the mammon melody

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Chapter 1

Submitted: May 22, 2019

Reads: 452

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Submitted: May 22, 2019



They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil.
Paul the Apostle  


The Mammon Melody

- 1 -
Colossus Redux


Dawn broke on another depressing day for mankind. Four more Peace Keeping soldiers had been killed trying to save a sad little country ruled over by men with feudal mentalities. A fourteen year old girl missing for two weeks was found dead in a swamp, the apparent victim of a serial killer that had already claimed the lives of five other young victims. A global economic melt down. Plastic continents floating in the Pacific. The world gone mad. Blah. Blah. Blah. Insane background noise. Matt stared at the ceiling of his loft and watched a spider tip toe around its web. He wanted to shut the radio off but he was a news junky. An addict. He needed his morning fix. It kept him cynical. Sharp. A coup in Somalia. Great. He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. His head pounded. Too much Tequila. Cigarettes. Pot. He stepped into the shower praying for redemption. He emerged chastened. He needed to get a grip. It had been six months since he had lost his job as an investigative reporter. Fired for insubordination. Fired for being a trouble maker. Fired for having an affair with the editor's wife. It was not a good period for Matt Burrows. He needed to find work. He needed to get away from himself. 
He moved slowly, his gown wrapped tightly around his shivering body. The cold air from outside had turned his barn of a loft into a refrigerator and his breath came out in clouds of vapor as he shuffled across the frozen wood floor to the kitchen where he turned on the cappuccino maker and reached into the cupboard for his favorite vanilla hazelnut French Roast mix. He had just finished turning on the steam nozzle when his cell phone rang. It was his mother. There was someone she wanted him to meet. An old friend of his father from Desert Storm.
" Who?" Asked Matt, lighting his first cigarette of the day.
" A fellow officer," said his mother. " Are you smoking?" She added, a note of reproach in her voice. 
" No, I'm not smoking, Mom," Matt, was in no mood to listen to one of his Mother's lectures. "Why does he want to meet me?" 
" I don't know exactly. It has something to do with a writing assignment, that’s all he told me. So, just come and you can ask all the questions you want. I’ll expect you in one hour and please don’t dawdle I have a busy day."
The drive across town to his mother’s place was an imaginative affair as Matt's brain churned with vague images of his father. Matt was only five when his father shipped out during the first Gulf War in the summer of '91. He had only vague memories of the man. A windy, rainy day, holding his father's hand as they hurried along a slippery sidewalk. A dark room, with other men. Thick smoke. A bar? Matt never really knew, but he could see the place, through the fog of almost thirty years. A man saluting. There were other images, too. They slipped in and out of Matt's conscience like shadows on dark glass. But with no sense of who his father was or what he was like, all of that - the blanks in the story - were filled in by other people. Friends. His mother. Other soldiers. Pictures. The wedding. Army training. A command tent with his buddies. Death by friendly fire. When Matt told the counselor at rehab a year ago about his father, the woman, a Chinese doctor named Wing, told him that she believed he became a reporter because of his father.
" You grew up with a strong sense of injustice," she proclaimed, in her strange version of English," what better way to see justice prevail than to expose injustice, however it rears its ugly head."
Matt and Dr. Wing had become close during his treatment. She was someone he trusted implicitly even though he felt no warmth towards her. There was a machine like quality to her personality. Measured, even tones. Expressions that seemed to sit like photographs on her flat, brown face. But she saw things clearly and had a menu of ready solutions to fix any problem. Depression? Why not try singing the next time you feel that way. Or, try lying down and being very quiet, still, and think about something that makes you feel good. A happy memory. “ Everyone has those,” she would insist. ” They're just hidden away most of the time because we're all too busy coping with the ugly reality of our everyday lives.”
On the day he left treatment, Dr. Wing walked him out to his car. He had not seen or touched the car in over a month and it was covered in a thin layer of gray dust that made it look like a statue. Someone had scrawled 'wash me' on the rear window. Dr. Wing put a hand on his arm as she delivered her final good bye.
" You have all the tools you need to cope with life, Matt. You don't need drugs or alcohol and just remember I'm always here if you need to talk to someone."
They hugged. He thanked her for all she had done for him and then she hurried away with her short, choppy, steps. Matt climbed into his car and immediately began thinking about his father again. He had been in military intelligence, that much Matt did know. He also spoke French fluently, thanks to his mother, a French Canadian from Quebec. Matt had met his grandmother only once, at his father's funeral in Montreal. She was a short, stout woman with jet black hair and thick lips. Matt heard a rumor that she was part Iroquois Indian. 
Now, almost year after leaving Dr. Wing, as he drove through the heavy Manhattan traffic to his mother's home, he was once again thinking about his father and wondering how things might have turned out if he had come home alive. Matt had spoken to Dr. Wing about his feelings and she said they were perfectly natural. Unfortunately for him, this assessment - as valid as it might have been - brought him no solace. Nothing did. He could put himself into an instant funk just thinking about his father.
" That's because you always think about the things you missed out on while you were growing up," said Dr. Wing, softly, during one of their many sessions in her sterile, modern office. “ I call it the ‘what if’ syndrome. It merely leads to anger and depression. It’s very self indulgent. Very dangerous to your mental health, especially if your an alcoholic or a drug addict and unfortunately you are both. The solution for you is get outside your own head as quickly as possible. Find something productive to do. That’s the best therapy in the world.”
Matt pulled up in front of his mother's condo complex and waited for the car in front of him to clear the security gate. When it was his turn, the guard, a young blond kid with a weight lifter’s physique and chiclet smile waved him through with a snappy salute. Matt's mother owned three condos in the complex. She also owned an apartment building downtown, two commercial properties in New Jersey and a successful interior design firm. And she had done it all on her own. Olivia Burrows. Tall and elegant, still sexy at sixty. She opened the door and wrapped her arms around her son. He was still her little Matty and he made her sick with worry. 
The man waiting to meet Matt was Charles Walsh. He had served with Matt's father during Desert Storm. They shook hands. Walsh had a solid, stocky build. A blue blazer hugged his barrel chest like a thick coat of paint. Short salt and pepper hair framed a square face. The only thing that seemed at odds with his fullback build were his hands. They were small and hairy, like paws.
Olivia introduced them and then excused herself from the room. She had some calls to make. She would be back in a few minutes. She squeezed Matt's hand as she passed him to leave. Completely unlike Charles Walsh's hands, hers were long and slender, tipped in arcs of white polish. She also gave him a quick peck on the cheek and he caught a whiff of her cologne. He couldn’t remember the name but he recognized the scent and for just a moment he was transported to a happier place in times gone by.
" So, tell me about yourself," said Charles drifting towards the food table with Matt at his side, who at that moment was thinking about a lake house he and his mother had rented in the summer of ‘94 ." Your mother tells me you're a reporter." 
" Ex reporter, actually. I haven't worked in six months."
" That must be hard." Charles handed Matt a plate.
" It can wear you down."
" So, what kind of reporting do you do?”
" Investigative stuff."
" You like it?"
" Love it."
" So, what’s the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?" 
Matt hesitated answering. He didn't really know this Charles Walsh character but on the other hand why not just be honest. What difference did it make?
" I got careless. I had an affair with editor's wife and he found out about it."
" Never mix business with pleasure. Get you every time."
" Live and learn."
“ I wish that were true,” said Charles Walsh.
Both men flashed each other a knowing smile. A guy thing. Matt was beginning to like Charlie Walsh.
" Well, it just so happens that I know someone who could use a good investigative reporter," said Walsh, biting down on a small cinnamon roll covered in white icing and walnuts. " He's starting up a new project with some investors. I don't know much about what they're doing but my friend did say he was looking for writing talent. When your mother told me about you, I thought maybe, it might be a fit. You don’t have to answer at this moment. Give it some thought. But don’t take too long, my friend is ready to go."
“ What kind of a project are we talking about?”
“ It would be better for him to explain that to you.”
“ Fair enough. So, my mother told me that you knew my father in Desert Storm.”
" We served together. Your father wasn't an easy person to get to know. He kept to himself a lot. But he was very good at his job. One of best."
“ I never got to know him.” 
Charles flashed Matt a sympathetic look. 
“ He was strong. Not just physically but mentally too. One of the best intelligence officers I ever had the honor to serve with.”
“ Could you give me an example?” 
“ I could give you lots. But, I remember one operation in particular. They were looking for a volunteer to drop in behind enemy lines to conduct surveillance on enemy troop movements. Nobody wanted to do it - it was considered pretty much of a suicide mission - but your dad volunteered. We needed the information. He went. Jumped out of a plane over enemy territory at night. Alone. Just his service revolver for protection, binoculars and a radio transmitter.”
Charles took a sip of white wine. He seemed to be remembering something. 
“ What happened?” Matt asked, with the enthusiasm of a kid, listening to a bed time story.
“ He came back with the information we needed. Two weeks surrounded by hostiles. He should have received a medal for what he did but the brass didn’t like him. He was too independent - basically he didn’t kiss ass.”
Charles talked about Matt’s father for a while longer and Matt was enthralled, hearing a complete stranger adding in details about who his father was in real life. It was not the first time Matt had heard that his father was good at his job. Even exceptional. But every new bit of information helped Matt connect with a man he never knew.
" I'd be interested in meeting anyone that could give me a job," said Matt, grateful to Charles Walsh for helping make the portrait of his father a bit more complete.
“ Well that's good. Let me give you his card. Give him a call tomorrow morning - he'll be expecting you."
Matt was reading the card when his mother came back into the room.
" I'm sorry for all the interruptions. Have you two had a chance to chat?"
Matt held up the card, like a prize trophy. " A contact."
" I can't promise anything,” said Charles, wiping his thin lips with a napkin. “ That will be up to Matt and my friend to work out but I think it should be fine."
" Thank you Charlie. Thank you so much." Olivia gave Charlie a big hug and kissed his cheek. Something in the way she put her arms around Charlie gave Matt the impression she had done it before - under different circumstances. It was a thought he quickly erased from his imagination. 
" Don't mention it," he said, sincerely. " After all, if you can't help your friends then who can you help. Semper Fi"
The two of them were beaming like proud parents over a crib. It almost made Matt want to return the card but he didn't and he pushed all negative thoughts from his cynical mind and focused on this new possibility. He knew his luck would change at some point, he just had no idea how it was going to happen. Then this. He smiled at his mother and Charlie. They looked so happy together.
The rest of the visit consisted mostly of Charlie talking about Matt's father during the war. " He was a brilliant analyst," said Walsh, squaring his jaw unconsciously. " A lot of those fellows owe their lives to the work he and others did collecting intelligence and devising battle field strategies. He was a true hero as far as I’m concerned."
Matt had considered doing a piece about his father and Desert Storm. It was part of what ended him up in front of Dr. Wing. The drinking. Drugs.  Death from friendly fire. Dead from an American made mortar, fired by American soldiers. He didn't blame them. It wasn't their fault. But it made it seem all the worse. Pointless. Trying to write about that was impossible for Matt. It was like drowning.
Walsh was the first to leave. He had to catch a plane to Washington. He and Olivia kissed on the cheek. Then he extended a hand to Matt. " It was good to meet you, young man. And remember, give my friend a call, who knows there maybe something there for you."
The moment Walsh was gone Olivia let out a little war whoop.
" He is such a nice man. A true gentleman in the old fashioned sense of the word."  She stared at her son with a look of anticipation. Expectation. But Matt was silent, lost in vague thoughts of his father once again. Murky, foggy images of soldiers and war. 
" Matt," she called out. " Earth calling, Matt."
He looked at her. " You never told me any of the details about what Dad did in the war."
" I was never exactly certain. He never discussed the details. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. He would never break the rules. Now what did you think of Charlie's offer? He's extremely well connected so I'm certain this contact person is someone of importance."
It had always bothered Matt, the way his mother would skim over the subject of his father. He knew she had her reasons. It was a long time ago. She had been married twice since then. So much life lived - so many memories of so many things. Places. People.
" Your father was the great love of my life," she had once told him. " A huge piece of me was lost forever when he died. But I had to move on - you were just a child. I had no money. It was a difficult time."  He was twelve when she made that declaration. They hugged and cried. He loved her more than anything else in the world. He would never let her go. Not ever. After that she never talked about his father again -  not in those terms. It was as if - once she had told him - the story was over. He was a finished chapter in her book of life's experiences. 
Matt glanced at the card Charlie Walsh had given him. The name on it was Devon Coil. The name definitely rang a bell. It might be worthwhile to do an online search for Mr. Coil, he thought.  His mother had several computers. He picked the high end Mac with the flat 27 inch plasma screen in her private office. She followed him in and watched over his shoulder as he plugged into the digital universe. And there it was - in a single key stroke - DEVON ANDREW COIL. Pictures and all the vitals. Born in 1952. Portland, Maine. Served in Vietnam. Worked for Naval Intelligence. Author. Screenwriter. Wrote the two best sellers: ‘Who Killed JFK’ and ‘The Gun That Couldn’t Shoot Straight’.
" Who Killed JFK?" Said his Mother, a note of concern in her voice. " Have you read that, Dear?"
" I think so, when I was in school. It was one of those so-called conspiracy books. There were a bunch of them." 
" It still upsets me after all these years," she said, wistfully. " Don't ask me why - it's completely illogical - I know. But I just never really believed that looney story about Oswald and the single gun theory. I wish I could - but I don't."
" For what it's worth, Mom, most people don't believe the single gun theory either. Like sixty percent of the population."
They talked for a few more minutes, mostly about her expanding her business and then it was time for him to go.  She had tons of things to do. They kissed in her doorway.
" And don't forget to call me immediately after you meet with Mr. Coil. I want all the juicy details."

- 2 - 
Shiny Objects

Devon Coil lived in a luxury apartment just off Central Park. The doorman, a slim, dignified middle-aged black man in his seventies, consulted a list and then asked Matt for some identification. After he was confident that Matt was the same person on the list, the doorman, made a phone call.
" Yes Sir, it's Percy. I have a Mister Matt Burrows down here. Yes, Sir."
Devon Coil, was wearing a black and white track suit when he opened the door to admit Matt. He had a towel wrapped around his neck and his forehead was beaded with sweat. 
" Hey, Matt." Coil stuck out his hand and Matt took it. Coil had large, strong, but soft hands. " Come on in..." Coil stepped aside and Matt entered. For a guy in his sixties he looked remarkably well preserved, thought Matt. 
" I was just about to change. I'll only be a minute. Check out the fridge if you want something to drink."
Coil vanished down a hallway and Matt took the time he was alone to check out Coil's apartment. It reminded him of his grandmother's house. It was crammed with knickknacks and cheap paintings and floral pattern furniture. There were doilies and lace everywhere and glass cases filled with tiny crystal animals and miniature sculptures of fairies and angels and 19th century kids fishing in a pond. Two overweight Persian cats, watched him from the comfort of a 19th Century Victorian love seat.
" I see you're admiring my collection of crystal. Beautiful, aren't they? Such works of art." Coil had come up behind Matt. He was draped in a floor length blue and gold velour gown that made him look like a Bible thumping televangelist.
Coil opened the door to one of the cases and very carefully removed a crystal cupid. He held it up to the light. " Czech crystal,” he said, caressing the words with his breath. " The most pure and alive crystal in the world." Coil placed it back on the shelf as if he were handling a holy relic, then showed Matt his most valuable piece, a small, porcelain sculpture depicting a lusty scene from the Kama Sutra. After explaining some of the finer points of Chinese glazing, it was coffee on the enclosed patio where they discovered that they both smoked. Coil started off the conversation after lighting their cigarettes. He was a get -to-the-point sort of fellow, he told Matt, so here was the deal.
" I know you can write. I read some of your stuff. It's good. Punchy. Just the right mix of aggression and moral indignation. You can also be sarcastic and I like that. So why am I asking you here to talk? Good question. " Coil took a sip of coffee. A phone rang somewhere deep inside the apartment. Coil slipped on a pair of reading glasses and picked up a small note book which he opened with a flick of his thumb, like a TV cop with attitude. " In ‘The Phantom Affair’, you exposed a phony investment scheme that prayed on elderly and religious people. ‘Rich Man Poor Man, Two Americas’, you investigate the criminal justice system. Corrupt unions. Politicians on the take. Two foreign press awards for investigative journalism. Impressive."
" Thank you," said Matt, sincerely. It was nice to hear someone recite his accomplishments. On the other hand, he had learned first hand to be leery of flattery, even if it was true.
" I think reporters like you keep the system honest," Coil continued, his voice dropping in volume. " I'm looking for someone like you to take on what I think is the greatest scam ever perpetrated in the annals of political corruption, the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the cover up of what really happened that day, November 23, 1963 in Dallas, Texas."
Matt stared at Coil not certain what to say next but Coil didn't have that problem and he kept right on talking, his voice growing with urgency as he presented his case. 
" What if I told you I was in possession of new evidence that totally repudiates everything the Warren Commission concluded as well as all the other so-called official theories?"
" I'd ask you what that is?"
" And what if I was to tell you that I have a live witness - someone who has first hand knowledge of what really happened that day in Dealey Plaza."
Coil's body seemed to tighten up as he spoke and his voice took on the heavy burden of sincerity.
" She was the wife of one of the conspirators. Her husband died in 1989. He confessed to her on his death bed about what really happened. He also kept a journal. According to the woman, it was his insurance to staying alive. She has the journal now and it's full of names and dates and details only someone involved in the assassination could have known about." 
Coil neatly arranged the folds of his purple, satin gown. He had long legs that appeared to be shaved.
" Well what do you think?" He asked, looking Matt in the eye. “ Be candid, please. Bring it on. ”
" Well, for one thing,” Matt began, measuring his words carefully. “ I think it's strange that she waited all these years - don’t you? You said he died in 1989. That's thirty years ago."
" I asked her the same question,” said Coil, with an understanding smile on his full lips. “ She told me, that they threatened to kill her daughter, if she ever breathed a word of any of this."
" So, why is she talking now?"
" Her daughter died of breast cancer two months ago."
" Then why not just kill her?"
" That was her exact thinking as well, which is why she went into hiding. Drove across the country. Changed her name and became someone else. She knows her life is in danger."
" So, why did she come to you?" Asked Matt, pretty certain of the answer.
" My books," replied Coil, bluntly. " My notoriety on this matter. She said of all the books she ever read on the assassination she thought my books got it the best. She figured I'd know what to do."
" Assuming what you are saying is true and I've got to say I have a hard time believing it but why not do it yourself. You're the authority. You wrote a book about it."
" Two books actually and numerous articles. But here’s the thing, if I do it people will think it's just more conspiracy theory mumbo jumbo. But if someone like you - an objective reporter with credibility - does the story then people will take it seriously and then maybe we'll finally get to the bottom of what really happened that tragic day."
Matt was intrigued, there was no doubt about it. Coil might be a nut but he was convincing one. Coil's voice cut off his thoughts.
" Still not convinced. I can tell," said Coil, in a sympathetic tone. " That's all right. I didn't really expect you to make a snap decision. I respect your right to question the information. However, in all fairness I have to tell you that I am planning several more interviews, so I wouldn't wait too long to make a decision - that is if you are interested."
Coil stood up and walked over to his cabinet of crystal kitch. He reached in and took something out; holding it in his palm and stroking it like a small animal. Matt watched him. Was he interested? ‘Intrigued’ would be a better word. Coil was definitely a character and Matt loved stories with strong characters. 
“ This piece came from a collection that belonged to Catherine the Great. Beautiful isn’t it?” Coil put the crystal animal back in its cage. It was time to go. There was nothing left to be said. Matt knew it and so did Coil - the case was presented and now Matt's brain got to play jury with the evidence. 
" Sleep on it," said Coil as he opened the door for Matt to  leave. " I'll expect to hear from you tomorrow morning, say by nine. After that, I will be talking to others."
Coil stuck out his hand and smiled,” This is real my friend, don’t pass it up. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

- 3 - 
One For The Road

New York City was in the grip of a nasty cold front slowly grinding its way south after deep-freezing Canada for nearly a month. Matt turned his collar up and bowed his head to deflect the icy current that was slicing its way down 52nd like a frozen missile. He needed a drink. Some place warm to contemplate his future. 
The bar he found was filled with after work stock brokers and wealth management types. It was the perfect place for someone looking for a mindless diversion. The conversations swirled with typhoon intensity. Guys with loose ties arguing long holds as the solution to mankind's despair. Matt curled up on his bar stool and tried to calm his thoughts. He ordered a Cognac. What did he have to lose in going to see the woman?  If Coil was right, it could be the story of the century. If it was all bullshit, he would still have a story to tell. He couldn’t lose. He ordered another one. For the road. He was starting to feel better already. What did that tell him. Matt was so busy celebrating his decision that he didn’t notice the tall, slim woman, slide onto the bar stool beside him. It was her voice that caught his attention. A faint, southern drawl that instantly reminded him of his grandmother, on his mother’s side. A southern belle, that hated Lincoln till her dying day. Matt turned slowly and smiled.
" Is there someone sitting here?" She asked, smiling back at him.
" No, don’t think so," he answered, shifting a little to the side to give her more room. She was carrying two shopping bags from Bergdorf Goodman and wore a long fur coat that looked like sable to Matt. Her hair was shoulder length, straight and jet black. Her forehead was covered in a thick layer of bangs and her eyes were Caribbean ocean blue. Her lips were full and pillowy and her skin was flawless.  Matt took the bags from her and held onto them as she slid onto the bar stool next to him. Didn't this only happen in the movies? He set the bags on the floor between them and climbed back onto his padded perch. 
" Thank you," she said, removing her gloves, with a slightly theatrical flair. " Have you ever seen it so cold?"
" Not in a long time."
" This is when I dream of moving to a warm climate." She held out her hand and the bartender appeared instantly in front of her, like a genie out of a bottle. She ordered an Irish coffee. And since the bartender, whose name was Doc, knew her name, which was Ava, it was obvious she had been there before. 
" I take it you've been here before," said Matt, stating the obvious, for want of something else to say.
" This is my second home," she answered, smiling. She had perfect teeth. " How about you, what brings you to the neighborhood? You don’t look like the regular crowd.”
" Just passing through," he answered, saying the first thing that came into his head. 
“ Passing through. That sounds vaguely mysterious.” She held out her hand. “ I’m Ava Dunham.”
“ Matt Burrows.” He took her hand. It was warm, soft.
“ So, Matt Burrows, what line of work are you in, if you don’t mind my asking? If you do, just say so. I’m just a nosy parker by nature.”
“ I’m a investigative reporter,” replied Matt, happy to be engaging in conversation with such an incredibly beautiful woman. “ I used to be with The Chronicle. Now I’m doing freelance.”
“ Really. That’s so cool. Investigative. I’ve always thought reporters are the only people that stand between our freedom and becoming a fascist state.“ 
“ Well, thank you. On behalf of all my colleagues all over the world. We sort of feel the same way.”
She flashed him a smile, then immediately turned serious.
“ Can you imagine the crime and corruption that would exist if it weren’t for reporters digging up the truth? You sure the hell can’t trust the police or politicians. They’re all equally corrupt as far as I’m concerned.”
She finished off her drink and looked in the direction of Doc. They gave each other wave.
“ Grasshopper, please,” she called out, as one of the recently arrived stock brokers types squeezed into the space beside her.
“ Hello, Doll, “ he said in a very familiar tone, “ This one is on me.” 
“ I'll never refuse a free drink, ” she said in a teasing tone.
The man held up his hand and Doc came over. Ava glanced over her shoulder at Matt and smiled at him. He smiled back and she turned away to face the stock broker who was now firmly wedged between her bar stool and the one next to her.
“ You look amazing,” he said, his voice taking on an air familiarity. “ But then you always look amazing.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear, his eyes meeting Matt’s for just a second - just long enough to convey victory. 
She giggled and pulled away. “ You are such a pathetic con, Frank.” She turned towards Matt Burrows. But he wasn’t there. 
“ He left babe,” crooned Frank. “ Besides, he wasn’t your type.”
“ Maybe not,” said Ava. “ But he was very interesting. He was an investigative reporter.”
“ Right,” sneered Frank. “ Sixty-five K a year. That wouldn’t cover your wardrobe expenses.”
She slapped him playfully, then looked back towards the door, sorry that the reporter had left. She liked him. Matt Burrows. She would have to look him up when she got home. Smart men always intrigued her.
Outside, it was even colder than when he had gone into the bar. Matt decided to walk for as long as he was able. The girl in the bar had been a pleasant diversion, a momentary fantasy in a world of dire reality. What if Coil was really onto something? Hell, why couldn't it be true. How many smart, educated people believe that the Warren Commission was flat wrong when it concluded that President Kennedy had been killed by a single bullet fired by Lee Harvey Oswald. Acting alone. This woman could be legit. This could be an incredible opportunity. He quickened his pace as fast as his frozen feet would carry him. The excitement of a new story was beginning to fill his veins like sensuous thoughts in a carnal dream. At the corner of 52nd and Madison, he made the decision to visit the woman from Dallas. Why not, there was nothing holding him in Manhattan. Besides, it would be a nice break from the steal gray skies and frozen air. He raised his hand and waited a few moments before a cab slid to a stop beside him. Screw Manhattan, he thought as he climbed into the icy interior of the cab. It was time for a change. He pulled his cell phone out and called his mother. She deserved an update. As her phone rang, his thoughts jumped quickly back to Ava, the woman in the bar. Who was she? Beside beautiful and sexy. Maybe, he would go back to the bar. She said it was like her second home. But what about that guy? Frank. His mother's voice mail message interrupted his thoughts. Then he remembered, she was going to a concert tonight with some of her girlfriends. He left a brief message and told her he would call back in the morning. Then he thanked her and told her he loved her. By the time the cab rolled up in front of his loft he was half asleep, his mind swimming with strange images of his father and the woman in the bar and his mother hugging Charlie Walsh. 







© Copyright 2020 sidney j bailey. All rights reserved.


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