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    Ransom
    Ransom
    Ransom
    Ebook205 pages3 hours

    Ransom

    By John Janovy, Jr

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Charlie Nightengale wins an enormous Powerball jackpot and his life goes to hell. I know, this story is as old as “boy meets girl,” but in “Ransom”, Charlie’s wife Betsy is kidnapped by a group that plays Robin Hood, buying her a new wardrobe, flying her in a Gulfstream corporate jet to a fancy dinner, replacing her blown-up Toyota Camry with a high end Lexus, and delivering her back to Charlie, but not before her ransom provides an endowment to take care of her for the rest of her life. The group, of course, gets its “commission” and Betsy gets her own million dollars to squander, in addition to her endowment, although the costs of her new car and the night out in Houston are deducted. Betsy’s home safely, but her plans for the rest of Charlie’s money is the surprise.

    “Ransom” explores the various options and situations that sudden wealth creates. Some of these options and situations are positive, others are not, and the pressures on recipients change significantly with the new money and each decision about how to spend it. Charlie is a young attorney at an established firm; he and his buddy Zach, also an attorney at the firm, are not far removed from the frat boy stereotype regardless of the fact that they earn good salaries. Betsy is chief financial officer at a local community college, so she sees the world quite differently than does her husband. Betsy is responsible, calm, and rational, although realistic. These different views of American society are a driving theme in “Ransom.” Betsy is the one transformed by the jackpot and its consequences.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Janovy, Jr
    Release dateJan 21, 2019
    ISBN9780986388750
    Ransom
    Author

    John Janovy, Jr

    About the author:John Janovy, Jr. (PhD, University of Oklahoma, 1965) is the author of seventeen books and over ninety scientific papers and book chapters. These books range from textbooks to science fiction to essays on athletics. He is now retired, but when an active faculty member held the Paula and D. B. Varner Distinguished Professorship in Biological Sciences at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. His research interest is parasitology. He has been Director of UNL’s Cedar Point Biological Station, Interim Director of the University of Nebraska State Museum, Assistant Dean of Arts and Sciences, and secretary-treasurer of the American Society of Parasitologists.His teaching experiences include large-enrollment freshman biology courses, Field Parasitology at the Cedar Point Biological Station, Invertebrate Zoology, Parasitology, Organismic Biology, and numerous honors seminars. He has supervised thirty-two graduate students, and approximately 50 undergraduate researchers, including ten Howard Hughes scholars.His honors include the University of Nebraska Distinguished Teaching Award, University Honors Program Master Lecturer, American Health Magazine book award (for Fields of Friendly Strife), State of Nebraska Pioneer Award, University of Nebraska Outstanding Research and Creativity Award, The Nature Conservancy Hero recognition, Nebraska Library Association Mari Sandoz Award, UNL Library Friend’s Hartley Burr Alexander Award, and the American Society of Parasitologists Clark P. Read Mentorship Award.

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      Book preview

      Ransom - John Janovy, Jr

      RANSOM

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © John Janovy, Jr., 2019

      All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions and other queries contact the author at jjparasite@hotmail.com.

      Ransom is a work of fiction. This e-book is for your personal reading pleasure and should not be shared with other individuals, but feel free to recommend it to your friends, especially those who buy lottery tickets. All characters in this book are completely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events recorded anywhere, is purely coincidental. If you’re reading this book, you will also be interested in the four Gideon Marshall Mysteries, Be Careful, Dr. Renner, The Stitcher File, The Earthquake Lady, and The Weatherford Trial, all available on all e-readers and in print from Amazon.

      Cover image on published version adapted from pixabay.com, no. 1238430, free for commercial use with no attribution required.

      ISBN: 978-0-9863887-5-0

      **********

      Contents:

      1. Conversation

      2. Chores

      3. Quick Stop

      4. Work

      5. Game Talk

      6. Sunday

      7. Monday

      8. Advice

      9. Questions

      10. Messages

      11. Dreams

      12. Offers

      13. Vacation

      14. Letter

      15. Ride

      16. Cops

      17. Dinner

      18. Problem

      19. Barclay

      20. New Car

      Books by John Janovy, Jr.

      About the author

      **********

      1. Conversation

      First thing I’m gonna do, says Charlie Nightengale, is blow a million. He drains his glass of Miller Lite then picks up the 16-ounce aluminum screw-cap, tips it, hoping there’ll be a few more drops. There aren’t. Maybe two million. He nods at the young woman behind the bar, glances at the empty glass, and shoves a $5 bill toward her. She gives him a smile and a nod back, reaches into a cooler, and retrieves his refill, opening it for him with a practiced twist, giving him a look that says ‘it’s my job, Charlie; about time for you to go home.’

      Never buy two, says Zach Foster, his best and only real friend from Nathan, Nathan, and Gilderhouse, LLP, Attorneys at Law. Two’s a waste, but you gotta buy one when it gets that high. He studies his glass of Sam Adams then looks over at Charlie’s Miller Lite. First one gets you in the game. Second one’s a waste of money. So why you drink that shit?

      Three hundred and sixty-two fucking million. Charlie wipes the rim of his glass with a paper napkin before pouring half the new can down the side. Three hundred and sixty-two million fucking dollars.

      IRS takes half, Zach reminds him.

      That’s still a couple hundred million, Charlie says, watching the young woman behind the bar as she walks up and down, taking care of a couple of other folks finishing off their work days in the Hair of the Dog Saloon. Y’know, Courtney has a really nice ass. Know what you could do with a couple hundred million? Never show up in fucking court again, never stand there front of God like you really believe this little shitass is innocent, never try to keep a straight face when some stupid little bastard gets sent up for five or six years. He takes a long drink. Why they do that, huh? He issues a long, deep, burp. Why do they do that shit, huh? Oughta go get a fucking job. Y’know, Courtney really has a nice ass. Ever watched her, huh? Really has a nice ass.

      Nice legs, too, says Zach, not only Charlie Nightengale’s youngest colleague at the firm, but also the one who’d given him some exceedingly helpful insider advice when Charlie had joined NN&G two years earlier. They do it because they’re poor, they do it because they’re dumb, they do it because they got no education, and they do it because they got nowhere to go and nothin’ else to do but go sell some fucking pills. Zach studies his beer. Or some weed. Poor and dumb. Half of three hundred and sixty-two is a hundred and eighty. Actually, hundred and eighty-one. He nods at Courtney and lays a $10 bill on the bar. Can I get a clean one?

      Sure, she says. You guys want to look at a menu?

      Gotta go pretty soon, answers Charlie. Too late and I’ll end up with a peanut butter sandwich.

      Hundred and eighty-one million, says Zach; not two hundred.

      Still a shit load of money, answers Charlie; still a shit load of money. Never have to work again. Never.

      What you gonna blow that million on, huh?

      Two, answers Charlie; might blow two. All in one day.

      Can’t spend two million bucks in a single day.

      You challenging me?

      Ain’t won, yet, buddy.

      Still, two bucks is a bargain, right?

      You gettin’ philosophical with me?

      Happens, right? Get some little shitass off with only two to five, owe yourself a couple of beers. He stares into his half-full, half-dirty, glass of Miller Lite. Cheapest entertainment in the world. Two bucks, get to dream about what you’re gonna do with two hundred million fucking dollars.

      Charlie, it’s only a hundred and eighty-one million Zach reminds him; and you pay yourself a couple of beers regardless of what happens in court, or anywhere else, for that matter.

      Work my ass off. Every day. Work my ass off. Charlie drains his glass. So tell me, you been there a couple years longer than me, why in the hell does Gilderhouse take those PD cases, anyway? Huh? Pro bono. What in the hell good is that, huh? Hey, Courtney, we got time for one more. He pulls another five dollar bill out of his pocket and lays it on the bar, but holds down one end with his finger. Courtney tries to pick it up, but Charlie presses down harder, holding it. What you doin’ tonight, Courtney? Huh? Got a date?

      Charlie, she answers; if you want your beer, give me the goddamn money. No, I don’t have a date with anyone except my sick kid. Go on home. Your wife’s makin’ dinner. Probably a big steak. She’s wearing something that’ll turn you on. Now give me the goddamn money if you want a beer.

      Charlie lifts his finger. She takes the $5 bill, lays it over by the cash register, and reaches in the cooler for another Miller Lite.

      Gonna leave me a tip?

      C’mon, Courtney, says Charlie; what’ve you done to earn a tip, huh?

      Besides give you your goddamn beer, she replies, and listen to your bullshit?

      I’m winnin’ Powerball this week, says Charlie; then what’re you gonna say, huh? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say ‘Charlie won Powerball. He got two hundred million bucks and he’s still too fucking cheap to leave me a tip.’ Right?

      You win Powerball, says Courtney, and I’m stealing your ass from whatever wifey and kiddies you got suckered into livin’ with you somewhere out in the suburbs and suckin’ up your paycheck from some bunch of goddamn lawyers chasin’ ambulances all over town. You end up with two hundred million, and I’m taking you away to paradise, buddy. You and me, just you and me on some beach in Hawaii, and I’m wearing this string bikini and I’m taking you back up into that fancy hotel room with its satin sheets and I’m screwing you into an unconscious state. She gives him a big, fake, smile. So dream on. Go buy your ticket. Waste a couple of bucks.

      Then you’re gonna steal his two hundred million, right? says Zach.

      Right. Courtney picks up Zach’s glass, puts it upside down in the sink full of water, wipes her hands on a dirty towel, and gets him another glass, running the Sam Adams down the inside from the tap, leaving it with a perfect head. Hundred and eighty-one, she says; you lawyers can’t even do simple numbers unless you’re addin’ up your fees for some poor suck tryin’ to get a divorce.

      Well done, says Zach, watching her; hell, I’ll leave you a tip even if cheapskate here won’t do it.

      Cheapskate’s winnin’ Powerball tomorrow night, predicts Courtney. Then we all get tips, right, Charlie? Everybody gets a hundred dollar tip?

      Sure, answers Charlie; I win tomorrow, I’ll give you a hundred dollar tip. He finishes his glass of Miller Lite and slides off the bar stool. Then I’ll come in here and collect on that paradise offer.

      Go on home, Charlie, she says. You couldn’t handle it anyway. She picks up a damp towel and wipes off the bar top where Charlie had been sitting, picking up the two dollar bills he’s left. And thanks, cheapskate.

      Careful driving, buddy, adds Zach. He’s single, with no place to go except back to his downtown apartment a couple of blocks away. Right now Courtney’s looking pretty good, just like she’s been every Friday for the past year or so when he and Charlie finished off their week at NN&G with a few beers and talk about whatever cases they were working on at the time. NN&G was maybe the most successful law firm in the city, and it was certainly the largest. Arthur Gilderhouse, at age 76, had outlived his two original partners, the Nathan brothers, Eli and Homer, but their estates still received a share of NN&G earnings, which were substantial enough to support half a dozen younger attorneys, several legal assistants, and secretaries for everyone. Arthur Gilderhouse—always Arthur or Mr. Gilderhouse, never Art—budgeted for pro bono work by the firm. Every one of the in-house attorneys, even the more senior ones, did duty one day a week for the overworked public defender’s office. Charlie’s last three clients, ones whose files he’d looked at maybe an hour before he’d joined them in court, were all young African-American men in possession of drugs ranging from cheap marijuana to opioids. All ended up with prison time.

      We can afford it, Arthur would say at their monthly firm meetings, referring to their work for the public defender’s office. We owe something back to the community. Charlie and Zach, the two youngest members, would keep their mouths shut until late on those Friday afternoons when they stopped at the Hair of the Dog to watch Courtney deliver beer and walk up and down behind the bar.

      Always the black guys, Charlie would say, almost every week, to start their conversations.

      White guys do opioids, too, Zach would add; they just don’t get caught.

      Cops pick on the black kids.

      Don’t go liberal on me, buddy, Zach always said. Sam Adams, draft.

      Courtney would always have it already poured by the time Zach got settled and also have a Miller Lite in an aluminum can, along with a glass, for Charlie. Hadn’t taken her long to figure these guys out. After the first beer or two, conversation would turn to either current cases being handled by NN&G or Courtney’s rear end and legs, depending mainly on the cases and whether they were interesting, or challenging, enough to merit bar talk.

      How ‘bout that Becker family, Charlie said one week, early in their string of Fridays at the Hair of the Dog Saloon. Fight like a bunch of fucking pit bulls.

      Educational, responded Zach. Had one almost that bad a couple of months after I started. Three brothers and two sisters. Five kids is too goddamn many. Why in the hell anyone has five kids is beyond me. That’s just fucking stupid.

      They’d both studied Courtney for a few minutes, mentally reviewing their respective client families in which siblings were either ready to murder one another over a few thousand dollars, a 700-acre farm, and a restored 1955 Ford Fairlane, or a hundred paintings that were supposed to be extraordinarily valuable but whose now-deceased owner, the former surviving parent, had been too cheap to have appraised.

      The NN&G offices were in an old red brick building that had been completely refurbished, sending dual messages: stability and dignity as you walked from the parking lot to your appointment with one of the attorneys, to sleek, modern, and no-nonsense high tech once you stepped into the lobby, were greeted by a woman named Helen, offered coffee or water, and ushered into leather-covered furniture for a few minutes before someone came down the stairs and led you back into a conference room. The dollar clock started ticking the minute that secretary got the call that you were in the lobby. NN&G had state of the art software. Whenever an attorney ended a conference, he or she would go back upstairs, tell a secretary the session was over, a signal to left click a button on a computer screen, such click immediately multiplying $450 times the number of hours, plus decimal fraction of the last hour, consumed by the visit.

      Charlie Nightengale’s week usually started with wills, estates, or contracts. The wills were easiest. NN&G’s boilerplate made wills pretty standard, unless there was a whole lot of property, heirs, and money involved, in which case the job went to one of the senior attorneys. Clients loved NN&G; among the first company conferences experienced by a new attorney was one devoted to irrevocable trusts and devices for preventing, or at least controlling, squabbles among siblings and surviving spouses.

      Got big plans? asks Zach. Veggin’ out?

      Probably watching football, responded Charlie, slipping on his jacket. Michigan and Ohio State. He picked up his briefcase. Unless Betsy’s got a bunch of crap for me to do.

      She pregnant yet?

      No, answers Charlie; at least not that I know of. He digs around in his jacket pocket for car keys. If her mom could make that happen, she would.

      Be careful driving, says Zach. I don’t want to have to get you probation instead of thirty days.

      I’m okay.

      And buy your ticket. Zach nods at Courtney. The lady needs her hundred dollar tip.

      Yeah, Charlie, says Courtney from halfway down the bar; buy your ticket and I’ll meet you in paradise.

      But don’t buy two, adds Zach. Two’s a waste.

      **********

      Return to table of contents

      2. Chores

      Leaves to rake, says Betsy Nightengale, looking up at their bedroom ceiling, books to take back to the library, groceries, sandbags for the back of my car, and for yours, too, de-icer stuff for the sidewalk, and get the snow blower serviced. She hates fall, but she hates winter even more, thus her determination to minimize the season’s damage to her vehicle and her psyche.

      Charlie doesn’t answer. It’s Saturday morning at 6:27 AM and he’s sound asleep.

      Need to check the water softener salt, pay some bills. Pick up an extra bag of sand for the driveway bucket. Drain the hoses. Put the heater in the bird bath. Get some bird seed. Get some suet blocks. She’s still talking to their bedroom ceiling. Charlie’s still so asleep he might as well be dead. Saturday’s a busy day, especially this close to the first of the month.

      She hears their newspaper hit the porch. Somewhere in the distance there’s a siren. The kid across the street starts his car, the one with the pair of SLP Loudmouth II mufflers, backs out of his driveway, and roars off into the darkness to his job. Neither she nor Charlie have met their new neighbors. The family moved in just before school started, but only after spending three weeks on some re-modeling. There were stacks of lumber and wallboard out for the garbage collectors twice a week; that’s how Betsy decided they were remodeling. Four children of various ages come and go, or play hoops on the driveway, but the oldest is

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