Maurice came out that way for me. Maurice; a short, and slightly growing plump, cross between a Charlie Chan wannabe and a Perry Mason-like lawyer. A fastidious little smiling Buddha who has the gift of talking to ghosts. Ghost who, violently murdered, come to him to solicit is his services in tracking down and incarcerating the actual person who did the foul deed.
Woke up one day and there he was. Just sitting there on the edge of consciousness and unconsciousness. Smiling, his little round face and growing chins beaming in delight at being in my mind. Dressed in an off white three-piece Southern Plantation still cotton suit, a white colored fedora being held in one hand as he sat on the desk of an ornate French designed writing desk.
He didn't say a word. Just sat there in my mind and waited for me to dig up enough gumption to sit down and begin writing a story. Knew I would eventually. Just sat there and kept smiling at me.
And he loves driving old Pink Cadillacs. Why, I don't know. But he does.
Irritating . . . but likable little guy.
So I did. Here's the first chapter of 'Maurice.' The story is currently being serialized, chapter or two at a time, in Angie's Diary ezine. We're up to Chapter 7 now in the novella. If you like the first chapter, I encourage you to go over to Angie's Diary and catch up on the story. New chapters will be showing up in a day or two.
Enjoy.
One
With a flick of the thumb he opened the old Zippo lighter and
thumbed it into life before lifting the bright flame to the end of the
cigarette.
And
paused . . .
A
bright pink Caddy convertible slid into the No Parking Zone as if it belonged
there and quietly came to a halt. A big
battleship of a car, with high tail fins in back and a spread of metal across
the front hood big enough to be the landing deck of a Nimetz-class carrier. Hot pink. Freshly polished . . . with white
vinyl seats. The white so intense he
thought about lifting a hand up to shade the glare from his eyes.
One
big sonofabitch of a car.
Had
to be a '59 Caddy convertible. Looked just like the one he remembered his
grandmother had way back when he was six or seven. Yet it looked as if it just rolled off a
showroom floor. But as if the car wasn't
enough to gawk at, the guy sitting behind the wheel was . . . was . . . unreal.
At first the thought of Charlie
Chan. White three-piece Southern
Plantation suit. Perfectly
tailored. Very expensive material. Hung on the guy's frame like a million
dollars. Not even a smidgen of dirt
anywhere to be seen on the white. With
white loafers. Glistening white
loafers. But instead of a white derby
sitting directly atop the man's head there was, instead, a wide brimmed white
fedora. The complexion of the guy
suggesting oriental origins. Or maybe
not. Maybe Egyptian. Or Roman. Definitely pudgy around the
midsection. Obviously the guy enjoyed his groceries. But you really couldn't
call him fat. Not yet. No . . . this wasn't a Charlie Chan. Charlie Chan was a Hawaiian-Chinese homicide
detective based out of Honolulu . A fictional character concocted by a writer
from out of the 1930's. This guy . . .
this guy, as he rolled out from behind the massively wide steering wheel of the
car and reached into the back seat to extract a rather expensive looking
leather briefcase, along with an odd looking twisted black ebony shillelagh-like
cane, was real. 'Bout five eleven .
. . maybe six foot. 'Bout two ten , maybe two
twenty on the bathroom scales.
With just the suggestion of double chins beginning to thicken.
Not
Hawaiian. Nor Chinese. Not anyone from
the Far East . This guy had the greenest/yellow eyes he
had ever seen and a smile that seemed to burst out from somewhere deep within.
A smile that could warm up the frozen heart of a Spanish Inquisitor standing in
a dungeon cell directly dead center on the North Pole.
"My
dear boy, kindly show me the way to your booking sergeant."
"Uh
. . . uh . . . sure. This way, fella."
For
some reason he felt compelled to personally escort this creature through the
mayhem of the precinct's ground floor.
As they moved through the crowd of those being booked, those being
sprung, lawyers, cops, and assorted other denizens of the legal spectrum, he
kept turning his head to look over his shoulder and at the guy following behind
him. He kept tripping over his
feet. He also noticed a number of others
in the crowded commons area looking up from their desks and staring with that
kinda dumbass look at the man dressed in white.
"Whatta
want, Preston ?"
The
booking sergeant was a gray haired, iron jawed old veteran wore a permanent
scowl across his gray face as if it was a mark of distinction or a battle
wound.
"Dear
boy, you really must take better care of your exquisite little Rosa Xanthia here. They are a hardy
species, to be sure. But such neglect is
almost criminal. Yet truly a gorgeous
specimen. I do so love flowers."
The
sergeant paused, fingers coming to a halt just above the keyboard as, puzzled,
he rotated around in his chair and gazed at the creature standing on the other
side of his desk pouring water out of a paper cup into the small vase which
contained one single, rather sickly looking, yellow rose. Eyes blinked a couple
of times in a kind of automatic reaction.
Clearing his vision, with the thought of maybe he was seeing things
running through his mind, he openly stared at the white image.
"Who
the hell are you?"
"Maurice. Just call me Maurice, good fellow. Here to see my client."
"You? You're telling me you are a lawyer?"
Clearly
in the sergeant's voice was a note of incredulity.
"Indeed,"
the creature nodded, beaming delightedly as gawkers, both uniformed and not,
drifted over to stand just behind the sergeant's desk to they could listen in
on the conversation. "Recently arrived into this fair city and looking
forward to establish deep roots. My
client is my first case, I might add. My
very first."
"Who's
your client?"
"A
delightful gentleman by the name of Randall Cooke."
"Wha
. . . Cooke? You said Randall
Cooke? That Randall Cooke?"
"The
Rapist and child molester?" someone in behind the sergeant mouthed
angrily. "You're gonna represent that
guy? Why?"
The
collective faces of the gathered crowd reflected back the images of anger,
disgust, dismay and incredulity. Every
knew Randall Cooke was guilty. Raped and murdered a nineteen year old mother
and then turned his sick fury onto the eight month old baby. The guy was a sick
pervert that needed to fry. Fry in the electric chair. Or, at least, thrown in a jail cell and then
forgotten altogether.
"Gentlemen,
a man is innocent until he is proven guilty. The founding principal in our
judicial system which has singularly separated our courts and civilization from
the rest of this often times barbaric world for the last two and one half
centuries. I, contrary to popular
opinion, happen to believe Randall Cooke has been falsely accused. Now would someone be so gallant as to show me
to the nearest interrogation room so I might converse with him?"
"Uh
. . . sure. Sure . . ." the desk
sergeant grunted, unconsciously reaching for his desk phone as he continued to
stare at the beaming white suited lawyer.
"Preston , show him to Interrogation One."
"Uh
huh . . . sure, Sarge," the young cop nodded absently, turning as if
partially paralyzed in a hypnotic state and touching the guy's right elbow
gently at the same time. "This way
. . . fella."
When
Randall Cooke walked into the room narrow black slits for eyes turned and
stared at the figure sitting at the table, fingertips of both hands pressed
gently against each other, a beatific smile beaming from his thin lips. A round man dressed in virgin white. With the odd green and yellow flecked eyes
staring back at him, openly honest and unafraid.
Cooke
paused, half turned to face the young cop who escorted him to the room, yet
without taking his eyes off the creature sitting at the table patiently.
"Who
is this guy?"
"Your
lawyer."
"I
have a lawyer?" Cooke barked,
lifting an eyebrow in surprise yet painting across his mug a sincere look of
distaste at the form sitting at the table in front of him. "This is got to
be a joke. This guy doesn't look like a Public
Defender."
"Shuddup
and sit down. Be happy you got someone, even this guy, to represent you,"
snarled the cop before slamming door closed.
He
hesitated, a calloused, big hand running across his mouth as he eyed the man in
white. But then, shrugging, he pulled
out a chair directly across from the smiling man and sat down.
"Who'd
throw good money down to hire a lawyer for me?"
"My
. . . client wishes not to be identified.
But she wants me to assure you she knows you are innocent. Innocent at least of this crime."
"She?"
Cooke growled, frowning in confusion.
"I don't know any women with this kind of money to throw
around. So what's the scam, counselor? What's going on here?"
"Tell
me, Randall . . . if you will allow me to call you be your first name . . . why
did you confess to this crime?"
"Why
not?" the unshaven, powerful built man said, shrugging and throwing one
leg over the other as he sat crossways in the chair and stared at the smiling
man. "Everyone thinks I did it
anyway. I'm just saving them the trouble
of actually working for a living."
Maurice
smiled with a faint look of sadness, his tongue making a loud clicking noise of
irritation, as he shook his head disapprovingly for a moment or two before
turning his head to his right. Not more
than four feet away from where he sat the bright mirrored glass of a one-way
window stared at them with an unblinking rudeness. On the other side of the
glass he knew the room was empty. Empty,
that is, of any one living.
She came sliding through the glass
window in one smooth motion. First her
hands appeared, followed by long arms, then her unearthly pale white face, and
eventually her long, pale ghostly white torso.
Across the room she floated. Moving in a slight bobbing action one sees
in Goldfish swimming in a fish bowl, wrapping arms around the neck of Randall
Cooke and then gently hugging him in her embrace.
For
his part Randall Cooke was unaware of her presence.
But
he was aware something had happened. His
eyes narrowed as he gazed at the odd looking face of the man sitting across
from him. The counselor's eyes seemed to
be unfocused. Unfocused and staring at
something maybe behind him. His frown
deepening, he wondered if he should get up, pound on the door, and insist on
being taking back to his cell.
"Edward,
she says you should stay. If we're going
to get you cleared of this charge, you have to stay and cooperate to the
fullest extent. In fact she insists on
it."
For
the first time in a long, long, long time Edward Randall Cooke stared at the
white clad figure in front of him in disbelief.
He felt as if a five hundred pound gorilla had just punched him in the
gut. Or maybe blindsided by a couple of
NFL linebackers. No one knew his full
name. He had never told anyone. Except for two people. And both of them were dead.
"How
. . . who . . . told you I was Edward?"
"Oh,
my dear boy. Don't look so stunned. Are you familiar with Shakespeare? Perhaps
the play, Hamlet? "There are more
things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies!"
"Who
told you my first name," Cooke snapped back, leaning menacingly over the
table.
"Your
lovely daughter, Tammy," the beaming face of the odd man said, lifting up
an open palm toward the felon sitting across the table to stop him from speaking.
"To answer your next question, I met her this morning. She dropped into my
office . . . literally . . . this morning and insisted I had to defend
you. A most unusual case. I could not possibly refuse."
The
hardened criminal with a long history of assorted felonies and misdemeanors
slowly sat back in his chair and just stared at the strange little counselor
dressed in the white cotton suit in disbelief.
Unblinking eyes fixed on the counselor he could do nothing but just
stare.
Tammy
. . . today . . . told this man his
full name was Edward Randall Cooke. Told
him . . . today . . . she had not
been murdered by her father and insisted, that was her words, insisted he should represent her father
in tomorrow's court appearance. But . .
. but Tammy, his daughter, and her son . . . his grandson . . . were dead. Murdered more than a month ago by
someone. Someone who knew him and knew
Tammy and the baby were his. But it was
impossible. Crazy! They were dead! Unless . . .
Unless
ghosts did exits.
"Ah
hah!" the cherub faced, smiling man said softly as he leaned back in his
chair and placed the fingertips of his hands together on the slight bulge of
his stomach. "You begin to
believe."
"They're
dead," the felon cracked hoarsely, eyeing the white clad oddity
suspiciously.
"Yes,"
nodded the one who called himself Maurice.
"They've
been dead a month or more."
"Yes,"
the cherub nodded again.
"So
they're ghosts. You saw her ghost and
she told you I was innocent."
"Precisely. Now, my innocent friend, I need to know. I must have an answer right now. A mere formality, mind you. But one that must be acquired. Will you allow me to represent you tomorrow
in court?"
"Yes,"
Cooke answered. Answered without
hesitation, yet having no idea why he was so convinced he was doing the right
thing. But conviction soon changed to
rage. Shooting forward burning in anger he
leaned across the heavy wooden desk again with a mask of death etched into his
hardened, scarred vision. "Now tell
me. No bullshitting here. Who killed my daughter
and grandson?"
"We
will find out tomorrow," throwing up his hand again to stop the anger in
Cooke from bubbling over again.
"Tut, tut! Remember this. Tammy did not see the killer's face. Even in the afterlife she still doesn't know what he looks
like. But she does know his voice. Once
she hears it she will inform me. From
there I will wring the truth out of him and you will be a free man. All you have to do is trust me, my boy. Trust me."
And
with that last declarative statement the smiling cherub stood up, snapped his
briefcase closed, and walked calmly out of the room.
