By Jim Doran
The red-brick houses behind Mick Scholmberg huddled together like prisoners awaiting a firing squad, hoping for a reprieve but at the same time sullenly resolved. Their only chance now was with their homeowners.
If Mick could prove that the mastermind behind the new development plan was a criminal, he could save all the houses on his street. He and three of his neighbors stood facing a man with a ponytail wearing an orange vest. Tugging at his pencil-thin mustache, Mick glared at the broad-shouldered man who had introduced himself as Keith.
Keith rubbed his jaw. “Buddy, we’re not doing anything today but surveying. Blocking us won’t change the situation.”
The orange-vested man tried to pass Mick, but the resident cut him off. “You need my permission to go on my property, and I’m not giving it.”
Keith grunted. “Come on, cut a working guy a break. You four are a few days from being thrown out of your houses. Deep Pockets said your time was up. If they hadn’t misplaced your paperwork, you wouldn’t be here at all.”
“We aren’t leaving,” said Stevie Underwood, a tall brunette with crystal-blue eyes.
Keith shrank under her gaze. “Have it your way.”
The surveyor retreated to the street corner, leaned up against an orange “detour” sign, and pulled his phone from his pocket.
John Menoza rubbed his hand across his face. “He’s calling.”
Stevie’s nostrils flared. “Good. We need to delay him. Our woman from Tennessee will arrive shortly.”
A stretch limousine rounded the corner.
Krystie Rafts, the fourth neighbor, folded her arms. “Terrific,” she sneered. “He’s here.”
The limousine stopped and Deep Pockets—what he actually called himself—emerged from the back seat. He stood no taller than a kindergartner and had thinning hair and a walrus mustache. Gripping a cane and scowling at the row of homeowners, he marched their way.
He halted a few feet in front of them. “Move.”
Mick leaned forward. “No. You will listen to us this time.”
“I own this land.”
“Not yet,” growled Stevie.
“Don’t you have a conscience?” asked Mick. “These houses are our homes.” He pointed at his own residence. “I was married in that house. Stevie recovered from her heart attack in her home, and Krystie and John work out of theirs.”
Deep Pockets furrowed his brow. “None of this changes the fact that I now own this property or Greggson-Onwell LLC’s decision to raze your dwellings and build the Hôtel de Champlain near the expressway.”
Stevie pointed to the other side of the highway. “What about that vacant field?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand zoning laws, but I can’t develop there.” Deep Pockets narrowed his eyes. “What G.O. wants, it gets. That’s the way it G.O.-es.” He chuckled.
Mick squared his shoulders. “I’ll ask you one more time. Please, sir, build your hotel somewhere else.”
The small man twirled his mustache. “You made your case to the board.” He turned and started back toward his limo. “My men will return tomorrow. Keep out of their way.”
“I’m begging you,” Krystie said. “St. James is our home.”
With his back still to them, Deep Pockets clicked his heels with the resonance of a pair of dice rolling snake eyes. “This is my property.”
Slipping into the back seat of his car, the impassive gentleman rolled up his window. As the vehicle sped away, it passed a woman wearing a top hat. She hurried toward the four neighbors. When Mick spied the manilla envelope she carried, his eyes widened.
Krystie extended her hand to the woman. “Thank you for your help, Detective Lindsay.”
“Of course.” Lindsay shook Krystie’s hand and presented the envelope to her. “After he takes your homes, he’ll move on to my house on Tennessee Avenue.”
Krystie opened the clasp and fingered through the papers, nodding to the others.
Lyndsay continued. “I found counterfeit five-hundred-dollar bills originating from Greggson-Onwell with Pockets’ fingerprints all over them. I also spotted an excessive amount of orange threads woven into the fabric. With this evidence, I can issue an order to freeze all of Pocket’s impending purchases, including this property.”
Mick beamed. “Great work, Detective.”
The sleuth removed her top hat, revealing nectarine-colored, spiky hair. “Where’s he headed? Not to Greggson-Onwell, I hope? If he ends up there, they may tip him off, and he’ll leave the country.”
Mick peered off down the street. “You won’t believe it. The cheapskate just parked at that club with free parking.”
“Good,” said Detective Lindsay. “While he’s occupied there, I can alert the authorities.”
Mick grinned. “Finally, Deep Pockets will go directly to jail, without the chance of passing G.O.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Great job Jim. Once again you made me feel like I knew these characters in just a few very descriptive words. And Deep Pockets 😀 Love that.
just in the nick of time, rare counterfeit bills! not too clever, eh?
Greed will always catch up to a person.
easy read, and it shows that crime does not pay
Thanks for reading. It’s nice to see the little guy “win.”
Counterfeit bills, hmm? What a clever way to incorporate the orange theme! :D
Thank you!
This made me chuckle. After that last sentence, I had to go reread it to catch all the Monopoly references.
Glad you liked it. I had fun sprinkling them in.
Deep Pockets is in Deep trouble! This was a satisfying end to this story. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you! When D.P. goes to jail, he won’t be “just visiting.”
Monopoly. This story cracked me up. Should have been on a Wednesday, but maybe that would have given it away.
Thank you so much. I consider this story “playful.” (groan).