Playing The Rolls
By  Bill Bernico

The long black Rolls Royce limo pulled off of State Highway 86 and onto the dirt road.  It lumbered along at a respectable fifteen miles per hour for a couple of minutes and stopped when the road branched out in a fork.

Clayton Bookman pressed the button that opened the partition between his compartment and the driver’s and leaned forward.  He studied the road for a few seconds and turned to his chauffeur.

“Reginald, I think the left branch is the way to go,” he said, pointing out the windshield past the driver’s head.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Reginald said, “but it’s the right branch.”

Clayton Bookman gave his hired man a puzzled look.  “You’re sure?”

“Quite, sir,” he said.  “The note was quite explicit.  I do hope Mrs. Bookman hasn’t been too uncomfortable.”

“Very well, then Reginald.  Drive on.”  Bookman sat back and pushed the button that raised the glass again.  He was a distinguished looking man in his early seventies with pure white hair and a healthy build.  He had on a three- piece charcoal suit with a bright blue tie spilling out of the front.  His hair was neatly combed and quite short.

Reginald was a pleasant looking man of sixty-eight with the body of a forty-year-old.  His hair was still dark, what was left of it, anyway.  It formed a near perfect semi-circle around the back of his head.  He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black tie and a cap with a short visor.  His shoes were shiny black leather wing tips.  He looked every part the proper chauffeur.  He’d been Clayton Bookman’s personal servant since he was twenty-seven.  Before that his father had the job.

In a few minutes the Rolls came to a stop and the rear door opened.  Reginald stood holding the door open for his employer and Bookman emerged carrying a large, chocolate brown brief case.  The chauffeur took the brief case from Bookman.

Fifty yards ahead lay a cabin whose roof sported a hole probably twelve feet around.  The remaining shingles looked as though they might blow away with the next breeze.  There was what used to be a porch hanging precariously from the front of the building.  All that remained was a partial railing and an unstable platform.  The steps leading up to the front door might hold the weight of a squirrel, providing he didn’t have his cheeks full of nuts.

Reginald stepped up and over the rickety stairs and held his hand out to his boss.  Bookman took his hand and pulled himself carefully up onto the porch.  The two men stopped at the door and looked at each other.  Bookman nodded.

Reginald grabbed the doorknob and twisted.  The door opened with the creaking squeal that the rusty hinges provided.  Once inside, Reginald stood to one side of the door, his hand inside his coat.

Seated at a dusty table were two men.  Joe Dagistino was in his late sixties and looked weather worn and rough.  His face was tan and full of wrinkles and his hands were covered by black leather driving gloves.  He had on a blue jean vest over a black leather jacket.

The other man seemed to be in charge.  He was dressed in logger’s boots, jeans and a black and red plaid shirt, open at the neck.  Jonathan Hoppert appeared to be seventy or so and his white hair fluffed up in the back and ended in a creative swirl on top of his head.  With a glance and a nod, his partner took his place near another door that led to a room at the back of the cabin.

Clayton stepped forward and held the briefcase out in front of him.  Hoppert took the case and laid it on the table between them.  He snapped his fingers and Dagistino popped the two catches and lifted the lid, exposing stacks of bound bills.

“It’s all there,” Clayton said.

“It better be, ya bastard, Bookman.  If it ain’t, yer dead meat.  Boat uh yas.”

“Just return Evelyn to me and we’ll leave. There’ll be no trouble,” Bookman said.

“Joe,” Hoppert said, “take the ol’ man in back.”

Joe opened the door and swung his arm inward pointing the way.  Bookman walked over to the doorway and peered in at his wife, who was bound and gagged and seated on a wooden chair.  He rushed in and pulled the gag from her mouth.

“Get me out of here,” Evelyn Bookman screamed at her husband.

“Darling,” Bookman said, “what did they do to you?  Are you all right?”

“Just get me loose,” she said.  “This place is absolutely ghastly.  I want to go home this instant.”

Bookman untied his wife and the two of them exited the back room.  Reginald had his gun out and was pointing it at the other two men.

“Is your Mrs. all right, Mr. Bookman?” he said.  “Do you want me to take care of these two vermin?”

“No” Bookman said.  “Mrs. Bookman is fine.  Leave them.  They’ll have to answer to a higher power someday.”

Jonathan Hoppert snapped the briefcase shut and nodded politely to his guests.  “We gotta do dis again soon.  It’s been a real scream, Doll.  Too bad we didn’t have more time.  You’da liked me.”  He winked at the woman and licked his lips.

Evelyn Bookman looked back at her captors, “Hmmmpf.”  She snapped her chin upward and left the room.  Reginald helped her off the porch and into the back of the Rolls.

“Next time I see you, I shall call the authorities,” Bookman said.  He looked back at the limo.  Reginald was waiting with the rear door open.  He backed out of the room and out to the car.  In an instant they were gone.

Joe Dagistino looked over at Hoppert and smiled.  Hoppert smiled back and soon the two were laughing out loud.

“Geeze, that was fun,” Hoppert said.  “Did you see the look on Evelyn’s face when he untied her?”

“Yes,” Dagistino said, “that Reginald makes a good ‘heavy’, don’t you think, Mr. Hoppert?”

“Indeed.  Next time we get to be the good guys.”

The two laughed some more and carried the briefcase out around the back of the cabin where they got into their Rolls Royce convertible and drove back to Bel Air.

Reginald piloted the limo off the dirt road and back onto the state highway.  He pushed the button and lowered the glass partition and leaned back, keeping his eyes on the road.  He talked out of the corner of his mouth to the two occupants in the back seat.

“Some fun, eh Mr. Bookman?” he said.

Clayton and Evelyn Bookman lifted their glasses of Champaign and toasted.  “To the AARP,” he said, drinking from his glass.

“Yes,” Evelyn said, “to the Action-Adventure Roll Players club.  Next time we get to be the bad guys.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Reginald said.

“Just keep your eyes on the road, Reginald.