Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (24 page)
Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." Online
Authors: Bad-Boy Storyteller
“Okay, go on.”
“That’s because we have them shut down and detour traffic onto side roads, opening them up to race on. Then we meet back here and have another kind of party.”
“You mean an orgy?” Michelle states, growing increasingly disgusted.
Tommy, like a politician, answers, “Meaning…We all have a good time, and no one has to do anything they don’t want to.”
“And was Kimberly part of these
parties
?”
“Yes.”
“And what about Joshua—is he a part of it too?”
“I cannot answer that directly. I am bound by solemn oath never to utter the names of the clubs members. Most of them I couldn’t tell you their names if I had too, because I simply do not know. Nearly all of our members wear full masks and only use their fraternal names. Although I will answer you this way: I have reason to believe that
a person of your interest
is an extremely dangerous man as well as a grave risk taker behind the wheel—like no other. Let’s say this allows
him
to win more than
his
fair share and that
he
is hated within most circles. Rumor has it that he is protected by his god and cannot die. Anyways I don’t know how any of this can help you. I believe the main concern of yours is this. I heard the news where it was said Kimberly wasn’t a real person. But I assure you she was; even so, you will find no one here to confirm that…other than maybe a few of the girls. And is that what you want to do—parade a bunch of strippers into court? And that’s not to mention the fact that our stables are not filled with permanent positions. The majority of our employees do not work here much longer than a week or so, since we like to keep a steady flow of new and interesting entertainment.”
“So you’re saying you cannot help us, so you can protect your little orgies and car races?” Michelle yells, standing up.
“Detective Robertson, I am protecting powerful men. I’m sure you can find other avenues to prove she is a real person; this is
nothing
but a hornets’ nest to you. Now I have told you all that I can.” Tommy stands, suggesting that the meeting is over.
“I might need to ask more questions,” Cools states. “Give me a good number I can reach you at any time.”
“Fine.” Tommy spells out his number as he walks them out of his office and down another dark hallway—this one leading past other security guards to the side parking lot. It is now dark as night has come upon them rapidly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help; if I dig up any information that I think you could use, I will call you. And at the same time, it is my hope that we all get through this and conclude by punishing
only
the one who deserves it.” Then he slips back inside, locking them out.
There they take a closer look at the cars in the lot, make a few notes, then head back toward the station. In the cruiser Cools, on a hunch, makes a call to Officer Smithe, working on the Trace Friesen case. “Officer Smithe, Cools here. Let me ask you: did Trace have a sports car?”
“Yes, yes, he did as a matter of fact, and a very expensive one at that. We found a storage facility in his name, and when we went to check it out, we found a Ford GT-50.”
“Was anything in it?”
“Yeah…and it’s odd that you would ask. We found a mask…some sort of devil zombie, and it’s not your typical forty-five-dollar Halloween mask—this thing is handmade, more like a movie set mask. Why are you asking; do you know something about it?”
“No. Well, maybe. Listen, there’s a couple of things you should know, so I’d like you to call Michelle; she’ll fill you in, okay?” He snaps his phone shut.
“God, you’re an asshole. I’m not your damned secretary, Brad; quit acting as if I am!”
“Calm down, Michelle. I’m not supposed to talk and drive at the same time,” he replies playfully, in an attempt to smooth things over. It’s somewhat contradictory though since he dials out again. Then her phone rings, with Officer Smithe on the line, as JFK answers Cools’s call. “What did you get from the neighbors, Fredo?”
“Well, I’ve procured statements from the Swansons, an elderly couple who’ve had many friendly conversations with Kimberly and knew her to be the wife of Joshua. How did you and Robertson fair at the strip club?”
“Not so good…uh…good work, Fredo.” Click. “Man, I really hate that guy, but it sounds like he’s got some neighbors that can confirm Kimberly lived there.”
Michelle doesn’t respond because she’s busy explaining everything to Officer Smithe, after which there are a few miles of concerted silence before a probing discussion ensues, in the car, concerning the secreted club, the mystery man who spoke to the strip club manager from the captain’s office, and how Trace Friesen, Kimberly, and Joshua are really tied together.
Soon, in Captain Jackson’s office, Michelle speaks first, expecting to get some answers, “Who was the man on the phone?”
He snaps back in a way that she isn’t accustomed to. “All right, listen to me carefully: who he is, isn’t important. The identities of any of the car club members are not important. Do you hear me?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Now, go talk to Ghost; he has a few things. I don’t think we’re gonna have any problems proving Kimberly existed; that sneaky William cost us a day, but that’s gonna be the end of it.”
Michelle throws a small fit and storms out, leaving the two men alone. Cools searches his captain’s eyes and says, “Okay, well, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow,” wondering why his old friend is acting so strange.
“Yeah, tomorrow…we’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he guides him to the door.
Cools leaves, unsure of his friend. He then catches up to his partner, now sitting with Ghost, whose demeanor tells him he’s dug up some dirt. He asks sharply, “What do you have for us?”
“Well, it’s like this. I found her; she was an orphan who bounced around from home to home. Her real name is Wallingsford, and Sharons was the last of her group home families. I spoke with them, and they informed me that the last they’d heard was that she’d died of a drug overdose years ago and said that they couldn’t be positive that the picture of her was really her or not. So I’m not sure you want to open this can of worms; maybe I should bury this, so they can’t use it to further their allegation that she was never real.”
“Yeah, let’s do that…for now anyway,” Cools says.
“But why wouldn’t she just go by her real name?” Michelle poses.
“I thought the very same; her driver’s license and social security are under Wallingsford with fake addresses. She has no arrest record for either name, and I cannot outline why she’d pretend to be someone else.”
Cools looks at Michelle, appearing as if he’s just figured something out. He excuses the both of them from Ghost’s office and again pesters her to go out for a few drinks with him, somewhere away from the station.
“I can’t tonight, Brad. But…let me see…tomorrow’s Tuesday…I’ll find a way to get free tomorrow night, sometime after nine, okay?”
He agrees, and their date is set.
.
I
nside his ice-cold cell, Joshua, confident he will be punished by the guards for what he’s about to do, works diligently with a found piece of broken glass, scraping obscure messages on the walls. He’s certain they will be told to the outside world.
This can only hold me for a time…I have sent you a
>poetic verse< …Can you not even find what IS existent!
The writing tires him. He crawls into his bunk and drifts off to a place of comfort, locating deep inside his mind the nineteen sixties and his compassion for the continuing tale of little Frankie. The last he’d seen was the nameless black man who’d brought to Panama-Red rumors of betrayal, which now sends the three of them driving into the unknown.
Synapses release, sparking neurotransmitters within Joshua’s unconscious mind.
Outlines of shapes and colors come together forming the picture of a black Corvette Stingray, amid sounds of squealing tires and an enraged Panama-Red at the wheel, cursing to the night. His friend, wearing a large afro, sits nervously in the passenger’s seat with the terrified boy in his lap. Little Frankie is missing his mother as the car speeds through the backwoods hills faster and more dangerously than he’s ever gone before. Worry and uncertainty take hold of him; Panama-Red appears to be totally out of control. The car is jerking
back and forth over the white lines, and he’s swearing so vehemently spit is flying out of his mouth, carrying on and on about some guy who didn’t pay some money.
“Turn here…turn in here, man!” the black man yells.
Little Frankie tightens. They turn off the road onto a long dirt driveway that leads to an old, broken-down farmhouse, where seconds later the Corvette skids, stirring a cloud of dust. It comes to an abrupt stop just a few feet short of the porch. Panama points his finger at little Frankie and yells, “You stay here! Wait in the car!” Then he pulls the slide back on his gun, chambering a bullet, and orders the black man to cover him. Petrified little Frankie does as he is told. He only watches out the window, not moving a muscle, hoping it all ends soon.
Panama moves as fast as his anger. He leaps up the steps, screaming, threatening, and in one motion violently yanks the screen door off its hinges. There he finds a locked front door which only maddens him further. He begins pounding and kicking it, with his partner in crime sneaking cautiously up the creaking steps.
Boom! Boom!
A thunderous noise explodes through the door, blasting it into pieces. Little Frankie starts shaking when he sees the splinters of wood and bits of Panama as they hit the windshield. The black man turns and begins running across a field. At the same moment, a beast of a man, dressed in tattered blue coveralls, comes through the broken doorway. Boom! He shoots again into Panama’s dead body. Chilling screams of a woman echo from inside the farmhouse. Then, moving to the edge of the porch, the big man raises his sawed-off shotgun once more.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A blaze of fire roars through the dark air, nearly hitting the black man jumping over a barbed wire fence. Everything rings before going dead silent. And these are the last sounds little Frankie will hear for quite some time, even though later in life he will be told that there was never any physical damage done to his hearing.
Midnight rounds are being made at the jailhouse when Joshua, or at least the little boy inside him, loses control of the narrative. He then dreams of meeting Kimberly in death, pleased at the thought of being joined with her once again.
.
T
he following day a YouTube featured video—“The Spirit of Heaven”— receives 1,644,512 views.
Another of Joshua’s mesmerizing poems bids for the spotlight. It was sent, the day before his arrest, to a professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, who now explains the work in detail on the video. As intrigued followers type in “Joshua Siconolfi” in the website’s search box, “The Spirit of Heaven” pops up, and then the video starts with rolling text.
The Spirit of Heaven
Is to,
“Live on Forever of no evil”
An everlasting sign,
In Palindromic chime,
“Live on Forever of no evil”
To Me His words He sends,
The Beginning and the End.
“Live on Forever of no evil”
GOD’S simple Truth in verse,
Can be read
Forwards
,
or
Reversed
.
Next the professor comes onto half of the screen; the other rendering the poem in full. He wears a tweed jacket over a tightly fitted sweater, looking every bit the elitist. “My name is Professor James F. Whitley,” he says, from underneath a long and eccentric graying mustache. “And this masterful work of art was mailed to me personally from Joshua Siconolfi—the one and the same—who obviously knew that I would be proficient in explaining to you the complexities of this poem. To me the core verse, ‘Live on Forever, of no evil,’ is intended to assert that ‘Heaven’ is to live eternally, absent of any evil. However, it is more than that. What we are witnessing here is a rare form of art known as a palindrome. A phrase arranged in sequence to read equally in either direction. I implore of you to take a closer look at the core verse, ‘Live on Forever, of no evil.’ And see that it reads the same, forward or reversed. Furthermore, I believe…”
This is basically the spot where most have tuned out Professor James F. Whitley to take another look at the poem itself, to search it for clues and attempt to decipher its hidden connotations. Millions are fascinated; it quickly becomes the topic of the day.
.
T
uesday night, at quarter past ten, Michelle Robertson, the wife, called her hubby and told a little white lie. She asked if he would mind if she went out for drinks with her girlfriends tonight—the story being that Sheila, one of her college friends, fears that her boyfriend may be messing up, and is in need of a little girl-to-girl counseling. Mr. Robertson agreed, thinking to himself that his wife could use the chance to blow off some steam. And now Michelle Robertson, the detective, sits across from Cools in a bar on the outskirts of the city.
The place is mostly empty, with rustic decor. Photographs taken in the distant past hang on the walls in black and white: a stagecoach drawn by brawny horses, homesteads from the late-nineteenth century, and muddy, commerce avenues crowded with turn-of-the-century automobiles. The ceiling is open and has large wooden rafters and fans circulating the air. They sit opposite each other in a booth, mutually enjoying a moment of quietness. She is speculating about him, noticing that he’s been calmer lately and is now only drinking beer. He has a couple of insights about her as well. She appears to be quite comfortable lying to her husband and venturing out alone in his company. While at the same time, a profound frustration presides within her. As of late she has been more outspoken, more cynical, and he contrives that she’s becoming hardened.