 
### Loose Ends

### Amos Gunner

Published by Amos Gunner

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Amos Gunner

CHARACTERS

ZEKE introduces himself to his cellmate

BOBBY reviews his life before it ends

So does ADAM

So does SAMPSON

BRENDA addresses an AA meeting, the police

DALE justifies himself to the police

CHAPTER 1: ZEKE

What version do you want, short or long? Short goes: I broke a lot of laws and got busted for some of them. But that's not my story. It belongs to everyone. Well, almost. I should make an exception for the blind souls in our world who claim to be innocent and tell a different tale.

You are? Sorry.

Unless you can think of something better to do before dinner, why don't I spin you my own story, which happens to be the long version?

In the beginning, the Lord created the heavens and earth in six days. Then he took a nap. Too long? Well, a shorter take goes: some night forty-eight years ago, my drunk dad neglected to pull out of my slut mom. Later, I was born.

Okay. Still too long. I'll start with the day I shot this kid and take it from there.

In the morning, I paid a visit to my ex-partner, a gentleman named Gavin Quinn. He lent me his suit, a black Brooks Brothers thing. Felt as good as it looked. Should've taken a photo. Hm. This isn't very interesting, is it?

Fast forward to Lucky's Motel. Ever hear of it? Most people haven't. It looks like a bombed-out slum and smells like an armpit. But it's quiet and out of the way. Perfect for stings. I always had good luck there. Ha ha, right? Well, the place had an appropriate name as far I was concerned.

So I'm there posing as a traveling businessman itching to buy some blow, ten ounces if I remember correctly. We want to build a case against this wannabe gangster and the transaction's meant to be the first brick. Well, there's more to it than that but I don't want to overwhelm you with information so early in my story.

A scrawny, dopey college kid we called Digit, he sets up a mic in the lamp and a digital clock on the nightstand. But the clock's really a camera, dig? And it's only good as a camera because the lab geniuses had crossed the wrong wires and the thing gave the time as zero-zero o' clock. Digit asks if the glitch worried me and I go, "No. I'm worried I'm gonna sweat so much I'll end up looking like you."

Digit laughs. He might've been stoned. He yells to Sutler, who's observing me in action through from the next room over. The department must've set aside all the good equipment to bust a senator or something. Yeah, why did Digit yell to Sutler when there was a mic in the room? I dunno. But he does. Yells at him to bang on the wall if the image is okay. I hear these wussy taps.

Oh, Adam Sutler. How can I introduce that dead subject? To call him a mother fucker is an insult to incest. When I think about the honors they bestowed on that boob, I get sick. I mean, I once wasted a few minutes regretting his death, but I never got to the point of wanting to honor him, for the simple fact he was never honorable. He wasn't actively evil either. Most of the time he was just there, inert. But he'll have to butt into my story now and then. No way around it. After all, he was my new partner, a total rookie to narcotics. For now let's just say he represents my opposite and leave his character description at that.

So Digit packs up his equipment and I tell him if he wants to be useful, he'll fix the air conditioner. I'd been twisting and pulling that ancient contraption but all I got it to do was cough up some lukewarm dust. I give it a kick to teach it a lesson, then try the window, but it won't open past an inch. Man, if someone wants to jump out a window, that's their deal. If someone gets thrown out, they probably deserve it. But no. The rest of us have to suffer. Am I right?

Digit takes this as in invitation to jabber about the weather, how it's hot today but was freezing the day before, blah blah. Throws out that line, "If you don't like the weather in Columbus, wait five minutes and it'll change." Now, I'm a good liar, but not good enough to act like I'm the least bit amused by his witless chatter. At the door he tells me good luck and I say I don't need any and he goes, "Then I take it back."

So I have ten minutes or so before the curtain goes up and my one obligation is to take care of the clock. I haven't come up with a way to knock out the mic, which makes me a little nervous. But just a little. Worse comes to worse, I figure I'll clearly say, "Whoa, mister. Put the gun away. I'm with the police."

I light a cigarette. I check the window and rub the tweed curtains. The stench from a thousand scum guests clings to my fingers. In the bathroom, I'm sort of transfixed by this trippy black mildew design on the floor tiles. Looks like Michelangelo or Andy Warhol or whoever had spilled a bottle of ink. I run water over my fingers. The soap dish is empty. I'm afraid to touch the towels so I shake my hand. In the mirror, I watch myself blow smoke from my nostrils. It looks like I have thick, menacing tusks growing from my face for a few seconds, but then they break apart. A thumb nail of ash scatters down Gavin's suit. I try to clean it off, but I end up working the ash into the fabric. Never was good at cleaning. I take a few more puffs and toss the butt into the crapper.

Because I'm trying to paint a picture, okay? I'm shitting out a silk thread for you, man. What, you got a hot date? Gotta cast a crucial vote at the UN? Might as well listen. We aren't going anywhere.

So I come out and the wallpaper catches my eye. It's off. I mean, besides the fact it's been stained to a light brown. I puzzle out the fuck-up in no time--the dainty flower heads are pointing to the carpet. Can you imagine the overworked, underpaid moron who hung it upside down? Just takes a moment of inattention to ruin something forever. Well, I'm sharper than he was. I'm sharp and I'm ready.

I open the leather satchel and stuff my head inside. Have you ever smelled a ton of money? You have? Sweet, isn't it? Has a slight earthy afterscent. You know--like "aftertaste." Anyway, they oughta bottle that fragrance.

One could argue my best move would've been to grab the satchel and make a mad dash for the border. Maybe this is the point I messed up, when I had a clean escape route and didn't recognize it, didn't take it.

Well, no regrets. A regret's like an appendix--totally useless and it can swell with puss and kill you unless you cut out. Besides, I eventually earned a reservation in heaven. From that angle, I'd be a fool and a sinner to regret one second of my entire life.

I closed the satchel and went for the clock.

CHAPTER 2: BOBBY

In my heart? He shot me through my heart.

Darryl and I to the motel. His bullet in my heart, and Darryl and I are walking to the motel.

It's not like watching a movie. It's like remembering a movie. It's like remembering a movie in order but also at once, the voice in my head on the soundtrack. The I. The I cannot die. I'm not dead. I'm dying. Am I? Whatever's happening, it's not flashing before my eyes. They lied. Before my eyes, everything's going blurry.

The sun was cooking the litter, and the heat and the stink kept nearly everyone inside. Darryl was hungover and quiet.

The school had air conditioning. The school had friends, at least Wendy. It was Darryl's fault I wasn't there. I don't mind saying that. Even now.

He trailed me. "Shouldn't be this hot."

I waited for him to catch up.

He swung the black duffle bag over his shoulder. "How's come no one offered us a ride. That's some rude ass shit."

We walked on. "You still don't get it. This is a test." He was behind me already.

"I know."

"So of course we're not getting a ride. Thanks to our promotion, we can expect less help."

Besides, when did we ever get a ride, Darryl? We knew the COTA routes like we knew our way around our apartment.

He said, "Duh," but he didn't get it. Not really. "Whatever. No biggie. Cooper brothers unstoppable. Slow down."

"I wouldn't have to if you pulled up your pants and walked normal."

"I walk normal."

"You walk like a mo-fo gangsta."

"I am a mo-fo gangsta. It's the bag."

"You got me into this, you have to carry it."

"Whatever."

He didn't get it. I don't think he got very much. I know I didn't. There's a logic bigger than my own that I could never follow. Maybe now it'll all spread out before me and I'll be able to make sense of it, if only once. Is this why this is happening? A parting gift from life? The last chance to get it?

I stopped in front of a payday advance place. An old lady in leopard print tights was giving heck to the cashier. I wondered if the sad girl's job was worse than ours. Our job was as meaningless and unfulfilling as that girl's must've been. We had to deal with jerk customers, too. But our boss was crazy. Hers was most likely just mean. And even between Darryl and me, we didn't earn enough to help out Mom. She works two jobs without any support from dad. Not fair. The paydays wouldn't let me be the man he never was. If I ever had any romantic illusions about the job, actually doing it snuffed them out. I decided the girl had it better. Now I'm sure of it. She got to work behind bullet proof glass.

"What you looking at?"

We walked on. "Nothing."

Darryl leaned back and looked inside the store. "That ho? Wendy not doing it for you anymore?"

"Watch it."

"You hit that shit yet?"

"You don't hit a girl."

"That ain't-- Man, you will never be cool."

Yep. Point for Darryl.

Three blocks away, he stopped and leaned against a brick wall.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

He looked like it. So pitiful, I didn't give him crap about drinking with the boys, even though that was what made him sick.

"It'll be okay. We're almost there."

"Why don't we quit?"

"And go back to school?"

"No. You did good in school. Not me. I was thinking McDonald's. Suppose Marcus'll give us a good reference?"

I thought that was funny. I still do.

"We'd make more."

"Nah. Know how much Sampson makes?"

"No. Neither do you. Besides, you're fourteen. How many years you want to wait to be second-in-command?"

He thought about it. Or didn't. The color returned to his face. He pushed himself from the wall and we walked on.

"Know what Marcus' first words were? 'Fuck you, ma.' Swear."

I get that Marcus is a legend with the crew and I get how stories grow up around legends. It helps that Marcus stays locked in his office all the time and sends messages into the world through Sampson. Makes him more mysterious. But the stuff the guys tell each other and sometimes believe is amazing to me. Like, the one about how Marcus chewed off his sister's ear because he worried her earrings made her look easy. Never happened. Or how he cut off a debtor's foot; how Marcus decapitated the car dealer who sold him a lemon; how he killed this woman and her kid and then burned them in a warehouse for I don't know what reason. Sick stuff out of slasher movies. Except unlike those movies, the stories were all kind of plausible. Lies, sure, but not the worst lies I ever heard.

We were getting close. Darryl moaned about the heat again. I told him to take off his cap.

"You don't like the Reds anymore?"

"It keeps the heat in. You'll stay cooler if you take it off."

"You learn that in school?"

"Doesn't matter. What if I learned it from a show? Thing is, it's true."

He took it off and tested the difference. "Can't tell me what to do." He put it back on.

The sign for Lucky's Motel loomed ahead. We didn't speak the rest of the way.

I should've said something. I don't know what. Maybe I should've admitted I was scared. I bet he was scared too. Or maybe I should've told him I loved him. He'd come back with a joke but that would've been okay. I loved him for his jokes.

I remember how I said it once, years ago. All I wanted for Christmas was a skateboard because everyone else had one. Darryl bought one for me. Mom told me he had shoveled snow in front of a few businesses near our place. I'm sure they didn't pay him much but he was determined and shoveled a bunch. I unwrapped the skateboard and got so excited I told him I loved him. He smiled so wide it stretched his face and he had to squint. I think. Mom cried, I remember. I had to wait till it got warmer before I could use the skateboard, but even then there weren't many places I could skate. I wasn't very good. I hurt myself a lot. I blamed the skateboard, which must've been the cheapest one on the market. I can't remember what happened to it.

So I said it once, but maybe I should've said it again.

CHAPTER 3: ADAM

Now I see. I can't, but I do. Zeke's now in color, no longer a grainy black and white shade.

Lieutenant Marner told me to watch. That was his order. Watch and learn. I couldn't have watched any better. My nose was an inch from the black and white monitor, my ears wrapped in the headphones. The learning, though, that's what I botched, that's why I'm dying.

Digit skimmed a surfing magazine. His shirt read, "I Got Lucky in Kentucky." I wore my short sleeve powder blue button up and creased khakis.

I don't want to remember this. Why can't I spend the last of my life holding on to the first time I kissed Brenda? Try.

Zeke image swelled on the monitor as he approached the camera. He picked up the clock and his image jiggled.

Can't control it. It is before my eyes, like they said. But it's not my whole life? Just this week? The worst week of my life?

Zeke brought the camera close to his mouth and spoke. I couldn't hear a word. I asked Digit what was wrong. He closed the magazine and tapped his headphones. He cranked the dial on the receiver. Hiss roared, but I still couldn't anything from the other room. Digit fiddled with the wires, then banged on the receiver. I banged also. He batted my hand away.

"Don't do that."

"Sorry."

Bit I didn't turn from the monitor, didn't stray from my orders.

Zeke seemed to be repeating the same words, the same sentence. I asked Digit to decipher Zeke's message.

Digit pulled a cord from the back of the receiver and plugged it back in. "I don't read lips dude."

"Want to take a shot?"

Digit, easily exasperated like most people his age and younger, sighed, but donated a moment of his time to carefully study the monitor anyway. "I don't know. Eye fawned Euro wave?"

"I fought your wife?"

"I fucked or weighed?"

I still have no good idea. My idea is not good.

I turned to Digit for a second, just a second, and asked if I should go over. He shrugged. I looked back.

"Gotcha." Zeke's laugh, loud and distorted, exploded in my ears. My hands cupped the headphones. The image shook.

Digit adjusted the receiver. "Bastard."

"So everything's working?"

"Yeah. Everything but his brain." Digit picked up his magazine and leaned out of my periphery. "I'm not laughing. Are you?"

Zeke set down the clock and the image stabilized. It pointed toward the curtains.

"Look. It's all wrong. What do we do?"

Hard knocks from Zeke's room thwarted Digit from answering.

I pulled closer to the screen. My nose brushed against the glass. The door opened. A young voice: "Cop!" I felt the vibrations from a thud through my shoes.

Then, nothing.

I watched the curtains. "Well?"

"Well what?"

I tapped my thumb against my thigh. The end had begun, and I tapped my thumb against my thigh.

Watch and learn. Lieutenant Marner was explicit. He gave an order. I had to obey orders. If I dismissed them, I could expect punishment.

And then, I asked myself the most side-splitting question I had ever put forth in my life, possibly the most riotous question ever posed by anyone. "What if Zeke needs my help?"

I threw off the headphones and launched from my seat. In the hallway, I heard the first gunshot. In the lobby, the second. Past the front door, in the middle of the street, the splayed body of a young man, face down, a black duffle bag by his right hand, a wet crimson circle on the back of his white t-shirt. It looked like a stop light.

Zeke stood over the body. He pointed his smoking gun to the motel and yelled at me to call it in.

The old man emerged from behind the front desk as I passed and asked me, "Is everything okay?"

CHAPTER 4: BOBBY

My brain shut down and I ran. Later, much later, when I was close to Conrad's, a destination I hadn't even consciously aimed for, I slowed to a jog. I tasted bitter bile and the eggs I had for breakfast.

I landed on the bench in front of the bar and sucked in gales of air. That got my brain ticking a little. I made a plan: tell Sampson what happened, quit the job, start over and build a normal life. I'd never even think about jaywalking ever again.

I stood. My legs didn't want to carry my weight. If I could feel them now, they'd still be sore. I wobbled to the door and looked in. I saw my reflection.

Inside, I had to hang out in the doorway until my eyes adjusted to the black. During the day, I think the night hangs out at Conrad's until it's time to do its thing. The tables, four small, wobbly tables made out of splinters, came into focus. Lucas shot me a glance from behind the bar sparsely stocked with watered down bottles, then went back to his newspaper. Never saw him serve a drink. Then again, never saw a customer. Why didn't Marcus call his place Go Away?

I made out Sampson's beanpole frame in the shadows, back at the pool table. I don't want to know what favor he must've done for Marcus to allow a pool table. But before I saw Sampson, I heard Benny's evil cackle.

Benny's killed people. But he's killed because he wanted to, not because he was pressured. I know. But even if I didn't know, his dead eyes would've given him away. He's crossed the line and proudly wore the mark of a killer like it was his birthright.

I went behind the bar. Lucas, engrossed in his crossword puzzle, wasn't going to budge and didn't indicate he noticed me reach around him and get some water. I emptied the glass in two gulps. I heard the click of the cue ball followed by a thunk. Sampson laughed. I put the glass in the sink and went over.

Sampson nodded to me. "I need the nine and eight. Benny needs a miracle." He lined up the shot, steadied his cue and completely missed.

"You're bad luck, kid." Yeah. Me. Not the frayed and warped table. "Where's Darryl?"

"We need to talk."

Benny aimed for one of his striped balls. He sunk the eight. "Man, these sticks curl like my pubes. Let's go again. I'll kick your ass."

Sampson chalked up. "Man, you suck."

Benny revealed his gold tooth. "Suck like your mom."

"That's Marcus' sister."

"I don't give a fuck."

"Whatever. Total's now two twenty-five." Sampson puffed on his stick, making a light blue cloud. "Talk about what?"

"I'm getting a refill." Benny left for the bar. In the entire time I knew him, he never said one word to me. He didn't know he was doing me a favor.

"Get me a Coke," Sampson said.

"No."

Sampson circled the table and emptied the pockets. "Talk about what?"

"The cop."

Sampson squeezed the ball in his hand. "Let's see Marcus."

"Let me tell you what happened and you can tell Marcus."

"That ain't the way it works." He bowled the ball down the table. It hit the lip of the pocket and rolled to the middle.

I followed Sampson through the empty kitchen to the staircase. Halfway down, he stopped and turned to me.

"I stuck my neck out for your ass." He said it quiet but angry, like a hiss. "Don't get it chopped off."

"You set up the bad deal you insensitive jerk. Wanted to see if we could step up? Well, you got my brother shot. Ended his life and ruined mine. Apologize or I'll beat you in front of your mom."

I wish I had said that.

At the bottom of the staircase, Sampson knocked on the door. Silence. He knocked again.

"Damn it. What?" A big voice for a big man. But a deep voice for a shallow man. Nothing makes sense.

I followed Sampson inside.

The side walls of the office were lost in darkness. The desk lamp made a bubble of weak light in the black space. I think if you step out of the bubble you fall off the earth. The bubble held Marcus' upper half behind his desk and a framed poster of some famous painting on the brick wall behind him.

He held up a book and asked Sampson if he'd ever read it.

"No."

"That's what I thought. You?"

I came out from behind Sampson and leaned in and squinted.

"Huck Finn. The Adventures of. No? They don't make you read this in school? It's good. I recommend it. Go buy a copy. Can't be hard to find. Sampson, know what it's about?"

"That's not why we're here."

"Okay. But do you know what it's about?"

"No."

"It's about two hundred and fifty pages. What do you care? Illiterate." He tossed the book on his desk and folded his fat hands. "When will you learn? Takes more than money to get their respect. Now, what do you want?"

Sampson stepped on the edge of the bubble of light.

Marcus' gaze, as heavy as his fist. But there had to be a way to tell him, a version so sad that he'd break character to weep and hug me. But I couldn't tell that version. I couldn't tell him anything. I opened my mouth but my heart beat against my throat and nothing came out.

Marcus looked to my left. "This kid mute? And I thought you were the dumb one."

Then it rushed out of me. "It was a set up. They were cops. We ran. They shot Darryl."

"Son of a bitch." On "bitch," Marcus hammered his desk. The light fluttered. "Sampson, who made the contact? Was it Rebus Jefferson? Son of a bitch." I could barely hear him add, "Need that money, too."

"Darryl?" Sampson stood five feet from me, but I could barely see him. He looked like a ghost.

"Dead." That was the first time I said it. It was the first time I thought it. It hurt. It hurts.

"Oh my God."

Marcus leaned in. "You're sure they was cops?"

"Darryl knew."

"How many?"

"One."

"One?"

I nodded.

"So where's the shit?"

"What shit?"

Marcus' chest expanded, then deflated as he yelled, "Don't play me boy." His voice bounced around the room, so there must've been walls on the side after all. That was somehow reassuring.

I stammered out Darryl had carried the bag and I guessed the cops had it.

Marcus caught my eyes and peered into them and through them, reached into my skull to search behind my guess for a more acceptable answer that I might be hiding. I took in small bursts of air to keep myself alive.

Sampson stepped into the light. "Marcus, the kid doesn't have the shit if that's what you're driving at."

"Oh, you know?" Marcus said it to Sampson without letting me go. "Like you knew they was cops?"

"I swear I'm gonna personally take care of Rebus."

Marcus broke his stare. I tried hard not to crash to the cement floor. He reclined and looked up. "Lemme tell a story." He brushed the sleeve of his black suit.

"Long time ago, there was this heavy bruiser named Hannibal. He trained a herd of elephants to attack the enemy. Trained 'em for months. But when the battle came, the elephants squashed Hannibal's own men.

"See, back in the day, something similar happened. Some kid, young and dumb, tells me he was jacked by the heat. Not busted. Jacked. I should've fired him right away. But I say, 'Okay. We'll eat the loss and poke around. Bust some heads if we find the right heads to bust.' But we didn't find none and I shrugged it off. Kid got jacked a few more times. Strange, huh? Sure enough, I find out the little shit's selling on the side. I was pretty displeased with him as you can imagine, but I was more upset with myself for letting him get away with it even once. I made a vow. That shit ain't gonna happen again. Never. I worked too damn hard."

Marcus swiveled his chair to face the wall. "Samson, you wasn't there. All's you know is you send the kid out with some coke, he comes back empty handed. That's all you know. I'll deal with you later."

My legs shook. They couldn't support both the running and the fear. Getting shot at is scary but Marcus is worse. He's short but big, like a thunderstorm raging in a small balloon. I'd rather dodge cop bullets all day than spend five minutes with Marcus. I don't know how Sampson could handle so much Marcus. Being the nephew didn't matter. Marcus would chop off his nephew's head as soon as anyone's.

"The kid didn't do anything."

Marcus swiveled back to us and stood, rising above the bubble and decapitated by the dark.

"Fuck that. The scales of justice have been thrown out of whack. How can we balance them, here, among ourselves? How's this?" He pointed his thick index finger at me. "You owe me either the three thousand or the coke. You're choice, although I'd prefer the money. You owe it right now of course, but I'll give you till Friday. Today's Monday. Best hustle."

Sampson stepped up to Marcus' desk. He had no fear or else no brains. "All because someone ripped you off a long time ago?"

"We're all paying for someone else's sins. Besides, I'm only asking for what's mine. We're done. You can leave."

At the bar, Sampson poured two shots of something clear. "This is just some shoot the messenger shit. Don't sweat it." He slammed both shots and coughed.

I opened the front door and the sun blinded me. I stood awhile until my vision returned. I staggered to the bench, then my legs gave out. Sampson sat beside me and told me not to worry, sounding worried.

"It seems like you're in trouble too. Sorry."

I can't believe I said that. Embarrassing. I take it back. Screw him.

"It's okay." It wasn't. "It's my fault." It was. Good. At least admit it. "You weren't ready." To be set up? "I shouldn't have trusted Rebus Jefferson." No kidding. "And it sucks about Darryl."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Look. Cops'll find out who you are if they haven't already. Better not go home."

At that exact moment the cops were breaking the news to mom. Then I bet they asked her questions. She cried but she did her best to answer. After they left, she called my cell. I forgot it at home. I don't know why. I just did. It rang in our room. She walked down the hall and looked in and saw Darryl's stuff and it hurt to see all the stuff that Darryl will never need again. She won't go in again for along time. I can't think about it. Not even now.

"Wait here."

Like I had a choice, like I could've gone anywhere. I made a list of people who could help and places I could go and crossed out the possibilities one by one. First of all, I hated everyone in the crew to different degrees and would rather sleep in a dumpster. It was never a gang. We never had each other's back. We were employees. That's all. No reason to expect anything from any of them.

There was Wendy, but there was no way her parents would let me stay over. A few relatives, but none in Columbus. My cousins in Illinois were worse off than me. Dad's crazy sister in Nebraska or somewhere like that? Never. Then I remembered my mom's brother in Florida. Rick. Only met him once. He was nice and he always sent Darryl and me a Christmas card with a twenty in it. I should've moved in with him months ago. My dad? He might be dead for all I know. Anyway, he's dead to me.

Sampson came back and took a key off a giant key ring. He told me where an apartment was and made me repeat the address until I proved to him I had it memorized.

"Can't I just stay with you?"

"No." He handed me the key. "This place recently became available. You can stay for two weeks, I think. After that, might get complicated. Look, stand like a man, it'll all be cool."

Liar. At least the key felt solid and firm.

CHAPTER 5: ZEKE

Some pansy in blue worked crowd control. Least he tried. The small crowd didn't pay him much mind. I pushed him aside and barked at the rubberneckers to go home or go get a job. Nothing to see. A few losers stayed on but I dispersed most of the crowd. Slapped him on the back and told him that's how it's done.

Homicide pulls up in the shape of Evan Gruber. Homicide's presence on the scene was nothing but a formality, a hack's gig, and Gruber hated my guts anyway, so he was a real sour-faced son of a bitch. His job was to ask a few questions, fill out some paper work, then kick the mess up. He thought he was above the chore.

He saw me but pretended he didn't and made a beeline through cops and medics and zeroed in on Sutler sitting on the motel steps holding his head in his hands. Gruber tapped him on the shoulder and Sutler lifted his empty melon. His face was pale except for his red eyes. He gripped Gruber's arm for some reason.

Man, Sutler sure as shit didn't look like a narcotics detective. Problem was, he didn't act like one either. If there's one thing Gruber and I have in common, it's the belief that cops should act like fucking cops, y'know? You develop a swagger when you become a cop, a true cop. It's not because you're too big for your britches. After awhile, it just becomes natural to walk that way. Sutler never developed the swagger, so part of me always forgot he wasn't a civilian. After a few minutes in conversation, it looked like it slipped Gruber's mind too.

He worked a stick of gum while interviewing Sutler, jotting down some answers and rolling his eyes at all of them. I made my way over. Closer, I caught Adam say, "I think there were two suspects."

"You think? I doubt it." Gruber snapped his gum.

I slap him on the back and call him a bloodhound. He calls me a sharpshooter. He asks for a statement and I give him one: perps come, flee, I chase. One pulls a gun, I shoot. The end. He takes none of this down. He shouts over to some CSU guy, asks if they recovered a weapon. Nope. Gruber fakes a yawn and says I'll be the grand jury's problem soon enough. Sutler about shits. Don't know how you don't see that coming. A grand jury, I mean. The pants shitting, too, for that matter.

Gruber's too happy to tell us we've been summoned by our lieutenant. Well duh. No reason to make it sound threatening. But Adams voice turns rickety. "Now?"

Gruber's like, "No. Why don't you stop by the beauty shop first and get your nails done." Such bitter words from so fresh a breath.

I pat Adam on the back and tell Gruber to go fuck himself. He gives me a lame-ass Clint Eastwood impression, then struts over to the ambulance, to go fuck himself for all I know.

Adam's not sure why my hand's gently resting on his back. Well, up till then, the nicest I'd been to Sutler was when I apologized for calling him a douchebag. Actually, what I said was, "You're not a douchebag. A douchebag's useful." But no more lowdown jabs, even if he deserved every one. From then on, damn it, I'm going to bite my tongue and Sutler was going to be my new best friend. The foulest pile of shit I ever had to eat, but necessary.

As we drive back the station, I go on about how what a prick Gruber is. A kid just bit it and this dickhead detective lobs fucking insults at us? Meanwhile, I'm secretly thanking Gruber for being a prick so's to give me a means to be nice to Sutler. The day was packed wit new experiences. Adam bites and joins the attack. By the time we pull into the parking lot, he's telling me we need to stick together if we're going to pull through and how he won't let me down. Shit, like shooting water in a barrel.

Lieutenant Marner's office was freezing. A giant air duct over his desk poured out sub zero winds, way overcompensating for the heat outside. Adam fidgeted with his legs on a chair in front of Marner's desk and, like he forgot how to sit. I stood steeled, my arms folded.

Marner never liked me too much no matter what I did. Me and Gavin Quinn, we were together for years and Marner hated every second of it. It's not that we caused all sorts of hell on the streets. Well, at first we did. Then Quinn sorta mellowed. But that pissed Marner too. Quinn calculated how few hours we could put in and still keep our jobs, and Marner couldn't decide which was worse: our pep or our sloth. Marner's discipline for our laziness amounted to a chew out given a few times a year. After a reaming, we'd go out and snare a few small bunnies, then go back to slacking till the next chew out.

That's why everyone's been pretty cool to me here, considering. Mostly, I was never really a cop, y'know? I never really gave a shit and I went easy on a lot of folks. When I was a kid, I always said I was either gonna be a cop or a criminal, and the cops had the better dental plan.

Whatever. The job was a joke. I mean, for every lame we bust, there's a hundred more to take his place. Trying to reduce crime's like trying to empty water from a leaky boat. You never get the boat dry. You just try to stay afloat.

But then Quinn retired and screwed up my cushy life. He had to quit. Stomach cancer. Marner thought I had a good cop in me dying to come out, and now with Quinn gone, it just needed a push. Told me he was getting this new kid, Sutler, who looked to be a real straight pisser. Said Sutler was going to midwife the good cop inside me. Right.

Okay, so I'm standing there and Marner looks like he wants to kill me. "Nice suit," he says. "Almost makes you professional." Then he leans back in his chair and says, "Mea culpa."

Adam wags his tail and says, "Oh, that's a Catholic thing."

Marner's not impressed. Ignores him and says, "It means--"

And Adam interrupts him. Says, "It means 'my fault.'"

Marner makes it plain he's not impressed. Adam gets hangdog and shuts up. Also, he finally gets some control over his legs and sits perfectly still. Marner goes on and says, "No. It means 'I honest-to-God truly fucked up.'" He lists all these mistakes he made: let me work in a place I worked before, almost alone, no backup, no street presence, minimal surveillance. He let it all happen and he's fessing up.

The case against Marcus is kaput. That's a given. From my rat to Sampson to Marcus to the sellers, too much plausible deniability's been built up to let any charge stick. The plan was to get closer and closer till we had Marcus dangling on our hook. As it stands, we barely drop the pole in the water before we have to pull it out and pack it away.

Marner hopes I'm gonna step up and say, "Ah, poor lieutenant. Don't say that. It was all my fault." Nope. I'm like, "Well, I know I didn't mess up, so..."

He's not having it. Says his fuck up doesn't erase my fuck up. Says it wasn't just him or just me. We both shoulder the blame. He liked to play that game. He'd be, like, either/or? Then you'd choose, and he'd say, "Nope. It's both." One of his pathetic power trips.

"Damn it. If the kid was just a few years older." The age, that's the one little number that's making the department sweat, but that's the one detail that can't be laid on either one of us. No, the blame for that belongs elsewhere: to Marcus for sending the kid out, the kid himself for hooking up with Marcus, the kid's mom for not having got knocked up sooner. Fate.

Still, in spite of that, I'm put in the position of having to defend myself, which is pretty easy. I have no idea how the kid knew I was a cop. He pulled a gun on me. I could go on, but Marner holds up his hand and cuts me off. Tells me to type it up and go home. Tells me I have to meet with IA the next day.

Let me pause here. Whenever there's a police related shooting, a grand jury is convened. But this takes a long time, months sometimes, and it was decided from on high to have Internal Affairs investigate the shooting right away to appease any crabby, noisy citizens before they make a public stink and I'm boring myself talking about this.

So, IA. And I have to make an appointment to see a shrink. Adam's like, "Me too?" Marner looked like he could've used some time on the couch himself.

See, Marner's third generation on the force. The job was in his blood but you could tell he wanted a transfusion. Like that day, when he wasn't staring me down or ignoring Adam, he'd sneak a peek at a calendar on his wall. I'll wager my left one he was calculating when he could take a vacation.

In the department, like they say in the army, shit flows downstream. In the time since I pulled the trigger, his phone must've gone nuts with the shit dumping down on him from his superiors. Later on as Adam and I left, his phone rang and I swear I heard him groan, like it hurt him.

But, if shit goes downstream, authority goes up. You might be covered in shit, but you're absolved of responsibility. Marner tells us he has no choice about IA or a shrink, and he has no choice but to put us on modified assignment. I bitch and moan but he says his hands are tied from on high. He requests our gun and badge. Adam's are on the desk in the time it takes him to say, "Yes sir." I don't budge. It's bullshit and I say so. I say, "Don't do anything until--"

"Until IA says you stink?"

Ouch. Well, I know all this is fair. I didn't expect anything different, but I'm sure you follow why I grumble, why I make this big show about turning in the only things that make being a cop worthwhile. He keeps cool, which must be easy when it's nearly snowing in his office.

Adam wants more info on the modified assignment. Idiot. There isn't one, dig? It's a fancy trick to keep us off the streets without putting us under suspension. Marner tells Adam to go ahead and make other plans.

Last thing he says to us is, "No press." He sits up to say it and he repeats it over and over. "No press. No press. No press." Like I said, his phone rings as we leave. Poor Marner. Seriously. Struggling at a job he hates, like so many others. Too many others. I grieve for them all. They should be working on their soul, not selling it.

I tell Adam we're grabbing some coffee at the place around the corner. He says we have to write our reports. I'm like, "Are you eager to write the report right now?" He says, "Let's get some coffee."

At the shop, he's dreadful and glum. Glazed eyes aimed out the window, into nowhere. Hand plopped by his coffee cup like he has no intention of picking it or anything else up again. "Should've have happened," he mumbles.

What you should appreciate is that cops are expected to protect and serve. They're not supposed to shoot citizens or most times perps. Most cops never need to pull out their weapon, let alone fire it, let alone fire it into someone. And when it happens, it feels wrong. That's why citizens get upset. But they're not the only ones. After an incident, an eerie atmosphere descends on the department. Everyone speaks softer, moves slower. And the cop who kills never likes it, never likes himself, usually goes through years of therapy. And more than one cop's taken their own life after they took another's, even if the baddie deserved it.

So I have a pretty good idea how to act. "Right. Shouldn't've happened."

He nods oh so sadly. "You hit the nail on the head."

By the way, can I tell you how much I hated Sutler's clichés without sounding petty?

"And he shouldn't've even been there," I say. "Just a kid. Should've been in school. Become a doctor. Grow a family. All that stuff. Damn."

I take off my tie. It'd been choking me all day and I was far past needing to pretend I was a businessman or whatever my cover was. And I don't want the chick behind the counter, this hot young tight thing with curly brown hair, I didn't want her to think I'm a square.

Right then, she's counting the drawer, her luscious pink lips silently mouthing the numbers. Yummy. I fondle her with my eyes. She glances over. I wave with my three middle fingers. She goes back to the money, like I don't even exist. Man, she has the air of indifference toward me that women fully satisfied with their current lover give off. I hate that.

The only other people in the place are these two old ladies across the room. One has blue hair. Do you think broads like that bother to check the mirror before they leave the house? Are they truly convinced they look presentable? Here's what happens: they ask their husbands if they look okay and the husbands are so fucking bored answering that same question for the past fifty years they go, "Yes Myrtle," and the poor deluded wives leave the house assuming if they still look good to their husbands after a few decades, they must look good enough to everyone else. Her friend at least seemed comfortable being old and disgusting. Didn't make a pointless effort. I respect that. Though I wouldn't fuck either one with my worst enemy's dick.

And then there's Sutler. He resembled a stunned animal. He asks if I think it's a sin. I swear he once told me he was an atheist, like I used to be. Sinner that I was, I was so happy to find out he wasn't a religious nut. I was under the impression that that was the one subject we could agree on. Where's this sin stuff coming from, I ask? But he's like, "No. I never said 'atheist.' I said I was a deist." Whatever the hell that is.

Anyway, I answer that the shooting wasn't a sin because it says in the bible, "Thou shall not murder." People think it says, "Thou shall not kill," but people are wrong. That's the one part of the bible I had bothered to read. And I tell him it doesn't matter what the bible says one way or the other because the bible was written by a pack of morons in sandals two thousand years ago. He's amused at this. Prick.

Man, he saw himself as the hero, the ultimate good guy, the righteous guy. But he was just self-righteous, which ain't the same. He always flapped his gums about doing good and saving people, but without God, how can you know what's good and bad? And if you don't know what's bad, how can you save people from it? I hated him for certain reasons then and I hate him for different reasons now. Amazing. He was born to be hated.

I go back to playing Mr. Sensitive. "But sin or no sin, it's awful." I gently cover his hand with mine. My fingers are much bigger. I ask if he's worried about the IA interview and his big brown eyes quiver. Don't ask me how eyes quiver. Bastard made it happen.

I outline the typical IA interview: nothing bad, nothing probing. You tell your story, then they ask a few painless questions for the record. "It's nothing. By the way, do you know what you'll say?"

His puffs out his chest and he says, "I'll tell them what I saw and that's it."

And what'd he see? What's going in his report? He starts to hem and haw. Can't get a complete word out. Finally admits he has no idea what he'll say or what he'll write in the report.

Oh, yes. I'll be happy to help out. Anything for you, buddy. You're my partner. And we must make sure we stay in touch through this ordeal. That's important. I suggest dinner with his wife and me. I call her Linda. He corrects me and tells me it's Brenda. He says she's a good cook. Then he droops and says he has no idea how he'll break the news to her, how it'll devastate her.

Out the corner of my eye, I catch the girl at the counter looking my way. This gets my imagination flowing till I realize I've been holding Adam's hand for way too long. I let go to stifle a fake yawn. "Let her read about it in the paper." After I calm him down, I explain to Adam how a kid like that will get fifteen seconds of attention, tops. He believes me.

"Ready to tackle that paperwork, buddy?"

When he stands, the clumsy jackass knocks over his coffee cup. The lid flies off and the steaming brown liquid spreads across the table and spills on the floor. I jump back in enough time to save Gavin's suit, but the tie's ruined. I don't get too upset. Just makes what I have to do that much easier.

The chick comes with a wad of washcloths. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon. I want to eat her up. But I can tell she's eager to prance home to her big boyfriend so he can hold her tight while she bitches about tedious her day with the clumsy customers.

Adam's apologetic and makes some cute, self-effacing remark, but I know I'm not getting anywhere with this bitch so I tell him, "Let's get out of here. We got some real work to do." I leave the sopping wet tie on the table and jet. Adam whimpers for me to wait but I don't.

Outside the place, this hobo asks for change. Adam digs into his pocket but I say, "Change comes from within," and lead Adam back to the station.

CHAPTER 6: BOBBY

I had five dollars in my pocket all morning, less after I paid the bus driver to drive me across the city. Older passengers shuffled off and young kids hopped on as the bus approached the OSU campus. Most played with electronic toys, except for these two girls talking fast and loud about a party they went to or were going to. I couldn't tell.

Out the window, students shouldered thick bookbags as they hurried in and out of buildings and across lawns. We passed some dorm buildings I had been inside. They were always profitable and the customers were nice enough. They never invited Darryl and me to hang out though. And they weren't impoverished. They bought more bags than I could ever afford. It's a lie students don't have money. The exact same painting of water or whatever that hangs in Marcus' office hung on many dorm room walls next to posters of aliens and Bob Marley. I don't know what it means.

Seven months ago, I was sure I'd be one of the students some day, like it was a given. Five months ago, the prospect became iffy. Now, I'll never be one of them. I don't care. It doesn't matter that I'll never be one of those spoiled rich idiots who'll stumble through four years of expensive college so they can work a meaningless job they'll hate. I missed out. Boo hoo.

I breathed easier when the bus reached the campus' end. We passed shops and stores that rely on the students' food, drug, and entertainment desires. The stores seemed so desperate for attention with big, bright signs, all promising the best deal on whatever they sold.

Then the shops gave way to houses and apartment buildings. The people on the street got fewer and older, walking with a hunched back, and less urgently and more depressed that the swarm of smiley kids a few miles back.

I got off and wandered until I found this two-story box. So quiet. I didn't pass or even hear a single resident as I roamed, looking for this apartment.

I opened the door and a thick wall of heat fell on me. I pushed my way in and messed with the dial and buttons on the thermostat. Something behind the wall clicked and whirred and a cold draft flowed from the vents.

This u-shaped place has been give and take. Those three paintings on the living room wall are relaxing. Or could've been if I had been able to empty my mind enough to sit back and let the nature scenes work some serene magic on me. But those ducks in flight on the lampshades are corny kid's stuff.

I turned right, into the kitchen. Well-stocked, but with none of my favorites. More give and take.

Through the kitchen, the bathroom. Small, but with a tub. And all the soaps and moisturizers I could want if I ever wanted any.

It's not the apartment I'd pick for myself. The stranger's tastes didn't match my own. Not that there's anything wrong with the apartment. In fact, there must be a million apartments that are personalized in the same was this one is, and that was comforting. It just wasn't very cool.

But just when I felt safe, when I thought how this must be how normal people live so it must be okay, I opened the bedroom door. In the dim dusty light coming through the closed curtain, I made out a bare mattress on the bed. I opened the closet door. Empty. A small dresser was empty too. Nothing. I flipped on the light. There had to be more in the room I couldn't see. There was. Is. A thin red line, a few inches long, streaked across the far wall. Scarier than a room drenched in red. I've tried to pretend it's lipstick or ketchup. It's never worked. The mark shouldn't be there, but it was and it was there because of violence. No way to pretend away that fact. I killed the light and slammed the door, and I've never opened it again.

I went to the front door and gripped the doorknob. I couldn't turn it. There was no point. Six billion people on Earth and I couldn't go to any of them. I let go of the doorknob.

I looked over the living room again, this time with reigned eyes. I went to the stack of DVDs. Mostly chick flicks. It was very hard to tell if a man or a woman lived here. I saw signs for each.

I wiped a thin layer of dust from the top of the cable box. I sat on the couch. The TV angle was perfect and my body sank into the downy cushion. I had to stay, no way around it. As long as I physically and mentally avoided the bedroom, this place wasn't so bad.

That clock, shaped like a fluffy cloud, the second hand taking days to move, said Wendy was home from school. I called and asked her to visit. She had to work. She asked a bunch of questions about my new apartment. I ignored them and promised I'd stop by. I washed my hands and face with soap that smelled like aloe, then picked a handful of quarters from a change jar in the living room. It must be nice to have so much money you can throw change in a jar and forget about it.

Ten feet from the stop, the bus pulled off. Twelve to fifteen minutes till the next one. An old woman holding two bags of groceries sat next to me on the bench and tried to make idle conversation, but I didn't say much back. An "uh huh" or two seemed to satisfy her. By the time the bus arrived, my eyes were wet and heavy. A small headache was swelling behind my eyes. The driver opened his mouth to say something to me, but turned away. The bus was full. Everybody watched me try to find a seat. I told an older man with a walking cane between his legs to scoot over. After a moment, he did.

Wendy's work shirt, bright yellow with a goofy cartoon chicken logo, didn't look right on her. It never did. She knew it, too. She thinks she's above it and maybe she is. Her parents told her to get good grades and she did. Then they forced her to get a job after school and keep her grades up and she did that too. She became more responsible, which is what they wanted, and she always had spare cash, which I'm sure they wanted too. But her commitments also made her depressed and sometimes a total bitch. Still, maybe her parents were on to something. I can't deny they know how to forge a normal life out of whatever's available. The entire neighborhood has that knowledge. They have more pride than money, but pride's all they needed to turn a not-so-good part of the city into a pleasant turf to raise a family. Wonder where I'd be right now if any of them had been my parents.

She said, "Bobby, what is it?" like she already knew and just needed me to confirm it. On the couch, I laid my head on her shoulder, on a bone. I moved to a softer spot.

"Darryl's dead."

Brutal. Two short syllables riddled with hard d's. She asked me to repeat them. I couldn't. She asked how and when and I gave one word answers.

"But what happened?"

Weren't one word answers enough? Why was she getting miffed? What more did she want? I wasn't going to break tradition and discuss my job, so what did she want? "I don't want to heard about it," she said when we were on the same couch and again I was using her shoulder for a pillow and I told her Darryl got in. That's how I put it. "He's in." Then a week later, again on the couch, again my head on her shoulder, I had to tell her, "I'm in." Our whole relationship was spent with my head on her shoulder.

"I told you what happened," I said.

Her shoulder tightened. I lifted off her and leaned back into the couch's corner. Her shoulders relaxed. She was staring at the floor.

"Least it wasn't you. God made the bullet miss you."

Which means He made it hit Darryl? Wendy's religion makes her say stupid things, mean things. "God's plan." That's what she trusts when she's stressed or hits a roadblock, when she wants to give up. A plan in the sky helps her with crap down here but it scared me because what she's saying is God makes bad stuff happen. Wendy, what if God's plan is a lifetime of suffering? Are you okay with that? Can you trust that plan?

"He's with Jesus now."

Yeah. They're both dead.

Her body made a quick convulsion. A fat tear fell. I sat up and brushed it away. Or tried. I smeared it. She kissed my hand. It must've tasted yucky.

"Is that aloe?"

I described the apartment and everything in it, except for the bedroom which she wouldn't want me to describe anyway. She dropped my hand.

"You have to go home. To your home. See your mom. Oh my God. She must be devastated. Then you have to go to the police."

"I tried to sell coke. That's like, thirty years."

She stood and lectured me on responsibility and not facing up to my problems. As if she understood my problems. As if they were normal problems with normal solutions. If my life was normal, Wendy, I would have sued Marcus for millions. Instead, I owed him three grand. Actually, if I was normal, I would've never heard of Marcus Webster. She looked silly, a know-it-all who knew nothing. But she spewed her bullcrap so fiercely, I sank deeper into the couch.

And by the way, why on earth did everyone treat me like a bad guy? Because of Darryl, I worked for Marcus. Because of Sampson's bad contact, Darryl got shot. Because Darryl got shot, I owed Marcus. There's a lot of blame to go around but none for me, but that's all I received. No sympathy. Just blame.

I sat up. Coins jingled as they fell from my pocket. "You act like I wanted to work the streets. I didn't. I had to."

"Bullcrap. You want to talk about have to? I have to go to work. I have to come home dead tired, covered in grease. Then I have to do homework. I have to make something of my life. God, I can't believe I wasted all my free time on you. I don't have any friends left. You know I wanted to learn the piano? That'll never happen. My life's been work, school, and you. You were doing so well in school. Why'd you drop out? I told you this was bound to happen."

"I had to protect Darryl. And I never used the stuff."

"You've told me. A million times. But it could've been you today." She mumbled, "Poor Darryl," and walked to the closet.

There was no "Poor Bobby" coming.

She put on a blue jacket and opened the front door. "I have to go to work now. You have to leave."

I collected the coins. "I was leaving anyway." But as I approached the door, I softened. "I'll call you later. Meanwhile, why don't you call my mom?"

I reached for her hand. She jerked it away. I stepped on the porch. She slammed the door.

At the bus stop, my headache was now driving a nail into my skull. Sweat seeped out all over me, from my scalp to my feet. The bus couldn't come soon enough to take me back to the apartment that had cool air and TV and, I prayed, aspirin.

"Antsy?" The strong breath from a rotting mouth struck my nose. A few feet away, a crusty old man in rags pointed to my legs. I hadn't noticed they were twitching.

It was hot out like the world was under a magnifying glass. I dreamed we were burning, but so slowly we didn't notice at first. Then it would be too late. Buildings and cars would explode. The ocean would boil. Fields and forests would burst into flames. We'd turn to each other, terrified and confused, but no one was any safer or smarter than anyone else. We'd have to watch each other melt away and everyone in the world would eventually collect into a pulpy soup of humanity.

"Hey kid. I say something funny?" The man took a step towards me. He moved like a zombie.

"No."

"Then what's with the smile?"

CHAPTER 7: ZEKE

I got super shitfaced that night. For fun, I accomplished my mission at this snooty asshole place, Bonner's Tavern. I hit on the scrawny dyke lawyers and spilled my drinks over constipated businessmen who were too scared to raise much of an objection. This preppy bartender's like, "Can I call you a cab?" And I was like, "Can I call you a cunt?" I left when my wallet was empty. I don't think anyone was gonna offer to buy me a drink.

Why'd I do what? Shoot the kid? Shit. That's the trouble with starting a story in the middle. There's no beginning.

Well, no one made me do it. Let's get that straight. Short version is I did it to shut someone up. No, not the kid. Someone else. Okay, the kid too, but that's beside the point. Alright, there's no shortcut. Let's see.

Okay. My old partner Gavin Quinn had been forced into retirement by stomach cancer. I think I said that already. Instead of spending his days doing what he did best, he now spent his days fighting the insurance company. Bastards.

Anyway, there was a time after Gavin but before Sutler when I was on my own. Marner didn't trust that, so he set me up with a task force to take down a string of meth labs. I had to break a ton of rock on the case, which I wasn't used to, plus the group I worked with was packed with insufferable hard asses. Not like Gavin. Gavin was a whip. He'd crack a joke about anything. Like, the dregs who'd swallow their shit before we busted them, Gavin would get a good five minutes of material out of them. But the guys on this task force shit lumber, y'know? They never joked, ten to one because there's no statute in the books that permits jokes. But we were dealing with tweakers. If you can't get a laugh out of tweakers, what good are they?

The big boss, though, I'll agree he wasn't worth a smile. He set up labs in the worst motels or abandoned buildings and tricked addicts into doing his dirty work, the dangerous work, doing it for peanuts and a few free bumps. His profit margin was through the roof and what really stuck in my craw was that when we finally landed the prick, he was sitting prettier than Miss America. Try telling some kid not to break the law when there's success stories like out there. Yeah, he went down, but he'd stored enough to juice to operate a corner of whatever prison he went to. Besides, you know there's a ton of leaders smarter than him out there getting away with it, making a fortune, probably never get caught.

If all this wasn't bad enough, almost every goddamn day this fucko bookie hounds me for some overdue bills. I go to work, he's leaning on my jeep. "Got my money?" Well, asshole, get the fuck off my wheels and I'll go earn some. Or he's hanging out in front of my apartment when I return from a shitty day. "Got my money?" Jesus, dude, the bank's closed. Wait till Saturday. Every now and then, I'd give him some product to keep him quiet, but he'd be back a few days later. It was bullshit, but he said it wasn't him. His "boss" was riding him, he says, indicating the "boss" was a big deal. I knew what that meant. Wasn't much I could do about that problem.

Point is, this wasn't the happiest time of my life.

Anyway, I'm nearing the end of the assignment and waiting for my new partner to arrive so I can train him and everything. One day, the lieutenant drops this file on my desk. I look it over. It's not much. Snippets on this hood Marcus Webster. He's running a tiny operation. Just selling as far as we know, and not selling much. His gang's small, more like a club than a crew. We didn't trace any violence to them. He's not connected, just a humble homie content with his crumb of Columbus, not one of those guys who fancy themselves the star of some urban western.

I'm like, "Why waste my time with this?" See, these smaller fish are actually pretty challenging. It takes hundreds or thousands of man hours to bring them down and it's kind of a waste for all the good it does. The scraps Marner had sent to the FBI got redirected straight to their recycling bin, I'm sure. I mean, this guy Marcus Webster was destined for the back burner. But the lieutenant says I can do a simple buy. Break in the newbie and give the world at least the illusion of trying to build a case. Marner says if we could at least learn who the supplier was, then he'd rest happy. But he knows and I know that collecting that kind of information's going to take forever and a day, so I say, "Forget it." The lieutenant says, "Okay." I stick Marcus Webster into the back of my mind and finishes up the meth lab thing.

Okay, cut to the racetrack. Look man, you asked. I'm going as quick as I can. And anyway, you asked for my motive and motive's a fucked up thing. Who knows why we do half the shit we do? And if every cause has a cause, then can't we trace my motive all the way back to Creation? From that angle, I'm doing a good job tightening up the story.

So, the racetrack. Typical day. I loose a fortune. I go to the lounge, as if getting blotto's gonna help me forget my losses, y'know? But what the hell. I go. I pull out a stool and a wooden cane crashes to the ground. The fellow sitting there gets all cunty. Then he recognizes me and turns friendly. I sort of recognize him, but not really. Turns out to be this dude Kevin Bradshaw, an officer. "Hey, how are ya?" Blah blah.

Now, a few months earlier, Bradshaw got clipped in the hip, or near the hip, or some shit, and they gave him the choice of: one, take a chunk of his pension and get out, or two: go to the evidence locker. He took the locker. He tells me all this without my asking, by the way. I'd've been pleased as punch if he'd kept buttoned up. Then he goes on a diatribe about the assholes at our insurance company. I get what he's saying. My old partner had problems with them, too. Turns out Bradshaw has a kid with some fucked up disease. I forget what it's called, but he gives me the impression it's real brutal. Anyhow, the insurance company's being tighter than a nun, so he visits to the track every now and then hoping to win big and solve his money woes.

Well, the race begins and he grips his ticket like it's a million dollar bill. He lost of course. God can be pretty mean to nonbelievers. I lose all day, too, but I was a nonbeliever back then, so that makes sense. But I feel worse for his loss than my own. I mean really, he had laid on the sob story pretty thick and I fell for it. I buy him a drink before I take off.

But, you know, I have my own shit to deal with. I push his story to the back of my mind, next to Marcus Webster's. Not as far back as, say, my mom's birthday--I mean, I couldn't tell you what goddamn season that falls in--but pretty far back.

So life continues. Work, mostly paperwork now. Greaseball bookie. Chemical recreations. Sutler's wife. Notice that neither Bradshaw or Marcus make the list.

Didn't I already mention that I'd been boffing Sutler's wife on the sly? Fuck this starting in the middle shit.

Anyway, one glorious morning the strands come together and form a fist and the fist hits me. Like, hits me hard. I'm stunned. I see stars. And I wasn't even trying to concoct a solution. I was unfocused, dumping foot powder into my shoes, just performing this boring routine activity and whammo. The scheme of the century.

I walked Kevin through it. Instead of overflowing with veneration for me or my plan, he bitched and moaned. I asked him for an alternative. Since he didn't have jack or shit, he gave in to my plan. Next I needed to contact Marcus Webster.

I'm getting to it. Relax. We got nothing but time.

I peek in Marcus' file and they think he's running his crew out of this dive. At least, at lot of his boys had been seen popping in and out on a regular basis.

So I pay the man a visit. I walk in, real calm and cool. A few goons in the back are itching to ask what I'm doing there, but they don't want me to ask them the same question, so it's all cool. I flash my badge to the bartender and ask for Marcus. He gives me some sass but I give him more, so next thing I know I'm in the kitchen. They called it a meeting room, but it was a kitchen. Even a kitchen without food is still a kitchen.

Marcus waddles in, this big bastard packed into a cheap suit. I introduce myself. I don't hide a thing. I say I want to talk to him alone but Marcus insists his dipshit nephew join us, this guy Sampson. I don't know why. All's I could tell, Sampson was there to hold up the wall.

After Marcus accepts that if I was gonna bust him, I would've busted him already, he chills out and makes Sampson pour us a glass of what he calls "the house wine." Yeah, I'm sure it went good with the cordon bleu. I sip it and tell him it's the best I've had all day.

I lay it out for him: I'll sell him coke dirt cheap. In return, he's gotta keep his operation low-key. That's it. That's my offer.

And you're like, "What the big deal?" But the plan was brilliant. A new twist on an old thing. More than one cop in the history of cops has thought to rip off the evidence locker and sell the shit on the street. Pure profit, but also pure stupidity. Guys get busted for this left and right all over the country all the time. It's a loser's scheme. But when I was dumping foot powder into my shoes, it hit me like ten tons of bricks: trade it out. Like, steal coke and replace it with baking soda or whatever. Do it after the lab tests and before the trial and no one'll have the faintest clue. And it's not like it's going to fuck up the trial or anything. So why not? The shit'll collect dust for months till it's time to incinerate it, so when you think about it, why not?

I don't tell Marcus all this, of course. I give him the shortest overview he'll let me get away with.

He's skeptical, which I dig. I show him I'm not wearing a wire. I pull out some of my personal stash and do a fat line off the table. Kinda smiling, I offer to shoot someone. Fifty-fifty chance I would've done it if he had wanted. Well, depends who. I finally sway him with a copy of his file. Even sleepy Sampson perks up at this.

"That's all?" he asks, measuring how thin it is. Like he wants us to know more? I don't know. Only part he doesn't dig is we know about the bar. That's how I found him, duh, but he's worried someone more legit could make use of the info. He has a point, and I promise to make that detail go missing from the file.

Nibbling. He likes what he'd tasted so far but he's not ready to chomp down on the bait. He tells me he wants to check me out before granted me a thumbs up. Says, "I need to know if this is the worst setup in history or if you're honestly one crooked cop." I don't know what the hell "check me out" means and I sure didn't want him spreading my name over town. So now I'm hesitating.

He asks for my number and that tears it. I'm ready to walk out. More than one jailbird's in a cage courtesy of phone records. But he discloses that he dumps pre-paid phones every week to keep himself untraceable. Smart. Cautious. I like that. Disposable cell phones have made cops' jobs harder and it'll only get worse. Or better, depending on your angle.

Few days later, he calls and says it's a go and we work out the details. Y'know, price and pickup point. Still not sure how he checked me out. He never told me. Probably questioned this old timer, Rebus Jefferson. He's one of those characters who's got a line on everyone. Not really of course, but sometimes a reputation's more practical than the truth.

When I give Bradshaw the good news, he tells me he's changed his mind. I ask how his kid's doing and he changes it back. Funny if it weren't sad.

Don't ask me how he made the trade in the evidence locker. He told me something about taping a package of flour to his leg, swapping it for the coke, then taping the coke to his leg. He had to do this as swiftly as possible and out of range of the security camera. Tough gig for a ninja, and Bradshaw's no ninja. Couldn't have helped that he had to have been covered in nervous sweat. Hell, when we met later in a parking lot, I wondered if he'd just had a heart attack.

So I hook up with the nephew at some abandoned industrial area way out in Bumfucksville. Long drive but a safe spot. Sampson doesn't dig me for whatever reason and man, it's mutual pal. What appeal. Mute as a tomb every time I met him, as if his favorite dog died and he got a new one and that one died too.

But other than the disagreeable company, the deal goes down fine. Bradshaw finally starts to unbutton after I hand him his share. As for me, I throw a morsel at the bookie, burn the rest at the track, and that's all she wrote. A few days go by. Rent's due, the bookie's back, and I start to feel the pinch again. I give Marcus a ring. Sure enough, "this number is no longer in service." I consider visiting the bar again, but the less I'm seen there, the better. I'm on the verge of taking the risk and going anyway when Marcus calls.

So we do another, like, three deals. Everyone's happy. Well, Sampson isn't, but he never was. And I realized later that the shit was probably cut when I sold it, and Marcus probably cut it up more, so his customers might've made a small fuss. But Marcus and I are contented and that's all that matters.

Then one time, out of the blue, Marcus himself shows up at the sale. Says he's come across some counterfeit money, and if we could trade one thing...?

Well, that gets into Treasury Department shit, FBI, who the hell knows what else. I tell him I have to ask my partner. Bradshaw, of course, says no way, which works out for me. Next time Marcus calls, I say, "Sorry Charlie. My partner says it's a no go." Marcus gets all huffy, but I'm like, "Look, I know. And if it was up to me." Now he's barking that I never mentioned I had a partner, that I've been disrespectful to Sampson, disrespectful to Marcus, on and on. I interrupt to quickly confirm the next deal and hang up.

At the drop, I'm made to wait, like, forty minutes before Mr. Smiles pulls up. First thing I notice, no brown paper bag. Second, he's sorta jumpy. Slightly more animated than usual. Tells me Marcus wants to ax it all, that he can't trust me anymore, that I let him down, that the stuff was no good, blah fucking blah.

Then the kicker: this skinny turd tells me Marcus has me on tape and if I try anything, he'll use it.

Now, I don't believe him for a millisecond. In the first place, there's no way Marcus would be lamebrained enough to tape his deals. What for? To send out a mix tape at Christmas? Second, even if he did tape me, which he didn't, he can't do anything with the tapes without burning his own little empire. If I go down, he's going down longer and harder.

Before I can break this twig in half, loud beatboy music blasts from his car. I kick myself for not noticing Sampson brought company. He yells some kid's name. "Told you not to touch my tunes." It's the kid I'm destined to meet again at the motel, so I guess the name Sampson yelled had to have been "Darryl." That mystery's solved.

So what to do? I consider simply waltzing into the bar and blowing Marcus away, but that gets real complicated. Who else do I have to deal with and what do they pack? The bartender might store an Uzi under the bar for all I know. Then there's the issue of paperwork, of dumping a solid line of bullshit to plausibly explain what drew me to the bar and why I let loose a kiloton of lead.

But, you dig? I can't really walk away. Just can't.

I go to my lieutenant and I say, "Remember what's his name, Marcus Webster?" I say I've reconsidered. Why not set up a deal with Marcus? Buy some product to break in the fresh blood? I go to Rebus Jefferson, who had been feeding us info for cash more and more often. Not much cash either. Needless to say, he went missing a while later. And when he finally turned up, I hear he didn't look like he was going to make it to finals in any beauty contest.

But Rebus isn't setting up a deal between Marcus and a businessman, is he? No. He's an accomplice to something much bigger.

So, your question. When I ran down the stairs, gun in hand, what was my motivation? It was that I had helped Marcus increase his profit margin only to have him spit in my face and threaten me. It was that he didn't appreciate who I was and the force of my powers. It was that he needed a lesson on how I operate in case he was tempted to pull some shit down the line. It was because I was damn near broke and he called it quits on our deal, and that wasn't right. Because I needed to botch the case against Marcus real bad, push it off the back burner. Off the stove completely. I did it because I fucking could.

I had intended to kill whoever came to the door. Stings go bad all the time, after all. When the day came, the way it happened, it was perfect. One of the kids at the door recognized me, yelled, "Cop" and ran. It couldn't've been easier or more justified.

And that was it. I knew I'd never hear from Marcus again. There's no way he'd try to get any payback. He doesn't have the balls to put out an order like that against a cop and he doesn't anyone on board to give the order to. Marcus is a lot of things, but totally stupid isn't one of them. He'd never invite the whole department up his ass just to heal his bruised pride. Even better, even more beautiful, if he does get hauled in at some point and tries to yap about our deal, it'll seem pretty obvious he's accusing me because I tagged one of his wannabe thugs. Oh man. I still get excited when I remember it.

The worst thing that could've happened is if the deal at the motel had been a success. I'd become a sweating screwball, covering tracks left and right, getting less sleep than I was getting already.

Do I regret it? One thing, I wish it had been Sampson who came to the door. Would've been nice to aerate his face. Well, later on, my wish came true, so scratch that.

The thing is, looking back on it, when I was dumping powder in my shoe, which started this ball rolling, I was taking the first step on the path to God. You know that story about how a flood comes and this dude's on the roof and a boat comes by and he says, "Nah. God'll provide?" Right, right. "I sent you three boats." Well, anyway, God sent me a boat when he sent the idea for the swap into my head. Can you prove it wasn't God? So to answer your question, if you think I regret being my shepherding toward God, then you don't get me at all.

Now where the hell was I before you interrupted me? Oh yeah. The bar. Out of money. Hm. Not so interesting now, is it?

I have no idea how I ended up back home that night. All's I remember is I woke the next morning an hour before my interview with IA. Took a while to peel myself off the couch and get ready. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was all wrong: red eyes, white tongue, light green face. But after an ice water shower, I looked like myself again.

Shut up. That's not funny.

CHAPTER 8: ADAM

My report is still on file. My lie. Zeke has a way with words. I'll give him that. My hesitation reconstructed into prudence. Marner bought it. Wish he hadn't. Wish he had reamed me. I had to ream myself. Of all the droppings I left behind on life's path, that report embarrasses me the most. It's all Zeke's fault.

No. I can lay plenty of Zeke's own abominations at his feet without adding my own. I signed the report. The fault's mine. Mea culpa.

I pulled in our driveway and sat. I cranked the air and lowered the windows. Brenda was in the house.

I took a stab at appearing calm and checked my effort in the rearview mirror. No good. Sweat dripped off my chin. The chaotic woods across the street surrounded my head. I'm either calm or not calm. I can't pretend the other.

She'd worry, fear for my safety, my sanity. I went through my vocabulary for words to soften the message. I didn't have them. I never had them. I've only ever had instinct. I went with that.

The shower was running when I came in. I stood by the bedroom door until Brenda shut off the water. I knocked. "There was an incident today. My partner had to use force. A kid died. I have to meet with Internal Affairs tomorrow. I won't be working for awhile."

"Oh shit."

I failed.

I drifted to the kitchen. I looked inside the fridge, but not really. The shapes and colors had no meaning. Blobs. I don't know how long I stood in the cold draft. Lost time.

"You're going to be okay, right?"

I sat at the counter. I watched her hips swish as she walked to the cupboard. She wore a forest green cardigan over a summer dress.

"We'll see."

"What happened exactly?" She took her vitamins.

"It was supposed to be simple. But these dealers, kids really, knew my partner was a cop and he had to chase them and I don't know. One of them, I don't know."

Brenda emptied the water glass and gasped. The pedals on the roses in the vase on the ledge above the sink were crispy and brownish. Black slime crawled up the stems. The flower heads drooped toward the earth. That's where they came from. That's where they went.

"Oh, shit."

She knew what was coming, didn't she?

She asked for the car keys and said she'd be back later.

And that was it. Like her reaction to the Fourth Avenue Fire. More like no reaction. Barely. I can still see the photos, the charred remains of a mother and her boy. But she didn't understand. Didn't understand, so didn't tolerate my response, my depression. Said I was too sensitive. I said she was insensitive. Then life continued.

We ate dinner in silence. Dinner? More like art pieces she'd serve on the plates. After work, painting and lunch with a few friends, decorating spreads more sublime than her still-lifes was where all her extra energy went.

I went to bed early. Waking and dressing in the morning, I didn't look at her.

A low-watt halogen bulb lit the interview room. Murky, sick light. I only remember Dale Brunder. Two other people--solemn, silent, forgotten--sat in the small interview room too, but Dale Brunder's the only one I can see and I can't see him very clearly. His back and lap formed a stiff ninety degree angle, mirroring (mocking?) my posture.

"Why don't you tell me what you remember about yesterday?"

I omitted no detail in my description of the events leading to the shooting. IA now knows Lucky's rate for a room, Digit's logo on his t-shirt, Zeke's playful mood before the catastrophe.

Dale Brunder stopped me. "'I fought your wave?'"

"Something like that. Digit and I couldn't make sense of his message."

Oh how my rich account grew meager as I approached the shooting itself. I tried to make up for the deficiency by bolstering my remorse. My spine loosened. I broke my eye contact with Dale Brunder.

"If I'd been faster, I could've caught the perps and our case would be stronger."

"We've made a note of it." He slid some papers across the desk for me to sign.

At the door, I turned around. "Again, I'm really sorry."

"We all are."

Zeke was at the end of the hallway, his hands balled into fists. I approached. His hands relaxed. He smiled.

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing. Some asswipe bumped into me and demanded an apology. Shithead. How'd it go?"

"Fine. It went fine."

"Told you."

Dale Brunder leaned out of the interview room. "Ravella. You're up." He ducked back in.

Zeke yawned. "Man, I'm sleepy. Rough night. Hey, stick around." He slapped me on the arm. "I'm busy later, but we can grab a coffee or something."

Before I could protest, Zeke was in the room.

I went to the coffee vending machine. The paper cup jammed before it reached its proper position. The machine vibrated and poured coffee down the drain. A display lit up: "Thank you and enjoy!!" I freed the empty cup and wandered the halls. I spotted a small coffee maker in a private office. The pot was almost full. I knocked on the open door. The man at the leaned over some paperwork. I asked if he minded if I grabbed a cup? He narrowed his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was angry or confused or both.

I showed him my empty cup and pointed to the pot.

"But that's my coffee."

I apologized for disturbing him.

"Wait."

I waited.

"Okay. You can have a cup."

"No, that's okay. I don't need any."

"No, you're fine. Help yourself."

"Thanks anyway but--"

"Mister." The man dropped his pen. "Will you do me a favor and pour yourself a goddamn cup of coffee?" He picked up his pen and returned to his paperwork. I did what he asked. I left. Behind me, he yelled, "You're welcome."

I took a seat beside the interview room and took a sip of the burning, acrid coffee. I heard the faint sound of "simple." No one around. What I first thought were disquieting voices in my head were muffled voices from behind the door. I shouldn't have been able to hear them, but I could. No one ever noticed the acoustic phenomenon or no one cared? A woman passed and she didn't seem to notice the voices. Did I have extraordinary hearing? Was I convincingly nonchalant as I scooted an inch to the door and leaned in? Reminds me of a movie. Can't remember which one. A man crawled behind a couch for some reason and two women came in the room and he overheard them discuss a significant plot point. Why can't I remember the name of the movie? Doesn't life pour in and get stored and flow out in a flash during this moment? Why are only certain details flashing?

"Then one of them recognized you, right?"

"Right."

"Which one?"

"Not sure.

"Well, was it the one you killed or the one you didn't?"

"I don't know. The one I shot."

"Did he stand to your left or right when you answered the door?"

"Left. No, right. Right."

"I wonder how he knew you." There was a long pause. "Did you recognize him?"

"No."

"Had you arrested him before?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"Right."

"Maybe you indicated?"

"I don't indicate. I'm not an amateur"

"Maybe you made a gesture you didn't--"

"I don't fucking indicate."

Did I do my interview all wrong?

"Okay. So the kid, for some strange reason, knew you weren't who you said you were. Then what?"

"Then he pushes me down. The two take off. I get up and give chase. They gain a lot of ground. Outside, one of them pulls a gun."

"Which one?"

"Both."

"Both? You said one."

"I meant both. You're going too fast."

"We didn't recover a weapon. The report's not at all ambiguous on that point."

"Yes. Right. No, you're right. One has a gun for sure, the one that escaped. He's across the street aimed at me. The other one stops, right? He goes into his bag, the bag we recovered. I assume he's going for a gun. I mean, wouldn't you? I'm not gonna to twiddle my thumbs until he pulls it out. So I fire."

"In his back?"

"Yeah. No. I mean, I aim at his legs, to incapacitate him. But look. I didn't ask to carry a .40. No one asked my opinion."

"Then you fired at the other suspect?"

"Yeah. I miss. He flees. I follow, but he's long gone."

"Did you call it in right away? Suspected fleeing south, was it?"

"Call it in with what? I was set-up as a businessman. I didn't have anything on me to call it in with."

"Sloppy."

"Yeah. Not illegal, though. Anyway my partner called it in as soon as possible."

Neither spoke for a while. Did I hear scratches? Whispers?

"So that's your story?"

"No. That's the truth. You know, it's too bad we're not allowed to fire warning shots. Two scumbag dealers might be in custody right now."

"You know why the law doesn't let you, right?"

"Right. Innocents."

"Speaking of which, any witnesses?"

"None that I saw."

"Right, but here's the curious thing--"

"There is no thing."

"There is. You say they pushed you down. How long were you down?"

"I don't know. I didn't have a stopwatch."

"My point is they barely have a lead. Down two tiny flights of stairs and they're too far away?"

"I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You didn't trip?"

There was a pause. "No."

"Where's your partner during all of this?"

"Inside. I'm glad he wasn't there."

"Why's that?"

"He's new. I don't know how he would've handled himself. Might have done something rash."

"Yeah. That could've had tragic consequences."

There was a pause.

"These fucks were dealing. They ran from someone they knew to be an officer of the law. What am I missing? It's not like I jammed a plunger up this guy's ass."

"Between you and me, I could eat a can of alphabet soup and shit out a better story than the one you're giving."

"Dale," said the woman, admonishing him with her tone.

"And what's with the lousy surveillance footage?"

"I'm not the techie."

"No, but you're the one who altered the camera angle. Altered it from the front door to the curtains. What, you thought footage of the curtains was going to come in handy?"

"I was playing around. An innocent mistake."

"Apparently not."

I envisioned Dale Brunder standing, leaned over Zeke. Maybe he wasn't.

"The truth is, Ravella, you could have non-lethally incapacitated at least one of them and you chose not to. You chose to kill, both if possible. You set back, most likely ruined, a case I'm told you helped instigate. You had a choice and you made it, and now my peers and I are going to judge that choice. That's what's happening."

The hot coffee dribbled on my lap. I jerked and scalded my hand. Did they hear me?

"And by the way, 'I fought your wave?' That's deplorable. We can't prosecute you for that but I wish we could. Try that with my wave and I'll be the one doing time, I swear to God."

No. They must not have heard me.

I still don't know what that last part meant. I have an idea, but I'm not sure. I'm sick at my stupidity. Couldn't make much sense of the interview. Why not? The pieces were scattered in front of me. All I had to do was put them together.

I raced to the nearest exit, throwing out the coffee somewhere along the way. As I fled home, I sifted through the pieces and made a few (very few) guesses. But mostly I was bewildered. Ignorance isn't bliss, or if it is, it's only bliss when you don't realize you're ignorant. When you're wise to your ignorance, you're close to insanity. I wanted to stop thinking. Stupid. I wanted to avoid Zeke, ignore him. But that was stupid too. I had ignored the old depression, but it hadn't lifted. Still choked my spirit with its icy fingers. I ignored the wall between Brenda and me. Didn't bring it down. What did ignoring ever resolve? Ignore. Ignorant. I hate myself.

CHAPTER 9: SAMPSON

Should've greased the pig when I had the chance.

Marcus powered off his MP3 player. "You know 'renaissance' means rebirth? They rediscovered the ancient world and Europe was reborn. You know that?"

"No." I twisted the newspaper.

And you never knew till you heard it. Now we both know. Aren't we smart?

"Hm?" He took out his earbuds. They dangled from his starched collar. "You didn't know that?" He pulled his cell phone from his coat. "By the way, does this one charge for texts?"

Do I have to remember this? Every Friday, a new cell. The rest of the week, ignorant questions on how to use it. Then he tosses and the cycle begins again. Why can't I remember Sophie? Lavender. Think about her. Can't.

"Not sure. Who do you need to text?"

He pressed a few buttons. "Forget it. I miss the old days. All a man needed was a pay phone and a dime."

"Was this during prohibition?"

"Don't get lippy."

Marcus, you're ashamed of your sense of humor and you despise everyone else's and I never saw you happy.

"By the way, the kid was right." I unrolled the Dispatch and laid it on his desk. "Section B, page 3."

"What's it say?" Marcus took a toothpick from the top drawer and picked at his fingernails.

"It says the kid was right. During a sting, a cop shot a fleeing suspect. Darryl Cooper. A second suspect got away. Don't give a name. Drugs were recovered. Now some cops are under investigation. Here's the really interesting part. You ready? One of the cops is our old friend in blue. Ravella."

His came to a stubborn clump of dirt.

"Well?"

He wiped the toothpick on his pants. "I'm waiting for you to tell me something I don't know."

Bullshit. Used bullshit to beat down my pride. What a man.

"The point is Bobby didn't rip you off."

"Why not?"

"It says--"

"It says they confiscated the drugs." He fanned out his fingers, looked over his work. "Isn't that what you'd say if you was the cops? Papers don't print the truth. They print what they're told. And half the time they can't get that right. Paper changes nothing. Kid still owes me."

Which was a raw deal. Everyone knew it.

Lucas pouring a drink: "This has to be about something else."

Benny before drinking: "Yeah. A bug crawled up his ass and he's blaming it on the kid."

And more. And a lot I didn't get a chance to overhear.

Marcus himself knew it was bullshit. I don't care how broke he was. It wasn't fair. He knew it. And he knew we paid Bobby next to nothing. But once he said it he had to stick to it. A man never takes back his word no matter how mistaken the word is. That's a rule.

I collected the newspaper and rolled it up.

Marcus put the toothpick in his mouth and chomped it in half, threw it away, pointed his manicured index at me. "Do I run a charity? Is this the United Way? No. It's The Do What the Fuck I Say Way." The earbuds bobbed. "Today's no different than yesterday. Won't be different tomorrow. Paper changes nothing."

"But Ravella?"

"What about him?" Marcus took a fat cigar from his desk. Uncut, but he'd chewed one end to bits. He puckered his lips and sucked on the end he hadn't mangled.

He never lit one, like he didn't know they were for smoking. Lungs can't handle smoke but you can't deny yourself the status symbol, like only big bosses can afford a stogie. Like sticking one in your mouth gives you muscle and respect. I'd buy a box and still be a nobody.

"Think this was on purpose?"

He rolled the cigar across his mouth. "Strike you as the type who has accidents?" The cigar hopped as he spoke.

"But why?"

Marcus took the cigar out of his mouth. It stretched his index and middle finger. Looked like he was giving the peace sign. "Motivation doesn't mean too much, now does it? Was he trying to send me a message? Fine. Message received. He can kill people. Great. He wants me to keep quiet about our deal? Okay. I will. Next. Or maybe I bunched his panties when I called off the deal. Revenge. Hope he got it out of his system."

"But why risk it? We know where this shit heal lives."

He gazed into the dark.

He wasn't working out what to say. He knew what to say. He just wasn't sure he wanted to say it. Say it to me, at least. At one time, seemed like he was grooming me to take over. Then he changed his mind because of something I did wrong or didn't do right, or because my body didn't fill in like he had hoped. My money's on Benny taking over.

"Because it's hard to do your shit when the police department's up your ass. He knows that. He knows I know that. It burns me that you don't know that. If we were some dago outfit maybe we could get away with capping a cop, but we ain't. Thank God." Again, quieter: "Thank God. Anyway, dirty cops don't retire. He'll get his some day. Besides, revenge never solved one problem without creating five more. Seems that's a truth I know and he doesn't. Ever read Hamlet? Didn't think so."

"Actually, I did read Hamlet actually."

Marcus crunched the cigar on his back teeth.

"But I don't remember much."

He turned and spit some paper into the dark. "It's about revenge and folks bullshitting each." He threw the cigar under his desk. It hit the can with a metal clank. "That's done. By the by, I need you collect some payments. Rebus Jefferson's pissed off so many folks, we're getting paid to take care of him. Yesterday, Rebus cost me money. Today, he's gonna make me some. And right on time to pay the property tax."

"Want Benny to take care of him?"

"Oh, was it Benny who set up the deal?"

I squeezed the newspaper.

"And do the warehouse thing."

I tried to squeeze out the ink.

He might've been harder on me. It wouldn't have been fair, but I would've understood. It was my deal that turned bad. Not my fault, but in a way it was. Just my bad luck to set up a deal while he was turning everyone's trust into a big pay day with the cops. He was old enough to known better. But he went for it, out on a limb. And the thing broke beneath him and killed Darryl, himself, and now two more. At least.

"Is that all?"

Marcus rifled through his desk and took out a sheet of paper to write out an address list. "You know Monet?"

No. Never met the man. But I can read his name on that poster. Aren't I smart? I'm so smart, I'm dying in a bathtub with some lead in my back.

"I'm listening to this thing on art. They're gonna get to him. French. One of the greats. One these days, y'know, I'm gonna buy some nice pieces and throw a party. I'll invite Columbus' elite to oo and aw over my shit. Don't loose this." He handed me the list. "I'm not describing a fantasy. It's gonna happen. That's when I'll know I've arrived."

It might happen. He's alive, so can't say never. Life might take him where he wants to go. Or it might get tired of his ass and shuffle him off. One or the other or something else. Life's not fair, so anything could happen.

CHAPTER 10: ADAM

A red smear, the embryo of a future masterpiece, shined in the center of the canvass. Beside the easel, Brenda leaned over a sketch pad, crumpled sheets at her bare feet on the garage floor. From the stairs, I traced at the red pony tail curving down the back of her overalls. I drank in her image like it was the nectar of the gods because I know life is fleeting and the Now is all we have.

No I didn't. I can't even pretend I did? I can't.

"No work today?"

Ignoring my question, she asked how it went. I said terrible. She sighed. I left her alone.

I crashed on the bed. I didn't care if I messed my hair. I stared at the ceiling. Out of the chaotic plaster, Zeke's face emerged. That chunk was his bulbous nose, those lines his crooked lips. Several lines converged to make his hair and one straight line became the point where the back stopped before the hair became a full-on mullet. Once the portrait was complete, it looked down on me full of malice and deceit.

Can't believe I didn't see it before. Why couldn't I tell he was bad? No. He fooled many people. It's okay.

The face fell apart and faded. It was a plaster ceiling again. My cell rang. It was Zeke.

Why call exactly then? Did he know? How did he know?

"What happened? Why'd you disappear?"

"It's my wife's day off."

"Oh. That's okay. Your interview went fine?"

"Yeah. I told you. Fine."

There was a long pause. "Aren't you going to ask about mine?" Another pause. "It went fine, too. He's a charmer, isn't he? We're going out this Friday."

"Look, I have to go."

"Cool. Let's do dinner."

"Sure."

I turned off my cell's power and put it on the night stand. I got out of my tie and dropped it on the floor. I rolled on my stomach. I heard the gentle pats of Brenda's bare feet approaching.

"Are you in trouble?"

I rolled over and undid my top button. She grabbed a pair of socks from the dresser and sat on the bed.

"No."

"Then let's not do this."

"Do what?"

She waved her hand over me, over the bed. "This. This lying around."

I rolled on my stomach and talked into the pillow. "It's not simple. Besides, kid's still dead."

Didn't mention Zeke. Didn't have anything to tell her. The interviewer was mean to Zeke? Said things I didn't get?

"Which isn't your fault. Don't put the weight of the world on your shoulders, Adam. You can't handle it. You know you can't." The bed jostled as she got up.

"Leave me alone."

"Done."

She was gone.

I screamed at her in my head, so loud I couldn't hear where she had gone.

Wait. But. She never saw the body. Oh my God. Never saw the body. Any body. Not the kid. Not the charred remains at Fourth. The victims are all abstract. Unreal. And good. That's how it should be. She should be protected from the ugly. Brenda's insensitive? Isn't she hypersensitive? Isn't her aloofness a defense against the world's horrors? And I wanted to shove her face into the atrocities? Sick. Sadistic. Sick. As if she was the cruel one? I'm sorry. If I know anything, I know when I'm wrong. I'm so sorry. I don't forgive you because there's nothing to forgive. So much wasted time. I wish I knew then. I wish. I wish.

The hornet's nest in my head settled. I told myself I better apologize. Not because I understood, but to make life with Brenda easier. Apology minus forgiveness equals lie. I'm the stupidest man ever.

She wasn't painting down in the garage. The car was still in the drive. I went to the kitchen, the deck. I walked around the corner of our home. Brenda was bent over a flower bed.

A few plants in the flower bed still lived. The wild haired dahlias were the healthiest. The rest were ready to whither, tired of fighting so late into the season. A fish (wide-eyed, yet dead) lay on some newspaper.

"I'm sorry. I was rude."

Brenda worked her small shovel into the dirt. "It's just I thought everything was fine." She talked to the ground. "At least, that's how I interpreted your grunts."

"It is fine. It is. But no matter what Internal Affairs decides, I know I could've done more. And I can't forget what I saw."

"But the kid ran. And anyway, you didn't pull the trigger."

I might as well have. I didn't say it. I thought it. I think it now.But I didn't say it.

She picked up the fish by its tail.

"What're you doing?"

"My grandma's trick, to fertilize the ground for next year. I've never tried it." She dropped the fish into the fresh hole. "Look at the hollyhocks. They'll die. I know it. They know it. I hope you know it, too." She pushed a small hill of dirt over the fish and patted the earth. "Yes it's sad what happened, but sad things happen everyday. Especially in your line of work. Do you know why they call it 'unnecessary force?' Because the rest of the time it is necessary."

"I know, I know."

"Well? Why suffer?"

"I know, I know."

She brushed dirt from her hands. "Besides, when you suffer, I suffer." She stood and zeroed in on a weed, bent and yanked it out. "Your problems become my problems. It's not fair. And you seem to like your problems. You wallow in pain and make no attempt to avoid it or get rid of it. Let me put it this way: if you don't get a shrink, then I'm going to need one."

I told her I had to. And she almost smiled. Almost. Before she could form the smile, a puzzled look came over her. She pointed to my crotch. "Did you have an accident?"

Before dinner, I made an appointment for Monday.

Monday. No sooner slot? Would've changed everything. I would've loved to have received the healing power of simple talk. But it's not to be. Should've sought help a long time ago. Scared of tarnishing my record. I want to start over.

"So what are you doing tomorrow?" She made vegetables somersault in her frying pan. She always had a talented wrist, the secret to her cooking and more. "You're not going to wallow and mope. I won't allow it."

"I won't mope."

"Good. Then what?"

I made sounds. None made enough sense to answer her question. She came to my rescue.

"You could volunteer somewhere. Or start a stamp collection. Get rid of that old furniture in my studio. Or call my dad."

Illumination.

The noble Don Singer. More than a man with a reputable, even honored, construction company. Heck, he might be more than a man. The most coveted traits (wit, wisdom, benevolence) that we lesser mortals nearly achieve during special moments are constant and effortless aspects of Don's being. Why Brenda ever turned her back on him was a mystery. Why she had reconciled with him was obvious.

Brenda called after our meal and chatted with her mother for a minute. I always felt sorry for Marianne, living under Don's great shadow, inevitably considered second best by everyone, maybe even by herself. Always anxious and distracted, as if a small pin was forever pricking at her shoulders. She'd get relief if just once Don got drunk, picked up a prostitute, and landed in jail. That'd never happen. The price paid by those surrounding great men is a painful self-consciousness of their own failings. Did Brenda ever suffer next to me? I'm sorry if she did.

"Is dad around?"

"Oh, always your father." Marianne's nervous laughter was her only defense.

I paced the kitchen as I explained to Don I was taking a break from work and I needed to keep my hands busy.

"Else the devil will find work for you." Strong yet friendly, Don's voice anchored his charm. The sound of a man strong enough protect you and happy to do so.

"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right, Don." I wondered if I could help out at a site. To sweeten the deal, I didn't even want a paycheck. He said he was confused by who was doing who the favor, but he agreed and told me where to go the next morning.

Standing over a pot of water, Brenda asked, "So this can end. Right?"

"I hope."

She kissed me on the cheek, then poured boiling water over bags of chamomile tea. The kiss sent a nervous flutter through my belly. I touched her hand and we locked eyes, but my stomach settled and nothing came from the moment.

I wore a flannel shirt and an old pair of jeans to the site. I wanted Brenda's advice on the outfit but I was afraid to wake her.

My hammer skills gave the men a good chuckle. I chuckled too. The super had enough and pulled me away from reinforcing the header and asked me to move a pyramid of pipes across the site. I barely touched the top pipe and the pyramid tumbled. The crew was done laughing. It was only nine thirty.

First of all, those clothes didn't fit right. Second, they didn't know what I was going through. (Or did they?) Third, my job was to save people, not build a house. Fourth, Brenda had been irritated and frustrated, so I couldn't relax myself. Fifth, I was there to forget. And it worked. At some point, I became aware that I hadn't been obsessing about the case or Zeke. But then, in thinking I hadn't been thinking much about the case or Zeke, I necessarily thought about the case and Zeke. So, sixth, it was hard to concentrate on anything.

We broke for lunch. A few of the men took off but most grabbed a bag from their car and formed a circle on makeshift benches. I went to my car for my lunch, but ended up sitting and watching the men. They wore pretty much what I wore, but the clothes seemed to fit them better. Maybe from use. It didn't look like they spoke much with each other, yet every now and then one or two would break into a hardy laugh. I wonder if I would've gotten the jokes. One of them opened a newspaper and my stomach did a backflip.

Don's blue pickup rolled onto the site. He wore a dark blue button-up shirt and khaki pants because he had mastered the fashion space between casual and professional.

The super pulled him aside and blustered and flailed his arms. Don patiently listened and nodded. When the super cooled off, Don patted his shoulder. The super dropped his arms and stomped off.

Don surveyed the site. I got out of my car and approached. I held my lunch in one hand and brushed sawdust off my jeans with the other.

Don saw me and lit up. I had already been beaming. "Let's do lunch."

I looked over at the circle of crewmen. "Should you single me out?"

He waved his hand. "Bah, I don't give a damn."

There's no way Don raised himself so far in the world by not giving a damn. I'm sure Don gave a damn every second of his life.

I studied the ground as I followed Don to his pickup. Don drove us from the site without hinting where we were off to. His pickup groaned at every turn.

"How's your day been going?"

"Good. Great. Thanks for the job. You've always been generous with us."

"Oh, stop it. You're the one working for free. Everyone treat you decent?"

"Yep."

"Hm. I'd think they'd take a dislike to you, considering the car you drive. Those people can be like that."

I had the nicest car. Don't deny it. And I love my Lexus. I'll never drive her again. The ES 300. ES sounds like yes.

We got the small talk out of the way: both couples were fine, money was fine, life was fine. Don pulled into a park, found a spot under an oak, and took out a paper bag from under his seat. I rolled down the window and sucked in the air. It was fresher than the dirty air at the site. It was chilly in the shade, so I rolled up the window. A few dogs led their owners over grass field, a middle-aged woman in pink spandex jogged the track, a young couple talked at a bench.

Don munched on a turkey sandwich. His temples rolled with each chew. The slick hair above his temple (his temple!) was gray, the color having been burned away by intense thought. No. Don's brilliance shines without strain.

I picked at the leftover stir fry from a Tupperware container.

How did I expect to heat it up at a construction site? I never think ahead, not even one minute. Like, I hadn't anticipated Don would bring up the case. As soon as I did, I thought, of course he would. He did. He was concerned, but I couldn't talk about the dead, so I said the story was boring. He believed me. He wanted to know more about Zeke. I hated to answer, but Don was so good to me I decided to give him something.

"I don't know. He's slippery. Tough to get a grip on. He treated me like dirt at first, but the case has brought us together. I don't know. He's been on the force a while. Okay record. No suspensions, at least. I don't know how this'll all play out for him. I really don't. Meanwhile, I've been trying to avoid him."

"Oh, don't do that." Don popped open a small bag of potato chips. "You know I once had a partner? Yep, back in the old days, once upon a time, my old outfit was called 'Singer and Lewis Construction.' Lewis was an old pal. We both liked building. We gave it a go. You know, you observe people deal with all sorts of situations and you think you know them, how they handle themselves. But then a new situation comes along and you might find out you were wrong.

"Anyway, long story short, I find out Lewis was a crook. He was into some illegal stuff, stuff that had my name on it. He thought he was keeping it under wraps but I caught on pretty quick. I knew what I had to do, so that's what I did. Jiminy Christmas. I don't know if he's still in jail but he should be." Don crunched a mouthful of chips. "Keep your enemies closer." Bits fell from his mouth.

"Well, he's not my enemy exactly." I sealed the Tupperware.

"Don't get me wrong. He might be a fine fellow. My point is, the safest move is to stay close to both friends and enemies. Watch him but keep your thoughts to yourself and make sure not to act on any hunch you're not a hundred percent sure of. Chips?"

"No thanks. It's so complicated. I thought narcotics would be simpler than cold cases. There are good guys and bad guys and the line between them is so obvious. Now this."

"Best laid plans. Why'd you transfer from cold cases anyhow? We never talked about that."

"Too many ghosts."

"You don't say. Why narcotics?"

"Well, it seemed like a good way to get my career going in the right direction. I'm working my way up, you know."

"As well you should."

"Also, this'll sound corny, but I want to help people in the here and now. I worked property crimes, but that wasn't entirely satisfying. Then I worked cold cases, but I couldn't tell how much good I was really doing. So when this chance came, I took it."

"You've always been good at that, doing the right thing. Did right for my daughter and that's good enough for me." Don bunched his trash into a ball, rolled down his window, and pitched the ball into a nearby trash can.

Don, you always gave me the credit, but Brenda did the hard work. All I did was support her. All I did was try. Then again, if I hadn't tried, who knows where she'd be. Oh my God. Where is she? Zeke said she was safe, but Zeke's a liar.

"Yes, well Don, you did a lot for us, too, when we started out."

He shrugged. We both leaned back and fell into that meditative mood that follows a meal. After a while, Don sat up and scattered some kernels of his acquired wisdom for my benefit, pausing between each to belch or clear his throat or nose.

"If you want to do the right thing, you've got a lot to do. Don't expect congratulations for nothing because even a mosquito has to work before it gets a slap on the back. Don't be too cheap but don't be too flashy and you'll get along with everyone. Better to be perceived a fool than to prove it."

He didn't break new ground, but it was good to hear those things. If I didn't hear them from Don, I wouldn't hear them at all. Besides, I think there are only a few great lessons anyway, but they are so big, we need to hear them over and over and repeat them ourselves a few times before they sink in.

An acorn banged on the hood. He gave me a smile and a pat on the knee. "Look son, if you ever want to come to church with Marianne and me--"

"I appreciate that Don. I do. I'm sure you know--" My cell rang. I read the caller ID. Zeke. I smiled but I didn't answer.

Don gave me one more lesson on the way back.

"There was a man who wanted to get to Heaven. That's all he wanted. So he decided at a young age to do nothing. Not a thing. He's afraid of sinning, understand. If he does nothing, he can't sin, right? So he goes through his life as isolated as he can be. Sure enough, he never really hurts anyone or anything. One day, he dies. Turns out, he's not allowed into Heaven. This is crazy, as far as he's concerned. He says to Saint Peter, 'I didn't do anything bad.' And the saint says, 'Yeah, but you didn't do anything good either.'"

"Thanks Don. For everything."

"See you in the funny pages."

The crew was back at work. I took out my cell and read the time. I was ten minutes late. The men glared at me.

What did they care? My butterfingers would've slowed them down anyhow. It's not like my pay was going to get docked. It's not like the boss was going to fire me.

I listened to Zeke's message. He wanted to have dinner and suggested eating at our place.

The super kicked up dirt as he rushed towards me.

CHAPTER 11: BOBBY

I watched TV. I fell asleep on the couch. The TV was on when I woke so I watched some more. All day. Then the next day. If the previous owner hadn't kept up on the cable bill, I don't know what sort of insanity I would have fallen into.

It was the rhythm of the shows that hooked me. The world is fine. Then a problem comes. The old simple world is now complicated. The problem tightens. It gets in your muscles. Then it gets tighter until the tension snaps, maybe from a gunshot. Maybe from a shocking secret's revelation. Maybe from the characters talking out a simple misunderstanding. Whatever. The problem's solved. The world goes back to normal or else it's new and better, and the sensation's exhaling after holding your breath a long time. You can feel the release even when there's a cheat, like when the show is revealed to be just a character's dream or something. Cue credits. It ends. That's the high.

The shows created a jones, then gave a fix. It was beautiful. The shows told me to sit back and enjoy. The only drawback was my lower back began to ache. I can't feel my back anymore.

Weird. Time was cut into strict half hour segments. A drama has two segments. A movie, three or four. But time dissolved. Like, when I fell asleep, I couldn't account for my day.

So much lost time. It's like Tuesday and Wednesday never happened. Exciting lives played out in that box, but my life stopped to watch. I can't remember much of real life except Sampson's visit, and I can't say for sure what day that was.

When he knocked, I pretended I wasn't there. But the TV was on. Keys jangled and I heard one enter the lock. I looked around for a weapon to fight off the cops or the beefy landlord, but it was Sampson.

He sat at that table and told me to turn off the TV. I pressed mute. I went to the kitchen. "Juice? Water?"

"I don't want nothing. Sit."

I sat.

"Okay, maybe some coffee."

My first pot of coffee. Now I know why people pay three bucks for a cup. Sampson waited without a word as I combined the water, coffee grounds, filter and machine to hopefully add up to a cup. It wasn't easy and I made a mess.

"Cream or sugar?"

"Sit."

I'd come across a deck of cards the night before. I didn't even ask if Sampson was interested in a game. The percolator gurgled.

"Just had a sit-down with Marcus. He's serious as a heart attack. What are you gonna do? Complain? Might as well complain about being born. How close are you?"

I wasn't sure what he was referring to at first. I hadn't watched a show with a debt in the plot, so I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't thought about how I could pay it back or the consequences if I didn't. As long as I didn't think about it at all, it didn't exist.

"I have three fifty under my bed, I think. It's a start."

"It ain't thinking about a start."

Jerk. It took us forever to save any money on our crappy wages, and the guy who throws us scraps says we haven't saved enough. Anyway, it's at home. It might as well be on Pluto. Mom will find the box someday. Mine and Darryl's. Hope it brings her some relief and she gets herself something nice.

"What are you gonna do?"

I described a movie where these thieves robbed a truck full of fur coats and TV sets. The coffee was ready. I lingered over the mug that says, "A Hard Man is Good to Find," but I wimped out and served him in a plain black mug.

"Well, let's say you run into some problems robbing a fucking truck. Any other ideas?" He sipped the coffee, then slid the mug away. "You know, say the word and I'll front you some product."

"I can't be selling on the street."

"Well, shit. Marcus is dead serious."

I didn't need Sampson to make me take Marcus seriously. Marcus made me take Marcus seriously. At that point, I vaguely envisioned the transaction. I had no idea how I would get the money, but I assumed a lifeline would drop from somewhere, somehow, and I could envision handing Marcus a fat envelope and him telling me I did a good job. And the lifeline wasn't Sampson tightening the vice grip.

I went to the kitchen. "I have a plan."

"What plan?"

I took out the orange juice. "A good plan. Don't worry."

"Hey, I'm talking to you. What plan?"

I filled a glass. "It's complicated."

"Fill me in."

"I can't."

"What plan? Tell me."

I gulped the orange juice. "Marcus wants his money, I'll get it."

"Don't do the plan."

"Why not? I won't step on Marcus' shoes."

"You have no idea how big those shoes are."

"Trust me."

"No."

"You trusted me for the deal. And when it ended bad, I did everything right. I came straight to you. You know I'm trustworthy."

He kept pushing, but I pushed back and he finally gave up. He warned me against doing anything reckless and promised me he'd find a good solution.

I came close to questioning him on the red streak in the bedroom. I wanted him to lie and soothe my savage visions. But I didn't want to risk him telling the truth, so I let it go.

Almost out the door, he told me to empty out the mailbox everyday. Then he said, "Don't make me kill you." But he didn't say it like he was threatening me. It was like he was asking me.

I sat in front of the TV, but all the stuff in my head prevented me from falling under its spell. The best thoughts were on Wendy. A girl in an ad for hemorrhoids resembled her. I caressed the thoughts until I forgot we had parted on bad terms.

I called and she reminded me, scolding me worse than before. Then she told me the funeral was the next day and I had to go.

"I can't. The cops'll be there."

"Good. Bury your brother, comfort your mom and go to the police."

I told her again I was facing thirty years, as if talking to a brick wall long enough will make it understand. I could cut a deal and spill everything I knew about Marcus' operation, then Marcus would kill me and I wouldn't have to serve any time.

"Whatever. I talked to your mom."

"Is she okay?"

"What do you think?"

"Tell her I'm okay."

"Are you?"

No. "Yeah. Are you coming over?"

"No."

"But there's no parents or nothing."

"Or 'anything,' Bobby. You know that. And that place, I don't know anything about it except that it's probably evil."

"I'll come there."

"No. I can't talk to you right now."

"I want to see you."

She hung up.

I should've dumped her. Most guys would have. But she was the most normal thing in my life and I wasn't strong enough to let her go, no matter how much I hated her. I should have made her aware of the debt. Then she'd feel bad. Then she'd get on my side.

I ate some soup and popcorn and that calmed me down. I breathed deep through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth. After doing this a few times, I fell into General Hospital. Later, my eyelids fluttered then closed.

I remember I dreamed I was swimming in the ocean on a bright day. The water was calm. Blue jays followed my path. I got to the middle of the ocean and my legs got weak. A grabbed a passing swordfish and he gave me a lift back to shore. I dried myself with a towel made of clouds. The clouds broke apart and Darryl stood in front of me. He held a potato in one hand and a burning red candle in the other. He wore muddied khakis and his Reds cap. I stared at him. He stared back.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He smiled. His teeth were oily black. He opened his mouth wide. Crazy laughter came out.

Then he closed his mouth and pointed over my shoulder.

I was turning around when I got ripped from my dream.

My heart was going haywire. Darryl's grotesque ghost flashed on the ceiling. The TV was on. Credits rolled. In the box, a problem had just been solved.

I found a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom. I didn't care if I had another bad dream. Having a nightmare is better than waking up haunted.

I took three pills. I don't remember if I dreamed again.

CHAPTER 12: ZEKE

Some people pull on a loose thread. They yank and tug, but obviously the thread doesn't break. It just gets longer. The smarter ones get a clue and cut it, but the smartest ones like me snip it right off the bat, then go about my business. Not that a bat would ever have a thread. You know what I mean.

So I sailed through the Internal Affairs interview. One of them really had it out for me. Dude kept throwing me accusations, but I'd knock 'em out like I was Mike Tyson. He was one persistent son of a bitch, but the board could only reach one conclusion once they convened to review my case. I mean, the facts of the case. I mean, the facts I gave them.

It wore me out, though. It's not easy to defend your character when the assault is strong and relentless. Plus I was hungover. Unfortunately, I couldn't sleep it off after the interview. I had things to do. Couldn't let a dangly thread snag and make a big mess.

So back to the racetrack. I call Kevin at the pay phone and then try my luck. It was rough. I must've lost ten bets for every winner. But you know, if it weren't for those ten losses, I never would've won at all. Gotta play to win, like they say.

I went about burning through enough money to choke a few of the horses, then tried to get drunk. It didn't work. A bad day at the track all around. At least I got to sit in the open air which was good for my hangover. See? Bright side to everything. Gavin used to say there's a cloud for every silver lining, but that's funnier than it is true.

I heard Kevin before I saw him. Like a horse, he was going "clip clop." I turned and waved, pretending I had no idea how much effort and pain each step was costing him. And on his day off, too. Poor Kevin. Man, I'm a dick sometimes. I told myself I was exercising caution in taking a seat in the bleachers out in no man's land, far from the crowd. But really, unconsciously, I wanted Kevin to suffer a little. Or a lot. Our deal had caused me a world of grief and he was far too happy-go-lucky.

I asked if he was gonna place a bet. He was panting but he got out that he was broke. And all the money I made for him? His daughter's medical bills slipped my mind. Still, how can anyone resist the chance to multiply what's in their pocket, even if it's five bucks? Cowards. That's who. Worse, he said he was tempted. Said the thump of the horse hooves beating on the racetrack got his blood going. He said it was as hard getting to the track as it was being there. He should've changed his name to Bitch.

He asks me to hurry up and tell him why I called, but first I need to find out what's going to happen to my ticket, my betting slip. I call it a ticket. Just paper, right? No. It's the difference between paying the rent and getting evicted, a ticket to either wealth or misery. It's trash. It's never just a plain old, neutral slip of paper.

Well, turned out to be trash. Fifth fucking place, which was the best placing I'd had all day. But I'm not mad. I don't tear up the ticket. I let it go and it floats to the floor. Goodbye.

That done, I started in on Kevin. I went easy at first, asking what he heard about the shooting. Not much. I told him I had met with IA. He wasn't surprised. Then I asked what he was going to tell IA. That grabbed his attention. He was like, "Why would IA talk to me?" and I had to explain the importance of phone bills, how phone bills have put away more guys than any other piece of evidence. More paper, right? He pointed out that we hadn't spoken in two weeks, like that made any difference.

In retrospect, I wish I had played it as safe with the phone as Marcus did. But if I didn't think of it, Bradshaw should've. But he dropped the ball and there had to be a record somewhere. Besides, we might've been seen together. So IA might want to talk him. What would he say?

I don't think he can decide if I'm serious or not. He wears what I would call a suspicious grin. But either way, he plays along. He guesses he'd tell IA we were friends. Fine, unless they ask any follow up questions to verify his claim. If so, they'd find out Kevin knows abso-fucking-lutely nothing about me and the unraveling would begin. Try again, chief. He's empty.

Maybe I put him on the spot. Honestly, it takes me a good minute to come up with: "Gavin Quinn has problems with the insurance company and so I, so Zeke Ravella told me to contact Gavin so they could make a join complaint." Perfect. Heartwarming. Noble. Kevin agrees.

"Now can I go?"

Oh, I'm just getting warmed up. Did he hip his wife to our deal with Marcus? He says no. Actually, he says no and I say, "Not even your wife?" and he said, "Especially not my wife." I believe him. I never met her but I think I know the type. Nutcracker. He says one time she had noticed the extra money, but he made up some shit about winning it at the track. I figure in a long, roundabout way, he sort of did, but he doesn't see it that way. He says he lied and he hates lying.

That's when I panic. No. Not panic. But the "I hate lying" thing gets to me. What sort of kindergarten bullshit is that? Even in the Bible it says, "Thou shalt not bear false witness." Doesn't say, "Don't lie." It says, "If you don't see someone doing something, don't tell the authorities you did." It's sad how people misinterpret the Bible and then form a code based on their misinterpretation.

Believe it or not, I blamed myself a little for not getting to know him better beforehand. Now I had to deal with the fact that a slight push from IA would make him spill like a glass of water on a two legged table. I read that cowardly cripple's future like a short book. A pamphlet. A sentence. Yes, if I had slowed down and read his character more closely, I could've avoided participating in some unfortunate scenes.

I voice my concerns, as if his future's still in doubt. I'm like, "If I was you and so close to retirement, I'd make a deal and fess up and hopefully hold on to most of my pension."

He says there's no way he'd do that, but his bright tone tells me I'd just given him a brilliant idea. Asshole. I call him a liar.

Another race begins. I watch my paraplegic horse piss away my hard earned dollars. The race ends and Bradshaw's gone.

I meant to pay him a visit that night, but I passed out right after dinner. Almost during. Hope he enjoyed himself that night. I really do.

Next day, I had dinner at Sutler's. Mostly, I wanted to find out if Adam was cool. He wasn't. He was edgy, nervous, but also totally clueless. After dinner, he got me alone and babbled about the recent tribulation. Holy shit. Part of me can sort of get why he was sort of shaken directly after the shooting, but this was days later. He embarrassed himself with his drama queen act. I'd pat him on the back and tell him to relax, but he kept on with questions like it was IA all over again. Strange, but he asked me if I ever wanted to join IA. Where did he come up with that shit? Anyway, I finally gave him my biggest grin and told him if he didn't shut up, I'd break his legs.

After I got out of there, I drove to a movie theater and bought a ticket to the show with the latest start time. I hit a bar and told the bartender and anyone else who would listen how much I looked forward to the movie.

Bradshaw's neighborhood was one of those nice, leafy places where there aren't any street lights because there's no need because everyone's in bed by nine. My headlights were the only sign of life for blocks. I parked a few houses away, took out the Glock I kept in the back of my jeep. I had nabbed it from a dealer a few years back. The yahoo went through all this effort to file the barrel for a silencer and it took me no effort at all to steal it away. Have you ever used a silencer before? They're beautiful. Gunshots are loud and public, and sometimes you have to take care of something that's no one else's business. Silencers to the rescue.

I made like I was taking a nice stroll. But who was I acting for? The neighbors' own affairs were their sole concerns and the world outside their lawns didn't exist. Besides, even if they got curious or paranoid and wanted to peek out their window, the thick trees and fancy bushes would've complicated their spying.

A faint bluish light came from one of Kevin's windows. He had this corny wooden sign in the yard. The Bradshaws. How cute. How quaint. I wanted to rip it out.

So I crawl between two bushes and peek in. There's Kevin, plopped on the couch like a zombie, his cane next to him. My taps don't bring him out of his stupor. I knock. It takes him a while to recognize me, then when he does, bastard's not at all happy to. He points to the front door.

"What do you want?" and all that. He's whispering. I whisper back I want to come in. He whispers that his wife's asleep. I'm like, "It'll take two seconds. Now that I know I can trust you, I want to tell you how we can make a fortune."

His face lights up. Must've forgot the last word I spoke to him was, "Liar." He asks what I have for him.

Now, come on. Even if you think I'm a bad seed, you have to admit that's a corker. "What do you have for me?" I put a friendly hand on his shoulder and shoot him in the heart. Three times. As he tries to make sense of this, I lead him to the wall and guide him down, nice and quiet. I go for a head shot, but the gun's empty. Anyway, it's not necessary. Judging by the amount of blood on his shirt, a head shot would be beating a dead horse. Shooting a dead Bradshaw. If his wife came down in a half hour for a midnight snack, he'd've been lucky if he still had a liter of blood left in him. By the way, I'm very grateful she was asleep. I'm sure she is too.

I gave him a chance. I didn't want to kill him, but after a while, it was inevitable. So inevitable that while I was doing it, it wasn't like I was doing it, you know? It's like, you drop a rock. Fine. It hits the ground like it's designed to do, like physics demands, like the event had nothing to do with you. It had to happen. Fuck it. I'm done feeling bad.

Because I did feel bad. Later, I mean. However, that night, for the first time, I got the sense that everything was coming up Zeke. I aced the IA interview, I shut up Marcus, my mob problems were over and Kevin was never going to trip me up. I wouldn't say I was happy, but what do you call that emotion after you cut a loose thread?

CHAPTER 13: DALE

Dear Ravella, don't you know when contention and occasion meet, by Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life with all my force, pursuit and policy? I said as much yesterday whilst I trailed him.

So, it's over. And here we are. Your visages betray anxiety. Don't be nervous. I'm not.

However, I must observe my perspective from this side of the table simply doesn't appear correct, as if the world had abruptly discombobulated and I must adjust. For once, I'm unsure how best to express myself. Oh, I spent last evening perusing Shakespeare and a thick thesaurus. Locution won't be troublesome. No, what consternates me is the inquisition techniques I've mastered on that side of the table won't be of any use on this side. What to do with my hands, for example? My index finger oughtn't point, correct? Well, then, what to do with this demonstrative appendage? I cannot point, yet, as a moral principal, I cannot adopt the defensive posture appropriate for those who normally occupy this seat and conceal my hand. That would be an affront to my innocence.

Hm. Little matter. I have concluded--this instant I believe--the actions I took yesterday defend themselves rather articulately without buttressing from today's appropriate gesticulations nor obfuscation from any gestures which may be unbecoming my position. As for my specific verbiage, I shan't use the knowing, ironic language of the offense, nor the antagonistic nor apologetic words of the defense. I'll simply tell about yesterday in the same manner an adult tells a child about the three little pigs or the three big bears or what have you. Yes, I'll simply describe.

Problem, Blake? Exasperated in advance, before I've yet commenced? Look, I can give you the rough and ready abridged version, but ultimately that will simply prompt you to beg me to release the expurgated sections. But perhaps that's not your problem, Blake? Perhaps compacted into that sigh were your tired and useless complaints against my florid oratory style? But this is being recorded, correct? I therefore offer no apologies for caring for posterity. Besides, my precise word choices may implicitly illuminate vital corners in the story--a subtext of inferences if you will. Do pay attention.

Purple? Hardly. A light lilac, I'll allow. However, it is to my eternal regret I never learned Latin. How ironic a dead tongue often prods our living language to new heights. Oh, I can throw out a de facto or sub rosa, but these are trifles. Not a day passes I don't bemoan this linguistic gap in my education, and at this very moment, although your view is obstructed from verification, word of honor, I am kicking myself under the table.

Did I say I'd speak simply? Well, now we've stumbled upon a case of relativity. My spoken text may strike your ears as ornate, yet it may strike, say Emmanuel Kant's, as obtuse. C'est la vie, it would seem. C'est la vie.

So. I'm here to discuss yesterday. Fine. To add my dollops to the canvass, as it were. Well. It seems if any school most resembles the Big Picture, I suggest it is the pointillists whom come closest. See, even when one possesses all the dots, a step back is required for the totality of meaning to emerge. Not a perfect metaphor, I grant you, but please find me one which is. They all fail under the slightest of rational scrutiny, no? Yet, in its own special way, the literal fails as well. Why else would man have found it necessary to invent the supplement of metaphor in the first place, if the literal were as hale and healthy as we often pretend it to be?

Let's continue. Take my hand as I take two steps back. From Friday to Wednesday.

By the way, as an aside, before I begin, my mentor believed when standing at a post facto--ah, there's our ancient friend--vantage, there's no such creature as an irrelevant detail, no irrelevant dot. Understand, that the Romans sacked Carthage in second century B.C. perhaps wasn't the crucial morsel of evidence in the O.J. Simpson trial. However, if this fateful battle did have occasion to arise during a cross examination and if I had been in any way involved in said case, I would have insisted the clash be thoroughly discussed before determining its ultimate relevance to the subject at hand. This credo has been entitled: "keeping on the safe side." I am saying, I'll reward your patience with something better than virtue. I've thought a great deal as to what I shall say today, and I guarantee you each turn in my tale is not without purpose, and we must resist the desire to pledge fidelity to a straight line. Euclid, I believe, was correct to state the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Nonetheless, we are not traveling. We are pursuing, and a discursive itinerary best behooves our present undertaking.

So. Wednesday. My day began at...? That is correct. A point for Gerald. The rest of you offend me. As you ought to be aware of by now, I patronize Cuppa Joes nearly every a.m. before I clock in. Warning: I'm now going to elicit disappointment from some of you. I do not frequent the coffee bar to get a jump on my day's workload. I could perform that task in any locale. No, I go there simply because they serve the best French Roast in Columbus. No other brew can caress my olfactory organ with such Gallic passion. I am aware I pound down coffee throughout the day, but I do so as it mere fuel. Cuppa Joes' French Roast, however, is a delicacy. Further, the brew may only be fully appreciated when sipped from the distinctive ceramic mugs the management of Cuppa Joes has found fit to utilize. A chemical alchemy may explain this truth. I need to investigate further.

Obviously, I carry my briefcase, packed full of puzzles to break. However, because I have been no doubt obsessing over said puzzles round the clock--even when I slumber--I set them aside without the least pang of guilt. I insist to my tingling conscious I am not, if fact, derelicting my duties if I divert myself by skimming the newspaper to count the printed errors within or, perhaps, leafing through the freshest New Yorker for, say, an hour.

Wednesday morning, however, as I entered my habitual morning establishment, my attention was arrested by a painfully insipid television show playing itself out on the smallish set above the cash register. I suspect the unhealthy combination of stress and a scant four hours of sleep had weakened my immunity to cultural debris, and I neglected my reading materials in lieu of the moving images. It was a sitcom of the lowest denominator. Very stagy. The volume was turned very low, but any fool could intuit The Woman was upset with The Man for either committing an egregious faux pas or failing to perform kindly when propriety demanded he do so. Upon concluding her harangue, The Woman stormed off the set forthwith. The Man slapped his cheek--a gesture which has never been performed by any human in any culture during any time period except in front of a camera--and the screen faded. An acne commercial emerged from the black.

Many of you know the police shows I studied during my formative years influenced my decision to join the force. I ought to clarify--I was destined to become either a policeman or an actor. The audiences who witnessed my performance in Run For Your Wife a decade past have agreed I ultimately made the prudent choice. I still insist my work schedule and other commitments precluding sufficient rehearsal time should have been taken into account when judging my thespian skills, but audiences are fickle and unforgiving creatures, and the most strenuous applause they granted me was upon my vow to never act again.

Perhaps I am digressing.

To pick up the thread: at some point during the commercial break, a man requested to join me. The counter where I sat I do not enjoy ownership of, so I shrugged, which I left for him to interpret in any manner he desired; he evidently desired an affirmative.

Note my clothes, please. Admire the sharp pleats. Mind my motions, how clean and controlled they are. Mark my coiffure, how every strand has its place and dares not stray. If I expect neatness and order in the police department, then certainly I can keep my presentation above reproach. Strangers may recognize my high ethical standards before I need speak a word. This gentleman, on the other hand, seemingly hadn't purchased a new suit in twenty years and hadn't washed his old suit in ten. Evidence suggests this washing occurred approximately the same time he had last washed his hair. His spearmint breath was the lone detail that didn't cause me to recoil.

Upon occupying the stool to my right, he ordered a cup from the lovely college senior behind the counter and introduced himself to me as Detective Evan Gruber.

The name rang a tiny bell. Without the sleep deprivation, the bell no doubt would have rung much louder, alerting me to the fact his report from the scene at the motel was tucked in my briefcase that very moment.

I held every confidence my serene morning was soon to be ruined. As you well know, during damn near every case, we catch flack for doing our job, as if we were the villains, as if polite manners demand Internal Affairs ought extradite itself from the province of the police department. I told him so.

He expressed reserved yet observable amusement toward my minor rant and, upon my conclusion, swore he'd never interfere with a case involving Ravella. After this declaration, he explained he and Ravella had butted heads before, an experience which had left Gruber with a persistent sense that Ravella was as clean as Egypt after the locusts. Some hard facts would've been of use, he admitted, and all he carried was a suspicion.

Yet, because I was the sole member if this essential and honorable committee who had a determination to bring down Ravella, Gruber's useless but sincere and sympathetic opinion of that thug was mildly and temporarily assuring.

Naturally, I was compelled to remind him--I trust "remind" is the appropriate verb--the law precludes me from discussing an ongoing investigation. Besides, honestly, an intuition was all I had at the time as well. No matter how better informed it may have been compared to Gruber's, an intuition it nonetheless remained.

I turned his attention to the coffee and begged for his critique. He declared it to be "fine." "Fine?" No doubt his taste buds had an insurmountable difficulty negotiating between the spearmint and the French Roast flavors, the fight for dominance clouding his better judgment. I am being generous. He may well be a heathen.

The Man now stood in the doorway and offered The Woman a bouquet of absurdly large and quite obviously plastic flowers. She hesitantly received the bouquet, cautiously smelled the offering, and drew upon years of acting training to indicate a titanic smile. She then kissed The Man. The final line of dialogue was given by The Man, to which the producers bequeathed upon the viewer a final canned laugh. Canned applause accompanied the credits.

Evan Gruber asked, in a manner I could only interpret as condescending, if it was a good show. If he knew I weekly read the Sunday New York Times front page to back, completing the crossword puzzle in full, in ink, he might've demonstrated more respect toward me. But he didn't know. I let it pass. And after all, the struggle of someone attempting to look down on you from below I count as one of life's more delectable amusements.

I said the show was far too predictable. Like the case, he suggested.

Oh a confession. I regret to inform you, against my better judgment, I allowed my tongue to slip. I hinted the case was, in fact, far from predictable, that what I've heard you call "reasonable doubt" had rendered the outcome unforeseeable. That expression, by the way, particularly the "reasonable," triggered a hardy guffaw from Gruber's gut.

Gruber, who's been on the street longer than I, assured me in due time, the ruffians are unfailingly foiled, either by the law or by rival lawbreakers, and if Ravella got away this time, there'd be a final next time.

And yet, to take one of many holes in such logic, Gruber knew and I knew there had been a last time. When was it, five years ago? Ravella shot a dealer in the dealer's apartment? This case at the motel, it seemed, ought to have been the promised "next time." With boundless, brainless enthusiasm, Gruber clarified: "If not that time, and not this time, then next time."

I made known to him the depths to which I loath waiting for justice. Know what he said? "It's better than justice waiting for you." Lovely.

Meanwhile, it did not escape my attention the ad for a skin care product which had followed the sitcom's credits had been playing an interminably long time. How mournful when I grasped it was an infomercial. The fact of the sitcom to the fiction of the ad was too jarring a contrast. No. I believe I put that right.

Gruber and I briefly speculated on Ravella's motive, that least important element of any crime. Women? Money? Revenge? Well, whatever prompted Ravella's gun to go off, we were certain the cause couldn't have been very original.

Oh if we only knew. But we didn't, for which we can blame the Feds, correct? But why the FBI waited until this morning to tell us Ravella had been squirming under Morrelli's thumb is a mystery we must leave to future generations. Despite being on the record, I do not mind conjecturing as my conjectures are often prove prescient, and I hereby conjecture Morrelli was frustrated with the operation of--what was the name?--Webster for whatever transgression, and offered Ravella a means to pay back a loan Ravella had foolishly accrued. Yes, all our information is new, but I believe ensuing facts will bear me out. Not that any of this matters.

And Adam Sutler? In for a penny, I say. After Gruber told me how despondent Sutler was at the scene, I may have responded by observing the dark cloud over Sutler hadn't lifted by the time of his interview with me.

"So Sutler's innocent." He said it. Didn't ask. Said. And added with a sneer, "Innocent in the worst way."

It's true. There was something in Sutler's disposition that made me yearn to slap him to attention. Or, as Gruber put it in his own eloquent terms: "He needs his ass kicked." I hope, by the way, my impression of Gruber's brute, monotone buzz does him the injustice he deserves.

And by what means had Gruber formulated this impression of Sutler? After all, they spoke only once, as far as I know. Confronted with this statistic, Gruber admitted he had been poking around Sutler's past in an attempt to, as he put it, "get a grip on the man." Read into his word choice what you will. He insisted he had accomplished this without interfering at all with our process. Turns out, his private investigation merely amounted to a chat with two officers from Sutler's past--one from his work in property crimes, one from Sutler's cold cases years.

Gruber bullet-pointed the conversations' highlights, which he felt illuminated the stationary facts typed upon sheets of Sutler's record, particularly since the officers he questioned were privy to Sutler's process of forming said record.

So, item one: Sutler had more luck than skills. The crown jewel in his cold cases file, for example, is a triple murder. Apparently, he went to re-interview a witness. The witness immediately broke down and confessed, and then handed the murder weapon to a stupefied Sutler. This was a triple murder, mind you, and we can all be proud Sutler closed the case, yet who would argue--upon learning the actual circumstances of the closing--a reasonably talented monkey couldn't have achieved the same result? A knock was all that was required. Overwhelming guilt within the eventually convicted performed the real work. Yet with a knock, Sutler's knuckles had gilded his record.

But it wasn't all triumphs, apparently. Gruber described a horrible fire that had singed Sutler's time in property crimes. Flames engulfed a warehouse and left two dead--a case which, I'm told, engulfed Sutler. Reportedly, he was never the same. When one speculates on what he was before, this statement is downright damning.

Coincidentally, a series of pitiable acne-ridden before photos were shamelessly displayed on the television.

Well, whatever differences I have with Gruber--and those differences proved to be fundamental--he can occasionally detect well enough, evidenced by his accomplishment of sussing out my presence at Cuppa Joes. For further evidence--indeed, my point--look at how he had asked Sutler's former compatriots questions I myself would have put to them. For example, why did Sutler transfer to narcotics? The how is comprehensible. With a bit of probing and a sweeping yet precise mind's eye, the how is almost always clear. Sutler's good record is the answer, however serendipitously that record had been written. But the why--the more aqueous, contentious, yet often unnecessary question? Gruber was good enough to dip his bucket into this murky pool and came out with the officers' corresponding answer: because Sutler's goal was to save the world and he surmised he had a fair chance of accomplishing that goal in narcotics. I apologize for the inflated, heroic phrase "save the world," but that's from Gruber, who was quoting the officers, who had quoted Sutler, who had quoted I don't know. A Superman comic? Where does one pick up such nonsense? Such childishness? Such fantasy?

Now, let's consider this raison d'etre of Sutler's. Doing good is laudable and doing well is preferable--but saving the world? However much we may appreciate Sutler's goal, let's be realists and agree upon its futility. Let us then act as lay psychologists and diagnose one of many consequences for the man who takes up this heaviest of burdens. Paralysis to some degree? Like information overload leads to a numbed brain, perhaps what I'd call "benevolence overload" may shock one to a vegetive stage after the world has sufficiently demonstrated its reluctance to be saved.

Well, Sutler's dead. This examination may be superfluous. But Sutler's psychological profile may contain a valuable warning, perhaps a lesson, we can incorporate into the curriculum at the academy.

The lesson of Ravella, of course, is as old as civilization and some believe is the actual foundation of civilization itself. I've seen enough to sometimes entertain that sentiment.

My ceramic mug was empty. Gruber had spilled the entirety of his meager results from his mini investigation. I had lifted the veil on our operation a tad higher than was dignified. Further, the attractive after photos on the television had not entirely cleansed my haunted memory of the ghastly before photos. Gruber gave me an enthusiastic parting slogan. "Do us proud," I believe. Who was the "us?" The word rankled me even then, even when I was permitting of the possibility he was a fellow true believer. Hygienic concerns prevented me from shaking his hand adieu.

I arrived at the office, where everybody now present files into my narrative. "Life is short." A cliché, to be sure, but recent events have demonstrated the wisdom tucked into the tired phrase. So we can step over what we were all present to witness, correct? On the other hand, it might prove entertaining to compare our differing perspectives on our shared time. A fun game to earmark for the Halloween party? On to Thursday.

CHAPTER 14: BRENDA

Thanks for that introduction. My name's Brenda, grateful recovering alcoholic. Thanks so much for letting me lead tonight. I haven't been in the program as long as some of you, and it was nice of Greg to let me to share my experience anyway.

First, my clean time. I haven't had a drink in seven years. But I've only been sober for a little over a year. It's the difference between sobriety and simply not drinking that I mostly wanted to speak about tonight.

I don't want to give you a drunkology. I think most of you know my stories already. And aren't our stories pretty much the same? Once we get past the specifics? You know, we drank at first for the freedom, then for the pleasure, finally for every reason and for no reason. Isn't this the path we all traveled in one way or another? We careened toward rock bottom and pulled some insane stunts along the way. Right? Does this not ring true for anyone here? So there's no reason for me to recount my misadventures in depth. I'll be quick.

I was raised to be a good Catholic girl. For a while, I was. When all the other girls wanted to be professional ballerinas or doctors or whatever, I aspired to be a nun. Seriously. I told people that. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "A nun." And no one gave me any reason why it couldn't happen.

Then I hit my terrible teens. My world got jumbled. Or maybe I jumbled it myself. I've never been able to pinpoint the exact cause of my change. Hormones? I started to ask question, questions I thought had to do with my religion, but I realize now were about life. Anyway, no one gave me the answers I wanted, so I rebelled. Hardcore. Far beyond what's expected from adolescents. Instead of simply telling my parents that I was having problems with Catholicism--you know, like a normal person would--I dropped the whole shebang. Really unwise and unnecessary decision since I was still close with my parents at that point. They always said I could tell them anything and I think they meant it, but when it came to Catholicism, I wasn't so sure. That might've been the exception. So instead of speaking out, I acted out. By the way, my parents are still devout Catholics, and I've seen all the wonderful gifts it's given them, so it's not like I have anything against the Church. It's just not for me.

Since being the nice girl didn't make me happy, why wouldn't the total opposite make me happy? So I went from a simple Catholic school girl to a neo-hippy of sorts. I used to shop at the mall, then thrift stores. My quiet, conservative clothes turned silly and psychedelic. I traded my cross necklace for hemp and beads. And of course, I dumped my old friends and made new ones. That was the biggest change.

This transformation took, like, a month, at the end of my junior year. I mean, I'd been asking questions for awhile, but I when I decided to change, bam. Done. My dad watched it happen and told me I was slipping away and he was right, but my transformation was so rapid he couldn't do much to impede its progress.

That summer, the craziness began. I don't want to get into all the stories, but the point is I sampled every drug that came my way. In the end, I preferred good old-fashion legal alcohol. Well, it wasn't legal for me at the time, but you know what I mean. Also, I took a crash course in sex. I'd been kissed only once before that summer. By the end, I was basically living with this guy in lots of sin. And I decided I wasn't going back to school.

Anyway, blah blah blah, glug glug glug. Different men, different situations, same shit. For years. We can skip this part. We all know what it's like. Although I have to mention, I never really hit rock bottom. I just sort of found myself awfully low and ended up hanging out in the depths for a long time.

Then I met my husband, Adam. Met him in a bar, don't you know? He was an adorable stranger sitting alone, so I tapped him on the shoulder and told him he could buy me a drink. We chatted and it was good, then he dropped the bomb. He was a cop. I nearly lost it. I was like, "You should arrest me, not buy me drinks."

I don't think he really got what I meant until this loser I was sort of seeing came in and saw Adam and me together and went nuts. It didn't help that he was whacked out on pills. I forget what kind. Come to think of it, I forget his name. Anyway, he got so worked up, he passed out before any punches were thrown. The bartender had to call an ambulance. So Adam got a good sense of what my world was like at the time. And my reality began to make sense to me, too. On my left was great opportunity. Passed out on the ground was my sort of boyfriend. Which would you choose?

Of course, I didn't quit drinking. Somehow, I tricked Adam into seeing me again and it became a steady thing. We really hit it off, but I just had to drink before every date--to build my confidence, to make myself more interesting. Sound familiar? Once, I passed out before the date could start. I had a dozen messages waiting for me when I woke up.

But Adam earned a lot of credit by never giving up on me and never looking down on me. Meanwhile, I constantly berated myself. When things really started to happen between us, he sat me down and suggested detox. No, he begged me to go. He said he needed to know what it was like to kiss me without tasting alcohol. By then I was ready for a change and I checked myself in.

I still remember my last drink, by the way. An Absolute Lemon Drop. So tasty. They're pretty good when they come up, too.

Adam was wonderful. He surrounded me with flowers. Before they'd wilt, he'd run out and replace them. That was when I fell in love with flowers. They seemed to represent life or Adam's love. I don't know. Something good.

I got introduced to the program and went after sobriety with a vengeance. I even gave up smoking. I know, I know, I picked up that habit again, but my last drink has remained my last drink. The first step was easy. Of course, with time, it's the one that presents a challenge. You sort of forget who you really are, which I think is what happened to me.

For the second step, I chose painting as my higher power. Why not? I knew a woman whose higher power was Waffle House. I always liked art but I hadn't painted since the sixth grade, so after I was released, I started taking lessons. After Adam and I got married, I talked him into converting the garage in our new house into a makeshift studio for me.

So there. From drinking to not drinking. I thought my world was in order. After a few months, things were so good I stopped working the program. Next, ta-da, I became miserable. Life threw me curveballs and I didn't have the tools to handle them. Not alcohol and not sobriety.

First, a doctor broke it to me I couldn't have kids. That was hard at first, but I accepted it as a just punishment for my sordid past. At least I learned why I never got pregnant after some of the choices I made.

Then Adam fell into a mild depression because of his job. He had transferred to a more demanding position and I don't think he could handle it. His heart was too big. He could never detach himself like he should've. We both found out the hard way the police force might not've been the right place for someone as sweet and sensitive as Adam.

From the outside, my life contained all the idyllic elements an adult could want. Money was good. I had made a few normal friends. I even got a job in a flower shop, the first normal job I had since, like, ever.

But yeah, I was a basket case. I didn't pick up and I wasn't tempted, but here's the point: I still did some of the same crazy things I did when I drank. It's like, take alcohol from the asshole and you still have the asshole.

This is the hard part. Excuse me. I'm sorry. But it's my point and I want to share this story with you all.

About two years ago, at a police fundraiser Adam and I were attending, this guy couldn't keep his eyes off me. Real ugly. Bad skin, yellow teeth, big in an out-of-shape way. I mean, some might call him barrel-chested, which would be accurate if a barrel had man boobs. Even his name was gross. Zeke.

But I was intrigued, which is difficult to explain. Men at the flower shop or at grocery stores or wherever would occasionally send me signals, but the more attractive they were, the less I was interested. But this ugly beast undressing me with his eyes, he was right up my perverse alley. Later on, this guy and I were alone for fewer than ninety seconds. That's all the time he needed to talk me into exchanging numbers. Amazing I caved in so fast. Well, he had prepared some good lines. "Life's short but I'm not." Okay. It wasn't what he said but how he said it. What a salesman. Sold his own bullshit. I bought. By the way, Adam was clueless.

At first, I thought our exchange was the only excitement I wanted. He called my cell a few days later and I didn't answer. Didn't even listen to his message.

Like I said, Adam was in a sort of depression and--I don't know how to put this--it affected his body. Long story short, I had been dissatisfied for quite a while. And you know, it's not so much sleeping with someone that's exciting. It's their wanting to sleep with you, dying to sleep with you. That's the real thrill. Everything after that is an anticlimax. Even the climax, ha ha. I think we both anticipated getting over the stumbling block over time. I think. We never sat down for a heart-to-heart.

Well, Adam's problem didn't pass. Once in a blue moon, he would make an effort, but his attempts came to nothing and drove me crazier than I already was. Then one day, after Adam had fallen flat the night before, I couldn't take it anymore. I called Zeke and asked if he was still interested. He was over right away. Why our place? Of course, I now know I wanted to get caught, giving me the chance to express to Adam how dissatisfied I was with some parts of my marriage. You know, instead of simply telling him without an affair? Like I should have? Like a normal person would have? Insane.

Zeke was sort of perfect, though. The idea of actually enjoying an affair made me sick, and Zeke made it hard to enjoy anything we did, especially since his personality was as ugly as his appearance. I sure wasn't going to fall in love with him and leave Adam. On his part, I don't think he was going to start a Fatal Attraction obsession. So it worked out. It was easy to rationalize. I told myself it was the least deceitful affair ever.

I put a month between his visits. That's how long it took for my frustration and irritation to grow stronger than my guilt. Guilt because I knew my rationalization was bullshit. Part of us always knows when we're lying to ourselves, right? Like sex without emotion isn't cheating? Rationalization is so irrational.

I received all these clues to break it off, too. I got the biggest clue when my husband transferred to narcotics and got a new partner. Zeke. The coincidence was too big to be a mere accident. I deserve an Academy Award for how cool and composed I remained at the dinner table when Adam told me. That was it. I promised myself the affair was over. But you know, a moment of clarity is only that, only a moment.

And then--

Excuse me. I'm sorry.

This next part was cruel of me and far worse than anything I did when I drank. But it emphasizes my point, my reason for giving this lead. You know how the active addict is so self-centered they think the whole world exists for them? I was in the exact same mindset.

Adam was having a problem at work. Truth told, he was suspended. He was in danger of moping around the house and spiraling into a deep depression, so I set him up with a temp job with my dad's construction company, just to keep his mind and body active. Adam was so excited by the chance to escape his problems that he came close to being the husband he hadn't been in a long time. He came close, but not close enough.

The next day, like my pattern indicated, I called Zeke. Now if I was cruel, Zeke was.... Let me put it this way. I was a saint compared to him. Me. Wicked me. I'd say he's the closest thing to pure evil I've ever met in my life. He was almost unreal, like a cartoon character. I can say without hesitation that Zeke destroyed my life more than any other person had ever tried to. More than I destroyed my own life, and trust me, I gave it the old college try. God, I am so far from forgiving him, I'm not sure it'll ever happen.

Anyway, before Zeke had arrived, he had called Adam behind my back and made dinner plans for that night. He must've called from our driveway. He knocked and simultaneously the phone rang and Adam told me Zeke was coming over for dinner. Zeke watched me with a devilish grin. Literally. Devilish.

I can't believe I went through with it. I kicked him out of the house right after, and he left saying, "See you later," and laughing. Oh my God. I can't believe that happened. I showered for an hour after he left and I was still filthy.

But at the time, I felt the ultimate humiliation was that Adam had asked me to make the steaks I was saving for dinner with my parents. No way was I going to sacrifice the steaks for Zeke. I drove to the grocery store and bought some generic spaghetti and a can of cheap sauce. I picked out underripe vegetables to toss the blandest salad ever.

It was all I could do really. The worse thing was, a dinner was bound to happen. They were partners after all, and at least one invite was inevitable. Still, the inevitable can sometimes jump on you without warning. I don't know. Maybe the dinner plans had less to do with social propriety and more to do with Zeke being an asshole. I don't know. My life didn't make any sense. I swear, it was like I was drunk.

I was flipping out and probably shouldn't have been driving. I foresaw Zeke dropping a huge hint and Adam catching on and the evening ending in fights, one between Adam and Zeke, then one with Adam and me. But no, I realized. Zeke wouldn't blow our secret. I calmed a little. I was all he could get without paying someone and he knew it. Still, until Zeke made his goodbyes, I was on pins and needles and nails and knives.

The lousy meal disappointed Adam, embarrassed him. Sick, but I was glad he was disappointed in me. He wanted to impress Zeke, who didn't deserve to be impressed and I didn't deserve to be shown off for anything.

The conversation was mellow, mocking my panic. Zeke was polite and quiet. Not himself at all. He complimented the food. I didn't know he had it in him to compliment anything. Adam seemed to be in a good mood. I mean, he tried, although after Zeke left he fell back into his funk. The job at the construction site wasn't the miracle cure we'd been counting on.

The instant Zeke set down his fork, I collected the dishes and hid in the kitchen. I didn't even hear Zeke leave.

I confronted the fact that I had trashed my life worse than if I'd never quit drinking. I'm sure the night from the outside must've played like a classic sitcom, but living it was a tragedy. Look, the craziest thing I ever did during my drunken days was beat up someone, and I was probably justified. Promising to end the affair and not ending it, and then watching my innocent Adam break bread with his partner and wife, both of whom he entrusted with his blind faith. The affair with Zeke topped my pummeling by far on the immoral ladder.

That's it. I said never again and I meant it. I was ready to open a dialogue with Adam and patch our relationship. It would be difficult, but easier than living through another night like that again.

In bed, I tried. I don't know happened but I couldn't do it, couldn't speak up. I thought I needed time to prepare my thoughts. And then the worst thing that ever happened in my entire life came two days later. I lost Adam.

I was never more tempted to pick up again. Why shouldn't I? Here's my point: there hadn't been much difference between drinking and not drinking. Yeah, there were periods of greatness. The last day with Adam was particularly good. Not even a full day. Fourteen hours, give or take, some of which we wasted on sleep. It haunts me to think what we could've had if I had stayed in the program.

But I didn't pick up. My new solitude and insomnia gave me plenty of time to think. After the initial period of mourning--I mean, it's not as if you ever complete the mourning. But after a while, all signs suggested my life would soon land in the shithouse unless I changed direction, so I hit a meeting. I walked into a room full of people who didn't judge me, who understood me, who had messed up the best parts of their life too. It was what I needed. It was a miracle.

Meetings became a constant part of my life. I got a sponsor, the greatest sponsor anyone could have, and now that I've reached the twelfth step, I'm able to share what I've learned with others: sobriety versus simply not drinking. And it's been the hardest lesson I've ever had to learn. But if I can help people through my example, maybe even save someone, it'll make what I suffered worth it.

So stick with the program. It's not enough to quit drinking. Alcohol took up such a big part of your life that when you cut it out, you need to fill that hole. Sometimes I think Adam would still be alive if I had worked the program, if I had been sober. I have to live with that, and I have to live with that without getting sloshed. Life on life's terms. It's tough, but it's real.

Anyway, Brenda. Gratefully recovering alcoholic. Thanks for letting me share.

CHAPTER 15: SAMPSON

I left Benny twitching and growling in the car. He hadn't slept in days. Bobby looked like he hadn't been doing anything else. He invited me in.

"No. You're coming out. I got a way to get you some money. Hurry up. Benny's waiting."

Bobby hesitated, but he was smart enough to not hesitate long.

Benny tapped a jittery rhythm on the dash. He pointed to my system. "Yo. Turn that shit up." I did. The music didn't soothe him.

Bobby looked like he was sleeping through the loud music. Then he rubbed his eye.

I parked in the back and handed Bobby the keys.

"Look. Ain't allowed to park here. Anyone fucks with my wheels, move it to the street. You know how to drive, right?"

Bobby nodded.

Liar. Marcus' deal with the chop shop. I let Bobby take a joyride. He didn't ride far. No joy.

"Move it to the street. You can handle it."

I reached under my seat and screwed the silencer onto my Beretta 92. Benny clapped his hands.

"All right. That's what I'm talking about. That's a beautiful toaster my man. "

The hallways smelled like burnt toast and mold. The chipped and peeling white paint exposed the light blue underneath. Babies wailed, couples yelled, broken toys littered the hallway. Depressing ghetto shit that made me grateful for where I lived and what I owned. It wasn't much but it wasn't sad.

In front of Rebus' apartment, I handed the gun to Benny. He tucked it in his pants.

"Jesus. That's my gun. Why don't you put it in your coat?"

"I like how rubs against my johnson."

A boy beyond the cardboard door: "How big is Europe?"

"Shit. We have to come back." I whispered.

"Why?" Benny didn't whisper. "You said nothing was gonna happen till you got him in the car."

"It's a pretty big place. Bigger than Ohio, that's for sure."

"Bigger than America?"

"Oh yeah."

I pointed to Benny's pants. "If Rebus puts up a fight, I don't want the kid to see you."

"Just kick the kid out."

"How many people stay there?"

"I was too busy sightseeing to count them all. Look son, I have some errands to take care of. Why don't you run on home? I'm sure your ma's back by now."

I knocked. Benny pulled up his pants. Feet scattered. The ten or twelve year old boy opened the door and stared at us. He wiped his nose on the bottom of his Superman t-shirt.

"Who is it?" Rebus asked from around the corner.

The kid took off inside. We followed.

Rebus was reclined in his chair. He was wrapped in a light brown quilt. His naked feet stuck out from underneath. He sat up a little when he made out who we were, then settled back down. He rubbed the top of his head and smiled. It looked like the one caused the other.

That head. Missing something. The part that tells the whole that there's a future, so take care. But you deal with the defects. Adjust. He had all that time to learn how his head worked. Never used that time. Wasted it. Wasted his life. Like everyone else.

The kid sat cross-legged in front of him. "Is China in Europe?" He spoke slowly, deliberating over each word to make sure he sounded it correctly.

Rebus pointed to his ratty couch and offered us a seat. We declined.

"Boys, this here's George. He's my neighbor. Say 'hi' George."

"Hi George."

Rebus chuckled. "George was leaving, weren't you?"

"No. You were going to tell me more about Europe."

Benny scoffed. "When the fuck was you ever in Europe?"

Rebus winced, but George didn't seem ruffled by the word. He told Benny that Rebus once visited the Eiffel Tower.

"No shit?"

"Yeah. And he's going back real soon." He turned back to Rebus. "Isn't that what you said?"

Rebus lost his fake smile and shifted under the quilt. "Seriously George. I won't tell you again. Go on home."

I bent down to the kid's level. "We grown ups need to talk."

George pointed to Benny. "He's not a grown up."

"The hell I'm not."

"How old are you?"

"Old enough."

"Old enough for what?"

"Anything."

"And how old are you Mr. Jefferson?"

"These eyes have seen sixty one summers."

Benny scoffed again. "I thought you was eighty or something."

I would've said mid-forties.

"Guess we have to wait to see what it says on your gravestone," Benny said.

Rebus sat up and bellowed to George. "I'm done asking." He pointed to the door. "Go on home."

The kid wasn't startled. He thought for a second, then bounced up, said bye, and was gone. Rebus leaned back.

"You going to Europe?" Benny asked.

"Course not. I just said it." He tried the fake smile again. It was gross, like when an ugly chick tries and failed to fool the world with pounds of makeup. "Why don't you boys grab a seat?"

Benny folded his arms.

"I was real sorry to hear the news. Yep. I sure was." Rebus looked down at his frayed and stained carpet as he dropped his fake smile and took up fake sincerity.

Benny lifted his shirt and gripped the Beretta's handle. His lips twisted into something like a smile. Saliva drops shimmered in the corners.

I gave Rebus a chance. "Please. Tell me the truth. You had no idea?"

"That they was cops? None. I have a connection over at the...whatduyacallit...the Hyatt. He tells me this crazy businessman wants some nose candy. I could've gone to anyone but I went to your outfit. I like Marcus. Always have. He always treated me fair. Sorry it didn't pan out."

"You mother--" Benny took a step toward Rebus. Rebus backed himself deep into the chair.

"Wait." I snatched the end of Benny's coat and tugged. Benny brushed my hand away and circled behind me and paced.

"A rumor's going around," I said.

"Like the Earth, rumors always go around."

"This rumor says you're a rat."

He tightened the quilt. He tried to laugh but it didn't work. "Rats belong in the sewer."

"Yeah? What do you call this place?" Benny asked from behind me.

Rebus coughed. He covered his mouth after it came out.

I stepped in front of his chair. His curled yellow toes were going to make me sick. "Seems a lot of deals you set up with other crews went south of good. Like ours. Don't you think that's fishy?"

"No I do not. Anyway, what the heck are we doing here, folks? We got our thing and the cops got their thing and sometimes..." He smacked his hands together. "You know?"

I backed away. "Whose thing do you work for?"

I was wasting time. The truth wasn't changing anything. A lie wasn't either. It was over. I knew and he knew and I don't know why I have to remember all this unless I'm already in hell.

"Listen son..." He gave me a short autobiography, how he's been doing his thing before I was born and how dare I and how everyone "knows Rebus and loves Rebus. And you come in here..." He shook his head. "Tsk."

Fuck you for making me do it. He deserved it but why did I have to give it?

"Everyone might've loved Rebus when I was in diapers, but I haven't worn diapers in years. Right now, you ain't got a friend in the world. And you know that. That's why you're going to Europe."

"I told you I'm not." He banged the armrest. It made a dull thud.

I went to the bedroom. A light blue suitcase lay on top of a dark yellow stain on the bare mattress. The dresser drawers were open and clothes were scattered on the floor. The air was heavy with human stink. I slammed the door. A pungent breeze blew out.

"Lemme explain."

"Get up," I said.

"This is bullshit."

Benny pulled out the Beretta. "Stand up you rat piece of shit."

"Wait." I held up a finger to Benny. We all froze for a second. "Why didn't you take off, man? If it was me, my ass would've been outta here the second the money hit my palm. What are you still doing here?"

Rebus blushed.

"C'mon. Teach me something."

"I don't know what to say."

"Try the truth."

Rebus held his breath like he was holding on to his pride, but it was too much and he was too weak and he emptied his lungs. He stood and held his quilt at his shoulders. It dangled behind him like a cape. "That asshole cop." He turned and spit on the carpet. "I got half upfront. Was promised the other half after the deed. That's the way it worked before. Not this time. Still waiting. Hoped it was him when you knocked. You're right. I'm a rat. Nothing personal. I done some bad deals for damn near everyone. This was going to be the last one. You were supposed to find this apartment empty. His name's Zeke Ravella. That's the man you want."

"No."

He lumbered to the window. It was clouded with dirt. He gazed over the Columbus skyline. He touched his stomach and turned pale. "I hate this city."

Me too. Skyline's pathetic. Seven or eight buildings. Any other city, not one would have the right to be called tall. Used to think this was a good spot to look west and look east and take in America from the center. It's not. We're locked in. Little dribbles in. We rarely see out. Embarrassed to live here. Ashamed to die here. Toilet.

"Don't know why I spent my life in this dump. Just a dirty, nasty pimple filled with shit. And it keeps growing like a cancer. No, not like a cancer. A cancer kills, but this hellhole don't die. Some mayor's bright idea back in the sixties: annex more land every year. I blink and they lay down a street where there wasn't none before. Only the street don't go nowhere. Or worse, a big-ass mall pops up overnight. Then up comes all these houses to put people when they're done shopping. Now you got a new suburb that no one needs. And no one stops the growing 'cause no one asks why and no one asks if it's worth it. I wasted my life here. I dug a hole, crawled in and let time do its thing."

I touched his shoulder. "Now we gotta do ours."

"If you gotta do it, do it here."

"That's not the way it's going down."

"Says who?"

"Yeah. Who?" Benny aimed at Rebus across the room.

"Says me. Says Marcus. Says everyone you fucked over. Benny, put it away. We don't need it. Do we?"

Rebus dropped his quilt. "Let me get my shoes." He put his dirty feet into his dirty shoes. "My grandma made that quilt. Kept me warm through decades of good times and bad."

"Smells like it."

Rebus didn't bother to lock his door on the way out.

I told Bobby to get in the front seat and pushed Rebus in the back. I grabbed a roll of duct tape from the trunk. The tape reeked of gasoline. I gave it to Benny and took my gun. I made sure Rebus could see it.

"No need to point." Benny climbed in and bound Rebus' hands and legs. He didn't struggle. "You know, me and Marcus go way back. Grew up down the block from me. Used to play stickball."

"Bullshit."

"Am I taping his mouth?"

"Please."

Rebus jerked back. "It stinks."

"Your apartment's worse."

Benny finished up and pushed Rebus down.

I took twenty from my envelope and gave it to Benny.

"The fuck's this for?" He held the edge of the bill with his pointer and thumb.

"For buying things. Like a cab. Or take the bus and keep the change. Or walk and keep it all. Thanks for the favor, though."

"Fuck that."

"Take a tip from Rebus. Get the money first. If there's no money, do it as a favor. Don't wanna do it as a favor? Stay home."

"What'd you even need me for?"

"I needed you to be Benny. You did great."

I killed the radio and drove the three of us down 71. Bobby pinched his nose. I cracked the windows. In the rearview mirror, I checked on Rebus. He didn't move.

God, I wish the fumes had knocked him out, suffocated him, did the dirty work. Nature's got lots of blood on her hands. More doesn't matter. Nature won't mind. Nature's thoughtless. Doesn't think. Just does. No memory, no guilt. I am out of step with nature.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going where we're going."

Only one question. Good boy. Men don't talk. He learned. But he had to ask. He was scared. I thought that was good. He'd respect what I do. His calluses were small and still tender and needed hardening. I told myself I was doing him many favors, giving him a lot. Money, calluses. No no no. I took more than I gave.

I got off and drove through the rural stretch. The houses and barns gave way to fields and woods. I paid attention to the clean air. Every time on that road, same fantasy. To live in the open country. Big house. Pool. Satellite dish. Grow food. Brew beer. It wasn't too much to ask for. I was never greedy.

I turned into the mouth of the dirt driveway and made Bobby open the rusted gate. We entered, under tall thick trees. The dirt gave way to cement. The trees thinned out and opened to the industrial patch, that wasteland of cracked pavement and forgotten buildings.

"What is this place?"

"Used to be something."

We slithered through the rust and stopped at the far end, in front of the small warehouse. The weather had beaten it up. Plants and weeds and vines from the surrounding vegetation were working their way past the warehouse and into the concrete. Despite the corrupt shit that went down there, nature was winning. I slammed the car door and it echoed.

Bobby and I dragged Rebus into the warehouse. He was limp and his eyes were at half mast. We dropped him and dust puffed from under him. I told Bobby to get the can from my trunk.

Stop.

Rebus twisted and got on his knees. He mumbled through the tape. I didn't need to hear coherent words to know he was pleading.

Stop.

He knew what was coming. Knew during the ride. Knew when we came into his living room. Knew it when he set up the bad deal? How could he not?

All he had left was his dignity. He gave it away. Gave away what me or Marcus or anyone could never take. He wanted to leave with absolutely nothing. You can judge a man by how he dies. I'm dying with grace.

He started to grunt, low and heavy, over and over. I walked behind him. He pivoted on his knees. I got out my piece, cleared the chamber and removed the clip. The grunts. I got behind him and smashed the back of his skull. He fell over and flailed.

Made motions because he still could. Only reason.

I bent down and hit him again. He went still. His hair was wet.

Bobby stood in the doorway with the can. I called him over several times.

"Is he dead?"

Oh. Bobby never saw a body. Why did I think he'd come across one or two? But no. I read the disbelief of a virgin on his face. I'll never forget my first body. It was juts a minute ago. My last will be me. It's funny. It's not funny.

I gave Bobby my piece and took the can. I emptied it over Rebus. He didn't move. I threw the can across the warehouse.

I stepped back. "Now be a man."

Bobby held the gun loosely with three fingers.

"Know who this is? He got your brother tagged."

"Really?" He gripped the handle.

"Yeah really. This lump of shit might as well have shot your brother himself."

Bobby looked at his hand, then Rebus, then me. "I can't."

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Wanna pay Marcus?"

"I guess."

"Then earn it."

"I can't."

"Fine. Then I'm leaving two bodies here."

In a flash, his arm jerked up.

Click.

I took the gun. "Never fire when you're standing in a gas puddle." I shoved in the clip.

Bobby was shaking.

I patted his back and gave him a book of matches.

A thin stream of black and gray smoke rose behind us as we got back to the main road. So Rebus died, but we didn't kill him. No one pulled a trigger. It was physics. The law of fire. Bobby sucked his thumb where a sulfur fragment had landed.

The cars on 71 no idea what just happened. Blank faces. Innocent. If they knew, they'd call the cops. Call themselves a hero, then wipe their hands clean and go about their meaningless day. Their meaningless life.

In front of here, I handed Bobby the envelope. He didn't thank me. I asked if he'd drop his big plan now. He didn't answer. He just said, "Holy shit."

I should've told him there's nothing holy about this shit.

CHAPTER 16: ZEKE

Although I learned a lot from Quinn, I might've given the impression that he had a grand theory or philosophy. He didn't. If anything, Gavin Quinn believed in thinking on your feet, street smarts. That's nearly all. I say "nearly" because he was also a big believer in nothing. He said so all the time in different ways. But if you believe nothing matters, you believe in something, right? It's confusing, I know, but at the time it was somehow crystal clear.

I mean a cop's street smarts, by the way, which is different than a con's. And both are totally different than a civilian's street smarts. I'm not sure you can say a civilian even has street smarts, unless you count knowing where to shop for the cheapest milk.

He wasn't crooked. Don't think that. Oh, we roughed up a few lames when we had to, but we made sure to leave 'em too scared to say a word. See? Smart, not crooked.

Gavin Quinn was what they call an old-timer. I don't like that expression myself because it implies something newer and better came along. Sutler's a good example of the new type and I think I've thoroughly communicated my view of him.

See, Quinn came up the seventies, when the crime rate was so bad that no one cared if a cop bent a rule now and then. Well, the crime rate plummeted so it fucking worked. But once things improved, people stuck their thankless noses up at the old way, the good way, the way that had just proven itself to work. Enter the new breed. Heads crammed so full of law books, no room left for the smarts required to get the job done. Tell me, can you see a wave of Sutlers cleaning up a rotten city? If you can, you got a more powerful imagination than me. But suddenly, Quinn's tagged an "old-timer." Like that's an insult? Like that should be a term of respect?

Then the cancer and early retirement. It was hard to watch a strong man who gave so much to Columbus get reduced to a patient, a patient speeding downhill. He was still a few notches above a walking stick, but he was getting bad fast. At first, his place smelled like a rotten apple. Then it smelled like a bushel full of rotten apples. It hurt to go over 'cause the stench made me queasy. I didn't plan to visit again. Then I needed a nice suit and I didn't know who else to ask. The smell had gotten worse. I always said the old man was full of piss and vinegar, but holy shit. Smelled the same when I returned the suit. I didn't know if that was good or bad. By the way, Gavin was buried in that suit about two weeks later.

When I returned it, he was having a bad day. This watch they gave him for his retirement had set him off. He said it was a mean joke, like they were pointing out he didn't have much time left. I don't know. Sometimes he acted like the rain came just to piss him off. Actually, he was more hurt than anything. He said, "I love those guys and this is how they repay me?"

I didn't really get why he had grown so sensitive to his mortality. Again and again he told me, "If life is rotten, which it is, death can't be worse." So what was he worried about? I chalked up his change in attitude to dying. It can twist your perspective. Maybe he was reconsidering his ideas close to the end. Maybe he started to worry about his soul.

He tossed the watch aside. The toss seemed to hurt him but he was making like he was still rugged Quinn for my benefit. I don't know why. Like, he asks if I wanted a beer and I say I'd try one. I stand but he bats me down and gets it himself, shuffling in the old man's shoes he's forced to wear before his time. Then he says he wants to swing on the porch. I'm sure. He wanted to nap. I was like, "Don't waste your strength on me," and he said, "Who else am I gonna waste it on?"

We go outside and I get a gentle rhythm going for us, the closest he'd been to humping in a long time, poor bastard. I cracked the beer and gave a toast, something like, "You lived on your own terms and that's how you'll end up. Here's to you."

But right away, I see my toast was a crock. Some porker in a Hawaiian shirt walks by and gives us a wave, his lard arms jiggling. Gavin tells me he's a neighbor who does the lawn. It must've been hell to have to ask some douchebag to do simple yard work. That wasn't on Gavin's terms.

I took out my flask and swigged. Offered it to Gavin who said the stuff tears up his belly. Man, that wasn't on his terms either. Was a day he'd drink the entire bar under the table, do a handstand and recite the alphabet backwards. Swear to God. I put away the flask and returned to the beer.

I ask if anyone's paid him a visit. I try to ask it casual, but sometimes I'm a bad liar. Anyway, Gavin doesn't pick up on my hidden meaning. He sort of snaps and says, "Like my daughter?" Whoa. Seems I hit a sore spot. That was, like, the third time he ever referred to her in the entire time I knew him. Gavin once met this chick from Arizona and nine months later he was a father. That's all I knew. I'm sure that's all there was. I don't know where his snippy attitude came from. Did he try to contact his daughter and got turned away? I didn't probe. I dropped the whole question. Anyway, if someone wanted to hit up my old partner for the sake of being thorough, I had to take it. It'd just be nice to know. Well, I never did find out. That's fine.

So I ask if he needs anything. He says a whore. Then he says since he can't do much, I better get two so they can entertain themselves. He's lightening up and goes into a story. It starts with, "Remember the time when...?" which of course I do because I was there, but he has such a good time telling the story that I let him finish.

At the punchline, he coughs up something wet and nasty. I ask if he's alright. He nods, takes a breath, then turns the table and asks if I'm alright. I play dumb but he won't let me off easy.

I give in and tell him the shot was clean. He nudges me and he says, "Clean like last time?" The last time was this peon spick bookie who I had to take out. I had to. Made it look like self-defense. In a way, it was. I dressed my story real pretty and got away with it. But after, Quinn gave me so much shit he took away the fun.

So I duck his question, belch, and paint the broad strokes of the current case. Guy worked for a guy who we wanna bring down. He ran. I fired. All that was true and satisfied Gavin. He said I saved jail space, which is true too.

Then he asked about Sutler. I said Sutler was the type who busts old ladies for illegal right turns, then wonders why nothing ever gets done. No balls, no brains.

Gavin gives me a warm smile, like maybe how a father looks at his son who just won the big game. If that wasn't enough, he pats me on the leg. And if that wasn't enough, he says he's proud of me.

Man, you can take all your medals and shove 'em. When a man like Gavin Quinn says he's proud of you, well that's gotta take a back seat to whatever the chief has to say, any accolade the goddamn president can give you. I could've retired right then knowing I did good.

But sheesh, Gavin givith, Gavin taketh away. He goes on and says, "You've always been a smart one. World won't save itself you know. But take it easy on your partner. After all, till all the shit gets flushed down the toilet forever, remember it's cops versus the world." That's what he said: cops versus the world.

Of course, Kevin Bradshaw's ugly mug pops into my head and I start to freak out. If Gavin knew, I don't know what would happen. He couldn't beat the shit out of me, but he could tell me to leave and never come back, and that would be worse. A young viper dug its teeth deeper into my soft spot.

But Gavin told me a ton of times, "Nothing matters." He said it and showed it again and again. I tell him this. "I thought nothing mattered."

"I'm not so sure I ever really believed that. I know, I know what I said, but now I'm talking about what was going on under the surface, always. Ever since I was a little shaver, I sort of sensed there was something. I didn't know what and I still haven't gotten to the bottom of the mystery, but in my quietest moments I tried real hard, say during those long nights I couldn't sleep. Now, with all this time on my hands, I've taken up the task with what vigor I got left. But the something's identity is and always was out of reach. Closest I've come is filtering out what it ain't. It ain't church. I know that much. And it ain't family and I'm pretty sure it ain't the law, though I think the something kind of echoes in the law. No, I don't know what it is, but that don't mean it ain't. I feel it, using the same feelers that helped me raise the prison population all them years. Shoot, I don't even know if it's good or bad, but I'll stake my life on it--there's something."

By now, the swing's come to a stop. Gavin had been addressing an invisible audience in front of us, but at the end he turns to me to gauge my reaction.

I'm trying not to hyperventilate and I want to book it, hole myself up in a dark room till shit makes sense. Gavin takes my contorted face the wrong way and says, "Ah, I don't know what I'm talking about." He turns away. "I don't know what I'm talking about."

Damn it, I should've told him he got it all wrong, that the awkward moment was because I couldn't handle his talk, not because he gave it. Of course, I now know why that moment was painful for me. It was the start of my rebirth and birth always hurts, even rebirth. Yeah, I got that later. At the time, all's I can think is, "Something's happening to me. I have to get away from his watery gray eyes. The viper in my soul's having a field day and if I can't get rid of it, I can at least numb it long enough to think straight."

I stand and say how nice it was to see him. You'd think I'd slapped him. He tells me to wait. Goes through the torture of getting off the swing, then goes inside. I whip out my flask and suck it like a starving baby, then drain the beer bottle.

He returns with a bundled towel. Opens it real careful to reveal a beautiful pearl inlaid handgun, a 1955 Walther PPK. Tells me it's the same peacemaker German plainclothesmen used, not to mention James fucking Bond. I ask permission to touch it. He says, "Please." It fit cozy in the palm of my hand. I check the clip. It's loaded. The best always are.

It's rare in this world to find the beautiful combined with the powerful. Except God, of course. Ever fire one? It's not the biggest or loudest. Won't make the widest hole in anyone. But shoot someone in the eye and ask them if it tickles. Or you can hang it on the wall, though you'd be a fool not to take it down now and then, if just to massage the grip. It felt better than holding my meat.

After I have my fill, I hand it back. He gives me the towel. Tells me the masterpiece is now mine so I can fire off a few rounds at the range and recall him fondly. Says it might even save my life someday. I want to tell him I don't deserve it, but I'm emotionally drained and speechless. I wrap it up and hold the bundle to my chest.

He stands in front of me, waiting for something. A handshake's too formal, but a hug's too intimate. I aim for the middle ground. Slap him on the shoulder and squeeze. He says he's glad he got to know me. I think we both knew that was the last time we'd see each other. Cop's intuition.

He says he's tired and has to lay down. I let go of his shoulder and nod stupidly because I'm speechless. "See you later," he says and he's gone. I hope he was right. I really do.

After I hide the gift in the back of my jeep, I take one last look at his house. He lived there for years, alone. I was the closest thing he had to a real family. I might not seem like much, but when you consider how isolated we all are, we should all be so lucky to have anyone at all.

Driving home, the big call came from the lieutenant. Marner says IA's reached a decision. That's all he says, just to fuck with me. So I joke and say, "Well, should I start heading south?" He says that's a good one, but no. I'm good to go back to work on Monday. I still have to meet with a counselor, though. Then he says, "Speaking of which, have you heard about Kevin Bradshaw?" I don't know what a counselor and Kevin have to do with each other, but anyway I say no. He tells me the news. I do a convincing job acting horrified.

Obviously I was happy at the verdict, but part of me was like, "Bastards. Put me through all that for nothing."

CHAPTER 17: BOBBY

Leaned over the toilet, I tickled the back of my throat. I gagged but nothing came up. My skin and clothes reeked of funk and gasoline. In the shower, I scrubbed myself down with soap made with tea tree oil, whatever that is. I washed my hair with apple and cinnamon scented shampoo. I sat and washed my feet with the soap, then poured the shampoo over them and washed them again. I massaged my face with an apricot facial scrub, then spread the scrub on my chest and exfoliated that.

The room was steamy and fragrant. I dried and sat on the toilet and pretended I was relaxing in a sauna at the Athletic Club. I had just merged two companies and made a million dollar profit. I was waiting for my accountant to call to tell me a safe place I could put the money to avoid taxes.

But too soon, the steam went wherever steam goes and goose bumps popped up. I picked up my clothes but immediately dropped them and decided to wear the towel instead.

I was startled by the white envelope on the living room table. I'd carried it inside without thinking, like how I carry my hand. As I had rushed to the shower, I must've tossed the envelope on the table. But I had and have no memory of saying to myself, "I want to put this on the table" and then doing it. What I had to do for the envelope was so much bigger than whatever was inside it, the deed crushed the envelope out of existence.

And anyway, I saw it as Marcus' money. How inefficient: Marcus distributes money, I hold it, then hand it back. He could've kept it all to begin with and saved everyone a lot of grief. I counted the bills: seven hundred and fifty dollars. Even if I could reach to the boxes under the beds at home, which was impossible, I'd still be short.

I thought, I took Marcus seriously so why didn't I take him seriously? I fell into complacency and now Benny, jacked-up and blood-hungry, was going to hunt me down. Or maybe Marcus himself, who once chopped off a debtor's foot. What did I think was going to happen at the end of the week? Why didn't I do anything? Why did I wait till the day before it was due to panic? What's going to happen? What'll become of me? Will it hurt?

But the answer was obvious, so obvious that I felt stupid for not seeing it before. I didn't have to pay Marcus at all. The money in the envelope became mine in the second it took to call it mine, and I became as close to carefree as I'd been maybe ever.

As soon as I knew I wouldn't pay Marcus, I knew I had to take off and I knew my destination was Uncle Rick in Florida. One second I had a hopeless debt. The very next second, I had hope and a nice amount of cash. Life doesn't need much time to change.

I thought the lady was joking when she told me how much they charge for the next flight to Fort Lauderdale, but she was serious. The man at Greyhound gave me a more reasonable price, but I had to wait till the next afternoon. That was okay. I'd promise Marcus I'd have all the cash to pay him at six. At that time my bus would be somewhere in West Virginia.

I'd arrive in Florida and I'd go back to school and get a job. A real job. A lifeguard or something else fun. I would stay with Uncle Rick at first until I saved enough for my own apartment. My mom would quit her two bad jobs, come down and find one good job and a nice place of her own. Wendy would come and get a good job too. We would live together to save on bills and decide if we wanted to get married.

I called her. "It's me. Don't hang up. I'm really sorry about whatever I said. I've been going through a lot."

"You should've seen your mom at the funeral."

"I know. I wanted to go."

"No. I mean, you should've seen her. Been with her."

I told her before: if I had attended the funeral, next stop would've been prison. But she didn't want to treat me with sensitivity. She decided she was always right and nothing, not even facts, would make her humbler and nicer.

"How was the funeral?"

"How the fuck can you ask me that?"

The word almost knocked the wind out of me. She had nagged it out of my vocabulary, then used it herself? I didn't know her mouth was capable of forming that syllable.

I told her I was going to Florida. She didn't care. I asked her to come along. She said she wasn't going to throw her life away and that I can't run from my problems.

"But I'm not running away. I'm running towards something better."

"You're a coward."

"Coward? Do you know what I'm ready to do?"

"Yeah. Run away."

"What about us?"

"There is no us."

"You're breaking up with me?"

"We're already broken up."

I heard a click and she was gone. Dang it, why didn't I dump her when I had the chance? Five minutes earlier, we were living together in sin in Florida. Now we were split. Life is fast.

I fell on the couch and turned on the TV. A handsome man chased a disfigured man through a sewer. He pulled a hand cannon from his holster and fired a warning shot and yelled for the bad guy to freeze. The bad guy stopped and asked, "Can't we talk?" The handsome man said, "Talk to this" and fired. The bad guy's brain matter exploded from the back of his head and splattered across the wall. The hero holstered his gun and said, "Nice talking to you." The credits rolled.

I had missed the tightening part of the movie so I didn't feel the loosening. Also, the special effects people hadn't put a bullet hole on the bad guy's forehead, so it looked like the back of his head had exploded on its own.

But the scene would've bummed me out anyway. I didn't want to see any more killing. Ever. Even fake. Everyone deserves to grow old. Even that bad guy in the movie. Maybe bad guys especially deserve to grow old so they can have more time to mull over what they've done and learn from their mistakes. The bad guy in the movie didn't learn a lesson, didn't have time to apologize. He died and that was it.

I surfed the stations. Death, sales, applause, music. Then Darryl's face, his school photo from two years ago. Mom had it framed and hung on the living room wall. It shouldn't have been on the screen, but it really looked like it was. I wondered if I had snapped, like I was afraid might happen.

An official-looking sort with a bushy mustache and spiked hair said into a microphone, "After a thorough investigation, the officers involved have been cleared from any wrong doing." The names and photos of the officers popped up.

Zeke Ravella. Now I had the name of the man who killed my brother. He had a fat face and clenched teeth and was exactly the type who would kill a kid in cold blood for no good reason.

Adam Sutler. Puny, with big eyes and a skinny nose. I didn't see that face at the motel but I had bet he had watched the whole thing happen and laughed about it.

I said their names out loud. Their faces poked me and taunted me. "What are you going to do about it, piss ant?" I chanted their names over and over. They didn't care what I did.

They vanished. A reporter spoke for a second, then turned into a car ad.

My vision went blurry. The towel fell off. I beat the TV screen with that lamp. I made a small crack. I caught my breath, gathered my strength and rammed the base of the lamp into the glass. Sparks shot out from the hole and a tiny cloud poofed from the back. I fell back and collapsed on the couch. The lamp stuck out from the TV like a tree limb.

If I beat the set to get the poison out of my system, it didn't work. If I was trying to prove something, I hadn't. I said, "Sorry," to the TV. It hadn't harmed me. But Zeke Ravella and Adam Sutler, I should've smashed them.

I didn't even realize how deeply I hated them until I saw their faces. I wasted so much energy defending myself that I neglected to accuse them for my suffering. If not for them, Darryl would be alive. I wouldn't have Marcus after me. I would be home. I would have Wendy. The guy in the warehouse would be alive. What I felt for them was bigger than any emotion I ever felt before. Bigger than my love for mom or Wendy, bigger than my euphoria when Darryl gave me the skateboard, bigger than my sadness when dad decided he didn't love us anymore and moved to Arizona.

They were going to die and I was going to kill them. Sampson had pushed me over the line to make me a killer, forever, so I should at least kill for the sake of justice to correct the mistake of whoever it was who let them off the hook. A first plan burst into my brain fully formed.

The white pages didn't list a RAVELLA Zeke but they had a SUTLER Adam. "Crestwood Lane." What the hell's a crestwood? A new plan: break into Adam Sutler's house and hold the knife to his throat and make him invite Zeke Ravella over. Then I'd kill Adam Sutler and when Zeke Ravella arrived, I'd kill him too.

I got out the yellow pages and called for a cab. The man asked where I wanted to go but he also wanted to know my name. I told him Sampson Ravella.

"It'll be fifteen minutes, Mr. Ravella."

I cringed as I slowly forced myself back into my old clothes. The bright smells from my shower fought the dark smells on my clothes and lost.

Most of the knives in the kitchen were too big to fit in my pocket but there was one that would work. I stabbed the air, as if Adam Sutler stood in front of me. His phantom body hit the ground. I pocketed the knife, grabbed the cash, and waited for the cab outside.

It was getting chilly and dark. I paced and went over my scheme. It seemed airtight.

The cab smelled like stale popcorn. The upholstery was the hard green leather they use in school buses. The driver wasn't the Middle Eastern type or a gruff New Yorker. He was just a dumpy, balding bore. All those times on the bus when I wished I could afford a cab were a waste. They say the grass is always greener on the other side but it isn't really.

I took out a piece of paper and gave the driver Adam Sutler's address and he punched it into a keyboard. A map popped up on a screen on the dash.

"I don't know about this. It's far," he said.

"Good thing I'm not walking." I had too much money in my pocket to take any crap.

"What I'm saying is, it's far." He looked me up and down and tapped the meter.

I was happy to show him my stash. He was happy to see it.

CHAPTER 18: ADAM

"Told you so."

Yes. Fine Zeke. You were right.

Lieutenant Marner called. I promised Zeke I'd see him on Monday and switched over. The lieutenant apologized for an unusual first week, but I had demonstrated that I was made of tough material. I thanked him. Then he asked if I had heard the news about Kevin something, someone I never heard of.

"Think houses are built with talking?"

I got off with Marner and told the super the good news.

"That's such a goddamn relief."

He said I should take the rest of the day off and good luck with life. I said I wasn't returning to duty till Monday and I was willing to fulfill my commitment to the site. My loyalty didn't please him, but I don't know what would've. He was always frustrated with something. I returned to cutting five yard strips of copper wire.

Without the distraction of the investigation, I could start putting in good work for Don. It reminded me of the time after my mother died. I got constipated and tried everything to make me go but I couldn't till I was afraid to eat. I couldn't concentrate in school or anywhere. Finally my grandparents, who must've had many other pressing concerns, took me to the doctor and he prescribed a pill and I finally went. I cheered up and thought better and my grades immediately improved. Again, after I vacated the poison, right away I became my best, and I began to trim the copper wire with precision and speed. Soon, I wasn't conscious of my hands. They knew what to do without me telling them. The pressure from the crewmen's derisive stares softened and lifted. I was on cloud nine in seventh heaven.

At the satisfying shift's end, I dialed home, but I didn't press "send." I called Don instead and told him the news.

"Well, did worrying help you?"

"No. Not much."

"And you stayed in touch with your partner, right?"

"Had dinner with him last night."

"Good."

"One problem, though."

"What's that?"

"I can't stop smiling. Haven't felt this good since...a long time."

"Well, Brenda must be thrilled."

I made a detour on my way home. I turned on the radio and dangled my hand out the window. I took the exit to Maria's Exotic Flowers.

I wandered the aisles and the greenhouse, waiting for the right plant to present itself to me.

The saleswoman's overflowing breasts turned the corner. The rest of her followed. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah. What would you get a woman who worked in a flower shop?"

"Candy."

"Well, I need something that expresses remorse. But also gratitude. Joy. Optimism."

"Oh. Then you'll be wanting jewelry."

She patiently waited for me to flirt back but I was struck dumb by her wit and the warmth growing beneath my belly.

"Or this," she said, returning to saleswoman mode. She pointed to a young potted orchid. "It's out of season and very expensive."

It resembled a stick propped in dirt.

"Trust me, two weeks from now..." She stopped. The plant's future maturity took her breath away. She happened to glance downward and her expression changed to mild horror.

I bought the orchid. I had to. Only I can never go into Maria's Exotic Flowers again. I never will.

I gave Brenda the orchid and the news and an apology. She gave me a long kiss. She broke away and looked into my eyes. Hers are amber.

She tossed out the old roses. The pot with the young orchid took their place on the windowsill. I admired the view of her admiring the view. The orange evening sun shot through the window, setting her red hair on fire.

We talked through dinner. Turns out, after I had saved her, I neglected her to focus on my job. But she always needed me, even when she was clean and sober. Besides, the attention I gave to my job was just an attempt to correct the tragedies from my youth. She appreciated that, then made me confess how futile the effort was. Fences were mended. Promises were made. If only we had talked more and talked earlier. If only. If only times a million.

Brenda and I dusted off the Scrabble board and played on the living room floor.

"I love your sneeze."

"If you were in zoo, what animal would you be?"

Zeke called and wanted to buy me a celebratory beer, but I turned him down.

Brenda added her "c" to "love" and won the game, then yawned. I think her yawn was fake. "Do you want to go to bed?"

I got up and turned out the lights. "No. Right here's fine."

CHAPTER 19: BOBBY

The cabbie was right. It was far. He drove forever until we finally got off the highway. The wide street we turned onto was packed on both sides with one of almost every chain store ever opened. It was night but I could hardly tell from the sky lit by a thousand signs. I played a game where I'd name a store and then try to spot its sign. I stumped the street only once. It didn't have a Rent-a-Center.

We climbed a large hill. At the top, on the right, a small group of pine trees pushed their way between two restaurants. Over the hill, the king of the street spread out in its glory: the mall. They built it to look like a mansion, I think. Thick columns lined the outside. It was wide and white and well lit. It could contain the mall I was used to three times over. Easily.

I asked the cabbie how much further. He pointed ahead.

Didn't say a word the entire ride. I should've hooked him up with Sampson and they could've drove all over Columbus together and never speak a word.

Beyond the mall's parking lot, we passed some more trees and came to a sign that read Floral Acres. He turned into the neighborhood. I told him to stop. I leaned towards the digital map as far as the glass barrier would let me and read where I was and how to get to the blue star that represented Adam Sutler's house: a left, right, left, then a short right.

I sat back and told him to take me to the mall. He complained that wasn't where I had planned to go. I said, "Now it is," and promised him a big tip. He drove me to the main entrance.

The meter was stupid high. In a way, it felt good to pay it. In another, it didn't. Especially to that geezer.

"And here's my tip. Don't be an asshole." I jumped out and ran into the mall, nearly bumping into this lady and her stroller.

Inside, the wing was shaped like a giant cave with tantalizing tunnels on both sides. I heard oldies music. I didn't see any speakers, but the music was everywhere. I read the glowing map by the front door. Most of the stores were boring and a waste of space. Plenty of clothes stores, though, which is what I mostly wanted. A Sears was closest.

I passed this rich couple and the woman said to the man, "Did you smell that kid?" I wonder if she meant for me to hear it. I probably did stink. The apples, cinnamon, tea tree oil and apricot were long gone. Still, up hers. I'd never say that. She might smell good but she's not a good person.

Some lady watched me browse the aisles at Sears. Little did she know I had the cash to buy almost anything I wanted. I took my time.

I carried my selections to the dressing room. I took off my pants. They didn't feel right. Too light. No knife. The only place I could've lost it was in the cab. "The kid who killed Adam Sutler gave me a knife for a tip," he'll say to the cops. Now he talks.

But the mall had a sporting goods store full of possibilities: darts, hunting knife, crossbow. Even a simple baseball bat, aluminum or wood, could do the trick.

I looked sharp in these baggy jeans and this black hoody and long white t-shirt which is probably red by now. Their shoe selection sucked but these black basketball shoes are cool enough. I paid and asked the cashier if I could put on my new clothes. The lady, a real bitch, said, "Please do."

Outside the store, I stuffed my old clothes into a trash can where they belonged. I wandered the mall, bouncing in my new shoes. I forgot about the rude people at Sears and the cruel lady who said I stank and the mean cabbie. I probably forgot about Adam and Ravella too for a little. I just wanted to buy something else, anything else and maintain my carefree mood. It's easy to see why people become shopaholics.

I browsed the bins at the music store. I must've totally missed something when I was busy with work and life and stuff. A bunch of CDs had stickers like, "Featuring the Hit Single" whatever. I had never heard of the hit single or even the musician. I was tempted to flirt with a trio of cute giggling girls across the aisle. I regret not flirting more in general instead of chaining myself down with Wendy. I stopped myself from saying something to the girls. If they brought up music, I'd be sunk. I might as well have been wearing my old clothes.

I left the music store empty handed and passed a jewelry store, thinking if Wendy was with me, she could point to almost any item and I'd buy it for her and it was her loss that wasn't going to happen. But then the voice above me sang how he was so tired of being alone and I knew what he meant.

I was adventurous in the food court and tried sushi. The girl behind the counter was cute and I said, "Big mall, isn't it?" She nodded but I don't think she knew what I was saying. I was sort of bothered that she could be in this country and not learn her customers' language.

I tried a bite and threw the rest away. Japanese food isn't for me. That's what I get for being adventurous. I ate some Taco Bell instead. The tacos weren't a new experience, but they satisfied. I wiped my mouth and belched. People at the surrounding tables acted like they never heard a belch before.

On the way out of the food court, I stopped at the frozen yogurt kiosk. Some pimply college student was wiping down the machine. I coughed.

He looked at me, barely, and kept working. "We're closed."

"What time is it?"

"Quarter till."

It seemed like days ago I smashed the TV. "No really. I'd like a cone."

"And I'd like to go home."

"Get a cone, push a button and take my money. That's all you have to do."

He didn't have anything to say to that. The machine was clean but he kept wiping. Sampson would already be enjoying his cone. Marcus would have owned the place.

I hammered the counter top. "I want me a motherfuckin' cone."

The guy's hand froze mid wipe.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"We got a problem?"

This fat mall security guard stood over me. The pimply jerk finally looked up. To tell on me. The guard pointed to the exit across the food court. "We're closing up."

"Pig."

"Don't want to hear it. Time to go. Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"Sure thing, pops. I'll go to your home. Get your wife warmed up for you." I don't know if that's exactly what Sampson would've said. Actually, I doubt he would've said a word. Just stared till the guard volunteered his wallet.

For me, the guard grabbed his walkie talkie. "Frank, I need you and the fellas over at the food court."

I called him an asshole and made for the exit. Everyone in the mall gathered to point at me. All those normal people with normal lives, people who go to the mall all the time and drop a bunch of money on useless trinkets and never appreciate anything, people who fear me but also mock me. I hate them all.

I reached the door, spun around, and yelled, "Fuck all y'all."

In the parking lot, I took out the key to the apartment, but a security camera stopped me from marking up a nice car. I don't know what kind of car it was, but it was black and shiny and arrogant and had a horse on the grill. I pocketed the key and concerned myself with finding a weapon.

All the signs down the street called out, "Over here. Please notice me." The loudest sign poking into the sky was for the gas station across the street. I figured they had to sell at least one thing that could kill a man or two.

No walk signs or sidewalks. The area expected you to walk from your car to the store and that's it. No wonder everyone had big butts. The fittest person I saw was that lady at Sears who followed me, who got her exercise trailing suspicious customers.

I waited at the intersection. The cars in the turn lane to my right anticipated what I wanted to do and they didn't approve. When the green arrow came, I jogged across. Two cars sped in front of me, but the third stopped. I waved her on but she laid on her horn. I sped across. I wish I had dawdled, slow and infuriating.

In the gas station, I went past the junk food and came to the one slender section that had first aid products and car accessories. A few utility knives.

It looked like the cash register lady spent an hour every morning puffing up her hair. I don't know why she bothered. She'd look hideous if she spent five hours or five minutes. She was the type to be alarmed if my sole purchase was a deadly utility knife. She'd refuse to sell it. Or worse, sell it and immediately call the cops.

I picked out some candy, which was cool because I never got my cone, and a small bag of chips. A snack for after the deed. Back to the car accessory aisle, I grabbed some oil, an air freshener and the utility knife. The lady didn't give me any problems. I don't think she looked at me once or paid attention what I bought. Just another faceless customer in line. "How are you will that be all? Ten thirty-seven please. Thank you have a nice day. Next. How are you will that be all?" Now I feel kind of bad for her.

Outside, I threw away the oil and air freshener and made the difficult journey back across the street. After several honks and one close brush with death, I reached Floral Acres and, finally, sidewalks.

The neighborhood was lit by dim street lights, ten foot poles made to look like old gaslights or whatever they're called, as if the residents wanted to pretend they lived in merry old England or something. All show. They weren't there to actually provide light. I couldn't have read a watch if I wanted to.

Anyway, no one was outside to need any light. If I had yards as lush and beautiful as those people, I'd use them and enjoy them. Except for a few lamps glowing in a few windows, I would've thought the neighborhood had been evacuated.

As I walked on, everything started to look the same: the shape of the houses, the round bushes in front of them, the cars in the driveway. I bet the people inside the houses were exactly the same too. They bought the same stuff, sold the same stuff, believed the same stuff. They even did their laundry the same night. The heavy chemical smell of dryer exhaust was relentless. The odor was nice enough at first, but I soon a just wanted to take a breath or two of some uncorrupted air.

I could tell the area had been forest at one time till some fat cat decided it would make a good place to sell a bunch of junk and house people to buy that junk. All that was left of the original landscape was a small patch of trees on my right.

Ahead, Crestwood Lane. A sign on the corner read "Dead End." I entered the lane and passed four houses to reach Adam Sutler's, the last. I knew it was his. I didn't need the piece of paper in my pocket to verify it. I stood there and studied the house. It was bullcrap, like the rest: nice but generic car in the drive, perfect bushes, shutters that don't shut, expensive flowers hanging from expensive baskets, ivy (probably fake) twisting up the posts.

I walked a few feet into the woods. My shoes sunk into the forest floor and I had no desire to pull them out. Here was the house, open to attack. But I couldn't know who or what was in the house. I had seen myself kicking down the door and putting a knife to Adam's throat, but the rest of the background had been blank. Now I wondered if I'd have to deal with a wife or kids. I didn't want to drag them into this. And what if he had a bunch of firearms in the house? To burst in on Adam was impossible. Or just deadly.

My legs were tired, so tired. I squatted, afraid to get my new clothes dirty until I remembered I had enough money in my wallet to buy a closet full of new threads if I ruined the ones I had.

I ate my chips and candy, trying to think up a way of making someone else do the killing, trying to remember if I ever saw a movie where some guy makes another guy kill a guy. I couldn't nail down any specific show, but recapping bits from various plots inspired a third plan. Or the fourth or fifth by this point.

Every idea I've ever had, no matter how bad, has come with an adrenaline shot. The idea arrives and I'm certain I'm a genius, even if in the next second I get that I'm not. My plan was the worst possible plan, but that became clear to me only after there was no turning back. I don't know. Maybe my plan will work after all. Maybe Adam'll die. I don't want him to, but that was the plan. Maybe Zeke Ravella will die. I'm not even sure how much I care about him anymore. And maybe there's nothing worse than getting what you wanted.

All I had was myself to entertain me until morning. I used my mind like it was a portable DVD player and thought of shows and pieced together the sequence of events in the story. Things started to get jumbled. I'd be the good cop and Adam Sutler and Zeke Ravella were the criminals. Then I'd be the criminal but under cover the good guy and they were corrupt cops. Then I was in the FBI and Sampson was my partner and we tracked down a terrorist who turned out to be Zeke Ravella. Sampson wanted to kill him but I said, "We can't sink down to his level."

My eyelids wanted to rest. I let them close, but I wanted them shut for only a minute. I counted to make sure. I don't know when I fell asleep, but it was way before I reached sixty.

CHAPTER 20: DALE

So, Thursday.

Owing to a dearth of evidence, etcetera, to support my position, coupled with your driving pressure, I capitulated. Subsequent to my shameful vote, I acted out of character. No, I don't blush for my outburst--I apologized before the chair hit the floor. I blush because I relinquished the internal fortitude to resist you a bit longer. As it transpired, a bit longer was all that was required for the truth to expose its serpentine head. At any rate, I hereby concede I was wrong to express my discomfiture in violence. That is, if you will, in turn, concede I was absolutely correct in descrying Ravella's ultimate guilt. To be fair, I know some of you were blinded by your pedestrian zeal for hard evidence.

I'm sure many of you, perhaps all, were pleased I was ordered to take an early vacation. And many of you, perhaps all, are now disappointed to set eyes upon my ugly mug once again, much sooner than you had anticipated doing so. Well, if life were predictable, wouldn't the living of it become a joyless burden?

So, to recap: my vote, my outburst, my mandatory vacation. Now, to home. Everything a man worthy of the name could reasonably expect from a life partner, I have received in spades from my long suffering wife for over two decades. Yet, after returning to our domicile, I rewarded her steadfast good will to torments I'd rather not dwell upon.

I shall skip to the part where I am sipping scotch, neat and on the rocks--three rocks to be exact--in my small office, alone, bamboo shades drawn. The first glass had reconfigured my brain most promisingly. Curiosity as to what a third glass was going to soldier me through a second.

I can't report much from this experience with my famous veracity, for the pages in my memory file are permanently smudged. Yet I do recall stumbling upon what some may christen a philosophical problem. As I poured that second serving of scotch over ice, the cubes appeared to turn color. I held the glass in front of my table lamp. By squinting one eye, I studied the ice with my other and found it rather difficult to designate with certitude the precise color of the cubes. The fact is, they were amber. Yet, rationally, in truth, they were translucent with an opaque center, or, if you like, opaque with translucent edges. If asked point blank for an answer, with what ought I respond? What is the factual answer and what is the truthful answer? And what is suggested when the fact and the truth aren't precise synonyms? Intriguing as it was, this conundrum failed to elevate my mood.

I drank the glass, temporarily eliminating the problem, but upon refilling, the problem resuscitated. Sometimes--quite rarely, mind you--I am rendered confused by some enigma or other. My emotional side swells with frustration till I ejaculate an exaggerated proclamation such as, "Nothing makes sense." However, all the credit you can spare ought to be set at my feet, for I refuse to halt at this point. I push on and eventually secure a plot of terra firma on which to stand. That antinomies often follow is irrelevant.

My attention--admittedly limited by this point--was so mired in this problem, I hadn't heard the phone ring. I did, however, hear my wife in the other room intone, "Gruber? He has your number?"

"I got it," I yelled to her, no doubt squashing those three syllables into an incomprehensible bark. I picked up and greeted the detective with, "You know we didn't give him a poly?"

Gruber feigned interest in this item, and then asked after my welfare. Lord, how I hate doltish questions. It set off a rant, I'm afraid. "Are you deaf? Didn't even threaten the son of a bitch. They didn't care. Not from day one. The world just doesn't care," and such, although an interesting question jutted from the muck: "Because of indifference toward the shooter or who was shot?" You don't have to answer now. Please don't answer now.

Gruber attempted to spoon-feed me more samples of his mindless optimism. "Ravella hasn't gone into hiding. He'll kill again and we'll catch him." Hm. Gruber's scale, with which he weighs the soundness or senselessness of what comes from his mouth, was faulty to say the least.

He then chose to regale me with a story.

Once upon a time, Gruber was on the scene of Ravella's first shooting, back when Ravella was partnered with a prize named Quinn. Ravella, I'm told, did the talking, insisting the deceased was a midlevel dealer who had unwisely and too slowly drawn first. It may or may not be relevant to mention that the dealer was Mexican, but Gruber mentioned it to me and I suppose I now mentioned it to you. See how these things start? At any rate, no drugs were retrieved from the apartment. Ravella suggested the dealer was smart enough to stash the incriminating items elsewhere. Fine. The gun the alleged dealer pulled on Ravella was missing a serial number. This in itself may not mean much. Finally, in the course of Gruber's investigation, he failed to unearth any information pertaining to the dealer. A midlevel dealer no one heard of? It's possible.

Indeed, elements of Ravella's story swirled within the neighborhood of possibility, and the whirling motion distracted the investigation enough that all official suspicion of Ravella quickly fizzled out. It took the grand jury longer to land upon an open parking space at the courthouse than to perform their duty.

Gruber, the sentimental fabulist, made an attempt to extract a premonitory moral thusly: "One day Ravella will step in some shit he can't scrape off his shoes." I liked that line and I intend to utilize it should an appropriate future situation afford me the opportunity to avail myself of it. How disheartening that he continued with: "Hang in there," "Stay the course," and other motivational phrases gleaned from posters which decorate the walls of dentist offices and small businesses.

I thanked him. With that, the great detective inquired if I had been drinking. Alcohol I took him to mean. Small wonder he wasn't part of the Bradshaw task force. I hadn't a sip since he had gifted me with his call, so I replied in the negative. He promised--or threatened--to check in on me later.

Don't ask how I remember the conversation, but accept I do. While you're at it, accept I remember it accurately.

Or perhaps you shouldn't. After parting with Gruber, it came to my attention the objects in my office had doubled without my permission, and were now dancing with their illusory twin. Because, additionally, my world had gradually unhinged itself from the constraints of time, I am at a loss as to the duration of the festivities. However, my wife entered my office to announce dinner which helped me achieve my cosmic bearings. I presented her with my glass of scotch and sought her opinion as to the ice's color. She answered, rather reasonably, there was no ice.

CHAPTER 21: ADAM

I slapped the alarm clock several times before it stopped buzzing its obnoxious, rude buzz, its terrible entry into a new day. I had always meant to buy another alarm clock, ideally something that would gently wake me with soft music. Every morning, after having been accosted by the buzz again, I made it imperative to stop by a store on the way home and buy a new alarm clock. But as the day went on, my pledge faded until it was forgotten, to be remembered only when I set it again at night. The next morning, the cycle began again. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't need alarm. I'll be sleeping in.

I groaned and stretched my arm. My wild dreams fragmented as I rose to consciousness. She pressed herself against my chest. I nuzzled into her red hair. I held back the urge to sneeze. A part in her hair, shaped like a lighting bolt, struck me for the first time as sexy. To call her beautiful from top to bottom would not be an exaggeration.

I carefully freed my arm and reset the alarm. My bones cracked as I rolled out of bed.

In the bathroom mirror, I saw that my tangled hair and delirious smile made me look insane. This pleased me for some reason. A vibrant current ran through my muscles. Impossible to be so energized, it seemed, considering how little sleep I got, but I could've jogged a marathon if I wanted.

I had gone into the shower smelling like her and came out smelling like Irish Spring. Sad, but necessary. She hugged my pillow and sang with her snore. I dressed mechanically as my gaze swept over the question mark shape of her body. Her cheek invited me to kiss it. I finished dressing and accepted.

I downed a bowl of cereal. The coffee brewed. I made the pot strong for Brenda. I filled my mug, got my lunch from the fridge and keys and wallet, and contemplated my wife's form one last time. I whispered an apology for leaving. I kissed her one last time.

I remember everything, and not just because it happened a few hours ago. If God were to plug the holes where my life is now draining, if I were to go on another twenty years, I'd remember the details of this morning. For a moment, I was happy. It was a peculiar happy. I was complete yet emptied out. Pure. Soft, but I was also at a sharp emotional extreme. When it seems that after decades of living, my heart had felt everything it could, here was something new. I'm grateful I felt it at all.

But would've life been like if I'd felt it earlier?

CHAPTER 22: BOBBY

A car door slammed in the distance and I snapped from sleep. There was no confusion. I immediately knew why I was waking on a strange forest floor. But I feared I'd woken too late. No. The house looked the same. The car was still in the drive.

A light blanket of dew covered me. I shivered. I should've been sick from sleeping outside in chilly weather, but I was fine, as if God believed Darryl deserved justice more than I deserved to get sick. As if.

I yawned and exhaled thin vapor. I kept an eye out for peeping toms, then unzipped my pants and peed. A cloud of steam drifted up. I shook away the last drops. The front door across the street opened. I put it away and crouched. Adam Sutler walked down a few steps, then turned and walked back to the front door.

Adam. Not the wife or kids. I rewrote my plan PDQ.

I came out of the woods. My ears and my arms and legs were warm and buzzing. I wondered if that was something like the rush of the coke I had sold so many times.

CHAPTER 23: ADAM

A classical tune played in my head, a tune everyone knows but only people on Jeopardy can name. Birds chirped in the fresh air. I blew air through my puckered lips to join them. No music. I could never whistle.

At the bottom of the steps, I couldn't remember if I locked the front door. I went back.

Or was that yesterday? It happened a lot. I forget if I forgot.

I remember I balanced my travel mug on the roof of the car. I heard a rustle across the street. Someone, a figure, emerged from the trees and into the light. Closer, I made out more details. They bent their head. A hood hid their face. A leaf clung to the hood. The body seemed to be a male's, a young male. The clothes were wrinkled, but they looked new. He didn't speak.

I wasn't alarmed. I sensed an emergency, just not mine. I prepared to take someone to the hospital or lend the kid my cell or something, and be late for work. But nothing was out of the ordinary other than the boy, and the boy was just walking. He kept his head bent down, I figured, because he was crying and was ashamed about it. I was happy to help lend a hand.

He was about fifteen feet away.

"Can I help you?"

CHAPTER 24: BOBBY

Wish I'd said something cool to that. "Help me kill you," is too obvious and not very badass, but that's all I could think of. All I can think of.

I pulled the utility knife from my pocket and pushed up the blade.

His hands shot up. One held a paper bag, car keys in the other.

"What's happening?" His chest fluttered.

I jabbed the knife. He flinched. I lowered the knife and his face relaxed. I raised the knife and his face scrunched again. I pointed to the car. "Open the door." He pressed his thumb and a beep rang out. I could've made him strip and do a handstand if I wanted.

"Okay. Here's what's going to happen. We're gonna get in the car and I'm gonna tell you where to go. You drive. See how easy it is? But if you scream, if you turn left when I say right, if you go too slow or too fast, if you do anything I don't like, then I'll stab your eyes and slit your throat. Got it?"

He nodded. I did a dramatic "one...two...three" and we climbed in, me quick, him awkward and slow.

The soft leather seats massaged my muscles which had been sore so long, I was almost used to the discomfort. The genius engineers at the car company had turned the simple act of sitting into a luxury. Adam Sutler had no idea what a privilege it was to drive from A to B in such comfort.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Now drive."

He started the car. "Where?"

"Backwards, dumbfuck."

He reversed. Thunder rolled on the roof. He gave a little yelp. A mug tumbled down the windshield, a trail of coffee behind it. The mug bounced off the hood and crashed on the driveway. He waited for my instructions on how to deal with the accident. I had to tell him to turn on the windshield wipers and continue driving.

At the stop sign, he asked which way to go. A muted melody came from his pants. He handed me his cell phone. I read the name.

"Who's 'Don'? A cop?"

"No."

I lowered the window and dropped the phone. "Any other surprises?"

He stammered. I cut him off and told him to head down 77.

Passing the mall bummed me. I don't know why I didn't buy more last night. For one thing, boarding the bus without luggage might've seemed suspicious. Plus, I dreaded the long drive with nothing to do. I read the clock on the dash. No time to execute my plan, buy more stuff, and make it to the station.

When we entered the highway, I told him to drive perfectly and if we were pulled over for any foolishness, I'd slice his neck. He looked at me in the rearview mirror like I was crazy. I decided to play along, and told him that I didn't give a fuck. I might go to jail but he'd be fucking dead, so he better do what I say.

All those morons on the road with sour faces, speeding to their worthless jobs. Every single commuter was serious and miserable. Okay, maybe some of them might've been important members of society, but most of them weren't. I wasn't impressed or jealous of their nice cars. My day was going to be better than theirs. I was getting justice and then going to Florida. I wished I could've let them know and piss them off even more than they were already.

One driver on the right was a bald fifty-something in a brown suit, and worked up like a beehive. His scalp was dark pink. He was yelling, but no one else was in the car. Maybe he was yelling into a speaker phone, or maybe his drive to work was his only opportunity to unleash the true hatred he held for his life and he was yelling at the universe. For the rest of the day, he'd be calm and kind to his co-workers and his family, the rage building up all the while till it would gush out during his next commute. He mouthed, "Fuck you," it looked like, before he sped ahead of us into his hateful life.

A police cruiser's nose jutted from the left, waiting to make someone's bad day worse.

"Be cool, man."

I'm not sure what I feared he could've done to flag down the cop, but I wasn't going to take the chance that he had a swifter imagination than me. We passed the cop without a problem.

"Yo, turn on the radio."

He did. "What station?"

"Change till I tell you stop."

My nexts came quick. The airwaves were cluttered with jokers and clowns. I wasn't in the mood. He finally landed on a beat I liked.

"Turn that shit up."

He did. I told him to turn up the bass. He pressed some buttons but the sound didn't change. He had no idea what he was doing. I didn't complain.

The song was new to me, but even if I had listened to it a million times, I doubt I could've deciphered the words the chorus sang. I recognized a few scattered words, so at least I could tell it was in English. I got by some strange means of communication that the song was about happiness. Happiness from what, I don't know, but the specifics didn't matter. When someone says they're happy, that's usually enough for me. It's when they're sad that I've sometimes gotten into long talks. At least I would've if I'd had a girlfriend who wasn't so thoughtless. I wondered if the tune was having an effect on Adam Sutler. I hoped he couldn't pay attention to the music because of the crazy kid in the back seat to, but maybe just for a second he let his guard down and succumbed to the joy that surrounded him.

The next song was slower and sadder. Probably about the loss of happiness. We approached our exit. I told him to turn it off. I warned him if he tried to hightail it at a red light, I'd be sure to catch him and slice his vertebrae in half.

Miracle of miracles, the parking space closest to the front door was empty. Again I sensed the hand of a benevolent God was clearing my way and urging me on.

I made Adam Sutler turn off the car and hand me the keys. It was probably getting old by now, but I reminded him that I had a knife and wasn't afraid to use it, that I was out of my skull, and that testing my sprinting abilities would be a fatal mistake. And the counting to three was probably getting silly, but I did it anyway. We climbed out of the car. I put away the knife and told him to walk. He put his hands up.

"What are you doing? Shit man. We're just two dudes walking into this apartment building. Right?"

He put them down.

I wasn't sure what to do with the car keys. On the one hand, I thought I should use the car to get to the bus station. On the other hand, after the deed was done, the cops would be on the lookout for his car. Discovering it at the bus station would give them one hell of a clue. So many details and questions I hadn't anticipated jumped in my path and demanded a decision. Stressful. I tossed the keys into a bush, thinking maybe they'd be there later if I wanted them. If not, if someone saw them and took the car, I'd make their day. Karma. I'd deal with getting to the station some other way when the time came.

At the top of the stairs, Adam almost knocked over an old lady coming around the corner. Either he was too afraid to talk or else he was rude, so I apologized for him and explained that my friend had too much to drink last night. Even though he was the one at fault, the woman looked at me real nasty look for some reason. I politely smiled. She went, "Garump." I gave Adam a nudge.

Inside the apartment, with the knife out, I made Adam sit at that table. I gave him a roll of duct tape from a kitchen drawer.

"Tape your legs to the chair. Make it real tight."

He held the roll like it was toxic.

"Or I'll--"

I didn't know how to finish but I didn't need to. He taped his left arm. I took care of his right arm, and then went over his arms and legs in case he'd gone easy on himself. I know I would've.

"What's going to--?"

I cracked him across his cheek. I don't know why. I didn't mean to. I think I figured that's what Sampson would've done. The way he looked at me, it was like I told him he wasn't invited to my birthday party or something. It nearly apologized.

But I stopped myself. One more detail I hadn't foreseen: this was going to be difficult. But I wasn't going to untie hi and send him home. I still saw him as responsible in some way for Darryl.

I covered his mouth with a few layers of tape. I'm not sure I needed to. He wasn't going to scream for help any time soon. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

CHAPTER 25: SAMPSON

And forward to today. Or yesterday, extended. Pretended to myself that Bobby had collected the rest of the money. Then I gave up. Slept so light it didn't count. First customer of the day at Target. Lingered over a job application at the register and thought about it as I drove to Conrad's. Delivered the disposable cell phone. Made a pointless effort to get Bobby off the hook. Marcus' pinkie finger extended as he held his coffee cup. "Better to be hard now and avoid a civil war later. No one ever stayed in this business by being nice. One weak leg can bring down the table." He spoke like he was reciting from one of his books on tape. True but cruel. He knew he was cruel. He couldn't face me. Ashamed? Will he ever be able to look in mirror again? Mirror.

He scribbled on a scrap of paper. Said in nature, the predators are good for the prey population, how the prey get stronger because the weakest members get eliminated.

No sense. Bobby's bad luck equals weakness? If so, then we're all twigs under elephants. But we're not. We're elephants under elephants.

"What if he comes close?"

He reached a sum and threw his pen across the desk. The pen teetered on the edge, not sure if it wanted to stay or fall. "No. And it ain't that much. Not if he knows how to work."

Here comes a memory. Covered in haze. I am held. Whiskers scrape my cheek. It's Marcus. But was it? I'm not certain. If so, that's all. That's all the touching he even gave me. In childhood or beyond. He never loved me. Tough love, he'd say. He's said. No. Just tough.

I fired up my car. I turned on the radio and pushed the volume high. I drove to Waffle House to get some breakfast. The grill sizzled with everyone's eggs and hash browns. I ordered a burger.

CHAPTER 26: BRENDA

Do I really need to? I already gave the other guy the highlights: the ransom, the apartment. Do you really need every grimy detail?

Fine. I'll tell you everything I remember about yesterday if that's what you want. Sure. I have no reason to lie to you. I didn't do anything wrong. You can't charge me with anything.

Can I smoke in here? Seriously? But they always smoke in movies.

Okay. Yesterday. I woke up smiling. Adam and I had passed though a dark time and isn't the view more beautiful after a storm passes? I don't care if that's a cliché. When IA cleared him, he came alive and we turned a page. I don't care if that's another cliché. It' too painful to talk without the buffer of clichés. We were happy and it ended. Does that make it a happy story or tragic? I don't know. If I had any idea what was in store...but I didn't. So I woke up smiling. And alone. Adam was helping out with my dad's construction company. As far as I knew, that's where he was.

No, I'm fine. As fine as could be expected.

The bathroom mirror told me I was pretty. That wasn't vanity. The mirror is rarely kind to me. I abused my body for a few years and I still wear a few marks to prove it. But in front of the mirror I gave off a healthy glow that was like a triumph. Beauty after the storm, right?

While the coffee brewed I contemplated the orchid Adam had given me the day before. It's young. Just two delicate buds clinging to a stem. Doesn't look like much but it will and it made me happy. He knew it would. That's why he gave it. He knew me better than anyone. Almost better than I know myself.

I was scheduled to work yesterday, and I thought how great it was going to be to spend the day in the flower shop sheltering this fragile emotion I had for Adam until we were together again.

I had my coffee on the backyard patio. It was chilly but not uncomfortable. Birds traveling south serenaded me. Nice of them.

And the kids. I used to hate the noise of kids playing. They scream a lot, don't they? Even when they're happy. I'd rather listen to nails on a chalkboard. A small gang was tearing up someone's yard. I couldn't tell whose. But for some magical reason, yesterday morning, I swear their shouts were like songs from little angels. I wondered why they weren't in school, and I assumed--

Look goddammit. You asked me what I remember about yesterday and I'm telling you. Later on you can decide what's important to you and what isn't, but it's all important to me so I'm going to tell it.

CHAPTER 27: BOBBY

He reminded me of Wendy's old dog when it had been found out behaving bad and it was sorry and it hungered for you to love it again. Its expression was so pitiful you couldn't help but cave in and pat it on its head. But then I remembered Darryl face colliding with the pavement in front of the motel. Then I didn't care about Adam Sutler. Then I could begin.

"Know who I is?" The wrong grammar felt weird in my mouth. To my ears, my tough and intimidating voice made fun of Sampson, like it sounded at the frozen yogurt place. But I think it worked on Adam.

He didn't know who I was. Am. Still am because there's still an I.

I told him. His dim expression didn't brighten till I said, "Darryl Cooper was my brother." That got the reaction I wanted. He deflated. He had an inkling about what was coming and he didn't look forward to its arrival.

I pulled the paper from my pocket, grabbed the phone in the living room, dialed a few numbers, then hung up, faced with one more detail I hadn't worked out: what to say. I had to be confident and clear, communicate what I wanted from her in the fewest words possible. But I also had to put the fear of God into her.

I was confident I knew what to say before I really knew what to say. I dialed the entire number. The pause before the connection seemed longer than normal and the pause after the first ring took another forever. This is the moment, I thought, when I can't turn back, forgetting about the cop I had bound to a chair.

Her voice was hot. That caught me off guard. But Adam Sutler grunted behind me and put me back on track.

"If you ever want to see your husband again, you'll do what I say."

"Who is this?" She turned ugly.

"I'm the guy who's gonna kill your husband, bitch."

My delivery seemed so fake to me, but I think they bought it. Adam did at least. He struggled and moaned. It was a good idea to tighten the tape. He got the chair on two legs, and slowly but surely, he toppled to the floor. I bent over him and tried to pull the tape from his mouth. I could pull it down only as far as his top lip. I put the phone to his mouth and told him to say something.

"God." He spoke like his mouth was full of marbles. "Brenda. This psycho--"

His wife's long, high pitched wail shook the phone. I hung up.

"What a bitch."

I tried to get the gag back on Adam Sutler, but he wouldn't shut up. "Look, all my money is yours. Take it. Let me go. I won't tell anyone." I've heard those lines in a million shows. They didn't belong in the real world.

I told him to stop talking. He wouldn't. I hit his mouth. His lip was split, but barely. I saw a red line but no blood flowed. I got the gag back on.

I left him on the floor and went to the couch. I caught my breath and massaged my sore middle knuckle. I dreaded calling her back. I played with the idea that I had already doled out enough punishment. Already, I had successfully traumatized this guy and his wife, and maybe I could've let it go at that. Maybe I could've gotten the hell out of there and tried to catch an earlier bus.

But Darryl was worth more than a half-assed scheme. And dropping the whole thing didn't solve the problem of Zeke Ravella.

I grabbed the phone and hit the redial button. She was calmer.

"There he is. Want to see him again?"

There was a tense pause. Tense for me. It never occurred to me that she might not want to see him again. Maybe she had been hoping to dump her husband for a while and I had answered her prayers.

"Of course I do," she finally answered.

"Then kill Zeke Ravella."

Another pause, then she asked me to repeat myself. I was happy to. She said she couldn't. I told her she had to.

My thumb got nervous. I had to call again.

"And no cops. I mean, except Zeke Ravella. And you ain't got much time. And we're watching."

"You are?"

"Yes. I can see you right now."

She sniffled. "But I can't do it."

"Look, someone's gonna die. Either Zeke Ravella or your husband. It's your choice." I said it patiently, but sort of menacing too. Sometimes Marcus would talk that way and it was always eerie. I hung up.

Adam was heavier then he looked. I hurt my arms getting him upright. I sat across from him at the table.

"You hear all that?"

His response through the tape was a long "mmm".

"I kinda lied at the end. You're gonna die too. You know that, right?"

His "mmm" broke up and got choppy and rapid. He shook his head. I nodded mine.

I pointed to the shattered TV. "By the way, you like my surveillance system?"

CHAPTER 28: BRENDA

I was in the kitchen. My English muffin popped from the toaster the second the phone rang, like the appliances had been secretly communicating. You know how that sometimes happens?

The caller ID said "Dwight Powell." I don't know how I remember that but I do. Don't know why I picked up either. Could've just as easily let the machine tell the caller he misdialed. I wonder if that would've changed anything.

The voice. I'd never heard it before. It rang false, acted. It was too soft and shaky to come across hard, but the speaker was trying. "You wanna see your husband again, bitch?" Like that. Like a tasteless prank call from an undisciplined brat.

I asked who it was, even though I have caller ID. Habit. Dwight Powell.

That wasn't his real name? Whatever.

He said--

No. I'm fine.

He said he was the guy who was going to kill Adam. Then I heard Adam and I knew it wasn't a joke. They hung up. The dial tone hurt, like a slap. My knees trembled. My shoulders-- Actually, I won't bother to describe all the involuntary bodily symptoms of my terror. I can't remember them anyway.

I wanted to call 911. Actually, my first impulse was to call my dad, though he couldn't help in any practical way. I wanted to use the phone, but I wasn't sure how. I didn't know what to do. What's the protocol? I tried to remember what usually happens in those movies after the kidnappers call. I couldn't remember. A thousand movies and I couldn't remember a single one. And it reminded me of a movie, a corny, basic cable story. "Just when she thought things were fine, her world got turned upside down."

The phone rang. Scared the hell out of me. I dropped it on the counter and it slipped around as I fumbled for it. Meanwhile, I frantically tabulated how much of a ransom I could gather. I reached a number but it didn't matter. The ransom wasn't money. The kid told me to kill Zeke. The deal was, if I killed Zeke Ravella, I'd get Adam back. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I was like, "Look, I'll pay whatever you want." But this person hated Zeke more than they loved money, a point of view I've come to appreciate.

They hung up after dropping that bombshell. In some abstract way, I instantly visualized myself killing Zeke. Like, I saw him falling over. Nowhere in particular. His body collapsing in a vacuum.

They called again. I don't know why they needed multiple calls to get their information across, why they didn't get it over with at once. To toy with me? This call warned me against contacting you guys, obviously, and to say they were watching me. Then they hung up. This time, it seemed final. There wasn't much more they needed to say.

Yeah, I know now, but there was no way to know then. I'm going to keep saying "them" and "they" because at the time I had to assume this was a complicated, well-organized plot put together by a professional criminal ring. After all, they had captured Adam, a trained officer, and they had amassed some significant information: who Zeke was, who Adam was, where we lived.

Nix that last part. Any loon can find us from the goddamn phone book. It doesn't take a master criminal to ferret out where we live. You know, I told Adam a million times to take us out of the book. What detective has a listed number? He'd promise he would, then a new book would arrive and I'd find out he hadn't. He'd apologize and defend himself by claiming that he wanted to keep it in case someone might need him. Who? For what? God, it made me so mad when he'd pull that. It made no sense. Need him? Well, your wish was granted.

Anyway, I was paralyzed with self-consciousness. "And we're watching?" There were cameras in the house for all I knew. It took a while before I felt comfortable moving, but I loosened enough to toss out the English muffin. I did it slow and deliberate like I was a nervous actor on stage for the first time. I peeked out the kitchen window and didn't see anyone. That didn't mean much. Someone could've been out of sight, hiding with binoculars.

I went to the living room. There's a small patch of woods across the street. Through a slit in the curtains, I couldn't see any movement. That didn't mean much. It would make a great cover. That's where I would hang out if I was spying.

I did notice, though, that there weren't any strange vehicles parked. Even in my delusional paranoia, I understood if cameras were in the house, there needed to be a van nearby loaded with monitors. No van, no cameras in the house.

But I swore the woods were full of people. I sensed them, which was worse than seeing them. A stranger on the lawn staring back at me would've provided some comfort.

I didn't know what to do. What would you do? So I plopped down on the couch and did nothing. Well, I thought, but they were insensible thoughts. Like, wouldn't it be great if they called back and said, "Ha ha. You're on a shitty hidden camera show?" Or, like, was this was the most vivid dream I've ever had in my life and how would I know it wasn't? How could I prove it? Pinch myself? What does pinching yourself prove? Can't you dream you're pinching yourself? But I knew it wasn't a dream. I knew because everything was coated with the dirty film that always covers reality, giving Life its special look. The dreamworld can't replicate it. At least, my dreamworld can't.

Then I wondered if this ordeal would get me a few minutes on Oprah. I'm not a huge fan, but wouldn't it be nice to be a minor celebrity for a week or so? Wouldn't everyone at the flower shop be so jealous?

Work. I had to call off work.

I prayed that anyone but Melody would answer. I wasn't at the praying stage yet about the kidnapping, but loud and distinct, I beseeched the powers of the universe to spare me from her.

Melody owns Melody's Flowers don't you know, and she takes an intense and unwelcomed interest in her employees. Too bad none of us can stand her. I suppose she's nice, but she's nice like Satan was when he tempted Jesus. I don't trust her. No one can be that nice without an ulterior motive. I'd like her more if she was vicious on occasion. For some reason or for no reason, she likes me more than she likes the others. I don't know what sin I've committed to deserve that cruel punishment.

Well, it wasn't the first time my prayers were ignored. She was bubbly and cheery, just to annoy me. I made my spiel as short as she'd let me. "It's Brenda. Sick. A cold. Can't work." Of course, she was devastated by the news, not that I wouldn't be coming in but that I was under the weather. And to fall so rapidly too, since I had been fine the day before.

Oh, by some wonderful coincidence, she had some leftover chicken soup and although she was really busy, and would be even busier without me, she'd find time to go home and fetch the soup and bring it to me even though I lived out of the way. What a bitch.

I said, "No. Please no," and hung up on her saying, "It's no problem." I'm sure I was rude enough. As far as I know, she never came by. She'll find out soon enough my illness was a lie. Won't she just be crushed that I fibbed?

The phone was in my hand. I dialed 9 and 1, then gave up. That they had placed cameras and microphones in the house might be far fetched, but tapping the phones seemed easy enough, right? Don't ask me why I thought that, what logic I used. More and more bits of my rational mind were crumbling by the minute. Adam had been kidnapped. I had been directed to kill Zeke. After that, what criteria do you have left for what's sound and what isn't?

Look, hindsight's twenty-twenty, but yesterday morning, I was blindfolded and groping in the dark. I now know almost everything I thought yesterday morning was wrong. I know there was no massive conspiracy. Now I get that this was the doing of a lone mentally deranged punk. The phones weren't tapped. No one watched me. Wait. Come to think of it, I wasn't completely off base. Wasn't one of yours watching the house?

I'm calm enough now--numbed more like--but I dropped the phone and cried and pulled out hairs one at a time. I'd twirl my finger around a strand, then yank. Repeat. Why? I don't know. Didn't lessen my anxiety, didn't ease my tension, but I didn't know what else to do.

Because calling for help was out of the question. The only call I could make was to Zeke. Or to Dwight Powell to tell him twisted mission accomplished. Who he was? A gangster with a vendetta? And if he had the resources to set up such an elaborate kidnapping, why couldn't he kill Zeke himself? Or use the people watching me? And why me? What made them think I could kill someone? Could I? In the right circumstances, maybe. To save someone. It's such a generic, hypothetical example from an ethics textbook: would you kill someone to save someone else? But it was real.

Actually, I once had some preparation for dealing with this issue. Well, I thought I did. I take it I can reference an event that might be construed as illegal? This was years ago. I'm not a lawyer, but I'll risk that the statue of limitations is over. Statute.

I was the last one out of the bar. Back then, I'd stay till they had to sweep me out. So I was stumbling down the street, making my way home, minding my own business. At a break in the sidewalk I heard a rustle in the alleyway. I'm still not sure why I didn't bolt. Late night? A woman alone? A darkened alleyway? A recipe for disaster. I didn't care. Dutch courage.

Shadows moved behind a dumpster. The romantic in me believed a couple was preparing to physically express their love.

They weren't. A woman tried to scream "Help," but she choked on that syllable and it dissolved into sick gagging. There are six billion people on the planet and she was appealing for just one to step in and save her skin. I now have some idea what she was going through. Yesterday, I was never more alone on this overpopulated planet.

Well, my first instinct was to get myself far away from there, telling myself I'd call the cops as soon as I was safe. She made another repellent noise, something between a scream and an upchuck.

It was the dead of night. No one around. Not one person I could pass the buck to. The streets were apathetic. It was like the whole world couldn't have cared less what happened to this woman. Wait. No, that's not it at all. Actually it was kind of the opposite. It was like the world was watching me, impatiently waiting for me to stop gawking and make an effort.

So I didn't have a choice. At least that's what I told myself when I started kicking the shit out of this him.

Cut to years later. In my living room. Alone. The world is watching, waiting for action. Someone needs my help. No one else can do the job. It's almost the same thing, I thought.

I picked up the phone and told the dial tone, "I'll do it. Happy?"

CHAPTER 29: DALE

So now that our background is shaded in a bit more, we come to yesterday. I mean, we have more dots. Hm. Pity the journey to this point has slightly fatigued me. Mind if we take a break? No? You're riveted? I see.

My yesterday, the conscious parts at least--I needn't report on the doings of my sleeping hours--commenced with the crack of a door slamming shut. I knew my wife took care of the week's grocery list every Friday, but I had no idea she shopped so early. It was approximately eight.

Other than a pasty tongue, I had eluded the more disagreeable consequences of overindulgence. In a way, this disappointed me. My circumstances were out of the ordinary--that is, no work--and some bodily disruption would have provided a pleasing symmetry. Pleasing because a symmetry is always pleasing.

I had no obligations yesterday. Nothing. And is there any more odious an enemy of the vital mortal than "free time," an expression and a state which I loath? Free time frightens me, and it is nothing to seek out or to rejoice at upon finding. I know I have the reputation for being a hard worker, but no one considers a fear of the void is my primal motivation.

So I was awake, alive, but I questioned the point of being so. The sandman's magic had dissipated and falling back under his spell was impossible, though, for a few minutes, I tried, during which I attempted to mentally locate chores around the house which might consume time, but there were no more than an hour's worth of leaves on the ground and I had cleaned the gutters two weeks ago. My wife took responsibility for the inside our residence, so there was little remaining that required my attention. How sad, when you think about it.

So television, I decided. I was going to watch hours and hours of television. With luck on my side, I'd catch a cop show, and one: remind myself why I took this job in the first place, and two: perhaps add a few killer lines to my arsenal.

In my robe, I nuked a cup of lukewarm coffee and plopped down on the couch. I've had a thick turtle-green robe for years and I estimate it's never spent more than ten minutes covering my nudity. A robe is so decadent, don't you think? When one dons a robe, one is admitting one is not planning on doing much of anything for an extended period of time.

Daytime TV is dreadful, with its paid programming, shows aimed at children, idiots pontificating on sports or celebrities or home decorations. No Law and Order till noon. I would've settled for another adventure of our Temperamental Woman and Her Flower Bearing Fool but I tuned to the station too late. The end credits were rolling for that particular pleasure.

I dug through the morass of cultural depravity, incredulous I could not locate any salvation amongst the two hundred stations. Then I came across quite a hubbub. A din, to be sure, but an intriguing din if you can conjure such a creature. A political show. I promptly thanked the television gods for cable news.

The host quieted his three rambunctious guests. Each occupied their own segment of the screen and each, apparently, subscribed to the specious notion that volume and validity are bedfellows. I exaggerate. The youngest guest, a liberal arts major from a small but reputable university, behaved with relative restraint.

Perhaps as a reward, the host focused on the young man and asked for a clarification of his position. The youth gently explained how he held the position that terrorists lose any moral ground they might have otherwise possessed the moment they take the lives of innocent civilians. By the same token, he went on, the US looses their moral authority whenever one of our bombs accidentally impacts a hospital or peaceful village.

This ruffled the other two guests, but the host cut off their squawks to attack the boy himself. The host--in a tone I judged to be a bit pedantic--assured the youth no one derives pleasure from the suffering of innocents, who, after all, we're over there to protect in the first place. But this is war and people die. Hadn't the idealist ever heard of "collateral damage?" It was perhaps a rhetorical question, but the plucky boy gave an answer. "Yes. But have you ever heard of total bullshit?"

Oh, the subsequent bedlam was priceless. Over the noise of the other two, the host issued an immediate apology to the audience and announced the show would return after a brief commercial break, minus one guest.

I turned off the set. Firstly, nothing on any channel all day was going to top that moment. Secondly, the delightful whelp had hinted at something profound, or at least something that resonated in me, something removed from military matters.

Gruber was content to wait for Ravella to tag another bastard and when doing so, to perhaps leave behind a bit of hard evidence--the "you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet" theory. In other words, Gruber felt distressingly little moral outrage over collateral damage. Total bullshit.

The outspoken youth had energized me back to my old self. I ran upstairs and tore off the robe and got into a suit. I can't say if the suit could be adjudged to be work clothes or civvies. In my closet, there's little difference between the two. In the bathroom, I did the lightest primping required to retain my dignity.

In my home office, I skimmed Ravella's case file, stuffed it in my briefcase, and--

Well, things get a little blurry here. Lost time. Next thing I know, I'm across the street from Ravella's apartment building. In the midst of parallel parking, midway into reversing, I braked and asked myself a tough, sober question: "Dale, what are you doing?"

But I didn't answer. Sorry, but I didn't. I completed the parallel park and waited.

CHAPTER 30: ZEKE

After Gavin's, I wanted to get ripped. I'm talking seven sheets to the wind. After all, IA's verdict deserved some celebration. And hell, it was a Thursday.

I pulled teeth to find some company. All my acquaintances claimed to be indisposed. I eventually roped in a guest. It doesn't matter who. He came over and we spent some time doing the whisky and coke thing. Then he bitched out and left. That was last time I saw him and I don't expect him to visit anytime soon.

I wasn't hungry but I needed to eat. Didn't work. Everything I tried tasted bad. Nothing was right.

I went to get something from my jeep. Outside, I learned the hard way I had forgotten my keys. Locked out of my car, locked out of the building. Thank God I had my cell on me. By the time the landlord arrived, I didn't want to go to my jeep anymore. I decided to give it a day.

I slept and dreamed I was having sex on a vibrating bed. I don't remember who I was boning. I woke to my cell phone ringing and vibrating in my pants pocket. That explains that.

My jelly muscles couldn't answer the phone, so I told it to fuck off. Believe it or not, the rings and vibrations stopped.

I wiped away crumbs of eye gunk. I blinked till my vision wasn't checkered. Took a while.

My cheek was sopping wet. I'm a drooler. I admit it, but this was ridiculous. I marveled at the small lake on the cushion. Crazy night.

Then the phone rang again. I flipped it open and yelled a few bad words.

My heart beat, which was good, but it hurt a little. The viper? I don't know. I tried to stand. Bad idea. I rose, like, an inch off the couch and gravity pushed me back. The day didn't want me. Well I didn't want it, but you never get a day off from a day, you know?

The phone rang again. I was still holding it. When that thing goes off in your hand, it'll wake you faster than coffee, even when you're expecting a call and you know the exact second it's coming, which I wasn't.

And who needed me so bad? I somehow made out Brenda's name on the caller ID.

I don't think I've explained my position on Brenda. I wanted her, sure, but I knew she wasn't worth having. Still, it bugged me that Adam of all people had her. Love is a selfish thing. Not that I loved her. It's too complicated a situation to correctly explain. And in the end, it doesn't matter.

She spoke fast. "Z. It's Brenda. Don't hang up. I need you."

When she's in bitch mode, she'll make you wanna sever your sack and hang yourself. But when she acts like a normal woman, she's irresistible.

Too bad I felt like roadkill. I promised to stop by later and give her a good scrumping. She didn't want me, she said. She needed me. Like I said, irresistible. I told her not to start without me.

So that was worth getting out of bed for. Or the couch. Whatever.

I wasn't confident I had the strength required to put out her fire, but after I smoked a cigarette I was able to stand. I was getting better by the minute. If my body stayed on this course, I'd probably have the strength to put out her fire when I got to the scene. I looked forward to the challenge.

But after a long leak, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I punched it. Didn't break the mirror though. My knuckles turn red is all. I went back to the living room and made a thin line from the powder on the coffee table. It didn't do much.

So then what? I showered. You know, it's not just an expression, "guilt weighing on me." I was shorter and weaker than I'd been a few days earlier. The shower spray could've tipped me over.

All would've been fine if I was pure evil. I envied those psycho fucks that could sit down and enjoy a bowl of Rice Krispies after taking an ax to their entire family. But that wasn't me. I had a kernel of goodness inside me. A soul. But I had neglected my soul for as long as I'd had it, so it was dirty and dilapidated. And since I wasn't using it, a thin viper had attached itself to my soul and had been sucking on it. If I didn't do something fast, the beast would suck it dry.

Who's the guy who fell off his horse and saw a cross in the sky? I can't remember either, but it doesn't matter because the story's not that special. When we're down in the dirt, earthbound, that's when our celestial daddy makes known his grace. Miracles are so commonplace, there's nothing miraculous about them.

I'm in the kitchen. I scoop out a rounded tablespoon of coffee from a can and I'm about to dump it in the machine when I am frozen. A beam of light shoots out of the sky and pierces my skin. It batters my heart. With that, I break and burn to a heap of ash.

"Are you happy?"

"No." My tears start to drip to the carpet.

"Does anything make you happy?"

"No."

"Are you really living?"

"No."

"Do you want life?"

"Yes."

"Do you want everlasting life?"

"Yes."

"Then why have you abandoned me?"

"I'm sorry."

"Prove it, lest you be a clanging cymbal."

Trippy, huh? I insist this moment of witness occurred exactly as I reported. True, I had a lot of chemicals in my system, but I've always been able to handle my shit. Never hallucinated before, if that's you're feeble explanation. And yes, I'd been under a lot of stress, but I'd been in tight spots before and I retained sharp use of my faculties. No, all attempts to explain the miracle away will fail. What happened happened.

Immediately, my world transformed. For example, I returned to my position above the coffee maker, the spoon still in my hand, and in the distance, church bells rang. What's strange is there weren't any churches near my place. Explain that, if you can. Me, I'd say it was a sign to get working.

But how to clean a soul? No one ever taught me. I rummaged through what I knew of religion and I decided I was going to confess. Why not? People have been doing it for thousands of years. It must work. You list the shit you've done, say you're sorry, and presto--you're forgiven. I'm not saying Catholicism's the way to go. I'm just saying in my condition, I latched on to their confession thing. It felt right. I still like it. I think it's almost the only thing the Catholics ever nailed.

But a confession wouldn't be enough. I knew I also needed to perform some good deeds. A big great deed, I would think. Not that I needed one good thing for every bad thing, but the debit side was way too low and needed to be raised a few notches.

So I came up with a plan for the day: find a church, receive absolution, bang Brenda, then volunteer at a soup kitchen. And to think the night before I was ready to end it all. Humbling.

Brenda called to ask what was taking me so long.

Yes, God was telling me, "Now that you know what to do, what are you waiting for?"

So I'd skip the church. Confess to her. Why not? It was perfect. I'd threaten to expose our affair to Adam and she'd have to listen to my sins. She couldn't say anything other than, "I will listen," and, "You are forgiven." Besides, it's a priest's job to listen and forgive. It's like banging a hooker. It doesn't really count. They do what they're supposed to, half the time without sincerity. Brenda's forgiveness would mean more than the lip service of a thousand priests. Even the Pope.

I didn't finish making the coffee. I should've been dead tired, but my eyes were open wider than they'd ever been before.

CHAPTER 31: DALE

I'm not sure what I expected to catch sight of unfurling from my coign of vantage. In comparable past situations, I've found it best to expect anything or, rather, nothing--to suspend myself with Zen-like open mindedness. The aim is not to achieve mere tolerance, but true open mindedness, a state which allows one to absorb or deflect the onslaughts of life--whichever maneuver is most prudent--without increasing one's heart palpitations per minute by even one.

Well, I was out of practice. A busybody wrapped on my window and I hit the roof, nearly mussing my hair. He had espied me loitering in my vehicle and inquired with charmless mock authority, "Is there a problem? Do I need to call the cops?" Ah. The neighborhood watch--wild-bearded, cockeyed, formerly brawny before the terrors of time had taken their toll. In the light of stark reality, an unemployable filling his days with a duty I very much doubt anyone ever asked him to perform. I flashed my badge and ordered him to step away. He said, "Sir," and saluted, holding his ludicrous pose for a long, uncomfortable moment, compelling me to clarify. "Now." He marched off, proud to be useful to an officer of the law.

But why so startled by a tap on my window? Had I elevated so high because my bottom had been stimulated by a guilty conscious?

Perhaps. But without question--except from you--Ravella was dirty, yet the bete noir hadn't been snared. Why not? Because of his good luck or our bad luck--it's the same. Not because he was smart. No. It's never smart to be dirty. Dirt sticks to us like Satan's superglue, and the dirt proceeds to spread over our hide until a stink develops to a stench so odious, God's soap can't wash it off. One may cover the telltale fetor with perfume and a disguise, and this ruse may bewilder the dogs for a brief spell, but the stink irrevocably bleeds through the shroud, and the hunt shall commence with a more dogged resolve on the part of the Orions. Wouldn't you agree much time could be saved if, upon catching the first whiff, the prey is put down?

I know, I know. Evidence. Tracks in the mud. You know darn well, I have every respect for the law, but I have even more respect for my nose. How many times has it drawn me in the wrong direction? Forget the record. Wrap your peepers around the bigger picture. The answer: never. My nose has never detected crud when it should've been smelled a rose and vice versa. Never. Besides, let's not forget what our lawyer friends tell us: lack of evidence is not evidence of lack.

On this standpoint, two truths fought. One: I oughtn't hunt off my designated turf and risk a reprimand for trespassing. Fine. But two: the prey wasn't going to wander into my game bag, much less willfully leap inside.

My resolution: I had no better place to be. The caveat: although I wasn't in the wrong, I certainly didn't want to get caught doing it.

My God, is anyone else getting tired? No?

I beckoned Ravella to crawl from his cave in that way we have of summoning those who can't hear us. "C'mon," is usually how it goes. And darn it if it sometimes works. Out he came and climbed into his beat-up jeep.

By the way, battered vehicle, shabby apartment building, worst wardrobe on the force? If this guy was on the take, he should've been taking more.

I memorized his license plate, fired up my car and waited with a watering mouth till he made a fifty foot distance between us. I won't lie. Beating the street was invigorating me more than I'd been in a while, bringing back fond memories from my younger career. And to think I almost stayed in to watch television. Why watch when one can participate? Compelling story too: the good guy hot on the heels of the villain.

CHAPTER 32: ADAM

My right cheek had been throbbing in time with my heartbeat. When my lower back, tight and sore from the hard wooden chair, began to scream for my attention, my cheek refused to give up my attention. They began a determined game of tug-of-war with my nerve ends. Meanwhile, I breathed and tasted the toxic chemicals from the duct tape covering my mouth.

Bobby sat on the couch slurping a bowl of soup. He faced the shattered television screen and pretended I wasn't there, that I wasn't in agony.

He had me face the window. A honk from a passing car reminded me of the calm, peaceful world outside, busy with its business, blind to the insanity in this apartment. I was supposed to be at the construction site today, mucking up and earning nasty looks. Heaven. Or who knows? Maybe today, with a calm head and steady hands, I could've worked diligently and finally earned their respect.

I tried to think my way out of physical pain. Nothing serene to ponder. No cucumber calm thought to be had. Just: what the hell's going on? How long has this been planned? Was he really Darryl Cooper's brother or was that a fake out? Was Bobby even my captor's real name? Was someone putting him up this? Who? Why? Why involve Brenda? What did she ever do? What was going through her tortured mind? Was she considering doing it? Why Zeke? I concentrated on my pain to stop the thinking.

A knock on the door startled me. Bobby more, I think. He spilled his bowl of soup on the carpet. I thought it was the rescue squad coming for me. I yelled through the tape. Bobby made a fist but his face was all worry. I scraped the chair against the floor.

"Hey. I can hear you in there." The doorknob rattled. "Open the fucking door Bobby."

I decided it probably wasn't the police.

Everything went quiet. Then keys jingled. A key crunched as it entered the lock. The door opened.

"Fuck you lady," the man said. A woman in the distance gasped.

Okay. Not the landlord either.

The door slammed shut.

"Bobby. You got--?" A pause. "The fuck is this?"

"Lemme explain."

"What the fuck?"

"It's how I'm getting the money."

"Shit."

"I'll have it. Lemme do this thing."

"What thing?"

"This."

"This is your plan?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck?"

"It's cool."

"Doesn't look cool."

"It is."

There was a long pause as, I guess, the man looked me over from the back and tried to decide if what he saw was a good thing or bad.

"I gotta tell Marcus," the man finally said.

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"It'll mess things up. Then Marcus won't get his money."

"If Marcus finds out, he'll eat us both alive. What do I tell him?"

"Nothing. Just come back at six."

"Six? It's due today."

"Six is today."

"Marcus ain't fucking around."

"I know. I get it."

They paused. The man breathed heavily.

"You swear you'll have the money?"

"I swear."

"You know what you're doing?"

"Hell yeah."

"Who is this?"

"He's money in the bank."

"Jesus."

"No. Even better."

"Ha. You can handle it?"

One of them smacked the back of my head. I didn't expect it. I broke wind.

"What a mess."

"I'll clean it up. Marcus'll have his money and tomorrow'll be a new day for all of us."

"Man. If I had my piece on me, I'd smoke this guy right now."

"Then Marcus won't get his money. Please. I'm fine. You didn't see anything. He wasn't here. I wasn't here. At six. I swear. At six."

Just like Zeke's interview. Only bits made sense at the time. When more made sense, it was too late to matter.

"If anything, any fucking thing, goes the tiniest bit wrong, you never heard of me and you sure as shit never heard of Marcus. Got it?"

"See you at six, my man."

I wiggled my tongue through my sealed lips to taste the duct tape.

CHAPTER 33: BRENDA

We have a gun. I wondered if the kidnappers knew that. I acted as if they knew everything. Our mortgage broker, anniversary, the amount due on our electric bill. My social security number, pant size, the date of my last dental appointment.

A Smith and Wesson Ladysmith. We keep it on the top shelf in the bedroom closet, pushed to the back. Sort of an out of the way place to keep it, very inconvenient in an emergency, I thought. It's not like children were going to stumble on. But Adam insisted that the closet was the most prudent place to keep it. Don't ask me to explain his logic.

I've never fired the thing. Adam once demonstrated how to use it: flick this, pull that, squeeze here. The only gun I've held in my entire life had been in my hands for all of one minute.

I got it out. It really is a simple device. I flicked the safety switch back and forth, checked the chamber, all that. No mystery how ten year olds can fire them off without a problem. Ours had a sturdy, solid weight, but it wasn't heavy. Nice stainless steel plating, no flourishes. Spare and minimal. Beautiful but cold, like a Modernist sculpture.

I searched the house for a good place to hide the thing. In the back of my mind--no. Closer to the front, I hoped the kidnappers saw what I was doing and were pleased. The thing needed to be accessible but not in the open. I needed to whip it and fire it out before Zeke could respond. I'm sure the desk drawer in the living room would've been fine, but for some reason I ended up hiding it in the salad crisper under some carrots. Brilliant.

What if Melody had shown up just then? I must've looked deranged. Well, I was.

The phone rang. I thought it was Dwight Powell calling to applaud my clever hiding spot. I saw my dad's name on the caller ID. As much as I love my dad, my hand hesitated over the phone. Strings of hair wove through my fingers.

My greeting was terse. I held my lips together so I wouldn't blurt out anything else. He asked if Adam was home. What an insane question. He said he had called Adam earlier and couldn't get through. Then Adam hadn't shown up at the site. He was worried. I said Adam had a cold. What a useful, all-purpose excuse. My dad said it was too bad, Adam cleared from IA then coming down with a bug and isn't it funny how things happen. He hoped we could still get together on Sunday. At that point I must've believed everything would work out because I said we would and I meant it. He promised to bring over some chicken soup. I told him not to bother. Of course he said, "It's no bother." I told him I really meant it, and of course he meant it too. We could have gone back and forth like that for hours. God, it hurt to hang up.

I had a fuzzy premonition of what was going to happen unless I could squeeze an alternative from my brain. Or better, if a way out fell from the sky. Zeke would arrive. I'd be pleasant and offer him a cup of coffee. He'd say yeah and I'd go to the kitchen and come back blazing. Adam would come home. On Sunday, we'd have dinner with my parents. Then we'd move somewhere nice and warm and live happily ever after.

So I called Zeke. I forgot to tell you I knew Zeke beforehand, so inviting him over wasn't difficult. I forget what I told him. Adam wanted him over for brunch or something.

Waiting for him to arrive was the hardest part so far. No. Every step was hard. Why rank the events? To kill time, I vacuumed. Just the living room and the bedroom. I took some vitamins. I lit a candle and set it on the kitchen counter. I tried a meditation exercise I read about. You relax your eyes and stare into a flame until you zone out and all your cares drift away. It didn't work. I still had cares.

Also, I was craving a cigarette. I hadn't smoked one in years. So I inserted a new scene into the forthcoming act: Zeke would arrive. I'd bum a smoke, finish it, ask if he wanted any coffee, and so on.

CHAPTER 34: DALE

But this wasn't a show, was it? My course of action wasn't guided by a bitter, underpaid writer nor overseen by a devoted executive producer. A far more creative entity than any Hollywood artist was in charge.

I kept on Ravella like white on rice. Scratch that. I've always hated that metaphor, being partial to brown rice myself. Say, like black on coffee? Yes. Much better.

I followed his slime trail onto the expressway and off, down a wide street which would yield hours of lotus-eating for any true capitalist. Although I'd surmise Ravella's shopping list has its amusing moments, bad taste, regretfully, is still legal, and spying upon Ravella's shopping excursion would bring me no closer to catching the bastard. I very nearly questioned the wisdom of what I was doing.

However, he drove past the mall--and the opportunity to improve his image--and turned into a residential tract allotted a pleasing, albeit generic, designation. Floral Hills I believe.

Now, I judge myself to be--and past successes confirm--damn good at tailing, and the light traffic in the residential area was a test of my mettle. In such a situation, one must retain one's invisibility a safe distance, yet not so distant as to lose the scent. Tricky. I negotiated admirably.

He made a right down a dead-end lane and parked in a driveway. From my proximity near the intersection where I had stopped, I was afforded a somewhat obfuscated yet serviceable view through a square of woods.

While I awaited, anticipating fireworks, I quickly jotted a few notes regarding my rogue investigation thus far, a technique I use to jog my brain through recent events to re view them. I began with the minute Ravella exited his apartment and ended with--I read the street sign: Crestview Lane. It rang a bell. The ring swelled. I searched the case files. Ravella was at Adam Sutler's.

Had we given a pass to Ravella's co-conspirator?

I maintained my suspended state, refusing to accuse Sutler yet refusing to accept the validity of his acquittal. Besides, if it turned out we had misjudged Sutler, then the slice of humble pie we need swallow would in no way upset the gratification of nailing Ravella once and for all.

By the way, because the trees forced me to relinquish a comfortable degree of certainty in my view, I had failed to identify who had let Ravella inside the house. But as long as I got an unobstructed shot of Ravella exiting with a smoking gun--Sutler in tow or not--I could live without gleaning the surrounding details. My notes were as complete as my perspective allowed.

I called my wife and spun a plausible lie to explain my whereabouts. Let me make this clear: I detest a lie. Like the Jesuits say, the wise never lie. At least I think that's what they say. A lie denigrates the speaker as well as the listener and is an abasement of language itself. However, in the interest of domestic harmony, the truth may sometimes prove itself more destructive than virtuous.

She informed me Evan Gruber had called. My quick pet declined to give him my cell number.

I considered ignoring his call. Our interconnection had been short lived--founded on his false posturing and finally destroyed by his weak spine. But ever notice how a call from any ex-companion leads one to endlessly conjecture the reason for the call until one must put an end to the speculation before it swells to a dangerous weight and any thought on any other subject becomes impossible?

So I dug out his card from my briefcase, telling myself there was a chance--a way off chance--he may hold information essential to my task at hand.

Obviously, he held nothing. His information, such as it was, was he had suddenly remembered World War II. The bustle of daily life had temporarily blanked out that massive, catastrophic event from his memory. He breathlessly reminded me the U.S. had waited to join the fight but eventually we did and eventually we won. Was the tenuous parallel with the present situation meant to lift my spirits? Fool.

To continue his weak metaphor, I replied he could wait for Pearl Harbor if it pleased him to do so, but I was going to strike preemptively. After a moment of silence, he cautioned me, "Don't do anything hastily." Practical advice, I agree, but also obvious and, to my ears, downright disdainful. Next he was going to tell me to beware of yellow snow. I pressed a button and put an end to his good intentions.

CHAPTER 35: BOBBY

Columbus has to be one of the cloudiest cities ever. But the clouds don't come to drop rain, although sometimes they do. Mostly they float in and hang out just to block the sun. Long ago, Columbus must've pissed off the sky and the sky's revenge has been to deny Columbus more than two sunny days in a row.

Florida has to be the opposite of Columbus in every way. We have cornfields and they have sandy beaches. We wear coats and they wear shorts. We see clouds and they see the sun, like humans should. The sky, dang it, should not be silver all the time.

I turned from the misery in the sky, but there was Adam, a different kind of misery. I wanted to blindfold him. His eyes were brown daggers and I was getting tired of dodging their pricks. My bad sleep was catching up with me. He was trying to guilt me and my resistance was wearing down.

Well, I should've been a little guilty. I kept hearing the line, "Don't lower yourself to their level." Can't remember what movie that's from. Probably more than one. The line was probably true, too. If I saw was better than him, I needed to act like it. So far I hadn't. I hit him three times and that probably wasn't the worst of it.

I played a game where I put myself in his shoes. I'd probably be thirsty.

I set a glass of water in front him. I peeled off the tape from his mouth. Adam heaved back and forth as he caught his breath. I didn't buy the act. He'd been breathing fine through his nose. Again, trying to make me feel bad.

"See. I ain't like you. I knew this con up in the joint. Their water's shitty, so he had his peoples bring him bottled water. Know what? The pigs opened every bottle to make sure it was really water. Thing is, water goes bad. So this guy, really nice guy too, he'd have to drink the full batch all at once or else it'd all be ruined. But they didn't care. They just didn't care. So you see, I ain't like you. I'm better."

"You're nuts," he said, still panting.

"Could be. But you're tied to a fucking chair, so what difference does it make?"

He begged. "Please don't do this" and stuff, over and over, not even giving me a chance to say, "Okay" if I was going to. But then he said, "Don't do this to Brenda," so he wasn't even begging for himself. It took me a few seconds before it registered who he was talking about.

"If she draws on Zeke, he'll go ballistic."

"She has the element of surprise. It'll be fine."

"She'll go to prison."

"These are--what do you call them? Something circumstances?"

"Extenuating?"

"Yeah. She'll be fine."

He didn't believe me. I'm not sure I believed me. And just when I was an inch away from reconsidering my plan, he blew it by saying I was "just a kid" and had no idea how the real world worked. I haven't been a kid in years.

"Gonna drink your goddamn water?"

"I'd love to."

"Well?"

"Well?"

I got a knife from the kitchen and freed his left arm. He drained the glass in one gulp, then panted for real.

"Can I get some more?"

"Can I get some gratitude?"

He thanked me but I could tell he didn't mean it. He took his time with the second glass and left some water at the bottom.

He scratched his red and irritated chin. "I've been wondering. How will you know?"

"Know if I'm crazy?"

"No. How will you know if Brenda does what you want? Is someone really watching her? How'd you know she'd be home? How'd you know I even had a wife?"

All good questions. And I hadn't asked myself any of them. I remember one day in class, I think it was sixth grade, Mrs. Luntz taught us decimals. It was depressing to learn that our previous teachers had lied to us, that moving from one to two was no longer a short, simple step because an endless amount of numbers came in between. My whole life, as soon as I figure something out, it turns out a million details I could never imagine so could never anticipate pop up and threaten to throw me off track and I have to hurry up to regain my balance.

"You got me. It was a bad plan. Lot of luck on my side, though. After all, you're tied to a chair and she was home, so my plan could've been lots worse."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Justice." I could've gone on. I could've explained how he had torn apart my family and that society demanded retribution. But I left my explanation at that one word. I had an unforeseen problem to tackle.

CHAPTER 36: ZEKE

By nature, females are batshit crazy. Think about it. Their Aunt Flow pays them a visit and they go temporarily insane and they've had to suffer this monthly disruption ever since they were little women. Tell me that doesn't have a long term effect. I mean, if my hormones radically rearranged once a month, it'd be fair to call me unbalanced, right? You might even check me into the loony bin. If I was out of control a fourth of the year, would you allow me to even drive a car? It's not their fault they start going haywire at puberty and end up with a faulty brain. But they do. It's a fact.

They're so out of it, they don't even know what they want. Never met a broad yet who could tell me what she wants. Well, they do tell you, but before you can count to ten, they want something else. See? Unbalanced is a polite word for them.

Knowing this fact of female nature as I do, I shouldn't've been surprised that a different Brenda answered the door than the horned up Brenda who had invited me over. Based on her call, I was expecting her to answer the door wearing nothing but a smile. Nope. She was fully dressed and not even seductively. And her face was all puffy, like she had allergies. The sight was enough to soften a brick.

I took my coat off and tried to get comfortable on her couch, but her pacing made me nervous. She'd stop now and then to straighten the magazines on the coffee table. She'd cross her arms, drop them, cross them again and go back to pacing across the living room. I thought she might be coked up. Couldn't tell for sure. I couldn't catch her eye.

Whatever. To be honest, I wanted to unburden my soul more than I wanted to unburden my loins. She was doing a good job chilling out my hormones and making the choice easier.

But where do you begin with the task I had? There's the "Forgive me father for I have sinned" thing. But that wouldn't work. She's not my father. Hate my father anyway. I'd say it to a priest if I had to, but not to her.

On the way over, I had tried to sort out what my best course of action should be. Should I start small and prepare her for the big stuff? Or should I jump into the heavy shit so that the small stuff becomes a fart in comparison? How would you do it?

An idea needs to be expressed with the right words placed in the right sequence spoken in the right tone. What a tall order. I doubt we ever get it right, even when we try to get out our most trivial thoughts. All our ideas are buried so deep within us, we can reflect them only dimly to the outside world. That is, if we comprehend the idea ourselves to begin with. Know what I mean? But still, I say you gotta try. It's the effort that counts. If you don't make the effort you're just a Sutler.

But before anything else, before the attempt, whether I start big or small, I needed to get a confidentiality agreement from her. Blackmail her, in other words.

I said her name softly. Too softly? She snatched a pillow from a chair across the room and fluffed it. Wouldn't look at me. Louder and with more desperation, I said I needed to talk. Know what she said? "Want some coffee?" Fucking rude. Actually, come to think of it, a cup would've hit the spot. But that's not the point.

I mean, I get it now. I get that she couldn't have been acting any other way. I'll get to it. It'll all come together and make sense. Be patient. You know more than I did at the time, so count yourself lucky.

I say no to coffee and I decide I need to jump right in. I prepare to initiate my spiritual avalanche and the phone rings. You'd think a bomb went off the way she shakes and drops the pillow. There's a portable phone on the bookshelf. Makes sense to grab that one. Nope. Doesn't meet her female desires. She scurries to the bedroom. Ignores me as she passes. Looks out the window.

I'm hurt. Confused. But I'm also a man with a mission. I go down the hallway to her bedroom.

As I get closer, I hear her say, "It's almost done. How is he? Please be gentle." I don't know what to make of it. Can't even make a wild guess. "I know where that's at. How do I do that? Okay. I will."

I'm standing in the doorway. She's leaned over the nightstand writing on a pad of paper. I try to savor the view from behind but all the lust had been drained from me.

Her conversation's over. She stares at the pad of paper. She's crying, I think.

Oh man, I thought. Am I gonna have to listen to her thing before we get to mine? And how important could her shit be? I beat myself up for not running to a church. It could've been over by now. I'll give a priest props for not gabbing about his own shit before he's ready to listen to yours. I mean, Father Volpe and I argue all the time, but I never have to beg him to hear me out.

"I need to talk," I say with as much urgency as I can gather. "I NEED to TALK."

She spins to me. Her eyes are crazy. She asks how long I've been standing there. Strange question. I overheard her end of the conversation and it was confusing, but not incriminating.

I ignore her question and repeat myself for the fourth fucking time. She asks if I can wait. Yeah right. Wait on cleansing my soul? I'm supposed to say, "Anything for you princess," but I don't. No. It can't wait, I tell her. It's serious.

"As serious as this?" she asks, coming towards me, turning all soft and smiling.

Okay, I'll say this. It's annoying how women change moods faster than a minute hand. But the heavenly exception comes when they go from clawing to purring. Then I don't mind the transformation. She came to life. Her skin glowed. Her tomatoes perked up. She led me unto sweet temptation.

CHAPTER 37: SAMPSON

Marcus looked up from the scrap of paper. It was a different scrap from this morning. His eyelids fluttered. "How much did he have?"

"I don't know."

Not a total lie. I knew what I gave him yesterday, but he could've spent it all. But Marcus said "did." Meaning how much did Bobby once have and now I have? I stood before Marcus the worst way possible: empty handed. Why? Why didn't I take from Bobby every dollar I could to avoid this? The dude threw me off my game. But still. I should've manned up.

"He'll have it all by six."

"How's he getting it?"

"By selling."

Marcus laughed.

His teeth are like tiles.

"So you're telling me he stole my coke, cut it up, sold it, and now I have to wait to get back what was mine to begin with?" He held up the scrap. It was covered in numbers. He let go and it floated to the desk. He swiveled to the painting. The Monet. I stepped to the door.

"How much do I tell you about the business?" he asked.

I let go of the door handle and returned to my place in front of his desk. "Not much."

"I'm a good boss. Folks fear me and do what I say. I got a lot of good ideas. I can take this thing somewhere. But sometimes, I'm not so good with numbers. I'll admit it. I fucking hate doing it, but I'll admit it. Right now, the picture ain't pretty."

"But you just bought a new car."

"Right. Promise me one thing, Sampson." He cleared his throat. "Promise me you'll never deal with the dagos."

"All right."

"Say it."

"Okay."

"Goddamn it, say it," he asked.

"I'll never deal with the dagos."

My God. That was the first time I pitied Marcus. My uncle. So there. I've felt everything for him at some point. Even love once or twice. Mostly hate. Sometimes envy. Finally, near the end, pity. But the pity faded. Like the rest. No emotion is real.

Marcus ballooned his body. His coat crackled at the seams. Then he let out a squall of breath. Flecks of spittle sparkled in the air. He turned to me.

"How much does he have? And don't give me any 'I don't know' bullshit. Make a good goddamn guess."

I ballparked it at a generous $1500.

"I hate telling you this, but I need that money."

"Okay."

"No. Not 'okay.' The right answer is, 'I understand how important this money is, sir, and I will get it for you.' That's what you need to say. And tell me, what's he selling, who's he selling it to and why do I have to wait till six?"

I put up some weak answers and Marcus knocked them down, then asked more questions. More lies got me more questions. I wanted to take a nap. I gave in.

"No. Something like this? No. And I'll get my money? No. I'll get a headache, maybe a talk with the cops. This kid, your pet project, he's gotten out of hand. Can we agree on that?"

He made me wait upstairs. The bar was empty. I poured a shot of whisky. It stung my nose. I dumped it and took a beer from the fridge. Slammed the beer in three big gulps and a small swallow. I chucked the bottle into the trash can. Thump. My cell rang.

"What do you think should happen?"

I said I didn't know. Marcus said it for me.

"Not every hair is numbered, you know. Take whatever money they have, leave the bodies. Then make the rounds and pick up however much you can from everyone. I need as much cash as I can get by tonight."

I descended. Marcus spoke before I opened the door. He shook behind his desk. He could do so little in his office. Beat the table, swivel his chair, stand dramatically, recite monologues to the wall. But then, he did so much from his small, dark confines. Shaped some lives, snuffed out others.

"If you thought I was hard before, maybe I was, but now there's no fucking way that kid's gonna live another day. You know how many kidnappings are successful? Kidnappings and bank robberies are two jobs you need never fuck with unless you're eager to do a stint. The kid'll get caught and when he does, sooner or later my name's gonna come up. Or yours. I've worked so hard."

Damn it. He was right. And I got the Bobby situation all wrong. I asked him to step up. He tumbled in a big way. I don't know him. I don't owe him. No pity. Fuck you Bobby. Made a mess of everyone's life. No way I would've messed up that bad.

That's when I accepted Bobby's fate. He was going to die.

CHAPTER 38: BOBBY

I had something to take care of before I left. The obligation tugged the back of my shirt but I didn't want to turn around. It was too much to contemplate, to feel. Guilt, love, guilt, and more guilt. And now it doesn't matter. But it seems like it still matters.

I wanted TV more than ever. Big mistake to smash it, but it made sense at the time. Didn't everything I ever do make sense at the time? Why else did I do it? It's the future that turns sense into stupidity. If I had the power to see just twenty-four hours into the future, everything would've been different, better, perfect, logical. But I didn't, so it's wasn't. Why couldn't I read life as it happened instead of after it passed?

Adam knew how to organize a life. Spouse, house, job. Where did he learn that trick? Maybe in school. They pulled him aside and told him everything he needed to know. Doubt it. Even if I stayed in school, even if Darryl hadn't been shot, even if I didn't have to take flight, I'd still be far from normal. Is it all dad's fault? He didn't finish raising me so of course I'm this half formed thing. No. Adam didn't have a close father either, he said. It doesn't matter anymore, but I'd still like to know how people like Adam do it and what went wrong with me.

One thing they do, I realized, is take care of their obligations.

I would've called mom, but she's at work. I would've called, but her voice would've killed me. I would've called, but I couldn't've talked.

I laid on the couch with a pen and paper. Adam was out of view and I could concentrate.

Dear mom, I'm sorry I didn't stay in school. If I did then I'd have the words to tell you how sorry I am about Darryl. I'm sorry I'm not with you. I wish I can make you believe that I'll be okay. Someday we'll all be okay and live a good life. Don't blame yourself for anything. I'll blame myself. I did the best I could but it wasn't enough. But I'm trying to make things better and I will. I'll call you when I'm safe and sound. Until then, don't be sad. PS-Wendy and I broke up. Love, Robert.

I found an envelope and a stamp. I threatened Adam and hurried to the lobby. I dropped the envelope in the silver box. The mailbox for the apartment was bulging. I emptied it because I was curious, not because Sampson told me to.

Adam hadn't moved.

On the couch, I looked through the mail. Dwight Powell. So it was a man. He had bills from L.L. Bean and the cable company ("Open immediately"), two issues of Newsweek, a bunch of coupons and flyers, something from a children's charity and a card.

I opened the card. On the front, a couple walked on a beach at sunset, holding hands, their backs to camera. Seagulls flew above them. Inside, I read: "Dwight, This card made me think of us and what we could have. It's not too late. You're always and forever in my thoughts. Love, Michelle."

I felt bad for Michelle. Dwight, too, wherever he was.

The couple on the front was a different species than Wendy and me, but I tried to replace us in the snapshot. It didn't work. I'd never wear khaki shorts or a pink polo shirt. The woman's dress fluttered in the air and I never saw Wendy in a dress. She and I never really held hands either, at least not when we walked outside. Sometimes when we watched TV I'd touch her hand and she'd let me, but never when we walked down the sidewalk. And the picture was taken in Florida. I could tell. We had never been there and although I was going there, I knew we'd never be there together. But the biggest difference between their world and ours was Michelle's language, which was made up totally different words than the ones Wendy spoke, at least when she spoke to me.

The pile was from a life I'll never have. Even if. The life seems so simple too. A girl, some nice clothes, an interest in world affairs, enough cash to share the wealth.

I have no idea what happened to my life. It was always on the verge of starting. But no. I had seventeen years. That was plenty of time to start it myself. Maybe if I had seen the pile earlier, I would've had a goal to work towards. Instead, I had to guess what it means to be normal and that task was too overwhelming so I brushed the problem aside for a later time that never came.

I threw the mail in the trash and told myself in Florida I'd build something like Dwight Powell's life, that tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of my life. I should've made that commitment years ago. Instead, I made it today, the one day tomorrow no longer means anything.

CHAPTER 39: ZEKE

Wish I knew that was the last time I was going to get any. But I didn't. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me. Well, yeah I do. Anyway, once it started, I wanted it to be over. We were on the same page. She told me to hurry up. Said it sexy, but tell a man to hurry up and I guarantee he won't be able to, no matter how sexy you tell him.

No, not you. You know what I mean.

Men have it lucky because they can't get pregnant, but the trade off is they can't fake the big O, unless they're lucky enough to get a total idiot. Wish I could've grunted and made a goofy face and put an end it, but that's a luxury only woman can afford. I've been meaning to talk to God about that.

I closed my eyes and lingered over a series of sexy actresses. That helped. Then she tells me never mind. Take my time. See? Changing on me again. Anyway, ten seconds later it was over. Sorry if that was a lousy sex scene.

I rolled off and she dressed. Dressed under the covers, if you can believe it. For the second time, she asked if I wanted any coffee. Her pillow talk was always pretty bad. For the second time, I ignored the question and for the fifth time, I told her I needed to talk. I got out that I'd done some bad things. She said, "Haven't we all?"

What a perfect opening to follow with, "Yeah, and if you want to keep them from Adam, you won't repeat what I'm going to tell you." Yeah, I should've said that. But hell, I try to ignore should'ves, especially small ones like that. In this place, should'ves will drive you nuts. Should'ves become the real punishment if you let them, right?

So, she put on her pants and shirt under the blanket. She did everything under the blanket. Like God can't see through a blanket? Then she said she wants to take a shower. Then why'd she dress? She said she had a lot on her mind. Like I didn't? She promised to listen to me after her shower. She looked at me, I mean really looked at me, and told me not to leave. Women are crazy. Tell me I'm wrong. That's one reason why I never took a wife. Have to admit, though, lately I've been playing with the idea of tying the knot with someone on the outside. Prison changes a man in many ways.

My beans ached. I smelled like patchouli. I breathed in wheezes.

See, I was pretty naive back then. I assumed grace was easy, like it was a big cake and everyone was welcome to take a slice whenever they wanted. No. I was learning you have to work for it. That's why it means so much.

And if God had tested me, I had failed. Like, maybe God wanted me to confess and feel his grace, but he tempted me with sex and I should've resisted and I didn't.

So I was scared. Pissing off God can do that. I mean, what if he said, "Sorry. You had your chance," then gave me a cardiac arrest before I could square myself? It could've happened. Could happen to any of us at any moment. That's why you gotta get on the ball. Getting ready to die, that's what life's all about.

I watched my heart pound under the sheet. She was taking fucking forever. I couldn't wait. I confessed to the ceiling. I didn't worry whether it was big stuff or small stuff. I rattled off whatever came to mind. "Killed Bradshaw. Failed to report my gambling winnings. Hated my dad. Never went to church." It felt like the list took a long time to get through but it was probably over in a minute, minute and a half.

And it didn't do anything. I was still convinced that if I died at that moment, I'd go to hell. Apologizing to God never works. Try it. Pour your heart out to God and it's like talking to...well, a ceiling.

See, a confession's one thing, but I needed forgiveness too. Without both parts, nothing would change. And in the here and now on this puny globe, only another person can forgive you. You gotta wait to die for God to forgive, gotta stand before Saint Peter to get your eternal grade card. The white ceiling stared back at me with its swirly plaster design, doing what it does, which doesn't include dispensing forgiveness.

Brenda must've fallen down the drain. I dressed and had a smoke in her backyard, praying I'd live long enough to tell her what I told the ceiling.

CHAPTER 40: SAMPSON

The heavy beats shook my teeth. Benny wasn't going to hear me if I banged with a sledgehammer. I tried the door. It was open. I stepped back and nudged the door open with my foot. The music punched my eardrums. A wave of dope smoke blew in my face. I leaned in and peeked inside. Benny wasn't on the other side pointing a gun so I went in.

He sat with his fat kid brother on a tattered couch staring at the black TV screen. Only movement in the room was the shake of the subwoofer.

I admire you Benny. You're out of step with the world but you somehow make it your own. Nothing matters. You know this. You don't pretend. The future isn't real and you've burned the past. You sleep well.

The jam ended and the subwoofer settled. My ears rang. I knocked on the wall.

Benny jerked to life and turned to me. The next deafening beat began. He pointed a black object. I ducked. The music stopped. He threw the remote control across the room. The back cover flew off and the batteries rolled across the wood floor. He cussed me out for awhile. I took it, then waved him down and told him to relax. He fell backwards on the couch. His kid brother bounced. I told him what was up.

"When's Marcus need this done by?"

"Now."

Benny's brother grunted. "I used to go to school with that sum a bitch." He said it to the TV. "If it's going down, it's going down, but you can count me out." He turned to the window. A tube of sunlight ran through the smoke cloud and made a yellow puddle at his feet.

Benny nodded. "My answer too."

I said it'd be a favor.

"I helped you yesterday. Favors flow the other way now."

I offered to pay him.

No.

I'd erase his gambling debts.

No.

I'd pay him and erase the debt.

"Add some zeros to that number and I'll think about it."

I pulled out my cell. "Fine. I'll just hit up Marcus. Tell him you're too busy to do your job."

"I don't give a fuck. Anyways, ten bucks says he told you to do it."

Even a stoned Benny's right once a day.

I tried out Marcus' firm jaw, fixed stare, flared nostrils. Benny looked at me as if I had just shit in his sink.

He pulled himself off the couch and picked up the remote control.

"Please Benny."

He found the back cover of the remote under the stereo, next to a battery. He hunted for the other battery on his hands and knees, under a chair, under the TV cabinet. He reached under the couch.

"Benny please."

His hand came out holding the battery. He tucked it in the remote. "Stop playing me and start being a man." He pointed the remote at his system. The subwoofers danced. Benny crashed next to his brother who I think was asleep. My visit was over.

I've seen people kill. It's nothing. A trigger. A blade. A flame. It's over in seconds. Then it's time to forget. Tell yourself it's a job and move on. No big deal.

Wish I could believe that like Benny did.

My hand shook as I turned the ignition.

CHAPTER 41: ADAM

Drifting above our house, I looked through the ceiling into our living room. Brenda aimed our Ladysmith at Zeke. She fired. Missed. Drilled a hole into the couch. Zeke ripped his weapon from his leather coat. Fired a round. Brenda fell.

I rewound. Tried a different outcome. Couldn't. Tried again. And again. No matter how I manipulated the scene, it always ended with Zeke taking her down. And if the unimaginable happened and Brenda (who never fired a gun, never took a life, never hurt a fly) somehow got the upper hand, there was still the kid's promise as he slammed down the phone.

"Damn. Have to smoke her, too."

"Please don't."

A tiny mouse escapes the snake, only to be clutched by an owl.

"Ain't no way she'll turn me in."

"But she didn't do anything."

"Neither did Darryl. Didn't stop your buddy though."

And then I actually defended Zeke. Barely, without giving a single good justification for his shot, but still. And the shame of it hurts. But Bobby wasn't listening. He was lost, somewhere else. He stood facing the window but I don't think he was looking at anything.

I leaned and sort of stood. I waddled toward Bobby. I lost my balance, slamming my shoulder against the table on my way down. I dissolved into tears.

"Please stop this. I love her so much. She's my world," and so on. Telling him because I couldn't tell her.

Bobby stood over me.

I shut my eyes and kept pleading. He could hit me but I wasn't going to stop.

"Okay." He was close. I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't stop begging. He grew louder. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Shhhh."

My temperature cooled. I quieted to murmuring, then silenced. I opened my eyes. He was crouched beside me.

My arm was free. Why didn't I choke him? I should've. When will the regrets stop? Soon. Very soon.

"Are you comfortable?"

"No."

"So let's get you back up."

He touched my shoulder. I flinched. He shushed me. We worked together and got the chair upright. He dragged me back, then sat across from me.

"Okay. I'll let her live."

"Oh thank you so much."

He folded his hands and nodded.

But still. The scene in our living room didn't fade with his promise. Brenda still dropped to the floor, in slow motion, her dress fluttering around her, or sped up, quick and brutal. And her expression was anguished and confused no matter at what speed Zeke's bullet entered her.

"Hungry?"

Bobby made popcorn.

The kernels exploded. Zeke fired. The pops grew more intense. Zeke fired a machine gun. The microwave buzzed. The end.

I declined the popcorn. Bobby sat across from me and munched from the bag.

"He'll kill her. He's a cop for God's sake. He knows how to defend himself. She doesn't."

Bobby swallowed. "Haven't we been over this?"

"And even if she does kill him, do you have any idea what that'll do to her? Psychologically?"

Bobby smashed the bag on the table. Popcorn jumped out. "Yeah. A pretty good idea. It's the hardest thing to do. It changes you."

"So there you go. How can you do this to her?"

He scooped the popcorn on the table into a small pile and ate it. He looked at the ceiling and considered his mistake and how he could correct it. He had no idea.

"Call her and tell her to drop it."

"Then who'll kill Zeke?"

"I will."

Bobby laughed. A wet morsel shot from his mouth and whizzed by my shoulder. "Sure. You promise?" He shook the bag and looked inside. "Has anyone in the history of the world ever been able to pop the entire bag? You're telling me they can send a man to the moon but they can't make a bag that pops all the way?"

I don't blame him. I don't. Maybe I would've acted the same in his shoes. It's not his fault. Just a kid. Like his brother. All roads lead to Ravella.

He crumpled the bag into a ball. He bounced it up and down, then pitched the bag into the kitchen sink. "Two points. Hey, you wanna play cards?"

Wait. There's more. A whole life. Something. But she's safe. I worried for nothing. She's safe. I believe him. I want to. I do. She saved herself. Always saved herself. I never saved her. I never saved anyone. I never. I wonder if

CHAPTER 42: BRENDA

It was awkward when Zeke arrived. I guess I invented a story about how Adam ran to the store and would be back any second. On impulse, I told Zeke I needed to take a shower and begged him to stay.

It's still early. I'm still counting my regrets and going over the what ifs. The biggest being: what if I had just done it? Just shot Zeke as soon as he had walked through the door? Wouldn't that've resulted in a happy ending for all of us?

I stood in the shower and let the hard stream of hot water beat my chest until a red splotch formed. Then I made splotches on my arms, legs, wherever.

I doubted whether I could go through with it. "Through with it" is the way to put it, because I instinctively knew I would come out the other end a different person, either slightly or radically. I had Zeke. I had the gun. Everyone was waiting for me to combine the two. For the millionth time that morning, I squeezed my brain for a way out. Nothing.

I supposed I had reached the praying stage. It didn't last long. I couldn't believe in a deity that would shift pieces of the world for me just because I asked him to. Not only do I think such events never happen, but if they do, they don't happen for people like me who've made the choices I've made.

So I had to do it. Like in the alley, I had to do it.

That was my bravest moment. If I got myself into the mindset I had in the mouth of the alley, maybe I could be brave again.

I entered the alley. Like, three feet ahead, I saw an empty whisky bottle. It was as if the world had placed it there for me, knowing I required a weapon. I picked it up. A few steps later, there was a beer bottle. Walking home later, it dawned on me the guy might've had a gun and my two bottles would've been useless and my life would've ended because I tried to save another's, but in the moment I was on automatic. I tuned out from all the contingencies and plowed ahead.

I reached the dumpster. Four legs kicked and flapped on the other side. I turned the corner. I smashed one bottle across the man's head. He collapsed and groaned. Then I brought down the other bottle and he went silent. The woman pushed him off. She had bits of broken glass over her face and in her hair.

She didn't thank me. I'm not sure she noticed me. I held out my hand but she stood on her own. Twinkling shards fell from her. She gained her balance and commenced to kick the shit out of her attacker.

I walked away. Meaty thumps followed me out of the alley.

Back on the sidewalk, I swear, swear, I heard a burst of applause. I now know someone had their television turned up loud, but at the time I thought the world or God or whatever was congratulating me for stepping up and doing the right thing. The applause slightly embarrassed me. After I accepted I was absolutely going to save the woman, the execution was mostly easy.

So I reviewed this story in the shower and the lesson I took away was that I needed to begin. I needed to pick up the Ladysmith. Easy. People pick things up everyday. Then the rest would follow, flow naturally from that first step.

The mirror was fogged when I got out. I wiped it and my reflection was wet and distorted. That always happens, right? I can never wait for the steam to evaporate. I must wipe. It's a strange compulsion. And for what? I can never see my reflection clearly. Rationally, I know from past experience, a wipe won't clean the mirror, but that doesn't stop me from trying one more time. Just in case this time it'll be different? Insane.

I dressed and combed my hair for I don't know how long. That's a meditation exercise you never see in books. Become one with the hair.

I eventually came out of the bathroom and called for Zeke and he didn't respond. I ran to the living room. He wasn't there. I nearly wet myself.

Regret. Is there no greater cause for self-loathing than a missed opportunity? If he left, what could I dangle to entice him to come back? If he was gone, he was gone. Then Adam would be gone too. All because I didn't pick up the Ladysmith, didn't take the first step.

So I was sick with relief when I saw smoke drift past the kitchen window. You'd think I would've rushed to the fridge and blam. No. I was arrested by the orchid in the window sill. It was silhouetted by orange light. The tiny buds lapped the sunrays. The image was too beautiful.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon. I tore myself from the orchid and blew out the candle. What do you think the melted red wax reminded me of?

Zeke came in. He'd been wanting to get something off his chest all morning. Why tell me? I don't know. I bummed a cigarette and lighter off him and promised I'd give him my undivided attention after I enjoyed a smoke. He wasn't going anywhere. I told him to watch TV in the living room and I'd be right with him. That satisfied him.

Oh yeah. I also said I wasn't sure what was talking Adam so long. Traffic?

I'll admit the shower was stalling, but the cigarette break I'll defend. It was necessary and fair. I hadn't smoked one in years, and if any time deserved a cigarette, this was it.

So I sat back and reintroduced my lungs to the joys of tobacco. In the same wicker chair where hours earlier I had converted screaming children into singing angels, I now imagined Zeke keeling over dead, but not in the abstract as before. Now, I filled in the rest of the scene: the living room, couch, television light. I visualized myself dragging his body to his car and driving to the address they had given me. In the safe, simple landscape in my head, each step was very easy.

I examined the script closer. My arms ached when I considered the real problem of hauling someone his size. I thought if I could get him into his car, somehow convince him to drive to the location, I'd shoot him there. Ug, what a mess. It made me queasy. And how could I go through something so gruesome and come out sane on the other end? I'd completely crack and none of the king's horses or men could ever put me together again. I finally admitted that I couldn't do it. Are you tired of this back and forth? Can you sympathize with what I was going through?

Yeah, I beat some perv in an alleyway, but I didn't kill him. The connection I had made between that situation and this one was false. Taking a life? Look, I hate Zeke with every ounce of my body. But that's today. Yesterday, I simply disliked him immensely. He didn't deserve to die. Or if he deserved it, it wasn't because I said so. Also, I was raised Catholic. You can lapse all you want but the idea of hell is ground into you forever. You can take the girl out of the church but you can't etcetera.

So to think up an alternative, I tried a new technique. Instead of trying to force a brilliant solution, I went the other direction. I succumbed to the nicotine buzz that was softening my brain and tuned out.

It worked. Eventually. The answer came to me as I reached the end of the cigarette.

And just to be safe, in case the spies were losing patience, I leaned over the patio and yelled, "Here I go."

CHAPTER 43: SAMPSON

"Hello. This is Delilah Dupree."

How kind. Always. She'd stop beating me with a broom to answer the phone as kind as could be. Liar. But her beating days are over. Age. The vibrating chair. Shows, magazines, bridge club, church. Nowadays she has trouble beating an egg.

"Ma. It's me."

She turned on her chair. I held the phone from my ear. "How you been?" Her voice vibrated.

"Not so good, ma. Fuck you too, buddy. Sorry ma. I'm driving."

"Don't you call me when you're driving. You want an accident?"

"I'm on speaker phone, ma."

"I don't care. You concentrate on the road. Call me later."

"Ma, this isn't why I called. All right. Fine. I'm pulling over. There. I just pulled into McDonald's. Now I'm looking for a parking spot. There. I'm pulling in. I'm parked now. I'm parked." A Caddy jumped two lanes, cutting me off, then took an exit. "Ma, what do you think of uncle Marcus?"

"He's a saint." She turned off the chair to give her long speech praising her baby brother's divine nature, about how he always had the best intentions for his family by launching business after business so he could earn enough to provide for us all. When a business fell apart he wouldn't grumble. He'd dust himself off and start another.

A Clucker's Chicken. I remember. Sort of. She took us and Marcus was there. It was a bigger deal than just lunch. We never went back. It doesn't exist anymore. What else? A tobacco shop. A mini-mart?

About how he soldiered through the disappointments because he loved his family so much, how he refused to be beaten because he had his family to inspire him, how he had now found himself and was doing so much good.

Bullshit. Family didn't motivate Marcus. Guilt did. He got dad's money. Should've gone to ma but dad had the meanest will any man ever wrote. Marcus bought her the precious chair. Paid off a few bills. Gave me a job.

"I know you believe all that ma, but Marcus wants me to do his dirty work."

"Oh honey. He's the boss. That's what a boss does."

"You know what I mean by dirty work?"

She has no clue. Marcus throws her shimmering trinkets so she can't see. Soap in her eyes.

"Can't be that bad, son. I've seen worse. My daddy's brother was worse. Anyway, you know what it means to be a man? It means doing something you might not want to do. If your uncle tells you to do something, then do it. Not because he's smarter than you, which he is. And not because he worked himself up from nothing to be where he is, which he did. And not because he can fire you, which he can. I told him so. Do it because if you don't, then I have no idea where life's going to carry your sorry ass. You always were the problem child." She turned on the chair and listed the ways my brothers were better than me.

But I couldn't be like them, ma. Never the guys who raise themselves up farther than their parents. Can't. Couldn't. It wasn't in my blood. You never understood me. I couldn't jump into college, ma. And I couldn't join the Air Force. I couldn't do anything until anything made sense. Nothing makes sense. Made sense. And you never helped. You hated. I was helpless.

"Now you get to work. Don't act crazy, making calls on the road."

"Yeah."

"And tell Marcus not to forget me."

"Sure."

Will you cry, mother? Will you mourn? Sit in the vibrating chair till they shake out some tears? Blame Marcus? No? Marcus is a good man? He paid for the funeral? Blame yourself? For one minute? No? My fault? You knew something like this would happen? I give up. I give up all memories of you. I'll never think of you again.

CHAPTER 44: ZEKE

It's a glorious wonder the way God puts signs in front of you. I know you don't want to hear it, but fuck you. It's true. They're clever signs, too, because they don't announce themselves as signs. You gotta get a new pair of eyes and learn how to use them before you can really see. Then you can be out in the yard and hear a bird chirp and you know God's telling you to be more like the birds. That's just one example. I have millions.

Well, I was nowhere near ready to receive the subtle signs, but I could pay attention to the big obvious "Hey buddy, over here" types.

I turn on the TV and go up a channel. Just one. And know what was on? Two dudes conversing about the bible. A week earlier, I would've passed it by, or I would've paused for a second to mock the show. But right then, God made me turn to that station at the exact moment I needed to and was ready to. Hell, maybe God created television in the first place so these guys could make a show for me to turn to. Prove to me He didn't. Prove it and I'll give you a carton of smokes.

The men wore fine gray suits and pink ties. Their hair was slicked back and shiny. Looked like they were in the Wasp mafia. But whatever. They spoke the truth.

One of them said, "God wants you to have money." This blew my mind. My older, sinful self had assumed religion wanted you to give away all your money, that charity was like buying a place in heaven and I wanted no part of that scam.

But they cast my false assumptions aside with real bible quotes. What I got was: if you put your faith in Jesus with all your heart and you get wealthy, then that glorifies his name to everyone else. Makes sense. If someone gave away their money and was poor, then wouldn't you say their religion was screwy? But you see a millionaire, you ask, "What does he believe in? I want to believe in that too."

Man, while I'm on the subject, I need to set up a lottery in here or sell cigarettes or something.

When they cut to a commercial, I was on a high, a nice mellow happy high. I craved more. I went to this waist-high bookshelf in the corner. The men had referenced the book of James and I wanted to read it and memorize a quote or two. But the Sutlers didn't have a bible. Just some art books and a few on gardening and shit.

Then guess what I see? Guess.

No. Not Jesus, though in a long roundabout way you're closer than you think.

It's Brenda. She's standing in the doorway. She's pointing a fucking gun at me.

At first I thought she was joking and I told her it wasn't funny. She agreed. I was like, "Do you even know how to use that thing?" and she was like, "Do you want to find out?" Of course I didn't. She told me to go to the basement. Better believe I did.

Actually, it wasn't the basement. It was the garage. Actually, it wasn't that either. It was an art studio. This fourth-rate painting of an apple or a heart or something rested on a whatever you call it. Easel? Paint tubes all over the place. She never told me she painted, so did that make Adam the artiste? With a gun pointed at my chest, I wasn't overly concerned.

She tells me to put my hands down. Didn't realize I had them up. No one's ever forced my hands up. Can't believe Brenda was the first.

She says she won't shoot me. I'm like, "Then why point at me?" She lets the gun fall to her side. I was tempted to snatch it and blow her brains over the canvass on principle. What a pretty painting that would've made.

She wipes her eyes and lays it out for me. Now pay attention: Adam's been kidnapped. The ransom: my life. She's supposed to kill me, then deliver my body to the kidnappers. Yep. That's the real deal.

Have you ever heard such a thing? I made her repeat it, it was so crazy. I said, "But that's insane" and she said she knew it was. I was like, "No, that's insane," and she said she knew it was. We could've run that bit all day.

She had no idea who was behind this, but I had a helluva hunch. Turns out I was wrong, but can you blame me? She said they were watching us. I could just see Sampson hidden behind a bush scoping the place, scratching his nuts and growling all the while.

So she's not going to shoot me. How could she? But she's not ready to let Adam die either. She puts her hands together like she's in prayer, except the barrel's pointing up like a boner.

"You have to save him," she says.

Do you get how fucking brilliant God is? I mean, He's such a genius. What better way to cleanse my soul then to save Adam? Isn't that the biggest good deed ever? There I am, thirsty for grace, and the opportunity gets handed to me on a silver platter.

"What is it?" she asks.

I'm sure my face was blissed out. Sure, I still had to confess and get forgiveness, but this was good. Real good.

We hear a squeaky car pull in the drive. Even from behind the garage door, I can tell the power steering fluid's a little low. I take advantage of the distraction and get the gun from her. She gasps a little at my speedy hands, but I think she was glad to get rid of it. It's this light, pussy thing. More bang than a bb gun, but not much more.

The doorbell rings. Brenda peeks behind a sash in the garage door. She whispers, "It's my father." I sit on a couch in the corner and think till the dude drives off.

After he leaves, I got a pretty good plan to save Adam. Fuck that. A plan to save my soul. I ask how attached she is to this ugly couch. She sort of shrugs. I tell her to cover her ears. I blow a hole in the cushion. Holy shit my ears ring, but how I adore the seductive scent of gunpowder. I'd wear the scent all day if I could. Money. Gunpowder. I should start my own fragrance line.

Anyway, I give her the keys to my jeep and lay on the ground. I tell her, "Now I'm dead. Let's go get these mother fuckers."

CHAPTER 45: DALE

I summoned Ravella to come out, but my telepathic powers had apparently waned since they had drawn Ravella from his apartment. He had been in the house approximately an hour. What were they doing? Perhaps Sutler had fired up a barbecue pit in the back on the chilly October morning. Doubt it. Perhaps Ravella and Sutler were holed up in the bedroom performing secret, sadomasochistic sex rites. I doubt that too. The guessing game rarely yields a winner.

I became aware of a small but threatening seed of a headache behind my left temple. Caffeine withdrawal no doubt. I had missed my Cuppa Joe's and was starting to suffer the consequences. Hm. Like now. Jesus, I'm exhausted. Anyone else ready for a break? No? I'll press on.

A pickup roared past me. Blue. It turned down Crestview Lane and parked in Sutler's driveway. The man who exited the pickup was in his late fifties, early sixties. He looked like--I don't know. A plumber? No. He was too well dressed. Well, that detail isn't essential.

Anyway, he cradled something in his hands. My fevered fancy turned the object into a bomb, but sober eyes prevailed and I accepted it as a plastic bowl. So perhaps they had fired up a barbecue in the back after all. The simplest solution.

But I always thought Ockham was a bit of a naïf. After a patient pause, the dapper workman, rejected by the unanswered door, dolefully returned to his pickup sans bowl. Suspicious. I had induced at least two people inside Sutler's--Ravella and whomever had let Ravella inside--and certainly one of them could've answered the door. Even if there had been a frolicking party in the backyard, one would surmise the noise of their merriment would have drawn the guest around the side.

So there was that mystery. Another pestering puzzle was the man's identity. The possibilities were voluminous, as they almost always are where unknowing is involved. Ah, is there anything worse than not knowing? Well, I'd surmise knowing can be its own special hell. An ideal balance, I'm sure, exists in some world.

The cacophony coming from the pickup's parts taunted me to tail him, but I resisted their beckons, even if the man was in fact the keystone to solving a hundred crimes. I jotted his license plate as he came up Crestview, and then ducked before he passed.

By the way, I unraveled the mystery an hour ago. During my brief chat with Brenda Sutler, I learned I had witnessed her father delivering a bowl of chicken soup. What a prognosticator the man must be, to provide a condolence dish for the bereaved before there's a body to mourn. I know. Too far.

In any event, the right call I had made. Approximately a minute after the no doubt law-abiding father drove out of my rearview mirror, I heard a gunshot. Well, a shot of some sort. Perhaps an especially violent backfire. I retrieved my heater, a replica of my old service revolver. Yes, some still call it a heater. I had packed it in my briefcase that morning. Probably should've mentioned that earlier.

With my windows rolled up, the shot's echo spread evenly across my car and I had difficultly zeroing in the exact direction from which the shot had originated. But Ravella was in the neighborhood, so I could make an educated hypothesis.

I considered peeling down the lane and barging into the house, yet my instinct held me back. I instead pocketed my revolver and left the sanctuary of my vehicle. I entered the woods on my right and crept until I had achieved an unrestricted visual of the front of the Sutlers' residence.

While I had maneuvered to this vantage point, the garage door had opened. The first thing my investigative eye set upon was Ravella's body lying on the garage floor. However, my aesthetic eye was not far behind and it briefly critiqued a canvass on the easel beside Ravella. Although the work was in progress, it was already bad with little hope of redemption. One almost pitied the paint to be smeared so artlessly.

A striking redhead, whose red was wet for some reason, a woman I later identified as Brenda Sutler, came from the garage. She surveyed the area as if she knew I was watching and she wanted to ascertain from where. She noticed--at the exact moment I did--a broken mug lying in the driveway. From her tortured reaction, one could be forgiven for assuming the mug was a precious heirloom. She pushed past her grief and pulled Ravella's jeep forward a few feet. Say, ten.

She then exited the jeep and hooked her hands under Ravella's pits and pulled. Obviously, she strained to no purpose, but the trooper took a breath and tried again, this time with some success, thus initiating the protracted event of inching him ever so slightly to the open door of the jeep. Her effort was valiant, yet painful to watch and in danger of sucking the drama from the scene. Oh how I itched to put an end to the tedium and come forth from hiding. But I trusted the reward I would receive when she reached her destination would be compensation enough for the drudgery of watching the journey, so I allowed her to continue.

Wise choice. I witnessed something I'd never seen before. After she had moved Ravella near the open door, she climbed into the jeep and pulled Ravella after her. This would've been impossible if she hadn't received some assistance from an unexpected source. Ravella's feet moved. In other words, the helpful detective was assisting in the transport of his own corpse. See what riches may come from exercising a bit of patience?

It remained to be seen where Sutler was during all of this. Wonderstruck as I was by the pantomime, they were surely planning on using the jeep to transport themselves somewhere else, so I returned to my car, discovering on the way how difficult it is to make limber movements while crouched, perhaps particularly on an uneven surface such as the floor of a woods. I reached my car the moment they passed. I ducked, but I'm sure Brenda Sutler made me. Perhaps not. I'm not positive. You'll have to ask her.

In either case, I followed them.

Obviously, I considered calling it in, but aside from the sticky issue of my presence on the scene, I wasn't positive what the "it" was I was to call in. Posing as a corpse? A misdemeanor if anything. I didn't even possess hard proof that a firearm had been illegally discharged, much less if Ravella or Mrs. Sutler had had fired it.

The fact is, neither passenger in Ravella's jeep had broken any substantial laws. Yet I was not discouraged. A bad wind was blowing. If not, I have no instinct at all.

CHAPTER 46: BOBBY

"I still don't have any fives. Go fish."

So he took a card. The muscles around his shoulders and mouth were tight. I got the drift of what he was feeling but not really. The love he had for his wife was bigger than anything I ever had in my heart. But there wasn't much I could do to remedy the situation except promise not to kill her, and that hadn't calmed him at all.

But it was a load off my mind. I didn't know how I was going to do the deed. I couldn't take a knife to her throat. Impossible. Maybe if I had a gun. But even then.

"Do you have any twos?"

He gave me one, then asked again for the five. Of course I still didn't have it, but he had to ask. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was so tense because he couldn't land that dang five and win the game.

No. The flesh on his face was drooping. His sorrow was intense, and the source wasn't the game. Probably wasn't even his wife's safety, at least not completely. I can't conceive of what he's seen as a cop. What am I thinking? Yes I can. Unfortunately I can. But the ghastly scenes burned into my brain must be a small fraction of all the evil that happens in Columbus. Most cops, I guess, get hardened to the horror and turn inhuman. Like Zeke Ravella. Others take it all in and end up looking like Adam. Maybe not. What do I know? I'm just a kid.

I picked up the five he needed and I couldn't wait to hand it to him. Sometimes it is better to give than to receive. Not always. I can think of some things it would've been good to have received from the world. I gave some things I want back, need back.

"Congrats. You won."

He didn't care. His face had been a dark rainbow, from maroon to dark green, now gray.

"Hey. I'm sorry I hit you."

He smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. "That's nothing."

He shuffled the deck and I went to the window. All those idiots scurrying like headless chickens. They hadn't seen what Adam and I had seen and they never would. Our closeness with death made us more sensitive to what it means to live. It made the good seconds of life shine brighter, made music fuller, flowers more fragrant. Kisses curled our toes tighter.

What bullcrap.

I sat down and asked him to deal.

I spent more quality time with Adam than I spent with dad. That's what I told Adam. I don't know why. He told me the same. I believed him. I asked what had happened to his dad. He ignored me. Fair enough.

"So when can this end?"

I picked up my cards and looked them over. "I'm not telling you what I have."

"Not that. I mean this. You never gave her a specific time. There's no clock ticking. You told the one guy it'll be over by six, but you never told Brenda that."

"She'll want you back as soon as possible. She'll be here any minute. Before six, anyway. Besides, at six I'll be long gone." I told him about Florida and my uncle. It felt good, like talking about my plan made it more real. I didn't ruin the feeling by telling him why I was leaving.

I didn't care that he was one of the last people I should confide my secrets to. We weren't hostage and kidnapper anymore. We had become something else. Not quite friends, but whatever you call the stage before friendship begins.

I don't remember when, but at some point I had stopped talking like Sampson. And I don't remember when, but at some point I decided I wasn't going to kill Adam. The fact was just sort of there. It was obvious I wasn't going to drag a knife across his throat or choke him or whatever. I'd sooner make out with Marcus.

I asked for a seven. I could've asked for any of my five numbers. It's the chance you take at the start of Go Fish. You pick a number and dive in and hope for the best. He had one.

Adam crushed me last game, but he had used up all his luck. He had racked up ten cards in no time. He was dazed by too many options. I checked out the window, peed, checked the window again, and still he was out of it. I wrapped the table and reminded him whose turn in was.

"You stole our car. How'd you expect her to get here?"

Geez. There's no point in making plans. Ever. If a plan ever works out, it's a total accident.

"I don't know, but she will."

He threw his cards. They fanned out across the table. I read them. I could've won. "She didn't do anything. Hell, I didn't do anything."

"Your partner shot my brother." I collected the cards and shuffled the deck.

"Yeah, but I didn't. And Brenda didn't."

"I was in front of Darryl." I stopped shuffling and set the deck on the table. "He was a better runner, but his stomach was upset that day. But that didn't matter. I think Zeke Ravella meant to shoot my brother. I'm not sure. It happened so fast."

"But why?"

"I don't know. I don't want to talk about this."

Adam smacked his thigh. "Look at me. Why? Think."

I didn't look at him. I didn't think. I concentrated on the card design. The lines were chaotic at first, but then I noticed how the blue lines crossed and there was a pattern after all. It was a complicated web. Not a design of anything particular, but it was something. I blinked and the structure fell apart.

"How did you know he was a cop?"

"I didn't."

"How did your brother know?"

"Got me."

"Your brother pushed him down?"

"Yeah." And without me realizing it, he led me back to that moment at the motel. "Yeah, he knew right away it was a set-up."

"How?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know anything."

"Think."

"No."

"Yes."

"I don't know. Look. The only thing I can think of is one night Darryl came home late and I asked where he had been and he said he was with Sampson who sold something to this guy who Sampson said was a cop. But I don't know if--"

"Wait." Adam held up his index finger. He fell into a trance. His lips moved like he was reading to himself. He slowly wiggled his finger, then slammed his hand on the table. "That's it. Don't you see? Zeke had a deal with your boss and Darryl knew and if we took Darryl in, your brother would spill the beans. Zeke had no choice. Don't you get it? It's so obvious." He smacked his forehead. "Stupid." He hit himself again. "I'm so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Damn it. Where is she? Call it off."

I checked the window. Sampson's black BMW. Parked across the street. I barely saw inside his car. But I saw well enough. Sampson reached under his seat. Only one thing he keeps there.

A weird noise. Don't know where it came from. Just flew out of my mouth. Adam wigged out.

"Brenda? Is it Brenda? Is she okay?"

I freed his legs. Said I pissed off Marcus. Said Sampson was coming.

"It's not Brenda?"

Slapped him. Handed him a knife.

"You have to help me. He'll be here any second. Help."

Help. There is no help. It's happening. It has to happen.

Front door. Steak knife raised. No plan. Sweat on my hands. Loose grip. Wiped my hands. Wouldn't dry.

A door slammed. Then another. Then a click.

"Adam?"

Adam. A dam. Damn. Damndamndamn. Man. Am. Ah.

CHAPTER 47: SAMPSON

The last music: my thumb on the steering wheel. A jerky rhythm.

My other thumb rubbed my eye. I wanted to yank it out. My thumb or my eye. Didn't matter. Hurt myself. My self. Marcus' lackey. Nothing more. Nothing any more. Nothing to begin with. Nothing even to hate. To my left, the apartment building. Under my seat, the Beretta. Ahead, nothing. I'm Marcus' lackey. I could've run. No. They'd ask who I was. "No one." I'd be no one. Marcus' lackey or no one. A choice without a choice. An option of one.

I reached under my seat. I attached the silencer.

Marcus sold me the Beretta. Cheap. Called it a present. It's what the boys in the desert use. He was playing general. Patton of the scum. Soap scum. Never think about him again.

Tucked it into my coat. My heart beat against the grip.

All wrong. Should've shot my heart. Found it then shot it.

I looked at the rearview mirror.

Mirror.

"Be a man. You bitch. Be a man. Be John Gotti. Be John Wayne. John Wayne Gacy. Grow a pair and make the world polish them." I looked in my eyes.

Ugly. Unlovable. Unloved.

Doesn't matter. Loved or unloved. Doesn't matter.

Rich and poor. Saint and heathen. Soldier and general.

All down the drain. Drip drip. Down the drain.

Doesn't matter.

Ever.

Nothing.

Never.

CHAPTER 48: ZEKE

As if I don't have enough on my plate, Brenda decides to get hysterical. She swears she sees someone duck behind a car. Does he follow us? No. Great. Thanks for the distraction. Anyway, what if he is following? I'm dead and everything's going according to their fucked up plan. Just drive and let a pro handle the situation.

Was I scared? Not really. You try to avoid situations where your intel isn't solid, but you do what you have to do. Here's what I could safely assume: some guys had been watching over Adam, but once his pussyness became evident, all but one goon left. Two tops. I hoped Sampson was one who stayed behind. I really wanted to stuff that turkey. Even if he hadn't, I was a pro. I had training. I could handle whatever.

I had confidence because I believed. You know how these terrorists can blow themselves up without a second thought? Because they believe. They believe more than anyone I can think of. In my darkest hour, I have to wonder if they believe even more stronger than me. Right side, wrong side, doesn't matter. That's not the point. When you believe, you can scale the highest mountain barefoot and not break a sweat.

Besides, just the attempt to save Adam would put me right with the big man. You think a punk or two's gonna stand in the way of that, make me scared and hide? Hell no.

While we drove, I contemplated the sky. It was like God's blue belly with thin strands of naval hair. Such a gorgeous day. I remember perfectly.

What a waste not to put my faith in Him before. This was the very first day I gave any concern for my soul, and already He sent me so many gifts. Nice weather, chance to save Adam. Man, I'm in awe. Fucking genius.

Brenda interrupted my prayer. "We're almost close." It was time to prepare for earthly things.

Brenda was told to honk "shave and a haircut." They'd come out, inspect my corpse, release Adam. Right. That was the suppose to. The reality was, she'd drop me off a block away and I'd penetrate the apartment building. She'd honk to draw them out. Best case, I'd catch them as they left the apartment and I'd take it from there. Worst case, I'd get behind them and use my charms to learn what apartment Adam was stashed in, who was with him, what they were packing and so on.

Not the best plan. Too many what we call "contingencies." But it was the best plan I could hope for on such short notice. And I had the element of surprise. After a firearm, this was my best weapon.

I had left Brenda's pea shooter behind, trusting my Glock would be sufficient. I dug it out from the back and checked the clip. That's right. You remember. Empty. How the hell did I forget? Shit. I must've said it out loud. Brenda freaked out. "What is it? What is it?" I fed her some bullshit and calmed her down.

But guess what? That's right. I checked Gavin's gift. Fully loaded, like he said. Now tell me God wasn't behind that.

Now it's Brenda's turn to say "Shit." I ask what's up and she hems and haws, but I press. Turns out she forgot to bring the fucking address. Kind of a big deal, wouldn't you say? She tells me to relax. Says it's either 1400 or 1600. As if my plate isn't already loaded.

As it happens, I figure it out. The 1400 hundred block is a parking lot and a dentist's office. She drives on and spots Adam's car and parks.

I prepare for battle. I cover the gun with the sleeve of my jacket. Now, here, for no reason at all, I start to number all the ways it can go down screwy. That's suicide before a mission, you know.

Then I stop because I see the lookout, who must've got bored looking out. Sampson. He's focused and furious, darting toward the apartment building. It was sort of comforting to see a familiar face. I knew who to aim for. Now I'm calm. I can take down Sampson with a spitwad. I can barely wait.

I tell her to give me a minute. I say, and I quote, "I'll save him."

This was slick like duck shit because I might've meant Adam and I'm sure she took it that way, but the "him" was mostly me. Did you get that? I'd like to think she did too. She says, "Be careful. I love him so much."

As soon as Sampson's inside, I jog against the side of the building. I get to the front door. I steal a glance inside. Nothing. So I sneak in and close my eyes. I'm pretty sure I hear a door open on the second floor. I climb the stairs real quiet, heel to toe. I pause at the corner and flip off the safety.

Brenda honks "shave and a haircut." I'm ready to jam Gavin's gift into the next face I see. Down the hall, there's a struggle, then a faint whoosh. Now, plenty of things go whoosh, but only one thing in the world makes the whoosh I heard.

In one way of looking at it, my job's already done. I tried to save Sutler. If they blow him away early, it ain't my fault. I should still get the karma.

I hug the wall beside the open doorway. Sampson's shouting shit like, "Open up, mother fucker. Don't make me bust in there." Just as he says that, he batters down a door. But another door's in his way and his banging and hilarious threats continue.

I spin into the apartment, barrel first. Don't believe what I see. My first impulse is to fire but I don't need to. The kid sitting under the window, his eyes fluttering, is dripping a lot of blood from a hole in his chest and isn't much of a threat. Kid looks familiar. Takes a moment to register. It's the other kid from Lucky's.

Meanwhile, Sampson's around the corner going ape shit.

CHAPTER 49: DALE

I approached the driver's side of Ravella's jeep to illicit a plot synopsis from the woman, Brenda Sutler. I tapped my badge on the window and showed her my revolver. In turn, she showed me the back of her throat. Her shriek moved a pesky pedestrian to gape at us. But the concerned citizen moved on, satisfied when I revealed the law enforcement credentials in my hands.

Brenda Sutler had temporarily shredded her vocal cords, which granted me plenty of time to explain I was one of the good guys. One of the best in fact. She eventually identified herself and briefly described the absurd exigency in which she had found herself enmeshed. The ill-starred innocent actually believed Ravella was going to save the day.

Now resigned--perhaps even willing--to take any amount of heat for overstepping my duties, I attempted to call it in. Brenda got in a dizzy and relayed the kidnappers warning about alerting the authorities. Aside from the fact that I, an authority, had already been alerted, I told her to take comfort in the fact that their threat was quite common and not to be taken very seriously.

You have the record of my subsequent conversation with dispatch.

As I hung up, two shots then rang from the apartment building. I pocketed my badge and demanded to know where the shots had come from. She pointed to the building. I probably rolled my eyes.

I made the second call as I ran toward the building, thus explaining my breathless urgency on the recording.

At his final tollbooth, Sonny Corleone ate a hundred bullets, give or take. James Caan, as far as I know, has never been shot even once. This is what I cogitated upon as I reached the front door, ignorant as to what nefarious dangers awaited me on the other side of the glass. I took a meditative breath as the skills I acquired in training and on the street resurfaced from the depths of my past. When I was sure I could do it, whatever "it" needed to be, I forwent further analysis of the Sonny versus James distinction.

I entered. All was still. Mailboxes on my left. A staircase in front of me. A hallway to the right. No soundtrack to build tension, although if there had been, my heart's drum solo beating in my ears would have obscured the score.

Cock. Aim. Fire. Repeat as needed. The gunman's credo. I cocked so as to have one less step to remember.

Yes, the option of waiting for backup was available, but as a shameful option. The idea came, disgusted me, and then scurried off. Up or right were my choices.

I chose the latter. I crept the hallway with wide steps, my revolver outstretched. I thoroughly examined every fuzzy fiber of the burgundy carpet, every dried brushstroke of the eggshell white walls, every grain of the wooden doors. My ears would've been of tremendous assistance, but it was impossible to hear beyond my heart shouting, "doom doom."

CHAPTER 50: ZEKE

I tell Adam he can come out.

"Brenda?"

Yeah. Brenda invaded the apartment, plugged Sampson, then dropped her voice two octaves.

"No." Idiot. "It's me."

The door opens. Adam sees the bathtub before he sees me. "Oh God."

"I'm pretty sure it's not." Sampson's legs are sticking out from the tub and he's looking real stupid. The flickers in his pupils are slowing to irregular pulses as his life drips down the drain. I estimate he's got half a minute left. It'll be an uneventful thirty seconds.

"Brenda? Brenda?"

I tell him she's safe.

"Oh thank God," he says.

Thank Ravella, you jackass.

As he rushes past me, he kicks Sampson's gun. It spins on the tiles. Moron could've blown my foot off.

"Oh God," he says. Again, it's not God.

I come out and he's hunched over the kid. The kid's not there. He left to have a heart to heart with Saint Peter. That lifeless shell didn't need Adam's attention. I did. Not that God's gratitude isn't enough, but Sutler's would've made a nice cherry on top.

I mean, he gets on his hands and knees and presses on the kid's wrist. Hell, a blind man on the moon could tell you he ain't gonna find a pulse.

When the obvious hits Sutler, he drops the wrist and turns to me. Says this is my fault. Says he was kidnapped because they couldn't get to me. Like it's my fault my building has a good security system?

Then he drops the big deuce. Says he knows all about my deal with Marcus. I'm like, "What do you know?" and he's like, "Enough to put you away."

Ouch.

My heart broke. Well, cracked. Because I tried. I really tried. And maybe that's enough. If I had been given the chance to rescue Sutler and didn't take it, that'd be bad. But I tried. So isn't that good? Isn't whatever happens next something else, a different column in the ledger? I don't know. It's all so confusing and not one person can have any more answers than me.

So there's that. But you know, I've learned that when God closes one door, he opens another.

I rest my hand over my heart and say, "I'm sorry you were kidnapped." Sutler's baby browns register confusion, like he's never heard an apology before, doesn't know what one sounds like. Living with Brenda, odds are he didn't.

Once the word "sorry" came out, it was hard to stop the ball. I swear, I had a juicy sin for nearly every day of my life. I uncovered stuff that I'd buried and thought I'd never see again. The world is such a corrupting place. All this sludge oozed out. After awhile it wasn't me talking. As my conscious unloaded itself, it was like I was watching from the side, astonished.

I finish. More likely, I just stop. I'm sure I had more. I can't really gauge his reaction. He's blurry. I don't mind telling you that I'm a little teary by now, so I'll never know what he made of all this.

I ask him to forgive me.

And he does. He says it quiet. He says it like he doesn't mean it. But he says it.

If I've ever lived an Oprah moment, this was it. The viper let go of my soul and slithered back to hell. God massaged my heart with His gigantic, divine fingers. Pretend you really have to take a piss. Your bladder's gonna split apart any second. You're certain the piss is gonna come out your ears, your tear ducts. You finally get to a toilet. Now imagine the sensation of letting it all out multiplied by a hundred. That's what it felt like confessing to Sutler and receiving his forgiveness.

Then I fire. Twice. I would've shot more, but the fucking thing jams. A common problem with that model, though you never see it happen to James Bond.

I regret I couldn't have received Adam's forgiveness for killing him before the fact. Although I've pulled a lot of stunts in my day, twisting time has never been one of them.

CHAPTER 51: DALE

All wise souls living on the first floor hid under their bed.

As I reached the end of the silent hallway, I was forced to deduce any wicked souls two story building, if not on the first floor, must thus be located on the second. I'll pause while you marvel at my formidable mental powers.

Up the stairs to a metal door that hadn't a window to what was beyond. It creaked as I pushed it open, far enough to slide my slender frame through.

Halfway down the hall, a door stood open. As much as I appreciated the clue, the open door was brazen and thus unsettling, as if the gaping doorway said to the world, "Witness the nefarious goings-on in this apartment if you please. You can't stop them anyway." Yet I inched to the open mouth as it was my job.

Closer, Ravella's speech grew more distinct and my heartbeat grew less anxious. I reached the wall beside the doorway and was greeted by the most repugnant list of sins against law, man, God, and basic decency that has ever sullied my ear canal. Ravella closed more cases in a few seconds than he had in a decade.

As I waited for Ravella to finish his malodorous laundry list of atrocities, I grappled with my mixed emotions. Elation came from the IA Dale. I had accurately intuited the thick layer of filth that coats Ravella and you were wrong and ha ha. My only error was in underestimating the dirt's depth.

Meanwhile, a profound sadness welled from the human Dale. Baser instincts are ingrained into each of us, yet we also possess tools to combat them, if not inherently, then in the best intentions of our social structures. Ravella, however, represented an utter failure of higher nature as well as modern nurture. What then remains available so as to prevent another Ravella? Although I haven't the faintest idea how to answer this question myself, it is evident a satisfactory answer is urgently required if our species is to ever cease to flounder and begin to flourish.

The twin crack of gunshots ended all cogitation and emotional confusion, and my faultless instincts took over. I spun into the room. Zeke Ravella leaned over Adam Sutler's bleeding body. The hapless s.o.b. was still alive but barely--no longer participating in this world yet not quite a citizen of the next.

I commanded Ravella to drop his weapon. He didn't. He moved a muscle, all the inventive I needed to fire. I grazed his right bicep. His arm jerked up, a spasm which sent what I had requested arching through the air. It landed more or less at my feet. I thanked him, and then called for an ambulance.

Yes, I could have aimed a few inches to the right and provided one end to the story, an end most listeners and any grand jury would find acceptable. But I wanted to bury him, not, you know, actually bury him. To kill Ravella would've been vengeance, or, in a certain light, perhaps vengeance's more respectable sister, revenge. But I consciously aimed for Ravella's arm because I was aiming for a higher ideal. If I had opted to kill Ravella, I would have killed much more than I am willing to lose.

CHAPTER 52: ZEKE

Even if you're trapped in a corner, you got options. "Trapped" isn't a real word most of the time. Trapped is temporary. Think we're trapped in here? That's thinking small. Off the top of my head, I can think of three options: you can break out, wait till they let you out, or you could die. Trapped is just a state of mind, and it's a state of mind I never visit. I live in a world of options, where I'm free to try this or sample that, become what I want, reject what displeases me. Well, except God, of course. You can't reject God.

So I'm holding my arm. It doesn't really hurt. The bullet had nicked fat for the most part, but a river of blood's seeping through my fingers and I have a gun on me. So it's over, right? Aha, there's Sampson's piece. Sure, I hear sirens in the distance, but all I gotta do is make it through the kitchen and blast my way out before they arrive.

I make my move. I take two steps and the fucker shoots me again. Right in the thigh. I fall to the ground.

I don't feel it at first, like he nicked the fat again. Then the pain comes, fast and hard. I twist and turn. I start to sweat. I wanna vomit.

Meanwhile, he's farting out these corny lines like, "Time to take out the trash. C'mon, show me a trick Houdini. Gimme me a reason to blow you back to the hell you came from." He's smirking like he's badass, but the lines are bad and he's an ass.

Like I said, options. So going for Sampson's gun didn't work. Okay, I'll try something else. I'm holding my bleeding leg with my bloody hand and my torn up arm with my good hand, but I still got options.

I crawl to the window. The scumfuck won't shut up. "Whatcha doing, princess? Gonna show me a dance?" Stuff like that. Real brutal digs. What an asshole. I'd never do that. He shouldn't be wearing a badge.

I kind of push the dead kid out of the way. His head lands on Sutler's crotch. Too bad I wasn't in a laughing mood right then.

I try the window. It's locked, so I prop myself up to reach the lock. Fuck it. It's not working. I'm dizzy. Can't get a grip. I'm covered in gallons of blood and I'm slipping all over the place.

I collapse next to the kid. We three are making a mess of the carpet, I can tell you that. Someone's not getting their security deposit back.

Okay, so the window didn't work either. Look, you can take what you're given and bitch about it, or you can be like me, a man of action, and make an effort. The effort might not bring the results you want, but you never know if you never try. Sutler never tried. Look at him now.

The sirens are getting closer, but I'm not giving up.

CHAPTER 53: BRENDA

It wasn't brave and it wasn't impetuous. It was just something I did. I don't think it's fair to judge an impulse.

The last series of gunshots were too much for me to take. I heard sirens, but they were taking too long to arrive. What, did they stop for doughnuts and coffee? Sorry.

By now, a small crowd had gathered across the street. They yelled at me to stop, but I didn't care what happened to me anymore. I needed to know if Adam was okay. Inside, I heard the cop on the second floor bellow gems like, "I'm gonna make you beg like a leper," and, "It's time to take out the trash."

I don't know what I expected to do. Nothing really. I just needed to see. I went up the stairs, came to an open door and that's it. I'm done. I'll sign whatever you want.

CHAPTER 54: DALE

I was taken aback to witness the bastard bleeding the same red stuff as you or me, not the ice water nor crude oil I had expected. He'd lost a substantial amount of the precious fluid too. If he had bled out before the ambulance arrived, I would have, I don't know, burned down a church.

But he was surprisingly vibrant in spite of the holes in his body. Rather vociferously he begged me to kill him. He actually said, "Come on, I know you want to," if you can believe it, which shows how little he knows me.

From nowhere, Brenda Sutler leapt into the scene. She pushed me from the doorway to enter the apartment. I pulled her back, but she had apparently caught a glimpse of her husband's remains and was reacting as crazed as any sane civilian would. I contended with her flails and wails. Ravella didn't want to help.

"I'm sorry, Brenda. I tried to save him but I killed him." This guy couldn't stop confessing.

She didn't leave me an honorable choice. She forced me to grab hold of her and push. She hit the opposite wall, slid to the carpet, and dissolved into tears.

That interruption over, Ravella resumed his loud, suicidal pleads. From behind me, Mrs. Sutler was agreeing Ravella's termination was a good idea in an equally powerful tone, if not slightly more shrill.

Thankfully, the screaming sirens drowned them both. The comforting red and blue lights flashed in the window, giving Ravella's bloody hand prints the illusion of pulsating.

Sensing the approach of an objectionable end, Ravella completely broke down and began to weep, replete with twin trails of snot.

The cavalry was in the foyer.

"Why won't you kill me?" He didn't get it. I doubt he ever will. But I answered him with the truth anyway, for something like the same reason why I always do the right thing when no one's watching.

"Because there are rules, Ravella," I said, retrieving my badge and holding it aloft. "There are rules."

###

### About the author

Amos Gunner leads a thrilling life, which will be described in his forthcoming memoir. This is his first novel.
