Читать книгу BAD MOOD DRIVE - Douglas Alan Captain - Страница 5

The person that he loved and adored was David Smith,

and he often used the name as his touchstone...

"I don't care what you say about Smith, he's the only

politician with real values. Family-that's what it's all about.

Without family values, this country would be up the creek

even worse than it is. All these young kids are living

together without being married, and having babies. It's

shocking. No wonder there's so much crime. Physical and

sexual assaults against women occur both inside and

outside the family. Violence in the home is as much a crime

as violence from a stranger, so do not put up with it. If David

Smith ever runs for president, he's sure got my vote." It was a

shame, he thought, that he couldn't vote because of a stupid

law, but, regardless, he was behind Smith all the way.

He had three children: Bob, seven; and two girls: Any

and Mary, nine and twelve. They were wonderful children,

and his greatest joy was spending what he liked to call

quality time with them. His weekends were totally devoted

to the children. It's obviously that children have the

important function in his life. The children probably appear

for him to be a source from which to develop new

relationships and the immediate perception. He barbecued

for them, played with them, took them to movies and ball

games, and helped them with their homework. All the

youngsters in the neighborhood adored him. He repaired

their bikes and toys, and invited them on picnics with his

family. They gave him the nick name of DADDY. On a

sunny Saturday morning, he was seated in the bleachers,

watching the baseball game. It was a picture perfect day,

with warm sunshine and fluffy cumulus clouds dappling

the sky. His seven-year-old son, Bob, was at bat, looking

very professional and grown up in his Little League

uniform. Daddy's two girls and his wife were at his side. It

doesn't get any better than this, he thought happily. Why

can't all families be like ours?

It was the bottom of the eighth inning; the score was

tied, with two outs and the bases loaded. Bob was at the

plate, three balls and two strikes against him. Daddy called

out, encouragingly, "Get 'em, Bob! Over the fence!"

Bob waited for the pitch. It was fast and low and Bob

swung wildly and missed.

The umpire yelled, "Strike three!"

The inning was over. There were groans and cheers

from the crowd of parents and family friends. Bob stood

there disheartened, watching the teams change sides.

Daddy called out, "It's all right, son. You'll do it next

time!" Bob tried to force a smile.

John Blackburn, the team manager, was waiting for Bob.

"You're done! Get the hell out of here! You can't play

again" he said.

"But, Mr. Blackburn ..."

"Get out. Get off the field. Now!"

Bob's father watched in hurt amazement as his son left

the field. He can't do that, he thought. He has to give Bob

another chance. I'll have to speak to Mr. Blackburn and

explain. Immediately after that, the cellular phone he

carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it.

Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be

disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.

Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button,

and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hello?"

The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several

minutes. Daddy listened, nodding from time to time. Finally

he said, "Yes. I understand. I'll take care of it." He put the

phone away.

"Is everything all right, darling?" his wife asked.

"No. I'm afraid it isn't. They want me to work over the

weekend. I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow."

His wife took his hand and said lovingly, "Don't worry

about it. Your work is more important."

Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly.

David Smith would understand. His hand began to itch

fiercely and he scratched it. Why must he do that? He

wondered. I'll have to see a dermatologist one of these

days.

John Blackburn was the assistant manager at the local

supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to

manage the little League team because his son was a

ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of

young Bob. The supermarket had closed, and John

Blackburn was in the parking lot, walking toward his car,

when a stranger approached him, carries a package.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blackburn."

"Yes?"

"I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment."

"The store is closed."

"Oh, it's not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son.

Bob is very upset that you took him out of the game and

told him he couldn't play again."

"Bob is your son? I'm sorry he was even in the game.

He'll never be a ballplayer."

Bob's father said earnestly, "You're not being fair, Mr.

Blackburn. I know Bob. He's really a fine ballplayer. You'll

see. When he plays next Saturday..."

"He isn't going to play next Saturday. He's out."

"But ..."

"No but's. That's it. Now, if there's nothing else ..."

"Oh, there is." Bob's father had unwrapped the package in

his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly,

"This is the bat that Bob used. You can see that it's chipped,

so it isn't fair to punish him because..."

"Look, mister, I don't give a damn about the bat. Your

son is out!"

Bob's father sighed unhappily. "You're sure you won't

change your mind?"

"No way."

As Blackburn reached for the door handle of his car,

Bob's father swung the bat against the rear window and

smashing it. Blackburn stared at him in shock. "What ...

what the hell are you doing?"

"Warming up," Daddy explained. He raised the bat and

swung it again, smashing it against Blackburn's kneecap.

John Blackburn screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in

pain.

"You're crazy!" He yelled. "Help!"

Bob's father knelt beside him and said softly, "Make one

more sound, and I'll break your other kneecap."

Blackburn stared up at him in agony, terrified.

"If my son isn't in the game next Saturday, I'll kill you

and I'll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?"

Blackburn looked into the man's eyes and nodded,

fighting to keep from screaming with pain.

"Good. Oh, and I wouldn't want this to get out. I've got

friends." He looked at his watch. He had just enough time

to catch the next flight to Los Angeles. His hand began to

itch again.

At seven o'clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested

suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he took the

subway to the downtown Los Angeles. He approached the

Trust Building entrance. With dozens of tenants in this huge

building, there would be no way the guard at the reception

desk could identify him.

"Good morning," the man said.

"Good morning, sir. May I help you?"

He sighed. "Even God can't help me. They think I have

nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that

someone else should have done."

The guard said, sympathetically, "I know the feeling." He

pushed a log book forward. "Would you sign in, please?"

He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators.

The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took

the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and

moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read,

REYNOLDS & FRANK HAROLD, ATTORNEYS AT

LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was

deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a

small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to

open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the

door behind him. The reception room was furnished in old-

fashioned conservative taste, as befitted one of Los

Angeles’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment,

orienting himself, and then moved toward the back, to a

filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a

bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the

front. He tried the cabinet Divided R-S. It was locked. From

his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of

pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet

lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he

withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding

the key with the pair of pliers, he carefully filed off the black

spots. He put the key into the lock again, and repeated the

procedure. He was humming quietly to himself as he picked

the lock, and he smiled as he suddenly realized what he was

humming.

"Far Away Places."

I'll take my family on vacation, he thought happily. A

real vacation. I'll bet the kids would love Hawaii. The cabinet

drawer came open, and he pulled it toward him. It took only a

moment to find the folder he wanted. He removed a small

Pentax camera from his briefcase and went to work. Ten

minutes later he was finished. He took several pieces of

kleenex from the briefcase, walked over to the water cooler,

and wet them. He returned to the filing room and wiped up

the steel shavings on the floor. He locked the file

cabinet, made his way out to the corridor, locked the front

door to the offices, and left the building.