| General Fiction posted May 8, 2024 | Chapters: |
...19 20 -21- 22... 
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Watch God work
A chapter in the book Right in the Eye
Right in the Eye, ch 21
by Wayne Fowler
In the last part Ben and Sylvia were married. God spoke to Ben telling him to sit back and watch Him work. Trying to decide whether to get a dog, the two returned to Sylvia’s house to find one given to them, God’s handiwork.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
When Sheriff Tate finally tracked down his Jeep suspect, the lights on the Jeep had been replaced. Due to Sylvia’s excellent aim, there were no obvious buckshot markings anywhere visible. The backside of the headlight parts would have evidence, but the sheriff couldn’t get a warrant for such a search.
The suspect had fingerprints on file due to an arrest over an incident a year past, but didn’t match any found in the hotel attic. And Ben could not positively identify him, despite the man’s size.
Sheriff Tate favored interrogating the suspect with Ben in the same room, hoping to get a confession. But with the state involved following Ben and Sylvia’s highway incident, that was not an option.
Neither Ben nor Sylvia could identify anyone from the photos provided by the state.
+++
For the first few days Ben and Sylvia, resolved never to allow the other one to be alone as long as danger lurked. Together, they walked Benji on a leash often, teaching him their perimeter.
At two in the morning of the fourth day, Benji let out a deep groaning growl, his head and ears perked up from a mat beside their bed. Both Ben and Sylvia snapped alert, Sylvia reaching for her shotgun.
After calming Benji, assuring him that they would check out what he’d heard, the two stood before the front door where all three were certain someone stood. Soon enough, there was a fierce crash against the dead-bolted door. Ben raised his hand asking Sylvia not to blast a hole through the steel entry door.
They heard what sounded like a man collapse to the porch deck, followed by groaning. Ben cautiously opened the door to see a man writhing in obvious pain before growing still.
“Think he broke his shoulder?” Sylvia asked, her shotgun trained on him as Benji growled.
“Maybe.” By this time Ben was outside and looking the man in the face. “But I’m pretty sure he’s had a heart attack, also. Hand me the shotgun, and you can call Sheriff Tate. An ambulance, too.”
+++
Sheriff Tate scratched his head. “Never would’ve believed it. Guy built like that should have been able to splinter that door frame. Huh. Walt Thomas. And way too young to die of a heart attack. Just goes to show you …”
“What God can do,” Sylvia interrupted.
“Huh? Uh, yeah.”
“Benji helped, too. Woke us. We mighta laid there and both had heart attacks, woke up with him crashing the door like he did.”
Tate looked at Sylvia and then the dog. “He looks like a good one, all right. Well, the state will be by. They want their mugs into everything once they start. Bring more mug shots, more’n likely.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Ben said. “Would you give us a ring when you know they’re on their way. We’ll probably go back to bed and try for a couple hour’s sleep. It’s been a long night.”
“Uh-huh. Wish I could.”
“There’s a couch, Sheriff,” Sylvia offered, only half joking.
“Wish I could. Wish I could.”
They did… go back to sleep, after a pleasurable wind-down.
+++
The mob sent out-of-state muscle to deal with the Persons for the very reason that they not be identified. The state of Colorado did not have their pictures on file, either mug shots, or photos taken outside known gangster hangouts. But they knew that eventually the state investigators could get lucky and get cooperation from Chicago authorities. Also, having heard of the death of their man at the doorstep of the Persons’s home, the boss wanted a vendetta, revenge. He didn’t believe the heart attack story, but rather believed that Colorado was trying to cover up and protect the old couple.
At two a.m. they parked their Suburban five hundred yards of the house. As they reached the front property line, the smaller of the two proceeded further to watch the opposite side, as well as to create a crossfire. The neighboring house in that direction was far enough away that though they would hear gunfire, they wouldn’t be able to see anything. Once in place, the two began to edge toward the house.
Benji again sprang alert, this time barking ferociously. Ben and Sylvia moved to where they could see outside, Sylvia with the Remington.
Benji jumped onto the sofa where he could poke his nose through the center of the curtains. It was plain to see that he was barking at intruders both left and right. Ben and Sylvia could see them clearly when she threw on the porch lights. Both men froze in place.
When Sylvia opened the door and shot into the air, both evildoers dropped, or fell, to the ground. One fell backward as if shot, the other crumpling sideways as if having a heart attack or stroke. Both immediately got back up and ran to the Suburban.
“Boss,” one of them said into a hotel phone, “we gotta have more people out here.”
+++
“Hello, Detective Donald Albion?”
“That’s me.”
“Don’t know as you would recall, but I’m Agent Isaac Fisher, FBI.”
“Sure, I do. The Slim Goldman case. Don’t tell me the Feds still want to dissect his brain.”
Fisher laughed. “No. Look, I’d like to try to square the books a bit. Give you a case instead of taking one away.”
“It would take more than one case.”
Fisher laughed. “Yeah, probably so.”
They agreed to meet. An hour later in Albion’s office, an unspoken, but acknowledged concession by Fisher, the F.B.I. agent laid it out. “Don’t know if you’ll recall, but the name Benjamin Persons came up in the Slim Goldman, aka Herschel Diddleknopper case.”
“Got it right here.” Albion opened the file on Slim.
“Well, we don’t like untied tentacles. Like to connect every dot.”
Albion smiled at the mixed metaphor as well as the tentacle visual.
“Diddleknopper mentioned a certain Ben Persons, crediting him with helping him. Got him to help after being shot …”
“Right in the eye,” Albion finished, fondly recalling his work with the old codger.
“Yeah. Well, Ben Persons killed Jefferson Randolph Smith up in Alaska.”
“Soapy Smith? That was last century!” Albion expressed his confusion.
“Right. But we, you, the state of Colorado, has Ben Persons involved with a killing down in Creede.”
“The Ben Persons who killed Soapy Smith, if I recall from ancient history, died himself from that gunfight.”
“So we’re told,” Fisher agreed. “But you and I both know a little historic peculiarity with respect to one Slim Goldman, aka Herschel Diddleknopper, who recently married a woman named Marian Jackson. The two of them, on a side note, killed Curtis Jackson, Marian’s ex-husband. Justifiable, no charges.”
“One of those tentacles? That was my case.”
Fisher grinned. “All of a sudden, it got complicated. Ben Persons, who recently married Sylvia Adams of Creede. Born in Santa Rosa, California, on May 19, 1890.”
“Ah, back to Creede and Slim Goldman.”
“Yes, Creede,” Fisher continued. “A certain fire, rescue of a child prostitute, by Ben Persons, by the way, followed by the death of the prostitute’s alleged pimp, Walter Thomas.”
“Those pesky tentacles.”
Agent Fisher grinned. “Which finally brings me to the case I don’t want to steal from you. It would seem, there is a contract on your Ben Persons, whoever he is.”
“A rescued child prostitute, a dead pimp, and mob involvement. And dead crime boss, even if the last century, a dead ex-husband, a… what do you call a man a hundred and twenty years old?
“Why is it you want to give me this case?”
Fisher laughed out loud.
“Ah,” Detective Albion said. “You want to serve out a full career, not be laughed out of the service, knowing that your report will be used at the academy in the How to Protect the FBI from Embarrassment class.”
“I prefer to call it good cooperative law enforcement,” Agent Fisher said, grinning. He handed Albion a manilla folder.
“Here’s a copy of everything we have, including photos of the two we think have already been harassing your Ben Persons and his new bride. Call me if I can help, especially with any outside muscle that might come to join the two already here.”
Detective Albion nodded, already figuring when he could fit a trip to Creede into his schedule. First the mysterious Slim Goldman, now another mystery man intruding and stirring his personal honeypot.
In the last part Ben and Sylvia were married. God spoke to Ben telling him to sit back and watch Him work. Trying to decide whether to get a dog, the two returned to Sylvia’s house to find one given to them, God’s handiwork.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
When Sheriff Tate finally tracked down his Jeep suspect, the lights on the Jeep had been replaced. Due to Sylvia’s excellent aim, there were no obvious buckshot markings anywhere visible. The backside of the headlight parts would have evidence, but the sheriff couldn’t get a warrant for such a search.
The suspect had fingerprints on file due to an arrest over an incident a year past, but didn’t match any found in the hotel attic. And Ben could not positively identify him, despite the man’s size.
Sheriff Tate favored interrogating the suspect with Ben in the same room, hoping to get a confession. But with the state involved following Ben and Sylvia’s highway incident, that was not an option.
Neither Ben nor Sylvia could identify anyone from the photos provided by the state.
+++
For the first few days Ben and Sylvia, resolved never to allow the other one to be alone as long as danger lurked. Together, they walked Benji on a leash often, teaching him their perimeter.
At two in the morning of the fourth day, Benji let out a deep groaning growl, his head and ears perked up from a mat beside their bed. Both Ben and Sylvia snapped alert, Sylvia reaching for her shotgun.
After calming Benji, assuring him that they would check out what he’d heard, the two stood before the front door where all three were certain someone stood. Soon enough, there was a fierce crash against the dead-bolted door. Ben raised his hand asking Sylvia not to blast a hole through the steel entry door.
They heard what sounded like a man collapse to the porch deck, followed by groaning. Ben cautiously opened the door to see a man writhing in obvious pain before growing still.
“Think he broke his shoulder?” Sylvia asked, her shotgun trained on him as Benji growled.
“Maybe.” By this time Ben was outside and looking the man in the face. “But I’m pretty sure he’s had a heart attack, also. Hand me the shotgun, and you can call Sheriff Tate. An ambulance, too.”
+++
Sheriff Tate scratched his head. “Never would’ve believed it. Guy built like that should have been able to splinter that door frame. Huh. Walt Thomas. And way too young to die of a heart attack. Just goes to show you …”
“What God can do,” Sylvia interrupted.
“Huh? Uh, yeah.”
“Benji helped, too. Woke us. We mighta laid there and both had heart attacks, woke up with him crashing the door like he did.”
Tate looked at Sylvia and then the dog. “He looks like a good one, all right. Well, the state will be by. They want their mugs into everything once they start. Bring more mug shots, more’n likely.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Ben said. “Would you give us a ring when you know they’re on their way. We’ll probably go back to bed and try for a couple hour’s sleep. It’s been a long night.”
“Uh-huh. Wish I could.”
“There’s a couch, Sheriff,” Sylvia offered, only half joking.
“Wish I could. Wish I could.”
They did… go back to sleep, after a pleasurable wind-down.
+++
The mob sent out-of-state muscle to deal with the Persons for the very reason that they not be identified. The state of Colorado did not have their pictures on file, either mug shots, or photos taken outside known gangster hangouts. But they knew that eventually the state investigators could get lucky and get cooperation from Chicago authorities. Also, having heard of the death of their man at the doorstep of the Persons’s home, the boss wanted a vendetta, revenge. He didn’t believe the heart attack story, but rather believed that Colorado was trying to cover up and protect the old couple.
At two a.m. they parked their Suburban five hundred yards of the house. As they reached the front property line, the smaller of the two proceeded further to watch the opposite side, as well as to create a crossfire. The neighboring house in that direction was far enough away that though they would hear gunfire, they wouldn’t be able to see anything. Once in place, the two began to edge toward the house.
Benji again sprang alert, this time barking ferociously. Ben and Sylvia moved to where they could see outside, Sylvia with the Remington.
Benji jumped onto the sofa where he could poke his nose through the center of the curtains. It was plain to see that he was barking at intruders both left and right. Ben and Sylvia could see them clearly when she threw on the porch lights. Both men froze in place.
When Sylvia opened the door and shot into the air, both evildoers dropped, or fell, to the ground. One fell backward as if shot, the other crumpling sideways as if having a heart attack or stroke. Both immediately got back up and ran to the Suburban.
“Boss,” one of them said into a hotel phone, “we gotta have more people out here.”
+++
“Hello, Detective Donald Albion?”
“That’s me.”
“Don’t know as you would recall, but I’m Agent Isaac Fisher, FBI.”
“Sure, I do. The Slim Goldman case. Don’t tell me the Feds still want to dissect his brain.”
Fisher laughed. “No. Look, I’d like to try to square the books a bit. Give you a case instead of taking one away.”
“It would take more than one case.”
Fisher laughed. “Yeah, probably so.”
They agreed to meet. An hour later in Albion’s office, an unspoken, but acknowledged concession by Fisher, the F.B.I. agent laid it out. “Don’t know if you’ll recall, but the name Benjamin Persons came up in the Slim Goldman, aka Herschel Diddleknopper case.”
“Got it right here.” Albion opened the file on Slim.
“Well, we don’t like untied tentacles. Like to connect every dot.”
Albion smiled at the mixed metaphor as well as the tentacle visual.
“Diddleknopper mentioned a certain Ben Persons, crediting him with helping him. Got him to help after being shot …”
“Right in the eye,” Albion finished, fondly recalling his work with the old codger.
“Yeah. Well, Ben Persons killed Jefferson Randolph Smith up in Alaska.”
“Soapy Smith? That was last century!” Albion expressed his confusion.
“Right. But we, you, the state of Colorado, has Ben Persons involved with a killing down in Creede.”
“The Ben Persons who killed Soapy Smith, if I recall from ancient history, died himself from that gunfight.”
“So we’re told,” Fisher agreed. “But you and I both know a little historic peculiarity with respect to one Slim Goldman, aka Herschel Diddleknopper, who recently married a woman named Marian Jackson. The two of them, on a side note, killed Curtis Jackson, Marian’s ex-husband. Justifiable, no charges.”
“One of those tentacles? That was my case.”
Fisher grinned. “All of a sudden, it got complicated. Ben Persons, who recently married Sylvia Adams of Creede. Born in Santa Rosa, California, on May 19, 1890.”
“Ah, back to Creede and Slim Goldman.”
“Yes, Creede,” Fisher continued. “A certain fire, rescue of a child prostitute, by Ben Persons, by the way, followed by the death of the prostitute’s alleged pimp, Walter Thomas.”
“Those pesky tentacles.”
Agent Fisher grinned. “Which finally brings me to the case I don’t want to steal from you. It would seem, there is a contract on your Ben Persons, whoever he is.”
“A rescued child prostitute, a dead pimp, and mob involvement. And dead crime boss, even if the last century, a dead ex-husband, a… what do you call a man a hundred and twenty years old?
“Why is it you want to give me this case?”
Fisher laughed out loud.
“Ah,” Detective Albion said. “You want to serve out a full career, not be laughed out of the service, knowing that your report will be used at the academy in the How to Protect the FBI from Embarrassment class.”
“I prefer to call it good cooperative law enforcement,” Agent Fisher said, grinning. He handed Albion a manilla folder.
“Here’s a copy of everything we have, including photos of the two we think have already been harassing your Ben Persons and his new bride. Call me if I can help, especially with any outside muscle that might come to join the two already here.”
Detective Albion nodded, already figuring when he could fit a trip to Creede into his schedule. First the mysterious Slim Goldman, now another mystery man intruding and stirring his personal honeypot.
Ben P. Persons: 81-year-old son of Ben Persons
Sylvia Adams: grand-daughter of Livvy and William Ferlonson
Martha Crawley: Livvy's daughter, Sylvia's mother
Jones: hired thug of Salinger turned mute helper for Ben after headshot
Billy Harper: young man helped by Ben who helped Ben kill Salinger
Arville Johnston: stagecoach shotgun that Ben prayed for a healed, became Ben's friend and business partner, helped save Ben when he was shot
Oroville Johnston: Arville's Creede resident grandson
Walter Thomas: pimp of the child prostitute in the Creede Hotel
Slim Goldman (Herschell Diddleknopper): miner who Ben (senior) rescued in 1886
Mary Diddleknopper: Slim's wife, great granddaughter of LouAnne (Slim's girlfriend from the1870s)
Isaac Fisher: FBI Agent
Donald Albion: Colorado State Trooper detective
4 more chapters
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Sylvia Adams: grand-daughter of Livvy and William Ferlonson
Martha Crawley: Livvy's daughter, Sylvia's mother
Jones: hired thug of Salinger turned mute helper for Ben after headshot
Billy Harper: young man helped by Ben who helped Ben kill Salinger
Arville Johnston: stagecoach shotgun that Ben prayed for a healed, became Ben's friend and business partner, helped save Ben when he was shot
Oroville Johnston: Arville's Creede resident grandson
Walter Thomas: pimp of the child prostitute in the Creede Hotel
Slim Goldman (Herschell Diddleknopper): miner who Ben (senior) rescued in 1886
Mary Diddleknopper: Slim's wife, great granddaughter of LouAnne (Slim's girlfriend from the1870s)
Isaac Fisher: FBI Agent
Donald Albion: Colorado State Trooper detective
4 more chapters
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