Slingshots

By J. Rickley Dumm

Metaphorically, six insolvent Davids, who have endured the struggle of survival most of their lives, and who have had their dreams shattered, choose to take on the most powerful adversary at their disposal.

Likewise metaphorical, these untested Slingshots—a half-dozen flawed, yet determined and droll characters&mdas

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Oct 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999544099

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.

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Chapter 1

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You may be privileged and rich, my sweet, but you have to pay big Pete Davis to make you happy.

The month was March!

Low over a calm ocean on the west coast of the United States, the day’s sun ascended, illuminating the patchy, cloudy sky into brilliance as a coastal city awakened. Skyscrapers jutted into the clear air like windowed monoliths throwing elongated shadows upon their sister skyscrapers, up-and-down the wide boulevards and streets, and onto stunted networks of condominiums and apartment buildings, and gradually to the homes pocked on the hillsides farther to the demarcation of the ‘burbs of that beach community.

Not a police siren or a gunshot was heard. Only the grinding engines of the garbage trucks disrupted the quietude. Serenity was damned!

The clothes of a woman and a man were strewn about in a suite at the Hotel del Grace. Thirty-five year-old, Peter Davis, gathered his attire. He was a very attractive dude even with his hair mussed, twisted, tangled and tossed like a luncheon cobb salad.

Peter had once been a confident, going-places young man, full of life and energetic; the most-likely-to-succeed type in his high school class in Billings, Montana, from where he hailed. But his conceit and hedonistic propensity chopped-up his ambition when he moved to the congestion of the big city beach community, thinking he was going to succeed without really trying, and that the world and its hodgepodge of wealthy women were going to see him through when swooned by his charm and when they laid eyes on his manhood and experienced his sexual prowess. Maybe it was is refusal to see himself in the mirror as what he truly thought he was; then again, maybe it was his perfectly creased, heavily starched jeans he preferred to wear that resembled wooden planks, the inseams whiffing as he walked the fertile esplanade. Whatever it was, big Pete Davis’s truth was total failure and whose only and current ambition was charming wealthy older women on holiday who were alone and single, or married — women of those two echelons who were interested in some holiday comfort and company. At that point in his miserable life, they were Peter’s only sense of immediate recognition and tell.

Peter donned his evening slacks, buttoned his dress shirt, and searched for his necktie and his second sock. The blonde under the satin sheets, perhaps in her fifties, began to stir; he stopped his search, waited for a few seconds until she returned to slumber. He finally found his tie, and his second sock was in the side pocket of his sport jacket. His shoes were on a chair next to the blonde’s purse; however, before he could put them on and tie them, she began to stir once more, sweeping back the top sheet, exposing a luscious, fifty-year-old body. Peter froze and waited. Again she settled and lay quietly. God, he was tempted for one final frolic.

But in that early morning moment, it was business before more pleasure. Peter set down the shoes and began rifling her purse. He found four $100 bills. "Now I am happy. He smiled at her. He was still tempted. You were damn good, lady." He murmured, gazing at her, the memory of the evening passing through his childish spoiled mind.

Back to business, he picked up his shoes, grabbed his sport jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and left the suite, closing the door with a gentle click.

Moments later, Peter came into the stairwell and sat on the stairs, putting on and tying his shoes, yawning as he went. Done, he descended the stairwell to the basement and hurried to a rear exit, opening the door, coming face-to-face with Claude Bains, a man in his late sixties wearing overalls.

Aah, Claude smiled, feigning delight, guest of the idle rich. Claude Bains was right out of a Charles Dickens novel: Rail thin with crow’s feet that winged his listless eyes. He carried a toolbox and a coil of wire.

Out of my way, Claude.

Claude didn’t move an inch. I trust you managed a few pence for our enterprise?

Robbing a bank is no enterprise.

"Not just any bank. Claude emphasized almost proudly. You have no providence, Peter, my boy. Your ambition is curled up between your legs."

Peter absorbed Claude’s effrontery with sass of his own. Why work when I can play and survive as well or better than you who works his ass off?

He pushed passed Claude, leaving with his self-esteem in his pants as Claude chuckled and entered, closing the door. Ohhh, there was a time. He harkened back to days gone by. Traipsing down a short hall to another door, Claude unlocked it, whistling an old show tune, and went into a basement workshop.

It was two hours later as the bright, fresh morning carried forth along the beachfront boardwalk.

The Café Promenade had been a prominent and popular fixture in the community for almost fifty years, and was a favorite morning breakfast and coffee spot for early workers, city officials, and uniformed police officers that worked the area, as well as neighborhood folks. Café Promenade served a lunch fare that catered mainly to locals and vacationers, its hours of business was 5:00 am to 5:00 pm and had a licensed occupancy of 68 that included the terrace.

The outdoor terrace was roofed with an open view of the beach where the sand nearly touched the base of the cozy terrace that accommodated about eight tables; the inside was, likewise, charming and comfortable with another fourteen tables. Four waitresses worked the premises for the customers, all of whom had been employed at Café Promenade for several years, and at that time, the place was approximately half-filled with those having breakfast, evenly spread inside and on the terrace. The décor was retro and probably hadn’t changed much in nearly half-a-century. Gracing the walls were posters of old beach movies that had starred Annette Funicello, Frankie Avalon, Tab Hunter, Sandra Dee, Fabian Forte, Jimmy Darren, and The Hoff with Big Wednesday and Jan Michael Vincent thrown in. Decorative netting, a couple of surfboards, and other beach accouterments accented spaces amongst the nostalgia.

Meaty, coarse hands reached into a basket of sweet rolls and ripped one apart. The piece came to the mouth of Bernard Brogan, an overweight, miserable human being who was better suited to the curb than the kitchen of the coastal café.

More coffee, Bernard?

No, Rosi. Brogan uttered. I don’t want to be here when that wicked man shows up.

That wicked man paid for that roll you devoured.

Most people disliked Bernard Brogan because Bernard Brogan disliked most people.

How are you feeling today? Rosi asked.

How does a man like me feel every day?

Rosi leaned in closer so the two cooks wouldn’t hear her. We meet tonight.

Rosi Randall had worked at Café Promenade for a scant more than twenty years and was as much a fixture at the establishment as the establishment itself. She was as popular as the Eggs Benedict! She was going on mid-forties, loyal, smart, very attractive, positive attitude, and encouraging, yet privately, somewhat subdued with many years of hard times behind her. She had known Brogan for nine of those years and tolerated his gruffness and pessimism.

It is not for me, Rosi. Brogan responded to her aside.

We will need you, Bernard.

Brogan stuffed the other half of the roll into his mouth.

Rosi took away the basket of sweet rolls. No more rolls or bread; you have to lose weight.

Brogan hardly reacted, only a tinge of a frown as he finished his coffee. Besides his usually mussed appearance, it was easy to detect his broken, sullen disposition. He wore it!

Listen to me, Bernard. Rosi got his attention, setting down the coffee canister, speaking quietly again. Sometime in your life, you have to rise above the tragedies of the past. She implored. Coming from a person who hadn’t necessarily risen from her own tragedies and mistakes, it was strange inspiration. You have to make a leap, chance the unknown, and serve the good we’ve sworn to do for others.

It is only an ‘if.’ We are not Robin Hoods. Brogan disputed.

We’re survivors, Bernard. She insisted, gazing into his lonely eyes.

That is not always enough.

You must believe. She looked out the side window. Here comes Sid.

Brogan reacted as if she’d stuck a ramrod up his ass, springing from his chair, grabbing another sweet roll, and heading for the rear door. Rosi just shook her head at the departing brute. She grabbed the coffee canister, left the kitchen, acknowledged Sid entering the front, and strolled through the café, likewise acknowledging a few of the regulars, and stepped onto the terrace, going to the filling station to grab another fresh canister. Looking out onto the street, she observed Peter strolling by in his tightly fitted, creased jeans, a linen shirt, and canvas top beach shoes. Without much expression, she started working the beachside terrace, stopping at a table, wishing a couple a friendly, courteous good morning and refilling their cups.

A businessman gestured her over. Refill, Rosi?

She came directly over to him, and poured the refill.

I’m free for lunch today. He said, clandestinely.

Sorry.

I’ll make it worth your while.

Do you have to be here, you want that to-go? I’m working. Rosi cautioned, quietly, shutting him down.

I didn’t mean anything disrespectful. The businessman said.

Rosi knew that was a crock and headed back inside the café, glancing outside one of the side windows at Peter continuing his casual walk toward the fashionable, historic, and fertile Hotel del Grace in the distance that dominated its portion of the beachfront.

Rosalind Randall was a product of small town Midwest, U.S.A. She had been a good student, popular, and it was assumed by classmates she would do well and have a rosy future; hence, her nickname, Rosi. But after high school graduation, she chose to forego the local City College, and headed to a larger city to start a new life. There, she got mixed up with the wrong, raucous crowd, mixing good times, late nights, alcohol, and soon became pregnant. She had become quite susceptible to the strengths and control of others; thus, vulnerable, the supposed father threatened her. He gladly agreed to pay for an immediate abortion at six weeks into term, but Rosi struggled with that; instead, she opted for his cowardly generosity to pay for a one-way bus ticket to an unknown city of her choosing.

Alone and pregnant, she arrived in Omaha, Nebraska, where she could start fresh with a new life. Having rejected abortion, yet insecure and fearful of starting that new life with a baby born not out of love but from a drunken one-night stand, through a gynecologist Rosi eventually was able to make contact and meet a relative of the doctor. They were a young French couple, unable to have children of their own, who were on an extended stay in the United States and who lived in Beauvais, France, which was a town of 54,000-plus and just over an hour by car from Paris.

The baby was of the male gender. Toward the end of the second trimester, mother and baby’s health and medical prognosis were excellent, and it was at that time Rosi and the young couple struck a twofold deal: a) The couple would always be Mama and Papa and he would assume their name as his, though at an appropriate time in the child’s life, he was to be told that he was adopted and sometime in the future, also at the appropriate time, Rosi and the boy would meet and explain the circumstances of the adoption; and b) the couple would raise him to become a good, productive and responsible citizen of the world, and as best she could, she would accommodate them, monetarily, through the ensuing years toward his continued education. The Birth Certificate listed the couple as the natural parents.

Following the birth of the baby, a few months later, once again, unfortunately, alcohol took her over and she began to experiment with drugs. The ungrateful group she’d then befriended, and too soon trusted, left her, literally, in the gutter. With very little money, she hitchhiked to Topeka, Kansas.

Newly aware of her mistakes and easy nature, she tried to establish herself as a working girl and to, hopefully, become the good, productive citizen of the world as she’d espoused for her baby and to the French couple. Rosi swore off booze and drugs, and soon met a nice young man who treated her like a queen. She played hard-to-get, was honest with her past, save the birth, if ever queried, and she became a challenge to him; eventually, they had sex but Rosi was very careful and he was respectful and understood. In her early twenties at that time, Rosi was happy, envisioning that rosy future, a family life. A silver lining! Life was good. However, on one fateful occasion and quite by accident, she observed her nice young man with another pretty young lady having dinner with an older couple, his parents, overhearing how pleased they were that their son and the pretty young lady were engaged and a wedding was to be set for August. Thus, Rosi’s silver lining was suddenly and severely tarnished. That nice young man never had any intention of taking the likes of Rosi Randall home to Mom and Dad.

Nearly broke, and broken, Rosi somehow acquired a stiff upper lip, garnered as much strength as she could accumulate, and decided what her future was going to be. Impetuous as it was, she went to an Oklahoma town, rented a room at a sleazy motel for $10.00-a-night, went to the library, did some research, contacted a single gynecologist in his early thirties, made an appointment, and offered to give him oral sex then and there if he’d tie her tubes; if she did and he didn’t, she’d sue the motherfucker’s pants off on a forcible sexual assault charge. Long story short, she did, he did, and when she left the clinic, they were all smiles; she thanked him, kissed him on the cheek, he gave her a gift of $200.00, and she left town. There was no pride in her maneuvering; there was no self-serving award to be claimed, only shame. But she felt liberated, misplaced as it might have been, for the first time since high school graduation.

She was barely 24-years-old.

That $200.00 and her next bus ride found her in the beach city. It was May 1st. Fate took her to the Café Promenade where the owner, Sid, a man in his forties and the son of the gentleman who founded the iconic Café Promanade, was suddenly hit with an employee pickle after two waitresses had just quit on him. Rosi walked in, saw the scramble and dysfunction — Sid and his two cooks were preparing the meals and serving them as fast as they could get them out. It was a mess and Rosi pinpointed the distress and near panic on the owner’s face, immediately. She calmed the distraught Sid down, took over, saved his ass, and since that time, she’d been Sid’s right hand and savior. She’d earned enough since then and through the years, has had her own rented flat, trusted friends, and a survivor’s future she could live with. She’d felt fortunate over the past twenty years and became a strong, good, productive citizen. Yet like so many hard working, good, productive citizens, and despite Sid’s undying devotion to her and his promise to never let her go, the rent for living space continued to rise. Though worried she made ends meet knowing she would never starve. She also began to fathom that her life and dreams were illusions. Regardless, for 18 years Rosi was a woman of her word and had sent nearly $20,000 to the French couple in Beauvais to be put forth toward the boy’s college education.

In a competitive, open market capitalistic system, there are winners and losers. Rosi was smart enough to realize that because she’d learned to survive. She had her health, a few trusted friends, and was without debt. She considered herself a winner, and believed it, despite her lost dreams, and regardless of Brogan’s consistent, uninspired tune that survival wasn’t always enough.

It was a long way from the tragic days in Omaha, Topeka, and that Oklahoma town, yet there were memories of lessons learned, there were personal wished-for vows, and thus, there would be mistakes and difficult choices to be made soon, but Rosi had already reconciled that.

An old, 1978 copper Ford Pinto wagon with more than 200,000 miles on it, on its last years, or months, of rolling legs, came to a stop at some fencing bordering a landfill. The