Stories, Heroes, Writing, Critiques

Supposed to talk about writing assignments today. Nothing new to say about them save that Quest is moving along nicely. Too nicely, in a way. I tried writing with Spouse and Son offering up one interruption after another. It's hard to keep focus when one is being inundated with a host of questions. I wound up skipping a mess of idea and not thinking others through.

The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.

What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?

When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.

Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.

The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:

There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.

The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.

I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.

Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.

Take care.

A Blog Advertisement

I need to take classes in marketing. I should have posted this hours ago.

The Stories Have Begun Arriving at
The Legion of On-Line Super Heroes!

Today, tomorrow, Sunday and Monday will all produce first entries by four different Authors

Read works from Internationally Known Authors such as:

Writtenwyrdd - the famous Speculative Fiction Writer in the east
Blogless Troll - the dashing Writer from Kiribati
Whirlochre - the clever King of the British Isles
fairyhedgehog - Castle Windsor's Lady in Waiting
freddie - the midwest's Star of Music and Wonder
Lisa - the Poetic Mistress of Feline Purrs
Ms. Sparrow - Famed Minnesota historian

and, how could we forget

Bevie James - ambiguous, paranoid, but good-hearted

If you have time, give the blog a look-see.

Well worth the 500-word reads

Works in Progress

Today is "Writing Assignments" day. Originally, it mean Evil Editor exercises. That was when I didn't really have any other writing projects on my active burners. In fact, last fall my active burners were suffering from a noticeable loss of fuel supply.

Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.

Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)

Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.

Cest La Vie.

The Legion of On-Line Heroes is Organizing

So, I've done some more thinking about the Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. Posted some ideas (as well as some character creations) over on The Great Sea.

Basically, I created a new blog especially for Legion stories. My thinking (right now) is that those of you who want to contribute stories can create a character, post it on your blog, let me know, and I'll issue an INVITE to you which will allow you to post directly to the blog. If you would prefer, we can have it set up where you submit your stories as comments, and I post them one at a time. However you want to proceed.

I thought it would be nice to keep the stories in one place. This would make it easier for readers to read all submissions.

Of course, there is the matter of advertising your own blog. So there is no reason you can't post the story on your own blog. Also, Invitees will have links to their blogs on the sidebar.

With multiple authors, the pressure to produce should be minimized. In fact, the more authors we have the less often any single author needs to post. Just having this lack of pressure is great for some authors, who will then become prolific in their creativity. Others need a more structured approach, and they can certain impose that on themselves. Perhaps they write once a month. If we have more than one who likes this approach perhaps they could coordinate their schedules so that every week there is a new story.

I like the idea of posting on Saturdays. It reminds me of being young and watching the Saturday morning cartoons. However, there is no reason we can't post Sunday through Friday. What I do NOT want to do is stifle creativity. Too many "rules" and people lose interest. So I want to keep the "Parameter Box" as large as possible in order to accomodate as many authors as possible.

The new blog is called Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. I gave it the Adult Content warning because some writers like to get carried away. Perhaps I am being premature and should remove the warning until such time that we get a story containing explicit dialogue or behavior. Let me know.

Also, right now only Registered Users are allowed to comment. Do we wish to change that?

I very much would like any/all input you may have on this. I want to include everyone who would like to participate. So, if you would care to give it a go, even just once every few months, do let me know. Not every hero need be active every week. Some only take a mission once or twice a year. They're specialists. Maybe that's the kind of hero you wish to write about. Others are into everything, and there is a new story almost weekly. Whatever suits your fancy.

You will need a Hero Character to begin. Right now, I know of two (2) sites which will help in that regard: : The Hero Factory (comic book appearance); Hero Machine (let's you choose your name). If you know of another, or if you are artistic and can draw your own, by all means do so. You just need to have an image to present to the readership.

So, give me feedback. What are your thoughts and feelings on how to procede from here? I know Lisa and Fairy have expressed interest. If you like the idea of posting to the blog yourself let me know and I'll issue invites.

Let me know.

NOTE: Got a bit carried away with the color emphasis, didn't I?

So, I've Got This Idea

Well, I get to brag myself up a bit. No, I mean it! I won something. Came in second place in a writing contest, and it means cookies for my belly. (If I can get to the mail before Son and Spouse do.)


Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.


The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.


What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.


What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?


Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.


NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:

A Different Letter

Going to shift gears a bit. Instead of posting something personal, or about someone close to me, I'm going to post an old short story I wrote back in the late 1980s (or early 90s). I think it may have been written shortly after getting my fateful letter. Maybe there was inspiration there. I don't know. This story was taken from a picture provided. It was a writing assignment for a correspondence course. This verison is NOT the original. That may be lost. The copy this is from has a host of red marks on it, despite encouraging words.

The story is a break from my normal fantasy subjects. Basically, it is a story about how hard (and emotional) it is to be a teenager. Everything is either best or worst. It's love or hate. There is no room for anything else.

Letter of Conscience

by Bevie James

Trenton’s brow wrinkled as he studied the letter Chenea had just given him. All of this rambling about how he had treated her when she first came to school. What was she leading up to? Was she aware of the rude things he had been saying about her?

And then he froze. Surely she didn’t mean it. It was a joke. It wasn’t true.

Slowly, sheepishly, he turned his head to look at her.

Chenea met his gaze with her own. Her face was sad and hopeful. Almost pleading. No, it was true all right. Trenton had never felt like such a heel before.

“I do like you. A lot,” she said.

Trenton opened his mouth but found no words. He broke his gaze with her and tried to focus on the letter.

“I suppose you’re surprised,” she said. “I don’t blame you if you are. I know all the kids think I’m stuck up.”

He looked at her and she smiled painfully. “I’ve heard them talk. And some aren’t afraid to tell me to my face. But I really don’t think I’m better than them. I don’t think I’m better than anybody. I know I’m not.

“Anyway, it’s all right that they don’t like me. I think it’s best people don’t get too close to each other. Otherwise it hurts too bad when you leave. Don’t you think?”

Trenton bit his lip, and he could feel his eyes watering. He didn’t dare look at her. He took a deep breath and looked up into the sky, using the sun as an excuse to wipe his eyes.

“I guess that’s why I’m not all that excited about going back to live with my parents,” she said. “By summertime they’ll split up again and I’ll go live with another relative until they get back together. But it’s not their fault. That’s just the way people are.”

Trenton looked at her. He wished his aunt’s bus would get in so he’d have an excuse to leave.

“It’s like when I came here two months ago,” she said. “No one really wanted to be my friend. But I understood. They’ve got their own lives. I didn’t expect anyone to be nice to me. But you were.”

Trenton hung his head. Yes, at first he had tried to be nice. Seeing how the other kids ignored or picked on her, he had tried to be nice. And, to be honest, he was attracted to her.

But she never said anything besides a quiet “thank you.” And after a while he got tired of putting up with the jokes about Chenea and him. That’s when he stopped helping her and began badmouthing her.

“I remember you stood up to those boys,” she said. “That was very nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.

“That was the biggest thing you did. But you did other things. You showed me how to find my way around school. And when I lost my money in the pop machine you bought one for me. You were just nice. And you didn’t have to be. I guess that’s why I like you.”

Chenea’s father called from the bus where he stood talking with the driver. It was time for them to go.

Chenae looked at her father and then quickly back to Trenton.

“I know you can’t really like me,” she said. “You were being nice before because that’s how you are. But I wanted to tell you before I left. That’s why I wrote the letter. I was going to give it to you in school yesterday. But I was afraid. But seeing you here today I just had to.”

She started fumbling with her two oversized bags, no longer looking at him. How pretty she was, Trenton thought. And frail. Despite the things he had said about her, he was still attracted to her.

He reached down and took both of her bags and brought them to the bus where her father and the driver loaded them. Chenae turned and gave Trenton one last look.

“I – I,” she faltered. “I think I love you, Trenton.”

And then she ran onto the bus.

Trenton watched her make her way to a seat. It was a window seat on his side. But she wasn’t looking at him.

The driver started the bus and closed the door. On an impulse, Trenton ran over to below where Chenea sat and began knocking on the window. As she opened it, her father and other passengers turned to see what was happening.

“Chenea, you’re wrong about yourself,” Trenton said. “You’re very special and very pretty. And you’re better than most of the kids I know.”

She stared at him and the bus began to move. As it pulled away she stuck her head out the window to keep looking at him.

“Chenea! Chenea, I love you!” he shouted.

The last thing he saw of her was her smiling face, and he found himself cruelly hoping her parents would split up again. Then maybe, just maybe she would come back.

The Way Sports Are Meant to be Played

I'm supposed to write about books, movies, or music today, but since I hardly ever stick to the schedule anyway why should today be different?

I came across something which I would like to share. Perhaps you are already aware of it. It is a news story out of Milwaukee, WI. It is about something that took place during a high school basketball game. Here is the link to the story I read.

For those of you who can't read the link here is what happened.

The Dekalb, IL, boys basketball team went to Milwaukee, WI., to play a basketball game. The game was held up an hour by reason that the mother of one of the Milwaukee players had died that day of cervical cancer. The coach was going to cancel the game, but the boy said he wanted his teammates to play. So the game went on.

In the second quarter the boy who's mother had died came to cheer his teammates on. The game was delayed while many hugs and well-wishes were expressed. Then the coach offered to let the boy sit on the bench and watch. He asked if he could play. This created a problem. According to the rules, that would be a technical foul, and Dekalb would be granted two free throws. The coach didn't care. He put the boy in.

But Dekalb didn't want the free throws. Not for this. So their coach argued with the referees. The referees were in a bad spot. Making exception for rules is not in the rule book. The foul had to be assessed and the free throws taken.

This is what happened according to the news link:

Something else was on Dave Rohlman's (coach of Dekalb) mind when he asked for a volunteer to shoot two free throws awarded his team on a technical foul in the second quarter. His senior captain raised his hand, ready to go to the line as he had many times before.
Only this time it was different.

"You realize you're going to miss them, don't you?" Rohlman said.

Darius McNeal nodded his head. He understood what had to be done.

He went alone to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a couple of times, and looked at the rim. His first attempt went about two feet, bouncing a couple of times as it rolled toward the end line. The second barely left his hand.

It didn't take long for the Milwaukee players to figure out what was going on. They stood and turned toward the DeKalb bench and started applauding the gesture of sportsmanship. Soon, so did everybody in the stands.

This is the way I remember sports being played when I was young. You played to win. Always. You did your best. Except when making statements such as this. At times like this, your best was actually to fail.

For some, perhaps, the gesture was meaningless. If it is for you, then I expect you don't really understand what took place.

In our culture now, and in most cultures where sports heroes reign as gods (such as our own), winning is everything. It doesn't matter how it is done. Take steroids. Ignore the rules. Maim and hurt. Do anything you can to win. Nothing else matters any more in sports. If you are a sports god, you can break civil laws left and right - until your godly powers fade. Then you are tossed away.

This is what is taught at every level of sport in our country. But not everwhere.

What the Dekalb team was saying with their gesture of missed free throws was that this hateful attitude of sports was not part of their game. They understand. A teenage boy and his mother are more important than winning. And that brings tears to my eyes, just knowing that that spirit is still alive at least someplace in this country.

I understand neither team will finish the season with a winning record. And for the winning-conscious, that is all the proof they need that good sportsmanship is a waste of time. If it doesn't help you win, then why do it?

But these boys did win. All of them. On both teams. Coaches, too. And the referees, scorekeeper, and the people who sat in the bleachers watching. They all won.

"They may not remember our record 20 years from now, but they'll remember what happened in that gym that night." Dave Rohlman, head coach of the opposing DeKalb team on what his players will take away from this experience.

Group Critiqued

Haven't belonged to a writer's group since 1980 or 81, when Lori P. left town. I liked Lori. I remember how thrilled I was when she invited me to the group. There were about six of us who met at her apartment once a week after work. Spouse would be there and just read while we met. There was no specific genre involved. No two of us were writing the same kind of work. And the group never got so far to review anything I wrote. After I attended just two or three meetings Lori announced that she was leaving the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. I forget if it was she or her husband who got the great job out of state, but they were jumping at the chance and leaving. The group disbanded.

Since that time I have not belonged to a writers' group. Not until last July. But I didn't actually attend a meeting until January of this year. (How's that for a New Year's Resolution?) At the end of the meeting I was invited to submit something of my own, should I have anything. By chance I did have something new. Apprentice. It was a short story I wrote just before Christmas.

As mentioned in my previous post, last night I was at my second meeting. This was the meeting when I would receive a critique of Apprentice. Another member had submitted the first chapter of his new book and I also did my first critique (since 1980 or 81). This was my first critique of a fantasy story, though. (I also added a few comments on one or two Evil Editor submissions, but those hardly count, I think. Haven't done so in at least a month. Maybe two. No confidence.)

There were only four in attendance, which was both bad and good. Having lots of people means getting lots of ideas and lots of help. So not having lots of people was bad. But having lots of people means getting lots of ideas which have to be sorted out, which is hard. So not having lots of people was good.

We did the other work first, which meant I got to demonstrate my critiqueing skills early. I don't think I did poorly. Not too poorly anyway. A good number of my points were shared by the other two, which I think gave them credibility. (When three out of three people who read what you wrote have the same reaction, the reaction is probably valid.) Each of us had something to say which the other two did not, so the author is going to have to sort that out. (That's what I mean about sorting out lots of idea.) When a person stands alone with their point they may be right, but they may just as easily be wrong. The author has to decide. Sometimes, fixing a work for one person only ruins it for everyone else. It's a risk.

My work came last. I confess to hoping there would not be much correction. I had already submitted it to a single person who had provided several important help suggestions. So I was thinking the story was fairly solid.

I got more comments than I expected. Several about word choice. A couple of Point of View miscues I missed. Some discomfort with some of my word choices. A section where I let the dialogue slip and it became confusing to keep up with who was speaking. And a couple of continuity issues. (The most humorous being when I put the characters in a room without windows and fail to explain where all the light is coming from.)

Probably, the most severe comment came last. What was the point? While all three liked the story, and the one member went so far to say that the prose was the story's strongest point, there was no real conflict. Basically, it is a story of two young women who fall in love. Okay. Good. Why is that important? It's a valid comment.

I knew the story had this shortcoming from the first. It is just a story of two young women who fall in love. That's all it ever was intended to be. But there is no obvious "conflict" which has to be dealt with. The conflict which exists is subtle. It is within the Main Character, and how she grows from who she was when the story begins, to who she is when the story ends. How - and if - she changes is the quiet tension the story brings. Not exactly your usual fantasy fare. And perhaps it doesn't really work in any genre.

All three questioned whether this was a stand-alone story or part of a larger work. This supports the "what's the point" observation. It was suggested that I expand the story, which is not an offensive prospect to me. I very much like the characters. (We only actually meet three.) And already I can see the larger story in which this "sub-plot", as it were, could exist. Whether or not I actually do that, I don't know. It's tempting. And maybe that's what Swords of Fire needs: me to take a long sabbatical. For now, though, I shall incorporate the observations made by my three colleagues last night and leave the story be. I have no idea of how, or where, I would submit it anyway. Which is a pity. I think it's an endearing story which belongs where the public can read it. Whatever.

I didn't get lost coming home. [grin]

This time I looked for the signs right off. Sure enough. In order to go west, one must first go east. How intuitive! The same goes for going east. Except it is reversed. So, in January, my moving to the west side of the freeway because I wanted to drive west was complete stupidity. I should have moved to the east side. Then I could have driven west. Ah, me. When will I learn how modern transportation design works?

Son and Spouse were both asleep when I got home. Son would have been disappointed anyway. About the last thing he said to me before I left was, "If you do go to Duluth again, bring back a souvineer." Alas. No souvineers.

Happy Rabbit Hole Day!

The Tortoise and the Snail

The tortoise and the snail had a race to get the mail and it lasted all the day ‘cause neither knew the way.

The tortoise headed east where the rocks they were the least and he crawled across the sand like a turtle on the land.

The snail headed west where the moisture was the best and he slid right through the water like a playful little otter.

When chance there came a seal who was looking for a meal and because he was all wet he went and made a bet.

The one he made a bet with was a tabby known as Setwith who would sit upon the post and declare himself the most.

Now the sun was going down and the betters faces frowned for the racers on the ground were still not to be found

Then springing on a log was a little greenish frog who croaked right at the betters that they should go and learn their letters.

So the seal and the cat became quite indignant over that and they demanded now to know how the racers were so slow.

The frog he laughed in glee saying, “Matters not to me”, and the thing I laugh at most is there is no Sunday Post.

From The Tales of Whimsy, by Bevie James.
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The House of My Youth

Part 1 - The House



It’s gone now. Destroyed by fire back in ’71. But for a long time I called it home.



The house was built in the late 1800’s. I seem to remember someone saying 1888, but I don’t believe we really knew. We just knew it was old and much in need of repair when we moved into it in January of 1963. Still, considering the place we had just left, it was a mansion.



In 1962, my parents signed the papers to purchase a very nice western rambler, tucked into a nest of tall trees. It had a couple of barns and a pasture. It was a wonderful house. There was just one problem: my parents couldn’t afford it. At some point in the fall of the same year we were evicted. Desperate to find any place to live, my parents chose an old, decrepit farm house just outside of St. Francis, where I and my siblings went to school. That house had no indoor plumbing, and the outhouse was a long walk from the house. My brother was so embarrassed about living there he refused to ride the bus to and from school. He walked.



To my brother’s (and my sisters and my own) delight, we were only in the “poor house” three or four months. Then my parents found “The Old House”, as it was to become known to us. The people selling it had built a magnificent new house on the property next door, which had once belonged to The Old House. Only a few decades earlier there had been a huge farm here, own by the Edmunds. The corner which the house occupied was known as “Edmunds’ Corner”. That remained so until we left the area. Then it was “Delger’s Corner.” When the Edmunds passed away, the land was subdivided. The original house was allowed to keep just over five acres. The rest belonged to others.



I have a vague recollection of running through the house. It seemed huge after the “poor house”. The ceilings on the ground floor were twelve feet high. I don’t know why they did it like that, but they did. Even my dad and my brother (both over six feet tall) had to climb a ladder to touch them.



The original house was square, with doors at the north and the south. Just to the north was a small, two-car garage, with attached tool shed. Over the years someone connected the house to the garage, filling the space with a kitchen and bathroom. The original house did not have a bathroom. The garage had been nailed shut. We used it for storage. We called it the porch. The old “front” door on the north wall was locked. In all the years we lived there I do not believe this door was used much at all.



The new front door faced south. Entry to the house was made through the kitchen, either by the front door, or the porch. For years this was the only door access to the house. We locked the south door, off the living room. That door didn’t become used until the last few years. It was a good thing we unlocked it, too.



At some point during my years at The Old House, every room (except the kitchen and bath) became my bedroom – for at least a time. But mostly I slept upstairs. My brother, Mickey, got the northeast bedroom, “B2” (see diagram). My eldest sister, Lynahr, was given B4. Judayl, another sister, got B3. I shared B1 with my sisters, Gayanne and Helvie. That was the original placement. I don’t recall where my parents slept originally, but eventually they settled on the “P” room. We shifted rooms a lot. When the house finally met its end, I was in B4.



NOTE: This is more of a sketch than a floorplan, based on memory. It's hardly exact, but it demonstrates room relationships well enough. Note the HUGE living room. It was 15' x 28' with a 12' ceiling. We had some wonderful Christmas Trees in this room.
.
The dining room, “D”, eventually was home to a large coal burning stove/furnace. A square hole in the ceiling allowed heat to float up to “B2”, making that the preferred room upstairs in the winter. Winters were hard in The Old House. Snow actually came into the house from places where the walls had cracked. The worst of these was at the foot of the stairs going up, in the dining room. I remember that snakes used to like to come in that way, too. (No big deal. Just little garden snakes.) When things got especially cold, we would block all heat from going upstairs or into the living room (easy enough as most of it seeped outside through windows and cracks anyway).



There was a basement – of sorts. The original basement hadn’t been much more than a vegetable cellar under most of the dining room. When the bathroom and kitchen were added the basement was expanded to account for the plumbing. The well was nearly directly beneath the kitchen sink. I remember having to go down with a propane torch (when I was older) to thaw out frozen pipes. My mother put an electric heater next to the pump and had it running constantly to prevent the pump itself from freezing. We put aluminum foil behind it to reflect the heat back. It was probably the warmest place in the house, but going to the basement was not a fun expedition. It was dark, gloomy, musty, dirty, dank, smelly and a host of other unpleasant adjectives. Further, the walls didn’t go all the way up to the floor above. You could see beneath the living room and my parents’ bedroom. That was just so creepy.



Which brings me to the Old House's last shortcoming. We didn’t know about it when we moved in. The previous owners had been careful about keeping it a secret. But, considering the situation we were coming from, I don’t expect it would have mattered had we known. My dad never would have believed it anyhow, although I suspect he changed his mind before the end. Everybody (with the possible exception of my dad) who ever spent more than twenty-four hours in The Old House came to the same, irrevocable conclusion: The Old House was haunted.

Eric and Paulette #1

I just came across another of my ancient scripts. This one dates to the early 1980s and was one of my attempts at melodrama. The story is so silly I didn't bother editing it much. It's about 1,200 words. Enjoy.

(Note: Riverside Theatre was the name Stephen and I came up with for our imagined film company. I remember when one of Stephen's friends came by and heard me mention it. He was intrigued, and asked me what we were: a stage company? a troup? I proudly replied, "We're incorporated!" We weren't, but he believed me. What an idiot!)

RIVERSIDE THEATRE presents

The Furthering Adventures of Eric and Paulette
by
B.B.J.D.

Episode One: The Taffey Pull

Young Eric rode merrily down the trail. What a fine and bright morning this was. A perfect day for visiting Paulette. And such was his intent. Perhaps they could pull taffy together. Or something.

Paulette was Eric's girl. Well, kind of. They had made no formal declaration, but everyone assumed they were destined for marriage. Everyday Eric would ride the short distance to Paulette's ranch.

Her ranch was on the other side of the one hundred foot deep gorge. The gorge had been formed when the two were still small children. Their parents had chosen a half-way point between the two homesteads to arrange for Eric and Paulette's marriage. But a great earthquake rent the earth and plummeted them to their deaths. Paulette's Uncle Willroy and her Aunt Matilda raised her until a year ago. Now Paulette ran the ranch by herself. Eric had managed his ranch alone since his parent's deaths. That was when he was five.

Today he rode to Paulette's through the gorge. Once a week he would do this in remembrance of their parents. Alone, he had carved out a trail to the bottom on one side, and back up to the top on the other. He was just that kind of guy.

As he rode he felt a song spring up in his heart. He reached into the huge pack behind him and brought forth a beautiful guitar. Then, putting his feet up and leaning against the pack, he began singing a happy ballad about his precious Paulette.

- When she was four her parents died,
- and then for many days she cried.
- And the chasm made was deep and wide.
- And someday soon she'll be my bride. Oh, Paulette!

Meanwhile, out at Paulette's ranch, a dark and sinister visitor had come. It was the evil Bartholemew Sludge. He had come with designs of taking over Paulette's ranch. But Paulette remained firm.

"No, Mr. Sludge. I will not release my ranch to you."

"Then you are a fool!" raved Bart. (Bartholemew is such a pain to write.) "For I shall bring you to ruin and so get your ranch for a song. Then I'll be the richest man in the county!"

He broke into a fit of evil laughter. But still Paulette remained undaunted.

"There is no song that you could sing which would cause me to relinquish my ranch. This is my home. This is where I belong."

"Not for long, my little pretty," said Bart. "I always get what I want."

"But this time, Mr. Sludge, you shall get what you deserve!"

"Ha!" laughed Bart. "You make an empty threat. You are defenseless. I know, because I gave all of your hired hands money and sent them into town. We are alone now."

"Oh dear!" cried Paulette. "But I still have one more hope."

"You have no hope!"

"I have one hope!"

"No, you don't!"

"Yes, I do!"

"You lie! What is this hope of yours?"

Paulette straightened herself proudly and looked out through the window with a determined sense of peace. "My hero rides to meet me even now. He shall deliver me from your wicked hands."

"Never!" cried Bartholemew. (I guess Bartholemew does sound better - even if it is a nuisance to spell.) "I forbid it! I shall whisk you away and we shall be married. Then I will have your ranch."

"No. My beloved will shall save me."

"Ha! And who is this hero of yours? Where is he? I dare him to defy me!"

"His name is Eric Champion! And there is none like him anywhere. He's charming, witty, strong..."

At Eric's name, Bartholemew fell back as if struck.

"Curses!" he said in an aside to nobody. "Can this be the same Eric Champion who defeated me at Rustler's Creek when I tried to steal land from the Widow Miles? That meddlesome fool could ruin everything. I must change my plans. And the first thing I must do is rid myself of this star struck female."

He turned back to Paulette, who was still reciting.

"...honorable, wise, handsome..."

"Enough!" Bartholemew grabbed hold of her wrists. "That is more than any villain can bear. You're coming with me!"

"Where are we going?" Paulette asked.

"I am going to rid myself of you forever!"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to drop you into the gorge!"

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes!"

Bartholemew tossed the beautiful Paulette over his saddle and rode hard for the gorge. They reached its edge in minutes.

"Say goodbye to the world, my pretty," laughed Bartholemew. "With you dead, your ranch will go up for auction. And with my hired men to threaten other bidders I shall get it for a song. Farewell! It's a hundred feet to the bottom."

And with that, he flipped her off his horse and into the gorge. He watched gleefully as she fell.

Eric continued to move along at a slow pace, singing his ballad to Paulette. He was still unaware of Paulette's plight. Suddenly, his beloved Paulette landed across his lap.

"Paulette," he said. "How nice of you to drop in."

Up at the top of the gorge, Bartholemew Sludge was having a fit. (How do you do that, anyway?) He had watched Paulette's entire fall.

"Curses!" he said in an aside to the same person who wasn't there the last time. "That meddlesome fool has thwarted my plans again. Well, this is but a round. The match still goes on. I'm not defeated yet!"

And with a sinister laugh, he rode away to formulate another plan of misery for poor, beautiful Paulette.

"Oh, Eric! You are my hero!" said Paulette, leaning against Eric's chest.

"Be careful of the guitar, Paulette," Eric gently warned. "Yes, Paulette, I am your hero. However, as such, I feel that I must advise you against further demonstrations of this sort. What if you had missed? Life would not be worth living without you, Paulette. And besides, it isn't very good for old Thunder's back. He doesn't mind, of course. For Thunder is a hero's horse and will endure all tribulations for the cause of good. But this is a bit much."

"But, Eric," Paulette said in innocent tones. "This wasn't my idea, romantic though it be."

"Then who's was it? Or is it whose?"

"No matter, my heroic Eric. It was Bartholemew Sludge who threw me off the cliff."

"Bartholemew Sludge, eh?" said Eric looking up the cliff wall. "Just because I foiled his plans at Rustler's Creek, where he tried to steal land from the Widow Miles, he does this to my horse? What cruelty!"

"But no, dear Eric!" said Paulette. "He did not know you were here. He was trying to kill me so that he could take my ranch for a song."

"The fiend!" cried Eric in immense anger. "I've heard him sing. It's terrible! But I shall take you home now, Sweet Paulette. Then I shall make ready to save you from this dastardly villain. For I am afraid we haven't heard the last of him. Not only does he sing terribly, but he also sings loud."

"Very good, Dear Eric. And when we get to my place, you can rest, too. We could pull some taffy if you like. Or something."

Eric smiled brightly. "I would like that very much. Yes."

And so they rode up the cliff and into the sunrise, weary from the success of their ordeal. Yet each knew that Bartholemew Sludge was lurking about, plotting new evil. What would he do next?

DON'T MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE OF:

Eric and Paulette

(A Riverside Theatre production. All rights reserved.)

Recollections of My Dearest Friend

I was going through some of my old writing again this afternoon and I came across a tribute booklet I began writing for my good friend, Steven. There are 27 chapter titles, but only 12 have been written. They vary in length, but I believe they are all under 2,000 words.

In the introduction I remark how difficult it is to capture the essence of someone who is gone. But I had to try. He is the best friend I have ever had. Ever will have, I expect. God, I miss him. Damn it. I'm tearing up. Get on with the tale, Ducky. The blue is an edited excerpt from the Introduction. The green are song lyrics. The gold is one of the chapter tributes.

We met in 1970, at the start of 9th grade. It wasn't my idea to become friends. That was his idea. He always had great ideas. Some were screwier than others, but they were all great. Our friendship was both platonic and deep. We became important to each other. This was revealed in the way each could always count on the other to say the truth. Steve could say things to me I would not accept from anyone else. I could always see past the words. He reciprocated this honor to me.

In all the years we knew each other, we suffered four separations: once after graduation. My family had moved away. My father was dying of cancer and we could no longer keep our house. Steve found me. He began calling everyone who had the same last name as me until he found a relative of mine who told him where I was. Why didn't I call him? I was afraid. Despite our closeness, I feared the separation only proved to him that he didn't need me after all.

We were separated again only a couple of years later. We had had a fight. A silly thing, really. Most fights are. But in his anger, Steve had said things to me which made me believe our friendship was truly over. I went to the college he was attending to find him, but I had no luck. Then, when I got home, Steve called.

Our third separation lasted fifteen years. My life changed dramatically during those years. I had become marginally successful. I had a house, and I had a son. Again, it was Steve who found me. By this time he was married and had a daughter. We got together to relive old times and catch up on new. Shades of Mary Hopkins, "Those Were the Days".

Through the door there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh my friend we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same

Our reunion lasted only three short years. Then an accident (in a hospital, of all places) took him away. Now I have to wait until he comes for me again. I don't know when that will be.

Here is one of the chapters, slightly edited. It's not the first one I wrote, but they don't really have to be read in any particular order.

The “Johnson Stall”

Steve loved basketball. I think it was his favorite sport. He was good at pool, too. He liked most sports, and was reasonably athletic. He was small and fast. I suppose one doesn’t normally associate small with basketball, but one of the starting guards on our high school varsity team was only 5’ 4”. Compared to him, Steve was a giant.

I suppose it was Steve’s love of basketball that made his not making the starting squad all the more pitiful. Even twenty years later he ached over the politics which forced him to sit and watch while less able players took the court. But apart from the fact that the starting players were all part of the same clique, I think there was another reason why Steve warmed the bench: the Johnson Stall.

The “Johnson Stall” was an infamous strategy, invented by Steve during his Freshman year at high school. Unlike the equally infamous “Lay Down Strategy”, which Steve implemented during sandlot play, the “Johnson Stall” was implemented during a real game, for a real school, against a real opponent, in front of real spectators when it really counted. Like all mistakes made by members outside our school’s High Society, this one was never forgotten – or forgiven.

For myself, I didn’t see the problem. True, it went contrary to established protocol, but from my point of view it worked, so I fail to understand the hysteria. Let me explain.

In the years preceding Steve’s arrival, and even for a good many after his graduation, our school produced one losing team after another. It was a small farming community, and the only thing the school ever won at was wrestling. Big, strong farm boys can be tough. Well, Steve wasn’t a big, strong farm boy. He came from the suburbs outside Minneapolis. Anyway, any victory our school got in any sport outside wrestling was considered a major accomplishment.

Well, our Freshman team, including Steve, had finally come up against a team even more inept than themselves. Between our over-short guards hogging the ball and trying to drive the lane against an entire team who knew they couldn’t pass urine, much less the ball, and supporting players who actually managed to get the ball sometimes and score, we had taken an eight point lead with just under two minutes to play. To the coach, it didn’t look like we could lose. That meant it was time to put in “the scrubs”, later known as the “Bomber Squad”. That meant Steve.

The coach was all excited because a win would put us close to .500 for the season. Not bad, for our school. I am sure he had dreams of things finally turning around. I doubt it entered his head that the only reason we were winning was because the other team was so incompetent.

The “scrubs” were excited, too. Scrubs never got to play until a game was so out of hand the outcome was certain. That usually mean we were behind by at least ten or twenty points. This time they would be playing with an eight point lead. It was the chance they had been waiting for. They were all thrilled – until the coach announced the strategy: “Stall!”

Now back in the 1970s our school implemented the stall by having the forwards and guards positioned themselves in a large square with the center in the middle. (Like the five dots on a die.) This would have the effect of “spreading out” the defense and causing them to run about and get tired while the offense just passed the ball here and there, wasting time and thus winning the game because the other team never got the ball. There was no 24-second clock in the 1970s. Neither were there 3-point baskets. Implemented correctly, a stall could demoralize an opponent. (I heard that Bill Musselman’s Minnesota Gophers once stalled for more than eight minutes.)

Well, we had the ball. Zinns passed to Steve, who passed back to Zinns. This went on for a few seconds and then, suddenly, Steve drove the lane and scored. There were some cheers, but someone was yelling. The other team scored on a fast break. No one had expected Steve to do what he did, and so no one got back on defense.

Steve and Zinns went back and brought the ball up court again under a full court press. The press failed to stop them. Once they crossed mid-court Steve saw their defense was out of position. So, he drove the lane again and got another easy lay-up. More cheers. Louder screaming. This time there was no doubt about it. It was Coach Jacobson yelling at Steve.

Another fast break for the other team resulted in another score for the other side. Steve and Zinns went back for the ball. They beat the press again, and again Steve saw an undefended basket. He drove the lane and got a third easy layup. And all of this happened within twenty or thirty seconds. More cheers. Hysterical screaming. Another fast break for the other team.

I looked to the bench and saw the starting guards head to the scorer’s table. My heart sank. I looked at Steve, hurrying back with Zinns to get the ball after another fast break kept the margin at eight. He didn’t know he was about to be taken out of the game.

It was Steve’s last hurrah as a Freshman basketball player. Coach Jacobson never got over the “Johnson Stall”, as it came to be known, and designated Steve permanently to the “scrubs”. Steve never really understood why he was taken out of the game. For that matter, neither do I. What he did was no worse than the starting guards refusing to include the forwards and center in the passing game.

As it turned out, hard as it was on Steve’s self-esteem, I think it actually worked out well for him in the end. The coach eventually chose two or three scrubs to keep on hand to rest his starters. The rest were sent off to play the other school’s scrub players in another gymnasium. No referees. No coaches. Just basketball. They called themselves the “Bomber Squad”. Steve was in his element. Since he was actually good enough to be a starting guard for the primary team, he outclassed all other players in those bomber games. That is not to say he never mucked up, or missed a shot or allowed his player to score. But he was free to do as he wished. And since he was no ball hog, the other “Bombers” benefited from his presence because he would draw so much attention to himself that he could pass off and let someone else score. It was street basketball, and that was what Steve excelled at. The “First Liners” piled up a 3-11 won/lost record The “Bombers” had a winning season. They may have won five of eight. I don’t recall for certain. Steve usually scored in double digits.

So, in the bomber world, the “Johnson Stall” was implemented over and over again with great success. I still think Steve had the right idea. Isn’t that the whole idea behind the game of basketball – scoring? Isn’t that what the stall is about? The team in the lead forces the other team’s defense to spread out and eventually leave the basket unguarded. Once done, the offense scores. That is what Steve did. You can’t lose if you score. But I would gladly have given up the win to have Steve on the court. He was fun to watch if nothing else. And that is what the game is all about. Fun. Steve knew that instinctively.

The Gamesman

I have been rumaging through some of my old stuff and came across my Case Histories of Detective LaManch. It was an 8,000-word satiracal approach to crime stories I wrote back some time in the 1980s. The names are all based on goats and milking goats, to amuse my sister-in-law, who raises goats for that purpose. The idea was that I would write an entire series of short stories for Detective LaManch, but I ran out of juice after one entry and put it away. So, here is the sole entry, edited just the once, in its entirety.

CASE HISTORIES OF DETECTIVE LaMANCH

The Gamesman

By BBJD

Prologue

He clutched the gun and collected his breath. Two traps had been beaten, but eight remained. Eight ways to die. A cackling laugh brought him up short.

"Frightened?" the voice mocked. " I'm disappointed, Mr. Brookshaw. Surely you can handle a little pressure?"

He threw his back against the wall. "You're mad!" he cried.

"Am I indeed, Mr. Brookshaw? That isn't going to help you through the maze."

"I'm done with this!" he screamed. "Do you hear? I won't play your silly game any longer. I'm going to wait until help comes."

"Help?" the voice was angry. "There will be no help, Mr. Brookshaw. That’s against the rules. The game has rules, Mr. Brookshaw. Rule number one: You can't quit once you've started. If you won't search for my devices, then my devices will search for you."

He heard noises, like doors opening and closing and wheels carrying a load. Panicked, he ran. The noises were getting closer. Finally, he could stand it no more. Collapsing in a corner, he tried to shield his ears.

"You're mad! You're mad!"

He began running. Rounding a corner, he heard the voice for the last time.

"Now the game is over, Mr. Brookshaw. You lose."

Chapter One

The incessant ringing of my door buzzer interrupted my sleep. Opening my eyes I realized it was still dark. Not a pleasant way to begin a day.

I heard Karyeata get out of bed, open the closet door and rustle some hangers. The sound of feet shuffling and a door opening and closing assured me she had the situation in hand. However, I retained an attentive ear.

Blast that buzzer! So help me, I would shoot it. When I got up.

"Ah, Detective!" Karyeata's faint voice was pleasant.

"Where is he?"

"In bed."

"Get him. And hurry!"

The bedroom door opened. allowing light from the next room to pour in like hungry relatives.

"Cappy, it's Detective Hopper."

"Wonderful," I groaned. "Tell him I'll be right there. Oh, and Karye, could you fix tea, please?"

"Sure thing, Spike," she said with a teasing smile. I chuckled, fully aware of the reason behind my new monogram.

It did not take long to dress. I entered the main room and found Detective Hopper pacing. Seeing me, he rushed to shake my hand.

"Cappy! Thank God you're here!" his urgency slapped me like a cold shower.

"Claude."

"Cappy, I really need your help on this one."

Claude was moving right into his pitch. Whatever it was, it had had him at full steam.

"Excuse me." I didn't want to get into any details until I was fully awake. Besides, there was something I needed to do. I opened the flat drawer in the bureau and retrieved my forty-five. Then, as Claude watched in wonder, I fulfilled my vow to the buzzer. I replaced the gun to its repose and sat down on my lounge to await tea. Claude dropped onto the sofa across from me.

"One of these days that eccentric behavior is going to cause you more trouble than even you can survive," he said.

Karyeata peeked into the room. "What's the shooting about?"

"Cappy just shot the hell out of your door buzzer."

"Oh. That is annoying. I wonder why they even bothered to put one in a penthouse suite?" She disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Ask Cappy. His money built the thing. And right on top of his summer home, I might add."

I braced myself for the tirade Claude was about to launch. It wasn't so much that he was jealous of my inheritance as it was his practical mind was irked by what he considered useless extravagance. I simply saw it as a means of keeping people employed.

"Cappy, why in the hell did you build a high-rise penthouse on top of your summer home?"

"So we could get away from it all."

"Get away from it all? My God, man! You haven't gone anywhere. Your entire ranch is visible from the picture window."

"No sense in going too far. Some people might think we were being wasteful."

Claude shook his head. It was cruel to rile him, but it was also fun. And I needed something to help me wake up. Fortunately, Karyeata entered with the tea.

"Detective Hopper, would you care to join Spike and me in some morning tea?"

Claude looked up with relief. "Yes, Miss Milkworth. That would be nice. I need something to relax my nerves." He took a sip and then looked at Karyeata again. "Why are you calling him Spike?"

"Because we were up until two this morning playing volleyball," I said as Karyeata handed me my tea. "Honey, you're about to spill."

"I'll go put some clothes on."

"Good idea."

"Volleyball? You two are different."

He watched her go into the bedroom and disappear to the left.

"Say, isn't that your bedroom?"

"I have slept in there on occasion."

"But she just went in there to dress."

"That's where her clothes are."

"You mean she's sleeping in there with you?"

"No, she's dressing in there. I am sitting here drinking tea and wondering when you're going to get to the point."

"You know what I mean. She slept in there with you, didn't she?"

"You might say that."

"Indeed?" he gave a loud chuckle and then looked at me more seriously. "But I don't get it. You two have always slept in different rooms."

"We're enlightened."

"Indeed? Now I think I know why you built this high-rise," he looked back into the bedroom and suddenly jumped to his feet. "Wait a minute! Those are twin beds!"

"I know. But they’re pushed together."

"Big deal," he said, planting himself in front of me as if to force the third degree. "There's a four foot wall of plywood between them."

I shrugged. "I guess we're not that enlightened."

"Ha!" Claude sat back down on the sofa. "She just doesn't trust you, right?"

"No more than I her."

"C'mon. What's the board really for?"

"We used it to play volleyball," said Karyeata, coming in from the kitchen.

"What? Say, how did you get to the kitchen? I saw you go into the bedroom."

"The dressing room adjoins both," said Karyeata, sitting lightly on my lap. Claude sat and shook his head.

"Why don't you two get married? Stop all this playing around?"

"We like to play," Karyeata said with her 'sweet and innocent' voice. She shifted gears. "So, Detective Hopper, why are you here?"

"I need your help on a case."

"My help?"

"Well, you too. But mainly Cappy."

"Sorry," I said. "I told you yesterday we were taking a vacation.

"But you can't!" Claude said.

"Why not?" asked Karyeata.

"In the first place, because he doesn't have any."

"Well, what about the other places?"

"Damn it, Cappy! Must you always let her do this?"

"Do what?" Karyeata feigned offense.

"This, this...," he waved his hands like he was flinging mud. "This utter nonsense! Volleyball! Humph! That bedroom bit was a set-up, wasn't it? Staged for my irritation."

"Kind of," she said. "I left the door open so you would notice. However, we did play volleyball. I won the first five games."

"I won the rest."

"Only because I let you spike."

"Enough of this!" said Claude. "I came here because I need help. I don't want to leave in worse shape. Will you help me?"

"We've already left on vacation," I said.

"Left? You haven't gone anywhere, damn it! You're right where I left you yesterday."

"Not true," corrected Karyeata.

"What do you mean, 'not true'?"

"She means..."

"I know what she means, damn it! What I want to know is, what the hell does she mean?"

I shrugged and looked at Karyeata. She turned to Claude and spoke in contrastingly soft tones.

"Yesterday we were at our summer home," she said.

"This is your summer home," Claude's voice was thick.

"Well, actually no," I said. "This is our penthouse suite. I had it built so we would have someplace to go on vacation. This is our first day."

"Oh for crying out loud. All I ever get from you two is ridiculous crap."

"What kind of..."

"See? There she goes again! I want to know if are you going to help me?"

"Maybe we should at least hear him out," Karyeata whispered in my ear, though none too softly.

"It might calm him down."

"Good idea," I whispered back. "We don't want him having a stroke. That isn't covered in the maid's contract."

"And you know how union people are?"

Claude looked surprised. "The maid belongs to a union?"

"A small one. But she is the majority leader," I said.

"How small?" asked Claude.

"She's the only one in it," I said.

"No wonder she continues to be reelected," said Karyeata.

Claude groaned and threw up his hands.

"Okay, Detective Hopper, we'll listen to what you have to say," said Karyeata.

"Thank you. Now what's happened is a man's been murdered."

"I figured as much," I said.

"Don't start that again, Cappy. Please."

I held up my hands as a sign of apology. "Please continue."

"Well the man's name is, or was, Casper Brookshaw. He was the executive vice-president in charge of new products at Smithereens Toy Company. You've heard of them? He was found dead three days ago propped up on a horse on the merry-go-round at Fun Rides Amusement Park. He had been shot fifty-seven times with a machine gun."

“I don’t think I’d like that ride,” said Karyeata.

“It would be thrilling,” I said. Then I turned to Claude. "Three days? Why so long to decide you need my help?"

"Because the case was turned over to me only four hours ago. I’ve had even less sleep than you."

"Why was it turned over to you?" I asked. "Your department only deals with special cases. What makes this case special?"

"The note attached to the body."

"Let me see the note."

Claude handed me the note. I held it so Karyeata could read it with me.

Let it be known that this shall be the fate of the true loser who gets in my way.

I shall be on top of the world.

Claude gave us plenty of time to ponder over the note before speaking again. I handed it to Karyeata for a more detailed analysis while I turned my attention back to him.

"Strange, isn't it?" he said, giving me a grim smile. He knew he had my interest.

"Kind of makes one think there are future victims," I said.

"Exactly. Only who are those people? The note doesn't give us much on that. Homicide has no leads. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. Interviews with family and friends have turned up nothing."

"What about his enemies?"

"Oh, damn it, Cappy! I thought you were serious about this. He was a business man. Who in the hell's got the time or manpower to interview a business man's enemies? Wake up!"

"I am awake, Claude."

"I should hope so," said Karyeata. "I put this on for that very purpose."

"And you were quite successful, my dear."

"Of course I was."

"But you misunderstand me, Claude. I was not referring to his enemies in general."

Claude's head nodded. "You mean organized crime? Yes, that would make sense. He was a business man. And he was killed with a machine gun."

"It would make sense except for the note," I said.

"What?"

"Well I hardly think organized crime would be so foolish to leave a note."

"Then who were you referring to?" asked Claude.

"Who would have the motive and means to commit such a murder and still be stupid enough to leave a note?" I asked. Then I looked at Karyeata.

"A politician," she said.

"A politician!"

"Yes, Claude," I said. "Not organized crime, but legalized crime."

"You mean to tell me that you think a politician is behind this? That's ridiculous! What would the motive be?"

"You haven't got a motive for anyone yet," I pointed out. "But a politician needs the least motive of anybody. Nothing they do ever makes sense."

"Hmm," Claude scratched his chin in deep thought. "So you are suggesting we find out who Brookshaw's political friends were and ask them some questions?"

"No, I'm suggesting you do that."

"And what will you be doing?"

"I'll be involved. Don't worry."

"Excellent!" Claude rose to his feet. Karyeata slid off my lap and we walked Claude to the door.

"You will want to come to my office for a full rundown of course?"

"Of course," I said and Claude shook my hand.

"I knew you wouldn't let me down," he said.

"Even if it meant giving up our vacation?" asked Karyeata.

"I'll make it up to you after the case is solved."

"We'll take care of that," I said. "You take care of the politicians."

"Don't worry about me."

"I never do."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

As he was just about to leave, he looked around. "How much did it cost you to build this anyway?"

"I have no idea. I leave those things up to my brother."

"Malcolm?" he frowned. "That boy's a shady character if I ever saw one. He used to be a lawyer, too. Before pressure from the OCLC caused him to resign."

"His resignation was unrelated," I said. "And his name is Milkum."

"Besides," added Karyeata. "You can't hold a grudge forever."

"I can do as I will. And I deliberately called him Malcolm."

This last was for my benefit. Claude always suspected my brother was, in fact, Chief Attorney Malcolm Drei - the Lawyer in the Mask.

Drei never lost a case, though sometimes his clients faced a tremendous amount of discriminating evidence. Also, he was well connected into the political scene. As far as anyone knew no one had ever seen his face. And since he always wore gloves, it seemed unlikely he would ever be identified.

But when the Organization to Control Legalized Crime (OCLC) received an anonymous tip regarding the legal profession the lid blew off and lawyers everywhere were scrambling for their lives. Many committed suicide, and many more simply turned state's evidence. When it was all over there were only a few lawyers and judges left. Yet they were honest. The 'Honest Few' became their slogan.

Malcolm Drei disappeared. He was never brought before the OCLC as no one knew who he was. That was when Milkum resigned, though charges were never brought against him. Claude had been assigned the Drei case and had attempted to enlist my help in finding the elusive public servant. No doubt my refusal was his reason for believing Milkum and Drei were one and the same. It was the only case of his I had ever refused. It was still open. Claude knew I had run my own investigation.

"I never said Malcolm Drei was my brother," I said.

"You never said he wasn't, either," Claude studied my face. "You'll come to my office?"

"We'll be there."

He turned to Karyeata. "Thanks for the tea. You know, you had better keep an eye on him.

There's a fine line between legal and legal-crime."

"I know. It's called a hyphen," she said.

I watched him walk down the short hall and get into the elevator. I closed the door and turned around. Karyeata was at the telephone.

"Do you really think a politician is behind this?" she asked.

"I'm convinced not."

"They why send Claude after them?"

"It'll keep him out of our way while we make our investigation

"Very wise."

"I thought so. Who are you calling?"

"We're going on the case, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm calling the front desk and letting them know we're checking out."

"Good thinking."

The Second Crime

He turned the corner only to be confronted by three doors. All were tightly closed. When and how would this end?

"Confused, Mr. Zeloet?"

"What's going on? You promised me the door out would be here."

"And so it is, Mr. Zeloet. It is before you."

He looked at the three doors. "Which one is it?"

"Ah! Now you have come to the most interesting part of the game. They all lead out, Mr. Zeloet."

"All of them? What's the catch?"

"The catch, Mr. Zeloet?"

"Damn it, I know you do not intend to just let me walk away. What's behind the doors?"

"You are the eager one, Mr. Zeloet. I like that. I like that very much."

"I don't give a damn what you like."

"Temper, Mr. Zeloet. Temper. Each of the doors is the way out. However - and this is the fun part, Mr. Zeloet - only one is safe."

"And the others?"

"Quite ingenious, if I may be so bold. One fills with water after the door closes, and the other wraps a rope tightly about your neck."

"But you said they all lead out!"

"They do, Mr. Zeloet! In the one with ropes, you will be lifted to the outside. In the other, you will be sent through a pipe."

"You insane bastard!"

"Perhaps so, Mr. Zeloet. But you have a choice to make."

"No! This is insane! I'm going to work my way back through the maze."

He turned, but heavy iron plates fell from above and blocked his way.

"That is against the rules, Mr. Zeloet. You can only go forward. It's too late to back out, so why not be a good sport? If you do nothing you'll starve. At least you have a chance if you try. Don't you feel lucky?"

"You'll keep your word?"

"I've kept my word so far, haven't I? It wouldn't be much of a contest if you had no chance to win."

He didn't know if the voice was telling him the truth or not. It didn't matter. He had three chances to die, and one to live.

Forcing himself to remain calm he pushed the button for the middle door. It slid open and he looked inside. There was nothing to suggest danger. He stepped inside. Nothing happened.

"Well done, Mr. Zeloet! All that remains is for you to push the floor button and you're on your way."

Relieved, he pushed the button. Immediately the door closed and he felt something close about his neck and jerk him into the air. As he struggled and tried to gasp for new air he could hear the voice fading outside his consciousness.

"It is just as well, Mr. Zeloet. I would have requested a rematch anyway."

Chapter Two

While at Claude's office, word came that another murder victim had been found with a note attached. His name was Alvin Zeloet, and he was also a business man who worked at a toy manufacturing plant. Now we had a definite lead. Karyeata and I went straightway to Zeloet's office to question his office staff. We were met by his secretary, a Miss Sabra Lenette.

Miss Lenette was one of those women who always seemed to come up short when deciding which skirt to wear and how many buttons to fastened on her blouse. Her height was enhanced by five-inch heels. Her blouse was as tight as a wino on a Friday night. I had seen the type before. So had Karyeata.

"He was such a good man, Mr. LaManch," she said, wiping her eyes with just the right touch of sincerity.

"I'm sure he was."

"I suppose they'll want to promote me to his position now. But a man like that. He was so good at what he did. But I suppose you know all about him?"

"Just that he's dead," mumbled Karyeata.

"How do I replace someone like him in my life? Can you possibly know how I feel?" she asked.

"I've a pretty good idea. I believe I know the kind of man you're after," I said.

"I think I do, too," said Karyeata.

Miss Lenette gave Karyeata an annoyed glance. "Who's she? Your sister or something?"

"Or something. Now, Miss Lenette. Would you like to do me a favor?"

"I'm sure she would," said Karyeata.

"What kind of favor?"

"I need to get inside Mr. Zeloet's office."

Her accommodating behavior turned suddenly cold. I debated whether or not to send for overcoats to combat the chill.

"You cops or something?"

"Or something," said Karyeata.

"Well no one gets in there unless they got some kind of warrant. So, Mr. LaManch, unless you're the kind of guy who likes to beat up women, I'd say you were stuck. Or do you like to beat up women?"

I wasn't sure if that was a dare, a threat, or an invitation. Fortunately, I had Karyeata.

"We don't have time for that now, Honey, so why don't you stow it?"

"Besides, I never hit women when I have Karyeata to do it for me," I said.

Karyeata took an aggressive stance. "So, unless you want me to put out your balloons, I suggest you open the door."

Sabra eyed Karyeata, apparently to sizing up her capacity to follow up on the threat. Karyeata was probably the most feminine woman I knew. However, she was well able to do what she promised. I could attest to that. But only under extreme duress.

"All right," Sabra wisely decided to give in. "You've got five minutes."

She opened the door and we went inside. I stood and surveyed everything while Karyeata began turning everything inside out.

"Does she have to do that?"

"First order of business," I said. "Don't you ever watch detective movies?"

"Well just what is it that -"

A cry of triumph from Karyeata sent us to the closet where she was foraging. I reached in and took the heavy, black suit of fur from her arm. It was a single piece which was meant to cover not only the torso, but the arms, legs, hands and feet, too. Putting it on was done by opening the Velcro in the back.

"That's - that's Mr. Zeloet's workout suit," said Sabra. "He exercised in his office to lose weight."

"Yes. I'm sure the matted fur effect does wonders for the hemoglobin," I said.

"One could go ape over an exercise routine like this," said Karyeata, coming out with a second, smaller suit. "This one must have been for when he lost weight."

"What are you looking for?" Sabra demanded.

"Records of inventors turned down by Mr. Zeloet," said Karyeata, stepping into the smaller suit.

"Those chatter heads! What can they have to do with anything? Them and their harebrained ideas!"

"Nothing. Perhaps everything," I said, testing the suit I had for a fit. Karyeata was correct. There was definitely something primal about these suits.

"They’re over there! Just what in the hell do you think you two are doing?"

"We're investigating a murder," I said.

"But the suits!"

"Yes. They fit very nicely, thank you," said Karyeata. "You know, Cappy, I think I've seen something like you in a zoo."

"It's quite possible," I said. "I only wish I could say the same about you."

I opened the files and removed about forty pounds of paper which detailed the efforts of toy and game inventions which would never see the inside of a department store. Creativity without reward. How unfortunate.

"There must be hundreds of them," said Karyeata.

"Maybe thousands."

"And our clue is in there somewhere?"

"Undoubtedly."

"It'll take days to find it."

"Weeks."

"Months maybe?"

"An incredibly big job."

"Claude?"

"It's the only way," I said. "I'll have him gather up Casper Brookshaw's files for comparison."

"That's an awful amount of work."

"It'll keep him out of our way."

"Good thinking."

"I know."

We began to gather up the files, but Miss Lenette was uncooperative.

"Just where do you think you are taking those files?"

"Police business," I said.

"I thought you said you weren't cops?"

"We aren't," said Karyeata. "We're just bringing them the work."

"Well is there anything else you need?"

"Yes," I said. "Where do you keep the heads for these things?"

"After all," added Karyeata. "An up and coming executive shouldn't begin a new position with skeletons in her closet."

“Or ape suits,” I added.

She stared at us a few seconds. It was clear she had already been wondering how to dispose of the simian articles.

"Do you want them now, or shall I have them delivered?"

I exchanged glances with Karyeata.

"Delivered will be fine," I said.

The Third Crime

He groped along in the dark, feeling his way with his hands. Fear urged him forward even as he felt its paralyzing grip.

"Hurry up, Mr. Orntanu," said the voice, that hideous voice which had been tormenting him since this ordeal began. "You have only so much time to find the next weapon before your adversary."

He wanted to answer. He wanted to cry out and accuse this voice of insanity. But he could only weep.

"Tears, Mr. Orntanu? How very unprofessional. And after all I've done to help you. Very well, I shall offer you further aid. But you really aren't much fun at all. And working for a toy company, too. Ah, well! Life is full of its inconsistencies. But do try to do things on your own. You are only a short way from it. Take the next right and go straight. Then you'll be there."

He stumbled forward as the voice urged him to hurry. He made the turn and began to run. Then, when he was close enough to activate the switch, the goal was lit up in a flurry of lights. A long, bright sword stood on a pedestal with its point upward. He hurried forward to grab it, but as he got close it fell toward him and he was impaled.

"I do wish you wouldn't cry, Mr. Orntanu. Nobody likes a poor loser."

Chapter Three

Karyeata and I entered Claude's office. We had received a message telling us he had important new evidence. Claude was pacing. I seated myself behind his desk and Karyeata sat on my lap. He tossed a folder in front of us.

"Willard Slurps," he said.

Karyeata opened the folder. "So do you. What's that got to do with this?"

"Willard Slurps is the name of our murderer!"

"I wasn't aware we had been murdered," I said, absently scanning the information in Karyeata's hands.

Karyeata smiled. "Hmm. Must have died and went to..."

"Damn it, you two! This is a murder case. Can't you take it seriously for even a moment?"

"I thought we had," I said. "Didn't you?"

"Yes,” said Karyeata. “I think it was four days ago."

"Some day you two are going to drive me to insanity."

"How far away is that?" asked Karyeata.

"Not far!"

"Good. We can take the Rolls then,” she said.

I looked at her in surprise. "I thought you didn't like rolls?"

"Only the jelly kind."

"Can we please get down to the business at hand?" said Claude.

"Which is?" I asked.

"Willard Slurps! I believe he is the murderer of three executives from toy companies."

"Of course he is," I said.

"Then can we please go over this?"

"We already have," said Karyeata, tossing the folder back to Claude and leaning back against me.

"But you hardly looked at it!"

"We've seen enough," I said, giving the now sleepy Karyeata a nudge. She sat up and recited the folder.

"Willard Slurps. Born to wealthy parents twenty-five years ago. Was last survivor when entire family was sent to prison or committed suicide. Inherited the family estate and several million dollars. Disappeared for five years. Recently began approaching toy companies with new game ideas: all of which have been rejected. Seems his idea of fun doesn't fit with typical wholesome family entertainment. Executives from approached toy companies have now been found dead."

"Humph! Well did you also happen to notice where his father worked?"

"I did," I said.

"He worked for Malcolm Drei!"

"So?"

"So maybe he's a link to him."

Karyeata's sat up. "The missing link?"

I sighed. "You have high hopes, Claude, but I'm on this case to find a murderer. What you do after is your affair."

"And what we do after is ours," said Karyeata.

"Well anyway, we're pretty certain who our - the murderer is," said Claude. "All we have to do now is find out where he's hiding."

"That's the easy part," I said.

"Easy? Hell, he could be anywhere."

"But he isn't," said Karyeata.

"Then where is he?" Claude looked at the wall with the map of the city. "With his money, he could have built a place where we'll never find him."

"Well, consider this, Claude," I said. "If you had several million dollars and wished to get away, where would you go."

"And you are an eccentric," Karyeata gave my cheek a tweak.

Claude turned around and stood in shock. "You mean?"

"Exactly," I said. “He never left home.”

"But we searched his mansion!"

"So you missed a spot? We'll never tell. Will we, Karye?"

Claude sat down across the desk from us. "Well, if he is there, I have only one thing to say: I'm glad you're on this case. Only a lunatic like you can catch a lunatic like him."

"We'll take that as a compliment," said Karyeata.

" It wasn't meant as one."

"Did you notice some of his game ideas?" asked Karyeata.

"Some are quite interesting," I said.

"Interesting?” said Claude. “They've clearly been conceived by a lunatic. Who would buy them?"

"One never knows," said Karyeata.

"Even so," I said, letting Karyeata slip off my lap and get to her feet. "I think we should go over to Willard's. Say, when are you going to get some good cigars, Claude?"

"When you give up smoking."

We started for the door, but Claude wasn't finished.

"Oh, by the way. A Miss Sabra Lenette called to ask when we planned to return the records."

"She gave you records?" asked Karyeata. She looked at me. “Bolero?”

I shook my head. “Johnny Cash.”

"She also said she does not want to be disturbed any further."

"I don't think that's possible," I said.

"What do you mean?" asked Claude.

"You haven't met her?" asked Karyeata. Claude shook his head. "Shame. A girl like that."

"Yes,” I said. “I think you should whip over there sometime."

"She'd love that."

"No doubt. Yes, she'd be the perfect girl for you to get tied up with."

"She'd love that, too."

"Yeah, yeah," said Claude. "More of your silly jokes. I hope you two realize that when I opt for early retirement before I'm forty I'll have both of you to thank."

"Glad to be of help," I said, and ushered Karyeata out the door.

"Anything for a friend!" she called back.

Claude made one of his patented sounds of disgust and slammed the door behind us. Karyeata giggled.

"Do you think he'll bite?" I asked.

"She'd love that, too."

Chapter Four

Finding Willard Slurp's mansion was no problem, and finding Willard Slurps was of no concern. We knew he was there and so we knew we would find him. But, with the case so close to resolving, we were both eager to be done with it. And we didn't know when we would find him.

"It would have been nice had he thought to build a high-rise," said Karyeata.

"Yes, but he has obviously gone the other way. So the question is, 'Where is the access?'"

"You know we have to split up to find it?" she said.

I could not help my look of concern. It did not elude Karyeata's eye and she smiled.

"You look so cute when you're worried about me," she said.

"So do you. I'd like to keep it that way."

"But it needs to be done. Don't you ever watch detective shows?"

"Quite right. Pardon my falling out of character. You go that way. I'll go this way."

"And I'll get to the bottom before you."

"I won't be far behind."

“You never are.”

"Then let's be off."

"Some accuse us of that already."

"They're right."

I watched Karyeata walk away and before walking in the opposite direction. I knew finding the entrance would be easy now. It's always that way when partners split up. Together, we could search for years and never find the passage. But separate? We'd have all we could do not to find the way. I don't know why this is so. It just is.

It took me less than ten minutes find Willard's secret door. Karyeata would already be inside. That was another quirk about male/female partnerships. No matter how fast the male gets to the door, the female would already be inside.

I chuckled at the inability of the police to find the entrance. But again, that was just the way these types of cases went. The police were never able to find anything. It had nothing to do with how bright they were. If this case were normal, the police would have nabbed their culprit in about four hours. But then they wouldn’t have needed me. Police incompetence was just fact about the unusual murder case. Of course I was expected.

"Welcome!" the voice hailed me as dim lights came on and a steel door closed behind me. "You have come to play?"

"Perhaps. What's the game?"

"First things first. I must have your name."

"It's yours."

"You misunderstand. Tell me your name."

"Think of me as 'The Player.'"

"Ah!" the voice chuckled. "How refreshing to find an eager contestant. But I make it a rule never to play with strangers."

"A wise precaution. LaManch."

"LaManch? Sounds French. What does it mean?"

"It's my name."

"Oh, of course! First or last?"

"Well, since I'm the only one here, I guess I'm first. But if no one else shows up, I guess I'm last."

"No," the voice sounded wearied. "LaManch. Is it your first or last name?"

"It's the only name I've ever had."

"Is there any more to it?"

"Capra."

"What? Oh. Very well. Now, I suppose I should introduce myself."

"You're the Gamesman," I said.

"What?"

"I read your file. Willard Slurps, Gamesman extraordinaire."

"Gamesman." He was speaking to himself now. "I like that."

"Figured you would. Now, what game are you proposing?"

"I like your style, Mr. LaManch."

"Let's drop the formality. Call me Cappy. Most of my friends do."

"Friends? You may change your mind about that after you have heard the game. But Cappy it is."

"And I shall call you Gamesman."

"I like that better all the time. But here's the game, Cappy. It's called 'Damsel in Distress,' and the object is for you to rescue a fair maiden from her captivity before you are both killed. Like it?"

"It has potential. How is it played?"

A door slid open in the wall before me. A gun was lowered from above.

"The maiden is at the far side of the maze. She is shut in a small room with a glass door which can only be opened from outside.”

“I have to go outside?”

“No! Outside of the room. Roaming the corridors are eight deadly robots. Your task is to take the special laser gun and fetch her back here."

"Sounds simple enough."

His laughter echoed the halls. "Indeed, Cappy? Well, consider this: the robots move slowly and in a pattern. But should you be spotted by any, an alarm will sound and they will close in. Also, the robots use real bullets."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And what are my advantages?"

"You are a unique man, Cappy. None of the others had the your kind of spirit."

I shrugged. "I like games."

"It's a pleasure to have you. Yes, you do have certain advantages. There are small rooms stationed throughout the maze which the robots never enter. By hiding yourself in them you can elude detection for short periods. However, infrared sensors will activate a special thermostat, causing the doors to open – and alert the robots. Shoot any robot and it is out of the game."

"How many shots do I get?"

"More than you'll possibly need, I assure you."

"And firing the gun sets off the alarm?"

"Of course."

I stuck the weapon inside my coat. "And what's my motivation to play?"

"You're going to love this!" he laughed. "The maiden on the other side? She's the one who came with you! Don't you just love it?"

"And?"

His stunned silence was nearly as loud as his laughter. He had not expected this.

"What do you mean, 'and’?"

"I mean, what's my motivation?"

"I just told you."

"No, you just told me Karyeata is the other player."

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I do."

"I'll let you talk to her. There. Go ahead."

"Hi, Cappy!" Karyeata's voice was bright and unconcerned.

"Hello."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. You?"

"Nothing."

The Gamesman was annoyed. "Stop it! This isn't what I want."

"What do you want?" asked Karyeata.

"I want you to play the game."

"Why should we?" I asked.

"Because if you don't, I'll kill you anyway."

"Oh, that's no fun," Karyeata moaned. "Cappy, I thought you said he sounded like a fun guy."

"I did. I guess I was wrong."

"What's going on here?" the Gamesman demanded.

"What's going on is nothing," I said. "And that's the way it's going to stay until you give us a good reason to play."

"I'm offering you your lives!"

"Oh, we've already got those," said Karyeata. "What else have you got?"

"What else have I got?"

"Yeah. Offer us something we don't have or you'll have to play spoil sport and kill us anyway.
That won't be good for your reputation."

"It won't be good for us, either," I said.

"At least we won't have to live with it."

“Good point.”

The Gamesman’s silence indicated his hesitancy. It was obvious he was beginning to sway.

"What have you got in mind?" he asked.

"How about you?" I asked.

"Me?"

"Yes. We play your game. If you win, we're dead. If we win, you have to play a game of our choosing."

There was a short pause. Then the sound of laughter.

"Well done! Well done! So you want to raise the stakes?"

"I prefer mine grilled," said Karyeata.

"With the right touch of spice," I added.

"Bar-B-Queue sauce?" he asked.

"A little."

"Excellent! Very well, Cappy. You win now and we'll play something else."

"One condition."

"What's that?"

"Your word as a gamesman that you will not interfere once its started. If you do, the deal's off."

"I agree," he said. "I truly like you, Cappy. I kind of hope you do win."

"So do I," I said.

"So do I," said Karyeata.

I walked as quietly as I could, wondering how tuned into sound the killer robots were. Finding the rooms to hide in wasn’t difficult. There were many, and all clearly marked. I tested one early and discovered I had less than ten seconds before the door reopened. Slurps laughed.

"Not a whole lot of time, is it?" he asked.

"Enough for my purposes," I said.

"What purposes?"

"My main purpose is to win."

"But to do that, you must defeat my robots."

"Not necessarily."

"What do you mean? What do you mean?"

"I don't have to tell you everything."

I knelt next to a door near a corner passage and waited. After a couple of minutes I heard the sound of an approaching droid. When I judged it to be close I opened the door to the side chamber. Sure enough, the droid reacted to the sound and sped up its approach. It came around the corner to wait until the door opened. Then it would blast me. Except the door wasn’t closed. I was holding it open and, as I hoped and expected, the droid continued its merry way into the side room. Then I let the door close. The droid had no ‘body heat’ so the door never reopened.

“What are you doing?” the Gamesman sounded alarmed. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“My robots aren’t supposed to go into the rooms.”

“Then they’re cheating.”

“What do you mean they’re cheating?”

“You just said the robots aren’t supposed to go into the rooms. This one did. I call that cheating.”

The other droids, attracted to the noise of the first, were on their way. I quickly followed the path of the first away, dodging into known ‘blind alleys’ as the pursuers went past. I could hear the Gamesman moaning and mumbling. He had not anticipated this at all. Within a few minutes the droids were all huddled around the door, waiting for their prey to emerge. Now I just had to get Karyeata. In just a few minutes I had found her.

“Where are your robot buddies?” she asked.

“I left them at the corner. They’re hanging out together.”

“So now we just have to get to the maze’s beginning,” she said. “I suppose we have to get past your robot friends?”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Of course you have a plan?”

“Don’t I always?”

“I think perhaps you could do with some humility.”

“Which happens to be my plan!”

“Clever.”

We crept back to where the droids were huddled in a large group. We got down on our stomachs. I took out the special laser gun and opened it up with the handy little screwdriver on my key chain.

“This sure comes in handy,” I whispered.

“Does it have a bottle opener?” Karyeata whispered back.

I proudly displayed one to her. “And it has a flashlight, a magnet and a corkscrew.”

“That is handy. By the way, do you know anything about special laser guns?”

“Only that they use power, and that too much power at one time is a problem.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” I had finished my work and now the gun was beginning to glow and hum.

I quickly crawled to the corner and tossed it around and came back and huddled with Karyeata next to the wall. There was an explosive flash and then the sound of a single droid trying to get out of a closet. Karyeata and I got to our feet and walked around the corner. All of the droids were shut down.

“Too much power means an explosion. An explosion means light. Bright light. Lots of it.”

“And these robots don’t like too much light, do they?”

“No. They really don’t.”

Chapter Five

We walked back to the beginning of the maze where we were met by Slurps. We had won the game. The Gamesman was not happy.

“I’m not sure this was a fair game,” he said.

“You mean because you cheated?” I asked.

“I didn’t cheat!”

“It’s all right. We forgive you,” said Karyeata.

“Forgive me! Wait a minute!”

“Now. Our game,” I said.

“Your game?”

“Yes. You agreed to play a game of ours, if we won. Well, we won.”

Willard eyed me with suspicion. “What is this game?”

“It’s called, ‘Making it Through the Court System,’” I said.

“It doesn’t sound promising. How does it go?”

“You go to court and see if you can get a reduced sentence instead of the normal death penalty.”

“That’s not a game!”

“Why not?”

“Because in order for it to be a real game I have to have a chance at winning. There is no way I can get a reduced sentence.”

“Sure there is.”

“How?”

“You need a good lawyer.”

Willard laughed. “There are no good lawyers. All the best lawyers are in prison.”

“Or dead,” added Karyeata.

“Not all of them,” I said.

“Who do you know?” asked Willard.

“My brother is a good lawyer. He wasn’t even indicted.”

Willard was unconvinced. “Then how can he be any good?”

“He worked as an associate of Malcolm Drei.”

Willard’s eyes went wide. “Your brother worked for MD and A and never got indicted?” I nodded. “You’ve got a deal! I’ll play. Let me get my things. What kind of reduced sentence do you think I’ll get?”

“You can probably count on special lodgings,” I said.

“Special lodgings? You mean an asylum? I don’t want to live in an asylum. People are strange there.”

“Only because they’re different.”

“Besides,” added Karyeata, “it’s better than the alternative.”

“But what about my game inventions?”

“Oh, don’t worry about those,” I said. “I’ll sponsor your games and get them patented in your name.”

“You will?”

“Sure. I saw your ideas during the investigation. Some are quite interesting.”

“Like ‘Ring Around the Thorn Bushes,’” said Karyeata.

Willard smiled. “Yes. I like that one. You have to play it in the nude. Very good. Let’s get going!”

Epilogue

I lay back in my lounge chair. The sweet scent of fresh tea wafted in from the kitchen. The setting sun was breaking over the horizon and casting long shadows. Everything was peaceful now. Not like an hour ago when the repair man was drilling holes and nailing up new trim around the door. I should have had that done while we were gone. Karyeata came in with a tray. She poured out two cups of tea and handed me one. Then she eased herself down onto my lap.

“How nice it is to be back on vacation,” she said.

“It is. Very nice.”

“Do you think they will ever let Willard out?”

“Not likely. But I fancy he’ll be all right.”

She sighed. “It’s amazing.”

“What’s amazing?”

“Willard. I mean, its been years since anyone got off on an insanity plea.”

“Well, it was more a case of getting in than getting off.”

“Even so. It was a pretty good job of lawyer work – considering the current judicial climate.”

“I was beginning to worry that Claude might have to join Willard.”

“Yes. He was going to go after poor Milkum. It was nice of you to distract him.”

“Well, I think Miss Lenette was getting bored anyway. Now that the two are together they can wrestle with each others problems in a more constructive manner.”

“I know she will like that.”

“As do I, my dear. Are you up for a game of volleyball?”

“No spiking.”