Search is loosely based on a real incident. The incident remains, the story is greatly different.
Enjoy. And remember, it’s still a work in progress. These chapters are rough drafts. I’ve completed thirty chapters so far and it seems I’ll complete the novel this time. We’ll see.
Read Search Chapter 8
Gio sat on the cold, bare ground in the Weintraub’s backyard, the exposed grass brittle under him. Jetta sat in front of him. They stared into each others’ eyes. Jetta kept offering to shake.
Sam watched from the den. “How did he get her to do that? I never got her to do that. You bring a Svengali into my house, Daughter?”
Jeri came up beside him, a head shorter, holding a glass of orange juice. Sam put his arm around her, pulled her in, and kissed the top of her head.
“First, Dad, he’s not Jewish. Second, …”
Jeri shook her head and leaned into her father. “I don’t know. There’s a second but I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t imagine him being a Svengali. He spends too much time helping people.”
“Helping them do what?”
“Silly things. Little things. He always knows when I’m going to have my period.”
Sam pulled away from his daughter and looked at her. She snickered. “Don’t worry. I’m on the pill.”
“I’m feeling so much better.”
“He knows where people lost things.”
“I lost money in the stock market.”
“He can find things.”
“Your mother keeps hiding my cigars.”
“He knows when people are sick. Every time somebody in the dorm has bad cramps he just touches them and the cramps go away.”
“He holds stock in Midol?”
Jeri pushed her father away. “I’m serious, Dad.”
Sam rubbed her back. “You like him?”
She looked at Gio and Jetta sitting in the backyard. He rose up and Jetta bounded around him, a puppy with her master. “Yes.”
“So do I.”
Jeri’s brother Steve came through the kitchen. “Pop, there’s no room for my bike in the garage, not with yours and Mom’s cars in there. Okay if I store it in the basement for the winter?”
“Put rags under it. No oil stains. And make sure you drain the tank. Your mother hates the smell of gasoline in the house.”
Steve hurried downstairs. Sam and Jeri heard Jetta barking in the driveway as Steve pulled Sam’s Chrysler out of the garage and pushed his motorcycle in. A stair’s height separated the garage floor from the basement the motorcycle was having none of it.
Gio put his finger to his lips and Jetta quieted. “You need help?”
Steve, breathing hard and red faced, had the front wheel through the door but nothing else. “Love some.”
Gio stood at the bike’s rear. “What can I hold onto that won’t break off when I lift?”
Steve stared at him, shook his head, and snickered. He pointed to the wheel mounts on either side.
“You guide it in when I lift. Ready?”
Steve smiled, nodded, and rested his hands on the handlebars.
Gio squatted, grabbed the wheel mounts, and stood. He held the bike’s rear end a foot off the ground for a minute and stared at Steve. “Any time you’re ready.”
Steve, his eyes bulging, grabbed the handlebars in earnest. “Yeah, right, right. Sorry.” He pulled and Gio walked the bike into the basement.
“Yeah, here’s good.”
Gio put the bike down. “Come on, Jetta. Upstairs.” He took the stairs two at a time, rounded the bend, went up the second story and into the guestroom, Jetta always at his heels.
Steve, sweating, came up and into the kitchen. He poured himself a long drink of water, guzzled it, took another.
Sam cocked his head. “You okay?”
“The man’s fucking strong.”
Sam nodded. Listened overhead to where Gio and Jetta played in the guest room, and nodded again.
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