Malcolm File

By Duane L. Ostler

Malcolm File is a shunned, mistreated street bum, living his life under the heat vent of an office building—until the day he inherits 30 million dollars. Suddenly everyone wants what Malcolm has, from the lowliest street bum who shared the sidewalk with Malcolm, to the city drug lord from his mansion on the hill. People soon learn however that Malcolm's plans for the money are far from ordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duane L. Ostler
• Release date: May 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463472569

Duane L. Ostler

Duane L. Ostler was raised in Southern Idaho, and has lived in Australia, Mexico, Brazil, China, Utah, the big Island of Hawaii, and—most foreign of all—New Jersey. He practiced law for over 10 years and has a PhD in legal history. He and his wife have five children and two cats.

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MALCOLM FILE

By Duane L. Ostler

Copyright 2018 Duane L. Ostler

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed without the express permission of the author.

Cover image: Australian Broadcasting Corporation, generic TV still of homeless person under blanket in Brisbane, Australia, Feb. 15, 2016.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Officer Bob Steele was in a crabby mood. He grumbled under his breath as he swiveled his Mazda through the police parking lot, looking for an empty spot. He continued mumbling in angry incoherence after he found his spot, cracked his window a bit so his car would not get too hot during the day, then locked it and walked away. He was still grumbling and mumbling as he entered the police station. When Alice called out Mornin', Bob! from her security perch by the door, he merely frowned in return, then ambled toward the officer's dressing room.

Another rough night, huh? called out Alice sympathetically. Bob just waved his hand at her, not inclined to comment.

It won't last forever! she called after him. After all, newborns can't help waking up in the middle of the night, and crying and being fussy.

Bob turned sharply to growl at her. Nine times in one night! And crying almost nonstop? THAT'S normal?

Alice shrugged her shoulders. I suppose, she said noncommittally. They both knew Allice didn't have any kids of her own, so she really didn't have any idea what was normal for a newborn. Is Angie any better? she asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

No, said Bob gruffly. She still has to spend most of her time in bed. Been like that ever since she had the baby last month.

Alice clucked sympathetically, making a sound like a sick chicken. That's rough, she said softly. Then she gave him a little smile. She's lucky to have such a patient, understanding husband like you, to handle the baby at night.

Stow it, will ya? Bob growled at her, then turned back toward the officer's dressing room. It's me all night, and Angie's mom all day. Ain’t never seen her mom look so bad. She's getting as worn out as I am. And Bob junior just keeps crying and fussing.

Hey, Bob! called out Alice as he stepped inside the dressing room door. Captain Potch wants to see you right away in his office.

For the second time, Bob turned to frown and grumble at the petit little security guard. What for? he barked, in no mood for dealing with another of the Captain's demands.

Alice shrugged. I don't know. He just said to tell you as soon as you came in, and for you to go there right away. I suppose it's something urgent.

Bob swore under his breath, then grumbled, It always is. Shoving his way through the dressing room door he walked angrily over to his locker and yanked the door open, grabbed his uniform, then slammed the door with a bang. Why me? he grouched to no one in particular. Why am I always the lucky one?

Talkin' to yourself again, Steele? came a drawl from his left. Turning he saw a smirking officer Carmody, just coming off a night shift.

Oh, shut up, Fred, said Bob.

That's what I like about you, Steele, said Officer Carmody. You always have such a pleasant word for us guys who've been out all night chasing murderers and pulling injured victims out of smashed cars.

Humph! growled Bob. You've been sitting half asleep in your car all night, and you know it! Nothing ever happens on the east side where you patrol.

Officer Carmody shrugged. Can I help it if my beat is full of law abiding citizens who don't have enough sense to shoot each other, or break into each other's houses? He smiled sweetly. Nothin' like YOUR beat downtown, where you get to walk around an' chum it up with all the bums and panhandlers every day.

Just dry up, will ya? said Bob as he yanked off his T-shirt (which had baby spit-up on the shoulder) and put on his blue officer’s shirt.

Officer Carmody laughed as he walked up to Bob. Know what I'm gonna do now, Bob old boy? he said with a smirk. I'm going home and SLEEP! That's right, SLEEP. No babies at MY house to keep a fella awake--no sir. Us single guys have enough sense to stay away from stuff like that--

He darted toward the door, easily dodging the shoe Bob threw at him while laughing nonsensically. Bob grumbled a few unprintable words after him, then walked slowly over and picked up his shoe. He returned to his locker and slammed its door again, just for the joy of it. What a toad! he grouched to himself. Sometimes I feel like belting him so hard, it'd knock his Cheerio brains out of his ears.

What's that, Bob? asked another officer as he sauntered into the dressing room.

Oh, nothing, Paul, Bob grumbled. The other officer grinned. Carmody again, huh? Bob didn't reply while the officer started to laugh to himself for no apparent reason. When he didn't stop, Bob abruptly yelled at him, Will you cut that out?

Paul kept chuckling to himself. I can't help it, he guffawed. When I think how you stole Angie away from that punk Carmody, it just gets me right here. He thumped his chest while grinning at Bob. And just think--if you hadn't taken Angie away from him, now it'd be HIM instead of you up all night with a little tyke. He started to laugh uncontrollably. When I think of all that, I just can't help myself. The idiot was nearly choking.

No more privacy than a goldfish in a bowl! growled Bob as he snatched up his pants and shoes and went to finish dressing in the empty shower room.

Hey, Bob! called out the still laughing officer. Captain Potch wants to see you right away. What've you done this time--deflate his car tires? He ducked--still laughing--as Bob stuck his head out the side of the shower room and threw a bar of soap at him.

CHAPTER TWO

What took you so long? asked Captain Potch as Bob came into his office. Seeing the circles under Bob's eyes, he added, I expect my officers to be prompt, whether they've had any sleep or not!

Yes sir, responded Bob smartly, while commencing to call the Captain every name in the book in the privacy of his mind.

And you can stop all those nasty thoughts you're thinking about me, said the Captain, making Bob blink. We’ve got work to do.

Nasty things I was thinking, sir? asked Bob, trying to make his voice sound innocent.

Don't play games with me, Steele, said the Captain as he gave him a sharp look. He suddenly leaned over and shoved a photo across his desk toward the junior officer. Do you know that man?

Bob looked down at the picture, and his heart sank. It showed a scruffy looking character that Bob saw every day on his beat. He was one of many street bums who made the downtown sidewalks his home. This fellow slept at night with a thin, blue blanket pulled over him while lying under a heat vent that spewed warm air out of an office building. The picture had perfectly captured the life-weary, deadish look in the eyes of the man, which was so typical of the panhandlers and outcasts Bob dealt with every day. The man's clothes were shabby and nondescript, his hair looked like it had been cut by one of his tramp buddies with a pair of broken scissors, and a scar shadowed one eye. It was obvious the bum had wasted his life on drugs, and what was left of his mind only gave him enough gumption to beg for pennies from passersby every day.

Yeah, I've seen him, said Bob grumpily. Spends most of his time on Broadway, next to Main. The heat vent in the old Penrod Building keeps him warm at night. He looked up sharply at the Captain. What's up?

So you've seen him, said the Captain raising an eyebrow at Bob. But I asked if you KNEW him. What's his name? Where did he come from? What's his story?

Bob shrugged. Beats me, he said simply. I don't keep track of all the bums on my beat. There's too many. I know the names of a few, like Skwiggy and Ingrid and Malory. But this guy never talks, at least that I can recall. Just sits on the sidewalk with a cup in front of him and looks like he's about to die. Tends to get more coins by making himself look that way.

The Captain grunted. Don't have much compassion for panhandlers, do you?

Not much, said Bob truthfully. From my experience they’re just a bunch of losers or con artists. Like Ingrid, up on South Capital Street. She makes herself look poor, but did you know she owns a little condo? Goes there every night to sleep. Must make enough from panhandling to pay her mortgage payments.

The Captain smiled faintly. With more than 30 years of police experience, he knew the truth of what Bob was saying. Yet it was this same vast experience of dealing with endless, insurmountable problems that had caused him to develop an impatient nature--making his officers call him a variety of names behind his back, such as 'Old do it yesterday,' or 'get it done before I even THINK it.'

I'm not asking about Ingrid, he said through gritted teeth. I'm asking about this man. We've got to pick him up today and take him to the office of Bill Spell, of Spell, Brady and Watkins.

The big law firm? said Bob in surprise. THAT Bill Spell?

That's right, answered the Captain. He wants a positive ID on this bum. Probably has a client who got ripped off by him. Blanche is getting the bum’s fingerprints from the main file right now and a print kit, so we can take them with us.

Why doesn't Spell just call in a complaint like everybody else, then come in and identify his man in a line up? asked Bob grumpily.

The Captain smiled in an unfriendly way. Don't know much about lawyers, do you? he said curtly. To them, everything is time and money. Rather, time to them IS money. Easier to make us bring this character to his office, and save himself an hour of precious time.

So, why do we do it? asked Bob. Even if he is a lawyer, he can't order us around and make us lose OUR valuable time.

True enough, admitted the Captain, turning to pull a file out of the cabinet in his office. But it just so happens that Spell's firm provides a number of volunteer prosecutors to the courts--

Say no more, said Bob with a knowing smile. We want convictions to keep troublemakers off the streets, so we do what we have to, to keep the prosecuting lawyers that GET the convictions happy.

Exactly, said the Captain, tossing a file in front of Bob. There’s the details on our man, from what past officers have found out. Read it quick, then meet me at my car in five minutes. And bring your cuffs, so we can take our man straight to jail from Spell's law office. The Captain walked swiftly out of the room, his mind already on other things as he barked orders at his secretary.

I always have my cuffs with me! called Bob after him, offended that the Captain would even mention bringing them. But of course he knew that some officers (like that blasted Carmody) were not as diligent in carrying full ordinance as they should be.

Curiously, Bob picked up the manila envelope that contained the known life details of the bum they were about to pick up and take to Spell's office. He grunted as he read the few papers it contained. Malcolm File, age unknown, but guessed to be about forty. Origin unknown, although probably an American by birth. He had appeared in the city some years ago, and finding a good sidewalk spot to his liking had simply stayed, rather than go to the shelter which offered free food and a bed. He had no known family or relations, no occupation, and only a small backpack containing all his worldly goods. About a year ago he had somehow obtained a dog, which the file said always sat faithfully by his side, day or night, although Bob couldn't recall taking any notice of it. It was said to be a pitiful mongrel, no doubt a stray, but Malcolm had somehow finagled a city dog license to keep it. Apparently the dog talked more than the bum did, and indeed it was conjectured in the file that the drugs that had unquestionably ruined Malcolm's life and destroyed his mind had somehow taken most of his ability to communicate. No one had ever been able to get more than a few partially coherent words out of him.

That was it. The sum total of a man's life, on two or three measly papers in a file. The reference to past drug use told it all, of course. Blast that Jim Brennan! muttered Bob under his breath. Because of him, losers like this Malcolm get messed up for life.

Jim Brennan was the city's number one drug boss. So far the police had been unable to get any solid evidence on him, but everyone knew what he was up to. Hundreds of lives had been destroyed or snuffed out because of the drugs he pedaled. He lived in a million dollar home in the hilltop avenues, looking down on the city streets where his victims wasted out their lives.

Bob rubbed his eyes and moaned to himself as he turned and walked out of the office. He had problems enough of his own, without worrying about Jim Brennan or the druggies and bums on his beat. Like how to not only stay awake but be alert after a night of spit up and almost no sleep.

Easier and better to just take all the emotion out of his job, and view the street bums as mere objects he had to deal with as part of his job.

CHAPTER THREE

They found Malcolm File at his usual spot, under the heat vent protruding out of the Penrod Building. His worn blue blanket was pulled completely over his head, and he appeared to still be sleeping. From the dog tail protruding from beneath the blanket it was obvious the mutt Malcolm kept was hidden under the little blanket/tent as well.

Captain Potch held back, allowing Bob to step up and do his duty. Bob gently prodded the still figure with his shoe, and said, C'mon, File. Time to wake up. There was no response. Bob prodded deeper and with a bit more vigor this time. Hey, buddy, wake up. This is the police. We need to talk to you.

A sudden growl from under the blanket made Bob take a quick step backward. A furry head popped out from under the blanket, ears back and fangs barred. Bob stared in surprise for a moment, not knowing whether to laugh or be frightened. The silly little animal was hardly bigger than a cat, and in spite of its fangs looked about as scary as a bowl of wet noodles. The dog barked with a shrill little sound that made him sound even less menacing. Bob smiled.

The blanket stirred and from underneath it came the mumbled words, Ploto, debo plyt. Bob scratched his head, trying to figure that one out. A scruffy, unshaven head suddenly emerged from under the blue blanket. Malcolm stared at the two officers with bleary eyes. It was hard to tell if his vacant stare was from still being half asleep, or whether the drugs that had taken so much of his mind made him always look that way. Blaf gadneek? said Malcolm, incomprehensively.

You need to come with us, said Bob, stepping forward to help the bum to his feet. The little dog snarled, but Bob just ignored it. Perhaps realizing his bluff wasn't working, the mongrel merely sniffed around Bob's feet and started wagging his tail. Then it began licking Bob's shoe. Looking down, Bob saw that the little furball was cleaning up a patch of baby spit-up deposited on the shoe by Bob junior. The poor mutt was probably half starved.

C'mon, buddy, on your feet, said Bob as he took an arm and slowly raised Malcolm from the sidewalk. The bum staggered wildly, then leaned heavily against the Penrod Building to keep his balance. Durlang slat? asked Malcolm, looking at Bob curiously.

Whatever you say, replied Bob. He shook his head, partly in pity and partly in disgust. How on earth could anyone actually sleep on that stone-hard, cold sidewalk all night? It looked about as comfortable a resting place as a pile of rocks.

Then Bob smiled suddenly. As tired as he was from being up all night with Bob junior, he was sure HE could manage it!

But of course there was no opportunity to find out. Gotta come with us, fella, he told Malcolm while he hastily folded up the mangy blue blanket, and picked up the bum's time-worn backpack lying on the ground.

Wur dneed? asked Malcolm curiously. Then for no apparent reason he pointed to his wrist. Bob was surprised to see that the bum was wearing a Mickey Mouse watch. It looked old and scuffed, and the time was wrong. 'Probably stole it not long ago,' Bob thought to himself.

Malcolm pressed one of the buttons and to Bob's surprise music came suddenly from the watch. M-I-C … K-E-Y … M-O-U-S-E … it sang, repeating the opening words from the age-old Mickey Mouse Club theme song. Mickey Mouse! Mickey Mouse! the watch spewed nonsensically. Then it stopped abruptly.

Unbidden to Bob's mind came the image of himself and Angie on their honeymoon at Disneyland, riding the bobsleds. Bob smiled as he looked at Malcolm File. The panhandler looked about as un-Disneyish as it was possible for anyone to look. Although now