ALEXA

Do you remember the Heuristically Programmed ALgorithmic Computer? It was called HAL for short. Specifically the operational model was known as the HAL 9000. It was used to control the systems of the Discovery One spacecraft and interact with the ship’s astronaut crew. Maybe you don’t remember. It’s fiction from the 1968 movie “2001: A Space Odyssey”. However most probably do since Stanley Kubrick’s epic film has also been said to feature the most famous of all cinematic computers. Personally, I’ll settle for the machines that even precede HAL. Such as the ‘star’ of the 1957 film “Desk Set” starring Spencer Tracey and Katherine Hepburn. Their computer was the EMERAC, short for “Electromagnetic MEmory and Research Arithmetical Calculator.” ‘She’ would later be more affectionately called ‘Emmie.” We can even go further back, in that the fictional EMERAC was a play on the real ENIAC (“Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer”), which was developed in the 1940s and was the first electronic general-purpose computer. Which brings us full circle from the real thing of the 1940s to the very real thing of today. ALEXA.

To some it could appear we have passed into the realm of George Orwell’s 1984. Which, by the way, was published in 1949. There we go reaching back to the 40s again. The folks back then knew something was coming. Anyway, it’s been reported elsewhere the good people at Lab 126 chose the name Alexa for their version of an Artificial Intelligence personal assistant because of how the vocal sound helped trigger the device as well as a Star Trek reference to the great library of Alexandria and it having been the ‘keeper of all knowledge’. Today it should be Amazon known as the keeper of all knowledge. Yes, the full proper name of Alexa is Amazon Alexa. And Amazon is the parent company of Lab 126, the developer and maker of Alexa. Amazon Lab126 was founded in 2004. It is currently based in California with 3000 employees. To make our lives easier… and easier to track… they have given us the Amazon Kindle, Fire Phone, Fire TV, and of course the Amazon Alexa and accompanying Amazon Echo and Echo Dot.

Did anyone say, “Privacy?” Relax, there is none. Seriously. Forget about it. Today there is a surveillance camera of some type every few feet. Every move we make is seen and recorded. Inside our homes we now have loads of ‘smart’ devices that do the same in the privacy of our own homes. ‘Smart’ phones, ‘Smart’ TVs, voice actuated personal assistants such as Alexa, and the list will grow. In some form or fashion everything you say or do is seen and heard. And recorded. This is a fact, not paranoia speaking. In fact I’m saying we probably need to get over it and relax because there’s nothing we can do about it. We traded our privacy for convenience. Enjoy it.

“Alexa! Play… ‘Desk Set’.”

Meet Kay Frame

Well hello there. It’s so nice to meet you. May I introduce myself? My name is Kay. Kay Frame. I was born in late March of 1927 in Springfield, Massachusetts. The exact day isn’t important but it was the 28^th if you really must know. The same year D.R. Fitzpatrick lampooned corporate and consumer greed when he called Henry Ford’s Model ‘T’ the tin god. And Ford’s new assembly line format was followed by many others causing fear to spread among the working class that labor-saving devices would cause unemployment. Yes, the 1920s were the best of times and worst of times. You see, everyone was having the time of their lives. The Great War had ended just before the decade started and the economy was booming. Parties and making money were the order of the day. And with Prohibition going into effect at the dawning of the 20s parties and money were definitely at the forefront. As was crime. The decade wasn’t called the “Roaring 20s” for nothing.

Being a Smith and Wesson .38 Military & Police Model of 1905 Fourth Change puts me in the family tree of the venerable Model 10 revolver. My grandfather, the Smith & Wesson .38 Hand Ejector Model of 1899, came into the world the same year as Ernest Hemingway. I mention him because the year I arrived is shared with when he divorced his first wife Hadley and married Pauline. But that’s another story.

Anyway, my own story had much more humble beginnings. You see, when I left Springfield it was with nine of my siblings. Eight of us were chrome plated while two were dark complected with bluing. Us brighter ones were evenly divided between six-inch and five-inch barrels. We were all delivered together to a hardware store in Alabama. It figures I’d wind up with a southern farmer being used to shoot squirrels and snakes. I’m guessing the two blued guns with five-inch barrels went to work with a military man or even the police. They don’t like shiny guns with long barrels. They’ll have an exciting time while I’ll sit around and have no stories to tell to my grand kids.

I was right. One Saturday as soon as I arrived a local farmer came into Long’s Hardware in Jefferson County and picked me up along with a short shovel, a twenty pound maul axe, and a small single edged hatchet. I think he ordered me from the catalog because I never made it out to a display case. While farmer Brown held me at the counter and worked the action I heard him mention to the clerk how he decided on the chrome finish because it offered better protection against moisture of sweaty hands and weather. All I could think was, this is great… I’ll wind up bouncing around in a holster or a tool box while this guy’s out plowing the back forty. Some life.

As it turned out there was to be a ‘Red Letter’ day for the city of Birmingham this same year. My new owner decided to make the trip to Roberts Field with a buddy to see the stop-over of Charles Lindbergh and his Spirit of St. Louis. I didn’t think anything of going along since I was in the habit of tagging along in a hip holster everywhere he went. There were thousands there to greet Lindbergh but when he departed we were still in the city. I didn’t know why we remained. Then I learned the truth. My owner and his friend were active members of a local Klan group and had gone to Birmingham to commit terrorism against some immigrant business people. Going to see Lindbergh had only been seen as a convenient cover story for having made the trip.

Somehow they managed to lure an unsuspecting Italian merchant back to Roberts Field late in the afternoon. During much of the 1920s there had been a string of attacks on Greek, Italian, and Jewish immigrants in the city by unknown perpetrators with many murdered and just as many more maimed in axe attacks. Apparently the gruesome attacks were meant to frighten away the survivors. My boss and his partner intended to do the deed in a remote part of the field just at sunset and travel back to the far western part of the county that evening. Another part of their plan to cover their tracks.

Right at sunset the victim arrived and was met by the two as he closed the door of his car. Both men drew axes from under their jackets but this time was different. There had been so many of these types of attacks for so many years this victim was prepared. And he had not gone alone. Three more men emerged from the parked car just as the attack began. It was now four to the attackers’ pair.

Although the two were armed with small axes and holstered handguns they were quickly overpowered by the four. In short order they were disarmed of all their weapons and I was used by the intended victim to kill both men. I was now spoils of war and had a new home. The two Klan farmers were found at the airfield the following day. This was the same year the state started using the electric chair for executions but it had little effect on the activity in the city. The victim demographic had had enough. No longer would ineffective police detectives be brought in. The problem was dealt with most effectively and quietly by the private sector. No one was ever arrested or charged for these killings.

After a couple of years of sitting under the store clerk’s cash register; occasionally brandished when a trouble maker came in, I was given to a young man who had joined the police force. I think he was a nephew. It was the new order of the day that police revolvers were of the four-inch barrel variety so as to fit the uniform holster they all carried. To avoid buying a new gun for the high price of $34.00 he took me to a smith and had my barrel cut down. I must admit he did a good job. I look nice. You can hardly tell it was a cut job. Very professional. I was now an official four-inch barrel police duty gun. I had earned my badge and was now one of the good guys.

One December night in ’36 we were in an alley on a walking beat when we heard glass break. Then came the cry of a cat and a little more falling glass pieces. Then dead silence. A very faint breeze could be detected but nothing more. Deafening silence. We moved toward where the sound came from. There was a crunching sound made with each step in the freshly fallen snow. It sounded much louder than it actually was. As we got closer I was pulled from my cozy holster and brought up to lead the way.

Since we were in an alley and there was no call box anywhere around we continued toward the back of the office building with no backup. There was no time to run find one and call for help. When we got to the building we turned the corner and could see someone climbing out of a broken ground level window. All I remember was hearing yelling, the perp spinning around and raising his arm, and next thing you know me and the other fella’s gun let off. I let go four rounds as I felt a sinking sensation. We were going to the ground. I could see the other gun and his person were also falling backwards. I was on my side in the snow. Everything got real still and quiet.

I was taken back in by the family and was once again back home on my little shelf under the cash register. I think I was forgotten about because I wasn’t taken out of my little spot for fourteen years. Not even shown to anyone or taken target shooting. I just sat there on eternal guard duty. Then in 1950 the little shop owner died and his widow sold the store. She took me home and I lived with her in lonely retirement. Here at home with her I slept for another twenty eight years in her night stand drawer. When she finally passed away at a ripe old age I was discovered by one of the adult children and I went to live with them.

I was fifty-one years old now but I looked pretty much like the new ones rolling out of the factory. No one could look at me and tell my age. Young folks would even say I was stainless steel when holding me and talking about me. Stainless steel didn’t even exist in my day. I am chrome plated, thank you. Which looks much shinier and better if you ask me.

I was finally abandoned once again when they sold me off cheap to a second hand dealer in the city. It was actually a pawn shop. How degrading. All kind of characters rolled through the place. It never failed either that they wanted to take me out of the case and handle the hardware. This was so demeaning. I had no home and no family anymore. I felt like a late-in-life lonely homeless drifter. What had happened to me?

Finally in 1983 a nice young man rescued me from that life and gave me a new home. He was just getting out of the army and had ambitions of starting a police career. He thought he would use me as his partner like that nice young man did back in the 30s. Since I had been carried and shot very little I still looked almost like a new one. He didn’t know the difference. And I wasn’t about to tell him either. I was more than ready to get back out in the world and have a few more adventures.

Now here we are today. That nice young man is now a white haired retired cop. I still live with him and I guess I will until he passes away. After that I have no idea what will become of me. In my 93 years I think I’ve seen it all. I’ve lived it all. On both sides of the fence. I prefer on this side of the past 30 years. I guess that’s what worries me the most. I know my kind doesn’t work in a cop’s holster anymore. My day has finally come and gone. They carry those fancy new autoloaders now. Unless I’m taken into someone’s home again I may wind up on the dark side. I don’t think I could bear it. I do so hope my last years pass with dignity.

Before the Thin Man: The Prequel to Dashiell Hammett’s ‘The Thin Man’, Chapter 3

© Christopher Allen 2018 All Rights Reserved

I made my way from Macauley’s office and walked back to my car. It was only a couple of blocks away and I actually welcomed the stroll. The spring air and warm weather had taken far too long to get here. After a few minutes walking along Coney Island Avenue I found my ragtop. Turning the key to bring her to life I was thinking Brooklyn isn’t a bad place but I was nonetheless glad to be heading back to Manhattan. It was getting late in the day and I needed to get back to Fifty-Second Street.

Cruising up Coney Island Avenue, my eye caught something going down on the sidewalk ahead. A grubby looking mug ran up to someone’s grandmother and grabbed her purse from behind. She was no easy target, I tell you. She held on and tried her best to fight him off, but he jerked the purse so hard the strap broke and she fell to the sidewalk. This didn’t set too well with me.

He ran in my direction and made the corner. I shot through the intersection and drove parallel to him as he ran along the sidewalk. I sped up a bit and turned into a mid-block alleyway cutting him off. He stopped near the passenger side of my car which was now blocking the sidewalk.

“Move the car, old man,” he yelled as he pulled out a switchblade, snapping it open to show me he meant business. “How about no?” I said as I pointed my Smith & Wesson.

His hand sprung open and his knife went into an end over end spin as it fell to the sidewalk. He quickly spun around and ran the four-forty back to where he started. I backed out of the alley and accelerated in reverse down the street in pursuit. After driving a half a block backwards, I realized I couldn’t chase this guy around town all day while driving backwards. I slid the car around as I continued to accelerate. The Stutz BB Boattail never stopped pulling. Shifting from reverse to forward gear in the spin was one butter-smooth motion as it slid into the new gear and continued the pursuit without a hint of a hiccup.

Back at the intersection I pulled a hard left and slid to a stop on the crosswalk. Her handling at the turn was pure poetry. Junior ran smack into the side of the car at a full run and fell back into the crosswalk flat of his back. He couldn’t speak or breathe but stared at me with wide ‘deer in the headlight’ eyes.

“Officer, will you please have someone clean this up? He’s blocking traffic,” I said to the beat cop as he ran over to us. I opened the door and stepped out.

I relieved the track star of the pocket book. The officer took over the care, custody, and control of his charge as I walked back to grandma. “Ma’am, are you alright?” I asked as I handed her the purse.

“All I can say is, it’s a good thing you were driving that car and not me. I would’ve run over that little dewdropper hoodlum myself!” She glanced over to the cop and thief before turning back to me. “Thank you dear.”

“My pleasure ma’am.”

I made my way back to the car blocking the crosswalk, and almost made my getaway. With more of New York’s finest arriving on the scene, the beat cop came over to me as I got in. “Nick? Nick Charles? Is that you?” he inquired.

“Good afternoon officer. The one and only.”

“Well, well… how does that breezer of yours ride when you’re not racing down the street backwards?”

“I have to admit driving forward is much better. Especially when it stops the likes of him from assaulting little old ladies. Look, I’d love to sit around and kick the can with you fellas but I really have to go iron my shoelaces.”

“Oh, alright Nick. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“Thanks, don’t worry. You either.”

I got the Stutz fired up and was on my way to 42nd Street and Park Avenue. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw the officers putting our friend in the Paddy Wagon. From the size of the crowd that had gathered, it looked like the boys were actually helping him out. He probably won’t snatch handbags in that neighborhood again.

Coffee Anyone?

It was late in the morning and would soon be time for the lunch crowd to start rolling in. He decided he would stop in for a quick cup of coffee while the employees still outnumbered the customers. Moving along the sidewalk he noticed the autumn air was beginning to get that slightly cooler and crisp feel. The sky was a flawless, almost bright, medium blue, with no clouds in sight. For some odd reason the sun was not picked up while scanning across the sky. Just a bright clear perfect blue sky.

Having turned the corner he made his way down to the entrance of the café. Before turning to enter the establishment there was a brief pause to take in a last bit of the glorious weather. As he started into the covered vestibule toward the door he observed the reflection in a pane of a sleek black automobile slowly slide into parking space directly behind him. Catching the glimpse in the window, he paused and then turned about to see the machine. The door slightly opened as he took a step or two from the door he almost entered. The door opened further and she stepped out.

So as not to alarm her, he spoke first with an introduction and followed up with complimenting the car. The salutation was warmly returned as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The two stood looking back at the vehicle as she started to expound on its features and virtues. Special and unique stories were told as they conveyed why certain features existed. He began to notice the vehicle and she were both one-of-a-kinds.

After a short time the invitation to share some time together over coffee was extended. Holding the door for her, they entered the café together. Having placed their orders they made their way to a small table and the conversation continued.

It wasn’t long before the conversation moved away from cars. More substantial matters worked their way in. First came jobs and careers and then personal issues. Mainly touching only on the surface with things such as current jobs and immediate family relations. Simple everyday things. The catalyst that continued the conversations was that she had been living single for several years after a bad marriage and he was a widower. Both, no longer in their youth, were discovering they had some common ground.

As the morning turned into afternoon they began to learn more about one another. They learned what a small world it really is. As it turned out her chosen vocation was the same as his late wife. And she learned his career had been the same as a son-in-law. Their worlds were getting a little smaller and a little closer. The ice was not only broken but was beginning to melt.

When the time came to part ways only then did they realize the whole day had slipped by and it was late afternoon. Hours had passed in conversation with barely a notice. They agreed the day had been pleasant and meeting again was in their future. Once in their separate cars and heading in opposite directions it was realized the conversation had only begun.

Year in Review 2019

Where do I start? A year ago, on December 9^th, 2018 to be precise, I published a short review of my passing year. I was moving right along on a positive note approaching Christmas and 2019 with my wife Linda and our two little dogs. The writing was starting to catch a little traction and new friendships in that world were being forged. Then we entered into 2019 and everything turned on its head.

Right up front in the month of January my wife Linda was diagnosed with colon cancer. It was already advanced and had spread to the liver. She had been suffering with it in silence for a long time and I had no idea. We were given words of encouragement from the doctor but this was not to be the case.

After a while I dedicated all of my time to her. I accompanied her to the various appointments for treatment. Once she was hospitalized I no longer brought in any income but I did continue to write as I sat next to her hospital bed. She and I observed Mothers’ Day and celebrated her birthday together from her hospital room. Her situation continued down the slippery slope and hospitalizations and surgeries would continue until July 22^nd just after midnight. I was with her when the clock hands passed the midnight hour and she took her last breath. I was now without her.

Along with friends and family here with me I had a tremendous amount of support from the international community of fellow writer friends as well. One in particular warrants a nod. A year ago I simply referred to her as, ‘A rising star author in Scotland’, but now is worthy of a little more. I’m speaking of C.A. Asbrey. Chris Asbrey, aka Christine Asbrey, and I became acquainted through our common avocations of writing after a law enforcement career. She too followed a police career but took a slight detour after suffering a life-changing injury. Although no longer actively policing she did not slow down. When we first met she was just publishing her first novel, ‘The Innocents’, copyright 2018 C.A. Asbrey with Prairie Rose Publications. She has since published three more books in this series titled ‘Innocent As Sin’, ‘Innocent Bystander’, and ‘In All Innocence’. The fifth and final installment of this series is set to come out soon after the new year gets here.

Christine offered me tips especially in the area of editors. Who to use and who to avoid mostly. Her advice was good. Although over 4000 miles away she and her husband Kevin were great moral support and even extended an invitation to visit with them in their home after Linda passed away. Thank you Christine and Kevin.

My own writing went in the opposite direction. It stopped. I had published ‘Before the Thin Man: The Prequel to Dashiell Hammett’s “The Thin Man” and later put out a series of short stories on a blog page. If one were to visit https://christopherallen.home.blog/ you would see The Traveler, Heritage Not Hate (or is it?), The Times Have a’Changed, Before the Thin Man (chapter samples), Cold Case October 1993, Cold Case of 1915, Year in Review 2018, a commentary on the Original 1934 The Thin Man, and Cold Case of 1935. I even received a few good reviews and comments. With readers across the globe in the United States, United Kingdom, Ireland, Australia, Canada, Germany, Italy, Philippines, India, Morocco, Tunisia, Romania, Israel, Spain, and Argentina the writing tapered off and eventually ceased altogether as the middle of the year arrived with Linda’s poor health and passing.

For a while I simply drifted but then took up a local position with a group of teachers helping with a special needs class of high school aged children. As it turned out this was a perfect fit. Everyone, including myself, benefited. The writing has only begun to trickle back but I am optimistic. Time will see how this develops.

In the final turn of the 2019 race I have seen an uptick regarding life in general as well. I am optimistic about the future now. In the last few months some new acquaintances, co-workers, friendships, and relationships have also come into play. There are still good days and bad days but there are more good than bad now. I am working again, still learning new things, have plans for new projects and travel, and the writing is trying to bud out again like new blooms. A new book has been started and the story line is there. I also see the occasional short story coming back as well. The only issue is to learn how to focus again and spend time at the keyboard. I am hopeful 2020 will be a much better year for us all.

Cold Case October 1993

It was a day like any other day when Frank’s phone rang. He was driving along West 63^rd near Midway Airport and took the call over the car’s audio system.

“DeGrae Investigations”, he said. “Frank speaking.”

“Is this Mr. Frank DeGrae?” came an unknown voice over the speakers.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. DeGrae my name is Willard Smalley. I wanted to speak with you about the murder of my mother.”

“Oh? Do you know who did it?”

“Oh no sir. That’s why we need you.”

“Where did it happen?” Frank asked as he turned north onto South Cicero Avenue.

“She was killed in her home on West 78^th Street.”

“So when did this go down and have the police been notified?”

“Oh, I’ve got most of the file. It happened in October back in 1993.”

“1993? Are you serious? Over twenty five years ago?”

“I’m afraid so. The police call it a ‘Cold Case’ and I think they’ve quit looking. I’ve checked with them once or twice a year for several years and I just hear the same story. Another family member who lives in Chicago told me about you. I thought since you were near Midway you would know the area better and could help us.”

“Look, you do know when a crime goes unsolved for a long period of time the likelihood of a successful conclusion gets slimmer and slimmer?”

“I know.”

“Alright then. We’ll need to set up an appointment to meet face to face at my office.”

“Thank you Mr. DeGrae.”

Two weeks later they were in Frank’s office drinking coffee and poring over Willard’s file. Frank finally asked, “Are these crime scene photos all you have? There aren’t very many and they don’t show much.”

“I’m not sure they gave me all of them but I do have this disk. There’s supposed to be many more photos on there.”

“Well, well… let’s take a look at that.”

A few days later, “Carnations!?” said Frank’s horticulture buddy over at the university.

“Yes Jerry. Carnations. Look at this picture, will ya’?”

“Alright”, he said as he craned his neck to look. “Now what can I do with this?”

“Tell me what you know about this particular flower. Everything.”

Early the next morning Frank set out for Cleveland, Ohio. On Friday morning Frank arrived at his client’s residence about midway between Cleveland and Alliance. Ringing the doorbell Willard Smalley opened the door and with a startled look he excitedly said, “Frank!? Frank, what are you doing here!?”

“Well Willard, I think I’ve found something I needed to run by you as soon as was possible. I couldn’t wait for you to come back to Chicago and I certainly didn’t want to discuss this over the phone. May I come in?”

“Certainly. Come on in”, Willard said as he backed away from the door and stepped aside.

Sitting on the couch Frank opened his briefcase, pulled out the photos, and handed them to Willard. “What do you see Willard? Take your time and look closely.”

Reaching out toward Willard, Frank said, “Here Willard. I’ll show you.” With a quizzical look he handed them back.

“Here Willard”, Frank said as he pointed to the photo. “Do you see these flowers strewn all about the room?” Willard nodded in silence.

“Look closer. You’ll notice they were not purchased at a florist but rather picked by hand.”

Willard scowled a bit and asked, “Now how do you know that?”

“Look at the different stems. Some appear to have been pulled from the soil. Here’s one with tiny roots. They’re very small but the hair like strings are roots. Then look at this one. Broken and torn stems. These flowers were pulled by hand from someone’s flower bed or garden.”

“Alright. What does that mean?” asked Willard.

“Nothing, by itself. Did you know Carnations have not always been in this country? Did you know they come in many, many different colors but there is a reason for that?”

“What are you trying to say? Just get to it.”

“Did you know there is no such thing as a blue carnation in nature? All blue carnations are the product of genetic engineering. And only since the 1990’s. It’s also noted, at least in nature, certain colors are the product of their surroundings or the soil conditions they grow in.”

“Are you going to tell me about my mother’s murder or give me a lesson in carnation horticulture?”

“Willard, these carnations are red.”

“I can see that. Why are we talking about blue flowers?”

“Willard… this specific shade of red has been determined by an expert I know to have originated in this part of Ohio. A politician and doctor of the nineteenth century by the name of Levi Lamborn was also an avid amateur horticulturist specializing in carnations. He developed this flower, or this color for the carnation and it was even later adopted by the State of Ohio as the official State Flower. It is unique to this part of the country. The flowers on the floor in these photos came from here.”

“Are you suggesting I had anything to do with this?”

“I spoke with your aunt. Your mother’s sister. She still lives south of Cleveland and after a while she did recall just before the news of her sister’s death you came by and pulled some red carnations from her flower bed next to the house. She didn’t ask why and thought nothing more of it.”

About this time more vehicles eased to a stop in front of the house. Willard craned his neck attempted to get a better view of who arrived. “What is this Mr. DeGrae?”

“Willard, they’re here with a warrant. A search warrant for your house and your DNA. The judge seemed to agree there was probable cause for at least a search warrant.”

“Alright Mr. DeGrae. Alright. Those are my flowers. The rest of this will not be necessary.”

“Over the years how many other officers or investigators have you tried to get to develop a suspect to cover you? No one could quite do it and your fear and guilt would rise back up. You couldn’t rest with this remaining an unsolved cold case. Someone had to be nailed down to give you peace. Well Willard, you can rest easy now.”

Heritage Not Hate or is it

By Christopher Allen ©2019 All Rights Reserved

Jim had put the last bag in the car and was finally ready for the big trip. For the last eight years he and several of his buddies made the convention their annual vacation. It was a time of fellowship, relaxation, celebration, and a lot of fun lasting for more than a week. The guys lived their whole year for these two weeks.

This year promised to be the best yet. For starters, Jim was headed out to meet the guys on Friday and the festivities at the lodge would start on Saturday morning. The whole conference officially kicked off on April 20^th and would conclude on April 30^th. The only people required to attend every day were the officials and board members. They incorporated association business into the conference days so most brought their families along and truly made it their vacations.

The group traveled convoy style from the Carolinas to an undisclosed private reserve near the Gulf. The association purchased the property near the panhandle many years ago when their membership was much higher. Due to their early strength as an organization and a few wise investments they were able to create a world class vacation spot. The main lodge was most impressive as were the smaller outlying individual cabins. And this place was set aside for the exclusive use of its members. It was specifically billed as not for the general public.

Trying to press on and get there they finally decided they did need to make a stop. Near Valdosta the caravan stopped at one of the mega chain truck stops figuring it would be easier for the number of vehicles traveling together. Everyone needed to refuel. All ‘non-essential’ personnel immediately egressed the vehicles and stormed the store.

“Jim?” was heard coming from a nearby fuel pump island. Jim looked around as he refueled his own car. Locating the source he replied, “Bill?”

“Didn’t you say your Great Grandfather was enlisted in the 12^th North Carolina?”

“That’s right. Company C.”

“Company C? I thought it was B.”

“No. It was C.”

“It must be Dave’s who was in B Company.”

“I think you’re right”, finished Jim as the rest of their families were seen running from the building back to their respective modes of transportation. They were all anxious to get to the lodge and they knew they were getting closer.

Bill concluded pumping his gas and as he was hanging the pump handle back on the hook he said, “I’m thinking of writing up an official roster for the entire unit but I’m starting to see what a project that’s going to be.”

“I’m sure a lot of that work has already been done Bill. Try some online searches first. No need to re-invent the wheel you know”, said Jim.

“I guess you’re right. I guess I’m so old I didn’t really think of that. I don’t spend much time playing on the computer.”

Concluding the group’s rest break and visits to the privy the convoy eased back onto the highway and were once again on their way. As is usual the younger kids began to show signs of elevated animation. The excitement grew to become a distraction for the driver of said automobile.

A few hours later they arrived at an unmarked gateway to what appeared to be a remote wooded area. They were in the tri-state area near the panhandle a few miles from a large Federal prison. Not much else was nearby other than a couple of small towns. The nearest of those was also more than just a few miles away.

Turning off the paved highway onto the property they followed the dirt road for about a mile when the array of flagpoles at the compound entrance finally came into view. Arranged in a neat semi-circle span around a large marble memorial marker were the entire series of Confederate flags. The Stars and Bars, Stainless Banner, and the final official Third National know to some as the “Blood-Stained Banner”. Also arranged with the historically correct official national flags of the Confederacy were the Bonnie Blue and Southern Cross. The group was “home”.

After checking in and making their way to their small encampment of cabins everyone was busy unloading vehicles and moving into their new temporary homes. The anticipation of a fun week was bubbling over. Jim found a flyer lying on the kitchen table as the rest of his brood ran about the place like mad hatters. As he stood quiet reading it his wife walked to him.

“What is it Jim?”

“Oh, nothing really. It’s a note from the ‘Families of Confederate Veterans’. It’s an itinerary for the week. Starting Sunday with a church service over at the auditorium with Pastor Len Powell of the First Baptist Church of the Nazarene presiding. I guess today and Saturday are just free days for everyone to arrive and sign in and get settled in.”

“Oh”, is all June said and then continued on with whatever she had been doing.

At sunset a thunderstorm was moving in. The occasional lightning flash and accompanying peal of thunder was observed in the dark western distance. Things were oddly peaceful here and now, but everyone knew that would change as the night went on.

A few hours later the day had officially ended for the crew. It was late, the storm roared about the settlement, and everyone was simply exhausted and ready for some sleep. The day concluded with everyone snugly tucked in to their beds as the storm outside raged.

No sooner than Jim dozed off he was awakened by someone pounding on the door. As he emerged from his deep sleep and realized someone was beating on the door he bolted upright and swung his feet off the side of the bed and onto the floor. The pounding came again. Jim hastily pulled on his clothes and ran to the door. The storm was also still moving through with high winds and thunder rolling.

When Jim flung open the door he faced a young man of about 19 years wearing a period costume of a grey clad Confederate soldier. He also immediately noticed there was no rainfall and no wind. Silence. Once again he noticed the distant flash of light and rolling thunder miles away.

Through sleepy sandy eyes Jim said, “May I help you?” in a most annoyed tone.

“Please sir, I beg you, may I have a morsel and tin of water. I won’t be long. The front is moving this way.”

“The front is moving this way? Son, the storm has already hit and passed us by.”

“Storm? What storm? It hasn’t rained for days. I’m talking about the Yankees. They’re coming straight away. Here. You need to flee too. They’ll burn you out just like everywhere else they’ve been.”

Another large flash of light and boom went off much closer and louder than before shaking the ground. Both Jim and his visitor flinched.

“Wow. That was some thunder”, Jim said.

“Sir that was no thunder. That was a return volley from our batteries right over there. For now they’re holding fast giving the rest of us ample time to pull back.”

“What?!”

The young soldier pushed in and Jim pulled the door closed not expressing any resistance to the invader. Before pulling the door closed Jim looked back out into the dark silence. Once the door was closed total silence fell. The young man turned around to face Jim and simply said, “Son, please have a seat. I have some very important things to tell you.”

“Did you just call me son?”

“I did.”

“Have you lost your mind or what? What do you want?”

“Jimmy, do you hear any storm or battle or anything outside?”

After a moment of silence and twisting his head straining to pick up on any sounds Jim acknowledged he did not. “Who are you and who do you think you are calling me ‘Jimmy’? You don’t know me.”

“Oh Jimmy, that’s where you’re wrong. I do know you and moreover you know me too.”

“What?”

“Jim. I’m Private Eli Davidson of the 12^th North Carolina Infantry.”

“You mean… you’re…”

“Yes Jimmy. I’m your Great Grandfather and tomorrow I will be wounded and taken prisoner by the Union Army. I’ll spend the rest of the war at the Elmira Prisoner of War Camp in New York. The next year will be the worst of my life but it will also permit me to survive this war and eventually allowing you to exist.”

“This is crazy.”

“Yes Jim, it is. But I only have a short time with you and you better listen.”

“Alright, alright! Go ahead. What’s on your mind?”

“Jimmy, I was given the opportunity to give you my thoughts on all this. Where you’re about to make a critical mistake. In fact you already have. But it’s not too late to correct. To help make my point we’re now in the year 1864 near what will be the Battle of the Wilderness and I appear as my 18 year old self of the time.”

“No. I’m still asleep.”

“You have come back 155 years with me. You also know I died at the ripe old age of 82 on my farm. From this point forward until I reached 82 I learned and realized a great deal. Things you need to know.”

“I’m not believing this.”

Eli stood from his chair, walked across the room toward Jim and stopped directly in front of him. Jim looked up as Eli stared down. Eye contact was held for just a moment when Eli, using the physique and strength of a farmer and soldier of the era, grabbed Jim by the shirt collar and jerked him up from the chair with almost no effort. Jim let out a gasp almost as if the air was snatched from his lungs from being pulled to his feet too fast. “Shut up and listen already! We don’t have much time.”

“Yes sir”, Jim replied wide eyed and his feet still lifted from the floor. Eli eased him back down and released his grip. They returned to their respective chairs and sat back down.

Jim, this thing you’re doing; this so-called ‘Historical Society’ is not what it seems. Look deeper into what their message is and what it’s based on. Listen carefully. I was just a kid when this started. I had no idea what the politics were. All I knew was my home was being invaded. We weren’t rich. We didn’t own slaves. In fact we didn’t own anything. We were poor people struggling to get by. We were used. Used by the rich who did own the plantations and slaves. Regardless, I fought as a soldier for a government that existed to maintain the ideals of people owning other people for the main reason of becoming wealthier. What you’re involved in now is not a noble venture to honor the Confederate Bravery of your ancestors. It celebrates a time when men owned other men as property.

“No. That’s not it…”

“Yes. It is. At the time I had no way of knowing but Robert E. Lee even said, ‘I can anticipate no greater calamity for the country than a dissolution of the Union’ and after the war he said, ‘Don’t bring up your sons to detest the United States government. Recollect that we form one country now. Abandon all these local animosities, and make your sons Americans.”

“He did?”

“Look it up. Stop teaching hate. Do not bring up your sons to detest the United States. We are one nation now. Make your sons Americans. This sort of organization only fosters the opposite. Get out. Go home and rethink what this is really all about. There has been enough hate and killing for the sake of hate. With you this can start to be reversed.” The conversation continued for hours.

The morning came and the cabin was buzzing with excitement. Standing in the kitchen Jim leaned close to his wife who was standing at the stove. “June, can I ask you something?”

She just turned and stared. After a moment she replied, “What?”

“Would you mind if we just loaded the car back up and took the kids on down to the beach for the week?” She smiled.

The Times Have a’ Changed

by Christopher Allen

The day was a particularly nice day, at least weather wise, considering it was mid-July and normally too hot or rainy to spend much time outdoors. It was a day made to order. Clear blue skies with no hint of a cloud or much less rain. All things considered… a perfect day.

The family decided to make their patriarch the man of the hour so the entire clan made the pilgrimage to the Air Force Museum. An elderly man of eighty-four years and an Air Force veteran he was much beloved and this, of all days, would promise to be a-once-in-a-lifetime event. They weren’t sure how many more days they would have with him so they pulled out all the stops to make this happen.

As the day progressed the crowd steadily grew but since it was a Wednesday everyone figured the attendance could have been much more otherwise. The crowd was very large but not stifling.

Little Bobby tugged at his grandpa’s sleeve. The old man looked down. “Grandpa?”

“Bobby?”

“Grandpa, is it true you were my age when you saw this happen?”

“You know, come to think of it, I was. Sometimes it seems like yesterday and others like a lifetime back.”

“You mean when you watched it you were only nine?”

“That’s right Bobby. I was nine years old at the time.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah, wow is right.”

The family flowed right along with the assembly to the nearby flight line adjacent to the museum’s main building. More buses could be seen shuttling in more visitors. It seemed the crowd would exceed the initial estimates. Today was indeed a red-letter day in aviation history.

The occasional pole-mounted loud speaker could be heard playing martial music distorted by the wind of a lightly moving breeze. “Grandpa?”

“Yes Bobby?”

“How long have they had a base on the moon?”

“Not long son. I think the one there has only been going for about four years. They spent decades before that just sending people to space stations. That went on so long I didn’t think I’d live long enough to see us go back to the moon.”

“Wow.”

The shuffling stopped and other adult family members started breaking out folding chairs. This was where they would establish their own base camp for the day. The steady stream of patriotic and military music stopped. An announcer took their place.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we here at the Air Force Museum would like to thank you all for coming out today. Mark your calendars for posterity. Today, Wednesday, July 20^th, 2044 we’ll be receiving a most important item to be placed on display here. Something only a few years ago we thought would be lost to us forever. We’ve gotten word that if you all would look to the west… or to your right, you should see the aircraft appear in the distance in just a few minutes.”

The music resumed and there was slight humming of various conversations occurring simultaneously around Grandpa and Bobby.

“Grandpa! There! Is that it?” Bobby said with an outstretched arm pointing to the sky.

“I really can’t tell but I would guess it is. This is getting exciting.”

The huge bulky cargo shuttle floated closer. It was the fifth-generation Dyna-Soar Heavy Shuttle with the silent ultra mag-lev propulsion system. Few people had actually observed one in person. Not that it was such a well-guarded secret but because there were only three in existence and they had been busy with trips to the moon to build the first lunar base.

“It looks like it isn’t moving”, Bobby said.

“I know. But it’ll get here.”

The music stopped again. “Ladies and gentlemen. If you look just to the left of the marker flag near the outer fence near the highway you will see a small dark spot in the sky. That is the shuttle coming direct to us from its last mission to the moon.”

“Wow Grandpa. It’s coming here straight from the moon.”

“Yeah Bobby. Wow is right.”

Over the speakers came more. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of the three heavy hauler shuttles the Space Administration has running building materials and supplies to the moon. As it moves in closer you will see its immense size and notice it is virtually silent. It’s almost two football fields in length, half a football field in width, and uses a nuclear powered magnetic generator for power.

The craft maneuvered into position along the airfield and to the array of buildings until stopping in front of the assembly. It made no noise. The crowd was also deafeningly silent. It was a most strange moment. It lowered a series of landing gear and settled in until touchdown was achieved and a series of lights seemed to indicate it was shutting down.

As a large side cargo door opened the speaker resumed from his script. “If you will look closely at the open side bay door you will see the lift sliding out the Apollo 11 Lunar Excursion Module Base onto the elevated flatbed vehicle that will move it to the prep building where it will be readied for its true final resting place here for all to see.”

“It looks like a big spider”, said Bobby.

“Yes. I guess it does. You know Bobby, this seems real now.”

“I don’t understand Grandpa. It is real.”

“I know you don’t really know what I mean now. But you will one day. I remember watching that spider on our small black and white television set when I was only nine years old. Now here we stand watching it again just across that field seventy-five years later. And it makes me recall everything that has happened in between and I don’t know where all that time went. It passed in the blink of an eye.”

“Really?! The blink of an eye?”

“I promise son. One day you will know exactly what I mean.”

The End

The Traveler

By Christopher Allen

It was just after midnight and passing through the interchange of I-40 and I-55 at West Memphis seemed effortless since the normal volume of traffic was not there. It seemed the trek to the West Coast would be uneventful. As our friend continued westbound and passed College Boulevard the lights of civilization began to fade in the rearview mirror. Darkness grew darker and began to close in tighter around the rolling stock.

Pushing on through the night he kept telling himself he was on a schedule and must press on. No stopping allowed. As the blackness turned to gray and silhouettes of the landscape began to take shape the wheels continued their whirring sound as they turned on the pavement. Press on… press on.

Hours had passed. Time stood still. The wheels were still turning. Arkansas was long gone and the path across Texas was winding through Abilene. The next stop would find him in El Paso. After a quick resupply and refueling the traveler rolled out toward Las Cruces in the land of enchantment to embark across the Chihuahuan Desert. For a brief time crossing vast areas of open hostile terrain the traveler paused to check his maps. There were just enough small criss-crossing roads to cause concern. Highway 549, Akela, Deming, 418, 517, 146 from Wilna. If you were complacent and made a wrong turn it could be very costly.

After passing through Steins it wouldn’t be long before crossing into Arizona although it would happen without noticing. Along the way toward Tucson you realize from the billboards ‘The Town Too Tough to Die’ is a real place and is still around. About now you ask yourself, ‘How did I get out here?”

The real estate looks like you’re traveling across the moon and the feeling of such remoteness creeps in on you. The traveler presses on.

The traveler doesn’t note the real cities. He takes in and savors what isn’t seen. What you never hear people talking about. Driving through Tucson and on toward Phoenix what is really noticed is you’re now in the Sonoran Desert. You begin to take notice of the giant saguaro cactus looking like extraterrestrial sentries standing guard duty to the desert and the occasional adobe structure. This is the wild west. Not what was, but what is. The Tohono O’odham Nation, Gila River Indian Community, San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation, and the occasional Hotel California style mission building. This is still the wild west.

The traveler starts westbound out of Phoenix and the Gila River Region beginning the last leg across Arizona to the California border. Again, the traveler is aware there is vast open nothingness but at the same time a rich incomparable history to the surroundings. The region mostly consists of the Colorado River Indian Reservation. The official U.S. designated home of the Chemehuevi, Mohave, Hopi, and Navajo.

Pushing on the traveler finally arrives. The sun had been slowly descending throughout the entire afternoon as if in a race to see who would get to California first. California was in sight and this time the traveler may be the victor of the contest. Until.

As daylight was waning traffic up ahead began to slow. There was a backup developing. It was noticed there was a structure blocking the roadway. Gradually the traveler inched closer to the obstruction as the ambient light slipped away. Eventually it was realized this was a California Border Protection Station. The State of California must be considering the return of its independent Republic days. Not only are visitors from a foreign nation to the south required to enter through check stations it is also required of visitors from the nations of Arizona and Nevada to the east and Oregon to the north.

Granted entry to the Republic of California the traveler makes a brief stop at an official roadside rest area. It’s still the same desert and while walking to the facilities a posted sign is observed. CAUTION. There May Be Rattlesnakes In This Area. Reasonable Watchfulness Should Be Sufficient To Avoid Snakebite. The traveler doesn’t tarry.

Pushing deeper into California the goal of Los Angeles seems to be within reach. Firmly in the grasp of the Moreno Valley the traveler passes through Riverside; the place the U.S. Department of Agriculture officially launched the Orange industry in California.

With the mission to Los Angeles completed the traveler turns north. Following I-5 and navigating around Bakersfield the traveler commences the return trip eastbound out of California along I-40. After a short traverse of the eastern California desert the traveler once again crosses the Colorado River while passing into Arizona. While doing so it is only a reach to Lake Havasu, which is only a wide spot in the Colorado River, and the world famous London Bridge.

Pushing hard to meet another deadline the traveler reaches Flagstaff. As far as most are concerned Flagstaff is memorable for only two things. The elevation is seven thousand feet as opposed to Phoenix just to the south at just over a thousand feet. During certain times of the year the temperatures between these two cities can be forty to fifty degrees apart. Flagstaff is even higher than the “Mile High City” of Denver, Colorado at five thousand two hundred eighty feet. And the second, and most important feature is, I-40 is in such disrepair it will beat your teeth out and damage your vehicle.

The traveler stopped at Winslow for a respite from the toil. At a distance thick clouds of dust and sand could be observed looking almost like heavy dark clouds at ground level. The immediate area remained clear but the breeze was stiff. The occasional bit of debris and dead gray tumbleweed would rush past as if they too had somewhere else they needed to be. It was time to remount and press on.

The traveler eventually arrived in Fort Smith, Arkansas exhausted from the hard non-stop trip to the west coast. Pulling into the terminal and getting shut down seemed to take forever. The time for relaxation and real sleep finally arrived.

After a solid all night sleep the traveler awoke to the sounds of a slowly ringing engine bell, the clip-clop of the slow gait of horses, and the buzz of distant conversations. Jumping from the bed and dashing to the second floor window a small town of all wooden structures, a train station with engine standing ready, and dirt street full of wagons, coaches, and ridden horses came into view. The traveler cleared the webs out and thought; “Wow, what an incredible dream that was.”

Once back at the coach station the traveler told the dream to a fellow driver. “You’ve been on this Butterfield coach route way too long. You might need to head up to St. Joseph and take up Pony Express riding.”

“No way. That’s even worse. Besides, on the coach route you can at least get oranges out there.”

“What’s an orange?”

THE END

Before the Thin Man: The Prequel to Dashiell Hammett’s ‘The Thin Man’, Chapter Two

Chapter 2

I finally made it to Macauley’s office around ten Wednesday morning. Everyone knows Mondays are a bad day for new business, with all the filings and pleadings, and posting bonds. It’s catch up day from the weekend. And Tuesday isn’t much better. That’s the day everybody is double checking what they did on Monday. So Wednesdays work for me. Sometimes I wonder why Macauley struck out on his own. When he worked at the firm life was much easier for him. Oh, now I remember. Money.

“Mr. Macauley will see you now,” his secretary said almost as soon as I closed the door behind me.

I said, “Thanks,” as I walked past her desk to his door.

“Nick, how are you this fine morning?” he asked as I entered.

“Fine Mac, just fine. You’re awfully cheerful today.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Macauley leaned into his phone on the desk and pressed a lever. “Miss Jacobs?”

“Yes sir?” came her voice over the speaker.

“Would you bring Mr. Charles a cup of coffee? Black please.”

“Yes sir.”

I hung my hat and overcoat on the tree next to the door and took my usual seat across the desk from him. Mac slid some papers into a drawer and looked up. “Thanks for coming Nick. I’m afraid I really will need your help on this one.”

“So what is it? Not Clyde again I hope.”

“You can relax. No.”

“Thanks.”

“Here’s a dollar,” he said as he opened his wallet. “You’ve been retained. Now I’ll fill you in.”

“Alright. It’s official. Go ahead.”

“Have you heard of Consolidated Transcontinental?”

“‘The’ Consolidated Transcontinental Enterprises? Sure. Who hasn’t? That company has its hands in just about everything.”

“Well, you may not know there are only two real owners. One lives here out on Long Island in the old money section and the other partner lives in San Francisco.”

“No, I didn’t know that much.”

“Colonel Burr MacFay has been a regular client of mine for several years.”

“Lucky break for you.”

“Well, it’s mostly just boring business filings and such, but yes, this business is the primary reason I decided to leave the firm and start my own practice.”

“Well good for you Herbert.”

“Now the reason I’m telling you this is-”

“I thought there might be a point to all this.”

The office door opened and Miss Jacobs walked in with my coffee. I stood up from my chair and turned to meet her as she walked over.

“Thanks Miss Jacobs. I’m sure it will be as good as always.”

“Thank you, Mr. Charles. Please let me know if there is anything else you may need,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, I will. I’m sure this will be fine though,” I said while slightly raising the cup as a sign of approval as she walked back to the front office.

“So Nick, how’s the coffee?”

“Oh, uh, I’ll let you know. Where were we?”

“Consolidated Transcontinental.”

“Oh yes, that’s right.”

I was only now aware I was still standing and lowered myself back into the overstuffed throne of a chair.

“Nick, she has a fiancé. Focus.”

“Tell her she can trade up. Only kidding, never mind. I’m not exactly the marrying kind anyway.”

“Like I said Nick, these men are the bulk of my business so I need to pull out all the stops to help them with this. I’ll give you a clue as to how valuable these clients are.”

“I think I get the idea.”

“I’m not sure you do. They’ve helped Coolidge get in the White House. And I mean seriously helped. With Al Smith leaving office to run for President, they’re organizing for a newcomer to run for governor. His name is Franklin Roosevelt. And yes, he is one of those Roosevelts.”

“I see. Wait a minute. Isn’t Coolidge a Republican?”

“Yes he is.”

“I thought so. Aren’t the Roosevelts Democrats though?”

“They are. Don’t scratch your head about that. Like some other very wealthy business men, they don’t really have any political party loyalty. They back the man they think can help the most.”

“Help what the most? Them or the country?”

“You’d have to ask them that. I’ve heard them say if he’s a good governor they’ll put him in the White House.”

“Alright, I get the picture. These guys carry some weight. Or should I say, have influence?”

“I would say that’s putting it mildly. I’ll hit the high points on this thing Nick. They want both of us to meet with them and give you the details themselves.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Well you can thank me then. I recommended you. Mr. Finhaden will be coming from San Francisco by train in a couple of weeks. We’ll meet him at Grand Central Terminal when he gets in and we’ll travel out to Colonel MacFay’s on Long Island together.”

“Going out to Long Island? If it’s for a meeting that would mean an overnight stay.”

“Yes. You’ll need to pack for the weekend. It’s somewhere between Calverton and Westhampton. I’ll let you know the exact dates when they tell me.”

With eyebrows furrowed and one slightly raised I said, “Herbert, now you know I’m a little busy with another case or two. I still have an agency and my other clients may think otherwise how I manage my time. And I do have overhead too. Plus I have Wynant going on about his Chicago dentist friend.”

Macauley slid open the center desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. “Here is your real retainer. I haven’t seen it. It was given to me sealed. You look at that first before turning the job down. If after looking at that and you want out just hand it back and say goodbye. Nick, this could be the window of opportunity for you to branch out. Just think about it. Besides that, when did you really care about Wynant or any of his crazy family? You know they’re all nuts. Everyone one of them. Except maybe Dorothy. Strike that. She is too.”

I took the envelope as I nodded in agreement. I held and looked at it for moment in silence.

“I never said anything about turning it down but—”

“Well?” he asked.

Without answering I tore it open and looked at the check inside. “This is only the initial retainer?”

“Yes.”

“Is this check real?”

“It is.”

“I’ll be waiting on your call.”

“I’ll call out to Colonel MacFay’s and let him know everything is proceeding. Between his staff and us we’ll pull this all together and make a long weekend retreat out of it. And you can rest easy.”

“Rest easy? About what?”

“The Colonel keeps a nicely stocked bar.”

“A man after my own heart. I guess I’ll head out now,” I said as I stood and started for the door, “I need to get a few things out of the way before we go.”

“Stay close to your phone.”

Taking my hat and coat from the tree I turned to Mac. “You know you can usually get me with no more than a couple of calls even while I’m running the streets. I’ll be looking for the call and give Carol a heads up on it. She’ll get the message to me.”

“Good,” was all Macauley said as he went back to sorting through the pile of papers on his desk.