The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission by Raymond Klein (good books to read for women TXT) 📗

Trent shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his knuckles on the screen door, being careful not to knock it off its hinges. The knock got an almost instant response. They could hear heavy footsteps on the hardwood floors from within. The heavy thumps grew closer and closer, when suddenly, the front door was wrenched open. “What do you want?”

Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan took one involuntary step backward. Mrs. Remke was 5 foot 6 inches tall, pudgy, with curlers in her white hair. She was wearing a frumpy housecoat and slippers. A pair of thin, black-rimmed half-moon glasses sat on the tip of her large nose. “Well? Speak up, sonny.”

Trent was silent for a moment. Mrs. Remke’s beady, dark eyes bore into him. “I . . . ah.” He glanced down at the paper in his hands. “Ah, Mrs. Remke, we’re here about the apartment.”

“The what?” she replied. “Oh! The ad in the paper.” Mrs. Remke spoke in a rapid, machine gun like fashion. “It’s been in there for so long, I forgot about it.” She paused for a moment and looked Jeff up and down. He felt slightly violated. “What’s your name?”

“Ah, Jeff Trent.”

“Very well, Mister Trent, with the economy the way it is, I haven’t had many inquiries on the apartment.” She reached behind the door and took something off the wall. “First and last month up front.” She opened the squeaky screen door and stepped out. In her pudgy little hand was a ring of keys. “The rent’s going to be five hundred and I expect it in cash and on the first of every month.” She stopped and looked down at Genghis, just now noticing him for the first time. “Is this animal going to be staying with you?” Genghis raised an eyebrow.

“Well . . . Ah, yes. He’s my . . .”

“And a cleaning deposit of two hundred, also paid up front.” She passed both of them and started to walk down the steps of the porch. “I normally don’t rent to anyone with pets, the filthy things,” Genghis's other eyebrow shot up, “but, times are tough and beggars can’t be choosy.” She stopped and swung around and looked down at Genghis. Genghis felt a cold chill run down his spine. “Is it housebroken?” She then shot her gaze at Trent that bore into him again. He felt the chill too!

Jeff thought back to Le Pot Au Feu and the negative answer he gave the hostess when asked if Genghis was a service dog. He sheepishly said, “Yes! Of course, he is.” Hoping it was the correct answer she was seeking.

She turned and proceeded on. “Very well, Mister Trent.” She then asked over her shoulder, “What’s its pedigree? What do you call it?”

“Oh! He’s a Doberman Pinscher, Mrs. Remke, and his name’s Genghis Khan.”

She led them down to the front gate and without looking back said, “What the hell kind of name is that for a dog?” Genghis thought the same thing. She probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought if his name was John Wayne.

She opened the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Jeff and Genghis followed and damn near walked into her when she stopped dead in her tracks. “Is that a 1959 Ford Thunderbird?” she asked.

“Well, yes. Yes, it is,” Trent said. “We bought an old farm house in the country. Found this auto-mo-bile rusting away in the barn for the last thirty years and thought, ‘Hey, what the hell!’ Let’s restore it back to its original condition and drive it around.” He made steering wheel motions with his hands.

She was quiet for a moment, taking in the vehicle. “My late husband, Charles, God rest his soul,” she said, “he had a 1959 Ford Thunderbird, very similar to this one. Bought it in the late seventies and poured so much money into it getting it restored.” She gazed at the car for a moment more, then turned toward the garage. “It was a piece of shit!”

She led them up the narrow double concrete strips to the garage door. “Hardly ran and leaked oil like a sieve. I made him sell the piece of junk a couple of years later to old lady Thatcher. She was mad as a hatter and thought it was 1959.” She gave a small chuckle. “You should have heard her telling everybody how she bought this brand-new car for a song. Crazy old biddy!”

Mrs. Remke reached down and took a firm grip of the handle of the garage door, twisted it and pulled the door open. The heavy springs took the door up and tucked it toward the ceiling. The single-car garage was sparse and clean, except for two old metal garbage cans on the left next to the side entrance door and an empty workbench on the right. “You should have seen it before I cleaned it out. My late husband Charles had crap everywhere.” She motioned with her chin, “The stairs at the back wall leads to the back door of the apartment. You can use the garage. I don’t want that eyesore parked out front of my house. Lord knows what the neighbors will say.”

She and her guests exited the garage and started to ascend the creaky outside staircase to the apartment. They reached the front door which was directly over the garage door. Two white plastic chairs with specks of grayish green mold growing on them sat to the right of the door.

“Charles built this apartment over the garage about twenty years ago. 'Oh! It’ll pay for itself,' he said,” She started to flip through the keys on the ring. “'Oh! Don't you worry a bit,' he said,” keys jingling as she searched. “'Money in the bank,' he said.” She made a huff sound. “I don’t think we ever made a dime back on this white elephant.”

While Mrs. Remke searched for the key, Jeff looked around the neighborhood. He could see