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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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He could feel Shiloh eyeing him, and he was doing it without a blink. “Before you leave from here, your search for ultimate satisfaction will end on a positive note.”
“Oh, really?” Delvin did a split second survey. Nothing in present surroundings had smelled, tasted, or sounded right. In fact, nothing could've been more wrong. “There's no positive in this place.” He then thought about Job and what he was planning. “Well, maybe
something
positive can come out of this.”
In ignorance to Delvin's meaning, Shiloh said, “Oh, yeah. If you put your mind to it.”
You don't know how much truth you just spoke, preacher.
“If you think that Jesus-thing is your tool to convert me, then find yourself another tool. But I respect you sticking to your convictions. We need more men like you around here.”
“I have time to see a major conversion in you. You'll be around here at least until your first parole board hearing.”
That's three years from now.
“Don't hold your breath, preacher. No far-fetched religion can change me.”
Later that evening, Delvin could see that the library was unoccupied except for the librarian and what appeared to be a couple of spectacled, bucktoothed white males chatting among themselves in twentieth century pseudo-scientific jargon. Delvin figured them to be computer geek criminals trying to keep abreast of the latest technology. They appeared to be no threat by the way they scratched their greasy heads, painted fearful looks on their faces, and took off in an opposite direction.
He pulled up a chair, propped his feet up on a table, and began scanning the most recent copy of
Business Week
. He had become engrossed in reading when a thin hand emerged over the page he was on, almost to the point of touching his face.
The man's voice flowed like a heart that never skipped a beat. A Spock-like smoothness. “I understand that you have begun a sequence of data collection and tactics necessitating my expertise.”
Delvin was startled because of the suddenness and angered by the intrusion, but overjoyed at the revelation.
Man. It took long enough.
He realized that he was staring into the eyes of the hook-up. It was the prison's resident encyclopedia. Murphy.
To think that this man could even gather the nerve to approach him. Surely he remembered that their initial meeting was far less than cordial.
“Why do you talk like somebody's English professor or something? Come off it.” Delvin had to ask.
Murphy pulled up a seat. “Storm. What good did it do for Webster to have created a dictionary and thesaurus if he didn't expect the American people to take advantage of the English vernacular?”
Take a breath.
Delvin felt his brain begging for an aspirin. The five-dollar words were being spouted off faster than he could decipher them. “I guess you've made your point.” He reached beneath his undershirt and pulled out a folded, tattered sheet of paper. “I need these things. ASAP.”
“You do realize, Storm, that our present state of affairs somewhat hinders the definition of ASAP to be effectual, do you not?”
“ASAP means as soon as possible—but we're in jail—don't expect miracles. I got it,” Delvin said in frustration.
Murphy unfolded the paper, smoothing each fold as he progressed along. His eyes dotted the page from top to bottom as if he were studying a fine piece of poetry or prose. “A couple of the guys told me that you were present, accounted for at chapel. I did not perceive you as the religious type,” he whispered.
Delvin curled his fist in clear view and twisted his face. “I'm not.”
Murphy's eyes widened. “Don't misunderstand me, Storm. I have no animosity toward those who recognize omnipotent powers; gods and the like.”
“I've just told you where I stand on that subject.”
“I understand.” He returned the paper to its folded state. “What do you want with these items?”
Delvin gripped the outer edge of the table. “I didn't realize that for you to secure these items, you had to know what I want them for.”
“I only need the reassurance that your undertakings are upright; that they won't afford me additional incarceration time.”
“You needn't worry.”
“Storm, I want you to know that—as I've heard some inmate say in a broken slang—
the buck will end with you
. This is, of course, with the assumption that there's any trouble.”
Delvin took a few seconds to let Murphy's words sink in. He knew that the list of items in and of itself wouldn't yield him any trouble. It would take someone who had known him on a past, personal level to put all the sections of his enigma together. Nobody fit that bill at Ashland FCE. “You're in no danger.”
“Excellent.”
Delvin snapped his fingers. “Let me see that list again right quick.”
Murphy pinched the paper between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand and reached over.
Delvin grabbed it, whipped out a pen, wrote down a few words and handed it back to Murphy. “I added a toy for you. Stinson told me to.”
“He made that proposition, did he?”
“Yeah. Some malarkey about every man needing a toy. Boy, I tell ya. You guys have the weirdest thought patterns—”
Murphy interrupted. “Piaget. You should do more reading. That is, on a more philosophical level. Piaget, the French educational theorist, resolves that you can learn tremendous things from an individual when you observe them at play.”
“Funny. Stinson said the same thing. Well, sort of.”
“Hmm.”
“Thus, we have toys. It's very simple.”
Delvin listened to Murphy's intellectual dissertation, wondering how such a diverse thinker could land himself in prison. He was beginning to believe that great thinkers could have a criminal side, too. “I didn't think you would be the contact, but I shouldn't be surprised. You were the one mouthing off about having information.” He then thought about the day he was elbow-deep in suds and the inmates' dishes. “Speaking of information; you know anything about some corn cobs Stinson told me not to throw away?”
Murphy sat back in the chair, patted the paper in his pocket as if he was giving Delvin some sign of assurance, and then he sneered. “Ahh. The remnants of our maize.” He laughed.
“You'll see.”
Chapter 8
Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.
Proverbs 31:31
 
 
Morning traffic didn't bother Monica as she drove through Maricopa County's traffic grid, taking the time to make Pastor Harris's sermon personal. “And I will do better in the present than at my beginning.”
God, I hope so
.
Monica surfed radio channels, settling on KPXQ, 1360
AM
, and programmed it on her Camry. Chuck Swindoll was giving an inspiring message on his
Insights for Living
broadcast
.
It was her sequel to yesterday's religious experience. She pulled into Nine Iron Golf Resorts, certain that she would have a great day.
At nine o'clock, she walked in through the clubhouse entrance where she stopped at the rotunda and admired her surroundings.
In the center of the rotunda was a desk where a receptionist greeted her.
“Ms. Wright, the CEO would like to meet with you before you see your office suite. Please, have a seat,” the lady said.
Monica had never seen so many tanned, taut bodies in one place in all her life; not in person anyway. Men and women were arriving at every moment. Some dressed in dull but pricey business attire and many in designer sportswear prepared to go onto the golf course, the pool and spa, or the exercise suites. These same individuals would be making reservations for friends and associates through her office, she figured.
Minutes that seemed like eternity passed. She took a glance at her watch. Nine-fifteen. She snapped open her briefcase, a stainless steel piece given to her by fellow employees from her former job. She decided to spend the next few moments perusing the Nine Iron Golf and Resorts full-scale brochure and handbook, but the endless chatter and laughter hindered her concentration.
“Mrs. Wright?”
She looked up after getting over her slight shock. Cory Drummond, the CEO, had sprung in from nowhere it seemed, which couldn't have been difficult given the veil of hall noise that covered him.
“I'm sorry to have you waiting so long, which is the reason I came out to greet you myself instead of having my admin to show you in.” He sounded sincere.
Cory wasn't a complete stranger to Monica. She had interviewed with him in late May, a process that lasted four hours and was spread over two days. During that time she looked for, but didn't detect, arrogance, self-pity, alcoholism, or any other sociological offenses in him. He appeared to be charming, professional, and committed to Christian beliefs. He was careful to point out that he took hold of his position in the company despite the reservations of other prominent and respected shareholders who wanted a chief officer with more experience.
“On my first day,” Cory told Monica during her interview, “I had five voice mail messages from elite club members saying they would be watching me and reporting back to the board of directors on how I was doing. That was seven years ago.” He told her that since those first days, he has earned the establishment's respect. He ended the conversation by telling her that was his expectation of her.
During those next few moments, Monica had to pinch herself because Cory Drummond was leading her to an office inside of the building.
They terminated their walk at the very end of the hall, in a conference room where six men were seated. There were three Caucasians, two of Asian descent by appearance, and one African American. All of them were dressed in Brooks Brothers-style suits with drab ties and glowing white shirts. Before them were thin black portfolios with
Monica Wright
plastered on them in dead center with no other writing.
“Please, Ms. Wright, have a seat,” Cory said, keeping a tedious facial expression and tone.
There were two seats available, one at the end of the table with a clear view of the others. She decided not to take that one.
She sat, positioning her briefcase at her feet and looked around. There was silence.
Cory slid an envelope near her. It was sealed with no writing on the outside. “We've run into a serious problem, Ms. Wright. I had to assemble as many directors as I could for this person-to-person meeting, with the others consenting to give me their thoughts, et cetera, by proxy.”
They're terminating me already
.
Cory continued. “Our management situation has shifted, causing a tremendous gap in our company that has to be resolved. I've looked the situation over carefully, taking into consideration all of the angles and repercussions that could come up.”
Monica uncrossed her legs, sighed and crossed them again.
“We have made a difficult, but needy decision.” Cory broke out with a wide grin. “We can't offer you the reservations manager's position. Given your obvious qualifications, talent, skill, and strong willingness to learn, the board has consented to accept my recommendation of making you the new Vice President of Operations. Congratulations!” The entire room, minus Monica, chorused in laughter.
Her body had tensed like a wire, but loosened with her gasp of breath. “Why did you do that to me?” she asked in a shout. “I wondered why the plate on the office door had a different title than what I'd interviewed for. I was too scared to ask you why, Mr. Drummond.”
“Mr. Drummond is my dad. Call me Cory,” he demanded playfully.
The board members dispersed in sporadic fashion, still falling into fits of laughter when they exchanged glances with Monica. With her new position revealed and her tension eased, she could return the humor.
Cory sat on the edge of the conference table, flipping through a set of memos that his administrative assistant handed him. He smiled at some of the messages, frowned over some and then tossed them all at an empty ashtray. “Monica,” he said, “don't leave just yet.”
Her mind was on getting to her office and settling in. Maybe grab a relaxation snack. Instead, she opted to smile and sit.
“Open the envelope I gave you.”
She had forgotten about it. “Should I be afraid?” she asked.
Cory pulled out a Mont Blanc from an interior coat pocket and began twirling it through his fingertips as he molded a sly look on his face. “Depends.”
She broke the seal of the envelope and pulled out the folded sheet. It had her name on it, and a salary figure that made her feel like holy-dancing and praise-shouting. She swallowed to assemble her nerves, and asked, “Is this for real?”
“Think you can be happy with that? Hubby should feel all right too,” he said.
She peered at the paper again, folded it and returned it to the envelope. She calculated the salary to be thirty-five thousand more than the previous position she'd been offered. “This has been confirmed?”
“With health, life, and 401K. Of course, complimentary membership. Welcome to the life. Work. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Cory, for your confidence.”
Thank you, Lord.
When Monica arrived home and saw Job with his feet propped up and his behind resting in a recliner, she wanted to strangle him. Four disassembled boxes appeared to be the only work he had done all day while she slaved at the corporate plantation. She brushed by him and looked into the kitchen, where she smelled food cooking and saw pots on the stove. She turned and looked at Job, whose grin disarmed her anger.
“Mmm. You cooked, so you're forgiven,” she conceded.
She unfolded the details of her first day, which included her express ride up a rung on the management ladder. “Eighty-thousand dollars,” she exclaimed with emphasis on every syllable, and then she repeated the amount with less bravado.
Job's eyes glinted, then immediately did an opposing expression that Monica couldn't read with any certainty.
It was a facial snapshot she'd never seen from him before. A portrait she hoped never to see again.
“How are the people?” he asked.
Her mind reversed to that morning assembly with the CEO and board members. “They seem to be pretty easy to work with, but they can be jokesters at times. They love to laugh, so I guess it's a good thing.” She went on explaining that she had to hire her own assistant. “I'm treating everybody with kid gloves right now.”
“Which is the very reason I don't give out my past to folks who pry.”
“I know I'm on a honeymoon with my job right now. The real in people will eventually come out. That's why I'll go slowly, choose my friends carefully, and make sure I'm always truthful.”
Monica was not as concerned about the behavior or responses of friends or co-workers as she was about Job's truthfulness, and whether any of his truths or lies would ever resurface.
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
7.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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