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"Loophole"


Prologue
Part III & IV

By Marvin Calloway

Christmas Letter, Part III & IV

(Wasn't that nice of Sam to share that with us. Let's see what Fred Swortzman has to offer. He works in the paint department and also doubles as ladder holder on steep hills.)

Hello. My name is Fred. This is the first time I've ever been forced to write anything like this, but here goes nothing.

It's been a pretty busy year for Ellie & me. I got that line from Paul in the neon department, excepting his letter said Ruthie May. Now I could have left her name in, since her and I were pretty busy, also, but I didn't want anyone to find out about us until I got my new shotgun.

Like I said, it's Ellie and me and her kid & my 6 kids_3 by my first wife, Janie, & 3 with Ruthie May, my last wife, I sure hope. When the year started, Ellie was just the girl I was seeing behind Ruthie May's back, but when Ellie started in to threatening my life, I began to see things her way.

So this year it's Ellie and me. I don't see Ruthie hardly none at all, since the divorce, but I know she's pretty happy, since she left me with all the kids.

Little Larry said he was going to run away from home. I'm sure going to miss that kid, but we really can use the extra room. It's a shame too, cause out of all of the kids, he's the only one I liked. I used to think he wasn't mine, but after talking to my ex's, it turns out he's the only one who is.

There was this one time when Ellie was dropping off a couple of the kids & got them & their appointments mixed up. She took Ray to ballet lessons and Betty Lou to karate class. Ray ended up with a black eye from one of his so called 'friends,' but Betty Lou evened things up by giving the whole Karate class bloody noses.

(All right, Fred. That should hold us over until next year. Now let's hear from Kathy Hatfield, our current bookkeeper, who also is in charge of the various pools we have. It's amazing that she wins money almost every week. She replaced Herman, whose trial comes up in February.)

Hi, everybody. I'm Kathy and I want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a new year filled with homemade biscuits and grits. I believe I have a typical American family, especially compared to Fred's. I think he's got a screw loose and the rest of his family isn't much better. I would not want to have any part in that family. No way.

Mine consists of my husband, John, who is as underpaid as me, our genius son, Rob, our darling daughter, Rachel, who will someday be crowned Miss America if there's any justice in this world, our dog, Buster, our two cats, Muffy and Mittens, our parakeet, Tweety, and at least two other pets, which I think are ferrets, but they never hang around long enough for me to get a good look.

They're usually hiding , except sometimes around dinner time, the red one with the long pretty tail will jump up on the kitchen table and make off with the main course. It scared John's mother so bad, this one time, that we had to take her to the emergency room. That was about three weeks ago. Shouldn't they have called us back by now?

(This is Bill and this is getting ridiculous. Doesn't anyone here know how to write a Christmas letter?

I hope that everyone who reads this has a wonderful Christmas, filled with new memories that you'll cherish for the rest of your life. But, after reading this letter, you'll probably end up with nightmares.)





Author Notes That's it for this year. No more Christmas Letter until next year.


Chapter 1
Ster Crazy

By Marvin Calloway

“Where's the bag of money?”

Detective Brennan and Detective Doherty looked at each other, thought for a moment and replied in unison, “We don't know.”

< < ^ > >

While the two patrolmen and two detectives were at the hospital, ensnaring Sterling, Chief of Police Josephine Tierney had sent an additional patrolman to the bank to safeguard Sterling's office, until the detectives returned.

< < ^ > >

Brennan introduced himself to patrolman Horace Adams, outlined what was expected of him and made sure he had the necessary keys and lock picks to accomplish his assignment.

< < ^ > >

“How about grabbing patrolmen Cipriotti,” Brennan said, with a slight smile, “and search the vehicles of all the employees?”

Detective Doherty's broad smile was her reply.

Use the recorder to keep notes and don't forget to check the batteries.”

Have any employees been cleared of wrong doing?” she asked.

Not officially. What I'm asking you to do could go a long way toward that end.”

Maybe I should write a manual on how to search a suspect's vehicle, Brennan thought. I wonder if there's any money to be made in writing.

< < ^ > >

Detective Doherty sat behind the desk in the interrogation room with Patrolman Cipriotti seated closely on her right. She unplugged the recorder, pressed 'play' and the tape wheels began rotating.

Looks like the batteries are good,” she said. As she was about to press 'record,' they heard Ronald Roman's voice say, Sterling told me he had two sure methods to get away with the money, without getting caught.

Doherty said, “Wait! Captain Brennan should hear this.”

Patrolman Cipriotti said, “I'll go get him while you wind it back.”

< < ^ > >

Doherty said, “Wait til you hear this, S.B.!” Upon hearing detective Doherty call detective Brennan, 'S.B.', Patrolman Cipriotti gave her a quizzical look.

The three of them heard Roman's voice repeat the startling information.

He continued. With the first method, I'm supposed to act as if Sterling had really shot me. I fall down and wait for the ambulance to pick me up. Sterling would take the money bag and go back in the bank, using the rear emergency door he came out of.

Detective Doherty turned up the volume up.

Before going in, he would toss the bag on to the roof. There's a parapet all around the roof so no one could see the bag from the ground.

He said me and him would be the only ones to end up with money. That told me he knew Trudy was dead and that he's the one who switched the blanks for real bullets. But, after telling me all that, he said he had a better plan.

Stop the tape. Let's let that sink in for a minute,” Brennan said.

< < ^ > >

Author Notes This a continuation of FOW Play and has nothing to do with my Rom/Com novel, Loophole


Chapter 1
Synopses

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 1: The Investigators

This is the story of George S. Brennan, an older detective about to retire and Amanda Lou Doherty, a much younger detective, who wished to work with him.

Brennan was assigned the 'open 'n shut' case as a retirement gift. Doherty was teamed up with Brennan to prevent him from 'over-examining every minor detail he encountered', according their superintendent.

All they were told about the case was: It involves a robbery and a shooting, at a small Maryland County bank. That seems simple enough.

Chapter 2: Infuriator

The 'horny' bank manager, Sterling, helped Amanda with her bag of crime solving equipment. He directed the detectives to an unused office to interrogate the employees. Brennan asked him, “How long has the robber been in the wind?” (which means gone)

Brennan prefered to wait until he has questioned all the employees before questioning Sterling.

Brennan's years as a successful detective lead him to distrust the manager.

Sterling never mentioned that the robber shot Trudy, the teller. I wonder why.

Chapter 3: A room without a view

Detectives Doherty and Brennan prepared the room to interrogate the employees.

They discuss the fact that Sterling didn't ask for I.D., even though they arrived in an unmarked car.

Each amused the other with a pun.

They agreed to be less formal when no one was around. He'll call her, Amanda, and she call him S.B. (as long as she doesn't put an 'O' in between the letters.

Brennan sends Amanda to tell Sterling they need additional items for the room and to inquire about their coffee. Brennan wants to lower Sterling's self esteem.

Brennan explained that 'FOW' means Fly On the Wall. He liked the idea of using a fly as narrator, but soon discards it.

Chapter 4: Floyd Tucker

Tucker saw the shooting of the teller, Trudy. He revealed that Joan Berkowitz saw someone, who could have been Sterling, shoot the robber.

Tucker believed this was the robber's first heist.

Brennan asked Tucker to get coffee for Amanda and himself.

Coffee is important to the detectives.

Author Notes The rest of the chapters to follow.
This post has nothing to do with "Loophole," my Rom/Com.


Chapter 2
Tape II

By Marvin Calloway

Last words of Chapter 1:

Stop the tape,” Brennan said. “Let's let that sink in for a moment.”

< < ^ > >

Chapter 2

I've got a question,” Doherty said. “Why would Sterling tell Ronald a plan, then say he's not going to use it?”

Maybe to confuse him,” Cipriotti said.

Yes, and fake us out,” Brennan said, “in case Ronald betrays him. By planting two ideas in his head . . . ”

. . . Ronald can't double-cross him,” Doherty completed his sentence.

. . . because he won't know which plan to prepare for,” Cipriotti said.

Only an untrusting individual would think that way,” Brennan said. “I doubt there's a person in the world that Sterling trusts.”

And vice versa,” Doherty said.

Let's see what he considers a better plan, Detective.”

< < ^ > >

Doherty pressed 'play.'

I was so busy describing things, I didn't realize a nurse had jabbed me with a needle. Sterling said something about an ambulance, and started to go into details . . . I was getting real sleepy . . . said he won't reveal . . . all the details . . . new members of the . . . team . . . day before . . . robbery . . . have to stop . . . talk . . . later.

The trio of detectives waited to hear what Ronald said next.

< < ^ > >

I'm back. Thought I was a goner. Hurt a little bit, until the drugs kicked in. I think I can finish up, now. I found the Heffernan brothers where Sterling and me left them a few months ago, The Dew Drop Inn.

They didn't recognize me, at first. When I told them who I was, I thought they were going to kill me, until I told them how much money they would get. I had no idea what that figure was, but they were more concerned about revenge.

I tried to keep it simple, not that they were dumb or anything like that, but if it was too complicated I was afraid they might balk.

Turned out, they would have hijacked the Queen Mary if it meant getting even with Sterling.

I told them we didn't need no ambulance. I figured we could do the same thing Sterling was gonna do, except without an ambulance. Earl Heffernan said he'd pay for one out of his cut.

I told them I could figure the time to show up at the bank almost to the second. A couple minutes for this, a couple minutes for that, Sterling pretends to shoot me, he disappears into the bank, through the back door, I hear sirens then you boys pick me up in any thing you want. A beer truck would be nice.

The brothers turned out to be a nice pair when they weren't being cheated in a card game. Sam Heffernan said he knew the neighborhood. He'd be watching from the store on the corner and would show up before I hit the ground.

< < ^ > >

Author Notes Ster Crazy has nothing to do with 'Loophole', my RoAn m/Com


Chapter 2
The Twin

By Marvin Calloway

Final words of part I:

Chet's got the best seat in the house. His desk is near vending machines, a water cooler and rest rooms. I went in the men's room to check my clothes and hair. My mustache, which came in, just in time, made me look more like Chet than he does, especially since I haven't been fighting with a bike messenger.

                                                                                                              Part II

Back at my desk, my boss, Mr. Broham said, “Good thinking, Chet, with that bowling bag, you look like a person who hasn't much money.”

“Maybe I'll  dress this way for Halloween.”

“Oh, Chet! I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“That's quite alright, sir. I was only joking.”

“It's just that you'll be carrying more than nine million . . . ,“ he laughs, “. . . a bowling bag. I can't get over it. What a great idea! Grab a coffee, while we get the bag ready.”
"Mr. Broham, that's no way to talk about my wife."
"Why Chet! I never knew you to have a sense of humor."
"Mr. Broham, you're looking at the new Chet."
"Well keep it up. I like him."

< < ^ > >

While I'm waiting for Mr. Broham, I thought about Annette and our upcoming anniversary. We're going through a rough patch now, but what I'm planning for our seventh anniversary will be the happiest anniversary celebration, ever.

                                                                                                         < < ^ > >

Mr. Broham returns with the bag. “Why don't you take the rest of the week off, Chet? I'm still thinking of that bowling bag idea of yours. See you Monday.”

“Thank you very much, sir”

                                                                                                           < < ^ > >

Fred walks in the front entrance to the bank and leaves by the side door, still holding a bowling bag worth a fortune.

                                                                                                           < < ^ > >

Fred enters his apartment. Annette's not there. I guess she took off early for our new home in Connecticut, he thinks. He takes a cab to his new mansion.

The gate across the driveway opens automatically. Annette must be watching from the window.

The cab rolls past a four car garage and a swimming pool. The cabby pulls up to the entrance to the mansion. In the distance are tennis courts and a building Fred had forgotten the purpose of.

While going around the driveway, Fred notices the gate has closed. He sees a garage door open and then another. From each, a limousine with dark tinted windows pulls out and heads for the Mansion's entrance.

Annette must have called some friends to celebrate with us, Fred thinks.

Four cops pour out of the limos. Annette opens the front door of the mansion.

“One of you grab his suit case and y'all come in.”

“What's going on, Darling?”

“You robbed a company of over nine million dollars, that's what's going on. They offered a reward of ten percent to the person who finds it. So I'm turning you in. But there's good news. Your boss, who's not your boss, likes you better than the real Chet. He said he's not gonna press charges. But you still might have to do jail time. Meanwhile, I'm heading for Florida. I'll have all the money I'll ever need.”

Fred said, “Thanks to me. You wouldn't have a nickel if I didn't steal ten of them first.”

“I'm not even going to guess what that means,” she said.

“And don't forget, today's our anniversary, Baby. Isn't it against the law to celebrate a wedding anniversary, alone?”

“You're starting to sound like an ambulance chaser,” she said. “All right, boys, show him who you really are.”

The four cops shed some clothes to reveal their catering uniforms. Musicians, waiting in the recreation room, got their cue to start playing music for the happiest anniversary celebration, ever.

Author Notes This piece is my submission to a seniors writing contest, in Baltimore County. It had a 1000 word limit. The theme is Celebration!
Before editing, it was 1000 words on the nose.


Chapter 2
Christmas Letter

By Marvin Calloway

Part II

(Thanks a lot, Mary Ann. Let's give Sam a chance. He runs the copy department. It's up to him to convince customers to include a lot of words on every sign, which is good for our bottom line, since we charge by the word. It's also his job to straighten bent paper clips.)

My name is Sam Smith. My wife's name is Puddin. I'm pretty sure that's not her given name, but, for the life of me, I can't remember what her real name is. That's the only name she'll answer to 'cause she knows I hate pudding.

After last Christmas, Puddin said she thought a cruise would be nice, and I agreed. Then she told me her cruise is leaving the next day. When I awoke that morning, I couldn't find her anywhere, but I noticed a pile of money on my dresser. I found out later, it was the exact amount of money her cruise cost, but with her gone, I no longer needed to get away.

I just stayed home, watched whatever I wanted on TV and did whatever I wanted for 384 hours. That's 16 days, without Puddin here to nag me. What a great vacation, plus, I didn't spend a dime of the $2,740 she left on my dresser.

The next memorable thing happened around the first week of June. For about a week or so I noticed it was nice and quiet when I came home. Nobody was nagging or complaining. Since I don't do either of those things, you know who I'm talking about.

So I commenced to hitting the liquor store, then going home, taking off my clothes, except my under shorts, watch TV and drink a couple of beers. After tiring of that, I would start hunting for something to eat, which was getting pretty futile since no groceries had been bought for over a week.

On about the eighth day of this routine, I got a phone call from Puddin telling me that we bought a new house and that I should stop going to the old one, especially since the new owners would be moving in soon. I can vouch for the "soon" part 'cause while I was standing in my underwear with a beer in one hand and the phone in the other, I saw through the window, four big ugly guys coming up the walk, carrying furniture.

That's the second time she's done this to me and it's starting to annoy me a little. If it ever happens again I'm going to try to work out a deal with the new owners to let me live with them. It couldn't be any worse. And besides, maybe I'll be able to remember their names.

Author Notes One more part to go.


Chapter 3
Crime in a suburb.

By Marvin Calloway

Note: This is chapter 3 of my short story, Crime in a Suburb. it has nothing to do with my novel, Loophole.

Characters so far:

Police Lieutenant George S. Brennan. Nickname: “Stickler”

Amanda Doherty, Police Grade III. She calls Brennan, “S.B.”

Herman Sterling, Manager of Wilton Savings and Loan.

Last lines of chapter 2

So the robber was wounded?” said Ms Doherty.

Mortally,” said the manager.

I see,” said Brennan, “and whose idea was it to haul him away?”

It all happened so . . .”

Fast. Of course,” the detective said. “I wish the same could be said for our coffee.”

I'll get to it as soon as we're done.”

We're done,” said the detective.

Chapter 3
Need Coffee

“This will make a fine interrogation room, Ms Doherty.”

But it's so drab and dingy, Lieutenant.”

That makes it the perfect atmosphere in which to force a confession from a miscreant."

Is she the short lady with too much lipstick?”

Oh, Ms Doherty . . . I had such high hopes for you.”

                                                   < < ^ > >

The approximately eight by ten feet room was finished in a monotonous repetition of cheap paneling, broken up by an old calendar hanging by a nail, on one of the short walls. On the other was a photo of Wilton Farm Dairy which thrived on this land some sixty years ago.

In addition to a metal file cabinet standing in the corner, there were three non-matching chairs. One was a typical desk chair. It rolled, swiveled and leaned back. Another was a straight-back, wooden chair of more recent vintage. The third was a relatively new folding chair.

Brennan tried the desk chair and fell backward onto the floor while testing it. Ms Doherty rushed to his side and knelt on the floor, next to him. “Are you . . . should I call for an ambulance?”

Brennan rolled over, got to his feet and helped Ms Doherty to her feet. “Never felt better.” He limped over to the photo, studied it closely and said, “Just think, Ms Doherty, we could be standing where a herd of cows were once grazing and swatting at flies with their tails.”

Then you realize what we could be standing in,” she said.

Of course! That's why I've decided to call this case, “Fly On Wall or FOW Play, for short. Get it?”

I get it, Lieutenant, but wouldn't most people say, 'A' Fly On 'The' Wall, or FOTW,' for short?” Amanda tried to pronounce the four letters and finally gave up.

Perhaps I should give this a little more thought.”

                                           < < ^ > >

Once the detecting duo maneuvered the desk away from the wall, the need to replace a missing leg became evident. Brennan looked around for something to use, finding nothing until he opened the right hand, bottom drawer. “Ah hah!” he said, upon seeing the brick and employed it immediately.

I have to do this before I forget.” Brennan clicked on his recorder, “Note to self. Herman Sterling, the bank manager, did not ask us for any I.D.” Turning to Ms Doherty, he said, "Don't you find that extremely odd?"

Amanda thought Brennan was speaking to his recorder and continued removing the contents of the two canvas bags: a cassette recorder, a fingerprint kit, a 100 foot measuring tape and a camera. She readied for imminent use.

She looked up and saw Brennan staring at her. “Oh! You were speaking to me. Yes. I absolutely thought that was odd, lieutenant. No doubt about it. I thought you were talking to your recorder.”

A simple yes or no would have sufficed, Ms. Doherty. By the way, when no one else is within ear-shot, let's lose the formalities. I'll call you Amanda and you may call me . . .”

S. B.”

I was about to say, George, but S. B. is fine, as long as you don't add an 'O' in between.”

Author Notes This submission has nothing to do with my novel, Loophole!


Chapter 3
The Twin III

By Marvin Calloway

There was a charming hustler named Chet

and his cute, conniving wife, Annette.

   Said he, “We've too much loot.”

   Said she, “Let us bear fruit.”

Very soon, pregnant, Annette did get.


Since then, I've heard many a story,

but none that included a jury.

   Though doubtful some are true,

   one must give them their due

and bet everything's hunky dory.

Author Notes This is probably the last word on Annette and Chet.


Chapter 3
FOW Play Chapter 3

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 5

Meanwhile, Sterling is . . .

Now that detectives Brennan and Doherty were in the interrogation room, questioning witnesses, Sterling was free to go about his business, unhindered and unobserved. Getting coffee for people whom he regarded as intruders was definitely not on his list.
As soon as he left, he headed for his office, by way of the tellers' area. Normally, two tellers would be sitting at their windows, waiting on customers, three tellers, when the bank got busy.
At present, the area was deserted, except for the target of the robber's gun, Gertrude Lascola or Trudy to her many friends, including those she worked with, with one important exception.
Trudy's prone body was on the floor, below her window. Someone had placed a long raincoat over her. Sterling got down on one knee, looked around then grasped the collar of the garment. He released it when he heard someone say, "That sure is a shame, Mister Sterling."
It was Jamal, the custodian, a black man in his mid fifties. Startled, Mr Sterling got to his feet and said, "You got that right." He appeared to have more to say, but instead, went straight to his office.
Before closing the door he glanced down the narrow hall located behind the teller's area. His eyes took in four executive offices, each with their door closed and the hall, deserted.
Once inside his office, he peered through the slatted window blind out at the lobby. It too, was deserted.
Sitting at his desk, Sterling realized it was his responsibility to speak to his employees about the robbery and shooting. It fell upon his shoulders to offer sympathy and a kind word to any who was affected by the tragedy. It was a job he had no intention of fulfilling.
Sterling's mind drifted. He wondered who might have covered Trudy's body with the raincoat. Then, shifting gears, he smiled, thinking of something he had been looking forward to since the holdup ended. Leaving his office, he locked the door and walked down the narrow hall. He knocked gently on the first door on his right. Anyone hearing the knock might interpret it as a code of some sort.

The door opened. Sterling rushed in. Rose Anne kissed him with such force, he was pinned against the door, slamming it shut. Though this made considerable noise, the lovebirds continued their rendezvous, uninterrupted.
The lovely phone receptionist had tears in her eyes. She stepped back, took his hands and held them, tenderly. She kissed him before she let go of his hands and sat at her desk. She absentmindedly toyed with a letter opener and said, "How is she?"
"I can't talk about her, now," he said. "Just wanted to see how you're holding up." He moved toward the desk and touched Rose's hand. She pulled it away.
Sterling thought, "She must think it's too soon to be carrying on like this."
He said, "I still have things to do," and left.

< < ^ > >

Sterling walked rapidly to the lounge area and was relieved to find an almost full pot of hot coffee. He poured himself a mug-full and took it back to his office. He locked himself in and unlocked his desk. From the left middle drawer he pulled out a miniature of Amaretto and added it to his coffee. He finished about half of it before looking for a pad containing phone numbers of his employees and their next of kin.

< < ^ > >

"Hello. I'm looking for a Mr Antonio Lascola, the brother of Gertrude Lascola."
"That's me."
After a brief conversation, Mr Lascola said, "Are there any of her belongings I should pick up?"
"I'll look into that and call you back."
"Thanks. Where did they take her?"
"I'll have that information, also, when I call you back. Anything else?"
"Nothing right now."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Sterling said, but Antonio Lascola had already hung up.
Sterling began searching the yellow pages for an ambulance company.

Author Notes An aging detective, George Brennan is working with a much younger female detective, Amanda Doherty, to solve a murder/robbery, which is deeper than anyone suspects.


Chapter 4
Statements

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 3:

Is the recorder ready for action, Amanda?”

Yes, S.B.”

Brennan surveyed the room, then turned to Amanda. “Get Sterling to provide an additional tube for the ceiling lamp, tell him we have urgent need of a desk lamp and, most importantly, find out what's holding up our coffee.”

Chapter 4

Statements

Amanda was gone from the 'interrogation room' less than ten seconds before returning and closing the door on an anxious group of bank employees. “You'd think Frank Sinatra was in the building, S.B.”

You're not old enough to go back that far. How about Justine what's-his-name?”

Justine's a girls' name. You must mean Justin. Too new for me. I'm an old fashion girl.”

What's going on out there, Amanda?”

They're all dying to give a statement.”

How'd they know we're taking statements.”

I told them.”

And just why would you do such a thing?”

I figured if we gave them time to think about what they'd seen, it would save your valuable time,” she said.

Very commendable of you. Is Sterling in that mob?”

No.”

Good! I'd like to save him for last.”

< < ^ > >

Floyd Tucker

Amanda brought in a man in his late twenties, wearing a red bow tie over a yellow shirt, white pants and no jacket.

He was fair skinned, about 5'-11 in height, had bushy eyebrows and a pair of glasses hung around his neck.

After Floyd Tucker stated his name and other vital statistics for the recorder, Brennan put him at ease with a few questions.

Why do they call you, Teller One?”

It's just the manager's way of telling us apart. He could just as easily call us the man and the woman, or the tall one and the short one or the skinny one and . . .”

Stop right there before you get into trouble.” Brennan sipped his coffee. “So you're equals.”

Not exactly.”

Clarify that, please.”

I'm friendlier.”

No doubt about that, now,” Brennan whispered to himself. “Please begin stating what you saw after the robber entered the bank.”

Shouldn't that be, suspect?”

There's no need for that nonsense here.”

Okay. I was working a crossword puzzle when I first seen the robber come in . . . he didn't look like a robber . . . went to the desk, wrote on a deposit slip . . . I guess withdrawal would be more like it. I wasn't busy so I hoped he would come to my window . . . time goes faster that way . . . then he went to Gert's window and I went back to my crossword puzzle.”

Next thing I know I hear a shot, Gerty's not in sight, he backs out of the bank . . .the emergency alarm goes off . . .”

Someone opened the emergency door or pressed a button?”

Either way. The cops . . . excuse me . . . I mean the police hear it . . . and here you are.”

Who calls the ambulance?"

I assume it's automatic, but I don't know how that works."

Did he have a mask on?”

I don't think so.”

After the robber went outside, do you know what happened?"

I hear that Mr. Sterling shot the robber.”

You mean you heard the shot?"

I think I did. What I meant was, rumors were flying around that Sterling shot him.”

Now we're getting somewhere.”




 

Now we're getting somewhere.”

Author Notes Mystery with a touch of humor.


Chapter 5
Do not include the chapter number (such as

By Marvin Calloway


Eventually finding refuge in my apartment, I returned my tennis gear to the closet, poured myself an orange juice, improving it nicely with peach schnapps, sat at my desk and called Charley.

That's Charley Davenport, the producer of my first screenplay. He took a liking to me because of the conscientious way I handled the time-consuming rewriting of my first script and we've been friends ever since. Charley's been sort of a gruff yet caring father to me so I felt he should have the first crack at my latest box-office sensation.

Although it's nice to have someone pulling for you on the inside, Charley wouldn't green-light just any script of mine. It would have to have something special going for it and I was sure that Loophole fulfilled that requirement.

After the second ring, I heard, "Good morning, Davenport Productions."
"Good morning. May I . . . Dol, Dolores? This is Russ."
"Rusty, I thought I recognized your voice."
"How have you been?"
"I'm nursing a sprained ankle at the moment."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"But there's nothing wrong with my memory. Like the fact you were supposed to take me to dinner, three years ago."
"Sorry to say, I believe it's been more like a year and a half."
"Either way, I'm still waiting."
"You must be pretty hungry by now."
"I snack a lot."
"I honestly thought you'd be long gone from there."
"Where would I go?"
"Off somewhere, making movies, of course."
"Have you seen me in any trailers?"

I thought for a moment before saying, "I'm not touching that line."
"Why, what did I say?"
"I was just picturing you, in a trailer. You know, the kind with wheels."
"Your mind would go there. Let me put it this way. Have you seen me in any film trailers?"
"Well, no. I don't go to the movies. I just write them."
"And you know how tall I am. Did you think I had shrunk?"
"Oh, I hope not. I've always thought you were perfect just the way you are, tall and gorgeous."
"Thanks, but the casting agents don't usually choose an actress who's leading man has to stand on top of another actor in order to look their co-star in the eye."
"Isn't that how some of them rise to stardom?"
"That's corny, even you."
"Sorry. How about if I take you to lunch to make up for it?"
"Will that take another year and a half?"
"Only another week, if all goes well with Charley."
"He's playing golf and said he wouldn't be back until after two."
"In this weather?"
"He'll be okay. I gave him a golf umbrella last year for Christmas."
"Well have him call me, would you please?"
"Your memory is slipping. Have you forgotten that he never . . . ? Wait, he just walked in."

I could hear his cigar-chomping voice booming and singing through the phone. "I'm not here-ere."
"I already told the party you are here."
"Then you can rescind your last raise." I assumed that Charley took Dolores's phone, which seems like an unnecessary instrument in his case. "Who is this?"
I put on my best British accent. "Mr. Davenport, I'm Reginald P. Morgan of Morgan, Morgan and Kluzewski. I represent . . ."
"Cut the crap, Russ, you're not fooling anybody."
"I never could fool you, Charley."
"Don't even try. Have you've finally written the second leg . . . what did you call it?"
"My Preakness. I'm surprised you remembered. It's not finished yet, but I'd like to show you what I've got so. . ."
"Bring it in Tuesday, two o'clock. I gotta play golf in the morning. It's my only source of income, lately."
"That's a long way off. Suppose I find another buyer in the meantime?"
"Good. Whatever they offer you, I'll give you ten percent less."
"I don't think that's how a bidding war is supposed to work."
"Don't worry. You'll see how it works as soon as your writing merits it."
"Thanks, Charley. See you then. Would you put Dolores back on?"
"What am I, your pimp? See you Tuesday."
Like a caring father, he had given the phone back to Dolores. "I'm here."
"How about lunch next Tuesday? I have it on good authority that your slave driving boss won't be in until two."
The booming voice boomed back, "I heard that."

Author Notes Note: I can't seem to get the title, the chapter number and the body of the chapter into the required format.


Chapter 5
FOW Play

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 4:

After the robber went outside, do you know what happened?”

I hear that Mr. Sterling shot the robber.”

You mean you heard the shot?”

I think I did. What I meant was, rumors were flying around that Mr. Sterling shot him.”

Now we're getting somewhere.”

                                                                          Chapter 5

                                                                   More Statements

Ms. Doherty chose Joan Berkowitz to be the next interviewee. “Please sit over there, Mrs. Berkowicz.” She pointed to the swivel chair with the missing wheel, on the side of the desk with the missing leg. “These furnishings are in disrepair. Please be careful.”

You are Mrs. Berkowicz?” Detective Brennan said.

Yes.”

Where do you work?”

At the Wilton Savings and Loan.”

I know that. I meant where is your desk?”

In my office,” she said.

Did someone put you up to this?”

What do you mean?”

Let's start over. Where is your office and don't tell me it's in the bank?”

It's in the back.”

Finally, we're beginning to make progress. Are you upset over what happened or are you even aware of what happened?”

I know Trudy got shot.”

That's the name of teller number two?”

Yes. Is she going to be alright?”

I'm sorry, I don't have that information. Ms. Doherty, call the hospital and get an update on the health status of teller number two and the robber. And get their full names while you're at it.”

May I use the phone in your office, Mrs. Berkowitz?” Amanda said.

                                                                     < < ^ > >

Of course, Amanda had her own phone, but she wanted the opportunity to get the lay of the land. She checked out the spot where Trudy got shot, the sight lines from Mr. Sterling's office to the teller's window and from his office to the entrance to the bank, among other details, while Detective Brennan continued his interrogation of Mrs. Berkowitz.

                                                                    < < ^ > >

Did you happen to hear anything that might be pertinent to the case?”

Everything was quiet by the time I left my office. I poked my head around the partition that blocks my area from the lobby and saw what I assumed was the robber. He was outside. I saw a hand holding a gun pointed at him on his right.”

Your left.”

Correct. I heard a shot and the robber fell to the ground. I hurried back to my office and locked myself in.”

Could you see the face of the shooter?”

No.”

What about a sleeve of a shirt or jacket?”

It looked like the suit coat of Mr. Sterling.”

                                                                     < < ^ > >

From the privacy of Mrs. Berkowitz's office, Amanda learned that Gertrude (Trudy) Lascola is struggling for her life and wanted to make a statement. Amanda immediately called headquarters to arrange for a plainclothes detective to go to Mercy Hospital and record her statement.

                                                                     < < ^ > >

When Amanda got back to the 'interrogation room' the mob had disbursed. She knocked on the door, told Brennan she had something important to relate. Upon hearing her message, he commended her and said, “You didn't miss anything. The custodian, Biff Farrel, had nothing to add, unless you would enjoy hearing what his new grandson did for the first time, today.”

Author Notes This is Chapter 5 of a short story titled, FOW Play. It has nothing at all to do with Loophole, my novel.


Chapter 6
FOW Play

By Marvin Calloway

Last line of chapter 5:

Sterling began searching the yellow pages for an inexpensive ambulance company.

                                                                       Chapter 6

                                                           Two Women Employees Are Questioned

      PoliceDetective Amanda Doherty chose Joan Berkowitz to be the next interviewee.
“Please sit over there, Mrs. Berkowicz,” she said, pointing to the swivel chair with the
missing wheel, on the side of the desk with the missing leg.

   Detective Brennan said, ”Please state your full name.”

   “Ms. Joan Berkowtz.”

   “Where do you work?”

   “At the Wilton Savings and Loan.”

   “I'm aware of that. I mean where is your desk?”

   “In my office,” she said.

   “Did someone put you up to this?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Never mind. Where is your office and don't tell me it's in the bank?”

   “It's in the back.”

   “Now I just said . . . oh, okay. finally. Are you aware of what happened here today?”

   “I know Trudy got shot.”

   “That's teller number two?”

   “Yes. Is she going to be all right?”

   “I'm sorry, I don't have that information. Detective Doherty, call the
hospital and get an update on the status of teller number two, Gertrude
Lascola and the robber. And find out his full name while you're at it.”

   “May I use the phone in your office, Ms. Berkowitz?”

                                                                          < < ^ > >

   Amanda could have used her own phone, but she wanted the opportunity
to familiarize herself with the layout of the bank. She planned on checking
out the sight line from Herman Sterling's office to the entrance to the bank
and the sight line from Sterling's office to Trudy's window.

                                                                          < < ^ > >

   Detective Brennan continued.

   “Did you hear anything that might be important?”

   “Well, things had quieted down by the time I got the courage to see what
was going on. I poked my head around the partition between my office and the teller's area. I saw a man through the front door. . . he was outside holding a gun . . . and facing my way . . . I assumed he was the robber. On the left I could see the hand of someone pointing a gun at him.”

   “That would be his right.”

   “Correct. There was a shot and the robber fell to the ground. I hurried back to my office . . . locked myself in and had another drink.”

   “What kind of drink?”

   “Oh, I shouldn't have told you that.”

   “It's understandable, that you would want a drink under the circumstances.

   “I have a pint of alcohol in my desk.”

   “You seem like the kind of woman who's able to handle her drinks.”

   “Well, it's not every day we get held up.”

                                                                           < < ^ > >

   From the privacy of Ms. Berkowitz's office, Amanda learned that the
robber was struggling for his life and wished to make a statement.
Amanda immediately called headquarters to arrange for a plainclothes
detective to go to Mercy Hospital and take his statement.

                                                                           < < ^ > >

   By the time Amanda got back to the interrogation room the mob had
disbursed and Ms. Berkowitz was gone, having finished her description of events.

   Brennan left the room but, before he closed the door, Amanda saw Rose Anne Zito
seated at the desk, hanging on for dear life.

   Amanda told him about the status of the robber's health and that he wished to
make a statement. Upon hearing that, Brennan commended her for her professionalism.

   “You didn't miss anything, here, Amanda. The custodian, Jamal Farkus, added nothing
important, unless you would enjoy hearing what his new grandson
did for the first time, today.”

   “Please. Not on an empty stomach.”

   “Before we get to Mrs. Zito, what about the status of the teller?”
   “Oh, darn! You should take back my commendation, sir. I was so
excited about the robber wanting to make a statement, I totally forgot
about the teller.”

   Amanda stayed out of the room to call the hospital, again.

                                                                         < < ^ > >

   “Please state your full name for the recorder.”

    ”Ms. Rose Anne Zito.”

   “What is your position here at the bank?”

   “Phone receptionist slash secretary slash errand girl slash coffee maker, and that's only the half of it.”

   “Could you elaborate on that,” Brennan said.

   “I can imagine,” Amanda interjected, as she entered the room. “Excuse us Mrs. Zito.”

   Detective Brennan whispered to Amanda, “Any luck?”

   “They're doing a procedure on him as we speak and they'll call me back as soon as they're done. But, get this! They don't have the teller, ”Gertrude Lascola.”

Author Notes FS rejected two titles that I used previously: FOW Play & Crime in a Suburb.
it's the same story. Thanks for finding it.


Chapter 6
Crime in the Suburbs

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 5:

When Amanda got back to the interrogation room the gathering outside the door had disbursed, except for Mrs. Zito. Amanda knocked softly on the door. When Brennan opened it, she entered and told him she had something important to relate. Upon hearing her message, he commended her for her quick and efficient handling of this important manner.
Then he said, "You didn't miss anything, here. The custodian, Biff Farrel, had nothing to add, unless you would enjoy hearing what his new grandson did for the first time, today."
"Please, not on an empty stomach."


Chapter 6

You Didn't Hear It From Me.

"Before we get to Mrs. Zito, what about the status of the robber?" Brennan asked.
"Oh fiddle. I was so excited about the teller wanting to make a statement, I totally forgot about our robber."
Amanda left the room, invited Mrs. Zito to go in, while she stayed outside and called the hospital again, this time for an update on the anonymous thief.

Rose Anne Zito

"Be careful when you sit in that chair, Mrs. Zito. It's missing a wheel," Detective Brennan said. "Is it Ms. or Mrs.?"
"I prefer Ms."
Brennan turned on the recorder. "The questioning of Ms. Rose Anne Zito. Please tell us what you know about the shooting and robbery."
"Very little, had it not been for Hermy, I mean Mr. Sterling."
"And what did Hermy, I mean, Mr. Sterling, tell you?"
"He said . . . oh I shouldn't have called him that."
"Don't let that bother you. Inter-office romances are bound to occur in any business." Amanda's cute countenance came to mind then quickly left. "Go on."
"He said for me to stay in my office and to lock the door."
"He didn't mention a shooting or a robbery?"
"No. I heard the shot. I guess everyone did but, at the time, I didn't know that's what it was."
"Can you think of anything further?"
"No. Mr. Sterling said he'd fill me in later."
"Did he?
"Not yet."
"Anything else?"
"I can't think of anything, right now."
"Thanks for your help, Ms. Zito."
Brennan turned off the recorder.

< < ^ > >

Amanda entered the room.
"Where have you been?"
"The little girl's room. Is something wrong?"
"Nobody knows nothing, he said, irritably."
"Maybe we'll get some good news from the hospital," she said.
"I doubt it. Did you learn the robber's name?"
"Leonard Wisczoski. Thirty-six. Had a couple business cards in his pocket with the name, "King's Billiards" on them. It's right next to the Famous Ballroom. I could check it out when we're done here."
"No. That's a bad neighborhood. We'll go together." This could be our first date, he thought to himself. "Did the hospital give you his address?"
"They couldn't find it in his wallet and they searched him head-to-toe. He also had some business cards saying, Expert Landscaping. But get this! Landscaping was spelled with an 'r', l-a-n-d-s-c-r-a-p-i-n-g. Probably the only land he'll be scraping will be his grave. Oh, I almost forgot. The phone number on the card is the same as the pool hall."
"Sounds like a good motive for robbing a bank."

Brennan sat on the folding chair, and leaned back, causing the front legs of the chair to rise above the floor, as well as his own short legs. He closed his eyes and said, "Who's left?"

"Eric McNamara," Amanda said. "Want me to get him?"
"No. He's not going to know any more than the rest of them." He opened his eyes, returned the chair to its usual position and continued. "After all, his office is farther away from the shooting than Ms. Zito's. Let's drop in on Sterling and see what the view is like from his office."

< < ^ > >


Author Notes This Murder/Robbery story is titled, FOW Play.


Chapter 7
Lunch

By Marvin Calloway

Someone, probably a writer laboring in obscurity, once said, "You can't go back", or maybe it was, "You shouldn't go back", or perhaps, "Don't get your hopes up, if you do go back." Dolores and I paid no heed to any of those observations and back we went. Back to the restaurant where we had our first date, SUMMER HOUSE in Santa Monica.

Just as we did then, we shared a delicious meal. Of course, I knew that the word, "delicious," perfectly described my meal, but I knew Dolores's meal was also delicious, because she forced me to sample each of her menu items.

Much like a parent directing a spoonful of food toward a child's mouth, while pleading with the little tyke to open wide and allow an imaginary choo-choo to enter, Dolores guided her morsel ladened fork toward my overcrowded train station. My initial thought was to turn my head while feigning a sneeze. I quickly realized that response would have risked my getting stabbed in the neck, an occurrence I always try to avoid when on a date. I chose to accept her unrequested act of charity by opening my mouth painfully wider than our Creator ever intended, in an effort to assure that the non-existent engine could arrive at its destination, unimpeded.

I would have reciprocated, but I didn't care to risk wounding Dolores with my fork, possibly causing her blood to squirt onto her Wood-Grilled Pacific Salmon, already lying peacefully in a river of ketchup.

All of that, notwithstanding, I was enjoying this date much more than our first, because, this time, I had lofty hopes for our future. And the fact that, as yet, this date was not officially over.

Author Notes The continuation of this date will be sent soon.


Chapter 7
Lost and Found

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 6-B

   Detective Brennan whispered to Amanda, “Any luck?”

   “They're doing a procedure on him as we speak and they'll call me back as soon as they're done. But, get this! The ambulance that just arrived came here to pick up the teller, Gertrude La Scola. She's still alive, but one of the paramedics said that could change.”


         See Character List below
     

Chapter 7
                  
Lost and Found

       Sterling locked one of the entrance doors. Before he could lock the other, a second ambulance pulled up, cold. No sirens, no flashing lights. The vehicle swung past the entrance then backed up to the doors.

   The driver jumped out and said, “Where can I can find a Mr. Sterling?”

   “I'm he,” Sterling said, "but you're too late.”

   “Did you call another ambulance service?”

   “No. One just showed up, out of the blue.”

   “Well in that case, I'm going to need a check.”

   “But there's no one to pick up.”

   “Doesn't matter. You called us, we came. We don't care if the person was just pulling a practical joke or came back to life. We still gotta get paid. If we don't get paid, it will be your body we pick up.”

   Worried about how this would appear to onlookers, Sterling decided to cooperate. In a barely audible tone, he said, “Okay. Give me an invoice and I'll send you a check.”

   “On the phone, you mentioned something about a robbery. Did they clean out the vault?”

   “That's confidential information. Come with me. I'll write you a check instead, right now.”

   The ambulance driver walked into the bank, followed Sterling to his office, sat down and said, “I changed my mind. It's gotta be cash.”

   “Then, uh . . . we've got to take a walk.”

   Sterling locked his office and led the driver to the interrogation room. Detective Doherty joined in. Sterling didn't explain the situation to her. She knocked on the door. Captain Brennan opened it.

   Amanda spoke first. “Captain, the ambulance picked up the teller, Gertrude La Scola, and is taking her to the nearest hospital, but we were told she might not make it.”

   “I'm sorry to learn that. How does this man fit in?”

   “I want you to arrest him for extortion,” Sterling said.

   “How so?”

   “He arrived too late to pick up a body, but insists I still have to pay him.”

   Brennan stared at Sterling, then, at Amanda. Is she thinking what I'm thinking? he thought. At that moment, both Captain Brennan and Detective Doherty realized that Sterling may have murdered Trudy by simply delaying the call for an ambulance.

   Brennan said to the driver, “How much is the bill?”

   The driver said, “A thousand dollars.”

   “I thought you'd say something like that.” Brennan turned to Sterling. “Give him five.”

   “Five dollars?”

   “Five hundred or you'll need the ambulance for yourself.”

< < ^ > >

      Character List:

George S. Brennan: Police Captain.
Amanda Doherty: Police Detective.
Floyd Tucker: Teller One.
Joan Berkowitz: Bookkeeper.
Gertrude (Trudy) La Scola: Teller Two.
Rose Anne Zito: Phone receptionist."
Eric MacNamarra: Accountant.

Jamal Jefferson: Custodian.
Herman Sterling: Bank Manager.

Author Notes This chapter has nothing to do with my romantic comedy, Loophole, about a screenwriter under much pressure.


Chapter 8
Waiting

By Marvin Calloway

"That's it. You're really in for a surprise!"

Chapter 8

Waiting

The door gave way into a tiny room and I wondered if I had entered through the wrong door. This had to be the smallest waiting . . . Before I could complete the thought, the door clicked shut behind me. In front of me, a set of double doors opened.

The waiting room, if you want to call it that, was enormous. Not so much a room as it was a destination. I feared I might need a passport before going any farther. However, my feet had their own ideas and eagerly led the way.

As I went ahead, three of my senses were immediately delighted. The wall coverings of rosewood, teak and leopardwood was a treat for the eyes, while giving me a warm, relaxed feeling. The grain of the panels provided a dignified framework for the photos displayed on them, photos of film stars from a bygone era to the rising stars of today.

The majority of the floor covering consisted of deep pile carpeting, in various shades of beige and brown. The areas without carpeting were done in a flagstone pattern of blue-gray slate.

Glimpses of the ceiling, through all the hanging artifacts and movie memorabilia, appeared as the sky at sunset.

I couldn't pin down any particular smell, odor or scent except the unmistakeable aroma of apple pie.

There were no hills, but the room was very much alive with the sound of music. As subtle as a film score when it's well written, the lush melodies complimented the visual experience, without tooting their own horns.

But the niceties didn't stop there. It was obvious that this hidden treasure was going to take some time in order to enjoy its many offerings. Like an English muffin, I wanted to explore every one of its numerous nooks and incredulous crannies.

On my right was a well-stocked self-serve bar. As I did earlier at lunch, I resisted the temptation to partake of alcohol and, instead, looked in vain for a simple coffee flavored coffee, a task that is getting more difficult with each passing day. I settled for a Moroccan Hazel-nut latte. I had no clue as to how it would taste, only hoping it would serve to prevent me from snoring my way through my upcoming meeting with Charley.

In the next area, I was drawn to a futuristic looking pool table, with solid steel frame and aluminum legs. I began hitting balls and pocketed about ninety percent of my attempts. There were three other pool tables, including a snooker table, a bumper pool table and a round table with a "pocket" in the middle. It could easily be mistaken for a small wading pool on legs.

Continuing my tour, there were two ping-pong tables, one ready for match play, the other set up for practicing. I tried the practice table and found it was no match for me. It was far superior.

Against the back wall was an assortment of pinball machines, one going back to the 1930's, according to a small plaque, mounted on the wall. A sign indicated that all the machines were in working order. An arrow at the bottom pointed to a bill changer. It was obvious that Charley had poured his heart and a large amount of cash into this room and it was just as obvious that he would like others to pour some cash his way. I did my part. Either the flippers needed oiling or I did, because one of us was sorely lacking in dexterity.

I turned toward the direction in which I came. After a cursory look at the various exercise equipment, I noticed there were three sections of book shelves. Together they formed a "U", complete with a rolling ladder to assist in getting to the uppermost shelves. The variety of magazines was extensive, with the trade mag, Variety, among them. A quick perusal revealed them to be the latest issue.

I neglected to mention the door on the side wall, located between the exercise area and the shelving. If my logistics analysis, mixed in with some amateur deductions are correct, this entire room is an adjunct to Charley's office. Not a bad gig, having access to one's personal gym and recreation room, along with all of its amenities, merely by opening an office door.

Then I observed something I never thought I would see in this locale, a herd of recliners, in their natural habitat, each facing its own large-screen TV. They formed a circle, as they do on Animal Planet.

After getting another coffee, I stretched out on my pick of the pack and flipped on the remote. To my surprise a scene from Shelfish, one of my favorite films, appeared on the screen.

How thoughtful of Charley to have my only screenplay cued up. As I started to watch, I realized the new waiting room lacked one thing, a way to see Dolores. Soon, I found my mind drifting back to the first time I met her and Charley.

Author Notes The last line from Chapter 7 is included.


Chapter 8
After Lunch

By Marvin Calloway

We were standing in the deserted lobby in front of the polished oak counter, which, except for two small openings on either side, completely surrounded Dolores's desk. With our arms locked around each others' waist, I kissed her and said, "I had a nice time."

"That's my line," she said, "the girl is supposed to say that," and she kissed me back.

"As long as we agree." I kissed her again. Pretty soon we didn't know who was kissing whom. "I hope that little snack makes up for the remark I made last week."

"I'll considerate it as a down payment." Her words made me think we would be sharing many more kisses in the future.

While we continued our smooching competition, the winning of which I was willing to concede, a voice came from somewhere behind the counter. "I thought you said you only be gone one hour, Missy Dolores."

I could tell that this surprised Dolores by how quickly she spun and looked around. When the source of the remark arose to her full height, she could scarcely see over the roughly four foot high counter. Her face was dominated by large, thick glasses, a wide, grinning mouth of perfect, white teeth and long, straight black hair. She either had a nice tan or was from south of the border. For all I know, it could have been both.

I ran my fingers through my hair, in case it needed straightening.

"Ximena, this is Rusty, a friend of mine."

I walked toward her, extended my hand over the counter and noticed she was almost as wide as she was tall. She took my hand and looked me straight in the eye and said, "You no look like old fender."

"Huh? Of course not. Rusty is short for Russel," Dolores said.

She let go of my hand and said, "That's funny. Ximena short for everytheeng."

"Nice to meet you, Ximena." I said.

"I theenk so to."

I started walking away and Dolores followed. When we thought we had gotten far enough from the human butter-ball we stopped.

"Who's that?"

"Ximena does odd jobs around here."

"Well, she looks odd enough to anything."

"Now Russ. Be nice."

"I don't know any other way to be. Before I go straighten my tie and get ready for Charley, how about a kiss for good luck?"

"You're not wearing a tie, but I could loan you one."

"It's just a figure of speech. And I'm not sure I want to know why you have a man's tie so handy."

"It's really at my apartment, but we could be back in forty-five minutes. Seriously, you'd be surprised how many wanna-be's come in here with what could be a life changing script in a beat up envelope, without a tie."

"Now why would an envelope need to wear a tie?"

"You know what I mean. I keep several of them in one of my drawers."

"That might complicate things when trying to identify you in the event of a car accident."

"Can't you be serious?"

"I am serious . . . about that kiss." She ignored me and continued. "I size up the person, usually a male, and determine which tie I think would go best with whatever he's wearing."

I had the impression she was stalling. "About that kiss."

She hesitated. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"It . . . it doesn't feel right."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer at first, then said, "Remember what happened the last time?"

"No, what . . . oh!"

"If I kiss you for good luck, I could be kissing our relationship, goodbye." She stepped back, turned, took a Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "I have to get back to work."

She turned to Ximena. "Did Mr. Davenport return yet?"

"Five meeneets ago. You in beeg trouble for not letting heem know you back. And late, too."

We weren't late. Dolores already told me that Charley, in a rare act of generosity, gave her two hours for today's lunch and we utilized every meeneet, I mean minute of it.

With me by her side, Dolores checked in with Charley via her intercom and was informed that he had calls to make, and for me to wait in the waiting room. Charley sounded calmer than usual, but he couldn't possibly have sensed the emotion Dolores was going through.

Not looking me in the eye, she squeezed my hand and said, "You better go wait."

Disappointed, I started down the hall. "Not that way. You haven't seen the new waiting room, yet, have you?" She pointed toward the door to the right of the exquisite brushed gold letters, "DAVENPORT PRODUCTIONS", mounted on the blackish marble wall behind her desk.

"You're in for a surprise!"


Chapter 8
What Next?

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 8

What Next?

When the impact of the ambulance fiasco had sunk in, Brennan called for backup. He requested two uniformed officers, in the event other bank employees were involved and a third plainclothes officer to keep an eye on Sterling.

"I wonder if he was connected to the robbery," Amanda offered.

"Sterling? I wouldn't put anything past him."

"He was awfully quick to shoot the robber," she added. "Do you really think he wanted Miss La Scola to die while waiting for an ambulance?"

"What other reason could he have? It's not like he was extremely busy. And consider the ambulance service he called. The bozo I met did not seem like the compassionate, dedicated person one usually finds in a paramedic."

< < ^ > >

"I knew it. I knew this would happen. I tried my best to let him retire with dignity, but no, Brennan couldn't do that. He's got to involve the whole police department. And, what's worse, now we're having to borrow personnel from other departments. Where is this going to end?"

The Chief of Police, Jo Tierney was saying all this to her secretary, Bridgette.

Mrs. Tierney enjoyed seeing the look on people's faces when they found out the Chief of Police was a woman.

"Well that's it. The robber's been shot and may die at any moment. The teller's been shot by the robber and is on her way to the hospital, where she may die at any moment. Why on earth does Brennan need extra personnel?"

"The answer's right here, chief," Tierney's secretary said, as she held up the two page fax she had received from Detective Doherty. "According to this, the bank manager, himself, may have murdered the teller."
"Isn't that rather harsh punishment just for allowing yourself to get robbed at gunpoint?"

"That's one way to look at it, chief. Brennan and Doherty are planning on doing more questioning. They're thinking the manager and the robber may have been working together. Or the robber and the teller could have been partners."

"No additional personnel needed for those two scenarios."

"And they feel at least one employee was in on the robbery. Three more cops may not be enough."

"Give them two and tell them I said to speed it up."

< < ^ > >

The astounded detectives began discussing what their strategy should be, in light of the delayed ambulance call.

"This wouldn't be premeditated murder, would it, Sir?"

"No, but, I believe it's a clear case of Second-Degree murder."

"If Miss La Scola dies, I'll bet a good lawyer could get Sterling on Murder One."

"I think it's so obvious a high school drop-out could nail the S.O.B., but let's leave that up to the courts, Amanda."

< < ^ > >

Brennan assigned Amanda to sketch a floor plan of the bank, "If you need someone to hold the other end of the tape, deputize one of the bank employees, preferably one who's not guilty of any bank related crimes."

Brennan made sure Amanda had all the items she needed to complete the task.

"While you're drawing up the bank I'll be trying to draw out Miss Zito. I think she's either hiding information or wants to unload some. Maybe she'll fess up while she and I take a tour of the bank."

< < ^ > >

Character List:
George S. Brennan: Police Captain.
Amanda Doherty: Police Detective.
Floyd Tucker: Teller One.
Joan Berkowitz: Bookkeeper.
Gertrude (Trudy) La Scola: Teller Two.
Rose Anne Zito: Phone receptionist.
Eric MacNamarra: Accountant.
Jamal Jefferson: Custodian.
Ruth Freeman: Secretary.
Arnold Frazier: Robber.
Josephine Tierney: Chief of Police
Bridgette: Mrs. Tierney's Secretary
Robert (Bobby) Brittenham: Loan Officer.
Herman Sterling: Bank Manager.


Author Notes This is a murder mystery, not connected to my Rom/Com, Loophole.


Chapter 9
Memory Lane

By Marvin Calloway

Last line of chapter 8:

Soon, I found my mind drifting back to the first time I met her and Charley.
___________________<>__________________

It was about four years ago, shortly after Charley purchased my first screenplay. Marty, who was instrumental in closing the deal, met me at John Wayne International. I had just arrived from Baltimore.

I was unaware of this airport until I did an online price check. In their ad, Big John was on top of his horse and on the top of a list of airlines, serving the Los Angeles area.

During the flight I dozed off and dreamed that John was our pilot. He appeared as he did in True Grit, with a black patch over his left eye. Knowing he could see out of his right eye prevented my dream from becoming a nightmare. Marty was waiting on the tarmac on horseback, clutching the reins of second horse. Either Marty brought it for me or else he likes to carry a spare. What I couldn't picture was a storage compartment for my luggage.

When Marty and I finally hooked up, he asked me to drive, so he could make phone calls. His late model "Beamer" had horses to spare, but, on account of traffic, I rarely got to use them. I don't think we took the most direct route, because several times, when I heard Marty shout, "Right," it was to someone on the phone, and I turned right just in case. One time he shouted "Left," and I nearly drove us into a fire house.

While Marty was giving me directions, he was able to confirm today's meeting, confirm the times and locations of future meetings and make dates with two receptionists. He also lined up work in his chosen field, freelance audio technician. He probably could have done all that while driving, but I believe he wanted me to get a feel for the traffic conditions in Los Angeles.

After we finally arrived at the site for our meeting, Marty directed me to park on the left side of a contemporary styled, four story building, in an area marked "Davenport Productions." He informed me that Charley owned the entire structure, with his offices only on the first floor. He rents out the other floor spaces to movie studios to use for scenes too costly to film anywhere else.

Once inside, Marty led the way to a curved counter, surrounding a curved receptionist desk, which almost surrounded the well curved receptionist. I stared at this gorgeous creature, not believing my eyes. She appeared to be hovering above her chair, like a queen on her throne.

She spoke without taking a breath. "Afternoon, mister Blair, bad news, the meeting's been postponed, to when, I have no idea, but mister Davenport said go on in, he still wants to see you both." I tried to hide my disappointment, while continuing to stare at her. Marty looked at me, then back at the receptionist. "Why didn't he call me? I turned down a gig in Vegas just for this?"

She slowed down her pace. "I don't know, Isaac never said, but that he will call you when he knows something." Turning to me, she said. "Hi, you must be Rusty."

"I don't play golf at all, if that's what you're intimating."

"Ha, ha," she laughed. "Marty said you had a quick sense of humor."

"What do you mean?"

Marty intervened, "Your name, Russ. He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me toward the counter area directly in front of the receptionist.

"Dolores, I'd like you to meet Russ Walker, the selfish screenwriter, I mean "Shelfish" screenwriter. I mean to say that he wrote "Shelfish." Why is that so difficult for me to say? Russ, this is Dolores, Charley's receptionist . . . among other things."

Dolores glared at Marty. "Mister Blair!"

"Excuse me, Dolores, you know I didn't mean it like that."

Dolores offered her hand to Russ. "Glad to finally get to meet you, Rusty."

I took her hand and said, "Oh. I get it. My pleasure. You're the girl I spoke with on the phone all those times." As soon as our hands touched, my disappointment over today's canceled meeting evaporated.

"That's me. You sound different when it's not long distance," she said.

"You look different."

"Go ahead, say it. I'm tall."

"Well, I wouldn't, I mean, ..."

"Let's get it over with. The weather up here is fine, I'm no taller than the average phone tower and I'm terrible at basketball. Did I leave anything out ?"

"Yes. You're gorgeous!"

"Aw, that's so sweet. Thank you. Maybe we can chat later."
She continued to hold my hand. I didn't want her to let go, but eventually she did and Marty led the way to Charley's office, while saying, "Smooth save, Romeo. I hope you do as well in here."

It was a spacious office, trimmed in bronze and rosewood. Charley, not a small man, was, nevertheless, dwarfed by the size of his desk. There must be something in the water, or the wood or the polyvinyl chloride, causing these desks to grow to such gigantic proportions.

Marty nudged me toward the behemoth. The desk, not Charley.

I would definitely call Charley a multi-tasker. He had a pencil in one hand, a half of a shrimp salad sandwich in the other and a cigar in his mouth. He looked like an ad for the latest weight-loss program. The gimmick being to burn a hole in your stomach before the food has a chance to do its damage.

"Charley, this is my friend Russ. This is a good start, Isaac canceling the very first meeting."

"Don't worry about it Marty. This will show your friend here what it's like in this crazy business."

Thrusting his shrimp salad laden hand across the desk, he said, "So you're Russ. Shake pal, glad to meetcha." I extended my hand, then pulled it back and said, "I'm not sure what to shake, Mister Davenport. I don't want to shake anything that would be in bad taste." As soon as it came out of my mouth, I regretted having said it. He laughed, and said, "This kid's all right." I made a mental note that Marty is right, although he didn't mean it that way. This is a good start for an initial meeting.

Even though the main reason for our visit had been postponed, Charley was cheerful and cordial. He gave me advice on what to expect at the eventual meeting, what will be expected of me and how to comport myself. I made another mental note that working with Charley will be a pleasure.

- - - - <> - - - -

"Rusty, Rusty." I felt a gentle pushing on my shoulder. "Wake up."

"Huh? Oh, wow."

"Charley's ready. You may go in now," Dolores said.

I bolted out of the recliner. "Am I late? Is Charley upset?"

Dolores took my hand. "No, he said to bring a drink with you if you like."

We started walking toward the bar. "I' should grab another coffee. The first two didn't do much good."

She stopped and pulled me toward her. "I want you know I really mean this. Good luck with your new screenplay." Then she gave me the best kiss of the day, with no help from me.

Just before the door to Charley's office closed, I heard her say, "Our next lunch is on you."


Chapter 9
Temporary Insanity

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 9

Temporary Insanity

As Amanda was leaving the kitchen-lounge area, Rose Anne and Detective Brennan walked in.

A round, hammered-glass-top table in a wrought-iron frame was in the middle of the room, with four wrought-iron chairs spaced around it. A fridge, micro-wave oven and sink were squeezed into the tiny space.

Brennan opened a few cabinet doors and drawers and discovered snacks, condiments, silverware, cups glasses and plates, Kleenex, a deck of cards, a chess set and miscellaneous odds and ends.

Rose Anne said nothing until she finished her coffee. “I can't put this off any longer. Let's go back to the interview room so we can record what I'm about to tell you.”

< < ^ > >

Brennan pressed 'record' and said, “2:46 pm, Friday, August fourth, 2015. The following is a statement by Rose Anne Zito, freely given of her own accord.” He pointed to her and mouthed the word, “Go.”

I'm guilty of seeing Herman behind Trudy's back.”

Brennan whispered, “Say who he is.”

I'm referring to Herman Sterling, the manager of the bank. We started dating about ten months ago. About seven months ago he hired Trudy. It was then that he changed. He hardly spoke to me at the bank. If we were on a date, everything was fine. It was only around the bank that he pretty much ignored me.

That bothered me. I demanded an explanation. He said he and Trudy were married, but no one else can know because Corporate has a policy of no relatives in the same branch of the bank.

I could have told on them, but decided not to because Trudy seemed like a nice person.” Rose Anne started to tear up. “I didn't care what happened to Him. I avoided him as much as possible. A couple days later, he admitted they were married way before we started dating. That made me feel even worse.” Rose Anne looked for something to dab her tears. Brennan gave her his handkerchief.

I told him we were through.”

A couple days later he told me they were going to get divorced. I told him we were still through until I saw the papers. A day or two later he showed me a sheet of paper, saying they were divorced. It must have been fake, because there were spelling errors on it. What an idiot!

On second thought, I was the idiot.” She laughed and cried at the same time.

He sent me a singing telegram, of all things, about wanting one more date. He couldn't even face me. I went to his office and told him the only date I wanted was the date of his divorce. A few days later, he told me they'll be separated in a week. That happened last Friday.

Now that I think about it, he was forecasting the date of the robbery, but I didn't know it at the time.

A little while after the robbery, he came to see me in my office. That made me think Trudy must have been killed making him a free man. I welcomed him in. As tragic as that day was for Trudy, I was happy for the first time in months. Then the ambulance came and I heard talk about him taking a long time to call for it. Everything finally dawned on me.”

< < ^ > >

Rose Anne opened the floodgates and cried uncontrollably. In between sobs, She managed to say, “I'm going to need more tissues.”

Brennan said, “I'll get you some,” and bolted out the door, toward the kitchen. When he got back to the room, the desk was askew and Rose was gone.

As Brennan ran from the room he heard glass breaking. He glanced at Sterling's office and saw Rose Anne, inside Sterling's office, holding a shard of glass, like a knife in the handkerchief he had given her. She was going toward Sterling, behind his desk.

Sterling was moving away from her and holding his hand up to defend himself. The glass pierced his hand and blood shot out like a squirt from a toy water-gun.

From behind, Brennan grabbed Rose Anne by the waist and twisted her away from Sterling. Sterling headed for the shattered window. He tripped over the brick Rose had used to break the glass, causing him to fall through the jagged opening and on to the floor of the lobby.

Ms. Berkowitz and Brennan got the weapon of glass away from the hysterical woman without any more harm being done.

< < ^ > >

The detectives, Doherty and Brennan, saw to it that Rose Anne was being well cared for by Jamal and a secretary named Ruth. They had calmed down Rose immensely and finally got her to stop screaming, “Let me call the ambulance, please, let me call the ambulance,”over and over.

Two of the bank employees, Joan Berkowitz and the six foot four inch Eric MacNamarra, seamed like a good pair to prevent the heartless bank manager, Herman Sterling, from getting away.

Sterling didn't appear interested in going anywhere with a profusely bleeding hand and four strong arms holding his limbs. Jamal got an extension cord and tied Sterling's ankles together, to add his own personal touch to the tableau.

Author Notes This murder mystery has nothing to do with Loophole, my Rom/Com about a screenplay writer who overextends himself.


Chapter 10
To Do List

By Marvin Calloway

                                                                                Chapter 10

                                                                                 To Do List

   Detectives Doherty and Brennan were back in the interrogation room. Brennan was admiring the floor plan Amanda had drafted. “This is an impressive plan you drew up, but it may have been all for naught.”

That's all right, S.B.. It was good practice, 'cause I'm thinking of doing drafting on the side, for extra money.”

                                                                                    < < ^ > >

Fresh on their minds was the attempted murder of the cunning bank manager, Herman Sterling by his former girl friend, a crazed Rose Anne Zito.

Although Rose Anne volunteered to call for an ambulance to take the wounded bank manager to a hospital, I think it would be preferable that he remain alive until we wrap up this case,”

Yes, but a little revenge would really cheer her up,” Amanda said.

                                                                                          < < ^ > >

Rose Anne was in the kitchen having a snack with two bank employees, Joan and Floyd. The couple were hoping to pick up where they left off, in each others arms, while Sterling was out front, shooting at the robber. Brennan had requested them to stay close to Rose Anne until she's settled down. “Let her have a drink if you think it will help,” Brennan said, “and save a little for me.”

When the topic came up about an ice pack for Sterling's hand, Rose again volunteered, but was turned down. Amanda remarked, “One gets the feeling that if her two-timing boy friend required a tourniquet, she would volunteer to make one and apply it tightly around his neck.”

                                                                                               < < ^ > >

Eric MacNamarra took over for Joan and Floyd to 'babysit' Rose Anne, giving them a chance to stretch their legs. The pair strolled near Sterling's office, where they watched the window repair crew measuring for the new glazing and cleaning up debris left by the old one.

Opposite Sterling's office was the Loan Office where Sterling was lying on a sofa. His left hand was packed in ice and wrapped in hand towels, awaiting the ambulance called by Detective Brennan.

Two bank employees, Jamal and Ruth, were acting as guards. They were hoping Sterling would try to get away, giving them an excuse to do him bodily harm. Now and then, Joan and Floyd would glance through the window and stare at Sterling with contempt.

                                                                                                    < < ^ > >

Reinforcements arrived in a marked patrol car, consisting of two uniformed patrolmen, one, a Filipino, who spoke perfect English, the other, a Caucasian, with a highbrow look about him. They brought their recording of the 'deathbed' statement by the robber, Arnold Frazier.

Handing the insulated envelope containing the tape to Detective Brennan, the Filipino said, “The voice you'll hear is that of the robber, Arnold Frazier and me, Melchor Grandea. My friends call me Mel.”

Thanks, Mel,” Brennan said. ”What's your partners name?”

Charlie.”

No last name?”

Wallace.”

Alright, Mel, you and Charlie get up to . . . you brought the other tape recorder, right?”

Yes sir,” Mel said.

Good! Get up to St. Agnes Hospital with your recorder and make sure Herman Sterling got there okay. Try to plant the recorder in an inconspicuous place in his room. Take turns being with him.”

Whenever one of you leaves the room, say something like, 'I'm going to see how Miss La Scola is doing,” Amanda said.

Yeah, that will make him think she's in the same hospital,” Brennan said.

And then he may try to finish her off,” Amanda said, “giving us something else to charge him with.”

Well, same charge, but more flagrant,” Brennan said.

You want us to disconnect his life support?” Charlie said.

Brennan said, “I like the way you think, but I doubt if he's on life support. He might think an IV drip is life support, if he's on one. It will be interesting to see how he reacts to thinking the teller, Miss La Scola, is there.

One of you keep an eye on him at all times. Call me when he's settled in. Write your phone number on that pad and here's my card.”

< < ^ > >

Arnold Frazier gave us the whole story,” Brennan said to Detective Doherty, “at least his version of it.”

Author Notes This chapter has nothing to do with my Rom/Com "Loophole."


Chapter 10
Writer's Crock

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 9:

Just before the door from the waiting room to Charley's office closed, I heard Dolores say, "Our next lunch is on you."

Charley was bent down behind his desk, allowing me only the sight of his hunched-over back. "Have a seat, Russ, I need to find something."

I fully expected "something" to be a bottle of booze. Instead, he straightened up, with his left hand clutching a cigar. "I don't light 'em anymore. I just need one in my hand to help me talk." He turned toward me and extended his right hand and was surprised to find I wasn't close enough to shake it. "What are you doing way back there? Dumb architect! I told him he made this office too large."

"You've got enough room here for a par three golf course."

"I was thinking of nine holes of miniature golf. There's some guys in our group that would play for a hundred bucks a hole. It would pay for itself in no time."

- - - < > - - -

I had taken a seat in one of the chairs against the wall, opposite Charley and his desk. The word behemoth leaps to mind. This time for Charley, not his desk. He seems to have gained a considerable amount of weight during the year since I last saw him.

"I was just getting my things together."

"Well, get 'em together over here so I won't have to shout." I came closer, we shook hands and we sat. "Your waiting room is like being in another world."

"Turned out pretty good, didn't it? There's pictures of every film I've been involved in. And there's room for more, if you get my drift."

"It's a work in progress."

"That's what it is. Boy, you writers sure can get to the heart of things." If anyone except Charley had said that, I would have thought they were being sarcastic, but when he uttered it, I knew he was being sincere.

"Did you and Dol have a nice lunch?"

"Very nice."

"Well, enough of that, whatdya got?

I opened my brief case, pulled out the envelope containing my future and handed it to Charley. Feeling its heft, he remarked, "You've been busy!"

As his meaty fingers freed the pages from their confines he asked, "What do you call it?"

"Loophole. It's about a . . ."

"Stop. I know what it's about," and before I could say another word, Charley proceeded to tell me about an event in his life, that he thought the story was about. "Is that the gist of it?"

"Eh, I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say?"

"Uh . . . It's hard to say."

"So far, you haven't said anything."

"Well, I might have to change some things."

"Of course. We all know rewriting is your speciality," he laughed, probably not at his mispronunciation. He held up the script, stared at the title page and said, "I can't believe you're writing a story that hits this close to home, my home, and without telling me about it."

"I, uh, I didn't want to invade your privacy."

"I'll give up privacy, as long as we can make a few bucks off it."

"I'll try to remember that."

"You really should have said something."

"Yeah, well . . . I, I wanted to surprise you."

"You sly dog! I bet I saw you hiding in the bushes or somewhere and didn't even know it was you."

"I wore disguises."

"Disguises? Of course. Was that you wearing that awful red wig? I think it was when I was in a convenience store, one day."

"I thought you might have spotted me." This was starting to be fun.

"Have you ever been in Victoria's Secret?"

"Just once," he said.

"I know."

Charley leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "This is unbelievable."

"I know," a little louder, this time.

"I'm going to be in pictures."

"I know," a lot louder.

"Hey, there was another time, there was this guy, looked like an old man, with a long gray beard, it didn't even look real. Was that you?"

"Only one way to find out. Next time you see him, pull his beard as hard as you can."

"I was tempted to do just that. Oh, man, I wish I had. Darn. Yep, that's what I'm going to do next time."

I thought to myself, I'll be lucky if there is a next time, when he realizes who is writing this story.

I leaned foward and spoke softly. "There was one disguise that I used that made me look about five inches shorter."

Charley leaned in as close to me as he could. "How did you do that?"

"Well, for one thing the weather has to be just right."

"Yeah, and?"

"That's all I can tell you. I'm sworn to secrecy."

Once more, Charley leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. I imagined he was looking at it as if it were a movie screen and he was watching his life story unfold before him, or at least the story he just related to me.

Either that or he saw a parade of large denomination bills marching their way into his bank account. He got a huge smile on his face and said, "This is amazing." At that point I was certain it was the sight of all that currency heading his way.

He leaned forward. "Tell you what. Give me thirty pages in say, uh, say, why not? . . . thirty days. Thirty pages, thirty days. That will be my new system."

"Like a trademark."

"I'm telling you, you come up with the right word for everything. Yeah, my trademark. Thirty, thirty, I'll call it."

"And you'll give me $30,000 to start with?"

"Yeah. No! That's way too much. How about $5,000? How's that?"

I thought for a minute. "Well, it might be doable."

"You're learning the lingo around here. Glad you're fitting in." He put the cigar in his mouth and the silence made him realize he could no longer talk and took it out.

"If I give you $5,000 in the next five minutes, it should be very doable."

"I'm going to need more."

"Alright, another hundred. You're worse than dealing with Marty. By the way, how come he's not doing this?"

"I wanted to see if I could do it on my own."

"Well, you did alright. What about the other hundred?"

"Not necessary. What I need is more details."

"No problem."

Charley pulled open the top drawer of his desk, picked up a business card and handed it to me. "You want more details, call my lawyer."

I took the card and read it: 'Arnold J. Ehrlanger, Attorney at Law.' Sounds like a shyster. But what do I care. I'm not going to call him, anyway. After all, who's writing this story, Charley's shyster lawyer or me? I was beginning to wonder.

"Wait," he said, "I just remembered. There was a woman I thought was following me. She had blue hair, a crooked bra and walked with a limp."

"Was there anything unusual about her?"

"She might have had buck-teeth, but I forgot to ask."

At this point, I wasn't sure who was kidding whom. I played along. "Next time, get her phone number. I want to see if she wants to do surveillance work for me."

- - - < > - - -

Charley, knowing the full value of flattery in this ego-driven business, laid some on me. "This is the best writing you've ever done."

I have one problem with that statement. He may be right.


Chapter 11
The PLots Thicken

By Marvin Calloway

The Plots Thicken

Confucius's father say: "My son, the philosopher, doesn't know a proverb from an adverb."

When I left Charley's office, I felt confident yet confused. Or, maybe apprehensive and elated. The only feeling I was sure of was my yen for another coffee. Except for the film stars, whose eyes were staring at me from their gigantic posters, I was alone in the waiting room. I took my coffee to one of the recliners, sat and enjoyed the stimulating music of Bernard Herman. His music wouldn't have been my first choice to help me think, but I'm a devoted fan, especially of his Hitchcock film scores. Eventually the music changed to soft, soothing pieces, but I was unable to match any of them to a particular film.

I considered what had just happened in my favorite producer's office. During the brief interval between my saying, "Loophole" and Charley saying, "Lawyer," I lost control of my script. After he shared his idea, it was no longer just my plot, but two separate plots. Thoughts of how to combine, merge, connect, interweave or mesh the divergent plots seemed daunting, if not impossible.

If people started calling me, "Rusty Two Plots," I wouldn't object. Not as long as the merger was a success. But, if unsuccessful, I'd dwell on the idea that the nickname sounds like that of a crime family member, with rumors that my uncle is none other than the infamous "Three Fingers, Joe." That aspect of it wouldn't make me happy, but if done in jest, I could live with it. I'm not sure for how long. Members of this type of family tend to have a shortened life expectancy.

Either way, perhaps I should change my business cards to read, "Russel Walker, Screenwriter, Two Plots, No Waiting." This might entice other writers to hire me as a script doctor. NEED AN EXTRA PLOT? DON'T CUSS, CALL RUSS.

Although both plots were about a loophole, the similarity ended there. They were polar opposites, like Laverne and Shirley, Bert and Ernie, innies and outies. The dissimilar ideas weren't playing nice together. In fact, they were about ready to poke each others eyes out and it was up to me to put a stop to it before there was bloodshed.

Maybe I could please a few people by taking the plots to a plot-luck dinner or just admit defeat and bury them at plotters field.

As illogical as it may seem, my mind kept returning to the same course of action and implementing it was the only way I knew to halt the impending mayhem. First, there were some mundane chores requiring my attention.

To do the chores, I had to cash my check to give me money to hire a cab to pick up a rental car, then to see Clem to release my belongings, then to the repair shop to pay my mechanic to start repairs on my car then pick up groceries and return to my apartment.

Other than Charley's office, all the destinations were in the same general area. That's why, in less than three hours, the chores were completed and I was back at my desk sorting through today's mail, mostly bills with a few charity solicitations. How did my name get on so many charity lists? Until today, I felt like a charity case, myself.

I wanted to call Marty and share with him the conflicting news, but I couldn't find my phone. There are several places where I might have left it: Charley's office, the cab, the bank, the car rental office. Then it hit me. I was standing near Dolores, when I used my phone to call about the rental car. I pictured it lying on Dolores's desk. While I was at it, I pictured Dolores' lying on her desk next to it.

Realizing that I won't be able to retrieve my phone until tomorrow, I had to resort to "Plan B." Calling it "Plan Y" would be more accurate. "Y" for Yolanda. Or, more to the point, Yolanda's phone.


Chapter 11
Ronald's Story

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 11

Ronald's Story

“Ronald Loman gave us the whole story,” Detective Brennan said to Detective Doherty, “at least his version of it.”

S.B. and Amanda, the names they agreed to use when no one was around, were heading to Mercy Hospital, about ten miles from Wilton Savings and Loan. Amanda drove her midsize Lexus a few miles over the forty miles per hour speed limit. With hardly any traffic on this sunny afternoon, there was no need to operate a siren or flashing lights.

Amanda thought, how comforting it is to have S.B.'s presence next to me, though his mind seemed to be some distance away.

You been fiddling with those recorders since we left the bank, S.B. Working on your Christmas card list?”

You think you're joking but, my wife used to start the season in September, God rest her soul. No, I'm attempting to write the Reader's Digest version of the robber's story,” he said. “His is much too wordy. I also hope to clarify certain details.”

Maybe I could help. The old 'Two heads are better than one,' theory.”

Not when one of them is old and feeble.”

“Oh, I doubt, very much, you're in that category, S.B.”

I was referring to you, my dear.”

Brennan turned off the recorders. “Remember when we first arrived at the bank and Sterling mentioned that an ambulance had picked up the robber?” Before Amanda could answer, he continued, “Why didn't he say something about the teller getting shot? Is it my fault I wasn't aware of that? Is it the ambulance people's fault or is it Sterling's fault for not saying anything about Trudy? It's like he didn't want us to know.”

Amanda slowed the car to under the speed limit. “In my opinion, he should have spoken up. You're right, he should have filled us in on things we had no other way of knowing.”

But, the Sterling we've come to know and detest did exactly what we've come to expect,” Brennan said.

What's the robber's name?”

Ronald, Ronald Loman.”

Will Roman Loman be charged with anything?”

It's Roland, I mean Ronald. Maybe not, since he was acting under duress. If he's charged with anything, I feel confident they'll go lightly on him.”

What duress?” Amanda said.

Sterling and Ronald cheated two nasty brothers out of a thousand dollars in a card game. All Sterling has to do is leave word at the bar where they can find Ronald and he'll either repay the money or not live to tell about it. The Heffernan brothers never forget.”

Famous bad boys, huh. Did he also blackmail Trudy?”

I'm sure he did. How else could he have gotten a sweet woman like her to help him rob a bank?”

Sweet?”

You heard on the tape how Ronald talked about Trudy. He has no idea what the blackmail item could be,” Brennan said.

Ronald said they've been over the plan so many times, he could do it in his sleep. The evening before the robbery the three met at 9 p. m., under cover of darkness. That was the usual time, but they never repeated the same motel, so anyone who saw them couldn't detect a pattern.

Ronald said, 'Sterling thought of every little detail.'"

I know someone like that, Amanda thought.

Trudy was late. She said she went to church and Ronald believed her. Even Sterling believed her. That's the kind of person she was.

Some time ago Sterling asked Ronald what he thought of her. Ronald said, 'If you play your cards right, you could have her, but you'd be better off reneging.' Sterling thanked him for the tip and replied, 'I know she won't renege, not with what I've got on her.'

It must be shameful, but if Trudy dies, it's still murder,” Amanda said.

That's the main part we have to clear up. Ronald may have wanted her dead so he'd get a bigger share,” Brennan said.

Sterling might want her dead, not for the money, but just to be rid of her,” Amanda said. “He could steal money from the bank anytime.

Sterling swore the gun would have blanks. At the last meeting, Ronald checked it, saw it had blanks and gave it back to Sterling.

But, on the morning of the robbery, Sterling is the last person to handle the gun. He arrived at the bank early, filled the black bag with large bills, made sure the gun was loaded with real ammo and placed it on top the money. He zipped it shut. He probably checked the zipper to make sure it worked. He put the bag at Trudy's teller window on a shelf, out of sight of customers, below the counter.

On the tape, Ronald said that on the day of the robbery, Trudy handed him the bag, he unzipped it, picked up the gun lying on top of the money and immediately thought the gun felt too heavy. He knew Sterling had switched the bullets. So he aimed for Trudy's left arm, to be sure the bullet wouldn't kill her. He said there was no doubt in his mind, Sterling wanted Trudy dead.”

Brennan said, “Maybe Ronald brought real bullets so he could make the switch if necessary?”

So which one put real bullets in the gun?” Amanda asks.

That's why we're going to see Sterling in one hospital and Ronald in another hospital. While we're out we should visit Trudy to see how she's doing.”

Author Notes NOTE: the word, LOOPHOLE has nothing to do with this murder mystery.


Chapter 12
Friendly Neighbor

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 11:
Realizing that I won't be able to retrieve my phone until tomorrow, I had to resort to "Plan B," to make calls. Calling it "Plan Y" would be more accurate. "Y" for Yolanda. Or, more to the point, Yolanda's phone.

- - - < > - - -

"You lost your phone!" Yolanda said, loud enough for our neighbors to hear, except for Mrs. Hickey, who plays her TV so loud, I wouldn't think she could possibly hear anything else.

I was standing outside her apartment door. Yolanda's, not Mrs. Hickey's. She grabbed my arm and pulled me in.

"I know where I left it . . ." I started to say.

"Loaning you my phone is not the kind of help I was hoping to give you, Russ," she reprimanded me, with only a slight decrease in decibels.

". . . but it's too late to retrieve it, today."

"Looks like you need a muse and a personal secretary." She emphasized the word, personal.
She didn't stop pulling until we were in her bedroom. I went willingly, but only out of curiosity, mind you.

"Wait. I don't have time for this," I said.

"For what?" She picked up her phone from her night stand and handed it to me.

"Never mind. Thanks, Yolanda."

"I could accompany you to all your meetings."

"How can I ever . . ." I started to say.

"I could make sure you're dressed properly." She pulled me back to the living room and began circling around me, removing non-existent lint from my jacket, straightening my already straightened collar, pushing here, pulling there, where no pushing or pulling was necessary.

"From now on . . ." I started again.

"I could make sure you have everything you need."

". . . I'll keep it around my neck."

"That's where I'd like to be." Up til then, I thought she had lost her hearing.

"Let me make a call . . ."

"I could be a big help."

". . . and I'll never bother you again."

"It's no bother, Russ."

"These calls are urgent."

"So now it's plural?"

"I forgot about my mom."

"Your poor mother! How could you?" She said, shaking her head.

"And, of course, Marty."

"Don't forget the Pope."

"No, that should do it."

"Where is this going to end? You may as well spend the night."
Only a mind like Yolanda's could leap to such a conclusion.

- - - <> - - -

Yolanda said, "No," when I asked her to let me take her phone to my apartment, so I headed for her sofa. She, of course, went with me. We sat as if we were joined at the hip. I punched in the numbers. She leaned in toward my right ear. I switched the phone to my left ear.

"Sounds Great Audio, Martin here."

"Hi, Marty. This is Russ." Yolanda leaned in closer, her left ear against my right ear, twisting the old phrase, "Out one ear and in the other" or should it be, "In one ear, out the other and into another ear?" She was practically lying on my side.

"How much do you need and when?"

"Good grief, am I that predictable?" I reached my arm around behind her to try grabbing her elbow. "Oh, Russ, that feels good, but maybe some other time." It wasn't her elbow. I slid out from under her and stood up. Yolanda fell over.

"Not really. I was just using a form of reverse psychology," Marty said.

"Well it worked. I pitched my latest screenplay to Charley, this afternoon and he bought it."

"Congratulations. Where do you want to go to celebrate?"

"I don't feel like celebrating, 'cause there's kind of a catch to it."

"A catch?

"It's hard to explain."

"Did Charley give you a check?"

"Yeah."

"Did you cash it?"

"Yeah."

"Then it's time to celebrate."

Yolanda got up from the sofa and stood next to me.

"I can't talk now."

Is it illegal to listen in to the conversation of someone who borrows your phone or is it merely rude?

- - - < > - - -

Marty asked me why I didn't get him to pitch this screenplay, reminding me of the success he had with my first one. I told him why and I promised him he could do my next one. We hung up.

- - - < > - - -

I gave up the idea of calling mom with Yolanda's phone and handed it back to her. She suggested that we have a celebratory drink and I let her talk me into it. Yolanda then allowed me to leave, with no advances. As I was leaving, she said, "Don't forget my offer . . ." Maybe I've been wrong about her. ". . . you don't have to pay me in cash." Then again, maybe not.


Chapter 13
Who's Next

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 12:

As I was leaving, she said, "Don't forget my offer . . ." Maybe I've been wrong about her. ". . . you don't have to pay me in cash." Then again, maybe not.

Who's Next?

". . . you don't have to pay me in cash," were the last words Yolanda uttered, as I was leaving her apartment and the only words Dolores had to hear, before throwing my phone at me and running out of the building.

Picking up the phone fragments cost me the chance to catch up with her. I fit the pieces together, punched in some numbers and my phone was back to normal. Mending my relationship with Dolores may not be as simple.

- - - < > - - -

After breakfast the next morning I poured a coffee, sat at my kitchen table and opened the latest edition of The Call Sheet, the one I "borrowed" from Charley's waiting room. It's the standard trade magazine of the industry.

I tore through pages and pages of articles, announcements and gossip columns until I found what I was looking for: ads placed by producers and others, who are looking for screenplays to produce or to back. In other words, people like Charley.

There appeared to be hundreds of them, in all sorts of categories. I couldn't help but glance at the ones in bold type.

"WE PAY TOP DOLLAR!" and "NOBODY BEATS OUR PRICES!!!"

were just two of the many ads with the same theme. You'd think they were referring to used cars.

Ads with a minimum of copy surrounded by much white space were also easily noticeable.

"FIRST TIME SCRIPTS A SPECIALTY", etc., etc.

or

"WE WELCOME YOUR FIRST SCREENPLAY!", etc., etc., etc.

I wondered if Marty checked out any of these ads before hooking up with Charley. Either way, he made the right choice.

As I was considering getting my feet wet and calling one of them, an ad for Shultz Enterprises beckoned me. I dialed the number.

The phone rang several times before I heard an irritating voice of an irritated man.

"Who is this?" he yelled. He could have announced, "You've won first prize in a beauty contest" and it wouldn't have mattered to me. My opening line was all set.

"Good morning. My name is Russell Walker. I've just written a . . ."

"Who gave you this number?"

"I saw your ad in Call Sheet and . . ."

"Flo, I thought I told you to take our ad out of the Trades." There was the subtle sound of a phone slamming against another object. I do hope the other object wasn't Flo.

This would have been a good time to be asked to take a survey about how I had just been treated. I knew exactly what I'd have done. I'd have stared at my phone, with my angriest look and sternly said, "You know what I'm thinking," and hung up, without even waiting for an apology. That would have show them.

When I had sufficiently calmed down, I looked no further than the next ad in the column. Prompted by an old saying, I couldn't wait to get back on the horse. The next call could lead to finishing my "Preakness."

Author Notes This the first of several chapters in the hunt for a second producer.


Chapter 13
Hospitals

By Marvin Calloway

Hospitals

Detectives Doherty and Brennan returned to the ICU. They were told by the intern who spoke with them earlier, “We couldn't save him. Sorry!” She looked from one to the other. “Was he a close friend of yours?”

“Not really. We may have been his only friends,” Amanda said.

“Ronald was the victim of a situation he couldn't get out of,” Brennan said, somberly.

Before the intern could ask them to explain, the detectives slowly walked away.

                                                                     < < ^ > >

They found themselves in the cafeteria, again. Amanda was drinking cold water from a paper cup. Brennan had coffee.

“Ronald's gone, but we do have his statement,” Amanda said.

“Which makes him and Trudy seem like pawns in Sterling's master plan.”

"While it's only natural that he would slant it that way, his scenario makes perfect sense.”

“Besides the tape, we have another of his possessions.”

“What's that, S.B.?”

“His clothes.”

“What good would they be to us?”

“They might play an important part in my plan to entrap our bloody friend. If it produces the desired result, there will be no doubt in the minds of a jury as to his guilt.”

                                                                        < < ^ > >

After Amanda heard Detective Brennan's plan, she said, “So, Ronald's dying might be just what the doctor ordered.”

Brennan laughed and said, “For everyone's sake, I hope so.”

“I suppose we'll have to get Sterling's babysitters involved.”

“Definitely. But first, we should choose the hospital in which to set the trap.”

“Isn't there a chance we may not have a choice?”

“True. I'll talk to someone who's in charge here, while you call St. Agnes and get their response.”

                                                                      < < ^ > >

“Everything set, Amanda?”

“Yes. If Sterling is that stupid, your trap can't fail.”

“We had Patrolman Cipriotti read Sterling the Riot Act, which stipulates: if he steps out of line while at St. Agnes Hospital, we can throw the book at him without a trial.”

“He would have signed anything to silence Ronald.” Amanda said.

                                                                     < < ^ > >

“Patrolman Grandea said he'll be ready. He just hopes he doesn't fall asleep. When do you think Sterling will make his move?”

“Soon, I hope. I'm getting hungry!” Brennan said.

                                                                      < < ^ > >

Hide my clothes, did they! Sterling thought. They're not dealing with some bozo who just got off the boat. I'm Herman Sterling.

I spent the last twenty-four hours studying the patterns of the hospital personnel on this floor. I know who would fluff up a pillow and who would administer a headache pill. Which pair of staff members would go to the room of a comatose patient and have a smoke while ridiculing the head nurse.

I also know which ones can be bought and which can't. I'm willing to bet ninety-nine percent of them can't resist making some easy money. I've heard that this kind of work doesn't pay much.

In addition to everything I've learned on my own, one of the most important things was dropped in my lap. Ronald is in the room next to me. That was a real smart move on the part of the cops. I guess they wanted to keep the riffraff together.

                                                                      < < ^ > >

Another thing I've noticed is that it never gets very dark in a hospital. After nine p. m., decidedly fewer lights are on and that's when I'm making my move.

Author Notes This story has nothing to do with Loophole.


Chapter 14
Clothes, But No Cigar

By Marvin Calloway

Clothes, But No Cigar

“It's difficult to guess what Sterling will do once he finds out Mr. Ronald Roman survived the operation to remove a bullet near his heart,” Amanda said.

“He's one person I find difficult to outguess,” Brennan said.

“Well, I imagine he might case the joint, so to speak, and look for Ronald's clothing. Once he sees it in the closet, it will be difficult to resist donning his clothes and taking immediate action.”

                                                                       < < ^ > >

I need Ronald's street clothes, Sterling thought, so I can walk around without attracting too much attention. I can't be seen going in Roman's room without wearing street clothes, but the street clothes I need are in Roman's room. It's a catch 22.

< < ^ > >

Why did they take my street clothes, in the first place? Sterling thought. That wasn't necessary. All the surgeon had to do was get to my hand and stitch it up. Maybe they thought I was a flight risk.

I bet they didn't take Ronald's street clothes. Well, maybe they did. They had to get his clothing out of the way so they could operate on his heart.

Just think. A lousy quarter of an inch in the right direction and all his troubles would have been over. And some of my troubles, as well. But now I got to worry about Ronald waking up from his operation and blaming everything on me.

Right now, I need a sidekick, a helper, a cohort. Someone who will do me a small favor. Oh, I'll pay the person, alright. I'm no cheapskate, Sterling thought.

The key to success is to get the choice right the first time. I can't audition volunteers, because I can't confide in more than one person, only the person I choose for the task.

                                                                        < < ^ > >

It's quiet at this end of the hall. Except for the screamer. I can cross her off the list. Wait. She might be a man. Ha. That's funny. She's a he. Forget them both.

Initially, Sterling considered putting the job out for bids, with the dubious honor of the chance to be his cohort going to the lowest bidder. On second thought, no bids. I can't waste my valuable time having to kill the runners-up.

The thought of giving the task to a person who sweats profusely and speaks broken English would be the last person I would be apt to employ, but Chico kind of grew on me.

I observed him walking the corridor in one direction or the other, every six and a half minutes. I timed him to pass the time. Ha, ha. That's sounds funny too. They must have given me laughing gas. Everything seems funny.

Despite the language barrier, he seemed to understand exactly what I required of him. When Chico told me he was given only three months to live, I was sure I had my man. I have a feeling three months might be overly optimistic.

Sterling was elated when he and Chico shook hands on the deal and felt it was the best twenty dollars he'd ever spent.

                                                                       < < ^ > >

It was five after nine when Chico left the dimly lit corridor and tiptoed into Sterling's room. “OK, boss, who you want me to keel?”

Sterling says, “I don't want you to . . . wait a minute. For twenty dollars, you'd keel, I mean kill somebody?”

“We shake, have deal.”

“I guess I didn't read the fine print,“ Sterling said, smiling.

                                                                     < < ^ > >

Author Notes This is Chapter 14 of FOW Play and has nothing to do with Loophole, my Rom/Com about a screenplay writer.


Chapter 14
After Strike One

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 13:

When I had sufficiently calmed down, I looked no further than the next ad in the column. Prompted by an old saying, I couldn't wait to get back on the horse. The next call could lead to finishing my "Preakness."


Chapter 14

After Strike One


At first, I thought I had reached a distant planet.

"Edelman and Maisel." It was the mechanical way she said it. "Please state your name and the name of the person who referred you to us." Or maybe she's a robot.

Regardless, I persevered. "Good morning. My name is Russell Walker. I've just written a . . ."

"I have you as Russel," the mono-toned speaker intervened. "Please state the name of the person who referred you to us." Maybe it's a recording.

"If there is no response within thirty seconds, this call will be terminated."

The most appropriate response that came to mind was one of extreme inappropriateness.

"If you are still experiencing difficulty, please do not hang up."

Dialing "O", I've learned, will often connect a caller to a live voice. I tried it and heard the same android-like spiel. "This is not a recording." That surprised me. "Thanks for playing along with this telephone spoof."

The voice had gradually transformed into a friendlier, almost soothing vocalization. "Who am I speaking with?"

"I'm Russell walker. That was a clever ruse Miss, uh . . ."

"Purcell."

"I enjoyed that, Miss Purcell. Very original."

"You may call me Abigail. I love playing these parts, but please don't tell Mr. Edelman what I've done."

"Which one?"

"There's only one."

"The ad said, Edelman, Maisel and Edelman."

"That's an old ad."

"Well, I'd like to show my screenplay to one of them."

"Who referred you to us?

"Nobody. I just saw . . ."

"You mean 'No one,' sir. If your screenplay is full of this type of poor grammar, I suggest you take it elsewhere. That's why a prospective client must be referred by a third party. We can not be wasting our time on a work that doesn't pass a minimum . . ."

"Abigail, Abigail," I nearly shouted.

"Yes, Mr. Walker."

"You're doing it again, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Walker, but I must say, most people catch on a whole lot quicker than you did."

"Do I really need a referral?"

"No, Russell. May I call you Russ."

"Yes, Abby."

"Now you're clicking."

"Is either of your bosses in at the moment?"

"No, they're not."

"When do you expect them back?"

"Not for a couple of weeks."

"Off doing a shoot somewhere?"

"They're on their honeymoon."

"So, it's a husband and wife team?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Abby."

"Yes, Russ."

"You're doing it again, aren't you?"

"Yes, Russ."

"I'm going out on a limb and tell you what I think is going on. The partners are in a meeting. One of the partners is your father. Probably Mr. Maisel. You're in your first year of acting school. The class is concentrating on improv, which you've been practicing on me."

"Are you a mind reader or something? You were right about everything except, I'm in my second year."

"You were very convincing, Abby."

"Thank you."

"If I ever write a part for a wacky receptionist or a schizophrenic secretary,
I'll be sure to call you."

"That would be great, Russ."

"Now you've got me doing it."

- - - < > - - -

I provided my phone number to the wanna-be improv artist, along with other pertinent information and asked her to have one of the straight, gay or Siamese partners give me a call. I didn't care which, just so the caller is able to communicate in a normal fashion.

- - - < > - - -

Abby's impertinent information found a place in my computer, including the word, "improv," as a pleasant reminder of our conversation.

- - - < > - - -

The possibility of ever calling Abby again would depend entirely on Dolores. I'm not sure what "Miss Manners" would advise, but I think she would agree, as the innocent party, it is not my place to be the first to call. At least not today.


Chapter 15
Teamwork

By Marvin Calloway

Teamwork

“On dee second thought, how 'bout we make new deal? Pay me ten bucks, I keep lookout, you keel Ronald. Why should I have all dee fun?”

Sterling thought the new plan over . . . for almost two seconds. “Now I owe you thirty dollars.”

“That's not thee way . . .you right, Meester Sterling. You queek adder.”

“No names, Chico.”

“Sorry, Chico forgeet.”

< < ^ > >

Sterling looked around his hospital room for a weapon. Every possibility he saw, he dismissed; whatever he considered he rejected.

He thought, I've never killed anyone. Ronald killed Trudy. I saw him shoot her. So did Floyd, the teller. I saw her slump to the floor. I thought she was dead. I didn't know for certain. If she's alive, it's only attempted murder. There again, not by me.

I shot Ronald, but that was in self defense. He had a loaded gun. The ambulance siren distracted me. I missed his heart. Maybe I'm just not a killer. At least not with a gun.

This time I'll use a pillow case. Strangle him with it. No finger prints. They'll think he died in his sleep. Wait. That won't work. With my left hand all bandaged up, it would be impossible to kill him. The slightest touch causes me tremendous pain.

Sterling continued searching for a weapon. He picked up the TV remote, examined it and put it down. He looked elsewhere. Then his gaze returned to the remote. He picked it up again and opened the battery cover. This is useless, unless I batteried Ronald to death. I wonder if that's where the term, 'assault and battery,' came from.

Hmm. This cover has a sharp edge to it. If held like a knife, it becomes a one. Rose Anne cut me with a piece of glass. This piece of plastic is similar. I can see it happening. I plunge it into Ronald's windpipe with all my might. Ronald exhales through the porthole in his neck with the words he struggles to scream not forthcoming.

< < ^ > >

I must kill Ronald now, because as soon as he's able, he'll tell the cops I did it. That I blackmailed him to hold up the bank, that I blackmailed Trudy to go along with the plan. Her main function was to make sure the gun was on top of the money in the bag and to not act suspicious.

< < ^ > >

Sterling followed Chico to the door. Chico stuck his head out . . .

“Is the coast clear?”

“I don't know about dee coast, but hallway eez clear.”

< < ^ > >

There were two beds in Ronald's room. He was in the bed on the right. The bed on the left was empty, except for a pillow. Sheets extended to the floor, on both sides and the bottom of the bed.

< < ^ > >

It was barely enough light to see in the room. No sense wasting time looking for Ronald's street clothes. They're probably covered in blood anyway.

Sterling could make out the shape of a sleeping body, snoring lightly. He disconnected the tubing leading to Ronald's forearms. That alone might be enough to kill him, but I need to be sure.

< < ^ > >

I did it. I killed him. And I thought I couldn't kill anyone. I think I killed him twice. First, with the pillow from the other bed. There's no doubt. He never moved. I smothered him, then I stabbed him with the remote cover.

The whole time, he never moved.

He slept through it. How dare he sleep through my killing him! I demand recognition.

Author Notes A chapter in the book, FOW Play.


Chapter 15
After Strike Two

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 14:

The possibility of ever calling the role-playing drama queen would depend entirely on Dolores. I'm not sure what "Miss Manners" would advise, but I think she would agree, as the injured party, physically and otherwise, it is not my place to be the first to call. At least not today.

- - - < > - - -

The next few calls resulted mostly in replies that ran the gamut from positively negative to astoundingly depressing:

"We're not taking new clients at this time."
"That's not the genre we're looking for."
"Call back when it's finished."
"Are you available tomorrow morning?"

Those last words came from Charles W. Anderson, III. He said them after we had discussed the weather, sports, traffic congestion, the film industry and global warming. I made the comment, "If people are so concerned about global warming, they should open a window." He laughed and that's when he suggested we meet.

Before hanging up, he said, "May I call you Russ?"

I said, "I wish you would."

"Good. You may call me Charles."

What a relief! Working with one Charley is all I can handle.

I imagined Charles W. Anderson, III showing up for his first day of kindergarten. He alights from a Cadillac, wearing a new suit and tie. He informs his school chums to call him Charles, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.

- - - < > - - -

Charles' phone exchange is in my zip code, making his office close to my apartment. I pulled up in front of 1604 Decker Lane, at a quarter to nine, with my thirteen pages of script and a pair of cheap binoculars. I wanted to be within spying distance of his address, 1608.

It wasn't a commercial property. It was his residence. Charles works out of his home! There's no shame in that. Some very nice people work out of their home or apartment.

By parking where I did, I'd hope to get a handle on the possible future owner of a good chunk of my writing time. The Hubble telescope couldn't have penetrated those magnificent trees or the high wooden fence surrounding his estate, which must have cost two to three times that of his neighbors. I wonder what that story entails.

Author Notes Please look for a continuation of the above in Chapter 16, coming soon.


Chapter 16
Double Jeopardy

By Marvin Calloway

                                                                    Chapter 16

                                                               Double Jeopardy

Detective Brennan had been peering between two rolling screens, watching the 'murder' take place. Despite the dim light he could see the vengeance in Sterling's eyes, the evil pleasure on his face.

Soon, light from cameras and flashlights lit up the space and the room lights were switched on. In addition to patrolmen and detectives, Sterling was surrounded by nurses and Candy Stripers*, who were invited to witness the villainous act.

Sterling played his part perfectly by doing exactly what Brennan thought he would do, when casually informed that Ronald was recuperating in the room across the hall.

In reality, the target of his tirade was a hospital cadaver dressed in bed clothes and surgical tape, made to appear as a patient. Not just any patient, but the already deceased Ronald Roman, whom Sterling wounded earlier.

Patrolman Mel Grandea stayed in character as Sterling's new best friend.
Boss, I theenk they geet drop on you!”

Trying to shield his eyes from the light, Sterling replied, “What are you talking about? You're in this too.”
I was by dee door, checking on dee coast.”

Sterling's mind raced back to the scene in front of his bank:

My cohort is backing out of the bank, holding the bag of money in his left hand and a gun in his right. If I don't shoot first, he'll kill me and get away with the money. . . my money . . . I've got to shoot . . . It's self defense . . . kill or be killed.
Didn't you see Ronald's gun?” Sterling pleaded. “I'm telling you, it was self defense.”

Taking more time than necessary, Detective Amanda Doherty and Patrolman Charlie Cipriotti crawled out from under the unoccupied bed and went straight to Herman Sterling, who wasn't trying to go anywhere. He was as docile as a baby.

Cipriotti held him, while Detective Brennan handcuffed him and Doherty read him his rights. The words, 'murder of Ronald Roman' were key among them.

Before Sterling's eyes could adjust to the bright light, the two patrolman spun him around and rushed him out of the room, thus preventing him from seeing that the 'murder' was a sham. They escorted him from the hospital to their patrol car and sped off to police headquarters.

“We've got to review the testimony of Joan Berkowitz and Floyd Tucker to see if they support my theory,” Brennan said to Amanda.
 Amanda replied,That it wasn't self defense when Sterling wounded Ronald Roman, earlier today. I'll bet he's the first murder victim to ever die twice in the span of an hour.”

                                                                      < < ^ > >

Brennan received a call from headquarters, ordering him to return to the bank and meet with the top brass. They also wanted Sterling to be there. Detective Doherty volunteered to make the call, hoping Patrolman Cipriotti would answer. When he did, she suddenly realized their conversation would not be private.

Detective Brennan is ordering you mugs to return to the bank, with your friend, Mr. Sterling, ASAP. By the way, Chico has gone missing. He's probably armed and dangerous. Over and out.”

Brennan thought, her sense of humor is progressing nicely.

                                                                       < < ^ > >

When the patrolmen returned to the bank, they used one of the offices to guard Sterling. While being escorted, Sterling received dirty looks along with obscene gestures. The patrolmen were surprised at how unpopular he was.

While waiting for the bank personnel to arrive, Brennan used the time to bring patrolmen Cipriotti and Grandea up to date on the robbery and shooting details, with the aid of Ronald's taped statement. When they had finished, both patrolmen asked a question, in unison, “Where's the bag of money?”
Detective Brennan and detective Doherty looked at each other, thought for a few seconds and replied in unison, “We don't know.”

* Volunteer nurse's aides.

Author Notes This chapter has nothing to do with Loophole, my Rom/Com novel.


Chapter 16
Charles

By Marvin Calloway

Last paragraph of chapter 15.

By parking where I did, I'd hope to get a handle on the possible future owner of a good chunk of my writing time. But, the Hubble telescope couldn't have penetrated those magnificent trees or the high wooden fence surrounding his estate, which must have cost two to three times that of his neighbors. I wonder what that story entails.

Charles

We were seated comfortably, around a conference table, in a wood-paneled office, sipping good coffee served by a business-dressed woman, still in her thirties. She poured one for herself and sat at the end of the table to my right, with Charles and I seated on the long sides, opposite each other.

"After speaking with many callers, you, Russ, were the only person Miss Claridge was excited about." Charles took a quick glance at the lady then back at me. I looked over at the person I assumed to be Miss Claridge. Had she been any less excited, embalmers would have had to be called in.

"I believed she used the words "down to earth" and "pleasant." Then you and I had our very enjoyable conversation and I agreed with her and knew I wanted to work with you." That comment called for another sip of coffee. "I'm relying heavily on you to guide us through this process."

I was too preoccupied to spend time wondering whether the lady could be his wife, secretary, manicurist or window washer. I suppose she could have served in more than one capacity but with Anderson's obvious wealth, he could have hired a person for each position and for each day of the week, as well. But that would involve way too many participants. By saying, "us", it seems we already were a threesome.

- - - < > - - -

On the table, within reach of the not unattractive lady was a small black contraption, which she began fiddling with. "Miss Claridge will be recording our meeting. I hope that's okay with you."

What do I care? I was just happy to be here. It would have been more okay with me had he said, "Miss Claridge, my floor polisher, or Miss Claridge, my back scratcher. Then I could stop wondering about that which I said I wasn't going to spend time wondering . . . about . . . I think.

Charles spoke first, stating the date, the time, our names and the purpose for our gathering. Once again, Miss Claridge's function was left to my imagination.

He asked me to continue, giving my name, occupation and specifically why I'm here. For purposes of not being caught in a lie, I decided to err on the side of truth, but in less than the minute it took to review my life from the time I was four to sometime yesterday, I realized truth is not my strong suit. I'll be content with "down to earth" and "pleasant."

- - - < > - - -

With a preamble that even a recorder had better things to do than pay attention to, I soldiered on with my pitch.

I built up my sparse plot, never daring to mention the other one. I beat around the bush. When I wasn't beating around the bush, I was manufacturing tension. Translation: I beat around the bush some more. Then I made up stuff. I created suspense. Translation: I made up more stuff. I'm not sure how my audience was doing, but I was getting excited. I couldn't wait to hear what I was going to say next.

Charles seemed to be looking far off into the distance, which couldn't have been more than ten feet away. His eyes seemed to focus on a scale model of a '61 Mustang, displayed on a shelf behind me. He had a look on his face, as if he might be watching the shower scene from Ben-Hur or the buggy racing scene from Psycho. I always get those two mixed up. Miss Claridge must have seen that look, also. She had pulled herself forward, toward the front edge of her chair. She grabbed Charles' hand. Squeezed it hard. Charles yelled, "What do you call it?"

"Loophole," I yelled back.

No one spoke. Miss Claridge silently turned off the recorder. Still no one spoke. Three people, sitting in a room, looking around at each other and not saying a word. I was feeling uncomfortable. Finally, I couldn't wait any longer. I had something to say. As I opened my mouth, Miss Claridge reached for the recorder. "Don't bother," I said. "Do you have indoor plumbing?"


Chapter 17
Charles Number Two

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 16:

As I opened my mouth, Miss Claridge reached for the recorder. "Don't bother," I said. "Do you have indoor plumbing?"

- - - < > - - -

Staying in the rest room a while longer seemed like a wise thing to do. I wanted to give Charles and Miss Claridge a chance to catch their breath. They were right where I left them when I got back to my seat. We each had fresh coffee in our cups and a plate of tempting pastries nearby. The sounds of my chewing and their sighing could easily be masked by the moderate sounds of music. Unfortunately, there was none to be heard.

Charles broke the verbal silence. "I'm not sure I followed the plot you were pitching, if that's . . ." I broke in. "Sorry Charles, that's my fault. I didn't describe it very well." He continued, ". . . but, I would think Loophole would be about . . ." And he went on to tell us exactly what he thought Loophole was about.

The word, Loophole, did its magic again, just as it did with the first producer, my old friend, Charley. All I had to do was pick up the ball and run with it. Translation: get a deadline I can live with, for writing a number of pages I can live with, and receive a sizable deposit I can live with.

"How many pages will you . . ." No. That's no good. Charles and Miss Claridge are relying on me for guidance. I should at least attempt to provide it. "I always submit thirty pages," I said, "but maybe twenty would be better, so we could meet that much sooner."

"You didn't bring thirty pages with you, today." I didn't think Charles had noticed. In the future, I'm going to assume he notices everything.

"Never for the first meeting."

"I see." He sipped his coffee, took a couple bites of his Danish and looked at me. Miss Claridge turned a business-like glance toward me, also. I was tempted to continue the trend by turning and staring at an imaginary person behind me, but this was not the time for such levity. In fact, I was nervous.

"We could meet again in about a . . . I mean . . . thirty . . . how about . . . is the fourth Monday from . . . wait, make that Tuesday . . . from today . . . okay?"

"Fine," in unison, they said quickly, probably to shut me up.

Still in guidance mode but more confident, I said, "About the money."

"Will you be requiring a check or will cash be all right?"

That question came from Miss Claridge, but the choices are usually reversed. "Cash would be nice. No sense going to a lot of trouble."

Charles reached under the edge of the conference table. A panel in the center, about eighteen inches by twelve inches, dropped down and slid out of sight. He reached into the opening and pulled out a packet of bills. With his thumb he fanned them like a deck of cards then handed the packet to me. "Here is ten thousand dollars," he said, with a smile almost as wide as the table. We shook hands. "The adventure begins, partner."

I was happy for him. Even happier for myself. Although I wasn't hungry, I said, "You wouldn't happen to have a corned beef on rye, in there, would you?"
Charles laughed. I was hoping for a laugh from Miss Claridge, but I should have known she wouldn't go to the trouble.

He began restating his version of the plot for Loophole. It was difficult to concentrate with that much cash in my pocket, but I understood his plot better than I ever understood Charley's. When he finished, I said, "And for more details, I should call your lawyer?"

"No," he said, "Miss Claridge has more important duties to perform than be bothered with this matter. The plot is about me and my wife. Call her lawyer."

- - - < > - - -

I'm now working with two producers with basically the same first name. I have two advances to write two scripts, based on three loopholes or should that be loops-hole. No. That's how hyphenated words are pluralized, like mothers-in-law, which I'm sure one would be more than enough when the time comes.

- - - < > - - -

One mystery has been solved: The function of a certain Miss Claridge. Remaining unsolved, however, is how the "Anderson Vault" was closed, as it is now.


Chapter 18
Who Will Be Third?

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 17:

Now I'm working with two producers. One is named Charley and the other one isn't. He prefers the name, Charles. I've been given two advances to write two scripts, based on three loopholes. (I mustn't ignore my own plot.) A concerned observer might be inclined to view this as fraud. I'd rather think of it as progress.

Who Will Be Third?

"No comment." Two words you never want to hear when attempting to gain information. But those words would have been preferable to the ones Henrietta's lawyer used when asked to elaborate on the case against Charles.

"I have nothing to say, except, you tell that slippery slice of sludge, 'He's going down.'" I began to wonder if he always spoke so colorfully, yet didn't care enough to find out.

Morton K. Sugar sounds like the byproduct of a sweet and spicy romance. Prior to sharing his dismal prediction for the outcome of future events, he insisted that all information regarding the case was totally confidential.

Without Mr. S's input, I was left with only a hunch, known in some circles as a wild guess, as to the premise to which Charles had alluded. Lack of facts was not going to deter me. Discovering that the latest plot line lacked substance is what did the trick. So it was back to the ads section of "The Call Sheet."

I was happy not to come across another producer named Charles, Charley or even a Chuck. Turning the page, I saw an ad in the center column with a novel approach.

IF YOU DON'T MEAN BUSINESS
DON'T CALL OUR BUSINESS

The ad contained the usual information: address, website and phone numbers_office, cell and residence.

The ad below it was equally unenticing.

John Hancock (no relation)

Again, with the usual information. Other ads contained film titles, extolling the producers expertise at backing hits, while some let the readers guess which losers they brought to the silver screen.

I scanned the rest of the column, then a few more columns, turned the page, poured over more columns and additional pages. Then, for its shear lack of attention-getting gimmicks, my eyes landed on:

M. Beagboux <> Bonded

PRODUCER EXTRAORDINAIRE

Included was a single location with a single phone number. Two years of high school French plus the the word, "Extraordinaire" gave me the confidence to believe the name was French and "Beeg-books" was its pronunciation. Being bonded can't hurt. If he skips town with my script, I'm protected.

After dialing the number I heard a manly, "Hello," with no accent. Had he said his name, I'd avoid the risk of mispronouncing it. Instead, he got to the point. "Can you come over right away?" I assumed he was very busy and didn't have time for small talk. Neither did I.

I grabbed my car keys, slammed my apartment door behind me, got in my car, drove the three blocks to his address, parked on the lawn in front of his building, jumped out, bounded in one leap up the three steps to his front entrance, went in, found the name on the directory, ran up three flights of stairs, saw the suite number on the door next to the elevator. Elevator! That would have been good to know three flights ago.

Out of breath, I staggered in, slightly dizzy. His secretary waved me into his office, as if it were a matter of life and death. As I went in, he was just hanging up the phone. He could have thought I was still on the other end.

He stuck out his hand. I grabbed it to keep from losing my balance and held on to it until I flopped into a chair.

"What's the title?"

"Loophole."

As if it were deigned by the stars in Heaven, no sooner did the word, "Loophole", escape my lips, Mr. Beagboux told me what the story is about, based on a recent experience of his, involving, of all things, a loophole.

Then he said, "Why didn't I think of that? I always wanted to try my hand at . . . Oh, never mind. You've gone and written it first. I guess that's why you're the gifted writer, while I'll always be just a lowly, rich producer.

"How much do you need to continue?" he said while writing out a check for $10,000 and handing it to me.

"10,000 is . . ."

"You're absolutely right. How about $20,000?" He took back the check and wrote me another. I thanked him and said, "I guess you want thirty pages in thirty days."

"That doesn't seem reasonable. You'd have to work day and night to do that. Take a few months, all year if you need it. How ever many pages you can come up with will do. Take your time, but hurry back, I mean when you think the script's ready, of course. I can't wait. I could wait, but I'd rather not. You know how impatient us wealthy people are."

"If I need more information, should I call your lawyer?"

"Now why would you do a thing like that? If you have any questions, call my urologist. He'll tell you everything you need to know."

I had just gotten my breath back, when it looked as if he wanted me to leave, which I hastily did, before he had a chance to change his mind.

I asked his receptionist how to pronounce his last name. She replied, "It rhymes with Pigpucks.

"Pigpucks?" I repeated.

"Actually it's Bigbucks. The M is for Many. Many Bigbucks."

Her words slowly faded away as I raised my head from my desk and realized I was dreaming.



Chapter 19
Reacquainting

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 18:

"Actually it's Bigbucks. The H is for Hasum. Hasum Bigbucks."

Her words slowly fade away as I raise my head from my desk and realize I'm dreaming.

- - - < > - - -

Finding a check in my in-basket would prove it wasn't a dream. No such luck. Sad to admit, that's all it was.

I was looking forward to the pleasure of not having to deal with another lawyer. Adding a urologist to my growing pack of collaborators would be a welcome addition. Until I considered the fact the urologist's phone number doesn't exist. I don't have the number for Charley's lawyer, either, but that problem is easily remedied.

I wasn't ready to talk to Doll, as Charley likes to call his receptionist, so I bypassed her and called Charley's cell phone.

"How's the script coming along?"

"It's moving along," I lied. "I just need to clarify some things and I can't find your lawyer's number."

"Forget him. You need to talk to Dennis Wall, the lawyer who drew up the agreement for your first screenplay."

"He did seem like one of the more pleasant lawyers."

"He was until he took the opposing side. I wouldn't count on him for much help."

"What happened to Arnold Swartzenegger?"

"You mean, Arnold J. Ehrlanger. I keep him on retainer for certain matters, but he doesn't know anything about this plot."

"Although Dennis is the enemy now, I'll get what I need out of him." I only said that to appease Charley.

- - - < > - - -

Before calling Mr. Wall, I made arrangements to get my car back tomorrow morning and return the rental. Then I called Clem and arranged to get my TV and other hocked items delivered here, in the next hour or so.

"Congratulations, again, on selling your script," she added. "Swing by tomorrow and I'll treat you to lunch." I'll pick up the food on the way to her 'New to You' shop and lay you eight to five she never offers to reimburse me.

- - - < > - - -

Dennis and I 'shot the sheep' for a while, before getting to the purpose for my call. That's the latest expression around here. 'The bull' must have gotten lanced, without anyone notifying me.

"That's privileged information. I can't share any details about the case. You're friends with the enemy," he said, without much conviction.

"That's funny. I told Charley the same thing about you, except I was joking."

"I could get disbarred."

"I'm sure other bars would welcome your patronage."

"Or black listed."

"Only for eight to ten years."

"What?" He screamed.

"I'm joking."

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Finally, "You don't think the plot's too technical, do you?"

I quickly said, "No."

"Or too morbid?"

"Of course not."

"Complicated?"

"Maybe a little."

"Well, that's better than being too simple."

"I hadn't thought of that." I hoped he would take that as a compliment.

"I've got to hold up my end."

"You could invest in the movie."

"I'm sure that would be a conflict of interest."

"I won't say a word."

"Let's get back to the plot," he said. "Do you think it might be over their heads?"

"Not a chance. This is what movie goers are looking for, especially now."

"Really!"

"They need something like this. In fact, this is exactly what they need."

I wish I could see his face.

"You know we're talking about a pre-nup," he said.

The words that came to mind were, 'We are?' But somehow I managed to say, "Of course," without choking on my coffee.

Surprisingly, a key detail of the plot Charley mentioned at our meeting came to mind.

"Just out of curiosity, please explain to me what an uncredited screenwriter's love life has to do with our plot."

"Nothing." He said.

"Then why did Charley ask me to talk to you?"

"My guess would be he sent you to the wrong lawyer. He has at least three that I'm aware of. So, are we done here?"

"We're just getting started."

Author Notes Charley originally thought Russ's plot was about screen credits for writing a story, but when his wife sued him for divorce, he thought that would make a better plot. Trouble is, he didn't tell Russ.


Chapter 19
FOW Play

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 18:

The brothers turned out to be a pair of nice guys when they weren't being cheated in a card game. Sam Heffernan said he knew the neighborhood. He'd be watching from the store on the corner and would show up before I hit the ground.


Chapter 19

There was a loud knock on the door of the interrogation room. Amanda turned off the recorder just before a broad-shouldered man barged in. He wore a gray suit, light blue shirt and gray striped tie. His clothes shouted, importance. His voice shouted, “Who's in charge here?” Brennan ignored the question and chose to gander at the two cohorts who accompanied him.

One, a tall, stern looking business-dressed woman, the other, a casually dressed young man, approximately Brennan's height. Brennan thought, Somewhere in this man's closet is a hat with the word 'Goffer' lettered on it. Seeing there wasn't much space, they waited outside the room.

Brennan turned to their superior and said, “I'm Detective Captain Brennan and this is my assistant, Detective Doherty. Before proceeding, I want to share some information regarding your teller, one Trudy La Scola. She's . . .”

I understand she's been shot . . .”

That's correct, Mr. . . .”

Livingston, Garret Livingston. I'm president of the Anne Arundel County division of Wilton Farm Savings and Loan banks.” The two men shook hands.

As I was saying,” Brennan went on, “Miss La Scola, is recuperating from a non life-threatening gun shot wound to her arm. I suggest that your assistants go to Mercy Hospital to visit Miss La Scola to get her side of the story, while we fill you in with what took place here.”

That sounds fine, detective.”

Assuming you all came in one car, one of our patrolman could drive your people there.” They may even let you play with the siren.

                                                                                                 < < ^ > >

First, I'd like to speak to Mr. Sterling, the manager,” he said. “He didn't appear to be in his office. Was he shot?”

Not yet, Brennan thought. “I'll take you to him and Detective Doherty will explain his situation on the way.”

A surprised Amanda said, “I'd be happy to. It seems that Mr. Sterling has been a bad boy. He and the phone receptionist, Rose Anne Zito, have been having an affair, until she found out he's married.”

Our employees are allowed to date each other.”

But Mr. Sterling is married to Gertrude La Scola.”
“Why that's impossible,” Mr. Livingston said. “We have a strict, No Relations policy . . . let me rephrase that. We have a policy of No Relatives Allowed in our . . . that doesn't sound right either.”

No matter how it's stated, Sterling violated it,” Amanda said.

Author Notes The most popular title for this short story is FOW Play. Please ignore any reference to Loophole in this post.


Chapter 20
What's That Devil Doing There?

By Marvin Calloway

NOTE:
It just became apparent to Russ (our screenwriter) and Dennis (one of Charley's three lawyers) that they've been discussing two different plots.

Last lines of Chapter 19:

"Just out of curiosity, please explain to me what an uncredited screenwriter's love life has to do with our plot," Russ said to Dennis.

"Nothing," he said.

"Then why did Charley insist I call you?"

"My guess would be he sent you to the wrong lawyer. He employs at least three lawyers that I'm aware of. So, are we done here?"

I said, "We're just getting started."


What's That Devil Doing There?

"Now that I know what lawsuit you're referring to, you can start giving me the details."

"But I've got to protect my client, Charley's wife," Dennis said.

"You can't let your relationship with the Lady Davenport determine the fate of a film. Especially my film. After all, there's a law against that sort of thing." I'm thinking of 'Restraint of Trade,' though I don't believe it's applicable here.

"I'm not conversant with film law."

"You don't have to be. In the four years I've been in this business, I've learned enough for the both of us," I said, continuing my bluff.

"However, I'm greatly interested in movies."

"That's the spirit."

"But, you can't mention my name in the script," he said.

"Wouldn't think of it, Sam."

"Sam? Oh, right." He finally opened up and shared the devilish detail. One lousy detail. But, that's all I needed to get my screenplay back on track.

In return, I offered to appear as a witness for the defendant, figuring it would never come to that.

"You mean plaintiff."

"I mean whoever you're representing."

"I thought you and Charley were good friends."

"It's for the movie, Dennis. That will be our rallying cry, 'For the good of the film.'"

"By the way, what is the difference between a film and a movie?"

"Give me a minute." It didn't take that long. "Let me put it this way.
Viewing a movie is an activity that you, yourself, might enjoy. A film, on the other hand, is a movie that a select group of individuals enjoys, but they're never quite sure why."

Finally, some progress. It seems that Charley's wife, Martha Penelope Davenport, didn't sign her name on the lawsuit against her husband, Charley, the way she usually does. She wrote, very clearly, Mertha P. Davenport. Why? Who cares? The important thing is, it's not the way she signed the pre-nup. It isn't much, but I'll take it to get my screenplay moving again.

Author Notes Charley, the producer who bought Russ's screenplay of the moment, is more interested in the end result than in his disintegrating marriage.


Chapter 20
Deadly Details

By Marvin Calloway

Deadly Details

“Brennan speaking.” the detective blurted into his cell phone. “Be right there. Come on Amanda. We're off to Mercy hospital. Seems that Trudy has taken a turn for the worse.”

                                                                                                    < < ^ > >

Amanda drove expertly through the afternoon drizzle. “Use the siren, if you like,” Brennan said and cleared his throat. “I've been meaning to tell you about what I did while you were drawing up the bank floor plan.”

You found the bag of money up on the roof of the bank!”

Not even close. I called Ronald and received new information about the Heffernan brothers. Seems they don't want a commensurate portion of the robbery money. They told Ronald they'd be happy if they were just given enough money to cover their expenses.”

What expenses, S.B.?”

Well, they invested in an ambulance from a junker dump. Then there's the two paramedic's uniforms, which Ed admitted were nothing more than ill-fitting painter's overalls and finally, two tanks of gas. Oh, plus the money Sterling and Ronald cheated them out of in that card game we keep hearing about.”

Two tanks of gas?”

They said they had to do several practice runs.”

It's hard to tell who's cheating whom,” Amanda said. “Assuming the money isn't on the roof, where do you think it is, Sir?”
“My money's on the brothers, unless, in their haste to get Ronald to the hospital, they left the bag on the ground. Now they're claiming it was two thousand apiece they were cheated out of, and, rather than quibble, I'm inclined to comply with their wishes.”

Very generous of you, Sir, but wouldn't that be stealing?”

Is it really stealing if no one knows it was taken, like that 'if a tree falls in the woods' cundrum.”

I don't think anyone knows how much money is in that bag, sir. What would be the point of counting, except to divvy it up?” Amanda said.

Maybe they'll make a claim that they didn't receive enough of it? Amanda said. “The money is earning more interest, now, than when it was in the bank.”

Brennan leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. “I can picture Sterling with a smile on his face, as he opened the vault, this morning. He helps himself to as much money as he can stuff into the bag, pushing it down with all his strength, squeezing the life out of it to the point where he can scarcely find room to place the gun on top of the money and zip the bag shut.”

Brennan readjusts his seat to upright, “Here's another interesting thing about this case. Why didn't a legitimate ambulance company come by to pick up Trudy?”

I know the answer to that one.”

Author Notes This chapter has nothing to do with, 'Loophole,' my romantic comedy.


Chapter 20
A Murder

By Marvin Calloway

Chapter 20

A Murder

The senior detective spoke into his phone, “Brennan speaking.” He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Be right there. Come on Amanda. It's back to Mercy hospital. Seems like Trudy has taken a turn for the worse.”

                                                                                                                < < ^ > >

Amanda drove carefully through the afternoon drizzle. “Use the siren, if you like,” Brennan said and cleared his throat. “I've been meaning to tell you what I did while you were drawing up the floor plan of the bank.”

You found the money on the bank roof?”

Not exactly. I called Ronald and he gave me some new info about himself and the Heffernan brothers. Seems they don't want a commensurate portion of the robbery money. They told Ronald they'd be happy if they were given enough to cover their expenses.”

What expenses, S.B.?”

The rented ambulance, the paramedic's uniforms and a tank of gas. Oh, plus the money Sterling and Ronald cheated them out of in that card game we keep hearing about.”

Assuming the money isn't on the roof, then where is it?"

It's safely in the black bag the brothers kept after dropping off Ronald at the emergency room. Now they're claiming it was two thousand apiece they were cheated out of and I'm inclined to give it to them.”

Very generous of you, Sir, but wouldn't that be stealing?” Amanda said. “The money is earning more interest, now, than when it was in the bank.”

That's an Interesting observation, Amanda. Getting back to the topic at hand, I don't think anyone knows how much money was in that bag.”

Hey,” Amanda said, “I just realized that 'stealing' and 'Sterling' are synonyms for each other.

                                                                                                        < < ^ > >

When the detectives arrived at Trudy's room, they were surprised to see her without any life support tubes or drips, but, instead, she was seated in a wing back, Naugahyde chair next to her bed. She looked fine, except for her eyes. It was easy to see she'd been doing a lot of crying.

Brennan looked down at Trudy's shoes and noticed they were wet. Realizing Brennan had put two and two together, Trudy decided to tell the detectives everything.

Yes. I snuck out of here to go see Ronald,” she said. “That's one reason I wanted you to come here. I'm hoping Ronald and I can meet with the Heffernan brothers and convince them to give themselves up and turn in the money. All except four thousand of it, the amount they were cheated out of.

I told Ronald how I was afraid of him at first, then gradually started liking him. I figured he probably was blackmailed into his role, as I was.

I rambled on about the surprised look on Ronald's face when he pulled the gun out of the bag of money. It was as if he could tell it had real bullets and not blanks by how heavy it felt. He looked to his right toward Sterling's office. I thought he might shoot him, instead.

That meant he figured Sterling had switched the blanks for real bullets. I was certain he was aiming at my left arm. The terrific pain there, soon proved it.

During the time I was talking, Ronald died. I heard him say, 'Jamal.' The only Jamal I knew was the custodian at the bank. I witnessed Ronald's dying word: 'Jamal' and it meant nothing to me. There must be some significance to it, but I have no idea what that something could possibly be.

"I bent down to Ronald's ear and said, 'wake up' loud enough to be heard in the corridor. No response.

I was afraid to tell anyone, afraid they'd think I killed him. Am I in trouble?”

We'll see to it that you're not,” Brennan promised.
 

Author Notes This is a continuation of FOW Play, the story of a bank robbery and murder.


Chapter 21
A Woman's Angle

By Marvin Calloway

Last line of Chapter 20:
It isn't much, but I'll take it to get my screenplay moving again.

A Woman's Angle

I need a woman. I don't care if she's fat, thin, single or divorced, attractive or hideous, talented or un. For the purpose I have in mind, none of those things matter.

Upon finding this woman, I plan to persuade her to accompany me to a quiet place. Maybe a park or a museum. I'll lean in toward her ear, and whisper the word, Loophole. Then wait to hear what that magical word conjures up in her mind.

When I first began writing, I didn't want input from anyone. I wanted to go it alone, the way I believe most screenwriters work. Now I'm thinking, a plot idea from a woman might be just what my script needs.

She doesn't have to be a woman I'm acquainted with, either, but such a woman just came to mind. She's in her mid twenties, intelligent and the very opposite of hideous.

I once described her to, Marty, my best friend, as, 'a raven haired beauty.' I met her when he and I spent a weekend in Vegas, for which he footed the bill. He said it was to make up for his not insisting that I hire an entertainment lawyer. His faux pas resulted in my having to spend countless hours of rewriting.

Marty returned to Los Angeles financially richer due a run of good luck at Craps, while I went broke playing Blackjack. But I felt rich for having obtained the business card of the attractive, Elizabeth Devereoux, Psychoanalyst.

Finding her card, I wondered if she's still single. More importantly, I hope her phone number hasn't changed.

I dialed the number and heard ringing and more ringing. Panic set in. She must have caller ID. She knows it's me and hopes I'll die before she would ever answer. I hung up. That will show her. Let her think I died. See if she can live with herself after causing the death of a struggling screenwriter, who's only goal in life was to write his "Preakness", before he rises up into the clouds, and, wait. What if I rise downward? Was I that mean to her? I thought we parted amicably. Wait a minute. Let me check the number and try again.

Is it my imagination, or does this ring sound different?

"Hello, Elizabeth Devereoux's office."

"Doctor Devereoux?"

"Russ?"

I'm going to heaven after all. "How did you know?"

"Your whiny voice still annoys me."

I probably shouldn't pack yet. "Sorry."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"I left you a message." I may have whined.

"When, four years ago? I never got it." She was beginning to calm down. "Do you remember the message?" She asked.

"It was probably something like, 'I have to go back to Baltimore, because no one's buying my scripts. I'm flat broke and I'll miss you terribly.'"

"You should have told me. I'd like to think I would have helped you. When did you get back?"

"Actually, I never left." Maybe I shouldn't have said that.

"That makes it even worse."

"After all you did for me I was too embarrassed to ask you for anything else."

"It was a two way street," she said.

"I'm glad you feel that way. Can you forgive me?"

"I could, except when you didn't call, I swore to never again get involved with whiny voiced men from Baltimore."

"I wouldn't blame you. Aren't you curious as to why I called?"

"A little. What's on your mind?"

"That's funny."

"It wasn't meant to be and the meter is running."

"You've sunk to the level of a lawyer?"

"I'm still way above you."

"Ouch! I deserved that. Could I see you tomorrow?"

She hesitated. "What about?"

"I seem to recall you mentioning that you wanted to get into the film business during one of our 'sessions.'" Liz and I necking for fifty minutes.

"We only had two sessions and I'm pretty sure I mentioned that fact both times."

"Well that's why I'm calling. I'm working on a script that's been getting favorable reviews. Do you want to act?"

"No."

"You don't want to direct, do you?"

"Wouldn't know where to begin. No. I was thinking more along the lines of investor."

"I was hoping you'd say that," trying not to sound too eager. "You could finance the film."

"The whole film?"

"No, just the female parts." That has a nice ring to it. "Of course, the whole film. You wouldn't want to share it with anyone, would you?"

"Is that the way it's done?"

"All the time." That might be a slight exaggeration.

"What would you call what I'd be doing?"

Saving my life. "How does producer sound?"

"I like it. But I'd be behind the scenes, right?"

"Sure. Your name could appear in the credits, though."

"Just slow them down as my name rolls by."

"You've got it."

"You're in luck. My nine o'clock broke his leg and had to cancel."

"Great! I mean, sorry."

"You're taking it much better than he did."

Author Notes Sorry this is so long. Couldn't find a place to end it.


Chapter 21
Trudy and Ronald

By Marvin Calloway

Trudy and Ronald

When Detective Brennan entered Trudy's room, he was surprised to find her seated in a plush chair, next to the bed and not connected to any support tubes. Brennan thought, What was the hurry to meet with me?
She looked reasonably healthy for a person who had suffered a gunshot wound less than two hours ago. Trudy's eyes indicated she'd been crying profusely. Her left arm was in a cast-like sling.
"Well, Mrs. La Scola, we finally get to meet."
"Please, call me Trudy."
"Trudy it is. My apologies for not conferring with you sooner. I believe the delay was caused by a faulty bank manager."
"A bank manager who hoped you'd never get to speak with me."
"This is my partner, Detective Amanda Doherty. She'll be assisting with recording your statement."
Trudy spoke hurriedly. "Thanks for coming. I'm on painkillers and something to help me sleep. They said the bullet missed the bone and went clean through. Did anyone call my brother, Tony? I'm getting hungry."
"Slow down. We've got all the time you need."
Amanda said, "I'll make some inquiries, but give me the number just in case."
Trudy wrote down her brother's phone number and gave it to Amanda.
"Any other relatives you wish to be notified?"
"No. My father's dead. My mother lives in Vermont."
"Montpelier!" Brennan shouted.
"How did you know where she lives?"
"I didn't. I've always been good with capitals."
Amanda asked, "Did you get stitches?"
"I think so," Trudy said. "Everything's kind of a blur."
"The tape is ready, Sir."
"I don't know where to begin," Trudy said.
She noticed Brennan staring down at her shoes.
"Alright, Detective, I confess. I snuck out to see Ronald. I just had to see how he was doing."
"Security must be lax around here," Amanda said.
Brennan said, "You're concerned about him, even though he tried to kill you?"
"The gun was supposed to have blanks. I could tell as soon as he picked it up, he knew they weren't blanks."
Trudy started crying and dabbed at her tears with a tissue.
"Ronald told me I should I call you. He said he was sorry I got dragged into this mess. He also said he didn't put real bullets in the gun."
"And you believed him?"
"Yes. I've come to know him pretty well."
"When did you meet him?"
"A couple months ago."
"Where?"
"At a motel. Herman conducted several get-acquainted meetings before the robbery. He wanted us to be relaxed around each other. He provided refreshments_bottled water and a bag of pork rinds"

Author Notes This chapter has nothing to do with Loophole_my Rom/Com novel.


Chapter 22
Liz II

By Marvin Calloway

Last line of chapter 21:

You're taking it much better than he did.”

Liz II

I was sitting in Liz's waiting room. Or was I waiting in Liz's sitting room? When I stood up and went to the window my dilemma vanished. I was now looking down eight floors at the traffic jam below. Or was the traffic jam looking up eight floors at me? I've got to stop thinking this nonsense. I'm giddy with excitement, nervous with anticipation and wired from way too much coffee.

I looked at my watch. Her 'Eight O'clock' should be leaving her conference room about now. Is patient the correct word? Loony, perhaps? Psycho?

A man entered the room. He didn't look like a loony or a psycho, just confused. Now I'm confused. I thought I was next. He studied me and said, “I thought they'd send somebody taller.” Before I could apologize for height failure, he entered Liz's office. I heard her say, “Go through that door and, this time, make a left.” A door slammed shut.

The 'raven-haired beauty' came out of her private office, looking just as I had remembered her. “Come on in Russ.” I entered and handed Liz a bouquet of flowers. “Oh, Russ, how thoughtful! They're lovely.” She took the flowers and kissed me on the cheek. That was nice, but now I owed Yolanda a kiss. A story for another time.

Liz had replaced the couch where she and I had our 'sessions' with one that looked even more inviting. She carried the flowers to her private office and hollered, “Please take the chair.” I wish she could have seen my disappointment. “Do you care for coffee?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I hollered.

She came back and took a seat opposite me, a few feet away and started the timer.

“On the clock already, Liz?”

“Sorry, force of habit . . .” She turned off the timer. “. . . but I do have a ten o'clock, so perhaps I should leave it on.” She turned it back on. “Today, let's stick to the purpose at hand. We can always discuss old times over dinner, this weekend, if you have time.” I'll have time.

“Sounds like a plan.”

She started a recorder. “Now, how does this producer thing work?'

“It's very simple.”

“That's good, since this is my first time.”

“Just follow my lead and you'll be all right.”

“I'm all yours,” she said, smiling. I smiled back at my soon-to-be favorite producer.

Since she sat so far away I couldn't very well whisper in her ear, as I had planned, so I improvised. “Ask me this question: 'What is your screenplay called?'”

Dutifully, she said, “What is your screenplay called?”

Loophole,” I said, and waited. And waited. She stared at me and said nothing. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now tell me what the story's about.”

“I don't know what it's about.”

“Nothing comes to mind?”

“No.” She said.

“Like an event in your life that relates to the word, Loophole?”

“Can't think of anything.”

“Let's try again, I said. “I'll say the title and you tell me what you think the story's about.”

“Don't you know what it's about?”

“Yes, I know what it's about.”

“Then, why don't you tell me?” she said.

“I want you to tell me first.”

“Did you mail me a copy of the script?”

“No.”

“Did I miss a meeting?”

“No.”

She looked me over, then looked around at her office and smiled. “I'm on a hidden camera, aren't I?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I don't know how to answer you.”

“Isn't there anything in your past that relates to a loophole?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes. Sorry,” she said. “Does this mean I can't produce?”

“Oh no. I'm sure you can produce. I'll still need your . . . uh . . . assistance. Yeah. Don't you worry about that. This part isn't that important.”

“Is this the way it usually works?”

“Well, up to now . . . never mind. Let's skip this part.”

“Fine. It's giving me a headache. What's the next part?”

“You give me a check,” I remarked, just for laughs.

“This part I like.”

“Yeah. It does have a lot going for it.”

“Will $50,000 be okay?”

“I was only, yeah, sure. No, I mean if you want . . . no . . . I don't need that much, I mean, not yet anyway.”

“$10,000, okay?”

The sacrifices I make! “If it will make you happy.”

“Are you kidding? This is one of the happiest days of my life. What's next?”

“I'm still trying to get your idea for the plot.”

“As long as you have an idea, that's all that matters, isn't it?”

“Of course, but let's go back to part one.”

“That would make it part two, now.”

“I guess so,” I said. “When I say, Loophole, you say the first word that pops into your head.”

“Word association. I use this tool with some of my weirdos.”

That's the word I was looking for. I laughed and said, “Good. Here goes. Loophole.”

“Lawsuit. Wait. I have a better word. Contract.”

“That's a start. What's the story about?”

“I still think that's your job.”

“It doesn't happen often, but on rare occasions, I get an idea from others, like my dentist or barber. Just once in a while, mind you. So, what do you think might make a good story, involving a loophole?”

“Let me think a minute.” She looks up at the ceiling. Studies the window valance. “How about a boy, no, a young man is having a legal problem and the only solution is to find a loophole in the law.”

“Did that happen to you?”

“Russ, you should know by now, I'm female.”

“I mean someone you know?

“Nope. I just made it up,” she said, proudly.

“You don't know anyone that's happened to?”

“No. Is that important?”

“Not really. We'll come back to this part later.”

“Yeah. I must be getting writer's block. Maybe you're a carrier.”

“I've had my share,” I confessed.

“How many parts are there to becoming a producer?”

“I've never bothered to count.”

“I wanted to make sure . . .”

“Wait, I'm counting. There are three parts.”

“That many! No wonder you never had time to count them all. So, what's this mysterious third part?” She said.

“That's the part where you tell me when you want me to come back.”

“As a patient?”

“As a writer.”

Liz pondered that. “Why would you be coming back?”

“To show you what I've written.”

“Oh, sure. How long do you recommend?”

“About six weeks”

“Is there a big hurry?”

“Only if I want to live.”

She looked puzzled. “You make it sound like people are coming after you.”

“I have a feeling they will be.”

“What have I gotten myself into?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. I'm over reacting. Let's try part one again.”

“Now it would be part three,” she said.

“Seems logical.”

“I like the part where I give you money. Let's do that one again.”

“I liked it too, but we've got to get the regular first part taken care of.”

Liz gets up to adjust the shades and sits back down.

“Once more. This time, you say the title.”

“Loophole,” she said.

“What comes to mind?”

“It's short.”

“Anything else?

“No.”

“Do you know what the word means?”

“No, Russ, I slept through the Compound Words class in college.”

“I meant how it could apply to a story.”

“I finally thought of one. A story about a producer who strangles a screenwriter then finds a loophole in the law that results in her not being charged with a crime.”

“A producer who would do such a thing should be spanked.”

“Ooo, I like that,” she said, “the punishment fits the crime.”


Chapter 23
Liz, Russ, Yolanda and Clem

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 22

"A producer who would do something like that should be spanked."
"Ooo, I like that," she said, with a giggle, "that way the punishment would fit the crime."

Chapter 23

Liz, Russ, Yolanda, Russ, Clem and Russ

My meeting with Liz had one rewarding moment_she kissed me on the cheek when I handed her the flowers. But, overall, I was disappointed that she hadn't provided the elusive third plot. I can't blame her. It's not her fault she's had a dull existence. Not every woman is fortunate enough to have had loopholes livening up her life.

It wasn't until I got back in my car, with a convenience store coffee in hand, that I remembered Liz's suggestion for a dinner date. Will that result in two old acquaintances simply enjoying a meal together or two young members of the opposite sex resuming a passionate affair, which had been denied them for over four long years? The sad fact is, the first scenario is the more accurate, since our relationship never reached the level of intimacy, briefly described in the second.

Either way, it looks like my love-life will be getting more complicated. Just how much so is up to Dolores. However, hearing her opinion will have to wait, for now.

< < < ^ > > >

As soon as she said, "Hello," I looked at the number on my phone, which confirmed I had called Yolanda, by mistake. Before my mind could process that information, my voice blurted out, "Does that lunch offer still go?"

"I don't remember anything about a lunch date, Russ, besides, I'm working the late shift, today." Yolanda is a floater in a large department store, usually filling in at cometics or lingerie. Placing her in those departments is like type casting for actors.

"Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. While I have you, how long are you going to be there?"

"Til about 12:30," she said. "Are you bringing lunch?"

"No. I'll stop by in about forty-five minutes, though."

"Anytime. I'll leave the door unlocked, in case I'm in the shower." Nothing pure occurred to me.

< < < ^ > > >

It was Clem's number this time. "Does that lunch offer still go?" It's a good line. Why waste it?

"Where would I go?" Same old Clem.

"An estate sale," I offered as one possibility.

"That's tomorrow. Try to be here by 11:30."

"Sure. What would you like?"

"Anything you want. Just pick it up, bring it over and I'll pay you for it."

"Hot or cold?"

"That's up to you. Just no pizza, onions or fries." As I said before, same old Clem, most likely with the same result. She'll forget to reimburse me.

< < < ^ > > >

It's been years since I've bought flowers. When I 'borrowed' those from Yolanda I had to settle for whatever she had available. Being color-blind, I guessed they were purple. She never said what they were called and I was in too much of a hurry, that morning, to ask.

The dark haired lady behind the counter had a small yellow flower in her hair and wore a smock with a print of large flowers in various pastels. She looked up from her customer. "Are you here to pick up a phone order?"

"No, I . . ."

"Then browse awhile and I'll be with you soon."

I browsed awhile. She wasn't with me soon. I looked over at her, then at my watch, then back at her. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the man she was dealing with stuttered. I pitied him for having to go through life with that impediment and felt ashamed for my display of impatience, although it shouldn't count against me, because neither of them saw me do it.

In the flower cooler, was a small bouquet which appeared to be purple. The price was higher than I expected, but it could have been the least expensive item in the store. The 'flower child' of about thirty-five came over.

"I think I'll take these."

"Going to go all out, huh?" She looked me up and down, then said, "Are you sure these will be enough to get you off the hook?"

At first I was speechless. "For what?" I said, searching for a name tag. "Celia."

"You've had an argument with your lady friend. You don't think it was serious. Trust me, in the lady's mind, it's always serious."

"How did you know I have a girlfriend? Well, I hope that's not hard to believe. But the argument?"

"Mother's day was eight weeks ago, graduations are over, you don't look nervous enough to be an expectant groom. It was just a wild guess."

"You'd make a great detective."

"You learn things."

"In a way, you're right. We haven't argued yet, but she threw my phone at me and stormed out of the building."

"Well, what's your answer?"

"It's a long story. I need these flowers to repay a neighbor for those I borrowed from her.

"In that case, you might feel obligated to pay her a little interest."

Yolanda would love that. "You're right. What do you suggest?"


Chapter 24
Loophole

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 23:
"In that case, you might feel obligated to pay her a little interest."
Yolanda would love that. "You're right. What do you suggest?"
Friday, 10:41

Chapter 24
Friday, 10:57

At Yolanda's suggestion, I let myself in to her apartment, expecting her to tempt me by being wrapped only in a towel. Instead, she was charmingly dressed in a black top with a black and white skirt. When the shoppers get an eyeful of her and receive a perfume sample sprayed on their person, their credit cards won't stand a chance, especially those of her male customers.

"Russ, I didn't expect you to do this." She took the flower arrangement from me and hunted for the best place to put them. "But I do love them. Purple is my favorite color."

"I think they're called, Minnesota or Quasimodo or something like that."

"As long as they're purple," she said.

The flowers landed on a shelf, between two paintings of horses, grazing. I hoped the horses weren't hungry.

"Sorry about coming here on such short notice."

"That's alright. I know you didn't mean to call me. Who did you mean to call, that Clem guy?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact. But, Clem's not a guy. She's a woman."

I barely heard her say, "Sure she is." Not sure how to respond, I rambled on.
"She owns the 'New to You' shop on Beacon street, near the Polish deli."

"In that case, I shouldn't have said what I did to your friend, Marty."

"What did . . . wait a while, why did you . . . how did you get his number?

"He called me," she said.

"I never gave him your . . ."

"Remember the night you used my phone to call him?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, I may have implied that I thought you were . . ."

"What?"

"You know . . . it's like when a guy likes another . . ."

"Gay!"

"That's it," she said.

"That's what you. . . I can't believe it."

"I thought that's why you broke up with Dolores."

"I didn't break up with Dolores. We haven't spoken since that night, but I don't think we've broken up. Not yet, anyway. But gay? That's quite a stretch."

"Don't worry. Marty doesn't believe it."

"I didn't think he would."

"And I made up for it later."

"How?"

"I told him that you're probably . . . it's like when a person likes, uh, both . . . "

"Bi . . ."

"That's it," she said.

"Thanks. That should help me a lot."

"Don't worry about it, anybody can find a mate these days. Just get on the internet."

"I don't need the internet. I already have a mate, I mean a girl friend. At least I think I do. And it's not Clem."

"Russ. I'm sorry. I've been a bad Muse. When Marty called, I'd been drinking and wanted to have some fun with him and got carried away. Started talking crazy. Please forgive me."

"I've got to call Marty. Hear his side of it."

11:06

First, I called Clem and she agreed to postpone our lunch plans. Then I called Marty. He admitted having called Dolores. "Just to have lunch with her or drinks after work," he said. "She turned me down right away. Said you two are still a pair. I was about to call and tell you." I knew he meant it. "I wouldn't think of it as a date. We're old friends."

Then he said, "I called Yolanda, thinking it was your number. Are you aware she's a flake?"

"I guess so."

"She's got a screw loose. You should have heard what she was saying about you."

"She told me a couple things."

"She may have been drunk. I know she had been drinking. Slurring her words."

I hesitated to bring this up. "Did she say anything about being my muse?"

"She did say something about that," Marty said, "but you don't need her. You're always coming up with ideas."

"But not enough good ones."

"Well, It's plain to see she's trying to break up you and Dolores. She even suggested that I call Dolores." She's got it bad for you, Russ."

"The last time we dated I suddenly got very busy. It's happening again. She brings me good luck, but it's bad luck for our relationship."

"It's the writer's curse. For every positive thing that happens to a writer, at least one negative thing has to occur to balance it out."
11:10

Author Notes The times and dates are for my benefit and may be deleted later.


Chapter 25
Magic Title

By Marvin Calloway


Regardless of what the etiquette gurus recommend, I'm going to call her. Someone has to make the first move, and while I never thought that someone should be me, I'm still going to call her.

As soon as I punched in the area code on my cell phone, her name appeared. Then it began ringing. What a pleasant sound and sight! I was so nervous, it took three attempts to 'accept' the call.

"Hello, Dolores. I was just about . . ."

"Don't say anything. I know there's a reasonable explanation for what I saw that night, but I've given up waiting for you to tell me what it is."

I pictured my cell phone hurtling toward my head, on 'that night,' courtesy of The Dolores Air-mail Delivery System.

"Sure. I know how it must have looked. First, Yolanda is a tease. Uh, maybe I should start at the beginning. I left my phone . . . of course you know that part . . . so I asked Yolanda . . . she's my muse . . ."

"That's an amusing name for it."

"Name for what?"

"You know what."

I laughed uncontrollably. But not at what Dolores just said. "Yolanda called it amuse. That was before I enlightened her. And that's why I was laughing. When you said, 'amusing,' I was reminded of her saying that she thought 'amuse' was the word for a 'muse'."

"Isn't it?" she said.

"You don't understand. She thought it was one word."

"It is."

"A . . ." I paused, " . . . and muse are two words."

"Well, when you say it that way . . . " she said.

"That's all I'm saying."

"So, thanks to you . . ."

"She understood."

"That's a relief. So, what else does this muse do for you?"

"She doesn't do anything. It's all in her head."

"Make sure it stays there," she said.

"Wait awhile. She did loan me some flowers."

"Of course she did. Why should you waste time going to a florist when you can get them from a cute little muse, right across the hall?"

"It was an emergency."

"That's right, I forgot; the petals make great band aids. And the stems . . ."

"Okay, okay. I know it sounds like just an excuse to see Yolanda, but I didn't have time to shop."

"Before you come up with anymore reasons for me to be upset with you, the bottom line is, I should have trusted you. Will you forgive me."

I said, "Of course I forgive you."

"I told you it was bad luck to give you that 'good luck' kiss. Now look at us."

"We'll be okay. At least we're speaking to each other again and laughing."

"You're the only one laughing." There was an uncomfortable silence. Then she said, "I was aiming at your head. You might have been mortally hurt."

"As long as I live to tell about it."

"Don't talk like that."

"Listen, I want to explain about the flowers."

"You munch on them when you have a headache?"

I said, "You're getting to be quite the comedian!"

"I learned from the best."

"Aw shucks, little lady."

"I was referring to Norm McDonald."

"Oh. Anyhow this is serious. Can anyone hear you? I mean, can Charlie hear you? Or anyone, for that matter?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" She said.

"Not yet. How soon can you meet me at the coffee shop?"

"You make it sound like we have a regular coffee shop."

"Do you know where Maisie's Muffins is?"

"Probably in the oven as we speak. Sorry, I couldn't resist. I can find it. Should I wear a trench coat or have to say 'Joe sent me' to get in?"


Chapter 26
I Confess

By Marvin Calloway

I Confess

Friday, July 1, 11:35

When I arrived at Maisie's Muffins, I got in the 'Coffee Only' line and started looking around for Dolores. Someone wearing dark glasses and a wide brim hat was seated at a table in the back. It was either Dolores or a model for "Spies 'R Us" magazine.

Although the person I zeroed in on didn't appear quite tall enough, I was certain it was Dolores, especially when she took off the shades and gave a queen's wave in my direction.

I carried my coffee to her table and sat next to her. Gazing about the popular establishment, I noticed that none of the noisy crowd was paying any attention to Dolores or me.

The late breakfasters were savoring their last muffin. The early lunchers were considering their choices from the extensive wall-mounted menus and a good number of the 'I'll-eat-a-muffin-whenever-I-please' crowd was too engrossed in devouring their diet-busters to concern themselves with us.

I nudged Dolores toward the wall at the end of the booth and gave her a big kiss. It's difficult enough to resist her gorgeous lips, but when they're smeared with chocolate from today's special: The Maisie Mousse, I had to have a taste.

She took a napkin and dabbed at what little I missed and said, "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

She sipped some of her drink. "I figured I could keep an eye on the door from here."

"Good thinking. Thanks for coming."

"You like my outfit?"

"Perfect."

I was tempted to point out that sunglasses and a hat hardly comprise an 'outfit' but, when I saw her scarf pulled up around her neck, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

"Before we get to the flowers, I want to know what comes to your mind when I say the word, 'loophole'?"

Without hesitation she said, "That's a thing someone uses to make easy money. They look for a 'loophole.'

I was dumbfounded. It was as if she had read a recent bio of me. As if she knew the whole story I was about to reveal. Maybe I should turn myself in, so they'll go easy on me. "Is it someone you know?"

"I thought I did."

That remark didn't allay my fears any. I sipped my coffee.

"At first, Charlie said he misplaced your script. Later, he realized you didn't leave a script . . . that he told you what your story was about, based on something going on in his life . . . that it was all his idea. No input from you, except the word 'loophole.'"

Suddenly the flowers meant nothing.

Friday, July 1, 11:45

Author Notes The date and times are for the author's benefit and may be deleted later.


Chapter 27
I Confess the Rest

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 26:

"Before we get to the flowers, I want to know what comes to your mind when I say the word, Loophole?"

Without hesitation she said, "That's something a person uses when they want to make easy money. They look for a loophole."

I was dumbfounded. It was as if she had read a recent bio of me. As if she knew the whole story I was about to reveal. Maybe I should turn myself in, so they'll go easy on me. "Is it someone you know?"

"I thought I did." That remark didn't allay my fears at all. I sipped my coffee as Dolores continued.

"At first, Charlie said he misplaced your script. Later, he realized you didn't leave a script . . . that he told you what your story was about, based on something going on in his life . . . that it was all his idea. No input from you, except the word, loophole."

Suddenly the flowers meant nothing.

Friday, July 1, 11:45

Dolores said, "Can you explain?"

"I'll try."

I began telling Dolores about the thirteen pages I had written. In the interest of full disclosure, I even told her about padding it with blank pages to have it appear like a completed manuscript and bringing it to Charlie.

"He asked me what I called it and you know the rest."

"Yeah, but I don't know what it's about."

"He said it had something to do with his wife or ex-wife, signing the separation papers, using the wrong signature."

"Whoa, you talking about his current wife or an old one I never met?"

"Oops."

"What oops?" She said.

"You didn't know they've been living apart for almost two months?"

"Maybe we ought to skip to the flowers."

"Let me finish this story first. I tried to, pardon the expression, wed Charlie's plot to my plot, but they weren't copacetic. So I thought, why not try to repeat my experience with Charlie by finding another producer?"

"Give a title; receive a plot," she said.

"Exactly."

"So you met with Ximena?"

"I know you're joking, but that might have made more sense, in the long run. Who I met with was Charles."

"Again!? Why so formal?" She said.

"Not Charlie. A different person."

"I thought maybe after the split he changed his name." Dolores looked around and lowered her voice. "So now you have three plots, and that's without taking my shoes off."

"Wait til you hear this. He gave me a plot, just like I had hoped, but before our meeting was over, he told me a different plot and the next thing I knew, he was handing me money_cash, large bills."

"So, rather than bother with minor details, like a plot, you took the money and ran."

"Something like that, but I need to run back."

"Because he owes you for his second plot?" She said.

"No. Right now, I'm the only one in this story who owes anybody anything."

"I'm detecting a character flaw."

"I haven't mentioned any of my characters yet."

"The flaw is in your character," she said.

"That's why I'm telling you all this. To clear my conscience. Have I committed a crime, acted deceitful or just misled my fellow man? That reminds me. I haven't told you about the woman in all this."

"Hence the flowers."

"I met her in Vegas. Before I met you."

"Wait a minute. I'm still curious about Charles. Is he an old friend?"

"No. We met through an ad he placed in Variety."

"So now you've got a variety of plots," she said.

"I'm glad you think this is funny."

"If it 'was' funny, you could always turn it into a comedy."

She looked at her watch. I leaned over and looked at her watch. I couldn't read it from my angle. Dolores rewarded my effort with a kiss and said, "Is there any chance you might get to the flowers before I have to get back to work?"

"We might have to continue this some other time."

"If you can stay, I could take time off that I have coming."

"Afraid to face Charlie?"

"That too."

"When you do see him, you can't let on about his wife or ex-wife or whatever we should call her. If you do, he'll know who you got it from," I said.

Friday, July 1, 11:55

Author Notes Dates and times shown are for the author's benefit and may be deleted later.


Chapter 28
Confessing Liz

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 27:

"Afraid to face Charlie?"
"That too."
"When you do see him, you can't let on about his wife or ex-wife or whatever we should call her. If you do, he'll know who you got it from," I said.

Friday, July 1, 11:56

Chapter 28

Confessing Liz

Friday, July 1, 11:57

I went to the front counter to place an order while Doll made her phone call to Charlie.
Around here people like to get a jump on the weekend, so with many of the crowd gone, it didn't take long for me to place an order, return to our table, divide our repast and begin to conquer it.

Friday, July 1, 12:06

Maisie's version of an omelet was much tastier than mine and it was large enough to feed a small army or a famished screenwriter and his not- so-small lady friend, AKA, the girl of my dreams.

My order included a free muffin. I had chosen the 'Surprise Me,' which fit well with what's been happening in my life of late. I also ordered an extra muffin known as "English," about which I've heard some good things.

"Where were we?" I said.

"You were entertaining me with a story about you crapping around with some dance-hall floozie in Las Vegas."

"Well put. The only thing you omitted are the facts."

"Just trying to lighten the mood."

"Besides, she's one of those respectable floozies, a psychiatrist."

She said, "They're the worst kind."

"You'd like her."

I continued enjoying my omelet and resumed the story. "After being uncertain of my success with Charles, I tried to think of another potential producer to . . . uh . . ."

"Pull a scam on?" She said.

"Of course not. Then I remembered Miss Devereough . . ."

"The floozie?"

"Yes, I mean no . . . she had mentioned that she was interested in the film business."

"From the back row of the balcony?"

I ignored her and finished my omelet. "Now here's where things got weird."

"Oh, I think that boat sailed long ago," she said.

"The word, Loophole, didn't inspire her to come up with a plot."

"That's a little unusual, but not weird."

"But she gave me money anyhow."

"Still not weird. You have this power over people that make them want to give you money."

"It's the title, 'Loophole,' that causes it."

"Okay. But you left out something," she said.

"What? Oh yeah. The flowers! I had an eight o'clock appointment with Liz . . ."

"Short for Lizard?"

Ignoring Dolores' remarks was getting to be a habit. ". . . and I thought I should bring her flowers, but there wasn't time, so I decided to try borrowing some from Yolanda."

"Smooth move. What did Lizzy Borden do to deserve flowers? Never mind, don't answer that."

"That's alright. We only had two dates. No one was buying my scripts so I planned to return to Baltimore."

"Something like that happened to us," she said.

I paused and thought about that, then said, "And look at us now." I had some coffee. "But I never went back home and I never called her again."

"Not one of your finest moments."

"The flowers were to atone for my thoughtlessness."

"Did you have Yolanda sign the card?"

"You're certainly getting a kick out of this, aren't you?"

"Is that all there was to it?" She said. "What were you so worried about?"

"You were the one who was worried and upset."

"I know and, once again, I'm sorry. I've been acting very childish. Do I deserve a spanking?"

"Funny you should mention that."

Author Notes The date and times are for the author's benefit and may be deleted later.


Chapter 29
Bird's Food

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chap 28.

"I know and, once again, I'm sorry. I've been acting very childish. Do I deserve a spanking?"

"Funny you should mention that."

Bird's Food

Friday, July 1, 11:57 a. m.

A previous reference to spanking came from me during my meeting with Liz. She liked the idea. Another idea she liked came from her when she said we should get together for dinner -- this very weekend, in fact.

Doll chose this moment to visit the little girl's room. Sorry, 'tall girl's room' is not yet in vogue. I immediately dialed Liz's number. We shot the sheep for a while before I got to the point. Actually, it was Liz who got there first.

"Russ! Of course I'd like to have dinner with you."

"How did you . . ."

"I knew you'd remember my invitation," she said.

I thought that was her intention. "Good! Then you know I'd like to pick you up . . ."

"At my apartment, around five fifteen."

"I don't even know . . ."

"Suite 810, above my office," she said.

"That's convenient."

"Too convenient, Promise me you won't tell any of my weirdos."

"Of course. No weirdos." I hung up. Dolores chose this moment to return.

"What weirdos?"

I had to think fast. Something I'm not always good at.
"Uh . . . the ones in Central Park. I was just saying to . . .uh, Clem, there are lots of weirdos . . ."

"In Central Park? I thought you two were from Baltimore," she said.

"We are. But that doesn't mean we're unaware of Central Park or the Grand Canyon or any of the famous landmarks in this great . . ."

"Name another one."

"Grant's Tomb."

"That's in Canada," she said.

"It is?"

"No, that's untrue and it's also untrue that you were just talking to Clem. The only friend of yours that I know of, who deals with weirdos on a regular basis is . . ."

"Liz. You caught me. I was talking to Liz."

"I knew it. It takes one to know one," she said.

I'm glad I didn't say that. "I still claim you two would get along like sisters."

"Yeah, the kind who pull each others hair out."

"Let's get back to business."

"Sorry," she said.

"You want more coffee?"

"No."

"More to eat?"

"Heavens no."

"Any questions."

"I don't think so," she said.

"Good. Is Charlie in this afternoon?

"Yes. He'll probably be there until around four."

"Okay. I've got a mission for you, if you choose to accept it. Get Charlie to talk about his separation. If I'm going to use his idea for a plot I might need more details. But you've got to be subtle."

"Say no more. I accept," she said.

"Good girl. Report back as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I'll try working with what I have. If I need anything specific, I'll call you."

I finished my coffee, held her hand and kissed her. "Give me time to get back to my apartment, before you call."

"Wait. Shouldn't we have code names, pass words or secret rendezvous locations?" She said.

"You're right! Make that one of your assignments, also. When you come up with some ideas, call me and we'll thrash them around."

"Is your phone tapped?"

"No. Is yours?"

"Not sure. How could I tell?" She said.

"Don't know. I do know we're becoming quite the team. I may have to include your name in the credits."

"Just visit me in jail or, better yet, pay my bail."

Friday, July 1, 12:07 p.m.


Chapter 30
Charles' Story

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 29:

"Don't know. I do know we're becoming quite the team. I may have to include your name in the credits."
"Just visit me in jail or, better yet, put up my bail."

Friday, July 1, 12:07 p. m.


Chapter 30

Friday, July 1, 12:58 p. m.

I was instructed to, "Move a little to the right and closer to the door," by a deep, authoritative voice. This occurred while I was standing on the tree-shaded rear deck at the home of Charles W. Anderson, the third. I did as directed, while searching in vain for the source of the command.

"Point the palm of your right hand straight up," the voice continued. I shifted the bag I was holding to my left hand and reached my right hand, palm up, toward the sky, hidden by the abundance of tree limbs. I was trying to determine what kind of tree when I lost my balance and stumbled back.

Suddenly, beepers began beeping and lights began flashing. I also heard the sound of sirens, giving me hope that help was on the way. Still unsure of my balance, I staggered farther from the windowless door where, once again, I heard nothing but the chirping of birds.

"Come in Mister Walker," the black-clad Miss Claridge requested, as the door slid open silently. "Charles was just trying out some of his new toys."

A trickle of light meandering through the anonymous tree's branches made it appear as though the usually stoic woman's face held a slight smile. Or else my eyes were deceived by my lingering dizziness.

A confusing maze of hallways led Charles' mysterious co-worker and me to the familiar conference room and himself, sitting in front of a console of buttons, monitors and keyboards.

"Hello Russ. I'm fine-tuning my new security system. I hope it didn't startle you."

"No, but it didn't work, either."

"Ah, but it did! Your palm print is not in the system so it registered you, my friend, as a threat to my domicile."

"It let the whole neighborhood know and maybe even a few Russian satellites," I said.

"Consider it as you wish, but before you leave, I'd like you to allow me to scan your hand for the rear entrance."

I couldn't think of a reply that wouldn't sound inappropriate.

During this time, Miss Claridge had left and returned with coffee and pastries for two, then repaired, I imagine, to her 'Bat Cave.'

I took a seat at the conference table, opposite the monitors and the ever surprising Charles. My entire script could be devoted to only him and would never lack for excitement.

Charles continued pressing keys and pushing buttons until views of his home and grounds could be seen on all ten monitors. Then they went dark.

He turned his chair toward me. "Miss Claridge mustn't know anything of what I'm about to relate. I'm sure I can trust you to honor that point."

With no bible to swear on, I whispered to myself, 'So help me God.' Not soon enough, I noticed a weighty volume of the Holy Book, lying on a shelf above the monitors.

"I don't believe you'll find any humor in my story." Could Charles be referring to the bible? Then he sipped some coffee and said, "I assume you brought it."

I opened the Radio Shack bag and pulled out the latest in recording devices. "Got it right here. It's all set and will start at the sound of your voice."

Before I could give Charles the hand-held mike, he said, "You do the introduction then I'll take over."

I did so, then pushed 'playback'. The audio quality was excellent. I gave Charles the mike. He pressed the start button and began.

"The story of how I, Charles W. Anderson, the Third got to where I am today." He stopped the recorder. "Does that sound dramatic enough for your script, or should I say, our script?"

"Forgive me for saying so, but it sounds like this may take up the whole weekend," I said.

"I'm only telling you what came to mind when you said, 'Loophole,' the other day."

Friday, July 1, 1:21 p. m.

Author Notes Coming up: Charles tells an unusual story.


Chapter 31
Russ & Charles' Meeting Continues

By Marvin Calloway

Screenwriter Russ is in the conference room of Charles, one of the producers of Russ's latest screenplay. Charles is about to record what came to mind, after Russ mentioned the title, Loophole."

Last lines of chapter 30:

"I don't believe you'll find any humor in my story."

I'll be the judge of that, I said to myself.

He sipped some coffee and said, "I assume you brought it."
I opened the Radio Shack bag and pulled out a recording device. "Got it right here. This one is not as sophisticated as yours but, it suits our purpose."

"To assure that our ears will be the only ones to hear this story," Charles said.

"Correct. It's all set and will start at the sound of your voice."

Before I could give Charles the hand-held mic, he said, "You provide the introduction then I'll take over." I did so, then pushed 'playback'. The audio quality was excellent. I gave Charles the mic. He pressed the start button and began.

"The story of how I, Charles W. Anderson, the Third got to where I am today." He stopped the recorder. "Does that sound dramatic enough for your script, or should I say, our script?"

"Forgive me for saying so, but it sounds like this may take up the whole weekend."

"I'm only telling you what came to mind when you said, 'Loophole,' the other day."

Friday, July 1, 1:21 p. m.


Chapter 31

Russ and Charles' Meeting Continues

Friday, July 1, 1:21 p. m.

Charles cleared his throat and continued. "I started gambling when I was a junior in high school. I had devised a sure-fire system for betting on horse racing . . ." I laughed. Charles smiled. ". . . but it didn't work.

"I managed to lose seven dollars and twenty cents. I would have lost more if my bookie hadn't placed a twenty-five cent limit on my wagers.

"To me, intelligent gambling is all about finding or devising the right system. My wagering system for horse racing only worked in theory. Soon, I remembered a wagering system involving basketball. There are only three requirements: a lot of games, a lot of money and a lot of luck."

Nothing like a sure thing.

"I tried it for an entire season and lost several hundred dollars. The money wasn't important, though. I was receiving an education."

That's learning the hard way.

"Next, I thought I'd try coming up with a system for pro football. Almost immediately I thought of one that seemed so obvious, it's a wonder everyone wasn't using it. And, it appeared to be foolproof."

Again, I laughed and Charles smiled.

"After one season, I was ahead $3,150 and twenty cents. By the way, I keep a record of all my gambling activity. Gamblers have a tendency to only remember the wins, but I always like to know exactly where I stand. Getting back to the system, it seemed almost too good to be true."

Finally, a sport he's good at--pro football--but where's the loophole?

"I doubled up the following season and, after 2 weeks, my profit was down to $1,600. It appeared as though the money I won last season was a fluke. I quit then and there. I wasn't about to lose it all back."

His reasoning went something like this: Any betting system, whether logical or astrological, whether picking the team with the highest rated quarterback or the highest rated cheerleaders, is bound to have success sooner or later. It's the law of averages. Apparently, last year was 'sooner' for his system to work.

Charles looked at the pastries, as if seeing them for the first time. He gobbled down one with blueberries oozing from its center and pushed the tray toward me. He finished his coffee, poured a fresh one and continued his narrative.

"So I quit pro football. I briefly considered hockey and realized I knew nothing about that sport."
And again, I laughed and Charles smiled. Apparently he really was getting an education and it took him only three years and three weeks to do it.

Friday, July 1, 1:29 p. m.

Author Notes Screenwriter Russ is in the conference room of Charles, one of the producers of Russ's latest screenplay. Charles is about to record what came to mind, after Russ mentioned the title, Loophole.�¢??


Chapter 32
The Continuation of Charles' Story

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 30:

"So I quit wagering on pro football. I briefly considered hockey and realized I knew nothing about it."
And again, I laughed and Charles smiled.
Apparently he really was getting an education and it took him only three years and two weeks to do it.

Friday, July 1, 1:44 p. m.

Chapter 32

The Continuation of Charles' Story

Friday, July 1, 1:44 p. m.

While I drank coffee and watched from the other side of the conference table, Charles continued his recitation into the recorder's hand-held mic.

"I stopped gambling, as such, and devoted my time to finding the perfect union of sport and wagering system, where luck would not be a factor. I wasn't sure such a union existed, but eventually I found one."

I could hardly keep my eyes open. I topped off my coffee and gulped down half a cup. No pastries for me. I've got a dinner date with . . . whoops! I'd better not call it a date. I wouldn't want Dolores to hear me call it that. I guess it's okay if she knows about the business meeting with Liz. After all, Liz is one of the producers of my latest screenplay. Dolores would understand. She said she trusts me. We're getting along fine now. She can trust me, can't she?

There's a monotone voice in the background. I can't tell where it's coming from and I can't be sure what it's saying. It jars me with a shout, "I couldn't wait for baseball season to start."

The voice was Charles'. Alarmed, I sprang forward in my chair. I've neither heard nor seen him so excited.

He continued, "All I had to do was find someone who's not a bookie and work the spreads in conjunction with a real bookie and I couldn't lose."

You're not going to catch me smiling at that profound statement, let alone laughing about it. I don't even know what he's talking about.

"I found the person I needed, a friend of a friend. Let's call him, 'The amateur.'

"Yeah, let's." I had to say something, if only to stay awake.

"And let's call the real bookie, 'Auggie.' That may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. After a month of employing this new system, Auggie owed me thirty-four hundred dollars while I was indebted to the amateur for five hundred. That left me with a twenty-nine hundred dollar profit."

Charles turned off the recorder, drank some coffee and said, "I hope this isn't getting too technical for you."

"If it does, I'll consult my 'English to Loser' dictionary."

Charles neither laughed nor smiled, but instead, gave me a disturbed look.

"Then an unforeseen occurrence . . .uh, occurred. One of Auggie's clients owed him less than two hundred dollars, but rather than pay his honest debt he chose the deadbeat's way out and, before I was able to collect from Auggie, he reported Auggie to the police. Anonymously, of course."

"He welshed," I said.

"Correct. And the judicial system decided to make an example of him. They fined him into poverty. But no one knew about a piece of property he owned."

I feel a loophole coming on.

Friday, July 1, 1:54 p. m.


Chapter 33
Another Loophole

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 32:

"Then an unforeseen occurrence . . . uh, occurred. One of Auggie's clients owed him less than two hundred dollars. Rather than pay his honest debt he chose the deadbeat's way out and, before I was able to collect from Auggie, he reported Auggie to the police. Anonymously, of course."
"He welshed," I said.
"Correct. And the judicial system decided to make an example of him. They fined him into poverty and sent him to jail. But no one knew about a piece of property he owned."

I feel a loophole coming on.

Friday, July 1, 1:56 p. m.

Another Loophole

Friday, July 1, 1:56 p. m.

"Auggie told me where he kept a deed to a piece of property he had acquired in a game of craps. He asked me to retrieve it and hold it for him until his release. Once I found it, I hid it where no one would think to look."

I thought to look at the conference table and the nondescript panel at its center. In this safe, disguised as a multi-functional piece of furniture, who knows how many property deeds could be contained. I'm already aware that Charles keeps thousands of dollars tucked away there for needy screenwriters.

Didn't a fairly talented writer once choose to hide a purloined object of some sort, in relatively plain sight? But, I had my doubts that the deed lay that close.

"About two months later, Auggie was stabbed to death in the exercise yard of the jail." Bowing his head, Charles said, "May he rest in peace."

I glanced up at the bible again. Charles wiped his nose with a tissue then took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his eyes.

"Auggie was a gentleman, a good person. He didn't deserve to go like that. As far as I know, I own this mansion, unless there's a loophole that says I don't. No mortgage, no record of sale, nothing. I don't even get a tax bill."

Lucky for Charles, this property has fallen through the cracks.

"Auggie has no relatives that I know of. This all happened about three years ago and no one has come forth yet. Miss Claridge is a real estate attorney. She advised me to pay the annual taxes, but I'm afraid that would raise unwanted attention. I decided to gamble by not saying a word to anybody."

"How about the guy who lost the deed?" I said.

"Auggie said he wouldn't be bothering anyone."

"That sounds ominous."

"I don't think he meant it the way it sounded."

I leaned back in my chair, speechless. I tried to conjure up a face to go with this man I never knew. It was useless to try. Then Mickey Rooney's face came to mind. Too short. How can a face be too short? It just didn't seem right for the Auggie I never knew.

How about Tom Hanks? No. Maybe more like Peter Scolari, his Bosom Buddy. Why is it so important that I give this man a face? What is important . . .

"Is this the loophole you need for your script?" Charles had read my mind.

"If it is, we'll have to put in a disclaimer, stating that anyone related to Auggie, living or dead, is purely accidental."

Friday, July 1, 2:07 p. m.


Chapter 34
Who's There?

By Marvin Calloway

Part II

Who's There?

Friday, July 1, 3:00 p. m.

I pressed the button to start my computer and my cell phone rang, as if the two were connected.

"What are you wearing?" said a breathy female voice. This came from my phone. My computer and I aren't on speaking terms.

Various thoughts ran through my mind, while trying to think of a proper response.

When a woman says those words, one assumes she knows the person to whom she's speaking. When a man hears those words, he should consider himself fortunate if he knows more than one woman to attribute them to.

In my case, there were two possibilities: my girl friend, Dolores, or Liz, one of the producers of my screenplay.

A third possibility could be a woman who dialed a wrong number. If so, I wonder. . . does this woman have any loopholes up her sleeve. Is she even wearing sleeves. Or maybe that's all she's . . .

"Russ, are you there?" Liz said.

"Yes. I was hoping you'd call," happy it wasn't a wrong number.

"About this evening," Liz said, "where would you like to have dinner?"

"I should be asking you that,"

"You must have forgotten. It's my treat."

This was news to me and not necessarily good. "Oh, that's right."

"What are you in the mood for?" She said.

I had to remind myself this wasn't Dolores, so I dared not be flippant. "It's up to you."

She made several restaurant suggestions and I reacted to each the same way. "I'll leave that up to you."

"Okay, you asked for it. Wear your walking shoes," she said and hung up."

Men generally prefer to be in control of a dinner date, but I found this role reversal provocatively intriguing.

Friday, July 1, 3:05 p. m.

Author Notes Times shown are to assist me now and may not appear in the novel.


Chapter 34
Hecticity

By Marvin Calloway

Part I
Hecticity

Friday, July 1, 2:16 p. m.

On the way back to my apartment I decided to treat myself to the scenic route by getting on Begonia Boulevard and heading east. There, I could admire the late-blooming blue jacarandas trees, decorating the median strip.

I counted on other drivers to avoid bumping into me while I was doing my sightseeing, but I didn't count on all the rude gestures and horn-blowing that came with it.

When the trees dwindled down to a precious few, I made two consecutive right turns to get on Claymont Avenue. Here, the ride got much quieter.

I was able to observe the front entrance to the three-story building containing my apartment. The serenity of this sun-filled scene was a welcome relief from the hecticity of the previous ten days.

As I neared the end of my block, my peripheral vision caught sight of something darting in front of my vehicle from the left. I slammed on the brakes_a useless gesture at this point. Glancing to the right, I saw a squirrel leap the curb, apparently unharmed, and disappear into a conglomeration of cardboard in the adjacent alley.

It appears Yolanda was right about a homeless person living in our neighborhood. A man, half dressed in rags, sporting a Duck Dynasty beard, emerged from the hovel, swinging a cardboard tube, in an attempt to subdue his intruder. It was a toss-up as to who was more surprised.

Since I rarely use the front entrance, this was the first time I'd seen our less fortunate neighbor.

Papers and miscellaneous junk from the passenger seat were now on the floor, a sure sign my life had returned to normal.

Friday, July 1, 2:47 p. m.

Author Notes Parts II and III will soon follow.


Chapter 34
More Plots

By Marvin Calloway

Part III
More Plots

Friday, July 1, 3:12 p. m.

I stared at the monitor, my index fingers hovering over my keyboard, poised for attack. While waiting for inspiration to strike, it occurred to me that my life was far from normal.

What self-respecting screenwriter, worth his or her salt and in her or his right mind has his or her plot pushed aside by two producers, each insisting she or he knows what his or her or somebody else's script is about, no matter what gender any or all of them are or is or were or would like to be at any given moment?

'That is the question,' a famous writer once wrote, and I don't know the answer. It doesn't concern me. My only concern is with the plot ideas in my possession as a result of this unpredictable predicament.

Charlie thought my script was about the signature his wife used on their separation agreement. As his friend, I was both surprised and sorry. This was the first I'd heard of his marital difficulties. I was more surprised that a film producer with his experience would think this idea had 'merit', as he likes to put it. It would scarcely require more than one scene, and a boring one at that.

Charles thought my story was about himself, when he was asked to hold the deed to a piece of property while a bookmaker, who had won the deed in a crap game, served out his jail term. The bookie was soon murdered, leaving Charles holding the deed.

Charles is worried that a loophole in the law could snatch the deed out of his hands and possibly land him in prison. This idea is much stronger than Charlie's, but also not enough on which to build a feature film.

Almost forgotten, mainly because no one, as yet, has allowed me to express it, is my idea about a young man involved in a dispute with a dating service. The daters and the datees . . . let me put that another way . . . the service and the client are squabbling over the number of dates provided him and, since one of the dates involves a set of overweight twins__giving new meaning to the term, 'double-date'__hilarity of enormous proportions ensues.

I may be biased but I feel my plot is the most interesting of the three. That may not be saying much, but I believe it has the largest potential for humor, which says quite a bit.

According to my exhaustive calculations, I figured a grand total of seven plots could be written using these three ideas, either individually or in combination. I wrote down the list and pinned it to my bulletin board.

Plot I. Charlie's idea.
Plot 2. Charles' idea.
Plot 3. Russ' idea. (Mine)
Plot 4. Charlie's idea & Charles' idea, combined.
Plot 5. Charlie's idea & Russ' idea, combined.
Plot 6. Charles' idea & Russ' idea, combined.
Plot 7. All three ideas, combined.

With a felt-tip pen, I drew a line through Plots 1 and 2. It was no use wasting time on them. Next to 'Plot 3' I could have written, 'My idea' but I wanted it to have a name connected to it. If it bombed, I'd know exactly whom to blame. A one-hit wonder named Russ.

I knew it was useless to spend time on my plot or the next three plots, for that matter. Not with Plot 7 begging for attention.

At last, I may have found the basis for my 'Preakness.'

Friday, July 1, 3:22 p. m.



Chapter 35
What to Wear?

By Marvin Calloway

Friday, July 1, 3:22 p. m.

After a shower and a shave, I dressed, undressed and dressed again, several times. I put on and took off, shirt after shirt and slacks after slacks, wondering if any of them were appropriate. Her insistence that I wear walking shoes was the only clue I had as to where Liz might be taking me.

Is she planning a leisurely walk from her apartment to a first class restaurant? That would be nice. An uppity eatery that you had to call a month in advance to reserve a table and possibly two months in advance to cancel.

Picking up hot dogs from a street vendor and consuming them while we meandered through a park, would also be nice.

- - - < > - - -

I settled on a medium blue dress shirt and light blue casual pants. I grabbed a white tie decorated with polka dots consisting of old fashion typewriter keys and stuffed it into my back pocket, just in case.

The shoes I chose for walking--rubber soled, grey suede oxfords--were my most comfortable pair. No distressed leather for me. Struggling to figure out what to wear has provided enough stress for today.

I feel sorry for women; they endure wardrobe warfare daily; every business meeting; every date night; every outing with friends. Following this experience, I discovered something about myself...I prefer taking someone rather than being taken. That didn't come out right, but you know what I mean.

- - - < > - - -

I didn't want to get my hopes up, but perhaps while enjoying a dish of exotic Lobster Therm-adore, Liz, an exotic dish of another breed will be examining my head. She might just be what the chef of my heart would order at this point in my life.

- - - < > - - -

I recalled a motivational photo hanging in Liz's office. It was a picture of a woman in fine physical shape, a bar bell in one hand and a book in the other. The author of the caption, "A fit body assures a fit mind," must have had Liz in mind. I can't remember if she was wearing shoes.

And maybe Liz's mind has finally come up with a plot involving a loophole, something I so desperately sought from her that day in her office. Learning of this new plot might be just a walk-in-the-park away.

Friday, July 1, 4:13 p. m.


Chapter 36
Love Birds

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 35.

And maybe Liz's mind has finally come up with a plot involving a loophole, the thing I so desperately sought from her that day in her office. Learning of this new plot might be just a walk-in-the-park away.

Friday, July 1, 4:13 p. m.

Chapter 36

Love Birds

Friday, July 1, 7:14 p. m.

I couldn't wait to sit down, rest my aching feet and start filling the void in my stomach. Walking to the dining table was my most satisfying walk of the day, because I knew it would result in resting my feet and getting food into my stomach.

But not before having to deal with a nimble-footed older man who seemed intent on securing the same table. It was a dead-heat as to who set his tray down first. I gave him my best 'forlorn, puppy-dog' look. He trumped it with his even better, 'Go away, boy, you're bothering me' look. When he saw that Liz and I were a couple, he had a change of heart, taking his tray to greener pastures and mumbling something about 'love birds.'

- - < > - -

"I'm always hungry after browsing through a museum," Liz said.

"I always get hungry before going to a museum."

"Sorry, Russ, how was I to know you had skipped lunch?"

"Didn't you hear my stomach growling?"

"I thought it was a cat in heat."

"I didn't know you owned a cat!"

"I don't."

"And that drink on an empty stomach didn't help, either."

"Quit your belly-aching."

I looked at Liz and began laughing.

"What are you . . .? Oh." Liz starts laughing. Soon we're both laughing, uncontrollably. We tried to stop by looking away from each other, but when we turned back, we laughed all the harder. We were still laughing, when Liz managed to say, "We're like, heh, heh, heh, an old, heh, heh . . ."

". . . married, heh, heh, couple." I finished her sentence.

"Except heh, heh, I'm not, heh, heh, heh, old," she said.

"You will be, heh, heh, heh . . ." I said. ". . . you will be, heh, heh, by the time we stop laughing!"

- - < > - -

We were in the Getty Museum of Art cafeteria, famous for its fine food and wines, a welcome complement to its extensive collection of fine art. Trying to be serious, Liz resumed eating her meal. She's a slow eater. Usually I am also, but not this meal. I was famished and now, just about finished. I started pushing the last morsels of food around my plate, giving Liz time to catch up. When done, I said, "I'm ready for seconds."

"Bad news, the kitchen's closed. But the coffee bar's still open. I'll get you some while you study the brochure. We should discuss the main reason we're here.

- - < > - -

Liz set my coffee down in front of me and she sat herself down with a white wine. To
forestall a conversation about paintings, I asked her about her clients.

"You know I never talk about my weirdos. They're strictly confidential." It's odd, almost funny to hear Liz refer to her clients as weirdos. Maybe she does it to assure she doesn't become one of them.

Seated by floor-to-ceiling windows, which overlooked a central courtyard, we enjoyed watching the bustling activity of a sanctuary of rare birds. I assumed there were microphones planted in the garden because the chirping, cawing and chattering could be clearly heard from our table. If any of them were love birds, they were in the midst of a lover's quarrel.

Liz, with a slight smile, looked at me. I smiled. In silence, we sipped our drinks. I began studying her face. It was beautiful. The late evening sun illuminated its softness and gave her nearly black hair an angelic appearance. I was in heaven. And my feet felt better.

- - < > - -

"I was wondering if you happened to think of a plot for . . ."

"Oh no, not that again." Liz said. "I don't want to talk about plots, or loopholes either."

I didn't know she felt this strongly about being asked to supply a plot idea. She must have sensed my disappointment. She placed her hand atop mine and said, "If I ever think of something, I'll let you know. I mean it."

A moment or two passed in silence. She removed her hand from mine and picked up her brochure.

"What about the art we've just seen? Overall, what did you think?"

"It was alright."

"Somewhere, there's an art critic's job waiting for you."

I laughed. "A lot of it reminded me of food or you or sometimes both."

"I'm not sure I like being mentioned second in that statement."

"I'm kidding. Well . . . I liked the abstracts. Especially the blue ones, my favorite color."

I reached for her hand. She said, "Not now." I found out why. She had seen one of her clients. "He has a crush on me and might go nuts if he sees anyone touching me. There he is, again. Don't look. Oops! I shouldn't have let it slip out that it's a man."

"If he's nuts over you, he can't be that crazy." I sipped my coffee. "Are you in any danger?"

"I don't think so. He won't recognize me away from the office. The clothes I wear, the way I fix my hair." Liz opened her copy of the brochure and held it in front of her face.

"He'll never think to look for you behind that!"

With her left hand, she raised the brochure, pulled her wine toward her, then lowered the brochure and looked around over the top of it. I watched the wine glass rise, appearing to levitate. When it returned to the table, it was empty.

"That's a neat little trick, but I'm pretty sure I know how you did it."

Friday, July 1, 8:05 p. m.

Author Notes More of the Museum trip to follow.


Chapter 37
Love Flirts

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 36

With her left hand, she raised the brochure higher, pulled her wine toward her, then lowered the brochure enough for her to see over it. She looked around then raised the brochure again. I watched the stem of the wine glass rise, appearing to levitate. When it returned to the table, the glass was empty.

"That's a neat trick but I'm pretty sure I know how you did it."

Friday, July 1, 8:05 p. m.

- - < > - -

Chapter 37

Love Flirts

Liz lowered the brochure from in front of her face. She must have felt safe again.

Flipping through some pages, she said, "Let's try to get you educated, Mister Russel. Open your brochure to . . . uh, page six."

"Yes, Miss Devereaux."

"Now, point out which paintings you liked . . . if any." She said.

There were photos of realistic paintings of landscapes. "These were so real . . . I mean the colors seemed to. . . his choice of point of . . ."

"You mean her choice."

"Really? Hard to tell with such an unusual name." I turned a few pages, rapidly.

"Back up, young man. Don't tell me you didn't like the paintings of nude women."

I thought she'd spoken loud enough for the entire museum to hear, but when I looked around at the nearby patrons, none seemed to have noticed.

"Well . . . yeah, they were uh, some of them were really, what can I say?

"Something intelligent would be a change. Tell me, what do you think the artist was trying to say?"

"That he knows some really big, I mean . . . nice women."

"I'm sure that's not what he was going for, but what I'm really curious about is why you skipped over them."

"I didn't want to embarrass you."

"I think you're the one who's embarrassed." She tried to sip wine from her empty glass. "During our first fling, did you tell me you had a sister?"

"I don't remember what I told you. That was four years ago."

"I don't remember either, but I'd be willing to bet you have a sister. An older sister."

"By a year. I must have told you."

"It doesn't matter. I would have figured it out soon enough. And did you happen to see her naked when you were little?"

"I walked in on her when she was about to jump in the tub," I said.

"You did nothing wrong. She should have locked the door. And you've been feeling guilty about it ever since."

"How do you know she didn't want that to happen?"

"Let's concentrate on you for now."

"No matter. I'm sure you're right. No wonder you're such a busy doctor."

"Please, psychoanalyst." Liz pointed at the next painting. "What about this one?"

"Don't you think three is too much of a good thing?"

"The artist has his own problems. He's a Picasso wannabe."

"He'd be better off dead."

"To increase the value of his paintings?" she said.

"To rid us of anymore of them."

"Now you really sound like an art critic."

"I'm not sure I could stand the . . ."

"I've got one," she said.

"Really? Maybe you could borrow the other one from her," I said, pointing to the triple endowed woman.

"No! I have a plot for your story. How about a painter . . . a man . . . who paints nude women . . . but can only paint them with a blind fold?"

"He doesn't use a brush?"

"No, silly. He could only paint them if he couldn't see them."

"Why?"

"It's your story. You figure it out."

I tried to think of how her idea might fit in with all the other great ideas I have, whose worth I'm also not sure of.

"You'll have to forgive me, Russ, I had forgotten how important this is to you."

"Well . . ."

"You don't work."

"What?"

"I should say you don't have a real job."

"Shh! Don't let the IRS hear you say that."

"You don't go to work every . . . this is your livelihood. You're a . . . what's it called?"

"Screenwriter."

"I can't help thinking how odd it is that you want me to write it for you."

"You don't know the half of it. Or is it two thirds? Maybe a quarter, if I use your idea." An entertainment lawyer might come in handy right about now. Or a mathematical genius.

- - < > - -


Liz stood, picked up her wine glass and said, "I have to tinkle."

I thought of saying, 'In that little thing?' but thought better of it.

"More coffee?"

I said, 'no thanks,' and off she went, leaving me to continue looking at my new found friends in the brochure.

- - < > - -

"Doing your homework, I see."

Liz startled me. It didn't seem like she had been gone long enough to perform her intended task plus purchase another wine.

"I'm trying for extra credit."

"Very commendable."

"And it's making me hungry."

"I can satisfy your hunger."

"I'll bet you could," I said.

"How about two large, better make that medium size . . . mounds . . . of . . ." Liz looked me straight in the eyes. ". . . ice cream."

This is a new Liz! My eyes dropped to her chest. "That looks good. I mean sounds good." I squirmed in my seat, beginning to get aroused.

"You want shome?" The new and slightly tipsy Liz said.
"Oh yes."

She put her hand around the stem of her wine glass and began moving it slowly, up and down. I couldn't take my eyes off her hand.

"The dessert counter is open."

"I think you should get it."

Liz said, "Looking for'd to it," and burps.

Friday, July 1, 8:30 p. m.


Author Notes This is a romantic comedy, but there is no such category to choose from.


Chapter 38
Getting Liz Home

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 37:

"The dessert counter is open," she said.
"I think you should get it."
"Looking for'd to it." She burped.

Friday, July 1, 8:30 p. m.

Getting Liz Home

Friday, July 1, 8:45 p. m.

An inebriated Liz was an unconscious Liz, relatively easy to guide from the museum's cafeteria to her car. Getting her into the car was another story.

Liz had the usual number of appendages for a female in her mid-twenties, but each seemed to have a mind of its own. Add to that, her head kept flopping from one side to the other. If you're keeping score, I was losing.

She was pinned to the passenger side of her car with my body, but she was gradually sliding downward. Gravity strikes again. Why doesn't someone repeal that old law? I managed to open the passenger door without Liz getting away from me. This gave me time to plot my next move.

On the seat, I saw a possible solution to two of my problems, a sweater. While holding her up with my left hand at her collar bones, I reached for the sweater. When Liz decided to move downward, it wasn't a conscious decision, I'm sure, because now my hand was around her neck. I briefly thought of strangling her to help things go easier.

Realizing I didn't have time for a prolonged jury trial, I lowered my hand from around her neck and grabbed the sweater. Still propping her up with my body, my hands were free to tie her wrists together with the sweater, giving me two less limbs to worry about.

With my left hand behind her head and my right hand clutching the four-armed sweater, I gently lowered her and her derriere onto the passenger seat.

Suddenly, I lost my footing and landed on top of her. This caused her head to bang the steering wheel, which caused the horn to blow, before her head landed on the driver's seat. I was afraid I had knocked her out, until she said, "So you want to play rough." Then she returned to dreamland. I hoped it wasn't permanent. This was not even remotely what I had in mind for this evening's activity.

I went around to the driver's side, reached in and turned the key, allowing me to operate the various gadgets. Returning to the passenger side, I found the button to recline the seat. Rotating Liz 90 degrees, to line her up with the seat was the next problem.

With my right arm under the back of her knees and my left hand under her head, I gradually swiveled her to the desired position and buckled her in. I took a minute or two to familiarize myself with where things were located. I'm talking emergency brakes, light switches and mirror adjusters, etc.--certainly not items related to Liz's person.

I'm looking forward to tackling that delightful chore, some other time and under better circumstances, if Liz is able to live through this evening.

Friday, July 1, 9:04 p. m.

Author Notes This is a Rom/Com.


Chapter 39
A Novel Idea

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 38, Part II:

"I'll only call you if I need to get into somebody's head."
"Wouldn't that make you a boat burglar?"
"Good one! You do have a creative side."

                                                                               Chapter 39

                                                                                           A Novel Idea

NOTE: Words in initalics represent the novel that Russ is writing.

It occurred to me that if I wrote this story as a novel instead of as a screenplay, it would not only make artistic sense, but the finished product could be flying off book shelves faster than the movie moguls could find the location for their first shoot.

Is this kind of thinking akin to the 'chicken or the egg' debate? You know, which one came first? Or, in this case, which should be written first, the screenplay or the novel?

After deliberating with three of my closest friends--me, myself and another coffee--the vote was unanimous. Write the novel first. If it's successful, I could parlay that into an ad for the film and post it in all the trades and wherever promotions of fine, feature films are known to appear.


The ad, all in caps, would boast, "BASED ON THE BEST SELLING NOVEL, 'THE MAGIC TITLE' by RUSS WALKER." The accompanying article, in smaller letters, naturally, would read, "The sensational, new screenwriter, Russ Walker, has . . . etc., etc." That's enough daydreaming for now.

In the interest of saving time, I plan for the novel to have no dedication, no acknowledgments, no introduction, no author's note, no prologue and no talent. What am I saying? I should leave in something for the vultures, I mean critics to gnaw on. Most importantly, no more wasting time.


                                                      Loophole

                                                     Chapter 1                      


There was a kid in my first grade class named Jay Armstrong. His name reminded me of an old radio show my grandfather used to tell me about, "Jack Armstrong, The All-American Boy."

That paragraph took me twenty minutes to write. At that rate, the novel figures to take around three and a half years, which, with my history, may be less time than it would take me to write the screenplay. 'Meanwhile,' as narrators used to say on those corny radio dramas, 'Back to the novel.'

Jack never leaped over tall buildings in a single bound or stopped speeding trains with his bare hands or had bullets bounce off his expansive chest, but from the description my father gave me, I knew those residing in Jack's typical urban neighborhood could count on him to come to their aid for any problem, from a lost kitten to a lost uncle, from stolen firewood to a stolen sweetheart.

Whenever the need arose. Jack would jump into the foray to solve the problem in the allotted fifteen minutes of air time or else return in as many future installments as necessary to complete his task. Jack was not someone who would leave a person hanging, unless that person was in the wall-paper business.

There's a lot to remember when writing a novel. Punctuation, spelling, of course, and grammar to name a few. To name another, the verb must agree with the intended number of its subject, every time. I've heard of married couples who don't agree with each other, even once a week. In fact, Charlie, who shall remain nameless, told me he hasn't agreed with his wife for the past seven years.

Jay Armstrong was the one boy in the class I could whup. To maintain my health I had a rule--never fight someone bigger than me. That rule included the rest of the boys, except for the one on crutches and the little Filipino kid.

Obviously, I wouldn't fight a kid on crutches. He had two weapons. As for the Filipino boy--I didn't want to risk starting a world war.

I would never think of fighting with any of the girls for two reasons: one, I have a lot of respect for the opposite 'sex,' a word which grew in importance on the next Valentine's Day, and two, most of the girls were bigger than I.

There was another female in the class that I was taller than. That was the teacher, but only when she took her shoes off. I wouldn't think of fighting her because of my respect for authority. Plus, she had a decided weight advantage.

Adding to my hesitancy to fight with a girl was the bromide my father instilled in me, "Girls fight dirty, son." He elaborated with the words, "They kick."

"I'll kick back." I replied, resolutely. He simply said, "By the time you recuperate, she'll be in second grade." I couldn't believe that any of those cute and cuddly girls would do such a thing, but my father also said it was best never to take the chance.

This seems like a good place to take a break. Too soon? You're probably right.

When the day arrived where I could prove my superiority over Jay, my chapped lower lip decided to split open, causing it to bleed at a most inopportune moment, the one when Jay slugged it. This allowed him to smile a toothless grin and claim victory. I wish I could have been responsible for that toothless grin. Come to think of it, I was responsible for the grin, but not the toothless part.

Fortunately, I remembered Jay hollering, "Ow," during the forty seconds we 'fought,' give or take a minute. Surely that's worth something in my struggle for self-esteem. But no one else, especially Jay, remembered it that way.

As with a screenplay, a novel can benefit greatly from an outline. That's, according to approximately half of the people in the business that I've discussed this with. The other three said an outline wasn't necessary. So I flipped a coin. When it rolled under the fridge, I took it as a sign to write an outline. No coin flip is going to determine my fate. Plus, without an outline, I may never find out what this novel is about.

Author Notes I hope this format is easy enough to follow.


Chapter 40
To Be or Not To Be a Novel

By Marvin Calloway

As with a screenplay, a novel can benefit greatly from an outline. That's according to half of the people in the business that I've discussed this topic with. The other three held the opinion that an outline not only wasn't necessary, but stifled creativity. So I flipped a coin. When it rolled under the fridge, I took it as a sign to write an outline. No coin flip is going to determine my fate. Plus, without an outline, I may never know what my novel is about.

Chapter 40

To Be or Not to Be a Novel

Outline for the Novel, “The Magic Title”

Young, handsome and likable Jay Armstrong is the victim of a series of events, which cause him financial setbacks, threats to his

health and, worst of all, to his way of thinking, romantic disappointments.

As his friends voice their concerns, Jay's luck changes. He benefits from a series of loopholes, which could improve his financial status, reverse threats to his health and help him find the girl of his dreams, which is, to his way of thinking, the most important of all. (If only the loopholes didn't conflict with each other.)

When I typed the last parenthesis I noticed it was 11:00 a. m., which meant it took exactly forty-four minutes to complete the outline. It was a bonus that it was short enough for an elevator pitch, something I could employ once I get over my fear of elevators.

I could accost the next book publisher I happen to meet in an elevator, recite my pitch, hand her or him my business card, go back to my apartment, fix myself a drink and wait for my phone to ring. What could be simpler?

If it rings, it will either be my new publisher to tell me the good news--that they're going to publish my novel--or it will be an agent, who's looking to sign a promising writer--that's me, folks--and wants to arrange a book signing tour. If my phone doesn't ring, I'll fix a drink and make it a can't-lose situation.

What are the chances of running into a publisher in an elevator or anywhere else in the Los Angeles area? The odds aren't as bad as you may think. The majority of book publishers aren't concentrated in the New York area, only the largest.

Is it worth flying to New York only to ride up and down elevators until I get lucky, faint or toss up my last meal? Or possibly do all three? What a way to make a first impression! Decorating a publisher's shoes with my latest creation.

Besides, I think the elevator pitch is overrated. It's a tactic that screenwriters are rumored to have used, frequently, but I've only heard of one such case panning out.

It wouldn't necessarily have to be in an elevator. Anywhere you run into a publisher, introduce yourself, rattle off your pitch, say thank you while handing the person your card and wait for the phone to ring. And wait. And wait.

On the other hand, I'm living in the heart of film land. Why not exploit my good fortune? Although there's ever increasing 'on location' filming, this area is still where it's at, where I make my scene. I'm starting to sound like a 'Hippy.' Can you dig it? I can and I do.

In addition to L. A. being my home, there are other things to consider before flying off somewhere on a lark. And a pretty big lark it would have to be! I have friends here, girlfriends and contacts in the biz. At least one of them is all three.

Plus, I just signed a two year lease on my apartment and I have a computer geek who makes house calls, or in my case, apartment calls. My very own muse lives across the hall and would be more than willing to do the same. As they say, “Musery loves company.”

That said, I think the best thing to do is to return to writing the screenplay. What part of the script was I working on when I was so importantly interrupted? Oh yeah. Page two, but it's never labeled as such.

Author Notes A chapter in the novel: Loophole, a romantic comedy.


Chapter 41
(Don't Call It) Page 2

By Marvin Calloway

Last words of Chapter 40

That said, I think the best thing to do is to finish the screenplay. Now, what part of the script was I working on before I was so importantly interrupted? Oh yeah. Page two, but it's never labeled as such.

(Don't Call It) Page 2


On the next page, I began listing the primary characters, to be closely followed by the secondary and thirdary characters. Suddenly, I have a yen for milk. In Great Britain, the second page is referred to in a different way. What we in America would call the wrong way.

I typed the character's names and, in some cases, the name of the person on whom the character is based. I also included some details about his/her role in the story. These descriptions are intended for my benefit only and won't appear in the completed list.

Here's how the second page looked, so far:

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Marion P. Dunkirk: (Martha Penelope Davenport.) Wife of film producer, Michael Dunkirk, (Charlie Davenport), seeks a legal separation from her husband.

Her relatives and friends say it's because she's going through the 'change of life.' Marion denies any such thing and claims it's because she 'hates Michael's guts.'

Michael Dunkirk: (Charlie Davenport) Film producer. He does not want a separation from his wife, Marion. When she's home, he's at work or on the golf course. He said, "How much more separation does she need?"
Dennis Wall: Shyster lawyer, representing Mrs. Dunkirk to obtain a legal separation from Michael. To make matters worse, Mr. Wall tries to frame Michael, for fooling around with his secretary, gardener, florist and anyone else he can implicate. All of them, if he's able. He's very thorough.

Raymond (Shady Ray) Jenkins: Co-owner of Soulmates 'R Us, a dating service and sleazeball husband of Helen Jenkins. He gets kickbacks from restaurants, night clubs and the like when he can entice his clients to frequent them. When I say, 'he gets kickbacks,' I mean he doesn't share them with his conniving wife.

Helen (Hellcat) Jenkins: Co-owner of Soulmates 'R US and sleazy wife of Ray. She has her own source of extra income, fees she collects from the female (and some male) clients for beauty treatments and make-up tips.

Bertha and Louise: AKA the Butterball twins. One or two (it depends who's counting) of the dates arranged for Victor Timothy Marks: (Vic-tim, for short) Ray and Helen Jenkins are of the opinion that twins should count as two dates, not one. Vic, one of their regular clients) vociferously disagrees.

The twins have always been very close (as close as two three hundred pound sisters can get) and were looking forward to a threesome with Vic. They bring their own lawsuit against 'Shady' Ray and 'Hellcat' Helen for not always treating them as a set.

This cast of characters is shaping up to be an infamous assortment of losers, cheaters, grifters and scumbags. Which means I should be able to weave these worthless ne'er-do-wells into a unique plot. Rather than calling them what could be construed as insulting names, no matter how accurate, I prefer the term, 'characters of distinction.'

I may have to introduce into the mix a character who's not a slime ball. Someone who's the salt of the earth. Upstanding, honest and trustworthy. A man whom you would trust with your only sister or a woman you'd be proud to have for an only sister. Of course no one is going to believe such a person exists in this script, but it is fiction, after all.

My challenge will be to make this script fun for the entire . . .

The phone rang. Although the number looked vaguely familiar I couldn't recall it and let it ring out. Where was I? Oh yeah. . . . entire film going pub . . .

The phone rang again. Same number. I answered, "Hello."

The vaguely familiar, Brooklyn accented voice said something that almost made sense. "Mister Walkerrr, ya forgot to give me the address where one should send one's demo tape, sweetheart."

"Have we met?"

"It wasn't that long ago. Wait. Have I reached the party to whom I wished?"

I've heard that voice before. I recited my number.

"That's the number, honey. Got it right here in ma datebook. Guess I didn't make much of an impression on ya, did I?'

I detected the annoying sound of gum-chewing. "I'm trying to think," I said while trying to think. "What did you say your name was?"

A snobby Bostonian accent said, "I'm Gwendolyn A. Broombender. But you may call me Abigail."

Author Notes This is a Rom/Com


Chapter 42
Dear, (Deceitful) Abby

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of Chapter 41

“I'm trying to think,” I said, while trying to think. “What did you say your name was?”

A snobby Bostonian accented voice said, “I am Gwendolyn A. Broombender. But you may call me Abigail.”

Saturday, July 2, 11:31 a. m.

Chapter 42

Dear, dear Abby

Saturday, July 2, 11:31 a. m.

From the first time I spoke with Abigail, the fibbing, adorable and deceptive phone receptionist for the production company of Edelman and Maisel, she began putting me on by creating a fictional character and a scenario for her to operate within.

She was using this technique to prepare for the improvisation phase of her acting class.

An added benefit is, it breaks up the monotony of working in this madhouse,” she said.

                                                                                < < <> > >

Abigail! Its great to hear your voice.” Or, perhaps, a couple of them. How are you doing?

Not so hot.”

Aww, I'm sorry to hear that!” From her past history, I assumed she was lying. “Well, that's the way it goes.”

Don't you want to know what happened, Russ?”

Sure. Tell me all the details.” But only the interesting ones.

Old man Edelman says I spend too much time on the phone!” she said.

Nooo!”

I'm a receptionist, for kitten's sake. I'm supposed to be on the phone.”

Maybe he'd rather you made house calls.”

How would I know whom to call? I'm not clairvoyant. I have no idea who . . .”

I meant go door-to-door.”

That's a great idea! Except for the door-to-door part. We'll go to screenwriters group-to-screenwriter's group, writer's club-to-writer's club. Sleazy bar to sleazy bar. We'll hit them where they live,” she said.

We?”

It was your idea. What a team we'll make!” she said.

You do realize we've never actually met.”

That brings me to the other reason I called.”

The plot thickens.

I want you to take me to lunch.”

A small price to pay to finally meet the drama queen with the over-active imagination.

I'm seeing someone.”

That will make it more exciting,” she said.

Try telling her that.”

You haven't heard the best part.”

You mean there's more.” Just like the commercials.

It's a business lunch.”

Probably monkey business.

Mr. Maisel wants to work with you.”

This is, by far, Abigail's most elaborate improvisation yet.

He wants you to write a script for a commercial.”

I can do that.

It will run during the Daily Christmas Movie from Thanksgiving until New Year's Eve.”

This is getting interesting. A shame it's a hoax.

It would be like an audition,” she said.

Better prepare for rejection. “Does that mean I won't be getting paid?”

Not only will you get paid, my pessimistic pal, but each film plays at least twice a day, so you'll get residuals.”

Must be the Mallhark channel. “Why me?”

You're the best person I could recommend.”

What happened to the Abigail I used to know? "I still say, why me?”

We're in a bind,” she said.

But you hardly know me.”

That's why we've got to have lunch, first."

I'm still missing something.”

Maisel thinks we're best friends. I have to get to know you for my benefit as well his.“

Like they say, it pays to know dingbats in high places. “Well, thank you.” I guess. Is this the moment where Abigail admits she's been kidding me?

I found a photo of you online. You're not a bad looking dude at all.”

She doesn't lie all the time. “Thanks again.”

Thank your parents,” she said.

Wait, I'm getting a call.” It was Dolores.

Call her back later.”

I didn't say it was female.”

Was it?

No comment.”

Bring her with you,” she said.

Author Notes I hope it's clear which lines are dialogue and which are Russ's thoughts.


Chapter 43
Meet the Screenwriter

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 42

Wait, I'm getting a call.” It was Dolores.

Call her back later, Russ”

I didn't say it was a female.”

Was it?”

It's none of your . . .”

Bring her with you,” Abigail said and hung up.

How in the world does she know these things?

Saturday, July 2, 11:42 a. m.

Chapter 43

“Meet the Screenwriter”

Saturday, July 2, 11:42 a. m.

For good reason, I thought my conversation with Abby was over, but with her, one can never tell. It soon became obvious we weren't finished talking, because she called back less than a minute later. And instead of saying 'Hello'' she said, “Mondays are too hectic,” as if neither of us had hung up.

I replied, “This Tuesday an interior landscaper is coming to my apartment building.”

On Wednesday, I've got a dent . . . inferior landscaper?” she said.

I hope she's not inferior,” I said. “An interior landscaper is coming to meet with my landlord. I was hoping to intercept her and get some free advice.”

Intercept her? You think she'll throw you a pass?”

It will be incomplete, since I'm already involved.”

What a romantic way to put it,” she said.

Where were we.”

Wait. Does this opportunist have a riding lawnmower that can go up and down stairs?”

No. She uses a forklift for that,” I said.

What does she do to separate you from your hard earned dough?

She works with business owners and homeowners who want to make their workplace or dwelling more inviting, more appealing.”

How?” she said.

Plants and flowers are a big part of her approach.”

Like you're too busy to go to the Dollar Store and pick out your own plastic petunias.”

You're having a lot of fun with this, aren't you? She might find the right painting or sculpture to go with the arrangements. She'll use whatever items she feels will do the trick. I just hope I can afford it,” I said.

If you can, you're overpaid.”

We're off topic, again. What about Wednesday?”

I have my acting class,” she said.

You do that on company time?”

That's only the half of it. Maisel also pays my tuition. They say it will help me understand screenwriting.”

What's to understand? I write it, I submit it. Maisel rejects it. What's next?”

You must be leaving something out,” she said.

The part where I jump off a bridge.”

Eventually, we settled on next Thursday afternoon at 1:30.

                                                                    < < ^ > >
Just as I started thinking about how much writing I could get done in the next four days, my phone rang. I thought it might be Dolores, since I forgot to return her call. But, instead, it was old faithful, Abigail, erupting yet again.

I want to tag along with you on Tuesday,” she said.

Aren't you afraid you might get run over by a tractor?”

I'll be disguised as a potted palm,” she said.

Well, I'm not certain what time she'll be there.”

Give me her number.”

What are you going to do?” I said.

It's a surprise.”

Abigail, what are you up to?”

I'm beginning to feel that you don't like surprises.”

I should get used to them. You and surprises seem to go together.”

It only took a moment for me to find the business card my landlord had given me.

Her name is Beatrice Bevilaciqua. Her num . . .”

Whoa, that's a mouthful. How about if I type the whole alphabet and you tell me which letters to white out?”

When Abby was finally done teasing, she said, “News Flash! I've been informed that we'll do our “Meet the Screenwriter” lunch on this coming Monday. Same Bat time, same Bat channel. Okay?”

I said, “Okay“ and hung up before Abigail could make another vintage TV reference.“

Saturday, July 2, 11:52 a. m.

Author Notes My Rom/Com novel


Chapter 45
Lunch with Abby

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 44

By the time our appetizers arrived, more than half the diners had disappeared and, along with them, two of my stuffed mushrooms. I'm not accusing any of the diners of theft, as I was certain the guilty party was sitting next to me, chewing with gusto while doing a poor impersonation of a starving artist.

Maybe this tiny one you left for me is the lethal one.”

Better not risk it,” she said and before I could put my fork in motion, Abby stabbed the delicious looking morsel with hers and brought it tantalizingly to her lips, where it sat briefly, prior to joining its friends.

Monday, July 4, 12:07 p. m.

Chapter 45

More Lunch with Abby

Abby opened her purse and took out a Lenova laptop. The purse was so large, I thought there was a chance a typist might emerge from it. A lone diner, watching from the booth behind us, quickly turned away, leading me to believe he had been listening to our every word.

If he is one of the two partners, I could only wonder which one, since I've never met either Maisel or Edelman.

Abby set up the computer and began asking probing questions of me, starting with my place of birth. I should have brought a sleeping bag. This third degree continued until our entrees were brought. “We can finish up later,” I said, “Let's eat.”

Abby returned the device to her purse and gave her full attention to her “Bogey Burger.” Some women still find it difficult to resist the film legend it was named for.

To discourage Abby from launching a second attack on my meal, I took preventive action by suggesting that she help herself to some of my fries. At times, a player must lose a few marbles to win a battle, to mix a metaphor. I may have already lost my marbles, but that's another story.

So here I am, a fledgling screenwriter, dining in one of LA's most popular eateries, accompanied by Abigail, the receptionist employed by Maisel & Edelman, film producers.

Although Abby has only known me for a few days, she now knew the highlights and low lights of one of Maryland's least interesting former inhabitants.

I was born in Baltimore about twenty-four years ago. I worked in a sign shop after school: majored in film at Towson University, was an on-site observer with a local film crew, where I received some valuable on-the-job experience, without benefit of salary. I reciprocated by not paying them.

My mother works in the office of a cup company and lives with my older sister, who's a Realtor and constructs customized mobiles and collages as a well-paying hobby.

I still follow the Orioles and Ravens. I like shooting pool, playing table tennis and cards. A secret desire of mine is to be able to paint like Andrew Wyeth.

My father deserted us when I was twelve, which is probably the nicest thing he's ever done for us.

Monday, July 4, 12:29 p. m.

Author Notes Russ is hoping to get an additional plot line for his screenplay.


Chapter 46
Down to the Real Business

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 45:

My father deserted us when I was twelve, which is probably the nicest thing he's ever done for us.

Monday, July 4, 1:44

                            < < > >

Chapter 46

Down to the real business

Monday, July 4, 2:05 p. m.

Shortly after taking her last bite, Abby resumed the questioning.

If you were found standing near a burning building, with an empty gas can in one hand and a lighter in the other, what would you say to the policeman?”

Did you bring any hot dogs?”

I like that answer,” Abby said and made a notation on her pad.

She continued asking me ridiculous questions, until we were interrupted by a middle-aged man who suddenly appeared near Abby and slid in next to her.

Please excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation and I was wondering if what you're doing has anything to do with a new film?”

I started to say no, but Abigail spoke first. “Please, you can't repeat this to anyone. We ARE working on a film.” Then she whispered in the man's ear. The last words I heard her say were, “He dies in this one.”

The startled diner went back to his seat and began whispering to his companion. “Really!” she said, loud enough for several patrons to turn their attention in her direction.

I could barely hear him say, “Don't tell anyone, especially your big-mouth sister.”

Abigail and I looked at each other and smiled. I managed to stifle laughing out loud. I leaned over and said, “You're literally . . .” she began laughing uncontrollably. Soon, we were both laughing hard and trying not to. Hiding our contagious joy behind our hands. When our laughing finally let up I kissed her on the cheek.

What was that for?

You're unbelievable.” I kissed her again. “You're also cute.”

Abby took a sip of her drink. She looked cute sipping her drink. She was the essence of cuteness. I wouldn't call her beautiful, gorgeous or lovely. But, she had cute nailed down . . . solidly. 'Easy on the eyes' some might say. To me, she was a 'cutie pie.'

I also kissed you so our nosy neighbors would have something else to talk about.”

Let's give them even more to talk about.” She kissed me on my lips. A long, arousing kiss. “That should hold them for a while.” She sipped her drink. “Is this what they call, sleeping your way to the top?”

Kind of, but I'm not going to get much sleep,” I said.

To hell with these stupid questions. You know why we're here, don't you, Russ?”

Refresh my memory.”

Holding back for more, huh? Okay.” She gave me another kiss on the lips, better and longer than the first.

When I got my breath back, I said, “As much fun as this is, I'm really not holding back for any more.”

What Abby was about to relate could have been one of the few times she's ever not lied to me.

She admitted this lunch was not about auditioning me to write a commercial for Abby's company. It was just a ruse, in the hopes I could get her a screen test. This was all her doing.

Sorry, I have no connections to make that happen.” Then I told her she should pursue writing. Then I had to apologize for saying what she took as an insult to her looks.

When she reconsidered, she said, “I'll do both.” The satisfied look on her face, conveyed to me the matter was settled. I signaled our waitress for another round.

The rest of the lunch went as you might expect. Of course, in Abby's case, you shouldn't expect anything that you might expect.

Monday, July 4, 2:23 p. m.


Chapter 47
Parting is . . .

By Marvin Calloway

Last lines of chapter 46

The rest of the lunch went as you might expect. Of course, in Abby's case, you shouldn't expect anything that you might expect.

Monday, July 4, 2:23 p. m.

                                                               Chapter 47

                                                               Parting Is . . .

Monday, July 4, 2:39 p. m.

We were saying our good-byes while standing in Bobby's Burgers' parking lot, next to a yellow, Buick convertible. She held my arm to steady herself, looked up into my eyes and said, “If you were the father of nine children, how many would be girls?”

Aw, Abby, don't start that again.”

Come on, Russ, be a sport, I shaved the best one for last.”

You said shaved.”

I did? I thought you did.”

I was just telling you what you shed.”

Abby laughed.

Don't avoid the queshun.”

What question?”

I can't remember.”

She started to lose her balance and grabbed my other arm.

Are you going to need a ride home?” I said.

We can dishcuss that . . . while you,” she burped, “take me home.”

I don't . . .”

Wait. I remember the queshun.” She spoke very slowly. “If you . . . “ She looked up into my eyes. “. . . you know . . . you'd make a great . . . father. If you . . . if you were my husband . . . I wouldn't let you hang . . . around with women, wait, it's coming back . . . If you were . . . the father of nine girls . . . I mean kids, how many would . . . would their names be?”

Why do I have this effect on women? I wanted to get back to writing my screenplay and not waste any more time on Edleman and Maisel's inebriated secretary.

Before, you said nine females.”

I meant to shay nine kids,” she said.

Maybe you did.”

How . . . how many are girls?”

How could you be this inebriated? We didn't have that many drinks.”

Maybe WE didn't . . . but I sure did. I have a couple . . . may had a couple teenshy ones before I left, I mean got . . . got here.”

Why did you . . .”

Stop changing the subject. Now, 'few were the father . . . of nine females . . . how many would be girls?”

In this day and age, it's hard to say.”

Seems like today, everything's hard to say. Say! I said it. I said, say.”

She was so happy, I hated to tell her, “That's not the word you were having trouble with.”

Thas aright. Let's count it for estra credit.”

Lock your car and I'll take you home. You can get a cab and come back later, or tomorrow and get it. Is that okay?”

Abby let my arms go and spun around. “That okay and I'm okay. I just wanted to remind you how good I am at improv, so you would give me a screen test.”

Monday, July 4, 2:50 p. m.

Author Notes This a romantic comedy.


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