Trouble Triangle (Tyler's Trouble Trilogy)

Copyright
©
2012 by Travis Casey

Written by Travis Casey

An
EasyReader
Publication

All rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of a brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact Travis Casey via his website,
traviscasey.net

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, events, and places in this novel are used fictitiously or are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental. Don't be so paranoid. It's not you.

Several people have helped me shape this book into what it is. I have to thank my wife Wendy and her enormous patience and giving me free reign to devote the time it takes to write a novel.

Friends and colleagues in the writing field have lent their precious time to help un-dangle my participles, for which I am eternally grateful. Michele Shriver, Melissa Mayberry, Taylor West, Chantel Rhondeau, and Dawn
Wimbish
Prather have all made considerable contributions into the shaping of this book. A special mention also goes to
JB
Salsbury
, Sharon
Cermak
, Dave Bourne and Anthony and Glenda Davis. Without them, this book would be crap.

Dedicated to all the brave

servicemen and women

who have served in any of the Armed Forces. This is the lighter side of military life and is meant to entertain, hopefully giving a chuckle in what is a dangerous profession.

January 2, 1982

A short, redheaded cop opened the steel door and nudged me in with his night stick. Shivers ran through my body as the door slammed and he turned the key, metal grinding against metal, engaging the locks. The jail cell had the same smell of stale piss as it did the last time I failed to outr
un the sheriff.

A '
Kilroy
was here' logo had been scrawled onto the brown cell wall and a single light bulb housed in a flimsy metal shroud flickered the lone source of illumination. A wooden slatted bench ran the length of the walls, with the 'view' into the corridor being a concrete wall on the other side of the te
n-foot span of gray iron bars.

One inmate stretched out on the bench in the middle of the cell opposite the bars. He laid in the corpse position with love tattooed on the knuckles of one hand - hate inscribed on the other. Another detainee sat in the corner to the right, dribbling and chanting like a drunk monk. My stomach knotted and I moved to the other side where the air seemed less polluted with funk. An hour must have passed before I saw any other life besides my new roommates.

"Chambers," a policeman barked as he unlocked the cell door. He let me out and escorted me down a bland hallway, which felt like an enclosed tunnel, to a large room at the end of the hall. He pushed me inside toward a table with four chairs that sat in the middle of the sparse room. A clock hung on the beige wall and loudly ticked every passing second. The odor of day-old coffee lingered in the air. I sat at the table, trying to look unflustered, but nausea gurgled inside me. Dad had spent some time in the pokey and gave me some tips about the best way
to handle situations like this.

I sat waiting fifteen minutes before the 'Incredible Hulk' in uniform came in. He wasn't particularly tall, but his chest was enormous. I could see Hulk's
pecs
flex under his badge and the nametag that read 'Jones'. His brown hair was cut short and his square jaw jutted out. He offered a lame smile. Another cop stood at the door. Hulk pulled out the chair and sat opposite me. He brushed some donut crumbs off the table then clasped his hands in front of him, resting his forearms
on the plastic veneer tabletop.

"Mr. Chambers," Hulk said, "looks like you've been having a little fun." He feigned a sarcastic chuckle. "Well, you might call it fun, but we call it breaking the law. Now, why don't you just tell me where you've been tonight and what you've been doing."

I crossed my arms. "I want a lawyer." Dad always told me to never tell the cops anything. It's their job to figure it out. If they can't, you're off the hook.

Hulk leaned back, locking his hands behind his head.
Perspiration marks stained the armpits of his shirt.
"You don't need a lawyer, son. We're just having a little informal chat. Now, you
wanna
tell me where
ya
been tonight?"

"Not really."

Hulk stood up. His weak smile turned into a vicious snarl. He circled the table in slow, deliberate steps. He stopped in front of me with his squinty eyes focused on my face. He looked down at me for just under an eternity, then in one swift movement, his fist came crashing down onto the table with an almighty thud. I jumped as much as the table did and had that split second of butt-clenching to stop any sudden bowel movements.

"Goddamn it, punk! We know you and your buddy skipped out on the bill at the Pizza Palace. Then you resisted arrest, nearly rammed a police vehicle, causing damage to said police
vehicle. Reckless driving…" He threw his arms in the air. "Should I go on?" He stared at me with his upper lip quivering with rage like a snarling Doberman Pincher and shoved a finger in my face. "You're in a whole heap of shit, buddy boy. It would behoove you to cooperate."

I shifted in my seat. "So, if I tell you everything you want to know, you'll let me go?"

Hulk laughed. "Your little accomplice Bobby isn't a hard-ass like you. He spilled his guts, so we already have a confession, not to mention witnesses. Bobby's just a kid. He ratted you out and we're letting him go. Not much of a Bonnie to your Clyde, was he?" Hulk motioned to the cop standing by the door to come over. "And this
ain't
your first bust either, is it, punk?"

My heart sank as beads of sweat tickled my brow. The Pizza Palace spicy sausage worked its way up from my belly to the back of my throat. I had to fight not to unleash the contents of my stomach onto Hulk's patent leather shoes.

Hulk leaned down. "Let's see how your little candy ass likes it in jail. You know what they do with blue-eyed boys on the inside?" He pressed his knuckles on the table and leaned in closer, his breath saturated by mint. "Well…they won't be looking into your eyes, and you won't be seeing theirs either, if you catch my drift," he said with a sly grin. The smile disappeared and he punched the table again. "You're going down, punk." He stood up straight. "Get '
im
outta
my face," he said to the other cop.

The realization of doing time began to sink in. I had an aching feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn't from the pepperoni.

"You got one phone call.
Wanna
make it now?" the cop asked.

I looked at the clock. Near enough one in the morning. "No. I'll leave it."

The cop grabbed my arm firmly and escorted me back to the large holding cell. The door slammed shut again and the light continued to flicker as the guard left. I found space on the bench to lie down on the other side away from Crazy-man.

After laying on the wooden slats for seven hours, I called my mom at eight o'clock the following morning. She came down for the preliminary hearing and listened to the judge set the trial for four weeks away. She posted bail and we walked through the freshly fallen snow to the parking lot. 1981 sucked bad. 1982 was sucking worse.

We climbed into her Buick Skylark. The pine tree air freshener had lost it scent, yet still dangled from the    rear-view mirror. She pulled her visor down, checked her   make-up in the mirror and tucked some of her loose auburn hair behind her ear before we headed off. She still had her 'Miss Indiana' good looks, but had become quite bitte
r since Dad left her last year.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she started. "How many times is this, Tyler? Three, four, five? I've lost count. Good thing you didn't try to call me at two in the morning like last time. I would've let your ass sit there. This is the last time, Tyler, so help me God."

I stared out the window, not saying anything. We drove home in silence. Once inside, she gestured for me to sit at the kitchen table. I avoided making eye contact with her by looking at her collection of Norman Rockwell painted plates that ran around the walls just below the ceiling. She sat opposite and stared at me, drumming her fingers on the table.

"Tyler, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. Ever since your father left, you've just gone off the rails. Drinking, smoking, doing drugs, in and out of jail. And you're barely nineteen. I don't know what to do anymore."

I leaned back and crossed my arms. "Why don't you just kick me out then, like you did Dad?" I looked at
Whistler's Mother
on the ceramic plate hanging on the wall. Mom knew how to throw daggers with her eyes and I wanted to avoid that. Feeling them was enough.

"John Tyler Chambers. Your father bedded some whore in our bed! I put up with his shit for years." She stood up, pushing the chair away with the back of her legs. "You
wanna
know why?"

I figured the pause was for effect and the question rhetorical.

"For you. Hoping you could grow up in what you thought was a stable environment. Just because your dad isn't here to give you a clip round the ears, you think you can run riot without consequences."

She walked over to the sink and got a glass of water. She came back and sat down. "What's wrong with you? When you graduated I told you to go out and get a job. You came back with some piss ant job making minimum wage." She placed her hands on the sides of her head. "You know how embarrassing it is to go to church and have the pastor ask me, 'How's Tyler, Mrs. Chambers?' And I have to say, 'Well, Reverend, when he's not drunk or in jail, he's out
fryin
'
fuckin
' chicken." She slammed her hand on the table.

I stared at the top of the table. Looked like the 'You're Useless' speech was coming my way again.

"It's like you have to prove something. Like what a tough guy you are, and you don't need anyone. You're just like that useless father of yours."

I brought my head up to match her glare. It always upset me when she spoke badly about Dad. She was probably right, but he had always been cool to me. He still called me once a week. Usually just to tell me about his latest conquests, but at least he didn't keep telling me I was useless. "I miss him," I said.

"So what. Get over it." She flicked her hand in the air. "He's gone and I see you going down the same loser road as him. How come you never bring the same girl home twice? It's always someone different."

"I
dunno
. I get tired of '
em
I guess."

"That's exactly what I mean. The way your father runs around with women is no way to behave. And I see you acting just like him. You constantly talk back to me, you go out smoking dope, come home drunk at all hours. I can't deal with it anymore. You're never going to amount to anything."

"Why don't you take a Valium like you usually do?"

"You little shit." Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together. "I want you out of my house."

"Oh I get it. Like father, like son." I gave her my defiant look. "Just take turns kicking us out. Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Her face contorted with anger. She lurched across the table with lighting speed and whacked me so hard upside my face I thought she broke a molar.

"I can't take your shit anymore." Her eyes burrowed through my head. "Just get out."