The Missing Professional
By Thomas M. McDade
Michelin took night walks around campus, lingering at the Japanese garden near Belvedere Hall, probably searching for students making out. Jim tailed him for a couple of weeks. Michelin never wavered.
Sunday morning, Robbie called. He said the job had to be done that night. Jim Baker agreed to it, even though he had a philosophy paper due on Plato’s Meno Dialogue. “Virtue,” the topic: imagine that.
Currently, Robbie worked in Sound View for a marginally legal sales operation, a front for dealing dope. He claimed to be pleasuring a woman instructor at Bridgestone College who taught American Lit. He’d grown a beard that was very similar to Ernest Hemingway’s, she said, could take home the trophy at the annual Key West Hem lookalike competition. Since Robbie only made it to eighth grade, Jim was impressed. Jim figured she must be a looker, recalling some of the fine ones Robbie dated in the Project. He’d lifted a piece of jewellery from a house on Quality Hill where the most beautiful of his conquests was babysitting. The diamond tennis bracelet took him out of circulation for a year.
Hard to believe, but Robbie was yet to utter one profanity. He was the champion curser of their youth.
Jim owed Robbie plenty. He was the only person in the world who knew he killed a Project bully named Franklin. He’d found the punk, passed out drunk, nearly covered with snow by the Blackstone River. Jim rolled him, ass over tea-kettle, into a prize snowball then into the water, shattering the thin ice and bobbing like an unfettered buoy a sea lion was using as a toy. How could Jim refuse Robbie’s request? He had to grant it was riskier than the river fun. Timing could have turned the Franklin tables; Robbie had the same elimination in mind, but Jim beat him to the river by minutes. Jim wrote a poem about the murder he kept locked in his head, titled “A Sort of Snow Globe.” Would Robbie’s statute of limitations ever run its course?
As darkness moved in on D-Day, Jim walked out of North Burton to the Post Road, and sat on a bench on the corner. Fifteen minutes later, a green Dodge pick-up approached. Robbie did a shave-and-a-haircut on the horn. It was an oversized, fresh-off-the-lot-looking vehicle, with a back seat. When Jim jumped in, Robbie handed him a burlap sack and a coiled rope like one a cowboy might hang off his saddle horn.
“You are the bag-man,” he said.
Jim pushed the thought of lynching out of his mind by focusing on a radio tune, The Beatles' “Ticket to Ride.” WPZN was doing a tribute. Robbie danced, as much as one could without losing control of the vehicle. Jim remembered him up on tables at the Gem Diner when a jukebox song caught his fancy.
Back at the campus in a flash, they weren’t far up the long Belvedere driveway when the prey came into view. Robbie pulled onto the grass. They slipped out, eased the doors shut and approached cautiously. About twenty feet away, Robbie asked for the rope. He lassoed Michelin, yanked him to the ground, no shouts or cries, just furious, prayerful stuttering, then silence. Jim grabbed his glasses, hoping he’d just fainted and hadn’t suffered a heart attack. Robbie slapped on handcuffs, gagged and blindfolded him, then stood him up. Jim slipped the burlap bag over his head, down to his waist, pulled the drawstring tight and tied it. Robbie whipped out a knife, and opened it with a flick of his wrist to cut a length from the lasso. Jim bound Michelin’s legs using a bowline and a reef knot he learned from a Boy Scout Handbook he’d shoplifted as a kid.
Still no movement: maybe playing possum, or assuming the martyr role. Jim hoped that if God existed, he was looking askance. Robbie threw Michelin over his shoulder like a sack of rotten onions and deposited him in the bed of the truck. A speedy U-turn ripped up some lawn. At the end of the driveway, Robbie spotted a security vehicle. He put on the emergency flashers and fishtailed onto the road, blasting the horn.
“We need a chase to make this official,” he said.
Jim had to admit he left his bravado with the burlap and knots. Fortunately, the campus cop wasn’t concerned. “Can’t Buy Me Love” filled the cab. Wild-man Robbie’s fingers drummed the top of the steering wheel as well as Jim’s head.
They ended up on Clinton Ave, parked in front of a two-storey house. Robbie climbed into the truck bed, and handed the baggage down to on-the-verge-of-panic Jim. What was going to happen in that house? Jim noted the number, 321.
Robbie shouldered the catch again, and just about ran up the porch stairs. He wasn’t long.
Jim asked for details. A former Worden Middle School Phys-Ed teacher, turned hooker/stripper, named Leila lived there. Robbie turned on the dome light to show off her Joey’s Exotic Dance Club business card. She billed herself, “Miss (T + V + A).”
“You get it?” Robbie asked.
“The Tennessee Valley Authority?” said Jim.
“Hope you’re sharper than that in classrooms, College Boy.”
Jim didn’t try to redeem himself.
Robbie owed Leila a favour. She’d lied on the witness stand, and given him an alibi when he was up on burglary charges. He’d agreed to participate in one of her side projects. She wanted to bed a man in every profession. She’d racked up a doctor, a lawyer, and yes, an Indian Chief, executives, politicians, musicians, actors, cops, chefs, morticians, etc., but no clergy.
“You should have seen his face when the smelling salts revived him. She was buck naked,” said Robbie, laughing.
“Doesn’t what we just did bother you any, Robbie?” questioned Jim.
“Mr. Hemingway says, ‘I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after.’ I’m feeling great.”
“One way to look at it,” remarked Jim.
“By the way, take a long look in your mirror. Reckon the college dorm location would provide hindsight deep and necessary.”
Jim felt a Robbie poem coming on, “Ass over Tea-kettle II” the working title. Long Island Sound finally coughing Robbie up in some fancy marina, crashing against a deluxe fishing yacht, owned by a Wall Street bigwig who’d fished for marlin in waters where Hemingway had. The thought of it eased Jim’s burden. Ha, maybe call the poem “Mr. (A + T)” and maybe a “V” for the “Virtue” title alone on a page awaiting a torrent of words to support it.
Sunday morning, Robbie called. He said the job had to be done that night. Jim Baker agreed to it, even though he had a philosophy paper due on Plato’s Meno Dialogue. “Virtue,” the topic: imagine that.
Currently, Robbie worked in Sound View for a marginally legal sales operation, a front for dealing dope. He claimed to be pleasuring a woman instructor at Bridgestone College who taught American Lit. He’d grown a beard that was very similar to Ernest Hemingway’s, she said, could take home the trophy at the annual Key West Hem lookalike competition. Since Robbie only made it to eighth grade, Jim was impressed. Jim figured she must be a looker, recalling some of the fine ones Robbie dated in the Project. He’d lifted a piece of jewellery from a house on Quality Hill where the most beautiful of his conquests was babysitting. The diamond tennis bracelet took him out of circulation for a year.
Hard to believe, but Robbie was yet to utter one profanity. He was the champion curser of their youth.
Jim owed Robbie plenty. He was the only person in the world who knew he killed a Project bully named Franklin. He’d found the punk, passed out drunk, nearly covered with snow by the Blackstone River. Jim rolled him, ass over tea-kettle, into a prize snowball then into the water, shattering the thin ice and bobbing like an unfettered buoy a sea lion was using as a toy. How could Jim refuse Robbie’s request? He had to grant it was riskier than the river fun. Timing could have turned the Franklin tables; Robbie had the same elimination in mind, but Jim beat him to the river by minutes. Jim wrote a poem about the murder he kept locked in his head, titled “A Sort of Snow Globe.” Would Robbie’s statute of limitations ever run its course?
As darkness moved in on D-Day, Jim walked out of North Burton to the Post Road, and sat on a bench on the corner. Fifteen minutes later, a green Dodge pick-up approached. Robbie did a shave-and-a-haircut on the horn. It was an oversized, fresh-off-the-lot-looking vehicle, with a back seat. When Jim jumped in, Robbie handed him a burlap sack and a coiled rope like one a cowboy might hang off his saddle horn.
“You are the bag-man,” he said.
Jim pushed the thought of lynching out of his mind by focusing on a radio tune, The Beatles' “Ticket to Ride.” WPZN was doing a tribute. Robbie danced, as much as one could without losing control of the vehicle. Jim remembered him up on tables at the Gem Diner when a jukebox song caught his fancy.
Back at the campus in a flash, they weren’t far up the long Belvedere driveway when the prey came into view. Robbie pulled onto the grass. They slipped out, eased the doors shut and approached cautiously. About twenty feet away, Robbie asked for the rope. He lassoed Michelin, yanked him to the ground, no shouts or cries, just furious, prayerful stuttering, then silence. Jim grabbed his glasses, hoping he’d just fainted and hadn’t suffered a heart attack. Robbie slapped on handcuffs, gagged and blindfolded him, then stood him up. Jim slipped the burlap bag over his head, down to his waist, pulled the drawstring tight and tied it. Robbie whipped out a knife, and opened it with a flick of his wrist to cut a length from the lasso. Jim bound Michelin’s legs using a bowline and a reef knot he learned from a Boy Scout Handbook he’d shoplifted as a kid.
Still no movement: maybe playing possum, or assuming the martyr role. Jim hoped that if God existed, he was looking askance. Robbie threw Michelin over his shoulder like a sack of rotten onions and deposited him in the bed of the truck. A speedy U-turn ripped up some lawn. At the end of the driveway, Robbie spotted a security vehicle. He put on the emergency flashers and fishtailed onto the road, blasting the horn.
“We need a chase to make this official,” he said.
Jim had to admit he left his bravado with the burlap and knots. Fortunately, the campus cop wasn’t concerned. “Can’t Buy Me Love” filled the cab. Wild-man Robbie’s fingers drummed the top of the steering wheel as well as Jim’s head.
They ended up on Clinton Ave, parked in front of a two-storey house. Robbie climbed into the truck bed, and handed the baggage down to on-the-verge-of-panic Jim. What was going to happen in that house? Jim noted the number, 321.
Robbie shouldered the catch again, and just about ran up the porch stairs. He wasn’t long.
Jim asked for details. A former Worden Middle School Phys-Ed teacher, turned hooker/stripper, named Leila lived there. Robbie turned on the dome light to show off her Joey’s Exotic Dance Club business card. She billed herself, “Miss (T + V + A).”
“You get it?” Robbie asked.
“The Tennessee Valley Authority?” said Jim.
“Hope you’re sharper than that in classrooms, College Boy.”
Jim didn’t try to redeem himself.
Robbie owed Leila a favour. She’d lied on the witness stand, and given him an alibi when he was up on burglary charges. He’d agreed to participate in one of her side projects. She wanted to bed a man in every profession. She’d racked up a doctor, a lawyer, and yes, an Indian Chief, executives, politicians, musicians, actors, cops, chefs, morticians, etc., but no clergy.
“You should have seen his face when the smelling salts revived him. She was buck naked,” said Robbie, laughing.
“Doesn’t what we just did bother you any, Robbie?” questioned Jim.
“Mr. Hemingway says, ‘I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after.’ I’m feeling great.”
“One way to look at it,” remarked Jim.
“By the way, take a long look in your mirror. Reckon the college dorm location would provide hindsight deep and necessary.”
Jim felt a Robbie poem coming on, “Ass over Tea-kettle II” the working title. Long Island Sound finally coughing Robbie up in some fancy marina, crashing against a deluxe fishing yacht, owned by a Wall Street bigwig who’d fished for marlin in waters where Hemingway had. The thought of it eased Jim’s burden. Ha, maybe call the poem “Mr. (A + T)” and maybe a “V” for the “Virtue” title alone on a page awaiting a torrent of words to support it.