INNOCENCE: Chapter Two



     The short flight from Seattle down to LA was going to be considerably more comfortable than I would have anticipated. No low brow commercial flight for a couple of high profile investigative geniuses like Maggie and me. We were flying private jet, provided by the extraordinarily pricy Russel Air. We were going to be picked up at the airport by chauffeur driven limo, and then straight off to our five star hotel. I had been told my money wasn’t going to be any good in tinsel town. All meals at the hotel dining room would simply be charged to Mr. Holman. Same with room service. On the road, I would carry a Holman American Express platinum card. I was also told that I didn’t need to worry about exceeding the credit limit because it didn’t have one.

I guessed from all of this that low class, potty humor movie producing must pay pretty darned well.

I’m not that much of a movie buff. A wild night for me most often consisted of falling asleep in front of the television set while watching the late news. Occasional rentals from Netflix rounded out my knowledge of electronic media entertainment, and none of them could remotely qualify as a Holman type film. I’m a written word kind of guy. A book reader—and a book writer.

I don’t like to brag (at least not too much) but I am a mystery writer of some repute. Detective yarns to be exact. All of them about just one guy, a private dick by the name of Jack McGuire. He is still, what I used to be—a falling down drunk and a first class stumble-bum. I changed. Jack never did. I couldn’t have afforded to alter him much if I had wanted to. My constant readers had paid me a royal sum over the years. Millions of dollars, truth be told.

It’s like my sainted old momma always used to say—you don’t mess with success—and apparently the fans like old Jack just the way he is.

Despite his shortcomings, Jack gets results. I like to think that I do too. I had fibbed a bit to Mag—I do have a reputation—and I know it.

I was sitting in my downstairs office and study, awaiting Maggie’s return from a short shopping excursion. I liked to use the room just to write, and my office downtown at the Pioneer building strictly for WE business. I always thought it best to keep the two enterprises completely separate, although there was a line for the agency here at home. No sense not being able to take an work call at home once in a while. Truth be told, it didn’t happen very often. The call from Holman’s secretary had been a complete surprise—especially in the middle of the night.

It surprised me now by ringing once again. Odd, I thought. Emily Hatcher, my own secretary, should have been in the office at the moment. She was as regular as clockwork, and if she wasn’t going to be coming in for the day for some reason, I knew she would have called me hours ago. If she was already on the phone with someone else during regular business hours, the second call was set-up to go to voice-mail.

Yet it hadn’t—it had come here.

I decided to take the call, more out of curiosity than any other reason. Had I just let it ring a couple more times, It would have eventually gone to voice-mail anyway. An anomality such as this is just the sort of thing that fascinates me, so I picked up the phone and cheerily gave the official, and extremely long and complicated WE introduction: “Hello.”

Silence greeted me. I tried speaking again, and once again got no response. Just a stony and total silence. I tried a third time, adding, “may I help you?” Once more—nothing. Somehow though, I knew there was a person on the other end. Listening very intently and closely while holding my own breath, I was sure I could detect the cadence of soft, regular breathing from the caller. And something else as well. In the distance, well behind the person that held the phone, as though it were coming from another room, and very softly at that, was the faint sound of music.

I tried to identify what kind of music it might be, but it was just too faint to be able to make a decent guess. Slow, melodic, and with an almost surreal, haunting quality. The image of a snake-charmer flashed into my head. It came from just one instrument I thought, rather than a band. A wind instrument, I guessed. Maybe a flute, but lower pitched—Indian perhaps. Again, the snake-charmer. Rather than hanging up, I decided to wait the mysterious call out, and just see where this most unusual telephone call might eventually go.

It went to Hell—and fast.

Many times a human being in extreme distress will scream, and I’m here to tell you that they are not always women either. I’ve generated a few in my own time. It’s a normal human reaction. Generally speaking though, the screamer, whether in physical pain or just shocked or surprised, will start out kind of slow, and kind of soft as well, the scream building both in volume and intensity as it progresses. Most times—but not by any means always. That’s the way it was now. The high-pitched scream in my ear was not only extremely loud, but instant as well. It came seemingly from nowhere, like a slap in the face, and it just about knocked my eardrum out of my head. I almost dropped the phone.

Somehow hanging on, I held the receiver away from my ear several inches as I listened to what I could only describe as a person being slowly butchered, as the undulating wails poured forth. I had the feeling that whoever held the phone on the other end had placed it near to their victim before inflicting some horrible pain. The screams went on and on, rising and falling in intensity as this macabre audio only scene played out in my ear.

Finally, after nearly a minute, it stopped, although not entirely. Even as relative quiet returned, I could still hear the soft sobs of the person that was apparently being so brutally assaulted. I had no doubt that this was real, and that it was being played out before my ears, so to speak, intentionally and on purpose. Of course, I didn’t have the faintest idea what that purpose might be. This had come from out of nowhere.

I spoke into the phone, demanding to know to whom I was speaking. Once again, only stony silence was returned. And once again, there was something else as well. I could again hear the breathing of my caller—only this time it was slightly altered. This time the breathing was louder, and it came in ragged breaths and gasps. Additionally, I could easily pick out the sound of low moaning. Part that was coming from the individual that had screamed so horribly. And part of the moaning sound was coming from the caller. I knew the sound. It was sexual in nature. The caller was getting off.

I spoke again. “Who are you, you sick bastard? Why are you calling me? Where are you?”

I waited for an answer in vain. I waited for perhaps thirty seconds, trying to concentrate and listen for clues, as the low moans and grunts of the caller grew louder and closer together. He was very close to the inevitable conclusion.

And then the line went dead.

I spoke several more times into the phone, knowing that there would be no response. The show—whatever had been its sick purpose—was over. I debated what to do. I had no idea where the call had originated. I had no way, here at the house, to trace it. I could try the phone company, but having been down that particular dead-end road more than a few times, I held out little hope. Short of a court-order, they almost always refused to give up any useful information.

I carefully replaced the receiver onto its cradle and sat down in my office chair, trying to cut through the effects of the stress inducing call, and sharpen my focus. I knew the victim was in big trouble, but I didn’t know for a fact that a life was at stake. The call had been meant to alarm me, and to perhaps deliver a warning of some type. I just didn’t know what that warning could be about. I was between cases and had been for a while. It made no sense.

Again, I replayed in my mind what I had heard in the call. The screaming voice had been that of a female. Or had it? There was something about the tonal quality of the screamer that made me wonder. And then, the dreamscape of my recent past flashed into my head—along with heavenly Christmas music. Tapping my fingertips on the top of my desk, I mulled it around in my mind. At last I made the connection. The Christmas music I heard in my head came from a famous Viennese choir. And the screaming I heard on the phone did not come from a woman.

The sound that I had heard came from a prepubescent boy.

I held my breath as I slowly let the implications of that sink in.

I jumped visibly in my chair as my front doorbell chimed. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how deeply I had mentally gone back into the dark and foreboding water of my nightmare.

This time I didn’t forget to open the desk drawer and retrieve my revolver. I quickly checked the contents of the cylinder, snapped it shut, and cocked it. I partially concealed my arm and hand holding the gun behind my back.

Nearing the door, I could clearly make out through the frosted glass the shadow of a tall, thin man.

I jerked it open.


Thanks for reading! See you again soon . . . 


Jerry Lewis . . . the nutty humanitarian




Remembering Jerry Lewis on Labor Day, 2017


What is the measure of a man? And what is the worth of a soul—or a life? Mr. Lewis showed us that, and demonstrated it—in spades.

He was born either Jerome, or Joseph, Levitch—depending on what source you consult—at the Newark Beth Israel Hospital in Newark, New Jersey. The date was March 16, 1926. Jerome (possibly Joseph) Levitch, or Jerry Lewis, as he became much better known, would spend a bit over 91 years on the planet, and pass in Las Vegas, Nevada, August 20, 2017, just a short couple of weeks ago.

When a person visits the gravesite of an individual, that’s pretty much all you see. The name, and the date of birth and death. Those two dates are inevitably separated by a dash, and when you stop and think about it, that little dash represents the totality of a life. That is to say, the dash is everything that happened between the birth and the death of the person lying just beneath your feet.

Not much, when you stop and think about it.

Not much at all.

One has to wonder, standing in that lonely and forlorn graveyard, just what that “dash” might have encompassed.

In the case of Mr. Lewis, it was a lot.

Jerry Lewis had one hell of a dash.

For over three-quarters of a century, Mr. Lewis kept people laughing—and he kept them in tears.

Tears of joy.

And tears of gratefulness.

Mr. Lewis was, at various times throughout his long life and career, a comedian, an actor, a singer, a producer, a director, a screenwriter, and most importantly of all . . . a world class humanitarian—perhaps one of the greatest of the entire twentieth century.

He came from good stock. Lewis’s father was Daniel Levitch (Danny Lewis) a noted vaudevillian. Mom (Rachel “Rae” Levitch) was a consummate pianist that played for a radio station.

The list of wonderful, funny, and often enchanting motion pictures starring either Lewis alone, or with partner Dean Martin is long indeed. A personal favorite of my own, is the original (and of course best) The Nutty Professor. Lewis plays a duel role in this modern and humorous updating of the classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde tale. Lewis literally chews the scenery as Professor Julius Kelp (Jekyll) and Buddy Love (Hyde). It never grows old. Stella Stevens is the resident pretty girl and love interest. I saw the film (first-run) back in 1963 with my late brother Dale, in a downtown Detroit movie theater. I have watched it countless and an unknown number of times since.


Julius Kelp


Buddy Love

Timeless, ageless, priceless—and it just gets better as the years roll by.

The humanitarian part of Lewis does too.

It started way back in 1946, when Lewis and then comedic partner Dean Martin began hosting Labor Day telethons to benefit the Muscular Dystrophy Association (MDA). Those lasted until the end of Jerry’s professional association with Martin, but Lewis went on, on his own, to host telethons year-after-year-after-year, finally becoming national chairman of the organization in 1966. The telethons would grow in scope and size, and continue with Lewis until 2010, and Lewis would remain as the leader of MDA until 2011, when advancing age and ill-health would force him into retirement.



Martin and Lewis MDA Telethon 1976

It was quite a run. Jerry Lewis would raise nearly three billion dollars for the organization in his forty-five year tenure, never taking so much as a dime from the association for all of his efforts, and even contributing sizable amounts personally as the years went by.

God himself only knows how many children and families were helped and aided by MDA in all that time.

It was like Lewis himself—some class act.

Jerry never revealed his reasons for doing what he did. God only knows that now too—and only God need know. For the rest of us, it is simply enough that he did.

On this Labor-Day weekend, let’s remember Jerry Lewis—the nutty-humanitarian, and one hellofa funny guy.

Thanks for all you did, Jerry. Thanks for your inimitable style. Thanks for the zany movies, the prat-falls, the gooney faces, the weird voices, the wonderful TV shows, the late Summer Labor-Day weekends glued to the set watching all the entertainment and the MDA tote-board grow—and listening to the timpani’s as it did.

Thanks for it all, dear sir.

But most of all—thanks for the memories—and the good, good times.

Yup—one hell of a dash.

We love you.

We’ll miss you.

We’ll see you again one day.

And may God be with you and your millions of kids—and with us, ‘til we do.



Dumb joke of the day:

“The doc told me I had a dual personality. Then he lays an 82-dollar bill on me, so I give him 41 bucks and tell him to get the rest from the other guy.”

—Jerry Lewis




Thanks so much for reading. We’ll be back in a day or two with Chapter Two of INNOCENCE. Until then, have a wonderful Labor Day weekend. Be safe, have joy, and most of all . . . keep laughing.