littlebopeeper Posted March 26 Share Posted March 26 Okay, I give up. Which Alvar print does Rita want to hang in her living room. The guy does a lot of red!!! 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted March 27 Author Share Posted March 27 6 hours ago, littlebopeeper said: Which Alvar print does Rita want to hang in her living room. Intimations sur La Vie, which is one of the lithographs in Alvar's celebrated Le Miracle Quotidien series (1974). 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted March 27 Author Share Posted March 27 LOVE WITHOUT MEASURE The sorority girls came down the stairs in groups of four, and as the funereal procession to the dining room advanced, each quartet confirmed the shrewdness of Bernice Miller's judgment. The house mom had scribbled a “C” next to the name of each Council member on her roster, and check marks separated those on the list she considered suspect from those she did not. The most likely suspects had received two checks. The seven members of the governing Council fell in the latter category. While the rest of the officers on duty retreated to the street to restore order and get traffic moving again, Priscilla and three others were charged with getting each quartet seated in the dining room. It was as obvious to Ian as it was to Bernice, Julia and Chief Mischof that the first four groups didn't have a clue. The diapers heaped in a pile at the front of the room didn't register on any of their faces, and they were clearly bewildered when Priscilla ordered them to take seats at the back. The fifth quartet was a different matter altogether. The girls eyes went wide when they spotted the bags of Lullaby's finest, and each paused in mid step as she entered the room. Once seated, they began to talk in conspiratorial whispers, occasionally leaning back to answer a question from one of the girls who had preceded them. The fifth group was the first on Bernice's list to receive check marks. Faltering footsteps and wide-eyed, fearful glances at the bags of diapers betrayed one group after another, making it clear to Ian and the others that fully two-thirds of the sorority seemed to be in the know. When everyone was seated except for the five members of the Council still upstairs, Ian took Priscilla aside and asked her to bring Janis Marsden down by herself. He wanted to see how the others responded to her; in particular, he was curious to learn how many of the girls even knew what she had done. He also advised her to cuff Janis and take her into the office once they had finished making their pitch. He hoped that one dramatic gesture would sober the entire sorority up in a hurry. When Melanie Wilson, Joyce Wiggins, Kimberly Doyle and Amanda Cunningham entered the chamber, the jig was well and truly up. At every turn, they were welcomed with daggers drawn, leaving no doubt in Chief Mischof's mind that he had pierced the heart of the conspiracy. Finally, Priscilla escorted a solitary Janis Marsden to a seat in the front row, which she had all to herself. Ian thought it curious that, like the other members of the Council, she was treated with scorn, but was not singled out for special treatment. Janis was hanging her head in shame, and it took every ounce of resolve that Ian could muster not to rush to her side, take her in his arms, and console her. He only steeled himself by thinking about the tricky game that he was about to play with Spats Belmondo, an ace in the hole that he wanted to hide up his sleeve and perhaps play on a later day. . . . . Decisions, decisions, decisions, Sarah sighed. She was sitting on the couch, arms splayed, occasionally glancing in Vickie's direction to make sure that her baby girl still had her nose pressed to the wall. What do you think, folks? Should I pump again, or warm up baby girl's yummy bottles of laxatives and diuretics? Yeah, you're right. We want her diaper to be wet and messy come the morning. We want her to think that she's already lost nighttime control, and needs her diapers for real. And if she should happen to fill her diapers again while driving to work, Rita can take care of it. Sorry, my little poop monster, but we all know that a steady diet of breast milk will leave you with diminished control of both bladder and bowel. And breast milk is now a mainstay of your hitherto alcohol soaked diet … Getting up from the couch, Sarah strolled out to the kitchen to warm up Vickie's bottles. When they were ready and she was comfortably settled on the floor, her back resting against her couch, she ordered the baby girl to crawl over. Still sucking on her pacifier, Vickie readily obeyed, settling into Sarah's lap in anticipation of her feeding. Gently, Sarah lifted the baby girl's head to cradle it in her arm. She removed the pacifier, and offered her the bottle. Vickie accepted it readily, and began to nurse on the warm milk. “Mommy loves you soooo much, baby girl, do you know that?” Sarah was looking down into Vickie's eyes, her feelings warm and real. “You are going to be Mommy's sweet baby girl forever and ever, and Mommy will always love you. Always!” “Wuv Mama,” Vickie somehow managed to mumble around the nipple firmly planted in her mouth. “Wuv Mama,” she repeated. And it was true. Deep inside Victoria Robinson, there was a lonely little girl starved for affection. Her birth mother had been emotionally distant, her feelings genuine only when she was expressing her disappointment in her daughter's behavior. Her father had always taken her mother's side, the prototypical absentee father. She knew that, on more than one occasion, he had forgotten her birthday. An envelope hastily stuffed with cash left bitter memories of the party that he had come home late to attend on her fourteenth. A few weeks later, she had taken her revenge by sacrificing her virginity to a boy whose face she could no longer summon up from the store of her memories. Unbidden, Vickie reached up to clasp her mommy's arm, and the infantile gesture struck a chord deep in Sarah's psyche. She accepts me as her Mommy! Sarah didn't know how or why this was happening, but she could see it in Vickie's eyes: the measure of acceptance. And in that moment, Sarah's world changed. I have a daughter … a baby girl for real! And I love her! My hopelessly confused, totally mixed up, sweet baby girl. I love her! The realization stunned her. In an instant, Vickie had gone from being the friend of whom she was a bit jealous to a responsibility at once in need of discipline and love. For how long have we been deaf to her cries for help? For how long?? God! Is Ian the only person ever to say the three magic words to her … to speak them with conviction and feeling? How could the rest of us have been so blind? Gazing into Vickie's eyes, a baby sucking so contentedly on her ba ba, Sarah impulsively leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I love you, baby girl,” she whispered; “I really, really love you, and we are going to start over. All the years that I've known you, and I don't even know your mother's name. Not once have you ever mentioned her … even referred to her. Was she ever there for you? Ever?” In response, Vickie's grip on Sarah's arm tightened. “Wuv Mama.” It was all that Vickie could get out, but her grip on Sarah's arm never faltered. Is it possible to repair damage that runs this deep? There is only one way to find out! . . . . Standing at the front of the room, arms folded, Bernice Miller was genuinely angry, and she was letting it show. “In the morning,” she began, “Chief Mischof and I expect to be summoned to the Dean's office. After he reads the Chief's report, it would not surprise me if the Dean reaches out to national and gets our charter revoked. It's happened before, and for reasons far less serious.” Bernice walked over and lightly kicked one of the bags of diapers. “Twenty-three separate acts,” she continued, “not including Janis' stealing from the hospital. Twentythree. And guess what … you get to meet the last victim because Professor Grady is sitting right here. Do you know his story? If not, let me share some of it with you: three tours in Viet Nam … four purple hearts … barely alive when evacuated from his last battlefield. Then came nine months of surgeries and rehabilitation before he left the hospital-- wearing a diaper and leaning on a cane. And his is just one story; there are twenty-two others. It's screamingly obvious that the Council put a lot of time into this, and that more than half the people in this room knew what they were planning. Did any of you ever think about the people your actions would be hurting? Anyone?” “No, I didn't think so,” Bernice concluded. No one was willing to look her in the eye. As Bernice sat down, Chief Mischof stood up to take her place. “Let me bring you up to date. Tippi Bjornsen and Cindy Carlson have been taken into custody, transported to jail, and in the morning will go before a judge. Processing them will take time, because the poor clerk who has to type up the charge sheet has his work cut out for him. Miss Marsden here is also under arrest, for a separate but related crime, and in due course will be joining them. I expect others in this room to be taking the trip as well.” The Chief walked over to the untidy cache of diapers, and shook his head. “You may wonder why we are taking this so seriously, even to the point of reading each of you your Miranda rights, and being prepared to seek warrants to search the rooms of anyone here who does not cooperate. Well, let's start with the fact that the houses make up less than five percent of the student body population, but are responsible for more than seventy percent of the complaints that we have to investigate. The judge is going to hand out some hefty fines because someone has to pay for the twenty-three officers dispatched to investigate the thefts and write up reports on each one of them. Someone has to pay for the processing, housing, transport to the courtroom-- and did I mention the District Attorney's office? Well, guess what; Mister Ballstrom was here earlier, and is going to present this case to the court personally. He takes it very seriously.” The Chief began pacing back and forth in front of the assembly. “Want to plead not guilty, and take your case to trial? See why that fine is just going to get bigger and bigger? And the press will have a field day … they just love the term 'criminal conspiracy'. Right now, we can keep your names out of the press, but once this case is scheduled for trial? Nope. You will be splattered all over the newspapers, the TV and the airwaves. Whether you are found guilty or not, the notoriety will follow you for years to come. God forbid what it will do to your parents.” “In the ordinary course of things,” the Chief continued, “this would be a slam dunk. Plead guilty. Pay the fine. Do community service. Mind your P's and Q's while you're on probation. Your names remain hidden, and in the end your records are expunged. But the DA is going to handle the matter personally because, this time, the same old, same old will probably get you killed. Detective Canon will explain.” Julia took over. “I'm the lady you ran all over town.” She noted with satisfaction that the shock waves that the Chief's closing remark had triggered were still rippling across the room. “And sometime tomorrow, I expect to have an ugly meeting with the client who hired me to investigate this matter-- the gentleman who owns Lullaby Diaper Service. His name is Vincent Belmondo, although he is better known as Spats Belmondo. Congratulations, ladies; you targeted Minneapolis' Mafia kingpin, and he hired me to find you. He does not want the police mixed up in this because you have humiliated him, and he wants revenge. He cannot afford to turn the other cheek because it would be seen as weakness, and rivals would seek to exploit it. No. He wants you, and what he's planning to do with you is feed you, feet first, into a wood chipper. You will, of course, be alive when he turns on the switch. I should imagine that it's a most unpleasant way to die.” “Oh, God,” one of the girls moaned. “You stupid cunts,” someone else yelled at the members of the Council. They were trying to make themselves invisible, and failing miserably. “So the problem,” Julia calmly continued, “is to find a solution that will make Spats happy, and that the DA can sell to the judge. We think that Professor Grady has come up with the answer, inspired no doubt by his many years of practical experience wearing and using diapers. I'll let him explain.” Julia nodded at Ian, and sat down. “The DA and I have cut a deal. A stiff fine, probation, and community service as candy stripers until you graduate. I can place some of you in the hospital over yonder.” Ian nodded in the general direction of the river and the complex just beyond. “But there are two other medical facilities within walking distance of this house, so placement won't be an issue.” Ian looked around the room, seeking and making eye contact. “This will satisfy the judge,” he went on, “but not Spats Belmondo. What may satisfy him is if you become his clients-- clients of Lullaby Diaper Service. So, it comes down to this: everyone in this sorority will have to agree to wear and use diapers 24/7 until you graduate. Spats can turn a nice profit, revel in your humiliation, and you walk away with your reputations reasonably intact. Your social life will be ruined, but on the plus side, your grades should go up. As deals go, it sure beats the wood chipper.” “No!,” a girl at the very back of the room protested. “I had nothing to do with this, and I'm not about to spend the next year and a half shitting myself to appease a mobster. Go screw yourself!” “Fine,” Ian mildly rejoined. “Who would you like to start with? Come on, you choose the first victim. Melanie Wilson, perhaps? She's in this up to her eyeballs, so she'd be a good choice. But perhaps there's someone else on the Council that you'd like Spats to run through the wood chipper, to become a tasty snack for the pigs that he keeps on a farm down in Iowa. You decide.” Ian had strolled up to the second row of seats, and he reached out to clamp a hand firmly on Melanie's shoulder. She looked like she was ready to puke, and he wanted to spare her the indignity. “You de … de … cide,” he stuttered, the room suddenly spinning around him. The rats feasted, initially on the exposed flesh. But when there was no resistance, they were emboldened. Some got inside the clothing and burrowed into the intestines, eating their fill. Others went after the eyes, a tasty morsel. The photos had come later, when the tropical heat and humidity had taken over where the rats had left off. Identifying Nguyen had been a challenge, Anh and his parents-inlaw more difficult still. The entire village … “IAN!” Somebody was screaming his name … “But that's not right. I'm Street Racer ...” “SMELLING SALTS,” Priscilla yelled; “SMELLING SALTS!!” Bernice dashed into her office to grab the first aid kit. Standing close by and paying close attention, Priscilla had heard Ian's voice trail off, got to him as he dropped to his knees, passing out as she caught him, his weight carrying both of them to the floor. It had taken hours to reach Minh … or so it felt. Rationally, Street Racer knew that it couldn't have been more than a minute. “Can't walk,” Minh had grunted, “legs are gone.” “It's a nice day.” Street Racer grimaced, the transition to Vietnamese seamless but the pain getting worse by the second. “A good day to die. Can you light 'em up?” He had somehow hoisted Minh onto his shoulders, his brother-in-law still gripping his weapon. He was vaguely aware that Quy had risen from the rice paddy, closed the distance to protect his right flank. Slowly, staggering under the weight, Street Racer headed in the direction of the LZ, the choppers now landing in a steady stream, evacuating the POW's that they had liberated from the hellhole southwest of Hanoi. The raid had been a brilliant success, until the rains had come early, forcing them to head west, into the mountains that separated them from the Laotian frontier. Everything had conspired to slow them down, to miss the rendezvous at the secondary … A stray round slammed into his chest, the right side of his rib cage on fire. He was looking to his right, toward the tree line when Quy's chest exploded in a cascade of torn flesh and blood, knocking him off his feet. Street reached out to get a grip on his fatigues, his mind willing him to drag his brother-in-law to safety even as his body began to give out ... “We need to elevate his legs.” Janis was struggling to remain calm, fighting to draw upon the knowledge that she had won in the long hours of her rounds in the hospital. She had found a couple of throw pillows to put under his ankles, but needed more. Chief Mischof removed his jacket, hastily bundled it, and pushed it under Ian's left knee. Watching her daughter the whole time, Julia did the same, sliding her coat under his right knee. Bernice unceremoniously dropped to the floor, cracked the ampule, and waved it under Ian's nose. Ian was prone on the floor, his head cradled in Priscilla's arms. “Ian, do you hear me? Do you?” She was sobbing, willing him to wake up. “I love you. Do you hear me, Secret Agent Man, do you? I love you, and you are not going to die on me! Not now, not ever!” “Here!” Kimberly had had the presence of mind to race to the living room, grab two cushions off the couch, and rush them back. Janis used them to elevate his ankles still higher. “Wha … what happened?” Ian was returning to consciousness, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. He remembered being in Viet Nam, but not how he had got there. It was all a blur. “Another seizure,” Priscilla cried. “It happened, just like Vickie said it would happen.” “The pig sty,” he groaned. “The rats,” she guessed. Someone brought a wet wash cloth, and she used it to mop his brow. His skin had been pale and lifeless only moments before, and now sweat was pouring off of him. Priscilla feared that the rats would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. “I love you.” “I know,” she said with a manufactured smile. “Your third lady of the week, and fourth of the month. But that's okay. I'm lucky to have you, and I'm willing to share. But there will be no more running off to save the world, do you hear me? The President can send somebody else to Poland, or Iran, or wherever it is that you're supposed to go next week. I'm not having it!” Julia started to speak, then shut her mouth with an audible snap. Now was not the time. “Do you think that you can stand,” Bernice asked as she slowly climbed to her feet. “Lying on the floor in the middle of the dining room is a bit undignified.” “I'm getting too old for this,” the Chief huffed as he also stood up. “And we still haven't resolved this mess.” “No,” Ian agreed as he managed to get onto his knees, and then with the Chief's help onto his feet. “We haven't.” Staggering, Ian reached out to grab the back of a chair, knowing that there was still work to be done. And perversely, he badly needed a diaper change. Later. Looking around, Ian could see that the room was in turmoil. Some of the girls were still seated, while others were up and milling around, talking to their friends and trying to get a handle on the situation. As he watched, two of the girls tried to leave, but the officers blocking the doorways politely but firmly instructed them to return to their seats. They are all so young … The floodgates opened, and memories began pouring into his conscious mind-- memories of childhood and innocence, and innocence lost. Lives lost. Willie Ross swam up once more from the depths, the nineteen year old kid with the perpetual smile, raised by loving parents to treat everyone around him with kindness. A baby abandoned on the outskirts of a village, lying there helpless, unable to escape the pitiless sun? Of course Willie picked the child up-- it was in his nature. And the anti personnel mine concealed beneath the infant had detonated, shredding them both. Holding onto the chair for dear life, eyes tightly shut in a hopeless attempt to ward off the pain, Ian shuddered. From a great distance, he felt a hand reach out to clasp his own. They need to hear the truth. You cannot let them make the wrong choice. Open your heart to them … teach them to love without measure … Nguyen? Rapidly blinking, Ian opened his eyes, unaware of the tears that were trickling down his cheeks. “You can do this,” Priscilla whispered, gripping his hand still more tightly to reassure him. “You are the bravest person I have ever met, and you can do this. Open your heart, and they will look inside theirs. Go on.” “Listen up, everybody!” Priscilla clapped her hands to get the room's attention. “Ian … Professor Grady has something to say that you need to hear. I'm not going to sugarcoat this. When he confided in me this afternoon, parts of it were so bad that I came close to putting my head in the trash can and puking my guts up. Some of it is going to give me nightmares, so I've asked him to edit it. But you need to hear it.” The girls looked at one another in confusion, no one quite knowing what to do. “Park it,” Bernice roared. Everyone scrambled to find a seat. “Thank you.” Ian said, stalling for time while he collected his thoughts. “What you just saw was a flashback, my third of the week. My doctor says that, just as a fuse blows to protect an overloaded circuit, my brain hurls me back to Viet Nam … back to the worst moments of my life … to prevent me from making decisions. And it does so with good reason.” Looking around the room, it was clear that some of the girls were paying attention, but others were just going through the motions for the sake of politeness. Ian abruptly decided to try a different tack. “I'm curious. How many of you are twenty-one?” Hands went up throughout the room, but instead of counting, Ian looked over to Bernice. “Fourteen,” she said, “including the two who are still absent.” “I was twenty-one when I landed in Viet Nam, and took command of a platoon. I was in way over my head, but I was fortunate to have a highly experienced sergeant to lean on. But I still made mistakes, and one of them killed a goodhearted kid from Alabama. He was nineteen years old, which I guess would make him a sophomore today … maybe a member of one of the fraternities. But he came home in a body bag, and yet he still talks to me in my dreams. That's guilt, and I have a mountain of it eating away at me. My therapist says that, to get better, I have to bring it out into the open, embrace it, and somehow find the grace to forgive myself, but that's easier said than done.” Ian had their attention now. Even the cops in the doorways were listening hard. “In February of sixty eight, I was wounded badly enough to end my army career, but not my military service. My ability to speak Vietnamese, and several other languages, kept me in country, but fighting in the shadows. I was now outside the chain of command, reporting to a civilian at the Pentagon, the Special Assistant for Counterinsurgency and Special Activities. The unit I pieced together became the tip of the special operations spear, carrying out one high risk mission after another in the North and South, in Laos and Cambodia. We had little interaction with the regular military, and in our isolation truly became a band of brothers … a family in the truest sense of the word … and I failed them.” Ian barely registered the sharp intakes of breath that swept across the room. “We had sworn an oath … our Commandment, really: everyone comes home. Whole, wounded, in a body bag, we leave no one behind. And in the last battle, I left two men in the field, two Vietnamese sergeants … my brothers-in-law, Minh and Quy ...” “WHAT,” Julia yelped, her cry echoed by others, a shock wave rolling back and forth in the confined space. “It's a compact,” he whispered, the pain visible now, framing each word, every syllable. “and I … I … I was wounded, but they … I was carrying Minh over my shoulders, and dragging Quy … already dead, maybe … I'm not sure. And then another round came in, fragmented in my spine, knocked me down. I lost my grip just as a chopper swooped in … the last chopper … someone dragged me aboard … I remember him screaming something like 'they're dead, let's go' … and we left them behind. My family.” “No! That's not fair!” Janis had not spoken with her mother, but Marilyn had left a message with the office to let her know that she was now representing Ian and would be shielding him. The note was still sitting on the desk in her room, asking her to thank all of the sisters that had stood duty outside his office, keeping the headhunters at bay. Her mother could not protect him from a nightmare. “You can't do this,” she protested, climbing to her feet, “because it's wrong. You were hurt so bad that you spent months in hospitals. There was nothing you could do! Nothing!!” “I'm sorry, Janis, but there's more.” Ian didn't know why, but it was somehow easier to confess his sins to one person than to a sea of disembodied faces. “We needed a base of operations, and because it was ideally located and we were welcome, I gravitated to Minh and Quy's village.” Ian took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “I was twenty-two when I met Nguyen, and fell in love with this beautiful, kind and caring woman who loved me in return. And our marriage was blessed. I have a daughter, Janis; her name is Linh, which is pronounced 'Ling' in Viet Nam, but 'Lynn' in America. We were, you see, thinking ahead.” A wistful smile creased Ian's features. They had batted names around in the dark, his head resting on her belly, the baby kicking out in protest. She had run her fingers through his hair, always so unruly. Julia gaped, as stunned as everyone else in the room. She stared at her daughter, watching the play of emotions washing across her features. Her gaze never wandered, and what Julia saw was pride and pain infusing love so intense that it radiated off of her in waves. In that moment, she realized that she had lost her little girl. And she knew how this story would end. There could be only one reason for this man to tell this story to this audience, to revisit all this pain. Scanning the room, seeing in their faces that none of the girls sensed how it would go … she pitied them for the choice that he would set before them. And she understood why her daughter had fallen in love. Julia had been wrong. Ian had not pulled the wool over her daughter's eyes. He had told her the truth. And Priscilla had embraced it, granted him the absolution of the confessional. Bernice Miller also knew what was coming. She had been widowed at twenty-seven, the telegram coming out of the darkness, her husband fallen at Pork Chop Hill. Eighteen months later, she had moved into the house, sharing it with young women less than a decade her junior. She had never remarried, and still wore her wedding ring. Bernice did not know what choice her charges would make, but they would choose, and their choices would have lasting consequences. This was the night, she sadly thought, when they would suffer childhood's end. Walt Mischof turned his head just enough to steal a glance at Bernice. They had known each other for so long, and had made the short trip together more than once-- to lay flowers on the graves of Bernice's husband and Walt's brother, both laid to rest in the VA cemetery out by the airport. The Chief knew that Bernice was childless, and that for all her bluster, she dearly loved the girls in her care-- an entire generation, and more, that she had taken from … How does the song go? “From crayons to perfume” … He knew that she was hurting, sadness and regret marring her features. Although the ground was snow covered, he resolved to ask her to join him in another visit once term came to an end, when almost every student went home for the holidays. Although it won't be much of a holiday for these girls … “I always left a skeleton force behind to secure the village in our absence,” Ian continued, “but not once did I leave Minh and Quy behind … and that was my mistake. When I was wounded … while I was in the hospital … the unit was disbanded, and my men moved on. There was no one left to defend the village … and at some point it was attacked. I knew nothing until I went home … to the village … and found it deserted. Even then, it took time to piece together what had happened ...” Ian dipped his head and so did not see the looks of horror as the truth began to dawn around the room. “I saw photos,” he went on, still oblivious. “My wife … my sister in law … her parents … everyone was dead, their bodies left where they had fallen. Everyone except the babies and small children. We … we think that someone who knew about my gift for languages also knew that I had a child, who would be incredibly valuable if she inherited my gift. But whoever did this did not know which child, so they played it safe by taking them all and leaving no one alive to tell the tale. And it was only by accident that we were able to piece together what had happened.” Ian looked over at Julia, knowing full well that she had unmasked him. “This was eight years ago, and on that day the search for my daughter began. I made a deal … some would say with the Devil. I travel the globe putting my talents to work for the CIA, and in return they have made finding Linh a priority mission. Others are searching as well, including ...” Looking up, Ian grinned sheepishly. “Including Mafia overlords, with whom I have a somewhat complex relationship. And that brings me to Spats Belmondo.” Reading the room, Chief Mischof chuckled to himself. The hammer was about to fall, and every head was upturned, awaiting the blow. “I don't know the man, but I do know the mindset. Julia is right. You've humiliated a Mafia don, and he can't ignore the hit. If he doesn't respond, his enemies will sense weakness and seek to exploit it, and the danger of betrayal within his own ranks is greater still. We have to make him the proverbial offer that he can't refuse; otherwise he will come for you, and there will be no easy deaths. An oldie but goodie would be to turn you into addicts, and then put you to work in the streets. Life expectancy? Less than three years.” The Chief estimated that more than half the people in the room were terror stricken-- and his officers covering the doorways didn't look so good either. But it wasn't every day that a CIA agent with the Professor's vast experience showed up so bluntly to talk about the facts of life. “I don't envy you your choices,” Ian concluded, “but I pray that you will prove wiser than me. There's the family you're born into, and the family you choose. Look around you, and ask yourself who you see. Are these mere acquaintances who share your life for a few years, and then depart, never to be seen again? Or are these what sorority girls have long styled themselves … sisters? Is this the family you have chosen?” Ian once more rested his hand on Melanie's shoulder. “I chose a family, and my mistakes cost them their lives. I'll carry that burden with me to the grave. If Tippi and Cindy, Janis and Melanie … others here … are your family, don't abandon them. If you do, the knowledge of what you have done will haunt you forever.” Ian turned to Priscilla, and mouthed one word. Nodding, she walked over to Janis and got her to her feet. Ian was gambling that cuffing her would bring home the reality of the situation in a way that mere words couldn't. Priscilla led her out of the room; she would get one of the officers on duty outside to put her in the back of a patrol car, collect Ian's diaper bag, and then return to change him. The battle for the sorority's collective soul would either be won or lost before she reentered the dining room. . . . . “Mommy, I poopy,” Vickie whined. “Let Mommy check,” Sarah replied as she kicked off the covers to roll over and sniff Vickie's butt. They had gone to bed only minutes before, entwined in each others arms. Vickie's head was cradled against Sarah's chest, and she was praying that her baby girl would begin to nurse. Sarah would cheerfully exchange the breast pump for Vickie's hungry mouth any day of the week and twice on Sunday. “Yep, you're poopy, all right. But don't worry; Mommy will clean you up and get you into a nice, dry diaper. Then we'll go to sleep, and Mommy will change you again in the morning.” Sarah reached over to the nightstand, grabbed Vickie's pacifier, and held it out to her. Vickie opened her mouth, accepted the offering, and began eagerly sucking on her binkie. Sarah had given up on the idea of sending Vickie to work in a dirty, stinky diaper. In so many ways, Vickie really was a big baby desperately in need of a mother's love, and Sarah was determined to see that she received it. In the morning, she would let Rita know that there had been a slight change in the plans for their new household, and a massive change in strategies. The antidote to Vickie's rebelliousness was to be found in diapers and baby pants, bottles and binkies, and above all in the love that a mommy and auntie could lavish upon their baby girl. A return to infancy would give the lonely little girl inside Victoria Robinson a chance to heel. 5 Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted March 29 Share Posted March 29 Emotionally, a very, very powerful chapter. The most recent chapter of Aardvark had me laughing, and this one brought tears to my eyes. My heart breaks for Janis. You are tapping into a parent's deep fear of losing a child, and having their children make terrible mistakes as they enter adulthood. This is the cord that's hard to cut. And how good it is to see Sarah helping Vickie as an act of love. Until now, I've wondered whether she was even capable of love. 1 Link to comment
CDfm Posted March 29 Share Posted March 29 Awesome chapter. I had to read this one slowly to absorb it fully. It was indeed a deep emotional chapter. Finding someone with the kinds of experiences that Ian has who is willing to discuss them is not a very common thing. I realize this is a story and to keep it interesting there are going to be some stretches of reality. Having Ian making such admissions to a crowd like that is really stretching it for me. I still want to stress that I believe that you are doing an outstanding job writing this and I am enjoying it. I honestly don’t know how you could have inserted that information into the story in a different manner either so I will accept it and move forward. 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted March 30 Author Share Posted March 30 20 hours ago, CDfm said: Finding someone with the kinds of experiences that Ian has who is willing to discuss them is not a very common thing. You're quite right. In scene one, we learn that Sarah quit her job at the VA because she can't penetrate the walls the vets have built around their emotions. Ian has to trade war stories with Phil to draw him out, and Ian and Amos have to tag team Don in a group setting to achieve a breakthrough. We also learn that Sofia only found out about her husband's wartime experience after his death. It is indeed highly, highly unusual for a veteran to open up the way Ian is doing here. So, what's going on? 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted March 31 Author Share Posted March 31 On 3/29/2024 at 6:20 PM, CDfm said: Having Ian making such admissions to a crowd like that is really stretching it for me. In the next scene, Bernice will be asking pretty much the same questions you raise here, although the setup comes in the next two scenes in AARDVARK, which come first. So, a pivotal character also finds this all rather odd, which makes Ian's unusual behavior an integral part of the plot. Again we ask: what is he up to? Just as Vickie is defined early on, and then hints are scattered to lead you to anticipate what you are now learning about her, so there are hints scattered throughout the text to foretell what Ian is doing. In short, you are being set up, in the manner of Alec Leamas in Le Carre's early and brilliant The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, and the clues will continue to dribble out as we move forward. Hope you have fun unraveling the mystery! 1 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 1 Author Share Posted April 1 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it is recommended that readers jump from this scene to AARDVARK, scenes 7 and 8. Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 2 Author Share Posted April 2 Quickie historical quiz: While the massacre of Ian's village is fictional, there were other alleged war crimes in Viet Nam (Operation Speedy Express, for one), but the slaughter of civilians in only one community resulted in the prosecution and conviction of an American officer. This community was: A. Da Nang B. Khe Sanh C. Le Drang D. My Lai Link to comment
Guilend Posted April 2 Share Posted April 2 It was either A or D, D calls to me though lol 1 Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted April 3 Share Posted April 3 21 hours ago, Babypants said: D. My Lai D. My Lai 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 4 Author Share Posted April 4 On 3/29/2024 at 6:20 PM, CDfm said: I honestly don’t know how you could have inserted that information into the story in a different manner either so I will accept it and move forward. As a general rule, a fiction writer should try to avoid info dumps. The better approach is to fill out a character's backstory in dialog. The character her/himself can be one of the participants, or the subject of a conversation between others. There's a crisp example of the latter coming up in a future scene (The Curtain Rises), when Becky braces Rita in her office and lays out what she has learned about Ian's past. Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 8 Author Share Posted April 8 A NEW DAY “Good morning, baby girl,” Sarah whispered in Vickie's ear as she rubbed her shoulder. “Time to rise and shine, and drink your ba bas!” Sarah had awakened to find Vickie's head still nestled up against her chest, the rhythmic beating of her heart soothing her baby as once, long ago, the beating of a mother's heart had perhaps comforted her in the womb. Sarah had taken her time getting out of bed, choosing to let Vickie sleep since there was only room for one in her bathroom. She had showered and dressed, and fixed her hair and makeup before retreating to the kitchen to warm the last two bottles of breast milk in the frig. There was still one clean diaper left in Vickie's diaper bag, which would have to do until they got to work. Sarah wanted Vickie to become functionally incontinent as quickly as possible, which meant a steady diet of breast milk laced with diuretics and laxatives. Her target was six to eight diaper changes a day, and for all of them to be poopy. From Sarah's point of view, the diaper pails that she had at home, and in both her office and Rita's, couldn't fill up fast enough. “Did you sleep well, Sweetie?” “Yes, Mommy! Like a baby,” Vickie cleverly replied. “Aw, you're so cute, and Mommy loves you sooo much! Now, let me crawl into bed, sit up, and cradle you in my lap. It's time for breakfast!” Vickie obliged, and a few moments later was sucking on the nipple of her pink baby bottle. As she nursed, she felt completely at peace. Looking down on her new baby, Sarah was silently cursing herself. She had known Vickie for almost ten years, and in all that time had paid no attention to the warning signs. Living life on the high wire was a self-destructive cry for help, and she had ignored it-- she and Rita, both. No more. We're a family, and it took having Ian come along to drive the point home … drive it into our very thick skulls. We're a family, and what do families do when one of us is hurting? We pitch in, and we help. Vickie needs her mother … needs to experience love at first hand. That's where Rita and I come in, so that … Please,God, please let Vickie and Ian have children! “Diapee, Mommy! Diapee!” “Oh, you finished your ba ba already?? Such a good baby girl! Yes, you are; yes, you are!” Sarah fished the key to Vickie's diaper cover out of her pocket, and unlocked it. Vickie raised her hips, and Sarah quickly removed the cover and baby pants, setting them aside. They were clean enough to be reused, but would soon need to be replaced. On both, the smell from Vickie's poop was unmistakable. Sarah ran her hand over Vickie's diaper, and was delighted to discover that it was soaked. Her baby girl had wet heavily during the night, and perhaps more than once. Her control was rapidly slipping away. Leaning down, Sarah took a deep breath, and instantly recoiled. “Baby girl, did you make a poopies in your sleep for your mommy?” Sarah found it remarkably easy to speak to Vickie as if she were an infant. “Poopy, Mommy … poopy!” “Well, let's get you out of that dirty diaper, get you into the tub, and get that cute, little bottom of yours nice and clean! Does that sound good, baby girl?” “Yes, Mommy! Clean!” Taking Vickie by the hand, Sarah led her into the bathroom, but did not attack her diaper until she was safely in the tub. When she unpinned the heavy, wet fabric, it was full of mushy poop, which was also coating the whole of her nether region. During the night, the laxatives had done their work. “I'm sorry, Mommy; I'm such a baby.” “Don't be sorry, baby girl.” Sarah was using a damp washrag to clean off as much of the mess as possible, but suddenly she paused. “I'm sorry, Vickie. I love you … you and Rita, both … my sisters. And I am so ashamed that I never saw how much you were hurting.” “She never loved me,” Vickie wailed. “I was … was such an inconvenience … a … a blemish on her country club standing. She never loved me!” Vickie broke down completely, holding onto Sarah for dear life, Sarah hugging her close in return. “The past is the past, over and done.” Sarah was whispering into Vickie's ear, trying to give her hope, trying to connect with whatever vestige of faith in others that Vickie could still muster. “I love you, baby girl, now and forever. And Ian loves you … God, how that man loves you! Both of you will always be my babies, long after yours have grown up and run off to make lives of their own. And you will, you know? You and Ian? My crystal ball tells me that you will have at least two daughters, maybe more!” Sarah hugged Vickie, willing her to let go, willing her tears to flow. For both of them, the morning had brought a new day. . . . . Opening the door just a crack, Bernice peeked into the guest room. In the last hour before dawn, it was still pitch black outside, and the only light entering the room came from the hallway behind her. In the darkness, she could not tell if Ian was still asleep. Entering the room but leaving the door partially open, Bernice approached the bed. Looking down, she saw that he was still sleeping peacefully, still holding tight to the pacifier that Suzie had offered him the night before. What a contradiction in terms you are. Truly, an enigma. In the semi darkness, standing beside the bed, Bernice was studying him, trying to get all the disparate pieces of the puzzle that was Professor Ian Grady to come together in a meaningful pattern. I'm glad that Suzie came over, and offered to help get you settled in for the night. And it was so nice of you to let her feed you the bottles of breast milk that Sarah insists you drink at bedtime, though what that's all about I have absolutely no idea. And as for the pacifier … Bernice shook her head, still baffled by what she had seen and learned about this young man. Suzie told me how you helped Wendy Stafford, and something about volunteering to help vets at the hospital. And last night you helped my girls, kept most of them from making a terrible mistake that would tear this house apart and saddle them with lifelong guilt … What you told them about Viet Nam … lifting the veil on all the hurt you carry around inside you … collapsing into Priscilla's arms with another seizure … how can you do this to yourself? Does retreating into infancy like this somehow balance the scale? Allow you to function? Bernice set the two bottles of warm breast milk on the nightstand, where they would be within easy reach of the couch. She would wake him, feed him, change his diaper during the course of his morning routine, and offer him a decent breakfast. The Chief would swing by to pick them both up, delivering Ian to his morning class and her to a meeting with the Dean that was bound to be awkward and humiliating in the extreme. Later, the three of them would go downtown, to the courthouse, where Ian and the District Attorney would do their best to sell a settlement to the court that would spare the girls public exposure yet satisfy the wrath of the gangster who owned the diaper service. Bernice desperately wanted her girls back. There were only eleven in the house, and it felt as empty as a tomb. These would be gone by term's end, leaving her with forty-one charges with a criminal record hanging over their heads-- forty-one charges who would be wearing and using diapers 24/7 for the rest of their university careers. If Tippi and Cindy agree to Ian's plan … if the DA doesn't have a change of heart when he gets up this morning … if the judge will go along with this absurd plan to keep Spats Belmondo at bay … Truly, an enigma. . . . . It was a morning ritual that dated back to Priscilla's mid-teens. Her dad got up first, and headed downstairs to start the percolator. When the paper landed on the front porch, he went out to collect it. Then, cup of scalding black coffee in hand, he sat down, took out the sports pages, and settled back to read about the latest misadventure suffered by the Twins or the Vikings, the North Stars or the Gophers. Forever doomed to be teased but disappointed, only a masochist could love sports in Minnesota. This Thursday morning started out like all the others. In due course, Julia staggered down the stairs-- a person best avoided until she had drowned her displeasure with the world in general and Minnesotans in particular in a cup of joe, no cream or sugar added, thank you very much. Julia hated mornings almost as much as she hated stakeouts. When she arrived on scene, like Pavlov's dog Herb put down his cup, opened the paper wide, and hid behind the thin but hopefully impenetrable barrier of the Star Tribune. They both understood that Julia could violate the truce, but only if she was having a particularly bad morning. The twenty ninth of November, in the year known as 1979 in some circles and 2522 in others, was a particularly bad morning. Invariably, Priscilla was the last to put in an appearance. She had discovered early on that hiding behind a cup of coffee didn't work if you were the third and last to arrive, so she had developed an ongoing love affair with the toaster. It was so positioned in a corner of the kitchen that anyone bowing down in worship before it would have their back turned to the dining room table. On good days, Priscilla would have her slice of white bread lightly toasted; on bad days, it would come out burnt to a crisp. This was an especially bad day. Priscilla had given careful thought to the confrontation-- in fact, had been thinking about it for years. No man would ever be good enough for Herb and Julia Canon's little girl, although it had become glaringly obvious in recent years that her lack of matrimonial prospects was worrying them both. Parents, she thought as she sat down directly opposite her mother and began doling out the butter and the apricot jam; they always want to have their cake and eat it too. She had come to the table this morning prepared for combat. Parents could be dragons, but she was a dragon slayer. And she had in her possession the one weapon before which the most fiery of dragons were helpless. Grandchildren. The ultimate weapon in the eternal war between the generations. She had seen it in Ian's eyes. When he first spoke of his daughter, his expression had softened, his eyes filled with tenderness and love. And then had come the moment when he acknowledged her loss, and his eyes had filled with pain, hot and searing. Priscilla did not know whether the search for Linh and Thu would ever bear fruit, but she knew that she wanted to start a family, and for Ian to be the one who gave her children. If anything could heal a wound cutting this deep into the soul, even diminish its pain, it was to have more children. And time would be on her side. She might suffer their wrath today, but her parents would never take out their displeasure on her children. In time, all would be forgiven. “About Quantico,” she decided to begin. And sure enough … Herb lowered his newspaper, and looked at her quizzically. “Dad, you were right about Ian … well, both right and wrong. He does work for the CIA, but he's not on the payroll. It's more like he does them the occasional favor, and in return they search ...” Priscilla visibly choked on what she had to say next. She didn't need to see photographs to imagine what rats and the tropical sun had done to Ian's family. The rats had visited her in her sleep. “Search?” Herb had set the newspaper aside. “For his daughter, Dad. The Agency is searching for his daughter. He married in Viet Nam, but when he was in hospital, someone came to the village. They slaughtered everyone except the little children. Ian … the whole intelligence community suspects that someone knew he had a child, and took the children because they didn't know which one was his. It's his gift for languages, Dad; you don't know how rare it is. If his daughter has inherited it, her value would be incalculable.” Herb glanced at his wife. “Did you know about this?” “I found out last night, at the sorority house. He bared his soul to keep those girls from making a terrible mistake. It worked, but the cost to him personally was high. And this morning he and Q-Ball are going into court to try and sell the judge on a plan that they cobbled together on the fly … a plan to buy off Spats Belmondo.” Herb let out a deep sigh. He was almost afraid to ask the next question. “And what does Quantico have to do with this?” "Ian called a friend at Langley … a Deputy Director. They want me to do the embassy security course so that ...” Priscilla paused, not sure which parent to address. Neither of them was likely to take what was coming next very well. “The Agency expects Ian to have more children, and they don't want a repeat of what happened in Viet Nam. So, a security net will be dropped over any woman he sleeps with. The net will become more visible if someone gets pregnant, and very tight once the baby is born. Ian wants me to take charge of the inner security ring-- the one inside the house, and on the surrounding grounds. I'm the logical choice because ...” Priscilla took a deep breath, hoping that her parents could guess what she was about to confess. “... because I'm already inside the net.” “You're sleeping with him.” Julia made it a statement, not a question. “Were either of you using protection?” Priscilla shook her head. “No, and we won't be in the future.” “You want to have a baby … with a man you've known for what … three days? Priscilla, this is insane!” Herb wondered whether his daughter had actually taken leave of her senses. “And where,” he pressed, “does this leave Rita … and Vickie … and, and … what's the name of the one he's going to marry?” Herb was looking at his wife, desperately in need of answers not only to the question he was asking but also to the ones he wasn't. “Sarah,” Julia prompted. “Right,” Herb said, “Sarah. Where does this leave Sarah?” “On Saturday night, when they hear the truth, the three of them will have to decide whether they want to pay the price that loving Ian demands. The loss of privacy … the price is high, Dad, so we're going to wait to hear what they have to say.” “And if the three of them want to go ahead with this bizarre plan of theirs?” “Then the three of us will become the four of us,” Priscilla shrugged. “It's that simple.” “So you propose to have a baby out of wedlock ...” “Oh, Dad, really? Ozzie and Harriet, Dad? Donna Reed? In case you haven't noticed, the nineteen fifties have come and gone. Welcome to the seventies! Even Three's Company is passé! With inflation and all? Five's company sounds about right!” “Pris, I have never been so proud of you in my whole life as I was last night.” Julia opted to try a different approach. “Ian is a remarkable person, and he's hurting in ways that I can't even begin to fathom. And you were there for him, embracing his pain, giving him the strength to do something that had to be done despite the cost. You love him, and he loves you. That's so plain to see that I expect the whole campus to be talking about little else today. I'm happy for you, but I would like you to tone it down until Saturday night rolls around. Be gentle. Give Sarah … give all three of them some time to come to terms with this.” “Julia ...” “No, Herb. We have to respect our daughter's wishes. Besides, you're two years away from retirement, and I'm sick of stakeouts. We can take the money we'd blow on a big wedding and finally take that cruise we've been talking about all these years. Then I'll be ready to become a grandma, and spoil my grandson or daughter rotten.” “Okay … okay.” Herb threw his hands in the air in surrender. “I know when I'm beaten.” “Good,” Priscilla declared. “Now that that's out of the way, it will be okay for you to tag along tonight.” “Tonight? Where?” “To the bar, of course. Ian, Vickie, an orderly named Amos Waring, and yours truly are challenging the reigning champs to a drinking contest, with Hong Kong Rules. Ian thinks you're too old to hold your own, but I told him you were good for it. We'll see.” “And what exactly are Hong Kong Rules,” Herb smiled. “Tequila shots until someone pisses their pants. The loser has to buy the next round for the whole bar. We play until one team is all pissed out-- and it won't be us because Vickie and I will be wearing the same diaper Ian wears … that big, thick hospital monstrosity. We'll be able to piss ourselves with merry abandon, and no one will be the wiser! We win, and become the new champs, much to the delight of the Third, which is strongly of the opinion that Amos will still be standing when everyone else passes out.” “We'll see.” Herb's smile was getting bigger by the second. “Starting time?” “Around eight. I promised Ian a gourmet meal of home made onion rings, a juicy lucy, and house cut fries. Since I'm the world's worst cook, I need to lower his expectations.” “Now, that sounds more like the daughter I know and love,” Julia laughed. “I think I'll tag along, if only to pick up the pieces and figure out who's going to be sleeping where!” . . . . Ian picked up the phone on the first ring. “That you, Street?” “In the flesh.” “You'll be happy to know that I've got you on speed dial,” Donnie laughed. “I gather you made the local news last night; don't let being a celebrity go to your head!” “They mentioned me by name?” Ian was pretty sure that Donnie was pulling his leg. “Nah … just a global reference to somebody ripping off diapers from a badly wounded war hero. Anybody say anything in class just now?” “Nary a word.” “Well, then, as you have been known to say: 'no harm done'. Now about Vincent Belmondo ...” Ian could hear Donnie shuffling papers on his desk. “Street, you have a talent for unearthing interesting people, and this guy is definitely interesting. Let's start with his father, Tommaso. Got off the boat from Naples in twenty four, blew a kiss to the Statue of Liberty, and immediately headed west … destination, Chicago. Grandfather was definitely Neapolitan, so if there's a Sicilian connection, it won't show up on our end. Capiche?” “Got it. I'll pursue it from this end. Maybe Antonio will have a better sense of the family history.” “Going to call him?” “Yeah, but it would help if you could come up with something to add spice to the conversation.” “Consider it done. Your Libyan pal has let it be known that there's not enough grease on his palms.” “That works. Antonio is getting on in years, but he still likes to keep his hand in. Let him run with the ball.” “Don't fancy a desert outing, I take it.” “Camels make me seasick. I learned my lesson in that Algerian fiasco. One hundred and forty five degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, only there was no shade. And the gold embossing on my passport melted! The immigration officer gave me a really funny look when I landed at LAX.” “Okay, so back to the American branch of clan Belmondo. Tommaso quickly hooks up with Al Capone, and starts running trucks over to Lake Huron. With a little help from the Purple Gang, Tommaso is soon making regular runs with Seagram's finest, and he gets rewarded for his loyalty and reliability. In short, for a Wop fresh off the boat, after a couple of years spent proving his worth, he's living the American dream, complete with wife and child. Only, he doesn't want his first-born son to get caught up in the family business, so he scrimps and saves to put his boy through private schools with a penchant for sending their prodigies to the Ivies.” “You have got to be kidding me!” Ian was laughing so hard that he doubled over. “Nope!” Donnie was laughing just as loud. “Brown, class of forty eight … a Phi Beta Kappa, no less! And then … then … Vincent takes an MBA at Princeton-- my alma mater! Ian, no matter what … please … I'm begging you … find out if he remembers the fight song!” “It'll be high on my list, Donnie … high on my list!” Ian could feel mushy poop pouring into his diaper, which seemed only fitting given the way this conversation was going. “So, after he gets his degree, he goes back to Chicago, at a moment when Minneapolis is wide open because Humphrey's run the mob out of town. Seizing the opportunity, Vincent migrates north to fill the void, but he's smart enough to realize that no one is going to take an Ivy League hood seriously, so he comes up with Spats Belmondo, and sells the product with the help of Tony Accardo, who by then is running the Chicago Outfit.” “Oh, this just gets better and better,” Ian guffawed; “no wonder he has a hard on for wood chippers … he was tutored by Joe Batters, no less!” “Yep, the Big Tuna himself!” “Okay,” Ian decided, “here's what we're going to do. Call our friends at the IRS, and have them send a certified letter to Spats informing him that he's won the grand prize-- a comprehensive audit of the last seven years of his personal and business returns.” “That will certainly get his attention,” Donnie chuckled. “But have our guy add a phone number and extension at the bottom of the letter, and do it by hand. I'll tell Spats that, if he plays ball, he's one phone call away from getting a reprieve. And to sweeten the deal, an ironclad guarantee that he can visit the old country without worrying about being denied reentry when he comes home.” “Okay, so after you recruit him, what the hell are you going to do with him?” “Put him to work, of course. In fact, if they're still juicing the food service industry, I'm going to put the whole, damned Mafia to work!” . . . . “This is gross,” Melanie complained. “I mean seriously. What's the point of getting us up at six? Hello? We're in jail, already! It's not like we have to dash off to class or something … and that shower! The last time anybody cleaned the floor in this dump was when dinosaurs were walking the earth!” “And the food,” Joyce added; “don't forget the food! A two week old Danish? And corn flakes? I didn't know that anyone even made corn flakes anymore!” “And you call this milk?” Cindy had her own litany of complaints. “Poor Blofeld would starve to death in here!” “Good riddance,” Janis muttered to herself. “Sweetie, you gonna eat that Danish?” Ruby was eyeing Tippi's pastry the way a shark eyed its next meal. “Help yourself,” Tippi said. Ruby did just that. The twelve cellmates were having breakfast at a long trestle table in the dining hall. “You count yourself lucky you locked up in Hennepin County,” Ruby smugly declared. “You know what you get for dinner out in Dakota? Turkey sandwiches! Seven days a week, you get turkey sandwiches, with this thimbleful of fruit cocktail. At least, I think it's fruit cocktail, though it's a bit hard to tell. Turkey sandwiches!” “Gross,” Melanie reiterated. “Worse than the house, worse than the dorms … gross!” “I want to go home,” Janis whined. “My mom's gonna kill me, but so what? I want to go home!” “She ain't gonna kill you, beeech. Nope, no way, no how. She gonna be diapering you, and taking her damned sweet time changing you. You gonna stink to high heaven. Even the cops down in the Third ain't gonna touch you, and they got no taste whatsoever! Yep, I can see it now-- you gonna be dumping your breakfast in the seat of your pants.” “The corn flakes' revenge,” one of the other hookers cackled. “The corn flakes' revenge!” Janis folded her arms, and lowered her head to the tabletop. “I want to go home,” she repeated. “I want to go home ...” “Oh, for God's sake!” Tippi had had it. Pounding the table with both palms, she got to her feet, and glared at her sisters. “Just listen to you! They got us up too early … the shower's dirty … the food sucks … what the hell did you expect? For crying out loud, this is a jail! We'll be out of here in a few hours, so suck it up! We screwed up a simple heist, but we're getting off easy. We wear diapers for a few semesters, but so what? Professor Grady has been wearing diapers for years! And the fine? Big deal! It's our parents who'll be picking up the tab. And what are they gonna do … spank us? Yeah, like that's gonna hurt when we're wearing diapers. Jeesh!!!” “Tip's right,” Kimberly declared as she climbed to her feet. “No one's locking up these babies ...” Kimberly was running her hands back and forth across her very well endowed chest. “... and my blow jobs are second to none! I'll survive!” “You go, girl,” Ruby clapped. “You and me? Maybe we can show the rest of these pussies how it's done!” Ruby stuck her thumb in her mouth, wiggled it around a bit, and began moaning as she sucked (or perhaps, Dear Reader, she was sucking as she moaned; we'll leave it up to your imagination). . . . . “Hail, hail, the gang's all here,” Chief Mischof gleefully remarked as he walked into the courtroom behind Bernice and Ian. With a sincere grin lighting up his features, Walt walked over to shake hands with Herb Canon. He settled for nodding to Julia and Priscilla, glad to see that both had showed up to testify if it should prove necessary. “You okay?” Ignoring everyone else, Priscilla had walked straight to Ian, and reached out to clasp both his hands. Her concern for his well-being was obvious to all. “Bernice gave me the five star treatment,” Ian smiled; “Bernice and Suzie Marshall both.” “Suzie? What was she doing there?” Ian could hear the alarm in Priscilla's voice. “Pris, she came over to see if Bernice needed any help. And she was nice … more than nice. She was kind. This morning, Bernice told me that Suzie is going to declare me off limits to the scalp hunters, and apparently she has enough clout to make it stick. Apparently I said something to Suzie last night that had a real impact, and I don't even know what it was. Bernice knows, but she refuses to say.” Ian briefly looked her way. Walt stared at the floor, trying hard not to let Julia and Herb see what he was thinking. He knew, because Bernice had told him. Barely twenty-four, and yet Ian had been ready to die. He had lost far more than a wife and daughter in Viet Nam. “I think … I think it has something to do with her husband, who died at the very end of the Korean War … on hill 255 … what we kill Pork Chop Hill.” Ian's voice had grown very soft. “Have you noticed, Pris? Bernice still wears her wedding ring.” “Oh, Ian,” Priscilla sobbed. “God, how I love you!” She reached out to clutch him in her arms, her head resting upon his shoulder. A part of her, a big part, wanted never to let go. 6 Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted April 10 Share Posted April 10 As advertised, emotionally intense. Gotta admit that I didn't put the clues together, but now Vickie's character really makes sense. And she's bringing out the best in Sarah. I also love what you are doing with Bernice and Tippi, who seem so real. Another great chapter, in a terrific story. Can't wait for more. 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 11 Author Share Posted April 11 Quickie entertainment quiz: Hold That Tiger, the famous Princeton fight song, is featured in a well regarded movie about professional football. This film is: A. Leatherheads B. North Dallas Forty C. Semi-Tough D. The Longest Yard 1 Link to comment
Guilend Posted April 11 Share Posted April 11 D because it's the only one I've seen a long time ago lol Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted April 11 Share Posted April 11 12 hours ago, Babypants said: A. Leatherheads A 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 11 Author Share Posted April 11 9 hours ago, littlebopeeper said: A We have a winner! 1 Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted April 14 Share Posted April 14 On 4/11/2024 at 6:18 PM, Babypants said: We have a winner! Thank you! I'm hooked on movies, and I really like period pieces. Eight Men Out, Some Like It Hot, The Sting, Bonnie and Clyde-- and don't get me started on Bogart! 1 Link to comment
CDfm Posted April 16 Share Posted April 16 This was a fantastic chapter. It was a very emotional chapter. I was a little surprised at the information in the beginning of the chapter. Sarah telling us that she is planning on letting Vickie and Ian have several babies. I thought all along the plan was for all three to give birth. Then Priscilla is also planning on getting pregnant with Ian. In some respects I am really enjoying the bouncing between stories to tell the story. Both stories are independent tales yet are pretty tightly intertwined. I am just not sure what story I should be reading first to keep a better flow. I would actually appreciate it if you could drop a hint as to which one should be read first. I am looking forward to seeing both continue. 1 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 17 Author Share Posted April 17 2 hours ago, CDfm said: I am just not sure what story I should be reading first to keep a better flow. I would actually appreciate it if you could drop a hint as to which one should be read first. Thanks for commenting. When it's important, I do insert an advisory. For example, at the start of scene 3 in Aardvark, you are advised to read scene 37 (Deep Doo-Doo) in Homage first. You can't go wrong if you read them in the order in which they are posted here (posting date sits atop each new chapter), but as a general rule it's not critical. The two stories are designed to overlap in the same way that Quentin Tarantino set up Kill Bill 1 and 2. The great benefit of writing a scene common to two stories is that you can show different sides of a character's personality with a simple shift in point of view. The Suzie Marshall that you are now seeing in Aardvark is very different from the character to whom you have been introduced in Homage. 2 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 17 Author Share Posted April 17 AN OFFER HE CAN'T REFUSE “Please rise.” The bailiff scanned the courtroom, making sure that everyone had got the message. “This court is now in session,” he intoned; “the Honorable Judge Thomas Reynolds presiding." “Be seated,” the judge commanded as he spread his black robe and took his seat. Looking around the courtroom, he took the measure of the five defendants, and then shifted his gaze to the District Attorney. “Mister Ballstrom, I'm surprised to see you here this morning. What have we got?” “Solicitation, Your Honor,” the DA said in a conversational tone. “The Public Defender has agreed to a pleading on behalf of all five of the defendants.” “I see … or rather, I don't. Mister Ballstrom, in the immortal words of the Rolling Stones, The Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man could have adjudicated this matter. So, I ask again: what brings you to my little corner of the world?” “It's the next matter on the docket, Your Honor. It's rather unusual.” The judge looked down at the paperwork in front of him, then looked back up. “I see what you mean. Forty one defendants … multiple acts of related and unrelated theft … conspiracy … aiding and abetting … what did they steal?” “Diapers, Your Honor.” “Diapers?” Judge Reynolds gave Q-Ball one of those looks that suggested his sanity was in question. “Are you serious?” “Yes, Your Honor. We have one count involving theft from a local hospital, but the other victims were clients of a local business, the Lullaby Diaper Service. Unbeknownst to the thieves, Your Honor, the owner of this establishment is a local businessman of some renown-- one Vincent Belmondo.” The judge leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh as he began looking over the spectators. A few were familiar faces, elderly citizens seeking live entertainment in lieu of the televised sort, but he spotted Spats in the back row. The gangster was attended by his attorney, a slimeball of the first order whose name the judge could not recall, and an equally slimy flunky who bore an amazing resemblance to the late Toothpick Charlie. Spats appeared to be studying the back of Julia Canon's head, spearing her with one of those sinister looks that suggested a man trying to figure out where to park the ice pick. It was anybody's guess what the Canons were doing in his courtroom-- the Canons and Chief Mischof. Adding to the mystery, the Chief was flanked by a nicely dressed, middle aged woman on his left, and a well dressed young man on his right. And Priscilla Canon has her left hand firmly planted on the young man's thigh. Interesting … “Will Hercule Poirot be testifying for the prosecution?” “No, Your Honor. There are witnesses, but I do not believe that it will be necessary to call them.” “I see,” Reynolds said, although in reality he didn't see at all. “Well, then, let's get this show on the road. Miss Kaplan, how do your clients plead to a single count of solicitation each?” “Guilty, Your Honor,” the Public Defender declared. Reynolds sadly shook his head. “Ruby, I'm surprised at you. By now, I should have thought that you knew every officer and sheriff's deputy in the five country area. Are you losing your touch?” “No, Your Honor; they brought in a bunch of ringers. State troopers.” “Fair enough,” he smiled. “Mister Ballstrom, what have the two of you worked out?” “A five hundred dollar fine, Your Honor, and forty-five days in County, which will keep them out of our hair over the holidays.” “So ordered,” the Judge declared as he brought his gavel down with a commendable thump. “Next case!” Leaning still farther back in his chair, he began gently swiveling to left and right while while waiting for Ruby Montpelier and her friends to exit, and a gaggle of forty one new defendants to take their place. Forty one defendants in one courtroom … this has got to be one for the Guiness Book of Records ... He stopped swiveling when it dawned on him that the defendants were all college girls, none of them likely to be over twenty-one years of age. “Mister Ballstrom,” he barked, “can you assure me that there are no minors in this group?” “I can, Your Honor; the youngest is eighteen.” “And who is their legal counsel?” “Your Honor, we are waiving our right to counsel.” “And you are?” “My name is Tippi Anne Bjornsen, Your Honor. We are all members of the Zeta Alpha Pi sorority, and my sisters have asked me to represent us in this matter.” “Stealing diapers, you mean. What on earth possessed you to do something this stupid?” “It was a sorority stunt, Your Honor, but it got out of hand-- and we do have someone to speak for us.” “And who would that be?” “Professor Grady, Your Honor.” “C'est moi,” Ian announced as he climbed smoothly to his feet. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked through the gate and crossed the courtroom to stand at Tippi's side. “Professor Ian Grady, Your Honor … and no, I'm not on the Law School faculty. My beat is East Asian Languages, and to make this affair a bit odder still, I am a customer of Mister Belmondo's diaper service-- in fact, the last one to have his diapers stolen, Miss Bjornsen here having done the honors.” “You're wearing a diaper,” the Judge declared, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Fully incontinent, Your Honor, courtesy of an AK-47 round, a piece of which is still lodged in my spine. And I apologize in advance if I … uh …” “I quite understand,” the Judge interjected. “Viet Nam?” “Special Forces, Fifth Airborne. Nha Trang. Ended up a Major.” “Judge Advocate,” Reynolds replied; “Marines … Da Nang. I was fortunate enough to get out in one piece. Welcome to my courtroom, Major; it's an honor.” “Now,” he continued, “what have the two of you masterminds worked out?” The Judge nodded at the District Attorney. “For the most part, Your Honor, it's pretty standard. Each of the forty one defendants will do six hours a week of community service at local hospitals, and will do so until they graduate. Professor Grady will see to their placement. Each will be fined in the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars, and they will remain on probation until graduation. The most unusual feature here, and one that we all agree is in the best interest of these young women, is that their collective grade point average must reach or exceed three point one throughout, or they will be in violation of their parole and making a return trip to court.” “I can live with that. Miss Bjornsen, do I need to poll each of you, or can you agree to these terms on behalf of your sorority house?” “We all agree, Your Honor … to these, and the additional term that has yet to be mentioned.” “Mr. Ballstrom?” “There is one additional element, Your Honor, and it is … unprecedented. However, before introducing it, I would like to request a recess so that Professor Grady can discuss the matter in private with Mister Belmondo. Rather than clear the courtroom, Your Honor, in the interests of time I would suggest that you allow them the use of your chambers.” Judge Reynolds stared hard at Q-Ball before coming to an abrupt decision. “Mister Ballstrom … Professor … Miss Bjornsen … in my quarters, now!” The Judge stormed out of the room, leaving a flabbergasted bailiff belatedly to announce that court was now in recess. Priscilla dashed through the gate, and followed in Ian's wake. She had smelling salts in her purse, and was prepared to intercede if this meeting went completely off the rails. . . . . “Knock, knock,” Vickie announced as she waltzed into Rita's office and dropped into her accustomed chair. “I only have one of Ian's diapers left in my bag. You got any?” “No, but not to panic. I washed and dried all the diapers that Sarah bought you when I got home last night, and I brought a dozen in with me. So, if we can get by with changing you three times a shift, we're good until early next week. Are you still continent?” “Hard to say. I'm peeing like a race horse, and my bowel control is shot. The breast milk is running right through me the same way it does Ian. I shit myself before bed, but Mommy changed me, and she was sweet about it. Same thing this morning. My diaper was absolutely soaked, and I messed at least once during the night. At the rate I'm going, I figure that in the near future I'll be going through about a dozen diapers a day.” “And you just walked in here without your winter coat while wearing your hospital diaper. Vickie, it is pretty obvious; are you becoming more comfortable with your diapers? With incontinence?” “Yes, definitely, and as odd as it might sound, I'm enjoying this.” Vickie frowned, sensing that she had misspoken. “That's not quite right. It's more like I'm benefiting from this … like it's therapy.” Rita leaned forward in her chair. She had occasionally wondered about the wellspring of Vickie's madcap lifestyle, but she had never questioned her. The wall of silence that surrounded her parents had always hinted at underlying emotional trauma. “When she was cleaning me up this morning, Sarah apologized for not paying attention to the warning signs … how I never talk about my family. She hugged me, and told me that I now had a mommy who loved her … cherished her … and that I would always be her little baby girl. And I started crying … bawling, really … and I couldn't stop. I was screaming that my parents had never loved me, and she was hugging me, telling me how much she loved me, and it felt so good to be loved … to be her baby girl. I need this, Rita; I really do!” “I'm glad, Vic … really glad, because if things go according to plan, on Saturday night you will be sleeping in your bed for the last time. It's going into storage. It's a tight fit, but yesterday I had another crib delivered and set up in the nursery-- your crib. You and Ian will both be our babies, and receive the love and the discipline that we think you deserve. You can be grown-ups with one another, but babies for us. Giving you a place in both worlds will allow you to heal, even as you express your love for one another.” “But … but … Auntie Rita, does this mean that you and Mommy aren't going to sleep with Ian?” “Oh, no, baby girl, far from it. Look, maybe it's the conversation we had last night, or maybe it's the one I'm having with Ian this afternoon, but I've been giving this a lot of thought. The way it looks is that you love Ian, and want children to be the outcome of that love. You want this so badly that I can easily see you throwing over your career to become a stay at home mom, and that's fine. But Sarah and I have careers that we're not giving up, only to have discovered at the eleventh hour that we also want to have children. We have both chosen Ian to be the father, and if that sounds calculating … well, it is. Oh, we do love him, but not in the way you see in the movies or read about in romance novels. He's a wonderful man, Vic, warm and giving, but also wounded and vulnerable and very complex. Passion is wonderful, but he also needs comforting-- a wife's love, and a mother's. So it's good that I'm a bit more comfortable with the baby than the man, and Sarah much prefers the baby to the man. I don't know where her control issues are coming from, but ultimately it doesn't matter because we need her. The bottom line, Vic? I don't want to run the household, and … sorry, but it's just not your thing. We can't do this without Sarah, so all of us are going to have to compromise. It looks like you will get to have the man to yourself most of the time; I'll settle for a piece of your action, and Sarah, I suspect, won't even be a disturbance in the Force!” “It all seems so cold … a household devoid of warmth ...” “Like an arranged marriage, you mean?” Rita softly laughed. “Well, it is an arranged marriage-- Sarah is arranging it! But they endure, Vic, and they tend to become more and more loving with the passage of time. And as for warmth?” Rita clapped her hands with delight, her eyes alive with good humor. “With two naughty babies in perpetual need of yet another spanking, you'll find that there's plenty of warmth in our household!” . . . . “Right,” Judge Reynolds snorted, “which one of you wants to tell me what's going on.” “Professor Grady will take it from here,” the DA quickly responded. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and this fiasco as possible. The judge simply looked at Ian. “Have you ever heard of Tony Accardo,” Ian asked. Reynolds shook his head. Uh, oh, Ballstrom thought. He was well acquainted with the Big Tuna, if only by reputation. “Tony heads up the Chicago Outfit-- a euphemism for the Mafia. He worked his way up through the ranks the old fashioned, Chicago way. His nickname, Joe Batters, doesn't leave much to the imagination. He mentored Belmondo, who seems to get a hard on around wood chippers. In short, Tippi here and her friends out there are in a lot of trouble. With your cooperation, I can make it go away.” Welcome to the real world, Tom ... Ballstrom had his head down. He was studying a speck of something on the carpet, wishing that he could make himself equally small. “Go on,” the Judge instructed. “We're going to make the punishment fit the crime, at least as Spats will see it. The girls are going to become his customers … diapers 24/7 for the whole of their probation. He'll get off on humiliating them, and turn a tidy profit in the process.” “And you think this lunacy will be enough to buy him off??” Ian nodded. “I've got some serious leverage that I can bring to bear, both carrots and sticks. But none of it is for public consumption. Give me ten minutes alone with him, and I'll seal the deal.” “Gareth, are you good with this?” Reynolds was done dancing around. “Yeah,” Ballstrom conceded. “Belmondo can't risk the consequences of a public humiliation, and I won't be reelected if he's going around bumping off sorority girls.” “And you think this man can make the pitch work?” The Judge was pointing at Ian. “I do.” “And how about you, Priscilla?” The Canons and the Reynolds lived on the same block, a mere four properties separating the two households. Reynolds considered himself lucky to have a grizzled veteran like Herb Canon living just down the street. “You can take anything Ian tells you to the bank.” Short and sweet. “And you are here … because?” “Part bodyguard, part nurse,” she replied. “Ian is a hot commodity that the university doesn't want to lose, so I've been assigned to keep the corporate headhunters at bay. But he also brought Viet Nam home with him in the form of flashbacks that can put him on the ground. So, I'm also here to get him back on his feet.” “All right. Professor, I don't know who you are, and from the looks of Gareth's body language, I'm content to leave it that way. You've got your ten minutes-- and help yourself to coffee. My clerk brews a mean pot!” . . . . “Be right back,” Julia said. Patting Herb's knee to reassure him, Julia headed toward the rear of the courtroom. Prudence dictated that she confront Belmondo on neutral ground. Herb followed her with his eyes, and so did Walt Mischof. “Not to worry, Herb,” the Chief muttered. “Spats is too smart to make his play in a crowded courtroom.” “How's business, Jerome? Ambulance chasing still paying the bills?” Julia had taken a seat directly in front of Jerome Goldstein, the white-haired attorney who had been running interference for Spats Belmondo for almost thirty years. “Making ends meet,” Goldstein laconically replied. He wasn't in the mood to play games with Julia Canon. Julia opened her purse, and pulled out a copy of her billing. She turned to face Spats, and thrust it in his face. “Tuesday's expenses came to nine hundred, fifty seven dollars and twenty-six cents. I haven't had a chance to work up yesterday's, but they'll be in the same neighborhood. A thousand up front would be nice.” “Pay da lady, Pauly,” Spats said to his Consigliere, who leaned forward to drop an envelope on the chair next to Julia's. She opened it, and quickly thumbed the ten C notes inside. “Do you want a receipt?” “What I want is an explanation for hows I ended up on da local news. Yous was supposed ta do this real quiet like.” “Take it up with Jerome. He apparently missed the lecture on setting up dummy corporations to hide the assets of clients who value their privacy.” “Dat right, Jerry?” Spats was glaring at his mouthpiece. “Your businesses are all legitimate, Vincent; you don't need fronts.” Jerome's tone was world weary. “Dats right, Twinkster; everytings legit. Only now, every two bit hood in da Cities knows that I deal in diapers, and dat I been ripped off by a bunch a college floozies. Dis ain't good … not good at all.” “Not to worry, Spats. Professor Grady-- one of your customers, by the way-- is selling it to the judge as we speak.” “Selling what?” “A plan that will make you a tidy profit if you play along. And you get to stick a fire hose up their asses in the process.” Julia nodded in the general direction of the young defendants. “I like da sound a dat.” Spats was licking his lips; after all, he was in business to make a profit. There was no such thing as too much cash on hand. “Then follow the Professor's lead.” Dropping the envelope into her purse, Julia walked across the courtroom to rejoin her husband. . . . . “Diapers aren't all that bad, Tippi-- especially when you've got the right person changing you.” Ian playfully winked at her. “Maybe we can change each other,” Tippi fired back, staring him down. After the judge had sneaked out of his chambers to pay a lengthy visit to the Men's Room with the District Attorney hot on his heels, Ian had escorted Tippi back to her friends while nudging Priscilla in the direction of her parents. There could be no witnesses to his conversation with Spats Belmondo. Sauntering to the rear of the courtroom, Ian sat down in the same seat that Julia had occupied a few minutes earlier. He took Goldstein's measure in one casual glance, but did a double take when he shifted his attention to the Consigliere. I swear to God! It's Toothpick Charlie, risen from the dead! Ah, well … time to get down to business … “Mister Belmondo, I'm Professor Ian Grady, one of Lullaby's adult customers. I'm happy with the product, and with the way your niece sees to my needs, but there are alternatives in the marketplace that offer superior protection. I'm wearing one right now.” Ian stood up, and turned around to give the trio a good look at his well padded rear. “Your business is about to expand, so if you'll give me your number, I'll set you up with a purchasing agent at the hospital who can point you in the right direction.” “Mister Belmondo's number is unlisted,” Goldstein interrupted, “but I'm in the phone book.” “Don't have a copy. Why don't you and Toothpick Charlie here go out and find me one? Spats and I have pressing matters to discuss, and the judge has been kind enough to offer us his chambers. He's even willing to share his coffee!” Ian looked down at the gangster with a pleasant smile on his lips, but his eyes were cold. Spats recognized the look. He was being measured for his coffin. “So you're da war hero dat I keep hearin' about.” Spats decided to bluff it out. “How many guys you clipped?” “The official count is eleven hundred, plus. The real number is north of twenty three hundred.” Ian's look did not change. “The judge is giving us the use of his chambers for ten minutes. Shall we?” Ian vaguely gestured at the door behind the bench. “Yeah. Let's get to it.” Spats climbed to his feet, double checked the shine on his shoes, and then followed Ian out of the courtroom. . . . . Priscilla was watching the girls milling around in the well of the court. Most of them looked totally lost. “Do you think any of them have made their phone call,” she asked Bernice. “I thought that was just on TV,” the house mom replied. “You mean it's for real?” Priscilla nodded. “An attorney … a loved one … the really crazy ones will call out for pizza.” “No.” Bernice sadly shook her head. “I don't think anyone's called; they're way too ashamed.” “Some of their parents must have seen the news last night. They'll be frantic. Did any of them call the house before you left?” “I don't know. The last thing I did after getting Ian settled was go around the public areas and unplug all the phones. I don't want to speak with the press, and I definitely don't want them upsetting the few girls left in the house.” “We should talk to them. They may not even know that they have the right to contact their families. Come on; let's go find out.” Priscilla led Bernice inside the railing, and together they approached Tippi, who was clearly the leader of the group and not just its spokesperson. “How are you holding up,” Bernice asked. “Oh, it's been great fun so far!” Tippi's reply was as vicious as it was sarcastic, and she was aiming daggers at Priscilla. “Comfortable beds … first class food … and we've made some new friends. Ruby is a real hoot!” “You are all entitled to make phone calls.” Priscilla decided to ignore the sarcasm. “Did anyone call your parents? Your arrests were all over the ten PM news; they must be worried sick.” “Anyone,” Bernice asked in a softer tone of voice. The girls were looking at one another, and shaking their heads. “We'll wait until we have something tangible to report.” Priscilla dearly wanted to slap Tippi Bjornsen hard enough to knock her down, then beat some sense into the self-absorbed brat. Instead, she spun away, looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. God, give me strength!!! “I'm disappointed in all of you,” Bernice continued, her voice still soft. “There's a man in there giving you life lessons in the meaning of compassion. He's one of your victims, and yet he's in there trying to shield you from the consequences of your actions. And none of you seem to get it … none of you.” “We're all afraid,” Janis sobbed. “I understand that Janis. And how do you think your parents feel right now? You know what's going on … they don't. I doubt if they got any sleep last night, and now their imaginations must be running riot. They love you, and they need to hear you say that you're safe. The rest will sort itself out in time.” . . . . “Vinnie, I need to make a quick call. Why don't you pour us a couple of cups of coffee?” Without waiting for a response, Ian pulled Marilyn Marsden's card out of his wallet, and dialed her home number. It seemed highly unlikely that either of the Marsdens would have gone to work this morning. “Hello?” Marilyn picked up on the first ring. “Ian Grady here, Marilyn … and by here, I mean in the chambers of the judge who got stuck handling this case. Has Janis called you?” “No! Oh, God, Ian, what's going on? We've been up all night, waiting for the phone to ring … praying ...” “Marilyn, your daughter is safe … confused, scared, probably afraid that you're going to disown her, but safe. It was your typical fraternity row stunt, only it got out of hand. Right now, I'm putting the finishing pieces on an agreement that the District Attorney and Judge Reynolds have already signed off on, so with luck, Janis will be out of here in another half hour or so. Now, can you do me a favor?” “Yes! Of course, Ian; thank you!” Ian could hear Marilyn telling her husband that Janis was okay. “I'm guessing,” Ian explained when Marilyn got back on the line, “that there are a lot of worried parents who've had rough nights. Do you know how to get a hold of them?” “Yes. Bernice gives every parent a sheet with the home addresses and phone numbers of all the girls. It's for emergencies.” “Understood. I'd like you to call everyone on the list, and let them know that their daughters are safe. They should also take a peek at their check books. I don't know who's who here, but there are forty one girls who are going to be fined twenty-five hundred dollars each as part of their punishment. I'll lay out the rest of it once the judge enters his decree.” “Are you taking the girls back to the house?” “I'd like to take them to the hospital, but first I have to see about transport. Give me time to sort it out, and I'll get back to you.” “Ian, I don't know how or why you're mixed up in this, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart … thank you.” “Touching,” Spats grunted when Ian hung up; “very, very touching.” Spats handed Ian a cup, and took a sip of his own. The gangster curled his lips in satisfaction. “Not too shabby,” he nodded; “in fact, not bad at all.” “First things, first.” Ian took a sip, and nodded his approval. “I've checked out your dad, and I know that Tomasso emigrated from Naples, but that's where the trail goes cold. What can you tell me about your grandparents?” “Wat da hell? Whys you int ... er ... rested in my family?” “Vinnie, cut it out. As bootleggers go, your dad was a good soldier, able to work with both Capone and the Purple Gang. However, Tomasso did not want his sons to follow him into the rackets, so he scrimped and saved to provide you with a high quality, private school education. And you did so well that you ended up a Brown Phi Beta Kappa, class of forty eight … next stop, a Princeton MBA. Which reminds me: my source is also a Princeton man, and he wants to know whether you still remember the fight song.” Here comes that Tiger, wow! He's running wild, They'll never stop him now! "There are several fight songs,” Spats grinned as he settled back in one of the judge's plush chairs, “but Here Comes That Tiger is my favorite. And I'm impressed Grady … really impressed. I've put a lot of time and effort into the Spats Belmondo persona, and you're the first person to crack it in all the years I've been in the Cities. What gives?” “I'm interested in your grandfathers … whether the family's roots are in Naples, or Sicily.” “Sicily. We hail from Catania … still got family there.” “Antonio?” “WHAT?” Spats was so surprised that he almost shot out of his chair. “You know my cousin?” “I've employed his services,” Ian acknowledged. “Good man to know when you need to get in and out of Libya without the authorities being any the wiser.” “Holy shit, if you'll pardon my French. How is the old reprobate?” “Prospering. A wife who cooks up a storm, and a discreet mistress. Life is good.” “And do I want to know how a disabled vet teaching out here in flyover country happens to be chummy with a Mafia don in Sicily?” Ian curled his lips thinking about it. “I do favors for friends with a wide range of international interests. That good enough?” “It'll do,” Spats shrugged. The Professor had CIA written all over him. DA's and judges didn't bow and scrape before every Tom, Dick and Harry. “Okay, here's the deal. First, the girls out there are all off limits. No repercussions of any kind. If that causes you any problems with the Big Tuna, let me know, and I'll make them go away. In return for this favor, as I said, I'm going to help you grow your diaper business. The forty one girls out there are going to become customers, and they don't get out of diaper prison until they graduate. You'll make a few bucks, and have a good laugh over your cigars and sambuca.” “Second, you're going to get a letter next week from the IRS. You've been selected for a seven year audit of your personal and business filings-- a comprehensive audit, the kind where they want proof that you actually tossed those nickels and dimes into the Salvation Army kettle. If you can't support every claim on every line of every form, they're going to crucify you.” “Let me guess. I agree to leave the girls alone, and this all turns out to be a great, big mistake.” “Yep. They'll be a handwritten telephone number at the bottom, left corner of the cover letter. Pick up the phone, and you'll be treated to abject apologies for a filing error. We got a deal?” “We got a deal,” Spats agreed. “Good.” Ian settled back in his chair. “Now let's get down to business.” “Huh? I thought we were talking business!” “Just preliminaries. My sources tell me that you would like to visit the old country, but are afraid that if you leave, you'll be denied reentry. Well, I want you to do me a little favor, and in return it's bon voyage, happy trails, however you want to put it.” “How little?” “The families still taking an interest in the food services industry?” “Are you kidding,” Spats laughed. “I'm the union rep for the SEIU in this burg!” “Well, I'm in the market for a rather odd piece of information, and I want the search to be nationwide. What I'm after is an unusual delivery, probably scheduled monthly or twice a month, to someplace remote and easy to defend. Security will probably be heavy, but it may be well concealed. The tell that there's something wrong will be in the cereals.” Utterly mystified, Spats simply shook his head. “You've lost me completely.” “The order will include kids' cereals … quite a large quantity of them.” “Shit.” Spats saw it instantly. “Kids are off limits, Professor. I want you to know that … inside the families, kids are off limits.” “It's the same with us. We've all got families, and we're all exposed. So, it's a hard, red line. You cross it, and the entire intelligence community sanctions you … nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It's open season, and an agent whose family has been targeted gets first crack.” Spats nodded his head. It was beginning to sound like the Families had a lot in common with the CIA. “Your friends should also be on the lookout for a second tell-- a sudden increase in supplies on regular order. Now that I've surfaced, I'm expecting security at this facility to be reinforced.” Ian leaned forward in his chair, his cup of coffee forgotten. “Nine years ago, while I was laid up in a hospital figuring out how to cope with wearing diapers for the rest of my life? Back in Viet Nam, someone murdered my wife and massacred an entire village in order to run off with my daughter, all in the hope that she's inherited my gift for languages. I want her back, Vincent, and then I'm going to sanction everyone of the bastards involved. If you want a piece of the action, I'll deal you in, and I'll make it worth your while.” “I'm in.” Spats got up and walked over to the desk. He grabbed a pen and pad, and hastily wrote a number. “My personal number,” he said as he handed Ian the scrap of paper. “Anything you need? You got it.” Ian took a business card out of his wallet, and handed it over. “A pizza joint out in Bloomington, and it's a legit business. If you come up with the information I'm looking for, call this number and order a large pie. If the info is rock solid, make it a thick crust; if it's sketchy, a thin. When you're asked what type of cheese you want, say Gorgonzola. The response will be 'sorry, we're all out, but if you leave me a phone number, I'll make one for you free of charge'. The call back will set up a rendezvous; I'm thinking Julia Canon's office, which is right across the street from the hospital. I take it you've been there?” “Works for me,” Spats agreed. “One last thing. Is it true that you've got a cabin somewhere near Ely?” “Yeah … some of the boys like to go hunting.” “Got a wood chipper up there?” “In good working order.” The gangster's smile was cruel. “I might need to use it one of these days.” Ian wasn't smiling at all. 5 Link to comment
Babypants Posted April 19 Author Share Posted April 19 Quickie entertainment quiz: Toothpick Charlie, who is a running joke in both this story and AARDVARK, is one of the most celebrated bit players in movie history. You can even buy Toothpick Charlie toothpick dispensers, if you can find one for sale! He gets mowed down in which of the following films? A. Dillinger B. Some Like It Hot C. The Sting D. The Untouchables Link to comment
littlebopeeper Posted April 21 Share Posted April 21 On 4/19/2024 at 6:03 PM, Babypants said: B. Some Like It Hot Definitely B. 1 Link to comment
Babypants Posted Monday at 04:35 AM Author Share Posted Monday at 04:35 AM 23 hours ago, littlebopeeper said: Definitely B Bingo! He was gunned down in that famous North Side garage by Spats Columbo, played by George Raft, one of the best bad guys in film history. 1 Link to comment
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