Read Online The Strategist by John Hardy Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Hardy Bell
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the uppity neighbors, the high taxes, or the jungle music.
Of everything that was wrong with his neighborhood, the music bothered him the most. It was especially bad last night. He had dealt with the obnoxiously loud bass before, but what he heard outside his window a few hours ago bordered on criminal.
He had just fallen asleep on the couch, which he seemed to do a lot more of these days, when he was startled awake by what he thought was a sonic boom. He rushed to the window. When he looked outside he immediately saw the source of the noise. A light colored Chevy Impala that he instantly knew should not have been there idled in the middle of the street, its engine running and its stereo on full volume. Dale pressed closer to the window. The car’s windows were tinted, but he had no trouble imagining the kind of person who sat behind the wheel. Thankfully, he mostly only saw those kinds of people on television.
After thirty seconds or so, the car pulled up to the curb a couple of houses down. The engine continued to run, but the music abruptly stopped. A thousand alarm bells instantly went off in Dale’s head and he had the immediate thought of calling the police. But before he did, he decided to get a closer look. If he wound up needing to give the police a description, he wanted to give the most accurate one possible.
From his front porch he could see the car clearly. It was light gray or silver with four doors. Looking closer, he could see that the passenger’s side window was rolled down, though his vantage point did not allow him to see inside. His angle did not allow for a look at the car’s license plate either, which he knew he would need to write down. He had to get closer but didn’t want to leave the cover of his front porch, so he decided to go back inside to retrieve a pair of binoculars that he kept in the foyer closet. He liked to have them on standby specifically for occasions like this.
But as soon as he turned to walk inside the house, he heard the music start up again. By the time he turned back around, the Impala had pulled away from the curb.
Dale stepped off the porch and on to his front lawn, scouring the street like a surveillance camera. He kept watch until he was completely satisfied that neither the Impala nor its God-awful music was coming back.
When he finally made it up to his bedroom it was 12:56. He shook his head when he looked in the bed to see his wife Maggie spread eagle in the middle of it while Trinket the prized Pomeranian slept soundly on Dale’s pillow.
“Dale Rooney bites the dust again,” he said in a voice that he hoped was loud enough to wake up Maggie or the dog. Neither of them flinched.
Back on the couch, Dale fantasized about the cabin he never had, and the solitude he would probably never experience. He wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or if the fantasy was so real that it felt like he was asleep, but the next time he looked at the clock it was 4:17 a.m.
Dale never needed more than a few hours of sleep a night to function properly, so he got up, brewed himself a pot of coffee, and basked in the silence of the early morning. There was very little in Dale’s life that he would describe as ideal, but these early mornings came close. When the world was this quiet, it was almost like it didn’t exist. He was free to be alone with his thoughts; to dream of the life that could still one day be his.
This morning, he reflected on the strange car and the loud music and wondered if he should have called the police. He supposed it was possible that the car had a legitimate reason for being on his street – a late night pizza delivery, a boyfriend of one of the rebellious teenage girls across the street – but the car was just as likely filled with a bunch of gang-bangers casing the neighborhood.
As was usually the case with Dale, he waited too long to act. Calling the police would be pointless now. The car was long gone. If it was filled with gang-bangers
Of everything that was wrong with his neighborhood, the music bothered him the most. It was especially bad last night. He had dealt with the obnoxiously loud bass before, but what he heard outside his window a few hours ago bordered on criminal.
He had just fallen asleep on the couch, which he seemed to do a lot more of these days, when he was startled awake by what he thought was a sonic boom. He rushed to the window. When he looked outside he immediately saw the source of the noise. A light colored Chevy Impala that he instantly knew should not have been there idled in the middle of the street, its engine running and its stereo on full volume. Dale pressed closer to the window. The car’s windows were tinted, but he had no trouble imagining the kind of person who sat behind the wheel. Thankfully, he mostly only saw those kinds of people on television.
After thirty seconds or so, the car pulled up to the curb a couple of houses down. The engine continued to run, but the music abruptly stopped. A thousand alarm bells instantly went off in Dale’s head and he had the immediate thought of calling the police. But before he did, he decided to get a closer look. If he wound up needing to give the police a description, he wanted to give the most accurate one possible.
From his front porch he could see the car clearly. It was light gray or silver with four doors. Looking closer, he could see that the passenger’s side window was rolled down, though his vantage point did not allow him to see inside. His angle did not allow for a look at the car’s license plate either, which he knew he would need to write down. He had to get closer but didn’t want to leave the cover of his front porch, so he decided to go back inside to retrieve a pair of binoculars that he kept in the foyer closet. He liked to have them on standby specifically for occasions like this.
But as soon as he turned to walk inside the house, he heard the music start up again. By the time he turned back around, the Impala had pulled away from the curb.
Dale stepped off the porch and on to his front lawn, scouring the street like a surveillance camera. He kept watch until he was completely satisfied that neither the Impala nor its God-awful music was coming back.
When he finally made it up to his bedroom it was 12:56. He shook his head when he looked in the bed to see his wife Maggie spread eagle in the middle of it while Trinket the prized Pomeranian slept soundly on Dale’s pillow.
“Dale Rooney bites the dust again,” he said in a voice that he hoped was loud enough to wake up Maggie or the dog. Neither of them flinched.
Back on the couch, Dale fantasized about the cabin he never had, and the solitude he would probably never experience. He wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or if the fantasy was so real that it felt like he was asleep, but the next time he looked at the clock it was 4:17 a.m.
Dale never needed more than a few hours of sleep a night to function properly, so he got up, brewed himself a pot of coffee, and basked in the silence of the early morning. There was very little in Dale’s life that he would describe as ideal, but these early mornings came close. When the world was this quiet, it was almost like it didn’t exist. He was free to be alone with his thoughts; to dream of the life that could still one day be his.
This morning, he reflected on the strange car and the loud music and wondered if he should have called the police. He supposed it was possible that the car had a legitimate reason for being on his street – a late night pizza delivery, a boyfriend of one of the rebellious teenage girls across the street – but the car was just as likely filled with a bunch of gang-bangers casing the neighborhood.
As was usually the case with Dale, he waited too long to act. Calling the police would be pointless now. The car was long gone. If it was filled with gang-bangers
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