John Coultas
Copyright © 2012  John Coultas



CONTENTS


Acknowledgments i
1 The Wheel 1
2 The Pantry Pg #
3 Brotherly Love Pg #
4 Fishin’ Pg #
5 Romance on the Telegraph Pg #
6 The Sprite Pg #
7 Birds Pg #
8 Chinese Curse Pg #
9 Quartzsite Christmas Pg #
10 Shorter Fiction Pg #


THE WHEEL


Dinky's tavern was not one of those trendy Manhattan style watering holes. The ambiance was down on its luck: worn carpet, dated leatherette booths, and scarred walnut tables. Dark lighting helped to veil the bars shabbiness. However, Dinky's customers, blue collar guys and low end managers didn't mind. Dinks was broken-in, comfortable, a place for a gent to stretch out his legs, relax with the boys, and of course share a drink.
“Lenny my man, you are first up tonight, the usual?” Dinky called out. The proprietor was not a dinky man, his was one of those names they pinned on a big guy to further accentuate a massive frame. The man consumed most of the space behind the bar as well as a good portion of the oxygen in the room.
As Lenny wove through customers to his assigned booth, he nodded at a few faces he recognized, and grunted to several with whom he had a deeper social relationship. He eased himself into his booth, his corner, his center of the universe. Arms stretched across the top of the booth he was at peace with the world. “Ah.” He sighed as Maddie, Dinky's hostess with the mostest delivered his drink. Her tray held high, she grasped the glass, and with a practiced swoop she bent low delivering the drink to her leering customer. Not one drop of liquid was lost in the presentation. She leaned close allowing gravity to provide her customer with a fleeting glimpse of her well rounded adornments, and deep cleavage. Lenny inhaled, and she smiled with satisfaction. Another good tip secured. She departed, commenting with a salacious grin, “Enjoy the Heine,” And he did as she swung her way back to the bar.
Sipping at his drink Lenny felt the vibration of his cell phone, he pulled it from his inside pocket, checked the number, a client, not now he thought. “Lenny here,” He answered. He listened, nodding in the affirmative. “No problemo, express mail it to you in the morning,” He reassured his customer, emailed himself a note, and flipped the phone closed.
“Still on the clock,” Decker, one of the fellas from the hood taunted as he removed his overcoat and slipped into the booth across from Lenny.
“No!” Lenny insisted, “Well, I hope that's it for the night. Decker scanned the room, “Is it just us?”
“So far,” Lenny said. “Right back, going to the john.” Maddie placed Decker's order in front of him, a cold beer and a frosted glass. “Want I should open it Deck,” She asked. She knew the answer, Decker was a connoisseur. Only he poured his beer. It was a ritual. No one interfered.
“Thanks Maddie, but I got it,” He smiled. As she sauntered away he relaxed, the anticipation was half the joy. Decker twisted off the cap, listened for the hiss of carbonation, pulled the glass close and poured, not straight down; he angled the glass creating a gentle slope, the liquid tumbled, and rolled down without effort. As the glass filled he gently moved it upright, allowing the brew to build a head, but not too thick, just enough to trap the carbonation.
He leaned back, and studied his drink. He held the glass, testing the chill. He observed bubbles effervescing up through the rich amber fluid. It was a dance, a beautiful rhythmic dance. He inhaled the mild bouquet. And now the climax, the fulfillment, the...
“Decker!” A high pitched whine and a nudge to the shoulder, jarring the hand, jerking the glass and sloshing the head and a good part of the beer onto Decker's manicured mustache, and down his chin.  He choked, grasped the glass with both hands and lowered it to the table. His eyes rose to glare at Sanders who was cringing under the unwanted attention. White froth decorated  Decker's facial adornment.
“Man, what's the matter, don't have a good word for a friend.” Sanders inquired. He had difficulty understanding Decker, they were guys from the old neighborhood, looking to have some fun is all. A pat on the back and this guy goes all ballistic. Sanders sat across from Decker who began patting beer off his face with his handkerchief. Sanders grabbed a coaster, and began tapping it on the table, scanning the room for a friendly face.
“Do you have to do that?” Decker nodded to the coaster. He could see that he had put Sanders into one of his funks, a funk that only time, a long period of time at that would heal.
Maddie reappeared, “Sanders, didn't see you sneak in, usual?” She asked. Sanders gave a sullen nod.
Lenny returned, and with a practiced move he gave the hostess a friendly rub on the backside, and slipped into the banquette. Maddie moved in closer to Lenny, she massaging his shoulder. Lenny wrapped his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her hip. “How about another Heineken for me, and Decker seems to have spilled his over there, give Deck a refill on me.”
“Thanks Lenny. And Maddie could I get a cleanup here.” He opened his hands above the beer spill, and shot a look at Sanders.
She rubbed her hip into Lenny as she left. “You boys will be here when I get back?”
“I'm not going anywhere, you going anywhere Sanders?” Sanders frowned back at Lenny. “Eh! There's Frankie.” Lenny pointed with his chin to a young fellow approaching, wearing coveralls and a Yankee's baseball cap.
Frankie and Lenny did a knuckle bump, and then Frankie offered the same to Sanders, who responded with a bland look, and a, “Whatever.” Frankie retrieved his knuckles, and ignored the indifference.
“So Lenny, how's the printing industry? How bout’s I sit inside there.” Lenny stood, allowing Frankie the inside of the booth.
“We do okay. Wall Street keeps us busy.”
“Hey, you guys didn't leave.” Maddie called out as she returned with her tray and four drinks. The guys looked around.
“Who's the fourth for?” Lenny asked.
“Deck, he ran off to the john.” She dropped off the drinks, the guys enjoyed and she smiled. “I'll be back, won't forget you.”
They started there round of drinks as Deck approached.
“So what'a ya think about the Yanks?” Lenny attempted to establish a level of civil discourse with Sanders.
“I don't.” Sanders is mesmerized by the color and bubbles in his drink, he can't take his eyes off the glass. Either that or he was wishing Lenny's immanent departure.
“Sanders how can you not care about the Yanks. Wait a minute you ain’t tellin' me you has gone over to the Mets. Only reason a guy would do that is jus' to be contrary.”
“Lenny, I got more important things on my mind than baseball.” Sanders looked to Lenny and back to the glass.
“Forgive me, for disturbing mister intellectual here.” Lenny, turns to look for the hostess (?). Getting her attention he lifted his empty glass. He eyed Sanders half full beer. “How come you drink that imported, European swill got no taste.” Sanders responded with a shrug as he studied his drink.
“All us guys, we drink Rhinegold. We always drink it. And now's you are drinking that European stuff and you don't follow the Yanks.  I don't know sanders, somehow it just don't seem American.”
Many brought Lenny a refill, he placed his hand on her well rounded butt, giving her a smile. “I'm keeping track Len. I'm expecting a good tip.”
“I'm always good for a tip. I appreciate a good feel.” He gave her a salacious smirk.
“How you do'n there Sanders.” She asked.
Sanders had been enjoying the exchange, and then Maddie's attention. “I'll have another. Thanks Maddie.”
How come you never give her a feel Sanders, she don't mind, long as you giver something extra.
She's a nice lady, like to get a look at her cleavage, keep my hands to myself.
Cleavage. Come on Sanders you can say it, she's got big tits, boobs.” Lenny cups his hand out front. “Big ones.”
Sanders shook his head. “That's the difference between me and you. I respect a woman, yes I appreciate Maddie's curves and the way she leans in, but I'm not doing any touching.”
“You just' don't wanna pay, too cheap.”
“Lenny, you haven't been listening, I try to respect a woman, they're not sex objects.”
“Come on now you are going into that feminist crap...”
“Hey guys how's it going.” Frankie arrived?
Frankie and Decker talk about invention.  They tease Frankie about all his ideas over the year.
“What's with you, can't you just accept things they are, always gotta be tinkering, making it just a little better.” Lenny needled Frankie.
“That's what inventors do, make improvements on an old idea or product. How about that kill switch I put in your car, not bad.”  Frankie spoke with pride.
“Yeah, but now I don't have a cigarette lighter.”
“So, you don't smoke, what's it matter?”  Frankie asked.
The guys had their booth at Dinky's, as they did at the Midtown Diner.  By eliminating the imponderable choices life throws at a person our group of guys simplified life, making it manageable.
The waitress tossed a menu in front of a comatose Decker.  He handed it back to her.  “Morning Gladys, I'll have the usual.”
Gladys pulled her pencil out of her stiffly permed hair, about where her right ear would be. “Two eggs over, rasher of bacon, white toast, and black coffee.” She gave him her look.  “From the looks of your eyes I better bring the coffee pronto.” As she walked away she absentmindedly nodded to Frankie, “Scrambled, wheat, and O.J.” Predictability simplified life as well as the lives of those many people who served their needs.  They always sat in the same section at Yankee stadium, pizza from Mike's Pizza, Chinese from Mr. Lee's.  All the numbers were memorized.  It made for a compact, predictable life.
“Decker you look like hell.” Frankie slid in next to his friend.
“Thanks that's 'bout what Gladys was saying.” He rubbed his face.  “Ouch, even my eyeballs ache.”
“How's the Mrs.” Frankie looked at the waitress taking the order in the next booth. She was a girl Frankie hadn't seen before. The diner seemed to avoid young women with looks.
Decker followed his eyes.  “Sherry's good, wasn't home by the time I fell asleep.” Turning back to Frankie.  “Cute.”
“She must be new.” Frankie didn't do a good job of covering his stare.  “Yeah, cute.”  It was a mumble to himself.
The waitress approached them.  “You gentleman don't drink coffee?”
They looked at each other.  “We're not gentlemen, were a couple of guys.” Decker teased.
“Okay guys, you bothering the help.” Gladys returned with two cups of coffee.  “This is Sadie, she does the afternoon and evening shift, your not going to run her off like the last one.”
“Are you talking about Margo, who was eighty-five, came when the foundation was laid in the 1920's.”
“She would have stayed longer if you hadn't made fun of her being deaf.” Gladys defended her former co-worker.
Frankie smiled at the newcomer.  “Where you from Sadie, Gladys has never called us gentlemen.”
“And I never will!” Gladys insisted. She nodded to the counter, “Your order's up Sadie. I'll take care of these numbskulls.”
“Luziana.” Sadie said.”I'm from Luziana.”  She looked at her order pad, and laid a, “Good meet'n y'all,” on them.  Frankie watched her walk away.
“Like I said, be nice to her she's a sweet kid.” Gladys gave the boys her best motherly frown.
“I'll be...we'll be nice, won't we Decker.” Frankie promised.
“I'm an old married man.” Decker smiled at Gladys.  “She's safe around me.”


“I don't get it. How does Lenny have all that stuff, the car, the garage, he has some great furniture in his apartment; all that on a printers assistant's income.” Deck wondered as he took another shooter.
“I don't know, he invest in the stock market, we've all heard him talking about the market.” Frankie suggested with no conviction.
“The market has been down for a good long time.” Decker shook his head. “I've asked if he wanted me to do his taxes, he always says he does them himself, so little income, no problem. He worries me. Maybe he's not being out front with us. He doesn't want the IRS chasing after him.”
“Hey guys, what’s going down.”
“Not much talking about the Yankees, Boston comin' into town, should be a good series.” Deck lied.
Lenny looked at his friends sensing that this was a cover.


“God, what's with that Sanders? He's so damn argumentative. He's gotta disagree with every thing you say. I say white, he's gotta say black, just to be disagreeable. And he's a supervisor, some department with the city. Can't imagine how painful that must be...working for a putz like him. Damn pain in the fucking ass.”

“Shh!” Frankie pointed out Sadie, “She's new, watch your mouth.”

“God, now your doing it.” Lenny moaned and leaned back.

“Come on man, she's young, and he's nice..that's all I'm sayin'” His eyes darting between his old friend and his new interest.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Lenny shook his head at his love starved friend.



CHAPTER III

DECKERS OFFICE
Decker, Angie talk office, Sherry, call from Sherry Angie was at his desk finishing a phone conversation. “I have to meet a client over lunch.”
He paused.  “You know what I mean, they are expecting us.”
Another pause.  “I'm looking forward to an informative discussion, with long term prospects.”
As he put down the phone his secretary entered.  “Mr. Fiorello I have finished those reports they are printing and collating now, anything else, I have a lunch date.” Francine advised from the doorway.
“Close up the office, I'm meeting a prospective client for lunch.”  Francine gave Angie a knowing smirk, which he ignored.  “Is Deck in his office?”
Francine was slipping her arm into her overcoat.  He will be back at Two, he said something about meeting with Blankenship.”
CHAPTER IV

MACHINE SHOP
Frankie at work, Deck discusses invention and business plan “Here it is Deck.” Frankie whipped a tarp off a large piece of machinery.  He stood back admiring his achievement.  “Whad’da you think?”
“Yeah, well it looks like a hunk of metal to me.  I know my cycle, I can work on it, I've rebuilt a couple engines, my bike I know, this thing is way beyond me.  I've heard you explain it, but to sell it to a venture group they need a lot more.”
“Like what, a lot more?”
“Like I was telling you last night you need a business plan, I can help you, no one will talk to you without one.  And then they need to know that it works, an actual production model.”
“I need money to do that, money I just don't have.”
Decker rubbed at his chin.  “I've loaned you all that I can.  How about Lenny, Mr. Wall Street?”
“We've talked.  He seems to spend it faster than he earns it.” Frankie said.  Decker nodded his understanding.
“Okay, I'll work with you on the plan, all the paperwork involved there, Maybe I can come up with a venturesome,  venture capitalist that will forgive your empty pockets.”
“Deck, I hate to push the boundaries of our friendship this way.”
“Forget it man, this is business, not friendship.” Deck slapped Frankie on the shoulder.  “Gotta go, have a meeting with Angie.”
WORK LENNY INTO THE DINER SCENE, HAVE HIM CHEWING ON A TOOTH PICK AS HE LEAVES.
CHAPTER V

SANDERS OFFICE
Sanders the officious city clerk Sanders is the evil little passive aggressive bureaucrat, he takes his frustrations out on the public and co-workers Sanders looked up at the clock, 12:00 noon, he opened the brief case on his desk, he extracted a sandwich wrapped in a plastic baggie, a banana and a thermos.  He laid out a napkin in the middle, smoothing it flat.  He placed the sandwich in the center and the banana, directly above, and on the edge.  He then removed the cup from the top of the thermos, and poured chicken noodle soup into the cup.  The soup was placed six inches to the right side of the sandwich.  He then removed the sandwich from the baggie, he leafed through the bread lettuce, meat, and cheese, sniffing, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he went.  Inspection over, sorted back into place the sandwich was raised, mouth open, the phone rang.  Sandwich frozen in space and time, he looked at the phone.  It rang again, and again, and again.  He put down the sandwich with a “Rumff,” opened the door to see his two clerks serving long rows of clients at their service windows.  Both were surrounded by stacks of paper and faced angry clients.  Sanders shouted, can't someone answer that phone.
Both clerks looked to Sanders, shrugged and went back to their clients.  He returned to his desk picking up the sandwich, looking at it, putting it down, removing the handset from the phone and going back to his lunch.

Lunch


Diner Noon Frankie goes back to diner to meet Sadie Frankie passes by Gladys, she grabs his arm.  “Frankie you are never in here for lunch.”  She gives him her knowing smile.
He looks around the dining area, Sadie is not to be seen.  With a worried look he asks Gladys, “Where is she?”
With a twinkle in eye and voice she responds.  “And who would that be, I left my crystal ball at home.”
“Come on Gladys, she didn't quit did she, you didn't get rid of her?”
“Sit at the end of the counter...she's on her break, she'll be out in a minute.  I shouldn't say this, but since you are one of my valued customers...she was asking about you...I didn't say anything good.”
“I appreciate that.” Frankie wandered down to the end of the counter sitting on the swivel stool, thinking about Sadie.  He looked at his hands on the counter, then slipped them into his jacket pockets.  Did she notice his hands this morning, lot'a girls see his hands, that's the end, no more dates.

Lenny Sweating Investigation

Print Shop the heat is on Lenny chewed on his tooth pick as he studied the documents spewing from his printer. Over the years he had trained his eyes to find irregularities, improper formats or a printer just going crazy. He had a reputation, if there was a misprint, something not lined up just so, Lenny was the guy that would find it. He had the printer’s eye. It was an okay job, it paid for his car, his 1957 Silver Hawk, a collector’s car. He loved the lines, the turn signals mounted on the fenders, the funky fins that tweaked outwards. It was like him, just a little out of fashion, different but eye catching.
“How’s it going Len, get it done on schedule?” Simmons, Lenny’s supervisor came up from behind with the question. Simmons was a nervous man, the print schedules ran his life. Not taking his eyes off the job Lenny nodded in the affirmative.
“Running smoothly, have it collated, stacked, and shipped by 2:00,” Lenny assured. Simmons grunted an acknowledgement and walked across the plant floor.
Lenny glanced back and forth between his job and Simmons progress across the floor to his office. Providing a service to Wall Street firms could make a job high stress. Those people felt of themselves as gods. All request were treated with top priority, get it in, get it out and by god don’t make any mistakes.
As Simmons’ office door closed Lenny whipped a sheet from the stack forming in front of him, he scanned the printout, no errors, glanced around the room, everyone was busy, he slipped the sheet into a binder below his workstation.
The last few prints for his run were printing out, he looked around for Juan, his man from shipping. “Lenny you looking for me?” Juan asked. The guy always startled Lenny, he just appeared when a job needed to be moved to shipping. The shipper came in close to Lenny, “You hear anything?” “What am I going to be hearing, Iím over here all day on my printer, you know me Juan, donít talk to no one,” Lenny like to stay away from all the gossip, whoís sleeping with Darlene in the office, who is Simmons going to fire next, no stay out of the line of fire, do your job, that was his philosophy.  He had a nice thing going, not be be screwed-up.
Juan was watching Simmons door, “The boss is pissed,” Juan informed. Lenny could only think that was the normal for Simmons, so what’s the deal. Juan slipped a pallet jack under Lenny’s job, lifted it off the floor, moved in close again, Lenny had better things to do he was thinking, get it over with Juan, “Couple guys were talking to old man Simmons, I was talking to Darlene on a break, god that blouse she was wearing, so thin you could see everything she’s got, hot, damn if she aint hot.” Juan went back to pumping the lift just a bit higher. All he got from Lenny was a look of irritation.
That was it two guys talking to Simmons, any most of the guys in the plant had seen a lot more of Darlene than her peek-a-boo blouses. Your wasting my time Juan, go away. Wishing Juan away had no effect, he just smiled, “Yeah, two suits from the SEC, no way I want the man breathing down my neck.” He put his thick shoulders into the work and began pushing the load to shipping.  Lenny was staring at the floor, a chill came over him, like he was outside with out a coat, he felt as though I couldn’t move.  He knew what he had to do.

Angie hooking up with Sherry

THE PARTNERs SHARES MORE THAN THE OFFICE “Sharry we cant keep meeting like this, I feel so cheap.” Angie teased,  massaged the her shoulders through the silk blouse.
“Angie you are cheap alright.” She pushed at him.  He grabbed her and wrestled her onto the bed.  “We need to tell him, I want out.  I want to screw you without looking over my shoulder.
Angie nuzzled her hair, he kissed her ear and worked his way south, slipping down her panties to delve deep inside.  Sharry arched her back, rolling and writhing, he reached up to kneed at her breast.
Minutes later Angie laid exhausted on the bed.  Sharry buttoned her Blouse.  “I will tell him tonight.  I cant go on like this, once or twice a week.  I want you twenty-four-seven.”
“Not tonight, client in Boston needs to see him.” Angie reached for his watch.  “I better go, we were going to discuss the approach this afternoon.”
“Are you telling me we could have had a night together instead of this cheap, quickie.”
He stood to nosh on her neck and throat.  “If you two split it will affect the partnership, he won't be happy with us hooking-up on the side.” She spun away from him.
“You're not backing out on me.  We've been planning this for months.  It's to close, too long.
“Sharry, you know I'm crazy about you...tonight, while he's in Boston, we'll figure it out...seven, I can be there at seven.” He held her shoulders, they kissed.
THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH THE BOSTON THING, NEED TO GET THE CHRONOLOGY RIGHT

The Boss is Unhappy

In a pool of light stubby fingers turned pages of a ledger, columns were studied, and occasional notations were made in the margin. The fingers were tipped with manicured nails, an incongruity on sausage stubs. A balding head bowed into the light, glasses adjusted, more notes were made, along with profane comments, and grunts of disgust.
Off in the dark a phone rang, the head continued its focus on page after page of numbers. A second and a third time the phone sounded. The head tilted in the direction of the annoyance, the profile was that of gross features, a bulbous nose and thick gnarled lips. “Ain’ you gonna get that Jerry?” The disembodied head demanded.
“Oh, sure Boss,” Came the reply from Jerry. “Yeah, dis is Jerry.” Herry listened.
“Yeah, da Boss is here. Boss, it’s fur yuids’ Jerry handed the heavy, black Bakelite handset into the ring of light.
The Bosses gross features, twisted, “Jerry, how many times I gotta tell ya ta get a name.”
“Whod’s this?” Jerry nodded to the boss. “Yeah, it’s da kid at the printer place.”
“Gimme da phone. Putz!” The Boss spat out. “Yeah kid wha ya wan?” The Bosses stooped head nodded as he listened to Lenny. He never used names on the phone, used the old fashioned analog handset to avoid digital listening techniques. He felt this would add a bit of a road bump to the Feds had they wanted to listen in.
“Yeah kid, ya did good, no problem.” He looked into the dark where his underling stood guard, “Jerry!” “Yeah Boss.” Jerry responded.
“Get me da  Weasel, I need him ta take care aí the kid for me.”
The Flip of a Coin


DECKER'S OFFICE
Flipping the coin “Francine said you had an update,” Angie stepped into the office.  Decker looked up at his partner, he was adjusting himself inside his clothing, he was a bit rumpled.
“Yeah, Blankenship phoned, he needs to see one of us “Francine has ordered the tickets.  Flight goes out at five-thirty.  Do you think you can make it.”
“Hold on partner, I have a surprise planned for Sharry.  We haven't had much time together, and she is always on me about not being spontaneous.  Tonight I am Mr. Spontaneous, everything is going to be out of the ordinary for the both of us.”
“Blankenship is a special client, needs to be handled with kid gloves, I just feel like he is your man, the kind of guy you are able to finesse.” Beads of sweat were forming on Angie's forehead.  He pulled at his tie.  “Hot in here.”
Decker crossed his arms and shook his head.  “I have a great evening planned, working on it for a couple weeks.” He stared down Angie, who began jiggling the coins in his pocket, and then a smile formed on his mouth.
“I'll flip you for it.”
“Be a lot easier if you took the flight.” Decker rubbed his temples feeling a stress headache coming on.
“I'll even let you call it.”
“Thanks, I think.  Okay flip it.” Decker said.  The quarter went into the air.  “Tails.” He called out, the coin bounced on the carpet, tails it was.
Angie again pulled at his tie.  Decker gave him a manly slap to the shoulder.  “Have a good trip, Blankenship will be no problem, you can schmooze him.”
As Decker left the conference room Angie was still looking down at the coin.  “He mumbled to himself, “He always calls heads.” He retrieved the quarter from the floor, flipping it back and forth, tails on both sides.

 SANDERS ALONE AT THE TAVERN

The tavern was empty save the presence of Dinky and Sanders.  The proprietor, towel over his shoulder, elbows on the bar was attempting the posture of the listener.  The customer sat opposite the barkeep, nursing a Seven and Seven, lamenting the life of the single man, living at home.
“My supervisor at the department, Momma, they just wont let me be...you know, make decisions.  They are after me all the time.  Do this, do that.  Can't they just leave me alone let me do my job.”
“And Momma is always after me about getting a wife.  Tonight she invited Mona over, you remember me mentioning my cousin Mona, the one I took to her prom and mine.  She wants me to marry my cousin.  Mona the writer, went to NYU, writes stories for romance magazines.  Goes to NYU for four years and the best she can do...”
Dinky would nod and emit a knowing grunt as the comments required.  Sanders went on.  “Mona's been after me for years, she's ok, she just isn't...you know, hot.  Not the girl you dream about, the one you want to go home to at the end of the day, rip her clothes off and make love to.  You know me Dinky, the way I am...respect women.  I keep my hands of Mandie, not like Lenny.  But it would be nice to have a hot wife “ Sanders stopped to catch his breath, toying with his drink.  Dinky leaned back, looked down the bar and around the room, slapping his bar towel against the counter.
Back to Sanders he asked.  “Need a refill there.” He knew the answer, the one the kid always used.  Sanders looked at the half filled glass.
“Better not, Momma will know if I've had too much, better not.”
Dinky smiled.  “Gotta go in back a minute, verify a delivery I got this afternoon.” He lied.


The Mob gets to Lenny

“Would you look at that sky up there, black as your fucking lungs.  Get rid of that god damn cigarette.  Kill yourself, I'm okay with that, but no need to kill me too.” He glanced at the sky through the foggy window.  “Gonna snow, gonna snow two feet deep they says.  Where's that fool.  Pissed off the boss.”
Gus continued sucking on the stub of his cigarette, ignoring the Weasels complaints.  “How's about I go get us coffee, coffee would be good, hot.”
“Yeah, you go get coffee the kid shows up and the plan is screwed.  You stay here!  We freeze together.” The Weasel studied his watch.  “Boss says bout this time he'll show.  We wait.”
Gus flipped his stub out the crack in the window just as Lenny pulled his Silverhawk to the curb.  The Weasel glared at his partner shaking his head.  “Coffee would have screwed the works for sure.  I'll meet you at the wharf.” He looked to his watch again.  “Bout fifteen after.” Gus ignored the watch thing.  I'll see ya' when I see ya', he thought to himself.
The Weasel slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, feeling the weight of the Beretta in his hand as he stepped from car to sidewalk, moving his finger to the trigger as he stepped to the drivers side.  The door began to open Weasel stepped into the gap between the target and the car door.  “Lenny how ya doin'“ He greeted in a grandfatherly tone.” Lenny looked up, confused, surprised.
“Wha...”
The gun came out of the overcoat, pointed at Lenny, “Slide over kid.” He didn't like it when they called him kid.  But with the money and now this gun, and the silencer what was he going to say.  He slid to the passenger side.  The Weasel checked for the key in the ignition, no key.  “Gimme the key kid.” Kid again.  He handed the key to the good ol'e boy, whatever they are called.
“Don't hurt the car.” Lenny pleaded.
The weasel slipped the key into the ignition, one hand on the steering wheel, looked around admiring the craftsmanship of the vintage car, and the pains of restoration.  “Not bad.” He remarked with a smile as his gun popped-out several rounds into Lenny.  Slipping the gun back into his pocket he leaned over to straighten the body against the window.  He then sat back, adjusted the mirror and turned the key.  Nothing.  He checked the gears, tried again.  Nothing.  He looked back to see if Gus had left.  Of course Gus had left that was the plan.  Coffee, should have let that dumb bastard get his coffee.
“Kill switch, the kids got some kind of kill switch here.” He began talking to himself.  “Don't panic, so you got a stiff here and a car that won't move.” The weasel began a survey of the dash, ran his hands underneath, pulling at wires, something unusual, out of the ordinary, he pulled down the visor, under the seat, nothing again.  He glared at Lenny, what remained of Lenny.  “Dumb bastard.” He slammed the flat of his hand into the steering wheel.  He got out, locked the door and walked away.  The windows had fogged from the inside, only a shadowy silhouette could be seen of the former owner from outside.



DECKER COMES HOME TO SURPRISE SHARRY

Decker enters his apartment, in the distance he can hear the sound from the television in the den.
Arms out Decker shouts “Surprise.”  Sharry gasps, inhaling air, her head shoots around to see her husband.  She is in a slinky negligee.
“Boston, you were going to Boston for business.” She was insistent.  There was a bottle of champagne chilling, and Hors-d' oeuvres’ filled a platter.  He could smell something appetizing in the oven.  “Angie took the trip, I was going to surprise you. They stared at one another both confused.
see that I have.”
“Angie went to Boston...Angie went...?” Her voice trailed off, she fell back in the couch. She turned back to stare at the grainy images on the television screen, a remote feed of snow, flashing lights and emergency vehicles. She felt a huge knot forming in her chest, strangling her voice and lungs, she gasped, “Flight 739?”
“Yeah, 739.” Decker looked at the TV for the first time, a news story, or a breaking bulletin.  A banner at the bottom announced, Crash of Flight 739, JFK to Logan.
Sharry was in denial, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, “Angie's okay, he's not hurt, maybe he missed the flight.  Responding to instinct, Decker pulled his cell from his pocket, punched Angie’s number, he listened to the ring then the operator indicating the number was out of service. He slipped it back in his pocket.
He sat next to his wife, put his hand on hers, she pulled away, a vacant look on her face, she chewed on a nail. “It can’t be,” She looked at her husband, recognizing for the first time, “Why wasn’t it you, you were the one scheduled to go. The one that should have died. Angie's been screwing me for months, why did it have to be Angie, why wasn't it you.” She beet her fists on Decker’s chest.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing, the lies, the cheating, both of them smiling, pleasant but screwing behind his back.  It wasn't the sex he was angry about it was the facades they created. The fake loyalty. One lie after another.
“He blew up with everyone else, no survivors.”
He had to go to the airport, arrangements needed to be made.  Angie had no family, they had been like brothers or so he thought.  “Get dressed we need to go to JFK.”
“I can't. I can't go out, not the way I feel.”
“He was your lover, the least you could do. You were screwing Angie and now you want me to do this alone.
“You never have done much for me Decker, you can do this.” He pulled out his cell phone as he walked to the door, He looked back at Sharry he could no keep the contempt from his face. “I gotta do this.”
As Decker closed the door Sharry shouted at him. “God damn bastard! You should'a died, not Angie.” Her head fell upon her crossed arms, she returned to her deep sobs.

Life's a Lottery

Guido Lazzari was ringing up a sale at his old fahion cash register, brass, huge keys and lots of noise as the drawer banged open. “Mrs. Cecchi, will that be all tonight?” He asked as he bagged the grey haired woman's purchases.
Mrs. Cecchi looked around, rubbing her hands at her sides.  “Sure Guido, don't think I forgot nothing.”
“How about a lotto ticket? Big drawing tonight, and I got the winner in her, I can just feel it.” He encouraged with a smile.
“You know me Guido, never buy those things, waste of money.”  She pulled the bags forward, squeezing them in her ample arms.  “Waste of money Guido, you know me, money comes too hard to waste on no lotto.”
The door banged shut as Mrs. Cecchi went out into the cold night.  A young fellow in grease stained coveralls placed a bottle on the counter. “Ciggies Guido.” He requested.
Guido turned and pulled a pack frm a carton, slapping it on the counter. “Marlboro Red, and a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, how ya doing Sal?” Guido asked.
“I'm ok. Give me five lottos, let the machine pick the numbers.”  Sal said. Guido went about ringing up his sale and tending to the lotto.
“Tonight’s the night Sal.” Sal was a nervous little guy, bouncing from foot to foot. Guido smiled as he handed the ticket to his customer.
Sal shrugged. “With you Guido, every night's the night.”
The wind pushed a frail Joe Ferrara through the door, pellets of snow followed after. “Night Sal.” Guido nodded, and stepped back as Ferrara approached the counter. He and Guido had this thing, neither could stomach the other, Ferrara only customed the store because it was close. He also got a level of satisfaction knowing how he irritated the store owner. Ferrara slammed a stack of bills on the counter.
“Count it Guido, two hundred and fifty dollars.” Ferrara smirked.
“And what you want me to do with your two hundred and fifty dollars Mr. Ferrara?” It was always Mr. Ferrara, Guido would play nice but feeling something far different.
“Lotto tickets, I want you to start printing out lotto tickets.”  Ferrara turned to view the old Rheingold clock. “Ain’t got much time Guido.” He chuckled.
“Your right Mr. Ferrara, not much time I'll print 'em out ten to a slip.”
“No you won't Guido, each one separate ticket, you know how I do it.” Ferrara protested. He made another pass at the clock.  “Hurry it up Guido, shuts down in twenty-five minutes.”
Guido slumped. “Sure Mr. Ferrara two hundred and fifty individual tickets.” As he turned to his lotto machine he whispered.  “Ass hole.”
“What's that Guido, what you say. I can go down the street, I can go some place else ya know.”
“I didn't say nothing Mr. Ferrara, punch up your tickets just fine. Jus the way you like ‘em,” Guido began pushing at keys.
Frankie at the back of the store had been  browsing through wine bottles, reading labels and checking the prices. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, leafing through the few bills to be found. He pulled the cheapest bottle he could find from the rack, and walked to the front of the store. “Hi Guido.” He called to the owner, who's head was down intent upon his lotto machine.
Guido looked up and over to the clock. “Hey Frankie, how ya doin?” His head returned to the lotto machine.
“I'm ok.” Frankie responded to a preoccupied Guido.
Guido made a notation. “Mr. Ferrara, Frankie here has a hot date.  How's about I ring him up?”
Ferrara puffed up his small frame as best he could. “Frankie's hot date is gonna wait, I need those numbers before eight, now get with it Guido.” He snarled and glared at Frankie.
Frankie had difficulty not staring at the clock clicking closer to eight. He could envision Sadie slipping off her uniform, and leaving the diner. He wouldn't be able to see her until Monday.  Monday was too damn far, too far to think about. “Gotta see her tonight.”
Guido placed the two hundred and fifty tickets in front of Mr.  Ferrara. “There you go Mr. Ferrara, two fifty, just like you wanted.”
Ferrara's hand reached for the tickets. “How's about a bag, don't want to lose one.”
“Don't need a bag, want to see the numbers, feel the paper, know that I got the winner here.” He grabbed at his purchase.
“That's what I been telling my customers all day, got the winner here in my store.”
Ferrara smiled. “No Guido. I got the number here in my hands.”  He snickered and shook the numbers at Guido as he left the store.
“I don't know why he buys those things, he is as rich as The Donald. Putz.” Guido shook his head and reached for Frankie's bottle. “What you got there Frankie.” He looked at the wine. “You don't take this for a date with a girl, this you drink in an alley.” He laughed.
“All I could afford Guido, that bad, huh?”
Guido rang up the wine. “How about a ticket, maybe Ferrara didn't get it, the big winner, never know?”
Frankie handed over all his money to Guido. “That's all I got.”
“Some hot date she is going to have.” Guido laughed at his joke and Frankies predicament as he slid the bottle into a bag.  “Night Frankie.” Frankie nodded as he went to the door.
Joe Ferrara stood below the street light, lotto tickets fanned out in his hands, his lips moved as he read through the number series, squeaks of glee were emited from his mouh as lucky series were found. He knew that this was going to be his day. He wasn't going to buy anything. He had his rentals, oiffice building. He could buy more, but more buildings, more headaches. He wanted to hold the money, millions, tens of millions in his hands, smell it and feel it. He was thinking of emptying that exta bedroom, filling it with money and just rolling in it.
The wind tugged at his collar, he reached up, turning up his overcoat just as a strong gust ripped at his ticket pulling them from his hand sending them skyward in a swirling eddy.
Frankie stepped out of Guido's just in time to see what appeared to be a flurry of snow sliding up to the street lamp.  Ferrara stretched as high as his small frame would allow, his arthritic hands grasping at the ascending tickets. He stood for a mement, staring at his departing fortune. “Mr. Ferrara, can I help, wha's the matter?” Frankie asked.
Ferrara doubled up and sobbed. “My tickets, ever last ticket is gone.” Frankie put his hand on the greiving mans shoulder.  “Get away, Joe Ferrara don' need your help. Joe Ferra needs nobody's help.” He yanked his shoulder away from Frankie.
“I just wanted to help was all.”
“Like I says, don't need no help.” Ferrara straightened, and shrugged away from frankie, shuffling through the accumulating snow down into the darkness of the receding sidewalk.
Frankie slipped the wine into his coat pocket, and buttoned his collar against the encroaching wind.



SANDERS THE BIG DINNER

Sanders trudged up the steps to the brownstone, dreading the evening to be endured . Mamma yammering, extolling the talent and beauty of her favorite niece.  Mona, bookish Mona, with the inch thick glasses and the steel mesh mouth.  It had been two years ago, the last such fete.
As he reached for the knob the door was yanked open.  There stood Mamma, all four-foot-ten inches of her.  Her freshly permed curls, in their pink wash matching the chiffon gown that enveloped her diminutive form.  “Archibald, how wonderful to have you home.”  Her arms reached up to her son, the falsity was the routine when guests were in the house.  He bent to her, they allowed one another a quick peck to the cheek.  She whispered.  “You be nice to her.”  He sighed the sigh of the depressed.
Mamma turned aside and motioned.  “And Archibald look who we have here.” Standing in the entry to the dining room stood cousin Mona.  Dowdy, mousy  Mona, replaced by someone having only a slight semblance of of the previous incarnation.
Sanders stood transfixed.  He was unable to take his eyes off the “little black dress”, the dress all men fanaticize over.  Mamma's little Mona was wearing that dress.  The glasses, where were the glasses, she was blind with out them.  Her eyes were blue, they had always been blue but the coke bottle lenses distorted the lustre and sparkle he was seeing.  Sparkle that smile, where is all the metal, “Metal mouth Mona.” That was my name for her “Archibald, don't just stand there, say something to your cousin, give her a kiss.”
Sanders faltered toward her, his lips twitching a vague smile.  He pronounced.  “Mona.” And stumbled into her.  His cousin steadied him, drawing him close giving a full mouthed kiss.  He was stunned, a deer in the beams of a Mack truck.  It was the dress, the dark hair draping down to her shoulders, the deep “V” of her dress exposing small round breast, sumptuous, ripe ready to be picked.  He inhaled her cologne, the room seemed to dip and swirl.  His knees felt like they were going to slump.
“Archibald, what is the matter with you?” Mamma demanded.  Tugging at his overcoat she turned him to her.  She sniffed at him.  “Have you been at that “Dinky” place again.” She had her hands on her hips glaring.
“Now Mamma I just had one small highball.” He motioned with his thumb and forefinger indicating a drink much smaller that that which he had imbibed.
“Mamma.” Mona always referred to Mamma, as Mamma.  “It' been two years since I saw Archie last.” Archie, did Sanders hear that right, not Archibald.  Archie was an improvement.  She held his arm tight, she smiled up into his face.  He was feeing woozy again.
“It's warm in here.” Sanders began working at his overcoat buttons as Mamma and Mona guided him to a chair in the dining room, where he sat and removed the garment.
Sanders leaned back in his chair, Mona noticed persperation on his upper lip.  “Mamma, Archie might needs some water, he doesn't look well.” She patted his hand and ran her fingers through his hair.  He relaxed and exhaled a deep sigh.
“I've warned him about those places, and drinking.” Mamma scolded as she went for the water.
“I've always admired your hair it is just so dark and thick.” Her eyes followed deep rich furrows her fingers created in his hair.  Mamma stood in the doorway, the glass of water in hand, taking in her son at peace, and Mona caressing his hair.  Her dreams were fulfilled, her life was complete.

CHAPTER XVI

DECKERS CHOICE
Decker listened to his wife rage on the other side of the closed door.  He toyed with the cell phone, then slipped it into his pocket.  He thought about Sharry and Angie.  His partner was like a brother to him, all those years, college, friends working together.  Did he really know his friend or his wife.  He shrugged as he worked his way down the stairs in a daze.
On the sidewalk he looked for a cab, seeing none he took out his phone again, then flipped it closed.  His bike would be quicker and easier to park.  Behind the apartment he opened the small storage shed, and rolled out the cycle.  Didn't ride as much as he would like.  Sharry didn't approve.  Wasn't like the old days, high school when he rode with the Rancid Riders.  They liked to look tough, but cool was more what they were about.  They were girl magnets.  Girls liked ëem tough.  That made him think about Angie, the single guy, liked to be rough with the girls.  Maybe that is what Sharry wanted, what she missed.  Did she find that in his friend?
He pulled his leather jacket from a storage box, inhaled the aroma of cow hide and admired the Rancid Riders logo, once a Rider, always a Rider. He then pulled on his helmet; he preferred the feel of the wind in his hair.  However, tonight with the cold, he could lose his ears to frost bite. And last the gloves. He mounted his steed, turned the key, and she purred to life.  He gave her a few twists of the gas to throw out a few throaty bursts of energy.  More gas, and easing out on the clutch he rolled down the alley.  At the side walk he glanced down the street, hit the accelerator and shot between the traffic.
He was having difficulty processing so much at once.  He knew accounting, his job, his office, the clients.  Now he was out of his realm, his zone of comfort.  People relationships, God, what did he know, He thought he knew, yesterday, the day before.  He functioned or thought he had.
The traffic was beginning to back up, then came to a stop.  He leaned his bike to look down the block and on to the next.  Nothing but traffic and red lights.  There was an alley ahead, might be faster on the side streets.  He squeezed between cars and then turned down the narrow canyon between two office buildings.  The next  street only had a few cars, he recognized the neighborhood, Frankie's, Guido's liquor should be on the next block he thought.  The bike jumped as he gassed her, shooting past the liquor store.  His mind was on Angie and Sharry.  A shadow crossed into the street.  A street beginning to build slush and ice.  He couldn't break, he would lose control, he let up on he gas, and veered away from the figure.  The back of the bike whipped forward, as it spun it threw a froth of snow and ice in the air, and Decker into the side of a Silverhawk at the curb.
Mrs. Cecchi ran from the middle of the street to the corner, her groceries, scattered along the way.  Her hands went to her face.  She had difficulty looking down to where the unmoving body lay.  The unknown rider wedged between car and motorcycle.
CHAPTER XVII

MIDTOWN DINER NIGHT
Frankie meets Sadie for the big date Miss Cory what will you have tonight.
“Now let me see, umm, it all looks so good.” The elderly woman paged through the menue, looked up at Sadie and back to her task.  “Well now, why don't I have my usual.” She smiled as she handed it back to her waitress.
“Tuna on rye, lettuce, hold the tomatoe and just a thin swipe of the Mayo, fries, and should I refill your ice tea Miss Cory.”
“Yes that will be fine Sadie.”
Sadie slapped the order on the cooks counter. “Miss Corey, the usual.”
Herbie nursed his coffee, Sadie apraised his mug, grabbed the fresh pot and headed downthe counter  to him. “Herbie, cold out there tonight, let me give you a refill.”
He slid the cup forward so she could pour the dark steaming fluid into his waiting mug.
The door swung oppen, wind blowing in pellets of snow and Frankie.  He closed the door, looked to Miss Cory, Herbie and the cook, but he focused on Sadie. Laking a stool he opened his

Frankie looked at the woman, he had a knot in his stomach, she's gorgeous. He knew that there had to be a better word, that was the best he could come up with. He was in awe of here. Hefting the bottle stuffed low in his overcoat pocket he felt it wouldn't be right, not for her. I should leave now, god! I'm just making a fool of myself. His feet began to pivot to the door, she'll understand. “Frankie, I'm ready.” She was standing behind him, bundled in her overcoat, that open smile on her lips.

CHAPTER XVIII

MONA'S APARTMENT
“Archie, you are such a gentleman to walk me home.” Mona said.  The snow crunched under their feet as they progress down the sidewalk.  “Why don't you hold my hand.  We can steady one another, I don't want to fall.” Sanders reached for her hand, she giggled.  “It is so quiet when it snows, the flakes muffle sounds.  I guess that is why.”
“I can't get over how different you are Mona.  You are a woman now.  You are just so changed.” Sanders complimented.  He was pleased with himself.  And Mona rewarded him with a my hero smile.  Just maybe he could stripp away that little black dress.
Mona stopped.  “This is my building Archie.” She continued to hold his hand.  “Thank you for walking with me.  I would like to show my appreciation.  Would you come up with me.” She turned her face to him, she offered her lips.  He hesitated, then moved to her kissing her lightly, she slid her arms inside his coat, gathering him to her, their mouths met for a full-bodied kiss.
She pushed back, giggling.  “Come up Archie, we can have a drink, well chocolate,  or coffee Mamma would not approve of liquor.”
Hand in hand they went up the steps and into the entry vestibule.  A row of mail boxes covered one wall.  At the far end a man stood, looking into his empty box muttering.  “Guido had the winner, Guido had the winner.”
As they took the stair up to Mona's apartment Sanders asked.  “Who  was that?”
“Joe Ferrara, he owns this building and a hundred more in the city.  This is the only nice one, he lives here.”
The apartment is not small, but not large.  It is neat and clean but modest in furnishings.  Sanders is impress by her acomplishment.
Here is my small sitting area, my dining table and kitchen nook.  I am especially proud of this room.  Mona slides aside to doors exposing a large bedroom, for the size of the apartment and a kingsized bed.  She allows Sanders a view of her domain.  She allows him to brush past her, her hand rubbing him with intent.  He sucked air and reddened.  She moved to him, pulling away his jacket, tugging at his shirt, slipping her dress from her shoulers, and with a free hand she slapped the light switch off.  The room fell to darkness.  “Archie do you want me.” She asked.
“Oh, yes Mona.  I want you, I have always wanted you She snickered.  “Oh Archie you are just more man than I can handle.”
“Mona you are so soft, so beautiful,” He stammered, “Mamma would like it if we got married.”
Exploring the Depths

Frankie and Sadie explore life.  Sadie's Apartment torn vinyl seat is covered with duct tape  “Nice use of the tape” Frankie commented.
Sadie stared him down. “I got the idea from Town and Country.”
“Yeah, that looks like a lotta country.” Frankie rejoined as he sat in the chair. “It works.” He gave her a smug smile.
Talk of  Cajun country Tabasco sauce “Empty your pockets.”
“What is this, I've heard of people like you, take everything I have, throw me in an alley, my mother I.D.'s  me in the morgue, if I'm lucky.”
“Yeah Frankie, do I look like that sort of person.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Just empty the pockets, my Grandmother taught me this.” He began pulling the contents from his pockets: used tissue, a few coins, the change from Guido's, and lint.” She picked-up the tissue by an unused edge, tossing it in the trash.  The lint was wisked to the floor with a quick stroke of her hand.  She gazed at Frankie. “No wallet? I cant do this without everything”
Frankie's hands--As Frankie pulls his possessions from his pockets, laying them on the table, sadie grabs his wrist, with the other hand she ran her fingers across his palm and traced along his finger tips, noting the missing digit on his fore finger.
“That's it I'm going.” He reached for his possessions, she grabbed his wrist.
“Not so fast, you brought that bottle of fine wine, and I gave up a date with a Wall Street power broker for you. Get the wallet out here.” Her brown eyes sparkled at him, they were a deep, dark color.
His hand moved to his pocket, with effort he extracted the slim wallet, he then placed it on the table. Sadie began her inspection, pulling out a few business cards, a drivers license and a set of photographs. Her eyes rose to mtet his. “And for this I'm going to murder you, and drag you away to some alley.” Her mouth exhaled something between a groan and a clacking sound. She began arranging his belongings before her. She made a variety of indiscernible sighs as she made her analysis.
“Well, maybe I shouldn't have turned down that power broker.”  She went back to the Frankie loot. She leaned back in her chair examining the collection of photographs.  “Your Mother?” She placed the picture in front of him, he nodded. “Ah, the gang, a few years ago. I see the big guy, Lenny, is that right?”
Sadie put the picture on the table. Frankie looked at the picture of the guys. That was the year Lenny talked them into going to the Catskills, Grossinger's, the rundown Grossinger's was in the background. Lenny wanted to go down memory lane and show off his new Silverhawk. “Yeah, those are the guys. It was a good trip.”
She studied another picture. “Now who do we have here, pretty girl, a girl friend maybe.”
“No, it's my sister.” He responded to quick, to emphatic, Sadie let it go.
“How about that fine wine of yours?”
“We will need a cork screw.”
“It has a cork, then it is a quality vintage.” She laughed.  “Is that why you have no money ?”
He shrugged. “We need that cork screw.”
“I'll see what I have.” She walked to the utensil drawer where she began sorting through knives, spatulas, whisks and other odds and ends. He savored the chance to view the curve of her hips, the flow of her dark hair down her back.  She shook her head. She turned to  him. “Not a screw do I have. Now you know, I am not a connoisseur.” She feigned humiliation.
Frankie slipped the bottle from the paper sack, studied the label placing it in the middle of the table next to the coins, business cards and picture. He put his elbows on the table and pressed his thumbs to his lips. He contemplated the disaster this evening had become. “We could go out on the town.” Sadie suggested as she poked at the change on the table.
He looked up at her. “You hitting me over the head and dragging me into the alley is starting to sound like an improvement.”
She pulled at his jacket. “Come over here we can talk on the couch.”
They sat on the couch frankie in the corner, Sadie next to him her feet curled under her. she faces him intent upon their conversation. They talk of aspirations, what life should be like.  Sadie talks about having dreams of college, but just dreams.  Frankie talks about inventions, but the takes money and as sadie knows he is short where money is concerned.
Sadie talks about home, cajun country, family, friends, school Wayne and coming North Cajun country: water lakes bayous food: sounds: insects birds colors taste:
Tabasco catfish Sadie read several poems from a book and one she wrote. Frankie is impressed. he comments. she leans in and kisses frankie....
He brushed the back of his hands along her chin and down the side of her neck. She kissed his lips and pulled his hand to rest against her breast. They rolled back on the couch, she tugged at his shirt, he enveloping her mouth with his. Her back arched, she spoke “You will have to show me the way.”
He kissed her neck, pulled at her buttons with his lips. She began to unbutton them for him. “What do you mean, show you the way.”  He helped with the buttons.
“You know, how it's done.” She pulled her blouse away, exposing an ivory chest and small round breast. His lips and tongue caressed her nipples. They hardened.
He looked at her. “Done, what do you mean done?”
“Frankie, don't talk, it feels to good.  I've never felt like this, with a guy's hardness.” She bit into his neck, thrusting herself at him. “City Wayne couldn't do it, you'll have to help me.”
He rolled away from her, sitting at the end of the couch.  “You've never done it, never had sex?” He put his face into his cupped hands. “You were with Moultrie for two years, living here.”
“We've been together, well we were together since junior year in high school. We dated then after graduation we came North.  Wayne plays a good guitar and keyboard, he got into a band, he does well. Girls love him, they say he is a stallion.” She began rebuttoning her blouse. “Is that it. Is this the way it is going to be for me. No guy will touch me when he finds out I'm a virgin.” She stood and ran her fingers through her hair, smoothed out her wrinkles.
“All that time nothing happened.”
“No nothing happened. We tried, oh how we tried. He couldn't.  He couldn't get it up. He took care of me, respected me, maybe too much. He couldn't perform, not with me. The groupies, the band followers thought he was hot. Word got around, back to me that he was great on the road, but not at home, not with me.” Her voice was raw and wavering. Frankie listened. “I did some reading, found books at the big central library and several universities.  From what I read Wayne has the classic whore and madonna complex.  The woman he loves represents the mother who never loved him. He can't make love to his lover because she represents his mother, making love to her would be incest. Wayne left, we both thought it was for be the best.” She sighed and fell back into the opposite end of the sofa. “You can leave now.”
Frankie stood, looking down on Sadie he scrubbed at his beard that had gone beyond a five o'clock shadow. “It's just that this complicates things. I though, maybe that's the problem, I thought.  I expected you to be one way, and now you are the other. The problem with expecting.  Yeah, know what I mean. Life is that way, things go along we expect this is the way it is, and then it just ain't. It is different like you. I thought you would be a regular girl, nice, but experienced with things, like with this.” His hands gestured outward from his sides.
“Sex, you can say it Frankie.”
“Yeah, sex.” He sat in his corner, crossing one leg over his knee, toying with his shoe lace. He looked at her. “Your a nice girl Sadie, a guy would be lucky to have a girl like you. You'd be nice to come home to, have kids with.” He rested his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Nice girl. I'm sorry, I gotta confess I lied about the girl, the one in the picture.”  He glanced to Sadie. She smiled.
“I know Frankie. Nice guys are not great liars, I saw it in your face. So who is the pretty girl?”
“Monica, Monica Stanski, well it was Stanski then. She was from the neighborhood, we dated, I loved her but she didn't think I had potential. She didn't say so, I knew. You know about things like that. I never dressed right for her, she would say things. I thought we could make it work. She found her guy, they have the big house, kids, she's happy and I'm glad for her. Glad she's happy.” Sadie slid across the couch next to him, putting her hand on his.
“Unlucky in love, the both of us.” She said. Frankie assented with a nod.
“The books over there, the poems, you seem like a college girl, how come you didn't go.”
“I was offered a scholarship, Tulane in New Orleans, but there was Wayne and his music. I shouldn't blame him entirely, the thought of New York, the small town girl going off to the big city, that was exciting. Now it is too late. A waitress can't put together the money for a college degree.
“That's a shame you seem to have a talent, I enjoyed your words, the way they described things, like I was there with you.  You know like good words, professional like in a paper, or book, don't read a lot of books. I should shut up, I just keep going on.”
CHAPTER XX

Sanders just cant get enough

“Oh Archie, let me slip off your pants, you get your shirt.  Oh, Archie.  Now your shorts.”
“Mona I've never met a woman like you.”
“You will never forget tonight.  Archie did you read my book.”
“Well...I...I was going to.”
“Lay back Archie.  Stretch out, relax.  I want to be on top.  You will enjoy me on top.  I will be your master.  I will entertain you.”
“Oh, Mona you can do whatever you want.” In the darkness there is a clicking sound.  And then again.  What is that Mona?  My wrist I can't move my wrist.” He protested.  A metallic sound, metal scraping against metal could be heard.
“Shush Archie, you are going to hurt your self.  It's a shame you didn't read my novel.  It is all there.  It's about us.  I almost forgot I need to put this on.”
“The funs over Mona, I'll be going now.  Undue the whatÖ handcuffs, is that what they are?”
There is a ripping sound.  “In a while Archie, you need to know.  But first I'll put this on.” Sanders feels something going across his face, he tries to turn away, fight it off, too late.  Duct tape, the taste, feel and smell of duct tape.  He pulled his wrist and twisted his head.  Then she began pulling at his feet.  Again there was the clicking sound.  He was unable to move his legs.  His body torqued up and to the sides.
“Ummff!  Hlpfff!  Mmmfff!  Mmmfff!” His muffled screams and shouts became comic to Mona, she was enjoying her efforts.
“Too dark in here.” She ran to the windows, flinging the drape open, allowing a gray glow from the street lamps to fill the room.  “That's better Archie, I want to see you enjoying our time together.” His eyes were opened wide, the defused light caught the terror within.  Mona began removing the rest of her clothing.  She flicked her finger at the tip of Sanders nose.  “Now I remember you saying how you liked all the changes I've made.” She turned in the light to let him see her body.  Let him see what he was going to enjoy.  “Do you like what I've done.  Oh, and don't worry cousin, I've practiced with other men.  I know how to give pleasure.” She giggled her girlish laugh.  “I'm good, every man I've had leaves with his tail dragging out of here.”
Her gaze returned to his eyes, eyes that expressed only fear.  She was happy, the project was going well.  She curled up next to Sanders kitten-like, her head on his shoulder, one hand toyed with the hair on his chest.  “Archie do you remember my high school prom.” Archie didn't respond.  She lifted her head, he was studying the ceiling.  She grabbed a handful of chest hair and yanked.
“affffffff!” was Sanders only response.  He thrashed for a moment then remembered resistance was useless.
“That's better Archie, I was afraid you had fallen asleep.  Where was I. Oh, yes the prom.  You remember?” No response from Sanders.  Her grasp went back to his chest.
“Ummfff, ummfff.” He responded.  His eyes focused on her.
“Good boy, you are learning fast.” She patted his head.  “The prom, remember when you spent the night with the other boys, telling stories about me, reciting your favorite names for me.  “Coke eyes, metal mouth, String Bean Sally.”  She rolled on top of him, leaning over him.  “Not much of a string bean now.  I saw the look at Mamma's house.  You were taking me in, disrobing me, having your way.”
She flicked the tip of his nose again, he winced.  “How many years Archie, name calling, bullying, torment?  Unfortunately Archie I only get one night.  One night Archie is all I have, I have to make the best of it.  Years of torment released in one night.  I'm looking forward to it.  Aren't you?”
“Nffff!  Nfff!” Sanders protested.  She stroked him.  “Nfff!”
“Archie, youíre a big boy, well not so big, but you can handle it.”
She applied more strokes.  “Nffff!  Nfff!”
Mona leaned forward, palms on his shoulders, stretching herself out, matching him head to toe.  “I've had better Archie, well to be honest, much better.  But you'll get the idea cousin, by morning most certainly you will understand.”
Sanders body arched and quaked.  “Affff!  Afff!  Afff!”
She was sitting on his chest again.  “I don't think you will want to discuss this with your friends at Dinky's.  It might be too, well too hard to live down.  As for Mamma, I will have to explain that you were unable to fill my needs.  She will be disappointed, she was so looking forward to grandchildren.  She will understand, knowing you for the failure you are.  She erupted into another burst of giggles as she brought Sanders back to life.
“Nfff!  Nfff!  Nfff!” He rocked back and forth on the bead.
“I'm enjoying it also Archie.” She spewed more giggles.
   


Fortunetelling

Frankie turned his wrist watch, checking the time. “You have some place to go?” Sadie asked.  Frankie stood under the weak street light. Goose down snow flakes floated through the slant of light.  He pulled in on his jacket, shivering.
A burst of wind drove snow and litter into his face, he brushed and pulled at it, stuffing an offensive piece of paper into his pocket.  Frankie had a thing about throwing trash on the ground, just couldn't do it.
Sadie stood at her window looking out at the solitary figure in the thin cone of light. She sensed the warmth of her body inside her thick robe. She felt the ache at her middle. She wanted to hold Frankie, share a moment of pleasure, maybe a lifetime. She pushed at the window, attempting to move it up, it came loose with a screech, wind whipping at the curtain and her gown as it was raised. She shivered and tightened the robe about her.
“I told you, the bus won't be along for forty-five minutes. Maybe longer with this snow. Come in you are going to freeze.”
“I'm okay, like the cold.” He rubbed at his leaky nose with the back of his hand.
“I'm not giving up until you come in. The both of us are going to die a premature death.”
He looked down the block, through the wall of flakes, no bus lights were to be seen. Sadie was still at the window, resolute, arms folded, not moving, then another inspection of the roadway, no bus. He shrugged and started for the steps down to the apartment.
As he passed the window she spoke softly. “I never finished telling your fortune; we will have to start over again.”

Morning seeped into the room. Mona at the side of her bed stretched and yawned. She wrapped herself in a modest robe. Behind her lay an inert Sanders, surrounded by vibrators, stimulators, and other gadgets from the trade. All guaranteed to provide a good time. “Archie.” Mona whispered. She touched his arm, giving him a slight shake.  His body jolted, as if electrocuted, bloodshot eyes shot open.”Nfff! Nfff! Nfff!” He pleaded.”No Archie You are just too much a man for me, I couldn't possibly go another round with you.” She patted his arm, he jerked away from her. She smiled a beatific smile.”Archie you will really have to read my novel, and then you will understand the humor in this. I'm sure you will enjoy the story. The critics have just loved it.” She smiled down at Sanders as she ripped the duct tape from his mouth.


<<<<>>>








THE PANTRY


A wood of birch, ash and oak created a canopy over the granite outcrop, the trees being home to warblers, thrushes and woodpeckers.  Water spilled from the green, gray and gold lichen patched, rock face, a white froth, cascading over boulders and fallen trees, flowing down and then settling into a broad pool surrounded by cattails and milkweed.  Translucent minnows swished their way across the graveled pond bed, while a trout, leaped at a negligent dragonfly, his splash, fracturing the glasslike surface and the afternoon calm.
“Aunt Mary, was that a fish?”
Mary yawned and stretched, rolling on her side to view her niece. “I was reading Polly, what was your question?”
“A noise, there was a splashing sound in the pond, was it a fish?” Polly was on her knees, anxious to experience more activity.
“Well, maybe we should explore, perhaps we might spy a fish.” Her aunt suggested. Mary took Polly's small hand, leading the way along a rock jetty at the waters edge, they crouched, Mary created a visor with her meshed fingers, Polly mimicked, they stared long and deep into the water.
“Nope, no fish Aunt Mary.” Polly tilted her head, giving her aunt  a disappointed face.
“Hot!” Mary pulled her scarf from her pocket, padding her forehead, bending low she scooped water with her hands, splashing her face, rubbing the back of her neck.  “The water is so cool, so refreshing.”
“Aunt Mary?” Polly asked.
Mary focused down at her niece; there was something small and shiny in her hand. “What do you have there Polly?”
Polly held it closer. “Is this the key you have been looking for?” Polly had a triumphant smile, offering the object to Mary.
Mary's hand shook as she reached for the key, but then it was gone, Polly had vanished.
***
Mary wiped the stinging sweat from her eyes. She stood in the cramped space, rotating the handle, clockwise, counter clockwise, she wrenched it back and forth, she pounded on the door, she screamed, “Help me, Help me.” She pounded and screamed. There was no answer; she slid down to the floor. Slumped in the darkness, she couldn't see the perspiration, she couldn't see the grit that covered her, she could only feel and sense the damp and dirt.
***
Mary and a couple her own age stood before a white, clapboard beach cottage, in the distance a pelican swooped  down, skimming just above the breakers and further out sailboats could be seen racing for their home ports. “I will be fine; I am going to revel in the isolation, this is my opportunity to finish the last chapters.”
Hank opened the door of his new Packard.  “Joan, Mary will be just fine, and we can't be late for your showing.” Joan slipped into the passenger side, Hank closing the door, turned to give his sister a hug.  “Should be back early Monday.”
“I am going to appreciate the sea air and quiet, you two enjoy the city.” She waved them goodbye as the car crunched down the gravel drive.
***
Mary straightened her typewriter on the kitchen table, her manuscript was to one side and her stack of typing paper on the other, a breeze whisked at her neat stacks, she scanned the kitchen counters and then the pantry, returning with two cans of soup, she placed one on each stack.  Going to the window she pulled back the sheer curtains, taking in the sun spackled ocean and  inhaling the cool breeze.
A cup of tea would make this all just perfect. Mary moved to the stove, filled the kettle and then began to search out Joan’s tea. She opened and closed canister after canister, no tea was found. “Hmm, the pantry.” Stepping into the oversized closet, stocked with canned foods and other dry staples she began the search anew. Behind her, at the kitchen a strong wind furled the window curtains, followed by a gust that slammed the pantry door shut.
***
A breeze blew across the harbor, carrying the scents of tar, varnish, fish, and motor fuels. Jim shoved off from the dock and jumped aboard. Mary, her hand on the tiller brought the boat into the wind, the sails snapped and pulled them out, into the channel, passing sloops, cutters, gaff rigs and brigantines, cruising yachts, working boats, tugs and fishing trawlers, draped with nets, all plying the crowded estuary. Mary placed both hands on the tiller, bracing her feet, as they progressed out into the ocean, Jim let out the jib line and Mary the main sail.  A fine spray of salt water came over the bow, They zipped their jackets and pulled their caps down low. Jim, sitting next to her Began whistling, and pulling a leather pouch from his pocket, extracting a pipe, which he filled it with tobacco. “I'm glad you only smoke on the boat, indoors it would be intolerable.”
“My dear, our accommodations, one to the other is what makes us such a smashing good fit.” He responded with a flourish.
Mary bent low to avoid the puffs of smoke. “Why is it Jim, you smoke that, it doesn't have a pleasant aroma, some tobacco does, but not yours.”
Jim shifted to the other side of the cockpit, his smoke drifting away from his mate. “It is all about family tradition, the same brand my father smoked, as did his father.” He drew upon his pipe. “Breeding and tradition go hand and hand, as you so well know. A sail, just wouldn't be a sail, without a good pipe, and this fine tobacco.”
“You don't inhale, I know you don't enjoy it.”
He gave her a good scowl. “Mary, now you have done it, you have ruined my smoke.”
“I will never understand!”
He tapped the pipe against the rail, clearing the bowl. “Quiet, we don't want the tradition gods to hear such blasphemy, you missed the point Mary. My father always smoked on the boat, as did grandpapa, Captain James must carry on.” The sails began to luff, Jim leaned foreword to view the jib. “Let's tighten her up.” They began pulling their lines in, the boat heeled into the water, the railing submerged in the foam, Jim shifted back to Mary's side.  He nodded, “Mary, without tradition where would we be, the world might fly apart for all we know.” They both had a hearty laugh.
“Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.” Mary commented.
“Precisely, don't smoke the pipe and a huge hole might develop in the hull, then where would we be.”
Jim was running his tongue around his mouth, making a sour face. “Maybe I should give it up, food just doesn't taste right afterwards, burns my mouth.” He massaged the pouch in his pocket. He bent down to get a sighting of the horizon.  “Storm clouds to the east, we better take her in.” Mary pushed hard on the tiller bringing the bow around. The winds were strengthening and the swells becoming deep troughs.
“Jim you better take over.” Mary suggested. He took the helm, standing to better observe the waves that began to break over the small cabin, Mary held tight to the wood railing.  A squall enveloped boat, pelting them with a heavy rain.  Water soaked through their jackets and clothing to their skin
***
“Water, water.” It was a delusional call. Mary laid on the floor, fetal position, semiconscious, mumbling.  “Water, water.”
***
“Where should we go for dinner?” Mary asked.
“Dinner, is it that late?” Jim had his arm over Mary's shoulder, his chin resting on her head; he eyed the window and the twilight sky beyond. “Do we have to eat?”
“Yes we do, if we try later, everything will be closed.  Our last dinner needs to be special.”
“Sh!” He returned his chin to the top of Mary's head.
“Don't sh, me!” Mary frowned.
“This is the way I want it to always be. Just us.”
“It will be us always.”  She leaned into his embrace. “We will go down to Luigi's and then work off dinner with a walk to the park.” Mary was insistent.
Jim Pulled her closer sniffing her hair, lightly kissing her lips. “Signore Luigi's it is.” He agreed.
***
“Maria, and Signore Jim, welcome!” Luigi called out from the kitchen door, and across his crowded dining room. Jim had a malicious grin on his face as they seated themselves, Mary gave him a scowl.
Jim waited for the proprietor to approach. “Luigi, how are your Yankees?” Jim was aware that the promise of a championship and playing in the World Series had become a lost hope.
They break’a my heart, those Yankees.  My Joe, Joe DiMaggio, he knows how to hit, that boy.” Luigi shook his head, pain on his face. “They in fourth place, my Yankees, break’a my heart.” Mary picked up her menu, shaking her head at Jim.  He replied to her rebuke with a smile.
***
“Here! We stop right here!” Jim demanded, with a laugh.  They sat at the edge of the fountain, the lighted arch at a distance.
Mary's teeth chattered.  “I should have known to bring a heavier coat.” She pulled it tighter, Jim put his arm around her.  “Who's going to take care of me while you are gone.” She asked.
“You will find someone.” Jim chuckled then gazed down at her.  “You promised, no tears.”
Mary wiped at her eyes with her hand. “I'm trying.”
***
A gray dawn entered Mary's apartment window, she stirred and whispered.  “Are you awake?”
 Jim's arm was draped over her, his hand resting on her breast. “I couldn't sleep.” He moved closer to her.  “I wanted to soak in every moment with you, the sound of your sleep, your warmth, your softness.” Jim explained. Mary turned and kissed him.  “There will be time to sleep on the train.” He said.
She kissed him again. “I want to go with you, down to the station, to see you off.” She pleaded.
“No, this is all I ask, right here, this is what I want us both to remember, this is what will get us through our separation.” They kissed and sank deeper into the bed.
***
Mary stood at her window, viewing Bleecker Street below, only a few cars passed in the early morning hours, tires sloshing water from the morning rain, a young man in military uniform waited at the curb, his duffel at his side, a taxi pulled to the curb. Jim  glanced up and waved just as he stepped into the cab.
***
Mary smiled at Ben, any elderly gentleman, gray spider-like  eyebrows, clothed in tweed, his chair squeaked as he leaned back,  he sucked on the well worn stem of his pipe.  “You smiled.” He  observed.
“Your pipe, made me think of Jim. Yours has such a pleasant aroma, Jim's is noxious, smells like burning trash or something equally  vile” She commented.
Ben moved a stack of manuscripts to the floor.  “And how is Jim?” He asked.
“Convoy duty is repetitious, they haven't been involved in any  action, and being a junior officer he is assigned the jobs no  other officers want to take on.  He does feel that his men respect him.”
“The Canadian military probably is no different than the American.  I saw duty in Europe for the war to end all wars.” Ben emitted a  gruff, cynical laugh. “The peace no doubt, brought this on, laid the German's so low, devastated their economy and self  respect.  We made it possible for a madman to become their savior.”  He shook his head with disgust.
Ben reached across the desk.  “What do you have there Mary.” She  handed him a thick manuscript.  “Is it good?” He smiled. “Of  course it will be excellent, I know to expect the best from you.”
“That is only the first half of the novel, by New Years I should  have it completed.  Not good timing for publication.” She settled  back in her chair.
“Next fall, I'm sure that we will have it in print and bookstores  will have difficulty keeping it in stock.” He pronounced.
***
Mary took a shortcut through the park, the oaks, the yellow locust  and ash were aflame with their fall colors. As she passed the fountain a young couple sat hand-in-hand, looking off to the arch, light from the declining sun painted the surfaces and angels with  a reddish-gold hue.
The wind swirled leaves at her feet, forcing her to turn her collar up, her bag swung at her side.  Her gaze  moved upward to the darkening sky, drops of rain splashed against her face, she lengthened her stride.
 Mary darted into Luigi's, getting out of the rain, hanging her  overcoat and sitting at her favorite table.  “Good evening Luigi,  Cinzano Rosso please.” Luigi placed a menu on the table in front  of Mary, she picked up her mail, began sorting through the  envelopes, one caught her attention, she hesitated, then took a  knife from the table, slitting it open.  The letter shook in her  hands, her head dropped to the table her shoulders shaking.
 Luigi rushed to her side, placing his hand on her arm. “Miss Maria, what is wrong, how may I help you?” Luigi implored.
Mary looked at Luigi with red, tear-filled eyes, responding, “I'm  sorry.” She rushed from Luigi's leaving behind her mail, scattered at the table.
Luigi glanced down at the open letter. His wife had come to stand at his side. With sadness he faced his wife uttering, “It is Signore Jim, he is dead.”
***
The door slammed behind Mary she pivoted in the dark, trying the handle it turned, she pulled, it wouldn't open.  She let the handle  go, she tried again, stuck, it wouldn't budge.  A bit of force  perhaps, she put her shoulder to the effort, there was no give.  Stepping back she paused.  “Huh!” She said to herself.  Inhaling  a deep breath she tried again with no success.  She surveyed  the  door hardware with her finger tips, finding a keyhole.  “So, if  we have a lock maybe we have a key in here for such accidents.”  She muttered.
 Placing her hands on the wall she methodically  covered the surface from floor to as high as she could reach.  Both sides of the door were searched, nothing.  She twisted to face the shelves of canned foods, and canisters of sugar and flour. “You don't hide this sort of key. Joan what have you done to me?  Damn!”  She shouted.
***
“Joan, it is just so…daring, so avant-garde. I will send Michael  around to purchase that little one, you know, the one with the yellows and blues.” This was from Mrs. Winnie Van Demeer, the grand dame with too much makeup and too many jewels.
“Do let Grace know, she will reserve it for you.” Joan forcing an insincere smile.  The dame in question strolled away leaving a  perfumed wake.
Hank nudged Joan, whispering,  “She didn't understand any of your  pieces, just wants to make a show of her good taste.”
“Don't complain Henry, we will now be in a position to payoff that new car of yours.” She smiled.
Joan surveyed the gallery, looking for prospective buyers. Turning back to her husband she commented. “And before you ask, I found it  necessary to invite her to the party.”
“God! How dreadful, she'll keep us up all night drinking and telling about her latest affairs.” He sipped  at his drink with  no enthusiasm. “Such a bore.”
“The drinking helps to deaden the pain of the conversation.” Joan emphasized.
***
Mary had searched through the pantry, everything was caned with the exception of two canisters, one of flour, the other of sugar, she daubed at the sugar, then the flour, it made a thick paste in her mouth. Mary twisted in a coughing spasm, her elbow knocking the flour  canister, crashing to the floor, creating a dust cloud that filled the cramped space, she covered her face with her hands to filter out the befouled air. She coughed, choked and sobbed, again yanking at the unyielding door.
***
“And there we were at the Metropole, he is just too demanding.”  Madame Van Demeer winked, the one with the jewels.  “He  demonstrated his expertise at the baccarat tables as well.”
“But, with the war…” A young fellow attempted to insert.
“Tsk.” The Madame wanded  the air with her beringed hand.  “What is that little conflict to me.  Michael, maybe a new young man will accompany me to Monaco, perhaps the Riviera this season.  One  never knows.” She laughed with hauteur.
Hank was leaning against Joan; both were half asleep, he glanced at his watch.  “Five o'clock.” He yawned.  “This party is over, and  she is unfazed.”  He leaned Joan back against the couch, standing  with effort and a wobble.
 “It is with great sadness that I must  adjourn this session of our drinking society.” He announced with  an air of professionalism.
“Oh pooh, and I was just warming up.” Mrs. Van Demeer patted her  sagging face with a lace handkerchief.
***
Hank pulled and tugged attempting to get his shoe off.  Joan  observed his strenuous efforts.  “You might want to untie your  laces first dear.” He stared at the laces as if they were a new invention, he then began unknotting them.
“Never again Joan, never.” He insisted.
“Hank, that's what you say every time we have one of our soirees.  Come here and unzip me.” Hank grumbled as he thumped his way to Joan's side of the bed,  one shoe on, one shoe off.
“I mean it Joan, never. My liver can’t take this sort of abuse.” He patted at his mid section unsure as to where that organ was located.
“My next showing could pay off the mortgage.” She commented.
Hank pulled off his other shoe, he was focused off into space, he  swiveled to face Joan.  “Well, maybe just one more.  Oh. I almost  forgot, Judge Holbrook has invited us to his farm, it's on the way home.”
“Not the stuffy old Holbrook's, she is so opinionated, and she  will give me a tour of her begonia garden for the umpteenth time. And the judge is such a dolt.” She hung her dress across a chair. “Hank, Mary is expecting us early Monday  afternoon.”
“Keep in mind, that old dolt is my beloved boss that you are denigrating. And Mary will be fine, she is resourceful.” Hank  insisted.
“If you think so.” Joan was unconvinced.
“She had those chapters to complete.  I'm exhausted.” Hank yawned, and threw his fully dressed body to the bed where he fell off to  sleep.
***
Polly was using both hands to squeeze the flour sifter, flour spattered her face, and her apron had a thin  sheen of the white dust.  “This is hard Aunt Mary.” She put down  the sifter and shook her hands.
“Yes it is Polly.” Her aunt responded. Mary was cracking eggs into a bowl. “I'm done with the eggs, do you want me to  finish the sifting?”
 Polly exhaled a deep sigh. “Yes Aunt Mary, I think you should!” Her niece took a fork and began poking at the egg yolks.
“Why don't you beat those eggs for me Polly?”
“Do I have to?” Polly whined.
“You do if we will have this prepared for our picnic.”
“Well I guess so.” Polly began whisking the eggs with the fork.
***
“I'm full Aunt Mary.” Polly heaved a sigh of satisfaction and lay  back on the picnic blanket, her small hands patting at her stomach, she stared at the sky. Mary began packing plates and utensils into the hamper.
“And what did you enjoy most Polly?” Mary asked as she closed the basket.
“Well.” Polly was deep in thought.  “I would have to say the fried chicken. Hmm. But, maybe the biscuits and honey. To be honest Aunt Mary, it was all just so yummy.”
Mary smiled down at her niece who was closing her eyes, and began breathing deeply. Mary pulled a notebook from her tote bag, jotting thoughts, sensing the cooling breeze, and observing the movement of the trees, and  the song of the lark in the upper reaches.  She leaned back to let the sun warm her face.
 A shadow crossed over Mary. Opening her eyes,  Jim was standing above her, inspecting the picnic remnants.  “What are you doing here.” She smiled and asked.
“I came to see my girls. It would appear that Polly enjoyed her lunch.” He sat down next to Mary, glancing at a sleeping child. Mary opened the basket.  “We left you some chicken and one or two biscuits, Polly always enjoys the biscuits.”
“They feed us well on the ship, I didn't come to eat, I just needed  to be with you, if just for a short time, I'll have to get back.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him.
“Jim, you feel so cold and your jacket feels damp.” Mary said.

“How is it Jim, the ship?” She released him to take him in.
“It is a good crew, good officers, my men work well together, maybe we are just resigned to what our mission is.  Cold and damp  is the only complaint, constant fog, clothing just doesn't keep the cold out.” He rubbed at his chin.
“You seem thinner Jim, pale.”
 Jim was watching activity down the hill, something catches his  attention.  “Skipper's down there, he's calling me back.” Jim  studied Mary for a moment, they kissed.  “I'll be back.”
Mary watched Jim march down the hill with military bearing. She called out. “But Jim when, when will you return for good.”
***
  Staring up into the darkness of the pantry Mary asked, “Joan…Hank, when will  you be back?” Mary was laying on the floor, covered with flour dust, her breathing labored, she rolled to her side, rose and once again  tried at the knob, her head hit against the door with a hollow thunk.  She began to unbutton her blouse, and removing it, with care she she attempted to brush off dust and wrinkles, placing it on an open shelf.  She then removed her skirt and repeated her efforts.  She returned to the floor, laying with her mouth and nose to the gap at the threshold, breathing in a thin layer of  untainted air.  Her hand brushed at perspiration running down her neck and between her breasts.
***
 Jim was leading Mary into a waltz amongst a very staid and proper gathering, a country club crowd. He had a broad smile, Mary is suffering.  “You are the most beautiful woman here, smile.” He  complimented.  She responded with a sour squint. Mary made a point of scanning the room.
“I don't believe there is a person in this room I would want to bring into my circle of friends, nor attempt to converse with.”
“Moi, you are including me.” He responds with mock hurt.
“You know I didn't mean you. This is not my way of life, the sort of people I would want to work and socialize with. And as for beauty, that is very thin, as with effervescence it too soon vanishes”
“Mary, you know I meant the inner you, your mind, that is what I find exciting, attractive about you.”
“Well you better!” He has his board smile again.  “Now what?” She interrogates.
“Will you at least let me enjoy the effervescence while it is  with us?” His attempted compromise is met with a slight twinkle  in Mary's eyes.  They swirl off into the crowded floor.
***
The lights from the Packard played across the front of the cottage.  “Strange.” Joan commented.
Hank steered onto the drive. “What's that dear?”
“There are no lights on inside the house.”
“Mary might have gone to bed early.” He responded. “Knowing Mary she would be up all night working on her book. Odd.”  She frowned. Hank pulled the car to the end of the drive.
“Mary!” Hank called out for his sister as he flicked on the kitchen light.
Joan observed the table, the blank sheet in the typewriter, manuscript and paper neatly arranged, she looked to the sink and stove.  “Hank, there is  something terribly wrong here. Other than this.” She pointed at Mary's work area.  “And the kettle on the stove, nothing has been  disturbed, everything is, as I left it.”
“I'll check the guest room.” Hank offered, as he ran from the  kitchen Joan took a soup can from atop the manuscript and walked to the window, viewing the phosphorescent breakers and then refocusing on the room as Hank rushed in.
“She never unpacked.” Hank blurted, out of breath.
Panic on her face Joan shouted, “No!  The pantry. Hank, get the key!”
Hank fumbled with a collection of keys on a wall rack, raced to  the door, unlocking and pulling the door open, Mary's crumpled, soiled body rolled onto the kitchen floor.  She swung her floured  hand to shield her eyes. “Light.” Came the soft exhale from Mary.






BROTHERLY LOVE



Joe limped his way across the scarred wooden floor of the saloon, pulling down the kerosene lanterns with a short pole and hook. The room was turning grey, the same grey as the weakening afternoon sky. He snapped a match to life with a flick of his thumb nail, igniting the wick, adjusting the flame, replacing the chimney and sending the lamp up toward the ceiling. He accompanied his progress around the room with a tuneless humming. Two jacketed ranchers, sitting in the corner,  carried on a quiet game of cards, ignoring the saloon keepers circumnavigation and sing-song.

The saloon door was thrown open by a large fellow in a leather jacket and Stetson hat. He was accompanied by the rush of cold wind. All eyes turned to the new customer. “Evening Mr. Bardwell.” Joe called out, as he raised the last lamp. Bardwell slammed the door closed.

“Whiskey.” Bardwell demanded. “And put some wood in that fire of yours. “Cold enough to store beef in here.”

“Yes sir Mr. Bardwell.” Joe pulled at his gimpy leg as he shuffled his way behind the bar.

Bardwell looked to the card players, nodding. He had to nod, it was his duty. This was his domain, Joe there, pathetic Joe, Hodges and Jones hunkered over the table with their game, even these lowly souls were his vassals. The cattlemen were his knights, pledged to his service. He took pleasure in this, schooled as he was by his late mother in the tales of King Arthur. He knew the power of authority and if needed the threat of violence.

Throwing his hat to a table he sat as Joe delivered the fresh bottle of whiskey and four glasses, the barkeep stood back as Bardwell studied each glass. “what you wait'n for put a log in the stove. He scowled as Joe worked his way to the pot bellied stove, where he stirred-up the banked fire and threw a log in. Every movement was monitored with a twisting of the Barron's mouth or the arching of a eye brow. Every action or inaction must be observed and corrections made, the kingdom must run efficiently and toward the Barron's goals.

“I’m thirsty over herew Joe. Bring a bottle of Old Grandad and four glasses.” Bardwell demanded.
THREE CATTLE MEN ARRIVE

The men seated themselves around a large table reserved for poker play.  Joe placed a tray with the fresh bottle of whiskey and five glasses on the table.  “Will Turner and Jordan be playing with you tonight?” The barkeep questioned.
“Said they would be here, expect so.  Cards?” Bardwell demanded.
A nervous Joe pulled a deck of cards from his apron pocket.  “Sorry Mr. Bardwell, I forgot.”
Bardwell branded him with a deprecating sneer.  “Throw a log in that pot bellied stove of yours, could freeze a beef in here.” Bardwell shook his head.  “Damn fool.” He handed the deck to Patrick Trainor, “You shuffle!”
Benson pulled the Old Grand-Dad and a glass across the table, poured himself a full drink, and lifted the bottle.  “Bardwell?”.
Bardwell looked up.  “That's what I'm here for.” Benson slid the bottle over to him.
Trainor finished shuffling, slapped the deck on the table and poured a drink.  Settling back, enjoying the heat of the drink he looked to the wall clock.  “Do we wait for them Bardwell?”
Bardwell surveyed the room, the window and eyed the Regulator clock.  “Snow is coming down hard out there now, they may not make it.  Trainor you cut and Benson, you deal.”
Benson began dealing, Trainor smiled as he looked at each card.  Bardwell let his lay, finished with the deal Benson looked at his cards with no response.  Bardwell looked at his with a scowl.  “Trainor, you sure you shuffled that deck, I couldn't buy spittle with this hand.”
Trainor continued to smile.  “Bardwell you always have that to say and you always go away with your pockets full of our cash.” Bardwell glowered at the cards.
The front door blew open, two more snow covered ranchers came in, shaking the powder from their hats and coats.
Bardwell growled at them.  “About time you showed up, ready to give up on you.”
“Mean wind out there, blowing down from the Powder River.”

Talk of cattle, hard weather, sheepmen and their damned sheep

“Got no right being on our range, run 'em off if needs be.”


"Trainor!" The Bardwell growled. "That brother of yours is stirring up the sheep men again." Patrick Trainor wasn't a strong man. Not the sort to disregard orders from the big man. His father had been strong. Back in the old country, Ireland, the Laird ruled the countryside with a steal will. His tenants were to pay their rents, famine or no famine, the rents must no9t be in arears. Da had challenged the Laird, gathered the other tenants and confronted the highborn man.  It was a short lived rebellion. Da and several other leaders were hauled from their beds in the middle of the night. Their bodies were found hanging from a tree outside the village next morning. Patrick found it safer to get along, follow rather than lead.

Patrick shrugged at the bosses comment. "You need to get him off my range, and out the Badlands(?) for good." Patrick and his brother John had been at one another for several years. Sheep and cattle, that was the conflict. It hadn't been that way when the migrated to America, the land of unending promise. A short stay in the Bowery of New York City convinced them that life would be better out west, they had farming skills, they would prosper.

They didn’t prosper. Free land and bank loans filled their heads with visions of a comfortable living. They knew sheep, how hard could it be. Then the conflict began, cattle men against the sheep men.. With the likes of Bardwell, who had chance. The two brothers argued, Patrick threw in with the cattlemen. That was the end of it, they were brothers no more.

Patrick stiffened his back, looked into the hawk like eyes of Bardwell, so similar to those of the Laird, and said, “Yes Mr. Bardwell. I’ll tell Patrick to end his fighting with us or leave.” He was sweating inside the cold saloon, he wiped at his upper lip.  “I’ll tell him.” He betrayed his resolve with a tremor in his voice.

“Good. Now get back to the range and give your brother a visit. Next couple days we move the heard down his way. He mends his ways or we run him off.”













There was no horizon to be seen. The frozen earth stretched out to leaden grey sky, the muted tones bleeding into an indecipherable sameness where they met. The plain undulated with hills and draws. Down one draw could be heard the bleating of sheep. A black border collie was herding stray sheep back into the fold, several of the larger ewes butted at the dog as he passed to close. He backed off, sat on his haunches allowing his charges to calm, then he circled one more time to assert his control, returning to his point of origin he sat once again.

Above the draw the shepherd, wrapped in a sheepskin jacket and woolen cap pulled low, his boots scuffed across the frozen soil. He stooped to pick up a piece of dried cow dung, further on he found the twisted stump of tumbleweed and still further scraps of broken branches. Back at his wagon he placed his finds to the side of his smoldering fire. With care he placed the smaller pieces over the scant embers followed pieces of larger size. His fuel began to take flame, orange tongues darting out. He put a grate over his growing fire, and then a coffee pot above. He then removed his mittens to expose his reddened, chapped hands to heat. He looked down to the draw where the dog could be seen, sitting sentry over the flock. “Brutus!” The shepherd called. “Come lad, come!” The dog scanned the herd, all was peaceful, he went to his feet and ran to his master.


OTHER SHEEPMEN LEAVING IN CARAVANS, STOP TO TALK WITH JOHN, ENCOURAGE HIM TO LEAVE AS WELL

Patrick you remember how Da would tell of the Laird Murray, a man so possesed of himself. How he would gather his tennants about him every season. The man would go into great detail, exlpaining to each man, men who had born on the estate as had their fathers, and their father's father. How each man should plant, how each should tend and how each should harvest. For hours the Laird Murray would carry on. One season after the other, year again year. Da and all his tennants stood and listened. Each man inside knowing the Laird for the fool he was.

Patrick, Da brought us here to America so our lives would be our own. We could live or die as free men. Laird Murray was left behind in Ireland. Bardwell is the Laird in disguise. He speaks of sharing his wealth with all the cattlemen, no Patrick. When he rids the plain of us, the sheepmen, he will begin to push out competing cattlemen. I may be gone brother, I may be dead, mark my word Bardwell is not a man to share wealth or power. Just like the Laird suffers his tennents only so far as they carry his water and do his bidding.


THE SHOOTING

THE SHERIFF

JOHN TENDING TO HIS DYING BROTHER--TALES OF THE BANSE, DANCING ON THE WALLS, FLAMES MINGLING WITH THE FIRE. Patrick burning wuith fever.



Cha Rang Valley, South Viet Nam 1970

THE NEAR SHOOTING


OTHER VERSION


The dim afternoon sun slipped down below the horizon, Joe the barkeep began his circuit around the room lighting the kerosene lamps, sweeping dust and cigarette stubs from tabletops.  A bitter cold knifed it's way through the room, as the bar door flung open, three ranchers in heavy mackinaws entered the room, removing gloves and slapping their hands together to encourage circulation.  They dusted the thin sheen of sleet from their jackets and Stetsons.
“Joe bring us a bottle of your Old Grand-Dad.” Bardwell called out.
“Right with you Mr. Bardwell, just one last lamp.” Joe responded.

THE RANGE
The range -- Introduce John and the sheep man's life
A dark, gun metal grey sky stretched from North to South, East to West.  A wolflike, howling wind swirled snow across the frozen range, bending the sage low and cartwheeling dried tumbleweeds before it.  The bleating of the sheep rolled up from the draws below, where they sheltered from the wind and snow.
 A lone figure, walked and stooped, walked on again and reached down again for scraps of dry wood, skeletal branches and buffalo chips, approaching a small fire he began feeding it with his sparse fuel.  Crouching down, John Trainor warmed his hands, then put a pot on a flat stone to the side.
A loud barking came up from one of the far off gullies, John stood and at a slow pace approached the deep cleft, tightening his wool scarf around his neck, pulling his hat low, he observed Brutus, his large black border collie working strays back into the fold, they bawled out their displeasure at the dog.  John called Brutus back to the fire when his work was completed, the dog gobbled his morning rations down with greed.  The sheepman sat back, sipping coffee from a tin cup, his hands absorbing the precious heat.
“Brutus, gotta move the herd on up to the pens, ready for it boy?” The dog jumped to his feet, awaiting his orders.
John stood, kicking the fire in upon itself, smoke trailing off in wisps.

John sopped-up the last bit of fat on his tin plate with a hunk of hardtack.  Brutus sat at the closed door, ears raised.  “What you hear boy.” John wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.  The dog looked to his master then back to the door.  “Hear a wagon comin'.” Standing he pulled his rifle from a hook on the wall, opening the door but a crack.
“Miller what you doing out at this time of night.” John called out to the sheepman stepping down from his wagon.  The dry cold wind pulled at the canvas tarp covering the Miller family and their belongings.  John met Miller half way.
“Can't take it no more John, Bardwell and his hired killers, even your brother ain't going to let us live, let alone work our sheep.  No John, ain't no future here, not with the wife and kids to fret over.  I'm goin'...somewhere.” Miller kicked at the unmoving turf, for a moment he put his hand on John shoulder, then walked away to his wagon and anxious family. “Them's all I got John.” The wind whipped these parting words back to John.
John watched as the wagon moved off the homestead, wheels cracking the frozen earth, the sound of wolves along the foothills, and the moon casting a silver glow across the broken roadway.
Brutus began howling at his brother wolves.  “Quiet boy, inside.”  John pulled at the dogs nape(?), frosted breath shooting from his mouth between howls as he attempted to fight himself loose.
“What kind of coward shoots a man in the foot?” Bardwell demanded.
Sheriff you take me in who is going to be with Pat, he cant die out here alone, just wouldn't be right.
I'll be back, a day or two, he won't last long.  Then I'll take you in.
Bardwell pulled his rifle from his mount.  “Save you time sheriff, you just let us take care of him here.”  Bardwell snarled.
“Law don't work that way Bardwell, you know that.” The sheriff responded.
Bardwell mounted, nodded to his leading them out onto the prairie.
Ballard watched as they moved off.  “Keep your rifle loaded and nearby, they may be back.”
SCENE 14
John cabin he is tending to William's leg
Light from the fire cast shadows about the room, setting them to dance, John shrugged from them, Williams moans and cries remind him of the banshee tales, Grandma Sullivan would tell.

SCENE 15
Bardwell and cattlemen confront John at his ranch
There is a knocking at the door.  John, Sheriff Ballard here, John pulled the door open.
Waiting for you.  Willie only lasted to yesterday noon, buried him out back.  John closed the door, stepped off the porch.
Ballard looked around the spread.  “Where the sheep?'
John put on his hat, adjusted the brim.  “Sold 'em, word got around, Jim Ford came over, bought them, not a good price.  They would die here unattended or Bardwell would send his boys over to slaughter what was left.  I'll need the money for a lawyer.” He kicked at the soil.  Just doesn't seem worth it, Willie dead, sheep gone, just not worth the price.”



<<<<>>>>





ROMANCE ON THE TELEGRAPH



“Charlie, got a message for you, from the warden, need to tap it out to the governors office,” Charlie Tibbet’s brushed back his thatch of blond hair, and deciphered the note from the Territorial Prison. He slipped a pencil from under papers stacked to the side of his desk, rubbing at his growth of beard he made several notes, nodded and swiveled his chair to the telegraph key. Sergeant Bishop, an old timer at the prison, pulled at his mustache as the note was sent to Phoenix over the wire. Bishop was a big man, he filled in most of the doorway, “I’ll wait for the reply,” he drawled.

Finishing his telegraphy Charlie shifted toward the door, he didn’t want to ignore his guest. His watery blue eyes, with a rim of red squinted; a shaft of sunlight escaped over the guards broad shoulders and shone into his face. “Hot out there?” he attempted to ignite a conversation. Bishop grunted something like a yeah. Talking about the heat was a pastime in Yuma: “How hot is it going to be?”; “Going to be hotter than yesterday?” “Think it’s hotter than hell today?” Half the year was spent talking about the heat. He looked forward to the nights, walking down to the river to swim, cooling off for a few minutes at least. With nighttime temperatures in the 90’s their just wasn’t much cooling off to be had.

Charlie’s key began to tap; he swiveled, tapped his code and began writing out the Governor’s response.  He finished with a flourish and handed the message over to Bishop, who nodded his thanks and sauntered out into the afternoon sun. Leaning back in his chair the telegrapher ran the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. Like most folks in this part of the Arizona desert, he didn’t arrive by design, his grubstake ran out in Yuma, he knew something about the telegraph code and there was a job, so he stayed, a few years longer than intended. This was a land made for lizards and snakes, any people who stayed were fools or incarcerated felons.

Charlie’s reverie on the malignant weather was interrupted by a shout from the street, “Senior Charlie you want chicken tamale, Mamma make fresh for you.” Pedro called out. The young kid was short, dark and scruffy. He walked with a bit of a limp, causing him to walk like a crab, but that was all the more reason for him to move fast and think even faster. The streets were filled with the sounds of wagons hauling cargo, horn blasts from steamboats out on the Colorado and the passing of freight trains. Too much activity for an impaired person to sit a about. He ran messages for Charlie, shined boots and shoes at the hotel and cleaned spittoons down the street at the saloon. He always had a smile and a quick wit.

Charlie pulled out his billfold and a dollar bill, Pedro handed over the tamales wrapped in an oil stained bandana. Pulling back the cloth Charlie sniffed at the rising steam, “Fresh from your Mamma’s kitchen, chicken?” He asked. The boy nodded in the affirmative, and smiled. Lacking utensils, and to hungry to wait Charlie dug in with his fingers, savoring each handful with moans and grunts. What Yuma lacked in urban amenities it attempted to make up the difference with flavorful food. The few restaurants were supplemented by home kitchens that helped feed a hungry town. He leaned back with satisfaction, wiping his hand on the bandana. “Ahh!” Was all he needed to say, to Pedro that was the best compliment for his mother’s efforts.

A hot dry wind blew a tumbleweed past the telegraph office door, Pedro was crouched next to Charlie, he looked to the street and then up at his friend, shaking his head. Charlie shrugged, “Glad my meal is done for, we’ll shut up the doors and windows, not that it will do much good.” The boy held his hand over his nose as he scurried around the room helping with closing up. It was die of the heat or die of the stench blowing down the hill from the stockyard and slaughter house. Most days the wind prevailed in the opposite direction, but then there was the contrary wind that brought the deathly aroma.

Pedro began gagging as he closed the last shutter. A native of the town, he was not immune to the assault on his sense of smell.  Seemed that there were those scents one just couldn’t adjust to. They laughed at their predicament as they returned to their seating arrangement, Pedro on the floor, Charlie in his office chair. The telegraph began to chatter, Charlie turned, grabbed his pencil and paper to begin his note taking. Pedro looked on and listened, he was beginning to understand the code and was able to construct the words in his head.

“Got a job for you, run this down to the courthouse, clerks office,” Charlie handed the message to Pedro who’s face was beaming, every coin he earned was a fortune.

As he scuttled for the door he shouted a, “Thank you, Senior Charlie,” Over his shoulder.




CHAPTER 2

Mattie pulled her hair loose; her thick blonde tresses fell below her shoulders. It was not the color or texture a beauty would posses, but she had noted a man or two appreciating her




CHAPTER 3

Charlie hadn’t communicated with his friend in Banning for a number of Days, Mat and he had become good friends. They chatted on work, rail roads, and mostly they reminisced on fishing. They shared the love of camping, fishing for a meal and the camaraderie of the campfire at night.







FISHIN’



The water poured over the stones, settled down, then flowed out to the engorged banks. Herons on stilted legs meandered between stands of pussy willow, their pointed beaks spearing unsuspecting minnows. In the distance could be heard the rumble of thunder, and flashes of lightning laced against the backdrop of dark gray clouds. Two coverall clad, barefoot boys carrying fishing poles slid down the embankment, putting the herons to flight. “This is the place Billy.” The taller of the boys shouted. He unslung the pack from his back, extracting bait, and fixing it to his line. Splash, the baited line hit the pond surface sending out ripples in concentric circles. Tommy sat back on the narrow sand beach, dunking his pole now and then to attract a hungry fish. He motioned for Billy to go to the opposite shore. Billy was Tommy's younger brother, new to the art of fishing, he would have to learn from example, watching his older brother. That's how I learned, tagging long after Pa.
Tommy was patient, he adjusted his straw hat low over his eyes, he would wait. His hands sensed every vibration, and looked for the slightest movement of the pole. He could hear Billy talking to himself, replicating his older brother's every movement, settling down on the opposite embankment, line in the water, and hat slung low.
It was ever so slight, Tommy felt the vibration. The bait was being gnawed upon. Just a moment. Patience. Chomp! The big bite took in the hook, and Tommy gave a quick stroke to his pole setting it in the fishes mouth. He rapidly began cranking the reel, dipping the pole, and pulling back. It's a big 'un. Lots of fight. Billy took note and began shouting encouragement to Tommy. And Tommy worked the reel as fast as his hands would allow. Dipping, and pulling back on the pole, the fish broke the surface, sleek silver sides striped with an iridescent rainbow. “Wow Tommy! Thats a big 'un.” Billy squealed with excitement as he ran around the pool to share his brother's triumph.
With care, Tommy pulled the fish ashore, it's tail flopping on the beach. Taking a knife from his back pocket he made a quick incision along the middle of the fishes skull, bring an end to it's misery. Tommy took in several deep breaths, hands on hips he looked down upon the largest trout he had ever seen. He sniffed at the air, and then studied the darkening horizon, “Storm commin', a lotta rain.” He then did a thorough gutting of the fish. “Billy, take my knife, go over yonder, cut a bunch of grass, make 'em long. An' see if you can' find a long sturdy branch over by that willow tree.” He then went back to cleaning his catch.
“This what you want Tommy?” Billy had his hands filled with bundles of grass and a stiff willow branch.
“Perfect Billy.” Tommy laid the branch in the open cavity of the fish, with a length sticking out at each end. He then twisted the grass, forming ties that he knotted around the body at intervals. He nodded, satisfied his trophy could be carried without damage. “Grab that end.” Tommy pointed with his chin.
“It's heavy Tommy.” Billy noted as he hefted his end.
Wind whipped at Billy's hat, he pulled it low. In the distance, they could hear the rumblings of thunder and flashes of lightning below the blackening sky. Rain pelted at them, and distorted the mirror surface of the pond.
“Grab your end Billy.” The brothers hefted their end of the stick, heads down they began trudging towards home. Wind whipped at their clothing, Billy fought to stay on his feet. They wound through fields of prairie grass atop sandy berms and down into coulees, stepping from stone to stone above the rush of water.
“Stop Billy!” Said Tommy, his brow creased. “It's the Baxter boys.” Most folks got a shiver when the name Baxter was heard. And when it was heard, it meant something bad had happened, or it was about to take place. They were never called by first name. Tommy and Billy had never heard personal names applied to any of the boys. They were more men than boys, but they carried out activities that would be applied to boys. It was unsure whether or not any of the Baxters, young or old ever attended school. The family interest didn't require schooling. The were the local producers of moonshine, and looked askance at any competitor. They had a well established reputation, so much so that any missing farm equipment, chickens, or clothes from the laundry line, they were given first consideration. The law was applied liberally to the family: Mother, father, aunts, uncles, sisters and brothers had all experienced the inside of the county jail. More serious malefactors had spent time with the state prison.
Billy and Tommy had been warned to keep their distance, they had never experienced undue violence at their hands, but they heeded paternal advice. A bit off from the path they were following was a large log. Tommy motioned for Billy to follow. “We'll hide the fish here.” Tommy pointed, they snugged their catch behind the log, and then sat. “If they ask, tell them were resting a spell.” The older brother directed. The storm blew the epithets, and taunts ahead of the advancing thugs. There they were, the men-children pushing and shoving at one another, Their tattered coveralls half way to their knees, the sleeves of their long johns looked to have been chewed upon. Circling and yapping at their heels was Panther, the dog was black as night and mean as the devil. His mouth was that of a vice, and his sharp white fangs lusted for warm blood.
“What are you babies doing over there.” The Baxters had stopped, seeing the two brothers, sitting on a log in a soon to be pouring rain. The biggest of the boys, the one with the smashed nose and missing front teeth, grabbed Panthers leash, a mud caked rope. With a not to quiet whisper he encouraged the dog, “Get 'em boy, go for the balls.” The dog lunged into the air. However, the rope was given a two handed yank, brining the yelping the gasping, animal to the ground. The Boys laughed, shouting a full litany of vulgarities. The brothers were too young, and well mannered to know the meaning, but they got a sense of what was being said, in that there were hand gestures to accompany the words. Tommy and Billy drew close to one another, Billy put his arm around his older brother, he began to whimper.
The Big Boy shortened the leash bring the dog closer. “Wana pet my puppy.” He offered with a snear. More laughter from his clan. Billy hid his face behind Tommy. The older brother set his jaw, something he saw his Pa do in a tough situation, he was going to wait this out as best he could. “Go for the throat boy.” The Big Boy snorted a laugh through is misshapen nose. Billy looked at the dog, mouth wide teeth bared, snapping and snarling. Billy burst into gales of uncontrolled crying, Tommy put his arm around him pulling him close. There were shouts: “Babies, little girls, sissies.” And the dog just inches from the young boys, leash held tight, lunging, growling and snapping.
Smashed Nose looked at the others, they had their moment of torment, besides his arm was tiring from holding back on Panther. “Good ol' Panther. You showed them babies. Come on boys, we got important work to do, Old Man needs to move shine up the county.” The shortest Baxter boy bent over, pulled up a handful of mud and rubbed it in Tommy's face. “There ya go, now you look like a nigga.” The brothers sat, listening, at last they heard the voices dip down into a coulee and disappear. Tommy wiped at the mud with his shirt sleeve, and spat mud from his mouth.
“Them Baxters are bad Tommy.” Billy spoke between chest wrenching sobs. His older brother helped wipe snot from his nose and upper lip. “Real bad.”
Tommy stood, brushing mud and dirt from shirt and coveralls. “Come on Billy, gotta get home.” Billy stood, his hands and body shaking. “ Can you carry your end of the fish?” The younger looked to where the fish was tucked away.
“Guess.” Was Billy's response. They bent, grabbed the stick and started again for home. The rain was coming heavy, walking across the sandy bottoms was just fine; when they hit patches of clay the going became treacherous. They came to the big red hill, it was clay all the way down. They worked along, feet dug into the soil sideways, at a slow pace. Then Billy slipped on the ice like surface, knocking out Tommy's feet from under him. They careened, slipping and sliding on their backs to the bottom of the hill, fish held high in the air.
Tommy scowled, “Ma ain't gonna let us out of the house for weeks. Look what we done to our clothes.” They began to laugh hysterically. They were soaked through with rain on the front and caked with red mud on their backsides. Tommy nodded to the north, “County road is just up the hill there. Home soon, then we catch hell.” The older brother led the way up the sand embankment. The fish stretched out between them.
“Tommy, my arm is gettin' tired. This old fish is jus to heavy.”
“Were almost there Billy, top of the hill we can rest.”
They dug their bare toes into the firm sand, Billy moaned with each step. “Three, four more steps were almost there.” Tommy encouraged. “Up on the road we will stop and rest.” When he stepped up on the level with the road he turned and pulled on the stick to assist his brother. With a few huffs and puffs Billy reached the top, collapsing on the sodden grass shoulder of the roadway. Tommy looked through the haze of rain, the road was graded dirt. In summer it was a dusty track, during the winter it was covered with ice and snow. And now in spring it was pools of water. Huge drops of rain splashed on the surface, throwing out plumes of water.  On a clear day the family farm was too far to be seen, woodlots, hills and coulees lay between here and there. Tommy heard the sound of splashing behind, he turned to see a familiar truck. Old farmer Hayes truck was throwing up a spray of mud and water. “Billy, get up its farmer Hayes. He'll give us a ride to the farm. I'm sure he will.”
The truck slid to a stop, and the window rolled down. “By golly, what you young'uns doin' out in this rain.” The farmer shot tobacco spit into the road. “And look at you, soakin' wet, covered in mud. An' what you got there, if that ain't one damn big fish. Um, she's a beauty.” He stepped out of the cab to get a closer look. He bent low looking over the catch from one end to the other. “Yup, she sure is one beautiful fish. Your Ma's to to be mighty proud of you boys.”
Hayes looked down at the boys, his mouth twisting, wanting to say more, to say something else, but what could he say. So many of the neighbors had lost family in the war, and here were two more. No Pa to take satisfaction in the catch. His stomach felt hollow, he brushed at Billy's damp hair. “You boys take that fish of 'urs, and settle down in back.” He pointed with half an index finger. “I'll have you home in no time.”
The boys bounced, and lurched to the sides of the truck bed with each pothole encountered. It was painful on the hip bones, but faster than the long walk. They sat close, the fish laid across there laps. “Wonder what Ma will say?” Billy asked. “She sure will like the fish. We can eat fish all week long.”
Tommy looked down on the rainbow trout, the sides glistening in the rain,”Couple days Billy, not a week. Anyways, Ma will be happy. Well if she don't see to much mud on us.”
The truck slowed and turned down the road to Tommy and Billy's home. “Sure nice of farmer Hayes, takin' us right up front.”
Hayes brought the truck to a stop, got out, the boys stood, fish held between them. “You boys look like you had quite a day of it. Go in and show your Ma your prize. Say howdy for me.” He brushed at Billy's hair again.
The boys watched as farmer Hayes truck trundled down the drive to the county road. Billy asked, “Why's some people so mean, like them Baxter boys, an' ol' farmer Hayes is so nice.” His brown eyes pleading for an answer. Tommy shook his head.
“Don't know Billy, just some are good people, and some are jus' mean to the core.” Tommy pulled on his end of the stick. “Come on, lets go see if Ma is gonna give us hugs or a good lickin'“ The boys walked up the steps of the front porch, they paused and saluted the Silver Star in the window, and then proceeded to the back door.



<<<<>>>>






THE SPRITE


Chill wind zephyr whisper song hymn wisp torrent cascade canopy enclosure rampage rill stream pond pool cloud hue pallet paint oils tone tint tincture pastel(s)  easel portfolio canvas ether ethereal haze luminous fog haze mist vapor haunt hollow evaporate gauze presence storm lightning thunder bolt clash, clang clap crescendo slate sky roar tumult shatter rattle fracture rage cool white soft round






“Hello.” a voice came from over Mike's shoulder. Turning, he faced a young woman in hiking attire.

“You startled me.” He looked past her and off to the side. “I didn't hear your approach.” He returned his attention to his work.

“Hmm.” She was staring at his canvas. “What is that?” Her forehead furrowed, eyes squinted.

“My painting.” Mike faced her.

She looked to the river, the pool, the rock face above. “But what does it represent.” Tilting her head, looking again to his work.

“The water, falling, cascading down to the pool.” He defended as he returned to his pallet. She looked on as he applied light strokes of oils.

“It's foggy, misty, the colors bleed together, I just don't...”

Mike exhaled, turned to face his antagonist again. “Shouldn't you be getting on with your hike, perhaps you have friends waiting for you.”

“No friends.”

“Little wonder.” He turned back, taking up his brush, looking off to the pool, back to the canvas, again stroking pigment to his work.

“But, shouldn't it look like...something?” She mused.

“It is called abstract impressionism, it is not a photograph, it is a feeling, an emotion.  Please, just go away, enjoy a mountain peak, a deep gorge, just don't stand there ruining my pond.”

“Your pond, this happens to be mine, you are the intruder at my pool sir.” She glared, with hands on hips.

Mike pointing his brush at her, mouth open, searching for the right word.  “Ah...what's the use, you have ruined my last bit of light for the day.” Bending down he began cleaning and packing his equipment, straightening he looked around, she was not to be seen. “Odd she seems to travel on air.” He muttered as he completed his gathering and packing.

Mike stood, examining the ground, ensuring nothing was missing in the dimming light.  A breeze stirred the surface of the pool, a soft song came from above, winding through the forest canopy.



Mike sat at a table in the hotel dining room, Herr Mueller was seeing to his guests.  He asked Mueller about the obnoxious hiker.  “She spoke English, but said she owned the pond.”

“She was quite irritating, but...she was beautiful, dark brown hair, eyes equally brown, fair white skin, red lips; but she was obnoxious, she doesn't understand art in the least.” He slapped his hand on the table startling himself.

Herr Mueller shook his head.  “No, I know no such woman living in the village, and the pond is on the estate of Baron von Klimt.”



Mike was studying the grotto, looking to his pallet, mixing colors, looking back to his subject.  “It still appears to be nothing more than a splash of colors, attractive, but it doesn't seem to...” His brush shook, he turned to her, putting his pallet and brush to the side, standing over her he attempted to use his height to intimidate her.  She was dressed in a flowing white gown, her ringleted dark hair falling below her shoulders, her reddened lips contrasted with the lightness of her skin, he sucked in air as they faced-off.

“Uh...I will not let you ruin another day of painting.” He insisted. He inhaled her perfume, he was dizzy for a moment, then caught his balance.

She looked past him to the easel.  “Do you only paint trees and water.”

“That is what I enjoy, that is what I do best.”

“You are not able to paint people are you?” She questioned with insistence.

“I didn't say that, it is just that I enjoy the solitude of landscapes, the variety of color and subjects.”

“I understand, portraits are too difficult for your limited skills.”

“Your assumption is incorrect, as I said it is a personal preference.  Now I must ask you to leave, you are disrupting my valuable time.”



SOUNDS TO HEAVY, NO LIGHTNESS HERE



THEY WILL WRANGLE ON THE SUBJECT IN A LIGHT MANNER, HE WILL CONSIDER, MAYBE TRY

HE GOES BACK TO HIS PAINTING, WHEN HE RETURNS TO REALITY SHE IS AGAIN GONE, AS SILENT AS A PASSING CLOUD.



 MIKE BEGINS THE PORTRAIT



THAT NIGHT IN THE HOTEL HE HAS DIFFICULTY SLEEPING THE SOUND OF THE TUNE FILLS HIS HEAD, HE THINKS OF HER, HE GOES TO THE BALCONY, FEELS THE COOL BREEZE, AND HEARS THE INTENSIFIED SONG.



He glanced to where the sun should be, a dull yellow smudge occupied the space. The morning fog had burned off, leaving a thick haze above, now in the late afternoon the cool air was returning along with a chilling breeze. Back to the canvas he made several strokes with an ultra fine brush.

A gust of wind rocked his frame, the hairs on the back of his neck had gone erect, he turned the collar of his jacket up, his body shivered. From the pool he heard the water ripple, and then the song. He could not see her, but he knew that she was there, he could feel her presence. He wanted to see her, talk to her, be enveloped by her being.

A faint whisper, “Beautiful.” Another chill went through him. His eyes darted, he dare not move, he was afraid of frightening her. Their last encounter had not gone well, he couldn't lose her again. He put the brush down and folded his arms, focusing on his painting, merging the image with the spirit. There was a faint almost web like brushing at the side of his face, and then the strands of dark brown hair, the air was consumed by her scent, he sat unmoving, waiting, allowing her to make herself known to him.

“I see it now, me, the fog above the pond, the lightness of the colors. You are an artist.” She whispered. His heart pounded in his chest, his brain felt as if it might rupture.

He dare only say, “Thank you.”

She crouched down next to him, looking up into his face, “Will you come with me tonight?” Her lips trembled. How could he not affirm her request. “Here at my pond,” She said.

“I will be here.” He responded. She stood, stared into the picture and moved back. He followed her eyes, mesmerized by his work; then he was conscious that she had gone, into the descending fog.



A young couple visits the inn, admire the painting of the water sprite.  “She is just so beautiful, she seems almost otherworldly.” Her husband questions the proprietor.  “Herr Mueller, where is the location of the pond, is it nearby.” The innkeeper looks away, clears his throat.  “I'm not sure.  The artist was most secretive about the location.” His wife commented “I would love to find the pool, the light, the colors, I have never seen anything quite like this.” “No madame, it is unique, perhaps it was a creation of the painters imagination.” Herr Mueller commented as he departed from his guests.  A cool breeze ruffled the curtains.  The husband began to hum to himself.







Nymphs are associated with water, pools, lakes and rivers.  Their singing is lyrical, ethereal, seductive to the hearer.  Lone travelers are at risk in isolated places where they reside.

Mike Burrows is the artist.



Scene 14 Herr Mueller explained the disappearance of Mr. Burrows the artist to a police inspector.  Several guest of the inn commented as well.  “We told him of the nymph in the woods, one should never go alone, especially to the Von Klimpt pool.The old Baron went mad you know.” “One hears such stories.” The officer commented.



ALTERNATE ENDING--A YOUNG WOMAN (THE nymph) VISITS A GALLERY, AN ELDERLY ARTIST, MIKE BURROWS IS ADMIRING THE PAINTING AND THE YOUNG WOMAN







BIRDS


“He’s doing it again.” Mrs. Lester Howard shook her ladle, flecks of oatmeal flying about the kitchen. Mr. Howard, her husband was attempting to enjoy his last cup of coffee and finish the paper before going off to work. He knew the source of her ire, he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the offending fowl.
“There's not a thing I can do, that’s his property and God only knows who owns the birds in the sky.”   He lifted his paper, creating a thin barrier between himself and his wife as she stomped about the room cleaning oatmeal from cabinets and floor.
        “A nuisance, that’s all it is,” as she straightened, “and I’m the one home all day, having to listen to the chatter, they swoop down over my head, no end to it.” She was on a tear. “I’ll phone the police, again.” Ranting to her husband's unlistening ears.
        Mr. Howard stood and escaped with, “Won’t do any good.” The slamming of the door was his final retort.
        Going to her phone Mrs. Lester Howard dialed with care, waiting for her connection she wiped dust from the instrument. “This is Mrs. Lester Howard.” Listening. “Yes, it is me again! He has no business feeding those filthy birds.” Again, she listened. “If there isn’t a city ordinance, there most certainly should be.  Nasty! Dirty! If I had a gun I would go over there and shoot every last one of them.  If I had a gun I would be tempted to shoot him.” She pulled and twisted at the cord, at last shouting, “No, I do not own a gun! Mr. Lester Howard does not either. But I could. I could go right down to the Western Auto and get a nice new gun.” She frowned as she was interrupted. “Well, I haven’t shot him so I guess you just can’t do a thing about it now can you.  Hello, hello.” To herself she mumbled. “How dare he, hang up on me. I’ll have a word with his superiors.”  Placing the receiver back in the cradle, she walked to the window, squinting out she sniffed at the air, scrunching her face and slamming the window fast.
                                                                             ******
        “Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith”. Mrs. Lester Howard shouted to her neighbor across her freshly painted, white picket fence. Sitting in an unraveling rattan chair, below a vine covered arbor, Mr. Smith was tossing birdseed out onto his weed-covered yard, although weeds were hardly visible for the hundreds of birds gathered about him, cooing and pecking. He did not respond to her entreaties. “The birds Mr. Smith, you have too many birds.” Her shouts went unheeded. “That man!” She mumbled. She made one last effort, “I have contacted the police, the authorities will take action!” She bluffed. Mr. Smith continued to throw seeds to his hungry wards, a beatific smile was welded to his face.
                                                                               ******
        Standing over her Maytag, wringer washer Mrs. Lester Howard squeezed the last bit of water from her husband’s white, long sleeve work shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket, she then peered out the service porch door, across the yard, and out to the clothes line. All was quiet, all was safe. Carrying her basket outside with cushioned footfalls, she avoided glances to the sky or over to Mr. Smith domain, not wanting to bring a curse upon her head or laundry. With skill and speed she pinned the laundry to the line; finishing she looked upon her work with satisfaction. Returning to the house the same way she had come, with equal silence, quietly closing the service porch door with a sigh and a smile.
        Mrs. Lester Howard leaned back in her overstuffed chair, her feet on her footstool. On the radio she listened to the soothing voice and introduction to “The Guiding Light.” She sighed, then smiled, falling asleep as the serial unfolded. She woke to a loud squawking sound. Jumping to her feet, she tripped over the footstool, breaking her fall with the arm of her couch.  Running to the back porch door, looking out, her over- active fears were realized. Birds, hundreds of birds were hovering, hanging, dangling, clinging but most importantly, soiling her laundry. One large bird, a bird the size of a pelican was entangled in one of Mr. Lester Howard’s white, long sleeve work shirts, ghostly arms flailing.
             She was irate, grabbing her broom she ran, slipped and skidded her way to what as left of her laundry. In a fit, she began hitting at the birds foolish enough not to have departed. The large entangled bird as her focus, she beat and beat upon the trapped creature, blood began to stain Mr. Lester Howard’s white, long sleeve work shirt. The apparition had gone limp. She screamed, roared and bellowed; tears streaking her contorted face.
             Running to here freshly painted, white picket fence she expressed her vehemence. “My laundry, you have ruined my laundry.” She raged at Mr. Smith who sat in his chair, smiling, feeding his birds. “I will kill your birds, every last one.” She screamed. “Do you hear me, Mr. Smith, I will kill your birds, if you get in my way I will kill you.”
                                                                      ******
         Mrs. Lester Howard was pelted by rain as she darted to the house, tossing her bloodied weapon to the side as she went. Several minutes later she reappeared, composed; she wore a jacket, a wide brimmed hat and white gloves.  She started her car, and drove-off down Main Street. Her plan was pre-meditated, her mind focused as she slipped into a parking space Next to the Piggly Wiggly, and marched into the Western Auto store.
             As she approached the clerk at the sporting goods counter, she was greeted with an, “afternoon ma’am”. She responded with a glower.
            “Raining outside?” The clerk continued with a smile.
             “I hadn’t noticed.” Mrs. Lester Howard responded. She dropped her wet purse on the counter; he attempted to divert water off the counter with a swish of his hand.
            “How may I help you?” The clerk was getting the sale back on track.
             “A gun, I want a gun.” She demanded.
            He smiled, unsure what this lady would be doing with a gun. He interrogated further, “And for what purpose did you want a gun?
             “Birds, I want to kill birds.”  Was her strong, reasoned response.
             “Ah,” he nodded, “birds, how many birds are we talking about.” He inquired.
             “Hundreds, I’m going to kill hundreds of birds.”
             His face creased with a wide grin, he was a happy man.  “Right this way, that will be a double barrel shotgun and quite a few boxes of birdshot.”
                                                                         ******
             Mrs. Lester Howard pulled away from the Western Auto in a pouring rain. She attempted to view the road between the slow sweeps of the windshield wipers. Pulling into her driveway, she saw that police cars and an ambulance were in front of Mr. Smith’s house; lights were flashing, officials moving about the residence.  She crouched low to protect her packages as she ran to the back door. Entering the house she heard a knocking at the front door.
             Mrs. Lester Howard opened her door to a towering city policeman who looked down upon her. She was standing in a puddle of water on her highly polished hardwood floor. Strands of wet hair hung along the side of her face, below her wide brimmed hat. Her white gloved hands were holding the brand new, boxed, Western Auto, double-barreled shotgun.
             “Officer Blaine.” He introduced himself as he flipped through a small notebook. He began, “Mrs. Howard.”
             “Mrs. Lester Howard.” She corrected.
             He attempted to continue, “Yes, I see here you phoned our office, made complaints and threats concerning Mr. Smith, is that correct?”
            “Well.” She exhaled. The weight of the gun began to weaken her arms; it dropped lower and lower.
             He again paged through his notes, “A neighbor reports hearing you threaten Mr. Smith’s life, in a rage, is that correct?”
             She offered a fatigued smile as the box slipped through her hands to the floor. The Western Auto, double barrel shot gun rolled from the box, through the puddle of water, resting at the feet of officer Blain. He rapidly flipped through more pages of notes.
             He sighed, “You reported this morning that you didn’t have a gun in the house.” His statement was met with a dazed glare. “Your neighbor, Mr. Smith, the man you threatened is dead. You have a gun you said you didn’t own; we need to take you in for questioning.”
             A very limp Mrs. Lester Howard was walked through a now light rain and darkness to a waiting patrol car. She cast a somber look upon her home as she was driven away, on the clothesline the wing of the large, broken bird waved goodbye.
            Chief Franklin called Patrolman Blaine into his office. “What ya got there Blaine.” The chief croaked.
             Blaine referred to his notes. “Neighbors say Smith spent most days and nights under that pergola, always feeding the birds. Most of the neighbors hated him, because of the birds, messing up everything, scaring kids and pets. Birds were always on the roof of that thing, the pergola. City engineer will have to look at it to be sure, appears that with all the rain and the bird buildup.”
             The Chief interrupted, “Bird shit, call it what it is Blain.”
             “Yes, sir; anyway it appears that with the rain, the accumulated weight brought the structure down on Mr. Smith.” Blain relaxed.
             The chief growled, “Send the broad in, I’ll explain the situation to her.”
             “Chief, it’s Mrs. Lester Howard.” Blaine inserted.






























THE CHINESE CURSE


He saw her the minute the subway car came to the XXX Street station. It had been months since he had first seen her. It was the smile that caught his attention. She was in a crowd on the platform, fifty, sixty faces, it was hers drew his attention. What is it about a mouth turned up at the corners, white teeth, bright brown eyes flashing? He didn't see her every day. Working late, a change in routes. But he saw her often. Each time his pulse raced, he felt steamy, she never got close. Probably for the best. I would say something stupid.
The car was full, he hung on the pole waiting for her to enter and pass. She wore a distinctive perfume. Days when she moved past, down the aisle, he would sniff the air. He felt guilty. As if he were stealing a part of her. Only a few passengers exited, she came aboard in the middle of the crowd. He captured passing glimpses of the mouth and eyes. He wanted to, but he refused to stare. He would store away each fragment, later reconstructing a whole, an image to be savored.
Where did she go? He lost her, two burly men edged in front of her, his head swiveled, left to right.  Then a hand grasped the pole, a body bumped against him.
“Sorry!” Came the well-modulated voice. Not a deep voice, a pleasant mid-range. He looked down into the brown eyes and the broad smile. There was a difference in the mouth and the eyes. He thought he saw a glint of mischief, the sort one sees in the open face of a child.
She had slung her purse, a large bag over her shoulder, both hands held fast to the pole. “You travel this line almost every day.” She said. His mouth went dry, heart thrumming, his thoughts went to plans for escape.
Don't screw this up. He willed his hands not to shake. He cleared his throat, “Yes!” It came out as a croak. She giggled. He broke out into a sweat.
“How far out do you travel? I get off at xxxxx.” She didn't stop the smile. “But you knew that already.”
“Yes.” This time no croak, just stiffness. Damn! I keep this up she is going to run for the other end of the car.
“I'm sensitive to things. People.” She paused her face became earnest. Serious, actually. “Friends say I have ESP. You know. Extrasensory Perception.”
“Oh!” He didn't know how he should respond.
“I knew you have been watching me. I could sense that the first time, August 21st. It was a Tuesday evening. It was hot that day. You were irritated, the heat and a bad day at the office. I think that was why. But then you saw me, I had been watching. I had seen you several days before. You changed, when you saw me. I could feel it in you. The upset washed away, you seemed to smile. I like men who smile.” Her mouth relaxed and turned up once again.
He looked up and down the car. He couldn't believe she came up to him like this. Starting the conversation.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. “White Shoulders.” She said. His brow creased. “The perfume. I knew you liked it. I freshened it up, before leaving the office today. I knew we would be meeting. You did want to meet?”
Yeah, he wanted to meet her. But damn, I wanted to initiate the contact. I wanted to be the one to say, “Hello, I've been infatuated with you for months.” It's a letdown. What kind of guy lets the girl take over?

She put her hand on his arm. “It's okay. Today was the day, I wanted it this way. ESP! That's the way it works.” She giggled with glee. Short, she stretched up to meet his mouth, placing a moist kiss on his lips. “Come on! This is my stop.” She pulled at his jacket, leading him through the subway door.
He was staggered. The deer in the headlights. The bunny rabbit facing down a coyote. His feet stumbled along after her. Where am I going? What am I doing?
“I have it all planned out. We are going to have so much fun. Just the two of us.” Up on the sidewalk she pointed the way. For someone as short as she was, she covered a lot of territory with her quick, choppy steps. Yank! She pulled at his arm, dragging him into an aromatic Chinese restaurant.
“Missy! Missy! Have ready fo' you.”  The proprietor took a large bag, Chinese to-go, from the back counter. He took her money with a smile, then scowled at her male friend. “Enjoy! Enjoy!” He called as the door closed behind them. She inhaled the comforting smells as they scooted along. “I ordered everything you enjoy: Egg foo young, fried rice, and of course shrimp. I know how much you enjoy big juicy shrimp.”
I can't think. I have to wash my mind clean of any thoughts. What the hell is going on? She probably knows what underwear I'm wearing. “Calvine Klein, 32 inch waist.” Another giggle. “Red.” He cringed. GOD! WHAT ELSE DOES SHE KNOW? I feel naked.
“Come along now.”
They entered a cool, tree lined avenue, well preserved brownstones on either side.  She made a quick turn up the steps of one of the more lavish homes. Her short skirt played across her ample backside and showed off her well-formed legs as she ascended. Nice ass! He couldn't control himself. “Stairmaster does wonders for my glutes and calves.” She announced with pride.
He was panting and sweating at the front door. She calmly took the key from her pocket, opened the door and pushed it open. She paused, looked at him, yanking on his tie, she pulled him close, she whispered, “This is going to be so much fun.”
“We have to take our shoes off at the entry. It's a Zen sort of thing.” He leaned against the doorway, taking off one tasseled loafer, then the other.  “Here.” She handed him the bag. He watched as she bent to remove the shoes. Again he took in the curve of her legs. He also noted the small, delicate feet.
They sat on the living room floor, the take-out containers between them. Using chop sticks, he had just filled his mouth with the last of the steamed rice. “Yes. I know you think this is the best Chinese ever. Only the best for you.” She laughed as she unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. “So hot tonight.” She waved at her face. “And look what you have done.” Squirming to her knees she brushed at his tie and shirt front. “I know just what will take that out.

He hadn't slept. She had terrorized him. If she woke would she demand more. He rubbed at his groin, he was concerned there might be irreparable damage, he was in pain. Dim light came through the blinds. He had waited, he wanted to be certain she was asleep. He slithered off the bed, then on hands and knees crawled to the bathroom. He ached. His groin, his back, and the painful lacerations. I'm not going to survive this. No one could. He found his clothes hanging on the shower curtain rod. Everything was soaked. With effort he pulled on the shirt, the moist cloth stuck to his skin like wet wall paper. As he began fastening the buttons he heard a stirring in the bedroom. No! It can't be.
“Where are you? Come to bed baby. Momma wants more. Much more.” Her voice had a smile, tinged with demand.
He ripped the pants and under clothes from the curtain rod. He ran through the bedroom, slipped on her panties, landing on his back. She broke out in uproarious laughter. “Come on baby I won’t hurt you.” She patted the side of the bed. “We can just snuggle.” I know you. You want a lot more than snuggles. And I don't have ESP
He catapulted to his feet, ran down the hallway, through the living room and out the door. Then he remembered his shoes. Pushing the door open he grabbed his tasseled loafers. For a moment he saw her, standing in the half light, a surreal form. Light and shadows playing along the lines of her face, down the statuesque neck, caressing the nubile breast, flooding over the abdominal plane and cascading down the curve of her legs. She was translucent.
He felt the pull of her psyche, drawing him back, willing him deep into her vortex of pleasure. He slapped his face. Once. Twice. Don't be a fool. He admonished.
All weekend long he had been thinking about this. Then today. Work in the office had been difficult. His boss had noticed errors on reports and coworkers noted his failure to meet routine deadlines. He had stepped into the subway car with trepidation. It was full as always, he moved to the metal pole, His hand jerked away. He thought of her apartment, her snake like dance, slithering up and down, and her wanton seduction. What was he going to do if he saw her today or tomorrow? It was a terrorizing fear. He felt a strangling knot in his gut.
Her stop, the next one, he was sweating, his hands shook. He didn't want to look. He was afraid. But, he knew he had to. He had to know the enemy, and the enemy’s position. He forced his eyes to the platform, working from face to face. He didn't see her, not on the platform. He would watch every person coming aboard. Then he gasped a breath. He had been holding his lungs, captive to his fear. He then let his breath escape. His shoulders relaxed. He smiled.
“There you are!” The voice behind him caused him to jump. Heart pounding. He turned. The innocent dark brown eyes looked up at him. “I was afraid that you didn't want to see me again.” She giggled. A painful shiver shot up his spine.



















QUARTZSITE CHRISTMAS


Darin fidget with the radio. “Don't bother Dear, nothing but that Mexican music you can't understand or the country stuff you can't stomach.” Margo turned another page in her novel. Her husband’s thumbs thrummed on the top of the steering wheel. She knew he was agitated, anxious to reach their destination.

Darrin's eyes scanned out across the horizon. The highway cut through the barren desert, then the occasional break of low barren ranges. “So damn dry. Why do people live out here.” His complaint was ignored, Margo responding only with a grunt as another page was turned. “There's another one.” He commented. His head turned to take in the settlement off the roadway: several rusty, sheet metal sheathed trailers, broken down cars and tattered clothes waving in gusts of wind.

His hand went back to the radio. His wife tssked. He retracted his five digits. Next year we're flying. Once a year at Christmas there would be a gathering of the Ferguson clan. It would alternate between Darin and his brothers and sisters, there were the six of them. This year was Jo's home in Los Angeles. Darin studied the instrument panel, nothing else to do, gas fine, temp fine. Why didn't we fly. Margo wanted to see the sights. A plane ride you don't get to enjoy the scenery. She Hasn't taken her eyes off off those books since we left Omaha.

Darin checked the review mirror, traffic had been light, Saturday morning, travelers sleeping in. Margo was insistent they get up early. The previous morning they had gotten to the free breakfast buffet late, scrambled eggs were gone, coffee was cold and they didn't provide fresh fruit. This morning she was feed and content, reading her books. “Oh, damn!” He growled.

“Darin, do you need to be swearing constantly?” Margo said.

He chewed on his lower lip. In the mirror he saw an eighteen wheeler. It hadn't been there a couple minutes earlier. He's coming on fast. Seventy-five. He looked at his speedometer. I'm going the speed limit, this guys going to pass me like I'm standing still.

He gripped the wheel, his fingers turning white. “Here he comes.” Darin watched the truck bear down, looming larger and larger. His hands kneading away. At the last moment the behemoth pulled into the passing lane. Darin licked his lips, sat up straight, stealing himself. He could feel the trucks turbulence pushing at the smaller vehicle. He pulled to the far right hoping to minimize the push and shove.

He could feel the tricle of sweat running down his back. He cringed at the massive structue mopving past. Sand swirled under the trucks wheels, tumble weeds cartwheeld into Darin's path. “Crap!”

“Darin! All of this swearing must stop. I'm a member of the church auxillary, I just won't countenance such language. Not in my presence.”

Maybe you would like to do battle with these bastards. Margo hated to drive. She hated to drive even in their neighborhood in Omaha. Highway driving, never!

The car gave a final shudder as the last of the truck past. He wiped his palms on his pant legs and issued a sigh. Margo, unaware turned another page.

Darin looked to his mirror, nothing. He relaxed and went back to studying the unchanging sand and sagebrush terrain. “God. Now I know what the Moon looks like.” He muttered, not load enough to raise the ire of the women’s auxiliary.

He rubbed at the side of his face, then smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. His eyes drifted from the repetitious lane striping to calculating the miles to L.A. WHUMP! Darin came awake. “Damn! What was that.” The car rocked and shimmied. His hands riveted to the wheel. Not the best of drivers in normal condition he began steering. Causing the car to veer from one side of the roadway to the other.

Margo had dropped her book. One hand held tight to the door sill the other grabbed at her husbands arm. “Were going to die! Oh, my Lord were going to die! Precious Jesus save us!”

Darin took his foot off the gas. The swerves from left to right slowed. he pulled to the shoulder. He panted. “What the hell was that!” He shouted. He was shaking, Margo, red of face, mouth gaping, couldn't speak. She sputtered disconnected syllables.

He pushed open the door, “Gas. I smell gas.” He jumped from the car.” Immediately he could hear the fuel splashing on the asphalt. “Why the hell didn’t we fly?” He jumped in the car, pulled back on the road. His eyes were intent on the gas gauge. “How far to the next city?”

“How should I know. Ive been reading my book.”
“Yes, and I’ve been driving this car. And I’m not enjoying this God awful scenery of your.”
Margo coward in the her corner. When Darin was fuming it was time to avoid conflict.















SHORTER FICTION



Going Home

Going Home

I lay on my bunk, looking at my picture of Julie. I encased the photograph in plastic, otherwise I would have worn it out months ago. The past year, all I have had is this wallet sized image from the senior prom. And her letters. I wouldn’t have survived without her letters. Looking at her, I think about the sweet smell of her hair and her soft, moist mouth. I’m going to drive myself crazy. I glance over to my short timer calendar, three days. Three days and then I ride the freedom bird home. Going home to Julie.

“Hey, you!” I’m startled by an angry voice. There is a hulking presence between my bunk and the outside door.

“Yeah.” I focus and respond. “What ya’ need Connor?” The guy isn’t noted for civility or brains.

“You the one leaving, shipping out.” He asks.

“Yeah, that’s me. Three days, then I’m out of here.” I put Julies picture in my wallet, slip it in my pocket and stand to face my visitor.

Connor’s body begins to shake, “No! You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The M-16 he carries rattles against his body. “You got no right takin’ my place. I’m goin’”

“Connor, it ain't my doing.” He is pissed. But Connor is always pissed at something or someone. He has done twelve hours on the perimeter. Twelve hours up in a tower, heat bearing down, staring at rice paddies, and nothing happening. No Viet Cong, not even a farmer tending his crop. Just the occasional water buffalo plodding across the diked fields.

I'm going home. Connor is staying right here, until his number comes up. I didn't exist until he realized another guy is going to be leaving country before him. Now, I materialized before him. Connor’s muddled thinking, I pulled strings, I kissed up. He doesn't get it, you serve your time and then off you go. Home. There is no conspiracy here.

Connor is scarier than usual, glassy, red-rimmed eyes, shaky hands, drool at the side of his mouth. What's the drug of choice today? Some guys, it’s the only way they can get through the day.

“You ain't going nowhere!” Connor's voice trembles, the muzzle of his M-16 comes up, waving across my chest.

“Cool it man. No need to get upset. Let's talk.” My voice calm.

“Talk, nothin'. I'm taking your place. Freedom bird is goin'a take me home. Tha’s jus’ the way it’ll be!” Connor swipes at his mouth.

I watch his finger. It twitches over the trigger. “Damn you!” I reach out, grab the muzzle and begin to push it aside. Everything is going in slow motion. The flashes. The thump, thump sound. The burning heat. There is no pain. “Connor, you gotta be the world’s worst shot.”

I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Flat on my back. Boots are thumping on the barrack’s floor. There are shouts, “Call the medics!” “Waste of time!” “Get that weapon away from Connor before he kills someone else!” “Captain’s going to raise hell.” “Forget the Captain, he’s drunk as usual.”

I say, “Hey guys, nothing to worry about, probably just a grazing wound. Get me up from here.”

“Medics were in the mess hall, here they come.” Someone is saying.

Another shout. There is so much noise. Is that Connor I hear crying? I seem to be the only calm person in the hootch.

“Didn’t mean to shoot him. Thing jus’ wen’ off.” Yeah, that’s Connor.

Now the medics have arrived. Finally. One of the guys I know from back home. Motor City. “Hey, Richard.” We hung out at Earnie’s hamburger stand back home. Saturday nights we polished up our cars, cruised the boulevard and met for cokes and burgers. “Fix me up, Richard. I’m going home, Julie is waiting for me. You remember Julie.”

I look up at him, his hands pull away my fatigue jacket, his face goes white, his shoulders slump. With the back of his hand he swipes at his eyes. “Jones!” He calls to the other medic, “forget the bandages. Let’s get him on the stretcher.”

“Richard, I’m no medic, I know you gotta slap some bandages on somewhere. That’s what you do. But not today?” They toss me on the olive drab canvas litter and slowly carry me down to the field ambulance. “Come on, Richard, we can go faster than this. I gotta get back. Finish packing.” He and Jones don’t get the message.

In the ambulance we bounce over every pot hole and crater to be found, hardly V.I.P. treatment. “I’ll remind you of this when you get back home.” I call over the truck noise.

I’ve seen the dispensary Doc at work. He’s good. He’ll get these guys squared away.

The ambulance throws up a cloud of dust when we get to the Aid Station. They give me the same slow walk inside. “Richard, you know what it’s like. Wanting to see your girl. Speed it up, I’m going home.”

They put me in the corner, away from the action. Doc is finishing up, stripping off his gloves and looks at me. Hands on his hips, he does that mental triage thing. This I could see. “Over here. I’m next.” I demand.

“Jackson, Jones take care of our friendly fire fatality there.” The doctor calls out, nods at me. “You call this friendly fire. Drug crazed Connor popping off. Doc, you get over here! You fix me up.”

Richard has come back. Now he has a hefty pair of scissors. He begins cutting away my shirt. “Stop right there! What are you doing? I need this for just a few more days. Then I’m a civilian, no more need for Uncle Sam’s property.”

My old friend keeps up the cutting. He pushes me on my side, then pulls away my shredded shirt. Now the worst begins. They take my wallet out of my back pocket. Army ID, Michigan diver’s license, “No!” Don’t you dare touch the pictures. “Doc!” I yell. “Tell them not to touch the pictures.” Why should I expect anyone to listen.

“Yeah, this is his car.” Richard shows Jones the picture of my metallic blue, GTO. “Always had it polished to a high shine.” Now the picture of Julie. I don’t let just anyone look at her. She’s special. Richard shakes his head, looks at her blonde hair and blue eyes, her bright smile and the pink formal. “Prom picture.” He says.

“Okay guys.” Doc is hovering over us. “I’ll take over.” He wears a new set of gloves, he bends down, pushes and prods. He uses his gloved fingers to probe the wound.

“Hey Doc, not so deep. Connor just grazed me.” I protest.

Doc writes on a card with a dangling string, hands it to Richard, who ties it around my big toe. “What’s this all about. I’ve had enough. Take me back to my barracks. I thought you were better than this.”

Jones, the other medic comes over with a big bag, looks to be rubberized canvas, smelling of disinfectants. “Okay, Jackson.” Jones says. They lay the bag on the floor and slip me inside.

“Now what?” Why do I bother asking. No one has talked to me since this nightmare started. Jones pulls on the zipper, the bag begins to close. I begin shouting. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing? I’m going home!”

EMMETT TILL


 “Over here Mom, you wanted Bon Ami.” Joe called-out.
“Yes I did, you cross it off the list.” She handed the list to her son.
“What does it mean, hasn’t scratched yet?” He asked.
“A new borne chick doesn’t scratch the ground for food for several days after it is hatched; so Bon Ami doesn’t scratch what you clean.”
“Oh.” He thought that over. “How come you know all that?”
“I grew-up on your grandfather’s farm with chickens and cows and horses.”   She commented.
 “Oh, yeah.” He headed down an isle, list in hand.
Joe pulled a jar of peanut butter from the shelf. Walking back to his mother he placed the jar in the shopping cart.
“What happened to Grandpa’s farm?” he asked.
“The city swallowed it up.” She looked at the list as Joe envisioned the farm being swallowed, by a Godzilla style monster.
“I need a roast for dinner, Wednesday night, let’s go see hank.” Mom said.
Joe held back as they approached the meat counter. The butcher was cutting large portions of meat with a huge cleaver at the wooden block; the weapon went high in the air, arching down with a loud thunking sound as it sliced the meat. “Afternoon Hank!” Mom called out.
Hank turned, “Mrs. Jones, afternoon to you.” He looked over the counter puzzled, then smiled, “Where’s my little Joey? “  Mom pulled Joe around from behind her back. “There’s my big guy, come round here, I got something just for you.” Joe scrunched his face, and then attempted to smile. Mom pushed him forward.
Joe scuffed his way around the counter, through the blood stained saw dust to the butcher block. “Okay Joey, flex your muscles.” Joe hesitated, then raised his arms and squeezed, his face reddened. Hank tested each arm, shook his head then looked at the cleaver. “Don’t think you are quite ready for the cleaver, not yet.”  He commented. “Here, take a peppermint, you doing those pushups?” Hank ruffled Joe’s hair.
“I do twenty a day, sometimes more.” He reported with not much enthusiasm.
He moved back to the other side of the counter, next to his mother.
Hank returned his attention to Joe’s mother. “What’ya need today Mrs. Jones?”
Joe carried the large paper grocery bag to the car; it slipped and slid in his arms as the weight shifted. “Is that too much for you son?” She asked.
“No, I can manage. Why does he have to call me Joey, Grandma is the only one that I don’t mind, not Hank.” He scowled.
“That’s just his way, he likes to make friends with his customers, make them feel special.” She explained.
“Still don’t like it.” He grumped as he put the bag in the back seat.
“Mom, can I turn the radio on?” Joe was reaching for the radio knobs.
“Not too loud.” She requested.
They were listening to the late afternoon news report; there was the story of a fourteen year old Negro boy that was beaten and tortured to death, because he whistled at a white woman in a grocery store. Joe leaned back in the seat, he was silent. His mother looked down at him. “Is something wrong?”
“Why would they do that to a kid, he was only four years older than me.” There were tears welling in his eyes. “Just not right.”
“Sometimes you have to act different, have to stay in your place.” She explained.
Joe shook his head. “I’ve heard grandma say that, stay in your place, or you have to know your place.”
“Your grandmother was from the South; down there everyone knew their status, the way they were supposed to act. If you stepped out of line bad things could happen. That’s what that young man did, didn’t mind his place.” Joe listened to his mother’s explanation; he shook his head in disbelief.
“I don’t care about place; it makes no sense to kill someone for whistling.” He looked out the window, watching the sun inch down to the horizon.

THE BARISTA


    Billy balanced his Sharps .50 across the tongue of the wagon, the wind whipped and swirled the buffalo grass all the way to the horizon.  His eyes blurred, he looked away, and then refocused on the sight and further out to the hillock, about a mile distant.  Bat slipped in next to him, placing a handful of cartridges at his side.  “Quanah still there?” He asked.  Billy nodded in the affirmative, not moving his eyes off the hill.

    ”I heard gunfire in the store.” Billy glanced to Bat and then back to the hill.

    Bat snorted out a cynical laugh.  “Olds had an accident, wife handed him a reloaded riffle…went off, his head is all over the place, take my chances out here, safer.”

    Billy gave a slight grunt, not moving his eyes...


    ”Sorry to intrude Mr. Wilson, will you want a refill.” Frank looked up to Nancy,  tall, thin, dark brown hair pulled back, large brown eyes and a small, neat smiling mouth, with deft hands she swooped up the empty cup.

    Frank stretched, covered his yawn with his hand, he looked to his watch and Nancy, he enjoyed every chance.  “You'll be open another hour.  I get so lost in this.  Yeah, another cappuccino would be great” He began typing as she walked away, he grabbed a furtive glance at her swaying hips as she receded across the room.

    Nancy was cleaning up.  “Almost done here.” Frank was completing a few last lines.

    Outside Nancy turned the key in the lock, Frank was to her side.  “Mr. Wilson, I would be interested in reading some of your work, maybe what you were doing today.”

    ”I'll bring in a copy tomorrow, that be okay?”  He offered.

    ”I was thinking I could go by your place, I could read, we could discuss your work.  It is just too noisy, too much activity here.”

    ”Well, sure we could do that.” Frank was surprised by her assertive ways.

    Frank was sorting through a stack of manuscripts; an open beer was to the side on the coffee table.  Nancy was next to him on the couch, sipping on her beer, legs curled under her.  Frank pulled out the story he was in search of.  “Here's the one, you can start with this one while I'm printing out my latest.”

    She took the work, flipping through it.  “You have a lot of words in you, this and that stack there.” She settled back to begin reading.  Frank pulled out several other pieces.

    ”My latest chapter.” Frank re-entered the room, dropping the chapter on the table.  “Let me know when you are done there.”

    She turned the last page.  “Done.” She traded for the new chapter, and began anew.

    ”Another beer?” Frank asked.

    ”Sure, almost finished.” She didn't take her eyes from the manuscript.  “This is fun, got questions when I'm done.”

    Frank set the beer in front of her, then sat down next to her.

    ”This is great to see the creative process, you coming in the shop, working there, see the results, kinda special, different, seeing it before it is a book.” Words were bubbling out of her.

    ”What did you think of the story?” He asked.

    ”Yeah, well, that was the big question.” She leaned back, facing Frank.  “Why do you do a story that takes place over a hundred years ago, and Texas, Have you ever been to Texas.

    ”No, I have never been in Texas, and the time period, I find it interesting, as my readers do.” Frank rubbed his stubbled chin.

    ”Shouldn't writers use personal experiences for their stories?”

    ”Jules Verne, Anne Rice and J.R.R. Tolkien created worlds and creatures that didn't exist.  They couldn't experience those creatures, those worlds; they were a creation of their imaginations.”

    ”That's true.”

    Nancy read through more pages, turned to Frank again. “It's not very P.C., killing Indians and all.”

    “Stories of war, life and death, conflicts allow the writer to show man at his most basic, what triggers action, what brings out the best in human beings. I try to be even handed in the presentation of my characters and events.”

    “How did you come up with this story?”

    “Research, the history of that particular rifle, the Sharps .50 mentioned the Second Battle of Adobe Walls, I found it interesting.”

    “And this is exactly as it happened.” She held up the chapter.

    “No that is where literary license comes in. I'm not a photographer or journalist, it’s not a true picture or news report that we create, I will take facts and characters and embellish them, make the story more dramatic.”

    Frank leaned forward, straightened the stack of manuscripts. “The artist, the writer are destroyers, one reason they have difficulty blending into society, we observe and put those observation on a canvas or a piece of paper, we use creative license, distort what we have seen, rendering a painting or a piece of fiction with dramatic impact.  Pablo Picasso's Guernica derives its power, its punch from the distortions of reality.  A photograph of the city would have captured but a sliver of what happened there, Picasso shows the horrors of many days and many places in that one work.”

    ”Wow, I never thought of art in that way before.”

    ”The artist, not all, but many are solitary souls; they work alone to be productive as well as from an inability to find those that share their values, their outlook on life.”


    Frank was on the couch, Nancy curled in a chair, a manuscript on the floor; he stretched, yawned and then shuffled to the kitchen.  Grabbing a carton of eggs, coffee beans, plates and silver, he set up shop at the kitchen table.  Pulling a hand mill from a cupboard, he poured in beans and began turning the handle.  Nancy appeared in the doorway, combing her bed hair with her fingers, with little success.  She cleared her throat; Frank jumped and gave her a quick appraisal.

    ”I know, not a pretty sight.” She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

    ”I didn't say that, it is Einsteinian, everything is relative.  I'm glad you are awake, now I can make noise.”  He poured the half ground beans into an electric grinder.  “That would have taken all day.” Frank was looking at the hand crank.

    She cleared her throat again, looking around the kitchen.  “Not what I would have expected, so very neat, organized.”

    ”Let me get you a clean bath towel, wash cloth, I’m sure I have an extra toothbrush.”

    ”Mr. Wilson, Frank...”

    ”Nancy, you need it.”

    ”Frank, you don't have to be so blunt.”

    Frank was scooping eggs onto plates when Nancy returned.  “Smells good, I'm hungry.”

    ”Sit over there Nancy.” Frank pointed with the egg coated spoon.  “You look nice, not that you looked all that bad ruffled.”

    ”You needn't remind me.” She smiled.

    Sitting across from her he poured coffee.  “That's a funny little pot; I've never seen one quite like it.”

    It's a Bialetti, poor man’s espresso maker; it was supposed to be a gag gift from a friend, bought in a second hand store.

    Nancy spooned scrambled eggs onto half a bagel, examined the table and counter.  “Tabasco, Frank?  She asked.

    ”That's what I like a woman with spunk.” He turned to get the sauce from the cabinet.

    She sipped at the coffee.  “That does make a good cup, maybe not as good as mine, but good and strong.

    ”I know better than to argue with a pro.” He said with resignation.


    Billy Dixon stood, sighted and pulled the trigger, the riffle butt kicked into his shoulder; he knelt down, slipped another cartridge into the breach.  Masterson, eyes shielded with his hand, scanned the hill.  “Big commotion in Quanah's camp, did you hit someone?”

    ”If I did it was only luck.” Billy stood, rubbing his shoulder, squinting as he sighted on the encampment.  “They might be moving back, I don't know, maybe I did.”


    Frank leaned into his chair, grinning with satisfaction.  “Will you have another refill Mr. Wilson?” Frank looked up at Nancy, then his watch.  “Sure, an hour to closing?”

    He stared, as he had stared so many times before, and then went back to the keyboard.


    Billy and Bat stood before the post store, surrounded by ecstatic buffalo hunters shouting.

    'Boy you done it.”

    ”Old Quanah is leaving for sure.”

    ”Let's hear it for Billy.”


    Nah, doesn't sound right, sophomoric, Frank commented to himself.  Nancy placed the refilled cappuccino next to the computer

    ”Maybe I could read some more, we could talk again tonight.” She suggested.

    Frank lifted the cup, steam rising up before him.  “I think you are just trying to keep me as a customer.”

    She smiled down at him.












USC FOOTBALL





























BLANCA


Blanca lived with her little brothers and sisters in a mountain village. They were poor, their mother worked hard for the little food they had, porridge and a crust of bread. The little ones wrapped in hunger, daytimes their stomachs ached for food, and nights they were lulled to sleep by their sobs.
As dawn filled their room Blanca remembered the stories of Tia Maria; tales of the spirits that roamed the night; the half-man half-wolf. But most of all she remembered the story of the golden eagle, the eagle who’s feather had great value. She thought of the feather, what it would provide for the little ones.
The warming sun began to reach into their valley, Blanca slipped on her sandals, and grasped her walking stick. She shuffled outside, down the steps and through the village. Everyone she met gave her a morning greeting and asked where she was going so early. She told of her quest, the golden feather. The vegetable vendor laughed that one so small, with a withered leg would ever approach the mountain.  The muleteer called her stupid for believing such a story.
Blanca could think only of the hungry little ones, she shuffled along through the early morning into the heat of the afternoon. A farmer driving cattle to town asked why someone so small was so far from town. She told him the story of the golden eagle.  The farmer shook his head, he had heard the story and had seen the eagle carry away small calves, Blanca was no match for one so powerful.
Blanca carried on up into the mountain, stopping only as the sunset and cold forced her onto a ledge. The wind bit into her skin, through her thin serape. All night the soft moaning of the wind reminded her of the little ones.
The sun rose above the peaks, stirring Blanca from her broken sleep. Above her on the mountain she saw the nest of the eagle. On hands and knees she approached. Just below the edge of the nest she rose and stretched out for the golden feather. The eagle turned, there was a loud cry.
Blanca awoke to the piercing cries of the little ones. She rubbed her eyes and sat-up at the side of the bed. She looked about the room, listening to the hunger. She slipped on her sandals, grasped her walking stick and shuffled out into the early morning.























TABULA RASA


  I was on a wide boulevard in Saigon. There were several large office buildings and many small shops and cafes along the street. The sounds of traffic dominated the scene, trucks, buses, and Pedi cabs. There were shouts from police officers, vendors hawking their wares. Food carts steamed with the smells of beef sticks, fried rice and fish. Workmen pushed bricks in primitive, wooden wheelbarrows; women carried rice bags on long poles; young female students passed by in their colorful ao dai, dresses of white, yellow, blue and pink.
In the middle of the block there was a large temple. It was an imposing feature. Broad steps led up to the entrance. Stepping into the darkness, wood, smoke stained walls, the hum of prayers and the suffocating smell of incense sticks prevailed. A huge Buddha was the focus of the worshipers, overpowering the interior. Monks in saffron robes sat in their meditative trances; others stood or knelt in various stages of prayer.
It was a relief to be outside, to breathe fresh air. Off to the side of the entry steps there was an old man seated, cross-legged before a stack of paper held down with a wooden bowl. I watched as people passed him, there were whispers and stares. Some people stepped away from him to avoid his stench. One man took a sheet from the stack, putting a coin in the bowl, took out a pen and wrote a note and slipped it into his suit pocket as he walked away. An occasional person would leave a coin and take a piece. I wondered what this was about. I walked over, took a sheet, dropped a coin and strolled down the street. As I went I flipped the paper from one side to the other. It was blank on both sides. As I mused upon this I was jostled by passing pedestrians in a hurry to return to work or grab a quick lunch.
Back in my hotel room I sat on my bed looking at the paper, it was beyond me. I slipped it into my note book to get my mind away from this mystery.
Over the years I would stumble upon my blank sheet of paper. Made from a course pulp, finger smudges from the old man’s hands were still discernible, and with age the paper had yellowed. Recently I came across the blank sheet again, I stared at it and then it became obvious what I had not seen, and that which I was now looking at.






















ABOUT THE AUTHOR


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