Random Thoughts From a Frazzled Mind

By Tom Morrow

   UNBELIEVABLE -- All this talk about the national debt is mind-boggling. Don't know whether it's true, but one of the TV talking heads put out a piece of information that is nearly unbelievable, but then again, maybe not. In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson and the Congress borrowed $17 billion to pay for our part in World War I. That figure is believable, but what's a bit hard to fathom is that we still owe that $17 billion. All we've been doing since the war ended is pay the interest. Sound familiar? Okay, so what about World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan? Don't forget the big bill we ran up outspending the Soviets during the Cold War.
   All of this, I guess, is believable. After all, we talking about the Congress and the Federal government. Where will it all end? Is it possible to even do anything about it? As individuals, we would never be able to just keep borrowing and borrowing, paying only the interest. Hmmmmm.
   
   SAME-O, SAME-O -- Never ask any sales clerk under 30 how difficult a particular piece of electronic is to operate. You'll get the same response nearly every time: "Ah, it's simple." Let's face it, young people who grew up with computers do find things fairly simple, compared to those of us who began dealing in electronics by twisting the radio's tuning dial, do have an advantage.
   This week I went out and bought a new laptop. It was time, but even though I'm perfectly happy with my desktop PC, which operates on Windows XP, technological time has more than passed me by. Windows 7 whizzed by without me noticing, and now we're dealing with Windows 8 -- actually, when I got home my brand new computer had an update to Windows 8.1 waiting for me.
   While I don't consider myself a novice, (I learned six different computer operating systems over the last 20 years in newspapers), I am completely perplexed with Windows 8. One of my biggest problems is remembering which buttons do what. In a couple of words (actually four), I don't like it.
   Just as I've done in the past, I'll figure this out, but I'm still retreating to the safety of my Windows XP. After all, I've cranked out four novels, and three non-fiction books on that system. And,  yes, this column.

   SPEAKING OF BOOKS -- This week I'm running the second chapter (below) of my novella, "Dark Angel." And, on my new web site, tomorrowsnovels.com, I have a number of goodies for you to play with, plus you can read my "Write Your Own Story." It's a short read resulting from frequent queries by folks asking me how they could write their own biography or that of a parent. Also, be sure and click on the "Affiliate" page. It's a way for anyone to make money without any effort or cost. Check it out.

   Until next time...

Dark Angel 

Chapter

 2

Shamus O’Rourke lived on his motor yacht, berthed in Oceanside Harbor. It was a 40-foot “stink pot,” as sailboat owners lovingly refer to motorized watercraft. It was a reward Shamus gave himself for years of toiling as a homicide detective. He had seen just about every sort of cruelty that humanity could inflict upon itself. So, it was time for relaxation, a beer whenever he liked, and a stroll around the harbor to work out the kinks gathered from sea legs developed as his rather posh yacht gently rolled from the wake of passing boats skimming through the harbor.

       Those sea legs were earned from more than a year of living on the water. He seldom took the “Jenny Lynn” out of Oceanside Harbor unless a few cop chums wanted a day of deep-sea fishing. Shamus obliged by taking them out while he sat on the quarter deck sipping a brew while watching his comrades try to untangle their fishing lines from each other.

       Shamus was well-tanned from forehead to toes, which were peeking out of his ever-present flip-flop zapatos. The dark complexion was from being out in the sun more than he should. Shamus promised his most-recent ex-wife he’d pay closer attention to solar exposure lest skin cancer set in.

       He was still close to Jenny Lynn, his yacht’s namesake, although she preferred to enjoy his company from afar – primarily via the telephone. He had named his beloved boat after her when times were better and seas calmer. When she announced her departure back to Tulsa, he never bothered to re-christen the boat. It was too much trouble to get a sign painter to change it, and he didn’t want to insult the one person to which he remained close, if only verbally on the cell phone.

       His cell phone rang.

       “City dump,” Shamus answered in an upbeat, business-like manner. His friends would know it was him; anyone else, especially bill collectors and telemarketing peons, usually hung up, thinking they had the wrong number.

       “Hey, ‘O,’ you got time for lunch,” came a familiar voice on the other end.

       “Sure, I always have time for a free lunch. It is gonna be free, isn’t it?”

       “Of course. We’ll let the chief pick up the tab.”

       The chief picking up the tab meant his old partner was in trouble with a case.

       “What’s up?” Shamus knew Danny wasn’t calling for sociability’s sake, especially in the middle of the day and in the middle of the week.

       “I gotta case you might be interested in.”

       “Don’t tell me you caught that shooting down in the Valley? I read it this morning in the Blade.”

       “Yep. But the news media doesn’t know how the guy was shot, nor why?”

       Danny was one of O’Rourke’s closer confidants. Working together as a two-man team for six years tends to bring partners to the point where each knows the other’s thoughts, moods, problems, strengths, and weaknesses.

       “See you at the Surf Break around 11:30, if that’s okay.”

       “Sure. I’ll put on my best flip-flops. I’ll even wear a clean aloha shirt in your honor.”

       “You’re all heart, asshole. See ya then,” Danny said, hanging up.

       “It must be a real puzzler for them, this shooting of last night,” Shamus thought to himself. He knew full-well how Danny hated to ask for help, so he must be really stumped to call on the retired reserves.”

       The quaint comfort-food café was located in the south part of the city on Coast Highway. Shamus thought of Yogi Berra’s alleged comment about a popular New York eatery. “Nobody goes there anymore – it’s too crowded.” The same quip could be said of the Surf Break.

       It was 11:30 on the dot when Shamus managed to find a parking slot on the street. He saw Danny had captured an outdoor table over near the edge of the make-shift patio, which was partially on the sidewalk with the rest covering what would have been lawn in front of the café had there been any.

       “Buddy,” Danny said, standing, extending his hand.

       “How’s it going? No, let me guess. You’re calling in the first-team to solve your little problem,” Shamus replied with a chuckle.

       “You might say that,” Danny responded, sans smile. He took a long sip of his iced tea.

       A cheerful young waitress with shorts so short and tight there wasn’t a lot left to imagine. She bounced up to their table, giving a cheerful welcome, dealing two menus like cards from a deck.

       “And, sir, what would you like to drink?”

       “Are you talking about this clown? Danny chuckled, half-pointing at his old partner. “You can call him a lot of things, but gentleman?”

       “Both of you, of course.” It wasn’t the first time she had waited on the two detectives – the first time, however, both of them together.

       Nothing of substance was passed between the two cops until their sandwiches were delivered by the waitress.

       “A Marine’s wife? whadda ya think?” Danny ventured as he was squeezing mustard onto his hamburger.

       “Naw, she’s a college student. No ring.” Shamus countered.

       “Damn. Retired life hasn’t stunted your observational skills.”

       Shamus was well into his burger.

       “Okay, whadda got that has you stumped?” He mumbled through a mouthful of meat and bun.

       “O’Rourke, it’s not so much being stumped, it’s who and how the victim was offed,” Danny replied, studying his own half-eaten burger without looking at his old partner.”

       “What?” Shamus’ curiosity was building.

       “Well, this guy lived out on Via de Flores. He was shot while watering his front yard. The neighbors called 9-1-1 about 5 o’clock last night. They didn’t hear a shot, but they saw him go down.”

       Shamus stopped chewing.

       “No report from the gun?”

       “Nothing. I got four witnesses, two next-door neighbors, a kid riding by on his bike, and an old lady across the street peeping out her front-room window. You know the type – keeps tabs on everyone – complaining about everything, never pleased with anything,” Danny replied.

       “Anyway, the victim is a 48-year-old white male. The neighbors probably wouldn’t have bothered to call us except they probably figured the guy would stink up the neighborhood if we didn’t get his carcass outta there.”

       “Well, there’s always the coyotes,” Shamus whispered. “The guy was real liked, huh? So, who shot ‘em?”

       “Remember last year before you retired we got that unsolved shooting that we figured was done by a sniper?”

       “Yeah. I remember.” Danny now had his old partner’s full attention.

       “It looks like the same guy’s back. I figure maybe he’s after child molesters. Our guy last night was offed with a .30 caliber, steel-jacketed slug. It looks as though it was high-velocity and it probably came from up on the ridge above the victim's house. It had to have been 750 to 1,000 yards. That’s why no one heard the shot. This guy’s either very lucky or a helluva shot.”

       Shamus finished his sandwich and took a long gulp of his iced tea.

       “Could I have a re-fill on this, lil’ darling,” Shamus asked the perky waitress as she was finishing serving a nearby table.

       “Remind me. What was our victim of last year shot with?”

“That’s the interesting part. A .30 caliber slug – high velocity,” came the reply. “And, that victim was accused of child molestation, although the charge was dropped.”

       Shamus just sat, staring at his old partner, not saying anything.

       “I figured you might have some ideas, seeins’ how …”

       “Don’t go there, partner,” Shamus growled, cutting short Danny’s sentence.

       “Hey, I wouldn’t open up old wounds for anything, but ya gotta be interested in two child molesters being offed within a year’s time in the same manner.”

       Shamus slowly nodded agreement. The two men sat saying nothing for a minute or two.

       “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Are we talkin’ off-the-record? Am I supposed to get involved? Whadda ya want from me? How can I help?”

       “I ran this by the chief. He agrees that you can be a ‘consultant’ on these two cases. You have your retired badge, so you’re almost still a cop. He doesn’t want you packin’ but I’ll be right alongside you most of the time,” Danny explained.

       “Okay, when do we start?” Shamus asked.

       “Just as soon as I can pay for this lunch,” Danny smiled. “Oh, and the chief okayed this expense, but from now on out it’s just you and me. If I recall, you still owe me at least three lunches.”

       “In your dreams, asshole.” Shamus saw Danny chuckling. His old partner has a houseful of kids and a wife who loves to shop, so he never had any more than a fin in his pocket. He was a good, honest cop with a sense of humor and Shamus always was happy to fund their lunches and an occasional beer – but, he always gave the opposite impression as a measure of ribbing Danny.

       “Hey, why not bring me up to speed this afternoon while you take me out to the scene. I want to take a look up on the ridge and see if we can find the firing point,” Shamus said as he tossed a couple of bucks on the table for the perky young