“That does it! I’m outta here,” shouted Randolph, nodding his head emphatically. “I can’t take it anymore: I feel like a total stranger in my own house!”
Wanda just stood there, not knowing what to say or do. Finally she mustered up her courage. “But this isn’t your house. What are you doing here, mister?”
“See what I mean?” argued Randolph. “Even Spot ignores me,” he added, indicating the ginger cat sleeping on the arm chair near the radiator.
“Her name is Biffy,” corrected the woman. “And if you don’t...”
She stopped, cut short by the arrival of her husband, Kent, who had been waxing his surfboard in the garage. Kent shot a quick glance at the stranger and turned to his wife: “What’s up?”
“This man claims this house is his. And now he says he’s leaving!”
“That’s right, mister. And I’m not coming back. Ever!” announced Randolph.
“Oh no you don’t, there, buddy,” ordered Kent, picking up his cell phone and barring the front door. “I’m callin’ the cops. So don’t move.”
Randolph stood still, intimidated by Kent’s powerful orange frame from which dangled an epoxy shark’s tooth. And the osprey tatooed on Kent’s sinewy shoulder indicated a man to be reckoned with. A young boy entered, curious to see what was happening. He looked to be about ten but was actually eight.
“Billy! What are you doing here?” asked Randolph.
“His name’s Keyth, mister. And stay away from him!” yelled Kent, grabbing Keyth by the arm. “You know this guy?” he asked his son.
“Nope. Who is he?”
“This man says that this is his house,” explained his mother, “and he says that he’s leaving and never coming back. The nerve of ‘em.” The door bell rang. In fact, it was a chime but, due to the circumstances, it sounded like a ring. It was the cops; Kent opened the door.
The senior officer briefly examined the entrance before asking: “What seems to be the problem here?”
Kent spoke up: “This man says that this is his house and he’s leaving – for good.”
The senior officer turned to Randolph: “Is that right, sir?”
“Yes, that’s right, officer. And this man here won’t let me leave.”
“OK, then. Let’s see some ID,” he ordered, hand on taser. Slowly he examined Randolph’s credentials. “Hmm,” he muttered, “the address checks out.” He then considered the orange-chested, barefoot man in beachcombers standing before him. “So, you’re a surfer, then? We don’t get to see that many surfers in Nebraska. How about showing us some ID, buddy?”
After a rapid examination, he called over his partner, a rookie named Windsor. “Call home and have them do a 39-821 on a certain Kent Waters.”
Nine minutes later, the results came back and an extra squad car pulled up, packed with sixteen special agents wearing bulletproof vests, followed by a portly, important-looking lieutenant with a bad tie.
“OK, Waters,” he announced. “Looks like you and your family are in the wrong house: you should be in Oxnard, California. I’m afraid you’ll all have to leave, sir.”
“But he’s the one who wants to leave – not us,” tried Wanda.
“She’s got a point there,” observed Windsor. Two of the special agents came through the back door. “We just bashed in the garage door, Lieutenant. No firearms or drugs, but there was a freshly-waxed surf board and a few Jan and Dean records in a cardboard box.”
The important-looking lieutenant turned to Kent with a dubious eye. “Well, Waters – what do you have to say to that? You’re gonna have to come with us.”
Kent, Wanda and Keyth stared blankly at each other, wondering where they had gone wrong. Biffy just continued to half-sleep, purring with folded paws, dreaming of California.
*****
Agent Smith was stepping out of Happy Harry’s Cleaners with three newly-pressed shirts when he heard the distant sounds of police sirens. Although still far away, they were getting closer.
Suddenly a car screeched into the lot. An old man jumped out, shouting and waving a gun in the air. Agent Smith recognized him immediately; it was Joe Barnes, the escaped killer, no more than twenty feet away and running towards him, his few straggly teeth clenched, and sweating profusely.
But before Agent Smith could reach for his weapon, or even take cover, the old man staggered, stopped and then dropped – dead at his feet! Heart attack.
Detectives Reilly and Adams quickly veered into the lot, followed by two other police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing. All jumped out, ready for action; but it soon became clear that Agent Smith had closed the case and was already comparing his up-dated, wrinkled portrait with the real-life (so to speak) version of Joe Barnes – no doubt a detail that should figure in his report.
“Ummm...Good job, Agent,” complimented a puzzled Reilly. Looks like ya got ‘em.”
“Yes, it does,” replied Agent Smith, taking out a fresh pencil.
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