A Trophy for the Mind

By Mayo R. DeLilly III

Every story opens a door into the world of an authors imagination. A story entertains, informs, makes us think.

Take a journey along with Mayo R. DeLilly, III as he presents his inaugural work of short stories. Meet an investigator who finds out more than he bargained for when he attempts to retrieve a manuscript from a reclusive writer. Take a day trip with an elderly couple who metes out their own brand of justice. Wrestle with one physicians struggles and ultimate self-sacrifice. Experience another physicians redemption and triumph over the darkness in his own soul. Share how a young boys love of books conquers ignorance and loneliness. If you dare, dance along with a blues player and his magical guitar.

Reading enriches us all. So put your feet up, relax and enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 12, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462843183

Mayo R. DeLilly III

Mayo R. DeLilly, III practices General Pediatrics in Los Angeles, CA. This is his first work of fiction.

Book preview

MOVE OVER, J.D.

A slightly built man with round shoulders sat in an office waiting room. Day old whisker stubble covered his pockmarked cheeks. As he looked up, a NO SMOKING sign glared back up at him from across the room. Taking a final drag on his fourth cigarette, he dropped the butt into a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee and brushed ashes from his rumpled seersucker suit.

As if in front of an imaginary mirror, he ran a comb through his thinning brown hair and licked it back with some saliva. He adjusted his flowery tie and grimaced, exposing a set of yellow brown teeth. Reclining in the office sofa, he opened and closed a magazine, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and let out a loud belch. The smell of garlic permeated the air. He popped a breath mint into his mouth.

Calvin Brent stared at the buxom brunette typing at her desk. As he watched, she answered an intercom and looked his way.

Mr. Brent, Mr. Zimmer will see you now.

Brent walked into the office, still fidgeting with his tie and collar. As he scanned the room, a short, balding man stepped from behind a desk stacked with papers and unread manuscripts. The man extended his hand and motioned for Brent to sit down.

Good afternoon. I’m Calvin Brent. He could see Zimmer’s eyebrows rise. A curt smile formed on the man’s face.

Thank you for coming, Zimmer replied. You come highly recommended.

Thank you.

Zimmer sat down and leaned back in his chair. Mr. Brent, I have a job for you. Have you ever heard of J.D. Harper?

No, I haven’t.

Read much literature?

Nah. But I read a book once by that guy with a woman’s name for a last name. You know. The guy that talks about streaming consciousness?

Zimmer frowned. You mean James Joyce?

Yeah. He’s the one!

Zimmer ran his hand over his balding head and sighed quietly. "No matter. Jefferson Davis Harper is one of the foremost writers of our time. His essays, poems, and Stories of Appalachia series have sold millions of copies."

So what do you need me for?

"Mr. Harper is under contract to produce a four book collection. We have received and published three of the manuscripts, but the final one, Ode to Appalachia, is months past due the agreed deadline. Calls and letters to Mr. Harper and his lawyer have gone unanswered. You can see my dilemma, can’t you?"

Yeah. You can’t sell it if you don’t have it!

A clenched smile on his face, Zimmer replied, You are quite perceptive!

I’ve been told that before.

Zimmer leaned forward. We need you to find Mr. Harper, and if possible, either retrieve or determine the whereabouts of the manuscript. Can you do that? he asked softly.

Sure! Where does old J.D. live?

In a small coal mining community in southeast Kentucky. I believe it’s called Jackson Downs. Mrs. Huff will have all the maps and information for you. She also has a list of people to contact when you reach Jackson Downs; Postmaster, the lawyer who handles Mr. Harper’s estate, the Mayor, the Sheriff. You should have no problems. Any questions?

How much for the job?

With a look of askance on his face, Zimmer gave Brent a curt smile and answered, Oh, silly me. The job is never over until the paperwork is done! A hundred dollars a day expenses. The balance when you complete the job.

Brent waved his hand and shook his head. Don’t do charity work.

Based on your past performances, I think the offer is rather generous. Need I elaborate?

Brent looked down and squirmed in his chair. Hey, l-listen, that business with the police department and the little kid getting shot are behind me now.

. . . And the drinking?

I take a nip every now and then, but I’ve been off the stuff for three months now. Honest.

I’ve been told that you do good work when you are sober. This job may be your last chance to get on your feet. What is your decision, Mr. Brent?

Looking down at the floor, Brent mumbled, I’ll take it.

Splendid! If you catch the train from Penn Station this evening, you should make it by tomorrow afternoon. Keep me posted on your progress.

Head down, Calvin Brent stood up and left.

Brent yawned as his body gently swayed with the rhythmic movements of the passenger car. One hundred dollars a day, he thought. Can’t even buy a Pullman berth with that! The mid-morning sun illuminated the seats a few rows back, where a little boy sat playing with his mother. Brent noted the sound of heavy footsteps moving toward the front of the train. Without looking, he heard the familiar hole puncher click and a friendly thank you. The conductor was checking tickets.

Ladies and gentlemen, next stop is Pennington Gap, the conductor bellowed.

Brent opened his eyes and stretched as the conductor approached. Pulling the shade back, he squinted at the bright sunlight.

May I see our ticket, please?

Oh, yes, Brent replied, reaching into his coat pocket. How much further to Jackson Downs?

About one or two hours. Dining car is still open if you want something to eat.

Thanks, Brent said as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Sorry, sir. No smoking on the train.

Brent shoved the pack into his coat pocket and put a breath mint into his mouth. Leaning back in his chair, he looked out the window at the scenery. No longer seeing the conductor, Brent pulled a small metal flask out of his other coat pocket and took a long swig.

Ah! A little nip to keep the tremors down never hurt. Three dry months had removed the elephants, spiders, and other crawly things from his daily world, but working always brought the tension, bad memories and disabling doubt back. A little oil always stopped the squeaking. Who would know? Surely not old smart-ass Zimmer, he thought. This job would be a piece of cake. Probably some absentminded old coot that left the papers under something and forgot them. How hard could it be?

Brent continued to peer out at the rolling Appalachian hills. This was beautiful country. Type of place a man could settle down and forget everything. Then the train passed some boarded up buildings and houses with broken windows. Weeds and overgrown vegetation erupted through the broken pavement. A sign swayed from the small, boarded up train depot. Coal Bluffs, Ky. Brent shrugged. Looked pretty dead. The train passed Collins Ridge, Cumberland Crossing, and Lynchpin. They all looked the same. Brent looked at a few people standing by the tracks; their drawn, solemn faces and coal stained clothing telling another story. This was a beautiful but a hard country.

Jackson Downs! resounded through the car as the conductor shouted the next stop.

Thank you. Say, what happened to those other towns?

Mines closed. People moved away or died off, the conductor replied.

Kinda sad.

Yeah. I was born in Lynchpin. Live up near Frankfort now.

Brent nodded and the conductor continued toward the back of the train. Sitting up in his seat, Brent could feel the train slowing down. Between the trees, he could see a steeple and a few brick buildings in the distance. A smooth blacktop road ran alongside the tracks. A barefoot boy with rolled up pant legs and a fishing pole waved as the train pulled up to the station.

Jackson Downs!

Brent grabbed his suitcase and stepped off the train. Much to his surprise, the station in Jackson Downs was red brick with a large waiting area and a small cafeteria. No one-room, clapboard shack like the ghost towns recently passed. This place looked brand new. Brent spied the boy walking with his fishing pole and called out to him.

Excuse me, young man. How do I get to town?

The gangling youngster, looking no more than twelve or thirteen, pointed toward the road. Main Street is ‘bout half mile up the road there.

Brent crossed the road in front of the depot and began to walk toward town. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.

When Brent reached Main Street, he saw a well-paved four-lane boulevard with stoplights. On either side of the main drag, sturdy red brick buildings were intermingled with clean, freshly painted wooden structures. A monument stood at the end of the street, surrounded by lush green grass and an adjoining park and bandstand. The overalls, pickup trucks and leisurely pace still resembled small town America, but Brent couldn’t shake the obvious. This place was different. The town looked, well, almost prosperous. He crossed the street and stepped into the Main Street Inn.

As Brent approached the counter, a lanky middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit wiped his wire rimmed glasses with a handkerchief.

I would like to get a room. Brent signed the register and the innkeeper gave him a key.

What brings you this way, Mr . . . . Brent? the man asked.

Business. Can you tell me where I can find the office of Cyrus Reed, Attorney?

Yup. Two blocks down. ‘Cross the street from the Post Office.

Thanks. Brent picked up his suitcase and prepared to walk upstairs. Suddenly, he turned to the man behind the counter. Do you know J.D. Harper?

Yes. He lives a few miles out of town. Don’t see him much. Just stays in that big old house, writing. The innkeeper motioned to Brent. Up the stairs, second door on the left.

Thanks!

Outside, the streets seemed unusually quiet to Brent. As he walked past the Post Office, he looked back, expecting to see closed curtains part and move. But everything was still. It was early afternoon and not a soul in sight.

Brent opened the door to the office of Cyrus Reed, Attorney at Law. A little bell chimed above him. Before he could close the door, a thin bespectacled man with brown, slicked back hair stood in front of him. A blue, baggy suit hung from his bony frame. Startled, Brent stepped back. The man just stared, his haunting gray eyes devoid of any emotion or surprise.

May I help you?

Y-Yes! My name is Calvin Brent. I am a private investigator representing Zimmer Publications. I would like to speak to a Mr. Cyrus Reed concerning Jefferson Davis Harper.

I see. Oh, please excuse me. I’m Cyrus Reed. I am the executor of Mr. Harper’s estate. Please, come into my office.

The office looked like the usual barrister hangout, Brent thought. Volumes of law books on the shelves. Stacks of papers piled up and a fancy Banker’s lamp on a dark mahogany desk. There were Diplomas and awards adorning the walls.

Now, how may I help you? Reed asked.

I wish to meet with Jefferson Davis Harper.

Reed leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Brent, you must understand something.