A Search for Sophia

By William E. Blaine

During the World War II, a young American soldier and a destitute Sicilian girl met in a bombed out building. The ravages of war and the fear of death brought the two together resulting in the birth of twins and the struggle in their lives that followed. The search for Sophia tells of that struggle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453531082

William E. Blaine

William E. Blaine, Jr. practiced law and owned several lumber companies. He taught as an adjunct professor-served on nonprofi t: hospital, social service and college boards. Navy pilot—WWII and Korea. He and his wife Jo Ann have four children. Residence in Columbus, Ohio.

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Copyright © 2010 by William E. Blaine, Jr.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2010909763

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is the work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations, is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Dedicated to Kay Jones

Contents

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

PART TWO

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART THREE

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

PART FOUR

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

PART FIVE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

PART SIX

Chapter

Twenty One

Chapter

Twenty Two

Chapter

Twenty Three

Chapter

Twenty Four

Chapter

Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

PART SEVEN

Chapter

Twenty Seven

Chapter

Twenty Eight

Chapter

Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

PART EIGHT

Chapter

Thirty Three

Chapter

Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter

Thirty Seven

Chapter

Thirty Eight

Chapter

Thirty Nine

PART ONE

Chapter One

I hope you don’t think that I’m a sucker. I may come across that way as I tell my story but the truth is, I’m just too conscientious and too trusting. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

*     *     *

The huge, rust-covered, iron gate of El Dorado Correctional Facility ( EDCF ) in El Dorado, Kansas, on Federal Highway 35 about 50 miles north-east of Wichita, opened just barely wide enough for me to squeeze through. In the process, I scraped my arm and left a hunk of my skin on the gate. The wound began to bleed. It didn’t hurt but it made me mad as hell. It was like the prison was trying to get its final pound of flesh.

I am Mathew Lee Banister, EDCF’s most recent parolee. I am known as Butch by my friends, if I still have any friends left.

I cursed under my breath at the prison guard who had opened the gate, for not opening it wider. It was obvious to me that the prison was not very happy about the parole board reducing my sentence. Seeing me released from their sadistic clutches did not make them at all happy. But that was just too bad! Three years in prison was three years too many.

*     *     *

I walked several blocks from the prison to catch a city bus that took me to the Greyhound Depot where I caught another bus for Wichita, Kansas. I couldn’t wait to get as far away from the prison as possible. I even considered taking a plane to Outer Mongolia or Siberia or even the Land of Oz but I had been told by my attorney that my parole was contingent upon my remaining in Wichita for one year in a form of house arrest until my original sentence expired.

The trouble was that I didn’t have a house for ‘house arrest’. It would have to be a ‘park arrest’ because that’s probably where I would be sleeping—on a park bench. While I was in prison, my second wife, Nora, divorced me and in the process, took every penny that I had which hadn’t been much. I didn’t mind the money so much, but what made me mad was that she also took my 2005 Toyota Camry. My only satisfaction was that those cars had been recalled due to engine trouble.

*     *     *

I have to admit that it felt great to be a free man again. For the last three years, I had been behind bars. I had missed walking in a park, or eating in a restaurant or sleeping in a comfortable bed or holding a woman in my arms or drinking a beer or taking a shower—not necessarily in that order. And there was something else. There had been nearly a dozen inmates at the prison whom I had sent there when I was a private investigator. Every day and every night at EDCF, I had to keep looking over my shoulder in case one of my former subjects tried to attack me—with a shiv.

Chapter Two

My office was the place where I would be sleeping at night. It was a one room closet-office on the second floor of a small strip shopping mall in a suburb of Wichita. When I rented the office several years ago, I had figured that if a second floor office was good enough for Abraham Lincoln, then it was good enough for me.

I hadn’t paid any office rent since the time I left for prison three years ago. When I left for prison, the landlord, Sam Bastion, locked my office door and kept it as I had left it, not because he was a generous person but because he knew that no one else would want it. I’m also sure that he was hoping that I would return someday to start paying him rent again.

*     *     *

On my return to my second floor office, I opened the glass door that still had my name on it. I had to admit that it was good to be back in my office even though I needed a shoe-horn to move around. It seemed that my desk and the mess on top of it was just as I had left it three years earlier except for about an inch of dust that had accumulated on everything. I opened the room’s only window to air out the joint.

I sat down in my out-of-date swivel chair and felt almost human again. I leaned back, put my feet up on the desk and tried to decide what my next move was going to be—as if I didn’t know! I hadn’t been with a woman for three years so my decision didn’t take a mastermind. I only hoped my phone still worked. I picked up the receiver and thanked my landlord, Sam Bastion, and the telephone company for not disconnecting it.

I dialed Alma Corvette’s phone number, hoping it was still the same, and was lucky enough to catch her at home. Alma was the woman that I had been seeing before I was incarcerated. We were starting to get pretty sticky. When I heard her voice on the phone, I must admit that I got a little excited. She sounded mad when she answered,

What! I was a bit surprise at her abruptness. She couldn’t have known that it was me so I said,

It’s me, Butch, your long lost lover boy. I’m out of EDCF honey. There was a long pause before she said,

So, what’s that suppose to mean to me?

Come on Alma. Don’t be like that. I’ve missed you like crazy. How about me coming over?

You stay away from me or I’ll call the police. Then she hung up. I tried to call her back but her line was busy. She had obviously taken her phone off the hook. I considered going over to her apartment, uninvited, but knowing Alma like I did, she probably would have called the police and the last thing that I needed right then was the police. So I put my phone back on its cradle and tried to figure out how to get back into Alma’s good graces. Maybe I would buy her some flowers but that wouldn’t work because I didn’t have any money to waste on flowers that would probably just be thrown in my face.

*     *     *

While I was trying to decide how to approach Alma without being handcuffed and mirandized by the police, my phone rang. It surprised me so much that I nearly tipped over backward in my chair. I picked up the receiver and said with wishful anticipation,

I knew that you couldn’t keep your hands off of me, baby!. I’ll be right over. There was this funny gasp on the other end of the line and it finally said,

It’s me, Arthur Westcott. And yes dear, I can keep my hands off of you, you horny bastard! If you can tear yourself away from your busy schedule, I have a job for you. Try to shift your appointments around and be in my office this afternoon at 4:00 pm and if you’re one minute late, you’re history! On that, he hung up without giving me a chance to say hello. I hate a wise ass and Arthur was a wise ass. But the good side of him was that he was my best friend and my best source of income. If Arthur did have a job for me, maybe I could get enough cash up front to sleep in a motel bed at night because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be in Alma’s bed.

*     *     *

Andrew Westcott and I had been in law school together. As a matter of fact, we were roommates and studied together. I wouldn’t dare let this get out but he was not the smartest student that I’ve ever met. I had tried more than once to explain to him things like: Why are there nine justices on the United States Supreme Court instead of eight or ten? or What exactly is due process? or What’s wrong with asking a witness a leading question?

Now Andrew was a full partner in the law firm of Bourbon, Tank, Simpson and Westcott (BTS and W) and I was a humble, private investigator—when I wasn’t in prison.

*     *     *

I was always overwhelmed by Andrew’s office: its massiveness and its luxurious decor; with its huge oriental rug that could have covered a baseball diamond’s infield; its leather chairs that still smelled new; its draped windows that overlooked a metro park, and a desk that was bigger than my whole office back at the strip mall. I thought to myself, This could have been me here instead of Arthur. It could have been BTS and B, me being the last ‘B’. I was smarter and taller than Arthur and I had only been divorced twice, to his three times. But instead of being like Arthur, wearing a coat and tie and taking clients for a gourmet lunch, I was usually in a sweater and slacks, chasing dead beats, hunting for lost witnesses or on a stake out—and eating out of a paper bag.

*     *     *

When I entered Arthur’s office, I was really surprised to see the most beautiful dame that I had ever laid my poor deprived eyes on. Arthur didn’t introduce us so I had to extend my hand to this beautiful creature and say,

Arthur has no sense of hospitality. My name is Mathew Banister but you can call me Butch, and you are?

In a soft, sexy voice, she said,

Betty Able.

I hastened to ask,

Is that Miss or Mrs? At this point, Arthur interrupted what was becoming a budding love affair and said,

Butch, will you curb your enthusiasm and be serious? Mrs. Able has hired our law firm to represent her. When I heard the word Mrs. my hopes of a romance were dashed. Andrew continued,

Mrs. Able’s husband has filed for a divorce claiming that Mrs. Able has been unfaithful. When I heard the word divorce, my hopes of a romance again soared. Andrew continued,

Mrs. Able claims that her husband is the one who has been unfaithful. But we need proof of his infidelity in order to defend her and obtain a sizeable settlement for her. The law firm is thinking of asking the court to award our client $5,000,000. Mr. Able is certainly worth it. That’s where you come in, Butch. Get me some pictures of Mr. Able being a bad boy.

*     *     *

As I had hoped, Arthur gave me a sizeable retainer so that I could get a haircut, buy some new clothes and rent a car. My life was starting to be normal again which didn’t take much since my standards were minimal and my requirements were few. All I needed now were the lips and other parts of a beautiful woman.

Arthur had also, very reluctantly, given me Mrs. Able’s address but only after I swore on my mother’s grave that I would not mix business and pleasure. I told him that I would never let business interfere with my pleasure. He didn’t laugh and threw a law book at me. I picked it up, smoothed its damaged pages and placed it back on his desk and reminded him,

You know what they say Arthur, ‘The trouble with law is lawyers’. After that remark, I left his office in a hurry.

*     *     *

The day after we met in Arthur’s office, I called on Betty—I mean Mrs. Able. When she came to her front door, she was in