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    Time Off For Bad Behavior: mystery
    Time Off For Bad Behavior: mystery
    Time Off For Bad Behavior: mystery
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    Time Off For Bad Behavior: mystery

    By John Blandly

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    About this ebook

    Crime mystery fiction featuring The Chicagoans; The Exciting Adventures of Life in General; No Time To Die; and, Ice Bunny Detectives, for those who like hard boiled noir thrillers.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAvantLifeGuard Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781386976769
    Time Off For Bad Behavior: mystery
    Author

    John Blandly

    John Blandly is an artist, actor, songwriter and filmmaker from upstate New York.

    Read more from John Blandly

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    • 5/5
      very noir, magic realism type mystery novellas and novelettes--pretty dark--don't wear shades when reading--recommended anyway, anyhow

      1 person found this helpful

    Book preview

    Time Off For Bad Behavior - John Blandly

    The Chicagoans

    CHAPTER 1

    I’ve just embarked on my most insane mission yet—to hire somebody to talk to.

    When you get to an advanced age of decrepitude, your kids out of college, and have a few hundred bucks in the bank—maybe you’ll consider it too.

    Not that you really want to talk to anybody—you really, deep down, just want to tell somebody what’s on your mind. Get stuff off your chest.

    So, I put an ad in the paper. Part-time assistant, that’s what I advertised for.

    I knew I’d have to keep this quiet as far as the lovely spouse goes. I don’t begrudge her for not being interested in what I do—what my dreams are. She has her own concerns. Why should she listen to me?

    I tried talking to the wife. I actually promised myself I’d talk about what I wanted to discuss on one vacation—art, literature, music, astronomy, but had to abandon it. No, it could not be done. Why go there?

    The first person who responded to my ad was a woman. I called her in for an interview. To be brief; she was too intense, and shaky at the same time—plus, asked a lot of questions, like, whether there were any benefits—time off—did I allow use of a handheld media device. I didn’t know the answers. No, forget it, and also, I wasn’t sure about a woman—afraid it might get dicey. Actually, I think she didn’t want the job.

    Next person was Jose.

    Don’t expect me to get his accent right. You’ll have to imagine it. He was from Columbia—and I’m not talking about the Ivy League college.

    I don’t know anything about Columbia, I said to him, during the interview. Just that it’s where Gabriel Garcia Marquez sited his books.

    Yes, he said. Excellent writer.

    Oh, my God, I thought. The guy might be educated.

    Two semesters in college, he said, when I asked him about his schooling.

    At that point, I had to hire him. I didn’t want him to get away.

    So, he said. What are my duties?

    Duties? I replied. You’re my assistant—part time—maybe four—five—probably no more than ten hours a week. You play golf?

    I’ve tried. Not good.

    That’s good enough.

    Haven’t got time, he added.

    I’ll pay you to play golf.

    You will?

    Sure.

    ***

    So, our story begins. Certainly, put that L sign on your forehead with your thumb and your forefinger. Loser. Paying somebody to play golf with you.

    But it just looked so good to me when I thought about it. He could go to bars with me and drive me home. It was excellent.

    You know, I have friends—well, maybe, acquaintances. But I just couldn’t hang out with Bobby The Ghostwriter, even though he always had very pertinent observations. I’ve already told you about him. Consult my backlist. And the wife—like I said—she couldn’t handle it. The kids? They’re grown up now—have jobs, etc. It’d freak them out if their old man went on and on about poetry or something. Heck, it even freaks me out now, just saying it.

    I picked Jose up Monday morning at 11 at his building—he didn’t have a car—then we drove to the golf course. He didn’t have clubs, so I had to rent them for him.

    Let me tell you about Jose. He’s about 50, kind of short and skinny, and looks kind of Spanish, Mexican, mestizo—whatever. His last name is Mandalay. What the hell kind of name that is, I have no idea. Anyway, he has a mustache, and kind of inspired me to grow the fuzz under my lower lip—sort of wild.

    I almost asked him if he knew how to speak Mexican, just for a laugh, but decided to wait a while, since I didn’t know how he’d handle that.

    This is wonderful, he said, just before teeing it up on the first hole. Thank you.

    No problem, I said, just before he whiffed.

    Sorry, he said.

    Don’t worry about it.

    Wow, did that round take a long time. I think he had a 130. It’s hard to keep track once you get up in those high numbers.

    We had a few beers afterwards in the clubhouse bar at Frear Park. It was about five or six, and we were both worn out from climbing under branches, through woods, jumping over creeks, and all that befalls the errant golfer.

    You married? I said.

    Yes, four kids.

    Great. How old?

    28, 27, 26 and 18.

    Your kids still live with you?

    Just Gabriella.

    That’s nice. Is she in school?

    Yes. She goes to H.V.C.C.

    I don’t know why, but I wondered if Jose was a drug dealer. I’d heard about the Columbian drug trade.

    What do you do for a living—other than this?

    Apples—this fall—I pick apples. This summer I landscape. I have landscape business.

    No kidding?

    Crap, I thought to myself—do I have to worry about his residency status?

    Yes, he says. Here’s my card.

    He whipped out a soiled card. It said, Jose Landscape—free estimates.

    You know, I said. I probably need stuff done. I’ll call you.

    Golf worked out so well, after recuperating a couple of days, I called him up, and we did eighteen again the next Thursday.

    But, you know, I kept thinking, this is wasteful. I hired this guy so I could talk to him—and nobody wants to talk about serious stuff on the golf course.

    I had to think awhile about what I could set up next. Then I decided—maybe he could listen to some of my tapes. I record my own music. Yes, I’d like to see what he thought of those.

    So, Saturday, I called him up.

    Want to go to Valentine’s tomorrow?

    Gee, he said. I don’t know. The wife has some of her family coming over.

    That’s okay. Never mind.

    How about today?

    Today? Sure.

    So, we headed out to Valentine’s, that alternative music place. I slammed a tape in the dash.

    Jose, I’d just like you to listen to this. See if you like it.

    After it played a few songs, I had to turn it off. It was embarrassing it was so spaced out.

    No, don’t turn it off. It’s good, he said, the savvy employee that he was.

    Really? You like it?

    Yeah, it’s different. I like the music.

    Still, I couldn’t put

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