The Life of Riley is a novel that will be published by Murder Slim Press in 2015. It's a story about money and murder, love and loss, and friendship and faith; It's a mystery and thriller wrapped into one, with a few twists that you'll never see coming. The book is a tale about a simple Irish guy from Chicago who owns a pub, and whose life becomes anything but simple after he's charged with murder and pursued by a politically ambitious federal prosecutor.
This book is my first effort at full-length fiction, and hopefully it's a story that you'll enjoy reading. Writing this book has been a cool experience. I certainly didn't set out to write a novel with 50 or so characters, but once I put the pen to paper, the novel took on a life of its own. Characters materialized from the ether of my imagination, while other characters came to me in my dreams.
Riley is basically a simple guy who likes to drink beer and hang out with his son and his dog. But circumstances and fate embark him on a dangerous and complicated journey...as life sometimes does with all of us. There's a fortune, and possible new love at stake when he's charged with murder. As events unfold, people choose sides, and Riley is forced to fight for his survival using only his wits, his brains, and the help of his family and friends. It all steamrolls towards a conclusion in a courtroom that will decide what becomes of...The Life of Riley.
Listed below are thumbnail sketches of the characters in the book. I did these bios to post to my website for my readers around the world to check out so that they can be part of the novel as I write it. I also have a dedicated Twitter feed for the book. You might want to wait until you read the book, and then go back and read the character bios to see if they ran true to type. There are a few chapters posted on my site at bankblogger.weebly.com and I will continue to share the process of writing with you guys. I welcome your feedback too. Thank you.
--The Life of Riley--
(Cast of Characters)
SHAMUS JAMES O'RILEY: 6'2 w/ Black hair and Green eyes. Goes by the name of Riley. Parents were Irish immigrants who died when he was five years old. Grew up in Holy Family orphanage in Chicago; raised by nuns and priests. Savant in mathematics; Notre Dame Graduate with a MBA and PhD in Economics and Finance. Has affinity for numbers. Shuns God; thinks it's all a scam. Owns a pub in Charleston, South Carolina named The Ninth Lord.
GENERAL SHERMAN: 75 lb solid White English Bulldog with Brown eyes. Very social. Drinks Guinness stout. Only barks if he's forced to. Wears a wide Royal Blue collar with Gold shamrocks embroidered on it and a large Gold four leaf clover hanging from the collar with his personal information engraved on the back. Lives in and above the pub.
JIMMY MACPHEE: 6'5 Blonde hair and Blue-eyed Scotsman. Riley's best friend since childhood; grew up in the orphanage with Riley after mom abandoned him. Former United States Marine. Devout Catholic. Runs the Ninth Lord.
HONEY LUANN DRIGGERS: 5'10 Blonde haired Blue-eyed hot mess. Gorgeous. Perpetually amorous. Clemson graduate. Has definite gold-digger qualities. Jealous with trust issues. Wants to marry Riley. Riley's girlfriend at the time of his arrest.
DANNY CALLAHAN: 12 years old. Sandy Blonde hair with Hazel eyes. Smart. Riley's adopted son. Believes in God and goes to mass with Jimmy MacPhee. Attends private school in Charleston (Porter Gaud); wants to follow in Riley's footsteps and attend Notre Dame one day. Close to Jimmy MacPhee and Sister Rose.
SISTER ROSE: Five foot tall nun from County Cork, Ireland. Mother Superior at Holy Family in Chicago. Raised Riley and was friends with his parents. Old-school nun; a nun's nun. Hypnotic Sky-Blue eyes. Believes that God and the Devil are in a spiritual tug of war for Riley's soul. Drinks beer and whiskey.
CATHERINE "KITTY" KIERNAN: 5'5 with large Brown eyes and curly, shoulder-length Chestnut-colored hair. Defense attorney. Professionally confident and personally insecure. Feisty has a history of choosing emotionally unavailable men. Has won three murder trials. Riley's lawyer.
NEIL BULLOCK: Federal judge and Riley's friend. Plays in Riley's weekly poker game. Has same hobby as Riley (watching ships coming into the Charleston harbor).
CHAMBLEE WENTWORTH: Tall, Citadel graduate and former quarterback. Riley's friend; plays in Riley's weekly poker game. Owns carriage company in downtown Charleston. Has a sex addiction.
HAROLD SMALLS: 35 year old African American and Riley's friend. Plays in Riley's weekly poker game. Has dry sense of humor. Supervisor at the South Carolina Ports Authority and high-ranking member of International Longshoreman's Association (ILA) union.
SISTER MARY FRANCIS: Young nun at Holy Family in Chicago. Sister Rose's aide de camp. Born in Ireland and speaks with thick Irish brogue. Speaks Gaelic. Happy with a carefree laugh. Likes to drink with Sister Rose. Likes and believes in Riley.
FATHER DAMEN: Priest and math teacher at Holy Family. Mentor and father figure to Riley during his early childhood. Tall with fair hair and rosy cheeks. Born in Holland. Good sense of humor. Not particularly religious, but believes that St. Patrick personally watches over Riley.
MISS MINNIE: Squat, African American cook at The Ninth Lord. Devout Baptist. Tough, no-nonsense affect. Speaks with a Gullah accent. Believes in Riley completely. Loves Danny. General Sherman, not so much.
MR. SAM: Miss Minnie's boyfriend. Around 50. Works landscaping and does odd jobs and eats lunch at The Ninth Lord. Sits at the end of the bar and waits to give Miss Minnie a ride home.
ROBERT HAGOOD RAVENEL: The U.S. Attorney for South Carolina and Riley's nemesis. Comes from Old Money aristocratic family in Charleston. Short, bald with Black tonsure. Nickname "Battlefield Bob." Civil War reenactor. Ambitious; wants to be Governor of South Carolina. Willing to cheat to win. Loves to refer to himself in the third person as The United States of America.
JOHNSON CAPERS CALHOUN: Tall with a sinewy build, with dark, piercing eyes. Citadel graduate; former Army Major; former Delta Force operator; was nicknamed The Chameleon in the special forces for his ability to blend into his environment. Riley's cellmate and criminal Sherpa. Quick wit; highly intelligent and highly manipulative. Morally flexible. Former schoolmate and enemy of the U.S. Attorney (who is also prosecuting him). Riley calls him "The Major."
THE HONORABLE MOSES MAYBANK: Chief Federal Judge for the Charleston Division; judge assigned to Riley's case. African American who looks like his name. Unruly, White, bushy hair. Appointed by Bush 41. Runs a tight ship. Defense friendly. Has Black reading glasses that ride the end of his nose. Occasionally quotes scripture.
AGENT WILLIAM BOYKIN: Department of Homeland Security agent. The U.S. Attorney's inside man at DHS and personal doo boy. Crew cut, with steely gray eyes and a perpetual sneer. Has attached his wagon to the U.S. Attorney's rising star.
AGENT JOYCE HARRIS: Department of Homeland Security agent and Bill Boykin's partner. Former Customs agent who transferred to DHS. Goes along with the program.
J. TED ELLSWORTH: Assistant U.S. Attorney (AUSA). Disciple and right hand man of Battlefield Bob. Harvard law graduate. Intelligent, but mousy and spineless. Goes along unquestioningly with his bosses schemes.
LISA GHERADINI: Riley's Italian ex-girlfriend from college. Attended Notre Dame on a scholarship for basketball. Pushy; demanding; lives in Little Italy in New York City. Riley used to go home with her on holidays and became friends with her mom and brother.
MOHAMED "MIKE" YUSEF: Riley's friend from college who owns grocery stores in Charleston. Born and raised in Aqaba, Jordan. Devout Sunni Muslim. Bald, with the fiery eyes of a zealot. Was the reason Riley first visited Charleston.
OMAR YUSEF: Mohamed's brother in New York City that wholesales dry goods to a community of Arabic grocers in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Manhattan, and the Bronx. Fronts a chain of markets there where his partners are illegal immigrants.
MUSTAFA "SAM" KHASHID: Mike's grocery manager in Charleston and the person that Riley sometimes deals with.
FLETCHER MORRIS: Attorney General of The United States of America. Based in Washington, DC. Keeps pressure on Battlefield Bob for a conviction. Famous line: "Don't make us look stupid down there."
LENNY GREENBERG: Riley's Certified Public Accountant in Charleston. Licensed broker that also manages Riley's stock portfolio. The first person Riley calls when he's arrested.
BISHOP FITZPATRICK: Bishop for South Carolina whose seat is at the Cathedral of St. John The Baptist in Charleston. Has ties back to Ireland, and ties to Sister Rose.
JEROME "ROMEY" BLUNT: The investigator for Kitty's criminal defense firm. Former DEA agent. Dark-skinned with a shiny bald head and suspicious eyes. Street and book smart. Thinks Riley's guilty.
MISS MARGIE: Kitty's paralegal and office manager. In her 50's and looks like Aunt Bee, but is smart as a whip. Takes Riley's collect calls from the jail and becomes another one of his defenders, even though she thinks that he's most likely guilty. Has a wiener dog (Dachshund) named Midge. Loves to eat and talk about food.
SALVATORE "BOOM BOOM" GHERADINI: Lisa's brother. Lives with his wife Carla on Sullivan street in Little Italy in NYC across the street from his mom. Has a social club with a kitchen and a bocce court out back; vocation and origin of income often speculated about. Poker player. Loves Riley.
MARSHAL JAMESY: United States Marshal from Boston who works in the Charleston division. Assigned to escort Judge Bullock and frequently runs private errands for him. Boston College and New England Patriots fan.
OFFICER DIXIE GAMBREL: Bleach-Blonde officer at the Charleston County Detention Center that works in Riley's cell block. Chews gum, and loves to pop it. Addicted to tanning beds and fake nails. Has a look that screams "Your trailer or mine?"
FOOT: 6'10 Nigerian that's so Black he looks Blue. Lives in Riley's cell block at the jail. Has the biggest dick in the cell block, hence, the name Foot. In jail for trafficking heroin. Silverback, but scared of The Major.
THE SMITHEREENS: Two young redneck bank robbers from Georgia that live in Riley's cell block. As part of their M.O. they'd blow up abortion clinics across town from the banks they robbed as a diversion. Like to fight. Like Riley because he's charged with killing a Muslim. Names: Jeremy and Jeb Hutto.
DAVEY ORTON: Crooked lawyer that lives in the cell block with Riley. Smart and crafty. In jail for stealing millions from his clients trust accounts. Arrested by Interpol in the Canary Islands. Jailhouse lawyer who's famous line is, "I'm the best that honey buns can buy."
CHEWY: Fat Mexican with bad tattoos and bad breath that lives in Riley's cell block at the jail. In jail for alien smuggling and human trafficking. managed and ran a network of polleros that brought 500 illegals across the border a week. Indicted out of Charleston, South Carolina after ICE raided one of his migrant worker boarding houses.
RAHEEN A.K.A MOHAMED JIHAD: Militant Black Muslim in Riley's cell block. member of the Nation of Islam. Skinny with spotty goatee and beard. Wears black crocheted kufi. Hates Riley and all White people. Travels with two Muslim sycophants in tow. Indicted for conspiracy to distribute crack cocaine.
BOO RADLEY: Large, stoic, scary-looking White guy that lives in the corner cell of Riley's cell block. Lives alone because it's rumored that he killed his last cell mate. Keeps the window on his cell door covered and never comes out. Other inmates are scared of him and give him a wide berth.
COCO CHANEL: Tall, skinny, light-skinned, Black homosexual in Riley's cell block. Nappy hair with big lips that he likes to purse while he rolls his eyes as if to say that the whole world's absurd. Hair stylist. Fairly silent. Inseparable from Amy Winehouse. Loves to put his walkman on and dance around the cell block.
AMY WINEHOUSE: Tall, thin, pale, White homosexual in Riley's cell block. Bushy mane of Black hair with a tattoo of Betty Boop on his neck. Wears Blue eye shadow made from Skittles Flamboyant. Likes to snap his fingers and call people "Child." Loves to dance with CoCo.
LT. MANIGAULT: Also known as "Nanny Goat." Black Lieutenant in Riley's cell block that hates inmates. Small, tight afro, with cruel eyes. Calls Riley "Killer" and tells him, "I wish they'd let me be the one to throw the switch when they execute you, boy." Black republican.
Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2
@thelife0friley (use the zero as an "O" in the word "Of")
The Life of Riley is a novel. It's my first effort at fiction, as well as my first full-length novel. It's due to be published in 2015. It's a book about life and love, money and murder, and friends and faith, that includes a cast of over 40 sinners and saints.
The Life of Riley takes the reader on an adventure from the beautiful historic streets of Charleston, South Carolina, to Chicago and Little Italy in New York City, to the back alleys of Aqaba, Jordan in the Middle East. The story ends, or possibly just begins, back in a courtroom in Charleston in front of a jury and a judge named Moses, where 720 million dollars and a future love and life hang in the balance. Events spiral towards a stunning conclusion that will ultimately determine what becomes of...The Life of Riley."
The cast of characters for this book include a hot mess named Honey; a lunatic, Civil War-reenacting, politically-ambitious federal prosecutor; an old-school nun off the streets of Chicago, and a loveable, White English Bulldog that drinks beer...just to name a few. Browse the cast of characters and read their thumbnail bios. I sketched these bios while in solitary confinement in California before I'd ever written the first word of the story.
I'm offering you, the reader, a chance to look into my literary mind's eye, and to be an interactive part of the novel as I write. Feel free to post your comments and/or opinion on the characters and chapters that I've posted and will continue to post. Let me know how you think the story should turn out, and your opinions on how it's developing. As I write this, I still haven't written the ending, so who knows? maybe one of your comments or opinions will influence the ending of the story.
I'll be posting updates via Twitter, so make sure to follow me @bankblogger2 #thelifeofriley.
The Life of Riley
Prologue
Riley sat in the sterile cell in the basement of the Federal Courthouse, and took it all in. It had been a year, and he still wanted a cigarette. As he checked out the cell, he saw a sloped stainless steel bench fixed to one wall , that was barely wide enough to sit on; the walls were made of smooth, gray blocks of stone, that people had carved things into, and in the back of the cell, there was a one-piece, stainless steel toilet/sink combo, with a partition next to it, which allowed the marshals to view a person from the shoulders up, as they sat upon it. Finally, the forward section of the cell was fronted by thick, black wire mesh, woven in an overlapping pattern, and there was the customary handcuff slot in the door, which allowed a person to stick their hands through to be cuffed. The cell was one of three holding pens in a row, which were ran by the US Marshal’s Service, to hold defendants awaiting a court appearance, in one of the courtrooms upstairs.
It had been 364 days since Riley had been fingerprinted and had his picture taken by an older Marshal named Dennis, who’d called him “kid” and joked with him, as he processed him into the Federal system. This include assigning a 5-digit U.S. Marshal’s number, which was followed by a 3-digit number, denoting the state in which the marshal’s had made the arrest. Riley’s number was 98310-171. Radically reduced to a single digit number, produced “3”, one of Riley’s favorite numbers. He also liked that his state code added up to “9”.
Riley ran his hands down his suit jacket, which coincidentally, was the same suit he’d been arrested in, the year before. Reaching inside his jacket, he felt in the pocket. It was empty. Then he felt for the slit in the material above it, which dropped down to his hiding spot, where he sometime stashed cigarettes, and other things. The suit fit a little tighter, from all the starchy foods he’d eaten in jail, however, it still fit nicely, and felt much better than the canvas uniform he’ been wearing for the last year.
He paced the cell for a minute, and noticed how loud the silence was, then he walked to the rear of the cell, leaned back, and though about things. It had been the first time he’d ever been arrested, and had to suffer the indignity of jail. In spite of the fact it had been fairly unpleasant, he’d met some people he really liked. He had lost the pub, and tentatively regained it, shed one girl, while finding another, suffered betrayal from people he’d not suspected, played poker with some true professionals, and missed General Sherman, Danny, and Bushmill’s Whiskey, every single day.
Today was the day of his trial, having picked the jury the day before, and they were now waiting upstairs in a palatial courtroom. Where after deciding which side told the best story, they would decide what would become of the life of Riley.
The marshal came to the front of the cell, ratcheting the handcuffs he held, saying, “It’s time to go upstairs and play the hand you’ve been dealt. Are you ready, kid?” Riley shrugged and stuck his hands through the slot in the front of the cell, and offered his wrists to Dennis, saying, “Ready as I’ll ever be. I may only have a pair of fives but I plan to play them like a full house, Dennis”. Marsha Dennis laughed and placed the cuffs and leg irons on Riley, while three more marshals appeared to escort the murder defendant upstairs to the courtroom, and to his fate. It was showtime.
CHAPTER ONE
General Sherman never had more than one Guinness before lunch. More than one gave him the wind, and when that happened, he was capable of clearing the entire pub. His full name was General William Tecumseh Sherman Riley, and his home was the Ninth Lord, located on Queen Street, in the historic district of Charleston, South Carolina.
The General weighed in at around 75 pounds, depending on how much he’d drank that week, and had a solid white coat, with friendly, warm brown eyes, , and was very likely the best-looking bulldog in the city. Riley had acquired him from a breeder on James Island when he was twelve weeks old, and brought him home to the pub where he’d been in residence ever since. Upon his arrival, Riley had sought and received approval from the Board of Architectural Review, to install a special door in the rear of the pub, with a big flap at the bottom. The rear entrance led to a quaint cobblestone alley, which was canopied by trees, and bordered by other homes, and the stuccoed stone walls of their gardens and yards. The alley was open to foot traffic only, and ran for a block between Queen and Cumberland Streets. It was not uncommon to find General Sherman in the alley tending to his business or laying on the cool, bumpy cobblestone, or visiting the neighbors. The General was very social.
In contrast to his stark, white coat, the General sported a thick, royal blue collar, that had eight golden shamrocks and one thick, golden four-leaf clover, which hung from the collar under his chin. On the back, was engraved his name, address, Riley’s address, and a sentence which said, “I drink Guinness Stout”.
In addition to the fancy collar, and doggie door, Riley had Shermanized the entire pub and property, to make the General more comfortable.
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The Ninth Lord was a beautiful piece of property, and a beautiful pub. Running nearly a third of a city block, it was zoned residential/commercial, and was the width of a Charleston Single house. The front was non-descript except for a small plaque, which had The Ninth Lord in Gaelic script, with a golden four leaf clover in the middle of the script. Despite its generic façade, once through the door, the ambiance immediately hit. It had the old pub look and feel. From the varnished hardwood floors that the General could be heard trotting across, to the walls of old Charleston brick, and the ceiling fans hanging down and doing a slow twirl in unison, to the fifty-foot bar, with wooden-backed stools, and brass foot rail, to the large mirror behind the bar, with every liquor imaginable, stocked in front, to the brass-headed tappers at both ends of the bar, which offered several beer selections, domestic and foreign.
Along the wall opposite the bar, hung pictures of Irish patriots and saints, with their stories printed underneath, and also Notre Dame memorabilia—Riley’s alma mater. On weekdays during lunch, the tables were packed with people, who came to eat Miss Minnie’s cooking, and at night the tables were filled with patrons throwing back drinks, and enjoying themselves. At the back of the barroom on the left, was the kitchen, and next to it was a hallway with bathrooms. The hallway led to a back room that had tables and chairs, and flat-panel TV’s which were tuned to CNN, Bloomberg Financial, and various sports channels. During football season, this room stayed full.
At the back of the room was a steel door with a fingerprint scanner on the wall next to it, which only recognized Riley’s, Danny’s, Miss Minnie’s, and Riley’s best friend, and bar manager, Jimmy Macphee’s fingerprints. Behind this door was a smaller but nicer, backroom, which served as Riley’s office, and he and Danny’s mancave. It had a couch, large flat-panel TV with X-Box Live, a Seeburg Jukebox, Bally pinball machine, a poker table, and accompanying rectangular serving table for Riley’s infamous weekly poker games, and Riley’s desk. Adorning the walls were framed cellograffs from various Disney movies, and signed and framed jerseys from a few of Notre Dame’s more notable quarterbacks.
On the floor behind Riley’s desk were two white porcelain bowls with gold shamrocks, and a large royal blue cushion with a gold four-leaf clover embroidered in the middle, which served as a bed for General Sherman. There were identical setups underneath the end of the bar, and upstairs in Riley’s house above the pub. The house could be accessed through another steel door at the back of the room, and another fingerprint scanner that only read Riley’s and Danny’s fingerprints. It had been installed by an outfit called Twenty First Century Networks, and when the techs had installed the scanner and were calibrating it, Riley picked up General Sherman, and put his fat paw on it but it wouldn’t recognize the pads. The General had seemed to take the rejection in stride.
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On this day, General Sherman lay on his cushion underneath the bar, and watched the 6’5” blonde-haired, hulking, Jimmy Macphee, shine the glasses and bottles behind the bar, as jig from the Dropkick Murphys played through the pub’s sound system. Riley sat at the bar, nursing his first Bushmill’s of the day, and reading Investors Business Daily, as his cigarette burned in the ashtray, and sent up a slow, steady stream of smoke.
The smell of something delicious drifted from the kitchen, and wafted through the pub, and Riley said loudly, “Jesus, Minnie, that smells good. What is it?” Miss Minnie was a traditional black, southern cook, and was widely considered one of the best cooks in the city. About 50, and rotund, she tipped the scales at over 200 pounds, and the sight of her alone, was an endorsement for her culinary skill.
Miss Minnie waddled through the wooden swinging doors, which fronted the kitchen, wearing a white apron, and holding a lavender bowl with a silver spoon resting on the saucer. She handed it to Riley saying, “It’s She-Crab soup. Make sure you eat it all, too. You gonna waste away to nothing if you don’t start eating something”. Riley tasted a spoonful and said, “Mmm, that’s Heaven, Minnie. I really should marry you. We’ll elope, and we won’t tell Honey or Mr. Sam. You’ll be a black, Irish wife”. Mr. Sam was Miss Minnie’s man. She pursed her lips, and replied, “Hmmph. You ain't never gonna marry no one, Mista Riley. You too in love with that sloppy dog”, and she turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen.
Jimmy Macphee laughed aloud, and said, “She’s got your number, mate”. As soon as he’d said this, Riley’s phone sitting on the bar chirped, and when he looked down, he saw the incoming call was from his present love-of-his-life, Honey.
CHAPTER TWO
Honey Louann Driggers was country gone to town. Literally, at 5’ 10” with flawless skin, perfect teeth, and the best breasts money could buy, she was a head-turner. She had long blonde hair that was so shiny it looked fake. Honey mostly wore it down, and loved to toss it around when she talked and walked. When she entered into a room, every man got her attention, and every woman was pissed off. Underneath Honey’s soft looks was hardness born of her roots; below her surface was emotional gristle.
Honey was raised in a singlewide trailer in a rural area near the small town of Cottageville approximately 30 miles west-northwest of Charleston. Reared by a single mother who drank too much, and jumped from one unemployed drunk to the next, Honey didn’t necessarily know what a man should be but sure knew what one shouldn’t. Her first sexual attention came from being chased by her mother’s boyfriends, her cousins, an uncle, and even an aunt who took an unhealthy interest in Honey’s preternatural good looks. Honey lost her virginity to the cable installer, on a picnic table in a state park, simply because he’d taken her to the Tasty Freeze in town, and given her free HBO.
Honey parlayed her good looks, and chose her men well but in spite of her clothes purchased in the boutiques of King Street, and her David Yurman jewelry, she never lost the inner crudeness of her trailer park roots. She didn’t suffer “the poor” lightly, and had once told a girlfriend, “Hell, it’s just as easy to screw somebody with money, whom you don’t love, than some poor bastard you do. I watched my Mama do love and do poor, and it sure looked overrated to me”.
Honey graduated high school, fled Cottageville, and never looked back. She attended Clemson on a partial scholarship, where she met husband #1, E. Byron Gadsen. E. Byron came from a wealthy family that provided him with a generous trust fund, and the first time he saw Honey, all those boobs, and shiny hair, he went gaga. After a successful five-year marriage, and an even more successful five-month divorce, Honey ended with a net worth over one million dollars. Husband #2 was a mass Tort lawyer named Walter, who was much older and wealthier, and had difficulty keeping up with Honey’s rambunctious libido. Walter had the good fortune of dropping dead on the 18th green, after having shot par. He left behind a large estate, and a grateful and semi-grieving widow. He was 54 when he died; Honey was 27. One year later, she met Riley.
On a humid summer evening, nine months earlier, Riley had taken General Sherman on a walk up Meeting Street to White Point Gardens. As he was sitting on a bench behind the gazebo, and while General Sherman was lay lying next to him, splay-legged with his tongue hanging out, as he cooled his belly on the gravel, Honey went swishing by, slinging her hips like it was hashbrowns at the Waffle House. Riley watched, and right as she passed, yelled, “Sic her General Sherman!!!” The last thing the General had sicced was a bowl full of beer an hour earlier, and he just watched as Honey shrieked at the top of her lungs, and went straight into the air like a cat. Riley burst out laughing, and when Honey landed, she unleashed her fury, yelling and calling him everything but an Irishman.
An hour later, they were making their way down East Bay Street to the pub, and three hours and three drinks later, they were in bed…where they spent the entire next three days. Honey was very sexual and had no problem expressing her needs and desires, which is exactly what she did when Riley answered the phone.
“What’s good, Honey?” Riley asked.
“Besides all this pussy I’m sitting on?” she came right back, adding, “And the longer we talk, the longer it’s going to waste. I’m coming over. I need some loving.”
Riley looked at his watch. It was 10 A.M., and he said, “Wait about an hour before you head over, Honey. I need to take the General for a walk, and then run to the store and pick up some limes.” Honey indignantly replied, “Jesus H. Christ, Riley. You’ll take the Piggly Wiggly and the damned dog over my honeypot? For all your supposed brains, you’re not too bright sometimes. No wonder your kinfolk couldn’t find their way to a potato, and nearly starved to death.”
Riley threw back the rest of his Bushmill’s and knocked the glass back down on the bar, as he felt the comfortable burn at the back of his throat. He picked up his cigarette, and took a pull, as he laughed and said, “Please don’t hold back, Honey. Tell me how you really feel.” Before she could reply, he said, “I’ll see you here in an hour. Miss Minnie’s made some She Crab soup. If I’m not back by the time you get here, have her get you a bowl. It’s delicious.”
Sounding pouty, Honey said, “I’m not coming over there to hang out with the help or get the damn crabs, Riley. I want to play.” Then before disconnecting she added, “If you’re not back in exactly one hour, I’m going to screw Jimmy Macphee. He’s always eyeing me like the hotbar, anyways.”
Riley had done his customary 500 push-ups and crunches after getting up but it looked as though he’d be getting additional exercise in the near future, because primarily, that’s how he viewed Honey. He found her gorgeous and entertaining, and on days when he felt mortality creeping up on him, he tried to convince himself he might even be in love with her but then he’d snap out of it, realizing that what he was really in love with, was the sight of her underneath him with flushed cheeks, with her wild, uninhibited look in the eyes. The other thing was she and Danny hadn’t exactly taken to each other, and when they communicated there seemed to be an underlying chilliness, and the feeling they were just tolerating each other. This was the primary reason Riley chose his morning and afternoon liaisons with Honey, and didn’t have her sleep over.
Riley looked at his Shinola watch that he’d probably paid way too much for, and he asked Jimmy Macphee, “Has General Sherman had his morning Toddy?” Jimmy reached down next to General Sherman, and picked up his bowl. As he did this, the General stood up, and started wagging his nub. Jimmy went to the tap, and slid the bowl underneath, filling it ¾ of the way with Guinness, sitting it back on the ground in front of General Sherman. The General promptly went to drinking half, sloshing the remainder on the floor. As the General was guzzling his beer, Jimmy Macphee looked down at him, grinning, and said, “Aye, he drinks fairly well, even for an Englishman.”
Riley grabbed a leash, and a bar towel, went around the bar, squatted, and clipped the leash to the General’s collar, wiping the spit and beer from the General’s jowls. When he was done, he held his thick head in his hands, giving it a good two-handed scratch behind his jaws, telling him, “I don’t know if anybody’s told you this before but you are one good looking man” General Sherman responded by licking Riley right on the mouth. Riley stood, slid his Wayfarer’s down his nose, and took the General out into the warm morning for his walk.
CHAPTER THREE
A few hours later, Riley laid on his side in bed, and watched Honey nap. After finally being sated, she’d curled up like a cat, and drifted off to sleep. It was 2 PM as Riley watched her lay on her side, with her head on her hands, and he considered that he sometimes enjoyed her most when she slept, and couldn’t speak. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, pulled the sheet over her, slid out of bed, and retrieved his boxers and blue jeans, sliding them on. He picked his pack of Marlboro Reds off the nightstand, shook one out, placed it between his lips, lit it, then grabbed an empty Red Bull can to use as an ashtray, and headed toward the cupola.
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Riley’s home stretched the entire length of the building, had three bedrooms, a comfortable great room, billiards room, and a study with a baby grand piano, brought into the house through the front windows using a crane. It had hardwood floors, tall windows, and was light and airy. The building’s unique feature, however, was the cupola atop the roof, accessible by a ladder in the corner of Riley’s study. One of only six cupolas in the city, and one of the larger, it was a relic of the antebellum era. Somewhat circular in shape, it was enclosed by sloping panes of glass, angled upward to form a point. Riley had purchased an iron vane for the top, hammered by the famed Charleston blacksmith, Phillip Simmons. Approximately 10 feet high, and eight feet wide, it resembled a mini greenhouse.
Riley had placed a chart table inside, and he kept his log and binoculars there. In addition, a chair and telescope were inside. This was Riley’s crow’s nest, where he’d sometimes sit for hours watching container ships, as they entered Charleston Harbor, escorted by a pilot boat, and at least one tug. When the ships reached Buoy Two Charlie, about two nautical miles before the harbor entrance, a pilot boat would meet the ship, and a harbor pilot would climb onto the container ship, and steer it to port. Behind New York City and Philadelphia, Charleston was the third most active in tonnage, on the eastern seaboard. Ships arrived from all over the world, and the local newspaper, the Post and Courier, listed the itinerary and size of the incoming ships but Riley liked to keep his own log, which made notations, and listed various characteristics of the ships making their way to the Columbus Street Terminal, or to the Wando Terminal farther up the Cooper River. It was common to see porpoises diving back and forth across the bow of the ship, and Riley notated which ships they favored, because they were considered a good omen by sailors. Riley would sometimes take General Sherman to “Waterfront Park”, at the end of Queen Street, to view the ships up close but his preferred vantage point, was in the cupola using binoculars or telescope.
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As Riley was watching one unusually large ship, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, and when he answered the voice on the other end said, “That’s one of Maersk’s new super ships, capable of carrying 500 or so containers”. The caller was Federal Judge Neil Bullock, Riley’s friend, and one of the players of his weekly poker game, which was scheduled for tonight. While Riley pondered, where the judge was, he said, “Take a look on your six, Riley”. Riley slowly turned around with the binoculars to his eyes, and scanned down Broad Street, and past the steeple of St. Michael’s Church, to the top of the Federal Courthouse. It took him a second but he eventually saw a hand waving. It was the judge, and in his other hand, he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Riley waved back, picked up his phone, and said, “I thought the government used drones to spy on people, judge”.
“We do that, too but sometimes the quickest way from point “a” to “b”, is a pair of binoculars. Despite the fact you’re an abysmal poker player, and come from weak genetic stock, which has, yet to successfully self-govern, apparently we have the same hobby, Riley. My chambers are located at the top of the courthouse, and face the harbor, and like you, I too have a telescope in my perch. I come to this spot to seek respite between sentencing unrepentant crack dealers. The only difference is my glass is bulletproof. You do have a nice cupola, Riley. I have cupola envy”.
Riley continued to watch the humungous container ship slowly make its way up the Cooper, under the escort of two tugs, when the judge added, “Do you think you could do me a favor, Riley?”
“Sure judge, what’s that?”
“Convince Honey that naked ship-watching has some spiritual benefit, and then bring her up in the cupola”.
Honey knew a track-up, when she saw one, and always flirted with the judge on poker nights.
Riley replied, “Honey isn’t really a spiritual girl, judge but she did just have a Baptist moment, where she was yelling, “Oh God! Oh God!”
Honey yelled up, “I heard that! Who are you talking to? And why are you up o the roof like some kind of damn bird?”
Riley told the judge, “Sleeping Beauty has awakened, judge. I’m gonna have to go. Are you coming to cards tonight?”
The judge sighed, and said, “I’ll be there, and I’m bringing a marshal to pat you down, to make certain you don’t have any cards stashed”. With that, he clicked off.
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Riley climbed down the ladder to find Honey butt naked, and dancing to a Luke Bryan song, playing through the Bose speakers mounted on the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, and she was into it, as she spun around, and kicked her pretty feet into the hardwood floor. As Riley watched, he felt himself stir. When the song was over, he took her over to the bed, and told her, “We have about 45 minutes before Danny comes home”. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her down to where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She leaned forward, kissed Riley’s abs, and then started unbuttoning his pants.
Ten minutes later, it was Riley that had the Baptist moment.
The Life of Riley takes the reader on an adventure from the beautiful historic streets of Charleston, South Carolina, to Chicago and Little Italy in New York City, to the back alleys of Aqaba, Jordan in the Middle East. The story ends, or possibly just begins, back in a courtroom in Charleston in front of a jury and a judge named Moses, where 720 million dollars and a future love and life hang in the balance. Events spiral towards a stunning conclusion that will ultimately determine what becomes of...The Life of Riley."
The cast of characters for this book include a hot mess named Honey; a lunatic, Civil War-reenacting, politically-ambitious federal prosecutor; an old-school nun off the streets of Chicago, and a loveable, White English Bulldog that drinks beer...just to name a few. Browse the cast of characters and read their thumbnail bios. I sketched these bios while in solitary confinement in California before I'd ever written the first word of the story.
I'm offering you, the reader, a chance to look into my literary mind's eye, and to be an interactive part of the novel as I write. Feel free to post your comments and/or opinion on the characters and chapters that I've posted and will continue to post. Let me know how you think the story should turn out, and your opinions on how it's developing. As I write this, I still haven't written the ending, so who knows? maybe one of your comments or opinions will influence the ending of the story.
I'll be posting updates via Twitter, so make sure to follow me @bankblogger2 #thelifeofriley.
The Life of Riley
Prologue
Riley sat in the sterile cell in the basement of the Federal Courthouse, and took it all in. It had been a year, and he still wanted a cigarette. As he checked out the cell, he saw a sloped stainless steel bench fixed to one wall , that was barely wide enough to sit on; the walls were made of smooth, gray blocks of stone, that people had carved things into, and in the back of the cell, there was a one-piece, stainless steel toilet/sink combo, with a partition next to it, which allowed the marshals to view a person from the shoulders up, as they sat upon it. Finally, the forward section of the cell was fronted by thick, black wire mesh, woven in an overlapping pattern, and there was the customary handcuff slot in the door, which allowed a person to stick their hands through to be cuffed. The cell was one of three holding pens in a row, which were ran by the US Marshal’s Service, to hold defendants awaiting a court appearance, in one of the courtrooms upstairs.
It had been 364 days since Riley had been fingerprinted and had his picture taken by an older Marshal named Dennis, who’d called him “kid” and joked with him, as he processed him into the Federal system. This include assigning a 5-digit U.S. Marshal’s number, which was followed by a 3-digit number, denoting the state in which the marshal’s had made the arrest. Riley’s number was 98310-171. Radically reduced to a single digit number, produced “3”, one of Riley’s favorite numbers. He also liked that his state code added up to “9”.
Riley ran his hands down his suit jacket, which coincidentally, was the same suit he’d been arrested in, the year before. Reaching inside his jacket, he felt in the pocket. It was empty. Then he felt for the slit in the material above it, which dropped down to his hiding spot, where he sometime stashed cigarettes, and other things. The suit fit a little tighter, from all the starchy foods he’d eaten in jail, however, it still fit nicely, and felt much better than the canvas uniform he’ been wearing for the last year.
He paced the cell for a minute, and noticed how loud the silence was, then he walked to the rear of the cell, leaned back, and though about things. It had been the first time he’d ever been arrested, and had to suffer the indignity of jail. In spite of the fact it had been fairly unpleasant, he’d met some people he really liked. He had lost the pub, and tentatively regained it, shed one girl, while finding another, suffered betrayal from people he’d not suspected, played poker with some true professionals, and missed General Sherman, Danny, and Bushmill’s Whiskey, every single day.
Today was the day of his trial, having picked the jury the day before, and they were now waiting upstairs in a palatial courtroom. Where after deciding which side told the best story, they would decide what would become of the life of Riley.
The marshal came to the front of the cell, ratcheting the handcuffs he held, saying, “It’s time to go upstairs and play the hand you’ve been dealt. Are you ready, kid?” Riley shrugged and stuck his hands through the slot in the front of the cell, and offered his wrists to Dennis, saying, “Ready as I’ll ever be. I may only have a pair of fives but I plan to play them like a full house, Dennis”. Marsha Dennis laughed and placed the cuffs and leg irons on Riley, while three more marshals appeared to escort the murder defendant upstairs to the courtroom, and to his fate. It was showtime.
CHAPTER ONE
General Sherman never had more than one Guinness before lunch. More than one gave him the wind, and when that happened, he was capable of clearing the entire pub. His full name was General William Tecumseh Sherman Riley, and his home was the Ninth Lord, located on Queen Street, in the historic district of Charleston, South Carolina.
The General weighed in at around 75 pounds, depending on how much he’d drank that week, and had a solid white coat, with friendly, warm brown eyes, , and was very likely the best-looking bulldog in the city. Riley had acquired him from a breeder on James Island when he was twelve weeks old, and brought him home to the pub where he’d been in residence ever since. Upon his arrival, Riley had sought and received approval from the Board of Architectural Review, to install a special door in the rear of the pub, with a big flap at the bottom. The rear entrance led to a quaint cobblestone alley, which was canopied by trees, and bordered by other homes, and the stuccoed stone walls of their gardens and yards. The alley was open to foot traffic only, and ran for a block between Queen and Cumberland Streets. It was not uncommon to find General Sherman in the alley tending to his business or laying on the cool, bumpy cobblestone, or visiting the neighbors. The General was very social.
In contrast to his stark, white coat, the General sported a thick, royal blue collar, that had eight golden shamrocks and one thick, golden four-leaf clover, which hung from the collar under his chin. On the back, was engraved his name, address, Riley’s address, and a sentence which said, “I drink Guinness Stout”.
In addition to the fancy collar, and doggie door, Riley had Shermanized the entire pub and property, to make the General more comfortable.
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The Ninth Lord was a beautiful piece of property, and a beautiful pub. Running nearly a third of a city block, it was zoned residential/commercial, and was the width of a Charleston Single house. The front was non-descript except for a small plaque, which had The Ninth Lord in Gaelic script, with a golden four leaf clover in the middle of the script. Despite its generic façade, once through the door, the ambiance immediately hit. It had the old pub look and feel. From the varnished hardwood floors that the General could be heard trotting across, to the walls of old Charleston brick, and the ceiling fans hanging down and doing a slow twirl in unison, to the fifty-foot bar, with wooden-backed stools, and brass foot rail, to the large mirror behind the bar, with every liquor imaginable, stocked in front, to the brass-headed tappers at both ends of the bar, which offered several beer selections, domestic and foreign.
Along the wall opposite the bar, hung pictures of Irish patriots and saints, with their stories printed underneath, and also Notre Dame memorabilia—Riley’s alma mater. On weekdays during lunch, the tables were packed with people, who came to eat Miss Minnie’s cooking, and at night the tables were filled with patrons throwing back drinks, and enjoying themselves. At the back of the barroom on the left, was the kitchen, and next to it was a hallway with bathrooms. The hallway led to a back room that had tables and chairs, and flat-panel TV’s which were tuned to CNN, Bloomberg Financial, and various sports channels. During football season, this room stayed full.
At the back of the room was a steel door with a fingerprint scanner on the wall next to it, which only recognized Riley’s, Danny’s, Miss Minnie’s, and Riley’s best friend, and bar manager, Jimmy Macphee’s fingerprints. Behind this door was a smaller but nicer, backroom, which served as Riley’s office, and he and Danny’s mancave. It had a couch, large flat-panel TV with X-Box Live, a Seeburg Jukebox, Bally pinball machine, a poker table, and accompanying rectangular serving table for Riley’s infamous weekly poker games, and Riley’s desk. Adorning the walls were framed cellograffs from various Disney movies, and signed and framed jerseys from a few of Notre Dame’s more notable quarterbacks.
On the floor behind Riley’s desk were two white porcelain bowls with gold shamrocks, and a large royal blue cushion with a gold four-leaf clover embroidered in the middle, which served as a bed for General Sherman. There were identical setups underneath the end of the bar, and upstairs in Riley’s house above the pub. The house could be accessed through another steel door at the back of the room, and another fingerprint scanner that only read Riley’s and Danny’s fingerprints. It had been installed by an outfit called Twenty First Century Networks, and when the techs had installed the scanner and were calibrating it, Riley picked up General Sherman, and put his fat paw on it but it wouldn’t recognize the pads. The General had seemed to take the rejection in stride.
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On this day, General Sherman lay on his cushion underneath the bar, and watched the 6’5” blonde-haired, hulking, Jimmy Macphee, shine the glasses and bottles behind the bar, as jig from the Dropkick Murphys played through the pub’s sound system. Riley sat at the bar, nursing his first Bushmill’s of the day, and reading Investors Business Daily, as his cigarette burned in the ashtray, and sent up a slow, steady stream of smoke.
The smell of something delicious drifted from the kitchen, and wafted through the pub, and Riley said loudly, “Jesus, Minnie, that smells good. What is it?” Miss Minnie was a traditional black, southern cook, and was widely considered one of the best cooks in the city. About 50, and rotund, she tipped the scales at over 200 pounds, and the sight of her alone, was an endorsement for her culinary skill.
Miss Minnie waddled through the wooden swinging doors, which fronted the kitchen, wearing a white apron, and holding a lavender bowl with a silver spoon resting on the saucer. She handed it to Riley saying, “It’s She-Crab soup. Make sure you eat it all, too. You gonna waste away to nothing if you don’t start eating something”. Riley tasted a spoonful and said, “Mmm, that’s Heaven, Minnie. I really should marry you. We’ll elope, and we won’t tell Honey or Mr. Sam. You’ll be a black, Irish wife”. Mr. Sam was Miss Minnie’s man. She pursed her lips, and replied, “Hmmph. You ain't never gonna marry no one, Mista Riley. You too in love with that sloppy dog”, and she turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen.
Jimmy Macphee laughed aloud, and said, “She’s got your number, mate”. As soon as he’d said this, Riley’s phone sitting on the bar chirped, and when he looked down, he saw the incoming call was from his present love-of-his-life, Honey.
CHAPTER TWO
Honey Louann Driggers was country gone to town. Literally, at 5’ 10” with flawless skin, perfect teeth, and the best breasts money could buy, she was a head-turner. She had long blonde hair that was so shiny it looked fake. Honey mostly wore it down, and loved to toss it around when she talked and walked. When she entered into a room, every man got her attention, and every woman was pissed off. Underneath Honey’s soft looks was hardness born of her roots; below her surface was emotional gristle.
Honey was raised in a singlewide trailer in a rural area near the small town of Cottageville approximately 30 miles west-northwest of Charleston. Reared by a single mother who drank too much, and jumped from one unemployed drunk to the next, Honey didn’t necessarily know what a man should be but sure knew what one shouldn’t. Her first sexual attention came from being chased by her mother’s boyfriends, her cousins, an uncle, and even an aunt who took an unhealthy interest in Honey’s preternatural good looks. Honey lost her virginity to the cable installer, on a picnic table in a state park, simply because he’d taken her to the Tasty Freeze in town, and given her free HBO.
Honey parlayed her good looks, and chose her men well but in spite of her clothes purchased in the boutiques of King Street, and her David Yurman jewelry, she never lost the inner crudeness of her trailer park roots. She didn’t suffer “the poor” lightly, and had once told a girlfriend, “Hell, it’s just as easy to screw somebody with money, whom you don’t love, than some poor bastard you do. I watched my Mama do love and do poor, and it sure looked overrated to me”.
Honey graduated high school, fled Cottageville, and never looked back. She attended Clemson on a partial scholarship, where she met husband #1, E. Byron Gadsen. E. Byron came from a wealthy family that provided him with a generous trust fund, and the first time he saw Honey, all those boobs, and shiny hair, he went gaga. After a successful five-year marriage, and an even more successful five-month divorce, Honey ended with a net worth over one million dollars. Husband #2 was a mass Tort lawyer named Walter, who was much older and wealthier, and had difficulty keeping up with Honey’s rambunctious libido. Walter had the good fortune of dropping dead on the 18th green, after having shot par. He left behind a large estate, and a grateful and semi-grieving widow. He was 54 when he died; Honey was 27. One year later, she met Riley.
On a humid summer evening, nine months earlier, Riley had taken General Sherman on a walk up Meeting Street to White Point Gardens. As he was sitting on a bench behind the gazebo, and while General Sherman was lay lying next to him, splay-legged with his tongue hanging out, as he cooled his belly on the gravel, Honey went swishing by, slinging her hips like it was hashbrowns at the Waffle House. Riley watched, and right as she passed, yelled, “Sic her General Sherman!!!” The last thing the General had sicced was a bowl full of beer an hour earlier, and he just watched as Honey shrieked at the top of her lungs, and went straight into the air like a cat. Riley burst out laughing, and when Honey landed, she unleashed her fury, yelling and calling him everything but an Irishman.
An hour later, they were making their way down East Bay Street to the pub, and three hours and three drinks later, they were in bed…where they spent the entire next three days. Honey was very sexual and had no problem expressing her needs and desires, which is exactly what she did when Riley answered the phone.
“What’s good, Honey?” Riley asked.
“Besides all this pussy I’m sitting on?” she came right back, adding, “And the longer we talk, the longer it’s going to waste. I’m coming over. I need some loving.”
Riley looked at his watch. It was 10 A.M., and he said, “Wait about an hour before you head over, Honey. I need to take the General for a walk, and then run to the store and pick up some limes.” Honey indignantly replied, “Jesus H. Christ, Riley. You’ll take the Piggly Wiggly and the damned dog over my honeypot? For all your supposed brains, you’re not too bright sometimes. No wonder your kinfolk couldn’t find their way to a potato, and nearly starved to death.”
Riley threw back the rest of his Bushmill’s and knocked the glass back down on the bar, as he felt the comfortable burn at the back of his throat. He picked up his cigarette, and took a pull, as he laughed and said, “Please don’t hold back, Honey. Tell me how you really feel.” Before she could reply, he said, “I’ll see you here in an hour. Miss Minnie’s made some She Crab soup. If I’m not back by the time you get here, have her get you a bowl. It’s delicious.”
Sounding pouty, Honey said, “I’m not coming over there to hang out with the help or get the damn crabs, Riley. I want to play.” Then before disconnecting she added, “If you’re not back in exactly one hour, I’m going to screw Jimmy Macphee. He’s always eyeing me like the hotbar, anyways.”
Riley had done his customary 500 push-ups and crunches after getting up but it looked as though he’d be getting additional exercise in the near future, because primarily, that’s how he viewed Honey. He found her gorgeous and entertaining, and on days when he felt mortality creeping up on him, he tried to convince himself he might even be in love with her but then he’d snap out of it, realizing that what he was really in love with, was the sight of her underneath him with flushed cheeks, with her wild, uninhibited look in the eyes. The other thing was she and Danny hadn’t exactly taken to each other, and when they communicated there seemed to be an underlying chilliness, and the feeling they were just tolerating each other. This was the primary reason Riley chose his morning and afternoon liaisons with Honey, and didn’t have her sleep over.
Riley looked at his Shinola watch that he’d probably paid way too much for, and he asked Jimmy Macphee, “Has General Sherman had his morning Toddy?” Jimmy reached down next to General Sherman, and picked up his bowl. As he did this, the General stood up, and started wagging his nub. Jimmy went to the tap, and slid the bowl underneath, filling it ¾ of the way with Guinness, sitting it back on the ground in front of General Sherman. The General promptly went to drinking half, sloshing the remainder on the floor. As the General was guzzling his beer, Jimmy Macphee looked down at him, grinning, and said, “Aye, he drinks fairly well, even for an Englishman.”
Riley grabbed a leash, and a bar towel, went around the bar, squatted, and clipped the leash to the General’s collar, wiping the spit and beer from the General’s jowls. When he was done, he held his thick head in his hands, giving it a good two-handed scratch behind his jaws, telling him, “I don’t know if anybody’s told you this before but you are one good looking man” General Sherman responded by licking Riley right on the mouth. Riley stood, slid his Wayfarer’s down his nose, and took the General out into the warm morning for his walk.
CHAPTER THREE
A few hours later, Riley laid on his side in bed, and watched Honey nap. After finally being sated, she’d curled up like a cat, and drifted off to sleep. It was 2 PM as Riley watched her lay on her side, with her head on her hands, and he considered that he sometimes enjoyed her most when she slept, and couldn’t speak. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, pulled the sheet over her, slid out of bed, and retrieved his boxers and blue jeans, sliding them on. He picked his pack of Marlboro Reds off the nightstand, shook one out, placed it between his lips, lit it, then grabbed an empty Red Bull can to use as an ashtray, and headed toward the cupola.
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Riley’s home stretched the entire length of the building, had three bedrooms, a comfortable great room, billiards room, and a study with a baby grand piano, brought into the house through the front windows using a crane. It had hardwood floors, tall windows, and was light and airy. The building’s unique feature, however, was the cupola atop the roof, accessible by a ladder in the corner of Riley’s study. One of only six cupolas in the city, and one of the larger, it was a relic of the antebellum era. Somewhat circular in shape, it was enclosed by sloping panes of glass, angled upward to form a point. Riley had purchased an iron vane for the top, hammered by the famed Charleston blacksmith, Phillip Simmons. Approximately 10 feet high, and eight feet wide, it resembled a mini greenhouse.
Riley had placed a chart table inside, and he kept his log and binoculars there. In addition, a chair and telescope were inside. This was Riley’s crow’s nest, where he’d sometimes sit for hours watching container ships, as they entered Charleston Harbor, escorted by a pilot boat, and at least one tug. When the ships reached Buoy Two Charlie, about two nautical miles before the harbor entrance, a pilot boat would meet the ship, and a harbor pilot would climb onto the container ship, and steer it to port. Behind New York City and Philadelphia, Charleston was the third most active in tonnage, on the eastern seaboard. Ships arrived from all over the world, and the local newspaper, the Post and Courier, listed the itinerary and size of the incoming ships but Riley liked to keep his own log, which made notations, and listed various characteristics of the ships making their way to the Columbus Street Terminal, or to the Wando Terminal farther up the Cooper River. It was common to see porpoises diving back and forth across the bow of the ship, and Riley notated which ships they favored, because they were considered a good omen by sailors. Riley would sometimes take General Sherman to “Waterfront Park”, at the end of Queen Street, to view the ships up close but his preferred vantage point, was in the cupola using binoculars or telescope.
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As Riley was watching one unusually large ship, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, and when he answered the voice on the other end said, “That’s one of Maersk’s new super ships, capable of carrying 500 or so containers”. The caller was Federal Judge Neil Bullock, Riley’s friend, and one of the players of his weekly poker game, which was scheduled for tonight. While Riley pondered, where the judge was, he said, “Take a look on your six, Riley”. Riley slowly turned around with the binoculars to his eyes, and scanned down Broad Street, and past the steeple of St. Michael’s Church, to the top of the Federal Courthouse. It took him a second but he eventually saw a hand waving. It was the judge, and in his other hand, he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Riley waved back, picked up his phone, and said, “I thought the government used drones to spy on people, judge”.
“We do that, too but sometimes the quickest way from point “a” to “b”, is a pair of binoculars. Despite the fact you’re an abysmal poker player, and come from weak genetic stock, which has, yet to successfully self-govern, apparently we have the same hobby, Riley. My chambers are located at the top of the courthouse, and face the harbor, and like you, I too have a telescope in my perch. I come to this spot to seek respite between sentencing unrepentant crack dealers. The only difference is my glass is bulletproof. You do have a nice cupola, Riley. I have cupola envy”.
Riley continued to watch the humungous container ship slowly make its way up the Cooper, under the escort of two tugs, when the judge added, “Do you think you could do me a favor, Riley?”
“Sure judge, what’s that?”
“Convince Honey that naked ship-watching has some spiritual benefit, and then bring her up in the cupola”.
Honey knew a track-up, when she saw one, and always flirted with the judge on poker nights.
Riley replied, “Honey isn’t really a spiritual girl, judge but she did just have a Baptist moment, where she was yelling, “Oh God! Oh God!”
Honey yelled up, “I heard that! Who are you talking to? And why are you up o the roof like some kind of damn bird?”
Riley told the judge, “Sleeping Beauty has awakened, judge. I’m gonna have to go. Are you coming to cards tonight?”
The judge sighed, and said, “I’ll be there, and I’m bringing a marshal to pat you down, to make certain you don’t have any cards stashed”. With that, he clicked off.
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Riley climbed down the ladder to find Honey butt naked, and dancing to a Luke Bryan song, playing through the Bose speakers mounted on the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, and she was into it, as she spun around, and kicked her pretty feet into the hardwood floor. As Riley watched, he felt himself stir. When the song was over, he took her over to the bed, and told her, “We have about 45 minutes before Danny comes home”. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her down to where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She leaned forward, kissed Riley’s abs, and then started unbuttoning his pants.
Ten minutes later, it was Riley that had the Baptist moment.