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    Crazy Pete
    Crazy Pete
    Crazy Pete
    Ebook118 pages1 hour

    Crazy Pete

    By Duane L. Ostler

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    About this ebook

    On a dark night in a lonely park in LA, crazy old Pete saves a teenager named Kelly from a suicidal encounter with a street gang. While Kelly initially resists Pete's kindness, he is gradually drawn into the life and service of his unusual mentor--a lifestyle of total concentration on others, and forgetting of himself. But even Crazy Pete has secrets, and one day, with a shock, the boy learns the terrible history of Pete’s past that turned him into the saint he has become ...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDuane L. Ostler
    Release dateApr 25, 2016
    ISBN9781311275783
    Crazy Pete
    Author

    Duane L. Ostler

    Duane L. Ostler was raised in Southern Idaho, and has lived in Australia, Mexico, Brazil, China, Utah, the big Island of Hawaii, and—most foreign of all—New Jersey. He practiced law for over 10 years and has a PhD in legal history. He and his wife have five children and two cats.

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      Book preview

      Crazy Pete - Duane L. Ostler

      CRAZY PETE

      By Duane L. Ostler

      Copyright 2012 Duane L. Oster

      All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed without the express permission of the author.

      The author was formerly identified in prior versions of this book under the pen name E. Reltso.

      Cover art courtesy of El Monte RV Rentals.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

      ONE

      It was dark. The sky was buried in the deep blue-black that comes just after midnight. Shadows covered most areas of MacArthur Park in Central Los Angeles. Many of the few feeble lampposts that dotted the interior of the park were not working, their lights having been knocked out by one of the gangs that intermittently claimed the park as their territory. What few lights still worked cast an eerie, yellowish glow on the ground at their feet, chasing the shadows only a short distance back into the trees. Their light did little more than tease a sense of normalcy out of what everyone knew was deadly territory between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. (and wasn’t too safe even in daylight!)

      A teenage boy was walking across the park. His hair was long and unkempt, and his clothes were shabby. He wore a scowl on his face, and his eyes were dark. He held a knife in his hand.

      He was not alone. Shadows moved beneath the trees. Whispered voices consulted, and many pairs of eyes watched his progress. As he reached the central lamppost in the north part of the park, he stopped and looked around. He could see no one, but knew they were there. He could sense it. He could feel them.

      One by one, they slowly melted out of the darkness. They came from all directions. Some carried knives, others carried clubs or nunchucks. A few carried guns.

      One among them stepped forward. He was a blond youth, in his early twenties. He had a scar stretching from his left ear to his mouth, a relic of a gang fight seven years earlier. His eyes were cold, and shone with contempt for the new arrival. He was carrying a single club in his hands.

      You! he said, calling to the newcomer. Who are you, and what do you want? What gang are you from? You’re in Raven territory, so talk fast before you find a knife between your ribs.

      The newcomer just looked back at him. I’m not from any gang, he said simply. Then he added, So, this is Raven territory ... He looked around at the dozens of young hoodlums who were now surrounding him on all sides. The ravens, eh? he repeated. Then he looked back at the leader. I thought I smelled an odd stench when I entered this park!

      There was a collective gasp of anger, and several in the group stepped forward, their knives and clubs raised to cause lethal damage. Wait! cried their commander, the blond, scar-faced youth. He looked at the newcomer with open disgust. But his look held something else as well. Curiosity.

      You realize, he said slowly, as he walked toward the newcomer, that words like that are likely to lead to a very painful experience for you tonight? He raised an eyebrow at the intruder. It looks like you’re alone. Why would you come here at this hour and say something like that? Who are you?

      Maybe he’s with the police, said a squat, muscle-bound boy to the leader’s left. Maybe he’s got a hidden microphone on him, transmitting everything we say!

      The blond leader looked at the boy who had spoken. Could be, Spike, he said simply. He looked back at the newcomer, then looked past him. With a nod of his head, he said simply, search him.

      Three of the hoodlums rushed up to the newcomer to fulfill their leader’s command. They were not gentle about it either. One of them cuffed the boy across the face with the palm of his hand. Another slugged him below the heart. The third ground his boot heel down the newcomer’ shin, a tactic that usually brought screams of pain from even the toughest of opposing gang members.

      The newcomer made no sound, although tears of pain started up in his eyes. The three searchers quickly checked all of his pockets and potential secret hiding places. They quickly disposed of the knife that was in the newcomer’s hands. They found nothing else.

      Nothin’, said one of the searchers to his leader, shrugging his shoulders. He’s clean.

      The leader advanced until he was only a foot away from the younger boy. Let me repeat, he said slowly, who are you, and why are you here? Who sent you? What were you supposed to find out?

      Nobody sent me, responded the newcomer. And my name doesn’t matter. I just came to find out for myself if the rumors are true.

      Rumors? said the blond leader curiously. What rumors?

      That the leader of the Ravens has a rare kind of smell, replied the younger boy. Kind of like a skunk and a three day old diaper rolled into one! Then he spit in the leader’s face.

      A collective gasp went up from the gang. NO ONE had done anything like that to their leader and lived to tell about it. Some of them started to smile cruelly. They were about to watch someone die. They leaned forward in anticipation …

      Well, well, what a night for a picnic! sang out an unexpected voice behind them. Shocked, the gang turned as one to see who had spoken. A man had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He looked to be around 50 years old, with grey hair surrounding a bald patch in the exact middle of his head. He wore a colorful Hawaiian shirt, and Bermuda shorts. He carried a picnic basket in his hands, which he heaved onto a table that was set directly beneath one of the park lamps.

      The man looked up, blinking through his glasses at the boys all around him. My goodness! I didn’t realize there were so many of you! I hope I brought enough! Do you all like potato salad? He reached into the basket.

      The blond leader of the gang was still wiping the spittle off his face. The veins on his neck were pulsing with barely contained rage at what the newcomer had said and done. But as leader he was smart enough not to start beating the boy with this newcomer watching. That is, not until they found out who HE was, and whether he was with the police—and of course, whether there were more around like him.

      Who are you, old man? said the blond leader softly, walking slowly over to the picnic table.

      Name’s Pete, said the man, producing a chicken drumstick from beneath the cloth that covered his picnic basket, and taking a bite. You like chicken? I’ve got another drumstick here if you want.

      The blond leader brought his club down hard on the table, making the picnic basket jump. I said, who ARE you, old man?! Don’t play games with me! Nobody comes here at this hour for a picnic in the park!

      They don’t? said the man in genuine surprise, blinking at the leader. Why not? This looks like a perfectly good spot to me! Is there a better park around?

      Just then, two boys came running up to the leader. There’s nobody else with him, reported one. Just an RV parked out at the street. No fuzz in sight.

      Blond leader looked back at Pete. You got a hidden transmitter on you, old man? You working for the cops?

      Cops? repeated Pete dumbly. Why would I be? I just came here for a picnic. Thought you fellows might like to join me. He started to rummage around in his picnic basket again. Oh blast it all! he said, still rummaging. Now where did I put it? The leader took a quick step forward and was about to use his club on the old man when the old geezer pulled a very unexpected object from the basket.

      It was a grenade.

      Here it is! said Pete happily. I thought you might like this for starters. He pulled the pin and held it out to the blond leader. Try it! It’s very tasty!

      There was shocked silence in the park. Everyone present could hear the grenade ticking. Blond leader seemed frozen, a rather goofy look of surprise on his face. He obviously did NOT reach out to take the grenade.

      Don’t like this kind? said Pete in surprise. No matter. With hardly a glance, he tossed the grenade in a nearby metal trash can and started rummaging around inside his basket some more. I think I’ve got another one in here that’s a lighter shade of green. Maybe you’ll like that one better.

      Before blond leader could respond, there was a deafening explosion from the trash can as the grenade blew up. The can disintegrated and shards of metal flew through the air. Several in the gang cried out, looking in surprise at bloody gashes that had appeared in various places on their bodies from the shrapnel.

      Here we are! said the old man, completely unmoved. It seemed he hadn’t heard the explosion at all, nor had any of the

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