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grooveamatic

Once again, criticism is welcome here. I love the story but am shaky on how it's written. Please let me know what you think.

Also. when I pasted these in, it didn't indent. I'm too lazt to go through and edit it. Please assume indents where they should be. Thanks.

grooveamatic

Security

“ Well, where do you think the money comes from?” Tom Worley was asking his wife, although she was paying little attention to him.
“ I don’t know, dear.”
“ Well, it comes from my account, that’s where.” Their kitchen was larger than a small apartment, and Suzanne had managed to place herself as far from her husband as she could, on the opposite side of the island of cabinets which was the envy of her entire Bridge club. “ It comes from my account, Suzy.”
Suzanne miraculously found more things to fiddle with in the pantry cupboard, and turned her back to Tom. “ I don’t know why you’re making a fuss over this.”
“ You wouldn’t, of course.”
“ Don’t you have somewhere to be, or something of value to collect?”
“ The auction. In an hour.”
Now, as happened often, the couple stood in an unresolved silence. This had long ceased to be awkward for either of them, but had become rather a matter of course; a necessary rite of their spheres colliding.
“ Are you going to get that, Suzy?”
“ What are you talking about?”
“ The doorbell just rang.”
“ But I’m doing this.”
“ Fine.”
Tom hesitated a moment, watching Suzanne on her knees, reaching as far into the cupboard as possible, moving around phantom canisters and tubs. He drew breath, opened his mouth to speak, and turned and walked out of the kitchen.
He wasn’t used to answering the door. Suzanne normally would get it while Tom was home, and during the day, their part-time housekeeper Glinda was on duty.
Tom swung the door open. On the stoop was a young man, bundled up in thrift store winter clothing. Tom judged him to be older than high school age, but not by much. The young man’s hair was dissheveled and windblown, his face a wintry red.
“ Can I help you?”
“ Maybe. That is, I’m not sure,” the young man said with more confidence than Tom had been prepared for.
“ Well, my wife and I were just having dinner, so can I help you or not?”
“ Well, sir-my name is Tommy, sir, Tommy Loupes, and I’m pleased to meet you-“
“ Tom Worley.”
“ Wow. Look at that. We’ve the same first name. That’s something right there.”
“ I’m sure it is, Tommy. Now if you don’t mind-“
“ Oh yes. See, the thing is, Mr. Worley, that I was just out for a walk, see? Just a nice night-time stroll. It clears my head, you know? And I was walking through your neighborhood here-and a fine neighborhood it is, sir-“
“ Thank you, Tommy.”
“ And I was passing your house here, and your porchlight came on the moment I was in front of your house, Mr. Worley.”
“ And?”
“ It struck me a bit odd, sir.”
“ It’s a motion sensor light.”
“ Uh-huh. It senses movement and just pops on, right?”
“ Listen, my food is getting cold, so if you would-“
“ See, Mr. Worley, I was just walking by. Minding my own, you know?”
“ Right.”
“ Well, if you want to get right down to the meat of the matter, sir, I didn’t like the way that light popping on made me feel.”
“ Made you feel?”
“ Made me feel criminal, you know? Like I had been lurking.”
“ Had you been?”
“ No sir. Minding my own.”
“ Well, Mr…what was it?”
“ Loupes, sir.”
“ Well Mr. Loupes, I can’t very well do anything about the way you feel, can I?”
“ I was hoping you’d agree with me that I’d done nothing wrong.”
Tom sucked in a breath of chill night air and watched it escape in a cloud “ Very well. If it will get me back to my television program: you are an innocent. There?”
“ Thank you very much, Mr. Worley. It will help me sleep tonight. Enjoy your dinner.” And he was gone before Tom could close the door.
Walking back to the kitchen, Tom Worley found himself thinking he had somehow liked the young man. He spoke with ease, which was not something he encountered often in the collector’s industry. But the boy had also unsettled him; he had had a quality in his eyes that Tom classified as too watchful, even though as he thought it, he didn’t know what it meant.
Suzanne was no longer in the kitchen. He was glad. There was time enough to make himself a sandwhich in peace before he had to leave.

grooveamatic

The auction had gone better than Tom could have hoped. He'd in essence robbed the place. He spent only around two-thousand dollars, but he was walking away with more than three times that in actual value. In vases, mostly (which was his specialty) although he'd also picked up a rather valuable ottoman for less than half it's worth. Tom Worley was pleased as punch.
He stopped for ice cream. His favorite ice cream parlor, Regina's, was closed for the winter. He'd have to settle for Dairy Queen, which was alright, because Tom Worley did enjoy himself a Blizzard every now and then.
The store was almost completely empty. Two teenage girls were nuzzled in a corner speaking frantically and hushed and wildly throwing their hands around. A man in a suit, about Tom's age, methodically worked on a Peanut Buster Parfait in a center booth. It wasn't the time of year for large crowds at the Dairy Queen.
Tom stepped up to the freckled kid behind the counter. " The largest size of M&M Blizzard you've got."
While he waited, Tom thought again about the auction. With the items he'd purchased--once he sold them through his broker--he'd make more this month than in the last two months combined. He was on a roll. Tom Worley was unstoppable.
The man eating the Peanut Buster Parfait signaled to Tom, waved his hand for him to come over. Tom pointed to his heart and mouthed "Me?" while simultaneously craning his neck to see if there could possibly be anyone behind him. He didn't recognize the man.
When the Parfait man nodded his head and mouthed "You", Tom held up a finger as if to say "Wait a minute". He paid the freckled kid for the Blizzard and walked to the man.
" Do I know you?" Tom asked the man.
" I know you. You're Tom Worley."
" So I am. Could I have the pleasure of knowing you?"
" Samson Ramony. I saw you at the auction tonight. Hot stuff."
" Hot?"
" Not stolen-hot. Jut hot-hot. Good stuff. Where do you sell?"
" Are you a dealer, Mr. Pamony?"
" Ramony. I'm just a fan."
" A fan?"
" A fan of antiques. I never buy or sell. Just look." Samson finished the last of his Parfait.
" I'm sorry, Mr. Ramony, but I was looking forward to eating in peace."
" Do you sell out of your home?"
" You're making me uncomfortable."
" Then I'm sorry."
Tom Worley walked hurriedly out of the Dairy Queen and ate his Blizzard in the car. Some people had just never learned respect.





Tom Worley was happy for the fact that Suzanne was out of the house. It was Friday, and Tom's favorite shows were on television. Suzanne never left him in peace when he was attempting to watch the television.
The broker had been fair enough to Tom; he had gotten less than he could have but more than he should have, which he felt was a just outcome. He decided firmly for the hundreth time that week that the antiques business was just perfect for him.
Earlier in the day, he had offered Glinda overtime to stay the night. Tom Worley was feeling indulgent coming off his auction victory; tonight, Glinda would wait on him.
"Glinda?" he called from the recliner.
She was in the living room in a matter of seconds. "Yes, Mr. Worley?"
" I'd like some sandwiches. Any kind will do. But make sure the bread is toasted."
" Yes, Mr. Worley. Would you like to speak to the young man at the front door or shall I send him away?"
" What young man at the front door? I didn't hear the bell ring."
" It rang just before you called for me."
" Well who is it? Tell them I'm watching the television."
" He says his name is Tommy, Mr. Worley. Something about the porch light. I'll go tell him--"
" No, no. Wait." A thrill of fear ran through Tom Worley, although he wasn't sure why. I'm not actually afraid of this kid, he thought. " I'll go talk to him."
Tom took his time making his way to the foyer. What was the kid doing back here? What could he possibly want?
As he rounded the corner into the open doorway, he was relieved to see that Tommy Loupes looked just the same as he had a few nights earlier. He was garbed in the same winter thrift-store clothing, had the same wind-reddened cheeks, had the same looney smile on his face. But his eyes were also the same. Still had the too watchful look.
" Tommy, am I right?"
" That's right Mr. Worley. Tommy Loupes. Fine night again, isn't it?"
" I'd say it's a bit cold, Tommy. What can I do for you?"
" I'm not interrupting your dinner, or a TV show again, am I Mr. Worley?"
" No, no Tommy. I was doing nothing at all. So, what can I do for you?"
" Well, you see Mr. Worley, I was walking by again--you kow, just minding my own--when your porch light popped on again as I was passing."
" I see."
" It made me feel like a criminal."
" As I recall."
" Like I had been lurking."
" Well, Tommy, I absolve you. I know you did nothing wrong."
" Do you, Mr. Worley? Do you rightly know that?"
" I--I'm afraid I don't follow you, Tommy--"
" What I'm asking, Mr. Worley, is if you can be certain that I wasn't, in fact, lurking?"
" Well, see, I believe you."
" I think you should take your porchlight down, Mr. Worley, as a show of confidence in me."
" Tommy, let's slow down here. Now let's see. Let's just think about things here--"
" Do you then actually believe that I am lurking, Mr. Worley?"
" Well you see, Tommy, it's handy for me and the wife when we are arriving home late at night. The light just comes on for us--"
" But the light makes me feel bad, Mr. Worley. It's accusatory."
" I don't think it is, Tommy."
" Well I do." Tommy Loupes' smile changed with that sentence into something much more sinister; his upper lip pulled back, revealing a gnarled set of teeth. He exhaled winter steam-breath through the grin. " I do, Tom. I'm going to take another walk tommorow night." And with that, he turned and left.

grooveamatic

Tom Worley held the phone for at least a full minute before deciding not to call the police. They wouldn't be able to help anyway, he decided. Before he even hung up the phone, he knew what he would do.
Tom Worley was in no respect a handyman. He bought and sold antiques, but that didn't mean he could build or restore them. He did, however, have a bit of knowledge of electronics--specifically, home wiring--from a summer he spent in his college days working for a contractor. So Tom Worley set about rigging his motion-sensor porchlight to ring the doorbell when it was activated.
It wasn't hard and didn't take long. All he needed was some wire clippers and electrical tape, really, and in ten minutes it was done. He opened the front door, walked out onto the porch and then the sidewalk. The light popped on. The doorbell rang. It worked.
Tom Worley went back inside his house and disconnected his invention. I'm not going to need it tonight, he thought. But I'll hook it back up at nightfall tommorow.



" I don't understand why you won't come with me, Tom," Suzanne was pleading across the vast kitchen.
" I just don't want to, Suzy. It's as simple as that. I make the money in this damned house and I'll decide when and where I go places. Besides, it's a damned baby shower. Nobody wants me there anyway."
" This isn't like you, Tom."
They glared at each other in silence; it looked to Suzy like this was the end of the fight, and she had, of course, lost. She jumped when Tom spoke again.
" I'll god-damned decide what I'm like from now on Suzy. You don't get to decide that. On your way out, tell Glinda I'll be needing her to stay the night again. Overtime, of course."
Suzanne was just as startled by Tom's brash nature as she was by his decision to pay Glinda overtime two nights in a row. After briefly weighing her options, Suzanne gave up. She went to tell Glinda about the overtime and left for the baby shower.
It was dusk. Tom Worley was becoming impatient. The moment he was certain that Suzanne's car had turned the corner down the street, he found Glinda in the basement doing laundry.
" Glinda. Listen. This may seem strange, but I need something very simple from you tonight."
" Anything you want, Mr. Worley."
" Do you remember that boy who came to the door last night? A boy named Tommy?"
" Why yes, of course I remember him Mr. Worley."
" You can call me Tom from now on, Glinda."
" Um. Okay. Tom. Yes, I remember the boy."
" Well look here. He threatened me last night. Threatened my safety--"
" How so?"
" Nevermind that. He threatened me, and in so doing he threatened Suzy and you by association. Tonight I'm going to ensure our security--but I need your help."
" What can I do, Tom? The boy seemed harmless."
" Trust me, he isn't. What I need you to do is quite simple, and I'll pay you triple-time for tonight, alright?"
" If you think it's this serious, why don't you call the police?"
" No time. And they wouldn't understand. All I need you to do is wait in the kitchen until I call you. When I yell your name, simply come running down the hall as fast as you can, right into the foyer here. As though you were about to run out the door. Pretend the house is on fire."
"I don't suppose you'll tell me why?"
"You'll understand when it's time."

With Glinda tucked away in the kitchen, Tom Worley re-connected his invention. The porch light would now sound the doorbell. The sun had just set. It was dark enough for the motion light to come on.
Tom Worley went to his hall cabinet. From the top shelf he brought down his .22 rifle and his pistol. He smiled at his foresight: he had never registered the pistol.
He crouched by the door, and waited.

It wasn’t much more than an hour before the doorbell rang. Tom didn’t bother to look out the window, or ask who was there. He knew it, deep down where it mattered.
He flung the door open and immediately fired his rifle out the door. There was no one there. The porch light was on, but there was no one there. Tom Worley edged outside, swinging his rifle from side to side. His eyes were open impossibly wide.
“Hello, Tom,” came a voice from Tom Worley’s left. As though stung by a bee, Tom Worley swung his whole body toward the voice. It was Tommy Loupes, standing to the side of the porch, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smoking a cigar. Tom Worley raised his shotgun and fired one shot into the boy’s chest. Tommy didn’t fly backwards into the air, or scream, or even make any sort of surprised face. He merely crumpled silently.
Tom Worley stepped into his foyer, a picture of calm. He yelled for Glinda, who, startled by the sound of the rifle, came running in a genuine panic. Tom Worley reached into the back of his pants, brought out his pistol, raised it and shot a very confused Glinda square in the forehead just as she was about to reach him.
Tom Worley then walked outside and bent over the body of Tommy Loupes. He put the pistol in the boy’s hand. A groan came from Loupes’ throat. The boy was still alive.
“I believe I caught intruding, son. Damn shame.”
Tom Worley strolled onto the sidewalk, whistling. He turned to admire his house. The bay windows on the second floor were striking. The Corinthian pillars lining the porch spoke of a certain flamboyance. Tom Worley had always thought of the pillars as aristocratic.
It’s a damn fine house, he thought as he whistled.

ISN

sorry Groove, a few months ago, I would have been able to read this.....but things have kind of gotten out of hand, so I won't be able to......I can still read your great poetry though

FinsburyParkCarrots

I liked it. Now .... suggestions.

I think you could lose the adverbs in this part. They sightly impede the rhythm of the climax because they remind us of the presence of the narrator making observations of the actions, and at this point we should be right in the thick of things:

"It wasn’t much more than an hour before the doorbell rang. Tom didn’t bother to look out the window, or ask who was there. He knew it, deep down where it mattered.
He flung the door open and immediately fired his rifle out the door. There was no one there. The porch light was on, but there was no one there. Tom Worley edged outside, swinging his rifle from side to side. His eyes were open impossibly wide.
“Hello, Tom,” came a voice from Tom Worley’s left. As though stung by a bee, Tom Worley swung his whole body toward the voice. It was Tommy Loupes, standing to the side of the porch, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smoking a cigar. Tom Worley raised his shotgun and fired one shot into the boy’s chest. Tommy didn’t fly backwards into the air, or scream, or even make any sort of surprised face. He merely crumpled silently."

I'd find some simile for the last sentence, a simile of silent crumpling. Something that's a nice touch.

I enjoy reading your pieces of sustained prose, though, Groove. Thanks for sharing!

grooveamatic

Thanks fins...I knew something needed done with the ending. I se what you mean. I'm on it.

Ali

I liked it groove...as I usually do.
surprise ending got me in the end.
Its a damn shame he shot his wife too.
no foreshadowing.....

grooveamatic

Ali wrote:

I liked it groove...as I usually do.
surprise ending got me in the end.
Its a damn shame he shot his wife too.
no foreshadowing.....

...he shot the maid.