Storymania - The Short Stories Of Mila Strictzer by Mike Strozier

The Short Stories Of Mila Strictzer (10)
Mike Strozier

"Yea, I know. What should I do?"

"Pour all of your client’s stock on your insider bet. And bet it all options. You’ll either be a millionaire overnight or it will just be all over. At least your road will be complete, one way or the other."

"Right, that’s true. I’m gonna have to. But Jennifer knows I’m doing it and with her money, too. She could turn me over, if she gets any idea. She knows that banker friend of mine, too."

"Buy her some flowers. Wine, dine, sixty-nine and hope it all comes through."

"Yea."

The next day, Steve went to work and turned on his computer and with a few clicks of his mouse transferred all of the stock in all of his client’s account into one, single stock that he knew would double, perhaps triple by the end of the week because it was a small company and it was just about to be acquired by a much larger, stable, powerful company highly recommended on the street. He moved about fifteen million dollars in about fifteen minutes; about a million a minute, give or take, you know. He did not just buy the stock; he bought only options in the stock, betting that the value of the stock would go up a certain amount by a certain time. It was like betting the hard eight; if you could somehow know the shooter is going to roll it before he does. Even if you knew the shooter was going to roll an eight, sure, you could put down all your money on the eight and it would pay even money plus the odds, of course, but if you knew the eight was going the hard way, like Steve knew that not just the stock was going up but exactly when and by at least how much, you could get ten to one odds on the craps tables. So he bet all his clients accounts, every single stock under his control, on the hard eight.

Then, much to his surprise, after the last mouse click was finished, okay, it was not quite fifteen minutes if you want to be technical and all; he felt a swath of his worry just fall away. He felt his knotted up stomach become unknotted just a little, too. And some muscles in his back relaxed, although unbeknownst to him.

But whoever had been on the inside, Steve’s banker friend, well, he was a friend but not the greatest of friends, the kind that would probably run if you got into a fight or if you did something wrong and the police were about to come in, he’s the kind that would not stand by you. Anyway, he got busted by the Feds before the stock had a chance to work. And as soon as the word got out on the street, the stock fell like an anchor in the sea. Also, since it was an offshore account, the Fed’s were even able to freeze it. So, as far as Steve was concerned, it was all gone just like that.

The afternoon that Steve was able to piece together what was happening all around him, he left work early and went home to his new house. He went up to his room and pulled open his dresser drawer. The only thing inside was a Colt .45 pistol. And it was loaded, too. It had been a present from his father, who had fought in Vietnam. Steve looked at it for a long time, thinking about his future and then he closed the drawer shut.

He had no choice but to declare bankruptcy and he lost all his material possessions. But he also got rid of his debts, too, even his gambling debts, although he always had a lingering uncertainty about the Bellagio marker for the rest of his life and not a day went by when daunting thoughts about that would make him look over his shoulder. The FBI was hot on his trail soon after his bankruptcy went final and they were able to quickly put together a case against him and send him to jail for ten years. Of course, he did not rat out his friend or even Jennifer, even though the prosecutors were looking to tag someone for conspiracy, which would have lightened his sentence. But the banker-it always seems like you get what you pay for in the end. Steve went to a white-collar, minimum-security jail, ironically located inside Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, NV.

John eventually married a woman whose father was a billionaire and they bought a house the size of a mansion a few years later in L.A. and settled down but they did not have any kids.

Not long after he got to jail, Steve was busy cleaning one of the buildings at the base. A young lieutenant was sitting at his desk, typing, and he looked up as the inmate came into his office to empty the garbage.

"Hey, how you doing?" The Lt asked.

"I’m fine, how are you?"

"Great, say, what’s you name? You’re new, right? I always try to learn the names of the inmates, unlike anyone else around here, since you guys empty out my trash every day."

"Steve."

"Got it. Have a good day."

"You too, Lt."

The Stinger

By Mila Strictzer

Joey, an Irish American, a recent émigré to Boston, thought of his home and his family back in Ireland as he gazed across the spray a few feet in front of him from the waves that were hitting the bow of the ship. This had been one of the longest trips he had ever been on and now they were caught in a squall. The only reassuring thing was the storm was moving past them directly on their port side and if they could follow it along, the storm would take them back to port and safety.

They had gone too far out and everyone knew it. Their haul was massive and it had almost been worth it. Only Joey had complained to the captain that it was not worth the risk of taking on the storm coming their way. He was first officer and it was his job to naysay. Joey was now cursing himself for not being vocal enough. He knew he had been right and he wished he had trusted his instincts. Now, they were in real trouble.

"Ma’an O’erboooaard!!! Maaaaannnn..," the cry faded as another wave crashed into the ship.

The captain pulled the throttle back, turned and stared into Joey’s eyes with a dark look. The captain did not immediately turn around; he already presumed the man to be lost. Joey ran out the cabin door, grabbed the railing as he made his way to the stern of the boat, where the yell had came from. He saw two men, just orange figures in the mist, pointing in the direction where the man had fallen over. Straining his eyes, he thought he could see the man’s orange suit bobbing in the freezing waters, at least fifty meters out. One of the crew threw out a life preserver and the ship idled in the rough waters for a few minutes. No one moved. The white life preserver bobbed up and down in the huge waves. The two men held the rope and Joey held the rail and they all waited. Suddenly, a tall wave hit the port side of the boat head on with all its force, catching everyone off guard. It was all they could do to just hold on and not get washed over. Then, Joey felt a slight vibration at his feet and he knew the captain had powered up the two massive diesel engines under him. The man was gone. Joey yelled for the other two men to pull in the float and go below. When the two had closed to hull door behind them, he went back up to the cabin.

"Bloody fucking hell," the captain cursed in a harsh voice when he knew Joey could hear him. He was English. The rest of the crew was from Long Island. Joey could not help but feel a twinge of anger at the foreigner. He was not mad because he had left the drowning man. The captain, Joey, the two men on the deck, even the dying man himself all knew he was as good as dead in the freezing waters and high waves and there was nothing any of them could do about it. He was mad at the captain for taking them so far out and now that had now resulted in one death.

"He was on deck strapping down the fucking net!" Joey said, anger in his voice.

"Bloody fucking hell! Next time, cut the fucking net, haul and all!"

Joey stared straight ahead, through the dark mist.

It was dark because the storm clouds blocked out the stars and moon. The waves seemed to be getting bigger, now at about twenty meters or so. The ship would lull upwards as a wave drove toward it, then smash through the top portion of the wave and water would belt the deck before the ship would drop fast down again on the other side of the wave.

Joey thought of his girlfriend back in Boston, if they made it back with the haul, he would take a vacation with her, but not a cruise.

Then another huge wave again crashed into the port side of the ship. They were already wearing their protective suits, the tops pulled down over their waists. The orange, survival rafts were already inflated and waiting below. The force from the water of the massive wave instantly smashed the windows out in the cabin and broke off the gear in the stern of the ship used to pull the netting.

Joey was thrown and he hit his head on something but he wasn’t knocked out, not even close. He desperately tried to stand and get oriented and was successful enough. The netting gear snapped right off and fell into the ocean, and now huge holes in the ship’s stern were fast filling with water. Joey realized in an instant that the ship would drop like a stone in perhaps as soon as a minute. He could see the water just pouring into the holes in the stern of the ship and the ship itself now began to list backward into the sea, ever so slightly. He did think about helping anyone else, but there was not enough time and he did not see anyone except the captain on the floor, knocked out, his head bleeding bad. So he ran down the steps in the rear of the cabin and grabbed one of the already inflated survival rafts and then ran back up the ladder, carrying the raft. He threw open the door to the cabin and dropped the raft down at the walkway and then ran back inside the cabin and picked up the captain and carried him over to the edge, the only thing left a few remaining pieces of the railing, and threw him overboard. Then he ran back and grabbed the raft and in three giant strides, something like a triple-jumper might run, he leapt over the side of the sinking ship, hanging onto the inflatable raft with all his strength.

He hit the water and it felt like ice. He scrambled to get inside the tent-like, orange inflatable raft. He managed to crawl inside and then he threw his legs in and hung his upper torso out of the entrance and started paddling back toward the ship. It was about half sunk now, bobbing a little in the heavy waves. He did not know where the captain was but he had an idea and that was the direction he was paddling towards.

After a few minutes of fierce flailing with his arms, he saw a figure in the water ahead of him, just a hump above the water, the rest beneath. He paddled harder now and when he got close enough, he jumped out of his raft, still holding it with one hand, reached out and grabbed the unmoving body by the hair and lifted the captain’s head back, out of the water.

It was the captain. Joey pulled as hard as he could and threw the body into the raft and then climbed in also. He zipped the raft closed. The captain was bleeding slightly from a cut in his head, but not too bad, the salt water had put a halt to that. He was still lifting and dropping his chest ever so slightly. So there was nothing to be done, the man was breathing and had a pulse. His bleeding had stopped. So Joey cracked open a small section of the entrance to the inflatable and looked at the ship and just then he saw it majestically roll over on its starboard side, like a huge, dying beast, and then sink below the waves. He zipped his raft back up.

The waves were tossing the tiny raft around like a roller coaster. Most of it was tolerable, except when a wave slammed directly on top of the raft and crush them. But the raft would always right itself again. Joey and his half-alive captain just rode out the next six or so hours as best they could until the storm finally abated to the point where the waves were not mountains anymore falling over them, just low, rolling hills. It was light out now. The captain stirred finally and Joey watched him for a few minutes as he regained consciousness. The orange inflatable tent was zipped closed and the sunlight was blocked by their tent-like structure so, inside, it was all dark orange.

"Uuggghh…"

"Well, well, the bloke lives."

The captain lifted his head up, rubbed his forehead carefully where his cut was with an open palm. He looked around the inside of the raft for a minute and then said, "Why are we here, Joey, is this for real? Who has the ship?"

"Who has the ship, your ship? The fucking bottom of the ocean has your ship and your fucking haul of tuna, too."

"Son-of-a-bitch," he slowly groaned and lay his head back down.

"I only have one question for you, asshole," Joey said, paused and then continued, "When was the last Mayday?"

The captain opened his eyes and looked up at the top of the raft, thinking.

"About ten thirty."

"Consider yourself lucky, then."

"Why?"

"That I don’t throw you out right now."

"You’ve got me over a barrel, sure you do, fucking Irish yank. You better watch your back, too."

"You think so, you fuck? Somehow, I don’t think I need to watch anything. Somehow, I think you better tone it down and like real fucking fast or consider yourself shark food with that open head o’ yours."

The captain did not say anything. He opened his eyes as Joey was talking and kept looking up at the top of the orange raft. They floated in silence for a while over the low waves, Joey still staring at the captain. There was potable water stowed in the side pocket of the raft. Not a lot, but enough for about two days for two people, four days for one. Then there would be nothing.

The two men did not say anything for the next few hours of the morning. Finally, Joey broke the monotony of the low waves splashing against the inflatable raft.

"You know, my father was killed in the war."

"Oh, for Christ’s sake, Joey, is that what we are going to do, argue about the war?"

"You don’t want to talk about it? Huh?"

"No, I don’t want to talk about it!"

"Well, we’re going to talk about it anyway."

"You’re like a bitch, Joey."

"I realized while you out that we just might die. I figure we got about fifty-fifty, and that’s looking on the bright side. So I have a perfect opportunity to either agree with you or dump your ass in with the sharks. So, I ask again, do you want to talk about the war?"

The captain did not say anything.

"Do you think you belong in our country?"

There was a long pause and then the captain, choosing his words carefully, answered, "I think we have been there a long time, Joey. I think even the Scotch are more Irish then the English, and the bloody Northern Irish are just plain Irish. That is what I think. I am a fisherman, Joey, you know that."

"You tell me, who in your family was involved in the war? Tell me."

"My uncle was stationed there."

"Did he ever shoot anybody?"

"Yea, I think he did. But I’m not sure."

"You still did not answer my question. Do you belong in our country?"

The captain again thought long about his answer before he spoke.

"I do, Joey. I really believe the Irish are causing troubles where there should be none. Its not even all the Irish, you know that, only the ones up north, they don’t care down south. We are one big country, Joey. One big country of smaller countries. Let me ask you, why not just let there be peace?"

Joey was mad because he felt the captain would never understand one main point. That they did not belong there. But, for now, he kept his cool and answered.

"There can be peace, but only without English there. And they’re ones down south that care, too. Not as many, I’ll give you that. But its one country, our country. Why don’t the English leave?"

"How can we leave? The bloody country is Northern Ireland, not Ireland," the captain paused, realizing he had spoke a little too soon, given his present situation. Then he continued a little slower, "a lot of people have died, Joey, on both sides. I just don’t know."

Joey did not say anything. The sun was high in the sky now and shinning down hard on the orange raft making the inside a strange, luminescent color. Joey reached over and unzipped the pocket containing the water. He pulled out one of the plastic skins, also an orange container. There were two full containers. The water was very cool from resting close to the cold ocean water. Both men were wearing their floatation suits, zipped up, even over their heads now, and a thin layer of water that their body had heated up on the inside of the suits, like a wet suit for diving, kept them warm and insulated them from the cold ocean water that was lapping against the side of the raft and that made the bottom of the raft freezing.

Joey took a long draft from the container. The captain leaned up his head and watched Joey drink. Joey stared back at him for a moment and then said, "I am going to give you water long enough to figure out what to do."

The captain did not answer. He reached over and took the container and took a long draft too and then resealed it and put it down on the bottom of the raft. The two men did not say anything for the next several hours. Night fell and they shared the rest of the water until it was gone. They both slept, Joey knew there was nothing the captain could do to him. His head was bad, he had no strength and there was nothing, nothing inside of the raft he could use to hurt him with. To try and throw him out, he would have to unzip the raft and that was a chore. He might get in one hit or something-one. Joey had always been a very light sleeper, anyway.

Joey, on the other hand, was feeling strong. He even felt a little angry and that made him feel stronger. He had eaten a big dinner only a few hours before the ship sunk. For some reason, which he now thanked God for now, he had been particularly hungry and he had stuffed himself full at that meal. As he thought, he remembered the captain had not eaten on that night, he probably would have later, the cook always saved him a portion but during the storm he had had no time.

Joey thought about his father. They had lived in Belfast growing up. There was a routine to follow, sure, but it did not seem out of the ordinary since he had lived it. His father had been just a fisherman, too, like the captain had said. He had worked on the big boats when they left for months to catch their hauls. They had had enough money growing up. His father was not a part of the IRA, from what Joey could remember as a child, but as he became a man, he saw that he might not have known then.

All he knew was one day his had mother picked him up from school early. She took him home, to the kitchen table and sat him down, almost forcing him into his seat, and she told him that his father had been killed by English soldiers. That was all she had said.

Joey woke up, uncertain of his surroundings for a moment, and then sat up and saw the captain was still asleep, snoring loudly. He smacked his head with his hand, right on his open cut.

"Ahhh!" The captain said and bolted up, holding his cut with both his hands. He continued, "Why did ya do that to me, Joey?"

"We’re not done talking."

The captain lay back down, still holding his head with his hands.

"If you saw a patriot, would you shoot him?"

"I probably would kill the bastard," he answered, amazed at his bluntness but then saw it was probably from being in pain. Then he said, "Would you shoot an English terrorist? What about an English soldier, if you could get away with it?"

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