Intuition by T.M. Bemis

David Crumb’s life had become a nightmare.  In the space of a month, he’d lost his girlfriend, lost his job, blown through his savings and maxed out his credit cards.  The rent was overdue, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to find the locks changed when he returned to his apartment.  The car was making noises and low on gas, and all he had left in the world was the chrome-plated revolver under his arm, which he would soon have to pawn to keep himself in peanut butter and jelly for a few more days.  Then, as he sat stopped at a traffic light, some doofus behind him had hit the horn the moment it changed.  Then he hit the horn again,  and leaned on it this time.  Crumb went to pieces.  Throwing his car in park, he jumped out to confront the other driver.  He wasn’t about to shoot anybody, but if he could make this clown soil his Pampers, that’d be just fine.

            The guy was cursing now with his head out the window.  Bug-eyed and red as a lobster, he looked ready to explode.  “Get out of the way, you dirtbag!  I’m in a hurry!”

            Crumb drew even with him and looked inside.  A woman lay bound and gagged on the rear seat.  Before he had time to draw his weapon, there was another one stuck in his face.  He jerked sideways a split second before it went off.  Then he was setting a land speed record back to his own car.   The door was open, and he jumped behind it for cover as the stranger fired again.  And again.  Crumb discovered interestingly that, unlike in the movies, car doors for real were not in fact bulletproof, as a round came through only inches from his nose, then another one even closer.  The third one may have parted his hair, but he couldn’t be sure.  By this time he had his own gun in hand, but in order to shoot back he would have to expose himself, which seemed like a bad idea.  Then there were all kinds of sirens and screeching tires and more gunshots, and the next thing he knew there was a policeman standing beside him with yet another gun, this one pointed at the other guy. 

            Presently, the cop holstered his weapon and spoke to Crumb.  “Whew,” he said, “that was close.”  His eyes fell to the silver revolver.  “You got a permit for that?”

            The press conference was held on an outdoor stage at the Town Hall park.  It was well attended.  There were satellite trucks from the leading companies, and reporters from every news outlet within fifty miles.  The park had never seen such a turnout, and would need to recover from all the damage done to the heretofore pristine spread of benches, grass, flowers and bushes.  The central flagpole, however, constructed of the finest aluminum, would escape unscathed.  As with any such event, this one had been a magnet for people who wanted to see their mugs on TV, which meant that press and peon alike were regaled with the trenchant observations of minor officials, local wags, and even a rabbi who, presiding at a Bas Mitzvah next door, managed to find time to say a few words. 

            The crux of the matter, explained first by an FBI spokesman, and then by the chief of police, was that Crumb had interrupted the flight of one Lazlo Loomis, who was in the process of shifting his kidnap victim, Amy Van Hassel, daughter of the fabulously wealthy and famous CEO of WhizBang Technologies, from one hideout to another.  While the authorities had devoted massive resources to the case, not least because of the influential nature of the father, they had not succeeded in locating Loomis or the young woman until fate, in the person of David Crumb, had intervened.  The kidnapping had not been the criminal’s sole gig.  He was also wanted for assault, arson, bank robbery, counterfeiting and other offenses in several states and Canada, and had recently attained third billing on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.

            At last came the moment that everyone had been waiting for except Crumb: Crumb’s turn to speak at the podium.  Encouraged by the chief, he stepped to the microphone, shook the long blonde hair from his eyes, and said…nothing. The truth be known, he was shell-shocked by the cameras, the crowd, and quite possibly, low blood sugar (he hadn’t eaten since breakfast). The reporters, being reporters, shouted questions over top of each other to create a impenetrable cacophony. 

            The chief waved his hands for silence. Then he selected one of them.  “Are you in law enforcement, Mr. Crumb?” asked the reporter.

            “Uh, no.  I’m currently unemployed.  I—I was a siding mechanic.  And a roofer.  A darned good one, too.  But I fell off a ladder one day and hurt my back, and the company fired me—”

            “Why did you have a gun?”

            The chief spoke to that.  “Mr. Crumb is an enthusiastic target shooter.  He has a valid permit, totally legal.”

            “How did you know where Loomis would be?” yelled another.

            All eyes went to Crumb, who had to think about that for a minute.  “Uh—intuition,” he said finally.  “I just had a hunch.”

            A woman reporter asked, “Are you excited about the reward?”

            Crumb looked flummoxed.  “Reward?”

            Again the chief jumped in.  “That hasn’t been determined yet,” he said.  “We have to confer with all the parties first, and—”

            Another man appeared now, clomping across the boards in cowboy boots, a barrel-chested figure in a custom-tailored, white suit.  He had a thick head of hair to match, fiery blue eyes, an impish grin, and a pink-rose boutonniere.  Behind him trailed a phalanx of young men who looked a lot like Secret Service agents.  At once there were flashbulbs popping and an excited hubbub rolling through the crowd.  “That’s Anton Van Hassel,” hissed someone, referring to the notoriously reclusive and eccentric hi-tech nabob.  He stepped between the two at the podium.  “I think I can answer that query,” he said, in a voice already booming before amplification.  “You bet he gets it.  I promised to pay two million clams to the man who’d rescue my girl, and two million clams it’ll be.  And that’s not all, Dave.  Can I call you Dave?”

            Crumb’s jaw, which had only been prevented from actually hitting the ground by the tenacious restraint of tendons and ligaments, now arranged itself such as to allow him speech.  “Sure,” he said.

            “Fine, fine.  I’d like you to come to work for me at the firm.  We could use a man like you.”

            “To bang on shingles?” asked Crumb, with no hint of irony.  There was laughter among the spectators.

            “Something like that.  We build micro-processors, mostly, but there could be some roof repairs in there, too.   What I’m really after, though, is the intuition part.  That’s a quality you don’t find too much these days.  And guts, of course, you’ve got that in spades.  Heck, you’re even kind of handsome, in a rough sort of way.  I wouldn’t mind having you for a son-in-law, providing my daughter’s game.”   He looked around him, now, behind and to either side.  Then he yelled, “AMY!  Come on out here!”  A door in the building opened, and a woman emerged in a slinky golden dress with stiletto heels to match.  As she approached them, it took a moment for Crumb to realize that this was the same one he’d seen in jeans and a sweatshirt, trussed in the back of the getaway car.  Her honey-colored hair was on top of her head, now, except for a pair of wisps on either side of a very pretty face. 

            “What do you think, darling?” said Van Hassel.  “Is he worth a spin?”

            Amy blushed.  “You’ll have to forgive my father,” she told Crumb.  “He’s always trying to pair me off—”

            “And what about you, Dave?  Does she fit the bill?”

            Crumb looked from one to the other.  “Can’t really say, sir.  I think I might be dreaming.”

            “Perfect.  Your first test.  Whip some intuition on it, and let me know the result.” 

            Crumb was nonplussed.  Then he had an idea.  Very deliberately, he stepped closer to the young woman and gently put his arms around her.  She did not resist.  Then he kissed her on the lips, and the reporters went wild.  The world was lost for an instant in a flurry of blinding lights.  Finally, Crumb let go of her and turned to face Van Hassel. “I’m happy to report that it’s not a dream, sir.”

            The nabob shook his hand.  “Glad to hear it,” he said.  “Call me Dad. ”  

T. M. Bemis is a writer from the Hudson Valley.  His stories have appeared in numerous publications, some of which can be found with a Google search of T. M. Bemis.  Others are lurking at HTTP://TMBemis.com. Hobbies include dusting, daydreaming, and trick shots using a mirror.