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"Second Opinion" (the ninety-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Second Opinion" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), May 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Second Opinion By brigid@lorienwood.plus.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| She says, 'Please be careful'. He says, 'Take a chance'. She's inclined to sit and read. He tends to sing and dance. She likes to save her pennies. He likes to spend the lot on this year's latest model car and thirty-six foot yacht. She likes to dine on caviar, he - burgers from a van. She says,'You can't wear floral shirts'. He says,'Oh yes I can!' She likes to sup on cold champagne. He likes to swig a beer. She says,'I want to move to there.' He says,'I'm staying here!' They don't agree on anything. They're never out together. It's only when, in one accord, they moan about the weather! |
| Second Opinion By mrid123@hotmail.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| When times are hard in Naples,
Florida, you know the economy is bad, and the times are hard in Naples. Maybe
they are bad in a different way. Perhaps someone sells a vacation home that has
been in the family for forty years rather than going through foreclosure on
their primary residence, but you can still tell that, relatively speaking, the
money has dried up. Local businesses are feeling it. Trust me. I know it all
too well. I’m a jeweler. The crime rate is up, as well. The rich may not be worth as much as they were a year ago, but they still have a lot more than everybody else, and that attracts attention. Lately, it has drawn the attention of a house breaker or, as the local papers call him, the “Naples Cat Burglar”. There has been a series of robberies that caught the public’s imagination, and I take particular interest in them, because the burglar has a taste for jewelry. This is Naples, so we are not talking about a few baubles gone missing. Very high end, very well protected pieces of jewelry have been stolen out of very big, expensive houses. Everyone is talking about it. They especially talk to me about it. I take in their opinions and gossip and spin them back with my own – not all of my own opinions, though. Some of them are probably best kept private, for now. Lately, some of the talk has been about whether the robberies have been “inside jobs”. To me, when you look at the degree of sophistication demonstrated, it seems highly unlikely that there is not someone on the inside helping. If a burglar picks a night that everyone is out of the house, defeats a well conceived alarm system, breaks into the house, quickly finds a large portion of the valuable items in the home, and leaves without incident, he probably had help. Given the risk and preparation involved, he would be foolish to even consider such a job unless he had a good idea of what valuables would be there. But there are different degrees of inside help. It could be that a waiter at the country club takes note of who wears the most impressive jewelry and forwards that information along. That would be a kind of inside help. Or perhaps someone at the local insurance agent’s office might pass information about who has what insured, and at what value. That could be even more useful for a burglar. Perhaps a maid might tell someone where valuables are kept. Or maybe a homeowner might tell someone what jewelry is in the house, what it is worth, where it is located, exactly how the security system works, and when they will be out for the evening. Does that seem unlikely? It’s not as unlikely as you might think. If that seems like a bold statement, consider this coincidence. I recently did appraisals for two of the families who have since had their homes burgled. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Business has been down, and I was glad to earn some income doing appraisals. With all of the publicity regarding the robberies, lots of people have brought in their jewelry to get updated valuations, in some cases second opinions, so that they can be sure their insurance is adequate. In that sense, the Naples Cat has helped me. But it seems more than coincidence that not long after increasing their insurance coverage, two families had their jewelry stolen – not too soon after increasing coverage, mind you. It didn’t happen one week after upping the insurance. It happened a few months later, after a respectable waiting period. I realize that this hardly qualifies as evidence. You may argue, “why wouldn’t they just sell them, rather than risking insurance fraud?” In response, I will tell you that if someone sells her jewelry, she will get a fraction of the money that she would receive from the insurance company if it is stolen. The depreciation on jewelry makes a fancy car look like a growth stock. This is because there is not a ready market for jewelry. Most people can’t tell a diamond from cubic zirconia, let alone comment intelligently on its color, clarity, or market value, and they know it. They are not going to give you good money for a gem that may turn out to be glass. If you are going to sell, it is going to be to a dealer like me, and you have very little leverage. You are at the mercy of the jeweler, and jewelers are not merciful, not when money is involved. I will gladly clean your engagement ring when you bring it in every week for a year after he pops the question, patiently listening as you tell me for the twentieth time every detail about how it unfolded. I will tactfully compliment you on how beautiful your diamond is, even though your spouse went with a low grade of clarity in order to get a bigger gem. I will even let you drag me through case after display case, helping you try rings with your new beau, even when I can tell that he will never buy any of them and he is just doing it to earn chips to be cashed in that evening in the bedroom. But I will not make concessions on price. Nor will any other jeweler. So, while I have no proof per se, I can say that the loss of their valuables may have provided the family with a welcome windfall just when it was most needed. I could also point out that, to my knowledge, none of the families who have been robbed have purchased anything remotely close in value as a replacement. It seems they are glad to have the cash. It makes for an interesting brain teaser. Is there a burglar prowling the area? Is it all just insurance fraud? Is it perhaps a little bit of both? Did the original theft inspire later frauds? If it is fraud, is it in some way organized, or are people coming up with the idea independently? Are husbands fooling their wives as well as the insurance company, or are their wives in on it? There is another interesting aspect to the crimes. Many of the victims have their insurance with the same agent, Jimmy Burks. I do not personally know him; I think I may have met him once regarding an appraisal. As I recall, he came to my shop to complain about the valuation I placed on a ring his wife brought in, saying that it was too low, which was ridiculous. I’ll let you in on a jeweler’s secret. When you come to me for an appraisal, I will always set it at the high end of the market range. In my opinion, if you lose an item or have it stolen, you shouldn’t have to haggle or find a bargain in order to replace it. You should get enough money to replace it with minimal hassle. Also, I want to set the value a little high so you can feel like you got a good deal. If you come back to me later to replace a lost article or to buy something similar, I want to be able to offer you a price that looks attractive. Because my compensation is generally a percentage of the estimated value, I also have a personal interest in setting the estimate high. Finally, I want to make a man look good to his wife or significant other. Letting her think that he paid a little more than he actually paid accomplishes that. It’s just good business. So ladies, if you take your favorite new bauble to have it appraised, the value is low, and your husband or boyfriend or lover or whatever says that the valuation is wrong and gets angry, it is not because the estimate is wrong. It is because he wants you to think he paid more, and has been caught in his deception. Apparently Mr. Burks has gotten over his frustration with me, since a number of the people who recently came to my shop for appraisals were recommended to me by him. I guess his wife took her ring to another jeweler for a second opinion, and it turned out my appraisal was higher. Now he sends all of his customers to me. You see, insurance premiums are based on the stated value, and your insurance agent gets a percentage of the premiums. Your insurance agent wants the appraisal to be high, too. I would not say that Jimmy Burks is shady, and that is not just because he sends me business. He is well connected, part of the establishment. He has, however, been involved in a few curious situations. There was one involving a mid-sixties Shelby Cobra in pristine condition that was pretty much totaled. Perhaps I should say it involved what was claimed to be a 427 Cobra in pristine condition. This is not your garden variety classic car. If it truly is in perfect condition, a car like the one described can fetch the better part of a million dollars. The adjuster who looked at it after it was hit found some strange inconsistencies in the damage. It was hard to explain how some of the problems could have resulted from the accident as described, but Jimmy was able to smooth things over and get the claim paid. Another customer that he is friendly with had a houseboat fire in which some of the circumstances were unusual, but the claim was paid. I guess you could say that Jimmy is a problem solver. Enough idle speculation, for now. I just received another request for an appraisal. A guy came into my shop shortly before closing time with a large assortment of jewelry, very anxious to leave it with me. Apparently he is the housekeeper for the Astor family. They are out of the country but have heard about the news and want their jewelry inventoried, and it can’t be done fast enough. I tried to put him off until Monday, but he would have none of it. “Mister, if something happened to that jewelry before Monday, I would be lucky if all I lost were my job.” When I told him I couldn’t finish it before close of business he was happy to leave it with me, said it would be safer with me than with him. So I dutifully inventoried what he brought and put it in my safe. It is a weird way to get business, but I’ll take it. The fee on this appraisal should be a tidy one, which is good. I need to take advantage of these opportunities while they last. Local law enforcement has made little progress in the investigation of the Naples Cat Burglar, but after receiving outside pressure, they asked the FBI for help. The Naples Police are well equipped to sort out a fender bender between a Bentley and an Aston Martin, but this sort of problem is perhaps out of their league. In contrast, whatever the racket is, burglary, insurance fraud, or something else, the FBI has seen it and the risk has gone up tremendously with their involvement. If the criminals are smart, they will stop now. If not, there is always room for more in the penitentiary, I guess. That was four days ago. A lot can change in four days. Your world can change in four days. You can go from relative obscurity to notoriety, from a modest but comfortable living to being confined in a jail cell and wondering when you will get out. Your concerns can change from whether you should get that new Mercedes to how to find a good criminal defense attorney and post bail. You can go from being fairly secure to wondering how you got into this mess and, more importantly, how can you get out of it. The case against me seems pretty tight. Based on a tip, the police raided my shop looking for stolen merchandise, and they found it. It turns out that load of jewelry that was brought in late on Saturday for appraisal wasn’t what it seemed. It had been reported stolen as part of the most recent break in. The real housekeeper for the Adair family is not the person who came into my shop on Saturday. I don’t know who he was. He left me in a position that is pretty hard to explain, though. There is more. It turns out that some of the jewelry stolen in previous crimes has been recovered. One of them, a large broach, has a partial fingerprint on it that matches mine. I recognize the piece. It is one that I appraised months ago, but the family that is the rightful owner claims to know nothing about any appraisal that I performed. People are saying that I must have been in on everything. How else could a burglar have known who had valuables? Since I do so many appraisals and have sold so much to so many, they say I could tell a robber exactly which houses to hit. The local paper said that as a jeweler, I could help to move the stolen goods, perhaps rework them. So there is a lot of evidence against me, much of it circumstantial, but some physical evidence, too. It makes for a story that is easy for the media to follow, easy for the police to follow. But I am innocent. I’m starting to worry that it will be hard to convince people, but I am. I find it unlikely that this is just a string of coincidences, of bad luck. Someone has made it look this way intentionally, and he has done a damned good job. I am starting to think that some of those requests for appraisals and second opinions that were sent my way had more significance than I realized at the time. They seemed like easy money, but may end up costing me far more than I could have imagined. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #1 Second place: #8 Third place (tie): #3, #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Second Opinion Noelle Campbell swampfaye@yahoo.com |
#1 of 9 |
| 1401 words | |
| "It's not my fault we're the same age. Why do you have
to sit with people that are your age? This entire thing is stupid." Fahel
narrowed his eyes at the girl seated across from him. "Maybe if you didn't have
such a stupid name, you wouldn't be here." The girl looked back at him, tilted her head, looking bored with his remark already. She pursed her thin prepubescent lips. "I hope they don't make me say your name again. It sounds like someone is throwing up." He continued, oblivious as the servant put a breakfast bowl in front of him and then did the same for the girl, moving on to the next table where younger students sat for breakfast. "Gwotholyn!" he said, coughing the name as if he were going to throw up. He did it again for effect, gagging on the name over his bowl of creamed wheat. Very slowly, she put her spoon in her bowl; as if she were completely ignoring him and moving on to eat breakfast. "Your mother must have been deaf as well as an Earther. Only Earthers are stupid enough to let people live without hearing when they could easily fix it. And only an Earther would come up with a stupid name like Gwotholyn!" Fahel continued to gag at her, for effect, his eyes half closed when a spoonful of creamed wheat hit him squarely between his eyes and splattered all over. He opened his eyes, astonished, only to be greeted with another spoonful of creamy wheat. Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the dean's office, covered with creamy wheat, bits of breakfast toast with shirts stained from orange juice. Gwotholyn's fingers were rapidly spelling things out for the dean, in furious, angry motions that Fahel wasn't going to bother to follow. He didn't bother to follow, though he knew her language passably now. He knew what she would be saying. Knowing she could understand him was enough communication. She got away with too much at school because she was deaf. When she was done, her hands folded deep in her arms across her chest, pouting and sitting back in the chair, the dean turned to him for explanation as if it were his turn. "She doesn't have to look at me. She won't know what I said if she just doesn't look at me." "It doesn't change what you are saying." Fahel hated that he sounded so calm. He couldn't stand any of the adults here. He could barely fathom what he was doing here. He wasn't one of these abandoned waifs. He actually had a mother and father. They kept insisting, like everyone here, that this was the best school in five sectors, and the safest. They went on and on how it was safe and that was important during a war, but that didn't change how he felt about it. He hated it here "I hate when her bug eyes are on me. All big and green... like a bug." He wanted to think up something a little better than that, but couldn't. He watched as her hands started to spell something out. He smirked, guessing what she was saying about his eyes, what color they were and what they reminded her of. Her signs and the look on her face were enough to figure it out. "I'm afraid you are going to have to serve detention together. And you will have to find a way to cooperate while you are here during the school year. This is a boarding school. You are stuck here. Both of you." He looked pointedly from Fahel to Gwotholyn. Fahel shrugged. He was getting used to detention. He liked the fact that Gwotholyn was getting it too. He hated that she never seemed to get into trouble. He would tease her about it later. This was on her permanent record, the one she was trying so hard to keep spotless, though God knows why. It wasn't as if there was some big call for skinny deaf girls outside this sector. In some parts of the world, she might have even been killed at birth for being imperfect. Not that he wished that on her, but it wasn't like she was going anywhere unless it was to a plastic surgeon. He watched Gwotholyn's fingers spell like mad. Maybe this was worth it. He sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face. ----- "Gwotholyn is such a genetic mistake," Fahel said, shaking his head. He was looking at her, two desks down. "She's an orphan, like all of us." "I'm not an orphan," he insisted. He'd sat down next to the girl with the red hair, hoping to lure her into conversation. She was new at the school and couldn't possibly be as much of a loser as the rest of the kids here were. She sounded way too smart for twelve, clearly educated at somewhere better than this place. "We're all orphans," the girl replied. "This is an orphanage." "No. It's a residential school." "Whatever. We're still all Marzies. We should stick together." "A Marzie wouldn't have such a stupid name." "We are all Marzies here" the girl insisted. "You shouldn't be so mean to her. She's deaf." "She's not deaf," he told his companion. "She always knows what I'm saying, so she can't be deaf." "If she's not deaf, it makes it all the more horrid you are saying those things about her out loud," the girl with the blue eyes and strawberry red hair replied. "Do you think she needs a second opinion?" Fahel smirked until the girl got up, frown firmly etched in her face, and moved two rows away. Fahel made a face and reminded himself that everyone here was a loser. ----- The bombing was sudden and just as soon as it started, it had ended. There was an awful silence as Fahel huddled under the table with Gwotholyn. The entire building had collapsed around them and for a long, long time, all they could see was darkness. He had fallen asleep, his head on her shoulder. Exhausted, he couldn't say how long he had slept before he felt her urgent hands shaking him. He sat up. There was noise, like the scuttle of bugs along the floor, magnified by a hundred. His heart pounded as it increased and lept in his chest when the light appeared. "Two children," he heard someone say as a face peeked in the hole. Gwotholyn was pulled out first. It was very strange to feel her being pulled away from him, his hand on her until he could not hold on anymore. Stranger to wish she was still beside him. When he was pulled out, set on his feet, surrounded by foreign soldiers, he watched her frantic signs. "Do you know what she's saying?" one soldier asked another. "She's deaf," the second proclaimed. "Then she's not a Marzie," the third one said. "What about the boy?" "She says that's her brother," the second soldier said, watching her as she continued to move hands and fingers. "What do we do?" the third talked low as if the children couldn't hear if he just whispered. "We have a deal with the Earthers. Let them go," the first said. Fahel stood frozen. His mind told him to stay, not to draw attention to himself, but his body wanted to run. Run, and never look back. "Just like that?" The third soldier looked perplexed. "How will they survive?" "I have no idea, but we can't bring them with us, and the bounty only applies to Marzies. They are old enough to fend for themselves." "The girl is pretty," the second soldier commented, rubbing dirt from Gwotholyn's cheeks. "We could maybe sell her." Fahel felt himself shaking, his fists clenching until Gwotholyn worked her fingers into his. A strange calm washed over him at the feel of her hand in his. "I said no!" The first soldier pulled him away from her and shoved him roughly. "You'll jeopardize our bounty if the Earthers find out!" The second soldier handed Gwotholyn some rations, pat her on the head and then they were all gone. "You saved me," Fahel whispered. Gwotholyn's mouth twitched, but she said nothing. She never said anything. And she couldn't sign one handed. Fahel was still holding her other hand. |
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| Second Opinion Michael Rice michael.rice@gmail.com |
#2 of 9 |
| 2498 words | |
| The room was cozy, a fire blazing to keep the chill
out, the smell of stew filling the tiny cabin. Winter in the north was brutal;
snow fell from the sky in abundance, coating the world in a white powder deep
as a man’s waist in a single storm. Such was the case now as the fluffy
substance fell from the evening sky, wind howling through the forest. I sat down to enjoy my meal. Eating in peaceful silence that only a life of solitude could bring. Thoughts and memories flowed through my mind like water over a riverbed. There and gone in a blink of an eye, worth notice, but not worth dwelling on. As I finished my stew, deep in fleeting thought I felt a nuzzle on my hand from a damp nose. I looked down and saw my hound, Duke, reminding me that the last bites of dinner were his. I gave him a quick scratch behind the ears and got up and filled his bowl with the remainder of the stew, “Here you go, boy.” The evening chores done, I sat down in the chair near the fire to read one of the many books in my inventory on the Koju history and culture while Duke lay out in front of the blaze to absorb as much heat as possible. The reading of Koju was interesting. Their culture was born and grew apart from ours, or, some argued, ours from theirs. The two cultures lived side by side in a tentative peace for longer than anyone could remember and so it was an ongoing debate. I was just starting to read the Koju view of honor when Duke’s head popped up and looked at the door, a low growl in the back of his throat. Jumping to my feet and tossing the book down on the only table in the room I moved to the door. Something had alarmed the dog, and I needed to find out what it was, carefully… It was full dark now, a storm still raging outside of the cabin. I grabbed my coat off of a peg on the wall, threw it on, put on my thick boots and strung my bow. My jacket was snug around my well-muscled body, but provided easy movement, my boots a perfect fit, the fur on the inside enough to keep my feet warm, but not so much as to make them bulky and difficult to walk in. “Duke, come.” I grabbed my quiver and sword off the pegs next to where my jacket was just a moment ago. I didn’t know if anyone was directly outside of my cabin, waiting to ambush me. But I couldn’t take any chances. I opened the trap door in the wall behind a bookcase and entered an escape tunnel I had made when I built the house, closing the hidden door behind me. Life as a spy had taught me to be paranoid, and the habits were difficult to break, even in retirement. The tunnel was tight, with the wooden support beams used to hold up the dirt ceiling. I inched forward, Duke following behind me. I disarmed the traps left waiting for anyone who found the tunnel and tried to sneak in on me. The first would let loose a powder that would close off a man’s throat, causing death my asphyxiation. The second trap, at the end of the tunnel, in the door that was hidden behind a large bush built into a large stone. If opened with the trap armed, the support beams would collapse, causing the tunnel to drop on the infiltrator. We exited the tunnel well into the forest. The snow was somewhat less deep where the trees kept some snow from reaching the ground. From the sounds of it there were at least three horses coming my way. They were still around a bend, out of view, so I took the opportunity to move closer to the edge of the woods. Who could be coming to see me in this weather, this time of night? Most likely it’s some townsfolk who got lost on their way home, lucky enough to come by a place where they could safely sleep until morning. But wasn’t not taking any chances. I had recently retired from the spy business; I wasn’t ready to retire from life. It took the people approaching a few more minutes before they rounded the bend, and they stopped when they saw my home. I could almost see the sigh of relief rush out of them, but from this distance, in the dark, with the snow falling, it was difficult to see anything. I was right, there were three of them. They started moving again, at a much slower pace than what they must have been traveling, judging by the sounds coming from their horses. I tucked myself behind a rock and kept myself out of view. I could not see them, but I knew they could not see me. As they passed me, I could see that their horses were well-conditioned, excellent shaggy haired beasts, bred for the north and travel through deep snow. These creatures, along with the posture of the riders, were too fine for random travelers. I could not see their faces, but I could see how they sat comfortably on their beasts. I pulled out an arrow and knocked it, waiting to see what they would do next. The three stopped about a stone’s throw from my cabin. It was a respectful distance, not close enough to be threatening, not far enough away to show intimidation. I could see the weapons strapped to their hips, and the bows wrapped in oilcloth tied to their backs. Definitely not townsfolk who had gotten lost. That’s when I heard a voice I would not be able to forget even if I had wanted to. “Akasu! It is Gerovius! May we come in?” Akasu…so he had finally accepted that I had changed my name. Living in a cover long enough that my old name no longer felt comfortable. I had adopted my Koju name, embracing it, as I embraced their culture, their language, and many of their beliefs. It was not a popular thing, for a man to adopt the life of his cover. To forsake many of the things that he had been brought up to believe. But, that is what had happened, and that is who I am. Which, I suppose, is the reason I unconsciously tightened the bowstring, tensing with the thought that those who allowed me to live in the middle of nowhere had decided that it was time to end my life before I could turn on my country. I waited, not answering, wanting to see what they would do next. I had all the time in the world, they were the ones worn down by storm and their time in it. To my surprise, Gerovius leaned over, and the next thing I knew all weapons were thrown into the snow at their horse’s feet. “All we ask is a chance to speak, and a place to warm our bones. Were you away from our lands for so long that you forgot what hospitality is?” With that, I realized that my paranoia was getting the best of me. I knew that if they had planned to make sure my next breath was my last, then they would not have shown up under such conditions, and Gerovius wouldn’t be the one leading the charge. Gerovius would be the one sneaking up behind me to shove a blade in my back. Still not willing to give up all of my paranoia, I kept the arrow knocked to my bow as I stepped out of the forest. “I’m here Gerovius.” Startled, the three turned, reaching their hands to their waist, hands grabbing for the missing hilts. In response, my bow string tightened, but I stopped it before a complete draw. They noticed. “Akasu, I see you are still as cautious as ever. May we stable our horses and warm ourselves by your fire?” “The stable is right here, it will be tight with all three horses, but they’ll be able to fit. You can meet me inside when you are finished in the stable. If you don’t mind, I will take your weapons with me.” As they brought their horses to the stable I put my arrow back in my quiver and gathered their discarded weapons, Duke following close at my heals keeping a wary eye on our visitors as we entered the cabin. When I got into the cabin the first thing I did was lock my “guests’” weapons into a large chest at the foot of my bed, along with my quiver, and unstrung my bow. To keep myself busy I put water on to boil, preparing some tea for the discussions that were sure to come. By time the tea was finished I heard a knock on the door, as Gerovius announced that he was entering. “Come in!” The three men entered the small cabin, with a gust of cold snowy wind. The storm must have picked up its ferocity again, as the three men were blanketed in snow. To the average eye the three men that entered the room wouldn’t look like anything but average. But the details picked up by an eye trained to spot such things screamed that these men were anything but ordinary. The fluidity with which they moved, the way each of them checked the room as soon as they entered, posture, even without knowing it I would have assumed they were part of some sort of special force. These men were the personal guard to the king. “You can hang your coats over the fire so they can dry, place your boots in front. I’ve made tea as well.” “Thanks,” Gerovius said with a nod. “Let me introduce my associates. This is Rom,” a nod to the right to a man with brown hair and brown eyes and a slight shadow of stubble on his face, “and this is Kurn,” a nod to the left to a man with a shaved head and blue eyes. Then Gerovius turned his gaze on me, his piercing grey eyes looking through me with disgust. “Why are you here?” I asked curtly. I didn’t need a man to come into my home and look at me like I was the filth that one tried to avoid while walking down the street. “I am here because the king bids me to be here. If it were up to me I would have left you here to your ‘sanctuary’ and forgotten you even existed.” I sat down, ignoring the stare Gerovius gave me, scratching Duke’s head as he sat next to me. Looking at the embarrassment on Rom and Kurn’s faces I said, “You didn’t answer my question.” My voice did not betray the anger that was raging through my blood. “The king needs your help.” I looked at him, waiting for more. Kurn spoke up, “Excuse me, I am sorry to interrupt, but you mentioned tea, do you mind if we accept your offer and help ourselves?” Gerovius shot him a look so fierce it would stop a bear in its tracks. “Go ahead Kurn, Rom. It is hanging in the pot over the fire. There are some cups in front of the hearth.” A look of appreciation from both Kurn and Rom were sent my way. Then I turned back to the hostile Gerovius. “There is a problem with the Kojuns. The king wants your opinion on how to proceed.” “The king has advisors. Why does he need to speak to me?” “That is the same thing I asked him. He said he needed the opinion of a man who understands their culture better than most who live there.” “And who is to say that I want to help?” “If you love your country as much as you say,” Gerovius said with a sneer, “then I don’t see how you would not offer to help in any way possible.” I pretended to think for a moment, enjoying the frustration that passed over Gerovius’s face as I did so. Where did the animosity come from between us? In part it was my profession. Living behind “enemy” lines, Gerovius felt I could never be trusted. From me it was not liking the risks that I took for my king and being looked down on by someone as provincial as Gerovius. “Tell me what you know, and I can tell you if I can be of any help.” “Prince Seido was in a border town, there was a tavern brawl, and he was killed. It was a freak accident, but word is that the Koju armies are gathering to avenge his death.” And that explained the urgency that would cause Gerovius and two of the King’s guard to travel through such horrendous conditions to reach me. To reach the one man within striking distance to the King to give him the view a Koju King would have at the events that had transpired. The shock was evident in my voice, “This is not good. Not good at all.” My mind was reeling of the ramifications. What could be done to sooth the anger and outrage of the Kojuns and their King? “Thank you for stating the obvious,” Gerovius said with a snarl. Taking his anger and frustration out on me. “There isn’t anything that will be able to be done here. Warm up, dry up, and rest up. We need to leave early to get to the King as soon as possible. “ With that I got up and began to throw together some supplies. I could see the look on Gerovius’s face. A little bit relief, a little bit of shock. Almost as if he were expecting to have to argue with me all night long to convince me go help. “I may have spent a long time in Koju, Gerovius, but I know what country I call my own. And even if I didn’t, I know how senseless the deaths resulting from a war would be. I will do everything I can to help. Now get some rest, I need time to think.” It did not take long for the three of them to fall asleep. Not long after that my pack was made, and I was lying in my bed, mind racing, hand resting on Duke’s chest as he slept beside me. Tomorrow we both left for a life I thought I had left behind. |
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| Second Opinion brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#3 of 9 Winner |
| 93 words | |
| She says, 'Please be careful'. He says, 'Take a chance'. She's inclined to sit and read. He tends to sing and dance. She likes to save her pennies. He likes to spend the lot on this year's latest model car and thirty-six foot yacht. She likes to dine on caviar, he - burgers from a van. She says,'You can't wear floral shirts'. He says,'Oh yes I can!' She likes to sup on cold champagne. He likes to swig a beer. She says,'I want to move to there.' He says,'I'm staying here!' They don't agree on anything. They're never out together. It's only when, in one accord, they moan about the weather! |
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| Second Opinion Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 745 words | |
| I did not yet know my name when I looked up from
playing with the toys the man had given me and saw my mother's eyes glisten
over and tears begin to run down her cheeks. Now the sight of your mother
crying is the kind of thing you never forget. As it turns out, it is also the
earliest memory I have of anything in my life. I had a name of course. Everyone has a name. Almost from the moment they are born people have names. It's just that, in my case, at the time of my first memory, which was when I was about three years old, I did not yet know what my name was. Not only that, I did not even know a name was something I had. Now everyone else seemed to know what my name was. My mother knew my name. My father knew my name. The man who was making my mother cry knew my name. For that matter, even people who had never met me, people like the Catholic Church and the Department of Vital Statistics for the State of New Jersey, they knew my name. Shucks, even my dog knew my name, and he wasn't even a people. But there I was, three years old, not knowing my name, and sitting on the floor in this strange man's office. I was playing with some of his toys, he was wiggling his lips at my mother, and my mother was crying. Now I had seen people wiggle their lips before, but I'd never seen someone cry because of it. Gosh, both my father and my mother wiggled their lips at me all the time. It didn't hurt. It didn't make me cry. I didn't know what it was that was making my mother cry, but I knew that man and his wiggly lips had something to do with it. And for that I hated him. He made me mad. I didn't know those kinds of names either – names for things you can't see, like hatred and anger – but that didn't stop me from being good at them. I picked up a small yellow metal dump truck – one of the toys the man had given me to play with – and I threw it at him. If this was going to be a day I would remember forever, then it would also be a day that man would never forget. Now I may not have had a name yet, but at least I had a pretty good arm. The truck flew through the air and hit the side of the man's head, colliding with the edge of his glasses. His head snapped back. His glasses flew off. Bright red blood began coming out of his nose. It splashed on his jacket, his pants, the carpet, everything. His glasses had bounced off his shoulder, hit the edge of his desk, and landed on the floor next to me. I jumped up and was about to step on them when my mother grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out the door. To her credit, as she dragged my bony little three year old body down the hallway with my legs kicking wildly behind her, my mother never said a word to me. Not that I would have heard her if she did. For the man had just told my mother that I was deaf. We never went to see that man again. I imagine he's very grateful for that. We did, however, go see other professionals in order to get a second opinion. In fact, it wasn't long before we were getting second opinions of second opinions. Sometimes we went to see a man, and sometimes we went to see a woman. Mostly the men worked in hospitals and wore long white coats that reached down to their knees, and the women worked in schools and did not. But it didn't matter what they wore or where they worked. Their opinions were always the same. They all said I was deaf. And they all wiggled their lips and made my mother cry. For my part, I never threw anything at any of the other people my mother took me to see. I guess, in a way, I had an easier time accepting my deafness than my mother did, for I had stopped throwing things at them long before my mother stopped crying. |
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| Second Opinion Colin Campbell colin93050-stories@yahoo.co.uk |
#5 of 9 |
| 762 words | |
| "Jump the red light, just do it. My old Auntie Flo's
going to die if she takes these stupid pills!" Sandra almost screamed the
words. She struggled to stop herself adding, "and it'll be your fault, thinking
we can get there quicker than the police." That could wait until later and if
Bob crashed the car they would never get there. Husband Bob did as he was told, inching forward through the red light then back to an unaccustomed pedal-to-the-metal. "If only," he said. "If only, the old girl had a proper phone as well as the mobile. If only, the silly old fart didn't switch it off to save the battery while she roams around the house having conversations with old friends that aren't there any more. If only, we'd taken her to a doctor who qualified sometime during the past sixty years. Thank God for a Pharmacist with an opinion and thank God she phoned us quickly." "Oh God," said Bob hunkering down behind the steering wheel, peering through a rain squall as he overtook a truck on a blind bend. "It's getting dark. Try the mobile again." "Switch it on Auntie Flo," Sandra shouted into the phone but the only reply she got was a tone. Still the wrong tone. When they finally reached Auntie Flo's house, Bob had to try twice to switch off the ignition. Sandra didn't see his hands shaking for she was already at the door ringing the bell and shouting, "Auntie Flo open the door." There was no reply, no sound, only unlit windows looking into the darkening sky with a cold empty stare. Sandra felt her eyes fill with tears as she remembered the family get-togethers when she had visited so often as a child. Just as they thought they were too late a light went on in an upstairs bedroom. "Thank God," said Sandra. Then she realized and shouted to Bob over and over again. "It's take two at bedtime. Take two at bedtime." "We've got to get in right now," said Bob quietly. Firmly but gently he pushed Sandra aside and put his shoulder to the old door. They ran upstairs shouting, "Don't take the pills you got today Auntie Flo. Spit them out now." Auntie Flo spilled most of her bedtime drink as they burst into her bedroom. What was left in the cup joined it on the carpet as Sandra grabbed her aunt saying as calmly as she could, "Where are the pills? How many have you taken?" "Oh those pills," said Auntie Flo trying to recover her customary composure. She made them wait for an answer while she attended to the spill on the carpet with a paper tissue. "I didn't take those pills. Let's all go downstairs for a nice cup of tea and I'll tell you all about it." Auntie Flo brought out her best china for tea and biscuits and smiled at them like they were children. She spoke slowly and carefully just to make sure they would understand. "Ah, it was very kind of you both but you took me to see the wrong doctor. You see, there are two doctors called Johnson." "Dr Helen Johnson and Dr Ben Johnson. We all grew up together. You took me to Dr Ben, he's not my Doctor. I've always gone to Dr Helen. So after you brought me back home I checked it out with my real doctor. Dr Helen said not to touch the pills and that she would go and see her brother tomorrow." It was cool away from the morning sun in the downtown surgery of Dr Ben Johnson. Waiting with Sandra to confront old doctor, Bob thought of the events of the day before. He ran a newly critical eye around the place. The quality fittings with their mahogany and brass and good old fashioned craftsmanship that had just the day before conveyed an air of quiet professionalism now looked sad and out-of-date. "Looks like an old film set from a black and white movie." he whispered to Sandra as they followed the old doctor into the inner office. Sandra wasted no time in getting directly down to business. "Have you heard from Dr Helen?" The old doctor looked up with a far away look as if remembering better times. "I'm so sorry," said Dr Ben. "But of course you wouldn't know. My sister died last year. We ran the practice together right from the start. She always kept an eye on what I was doing. Sometimes I think she still does." |
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| Second Opinion Joyce_Johnpiero@muhs.edu |
#6 of 9 |
| 572 words | |
| “I’m NOT sick!” I said to my wife of 32
years. “Jerry, honestly you sound like you are in a lot of pain, can you please just go see the doctor? It has been years since you even got a check up, and I think that it is about time!” begged Eli. “I am the man of this house Eli. If I was sick, which never happens to me, I would take care of it! I don’t need some white robed over paid 25 years old to tell me how I am feeling. Now please leave me alone.” I was confident, feeling as if I finally put an end to the issue. “You know Jerry, I have done so much for you during our marriage, and you are saying that you won’t do this one thing for me, when all I am trying to do is to make sure you are all right? It is really unbelievable, you know that?” She pulled the old guilt trip on me, I squirmed in my recliner to position myself to look as though I did not care about what she was saying. I knew she was desperate. I knew it was for my own good. “Fine.” I said muttered. “I will go, if only to shut your mouth once and for all.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and went upstairs. Friday morning came, and it was time that I went to the doctor’s office to finally get my check up. It started rather smoothly, a lot of routine things, weight, height, eyes, heart, and lungs. Then there were more tests, and then needles, prodding grimacing doctors, more needles, more prodding, lots of nosy nurses, more questions more scales, and then more tests. It really didn’t seem like a normal examination. After a long 2 hours of being a human pin doll, the doctor finally walked into the room and happy told me that my results for the tests will be ready Sunday, and I would be called with the news. “I told you I was fine!” I said triumphantly as we drove home. "I don’t know…did you see how they were whispering, and how many doctors there were in and out of the room? Eli nervously said. “I am as healthy as a horse!!” I said with a big smile on my face. “Although I have gained a little weight since college, wouldn’t you say hunnie? Haha!” I laughed obnoxiously Sunday finally came, and I was rudely awakened by a very early phone call. My doctor was on the other line. I didn’t really understand what he was saying at first, and all I could really understand was that he kept saying that everything would be okay. “Doct**COUGH**, Doctor, I am sorry, could you please repeat what you just said one more time.” I mumbled as I tried to wake up. “Jerry…you have throat cancer…” the doctor said in a voice that was almost too happy for the severity of the situation. I just hung up the phone. I then turned to my wife, and looked at her intensely. She knew what I was just told, and she slowly wiped the tears from her eyes. “I am making another appointment, with a BETTER doctor right now.” I said slowly “I Need a second opinion.” |
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| Second Opinion glenlee10@sky.com |
#7 of 9 | |
| 2279 words | ||
| My husband was having an affair. And I didn’t know
what to do about it. I should have confronted him. There was always a chance I
was wrong, I thought, but the signs were all there. Since I’d started to have my suspicions, I’d found it difficult to settle to my normal, daily routine. After I’d taken the kids to school, I’d come home, make myself a coffee, snatch a bar of chocolate from the fridge and head upstairs to the computer. Just half an hour, I told myself and then I’ll make a start on the chores. In the small box room, where I’d not got space to move without banging my elbows on the wall, I’d open up my email. There‘d be a couple of spam items which I’d click into oblivion immediately. For ages there’d been nothing else. “What’s wrong,” I’d demand of the machine. “Why is no body talking to me these days?” Today was the same. I opened the last email I’d sent to my friend, Julie. I’d had no response to it. That was unusual, unheard of even. Julie had been having boyfriend trouble and we’d been emailing several times a day. Until a week ago that is. I’d have thought the system might have broken down, except for the spam. And it wasn’t just Julie. I’d heard nothing from any of my other friends either. I found my last email to Julie in the Sent box, opened it up and read it through again for any clue as to what might be happening;
It was that bit I wrote about Alan, wasn’t it? That’s what frightened her off. I think he’s having an affair with Julie! She can’t get a commitment out of her man so she’s stolen mine. My best friend and my husband! Such a cliché! Which is why I think I’m right. It happens all the time, doesn’t it? Last week I decided to talk to Alan’s sister, Tracey. I needed a second opinion and thought I might be able wheedle something out of her. We usually chat at the school gates for a few minutes when we’ve seen the kids off in a morning but that day she seemed all of a fluster and wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t even look at me. At the mention of her brother, she made some lame excuse and ran off. I was left talking to myself. How could I interpret that? Her actions as good as told me there was something going on, something concerning Alan. And when I put two and two together, I knew what it was she wasn’t telling me. The wife, after all, is always the last to know. My friends aren’t talking to me either. They must know something. But I’m just the wife! There have been other signs too. Telltale signs like new underwear in the washing. That’s always a sign a man is having an affair; when the Y-fronts he used to wear have been replaced by boxer shorts. Did he think I wouldn’t notice them, bundled up as they were in his soccer kit? I didn’t see them when I put them into the washing machine, it’s true. I never sort his muddy kit beforehand. But Sunday was a clear, windy day so I put the clothes on the line to dry. And found these pale-blue boxer shorts amongst the washing. They had small, pink, love- hearts on them. He certainly wouldn’t have bought them for himself. I was suspicious of course. So much so that I told him I’d go and watch him playing next week. He looked amazed but said, “That’ll be really nice. You haven’t been to see me playing football since we were courting.” Then he went from the room and I heard him speaking to someone on the phone. And what about the new shirt I found tucked at the back of his wardrobe. It was not one I’d bought him and he never buys his own clothes. So who bought it for him then? Julie, that’s who! This indecision was bringing me down and the chocolate was making me fat. I had to talk to him. How to open the conversation though, that was the killer. The opportunity presented itself when the kids were in bed. I was doing the ironing and Alan was watching something on the box. I’d ironed the sheets and pillowcases when I came across those boxer shorts. What else could I do? I waved them in the air in front of his nose, of course. “What are these?” I demanded. “Uh, uh…” It was hard to drag Alan’s attention away from the rubbish he was watching on the television. “These!” I said again, flipping them across his face. That got his attention. “Ay, up,” he said. “That hurt!” “Well?” I ignored his whining. “Whose are these?” I’d got his attention. “They’re my pants,” he said simply. “Your pants?” I replied. I felt my voice trembling. “Your pants are all Y-fronts. Where’d you get these from? Who bought them for you?” His face flushed deep pink. “I bought them,” he insisted. “All right?” “No. It’s not all right. When did you start buying your own underwear?” I paused, “…and why?” “The boys have been laughing at me all season when we change for the match. Nobody wears Y-fronts these days, so I finally bought myself some boxers.” “Well, why didn’t you say something to me?” “I was embarrassed. I thought you’d think I was being daft.” He shrugged. “Sorry. But it’s no big deal, is it?” No big deal? But he wouldn’t understand the anguish I’d been through over his stupid pants. And there were other issues to tackle. “What about that new shirt?” “What new shirt?” He genuinely looked puzzled and for a second I thought I must have imagined it. “The one you’ve got hidden at the back of your wardrobe,” I said. He thought about it. Then he smiled as he remembered. “Oh, that new shirt,” he said. “The champagne coloured one?” “Yes,” I nodded. “The champagne coloured one, still in its wrapper.” I stood over him, demanding his answer. “When I went to buy the new pants,” he explained, “there was a sale on. The shirt was half price, so I bought it.” Suddenly he went on to the attack. “You haven’t forgotten we’ve got our tenth wedding anniversary coming up, have you? I thought we’d go somewhere special so I bought a new shirt for the occasion.” His answers were plausible, I admit but I needed more assurances. He must have read my expression. “Next question,” he said. So I plunged ahead. “Who did you phone when I said I’d come to the match with you on Saturday?” “Phone?” he asked. “Did I phone somebody?” “As soon as I said I’d come with you, you went and phoned somebody. Who was it?” “Oh, yes. I did, didn’t I? I’d forgotten. I phoned Dave. He was going to pick me up in his new car but as it’s only a two-seater, I phoned him to say we’d go in our car and I’d pick him up instead.” He titled his head to one side and looked hard at me. “You think I’m seeing some woman, don’t you?” It was my turn to flush. My face and neck were burning. “You daft ‘epporth!” He patted the sofa next to him. “Come and sit here and let me show you how wrong you are.” Reluctantly, I sat next to him, not touching. He reached out, put his arm round my shoulders and pulled me to him. “You’re my girl. I don’t need any other.” But as he was saying it, his eyes strayed to the television and I swear he was paying more attention to the busty blonde prancing across the screen than to me. “Happy now?” he managed to take his eyes from the screen and smiled at me. “Well…” I hesitated. Alan sighed. “Come on. Get it all off your chest.” He pulled me closer. “I thought you’d been brooding a bit recently. You’re not pregnant again, are you?” I ignored that suggestion. “I tried to talk to Tracey a few days ago but she looked flustered and wouldn’t talk to me. And she’s been avoiding me ever since. We used to meet up at the school gates every day but according to the kids, Tom and Jess are being taken to school a lot earlier these days. Why is she avoiding me, Alan?” “Avoiding you? She’s not avoiding you? She’s been going for job interviews recently but she didn’t want to tell anyone in case she didn’t get a job. But it just so happens she heard today she’d been taken on at Tescos on the checkouts. She’s going to phone later. She said she’d tell you all about it then. She made me swear not to tell anybody in case she couldn’t find a job. Not even Mum knew.” “And what about Julie?” I dropped my biggest and most lethal bombshell. “What about Julie?” That puzzled look was back on his face. “You met Julie that day you were supposed to be working with the auditor. The day you worked late. You didn’t tell me you’d met her. I found out and she’s not emailed me since. And neither have any of my other friends. What do they all know that I don’t? Come on, Alan. Why did you lie about working late when you were seeing my friend?” Alan pushed me away. Just a little bit. “Ah. Now I understand. What a dolt I am. I’m flattered, sweetheart, that you think a great looking girl like Julie would fancy me but we both know she’s only got eyes for Ian. And he’s too self-absorbed to see it. But I should have known I’d be found out. You’re always too sharp for your own good.” He pulled me close again and hugged me. “This tenth anniversary of ours. I’d planned to do something really special and now I have to let the cat out of the bag, I guess?” I nodded. “OK. It was supposed to be a secret but I’ve booked the Church, the Social Centre and a caterer and the vicar. I thought we could renew our wedding vows and relive that magical day again.” “But…” “Shush, Barbara. I’ve not finished. I bought a champagne coloured shirt to match that dress you bought for Christmas because Julie told me you love it so much and said how disappointed you were not to wear it. I’m sorry. It was my fault. I was too hung over to make the firm’s do. That’s when I got this idea to make it up to you. Julie’s booked you in to the hairdresser’s that morning and Tracey is handling the flowers and Mum’s done all the invitations.” Poor Alan. He looked so sad. “And now the surprise has been spoiled. I should have known I couldn’t keep anything so major from you.” “So that night…?” “That night I spent going round your friends getting them to help me with the final details, the sorts of things that only women would think of. I swore them all to secrecy.” “Oh,” I said. There really was nothing much to add. “So how about putting that ironing away and giving us a cuddle?” Something was wrong. Alan had been very plausible. I’d got the second opinion I’d been needing but did I believe all he’d said? I believed the bit about the surprise anniversary do. It would be too easy to check. But I was still uneasy. Then it struck me. Alan had described a very expensive day. Even my hair do would be in the region of £50 or so. Yet I knew he hadn’t got any money. I glanced towards the local evening newspaper that Alan had been reading earlier and left on the floor. The headlines were startling; BANK ROBBER STRIKES AGAIN! THIRD BANK ATTACKED IN A MONTH! Was I married to a bank robber, I thought? Would he really do all that? Just for me? This time I didn’t need a second opinion. I turned to my husband. “I think a cuddle is just what I need right now”, I said huskily. |
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| Second Opinion mrid123@hotmail.com |
#8 of 9 Runner-up |
| 2494 words | |
| When times are hard in Naples, Florida, you know the
economy is bad, and the times are hard in Naples. Maybe they are bad in a
different way. Perhaps someone sells a vacation home that has been in the
family for forty years rather than going through foreclosure on their primary
residence, but you can still tell that, relatively speaking, the money has
dried up. Local businesses are feeling it. Trust me. I know it all too well.
I’m a jeweler. The crime rate is up, as well. The rich may not be worth as much as they were a year ago, but they still have a lot more than everybody else, and that attracts attention. Lately, it has drawn the attention of a house breaker or, as the local papers call him, the “Naples Cat Burglar”. There has been a series of robberies that caught the public’s imagination, and I take particular interest in them, because the burglar has a taste for jewelry. This is Naples, so we are not talking about a few baubles gone missing. Very high end, very well protected pieces of jewelry have been stolen out of very big, expensive houses. Everyone is talking about it. They especially talk to me about it. I take in their opinions and gossip and spin them back with my own – not all of my own opinions, though. Some of them are probably best kept private, for now. Lately, some of the talk has been about whether the robberies have been “inside jobs”. To me, when you look at the degree of sophistication demonstrated, it seems highly unlikely that there is not someone on the inside helping. If a burglar picks a night that everyone is out of the house, defeats a well conceived alarm system, breaks into the house, quickly finds a large portion of the valuable items in the home, and leaves without incident, he probably had help. Given the risk and preparation involved, he would be foolish to even consider such a job unless he had a good idea of what valuables would be there. But there are different degrees of inside help. It could be that a waiter at the country club takes note of who wears the most impressive jewelry and forwards that information along. That would be a kind of inside help. Or perhaps someone at the local insurance agent’s office might pass information about who has what insured, and at what value. That could be even more useful for a burglar. Perhaps a maid might tell someone where valuables are kept. Or maybe a homeowner might tell someone what jewelry is in the house, what it is worth, where it is located, exactly how the security system works, and when they will be out for the evening. Does that seem unlikely? It’s not as unlikely as you might think. If that seems like a bold statement, consider this coincidence. I recently did appraisals for two of the families who have since had their homes burgled. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Business has been down, and I was glad to earn some income doing appraisals. With all of the publicity regarding the robberies, lots of people have brought in their jewelry to get updated valuations, in some cases second opinions, so that they can be sure their insurance is adequate. In that sense, the Naples Cat has helped me. But it seems more than coincidence that not long after increasing their insurance coverage, two families had their jewelry stolen – not too soon after increasing coverage, mind you. It didn’t happen one week after upping the insurance. It happened a few months later, after a respectable waiting period. I realize that this hardly qualifies as evidence. You may argue, “why wouldn’t they just sell them, rather than risking insurance fraud?” In response, I will tell you that if someone sells her jewelry, she will get a fraction of the money that she would receive from the insurance company if it is stolen. The depreciation on jewelry makes a fancy car look like a growth stock. This is because there is not a ready market for jewelry. Most people can’t tell a diamond from cubic zirconia, let alone comment intelligently on its color, clarity, or market value, and they know it. They are not going to give you good money for a gem that may turn out to be glass. If you are going to sell, it is going to be to a dealer like me, and you have very little leverage. You are at the mercy of the jeweler, and jewelers are not merciful, not when money is involved. I will gladly clean your engagement ring when you bring it in every week for a year after he pops the question, patiently listening as you tell me for the twentieth time every detail about how it unfolded. I will tactfully compliment you on how beautiful your diamond is, even though your spouse went with a low grade of clarity in order to get a bigger gem. I will even let you drag me through case after display case, helping you try rings with your new beau, even when I can tell that he will never buy any of them and he is just doing it to earn chips to be cashed in that evening in the bedroom. But I will not make concessions on price. Nor will any other jeweler. So, while I have no proof per se, I can say that the loss of their valuables may have provided the family with a welcome windfall just when it was most needed. I could also point out that, to my knowledge, none of the families who have been robbed have purchased anything remotely close in value as a replacement. It seems they are glad to have the cash. It makes for an interesting brain teaser. Is there a burglar prowling the area? Is it all just insurance fraud? Is it perhaps a little bit of both? Did the original theft inspire later frauds? If it is fraud, is it in some way organized, or are people coming up with the idea independently? Are husbands fooling their wives as well as the insurance company, or are their wives in on it? There is another interesting aspect to the crimes. Many of the victims have their insurance with the same agent, Jimmy Burks. I do not personally know him; I think I may have met him once regarding an appraisal. As I recall, he came to my shop to complain about the valuation I placed on a ring his wife brought in, saying that it was too low, which was ridiculous. I’ll let you in on a jeweler’s secret. When you come to me for an appraisal, I will always set it at the high end of the market range. In my opinion, if you lose an item or have it stolen, you shouldn’t have to haggle or find a bargain in order to replace it. You should get enough money to replace it with minimal hassle. Also, I want to set the value a little high so you can feel like you got a good deal. If you come back to me later to replace a lost article or to buy something similar, I want to be able to offer you a price that looks attractive. Because my compensation is generally a percentage of the estimated value, I also have a personal interest in setting the estimate high. Finally, I want to make a man look good to his wife or significant other. Letting her think that he paid a little more than he actually paid accomplishes that. It’s just good business. So ladies, if you take your favorite new bauble to have it appraised, the value is low, and your husband or boyfriend or lover or whatever says that the valuation is wrong and gets angry, it is not because the estimate is wrong. It is because he wants you to think he paid more, and has been caught in his deception. Apparently Mr. Burks has gotten over his frustration with me, since a number of the people who recently came to my shop for appraisals were recommended to me by him. I guess his wife took her ring to another jeweler for a second opinion, and it turned out my appraisal was higher. Now he sends all of his customers to me. You see, insurance premiums are based on the stated value, and your insurance agent gets a percentage of the premiums. Your insurance agent wants the appraisal to be high, too. I would not say that Jimmy Burks is shady, and that is not just because he sends me business. He is well connected, part of the establishment. He has, however, been involved in a few curious situations. There was one involving a mid-sixties Shelby Cobra in pristine condition that was pretty much totaled. Perhaps I should say it involved what was claimed to be a 427 Cobra in pristine condition. This is not your garden variety classic car. If it truly is in perfect condition, a car like the one described can fetch the better part of a million dollars. The adjuster who looked at it after it was hit found some strange inconsistencies in the damage. It was hard to explain how some of the problems could have resulted from the accident as described, but Jimmy was able to smooth things over and get the claim paid. Another customer that he is friendly with had a houseboat fire in which some of the circumstances were unusual, but the claim was paid. I guess you could say that Jimmy is a problem solver. Enough idle speculation, for now. I just received another request for an appraisal. A guy came into my shop shortly before closing time with a large assortment of jewelry, very anxious to leave it with me. Apparently he is the housekeeper for the Astor family. They are out of the country but have heard about the news and want their jewelry inventoried, and it can’t be done fast enough. I tried to put him off until Monday, but he would have none of it. “Mister, if something happened to that jewelry before Monday, I would be lucky if all I lost were my job.” When I told him I couldn’t finish it before close of business he was happy to leave it with me, said it would be safer with me than with him. So I dutifully inventoried what he brought and put it in my safe. It is a weird way to get business, but I’ll take it. The fee on this appraisal should be a tidy one, which is good. I need to take advantage of these opportunities while they last. Local law enforcement has made little progress in the investigation of the Naples Cat Burglar, but after receiving outside pressure, they asked the FBI for help. The Naples Police are well equipped to sort out a fender bender between a Bentley and an Aston Martin, but this sort of problem is perhaps out of their league. In contrast, whatever the racket is, burglary, insurance fraud, or something else, the FBI has seen it and the risk has gone up tremendously with their involvement. If the criminals are smart, they will stop now. If not, there is always room for more in the penitentiary, I guess. That was four days ago. A lot can change in four days. Your world can change in four days. You can go from relative obscurity to notoriety, from a modest but comfortable living to being confined in a jail cell and wondering when you will get out. Your concerns can change from whether you should get that new Mercedes to how to find a good criminal defense attorney and post bail. You can go from being fairly secure to wondering how you got into this mess and, more importantly, how can you get out of it. The case against me seems pretty tight. Based on a tip, the police raided my shop looking for stolen merchandise, and they found it. It turns out that load of jewelry that was brought in late on Saturday for appraisal wasn’t what it seemed. It had been reported stolen as part of the most recent break in. The real housekeeper for the Adair family is not the person who came into my shop on Saturday. I don’t know who he was. He left me in a position that is pretty hard to explain, though. There is more. It turns out that some of the jewelry stolen in previous crimes has been recovered. One of them, a large broach, has a partial fingerprint on it that matches mine. I recognize the piece. It is one that I appraised months ago, but the family that is the rightful owner claims to know nothing about any appraisal that I performed. People are saying that I must have been in on everything. How else could a burglar have known who had valuables? Since I do so many appraisals and have sold so much to so many, they say I could tell a robber exactly which houses to hit. The local paper said that as a jeweler, I could help to move the stolen goods, perhaps rework them. So there is a lot of evidence against me, much of it circumstantial, but some physical evidence, too. It makes for a story that is easy for the media to follow, easy for the police to follow. But I am innocent. I’m starting to worry that it will be hard to convince people, but I am. I find it unlikely that this is just a string of coincidences, of bad luck. Someone has made it look this way intentionally, and he has done a damned good job. I am starting to think that some of those requests for appraisals and second opinions that were sent my way had more significance than I realized at the time. They seemed like easy money, but may end up costing me far more than I could have imagined. |
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| Second Opinion Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#9 of 9 |
| 2485 words | |
| Alan had almost told his nurse to send Henry Danglen
home. Without saying a word, the bombastic bastard strode into the exam room
and began to undress. Doctor Alan Parker’s first thought was the sorry son
of a bitch might look like a Thanksgiving Parade balloon missing half its air.
He was wrong. He’d lost weight, maybe a hundred pounds, more perhaps. Good news, at least for Henry. His gray hair had vanished as well replaced by a thick black crop. Rogaine - maybe hair plugs, but Alan didn’t see any scarring associated with plugs. Well, maybe he dyed it, Alan thought. All signs of the man who over-indulged, speeding his demise with riotous living, were in fast remission. Maybe Henry had enough money to throw at those ravages of age in order to make them give up and disappear. Whatever happened, the physical changes hadn’t altered his grating, alpha personality. “Hello, Henry,” Dr. Parker looked over Henry Danglen’s chart, trying to reconcile the person he’d treated with the man standing naked to the waist in his exam room. “It’s been a few years. Theresa tells me you insisted on blocking out an hour session. What is it you want?” “The works, Al,” Henry barked like a colonel issuing orders to his troops. “Stem to stern. Leave no hole unexplored.” “I referred you to Jake Samalinski in New York sixteen years ago, Henry,” Dr. Parker closed the old file and looked at the graying man. Jake Samalinski placated hypochondriacs with sugar pill placebos and Valium and charged an arm and a leg to do so. Henry fit into Jake’s medical clientele like a glove. “Jake’s tops in his field. What brings you back here?” “Haven’t got time to see Jake anymore, Al,” Henry said in a forced conversational tone. Somehow, a touch of desperation shaded the grating belligerence in his voice. Alan watched as Henry turned towards the exam table, evading a longer conversation about Jake Samalinski. “How do you want to start this? Standing, bending or sitting?” Dr. Parker closed the old file and picked up the tools of a cursory examination. Alan checked routine vitals at Henry’s insistence, something his prep nurse usually did for all patients. “Are you still taking that blood pressure medication I gave you eight years ago Henry?” He asked a few minutes later, jotting the numbers down on a fresh sheet. His blood pressure showed normal - normal for a much younger man. “Not any more.” Henry said softly as he turned. “So, you were, but stopped? That’s not usually a good idea. Did Dr. Samalinski suggest you stop taking them?” “No,” Henry said shortly. “Not him.” Henry paused as though he wasn’t ready to tell all his secrets. Dr. Parker shrugged. “Doesn’t make any difference to me, Henry, but I can only work with what I’m given,” Alan said, he’d just about had enough of Henry’s evasive attitude. “We both know your blood pressure was borderline fatal last time you were here. You get no warnings with high blood pressure.” He paused briefly. “When did you stop taking the meds?” “Two weeks ago,” Henry said quickly. Alan wanted to glance at Henry’s charts, but after six years absence, Henry’s numbers meant very little today. “It doesn’t seem to have affected you adversely,” Alan reached back and flipped open his chart. “One reading isn’t statistically significant, but your pressure is down considerably from the last time I saw you. Well, you didn’t come here to listen to me lecture." "I stopped all the pills two weeks. When they showed up," Henry said quickly and shivered like a wet dog. Then he continued in a voice Al wasn’t sure he heard. “The drugs weren’t helping. My pressure was off the chart. I knew it was killing me.” He stopped, then quickly said, “They told me to stop.” “We’ll take urine specimen and a blood samples. Have you got any specific complaints?” Al said after a pause, hoping Henry might fill in blank, wondering again who ‘they’ were. He didn’t know why, but the hair on the back of his neck was beginning to tingle just a bit. “No, nothing specific,” Henry said - too quickly. No longer the commander in charge of the situation, Henry now hedged nervously, like a bookie who just lost a big bet and collection time neared. He paused as though he had something important to say, but at the last second, shook his head ‘no’. Alan Parker shrugged. Alan listened carefully to Henry’s heart. Last time he’d seen Henry, he swore that Henry needed a by-pass. His blood pressure was reaching fatality range, his diet was in the toilet and his EKG looked like a fairy tap danced across the paper. Henry’s heart now beat with a regularity Alan didn’t remember. He shifted his stethoscope, looking for any sign of erratic rhythm, or signs of scars from the reported by-pass. You didn’t hide ‘double bypass’ scars. There were no such marks across Henry anyplace. Well, it had been six years “You ignored my advice about that by-pass?” He asked as he concentrated on the sounds from deep inside Henry. Henry replied “no” so quickly and quietly, that Alan didn’t catch it at all. “Look, Al, you know every cut and scrape I’ve ever had. I need you to check out all of them,” Henry said. He fixed Al with a stare, then, just sort of ran out of gas and hung his head. “Right down to the missing kidney you pulled. Jake did a double bypass two years ago. Check it all.” “Well, let’s get you set up for x-ray and the lab,” Alan returned to his desk and filled out the necessary paperwork. “I’ll want them to do a complete EKG and EEC, too. Have Theresa set you up for early next week and we can go over the results.” “Today,” Henry said, the commander back in charge – but with a touch of desperation, Alan thought. “It all has to be done this morning – early afternoon at the latest.” “Leaving town Henry?” Alan asked rhetorically, then he stopped. Henry was leaving town and that was the major problem. One look told him he’d hit the mark directly. He looked at his afternoon schedule. Although crowded, seeing Henry so mentally unwrapped, but physically as sound as he’d ever been, piqued his interest enough for him to want to juggle his entire afternoon schedule. “It’ll have to be as late as possible, Henry. I’ve already got a full schedule as it is. You know most of the lab results won’t be ready by this afternoon.” “Has to be before six. Speed any you can, would you, Al?” A plea filled Henry’s voice, almost a note of desperation. Whatever his past had been with Henry Danglen, Alan knew that pleading, begging, simply was not in Henry’s nature. “Money is no object. I’ll double your normal fee.” Henry held Dr. Parker’s gaze for a brief moment, his eyes pleading, then turned and began to dress. “Which way is the lab? Do I get my EKG there, too?” “They’ll show you where to go after you finish in the lab. You know most of the lab results won’t be ready by this afternoon,” Alan said as he handed Henry the necessary papers. In spite of himself, the inches-thick Henry Danglen file distracted him constantly. Each patient he saw reminded him of yet another minor change in Henry Danglen’s exam. By noon, he’d filled up three additional pages on a legal pad, minor irritations that he wanted to compare with the old chart. By the time his last patient left at five, Alan’s desk was awash with Henry’s entire medical history. Along with as many of the recent tests and x-rays as were completed, Alan shuffled through the charts, his notes, MRI tape, CAT pictures, trying to arrange everything and decide what he could possibly say. He glanced at the notes he’d taken throughout the day, knowing that he would not possibly have time to read and cross reference each. He slid the EEG and EKG tapes aside with a cursory glance; nothing glaring jumped out at him. The MRI file with a hastily typed report. MRI lab stamped NORMAL across the typed report and Alan put the entire file on the bottom of the stack. Same with the CAT report and film. He’d specifically wanted to see a CAT of the open spot in Henry where they’d removed a kidney some years ago. Henry’s picture confused him more as information about Henry came across his computer screen. There were simply things that one did not hide and a missing kidney had to be a the top of that list. Instead, Alan discovered two perfectly functioning kidneys. Was Henry some sort of modern day Dorian Grey? When Henry entered, he refused to sit. Alan glanced at the mess on his desk and at the patient he’d known six years ago. Even now, even today, Henry seemed younger than when he came in. His hair was darker, his musculature seemed firmer. “Why did you come to me, Henry?” He asked as he perched on the one clear spot on his desk. “No one else is going to believe this,” Henry said, mostly to the all. “I take it you’ve seen Jake then?” “Yesterday. He wanted to whack me back with some high dose tranks,” Henry scoffed. “Like I was crazy.” He stopped in the middle of the small office and looked at Alan, a piercing look through troubled eyes. “Am I crazy, Alan?” He asked – a plea really. “No, Henry,” Alan admitted to himself as much as anything else. “I see know indications of mental instability. In that respect, you haven’t changed at all.” “Thanks,” Henry said and resumed his pacing – three steps up, three back. “I’m interested in the other, physical changes, Henry,” Alan confessed as he rummaged through the papers and pulled out his note pad. “You say you’ve had a by-pass, but none of the scarring appears on your body or internally. Those are difficult scars to hide even for the most advanced plastic surgeon. “You had a kidney removed,” Alan checked down his list. “I was there for that one. And yet, according to the x-ray…you have two functioning kidneys – but show no signs of a transplant.” “No transplant,” Henry said, finally sitting in a chair…but fidgeting constantly. “I’d love to know how you became a medical miracle, Henry.” “So would I,” he said. “I’d like to know – why me? This should be happening to someone important. Someone intelligent.” “I’m lost Henry,” Alan said as he crossed his arms. “Suppose you start at the beginning. “Two weeks ago,” Henry stopped his nervous flight and stared at the wall over Alan’s shoulders, as if reliving the entire episode. “They showed up two weeks ago. In my apartment. Two AM…just there. Scared the crap out of me. “They – touched me…did something…gave me something…took something,” he ran out of terms and the fear in his face left no doubt of his veracity. Alan held still, wondering again about his judgment of Henry’s mental faculties. “I changed,” Henry shrugged – then shivered. “Things started happening that hadn’t happened in a long time. Hair color – more of it. Hell, I was doing the major league comb over when I left you. The heart by-pass scar shrank and disappeared. Other things.” “Who did this Henry?” Alan tried to be as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to interrupt Henry at all, but it was necessary now. He needed to know. “Little green men,” Henry said. “Big headed greys – bug eyed, pointy eared freaks. Martians. Space Aliens. All I know is they came through the walls and left the same way. Not a trace, not even disturbed dust. They said they’d be back after the transformation was complete. In two weeks. Tonight.” Alan stalled, trying to think of something rational to connect Henry and what was happening with. Nothing came to mind. The contradictions about what was physically possible and what he saw happening were simply too great for his mind to grasp. “I’m not going crazy, am I?” Henry leaned forward in his chair, afraid of losing touch with his one point in reality. “I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you? If anyone would know, you’d know right?” “Henry, I want to examine you one last time to night. Go into the dressing room and peel down to your boxers. Let me send my staff home,” Alan said as he crossed to the door. “Better make it fast,” Henry said. “They’re supposed to be here by six.” He thought about calling in a favor from a psychologist friend as well for a second opinion, but instead he made quick work of getting his staff out the door. “Now, have a seat on the table,” Alan said as he read through the chart again. Nothing happened. He looked up from the chart into an empty room. No Henry. “Henry?” He called as he opened the exam room door. The short all was empty as well. Janice Egan, his nurse ducked her head back around the corner, coat already on, fighting her hands into gloves to face the cold January night outside. “Dr. Parker?” “Did you see Henry Danglen come through here?” “Only when he headed back to your office,” she shook her head. “He hasn’t left through here I’m certain.” There was only one other exit, the fire exit, but Henry would have tripped the alarm on the crash bar, so he hadn’t left that way either. “Thanks Janice,” Alan walked his nurse to the front office door and locked it behind her. Henry Danglen wasn’t going to leave that way either, not without making a lot of noise. “OK, Henry,” Alan said into the phone and heard his voice fill the small office through the intercom system. “They’ve all gone now. You can come out from wherever you are.” Problem was – there just weren’t that many places Henry could hide. The bathrooms were empty – the break room/conference room – empty. Finally Alan narrowed it down to the last place Henry had been – the changing room. He opened the door slowly. Henry’s clothes lay in a neat stack on the bench, folded as if fresh from the laundry. Alan patted them and discovered a lump where a wallet should be, and a quiet jingle where keys should be. He stepped back, puzzled. Henry had done what he’d asked of him. Stripped to his boxer shorts…. Alan stepped back again. Henry had warned him that ‘they’ were coming to get him. Perhaps they had. There were no shouts in the rest of the building as far as he could tell. No cries from frightened commuters about a naked man in the hall way. And at his feet lay Henry’s boxer shorts. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club