Eyes Only

By J. Rickley Dumm

Tragically, she came from the most personal and lowest of places, from a hole in which she kept digging until she wanted to bury herself. But much like the literary Pollyanna, she was able to climb out of that dark and awful pit.

Today, Pollyanna Camp is a troubleshooter. She has the unashamed boldness of a general and the

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735739038

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

1

duck

Autumn. Football weather—crisp, patchy clouds, marching bands, and the aroma of hotdogs, beer, peanuts and popcorn were in the air. The late afternoon sun began its descent in the west. Fans streamed from the Los Angeles Coliseum, both triumph and disappointment evident on the faces of those who’d spent time and money for victory or defeat. But it was just a game, not the end of the world. That particular day, however, for the Colorado Buffalo fans it was gridiron death.

Among the departing spectators were Al Camp and his son, Jack, fandom representatives of the triumphant. Both wore USC Trojans ball caps.

Good game, Dad. Taglio was awesome. Jackie smiled holding his rolled-up program.

Twenty-seven for 32, over 400 yards is not too shabby, huh? Al smiled.

If Majewski woulda caught those two long ones, Jackie surmised, Tag coulda had 500 yards.

Would’ve’s, could’ve’s, and should’ve’s, Jackie, Al commented. That’s how it goes sometimes, but you can bet Majewski’s going to lose sleep with those two drops.

They made their way through the crowd toward the parking lot. Al Camp was 35-years-old, Jack was twelve.

Mom’s gonna be pissed. Jackie knew.

The Buffs beat us last year and we were pissed, pal. At least, Mom doesn’t have to cook, Al reminded Jack with a chuckle, and don’t rub it in when we get home.

I won’t. Jackie agreed. Maybe one dig.

Al grinned and took out his cellphone; it was 4:32 p.m. He tapped a number and brought his cellphone to his ear; momentarily, Hello. Came Mom’s voice.

We’re just walking out. Looks like I’m buying, Buff, Al chuckled again. Tommy Woo’s again?

Tommy’s, no Chow Mein, and don’t rub it in. Mom said.

Me? Love ya; see you in an hour. Al grinned and formed two fingers in a victory sign. Fight on! He cut the call.

You rubbed it in, Dad.

The magic hour had arrived. The sky darkened.

A black-and-white patrol car came to a stop on a parkway thoroughfare. A sergeant exited the driver’s seat and moved toward an accident scene where uniformed officers secured the wreckage. Red-and-blue lights flashed and twirled on other police vehicles; a paramedic unit and two medical examiner’s vans stood vigil while two body bags were being loaded. Another uniformed officer approached the sergeant.

What’ve we got? The sergeant queried.

Four DOA, sergeant.

Jesus.

Vehicle crossed the center line, went head-on. The officer revealed. Alcohol involved; it’s not pretty.

The sergeant and the officer approached others at the scene of the head-on collision; both cars were crunched.

Aside from the two mangled cars, the sergeant’s eyes went to a plastic bag. Chinese food from Tommy Woo’s had spilled and spread onto the asphalt out the passenger side door of one of the vehicles.

Al called home at 4:32 p.m. At 5:38 p.m. Al and Jackie Camp were dead in the street!

One week later, Pollyanna Camp, thirty-four, mournfully sat in a black dress at her husband and son’s funeral. Her eyes were red from a week of grieving, her expression and temperament wilted, her probable outlook negatively impacted, an odd circumstance for a Pollyanna. She sat between an older couple, her mother and father, and her deceased husband’s parents sat left of her dad. To the right of Polly’s mother sat contemporaries of Polly and Al’s, Lew Gross and his wife, Marie. Other relatives and friends sat or stood behind them.

A reverend read his eulogy to the eighty-or-so mourners in attendance as two caskets covered with floral sprays rested before them. When the service was concluded, friends and colleagues consoled the family members.

Pollyanna Camp had taken the tragedy quite hard, of course, neither optimism nor goodness to be found. She chose to stand with her father for comfort. What journey lay ahead for Polly was unknown; most likely, her father was the only one who saw the fragility in her eyes and posture since Al and Jack’s tragic and pointless death.

A twelve-year-old boy, Jack’s best friend, Jesse Marquez-Richman, stepped to Polly, gazing up at her with sad, misty eyes. Polly wrapped her arms around him and his went around her waist. They would hold one another for the longest time.

In the pre-dawn hours eight years later, a Transit Authority (T/A) bus engine jumped to life, spewing, charcoal gray smoke into the air for a brief moment until it washed away and disappeared. Bus No. 4214 rolled out and left the yard.

At approximately the same time, a cyclist, a thirty-three-year-old man named John Hudson, secured his Giro Atmos helmet, adjusted his knee and elbow pads then put on his gloves. Hudson appeared to be a rangy, well put together dude. He slipped his right cycling shoe into the 10-speed’s stirrup, double-checked his hand brakes, fiddled with his helmet, placed his bike’s gear into the desired sprocket and the chain slid into place. He set his odometer to quintuple zero digits. Lastly, he pressed a button on his Omega watch and pedaled off.

Bus 4214 rounded a corner onto a main thoroughfare. The morning sunlight blasted through the windshield, and the driver, a forty-three-year-old man named Severano hastily lowered the sun visor. The vehicle traffic was fairly sparse at that time of the morning, and there were already three passengers on the bus heading for work.

Hudson cycled at a pretty good pace along a side street, leaning into a turn, focused; he appeared to be a dedicated, experienced cyclist.

Severano cruised along soon slowing to a bus stop, picking up a five fares then continued on.

Hudson approached an intersection and was forced to stop at a red light. He checked his mileage on the odometer, glanced around, then back. Bus 4214 was a couple of blocks behind him. Instead of continuing straight, he made a right turn and quickly sped off.

Semi-squinting into the low, early sunlight through the tinted visor, Severano continued on his prescribed route.

Hudson whooshed by several parked cars on another side street, peddling faster, leaned into another turn entering an alley; his eyes fixed on the thoroughfare ahead.

To a certain degree, Severano fought the sunlight’s glare as he approached another bus stop at the end of the block. Then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw something approaching to his right. His eyes widened, calling to his passengers to brace themselves then he hit the brakes!

WHAM!

Hudson hit the front-end side of the bus at an angle. Severano expressed horror as Hudson’s body and 10-speed hurled sideways and back onto the street.

The faces of passengers and onlookers were frozen.

Severano’s eyes were wide, his body motionless.

Hudson was stock-still!

2

duck

A black Buick La Crosse turned into a subterranean parking garage; an authorized card was slipped into a standard box, the barrier arm raised and the car entered.

The lettering on the double glass doors read: Parkinson-Rivkin Insurance Group—Claims Division. Beneath that in parentheses: (A Division of Beacon Group Corporation).

Pollyanna Camp barged through the doors with a shoulder bag slung, her pace briskly confident. She wore a cocoa brown blazer, pale yellow blouse and black slacks. Pro chic! Polly, to whom she was referred, entered the Common Area of the P-R claims office. She was quite evident to the common area personnel, and forty-two; her hair was a bit longer and styled differently than it had been eight years ago. She made her way through a maze of desks and cubicles, reaching into her shoulder bag as she went, acknowledging office personnel wishing their good mornings.

Good morning, Polly. A female secretary said.

Hi, Polly. Frank was looking for you. A male assistant informed her.

No reaction as she passed a nameplate in black stencil lettering on a section of frosted glass paneling—James Davidson—Adjustor—and entered his cubicle. It’s hell out there, Jimmy. She pounced.

And good morning to you, too. Davidson modestly countered. Davidson was African-American, a few years younger than she, and well dressed.

Polly plopped a file folder on his desk, which was littered with files; her particular folder had stamped on it, Active. Polly didn’t waste any time.

As one of several black constituents in this office, you were right. They thought I was a narc. I could’ve been mugged, sexually assaulted or flogged, and I don’t like the feeling of being a victim or hated or both.

Davidson sort of grinned, reaching for another file folder. Wanna try another? Let’s see—127th Street, eighteen hundred block East.

Polly was already on her way out of his cubicle. Ram it, James.

He smiled.

This contemporary Pollyanna was back: A bias toward the positive; she was intuitive, aggressive and smart; and, apparently, impulsive. However, through all that charm—if one chose to call it that—she seemed reminiscent of a feisty, young Kate Hepburn, stylishly simple and wore running shoes, figuring those shoes would be apropos just in case she ventured too far with her bluntness and brashness. As she approached her assistant’s desk, she removed something else from her bag.

Barbara Ramirez was thirty-one and waiting, reaching with the palm of her hand open.

Polly walked up with a Status Report, and slapped it into Barb’s hand. Morning, babe.

Five of nine?? My God, is my watch broken?

Hardly fazed at Barb’s ribbing, Polly headed into her office. Barb grabbed a First Notice hard copy and followed.

Anything good? Polly wondered aloud.

Around here?…First Notice.

Pollyanna Halston Camp was the only child of Mildred and Sam Halston. Her mother, who was now deceased, had been a nurse, and her father, whom she’d always called Pop, had been a courtroom bailiff for over three decades and who was retired, living in a San Bernardino Mountains A-Frame. He and Mildred, collectively with their earnings, invested heavily over the years in precious metals—gold and silver—and therefore, as Polly grew into her college age years, they were able to send her to the University of Colorado where she devotedly majored in Business Administration. BizAd—as the major was normally referenced—was a bore; semester-after-semester of the tedious termed ‘vital factors versus trivia’ but it came easy to her; hence, devoted to her strength. She could have gone to a local university, but just between Polly and Pop, she wanted to get away from her mother because Mildred was hard on her growing up. Of course, there was love and care from her mother, though a friendly, confidant-type personal relationship never materialized between them. Pop was her rock, her first love and hero; her best friend. But that was then!

Polly met Al Camp at a Colorado-at-USC football pre-game function in Los Angeles her junior year. Al was a senior at USC, and they developed an immediate connection; they remained in contact, dated the summer prior to her senior year at Colorado, spent time during the holidays and spring break seasons, and married a few months after her graduation. Al became her next best friend and hero. Little Jackie was born about a year later. Both Al and Jack were the loves of her life, and though now deceased, they still were. Needless-to-say, Al and Jack’s loss was a devastating blow to everyone, including Mildred. By then she and Polly had grown closer and were able to bury part of the hatchet’s blade.

Polly didn’t really come out of mourning for over two years. She was able to get a teaching job at Cal State Northridge and was beginning to refresh when her mother suddenly died in her sleep, and the mourning and stress reattached; however, she fought through that, spent some time with Pop during his bereavement, and maintained her teaching position until she decided to go out on her own as a result of helping an old Colorado classmate’s business restore its footing and get back onto its original foundation.

Polly’s office at Parkinson-Rivkin didn’t appear permanent because it wasn’t. None of her offices were! She was freelance, after all. It was plain, sparse, a few gratuitous accents, and a couple of chairs; her desk was clean, neat and looked organized. She went around her desk, placed her bag to one side and stood as Barb entered.

Barb was divorced, devoted, savvy, and had been with Polly for the last three-and-a-half years as her right hand.

Polly Camp’s current occupation was as an independent, freelance troubleshooter—that’s to say, as the definition describes, a skilled person whose job was to find solutions to problems and/or difficulties; or, a mediator of sorts with an expertise in resolving political or diplomatic workplace disputes that may be at an impasse. Suffice-it-to-say, Pollyanna Camp was the benevolent ‘Master Ally’ and malevolent ‘Viral Enemy,’ simultaneously. Normalcy or plague, Give her room!

Since her initial entry into the freelancing field, she moved from company-to-company, sometimes city-to-city when her expert services were called upon, and she kept as low a profile as she could muster. For her, it went with her chosen profession. As far as a company’s employees were concerned, Polly was just another employee, not a hired spy. If they were asked, she was just in-house management doing a job, trying to figure things out like everybody else.

Her specialty had become saving and downsizing the excess baggage, everything from unnecessary expenses and other miscellaneous, frivolous monies spent, through company personnel and sometimes misdemeanor unlawful activity if discovered within a particular company. Especially with the latter, she discovered early on using her real name could, and did, become quite hazardous to her health. Threats and intimidation occurred during her first major client troubleshoot, and from that point forward, one of her requisites when starting an assignment with a company was to very rarely use her true name outside that company and to not use hers or any other name on that company’s directory; thus, if necessary when in the field, she could use whatever name she chose at the time unless it was prudent to use her own, also if necessary. Though essential, it was merely a standard modus operandi for her employment when investigating the trouble for a client if they wanted her to do her job; to equalize or balance that unusual requisite, if she failed to do her job she would withdraw her fee, save expenses. Fair was fair! If the prospective client was agreeable, the job launched.

Pollyanna Camp wasn’t perfect but had never failed to do her job! Nor was she as she was because she’d lost the two loves of her life, nor had she ever been abused, belittled or rejected. Rather, this Pollyanna simply had a sense of fairness, and did what she thought was the right thing to do. That unspoken trait and requisite allowed her carefully scrutinize and tutor personnel because folks wanted and needed employment; on balance, they all had families, they had responsibilities. She did all she could to maintain jobs and/or company managerial positions unless a situation was deemed egregious or downright criminal, even if it, perhaps, bordered on felonious goings-on, though her true name could never be attached to a criminal indictment should that ever occur. Polly—often clandestinely—meticulously and thoroughly investigated then reported the findings and/or evidence to those who’d hired her. Naturally, any subsequent legal challenges or charges were always brought via client-company sources and privilege.

Barb handed her the First Notice.

I shouldn’t have taken this assignment. Polly thought aloud as she started scanning the document.

Bullshit to that. Barb came back. It’s a…

…goddamn job. They finished together.

I know; did this just come in? She referenced the First Notice.

Barb nodded. By messenger, another quickie; no one’s assigned to it yet.

Polly kept scanning the document. Two days ago?…This guy’s whacked by a thirteen-and-a-half ton bus and he leaves the scene? Polly puzzled. What’s he, Ironman; how could he even move? Incredulous, Polly kept scanning the notice. Doctor visit…no hospitalization?

Barb merely shrugged, probably hoping Polly wouldn’t go too deep with her thinking.

Barb, how far can I stretch my rights around here, y’think? Polly asked her.

"You’re close to the lethal end of the rubber band now, so…"

Check this guy out for me, Polly cut her off, and get the bus driver’s statement from the T/A’s counsel.

Pol, you’re a mess maven, not Jamie Bond.

Sure is curious. Polly kept reading.

Oh, geez; Pol… Barb knew Polly was stepping into another pond of quicksand.

She ignored Barb’s plea. Same law firm again. Polly handed Barb the First Notice. If this John Hudson’s that athletic and tough, I want to be his agent…What the hell does Frank want, by the way?

Barb said he’d been pestering her since she got in; it had something to do with a preliminary report.

Stennis and that wacko Roth couldn’t do two laps on a go-cart oval without a GPS.

Mel’s not a wacko. Barb opined.

One of ‘em is.

Just then, fifty-year-old Frank Stennis knocked and entered the office with the aforementioned preliminary report in hand. The demands of the insurance claims business were written all over his face. Barb exited.

Thanks, Barb. ‘Morning Frank. Polly feigned a smile.

Hi. Sorry to bother you, Polly, but…

No you’re not.

Stennis ignored the truth and explained that he’d taken her suggestions to heart, that he and the claimant were close to a reasonable settlement, and he’d expedited with the parties involved for a meet