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SUMMARY
Soon after returning from a night on the town, Gordy Tyler caught a young female burglar inside his North Dallas townhouse. Wearing nothing but sheer, skin-colored skivvies and a smile; at first sight, Gordy was sure that she was buck naked. However, he did not call the police. Sex had nothing to do with his decision; his survival did. The late-night burglar, Priscilla Lopez-McDonald, had been told by her boss to shoot Gordy if he got in her way. A 1980's era hippy flower-power mystic, Prissy could not pull the trigger, so she reverted to her startling "show and go" act that had always worked for her before; but not this time. Surprisingly, Prissy was not looking for expensive jewelry, a stash of cash or anything else of value. Instead, she was searching for three seemingly worthless brass and clay tourist trinkets that Gordy bought the preceding week in the restored former ghost town of Jerome, Arizona. That revelation indicated that Gordy was indeed in a heap of trouble: i.e., a group of Sicilian outlaws wanted him null and void, and would undoubtedly try again. Unfortunately, Gordy did not know anything about the bad guys or much about Jerome; but Prissy said that she did. Therefore, Gordy needed Prissy to identify those dangerous scoundrels, and Prissy needed Gordy to get out of Dallas and stay out of Texas' infamous crossbar hotels. Initially, that was a match brewed in the deepest, darkest, dreariest abbess of Hades. Prissy believed that even though she burglarized Gordy's home and injured him in the process, has no morals, no conscience, and no shame, she should get preferential treatment just because she is so darned good looking. A self-centered opportunist, she vacillated back and forth between Gordy's good guys and the Sicilian bad/nasty guys depending on which group she believed would win at any particular moment. That's when the story gets really exciting.
CHAPTER 1
Home Body As an intense October squall line retreated to the east over White Rock Lake, glistening streets bordered by sparkling rivulets in rain-swollen gutters reflected North Dallas' galaxy of uncountable night lights. For the moment, the dirt and grime of "Big D" were being washed away. Breaking away from the serpentine artery of never-ending toll-way traffic, a royal-blue and silver Dodge custom van passed slowly through the ornamental-iron gates of an exclusive townhome complex. Extinguishing its main headlamps as a courtesy to the townhome residents, using only the parking lights to navigate familiar lanes, the big van crept fairly quietly through an irregular, free-form parking garden which was liberally sprinkled with mature live oak trees, crepe myrtle clusters, a well-cultivated sampling of indigenous southwestern vegetation and artistically located, red-sandstone boulders. These lush, ivy covered islands separated and accentuated a scattered collection of predominantly foreign-made luxury cars, although several Lincoln Continentals and Cadillac DeVilles could also be seen in the mix. Without being intrusive, a network of tree-mounted, indirect lighting fixtures and flickering gas lights on faux 1890s metal lamp poles spread soft but adequate illumination over an irregular maze of meandering red-brick sidewalks. Clusters of elegant French provincial townhomes were scattered among manicured ivy and grass-covered berms as more of the impressive formations of large, ornamental, red limestone boulders were arrayed in natural-looking settings. No signs were necessary. This was Yuppie Heaven. Nosing into an addressed parking space that was separated from its neighbors by sandstone-encircled islands of crepe myrtle clusters and assorted ground covers, the massive van rolled to a halt. Its motor, however, continued to idle. The smooth, muted, guttural rumble of the powerful, highly tuned motor could have suggested a sinister intruder in South Oak Cliff or some other less-affluent corner of Big D. But in this posh neighborhood, that sound was the conspicuous trademark of a lot of discretionary cash well spent at a top-notch van customizing shop. Inside the van behind dark-tinted window glass, two middle-aged men—dressed almost identically in dark blue pin-striped business suits, pastel dress shirts, loosened silk designer ties, and highly polished Lucchesse walking boots—laughed and toasted the serene surroundings as they harmonized on yet another chorus of a bawdy English blue-collar drinking song. "Oh, I don't wanna' join the Nay-veeee, I don't wanna' go to warrrr." Each paused momentarily to salute the other with his short-necked bottle of Michelob premium beer. Then, they nodded simultaneously, smiling in mutual appreciation of the lyrics before they continued. "I just want to stayyyy, 'round the Picadilly quayyyy, Livin' off the earnings of an 'igh bred lie-deeee." Placing his free hand theatrically over his heart, the driver, Oliver Gordon Tyler, Gordy to his friends, gazed up soulfully at the twinkling gas lights reflected through the water droplets still dribbling down his windshield, and continued singing solo as mournfully as the bawdy lyrics would allow. "Oooh, I don't want a bullet up me back siiiiide, I don't want me butt-oxxx shot awayyyyy." His companion, Dave Goldman, the mirror image of Gordy, but almost five inches shorter, joined in precisely on cue. "I just want to live in England. Jolly, jolly England, And fornicate the rest of me life awayyyyy!" Almost in unison, they chuckled like wicked little boys whispering dirty words during recess at a church-sponsored school, then burst into uproarious laughter. Both were pleased and amazed at how good they sounded together since individually, cold sober in the harsh light of day, usually neither could carry a tune in a bucket. Outside the van, not a word could be heard. The highly insulated neighborhood remained at peace within its own secure little world. After all, this is North Dallas, the jewel of the Lone Star State of Texas. As he turned off the ignition and finished his beer with one long, bottle-draining gulp, Gordy peered up the neck opening and through the bottom of the bottle at a nearby ornamental gas light. "Looks like she's about all gone, Podner," he announced solemnly. Placing the bottle in a built-in cup holder on the center console of the engine cover, he asked: "How about another one for the road?" "Nope. Don't think so. No thank you anyway," Dave declared. "Marilyn is gonna' be bent a-plenty about missing supper tonight. No sense staggering home hammered to boot. My moma did not raise any fools, except for my dingbat younger brother, Earl, of course." "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Goldman, Sir. But you are most definitely 'hammered' already, if you don't know it," Gordy announced with the measured formality and clipped accent of a proper British butler. "Damned straight," Dave admitted as he placed his empty bottle in the other built-in cup holder. "But this might just be the night that Marilyn gets pregnant again, and I wanna' be there when it happens." "Good thinkin'," Gordy admitted as he swung open the driver's door to step down on the red brick parking slot. "C'mon. Let's go get you the heck out of Marilyn's dog house. And don't ya' be worrin' yourself, good buddy 'cause I will swear to the truth of any darned cockamamie sea story that you may wish to tell her. Think of me as your 20th century Straw Man, Sirrr." "If only that darned storm had lasted a little longer; I'd be home free," Dave lamented."Like the man says," Gordy recited an old, familiar adage: "If 'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts, what a wonderful world this would be." "Yeah, right. Not to worry. 'I can handle that job all by myself'," Dave said, repeating the chorus lyrics from the song "No Help Wanted" with an air of quiet confidence. "And hey, ol' buddy. Thanks for the ride. The DeVille should be out of the shop tomorrow." "Any time. Glad I could help. You gonna' need a ride in the morning?" Gordy asked. "Naahhh. I'll take Marilyn's 'T' Bird. The Caddie folks will pick her up when my car is rolling again." "Nice people," Gordy exclaimed. "Not nice prices," Dave corrected him. "They damned-well better have a couple of extra perks laying around for that kind of moo-laa." "By the way," Gordy said. "Thanks for the tip. I really enjoyed the heck outa' that last place. Lord knows, I really oughta' get out more often." "Sure beats the hell outa' walking the dog, doesn't it?" Dave exclaimed. "You danged bet'cha, Kemo Sabbe," Gordy chuckled, as he recalled the evening's high point while holding both hands cupped in front of his chest, palms up, as if cradling the definitely ample and locally notorious breasts of the featured lady bartender at the infamous Kenny's Rendezvous Lounge. Recalling almost two hours perched on leather padded bar stools watching the Dallas Cowboys lose another one while "Proud Mary," the recently featured bartender, did her impressive jiggling act again and again. Gordy and Dave both chuckled again. They could not stop smiling as each recalled his own personal impressions. That evening had been a truly amazing. Dave had commented several times about how many local guys who normally drank nothing but beer or shooters, had changed their orders to something delicately frothy, more expensive and needing lots of shaking in the making. When Proud Mary was on the job, she definitely earned her wages, and more than her share of attention from the crowds casually gathered around her bartending station. As they walked up the red-brick path toward the closest cluster of buildings, Gordy quietly began another verse of the same song, more or less to himself, as a fitting conclusion to their infrequent evening on the town. "Monday I touched 'er on the ank-lettt... Tuesday, I touched 'er on the kneeeeeee." With a courtly wave of his hand, Gordy gave way to his friend, who continued in an exaggerated stage-like whisper. "Wednesday with successss, I lifted up her dressss, And Thursday, I felt of her chi-meeee, by goll-leeee." A carriage-type porch light flashed on at the second closest townhouse as the inner door swung open to reveal the backlit silhouettes of a long-haired woman in the upper storm door panel, and a large German Shepard dog in the lower panel. Both appeared intensely interested in the events occurring outside. But once settled in place, neither appeared to move a muscle. "Turn out the lights; the party's over," Gordy switched to Don Meridith's trademark song, but barely audibly. "Oh crap!" Dave whispered. "That's her 'it-better-be-good' look. I am truly in deep piles of odiferous kim-shee." "See ya'," Gordy said with finality as he made a sudden, abrupt right turn at the walkway to the nearest townhouse. "See ya' Saturday, if you should live so long." "Goodnight Gordo," Dave called back over his shoulder as he quickened his pace as if anxious to face whatever awaited him. "Pray for me, ol' buddy." "Every day and every way," Gordy said as he unlocked his ornamental iron and glass storm door, then turned to watch his neighbor confidently swing open his front door with a cheerful greeting that was muffled by the distance. Two voices immediately blended into a pleasant counterpoint, quickly drowned out by the excited barking of man's second best friend. Gordy smiled to himself. "Ol' Dave has definitely got it under control," he mused to himself with a mixture of admiration, and just a touch of envy. Since his wife Martha had suddenly passed away in a car wreck several years before, Gordy had no one to come home to; no one but old Able Baker Charlie Dog, the industrial sized, mostly springer spaniel and full-time watch dog. In private, Gordy called him "Dog." But in public, he called him "Abe" for short, which seemed to please most of his neighbors, who probably thought that Abe was short for Abraham. As he fumbled with his key while trying to insert it into the lock on his heavy duty wooden front door, by habit Gordy glanced up at the top of the casing, and momentarily stopped breathing. Stepping closer, he carefully inspected the upper edge of the door. "Oh oh! What's this?" The thin, two-inch-long brown thread that should be hanging freely from the top of the casing in front of the door was not there. Looking closer, he could barely see where it had been pulled between the metal casing and the top of the door when that door had been closed without resetting his simple but effective security reporting device. Gordy stood very still, breathing deeply and collecting his thoughts. "Think, Hoss. Think. What the heck has happened here? Who the heck could have stopped by and done that?" Someone had been in his home since he went to work that morning. It could have been the townhouse complex's maintenance manager "Fast Freddy" Burns. But Freddy had always left a note on the door when he had to get into Gordy's home for any reason during the day. That is, that cheerful idiot had been careful to do that since several months earlier when Freddy left his note on the dining room table as an afterthought instead of sticking it on the outside of the door as they had agreed. Then, that silly yahoo had actually seemed surprised that his little faux pas had given Gordy any cause for alarm. "Is it so darned hard to get good help these days?" Gordy mused to himself. Gordy knew he should never have let that addle-brained twit get so friendly with Able Baker Charlie Dog. Now, old Freddy had no fear whatsoever, even stopping by sometimes just to pat Dog's furry head and take a leak. He and Dog probably watered the same bush some days. "Watch dog. Where is old Dog anyway?" Gordy asked himself. Just opening the storm door was usually enough to get an immediate, full-throated barking reaction that could chase any sneak thief away in a flash. With his key in the lock, Gordy slid it back and forth within the lock several times to make a distinct and barely audible, but highly uncharacteristic entry sound. Still nothing. "That little trick should have set that canine flea factory off like hot peppers in his milk bones. Where the heck is he anyway?" Gordy wondered with increasing apprehension. Never far away, the "sobers" re-emerged, front and center. As quietly as possible, Gordy turned the key to release the dead bolt as he lifted and pulled on the door handle while pushing simultaneously against the door with the other hand so that it opened without a sound discernable to the human ear. "Thank God for WD 40," Gordy thought. He had finally oiled the hinges himself after waiting weeks for Fast Freddy to earn his keep. Immediately, Dog began barking from the back of the house. But chillingly, there was no rush of his wildly elated, fur-faced companion to leap into Gordy's arms and shed little bitty hairs all over his business suit as usual. "Something's wrong. Very wrong." Gordy thought seriously about backing the heck out of there, getting Dave, and/or calling the police. That's when it hit him; a genuine red, white and blue Pride Attack: the bane of most deactivated U.S. Marines, particularly those who had been imprudent enough to ever admit that they had once been recruit drill instructors, DIs, at one time or another. Most people expected former DIs to be super staunch to the point of foolhardiness, even in the face of extreme danger. That image of not backing away from any danged thing, not even King Friggin' Kong, had gotten him into more avoidable scrapes since leaving active duty in the Marines than he would care to recall. In fact, it still haunted him to that day, especially at that exact moment. So what if that overgrown mutt had gotten into the food pantry again, and his big shaggy shanks had accidentally pushed the door shut while he was trying to help himself to a doggy's mind-boggling portion of Bonz? "He's done that before," Gordy reminded himself. And what if Fast Freddy had been in the house finally doing something about that leaky toilet flapper valve, and had left his elusive note in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or God knows where? If that was the case, Gordy would look like a cowering wimp if he punched the panic button in front of all his neighbors and the local cops as well. All things considered, he would never live that one down in a month of Sundays, at least not with himself. "To hell with it!" Gordy would rather be screwed, blued and tattooed than back down in front of God and everybody. In fact, he would much rather be seriously bent, folded and scuffed rather than to back down now. As he closed the door as carefully as he had opened it, Gordy quietly re-locked the deadbolt with his key. In the dim, filtered light from outside, he checked the vestibule table for the missing note from Fast Freddy. "No sale. Strike one." Gordy's pucker factor jumped upward several notches. Quietly opening the front closet door, he used the same technique as he had with the front door. His fingers roamed the top shelf until he selected one of several shoe boxes. By its weight, he knew he had the right one. Carefully, he removed a large single-action western style Ruger .44-caliber magnum revolver and placed the empty box on the table. Pulling the hammer back to half cock, he flipped the loading mechanism open and slowly rotated the firing cylinder to check the bullets with his other thumb. Five lethal little friends were ready to back his defense of home and hearth. One bullet was still resting in the ammo box for safety's sake. Except when he knew that he would actually need to shoot, Gordy would never leave the firing hammer resting on the firing cap of a live bullet. It was time to put up or shut up. Give the devil his due, Gordy always hated that moment because now he would not, could not back down. After he pulled off his hand-crafted Lucchese roper boots, Gordy moved as quietly as possible in his stocking feet while staying close to the walls; careful not to make himself a clear target against a window or a doorway. With only a tiny Brinkmann pocket flashlight manually fluctuating between wide angle and spotlight settings, he checked the living room, the dining room, the bathroom and two of the three bedrooms. Nothing appeared to be remiss. Gordy might have felt somewhat foolish as he was clearing each new area like a latter-day Rambo-crouching, peeking around corners from about knee high and all of the way up to the tops of the door casings, tip-toeing around-his wazoo sphincter was still puckered almost to the point of taking a permanent set. Inexplicably, his mind wandered to Dave Goldman's favorite rejoinder: "Is a frog's ass watertight?" Gordy knew that his was most assuredly somewhere in that category. "Get a hold of yourself. This is some serious business here, not just a silly darned game," he reminded himself. Gordy knew that he was badly out of practice since those bad old days in Vietnam and Beirut. With the passage of time, much of the intense mental discipline needed to make his body and brain work together seamlessly, according to "The Book," had somehow atrophied away. He recognized his new-found deficiencies. That bothered him a lot, but it would not deter him for more than a second or two. As he prepared to check-out the kitchen, the last area at the back of the building, Gordy was startled by a faint but distinct rustling sound. That was followed by the unmistakable sound of a kitchen chair being slid ever so slightly on the slip-resistant, deep-contoured linoleum floor. With his heart in his throat and an electric chill building to a critical mass between his shoulder blades, Gordy mentally prepared himself to make a stand, while subconsciously validating the otherwise ridiculous cloak-and-dagger exercise he had just bumbled through. "This IS NOT a drill." He knew that there could be no turning back now. "Someone's gonna' get hurt here," Gordy told himself, "and that someone is not gonna' be ol' Waa-Taashie Gordy San." Mentally, he prepared himself to shoot first and for keeps if it came to that. There would be no time to jump-start that mindset if he waited until the now validated intruder made the first move. As he pulled the revolver's hammer back to full cock, the unmistakable triple ratcheting clatter of all single-action firing mechanisms being readied for serious business must have spooked the intruder. Almost immediately, Gordy heard the muffled rush of unshod feet, then saw a shadowy figure in a long overcoat moving silently toward the back door. Instantly, Dog began barking louder than ever, which only added to the confusion. As he stepped forward, Gordy leveled his weapon at the shadowy figure and bellowed: "Hold it right there, sum'bitch. Freeze dammit, or I'll blow your damned head off." The intruder stopped abruptly, stumbling awkwardly to a halt in mid stride. There was no perceptible movement for several long and very tense seconds while Gordy forced himself to breathe again. Recognizing his master's voice, Dog's frustrated barking shifted into an even higher state of excitement. That did not help Gordy's concentration even one little bit. The fat was indeed in the fire. "Get your damned hands up," Gordy yelled as he moved cautiously to the right side of the kitchen doorway where he had a little better command of the entire room, and was less of an easy target himself if this S.O.B. or an accomplice should begin shooting. The extreme tension, poor visibility and Dog's loud, incessant barking were seriously overloading Gordy's senses. He needed to regroup. "Dog, HUSH!" he commanded as loud as he could yell, and ten weeks of doggy obedience school payed off in spades for the first time. In the sudden rush of eerie quiet, the intruder neither made a sound nor appeared to move a muscle. "Who the hell are you?" Gordy demanded, his voice raspy, reacting to the strain in his throat and chest. "Building maintenance," said a low voice, barely above a gruff whisper. "Horse manure," Gordy shouted. Then, with a surge of command presence, he added: "Get your damned hands in the air where I can see 'em. Reach for the ceiling or you will die, right here and right now you sunnova'bitch." Immediately, two hands appeared at half mast directly in front of the intruder. "Not good enough" Gordy yelled as he pushed the big revolver forward to full arm's length, pointing it directly at the head of the shadowy figure. "Up, damn it. I said get 'em up there." Reach for the damned ceiling or, by God, you will die." Slowly, the intruder's hands raised higher and higher until, unexpectedly, the overcoat dropped away and hit the floor with a loud, distinctly metallic clatter that seemed to jerk Gordy's heart into his throat, and involuntarily twitched his trigger finger. That was very close; too close. The irrevocable solution to his burglar problem had come and gone in a split second. Shaken to his core by that close call, Gordy's pocket flashlight was jerked upward to shine momentarily on the kitchen ceiling. Quickly redirecting it back to the intruder, he was astounded to see what he had only thought he had seen in that millisecond before he had flinched: the startlingly bigger-than-life image of an extremely healthy young woman in her au naturale all-togethers. Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, she was, indeed, big, buxom and bare-assed in the extreme. "Good Lord, lady; where. . .the. . .hell. . .are. . .your. . .clothes?" Gordy exclaimed. Then he turned toward the door to the back yard and bellowed: "Okay you buncha' clowns. Get your asses in here and belly up to the bar. Drinks are on the house," he yelled. But instead of a gaggle of friends charging through his back door to surprise him, Gordy was answered by nothing but silence until Dog began to whine for attention. As he lowered the big .44-caliber magnum revolver to half mast while still pointing in the general direction of the exhibitionist intruder, Gordy thought: "The front door's still locked and nobody but me and this showoff party gal are in this house or I'da bumped into 'em by now. That darned Dave and some of those crazy rascals from work must be waiting in the back yard to pop for another surprise party." In a conversational voice, Gordy said to the woman: "Don't you move until I tell you to move. Then he yelled: "You guys got me good the last time, but this damned-well takes the cake. C'mon in and take a load off." Still a bit cautious but in the process of getting primed for a big surprise party that he was now expecting, Gordy yelled "Last call for alcohol" as he slid around the corner of the doorway into the kitchen. His back plastered against the wall, his weapon still pointing generally in the direction of the surprise party's center of attraction, he grabbed the back-door handle to jerk it open and then get out of the way of his swarming buddies' onrushing charge. Whoops! That door was locked. No one could possibly rush in from the back yard into the kitchen to josh him about harboring a naked, air-headed party girl.
CHAPTER 1
the Story Continues Click Here |
