came up empty,” said Miller.

  “Well, go back and interview them again,” continued Dr. Delmonico. “Now you have a fifth person to add to the list. This suspect is an equal-opportunity killer. The only statistics I can give you about him is he’s probably on the taller side because he has been able to subdue his victims. I’d say maybe 6’ tall. Based on what I’ve read, he ties them up mostly with rope and stuffs a tie or ascot in their mouth so they can’t scream. It takes strength to hold someone down, to bind their arms and legs, and shove a knife in their back. He had sex with each victim with no condom before killing them. One more thing….”

   “More bad news?” replied Kelby.

  “After he shoves the knife in the back of his victim, he has a second orgasm. Forensics confirmed it with all four of the victims. For him, it’s a better release if you will. Killing them completes the sex act for him. I believe after the second orgasm he changes back to the submissive personality,” said Delmonico confidently.

  “Christ, not a dominant fetish,” said Miller rolling his eyes.

  “He has sex with them; they roll over, and go to sleep. He ties them up, murders them, and gets off on it. Terrific…it’s worse than kinky,” said Kelby.

 

George went to work as if nothing happened the night before. 

“Hey Georgie,” said a co-worker who walked over to his desk.

“I asked you not to call me that,” replied George.

 “The boss wants to see you.”

George got up from his chair and walked into the boss’s office.

“Close the door, George. I reviewed your work and found it to be subpar. Why don’t you follow company policy?” George stared at his boss like he wasn’t there while his boss droned on and on about what a poor worker he was. “Maybe you should consider transferring back to the home office? Have I made myself clear?” said the boss.
      “Yes sir, I understand?”

George emerged from the boss’s office with his head bowed low. Everybody looked at him while they tried not to laugh.

He went back to his cubicle and worked through lunch so he could leave early.

Four o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. George left. Thank God, I can get the hell out of here until Monday. I’m free. I can’t wait to go out tonight. I think I’ll quit this two-bit job on Monday. The boss can kiss my ass. I’ve never been to Phoenix. Maybe I’ll try my luck there.

The cycle continued.

George morphed into his other personality, Bennett. He took a long shower and put on his finest suit. He checked himself out in the mirror. Hey, good looking, head’s up, shoulders back, I’m oozing confidence because I’m one lucky son of a bitch. Money is no object. George lived frugally in a one-room place that had a bed, dresser, closet, and TV. He spent his money on clothes, and having a good time. To hell with everyone! There are always new people to meet, to go to bed with, to kill….

 

“Hi, I’m Bennett. I’d like to buy you a drink if you are interested.”

“Sure, you’re cute,” said Jose.

“Come here often?” asked Bennett.

 “A few times but you’re new.”

 “Yeah, I’m not from around here but I decided to check out this place tonight…

 “Let’s have a few drinks and dance.”

 “I’d love to.”

It came to closing time, 2 a.m. He bought the last round for himself and his new friend. “You know this party doesn’t have to end.” Bennett hoped Jose would invite him home.

“No?” responded Jose hopefully.

‘Well, I don’t live near here but if you want, we can take this party over to your place.” Bennett was so excited he nearly spilled his drink.

“I’d love to. I just live around the corner.”

“Let’s go,” said Jose. They downed their drinks and headed off.

 

 “Damn it. Number six. This man wasn’t a prostitute. In fact, he was a businessman: a pillar of the community. If we don’t solve this soon, we’re going to be walking a beat in the kiddies’ park.” Miller looked at Kelby. “Tonight, I want every available detective and off-duty cop; I don’t care if you have to pull them off of sick leave, vacation, or whatever else they’re doing, to go undercover in every bar, nightclub, and dance place in the surrounding area. Dr. Delmonico believes whoever it is, will be out again tonight. Someone had to have seen something said Miller.”

The wire lit up. Delmonico was right. There had been unsolved murders in San Diego, San Francisco, and Las Vegas that fit the pattern: six, five, and seven to be exact.

“It looked like he moved a lot,” remarked Kelby.

“We have to catch him tonight before he decides to leave town,” said Miller.

 

Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week. Oh yeah, for some people, but not for me. Yeah, baby, yeah.  I’m going out and have some f-u-n. Fun! I heard Aladdin’s is exciting. Yeah…Aladdin’s. That’s where I’m going tonight. This fellow is off to get some action.

 

  “Now everyone get this through your heads. He’s going to be out there tonight, said Miller. “We don’t have a clue what he looks like but we’re looking for a guy who lights a room, with his presence, is narcissistic, charming, charismatic, and probably spends lots of money on drinks. He’s a good dancer and he talks to women as well as men. He likes everybody. He kills everybody. We’ve got six dead bodies in the morgue each one with a 6” knife wound in their back and semen on the spot where he stabs them to confirm that. He may be carrying a small bag or the knife is in his pocket. We checked knives shops in the area and came up empty but he could have bought them at hunting shows or sporting goods stores so that doesn’t mean anything. He ties up his victims but in two of the murders, he used his tie, not rope. He gags them too. He’s evolving. Take nothing for granted. You see something, you call it in. We’ll probably be hauling in innocent people tonight but we don’t have a choice. Go with your gut. If someone doesn’t look right, move in. Got it?” said Miller.

All the detectives addressed by Miller nodded in agreement.

 

“Your name is…..?” Bennett squealed with excitement.

 “Francine.”

“Francine? Pretty name. I’m Bennett. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Yes, that would be great.”

“Waitress.” Bennett motioned to her to come over.

“Yes?” as she laid napkins down in front of Bennett and Francine.

“I’ll have a Screwdriver.”

“And you, Miss?”

“I’ll have a Manhattan” …So you drink Screwdrivers. Is that a subliminal suggestion? Francine looked at Bennett and laughed.

“Maybe….but I like vodka. Are you from Manhattan?” asked Bennett.

“No, but I am from New York. Ever been?” She blinked her eyes and tilted her head.

“No, but I’d like to go someday. Let’s dance,” said Bennett as he picked up and took Francine’s hand and led her to the dance floor.

 

 Miller and Kelby entered Aladdin’s and checked out the bar and dance floor and they immediately picked up on Bennett. They watched intensely as he danced with the young Asian lady. He was quite the showman on the floor. They went back to their table to drink their drinks and stayed a couple the whole evening and as the bar started to empty at 2 a.m., she asked him home. The detectives followed them out to her place. They had no evidence yet that he was the one. They were another couple making a connection on a Saturday night. It was the 70s…. Bar hopping, discos, dancing, free love, murder….

Miller and Kelby stared through the window of Francine’s apartment from a distance using binoculars while she offered Bennett a drink. They watched intensely while he drank his drink and she started to undress. He finished his drink and dropped his clothes on the floor and then he made passionate love to her.

“You know, I feel like we’re a couple of perverts,”

“Well, there are ten other teams, peeking in ten other windows, so if we’re perverts, they must be ones too.”

“But if he’s our guy, then we aren’t, right?”

“Right!”

“What a stinking way to spend a Saturday night.s”

Miller and Kelby believed they had their man. They continued to watch as Bennett and Francine finished making love. She rolled over on her side to go to sleep. He rolled over in the other direction and went for his necktie, rope, and the knife he kept in his coat pocket. He stuffed the tie in her mouth and began to tie her hands behind her back when the detectives busted in through the window. Kelby held him down while Miller disarmed him.

Bennett screamed, “What are you doing? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What’s your name?” said Miller.

The Bennett personality was gone and George took his place. “My name is George…George Watkins. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Who is this woman? Why am I in her bed? I have no clothes on. Please, please let me get dressed. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Just like Delmonico said,” Kelby shook his head.

The detectives looked at the woman while they untied her. “You’re a very lucky young lady. You were almost his seventh victim,” said Miller.

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About the author 

Maxine lives in North Hollywood, California with her aquatic friends which include African dwarf frogs, tropical fish, and striped and tomato snails. She is disabled but she stays active by taking college classes at Los Angeles Pierce College mostly in English. Maxine has two A.A. degrees: one in Natural Science and one in Liberal Arts. Her goal is to pursue another A.A. in English but is waiting to see if she can get the classes she needs to do it.

She has self-published one book, entitled Unglorious War, Revised Edition and it is for sale on Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, Apple, and other platforms. Confessions Press in England published her second book on a limited run. The book is entitled The Professionals 16, Meeting the Men of CI5. The first limited two print runs sold out and they are considering doing third run.

While she loves to write crime fiction and romance, Maxine has written futuristic, literary, dark and creepy, but not horror or gory stories, and a WWII historical story about a German doctor working on the side of the free French underground entitled, Hiding Amongst the Gestapo published by The Heartland Review Spring 2024 Edition.