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Contraband and Other Stories: A Collection of Short Stories
Contraband and Other Stories: A Collection of Short Stories
Contraband and Other Stories: A Collection of Short Stories
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Contraband and Other Stories: A Collection of Short Stories

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A diverse collection of 12 intriguing storiesfrom a Mexican drug cartel planning to grow pot in the U.S. under, of all things, the watchful eye of the federal government, to a mystical saving of a boy from drowning and a strange body switch in an airplane only averted at the last moment, to a couple sharing a winning lottery ticket, unbeknownst to each other, and an "office affair" that comes derailed, and to many provocative tales in between.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJohn Senneff
Release dateNov 9, 2011
ISBN9781465884138
Contraband and Other Stories: A Collection of Short Stories

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    Book preview

    Contraband and Other Stories - John Senneff

    Contraband and Other Stories

    A Short Story Collection

    by

    John A. Senneff

    Published by John A. Senneff at Smashwords

    Electronic Adaptation by LesDenton.com

    Copyright 2011 by John A. Senneff

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Table of Contents

    The Wedding Guests

    Contraband

    The Dog Ranch

    The Brothers

    The Last Survivor

    Looking After Brother

    Divided Prospects

    Land for Sale

    Margin Call

    Strategies

    The Minute Hand

    Body Switch

    The Wedding Guests

    What I call the hook up is to take place in a couple of weeks. Loraine says, though, it’s disrespectful and demeaning for me to call our only daughter’s wedding the hook up when it’s such a solemn and important event.

    She doesn’t have to remind me of its importance; our 25 year old daughter is already showing. In that regard I tell Loraine I’m not about to pop for any maternity clothes and Andrew who popped her a couple of months ago – another expression my wife doesn’t much care for – is the one who should have shown some respect and he can damn well start buying her clothes himself since he’s been in such a hurry.

    My wife says it’s mean of me to talk that way and that we should help Clara with at least a couple of outfits since she hasn’t been earning very much – and he’s out of a job – and these would be the last clothes we will ever be buying her. She says the unplanned pregnancy is partly our fault anyway since we were the ones who suggested they wait until the holidays and it’s just too much to expect all those hormones to be suppressed for so long.

    Loraine really knows it isn’t buying Clara a few maternity clothes that’s bothering me or even that Clara and Andrew got careless but rather the sad prospect of losing our only daughter sooner than we planned.

    It’s always been a special delight for me to take Clara out for lunch and break away from my law office when our downtown work schedules jibe. I’m proud to show her off. She has her mother’s good looks: svelte figure (at least up until now) with long shapely legs, smiling dimples in her lightly freckled face, sparkling green eyes and silky burnt-blond hair. Like Loraine she can also be playful. I know I’m going to miss all those private times with Clara.

    Don’t fret, Daddy, she says one day at lunch, reading my thoughts as I dawdle over soup. They’re going to let me keep my job for a couple more months – assuming I don’t look too grotesque by the end of the year. She contorts her face and pushes out her stomach with her two hands. We’ll still be able to have our little lunches until then.

    I growl, I don’t think it’s legal for an employer to say anything about not keeping your job because of pregnancy.

    Technically what you say may be right. She throws up her hands in exasperation at my being so legalistic, reminding me so much of her mother. But I know what the real rules are – at least in my kind of job. We’re small and everyone wears two hats in our shop. As I’ve told you, Daddy, I’m part model, part assistant fashion editor. I’m expected to look good even when we don’t have a photo shoot – you know, a little slinky and sexy. She turns her head slightly away and slouches down in her chair, pulls her hair across her eyes and gives me a side-long, movie-star kind of look that makes me laugh. After a moment she straightens up and looks at me seriously. I do want that job back after I’ve had the baby!

    Princess, if they don’t or won’t take you back later let me know. I’m not a labor lawyer, and I don’t practice laboring law, I say, making a bad joke that causes Clara to pucker up her face and wince, but I am a lawyer and I’m sure there’s something in the Civil Rights Act on pregnancy discrimination that would apply.

    Okay, counselor. I’ll give you a ring if I need you.

    Returning to our dismantled home the day after my lunch with Clara (the ceremony is to take place here) I find mother and daughter sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor. The furniture has been pushed back against the walls and there are papers all around with a couple of telephone directories nearby.

    I look warily at the directories. I thought this was going to be a small affair. You two seeing if there’s anybody in this town you’ve forgotten to invite?

    No dear, we’re just checking addresses. Looking somewhat sheepish Loraine adds, "I will say the wedding is going to be a little larger than we first thought."

    A lot larger, Clara says under her breath, pushing her long hair aside as she bends down to write a name and address on a pad.

    Well, just be sure then you send invitations to everybody we’ve given gifts to over the last couple of years. It’s payback time.

    Don’t be so materialistic, Daddy. Clara, with her chin up, gives me a disdainful look. In a moment her face falls back into a broad grin. Anyway, I think we’ve got ‘em covered.

    Loraine looks concerned. We have to get everything addressed and out of here today, John. I wish you would help us.

    Let me see your list. I try to sound gruff. I want to make sure I approve of everybody.

    My wife hands me four sheets of paper. A few names are crossed out and some others are followed by question marks. Most of those marks have lines drawn through them indicating, I supposed, that after further consideration they also are to get invitations.

    I slap my forehead. Good grief, I don’t know half these people.

    You wouldn’t necessarily know the ones followed by a ‘C’ or ‘A.’ They’re Clara’s friends or Andrew’s friends and family. The rest are ours.

    I study the papers another moment and look up. A lot of those you say are ours I don’t know either. Who are the Schneiders . . . and the Wilsons? I look at the papers again. And the Humphreys? Who are all these people?

    You just forget sometimes, honey. Some are from our church, others from the Club. You don’t always pay attention to names but I’m sure you’ll recognize them when they come.

    I run my finger down the first three pages and glance at the fourth. You must have a hundred people here! Why in the world are we having this in our house, anyway? It should be at our church with a reception at the Club.

    Clara in the meanwhile stands up, stretching, and heads for the kitchen, her tummy very slightly extended through her knit skirt. Loraine points to her daughter. That’s why it’s going to be here and not at the church. In case you forgot, she’s pregnant. We couldn’t have made the arrangements in time, and time is something we don’t have a lot of. She pauses and looks toward the kitchen. Besides, our pastor goes strictly by the rules of premarital counseling and I think it’s a little late for that.

    But the reception? Couldn’t that have been at the Club?

    I guess it could but since they’ll all be here I thought it kind of nice to have everything served in our own home; the catering’s been arranged. Her eyes twinkle. Besides, we’ll be able to make sure all those who usually come to weddings only for the food and drinks and skip the ceremonies, are here for the whole thing if they expect to be fed.

    Let me look at the list again. After a moment I ask, Who is this guy you’ve underlined, Bill Jenkins? And isn’t there a Mrs. Jenkins?

    I think Loraine blushes. Just an old high school friend, honey. He moved back into town recently and gave me a call. We had a nice chat, catching up on our lives. I think I may be the only one still around he really knew in our class. She gives me a quick look. I told him all about Clara and I thought we should invite him to her wedding. His wife died a year ago and he sounded so lonely. She looks at me hopefully. You don’t really mind, do you?

    No, no, I say airily. I think I’ll look for my high school yearbooks and see if there’s any cutie I would like to see again. I start whistling.

    Loraine studies me and then laughs. I think you’re jealous!

    (I have to confess I do get jealous, even after 30 years of marriage, but it would be the last thing I would ever admit, particularly to Loraine. My wife is beautiful and always attracts interested male eyes wherever she goes. More than once I’ve been tempted to belt some guy who feasted his eyes on her too long.)

    Jealous, me? Not at all! Why should I be? You’re just being kind to an old friend. That’s nice, that’s nice, I say, my voice trailing off. I pause. I’m in rather a kind mood myself.

    I look to my wife to get her response but she’s back working on invitations.

    Sitting down cross-legged on the floor I start addressing a group of envelopes Loraine has given me while my mind wanders. This doesn’t last – my legs are too long and I can’t sit on the floor like those two and write anything so I get up and go to a little table and chair next to the wall. A name suddenly pops into my mind – Bella Dorsey! She had been a cheer leader when I was quarter backing for our high school football team – a few years before Loraine’s time – and we were, as they said back then, quite the item. Bella and I had gone steady for almost a year. She got what they called fast after we broke up.

    Bella and her husband were members of our country club and we saw them occasionally but not really socially. She still has her good looks. You’d call her cute – pert nose and dark hair worn in ringlets and she has kind of a pleasing, well-rounded figure, if just a shade on the plump side. Whenever we ran into them it was as if Bella and I tried to avoid eye contact. I don’t know, maybe it was embarrassed memories of our past love making, as silly as that seems after all these years. I heard her husband died in a terrible car accident just six months ago. I wasn’t sure whether he was her first but I didn’t think so.

    I think a minute. What about her coming to our daughter’s wedding? She has to be feeling a little lonely also with her husband recently gone. I try to analyze my own feelings. I don’t want to be spiteful or get even just because of Loraine’s invitation to her old friend. But, damn it, I am feeling a little kind. Why not bring what might be a few hours of happiness to somebody I once cared for who might need a lift? Bella and I should certainly be able to put out of our minds what happened so many years ago.

    Loraine is still sitting on the floor with a pen in her hand, looking thoughtful.

    Maybe you’re right, John. We might have too many.

    Well I’m going to add one more.

    She looks up at me in surprise. Who?

    Bella Dorsey.

    That pretty little widow? We hardly know her.

    Maybe I know her better than you do. We went to school together.

    Loraine lifts up on her knees and sits back, making a face. John, are you trying to get back at me just because I wanted to invite Bill Jenkins?

    No, but when you mentioned him as a widower I guess I just naturally thought of widows.

    She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. Okay, but it’s a little like tit for tat. She puts her chin in her hand and looks thoughtful. Bella Dorsey always seemed sweet, though, even if a little uncomfortable whenever I talked with her. I’ll send her an invitation if she was such a friend of yours – which I hadn’t realized since you never told me. She gives me a wry look. She’ll make 91. I’d guess we might end up with 80 or so who actually come. We’re going to stop right there. No more girl friends.

    Or boy friends. I chuckle. I’m going to put a sign above the front door: ‘Maximum Occupancy, 92.’ If more show up we’ll lock the door.

    Clara, who has returned to the living room, shakes her head and says, Oh, Daddy, in the same disgusted tone she used as a little girl when I would come out with a corny joke. I have to admit gazing at her just now makes something catch inside me.

    The big day is here at last. Loraine, looking fabulous as usual in an outfit new for the occasion, smoothly helps me with names as people come through the front door where we have stationed ourselves. Halfway through our greetings I’m getting tired of this welcoming business and ready to go for a drink when a tall man with dark hair turned slightly gray and dressed impeccably in a dark, striped suit, approaches with a jaunty spring to his step.

    Loraine, I would have remembered you anywhere. He slightly bows to her with his back to me. You haven’t changed a bit except perhaps to have grown even more beautiful. Thank you for inviting me. I circle around him to stand at Loraine’s side – I guess to let him know

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