A Difficult Autumn, Jeffrey Allen White [best finance books of all time .TXT] 📗

A Difficult Autumn


by Jeffrey Allen White


Chapter 1

Deep, ever-pounding pain erupts. Somewhere deep inside, pain is revealed through flashes of sharp arcs of pulsating torture. It started out dull and then began to keep time with his own pulse like a metronome ticking in time. Unyielding, it grew stronger and stronger, never letting up and going from not too dull to severe agony step by agonizing step. Each beat of the metronome’s stick made it hurt more and more. He sunk his head into his pillow, almost drowning himself into unconsciousness. His eyes rolling back insides their lids, giving him a headache like it could not hurt any more, but I did. He reached for his mouth and his hand touched his swollen, inflamed cheek. He yelled with pain, the pain was a toothache, a toothache as if he needed another hole in his head or another ex-wife. To him they were the same. Pulling the covers over his raging jaw did nothing. He could not hide, he could not even move into a position that seemed to give him just a bit of ease. “How long has it been happening?” he thought to himself. He could not remember much about last night other than he played cards with the guys and he had a little too much to drink as per usual. He pulled himself to sit upright, the pain reeling through him like a thousand nails scratching a chalkboard. Sitting up he carefully wiped the sleep from his face and stood trying not to fall over. Now the hangover was vying for the title with the toothache. Both in a diffused harmony playing a double metronome symphony of pure hell. Moving to the bathroom, he groped to find the sink and mirror and turned on the water to splash on his face. “Ouch, that hurt!” he yelled forgetting the soreness of his jaw and letting his hangover move a beat ahead.

Opening his eyes, he squinted to see himself through the intense banging of the tympani that has now entered the symphony of pain. His name was Tom Shepherd or Shep as his peers called him. It was October 1948, a bit warm for this time of year. Shep leaned in, looked at his thirty-eight-year-old face with the swollen jaw, and opened his mouth to see where the pain was coming from. He could see he had a broken molar on the side and the tissue around it was hot, red and angry, like a wasp that you missed on the first two swipes.

Out of nowhere, his head exploded into a battlefield of blinding bassoons. A piercing shrill went through him as if he were a paper cut on tender skin. The noise came again, Shep realized it was the phone and he ran back to his bed to get it before it shot through his brain one more time. Falling on the bed, he grabbed the phone and just about passed out from all the pain and movement. He managed to get the phone to his ear at least and could hear a voice talking on the other side. It was a woman’s voice, he was sure of that. Only a shrill woman’s voice could hurt him even more than he was hurting already.

Shep could understand every other word. The woman was speaking intense. She was almost shouting. “Hello, Mr. Shepherd? Is this Mr. Shepherd?” the woman asked with as much intensity as his hangover and toothache. “Is this Mr. Shepherd, please?”

The woman was upset. Not as upset as Shep felt as his tooth hurt as he bit down to talk. “Hello, this Is Tom Shepherd,“ he answered. The woman continue to speak now frantically and without pausing between words.

“Oh, Mr. Shepherd, I need your help. Please. I need you to come…,” she yelled into the phone hurting his already exploding head and jaw.

Wait a minute lady, first, you’re gonna slow down and then your gonna tell me who you are.” Shep was now trying to head off his pain and get some sense of what she was saying. “How can I help you…? Miss…?” he was cut off.

“It is Mrs. Irene Manning. Please Mr. Shepherd, I need your help,” she repeated herself yet again. “I need to see you,” she was crying now.

“All right, Mrs. Manning, was it?” Shep used all his energy to sit up and concentrate on what was happening. He reached for some aspirin and swallowed them from the bottle he kept on the nightstand next to his bed. A sip of last night’s old, muddy coffee help washed it down, hitting his tooth and making it again hurt violently. He fell back onto his bed, trying to hold the phone to his ear and with his other hand held his pounding cheek. “Now Mrs. Manning, what is the problem? How can I help you?” He felt he was more in control now.

“Oh, you see Mr. Shepherd; I am in trouble, a lot of trouble. I am so afraid. I do not know whom to turn to. I received your card from a bulletin board at Betty’s Café,” offering him some information.

“Betty’s Café?” he thought to himself. “It shows you that you have to advertise.” he smiled and his mouth pulled and gave him another sharp pain. “Let’s start at the beginning Mrs. Manning,“ he was now standing.

Please call me Irene, Mr. Shepherd,“ she offered. “I don’t know who to turn to; I don’t know what to do? I am so afraid,” she started crying again.

“We will not get anywhere if I do not understand you, Mrs.… I mean Irene. Please calm down.” Shep thought to himself and asked, “Where can I meet you? I can meet you anywhere,” he now started to wash up and starts to shave his two-day growth. He held the phone with one ear as he took his razor to his face. Shep could hear her crying less now and hoped that if he were calm she would try to be also.

“I need to see you now, Mr. Shepherd, anywhere. I can be anywhere you say. Just tell me and I will be there.” Irene was more composed now and seemed to speak slower. “I am sorry, Mr. Shepherd, I am just so afraid…” she trailed off.

Maneuvering the razor around his sore jaw, “I understand that, now let’s say we meet at Betty’s Cafe in ten minutes,” he thought since his card was on the bulletin board there he might as well patronize the café. “Look I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He winced as he cut himself with his razor. “What are you wearing so I know who it is?” he asked blotting the blood that dripped from the cut.

Irene thought for a moment and said very calmly, “... a peach suit with a white hat,” the phone went dead as Irene hung up. The quick thud of the receiver made him wince in pain. He walked into his kitchen and searched for something in the cabinet. Pushing bottles around him found some rum in a bottle. He opened it throwing off the cap with one hand and took a swig washing it around his mouth hoping to dull his toothache and maybe settle his hangover. He threw the empty bottle in the trash as he gathered up a shirt, pants and tie. He sat down to tie his shoes.

“What’s this broads’s problem?” he said softly to himself. Tying his tie, he remembers last night and the card game. He had been playing with the same guys he always played with almost weekly over at Jim’s Garage. They met in the back after hours. Joe Bowers owned the place; there was no Jim . Well, not now anymore. Jim Tomak died ten years earlier and Joe had worked for him. When he bought the place form Jim‘s widow for three-thousand dollars, she took it and signed it over without batting an eye. She needed the money more than a husband. Joe was a good guy. He was in his early forties and short. He had a tight haircut and he was muscular. Joe’s brother Kip also played.

Kip Bowers was a cop, just a plain cop walking a beat. He was younger than Joe was by eighteen months but was married and had four kids. His wife Agnes worked part time at Hasten’s Market and they managed to live in a little house over on Delaney’s Place across from the Mayer’s Box Factory. Kip and Joe spent many weekends and nights fixing the little house up. Agnes did her thing with the decorating but it was Joe, Kip who did the remodeling that was needed, and the plumbing and electric that was outdated. The house was seventy years old already and it took the two brothers a year to get it in top shape. The neighborhood was zoned for both residential and business so there were houses between shops and offices. Kip was able to get a mortgage on it and with four bedrooms; it was just right for him, Agnes, and the kids even if the neighborhood was not on the best side of town.

Mikey De Stefano also played cards with them; Mikey was a retired semi-pro ball player from Iowa. Twenty years ago, he played for several triple A teams never really getting to the big leagues before he blew his arm out pitching a game when he just turned forty. Now sixty-one, Mikey was retired as he also worked for the post office and was able to get a good deal after twenty years on the route. He walked miles and miles everyday and other than his arm, acting up when it rained and the leather sack was heavy with Sear’s catalogues; he was in good shape for his age. He never smoke or drank, that is to always being in training for baseball. Mikey lived in the house around the corner from Kip. Actually, he could cut through his back yard through Kip’s when he needed to. This was Mikey’s route too and he has to know Kip and Agnes well over the years. Mikey liked to play cards but always had a limit. He never bought in for more when he was down. Once he was out, he was out. He would sit and talk the rest of the games, even though he did not drink, he did like root beer, and as long as Joe had Root Beer, Mikey would stay. He won about a quarter of the time and that was good enough for Mikey. Mikey’s wife Elmira died fourteen years ago from influenza. They never had any kids. They wanted to but Elmira was always on the sickly side and they just never had any kids. Mikey liked kids though and would play ball in the street with the neighborhood bunch after school.