Good afternoon. It is I Gigi the parti poodle here once again to introduce the twenty-third chapter of my story Certified Sadistic Accountant. This week this Hot Blooded poodle was pleased to find out that one of my favorite Dirty White Boy bands is being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. For years the band had been told with words Cold As Ice they would never be let in. But That Was Yesterday. Our Juke Box Hero probably thought someone was playing Head Games with them when they were told they were inductees. But they are not seeing Double Vision. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has decided it is Urgent they become a part of the heralded few. Congratulations, Foreigner. I’ll bet it Feels Like The First Time! And with that here is chapter twenty-three of Certified Sadistic Accountant.
Certified Sadistic Accountant
by
Gigi the parti poodle
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fia decided Aunt Odette’s office was the least unusual room in the cabin. It appeared organized and just as Curtis promised there was a substantial collection of books. They were organized alphabetically by the author’s last name. The books stood on an old-fashioned hardwood bookshelf circa 1960 which ran the length of the longest wall. It had different length shelves and was made of maple and had a beautiful soft gloss finish. The tall hardbound books were along the bottom and stood vertical except for the last area on the lowest right.
Fia perused the vast layout of choices. “This is interesting,” she said picking up a paperback and showing it to Curtis.
“Is that what you want to read?” he said before checking his watch.
“No,” she said putting it back and perusing the shelves again.
Curtis watched as she languidly ran her fingers along the spines. He watched the light catch the glossy lacquer of her painted peach nails.
“This looks interesting too,” she said lifting a leatherbound copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover off the shelf.
“Mmm, hmm,” he said checking his watch again. He watched her bend down and peruse the bottom right-hand corner. She grabbed a large book with a spiral binding, picked it up, and studied it. Then she turned around and showed it to Curtis. Curtis raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you want to read?”
“Yes.”
“Sex by Madonna and Steve Meisel?”
“Yes.”
“You realize when my aunt bought that book, they kept it behind the counter and didn’t display it. It was by request only.”
“I’ve never seen it before. I’ve heard of it, but never seen it in the flesh.”
“It’s rare now, I guess.”
“Did you used to sneak in here and read it when you visited your aunt?”
“I wouldn’t have gotten away with it.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“Be careful with it, would you. It’s fragile to begin with and it’s rare.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t still hermetically sealed in the mylar.”
“Oh, she has a copy that is.”
“She has two copies?”
“Yes. She just doesn’t keep the sealed one lying around on the shelves.”
“Wow.”
“Enjoy the book. I’m sure it will be heady reading. Let’s go. I have work to do.”
They left the office and ascended the staircase. When they reached the guest room Fia turned to Curtis and said, “I hope you understand I chose this book for inspiration.”
“Yeah, it’s inspiring alright.”
She leaned against the doorframe and nodded. “And I hope you understand the inspiration is for my performance art piece.”
Curtis noticed the room temperature suddenly rise. He cleared his throat and said, “I hope you put on a great show.”
“You’ll have to let me know how you like it,” she said flirtatiously.
“I will…,” he averted his eyes. “I will do that.”
“Goodnight, Curtis,” she said and stepped backwards into the room smiling coquettishly at him as he closed the door and locked it.
Curtis stood for a minute watching the door. He turned slowly and slogged back down the stairs. He entered his aunt’s office and sat down at her desk. He took out a couple of magazines he’d stashed in her drawer along with his tweezers, scissors and glue and began cutting letters out of the pages. He meticulously started assembling the second ransom note carefully putting a small amount of glue on each letter, placing it precisely on the paper with the tweezers and pressing it down with the eraser side of the pencil. As he did, he thought about Fia. Why did she clean the attic? Why did she agree to dessert? Why did she flirt with him?
Maybe rehearsing her performance piece in the attic made her happy. She wouldn’t have gotten that opportunity working at her father’s accounting agency all spring break. He did her a favor by kidnapping her. It upset him that she suggested he would harm her. What would be the point of harming her? That wasn’t why he’d kidnapped her. He’d kidnapped her to show how brutal they had been. Taking a man’s dog was vicious. Killing a man’s dog was downright cruel.
Suddenly, he felt tears well up in his eyes. He pushed the chair away from the desk so they would not fall on the ransom note. What was the point of putting on rubber gloves and a shower cap just to get caught by falling tears?
He reached over and grabbed a Kleenex out of the square cardboard box. He’d had to buy the Kleenex because his Aunt Odette always insisted on using handkerchiefs. Curtis always found that odd. But she insisted handkerchiefs were more environmentally friendly and felt nicer on her, as she called it, ultra-sensitive skin. Curtis breathed in deep and slowly exhaled. He grabbed the desk and wheeled himself back. He decided he was going to need some coffee to complete the task.
He headed into the kitchen, checked the bur grinder to make sure it had enough coffee beans, and ground out enough for a double shot. He grabbed the press, packed down the grounds and stuck the portafilter in the machine. He poured milk into a steel pitcher. The only syrups his aunt ever had were vanilla and raspberry. He poured equal amounts of both into an oversized mug, made the coffee, and steamed the milk. He liked his milk foamy, somewhere between a cappuccino and a latte. He poured the coffee into the mug, stirred it then added the milk. He capped it off with ample foam and headed back to the office.
After fifteen minutes of drinking the coffee, Curtis found a second wind. He steadily added one letter at a time to the note. All he had to do now was wait for the glue to dry.
Curtis lifted his head. The office came into focus. He shot up in his chair and looked at the clock. It was five-thirty AM. He only had forty-five minutes until sunrise. He pushed back the chair, pulled off the shower cap and gloves and ran into the master bedroom. He threw on his black shirt, pants, and shoes. He rushed back to the office and put on his matching gloves. He grabbed the Ziplock freezer bag and carefully slid the ransom note into it. Then he rushed out of the office and whirled around to lock the door. He raced through the living room and out the front door. He opened the door of the garage, hopped in his Honda Accord, backed out and drove off. He glanced at the car’s clock: 5:40AM. Forty minutes to daylight.
He drove too fast around the corners, anxious about the way the car struggled to hug the curves as he raced around the lake towards the main road into town. Stay cool, he told himself. Stay calm or you’ll run into another car or crash into the lake. He pulled up to the intersection that led past the mall and headed downtown on route to the neighborhood where the Dupree house stood.
He rolled down the window and let the cool air blow across his face. He breathed deeply and smelled the fresh spring night. He looked at his car clock: 5:50 AM. Thirty minutes to daylight. He saw the hill up ahead and punched the gas. He stopped at the stoplight, swiftly turned left, and powered up the second hill until he reached the crest before coasting towards the wealthiest part of town.
As Curtis pulled his pale green Honda Accord up to the curb, he glanced at the clock: 6:10 AM. Ten minutes to daylight. He grabbed the Ziplock freezer bag with the ransom note and got out of the car. He shut the door as softly as a butterfly closing its wings and prowled up the street towards the row of mailboxes.
He was almost there when he saw the police prowler parked in front of the Dupree house. He checked his watch: 6:15 AM. Five minutes to daylight. The prowler looked like a cougar waiting to pounce. Curtis turned and scurried back towards his Honda, heart pounding, fingers trembling. Dawn was breaking. He would have to hurry home to his duplex. He’d wait there for an hour or two before he headed back to the cabin.
He got into the car, stuck the ransom note under the passenger’s seat, pulled off his black knit cap and was about to start the engine when he was startled by a tapping on the driver’s side window. He whipped his head around and saw a policeman staring at him with an expressionless face. Curtis rolled down the window.
“Yes, officer?” he said with a squeak in his voice.
“What are you doing parked here?” the officer asked.
“I…,” Curtis felt a drop of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades. “I was coming home from a date.”
“A date?”
“I had dinner with a girl…a young woman…of legal age.”
“Where did you go for dinner?”
“My…her house. We had dinner at her house.”
“What did you have?”
“Clam pasta.”
“She made you clam pasta?”
“I made it, actually.”
“Where’s her place?”
“Over the bridge. Past the mall.”
“Why are you parked here?”
“I was on my way home.
“Where do you live?”
“I live in a duplex.”
“There aren’t any duplexes in this neighborhood.”
“This neighborhood is on my way home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Over by the middle school.”
“Which middle school?”
“The old one that was built in the 70’s.”
The emotionless policeman stared him down.
“Is there something wrong, officer.”
“License and registration.”
“But I was just parked. I wasn’t speeding…”
“License and registration.”
Curtis reached into his hip pocket and fumbled for his wallet. He took out his license and handed it to the officer. Then he reached into the panel of the door for the registration and handed it to the officer as well.
The officer looked over the documents, wrote something down, and handed the documents back to Curtis. Curtis put the registration back in the door and his license back into his wallet. As he was about to put his wallet back in his hip pocket, he glanced over and noticed the corner of the ransom note sticking out from under the passenger seat. He turned his eyes forwards.
“You can go,” the policeman said.
“I can go?”
“You can go.”
“Thank you, officer,” Curtis said.
The officer stepped away from the window, his heels clicking along the asphalt as he headed back to the prowler. Curtis turned on the engine and slowly drove away.
MY BOOKS
You can check out my books Chicane and all five installments of the Musicology book series Musicology: Volume One, Baby!, Musicology: Volume Two, Kid!, Musicology: Volume Three, Twist!, Musicology: Volume Four, Sweetie! and Musicology: The Epiquad on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback editions. You can also check out Musicology’s web site at www.musicologyrocks.com and vote for who you think will win Musicology!
STREAM OF THE WEEK: THE WARRIORS (1979)-AMAZON PRIME
Following last week’s pick Seven Samurai, I thought it would be apropos to choose another film about a different group of warriors. From what I understand it is becoming more and more difficult to make and distribute independent films. Which sucks. And so, I thought I would feature this wonderful little gem packed with fantastic talented young actors, many who would go on to be successful character actors as well. Look for Oscar winner, Mercedes Ruhl in one of her very first motion picture appearances.
The book the film was based on is the 1965 novel of the same name and written by Sol Yurick. After Yurick graduated with a degree in Literature from New York University (NYU), he got a job as a social investigator for New York City’s welfare department. He worked with children of welfare families, many of whom were members of gangs, hundreds of gangs in New York City. He later finished his masters of English at Brooklyn College and became a full-time writer. He penned The Warriors based on his experience with the gang members he worked with and the Greek Anabasis by Xenophon, which is a work about the Ten Thousand, an army of Greek mercenaries hired by Cyrus the Younger to help him seize the throne of Persia from his brother, Artaxerxes II, in 401 BCE.
The film takes place over the course of one night when Cyrus (Roger Hill), the leader of the Gramercy Riffs, the largest and most powerful New York City gang, calls a meeting and a truce between all the gangs. While giving a speech suggesting all of them merge and join as one force against the police, he is shot and killed by psychopathic Luther (David Patrick Kelly), leader of the Rogues. Chaos ensues and Luther immediately realizes Fox (Thomas G. Waites) has witnessed the crime. He immediately pins the act on the Warriors, falsely accusing them. This leads the vengeful Riffs to fatally attack Cleon (Dorsey Wright) the Warriors wise and dynamic leader.
Before his death, Cleon had appointed Swan (Michael Beck) as “War Chief” second-in-command. It is then up to Swan to lead Fox, graffiti artist Rembrandt (Marcelino Sánchez), and soldiers Snow (Brian Tyler), Cowboy (Tom McKitterick), Cochise (David Harris), Vermin (Terry Michos), and quick-tempered enforcer Ajax (James Remar) on a dangerous odyssey back to their home turf on Coney Island.
Rounding out the cast is Deborah Van Valkenburgh as the bright and spirited Mercy, who hangs around a lower-tier gang called The Orphans.
Gigi Catches Air 