The Spy's Little Zonbi by Cole Alpaugh Read Free Book Online Page A

the descriptions circulating the newsroom was that Limp could make a rabid timber wolf feel awkward and slink off to the other side of the ponderosa until the coast was clear. Limp mostly sported striped seersucker slacks with vivid thong panties he flashed at inappropriate moments. His recent marriage to an eighty-five-year-old woman forty years his senior seemed to provide a treasure trove of new material. He was quick to show off honeymoon snapshots to anyone brave enough or too slow to get away—images of Speedos, thongs, and horribly wrinkled skin.
    â€œ Lord have mercy, you’re the spittin’ image of that sixties boy-band leader.” It was the first thing he said to Chase. “My name’s Limp, but it sure ain’t floppy, you know what I mean?” Then came the pucker of lips and fast wink.
    Chase sat in the passenger seat of Limp’s beat-up Honda Accord. They both had old Nikon FE cameras with 24mm lenses in their laps. Limp said it was all any news photographer worth a damn needed. If something happened far away, you strolled in closer. If you were too close, then you stepped back. A motor drive was made for wasting film and creating more work in the darkroom.
    â€œ One at a time,” Limp said. “You squeeze ’em off real slow, one at a time, just like ripe pimples.”
    The odometer read 299,962 miles and Limp claimed to have a bottle of Cold Duck in the back hatch to celebrate the 300K mark.
    As they cruised the shaded road along Salisbury City Park, he said, “I sure do like breaking in the new boys.”
    Chase could hear the peacocks and other exotic birds echoing up from the small Salisbury Zoo, which took up most of the land adjacent and east of the city park. The zoo and park were sliced in half by Beaverdam Creek, where the slow-moving water was layered with feathers from black-necked swans, great blue herons, pigeons, bald eagles, and seagulls. Gulls were so ubiquitous that one had been named the mascot of the local college sports teams at Salisbury State. The maroon and gold were led onto the various sporting fields and courts by a trotting Sammy the Seagull.
    As a gentle breeze spun the feathers on the muddy creek in slow circles, Limp pulled up to a spot in front of an ivy shrouded split-rail fence. The small parking area divided the city park from the zoo. Limp explained it was his old standby spot for easy feature pictures.
    â€œ Just like a good fishin’ hole when you were a tan and frisky ten-year-old boy. You knew right where to go when the mood struck you for some twelve-inchers.”
    They sat and took in the view of the late-morning visitors coming and going from the park and zoo. Baby strollers, ten-speeds led by the handlebars, and dogs tugging on their leashes—all possibilities, Limp explained, but not interesting enough unless he was on a tight deadline and needed to fill space quickly.
    â€œ I use a special rating system.” Limp sat back in the driver’s seat and adjusted the camera in his lap. “Feature pictures run from one to three, like you were giving stars for a restaurant critique. One would be a kid throwing a Frisbee. Nothing more than some little honey pie with a nice expression. I’ll get his name, age, and town, then write up a caption back at my desk. Mack might complain but run it anyway. If I get a shot of the kid being hit in his little angel face with the Frisbee, I might rate it a two—if you can still see his expression and all.”
    â€œ So what makes a three?”
    Limp paused to add something to the scene. “That’s when the boy’s dog is chasing the Frisbee and runs into him just as the disc bounces off his precious noggin’. If I captured the mid-air collision, eyes wide and scared, with the dog, boy and Frisbee in the frame, then bingo, that’s definitely a three.”
    Limp continued, “But if the boy gets hurt, then you might be screwed. A shot of a kid