Stories that Surprise

By Jack Fay

If asked to name the most important element of a good short story the knowledgeable reader can be expected to say, "The plot, of course, especially when it has a clever twist." Another of the literary-minded will insist, "Most important, you ask? Surely the answer has to be Interesting characters." The stories in this book have plenty of both-an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go To Publish
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647494964

Jack Fay

Jack Fay is a former Special Agent, US Army Criminal Intelligence Division (CID); Chief of Standards, Georgia Peace Officers and Training Council; Chief of Plans and Training, Georgia Bureau of Investigation; Director, National Crime Prevention Institute, University of Louisville; Director, Corporate Security, the Charter Company; Security Manager, British Petroleum; and Adjunct Professor at three universities; author of 12 commercially published non-fiction books. Mr. Fay holds the Bachelor of Arts degree at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, and the Master of Business Administration degree at the University of Hawaii.

Book preview

Harold Blohm

I live in a campus-style home for senior citizens (a disgusting term if ever there was one). I came to live here after my daughter Leslie convinced herself that living alone is not a good idea for an 85-year-old man who can’t keep from falling down. My view is that breaking a bone or two is not reason enough to force a man to spend the rest of his days sitting in a dayroom filled with old people playing checkers.

The man who lives in the apartment next to mine is Harold Blohm who believes his name is Derek Devore, a CIA undercover agent sent from Camp David to find out if a jihadist cell is planning to blow up the kangaroo ranch in Dawsonville. I made the mistake one day of telling Blohm he was too fat to be in the CIA. He went nuts and threatened to put me under surveillance for the rest of my life.

Among Blohm’s several disagreeable habits is harassment of squirrels. He sits in his room with the window open and lures squirrels in his direction by tossing walnuts in the grass near his window. When a squirrel gets close, Blohm lifts a BB gun from his lap and fires away. Fortunately for our forest friends, Blohm has the worst aim in the world. I asked him why he wanted to kill the squirrels. He told me they were robots equipped with listening devices implanted in their brains.

A second of Blohm’s bad habits is to lay on the floor behind the dayroom sofa hoping to hear jihadists planning their next move. The other residents simply ignore him, except when someone wanders near his hiding place and steps on an ankle or hand.

Once in a while Blohm will return to the real world. He remembers that I’m a nice guy so he’ll knock on my door and invite himself in. He’ll take a seat opposite my recliner and we’ll tell each other outrageous lies about all the women we’ve seduced, and after a while I’ll pull from the fridge my precious bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

I know when Blohm is making preparations for a return trip to a galaxy far away. His eyes begin to glaze and he’ll put his thumb in his mouth. On a day when we were going hot and heavy about who was the better actor--Porky the Pig or Bugs Bunny--Blohm’s thumb went into his mouth. Because I was winning the argument and didn’t want his mind to take a powder on me, I pulled his arm down. His thumb popped out with a loud sucking sound. Again he threatened to place me under 24-hour surveillance.

On an afternoon when I was alone in my apartment and Bailey’s was doing its magic, I had a visit from Morpheus. I was ten minutes into a most delicious dream when a suspicious noise woke me. I looked around and there was Blohm fishing through my sock drawer. What are you doing? I yelled at him.

You’re not fooling me, Mister Mohammad. You’ve got a radio code around here somewhere and I mean to find it.

I took Blohm by the arm and led him to his own apartment. Get in the bed, I told him and he did. I pulled the blanket up to his chin and lifted the top book off a stack of books on the nightstand and laid it on his chest. Read this. It will make you feel better. I looked at the book’s cover. It was The Terrorist Handbook.

Lord save a duck, I thought.

A Job Interview

Mike Loftman parked cars at Ted’s Montana Grill on Peachtree. On his days off he mailed resumes, twenty or more at a time. Then came a phone call from a head-hunter agency inviting him to interview for a vacant position with a large corporation headquartered in downtown Atlanta. Mike took the Marta from Midtown to Five Points and walked the rest of the way. The lobby receptionist directed him to Room 236 on the second floor. The name plate on the wall next to the office door said in white letters on black plastic, Mimi Micklebee. He knocked on the door and heard a bassoon voice telling him to enter.

Miss Micklebee leaned over the top of her desk and thrust a flabby arm in his direction. While shaking her hand Mike took a quick view of a seriously overweight woman whose horizontal width appeared to be in contest with her height. Her suit pants looked to be least two sizes too small, as did her military strength bra, the outlines of which were disagreeably visible through a sheer blouse streaked with a rainbow of colors.

She motioned Mike to the chair on the other side of her desk. Striated lines in the fabric of the seat contained small chips that appeared to be Pringle remnants. The top of the desk was covered by candy wrappers, a box of Milk Duds and a scattering of M&Ms. Mike could not tell if the sound he heard when she plopped into her seat was a protest of strained leather or a case of flatulence.

Mimi began by reading a letter that brought Mike to understand a local corporation had taken interest in his resume. While Mimi talked, Mike wondered if she was speech challenged because he could barely understand what she was saying. A red dribble at a corner of her mouth began to flow down her chin. But Mimi was ready. She casually intercepted the dribble with the back of her hand and wiped it on the front of her sheer blouse, adding a new color to its rainbow. She gave Mike a large smile, revealing a red jujube stuck to a canine. With an index finger she tried to pry it loose but the jujube would not cooperate. After a brief struggle, the fragment flew off the tooth and impaled Mike’s necktie. He pulled out his handkerchief and wrestled the errant sweet from his tie and held it up for Miss Micklebee to see, and said, Would you like this back?

Leaning forward to get a good look, she said, No thanks. Cherry is not my favorite flavor.

Now, where were we? she said.

I don’t think we actually started.

Right. She slid a folder from her inbox. Ah, yes. Here it is. She scanned the folder and read from it. Achmed Omali. Am I pronouncing that right?

Ma’am, my name is Michael Loftman.

Well, that’s a funny way to spell Michael Loftman.

I think you are looking at the wrong folder.

Am I? She reached into the inbox and removed another folder. Well, you’re absolutely right, Mister…

Loftman, ma’am.

May I call you Michael?

Of course. Or Mike if you prefer.

Mike? It says here your name is Michael.

Michael is very correct, ma’am. I’d like it if you’d just call me Michael.

Mimi flipped through the folder, saying Hmm as she went along. Her finger stopped on a page and she said, Is this true? She held the page up so he could read it. Her finger was on a line at the bottom of Mike’s resume. The line said he held the master’s degree in financial accounting.

Yes, that’s true.

This is so wonderful. Imagine. A person with a master’s degree applying for a building maintenance job.

Calmly, Mike said, May I see the folder, please?

She handed it to him. A slip stapled to the folder said he was to be interviewed for a vacancy in a finance department. Mike handed the folder back to her and said, Please read this.

Oh, my goodness. I am so wrong.

Her phone rang. She listened for a moment, hung up and then looked at her watch. She stood and said, This has been a most excellent interview. You can expect to hear from us within ten business days.

Mike wanted to ask if there’d be another interview, but Mimi was steering him to the door.

While waiting for the down elevator a man who appeared to be lost asked him, Is Room 236 on this floor?

Mike said, You must be the applicant for the building maintenance job. The man nodded in the affirmative. Mike pointed down the hallway. Straight ahead. The door is on the right. And good luck.

Muffy

I was over to Muffy’s the other night and she says to me we ain’t good no more. So I ask her, You got something going on with somebody else? and she says, Maybe. Now this gets me a little curious, you know. Not that I’m jealous, you understand. I’m just trying to find out who’s trying to cut in on me. So I ask again. She hunches them big shoulders up around her ears and says nothing. I give her the fisheye but it do n’t work.

I tell her I’m leaving for good. She says it’s okay with her but I gotta give her a kiss goodbye. I start to tell her to save it for the new guy but I don’t get a chance because Muffy’s sticking her salami tongue down my throat. She sloshes it around a while, and I get a woody. She feels it and next thing she’s got me pinned on the floor with my pants around my ankles and she’s straddling me, with her hands pushing up and down on my chest like I just got drowned.

After a lot of panting in my face she rolls off and says, How was that? I don’t let on it was good. Instead I ask her how the new guy likes it. Muffy gives me one of them big laughs to where I can see that gold tooth she likes to brag about. She tells me, There ain’t no new guy. I just need you to give me a little proof now and then. When I don’t say nothing back she says, And right now I need more proof. Then she climbs back on board.

She’s something, that Muffy is.

A Simple Misunderstanding

Them’s his words. Not mine.

Whose words are they?

The guy what hit me on the head.

You mean the arresting officer.

Yeah, that’s right. Dum-Dum Donahue, they call him. Ain’t no one in this whole world dumber than Donahue.

Officer Donahue says in his report that he read you your Miranda right to remain silent, and you responded by…

That’s what it was? I thought Dum-Dum wanted to talk about a banana.

Is your name really Gumbo?

Well it ain’t Jumbo if that’s what ya think. Looka me. Skinny like a nail.

Mr. Gumbo you are being charged with two offenses. Attempted theft of a kitchen sink and resisting arrest.

Attempted theft? I ain’t never stole nothing. I was moving the sink outta the yard into the house. Keep it from getting dirty. It was raining, see. Started just before Dum-Dum showed up. First thing he says to me What the hell are you doing? I put the sink down real careful-like. Dint want nothing bad to happen to it, speshly since Dum-Dum’s upset, waving that big flashlight all around. After a bit he calmed down and told me to show him some ID. Well, I can’t show him no ID cause I don’t have no ID. Not anymore, anyway. The flashlight starts banging against Dum-Dum’s leg. Where you live, he yells at me. Real calm-like I point at the house.

Dum-Dum says, That house is empty. It ain’t even finished being built. I tell him I sleep under the house. Boss-man likes me to do it. Checks up on me ever onct in a while. Sends food ever day. Dum-Dum don’t wanna listen. He tells me to turn around and kneel down. I say, No way, the ground’s all muddy. That’s when he whomped me on the top of my head with the flashlight. Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital. Twelve stitches. Boss-man comes by to see how I’m doing.

Wait, hold it right there. Who is this Boss-man?

Damn, Judge, everbuddy knows the Boss-man. He the one building all them houses. He says I should call him Winnie.

Winston Drury? Yes sir. That’s him. The Boss-man.

The phone on the judge’s desk rings. The judge says only two words: Of course, and hangs up. To the bailiff standing behind Mr. Gumbo, the judge says Take our friend here to the cafeteria. Let him order whatever he wants. And wait there until I call you.

A Visitor from London

Kno ck, knock.

Knock, knock, knock

Who is it?

Mister Pettifog, from London.

And what do you wish, Monsieur?

I am here to inspect my property.

What did you say?

I said I am here to inspect my property, this apartment.

I will not allow it.

Madame. I own this apartment.

It does not matter. You must go away.

Madame, you will leave me no choice but to call the gendarmes to set the matter straight.

How do I know you are Monsieur Pettifog?

Simply open the door and look at my face.

I do not know what you look like.

Then open the door a crack, and I’ll hand you my passport.

A tiny bit, then.

Here, take it.

This is a British passport.

Of course it is. I am a British citizen. I live in London and I have come to Paris to inspect my properties.

The picture on the passport. I must compare the picture with your face.

Then open the door just a bit more and look at my face.

Step back from the door, please, so that I may see your face in full.

Is this back far enough?

One step more, s’il vous plait.

How about now?

Oui, I see now that are truly Mister Pettifog.

Then let me in, please.

How long will this inspection take?

A few moments at most.

Very well, but wipe off your feet.

Ah…Madame, you do have a knack for decoration. Lovely, lovely, indeed. And these photographs. So many important people. Madame, I am impressed.

The inspection…Monsieur Pettifog. Please begin.

One moment. I must ask if that photograph, there, the one above the fireplace, is that the Prime Minister of France?

Yes, that is true.

And the woman standing next to him is you?

Yes, that is true also.

You must be the famous Jean-Marie Fourget. I hadn’t the foggiest.

The fog is now lifted, Mister Pettifog.

The Jean-Marie Fourget, President of MAP.

The name is not MAP, it is WAP.

I thought the name was MAP, as in ‘Men Are Pigs.’

The title of the organization is WAP, ‘Women Against Pigs.’

Very interesting, I must say.

The inspection…Please.

May I call you Jean-Marie?

If you will hurry, you may do so.

Grazie.

In France, the word is Merci.

Right you are, Jean-Marie. Mercy it is.

Observe. This room is the living room.

Yes, I’ve noticed. And a wonderful room it is.

And in here is the kitchen.

Spiffy, I might say.

Follow me, monsieur. And this room is for dining. Mister Pettifog, please put down the plate.

How do they say it in France? ‘Pardy-moy?’

The term is ‘pardonnez moi.’ Here we have the bedroom.

Very restful looking, if I do say so.

Mister Pettifog. Please remove yourself from my bed.

Pardy moy.

You have seen the apartment. Now if you will kindly leave.

The bathroom, Jean-Marie. I must see the bathroom.

Stupide!

What was that you said?

Never mind. Here is the bathroom. You may not use it.

This is marvelous. Wait until I tell my friends.

And what will you tell them?

The bidet. You have a bidet. I love bidets.

Crétin masculine.

Yes, my thought exactly. I’d give anything to own a bidet.

Please leave now, monsieur. I must prepare for a speech I am to give at the Louvre.

A speech at the Louvre? How marvelous. Perhaps I’ll attend.

Men are not permitted.

And why is that?

Because men are pigs. Have you forgotten so soon?

Jean-Marie, do I look like a pig?

Well, I will admit that you are a handsome man.

And you, Jean-Marie, you are a beautiful woman.

Do you think so?

Most definitely, Jean-Marie. I wager you are the prettiest woman in all of Paris.

All of Paris, you say? Hmm, would you like a drink, Mister Pettifog?

A spot of wine would be lovely.

I have a very fine Cabernet Sauvignon.

The old red stuff, eh? Vino rosso.

In France, the term is vin rouge.

Quite right, Jean-Marie. Fill it all the way to the brim. Like a pint at the pub, if you get my drift.

Is this full enough, Mister Pettifog?

Indeed it is. Let’s sit down, shall we? The sofa looks comfortable for two persons. Do you mind?

For a moment, then.

Tell me, Jean-Marie, are you wearing Chanel.

Well, yes. I am wearing Chanel. Do you like it?

May I take a sniff behind your ear?

A sniff? Behind my ear?

Yes, a sniff. Behind your ear.

Well…I suppose I would not object.

I’ve never smelled anything near as wonderful.

Mister Pettifog. Are you licking my neck?

Nibbling, actually. Do you want me to stop?

Ooo, that tickles.

The butterfly pin on your dress, Jean-Marie. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. May I touch it?

How do you mean…touch it?

Like this.

Oh, Mister Pettifog, can you remain a bit longer?

Jimbo

With one