Franklin's Fall
By L. A. Gordon
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Frank was running. He leapt on his motorcycle and pressed the starter. The cylinders spun, but no fire. They were gaining on him. They were always after him. He would be cut, smashed, crushed, and crucified. There would be blood. He had tried to hide, to banter, plead, grovel, and even beg. Nothing worked. Like wolves, they could always smell his fear. Now they were after him, closing in, gaping fangs outstretched to rip him limb from limb. He frantically pushed the starter and, at last, the engine sprang to life. He loaded a gear and roared away from them. The bike was freedom, a thundering steed, putting distance between him and his tormentors. The DOHC, 636 cc, four-stroke beast propelled him skyward. Now he was free. Speed was his liberation. And then everything stopped as the bike waivered, spinning in the air. Down he fell, down and ever downward until he hit the pavement. The teeth of the concrete road leapt up to devour his flesh as he slid forward, rolling, tumbling, his torn body leaving a long line of flesh and blood trailing behind him.
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Franklin's Fall - L. A. Gordon
~
CHAPTER ONE
THE ROBBERY
Frank Franklin fell out of bed.
He slept as far to his side as possible. With Allyson, there was no more warmth in their resting place.
That’s a new one,
Allyson spoke from the bathroom mirror.
Frank pulled himself into a sitting position on the carpet and threw the pillow back on the bed. A new what?
"You fell out of bed, Franklin. That’s a new stupid for you."
I was having a nightmare.
Frank could smell her pungent perfume that floated from the bathroom. It made him gag. He stood up and caught a view of Allyson in her underwear standing at the sink mirror. For a middle-aged woman, she still had the semblance of a waist. Her buttocks perched generously outward and upward, just like her tits. She saw him watching her in the mirror. He quickly turned away just as she slammed the bathroom door shut.
The alarm went off on his nightstand. He reached for the shut-off button. He grabbed his crotch under his pajama pants. It was over. He knew it was over, moons ago. Little Heather had drowned in the swimming pool at summer camp in New Hampshire. His wife was in Chicago with Ester, her mother, visiting her high-class family at the time. He was working at the accounting firm when the camp phoned him of the tragedy. But it was always his fault. The child died on his watch. All that was left was a lie...for the family to stay together, maintain a semblance of normalcy, long enough for the courts to award the wrongful-death settlement. It was made crystal clear. After that, Allyson was dumping him.
She would take Cynthia and Benjamin with her. And that was the killer. Allyson had shown no mercy in driving a wedge of distrust and hate between him and the two remaining children. Hating him seemed a convenient option, to curb her grief, and her guilt. Heather was the youngest. Just eight when she died. Cindy was twelve, and Ben thirteen when it happened. They were transformed by the death of their little sister. In just six months since the accident, he had watched the hardness grow in their stares. To hear it from his wife and her mother, it was as though he had drowned the kid himself. Frank had entertained early visions of his being head of the family. They proved delusional. Mr. Chasewell, Allyson’s domineering father, was always against the marriage. To hear him tell it, his daughter had married beneath her station. Frank’s family had its bright spots. Uncle Glen was a judge. But after their third child, something broke.
Allyson wanted more. More than he could offer. The tragic death of Heather condemned him in the eyes of her elitist family. First chance his totally bitched-out wife and her monster mom had, they would throw him under the bus.
So it made him nuts. He knew it.
He pressed a speed dial number on his smart phone as he went down the stairs. Arlo? Arlo, are you there? Answer your phone!"
"Please leave a message after the beep."
Arlo, you owe me sixteen-hundred big ones. Time to pay up, or I will turn you in, for the slime ball bookie rat that you are!
His mother-in-law drifted down the stairwell past him and into the kitchen like an antique piece of human porcelain, complete with painted face and a cold-to-the-touch persona. She sat down and stiffly turned her neck to Frank as he walked into the kitchen. Coffee,
she ordered, as if in a restaurant.
Frank filled the percolator with water, put in the filter and ground coffee, and turned it on. "In case you didn’t get the memo, I am not the help. I do make the coffee in the morning, and as such, you are welcome to some."
Also a fruit tart,
the old woman said flatly. Ester avoided eye contact. She wore her salt and pepper hair up in a bun, had perfect vision, and an endless collection of full-length cotton dresses with floral designs that reminded him of cemetery wreaths.
Frank drummed his fingers on the counter while he waited for the coffee to brew. He put a tart into the toaster. Could you see your way to letting us watch some morning news on the cabinet television?
He knew the old bitch would say ‘no’. That war had been fought and lost, with Allyson siding with her Mother against him.
Television is not good for the children, especially in the morning,
the old lady said sourly.
Frank had heard her say it a million times, but somehow making the old gal predictable gave him a sense of control. He replied, It’s the news, what’s happening in the world. That’s good for kids.
Ester sat ramrod still. No TV,
she said resolutely.
It’s not like we’re watching a blue movie or anything.
She didn’t reply.
Do you watch blue movies, Ester?
The toaster popped up. He slid a cup of hot coffee in front of the motionless Ester where she sat at the kitchen table. With his other hand he extended a toasted fruit tart, placing it down gently before her. Breakfast is served,
Frank said, bowing with an elaborate gesture of his arms. We know you have a choice of airlines, and we thank you for flying with Chaos. We’ll fly you nonstop straight to hell...return flights are not operational at this time.
Ester did not blink. He knew she hated his guts.
Little Cynthia appeared in the kitchen doorway, turned back up the stairs and yelled, Daddy is torturing Nana again, Mommy!
~
Allyson stood at the front door ushering the children toward the waiting private school bus. She handed each of them a twenty-dollar bill and gave them a kiss. They hurried past Frank without a word.
You’re giving them each twenty bucks? Isn’t that a lot of money for a kid?
They’re almost teenagers.
I can’t afford that.
Allyson wore a smart brown suit and white blouse. She shouldered her laptop strap, lifted her handbag, and headed for her car.
Daddy has two important clients visiting the office today. I’ll be late. Make Ester her soup for lunch.
Today is my haircut day,
Frank called after her.
He watched her get into her beamer and drive off. Her father owned a big-time marketing firm in the city. Frank worked locally and would come back to the house at noon.
‘Not today,’ he thought. ‘Haircut and then maybe he’d take his motorcycle out for a spin, down by the old airport. Orthenhymer, his boss, always took a long lunch on Fridays. Listening to the Ninja Kawasaki scream down the abandoned airstrip was a way to keep from screaming himself.’
~
First National Bank of Holyoke
Morning
~
Two men in ski masks dashed from the First National Bank and ran down an alley, each carrying a satchel full of cash. They pulled off their ski masks and looked in astonishment at the empty alley. Their getaway car and driver were missing.
I’m going to kill that stupid sonofabitch,
Karl snarled, beneath his overgrown moustache.