On the Street: A Novelette

By Howard M. Dicus Sr.

Very fast paced, beautiful developing romance, leading to a daylong trend of events that will keep the pages turning. A pure work of fiction. Every character visualized in the mind as if seen in a movie. But in a movie, when its over, the lovers kiss, and its over. Not so in this story, as you will see.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524500382

Howard M. Dicus Sr.

Howard, now in his nineties, began serious fiction writing when he was in his late eighties and had to quit his serious traveling. His wife, Virginia, died at age sixty-seven. He is a father of six children. His writing began with the purchase of a computer, and he started writing stuff, typing with one finger, and still does.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Howard Dicus.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016907825

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5245-0040-5

   Softcover   978-1-5245-0039-9

   eBook   978-1-5245-0038-2

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 a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/12/2016

Xlibris

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Dedication

*****

To my brother

Bruner Rollins Dicus

As fine a man as ever lived.

On the Street

*****

Psst! … Psst!

A very attractive, young woman looks, stops walking, sees a well-dressed man in his late twenties, hears him say …

Can I have a kiss?

Of course, the answer is a flat no, but I have never heard such a uniquely stupid …

Well, I saw you kissing at least five guys in the terminal a short while ago … He’s easing away from the wall of the building and is now only a couple of feet from her . . . and I wanted to have a turn.

You beat all. Those men were my hockey team. I’m their manager. Now may I proceed without being molested?

Accosted, maybe, but surely not molested. Can I walk with you? And, listen, I won’t pressure you for a kiss—plenty of time for that later.

This is as far as you will walk with me because I am about to hail a cab. Just like that, a cab is at the curb. She slides in and in a subdued voice, gives the driver the destination.

Please, we can’t part like this. At least, let me ride with you—I’ll pay the driver (he’s sliding in) go ahead, driver. Let’s forget about the kiss for now, at least until we get acquainted. My name is Jack Mosey, the famous writer.

I thought it would be Jack Jerk, pick-up artist.

The girl’s name is Susan Knell. Her bantering with the handsome guy is not how she really felt inside. Actually, she wanted to give him the come-on, but couldn’t help herself because fending him off was expected of a decent, attractive young woman.

Oh, I’m hurt—where is the nearest hospital with emergency service. Jack slouched in his seat, clutching his side.

I must be dropped off first—I have an appointment.

Jack adopted a petulant face, staring straight ahead and said, Simple courtesy comes to mind. All I need before we part is your name, address, age, citizenship, etc., lest we never see each other again, and you would calmly let that happen. Mr. Cabbie, what do you think?

I don’t answer questions like that. When I get home my wife always asks me a question and I always say wait till I check the garden. Or I have to go do this or that because the answer to a question always gets another question, on and on until there’s an argument. So maybe that’s why the lady don’t answer you.

Well, well, well. That proves it—it’s true. All New York City cab drivers are philosophers.

We are here, said the driver, as he pulled up in front of police headquarters.

What’s this, asked Jack?

This is where I have an appointment. They want me to give them information about a murder I witnessed in Toronto last night. And this is where you can find out everything you want to know, if you are brave enough to accompany me. I expect to get something like the third-degree and may need the comfort of a friend.

The meter read $9.80.

Jack handed him a twenty. Keep the change. Come, darling, let’s get this over with so we can start our lives together in the right way.

Okay, Jack, I’ll play this game until we walk back out of this building, that is, if they don’t decide to keep me locked-up in a dungeon.

Inside, they approached the desk—Miss, are you Susan Knell?

Startled, Susan replied, Yes, I am.

The desk Sarge quickly picked up a phone—dialed two numbers—listened—She’s here, Capt.—Yes, sir.

He wants to see you right away—go right up. Take the elevator—(pointing)—second floor, all the way back, marked Homicide—never seen the Capt so anxious to see somebody.

In the slow elevator Susan turned to Jack and said, Why is he so anxious?

Down the hall a middle aged woman held a door open waiting for them—Come with me, please.

Their escort walked them right into an inner office, saying, This is Capt. Serio. The Captain held out his hand and warmly greeted Susan. I have been trying to reach you all morning because, Susan, you did not witness a murder, it was only an injury and not that bad either, so I know you are thrilled to hear this news. The injured man had gone into shock and doesn’t even want to press charges. Oh, excuse me, is this your attorney?

Sir, this is a friend, Jack Mosey. He isn’t an attorney. He is a writer. Jack advanced and shook hands with Capt. Serio.

"I read a couple of your articles in the New York magazine—liked them"

"Glad you did. But, I must tell you the truth, my real name is Jack Delaney. I write under four different names. I use my real name for my novels and