7/13/02, isn’t that Saturday? That’s right! Welcome to BobBorden.com, the Saturday Edition! Relatives, friends and strangers nagged me so much about my novel, The Wallet, that I decided to make the time and work on it tonight. It’s getting long. So, enjoy the The Wallet and tell your friends about the best site on the Internet — BobBorden.com! Here we go:
“The Wallet”
You wouldn’t know it to look at me but I’m a nonconformist. OK, I voted Republican in the last three elections, I don’t carry credit card debt and I’m always early for work. I consider myself a rebel for one reason; I carry my wallet in my back pocket. I know, it has been preached to me for years, “Keep your wallet in your front pocket, pick pockets are everywhere.” Especially in this city! It seems like such a small detail but it makes me different. I walk a little taller knowing that I’m going against the grain on this one.
I was sitting on the Subway, making the always-horrible commute home. The dregs of humanity they let through the gates is amazing. Just the smell alone is enough to curl your toes. I was on the local so we were making all the stops, lucky me. The Subway stopped at the 42nd street station and a woman got on. She looked to be about 44; she’s seen better days. She was clearly drunk as she stumbled over and of course, sat next to me. The air was thick with Vodka and Orange Juice as she mumbled this, “Paul Theroux is my favorite author.” “What?” I said. Her tone became louder and more irritated. “I SAID, PAUL THEROUX is my favorite author! I can spot a book worm a mile away and you’d like his work.” Everybody’s looking at her. I have one rule when dealing with unstable people in enclosed spaces, agree with everything.
We were approaching the 14th Street station, my stop. In the middle of agreeing with her ramblings I had to cut her short and say, “OK, this is my stop, good luck.” As I quickly got up, she shoved this Paul Theroux book in my hands and in a calm, almost sober voice simply said, “Take this.”
I walked out the door, the doors closed. I touched my back pocket (a nervous habit of mine) and my wallet was gone. The train started moving and I ran to the window and saw my wallet on the seat. It wasn’t pickpockets, in my attempts to squirm away from this woman, it must have fallen out. The train wouldn’t stop. “F**K!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I ran to the token booth to tell my dilemma to the token booth person. I’m thinking maybe they can call ahead to the next stop and help me out. Living in the city for the past 15 years I instantly recognized the glazed over eyes with that all too familiar expression, “what do you want me to do about it?” Silly me, I forgot that people don’t care anymore. I ran above ground, hailed a cab, quickly explained what I’m trying to do and told him to take me to the Spring Street station, two subway stops ahead. This was my kind of cab ride. He was dodging cars and pedestrians like a professional racecar driver.
The wheels screeched to a halt, I leaped out, ran down the stairs, jumped over the turn stall just in time to see the lights of the E train — leaving the station, Damn! I had everything in that wallet. I gave my last five bucks to the cabbie; it looks like I’m walking back to 14th Street. After calling my bank and the credit card companies I took a shower to tried to wash the day away.
Halfway through the shower I remembered what the woman on the subway said to me, “PAUL THEROUX is my favorite author!” And that just clicked in my head! The book! I poured myself a drink and brought the book over to my chair. Hotel Honolulu, by Paul Theroux. I do a quick skim of the book and it was underlined and circled throughout. The circled words were checked, almost like she was looking them up. The underlined sentences looked to have no significance at all.
I turned the pages until I got to the end. I pulled back the book jacket and there, in the bottom right hand corner, written in pencil: Dawn Manning, 718-555-2649. Is this the girl from the subway? It’s a Brooklyn number and the E does end up in Brooklyn. Still, I don’t need the wallet anymore, I canceled all my cards. And who’s to say that she even has it? Do I really want to make contact with this woman? Friday night, no girlfriend, zero messages on my machine. I picked up the phone and started dialing.
1-718-555-264, I hung up the phone before I could dial the last number. What am I doing?! This isn’t me, I’m a 32 year-old assistant with aspirations of reaching the upper echelon of middle management, I’m not Jim Rockford. “I got a lead on that Johnson case!” That doesn’t even sound right coming from me! I’m going to flip a coin. Heads, I call the number, tails, I watch Magnum P. I. and go to bed. OK, here it goes —
The woman I talked to was named Dawn but she sure didn’t sound like the woman on the subway. We talked for about a half hour. Oh my, what a sexy voice! She had that low, smoky voice thing going on. I’m not sure if I was working her or if she was working me. We agreed to meet at a diner in Brooklyn. The last thing she said to me was, “Don’t forget to bring the book.”
She was waiting for me when I got there. This definitely wasn’t the girl I ran into on the subway. Dawn was a vision. She seemed a little anxious but overall, I’d say I did pretty good. I’m going to ask her out. How about that, I lose my wallet, return a book and meet a lovely woman. This kind of stuff never happens to me. I walked her home.
I gave her the book, she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and handed me a piece of paper. She looked right into my eyes and said in a very stern voice, “Call me.” Holy crap, this is so cool! I was halfway down the block when I looked at her phone number and I heard, “Pop, pop.” It sounded like a car backfiring. I didn’t think much of it. I turned the note over and it read, “HELP US!”
I turned around and saw a man and a woman ride away one of those super fast motorcycles. The rubber and the pavement made a deafening screech! I looked at the woman on the back of the motorcycle and she was clutching the book! What?! I ran back to her house and knocked on her door. Nothing. I ran to the back of the house and the door was wide open.
Man, this is the kind of stuff you see in movies. I’m going to call the police; I’m in way over my head. The guy in the movies always goes in, never calls the cops and then he dies. I don’t want to die. I’m calling the cops. But what if she’s hurt; I could be wasting valuable time. Screw it, I’m going in.
I walked through the kitchen. The windows are covered with tinfoil, fast food wrappers are everywhere and damn, there she is, oh my God, oh my God, they killed her. One shot to the head and it looks like one to the chest. Blood everywhere. I’m definitely calling the cops, F**K THIS!
I can’t believe it; I finally meet someone cool and she’s dead. I pull out my cell phone and start dialing, nine, one — At that very second I hear behind me, “Drop the phone mother f**ker!” Oh man, this can’t be good. I drop the phone. “Turn around!” I turn around and I’m face to face with a . 38-caliber gun. This guy looked like he was in a major fight. More like he was beaten up. And his right shoulder is blood soaked. I can’t tell if it’s his blood or hers. “WHO ARE YOU, WHY ARE YOU HERE?” he said. “Dude, it’s cool, I –” He interrupted, “It’s not F**KING COOL, IT’S NOT F**KING COOL!” “I’m sorry, you’re right, I just returned a book to Dawn and I came back to see what that noise was. I saw two people on a motorcycle leave here like a bat out of hell. Did you kill Dawn?” I said. “LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, DO YOU REALLY THINK I COULD KILL HER?” He dropped the gun and fell to his knees. “She was my wife.”
The sirens were distant but closing in fast. “Come on, let’s go!” he said. We hailed a cab and drove to the airport. The guy, Frank, was intense. Texas, I’m not sure why. He started telling me an incredible story. He said, “It turns out that Dawn was a pretty successful in her chosen field; she was an accountant at a huge firm. She didn’t file W-2’s for Joe Blow; her company did the books for companies on the Fortune 500 list. She was responsible for Nedrob Industries account. Nedrob Industries was a huge company that made billions making semi conductors for computers.
Dawn, while performing an audit, discovered some irregularities. Namely, missing funds and projected earnings statements that just didn’t add up. In other words, Nedrob Industries was screwing its shareholders and its workers. Dawn put her proof on a computer disk and put the computer disk in a book, Hotel Honolulu, by Paul Theroux. She was going to blow the whistle on Nedrob. Somehow ‘they’ found out about her. On the way to the meeting with our lawyer, we were followed. We made a left turn – they made a left turn. We made a right turn – they made a right turn. We finally lost them, got out of the car and started running to our lawyer’s building. We turned the corner and spotted a lot of suits. Men in suits, wearing earpieces and talking into their shirt cuffs — real 007 crap. Dawn and I freaked. We walked away, she was so shaken that she dropped the book in a trashcan, in front of a bar. They caught up to us two days later. They worked us over good. They said, “You have no idea how big this is.” We couldn’t give them the book; we couldn’t give them what we didn’t have! I guess that’s where you came in.”
We got to the airport and I just said to him, “This is all swell but I was just trying to get laid! I’m not going to Texas and I can’t get involved! Why are you going toTexas anyway?” He said, “F**K YOU, You are involved! We’re going to Texas because that’s where they’re located.” I said, “So, you’re going to go to Texas, walk into Nedrob Industries and do what? It’s time to call the police. I’ve seen a hundred movies like this, they never call the police, you should call the police.” “They killed my wife dude – they know what I look like. If I go to the police, I’m dead. My wife is lying dead in a house in Brooklyn; she was murdered for what she knew. I need you; you’re going to be the mole that gets inside.” I said, “F**K you!”
Before I knew it, we were driving down the interstate in Texas. Texas sure is hot. What am I doing?
About the Author’s cat: Billy currently