Little Dogs Talk

George M.D. Cole

Description

From a trucker who likes to export puppies to a politician's dynasty, and fantasies from a nude afternoon – Little Dogs Talk offers short stories and a radio play about power, death, sex and real people.

Little Dogs Talk – Fiction
Short stories & a radio play.

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Social Science
• Sociologie, société et politique

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781456605636
• Langue: English

Extrait

LITTLE DOGS TALK
Short Stories & A Radio Play
Fiction
by George Cole
 


Copyright 2011 George Cole,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0563-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.


 
 
 
From a trucker who likes to export puppies to a politician’s dynasty, and fantasies from a nude afternoon, George Cole’s Little Dogs Talk offers short stories and a radio play about power, death, sex and real people.
The author dedicates his book to Susie, Francine and Spencer – a wonderful family.
 
The Governor is Dead
At the funeral lunch, Judge Patrick Russo took an hour and eight minutes describing the former governor. Fumbling through notes, coughing into the microphone, talking about the late governor’s ‘joy for girls’, it was a direct but not noteworthy sendoff. A rusty, rambling sixty-eight minutes extolling the virtues of everyone from FDR to John Kennedy and Jeannette Rankin (the first and only Montana woman elected to the U.S. Congress).
Somehow the former, now late, Montana Governor Ross Garrett traveled in the company of these great Americans, at least according to Judge Russo.
To the judge’s right, U.S. Senator Thomas Dennison squirmed with obvious distaste and boredom. The senior Montana Senator had known the former governor well. Too well Dennison mused to himself.
Across the room at a separate table, Mel Haines enjoyed the ample outline of Emily’s cleavage and breasts. The Speaker of the Montana House silently thanked God for his newfound physical pleasures. His third wife in 30 years. Speaker Haines leaned toward Emily, his wet mouth touching her ear.
“Emmy can you believe this bullshit?” he said. “It’s time the judge hangs it up. The bastard is still on the bench here.”
Emily Haines allowed her smile to meet her husband’s eyes. Her lingering hand and fingers found comfort on the Speaker’s thigh. Emmy’s fingers slowly crawled up the legislator’s leg to his crotch. A fingernail found the beginning of passion under the cloth of her husband’s Carhartt trousers. Maybe a night in Helena would be a good idea.
Outside a gray overcast met the mid-morning October sky. Winter was just around the corner in Helena and Montana.
Helena’s Catholic Cathedral sits on a small hill some five blocks from Last Chance Gulch, the capital city’s main street. The stone church, built in the late1860s, offered refinement in a rough city where greed and larceny touched most everyone during a three-year gold rush following the Civil War.
Today, the name Last Chance Gulch is still fitting for Helena’s main drag as local retailers attempt to survive an era of Walmart stores and other big boxes. Elsewhere, near Last Chance Gulch, the Montana Club remains the haven for political deals, white collar felonies and too much cheap bourbon. Down the street a Helena watering hole has a convenient trap door in the floor under an ancient oak bar. Thieves, parole violators and errant husbands can make a quick trip under the bar to a dirt crawl space as deputies, collection goons and spurned lovers make a quick inspection tour of the clientele.
Helena is Montana’s capitol city. No city under the big sky can match its history, character and memories.
So, up the hill, the Catholic Cathedral was the fitting site for friend and foe to gather to pay respect to the late Montana Governor Ross Garrett, political leader, husband, father, broadcaster, Democrat, and the state’s first retail politician.
Ross Garrett, 68, died of an apparent heart attack at his home in Billings. The Billings Gazette reported Charlotte Randall-Garrett, his wife of 14 years, was with him when he died. His two daughters from Garrett’s first marriage were expected to be in Billings and Helena to help plan funeral arrangements.
Helena’s Catholic Cathedral was near standing room only thirty minutes before the funeral mass was scheduled to begin. On that October morning it was an issue of being seen and who was next to you. State Democratic Party brokers walked the aisles pressing shoulders, nodding, and leaning into the pews for a quick word. The few Republicans in attendance offered quiet respect and did silent math about the upcoming governor’s race.
The Catholic Church has special currency in Montana politics, especially in the Democratic Party. From Mike Mansfield to Tim Babcock, Judy Martz and Tom Judge; Democrats and Republicans alike have endured masses, fried chicken, and funerals to press the flesh of current and future decision-makers and voters.
At the rear of the church Dr. Charlotte Randall-Garrett stood near the closed casket. The Billings physician and oncologist was unprepared for Ross’ sudden death. The governor’s two daughters Priscilla Garrett and Audrey Thomas stood nearby. All three were conservatively dressed.
Political friends, staffers, the current Republican congressman stopped to speak quietly to the Garrett Family members. Soft words. Gentle words. Labor leader Po Brandt drew smiles from the three women as he shared a vintage Governor Garrett story from his past. Brandt was the one liberal who maintained his support for the Governor to the bitter end.
Governor Garrett’s first wife Arlene chose not to attend the funeral mass. Business in Great Falls had to take priority. Priscilla and Audrey, as before, spoke for their mother.
Monsignor Michael Shay led the procession through the cathedral and to the pulpit. His earlier words to Charlotte Garrett and other members of the family were direct and sincere. Governor Ross Garrett was a good and capable man. Garrett’s political life and legacy had changed Montana forever. Garrett had initiated more change during his two terms as governor than any Montana leader the priest could remember.
Monsignor Shay first met Governor Ross Garrett during an Easter Communion Service attended by some 600 congregants at the cathedral. Father Shay smiled as he remembered the service. Governor Garrett managed to shake at least 25 hands before he shared the sacrificial blood and bread of Christ.
At the funeral mass, Monsignor Shay spoke for 22 minutes. Charlotte Randall-Garrett, daughters Priscilla Garrett, and Audrey Thomas asked the priest for prior approval of his remarks. He agreed. Nineteen changes were made. Still Father Shay was pleased with the eloquent tone of the service.
The funeral message honoring the late Governor Ross Garrett spoke of change and progress. The first American Indian Commission in Montana’s history. More women appointments to state commissions. Active implementation of Montana’s new state constitution, a rare accomplishment in any of the 50 states. A coal severance tax creating a trust fund for education and the future of Montana’s children. An increase by three times in funding for the mentally ill and the disabled. Major increases for the state’s university system. A strong portfolio of environmental protection law. An attempt to increase the minimum wage.
Those attending the funeral were impressed. Impressed either by the choice of selective history or real accomplishment. As the 400 Montanans made their way to fried chicken and the reception in the church basement the state’s Attorney General Bob Wooden caught the eye of Po Brandt. The union organizer and Montana’s legal beagle walked arm-in-arm down the stairs.
As they reached the basement the attorney looked directly at the AFL-CIO leader. Wooden said, “A lot of history was buried today. Many secrets. You know Po, I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch stopped breathing.”
Years earlier….. 1972
It had always been clear that Charlotte Randall would have to take the lead. Even as a child growing up in Tucson, Charlotte knew her life would be defined by what she did. Her actions. No one else.
Her mother would have been a great CEO but like many women in her generation, she first succumbed to marriage then status as a loyal wife and second-class citizen. Charlotte’s memories were of a simple home, creature comforts, a stable middle-class neighborhood, almost silent meals with her family, and a father who demanded most everything on time and at cost.
It was not a simple family environment.
Charlotte Randall lived for life outside her home. For a teenager growing up in Tucson that meant a love for the Southwest Latin culture, close friendships, and an almost perfect academic record at South Tucson High School. Her specialty was science. Charlotte was going to be a medical doctor. Even with high school mentors and advisors encouraging more caution and humility, the young Randall told friends and teachers alike she was on her way to medical school.
After four years and an undergraduate degree from the University of Arizona in Tucson, Charlotte Randall, then 22, was accepted into the College of Medicine at the University of California San Diego. UCSD was a dream campus for the young scholar. Located on the cliffs near La Jolla just above the Pacific, the ocean breezes and Southern California life style offered new freedoms and challenges to Charlotte. She loved what was happening.
Her research and medical classrooms were beyond compare. Each year brought new experiences and professional sophistication. When there was free time Charlotte found friendships and a growing number of men who enjoyed her sense of humor, intellect, and body.
During late afternoons at least twice a week, Charlotte Randall also discovered Black’s Beach, the largest nude beach in North America. Owned by the City of San Diego, the tolerant nude beach was just below the cliffs of Torrey Pines, a twenty-minute walk from the university campus.
A runner, Charlotte would run the mile-long beach often in the nude,