The Ballad of Ginger and Clyde

 @copyright 2020/Mike Consol

When marijuana was legalized for medical and recreational purposes, my brother Conor got interested in the revenue potential, then he got sister Ginger interested and they agree to go into business together. They raised some money from friends to get started, and before long the business got busy and profitable, so other family members joined in, including sister Amelia and parents Liam and Freya — and me, who my parents named Patrick, in the great Irish tradition. 

I was sporting an accounting degree from St. Bonaventure so, among assorted other duties, I kept a very sharp and disciplined eye on the financials. We were a highly regulated operation, and everything ran pretty much mechanically, from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day of the week. 

Each morning Ginger would show up dressed in her hallmark miniskirt, heels and Wonder Bra. Ginger was basically the hostess, greeting people as they arrived and rattling off any new smokable, drinkable, edible or topical inventory items or specials. The stream of people was brisk, and our regular customers looked forward to seeing Ginger, especially the men. The horny and confident among the men flirted with Ginger, as she went through a repertoire of alluring hair flips and blithe giggles. 

I heard the deadbolt on the side door snapped open and father’s over-fed frame trundled in. 

“Do you see what time it is,” father said, tapping a fingernail against the crystal on his wristwatch. “It’s past nine. Our sign should have been switched on by now.” 

Ginger wiggled her miniskirt over to the switches and turned on the electricity. 

It wasn’t long before a howling sound came from the kitchen. It was Conor decrying that a bank bag stuffed with $25,000 had gone missing. He had neglected to lock it in the office safe the night before. As soon as father heard there was some stray currency, he aggressively joined the hunt — opening and slamming cupboards, moving boxes and lowering himself with great consternation onto all fours to peek under tables and racks of metal shelving. He finally threw his arms in the air and told his son, “I don’t know where the hell it is. You find it.” 

What so irritated father, a man who came of age in the depths of the Great Depression, was that his youngest son could be so cavalier about handling money (even if it did come through the front door in bushels). Father always taught his children the virtues of saving their earnings and buying things on the cheap. 

“Don’t go squandering your money,” he repeatedly advised. “Squeeze every nickel until the buffalo shits in your hand.” 

The side door flew open again and mother came plodding through. Her head was wrapped in a kerchief and her mouth was complaining about the sub-zero wind that had whipped her on the walk from the parking lot. 

“Liam,” she called out. “I got here, no thanks to you. You’re so damn impatient. Is it possible I have to take a separate car from my husband even when we’re going to the same place?” 

Father moved to the cash register and started warming up the digits. He made no verbal reply to his wife, opting instead to let the roiling acid stew in his stomach do the talking. 

Mother marched to the break room and shoved a bowl of instant oatmeal into the microwave, setting the timer and hitting the start button. A crackling sound erupted from the microwave’s cooking chamber as sparks went flying in all directions. 

“What in blazes,” mother said, as she yanked the door open, pulling the bowl of oatmeal out. When she gazed into the microwave’s cavity, mother saw something altogether bizarre — a rectangular canvas bag with a metal zipper. The lettering stenciled on it read M&T Bank & Trust Company. 

“What on God’s green earth is this doing here,” she said, holding the bag aloft. 

“There it is,” Conor said. “Give that to me. It’s last night’s take.” 

“It almost became this morning’s breakfast,” mother said. 

Conor took the bag to the restaurant’s basement office, dialed the combo on the safe and snapped the door open. He lovingly placed the bag of cash in the safe, where it would stay until he made his next run to the bank. Sitting to the right of the safe was a smaller but no less impenetrable safe bolted into the concrete floor. Conor clasped the handle and gave it a strong turn to make sure the door was locked solid. 

 

 

 

 

After closing that evening it was time for the family’s monthly “board meeting” to discuss all manner of business and marketing. Conor was late to the basement meeting room, as usual, and father’s face reddened over his repeated tardiness. 

 “Hold your horses,” Conor said. “I need to put this away.” The day’s bag of cash was in hand. Heading to the adjoining office, Conor knelt in front of the safe and whirled the dial right and left through a combination of numbers. A turn of the handle released a series of deadbolts and the door popped open. The money bag, pungent with the unmistakable scent of paper currency, was tossed inside. Marijuana was still a federal crime, meaning the banking system was mostly off limits, meaning, like most cannabis dispensaries, it was a cash-only business, at least for now. There was an ATM in the lobby for people who needed cash to make their purchases. 

Having slammed the door securely shut, Conor reset the dial with a flick of his wrist that sent the dial spinning like a roulette wheel. He was just about to come off his knee when he saw something that kept him fast to the floor. The door on the companion safe to the right appeared to be ajar. It was the slightest of apertures, just enough to be noticeable and arouse curiosity. It was the safe that contained the dispensary’s licenses and other business documents, as well as a stash of thousands of dollars in reserve cash. Conor reached for the safe. As soon as the weight of his hand registered against the handle the door cracked open. 

“What the…” 

He pulled the door fully open and lowered his head to inspect the contents. The steel box was empty, the contents gone. It was all missing. He lingered for a long, chilling moment, his mind dashing through a labyrinth of possible explanations. When every turn of thought led to another dead end, Conor came to his feet and burst into the meeting room. 

“Who the hell emptied the safe?” 

Quizzical expressions all around. 

“The safe is open and the cash and papers are gone. Who’s got them?” 

We followed one another into the office, taking turns staring into the empty reinforced steel chamber, as though one of us might have the special vision to see what all others were missing. The only ones who officially knew the safe’s combination were Conor and Ginger. 

I immediately entered a NOT GUILTY plea. “I don’t even know the combination,” I said by way of providing an alibi, surprised by the defensiveness of my tone. 

Ginger piped in, “I certainly hope none of you think I would stoop to that level.” 

Mother turned to Conor. “You were the one who misplaced the money last night,” she reminded him, “maybe you misplaced everything else too.” 

“I checked the safe just hours ago and it was rock solid,” Conor said. “The door was shut and the handle wouldn’t budge. Whoever did this emptied it tonight.” 

“Well it obviously wasn’t one of us,” Ginger said. “There’s been a robbery.” 

“Call the police,” father blurted, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. 

 

 

 

 

Ginger was transferred three times by police officials and left on hold for several minutes before an extraordinary voice came through the handset identifying itself as detective-sergeant Clyde Jablonsky. It was a deep, masculine voice, full of rumble, and it quivered Ginger to her core. Ginger’s ear seemed to meld with the telecommunications device. She had always liked deep, vibratory sounds and the instruments that produced them, such as cellos, kettle drums and those rarest sets of male vocal cords. She told the man with the baritone voice who she was, the dispensary’s name and location, and about the stunning theft. 

He explained police procedures on a case of this sort, and the dismal chances of recovery. Ginger was getting hot, despite the bleak circumstances. She wanted sergeant-detective Jablonsky to just keep talking. She pressed the phone more tightly against her ear to create a seal and increase the absorbency of his bottomless tone. While still holding the phone tightly against her ear, Ginger and used her free hand to begin tweaking her right nipple, pinching and twisting the hard, little knot, rolling it, then twisting some more. She would have been content to continue tweaking as long as the golden-throated detective gave her aural stimulation. 

Jablonsky wrapped up his spiel with a promise to be at the dispensary within the hour. As Ginger hung up the phone and raised her head she was jolted by the image of Amelia standing in the doorway. 

“Oh my god,” Ginger said, putting her hands to her cheeks, “the detective who’s coming over has got the most gorgeous voice.” 

 

 

 

 

Fiona “Ginger” Malone, the first conceived of the Malone family’s four children, was born with the glamour gene. From her earliest days, she sought the limelight and yearned to be rich and famous beyond definition. It was part of a syndrome common to first-born children who are showered with unprecedented quantities of attention. It created an emotional addiction that required constant feeding and yet could never be satiated. 

She became a devotee of the fake-it-until-you-make-it motivational movement. She felt perfectly natural pretending to be something she was not. 

“Don’t be who you are,” she told her younger sisters, “be who you want to be.” 

Ginger did exactly that, carrying herself like a Hollywood starlet, believing life wasn’t really worth living unless it was done in the limelight. Her every stride, her every glance, facial expression and movement was done under the gaze of imaginary motion picture cameras. Ginger fancied herself being watched by millions. 

Good posture was practiced by walking around the house with an algebra textbook balanced on the crown of her head. 

On the advice of a bestselling self-help book, Ginger sat down one day and wrote her own obituary that summed up the life she was convinced she would live. It was a lavish treatment of a career celebrated by fans the world over. There was a modeling career, movie roles, product endorsements, television commercials, magazine covers, a ride on a Rose Parade float, semi-nude spreads in Playboy and Penthouse, USO shows for the troops overseas, high-profile affairs with Paul McCartney and a U.S. president, coffee table picture books of her life, and a widely reported meeting with the Queen Elizabeth of England and her Royal Family. In time, marriage to one of Hollywood’s leading men came along. They sired three daughters blessed with special talents that seemed certain to carry on the Ginger Malone legacy. There was even speculation of a family dynasty in the making. She died peacefully in her sleep, while taking a mid-day nap on a chaise lounge in her sumptuously appointed home in Pacific Palisades, California. She was 100 years old and still so picturesque in her death scene — clad in a lacy Victorian blouse and Versace wool skirt — that snapshots of her final resting place were released to the media. A quote from the New York Times read: “Ginger Malone established herself as the century’s undisputed archetype of female class and beauty.” 

Unabashed by the grandeur of her dreams, Ginger handed the mock obit to her high school English teacher and said, “Well … what do you think?” 

After carefully regarding the typewritten treatise, the instructor replied, “You forgot to credit yourself with eradicating world hunger.” 

“Let’s not go overboard,” Ginger said, taking back the sheet of paper. “It’s important that I be modest.” 

All this carrying on led her high school classmates to conclude that Ginger Malone was hopelessly stuck-up and delusional. Sister Amelia had theories about adoption. Though many boys were attracted to Ginger, she condescended to date a very few. None of the boys at her Catholic high school measured up; not for a girl was fantasized about having Casablanca’s Humphrey Bogart or Star Trek’s Captain Kirk riding roughshod atop her. The boys she did date were strictly props, and she certainly didn’t sleep with any of them. It was all part of her attempt to create an aura of unattainability. Just like real divas of the Silver Screen, Ginger wanted to be a fantasy that was beyond the reach of the men who desired her. 

By time she donned her cap and gown and was handed her high school diploma, Ginger had decided that fashion modeling would be her first act, the wedge that pried open the door to the entire entertainment industry. By Ginger’s estimation she possessed three of the four requisites for being a supermodel — a thin figure, small breasts and poise. The missing characteristic was height, which she figured could be overcome with a very steep pair of stiletto heels. An “education” loan was secured and she headed to a Chicago-based school named after a once-popular model who had gotten too varicose to keep strutting runways. Midway through Ginger’s second semester the school went bankrupt and closed its doors. 

So Ginger exited modeling as fast as she had entered it. Still, she never lost that sense that life was being lived under the unblinking eye of the motion picture camera. She continued to be supremely self-conscious, dressing and behaving as though her life was being viewed by the multitudes. 

 

 

 

 

Sergeant detective Clyde Jablonsky arrived 37 minutes later. 

“Who did I talk with on the telephone?” he asked, the deep resonant sound pouring out of his mouth and taking over the room. 

Ginger was momentarily speechless. The voice wasn’t the visitor’s only physical attribute. Jablonsky was very tall and lean with sharp angles at every joint. The head of dirty blonde hair was long and floppy and he was wearing blue jeans and a well-worn pair of Tony Lama boots that made him taller still. His genuine leather coat and matching gloves creaked with his every move. The brisk smell of animal hide and winter air was all around him. 

“That would be me,” Ginger eventually croaked, straightening up and shrinking the length of her miniskirt by half an inch. 

With practiced ceremony Jablonsky removed his gloves and stuffed them in his pockets, the motion giving us brief view of the semi-automatic pistol holstered under his left armpit. Jablonsky extended a shake in greeting. He squeezed Ginger’s feverish hand and smiled. 

“I’m here to help,” he said, the sonorous voice reverberating through Ginger’s body, her Bambi eyes blinking a few times to shake off the trance-like sound. The detective could see from Ginger’s flushed cheeks that she liked what she saw. He was accustomed to that. Jablonsky liked Ginger too, especially the long, raven hair. A fleeting thought was already toying with the idea of how sweet it would be to plumb her ever-loving depths. 

There was no doubt about it, sergeant-detective Clyde Jablonsky was a commanding figure, so much so that it took us several moments to notice the middle-aged woman standing in his shadow. 

“This is one of our crime scene investigators,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be dusting for prints.” 

As the woman snapped open her briefcase of investigative tools, Jablonsky started asking basic questions about the crime’s discovery. Jablonsky listened carefully to the overlapping accounts, scribbling a few sentences on his notepad before personally inspecting the safe. 

“Yep,” he said, pulling his head out of the steel casing, “it’s empty all right.” 

Jablonsky turned his attention to the narrow, transom-like windows just below the office’s basement ceiling. He checked that the locks were clamped shut and ran his fingers along the frames, searching for signs of entry, forcible or otherwise. Then he went outside with his flashlight to examine the areas just outside the window, inspecting for footprints, jimmy marks or any objects that might have been left behind. He came back inside escorted by a fresh plume of chilly air. 

“I don’t see any evidence of tampering. This was an inside job,” he said. “I’m going to want to interview some of your employees.” 

By this time my sisters had slipped into a far corner and were exchanging superlatives about the handsome, macho lawman who had come to their aid. 

“Armed and dangerous,” Ginger squealed. 

“Have him put the cuffs on me right now,” Amelia said, “and don’t come bail me out because that man is radioactive.” 

Mother edged over to them. “What are you girls doing?” 

“Don’t you think that detective is a hunk?” Ginger asked her mother. 

“A hunk?” mother said. 

“What I mean is, don’t you think he’s gorgeous?” 

Mother titled her head a bit, as though weighing the evidence. 

“Admit it,” Ginger said, “the guy could be a movie star. He sounds just like Sam Elliott.” 

Then mother matter-of-factly replied, “He’s a handsome man. But what kind of name is Jablonsky? Polish?” 

Ginger’s shoulders collapsed with exasperation.  

“Of course it is,” Ginger said. 

Margherita reacted poorly to the confirmation, his lack of Irish pedigree invalidating his many physical attributes. 

Ginger said, “For heavens sakes mother, what difference does it make? Did you hear that man’s voice?” 

When Jablonsky and his assistant finished their work, he handed his card to Ginger, assuming she would continue being his point of contact. 

“I’ll be in touch,” he told Ginger, her cheeks flushing anew. “But, like I said, don’t get your hopes up. About the case, I mean.” 

 

 

 

 

When we to the local pub the next evening, as we often did after a day’s work, we found detective-sergeant Clyde Jablonsky leaning against the bar, along with his leather jacket, blue jeans and boots. Standing close to the lawman’s dominating presence was Ginger, prattling away about her ill-fated days as a modeling student in the Windy City. She wanted to make sure Jablonsky knew just how glamorous and worldly she was. 

Ginger’s complexion had turned primrose and she was giving the detective adoring expressions. He was looking down into her face. 

Ginger threaded her arm through the detective’s in a girlish he’s-my-hero fashion. Then she leaned up against his body, creaking the black leather jacket. I’d never seen my sister get this cozy with a guy so quickly. Ginger had always played the aloof hard-to-get type, but it was apparent she was falling hard for this guy. Jablonsky had somehow buried all her resistance beneath his lush baritone. The detective had all the qualifiers on Ginger’s list. His tall, lean, angular body had more angles that a geometry book. He seemed unflappable. 

 

 

 

 

A few weeks later came the day we discovered relations between Ginger Malone and Clyde Jablonsky had turned carnal. 

Earlier that day, Amelia reported spotting them having a romantic lunch on the patio at a pretentious French bistro that served dishes such as quiche Florentine and a smelly fish stew called bouillabaisse. 

Ginger was looking and behaving in a way she hadn’t looked and behaved since she lost her virginity shortly after her seventeenth birthday. To the unfamiliar eye she was under the sway of a very powerful narcotic — stuck in a euphoric dimension that was all her own and from which she wanted no retreat. Glassy-eyed, impervious to the clatter and distractions around, over-sensitized and fully exposed. Skin was flushed, as though it had just been scrubbed bare by loofah sponges at the local spa. 

I heard saxophone music playing. 

There was no question that Jablonsky had eaten this little biscuit whole. Ginger had fully succumbed. 

The lunch had been leisurely and besotted with wine. Kind and flattering words were exchanged. Both testified to their mutual attraction and respect. Jablonsky maintained his tough, bad-boy exterior and was mostly quiet. Ginger was talkative and anticipatory. She invited the new beau to her plush condominium with the controlled electronic access and surveillance cameras at every turn. 

Herbal tea was served. Jablonsky went along with the gag to keep the mood intact. After the tea ceremony was finished, a tour of the condominium was staged, terminating at the bedroom, which Ginger had spent the morning preparing. There were fresh silk sheets on the bed and Ginger had carefully tousled the lavender comforter and pillows to invite use. There was fragrant potpourri on the nightstand; she went to the matching nightstand on the opposite side of the bed and lit a trio of votive candles. Then she moved in on Jablonsky, tugging at the thick leather belt wrapped around his jeans. He ran his hand into her hair, then stuck his nose in and smelled Prell shampoo. He lowered his lips to meet hers. Soon they were under cover, his long body playing African rhythms against Ginger’s petite frame. It was all whimper and whiplash after that. 

An hour had elapsed since the conclusion of that interlude, but mother could see that her daughter was still supercharged with hormones. It worried mother that Ginger’s internal thermostat was constantly set at an unusually searing temperature. 

Mother finally approached. “You were with him, weren’t you?” 

“Who’s him?” 

“That detective.” 

“His name’s Clyde, mother.” 

“Yeah, I know his name, especially his last name. What have you been doing?” 

“I had the most wonderful afternoon. We had lunch at Chez Vous.” 

“I suppose you had a good time?” 

“Oh my god,” Ginger said, bringing hands to cheeks, “I think I’ve finally found Mr. Right.” 

Mother’s face and heart sank and she let out an oft-heard lament: “For the love of Jesus, here we go again. Can’t we have a decent wedding in this family?” 

“I didn’t say anything about marriage.” 

“No, not yet you didn’t, but what do you think Mr. Right means? I’ve already seen this too many times. Amelia runs off and marries a German, Patrick marries an Italian girl, and now Conor’s running around with that Stonebreaker girl — and who knows what the hell kind of name that is.” 

Ginger threw her arms in the air, frustrated that mother had chased away the euphoric spell. “I thought you’d be happy for me, mom.” 

“He’s not one of us,” mother said. “He’s Polish. He’s barely European.”  

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, he’s only half Polish.” 

“What’s the other half?” 

“Bulgarian.” 

“Oh brother, from one loser country to another.” 

“Stop it. I don’t want you criticizing him. He’s everything I’ve been looking for in a man.” 

“Yeah, what’s that?” 

“He’s tall and lean and handsome. He’s strong and masculine and smart. He knows how to take control of situations. And he appreciates who I am.” 

“You need to find someone you’re compatible with. Irish are compatible. They eat the same food, they worship the same God, they behave the same way. They have common values.” 

“Mother, it’s the 21st century. We’re so past all that stuff.” 

“There’s nothing old fashioned about people keeping with their own.” 

“When I marry it’s going to be for love, not for someone’s gene pool.” 

“I’m just telling you a fact. You’re going to hear the Dumb Polack jokes. So are your children. Then what are you going to do?” 

“I just met the guy. Can we leave children out of this discussion?” 

“Well, you said Mr. Right. What am I supposed to think?” 

“I’m sorry I said anything.” 

“Where did you two go after lunch?” 

“I had him over for some tea.” 

“That must have been one hell of a cup of tea. You walked in here looking like you had just seen Christ on the road to Damascus.” 

Ginger got her smile back, gratified that the ardor she felt for this man was shining through. “No,” she said, “no visions of Christ, I’m sorry to say. But this was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a religious experience.” 

“You jerk,” mother said, appalled by the implications of her daughter’s comment. “Did you sin?” 

 

 

 

 

Clyde Jablonsky showed up late that evening again at the local bar, after the crowd had fizzled. The sergeant-detective was in his in full regalia: denim jeans, cowboy boots and his black leather jacket with extra zippers. There was also the ever-present bulge of a firearm near his left armpit. He gave Ginger a full-body hug, engulfing her within his limbs and giving her a nose full of musk oil and leather. He refrained from kissing her, though, figuring restraint was a wise path at this stage of the relationship. Conor offered to buy him a draft beer. He accepted. Halfway through the beer Conor strolled by again. 

“Jablonsky, let’s debrief,” he said, waving the detective to a quiet table. Conor stared at Jablonsky, shifted in his chair and said, “I’ll be blunt. I’ve got a problem with you spiking my sister when you’re supposed to be investigating her as a potential suspect, considering that you’ve concluded the robbery was an inside job.” 

The cop was annoyed. “I would expect a little more delicacy when talking about your own sister.” 

“I’ve got an excuse. My vocabulary’s limited. I’m not a college boy like you.” 

“What exactly did Ginger tell you?” 

“Nobody had to say anything. My sister came to work this afternoon looking like she was tripping on acid. You’ve got her mesmerized. Ginger’s not usually the type to fall big for a guy. She’s more the I’ll-stay-mildly-interested-as-long-as-you-show-me-a-good-time type. You’re different for some reason. Don’t ask me why. I guess she’s always been a sucker for tough guys.” 

“I’m just pleased I make her happy,” Jablonsky said, taking another swig from his beer mug. 

“Help me get my head around this one. Ginger is still a potential suspect, and now you’re bedding her. Wouldn’t any police agency call that conflict of interest?” 

The detective shrugged. “You’ve got a valid point. If you really think Ginger’s a suspect, I can turn the case over to one of my colleagues.” Jablonsky leaned back and crossed his arms, leather coat groaning. “There seems to be a trust issue here.” 

Conor held his gaze. 

“It’s more likely a non-family-member is the guilty party. I should interview your girlfriend I told you that weeks ago.” 

“What girlfriend?” Conor said. 

Jablonsky raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you dating that Stonebreaker girl?” 

“I wouldn’t call it dating. I’m” — Conor rummaged his vocabulary for an acceptable verb — “having carnal relations with her.” 

 

 

 

 

Over the next several days, sergeant-detective Clyde Jablonsky used the best of his rational thinking to finally convince Conor that even Amy Stonebreaker should be interviewed about the crime. He had already interviewed the dispensary’s other employees. Only Amy Stonebreaker remained, and yet Conor was shielding her for reasons the detective did not understand. Yes, they were a couple (of sorts) and, yes, Conor thought there was zero chance of Amy’s involvement, but Jablonsky explained that the more people interviewed, the more eyewitness accounts he could gather, the more leads about people might have been seen in suspicious places on that fateful evening. Conor finally capitulated. 

Jablonsky suggested Amy Stonebreaker meet him at the police station, a venue that would give him maximum leverage and access to resources. She surprised him by agreeing without hesitation. There was nothing about her behavior that suggested nerves; she was a poised young lady. She could be spellbinding, too, and Jablonsky wanted to make sure he didn’t become mesmerized and blow the interview. The detective’s interrogation technique was to gently get to know the suspect by asking personal questions. The idea was to build trust and warmth and a comfort level that convinced the person they were safe in disclosing whatever was on his or her mind. Stonebreaker surprised him again by opening up almost immediately and sharing highly personal information. Jablonsky got the full story of her arrival to the city and her coupling with Conor. 

She had just moved to the area from Troy, New York, and was a fanatic for the cannabis business. Her ambition was to learn to run her own operation.  

Nothing would have pleased her more than being named chief operations officer. Conor had to explain that only family members were given executive positions. Still, Amy Stonebreaker’s passion for the business was genuine, and that impressed Conor. She saw cannabis as something both recreational and therapeutic all at the same time. 

“What else can you say that about?” she said. 

Though the opportunity to become chief operations officer didn’t exist, per se, Conor was not about to let Amy Stonebreaker slip past. She had a lusty wholesomeness like he had never seen before, and a bright and passionate voice. She shined without making any effort to do so. 

Conor hired Amy to work at both the retail counter and the growing room. That placed her under the grueling auspices of sister Amelia. Sparks started flying almost immediately as Amy and Amelia took an instantaneous dislike to one another. Amy didn’t care for Amelia’s you ain’t shit if you ain’t family attitude. Amelia saw the new girl as a consummate manipulator. She also knew that, in time, Amy Stonebreaker would become the latest in a long line of women who proved that Conor’s sexual impulses were utterly out of control. The two were already speaking in flirtation. 

Ginger wasn’t a fan either, mostly because Amy Stonebreaker challenged her status as resident sex kitten. 

Amy looked Jablonsky in the eyes and said: “Amelia hates me. So does Ginger.” 

“Because you’re younger and more beautiful?” he inquired, then twitched as soon as the words left his mouth, realizing the statement’s implications. 

Stonebreaker looked past Jablonsky’s shoulder and into a nonexistent distance. “It’s not just youth and looks. Ginger is very possessive of her brothers. There’s a sense of ownership there. It’s a strange relationship.” 

Jablonsky shrugged his shoulders. 

Amy said, “Sorry about that. She’s your girlfriend. I really shouldn’t be talking smack about her.” 

Jablonsky shrugged again. 

“I trust we’re speaking in confidence.” 

Jablonsky’s body began to tingle. “Of course,” he said. It was the first time Jablonsky felt desirous of another woman since meeting Ginger Malone. 

“Patrick likes my legs. He says they’re lean and muscular. He calls me Secretariat when other people aren’t around. The other guys call me Amy Ballbreaker. I guess because I’m disinterested in every man in the place — except for Conor, of course.” 

Amy Stonebreaker started reporting to work early and dropping by to talk cannabis with Conor in the dispensary’s basement office. During her first visit she was wearing a wispy cotton skirt and carrying an armful of books about cannabis, botany and the chemical composition of marijuana. Conor was gratified and aroused. His understudy made several more unannounced stops over the next few weeks. It wasn’t long before she visited afterhours to profusely thank Conor for the employment opportunity and the contributions he was making to her understanding of the dispensary business. In communicating her earnestness, Amy Stonebreaker took Conor’s hand and held it warmly between hers. Then she kissed the back of it and pressed it lovingly against her cheek. Encouraged by Conor’s failed defenses, she took his index finger into her mouth and gently sucked. Conor reciprocated with an act he had contemplated since the day Amy Stonebreaker’s boots walked through the door. Spreading her legs right where she sat, he planted kisses up and down the tender flesh of her inner thighs while Amy Stonebreaker purred and restyled the boss’s hair with her hot slender hands. Pulsating with desire, Conor snapped shut the deadbolt of his office door and went to work on his ravishing pupil. 

Jablonsky could have listened to Amy Stonebreaker’s stories all day in that velvety voice of hers. She kept tousling her hair while testifying; not in a nervous way but in a lascivious one. There was a microphone on the table recording audio, and a camera mounted in the corner of the room shooting video, capturing every word and action. She wasn’t the least bit disconcerted that the instruments were recording every word, movement and expression. Jablonsky wondered if Conor would be embarrassed or prideful about all these disclosures. 

Jablonsky was so engrossed by Amy Stonebreaker’s presence it took a full hour before he even began quizzing her about the night in question. 

 

 

 

 

Ginger was in the growing room less than 24 hours later, among all the cannabis plants and invisible to Amy Stonebreaker as she spoke with a female coworker about her kindly interrogation by Clyde Jablonsky. Ginger froze. Then she squatted to remain undetected and eavesdropped. 

“It was a friendly chat, really,” Amy said. “A bit of a flirtation. He was putty. Even with the videorecorder running he got more personal than was probably appropriate for a detective on the city payroll.” 

And so it went, until Ginger couldn’t tolerate another word. She tiptoed away, exited the growing room, walked straight into the ladies room, bent over a white porcelain toilet and vomited until the lining of her esophagus sustained second degree burns. After cleaning up, she headed to the business office, figuring she could get some paperwork completed, only to see Amy Stonebreaker in the room deep kissing her brother Conor and making smacking sounds. 

Ginger slipped away unseen and went directly back to the ladies room and vomited again. This time she experienced none of the nausea and discomfort associated with regurgitation because she had already dissociated and was observing the scene from above, having left her body and drifted up to the whirring ventilation fan. A geyser of terror sprang. If she was floating, she was lighter than air, something approximating vapor, which meant the fan could suck her out of the room, haul her through the ductwork and blow her outside the building, separating her from her body for all eternity. Looking down, Ginger saw her physical body in its wretched state. She had heard of this happening to people in cases of extreme distress or temporary death. If she was up here, who was running things down there, where one idiotic move could embarrass her for life? Don’t do anything stupid, she wanted to shout to herself, if only she knew how. All she could do was float, which didn’t take any effort at all, and pray that she didn’t come under the pull of the spinning blades just above what seemed to be her right ear. 

Behind that panic ran a second, cooler train of thought that contemplated the irony of how people spent their whole lives searching for incontrovertible proof they existed independent of their body, only to find themselves horrified at the prospect of not having a body. How does one act without a body? Everything needs a container. What could spirit do when it’s not suffused with flesh and blood? 

Before Ginger knew what happened — or how — she was back in her body, doubting she had ever really left it. Her head was balanced over the toilet bowl’s rim and she was gasping for air and staring into the fetid water. Hallucination, she thought, brought on by temporary psychosis, brought on by extreme grief. When her breathing returned to its usual pace and the burning sensation in her esophagus subsided, exited the ladies room. 

The next sound Ginger heard was the arrogant tempo of boots against a hardwood floor, and she knew Clyde Jablonsky’s footwear was announcing his arrival. Ginger turned and there he was, a tall order of denim, leather and strategically tousled hair. His cocksure stride intact. Everything about him said he was ready to take charge.  

But take charge of what? Take charge of who? 

Certainly not Ginger Malone. 

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol