Chapter 32 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - Size Matters!

 Chapter 32 – Size Matters!

The drive over to Happy Meadows was on Ohio Avenue which was set upon a ridge that overlooked the valley containing Happy Meadows, the local Ball Park, and the Fair Grounds. From this overlook now both agent Murrey Stanford and agent John Farrow could see the night sky charged with static before they turned to make their descent. The number of disembodied spirits had nearly doubled now and were visible briefly as the orbs of ball lightning discharged.

The phantoms seemed to be rapidly moving away from the main building of Happy Meadows and down an egress that linked up with Miller Road, which led back into town. Farrow noticed a old 1950s model hearse followed by a 1956 blue and white Bel-Air sedan leaving the egress and turning in the direction of downtown Kildeer.

Pulling up to the main building and sliding to a stop on the gravel, the two agents exited their government car and stretched their legs. Stanford looked at the static displays of light trailing after the two vehicles bound for town. It was at this point that Farrow caught a small figure sitting on the ample porch of the main entrance to Happy Meadows’ largest building out of the corner of his eye.

Phyllis Altmire sat in a porch swing. She was clad in Joey Flowers red hoodie. A sawed-off shotgun lay at her feet. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. She was blowing smoke rings into the night air as the two federal agents climbed the porch stairway. Then, Stanford stepped on something soft on the porch. It made a squishing sound and stuck to the sole of his brown loafer. Closer inspection revealed it was a chunk of human flesh.

Stanford quietly revealed his discovery to Farrow and went back to the car to fetch a flashlight. He noticed the drainpipe had been pulled off the side of the building and there was an enormous crater approximately two feet deep in the dirt and gravel driveway. Pieces of the hit man known only as Cutter were scattered all over the front entrance. His head and torso, still attached but not fully intact, lay near the building. A hand, minus the little finger still twitched near an ice pick.

Decomposition of the main portion of Cutter’s body had not yet set in, but there was an unpleasant odor that suggested perhaps a sewer rupture had occurred. It was quite strong and came from a place on the other side of the porch near the detached drainpipe.

“What happened here?” Farrow asked Phyllis, who gently rocked in the porch swing.

“Who wants to know?” Phyllis said calmly.

“John Farrow. F.B.I Special agent, Organized Crime Unit out of the Chicago Main Office. He presented his identification in his left hand in a smooth practiced manner.

“Are you slow-witted agent Farrow, or just being an asshole this evening?” Phyllis said as she took a drag off her cig.

“Huh? I mean what?” Farrow said taken aback by the old woman.

“It’s dark out here. The outside lights aren’t working. We had a power failure. I can’t see your freakin’ badge. Even if the lights were working, I couldn’t see it. I lost my glasses right before the explosion.”  Phyllis looked up at him. Farrow noticed the shotgun laying near her feet.

“My, what a big gun you have grandma.” Farrow quipped, remembering a fairy tale from his youth.

“It’s a twelve gauge. Size matters! Remember, you heard it here first G-man.” Phyllis wasn’t in a playful mood.

There are pieces of a human body all over this parking lot, John. Murrey shouted as he played his flashlight beam over a wider area. “Some cadaver pieces are stuck to the side of the building.”

“What’s that stench? Where is it coming from?” Farrow yelled back to his partner.

“Don’t know yet.” Stanford replied.

“I can tell you.” Phyllis volunteered quietly. “First, do you have change for a five? I’m getting dry sitting out here. There’s a pop machine inside.”

“Are you being cute with me?” Farrow said irritated by her tone as he dug in his pocket for one-dollar bills and/or change.

“You’re not my type.” Phyllis shot back.

“Oh God!” A scream of pure misery pierced the night.

“Who’s else is out here?” Stanford shouted. The flashlight beam played back and forth. Farrow heard someone opening the front door.

“I only have three dollars in change.” Farrow said as he handed the currency to Phyllis.

“You can owe me the rest.” Phyllis answered, shoving the bills into her bra without giving Farrow a five. “The stench is coming from him.” Phyllis pointed over at a figure that was in the deeper shadows. The shouting was coming from Artie Best.

Artie was lying on his side still tied and handcuffed to a chair. He smelled like human defecation. At some point after he was tied to a chair with his hands super glued closed and placed into a utility closet beside his dead partner by Joey Flowers, Artie’s bowels had evacuated. The residents of Happy Meadows had taken a quick vote and carried him outside and placed him under the porch, deciding to wait until morning to hose him off. He was having second thoughts about his career choice.

“Will someone please untie me?” Artie begged.

“Quiet!” Phyllis yelled at Artie. “You’re probably one of the reasons I missed the Carol Burnett Show tonight.

“God Almighty.” Stanford said in a hoarse whisper. “He smells terrible.”

“You think he smells bad? There is a guy in the utility closet with a bullet in his brainpan that could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.” Phyllis chuckled. “I tried to drag him out here too, but he was heavy and nobody else was up for touching a dead body. Bunch of pansies!”

“God! Will somebody please help me.” Artie pleaded.

“I’ll cut you loose if you stay away from me and shut the hell up.” Phyllis walked past Farrow. As she did so, she reached into her housecoat and pulled out a switchblade knife. She flicked it open.

Farrow looked confused and pointed at the weapon.

“Never seen a letter opener before?” Phyllis cackled.  

Chapter 31 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - Not a Typical Saturday Night

Chapter 31 – Not a Typical Saturday Night

“Okay, what did you learn about Mikey Bevins?” The lean man in the grey pinstripe suit asked his driver.

Murrey Stanford scratched his right temple. It was a tell. Murrey had four of them. This one meant that he found out something significant about the investigation. “Well…” He drew the word out. It meant he was in a playful mood. After partnering with Murrey for two years, John Farrow knew that this playful attitude might mean they were close to figuring out what was going on down here in Kildeer, Illinois.

“Mikey Bevins.” Murrey began to recite recently collected intel. “Age, 38 years. Special training in the United States Army. Recon, also cross trained as a tunnel rat. Two tours of Viet Nam. Second tour ended prematurely. Sargent Bevins was sent into enemy tunnels to verify they were unoccupied. The tunnel collapsed on him. He was pinned tight and couldn’t move. It took his patrol four hours to dig him out. He wasn’t alone down there. Viet Cong knew an American patrol had discovered them and had left in a hurry and there were several wounded, and two dead bodies near him.”

“Makes my skin crawl just listening.” Farrow said while trying to get comfortable in his seat. He had long legs. It seemed like the government cars the FBI leased never had enough leg room.

“To make matters worse, just minutes after the collapse, rodents started to consume the bodies of the dead. Bevins said they also started in on the wounded. He could hear them screaming as his patrol tried to dig him out of there.” Stanford continued.

“An experience like that could make a man ‘twitchy’ for a long time.” Farrow mused.

“Bevins was brought back to the states according to Army Psychiatrist Vince Novack. Mikey was later given a psychiatric discharge. I asked Bevins if he still suffered any aftereffects. He said that he was part of a support group that meets several times a week here in town at the local Methodist church.” Stanford looked up to the east. They were just driving around now. Trying to clear their heads and put some pieces together.

“Did you just see a flash off over there.” Stanford pointed to an area close to the fairgrounds and the Happy Meadows Rest Home.

“Maybe lightning. I didn’t catch the weather report today.” Farrow pulled out a set of notes from his briefcase. “So, Bevins is related to Frank Calabrese. Frank is his uncle, correct?”  

“Great uncle, I think. I’m still not certain about that one. But whatever the connection, he is Frank’s only surviving relative. I talked to his parole officer, Don Hastings. I’m getting the impression that Hastings has been incentivized to keep his mouth shut about some of the recent arrangements made after Frank’s prison release." Stanford offered.

“How so?”  Farrow inquired.

“Some of this doesn’t add up. It looks like initially Bevins, more-or-less, had Frank dumped on him by the system. Joliet doctors decided Frank had Alzheimer’s Disease. He had less than two years to finish up on his sentence.” Stanford muttered

“So, they decided they needed the space and a Frankenstein monster of a hit man like Calabrese that didn’t have both oars in the water was a liability. They claimed Frank had enough good behavior on his record for an early release for medical reasons.” Farrow suggested. “Not that unusual.”

“No but, Mikey initially agreed to take on Frank. He recently moved to Kildeer, but he works as a police dispatcher in a town named Durham, just south of Chicago. His salary is meager. But then, suddenly he decides to place Frank in Happy Meadows. I checked on what it would cost. I doubt that Mikey could afford it. Further, I doubt that Don Hastings’ supervisor would approve such a move. I’m calling him tomorrow.” Stanford said.

“Maybe someone else is footing the bill?” Farrow reasoned. “Maybe Mikey is being paid off as well.”

“Mob money?” Stanford suggested. Farrow remained silent. Lost in thought.

“What did you find out about Jaxon Larue?” Stanford asked. “Hey, there it is again. That flash. Not exactly lightning. And I don’t hear any thunder with it.”

“Hey, forget the weather and try to focus here. It looks like we have a mob war going on inside of Podunk Ville, U.S.A.” Farrow cleared his throat. “Larue’s name came up in my interview with Bevins concerning Frank’s whereabouts on the evening James Cody was murdered. He said that some friends of his, um…Jaxon Larue, a girlfriend Clara, and a Rico Gonzales were babysitting Frank at a baseball game because Mikey had a little too much to drink.” Farrow reported.

“Interesting. Mikey didn’t strike me as either a drunk or social butterfly.” Stanford replied.

“I found out that Jaxon’s father ran a diner in town. I popped in and flashed my badge. In a brief interview I found out that Jaxon attends these support group meetings for people with anxiety problems.  They meet at the Methodist church.  Same ones Mikey attends. This guy, um, Dr. Walter Knevins facilitates them.”

“Perhaps a coincidence?” Stanford suggested.

“Doubt it. I interviewed Jaxon’s sister Lisa as well. She mentioned knowing another member of that group. His name was, um, Fenton Cox. A rather odd fellow, that said a recent item of group discussion was whether or not everyone has a mental ‘hit’ list. The group discussion sometimes revolves around the topic of homicide, she said.”

Murrey Stanford scratched his right temple again. Farrow grinned. “Why don’t you interview Dr. Knevins tomorrow. I have his number and the address of his office in south Chicago.”

“You know I will!” Stanford replied enthusiastically.

Suddenly, there was a huge explosion that sounded like it was only a quarter of a mile away. Near the Happy Meadows property.

“I got a feeling this isn’t going to be a typical Saturday night.” Said Farrow. “Let’s roll over to Happy Meadows and investigate. 

Chapter 30 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You - Aw Poop!

                                                 Chapter 30 – Aw Poop!

Joey rubbed his eyes. He was starting to feel worn down. A glance around the room told him that the others in his little group were feeling the same. He looked over at Jaxon.

Joey reasoned, Jax had been openly lugging Joey’s .38 around ever since Joey handed it to him. The initial idea was that Jax might need it to protect Clara and company while he checked in with Frank. Jax didn’t seem comfortable with weapons, however. He had left the shotgun Sal had given him outside on the lawn and was currently using the handgun to scratch the back of his neck. At best, sooner or later the kid was going to misplace his weapon just like he abandoned the shotgun. At worst, the gun served as an aggressive cue for some of the residents. It made them nervous, and rightly so.

“Jax, I need my hardware back.” Joey said in a tired voice.

“Huh?” I replied. The gun felt heavy and unnatural in my hand.

“My gat, my piece, my iron…” Joey slowly mumbled.

“What?” I squinted and tried to make the wheels of my brain spin faster, but I was tired.

“My rod, my roscoe… you know…bang, bang? Joey said in disbelief.

“Oh, sure. You mean pistol. Here.” I inadvertently pointed the gun at him. His eyes widened a bit but otherwise his face didn’t betray the fact that he now knew giving me a gun of any type was a very bad idea. He snatched in from my hand, checked the cylinder and then placed the pistol back into his shoulder holster.

As an afterthought he said. “Are you carrying anything else that might be considered contraband, just in case we run into the cops tonight?” I awkwardly reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife. I held it out proudly as if it were a prize that I had won at the county fair.

Joey massaged his temples with his fingers. He felt a headache coming on. “Oh, just keep it. If we encounter the police, wipe it down to get rid of your fingerprints and ditch it. The blade is too long to be considered legal.”

“Wow! I feel like I’m in a Raymond Chandler novel.” I said in a state of excitement.

Joey blew out his breath slowly. “Yeah, about that. I feel like I’ve been playing a little loose and reckless lately with your and Clara’s welfare. This isn’t a novel or a movie, Jax. So, here’s the plan from now on. We are going to move Frank into the back of that hearse. Quietly. I fear we have already stirred up enough excitement and probably drawn down undue attention to our presence here at Happy Meadows.”

“Do you think that guy, ‘Cutter’ is laying in wait for us…or is he just after you and Frank?”

Joey had a concerned look on his face. “I’ve never heard of an enforcer that goes by the handle of ‘Cutter’. We have been all over town and even if he is lurking out there somewhere, I don’t see how he could locate us. I don’t think he was working with Billy Touche or this Zach guy or his partner Artie, that we have locked in the broom closet. At this point, I question the source of information about this new assassin. However, we will keep our wits about us and not take unnecessary chances. I’m thinking of sending you and the others home. Sal and I can move Frank to be evaluated by…”

“Milton. Milton Freedman. He runs a bookstore across town. He was a paramedic in the Viet Nam war. You will need either Rico, Fenton, or me to go with you. He doesn’t know who you or Frank are. It’s late at night and the store is closed.”

Joey sighed. “Okay, I’ll take one of you with me.”

I looked out of the side window of Happy Meadows. You could occasionally catch the glow of ball lightning out of the corner of your eye. Otherwise, it was dark. Pitch black.

Joey placed his hand on the back of my shoulder.  “The streets were dark with something more than night.”

“I beg your pardon.” I said in disbelief. “Was that a Chandler quote?”

“What? You think hit men don’t read Raymond Chandler?” Joey grinned like a fox in the shadows approaching a farmhouse, and somehow, I felt reassured about seeing the sunrise again.

“What are our chances of getting across town without running into the F.B.I., cops, or this ‘Cutter’ guy?”

“You know what Chandler said about his characters?” Joey asked with a sly smile.

"No what?" I replied.

“The characters that last until the end of his novels are just ordinary guys with some extraordinary qualities.” Joey winked. “That’s us buddy.”  

                                                                    *      *      *

Phyllis Altmire had been watching the ball lightning and periodic manifestations of the dead with a growing amount of impatience. She wondered why Carmen hadn’t phoned the police. Those phantoms obviously weren’t supposed to be at Happy Meadows. Worse yet, the static outside was starting to interfere with the Carol Burnett Show. The television reception in the lounge was becoming spotty.

Phyllis had decided to take things into her own hands. She marched over to a pay phone and dialed the number of the Kildeer Police Department. She was a frequent caller and as such, she had the number committed to memory. Phyllis reported intruders at Happy Meadows, indicating that they had tampered with powerlines and that the place was experiencing intermittent electrical flashes. The dispatcher took her words to mean that there was a power cable that was both live and down near the entrance of Happy Meadows. She was reassured Phyllis that emergency services were on the way. When asked to identify herself she hung up the phone.

People unfamiliar with the everyday mores of life in an assisted living complex probably wouldn’t grasp the fact that many of the elderly have sticky fingers. This is connected to residents having little in the way of personal property and the habit of frequently loaning personal items to each other. Eventually this creates the feeling that anything left lying around is communal property. With this in mind, please do not judge Phyllis too harshly when I mention her kleptomaniacal behavior.

When I went to wipe the switchblade knife down, as per suggested by Joey Flowers, I absent mindedly left it on a counter in the main lobby. Phyllis spied it and slipped it into the pocket of her housecoat. Then Phyllis, intent to go outdoors and give the spirits of the dead a piece of her mind and announce that she had already reported them to the local police, noticed Joey’s red hoodie left unattended.

It was a chilly evening, and the hoodie was just the right weight for her jaunt outdoors. She slipped it on. Walking down the stairs she lit up a cigarette and eyed the spectral disturbance that had interrupted her television viewing. She also noticed another thing. The sawed-off 12 gauge shotgun that I had abandoned after Rico had nearly slapped it out of my hand.

Phyllis picked it up. She had been a farm wife before entering Happy Meadows. Phyllis knew her way around shotguns. She liked the feel of the gun in her hands. She also noticed something else laying on the ground nearby. A plastic device connected to wires. This device was connected to a series of divots and mounds in the parking lot. It had been constructed at Joey Flowers’ request by his driver Sal. Unbeknownst to Phyllis, someone was watching her with great interest.

A figure in the shadows armed with a bayonet and icepick crept behind a nearby tree. Cutter had been hiding underneath Jerry Gonzales’ hearse when he noticed a commotion and then a slap fight between Jerry himself and another man named Rico. Several other people were involved in the altercation including a known associate of Joey Flowers who was armed and fired a round from his sidearm which ended the fight.

Cutter had never seen Joey Flowers in person but had a description of the man provided by Bobby Moretti’s people. The car Flowers had rented was in the parking lot. Joey was a small man that frequently wore a red hoodie. Cutter silently crept closer to Phyllis. The ball lightning and spectral displays had almost made Cutter abandon his hunt for the evening. But now he was so close to eliminating Flowers that his body was virtually twitching with surges of adrenaline. He raised his weapons.

Suddenly a huge sphere of ball lightning burst illuminating the front lawn. Phyllis turned to see Cutter nearly upon her. She screamed, whirled the shotgun in his direction and pulled the trigger. Her shot missed Cutter by two feet. The recoil of the gun caused her to stagger backwards. “You’re not supposed to be here!” she screamed and jacked another shell into the chamber of the twelve gauge.

Cutter recognized from her voice that he had almost cut the throat of an elderly woman. He was temporarily blinded by the static flash of the lightning. He staggered into the mounds and divots that were buried packets of C-4. All of them connected and carefully wired to a detonator. The detonator was laying on the ground when it was enveloped by another huge ball of static. There was a huge explosion.

Sal’s charges were supposed to incapacitate a car or truck that was trying to ram the entrance of Happy Meadows. A blitz frontal assault, similar to what we thought Jerry Gozalez and his hearse was about to do hours before this.

Instead, the charges of C-4 reduced Cutter’s body to pieces the size of raw chicken livers, which now rained down on Phyllis along with gravel and large clods of earth, as she stoically pitched the gun aside and straightened up.

“Aw poop! I lost my cigarette.” Phyllis said and marched back inside Happy Meadows flicking pieces of Bobby Moretti's hit man off her new red hoodie.

Chapter 29 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - The Eyes and Ears of the Dead are Everywhere

Chapter 29 – The Eyes and Ears of the Dead are Everywhere

Rico, Jerry, Fenton, Sal, and I had backed about as far away from the spectacle of the dead as we could without being forced back into the main building of Happy Meadows. The night air practically vibrated with the presence of spirits from one of our local graveyards. I had begun to ascend the stairway leading to the front door, when that very door opened. Joey and Clara stepped out.

“What on earth is going on out here?” Clara stared wide-eyed at periodic zaps of static that serpentined from one metal object in the parking lot to another. Static zapped some of the parked vehicles residents kept for transportation into towns. Ball lightning danced on the metal railings that bordered the property as well as the metal swinging sign that welcomed all to the site of solace and good fellowship.

“It’s kind of a long story.” I said under my breath.

“No, it’s not.” Rico blurted out. He was bleeding slightly from a scrape on his forehead, sustained in the scuffle he had with his uncle Jerry. “My stupid uncle Jerry got drunk tonight, performed a ritual to raise the dead and then lead the spirits across town while he was looking for me.” He shot a glare of annoyance at Jerry, who was still beating the parking lot dust off himself. “Got anything to add to that Jerry?” Rico looked at him as if he was a Quick Trip store manager about to fire an employee.

“Not really.” Jerry said sheepishly. “Except I thought you were in trouble. We argued before you left and I sensed you were having some difficulties across town. So, I did the ceremony and drove over to find you. The dead came with me because they are bound to me by the ritual. Come sunup they will have to return to their graves.”

At that moment an enormous sphere of ball lightning burst and, in doing so, illuminated the entire group of spirits that had followed Jerry across town. Clara gasped in amazement. The invisible dead spirits were framed brightly for a moment in sharp contrast to the surrounding darkness.

Joey yelled at Sal, who was closer to the spectacle. “I made out the ghost of James Cody but I also think that I saw Billy Touche in the crowd. Sal, did you spot him?”

“Yeah, that was Billy.” Sal replied. “This situation is out of control Joey. Any thoughts?”

“I have more questions than thoughts right now.” Joey answered. “We need to have a conference. Let’s move this inside.”

Another tightly compressed ball of static burst near Fenton.

“Forty-nine.” Fenton yelled. “There were only forty-two of them before! How can there be more of them?”

                                                             *      *      *

We slowly walked into the front door of Happy Meadows, frequently looking back over our shoulders. Upon requesting a meeting room, Carmen led us into the game room and television lounge off the lobby area.  Several residents were still up watching a rerun of the Carol Burnett Show. Others were watching the light show out in the parking lot, as if the large game room window was a second television set.

Joey cleared his throat. “Okay Mouseketeer’s, I have questions and then some news that may be alarming. Questions first. Once again, why are the spooks in the parking lot in the first place?”

We were standing around a ping pong table. There were five or six folding chairs located close to us.

Jerry plopped down in one of the chairs “I’m an ordained priest of a small Brazilian American community in town. I have certain psychic abilities and some influence over the dead. Tonight, I had a fight with my nephew Rico, got wasted, and performed a ceremony that allowed the dead to walk the earth. I sensed Rico was in trouble and came looking for him. He left a note saying that he was here at Happy Meadows. When I came over here, the dead were compelled to follow me.”

“You said that you were able to sense that your nephew was in trouble over here. You knew he was in harm’s way before you ever even read his note?” Joey looked intrigued.

“It’s true.” Rico volunteered. “Also, Jerry wouldn’t have even needed the note to find me. If he had that many dead spirits together, exchanging information, looking for a person, he wouldn’t need a bloodhound.  I left the note to mostly let him know that I was pissed at him.

I guess I should be touched that he is concerned about me. Growing up when I was a kid, it really sucked. I couldn’t get into trouble without my Uncle Jerry knowing about it. The dead lie a lot when they talk to other people, but Jerry can compel them to tell the truth…and there are a lot of graveyards around Kildeer. The eyes and ears of the dead are everywhere.”

“There are now fifty of them. Why are there more now?” Fenton said as he peered out the window next to Phyllis, who had gotten bored with Carol Burnett and was now also window peeping. Fenton was an enigma. He was able to accurately count the dead outside in a split second and yet frequently would overdraw his checking account. Go figure.

Jerry explained to the group. “That’s probably going to happen for the rest of the night. The dead are like refrigerator magnets after this ritual until dawn.”

“Huh?” I said. Once again, I felt like the weakest link in the chain.

Jerry saw the confusion on my face. “Maybe that isn’t the best analogy. What I meant was that they have a psychic affinity with each other. ‘Birds of a feather’, that sort of thing. The original forty or so that came across town are attracting other spirits. The newly dead are very strongly attracted because they are disoriented and those that have been assimilated into the world of the dead to provide a type of structure. That structure calms them.”

“How many dead are we expecting to have before sunup?” I asked.

“A ballpark guesstimate for around here?  A lot. As the night wears on, the ritual will even call to the ancient dead. Old native American spirits…ghosts of early settlers.” Jerry remarked. “A couple of thousand spirits before the sun rises. The static electricity will become intense at times.”

“Okay. Do you see those people over there, Mr. Gonzales?” Clara pointed to more residents pressing their noses to windows catching glimpses of the spirits outside. The situation you have created is potentially a social train wreck.”

“My head is starting to clear a bit now and I can see what you mean. I didn’t think this through.” Jerry put his hand over his face.

Joey spoke in a low tone. “What we don’t want here is a panic. But if one of those elderly residents sees their mother, father, brother, best friend, that they buried, and they recognize them, we could have trouble. You said they are bound to you. What does that mean?”

“If I move back to my house or anyplace else, they must follow. All of them do. Even the ones not buried locally…the newly dead.” Jerry replied.

“Why aren’t they just following us through the front door? Clara asked. “They seem to be keeping a respectful distance.

“Oh, because of this.” Jerry pulled a necklace of bones that dangled around his neck, obscured previously by his loose linen shirt.

“Damn Jerry, you found your mojo.” Rico held his nose.

“Yep, I looked everywhere. Then it turned up. It’s been in a vinegar bottle for about a year.” Jerry shook it, apparently oblivious to the odor. “Part of the ritual. It protects me and others around me. The dead keep their distance from it.   

At that moment Phyllis turned away from the window and shouted, “They aren’t supposed to be here!”

“We are working on it right now Phyllis.” Joey said in a smooth voice, turning up the charm.

“I have some disturbing news gang. My contacts in Reno tell me that there is one more of Bobby Moretti’s hired guns in town. No one on our side knows what this guy looks like. No one even knows his name. All I know is he is foreign and referred to only as ‘Cutter’.  His target is Frank and the big guy isn’t doing well. Frank probably knows him, but Frank is having trouble talking right now. We need to move him. He needs medical assistance. Do you know anyone in town that could check Frank out this late at night and keep their mouth closed for a price? I think he has had a stroke. That may be why he has been sleeping so much.”

“There’s a friend of ours that runs he comic bookstore downtown.” Rico suggested.

“But how are we going to get him over there? We could use my mom’s car, but people would recognize it and might report it if they saw a stranger riding with me. Also, the cops have the town under a curfew that starts at midnight.” Fenton said scratching his curly red mop of hair.

“Welcome to Kildeer. If the dead don’t rat you out, your neighbor surely will.” Clara snarked.

Joey ran his fingers through his hair. “Say, did I see one of you driving a hearse earlier tonight?” he said with a smile. 

Chapter 28 - It's the Small Things That Can Kill You! - No More Weekend T.V. Wrestling

          Chapter 28 – No More Weekend T.V. Wrestling!

As unsettling as the invisible presence was, I would also add that it was both disturbing and exhilarating. It danced on my skin. It was then that I beheld a strange sight that I had only seen one other time. Clusters of faint glowing lights. Small pea-sized spheres moved around the damaged drainpipe and along the rain cutters of the Happy Meadows main building. They danced like playful electric bumble bees moving from one metal object to another. They swarmed Mrs. Cox’s car, much to Fenton’s dismay.

“Rico.” I shoved him in the shoulder hard. My friend was frozen with fear. He crossed himself.

“Jax, I need to wake up my uncle Jerry. This is bad! So bad!” He lumbered towards the hearse were Jerry Gonzales lay in a drunken stupor. Rico’s feet were sluggish. He was in some sort of psychological shock. It was obvious that he could see something that I could not and his eyes betrayed the spot where the presence was the strongest.

What I believed that I was seeing was a rare natural phenomenon my father had called “ball lightning”. Several years ago, my dad and I were on a ferry traveling up the coast of Lake Michigan. There was a storm on the horizon. The same lights had swarmed the upper part of the ferry and some of the parked cars the craft was transporting.

My dad had said this was a rare manifestation of static electricity that happens near bodies of water. The ball lightning lingered for several seconds and then disappeared, only to reappear in a different spot. He allowed me to watch for a minute or so before he took me down to a lower deck and we sat in the safety of our car. Dad had told me that the display was called “Saint Elmo’s Fire” by some sailors and many people were superstitious about the very appearance of it. Many believed that such luminous objects are omens or even the very souls of the dead.

I ran over to Rico. He was opening the door at the rear of the hearse. There was no casket at the back, as this wasn’t a funeral. The door was one solid structure that, when opened, allowed maximum clearance for a coffin-sized object. In this case, the only object in the back was a groggy Jerry Gonzales.

As I approached the hearse that Jerry was sleeping in, I shouted. “Is he awake?”

I looked through the large window of what was essentially a large, black stretch limo with a modified interior, I saw Jerry in the back wrapped in a blanket. Rico was shaking him, trying to arouse him. But it seemed to no avail. Then Rico became desperate.

He slapped Jerry in the face lightly. “Wake up…Oye, despierta…you stupid, drunken…”  Then suddenly Jerry’s eyes suddenly opened very wide. They nearly bulged out of his skull. He leaned up and slapped Rico back so hard I thought his head was going to smack the side of the hearse.

“Cut it out Jerry. I’m a lot bigger than you. Don’t make me mad.” Rico screamed while holding the side of his numb jaw.

“You slapped me! I’m gonna’ mop up the floor with your head.” Jerry yelled as he jumped on Rico. A ridiculous slap fight ensued in the confined area of the hearse.

“Good luck trying to clean in the corners, dumbass.” Rico said through clenched teeth as he shoved Jerry out of the hearse, leaping after him.   

Fenton, ignoring the odd “ball lightning” that had now intensified, had come over to stare through the window of he now rocking vehicle.

I heard Jerry alternately laughing and swearing first in English and then in Portuguese and Spanish. Rico slammed Jerry so hard against the interior of the hearse that it almost broke Fenton’s nose that was pressed against one of the rear viewing windows of the hearse. I screamed for assistance from anyone inside Happy Meadows. No one seemed to be listening.

Rico’s leaped from the back of the hearse and missed Jerry by several feet. Instead of landing on his uncle, Rico did a barrel roll in the dirt and gravel in front of Happy Meadows. Jerry stood up, staggering a great deal. Then he screamed “Atomic knee drop”. Before he could execute the professional wrestling move, which doubtless would have resulted in a trip to the ER for at least one of them, Sal came by. Noticing Rico was now laying on his back, Sal calmly walked over with his semiautomatic drawn and put his foot on Rico’s throat. He then fired a round between Jerry’s legs.

Both men gave up, stopped fighting and stared at Sal. He put his gun away and helped Rico off the ground.

Rico was a mess. His hair was disheveled. His jeans were covered in dirt. Jerry walked over breathing hard. He was filthy and smelled like tequila.

Sal looked at me and then at Fenton. He pointed at Jerry and Rico. “Never pick a fight with an ugly person. They’ve got nothing to lose.” He warned. He then put his weapon back into his shoulder holster.

“We’ve got company.” Sal said as he gestured towards the glowing orbs.

“Jerry, I’m sorry I slapped you, but I was just trying to wake you up. Mira…Look!” Rico pointed at the ball lightning.

The static electricity popped and swirled near the zone where we first sensed the presence of what Rico believed were dead spirits of residents that usually occupied a local graveyard adjacent to Jerry’s home and property. Jerry dusted himself off and glanced at the scene.

The “ball lightning” had grown now. The orbs were about two feet in diameter. One of them burst. The flash revealed dozens of the local dead. They stood in various forms of decomposition, all completely naked as the day they were born. The flash lasted for only a second, yet I was able to make out the figure of James Cody standing at the head of the crowd. A fresh bullet hole in his forehead.

Rico, who described himself as a “lapsed Catholic”, crossed himself again and turned to Jerry. “Why did you feel the need to bring them with you?” Rico whispered.

“I don’t remember doing it. I fell asleep watching wrestling on television, woke up and read your note. I must have done the ritual to raise the dead and then blacked out. I guess I thought you might be in trouble and they could be useful.” Jerry whispered back.  

“No more weekend T.V. wrestling. Next Saturday night we are going to the movies.” Rico declared.

“It’s a deal.” Jerry studied the now numerous swirling orbs.”

“What has got them all wound up?” Rico asked.

“Local acts of violence always make the pot boil like this.” Jerry answered. “Usually not this bad. But it is close to October and the veil between the living and the dead grows thinner during this time of year.”

“It’s bugging me a lot. Can’t you put them back in the ground?” Rico complained.

“I’m afraid I’m in no shape to do that right now. They will return to where they belong at dawn. Right now, we just have to tolerate them.”