Vicky Banning

Vicky Banning

By Allen McGill

Published by
JMS Books LLC

Visit
jms-books.com
for more information.

Copyright 2013 Allen McGill

ISBN 9781935753704

Cover Design:
Written Ink Designs
| written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All
rights
reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the
United States of America
.

* * * *

Vicky Banning

By Allen McGill

Vicky Banning, now seventy-three, made her grand entrance into the world during the tenth year of the 20
^th
Century.

Sprightly and independent she, at the moment, is bored to a tizzy. After a frenetic year of flitting about the jazz clubs of New Orleans, topped by the near-sleepless week of Mardi Gras—when she’d nearly been arrested for impersonating a policeman in “undercover drag”—she’d decided to “cool it” for a while.

She’d moved into Seniors’ Sanctuary, a posh retirement home in eastern Pennsylvania housing scores of others, whom she referred to as the “Methuselah Mob,” or the “geriatric gang,” as it suited her. The problem was that her housemates didn’t suit her at all. It seemed that whenever they spoke it was only to whine about their aches and pains, complain about the Sanctuary (which was excellent), or moan about the distance of their families.

Vicky kept her aches and pains to herself, and most of her family lived in
California
, which suited her quite well. They took care of each other and she took care of herself, which was the way she wanted it. The birthday and Christmas cards they sent were company enough; contact without responsibility.

Vicky had been born in 1910. Though she thought about death occasionally, and was not looking forward to it certainly, she wasn’t afraid of it either. It would be an adventure, she felt, not the long, restful sleep the mortuary ads insisted it was. Hell, she’d had so much rest during one period of her life that she’d been ready to climb walls!

Heaven, if there really was such a place, was where she was headed; she was sure about that. Her God wasn’t petty and certainly wouldn’t condemn her for the few peccadilloes she’d committed as a young woman. So, her future set, she felt free to pass her later years however she pleased.

Seated on a straight-backed chair in the shade of the veranda, Vicky glanced to the right, at her new “roomies.” Rocking gently on their scoop-bottomed chairs, they reminded her of antique toys: faded, worn, springs running down, preparing to stop. As some tilted forward, others tilted back, each in a dull cadence, in constant motion, going nowhere, marking time.

God!
thought Vicky.
If I don’t find something to do soon, I’ll become as dotty as they are!
Leaning forward, she arose gracefully from her chair, flounced her flowery dress, and crossed to the railing. Shunning the banister, she skipped down the steps and, with a smile to her housemates, sauntered along the path to the street.

Maybe I’ll go get drunk
, she thought.
Or pick up a man on the street.
She giggled to herself, knowing she was being silly. She’d never liked the taste of liquor and strangers didn’t interest her—of course, it depended on how “strange” they were, and in what way.

Spring breezes swept her along the path until she reached the sidewalk, then turning right, she scurried off behind the tall hedges, out of view of the “rockers.” She waited patiently until a car came by and flagged it down.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the driver, a young man with the hazy stubble of a new beard, called across the passenger seat to her. He was driving a ramshackle heap of indeterminate origin and looked more at home in it than he would in any room.

“Could you give me a lift to
Main Street
?” she asked with her most grandmotherly smile.

“You’re hitching?” the man said with a surprised chuckle.

“I’m hitching,” replied Vicky and, opening the door, slid inside. “You wouldn’t expect an old lady to walk all the way to the shops, would you?”

“Oh,
er
, of course not, ma’am,” the young man answered, driving off. “At your service. What shops are you headed for?”

Vicky thought for a moment, then grinned. “Well, I’m not really going to a
shop
,” she said. “Actually, I’m looking for a
dealer
.”

“What kind of dealer?”

“Grass.”

“You mean like grass seed?”

“No, like in pot, marijuana. You know.”

The car screeched to a halt.

“Lady, are you kidding? You’re a doper?”

Vicky sat primly facing forward, her hands resting lightly on her large purse.

“Oh, I enjoy
toking
on a joint now and then,” she said. “But now I just want to whip up a batch of cookies for the folks I live with. Do you know where I can score?” She turned to face him and nearly erupted with laughter at his gaping mouth.

“Well?”

The young man’s head jerked spastically. “
No
!” he blurted. “I’m not into that sort of thing. And you shouldn’t be either. Lady, don’t you know that stuff can be dangerous?”

“Sonny,” said Vicky, “at seventy-three years of age, I should start worrying now?”

“But you could get arrested.”

“Don’t be silly. Who’d believe a little old lady like me was a pothead? You sure you don’t know of a dealer?”

“
No,
lady! I
swear
!”

Vicky looked disappointed. “Oh, well, let’s get going then. I’ll just have to cruise around on foot until I connect.”

They drove in silence to
Main Street
, the young fellow glancing sideways at Vicky from time to time. When they arrived, Vicky stepped out, closed the door, and leaned into the open window. “It’s a good thing you answered me the way you did, sonny,” she said with all seriousness.

“Sonny” looked confused and asked “Why?”

Vicky grinned slyly. “Because I’m with the vice squad, narcotics division, that’s why. This old-lady getup is just a disguise. Now, take off and keep your nose clean.”

Tires squealed as the car streaked across
Main Street
, nearly ramming the rear of a red Volkswagen that had the right of way.

That’ll teach him to pick up hitchhikers
, she thought, suppressing a giggle. She turned to amble along the street, glancing into the shop windows and stopping now and again to admire a dress or a piece of jewelry, when an idea came to her. Unsnapping her bag, she removed the bills from her change purse and transferred them to her bra.

The gift shop had few customers, so Vicky browsed freely, rejecting the offer of assistance by the salesgirl. She perused the greeting cards, priced the glassware, then asked to see the
Hummel
figurines in the glass showcase behind the counter.

She decided on the figure of a little girl holding an umbrella, but waited until the salesgirl left to assist two women who had entered before slipping it into her purse. She started toward the door.

“Just a minute, Madam,” she heard the salesgirl call. “I saw what you did!” she shouted loudly. A man, probably her husband, rushed from the back of the store.

“
What’s up
?”
he asked.

“This lady just stole a
Hummel
,” the girl said, her voice shaky.

The man glared down at Vicky and extended his hand. “Let’s have it,” he ordered.

Vicky fumbled with her bag, letting her lips quiver, tears fill her eyes. On cue, her thin shoulders trembled pathetically. “I’m sorry,” she said, with as tremulous a voice as she could muster, and handed him the figurine.

“We should call the police,” the man said gruffly. “You’re a thief!”

The “should” assured Vicky that she was safe, but since her act was going so well she decided to carry it through. She gasped, as if shocked to the core by his unkind words, her free hand fluttering to her heart. “Oh, please,” she cried. “Don’t call the police. My family would have me put away. I only took it for my granddaughter. She’s in the hospital—a rare blood disease. And I don’t have enough money to send her a gift. This month’s welfare check is gone already. Look”—she reached into her bag and removed her change purse, shaking the coins inside—“here. Take all the money I have. Just please don’t call the police.” Her speech over, she let the tears cascade down her frail cheeks, before hiding her face in her trembling hands.
That ought to clinch it
, she thought.

“Oh, the poor dear,” she heard a woman say. It was one of the customers. Vicky had been concentrating so hard on the front row audience, she’d forgotten about the standees. “Mr. Johnson,” the voice continued, “may I see you for a moment?”

“You wait here,” Mr. Johnson ordered and walked away with the customer.

After a few minutes, Vicky was wishing he’d hurry back. Sobbing was
tiring
. But she managed to keep it up until he returned.

“You’re very lucky,” he said. “These kind ladies have offered to pay for the figurine you…borrowed.”

Vicky was startled; she hadn’t expected that. She looked up at the middle-aged women standing at a distance, saw their charitable smiles, the sympathetic tilt of their blue-coiffed heads.
Probably think this will get them into heaven
, she thought.
They should be thanking me
! “God bless you all,” she gushed tearfully. “My granddaughter will be so happy.”

Mr. Johnson boxed the
Hummel
, slipped it into a bag, and handed it to her. She clasped it to her heart, projecting overwhelming emotion. “Thank you. Thank you all. I know I can get this to her in time. I’ll mail it…as soon as I can save the money for postage.”

* * * *

Vicky scanned the movie posters outside the theater, the package pressed tightly to her chest. Holding it with one hand, she reached inside the front of her dress to remove the half-dozen marking pens that she’d dropped inside when no one was looking. They’d started shaking loose during her sobbing jag and she’d had to hold on to them the whole rest of the time. She dropped them into her bag, removed the change purse and “postage money,” added the
Hummel,
and snapped it shut.

Now, what next?
she wondered. Standing in the shade of the marquee, she scanned the row of shops across
Main Street
, as the early-show crowd began streaming from the theater. She’d thought of stopping in for an hour or so, but she’d noticed that the film was rated R and therefore didn’t interest her. Bare behinds were cute, but vulgar language did not a movie make. Television might be inane, but it was usually much more prudent.

As the swarm thinned out, Vicky spied a torn ticket stub on the ground and stopped to pick it up, a smile creeping along her lips. She crossed the street, entered Ye
Olde
Tea Shoppe and settled herself at a gingham-covered table near the window.

When the gray-haired waitress with a frilly apron took her order with such a delighted smile, Vicky began to have doubts about the place. Anyone who could get that turned on by a cup of tea and a club sandwich was not at all well.

The sandwich was good, though, loaded with the mayonnaise and bacon that would give the Sanctuary dieticians a stroke just by hearing about them. After a second cup of tea, rested, she braced herself and motioned for the check.

“Smiley” delivered it and stood, waiting.

“Oh, my
goodness
!” Vicky cried, digging into her purse. “My
money.
It’s
gone
!” She looked up in time to see the lips close over suspiciously white teeth and an eyebrow arch upwards.

“Beg pardon?” the waitress asked with a decidedly icy tone.

“My change purse,” Vicky explained in a quivering voice. “It’s gone. I must have lost it.”

Smiley slapped her book of checks on the table. “Hey, Ginny,” she called, turning. “We got another old-lady stiff here.”

A cold, hard lump expanded within Vicky’s chest. Her hands began to tremble. Apparently, Ye
Olde
Tea Shoppe was not going to be Ye
Olde
Pushover.

Ginny, a large woman, older than the waitress, thundered toward the table. Her face was one large frown. “What’s going on here?” she demanded in a bass voice that
Ezio
Pinza would have coveted.

“This ‘sweet little old lady’ has lost all her money,” Smiley said with full sarcasm. “Isn’t it funny how often that happens nowadays?”

“Hilarious,” Ginny growled. She moved to hover over Vicky like a drill sergeant on a raw recruit. “Open your bag and empty it on the table.”

Vicky hesitated, began to cower under the mass of flesh—only part of it an act. The bills were secure in her bra, she knew, but her purse was private. No one had the right to pry into it. The indignity, the—