
#  THE FORGE

Charlie was a bully. When he wasn't helping his father at the forge he was waiting to ambush us on our way home from school. Every afternoon, at the end of classes, we'd hang around the side door until the gang had assembled; if any one of us was late or kept in, the others would wait. No one wanted to walk home alone.

Five fourteen year olds, each of us bigger than Charlie, would start for home after discussing the strategy for the day. It never varied, consisting simply of trying to pass the shop as quickly and unobtrusively as we could, then, at a given sign we'd run like the devil.

Occasionally it worked.

But just as often, when we thought we had outsmarted him, there would be a blood-curdling yell and out he'd jump, blocking our way.

Charlie's father, a blacksmith who had the contract for shoeing the horses of the local bakery and dairy, kept an untidy yard and the endless supply of droppings were seldom cleared. In summer, you could smell the place for blocks, but in winter the problem was different.

Armed with an arsenal provided by the horses, Charlie leaped out from behind the gate and began pelting us with the frozen missiles, hard as rocks. We'd feint and dodge, but Charlie's aim was deadly accurate and his blacksmith's arms made the headshots painful.

Charlie missed a lot of school; consequently he was a poor student, and having lapsed a couple of grades was two years older than most of his classmates. In spite of his diminutive size, Charlie was the strongest and the toughest, his thick arms, sinewy as his father's, were covered with bubbly welts from the sparks of the forge. We were terrified of him. Even his smile was fearsome; yanked askew by a scar.

On the days that he did appear in class, Miss Kershaw would inevitably pair him with one of us so we could help him catch up. Miss Kershaw liked him, as did most of the girls, giggling and whispering their girl-talk whenever he showed. That grin of his would flash and Miss Kershaw would melt as she wrote in his file. That same grin turned our blood to ice. Over he'd swagger, checking us out, searching for some weakness, deciding whom he'd torment for the day. Whatever the reason, I was usually singled out, much to the approval of Miss Kershaw, to be Charlie's mentor.

He'd sit beside me, copying, asking dumb questions, pretending to be interested, but at every opportunity he'd pinch or poke or stamp on my foot. "Accidently", he said. Heaven help me if Miss Kershaw found errors in his work.

The bullying was worse outside. Charlie had a knife, one of those hunting knives in a scabbard attached to his belt. He used it to pop the blisters on his arms or pick at the scabs, teasing the girls, making them gasp in disgust. He also used the knife to extort lunch money from us, all the while mocking us with that twisted grin. We always gave in, and as our fear grew so did our hatred for him.

Even on the days he didn't come to school, there was always that undercurrent of unrest, of fear that suddenly he'd show up. We were never free of him, expecting at any moment to see his face in the doorway, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets and his boots scuffing the floor.

Like all bullies, Charlie had to dominate and his knife helped him. We all carried knives, little ones, penknives, and our favorite game was 'Peg the Knife'. The object was to take turns throwing it at your opponent's foot, getting it to stick in the dirt as close as possible without actually touching the shoe. Of course, if you were 'chicken' and moved, you were disqualified. Charlie particularly liked this game and no one dared peg their penknife anywhere near Charlie's boot. If he did, Charlie's next shot was calculated to maim.

Slowly, lengthening days edged out the long, cold shadows of winter but the warmer weather did nothing to thaw the chill in our hearts. Charlie's bullying continued, destroying not only our courage but also our friendship and we began to mistrust each other. We had become so cowed by his hectoring that we unashamedly fawned and toadied, groveling to avoid his tyranny. We fell over each other attempting to please him, to share our lunch treats with him, to buy protection.

Charlie's scorn grew as did our own contempt for each other and our efforts only made him all the more intolerable. The gang's alliance, once one of friendship, became a necessity based on the mutual dependence for self-preservation, and we tolerated each other only as long as we shared the same need.

But we still played together. Charlie could be anywhere skulking the streets; he had no curfew and could turn up at any time. And now that winter was over, his arsenal, no longer frozen, wouldn't raise a lump on the side of our head, instead, the soft, moist mass would squelch against us leaving a red mark on bare skin or worse, a reluctant stain in our clothes. Only the warmest days saved us, the days Charlie's father forced him to man the bellows on the forge.

We could hear his father cursing from a block away, yelling at Charlie to keep pumping and we knew we could take our time passing the shop. Steel rang as the hammer fell on the anvil throwing sparks and spraying Charlie's large leather apron. Sometimes we'd get a whiff of singed hair and Charlie would yelp beating out the sparks with his hands and when his father, waving a red-hot brand, glowered at us through his one good eye, we scattered quickly enough.

It didn't seem to matter in which street we decided to play. Charlie always managed to sniff us out, and with the veiled threats of his flashing knife he would insinuate himself into our game. We squabbled, being two-faced cowards, to be on his team. He was a good hitter, and pitcher too, but he couldn't be trusted; we never knew if he'd be throwing the ball or a horse bun, so we were forever ducking or swinging erratically, sometimes connecting with the ball, sometimes scattering manure. At length, when the sun was weak or it was near dinner time, one of us would make the excuse and the game broke up, but not before Charlie had time to taunt us or loose a few well-aimed droppings in our direction. Eventually we picked up our things, wiping the bat and ball on the grass. Charlie had no glove so he borrowed ours freely, and although we could scrape the manure from the leather, there was no way we could improve the condition of the inside after he had used it.

One day, late in the spring, I had to walk home alone. I had been kept back by miss Kershaw for some foolishness and for one reason or another the gang couldn't or wouldn't wait for me. I proceeded cautiously, my heart racing, fueled by fear. Charlie had skipped school that day and I expected at any moment to hear his yell and feel the dull thuds. It was overcast and humid, and as I approached the forge, the sounds and smells of fire and steel and skittery horses hung heavy. Angry shouts punctuated by sharp cracks stirred the heavy air. My curiosity got the better of me so I bridled my fear and sneaked along the broken boards until I was even with the gate to watch from a crack in the weathered wood.

One of the drivers, from the bakery, was trying to back his horse into the shoeing stall. The horse balked, refusing to enter the narrow enclosure and any attempt to link the chains to the harness was met with snorting and kicking. The impatient driver cursed and whipped the frightened animal adding stroke after stroke to a hide already glistening with sweat and blood.

Charlie was hanging onto the animal's head, trying to gentle the frenzied beast with 'whoa boy' and 'easy, easy'. The animal, wild-eyed and with ropes of saliva swinging from his raw mouth pulled away yanking Charlie into the path of the swinging whip. It slashed his shirt biting into his back. Charlie wheeled in anger and tore the whip from the driver's hands, then went for his knife.

For some reason he didn't draw the blade. He loosened his grip on the hilt and let his arm fall by his side. The stunned driver picked himself out of the dirt and beat the dust from his clothes with his cap. The horse, spent and exhausted, had retreated to the far corner of the yard running back and forth along the fence.

Charlie with calming horse-talk soothed the animal and led him back to the stall where he fastened the chains to the halter without further incident. The driver left, watching Charlie over his shoulder and yelling to his father that he'd be back later for the horse.

From my vantage behind a thick hedge, I could see the horse was calm and that Charlie was concentrating on controlling the animal for his father who stood stoking the brazier.

"Charlie!" I froze at the harsh command, too scared to sneak away. Charlie's father was bent over the hot coals, one hand pumping the bellows, the other attached to the tongs gripping the new shoe.

"Yes, Pa?" Charlie's voice seemed weak, far away.

"Charlie!" repeated the old man drawing the tongs from the fire and turning towards the horse. "Never draw your knife on a man. You hear me, boy?"

"Yes, Pa." He stammered.

"Never!" he said, the one eye opened wide. Then quick as a snake he stuck the glowing brand into Charlie's cheek.

I'm not sure who screamed louder, Charlie or me.

Two weeks went by. Charlie didn't come to school at all, nor did he bother to harass the gang. During this time my relationship with the others grew even more strained when I objected to their developing obsession for revenge against the bully who had for so long made our lives miserable. They wanted an ambush of their own, to beat him up, teach him a lesson. Their vehemence frightened me and I feared they might in the heat of their aggression carry the plan too far once Charlie was in their clutches. I was accused of being a coward, of treachery, and reminded of the many times they had saved my skin.

It was two weeks to the day after the incident at the forge and we were batting flies in the field at the end of my street. Looming in the distance, Charlie, with his hands in the pockets of his filthy pants was gradually pointing himself in our direction. We tried to ignore him. He hovered in the out-field like a satellite moon, waiting. I popped a high one, arcing the ball in a lazy loop and watched as it settled into his ungloved hand. The catch would have had the best of us hurting, but Charlie never flinched. Tossing it up and catching it one-handed he waited till we centered on him before giving it up. The brand on his cheek was red and shiny and I knew what had twisted his smile.

Unexpectedly, he threw the ball at me; I caught it and managed to keep it. Deciding whether he was sneering at me or just trying to laugh was harder.

We stood around him in a semi-circle. No one spoke. Charlie took his knife out and started pegging it at Tom's foot, each throw inching closer and closer. Tom's hand closed tightly around the bat as the blade dug the turf nicking his sneaker. It had buried itself up to the hilt and Charlie had to rock it slightly to free it from the tough sod. Tom's face was hard and his knuckles white. Tension mounted but Charlie knew when to back off and sheathed the blade. He smiled, I think, and reached for the bat. Reluctantly Tom released his grip.

"C'mon. I'll pop youse a few." He didn't wait until we were far enough out before he hit the first fly. The ball winged out beyond the outer limit of the field and into the street. Charlie was good. We scrambled after it trying to reach it before it rolled too far. Tom was ahead and gaining as the erratic bounces stopped and the ball rolled along the gutter. But he was too late to keep the ball from slipping through the grill and tumbling into the sewer. It was Tom's ball and he kicked the curb and swore, his curses obviously meant for Charlie.

"What's the matter? Too chicken to get it?" The bully sneered.

Tom's fists clenched. "Why don't you? you're so tough!"

"Sure." He handed the bat roughly to Tom then stooped and hooked his fingers into the holes in the iron lid. It was heavy and he couldn't lift it in spite of his massive arms. The lid grated as he grunted and dragged it away from the gaping hole.

"You wanna go down or are you scared?"

I could see the ball floating at the bottom in a stagnant pool; the shaft was deep and smelled. I drew back from the edge.

"Guess I'll to get it myself, if you're chicken."

Tom didn't answer. He clenched his teeth and glowered. Charlie eased himself backwards down the dark shaft, carefully picking his way along the rusty rungs. All we could see in the black hole was the top of his head. When he reached the bottom, Tom leapt forward, charged by anger and frustration and started to drag the lid to close the gap. He couldn't quite handle the heavy disc but when the others saw what was in his mind they pitched in to help.

"C'mon," said Tom, "Let's get outa here!"

"You can't leave him!" I stammered.

"You can stay if you want, but you'll have to take the blame...." He looked at the others and I knew they were with him.

We ran. 

# ******DÉJÀ VU**

"I've a feeling I've been here before," she said standing on the weathered deck over looking the lake. She took a deep breath of country air, filling her lungs and straining the buttons on her blouse.

"Déjà vu."

"What?"

"Déjà vu." Bill balanced on one leg and closed the door to the Trans Am with his foot. "A distortion of memory. An illusion that the situation has been previously experienced. Quite a common feeling actually."

The door thudded shut and Bill hefted their bags —she obviously wasn't going to help— and mounted the six wooden steps to the wide deck surrounding the A frame cottage. He loved the place. It's where he came to escape, to get away from the pressures, the past. He told her to pack for a long weekend but judging by the weight of her bags she had enough stuff for a month.

"Can you get the door?" At least, he added under his breath. "The keys are in my front pocket."

"Sure." She sidled over slowly and provocatively reached deep in the pocket of his Levi's. Beads of perspiration erupted on his forehead. She fumbled, then leaned into him and planted a kiss on his cheek—light as a feather, her soft hair brushing his face.

'Déjà vu?" she asked in a sexy voice.

He didn't answer, following her into the cabin when she opened the door and left the bags on the braided rug in front of the fieldstone fireplace. Dust danced in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun.

Bill stared at her well-shaped butt when she leaned over the kitchen counter to open the window to take in the view. He was beginning to like her and hoped she wouldn't be like the others. He hoped they could become friends before she expected to get into his bed.

"I'll get the wood for the fire, the place is pretty damp. Bathroom's over there, if you want to freshen up." He wiped his palms on his thighs and went out for the wood. Logs stacked and split were piled neatly along the side of the cottage but he had to hunt for scattered bits of twigs and dried bark for kindling.

"Here. Let me do that." She tossed the towel on the chair and took a wad of newspaper from him, reshaping it into a loose ball and built a tent of twigs around it, then lit the paper with a fireplace match.

Bill frowned and folded the towel.

"There. Nothing to it. It's all in how you set the kindling."

"You must've been a Girl Scout." He smiled and thought he might kiss her. The moment passed when she bent to retrieve the ember that crackled and rolled out of the grate onto the braided rug."

"Whoa!" She kicked it a couple of times getting it back in the hearth.

Suddenly flashing back ten years, he blinked and stood up his knees popping.

"Was that you or the fire?"

"Me. Football knees."

"Oh. Sounds painful!"

"Not really. Just noisy is all. Hungry?"

"Very." She stood and turned to him, kissing him quickly on the lips and squeezed his bicep. Nice, she thought.

"Then follow me."

In the kitchen he lit the kerosene lamp to chase away the October gloom.

"No electricity?"

"Not out here."

"What keeps the fridge going?"

"Generator." He inclined his head towards the back of the cabin. "Hear it?"

She strained a little and picked out the low hum, it's steady rhythm out of place amid the beat of crickets and insects, a crease in her forehead holding her concentration.

"You said you were hungry. Very hungry as I recall." There was the tiniest edge to his voice.

"Did I say that? All this country air is great for one's appetite. Didn't mean to be rude."

Maybe not. Maybe she was just being honest.

She rubbed her arms as he worked in the kitchen. It was cool in the cabin.

"Mind if I put this on? I've got goose bumps." She took an old gray sweater from a peg beneath the stuffed and moth-eaten moose head. She draped it draped around her shoulders before he could answer.

Sure. Help yourself, he thought, trying not to frown. For a moment she looked like his sister.

"How do you like your steak?"

He flopped two thick T-Bones on the butcher block, the raw meat oozing on the wooden surface and began expertly to hone a knife, the blade singing on the steel.

"Rare," she answered licking her lips. "Charred on the outside, blue in the middle."

"Great. Just how I like mine."

"Can I do something? I'd like to help."

"Sure. Why don't you tend to the fire?" Since you're such an expert he said to himself. "I've got everything under control in the kitchen."

He brought out a large wooden bowl and placed it on the dining room table. After rubbing the inside with crushed garlic, he wiped his hands on his dishtowel apron and went back for the rest of the salad fixings.

Anne busied herself with the fire, stoking and poking. When she looked up, Bill was ripping the greens into the bowl.

She stood abruptly and nudged him away from the salad taking the romaine from his hands.

"Gently, you don't want to bruise the leaves." She smiled up at him and he held his breath. Her scent was intoxicating and the soft light from the flickering fire tinged her skin the colour of his mother's make-up.

"Right. No bruising."

Leaving her to the salad he collected the dishes, place mats, cutlery and two wine glasses, carefully setting the table, placing them symmetrically across from each other. Don't forget the wine, he reminded himself.

"Let me," she said when he came back with the dressing he'd just made. Handing it to her, she dribbled it over the leaves.

Don't bruise it, he almost said, as she tossed the salad.

"Steaks'll be ready in a minute," he called. "Why don't you uncork the wine?"

She was rearranging the settings. Apparently he hadn't placed the cutlery correctly. He watched as she babbled away saying nothing and everything, reminding him of his sister. And uncannily of his mother too.

A roaring hiss of fat hitting the flames brought him back.

"Sounds like they're ready," she called. He dropped the fork with a clatter. He didn't need to be told.

"Hey, butterfingers! Everything okay in there?"

"No problem, Anne. Under control." He didn't like the way she laughed. And he didn't like her wearing that sweater.

And the sound of her chewing was deafening.

How's the wine?" he asked, to break the cacophony.

"Mmm. Very nice. Although I prefer something a bit more robust with steak.

Like his mother. A real know it all. Well, not quite. Not by a long shot.

"It was all I could get. We _are_ in the boonies."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Bill. Didn't mean to be critical." After a few seconds she added, "The steak is delicious." She liked him, but he did seem overly sensitive. "Really," she added.

He watched her chew and swallow, chasing it with a gulp of wine, her green eyes flashing approval. With slow deliberation he set about consuming his own dinner, taking care to mind his table manners.

"Tell me about yourself, Bill."

"Huh? Oh. Nothing really to tell." He rubbed a patch of stubble on his chin.

"Don't be modest. I'd love to hear how you became interested in geology."

Dig! Pick! Correct! Dig! Pick! Correct!

His mother. Probing. Mining his brain.

Pushing away the image he shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rolled back the cuffs of his shirtsleeves exactly two turns. He was getting hot, the fire blazing, nicely doing its job. She had already removed the sweater. Anne leaned her bare arms on the table and twirled the wine glass, tilting and swirling, the contents almost spilling.

I collected rocks as a kid. My grandfather got me started and I kept the interest. No mystery." He shrugged and drained the last of his wine. She stopped twirling her glass and smiled encouraging him to continue.

"By the time I was ready for college I drifted towards a program that concentrated on mineralogy and geology. Seemed natural at the time."

"And football?"

"Football?"

"Your knees."

"My knees. Right. Yes, football. That happened in high school. Wrecked any chances of playing college ball." He lied. He'd never played football in his life. The constant kneeling destroyed his knees.

"Four years, then two more for a master's. And that was it. I'm with an oil outfit now."

"Sounds fascinating. Tell me more. What about your family?" She'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and went to sit in the love seat in front of the fire and kicked off her shoes. Then she hitched her skirt above her knees and warmed her feet, wriggling her toes. She had muscular calves.

"Come," she said, her hand outstretched. "Sit beside me and tell me more. I'm fascinated about how you search for oil."

Reluctantly, Bill got up from the table, first stopping to stoke the fire and add a log. Before he could join her on the sofa she held out her glass.

"Didn't I see another bottle of wine out there?"

She was pushy. Holding out her hand. Expecting to be waited on. His mother expected him to anticipate her every little whim. Maybe that's why his father left. Maybe enough was enough. Well, Bill just about had enough.

When he returned with her wine he made a point of not sitting down beside her. Anne made a mental note about his cool behavior, figuring he was just a little old fashioned. This pleased her; there weren't many men like that. She decided to let him take his own sweet time, let him court her in his own way. Anything worth having is worth waiting for, and Bill, she decided, was very much worth waiting for.

She'd only known him three weeks, even so, when he suggested a weekend away at his cabin in the mountains, she happily agreed. A perfect place to get to know each other.

She got up from the sofa and knelt on the floor beside him in front of the fire. Take it slow she told herself as he edged away on the pretext of reaching for the poker. Don't scare him off.

"You were telling me about your family."

"No. You were asking. But if you must know, I haven't any." God she was a persistent little bitch.

"My father left us when I was barely able to walk. My sister was only a few years older. And to make ends meet, my mother took in borders."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It was along time ago." He jabbed at the fire sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

"They're dead. Both of them. Died in the fire. Something about spontaneous combustion or paint cans in the cellar."

He could hear their cries and saw the clapboard house consumed in the orange fireball. And he thought he could hear old man Gallagher. The boarder.

Anne was stunned. She wanted to hug him, but he was too far to be reached by a simple hug.

"It was a long time ago, Anne," he said barely breaking the silence. "A long time ago. I haven't thought about that night in ages." Another lie.

"You know?" he added, "You remind me of my sister." He sighed and rubbed his hands and forced a smile.

Anne let the silence hang, not knowing what to say.

"What about your family?" he said at length.

Anne, only too eager to change the subject, began to rattle off chapter and verse of her own history. His question created a monster and the longer her monologue continued, the more agitated Bill became. He focused on the flames, concentrating on the light, the sparks, anything to keep his mind off family, his mother and sister.

"Pretty normal background, I guess you'd call it. I'm an only child and had everything a little girl could want." She rolled her eyes, but Bill didn't notice.

"Mommy and Daddy brought me up to be the perfect little lady, or so they thought. Never expected me to throw over the traces and display a mind of my own."

I'll bet, Bill thought. He glanced at the gape in her blouse where the buttons were undone.

"I finished high school, one of the top ten in a graduating class of three hundred and eight. Came third actually. Not that I'm bragging much." She laughed

She sipped some wine. " _And_ I was valedictorian."

Of course you were, Bill thought. You were Daddy's little darling, weren't you?

"Then I went to university." She emptied her glass.

"That's not exactly throwing over the traces," he said.

"Well, Father wouldn't agree. He wanted me to go to law school and join his firm. Instead I opted to drop out after my undergrad degree and go into police tech."

"What!" He turned from the fire, the shadows cast by the flames giving him a sinister look.

"Police tech," she repeated. "I'm a police officer."

"You're a cop. Really? As in Bang-Bang you're dead kind of cop?" He was sitting on his heels the poker in his hand.

"Well yes. A cop. But no bang, bang yet, as you put it." Her face was serious and she looked at Bill curiously.

"A cop," he repeated. "A cop."

He didn't make the connection on an intellectual level, but the connection did get made. A cop. Authority. And he hated authority.

"I've been a cop, as you put it, for two years. I'll do another year, maybe two, then apply for law school. I'll still be young, I'm only twenty-two now. My experience in the police will be invaluable as I plan to do criminal law. My father's in tax law so he'll go snaky with me on the other side of the fence."

"I suppose," Bill added absently, only half listening. His sister was twenty-two when she died. He was sixteen. Ten years ago. He squeezed his eyes shut to drive away the images. The sounds.

"Look, it's getting pretty late," he said checking his watch. "If you want to turn in," he nodded towards the bedrooms.

"You take the one on the left. I've put out fresh towels and an extra cover on the bed. It gets pretty chilly up here in the night. Unless, of course, you want to set the alarm and get up every hour to check on the fire." He said this cocking his head and smiling.

"I'm going to sit outside for a bit. I'm not a smoker but I do enjoy a cigar at night when I'm at the cabin. I'll see you in the morning. "

"Okay, enjoy you're cigar. I'll pass on the alarm, once I'm asleep I stay that way until morning."

She got up and headed to her bedroom. She couldn't believe it! Separate bedrooms! This was more than Old Fashioned. But he was considerate noticing the matching towels and washcloth.

"Goodnight, Bill," she called as she left the bathroom. Bill didn't answer, but she knew he was out there. The glow of his cigar brightened with each puff. Her father liked a cigar and she felt a pain her heart.

Bill sat smoking and thinking, his mind crawling back to his youth in the boarding house, the smell of his cigar reminding him of old man Gallagher. He couldn't have been that old, the way he had eyes for his sister. And his mother.

And he remembered the night he was caught peeking at old man Gallagher heaving and grunting on top of his sister. To his horror she was laughing, enjoying it. He knew the old man did this to his mother. But his sister? No!

He stared transfixed, wanting to call out. He wanted to grab the old man, to beat him. But she was laughing. His sister was laughing.

His mother caught him peeking and yanked him away from door the old man had left ajar, dragging Bill roughly to his own room.

"Get on your knees!" She twisted his ear forcing him down.

"Pray, Jesus doesn't strike your evil eyes blind for your lustfulness.

He prayed alright. He prayed the fires of Hell would consume her and his sister. And old man Gallagher too.

And to be sure his prayers were answered Bill gave the fires of Hell a helping hand.

That night, when the three of them were asleep, he went to the basement and set the oily rags alight.

He rubbed his knees but no amount of rubbing took way the pain.

Anne, unbuttoning her blouse. Anne, her hand in his pocket groping for more than the keys. Anne, touching him, leaning forward, showing herself.

Bill stood up, stubbed the cigar on the sole of his shoe and went into the cabin. He tiptoed over to the kerosene lamp and lit it with an ember from the dying fire, then stealthily made his way over to Anne's bedroom and carefully opened the door.

He didn't see that the bed was empty.

Anne had been unable to fall asleep. She got up and sat in the dark by the kitchen window overlooking the water, hoping the moonlit lake and night sounds—somewhere in the distance a loon laughed—might make her drowsy. And now as she watched Bill sneaking into her bedroom everything became clear. She had seen it all before, too many times.

Like Bill, her father had never wanted to touch her. He didn't even want to hold her hand the way daddies held hands with their little girls. Never in public. Never in the daytime. No. Only at night. Late. When the house was dark and still. When the fire was low and the loon cried.

Anne's purse hung on the chair beside her and she quietly reached for her Police Special.

She flicked off the safety.

#  TAKE TWO BEFORE RETIRING

I hadn't been able to sleep for weeks.

I would lie awake trying to force sleep to come.

My job demanded my full attention and unless I was well rested, the stress of dealing with a classroom full of adolescents tore me apart.

I counted sheep.

I drank warm milk.

I knocked back brandy.

Nothing worked.

After twenty-seven years in the classroom you'd think the job would get easier. It didn't.

I needed my sleep.

I'd suffered bouts of insomnia before, usually during a stressful time. Like when I bought my house and the anxiety of being able to handle the financial burden seemed overwhelming.

But nothing like this.

In recent years these periods occurred with greater frequency persisting not more than a few nights. But they passed.

So I counted sheep, drank warm milk and knocked back brandy. Nothing worked.

In desperation I called my doctor, having put this off to avoid taking pills to solve the problem. I hated pills.

However I reached a point that unless I got some rest, I'd go nuts or have a breakdown. The lack of sleep was already causing me to lose touch with reality. I was having weird thoughts. Sometimes I felt outside my body. Watching myself moving in slow motion, my students undulating like an amorphous mass was a nightmare.

So in desperation I called my doctor, fearing what I might do during one of these out-of-body-experiences.

I even had to give up driving. When my colleagues asked why I rode the bus I fabricated all kinds of lies. And once the lie was set in motion I had to continue the charade. I became very resourceful at inventing believable excuses. I became quite good at it. I really did. And I enjoyed creating these outrageous stories.

Once started, a lie has a momentum. My lies began to shape my life and take control. Fortunately I have a good memory, which is essential to be convincing. But a good liar can't afford to alienate his audience or play them for fools. So a good liar keeps his facts believable.

A colleague who habitually told tall tales swore up and down they were the absolute truth. Once, when he worked as a paramedic he had freed an accident victim from her burning car by hacking off her foot. We were horrified. He still suffered, he said, for having mutilated the young woman to save her life.

But he lost all credibility claiming not only that the surgeon successfully reattached her foot but that she recovered and walked without even a limp.

I wasn't trying to play them for suckers. I wasn't even trying to deceive them; I was just too ashamed to admit why I wasn't driving. The truth should have been easy. It wasn't.

My lies grew. At first it was simply that my sister needed the car to transport her kids to appointments or soccer practice. Quite believable. As the need to travel by public transport grew more frequent, I had to invent more excuses, build the lie.

My car was an old clunker after all and needed a lot of maintenance.

"Buy a new car," I was told. "You're throwing good money after bad."

Eyebrows were raised in a questioning if not unbelievable gesture when I claimed my car had to remain off-road, as my insurance had lapsed. I explained it had been my habit to wait until my agent contacted me for renewal. This time, unfortunately, my agent had died and because of his unusual filing system his office staff was unable to advise me in time. All of his clients due for renewal were in the same boat.

This particular fabrication was a bit too much for them. I got a lot of queer looks but no one asked me again why I was not driving.

So it was at this point I decided to see my doctor, before my creative interpretations of the truth got me into real trouble. That, and the weird out-of-body stuff.

I arranged for an appointment for Wednesday of the following week. I was entitled to a number of sick-days so used one. I could have a daytime appointment and avoid the mad rush home for a shower, change of clothes and a long bus ride through rush hour traffic.

Besides I could have a free afternoon downtown to shop or take in a movie. Hopefully I wouldn't bump into any of my students skipping class. I hoped I could hold onto my sanity until Wednesday.

I'd been going to Doctor Mendel for my annual check-up to satisfy the requirements of my contract. It's essential to have strong feet, and clear lungs to be considered fit for the teaching profession. I didn't suffer from fallen arches, varicose veins, tuberculosis or anything else communicable rendering me unfit to work with kids.

I arrived early, but within five minutes was summoned to his outer office where his assistant, a kindly nurse, weighed me, took my temperature, blood pressure and measured my height.

My weight was stable, my temperature was normal and my blood pressure too. But I discovered I was a full inch shorter than the previous year. This bothered me but the nurse seemed to find it amusing and before this developed in a full-blown anxiety, she ushered me into the examining room.

I stripped and sat shivering nervously in my underwear leaving a sweaty stain on the paper sheet covering the examining couch. I amused myself by making facing and flexing my muscles in the mirror. I hoped it wasn't a two-mirror where he watched his patients. I didn't hear any laughter so I was safe.

Eventually Doctor Mendel announced himself by rattling the doorknob, his way I guessed of warning patients to stop picking their nose or scratching their privates. Whatever his reason I stopped the faces and flexing. I could do nothing about the sweat stain.

"Hi, how are you?" He always said smiling and clutching my file. He went to his desk and folded his tall frame into the chair like a wooden carpenters rule, the kind with brass joints. Opening the file he'd review my history.

This time he didn't sit; he positioned himself in front of me holding my file against his chest.

After the hellos and how have you been he sat on his stool and rolled towards me and began by looking at my hands and asking why I was here.

I told him I couldn't sleep. That I was short tempered and imagined things. What kind of things he wanted to know.

As I spoke he continued with my hands. The palms, the backs, the wrists, forearms. He looked into my throat, my eyes, ears, my nose.

He felt and palpated my throat, felt under my arms, probing with his fingertips. He listened to my heart, my lungs.

"Breathe in. Out. Now through your nose." I did.

"Any change in your regular habits?"

"No."

"Dizzy spells?"

"No."

"Taking any medication? Recreational drugs?"

"No!" I almost shouted.

"No nothing. I just can't sleep." I did confess that I often had a good shot of brandy, which didn't help.

"I understand," Mendel said. "But alcohol isn't going to help. A drink's okay, but it's not a cure for insomnia. Okay. That's it. Get dressed and I'll be right back."

I was still tying my shoes when he returned.

"Just a few more questions."

What were my sleeping habits? My bedtime. When did I get up? How many hours sleep did I get? When I was able to able to sleep that is. What did I do before going to bed? Did I go for a run? That would need a good wind down before sleep comes.

The quiz continued as he searched for clues to my insomnia. He commented and nodded, writing notes, rarely looking up at me, occasionally chuckled.

But when I mentioned my out-of-body experience he said, "Really? Tell me."

I did.

Tension was eased somewhat, and he laughed when I told him of the incredible lies I spun to avoid driving my car. None of my actions had struck me as particularly bizarre at the time, but now with the retelling I began to realize just how screwy I was becoming. I got scared and it must have showed.

"With so little rest it's not unusual to have these, ah, these episodes.

"I'm going to prescribe some medication, and I know your feelings on that. But trust me here, okay? A mild sedative to help you relax. And I want to see you next week."

"Okay," I said.

"And be sure to take them as directed." He wrote the script.

"Take two before retiring. They should help you get the rest you need."

"Thanks."

"And no brandy!"

"Right, no brandy," I agreed.

I had the prescription filled in the drug store on the ground floor of his office building. The druggist told me there'd be a short wait so I browsed their magazine section.

I was flipping through _Psychology Today_ when my name was called.

"Would Mister Miller please come to the courtesy counter?"

I accepted my prescription, paid, and checked the contents. A small plastic vial filled with capsules, red with two yellow bands. The label had my name, and dosage. Take two before retiring.

I left the drugstore and took my time walking to the metro station about a block away.

I entered the station, swiped my card and went to the train platform.

I don't remember getting on the train. And I don't remember getting off. I do remember walking the long corridor to the escalators leading up to the exit.

And I remember, after reaching the top, seeing the young mother with the stroller.

I remember because her little girl about, four, was carrying a teddy bear. Pooh. I'd had one as a child myself.

Her mother was bent over the stroller at the top of the down escalators trying to dislodge one of the wheels caught in the metal grating.

She smiled hoping someone would help. No one stopped. Our eyes met and she took the other child's hand as I moved to help.

With a good yank I freed the wheel but in doing so the stroller went end over end getting gnashed by the by the steel steps. Toppling end over end down it went, the steel steps bashing the flimsy frame and the baby.

Shoving my way I descended the stairs two and three at time to overtake the stroller. When I reached the bottom I couldn't see the stroller, but I could still hear the mother screaming. I looked up. At the top of the escalator I could see the child with the Teddy bear. Her mother was still trying to dislodge the stroller.

My God, I was going mad.

I checked my watch. It was far too early to go home, and given my grip, my tenuous grip on reality, I didn't trust myself to be alone in my house. So I wandered about, and given the stares I was getting, I must have been mumbling aloud.

By now it was late afternoon. Happy hour. Fine I told myself. No brandy, he said. Especially not with the medication. But I'd not taken anything yet so getting drunk sounded to me like a pretty good option. At least losing my senses in a good drunk I could understand. Seeing pink elephants would make sense.

I walked for a while in the general direction of my home trying to keep the mumbling down and not attract attention. I didn't need the guys in white coats and butterfly nets chasing me. I checked my watch again. Still early for bar hopping so I decided on getting some food. I was hungry actually, and I hadn't eaten out in sometime.

I decided on Italian and went into a small family run restaurant that I hadn't frequented before but had often intended to. A nice veal dish and a bottle of Chianti set me up nicely with a little buzz and an hour and a half later I was ready to go to the next level. I paid the check, left a decent tip and hit the street.

There were a number of bars and clubs in my neighbourhood, so I walked and went into the first one I encountered.

The place was already hopping the music loud and the throbbing beat penetrating. Just what the doctor ordered. Well, not quite, but it was what I was looking for. I took a seat at one of the small cabaret tables and ordered. The waitress, topless, came over and I stuttered a bit before ordering a beer.

I was on my second beer when two young women came over. I'd seen them at the bar, and in the mirror I could tell they'd been eyeing me. They were cute.

"Hi. Do you mind if we share your table? It's getting crowded at the bar."

"Please, sit." I was past standing but leaned over and pulled two chairs away from the table for them.

"Thanks. I'm Julie."

"And I'm, Joanie," the other said."

"We're twins!" They chorused.

"I can see that," I said. And I could. I wasn't quite drunk yet.

"I'm Derek." I stood carefully and offered my hand. They were really cute in their matching yellow tops with red stripes. Like my pills, I thought.

We shook hands and they smiled at me and giggled.

"Let me get you something," I said. "What would you like?"

"Beer's fine," said Julie.

"Me too," said Joanie.

The beers came, including another for me.

"Come here a lot," Joanie asked.

"My first time I said."

"Really? You'll love it," said Julie. "Just wait till the band starts and they get rid of the canned music."

"Yeah," her sister agreed with eye rolls. After a bit of inane small talk the band came onstage. And they were good. But after my fourth beer even our high school band would sound great.

"Let's dance!" they said, each grabbing an arm and hauling me to the stage.

I danced, or tried to, and they jingled and twerked, rubbing against me, stroking me, kissing me, both of them. I don't know about Julie and Joanie but I tell you I was having a really good time. Even if this was one of those out-of-body experiences it was a damn good one.

I don't remember much past the dancing and rubbing, and I don't remember leaving and going home. But when I awoke the next morning I felt terrific. My first good night's sleep in months. I was relaxed, in a happy kind of exhaustion, spent but in a good way.

I stretched and yawned.

I began to doze and when my cell phone rang I was a bit disoriented.

"Hello," I said, after groping for it.

"Derek, It's Dr. Mendel. I was concerned so I'm calling to see how if you slept better."

"Great!" I said. "I had a really good night." I looked on my desk where the yellow and red striped pills were scattered.

"That was a really good prescription. Thanks."

I looked down at the bed where Julie and Joanie were starting to stir. They smiled and held their arms out to me beckoning.

"Yes, it was a really good prescription. And like you cautioned," I said, looking at the twins, "I took two before retiring."

#  CONNED

"Listen, Babe. We don't quit until I say so. Got that?" The back of his hand split her lip.

"Okay, Frank. Okay. Sorry. We'll do it your way. Please don't hit me again. Okay, Frank? Please?

Sharon drew back from scrunching against the padded headboard of the hotel bed. Yanking the sheet up to cover her breasts she exposed her bruised thighs. She cringed and keened, expecting another blow when Frank leaned towards her.

"Cover yourself, bitch!" He yanked the sheet down.

"Now listen good. While you been keeping company with that dude, I was working too. I got a new mark all picked out. Been watching him for the last couple of days. I tell you Babe, this chicken is ready to be plucked.... and real clean."

Frank talked and watched her in the mirror as he stripped out of his bloody- stage blood- shirt, balling it and letting it drop to the floor.

She watched as he pulled off the rest of his clothes, his body strong and well muscled. Frank kept himself fit with running and tennis when he could find a decent partner. In the winter he was fanatic at using his rowing machine. At forty-three, Frank didn't look a day over thirty.

"I'm gonna shower, Babe. Wanna join me? I need you to wash my back. " It wasn't a question.

She got up from the bed and pulled the sheet tight. She'd known a lot of men and being naked in front of them didn't bother her, but with Frank, even after four years, she hated to be uncovered in front of him. Four years. At first he'd been kind, even gentle, but as the years passed and they improved their con, he changed. Frank had become mean and vicious, delighting in hurting and beating her. Sometimes, Sharon thought, it was the only way he got turned on. And lately he wanted to be turned on a lot.

Sharon went into the bathroom ahead of him and turned on the shower, filling the tiny space with steam, believing it would cover, protect her. She dropped the sheet, pulled the plastic curtain aside and stepped into the stall. When she was ready she called.

"Frank, the water's just the way you like it."

"It better be!" He whipped aside the curtain startling her and stepped into the cubicle. The stall was so narrow with barely room to turn around.

"My back." He turned to face the wall, bent his head forward and closed his eyes. The hot water plastered the cap of dark curls against his well-shaped skull.

The tiny bar of soap created a thick sudsy coat as she lathered it across his shoulders and down his back.

"Enough, enough!" Facing her now, he took her by the shoulders and roughly pushed towards the wall. Slowly he began to soap her. Softly at first , then gradually he worked his thumbs deep into her flesh, squeezing his fingers until the pain was unbearable. Silently she cried, tears washing away by the hot stinging jets. She knew how it would end.

They dried themselves with the same towel, and when Frank was done he went to the bed and waited. Sharon stalled as long as she dared and wrapped in the towel, walked softly to him leaving wet footprints on the cheap carpet.

Sharon was twenty-eight. Her body was firm and youthful in spite of the use it had seen. She lay flattened beneath him. His sour breath spilling in waves across her face. She wished she could load the gun with real bullets.

It was a good con. It had started out almost as a lark, but proved itself so well, that they fine-tuned to perfection.

Her job was to pickup the mark that Frank had singled out in the casino, establish a mutual understanding of what each expected of the other, then bring the mark to her room. When they were in bed Frank would storm into the room, pretend he was her irate husband and threaten to kill them both. There'd be lots of yelling and scrambling. The mark scared half to death. Sharon would lunge at Frank and a scuffle would ensue as she tried to wrestle away his gun. In this mock fight the gun would go off. Frank oozing blood- stage blood- would fall down, mortally wounded.

Sharon would now hit the petrified mark for all he was worth, his gambling winnings, and watch, whatever valuables he had. She needed to get away, she told him and the mark was only too happy to comply and in his panic gave her everything he had. One had even gone so far as to write her a cheque to keep him out of the scandal or maybe a murder rap.

When the mark had left, Sharon and Frank would kill themselves laughing, and count the take. The next day after treating themselves well on the mark's money, they'd disappear to plan and set up the next con.

Frank rolled away from her and was asleep almost at once. She watched him, his mouth slack, breath whistling. She wanted to kill him. Smother him with the pillow. She thought of doing it now, but was too scared. She knew she didn't have the strength, and unless she succeeded she'd be the one to end up dead. Not worth the risk she told herself and turned to stare at the window.

The moon, just a sliver, slipped into the room silvering the tips of the pelt on his chest. She turned away from him and slept fitfully.

Early the next morning, Frank, in charge of the money, took her down to the dining room for breakfast. He wanted to be there when a potential mark appeared.

Sitting across from each other in a corner booth to be inconspicuous, Frank made small talk, his eyes constantly on the lookout. He was well dressed in a grey tweed jacket over an open-necked light blue linen shirt, his black slacks with a knife edged pleat breaking over highly polished black loafers. He appeared for all the world to be a well-heeled businessman having breakfast with his wife.

Sharon too, kept up the charade. The swelling around her eye had gone down and there was no bruise. Her makeup was well applied. Even her lip had stopped hurting. She smiled and laughed appropriately. She was quite pretty and in her knock-off designer dress she drew admiring stares. Frank was pleased, almost proud that she was with him. Sharon knew better. Frank really hated it when men ogled her and later he hit her, blaming her for being a tease. Yet he persisted in buying her expensive clothes, insisting she look her absolute best. If she let herself go, dressed too casually or if her makeup wasn't perfect, well, that too earned a beating.

She stared at him and forced a smile, not hearing his words. I'm in a no-win place she thought and her eyes filled. Her hand trembled and she put down her cup. The dress cost a fortune. If she stained it...

"Don't look now," he said, "but here comes our sucker."

She kept her head down and squinted through the blonde wisps hanging over her forehead.

"Look. I'll bet he's one of those salesmen here for the convention, something to do with medical equipment. And that means big bucks.

She checked him out. Middle age, tall, but not as tall as Frank. And heavier with a bit of a paunch bulging over his belt. Reddish hair, thick and wild. She thought she might like him. She usually did like the marks. They were ordinary men. With wives and kids and dogs and mortgages. Willing to cheat on their families but still ordinary men. Still she found them likeable.

They were no doubt reliable, successful for sure, pleasant and for the most part they were honest men. Except of course for wanting a bit on the side. Little boys away from home for a weekend or two.

What harm was there in the games she played with them. They pay for a nice meal, good drinks- an investment for the entertainment they hoped would follow. A fair deal she told herself. And when the shock was over they had a helluva story to tell the boys in the locker room or at the country club, a story in all probability that no one would believe. At worst they'd be left with a memory that gave them cold a chill when they remembered the excitement.

No, Sharon had no regrets except that when the con was over she had to go back to Frank. Frank was the real world. The cons were fun, a fantasy that ended too abruptly.

"Seems kinda nice," she said.

"Yeah. Make sure you're kinda nice too. Know what I mean? The way I figure it this guy is loaded. So you better play your cards right and score big with this guy. I saw him earlier. You should see his wheels. A Mercedes as long as a bus." Cars and money really impressed Frank.

"So here's the play," he said leaning closer. Every evening after this dude has his dinner, he goes to the bar and has a few. I seen him there three nights now. He brings some kind of paperwork and sits nursing a few drinks while he goes over his accounts or whatever. He has no time for the ladies. He just smiles and shakes his head at the pros when they try to hit on him. So your work is cut out for you. Don't blow it! If this fish gets away we've lost a big one." He sneered drawing his lips back exposing a rotten tooth. Frank had good looks, was fit and dressed well. But dental hygiene was sorely lacking. Sharon held her breath until he moved back.

"I figure a guy like him should be worth five or six big ones. If he doesn't carry that much cash the rings and his watch are worth that and more.

"So, Babe," he patted her cheek a little too hard, "Get busy and plan your strategy. I'll hang in the shadows. Don't worry he ain't gonna see me."

He got up and left two twenty's on the table. "I'll see you tonight. In the bar."

Sharon was rid of him for the day but he'd be back tonight, hovering and watching her as she made her play. For a few hours she could relax. Frank would be busy taking in the skin shows and scouting for new marks.

Around nine o'clock Sharon sauntered into the bar and found an empty seat at a table about two arms lengths away from the mark nursing a tall drink and completely engrossed in a sheaf of papers spread before him. His fingers were a blur as he worked a calculator using the eraser end of a pencil.

Sharon sat. A waiter materialized.

This is not going to be easy she thought sipping a gin and tonic. The mark was totally absorbed in his work. She sipped slowly, conscious that it might be a long night not wanting her mind fuzzed by gin. Once she dropped her purse, pushing it to the edge of the table and letting it fall hoping he'd notice and be a gentleman. He didn't. She drummed her fingers. If Frank were right and the mark immune to being picked up she'd use another ploy. Frank would not tolerate failure.

Frank. She looked around cautiously, but didn't see him. Hopefully he'd stay away; she hated being watched. Suddenly an idea struck her.

She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes in an attempt to induce tears. With thoughts of Frank it was easy enough. A few tears and muffled sniffling might do the trick.

It's working she thought as she imagined the mark looking her way. Alternating tears with feigned calm and nervously working the tissue into a sodden ball, she succeeded in getting his attention a little before two younger men were gathering courage to speak to her.

The mark looked up and smiled. Nodding his head and leaning over his papers towards her said:

"Excuse me miss, but I couldn't help noticing. You seem a little out of sorts. Anything I can do?"

Sharon smiled weakly, shrugged and turned her palms up.

The mark said: "This work is giving me a headache, so I'm putting it way. Why don't you let me buy you a drink?"

Sharon acted reluctant starting to say, "Thank you but I don't think..." Play it cool she told herself. Don't turn him off.

"Look, Miss. This isn't a pickup. Honest. One drink is all. And if you want to talk, well, that's up to you. But you look like you could use one." He smiled genuinely. His whole face lighting up."

"Well, one drink. What's the harm, right." She dabbed her eyes and smiled. She got up and dropped her purse, accidently this time and the mark picked it up, touched her elbow as she slid onto the seat in front of him.

"I'm sorry. My name is Sam. Samuel T. Harris. Computers."

"Computers?"

"Yes. I sell medical software. I'm here for the convention. Was just working on a presentation for the directors of a rather large health facility." He smiled, folded his hands in front of him on the table and leaned forward. The rings, cufflinks and watch gleamed in the low light.

"I'm Sharon Ledrew...uh, Rendal. He frowned and she added, "Ledrew is my maiden name."

"Oh. Divorced?"

"Not yet."

"Oh dear. That serious, huh?" His expression invited her to talk.

"I've left him. But I don't think I can get very far." She laughed nervously. "All I have is this dress and about three hundred and fifty dollars. I'm not entirely broke."

"I'm sure Miss uh, Sharon. I can see that you're not –how shall I put it? A bargirl. Is there some way I can help? You're not short of cash."

"Oh no. Thanks. And I have my charge cards. But if I use them... George—he's my husband—he'll trace me. And this time he'll... he'll..." She didn't finish and started to sob hoping she wasn't over doing it.

"Sharon. Oh dear. Sharon..."

"I'm sorry. I just don't know what he'll do. I can't go back. And if he finds me..."

"What about friends. Family. Can't you go to them?"

"I'm alone. No family. And the few friends I have left won't help. Not after what George did to Marie's husband the last time I tried to leave him." Take it easy I told myself. Not too thick. Keep him nibbling.

He reached across and patted her hand. She looked at him, feigning apprehension.

"Don't look that way, I'm not about to ask you to my room. Dear girl, I have a daughter about your age. Tell me. Have you eaten?"

"Not since." she looked at her watch. "It's been hours."

"Well, I'm hungry too. All I've had was a salad." He patted his paunch. "And I'm due for a nice juicy steak. Come on. Let's go." He reached for his briefcase and stowed the papers and calculator. By the time Sharon had slid out of her seat the case was closed and he'd called for the check.

Once outside the hotel bar, the parking attendant pulled up in Sam's Mercedes. Sam tipped him a twenty, got in as the attendant helped Sharon into the gleaming vehicle.

The big car hummed along neither of them speaking.

In less than fifteen minutes they were seated in a large barn-like steakhouse and ready to order. The waiters, dressed like cowboys complete with jingling spurs and ten-gallon hats.

"Isn't this a lot better? That bar was like a tomb! But it's perfect for me and I can get a lot of my paperwork done. Who the hell can work in a hotel room?"

Sharon had never known anyone quite like Sam. Together just over an hour and already it seemed like she'd known him all her life. She even liked the way he ate, first cutting the meat into precise little squares then popping them into his mouth one by one, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. Frank tore at his food, chasing it across his plate and swallowing whatever it was almost without chewing.

Over coffee and dessert Sam told her about himself. Not boasting just stating facts. He was fiftyish, he said not saying exactly. Married twenty-seven years to the same lovely woman and had never been unfaithful, although given his business there'd been lots of opportunity.

"Don't fix what ain't broke as the saying goes. Besides Marge would think I was lower than a snake's belly. Couldn't do that to her, no Sir." He shook his head from side to side.

He and Marge had four kids. Two girls, one of whom was married and a son at university. Another son had died at birth years earlier.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she said truly saddened.

"Damn hard, Sharon. But it was long ago."

"And that's my life story. Not very exciting but it hasn't exactly been dull I must say. Thanks to computers. What's your background if I may ask?"

The lie came quickly. "George is in real estate. You know. Buying and selling. Flipping properties actually."

"Money in that. Got to be a bit on the heartless side, you ask me. Driving up prices, putting people out of homes. Oops! I tend to get carried away. Sorry about that."

"No that's okay. You couldn't be closer to the truth." Sam checked his watch and said, "It's getting late. Do you have a place to stay?"

At the look on her face he closed his eyes and put up a hand.

"Don't get me wrong, Sharon. I don't think you're as flush as you'd like me to believe. My hotel is nice, better than nice, as I'm sure you can tell from that bar. So... no, don't say anything. I insist. You register, pick a good name now," he laughed and handed her some money.

She was about to argue, but he insisted.

Listen, if my little girl had a spot of trouble I hope someone would reach out to her. No argument. Come one, I'll get the dinner check and we'll head back.

Besides if this deal goes through, not to toot my horn, but my wife can look forward to a new car." He leaned down and whispered, "the model up from mine."

He laughed at Sharon's expression and said, "Thank God I studied computer science."

She registered in a room across from his, in a wing far from the room she and Frank shared. She was still nervous.

"Sharon," he said, somewhat solemnly as he stood in the hall outside their rooms. "Tomorrow we need to have a talk. You can't keep running. Nowhere to go. Little money. We need to talk. I'm busy until noon so you get a good night's sleep, go for a swim or book a treatment in the spa. My treat okay? And I'll see you after my meeting, say about twelve-thirty.

He gave her hand a squeeze and kissed her forehead and went to his own room.

"Be sure to lock your door." He gave a little wave and disappeared into his room.

Sharon took a long leisurely shower and went to bed having the first good sleep in a long while, though she did wake once in a cold sweat, startled by a vision of Sam with his hands on her throat.

The next day when she and Sam spoke no decision was made regarding her future. Sharon stalled, pretending not knowing what she should do and acting very stressful about her so called future.

"Okay, Sharon. I get it. It's a big step. Let's leave it for now, and since I have to hang here for a few more days why don't you just enjoy the hotel? Visit the museum, art gallery. But really, in a couple of days some decisions have to be made."

"Okay," she agreed, not knowing what else to say.

For the next few days Sharon enjoyed life as never before. Long walks, museum visits, take-out lunches in the park—ordinary things that ordinary people do. The first time she took his hand, Sam stiffened.

"Just want you to know I'm grateful for what you're doing." She smile up at him but didn't let go.

Sharon was falling in love with Sam or maybe it was just the idea of Sam, of the kind of man he represented, a man who liked her as a person, an equal, not as a toy to be played with and discarded. But then her mind clouded with thoughts of Frank and the bruises and cut lips.

They spent the best part of two weeks together still not having a plan in motion for her next step, her escape from Frank.

"Sharon, this has all been fun, but we really need to think about your future. You're on thin ice here. So far you've been—we've been—lucky and have avoided your husband. But don't kid yourself. If what you've told me about him is true it's just a matter of time till he catches up." We were walking in a park and he stopped to sit.

"Besides, Marge and my daughter are returning from Europe in a few days so I do need to get back."

But there was a cloud on her horizon. Frank. In the mornings when Sam was at a meeting or working in the bar, Frank would drift over to her room for his customary visit.

"You two chummy yet?"

"Yes, we're very chummy. But we've not been intimate if that's what you mean. Sam's not like the others."

"What the hell are you waiting for? We're getting low on cash and all you're doing is holding hands. You better show him some more bait if you know what I mean. Speed it up will you," he sneered. "It's time to score." He toyed with his gold chain, swinging the weighted end up and letting it fall in a lazy arc.

"The only way to score, Babe, is to get the old boy into the sack, not by holding his hand. I'll give you two more days or I'll have to do something... drastic." He sneered showing his bad tooth.

"Okay, Frank. Two days. I'll get it set up and tell you when so you can do your part.

"Don't worry about my part. Make sure you do yours. Or else." He stared at her, his eyes cold and his mouth a thin hard line. She seemed different, more confident. He didn't like the way she was held her head and jutted her chin at him. He stopped swinging his chain and stood with his hand on his hip staring at her. If she knew he'd been following them she certainly didn't let on. No, she didn't know, she wasn't that good an actor.

There was something was going on between them, he could feel it. His jealousy boiled, barely contained as he paced the room. No, they were just holding hands. That's all. Sam was just another mark. But for the price of the room he kept her in, a guy wanted more than hand holding that's for sure.

He turned abruptly. She was sitting in the deep tub chair by the vanity. The soft green dress, a present from Sam, matched the plush velour.

Frank stood in front of her, his feet slightly apart. She tensed and watched his eyes for the signal that he was going to strike. She was too slow to react and his backhand blow caught her below the jaw, snapping her head back, knocking her backwards out of the chair.

"Don't go getting cute with this guy, Sharon. Just do your job. Now get up.

She half crawled towards the wall as he reached to help her up.

"Don't worry, bitch. I'm not going to belt you again. At least not till this little caper is over. Don't want to mess up that pretty face. Might turn the mark off." She flinched when he stroked her cheek.

"Now, come here. I want to show you how a real man scores."

He grabbed her, ripping her dress and shoved her down on the bed.

"You screw this up and I'll really make you pay," he threatened when he was done with her.

When she heard the door shut behind him she got up and threw the bolt then fell on the bed sobbing.

Eventually pulling herself to together she got up, showered for the second time that day and fixed her makeup hoping it would cover the mark on her chin. If Sam noticed that afternoon he didn't let on but judging by her silence he could tell she was upset. Attributing her silence to her circumstances he said nothing. The mark on her face was quite faint, her expertly applied makeup did its job hiding the dull green smudge.

"Have you ever been fishing?"

"Fishing? No, I haven't. What makes you ask? It's such an odd question."

"No, not so odd." They were standing outside a sporting goods store. And he pointed to the lures in the window.

"Best sport in the world. Quiet. Relaxing. Gives a body a chance to think."

"What about the fish? What do they think?" she asked, mischief in her eyes.

"Are you one of those Green Peace types? A tree hugger?"

"No," she laughed. "I just wonder if the fish feel any pain. Those hooks are nasty."

"I don't know. You trying to make me feel bad?" Trying to hide a smirk.

"No," she said giving his arm a squeeze. "I was just wondering."

"Well if it's any consolation to you, I always throw back what I catch and before you ask I do my best to remove the hook as carefully as I can."

"Okay, okay. I think I hit a sore spot." She was sure the fish suffered but she kept the thought to herself. If this was his worst fault it was minor.

"I suppose," Sam said after some moments, "they must feel pain. I really do my best not to rip the hook out, but I never really thought about it. Looks like I need to find a new hobby."

"See that?" she pointed through the glass to a small display of lures. Sam craned his neck.

"There, those reddy-yellow ones. That little card says they're designed to do the least damage. Come on, let's go in." She took his arm and steered him into the store.

"It'll be my present to you. And the fish too."

"Oh, Sharon. That's not necessary."

"Please. Let me. You've done a lot for me. I want to give you something to remember me by. Even if it is a sharp pointed hook." She squeezed his arm again and her eyes watered.

"Okay, Sharon. I'll truly treasure it. And I hope the fish appreciate it too." They both laughed.

"The lures are just the next aisle over," the clerk pointed. "Just under the sign says, 'guns, ammo and reels'. Can't miss them."

Across the street at the bus stop, Frank, his face behind a newspaper, watched them leave. Sharon's arm linked through the old man's.

Frank folded the newspaper and jabbed it into the trashcan by the bench. He crossed the street and stood in front of the sports store window, his eyes following the happy couple until they turned the corner.

Frank stood pacing and smoking in front of the window, sucking the smoke and blowing it furiously out through his mouth and nose all the while mumbling in rage. Flicking the butt into the gutter he went into the store.

Later that afternoon, Sharon knew the con had to go down that night. Any more stalling and there'd be no telling what Frank would do. She tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing, the best thing under the circumstances. Sam could well afford the few thousand dollars she'd hit him for. Hell, she told herself, just a business expense for him, just a minor inconvenience is all. No big deal.

It had been a fun two weeks she told herself, but the time for fun and games was over. It was time to go to work. Eventually, she hoped, she might find a way to get away from Frank. Now wasn't the right time. Her expression changed and she thought what if the right time never came.

After a pleasant dinner Sharon suggested. "Sam, let's go back to the hotel. We can have drinks sent up. And I've made up my mind."

"That's great!" Sam said.

"Not what you think, Sam. I'm not running. It won't work."

"Sharon..."

"Let me finish," she said taking his hand. I'm not running away. I'm going to a lawyer first chance I get. As in tomorrow. Get a divorce and put an end to this."

"Sharon, I didn't want to influence you, but I think that's the right decision. Running is the loser's way. You'll always be running. Always looking over your shoulder. That's no way to live. No, you're making the right choice."

"Thanks, Sam. I'll go up ahead and freshen up. Give me twenty minutes."

"And I'll get the check and order a bottle of champagne sent to the room. This is really cause to celebrate."

Sharon checked the place. She was alone. After changing into something more casual she set the door lock so Frank could let himself in. A few minutes before Sam arrived a waiter delivered two bottles of champagne, glasses and a tray of canapés. Sharon tipped him a twenty and he left.

Sam arrived, happy and beaming, obviously quite pleased with her decision. He came and headed straight for the champagne. In spite of trying to limit her consumption, one bottle was emptied in no time. Sam kept topping up their glasses and she began to worry. If Frank didn't appear soon, she was afraid Sam would be too drunk to be victimized. Just enough to dull his senses, she told herself but don't get him drunk.

She laughed and joked; trying to cover her nervousness hoping Sam wouldn't see through her façade. She liked Sam. She really did, and part of her regretted using him this way. He'd done nothing but treat her with respect and genuine concern. But the con was in play and she had to follow through.

The champagne was getting to him and he complained of being too warm. His face was flushed. He took off his tie and jacket, loosened his collar, then removed his shoes and stretched out on the bed.

Propped against the headboard he continued to drink. Just as he was taking a sip the door burst open. Frank bulled his way into the room, his eyes full of hate and the gun in his hand.

'You two-timing slut! I knew you were up to something. I told you, if I ever caught you screwing around on me I'd kill you!" He alternated pointing the gun at Sharon and Sam. Sam was sitting bolt upright. In his fear he crushed the glass and blood ran down his wrist.

Sharon slipped easily into her role and jumped up from her chair getting between the two men.

"Frank! Frank, honey. It's not like that. I was going to come back I was just..."

"Shut up, you bitch." He pointed the gun at her and she rushed him as they'd rehearsed so many times. But this time the struggle went on a little longer.

When the gun went off, Frank fell to the floor bleeding.

Sharon stood over Frank pretending to be horrified.

"Sharon! My God, Sharon." Sam was beside her, shaking her.

"Sharon. Listen. Listen to me! Pull yourself together. You've got to get out of here." She looked at him staying in character.

"Look. I cashed my commission cheques. Over forty grand. Take it and get the hell away. Far away. Sharon, are you listening?" He shook her again.

Frank must be laughing his heart out she thought. Sam, the mark, was making it too easy.

"I don't think..."

"Listen to me. You've got to get out. Now. I know what you're thinking, Sharon. That it was self defense, but don't be naïve. It looks bad. You left your husband and ran off. You're in a hotel room with an older man. An old geezer with big bucks. And don't forget we've been thick as thieves for over two weeks. Who the hell would believe there's been nothing between us? There's no other way -call me selfish, but Sharon, I've a lot to lose too, if any of this gets out. I know we haven't... you know, but again who'd believe it? The scandal would kill my wife. And I'd be ruined."

The more she heard, the better it sounded. Maybe it would work. Frank laying there taking it all in must be hysterical with laughter. No this might work. If Frank had the least inkling she would run out, he couldn't very well jump up and confront them.

"Okay, Sam. You're right. Let me get my things."

"One more thing. I'll do it." He reached down to retrieve the gun. Frank had fallen on it and Sam closed his eyes and fumbled to get it. Wiping it clean with the bed sheet in case Sharon had left prints he then placed it in Franks hand.

"This won't fool the experts, but it'll confuse them and buy us some time. Come on let's go. And quietly.

She followed him into the corridor and they stopped outside Sam's room.

"You go down ahead," he told her whispering hoarsely. "I'll clear my stuff out of my room, get the money from the hotel safe and meet you in front of that little restaurant, you know the one. I'll put the money in my briefcase for you. Go. Now!" and he hissed at her.

Jesus, she thought. Shut up. He might just as well invite Frank to go with them.

He met her as planned then walked her to the bus depot and handed her the briefcase. The whole time both of them looking back, but no Frank. They were both relieved but for two different reasons.

"Sam, it's too much." Don't overdo it she told herself.

"Stop your nattering, you're beginning to sound like my wife. Just take the damn case and get going. I'll make it up with a the next sale."

"Thanks," she said. "For the money. For everything." And for a chance to start over she added under her breath. She stood on her toes and reached up to kiss him. Sam wrapped his strong arms around her and hugged her fiercely. When they broke apart, Sam's eyes were wet.

"You be good, now, you hear? And find some nice guy to take care of you. If I was only thirty years younger.

"Sam, you've done more than enough for me. You'll really never know how much."

The bus driver honked his horn.

"I better board. No, Sam, don't say goodbye." She touched her lips with her fingers then pressed them to his and boarded.

The bus pulled away and Sam waved. She didn't see him, having turned her head to avoid his gaze.

It just might work she told herself hoping against hope.

She thought of the beatings.

She thought of the vicious rapes.

She thought of Frank lying on the hotel floor.

This time though, the blood soaking into the rug was Frank's.

#  DETECTIVE SOL'S STORY

My name is Sol Weinstein. I'm a detective first class with the metropolitan force in a city of some two million plus souls. Anyway, this is my story as 'told to'. You know what I mean. Like the autobiographies written by the major stars. Some hack interviews them, the story, usually something the public wants since it's guaranteed to be filled with sex and scandal and a large variety of other sordid details, is spoken into a cassette machine and later this hack distills all the disjointed junk and puts it between two pieces of heavy cardboard. This is called a book and usually sells around twenty-nine, ninety-five. The hack gets a fee and the celebrity gets a huge hunk of change, sometimes enough to retire on. Human beings seem to have an insatiable desire, an unquenchable thirst for the macabre, the sordid, and the misfortune of others. Makes them feel, I suppose, a bit superior, their own lives being rather ordinary and humdrum—read boring.

Like I said, this is my story. Not autobiographical in the sense that it's about me (which it is, I suppose) but rather an account of one of my cases, one that baffled me right from the start. It made the news, creating major headlines that lasted weeks. I finally did crack it, solving the puzzle so to speak.

A reporter that had been dogging me the whole time started pestering me, when it was over, for an interview. Wants to write the case up as a book, he says. It's going to be a best seller, he says. Sure! The SOB won't leave me alone. So I figured I knew how to get rid of him. Sure I'm a flatfoot. Don't always make my verbs agree with their subject and I've been known to mix a few metaphors. But what the hell, I'm not so dumb I can't pull the wool over his eyes to spite my face.

So I said to him:

"Okay. But I have a coupla conditions."

"Shoot," he says, speaking figuratively.

"I want all the rights. But I'm not greedy. You get fifteen percent."

"No problem," the jerk says.

"And you write it the way I tell it."

"You're the man," he says, shaking his head and giving me a wink. Shit. Now what do I do. I figured by now the prick would be long gone. Not him. He's sitting there panting like a dog in heat.

"I mean that. You're gonna tape everything I say."

"That's right, Solly." The slimy toad shows all his capped teeth to me. I hate being called Solly.

"You're gonna write what I tell you. I get to do all the editing. What I say gets printed."

"No sweat, Solly. You are the boss." He gives me another wink accompanied this time with a 'thumbs up'. Jesus, he was an oily son of a bitch. His expression told me he'd already picked out a new Mercedes, not a Jag. No way. A Kraut job, no doubt, just to spite me.

"You got the final say," he added.

So that's how we got started. I dictated. He wrote. So although it's my story, the guy's name you see on the dust jacket is not mine, but the guy who converted my spoken word to typed text. That's right. Check it out. You won't see Sol Weinstein's name anywhere except of course when it appears somewhere in the story. Like now, in the previous sentence.

I told you he agreed to write it like I told it. This way he takes the heat the book gets panned. And if, like he says, it makes a few bucks, I'm laughing all the way to the bank. If it really works out, hell, I got lots more stories. What the hell, I'm in a win-win situation here. He signed a contract so I got total control. Hey, what did you expect? I'm a cop, right?

I also told him not to interrupt. But I've a sneaking suspicion he can't help himself. He's gonna interrupt, fuck-up my flow of thought, to turn a phrase, and I'm gonna have to tell him off. But hey! He signed the contract.

You know my name already. But I'm gonna repeat it for the writer. It's Sol Weinstein. WEINSTEIN. Rhymes with Einstein. It's not Weenstine. It's not Winesteen. And it's not WEENSTEEN, as my typist calls me. And don't call me Solly. It's Sol.

I'm Jewish. But you figured that huh? Can't seem to get away from stereotypes can we. Christ, the guy working this fucking recording devise is shaking his head like he's agreeing with some fucking major philosophical truth here. So if I'm Jewish, I must be smart. So if I'm such a smart Jew why the hell aren't I writing the book, for Christ sake? (No offense intended.) Like I already told you. This way I can't lose. As long as my bank manager knows my name, what do I care it's not on the book.

Now that we've got that out of the way let's get moving.

The case that my hotshot writer seems hell-bent on getting published so he can quit his dead-end job at the paper has to do with the discovery of a dead body. (Don't they all?)

The stiff, if you'll pardon a pun, was found hanging twenty feet up in a theatre. This theatre, part of the entertainment complex in a large urban high school, had all the accouterments of a professional theatre, but on a somewhat smaller scale. Anyway, the victim was discovered twirling slowly at the end of a rope. One of those ropes used to hoist all that stage crap out of the way.

I arrived on the scene shortly after the nine-eleven dispatcher took the call. The principal—pretty easy to spot in his short-sleeved shirt, the knot in his tie a triple Windsor—greeted me at the door. Actually the poor bugger was waiting for me outside in the parking lot. He took me in yapping his fool head off the whole time. I didn't bother listening so I couldn't report what he was saying. But don't confuse not listening with not paying attention. People always babble when they're nervous. You have to tune out the garbage, the inane comments, the silly 'what ifs', and sniff out relevant information. Anyway the poor slob wasn't giving me much, too concerned with what he'd have to tell his board of directors.

So he leads me along to the auditorium, lets me in the stage door and follows behind. The house lights were on and one bank of spots. The victim was pretty well illuminated. Mind you, the lights—kliegs?— made his skin so pale he looked like a ghost. A well-fed ghost. I stood back so's I wouldn't have to crane my neck, and gazed up. He was still twisting about three-quarters of a revolution then back again, as if he didn't know which way to turn. He was totally naked, starkers as the Brits might say, and I could tell by the way his limbs hung, rigor had pretty much set in. And don't believe everything you hear. No, the whole body does not get stiff. Stiffening occurs in the muscles. And in stages. Christ, the idiot is grinning again, no doubt he wants to add 'on stages too'. What a dork. Anyway rigor has to do with the breakdown of enzymes. Jesus, he's laughing like a bloody fool, and I'm not referring to the corpse. And they say cops are hard.

I look down and step back a few steps avoiding the coils of electrical cable trailing the floor, and take out my notebook.

"Do you know the victim?" I ask the principal.

"Yes. He's one of our caretakers. Paul."

"He got a last name."

"Paul LaFramboise. Been with us a long time. Lives in the building."

"Excuse me. He lives in the building?"

"Yes. We're one of the older schools. There's an apartment on the top floor for the head janitor... er caretaker."

I wrote it all down trying my damnedest to appear as disinterested as I could. Isn't that what cops do?

"Okay, Mr. Benson, I'll want the area...."

"That's Benhurst."

"Sorry, Benhurst". Jesus. Ben Hur with a French Canadian curse tacked on.

"Okay, Mr. Benhurst. This area is totally and absolutely off limits to everyone except police personnel. Clear?" He nodded like an obedient puppy.

"The lab techs will be here any time now." I nodded, indicating he could get on with whatever principals do these days. I knew damn well they weren't in the habit of teaching adolescents manners judging by how my own fifteen-year-old son acted—oops! I forgot. That's my job, isn't it?

"Officer..." he peered at my name on my ID tag I'd clipped to the lapel of my tweed jacket.

"Detective," I corrected.

"Yes, Detective Weinstein." Jesus, I could have kissed him. I guess a lot can be said for education after all. "Paul's wife. She'll have to be told. Tracey works here, at the school."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Tracey, his wife, is one of our technicians. Our computer person."

"Is she here? Now?"

"Well," he locked at his watch. "She doesn't start for another hour or so. It's only eight ten now."

"She live with the..." I almost said stiff.

"Yes. Of course."

Of course. Hah. "Let's see if the woman is at home." I raised my eyebrows hinting that we should get on with it. Show me the apartment for Christ's sake.

"And I'll want to interview the young girl who happened on the body." What the hell was a kid doing back here at this time of the morning anyway? Christ. I was willing to bet her boyfriend would end up as a witness too. But if they were playing roly-poly finger my holey I'm surprised they weren't concentrating on a stiff of their own.

I followed Benhurst out of the theatre and down a short flight of stairs. Jesus, don't architects who build schools have any imagination? Nothing had changed in fifty years. I swear all schools buy their paint from the same manufacturer. Somewhere in the bowels of a pigment factory is some sick son of a bitch mixing fucking gallons of puke green. I swear he even manages to build in the smell. Benhurst walked about two paces ahead of me moving like a ship drifting into a berth. I nudged along behind, like a tug to complete a marine metaphor. Not to belabor a point but I had to give this guy credit; he kept his school rather ship-shape. The floors were swabbed clean and the walls relatively free of graffiti, but I had to laugh when we passed the doors to the locker rooms. Neatly and in precisely formed block letters someone proclaimed that tennis players have fuzzy balls. Benhurst looked back at me and I pretended to be clearing my throat; it wouldn't do to behave so lightly considering the gravity of the reason that called me out here.

After a few twists, two more sets of stairs, one that went down about seven steps and another that went up the same number (you figure that one out) we came to a door with a sign saying, _Head Caretaker. Please Ring._ Benhurst rang. A couple of seconds later we were answered with another ring. Long, sharp and incessant. The door opened. Another goddam set of stairs! I was still sweating. Since making detective I'd put on a few pounds. Okay, about sixty. My ticker was also on the fritz, but since I'd given up smoking three years ago, I haven't been getting those pains in my arm as often. Pains in the neck? Yes. In the ass? Absolutely. But in the arm, not so often. I loosened my tie and clambered up after the miserable literate. Before we'd managed a third of the way, a voice sharp and as shrill as the buzzer said:

"Yes?" There was no mistaking the tone. However in the event either one of us was deaf or insensitive to the nuances of spoken language her tone was supplemented by her physical presence. She stood at the top, this gargantuan hulk of femininity. Her hair curlers alone were enough to turn me away. But if Benhurst figured it was safe, then I'd follow.

"Hi...uh. Tracey. We'd... this is ah. Mr..... " Jesus he was puffing like a blow fish himself. "Mr. Weinstein," he grunted unintelligibly. "He's with the police. He has some questions about Paul."

"What's that miserable no-good bastard done now? Whatever it is I'm not paying the damages this time. He gets drunk it's his problem." She turned and went in. We followed. Benhurst first. Me behind, wheezing and hacking into my handkerchief. Jesus, I almost made myself gag.

I took my time catching my breath and gave the place the once over. This wasn't the Taj Mahal, in spite of the fact that Tracey was wrapped in a blue silk bed sheet trimmed in gold, and had a mauve dot the size of dime in the middle of her forehead. If the guy hanging in the theatre was really her husband, I figured he was too white-skinned to be a rag-head. But hey! You never know.

She motioned us towards the room decorated with what I guessed passed as the good furniture. From where I sat on a heavily brocaded wingback chair I could make out the kitchen. Yup. Nothing had changed. The room was straight out of the fifties, right down to the floor tiles referred to as congoleum. I never did figure out what the fuck congoleum was. Or is for that matter. Sounds like something Kurt, in his heart of darkness might be searching for. Or trying to avoid.

The whole time this shrew is yammering away how she's not responsible for his debts, how she doesn't know why she puts up with him. Why she doesn't chuck him out to shack up with the bimbos he's always chasing. Jesus, I wanted to tell her: Lady. Shut the fuck up. Your troubles are over, he's dead already.

I didn't of course. What the fuck you laughing at, you piece of protozoic journalistic slime? Do you believe it? This guy, this schlock calls himself a writer is pissing himself laughing. Shit, I'm a cop. I'm jaded. Like teachers, I'm entitled.

Jesus, where wuz I. Oh yeah. Anyway, she starts to wind down. So far I've said nothing. Benhurst is squirming like the little-you-know-what needs to pee. Probably has to sit down to do it. Pee I mean. Tracey (queer friggin name for a Maha-Ranee if you ask me) sits herself down like the proper-bred colonial she is, with her tiny hands in what's supposed to be her lap and looks at me expectantly. Jesus, I'm sweating. I hate this part of the job. No, really. Finding the stiffs is one thing. Telling the bereaved is quite another. No, I didn't like this part of the job at all. Jesus, what do you do? There really is no gentle way, you know. Fuck, I'm always reminded of the army recruits who are called out on parade so the commanding officer can deliver the bad news. You know the story: All men with mothers still living take one step foreword. Whoa! Rodrigues. Not so fast!

"Tracey," I said. "When did you last see your husband?"

"Last night. We had supper. I prepared his special meal. He liked curry."

Curry. Paul was French Canadian and he liked curry? Well, maybe she prepared it with French fries and cheese curds.

"Go on."

"Well, he ate his supper. Watched the news on the TV, then told me he had to go out.

"'Out? Out?' I said to him. I knew where he was going. He denied it of course. He won't stay away from that bar, the one with the naked waitresses. And they don't even dance."

I wasn't writing much of this down. The fact they didn't dance didn't strike me as significant.

"When did he return?"

"Return? He hasn't returned. He picked up some cheap... cheap... _slut_. This isn't the first time. But it's gonna be the last."

Right on that score, Babe.

"So he didn't come in. Or maybe come in and go out again." I shrugged indifferently, "Maybe slept on the couch and went out before you got up?"

"Look, Mr. Weinstein," she said after checking my tag. Jesus. I was on a role. Maybe she knew the rule about when two vowels go walking. "Look," she repeated. "Paul didn't come home. Okay? He went out. Stayed out. This isn't the first time." She gave the sash of her cerulean sarong a hard yank thrusting her breasts up a good six inches to show about four acres of smooth cinnamon skin. Jesus, and here's me on a bland diet. Friggin ulcers.

"Did the two of you have words?" I asked, trying not to stare down the front of her robe.

"Words? If you mean did we have a fight. Yes." She looked over at Benhurst. The silly bugger was sweating and swallowing, his Adam's apple undulating like a python's dinner.

"Lately. That's all we did." She gave Benhurst a dirty look. I was all for sending the CEO off to stack memos or whatever school administrators do, but the look she gave him told me to put that thought on hold. I made a pretense of writing in my goddam notebook and tried to watch him out of the corner of my eye. Ever try to write and watch someone at the same time? Impossible. I stopped pretending and stared at Benhurst. He was a big guy—Jesus; everybody in the joint was big. If we'd been cast in a movie the director would've been Peter Paul Rubens. Another Jew, I'm sure. Anyway he was big. And when big guys sweat—nervous sweat—it ain't a pretty sight, I kid you not. It ran down from his hairline, along his neck behind his ears and soaked into the collar of his shirt. The python was still digesting. Then he started jiggling his knees. Jesus, if he had to go pee why the hell didn't he say so.

Tracey sat—and for want of a better word—I'd have to say _demurely_. For a broad that looked like she'd been around the block more often than your neighborhood mailman, she put on a good act. Someone being interviewed by the cops about her husband should have shown more interest in his welfare.

"What's he done this time?" Well, well, well, she was curious after all!

"This time?"

"Yes. Paul, well, Paul has a temper. When he's had too much to drink, which is everyday, he gets mean. This won't be the first time I have to bail him out." She gave the sash a another yank. Now, I gotta tell you; I love big women. And when she tugged on that goddam sash, something fluttered in the pit of my gut.

"Well, you won't be bailing him out..."

"My God, is he hurt. Did he get beat up again?"

"Tracey. I'm sorry to have to tell you. Paul's dead."

"Wha...!" She put both of her hands up to her face and stood up. Her sari or robe or whatever the hell it's called gaped open and the silk clung to her thigh giving us a pretty good indication of what Paul would no longer be enjoying.

I, having been well brought up, averted my eyes. Not so Benhurst. His fucken Adam's apple nearly went into over drive. Fortunately the robe righted itself, saving Benhurst's life. No way would he get the kiss of life outa me. His goddam mustache would choke a horse.

"No," she said. No, my God, no," she repeated.

Yes, my God, yes, I wanted to say.

Benhurst sprang to life, got up and took her by the arm. Interesting, I thought. Benhurst obviously had a thing for curry too. He insisted she sit down and went to the kitchen. I heard a tap run. Seconds later he was back with a glass of water.

Now I don't want you to think I'm totally insensate. But why the hell do people always insist you drink something whenever bad news is being delivered. Think about it. Let's role-play here. Now relax. I'm not asking for the Strasbourg Method. Just switch places, pretend you're the one getting the news. Are you suddenly struck with an unquenchable thirst? Not me. I'd try not to fall over in shock. But Tracey? Fuck. She glug's down about a quart before even coming up for air. Makes you wonder.

Anyway, I let Benhurst console the Grieving Widow a bit then tell them I have to get back on the job, so to speak, and that they should remain available. Someone would be looking to interview her later, when she's not quite so distraught.

I left them and found my way back downstairs to the theatre. By now the place is swarming with the guys in blue, the local volunteer safety brigade (they wouldn't stay long having seen that the stiff was a male) the coroner and the forensic lab guys. Paul, the poor fucker, is still hanging from the catwalk (on which no cat ever walked, I'm sure) still turning, all white and waxy looking, the Michelin Tire Man without the smile. When he'd made about two circuits I said to the coroner.

"Guy," that's his name, "how long before you bring him down?"

"Oh, hi, Sol. We're ready now. I needed two guys to manage the rope. He's pretty heavy."

Yeah, I thought, we know what they say about dead weight.

"I know you haven't examined him yet, but can you give me an idea when he died." He tried to freeze me with a stare. It didn't work. I'd seen him do an autopsy, his stare was nothing. It was his scalpel that unknotted my bowels.

"Sol. I don't have a crystal ball."

"Come on, Guy. I'm not after your firstborn male child here." That was Herod. He chuckled. A noise that for people who made a living slicing cadavers passed for a laugh. He walked over to me and I stepped back. I swear I could smell formaldehyde.

"Maybe early this morning. Somewhere between two and four AM. Good enough for now?"

"You sure?

"Look. That's the best I can do. Judging from the extent of rigor."

"Okay. I just want to know approximately. Between two and four is good for me. "I stepped back and tried not to gag and said, "Okay, then. I'm off. I'll leave him to your capable hands."

He waved a hand, gloved in plastic, and proceeded to supervise the lowering of Paul. I headed back towards the foyer, the front of the school, and looked for the office.

Benhurst was through consoling the Widow, and I found him at the counter planning a message for the secretary to read out over the intercom to the student body. Jesus. I thought sure that school would be canceled for the day. Not to be. The government insisted that the students got one hundred and eighty-five instructional days and that was that. Mind you, today's lesson in life (or death as was the case) would no doubt be the most exciting they'd ever have in their miserable little adolescent lives.

I motioned to Benhurst inclining my head, that he should join me over at the far side of the room. He motions to me, with the same gesture that I follow him. Jesus, how am I gonna maintain an air of control anyway? I follow. He goes into what's supposed to pass for a principal's office. There were so many plants, it's a good thing I'm not an American Vet or I'd have flashed back to Nam. He sits down behind a Formica topped desk and motions by wagging his finger that I should sit in one of the cheap vinyl covered jobs they must've bought at a hospital rummage sale. So I sit. I lean back to give my belly a rest, and manage after two tries to cross my leg over my knee. I take out my notebook again.

I watch him watching me. He seems composed. I dunno, maybe her friggin robe gaped again. Maybe she gave him a taste of curry. Who knows? I don't want him thinking that I think either one of them has an attachment to the ah, shall I call it crime? Why not? Crime. There. I said it. Crime. So I start asking a few questions.

How long has Paul worked here? How long has he known Paul? What about his wife? Paul's I mean. Her employment record. You know, that kind of shit. Turns out Paul wasn't exactly everyone's favourite character. Seems he was on the outs with a lot of people. In particular a guy called Andre.

"Andre is the night man."

"The night man?" Aha!

"Yes, he's in charge of the cleaning crew. The school is in use almost eighteen hours a day. These days, schools serve the whole community. The only time the building can be maintained is when the last groups leave. That's usually around ten, ten-thirty."

"And that's when the cleaning crew kicks in?"

"Not exactly. They get a good start earlier on. The rooms that aren't booked, you know. But then they have the shops to do. Like auto mechanics, hair dressing. Not a lot, but enough to keep them busy another couple of hours." This I was writing down.

"You say he didn't get along with Andre?"

"That's right, he didn't."

"Why not? What was it between them?"

'Well, Paul was jealous."

"Jealous?" I'm not really that dumb, but it's the best way I know to let a witness unravel his yarn.

"Andre had, well... Andre had a thing for Tracey."

Jesus, did everybody in this fucken place eat curry? And what the hell kind of Indian name is Tracey anyway. I'm telling you, the case had just opened and it was already really pissing me off.

"Anybody else eat curr... er... I mean did anyone else give cause for Paul to be jealous? Does his wife step out?" Step out! Jesus where'd that come from anyway. Okay, okay. Laugh if you want. Fuck, the guy writing this stuff down is about fifteen years younger'n me, and specializes in monosyllables. What's he know?

"They've only been married a couple of years. A bit over three to be precise." That's real precision. A bit over three, shit. He's literate but has a way to go to be numerate.

He continues, playing the obliging, if reluctant teller of tales. He was a fucken snitch is what he was. Anyway, Benhurst goes on about how they've only been married a few short years. That Tracey was the one to harness the wayward wastrel, if you like alliteration.

"You saying that Paul had a roving eye?

"I'm saying that Paul was a real bachelor, with a capital B. If you get my drift. He spent a lot of time tomcatting around." See? And you laughed when I said 'stepping out'.

"This guy Andre. He live in the building too?" I figured I might get lucky. Maybe the place was a condo,

"No, no. Apartments are only for the head caretakers. No, no. Andre doesn't live here.  
"Well?" Was this guy for real, or what?

"Oh, you'd like his address?"

"That would be nice, Sir."

He raised a finger at me—one minute—then picked up his phone, pressed a button. "Yes," he said. "Would you bring in Andre LeLievre's file?"

He smiled and I waited. And waited. He kept smiling. I asked a couple more questions and didn't really get anywhere with him. He didn't know a hell of a lot about his people's business. His people he called them.

"I really haven't much to tell you, Detective." Here he squints and leans forward to see my tag. This guy has a master's? "Detective Weinstein. Apart from a bit of gossip..." Here he waves his hand, a gesture to convince me listening to gossip is too far beneath him to pay any attention to. I'm about to ask him out of desperation if he's porking the princess when finally, I'm sure it was ten minutes, the secretary waltzes in with a manila folder. Jesus, any longer, LeLievre could have rabbited.

"Thanks," I told her. She smiled, held my gaze a bit longer then the social situation demanded and went back to her station. Her eyes suggested that I'd find her phone number -if I was interested- scribbled on the wall in the men's john. I held the folder and slapped my knee, straightened my legs and slowly got up. Sometimes my limbs fall asleep. All my body parts were awake and I took a step towards his desk and extended my hand. He took it. It felt like what I imagined a wet seal flipper would feel like. I thanked him for his time and trouble and said I'd be in touch.

"No trouble, Detective, no trouble." Sure now that he thought he'd thrown me another fish to nibble on.

As luck would have it, I did need to see the men's john, but I wasn't after any numbers. I had a number of my own to dial. Number one, if you really need to know. A belly as big as mine exerts considerable pressure on the bladder.

I found one. Not the executive can, but one frequented by pimply adolescent boys who preferred smoking to peeing. I stood with my feet spread as far as they would go to avoid stepping in the puddle under the urinal. It might have been water that dripped after condensing on the porcelain. It might have been, but it was the wrong colour.

I shook, tucked and zipped, then turned ready to leave, and damn near screamed in agony. The pain I felt was vicarious. How the hell he got that many safety pins in his lip I'll never know. One goddam thing's for sure. He took all his meals through a straw.

Son of a bitch. Was this a school or Torquemada's basement?

What the hell did I know anyway, a guy my age? When I was a kid, tough meant you kept a toothpick tucked in the corner of your mouth. Jesus, even swallowing it posed no danger, the wood was so goddam soft it went down like a strand of spaghetti. I left the john, shaking my head. There was even a goddam condom dispenser on the wall. Would you believe? Jesus, in my day if you needed latex, it would have been a glove. Sex at that age was accomplished with five fingers. And those fingers, (need I tell you?) were attached to the end of your own arm. Shit. And a bi-sexual? That was a guy who could do it with either hand!

So I'm outta the crapper and back in the hall figuring I'm gonna scope the stage one more time before I head back to my office to line up who the hell I'm gonna interview first. I find my way back; it was easy. I just followed the kids; they're as blood thirsty as any hockey fan. Soccer if you're Irish. I went along slowly, looking like I'm minding my business, like I don't know my ass from a hole in a bagel, when I hear some dork ask, 'who's the big, bald bastard?' My head spins around before I remember where I am. Of course, all I see is a buncha kids laughing and mumbling behind their hands. By now I feel like a real fool. Fuck, I'm a cop, a detective for Christ's sake. You'd think I coulda fingered the guy who said it. Anyway, I keep walking, my ears burning, my face red, and it's not the angina. I get to the theatre and a uniform gives me a nod and opens one of the double doors for me. I go in and stop a second to let my eyes get used to the dim light, then head down the aisle towards the stage walking like a fat man trying to compensate for the downward pull of gravity. I get to the stage and go on up using the side stairs on the left. The stairway is so goddam narrow I almost fell. Anyway I made it in one piece and stood center stage waiting for a flash of brilliance to strike me. I pull out my notebook and flip through my notes. Not really a hell of a lot, so I close it and stuff it back into my jacket pocket. I walk up and down, my back to the house, in theatre parlance, thinking about MOM. No you stinky-assed excuse for a writer, not my mother. MOM, you idiot, stands for motive, opportunity, and means. Figure that out and you catch yourself a killer.

Seems the Maha-Ranee upstairs had motive. Of course what wife on this planet doesn't? Means? Well, she was certainly strong enough. Jesus, she coulda hoisted up a friggin piano. You see those arms? Opportunity? Shit. She lived in the place. Anyway, I figured it was too pat. Most homicides were committed by an acquaintance of the victim. A friend, relative. Spouse. Whatever. Usually murder cases were closed quickly. But, hey. This guy wasn't found with a knife in his back on the kitchen floor. Or shot in someone else's bed. No, I didn't figure Tracey as the killer. Mind you I didn't rule her out all together though. But I was putting her on the back burner for the moment. Actually, I figured on keeping my eye on old Benhurst. Something about him didn't sit right. He seemed too quick to want to point the finger. My bet he and the Princess were getting it off. And Andre? The night man? Was he getting it off too? I opened his file and checked the address. Great! If I left now, I could be pounding on his door in about ten minutes. If he worked nights, I'd have a good chance of catching him off guard, maybe rouse him out of bed.

I headed back towards the front office made the appropriate turns and found the corridor leading to the front door. Thank God, the kids were in class and I didn't have to hear any more cracks. You'd think kids wouldn't bother me like that, but they do. You can't just shoot them, you know.

I found my car where I'd left it, intact with its wheels. It was a department vehicle and civil service jobs didn't have wheel covers. One less thing to worry about I guess. I unlocked it and squeezed myself behind the wheel, fastened the safety belt and headed out of the parking lot. There were still a couple of squad cars in the yard and the guys waved to me. I say guys, but two of the four men were women. I turned to them and waved back, and damn near shit myself when the Butch driving the school bus leans on the fucken horn. I jam on the brakes, and screech to a skidding stop, slewing sideways in front of the bus. To make matters worse, I stall the frigging car when I try to reverse the hell out of her way. I didn't even see the friggin bus. Honest. This big, goddam yellow leviathan (sounds Jewish, don't you think) blocks out the sun for blocks and I don't see it. I'm sweating again, and my ears are ringing from the sound of the horn. The Dyke is still honking and giving me the finger. I sit there waiting for her to cool down and head off. The goddam bus is empty, what the hell is she so worked up over? Finally cools it and pulls away. I wait till she's about a mile and a quarter away (that's two kilometres) and ease into the street, my head spinning like it's on gimbals, checking all directions. I can see the uniforms in my mirror laughing like hyenas

As it turns out Andre's place is pretty easy to find. It's an old sixplex on a secluded circle, with lots of trees, right near the Presbyterian Church.

I park on the street, checking the street signs. All I need is to be towed away for illegal parking. So I park, get out, and eyeball the street in both directions trying to get a feel for the place. Don't ask me why. I figured it's the right thing do, something Marlowe might do. If you read detective mysteries, you know what I'm talking about. If you don't, well, fuck you. Anyway, I look around then head towards the building.

Andre's place, according to the numbers and names on the mailboxes is on the third floor. More goddam stairs. This sure ain't my day, is it?

I take the stairs one at a time, and stop at the top to catch my breath, check my pulse and mop the sweat off my face. After determining that I'm not about to drop down dead I head down the short hallway looking for number five, that's his place according to the letterbox.

I knock. Three times. Not hard, but not wimpy, either, but I don't want to sound like gangbusters. I stand aside like we're taught at the academy. No sense getting shot. No answer. I knock again and wait. This time I hear shuffling. The dude is putting on a robe or something, his slippers, who knows?

He takes for fucken ever. And by the sounds of the clanging hardware this guy must have the contents of Fort Knox stashed behind the doors. Jesus.

Finally the door opens. Barely.

Now, I'm not one for stereotyping people. And I'm no fucken bigot. I've been fighting that shit all my life. But I've got to tell you as much as I was surprised that the princess was called Tracey, there was no surprise here.

This had to be Andre. No mistake about this guy's ethnicity.

He was about five foot six or seven and skinny as shit. A cigarette dangled out of one corner of his toothless mouth, the pack tucked up on his shoulder in the sleeve of his tee shirt. Below the smokes, a tattoo, a dagger with roses or some fucken flowers winding around it. And he was in his underwear, the skimpiest, smallest pair of bikini briefs I'd ever seen. I could see what Tracey found so appealing; that was no potato. On a Florida beach, the Bimbo's would be devastated.

But this wasn't Florida. And I'm no Bimbo.

"Andre LeLievre?" I ask.

"What you want?"

I showed my badge, and said, "Detective Weinstein."

Andre turns his head and swears. "Tabarnacle. Come in. Tabarnacle." He repeats.

#  THE TWO-DOLLAR MAN

Drago Marx bowled into the room, his booming voice challenging his scent for space. When he sat the chair creaked. In the hiring hall, beyond his door, faceless shadows swarmed in the grey light against the peeling paint.

Mickey Nolan was the last to be called.

"Sorry Meekee, no work for you today." The big man leaned back in his swivel chair, and laced his fingers over his stomach. A side drawer in the desk was slightly open, and bulged with brown envelopes, each containing a two dollar bill. Mickey hadn't contributed.

"Maybe tomorrow, lots of boats coming. Maybe some work for everybody, yah?"

There was work. And plenty of it. If you played the game. Mickey didn't play, so he hadn't a day's work in six weeks. Not since Drago became the new business agent.

"Yah. Maybe tomorrow." He turned and went out of the office, pulling his tweed jacket tightly, and hunching his shoulders before stepping into the November air for the long walk home.

It was cold; the pre-dawn chill lingered, and the men huddled around the mobile canteen, warming themselves with steaming cups of coffee while they waited for the seven-thirty whistle to signal the start of the work day.

Mickey loved the docks; he was the third generation in his family to work them. It was in his blood. The smells and the noises of the ships, diesel fuel and engines, drew him like the Pied Piper down to the water. Six weeks was a long time without a paycheque and he was beginning to feel the pinch.

The wind gusted; stirring eddies of dust and dirt. Gulls heavy from a rich diet of scraps hovered motionless, then dropped when the wind settled to pick at the garbage littering the pier. A crow, a mourner in a black hat, beat off the flock, then resumed his feast on the dead cat. The eyes were gone, and his beak probed a cavity, picking out tender bits soft and warm.

Drago closed the door to his office, turned the key, then returned to his desk to count the two-dollar bills. One hundred and eighteen men, well above the sixty or seventy he usually placed. This was the fall season and there was a lot of work. Still, if the men wanted jobs, they'd have to come across. He couldn't afford any dissenters, so he'd have to set an example and teach Mickey Nolan a lesson. Mickey was pretty tough though; Drago usually managed to break them long before six weeks.

"Anyway," thought Drago, as he stuffed the money into his pocket, "he can't last much longer. A man's got to eat."

He smiled to himself showing broken teeth, and slung his raccoon coat over his shoulders, then checked the shine on his hand-made shoes and stalked out of the office. The gloves, pigskin, he carried in his hand.

When the men dispersed, Mickey took his coffee and sat on the cement abutment separating the parking lot from the shed yard, indifferent to the biting wind that made his eyes water. He watched Drago leave and head for his car, sidestepping gingerly to avoid an oil-slicked puddle. Drago held the brim of his hat, turning away from the grit that whipped his face. The big car pulled away, and Mickey got up, balled the paper cup and threw it; the wind threw it back bouncing and clattering on the pavement. He'd be back for the afternoon call so Mickey decided to kill the morning and walk the harbor instead of going home. He hurried along the wharf's edge passing abandoned sheds closed for the winter. His feet were cold. November churned across the frigid waters driving him to the sheltered side where he warmed himself by the oil-drum fire tended by some longshoreman on their break. Laughing and stamping their feet they shared the contents of a bottle camouflaged by a well-worn paper bag.

"Hi yah, Mickey. Any luck?"

He shook his head and reached for the bottle, raising it to his lips for a long pull, then passed it to the man next to him, who wiped the neck on a dirty sleeve and did the same. No one spoke much; it was too cold. They just stamped their feet and shook their heads sympathetically, passing the rum back and forth. One by one they left him, and went back to their jobs. Mickey, beginning to feel the effects of the rum, sat against the shed wall on a broken pallet away from the wind. He pulled a packet of Export's from an inside pocket and found a butt, shielding the match with his coat to light it. It glowed after a few puffs. Smoking and hugging his knees Mickey watched the gulls ride the currents, swooping and drifting in the column of warm air, distorted by the shimmering heat rising over the makeshift stove.

Another cat, dead and stiff, its sharp and useless teeth grinning, lay beside a pile of broken cartons. Its ears moved, coaxed briefly to life by the wind. Mickey was about to leave when he heard some scratching by the pile.

Two rats, sniffing, their whiskers twitching as they tested the air, emerged from beneath the debris, and began to gnaw on the scraps that littered the ground. Grain scattered throughout the area fermented in the puddles; it fattened and intoxicated the rats. He watched, casting his eyes from one to the other, as they boldly scurried and sniffed, coming closer and closer, picking up seeds and holding them in their forefeet as they nibbled. Their long tails twitched and flicked.

The bigger one edged towards the cat and began to chew and tug at the carcass, dragging it back towards the broken boxes. It stopped and stared at Mickey, eyes fierce, glowing hot as coals. It was bigger than the cat and pulled it effortlessly to its lair beneath the rubble.

Mickey gagged, and threw down the butt, crushing it beneath his boot.

That afternoon there were only a handful of men in the hall, the few who had been laid-off at noon, and were hoping for another assignment.

Drago kept them waiting.

Mickey was the last again and Drago's wide smile spilled across his face when he apologized, his lips wet and slick as entrails.

"Sorree Meekee, nothing left. You try again tomorrow, yah?" His eyes went slowly from Mickey to the open drawer and then back to Mickey. His hands played with a rubber band, stretching it till it almost snapped. Mickey's eyes narrowed and Drago laughed. Then, with a slam, he closed the drawer and leapt to his feet. Mickey stepped back and tried not to look startled.   
"Okay, Drago. Maybe tomorrow," he said, unable to conceal a tone of resignation, and turned to leave.

Drago's eyes watched, following him out of the cramped office, his lips a hard, white line. Saliva flecked the corners. "Yes," he said to himself, "Tomorrow."

There was no point hanging around; it was getting colder and the pale sun was low, failing to chase away the winter chill. Mickey drew his tattered jacket tight and followed the shiny rails that snaked through the yards. It was a long, lonely walk, the monotony broken by the ships creaking against the pier, rusty hulls picked clean by the cranes digging their hooks into steel bowels. Intermittently, smoking smudge pots warmed the men, blackening the sky and streaking the sheds with oily soot.

Mickey walked on, ignoring the ships and the men. Overhead crows circled, waiting.

The next morning was unseasonably warm, the air still. Laughter lightened the hall as the men, energized by the prospect of another week's work before ice blocked the channel, tossed quarters or played cards while waiting to be called.

Drago was late. A squirrel had gotten under the hood of his car and when he started the engine the fan belt broke.

"Sorry boys, gif Drago fife minutes, yah?"

He disappeared into his office and closed the door. No one paid him much attention, preferring to concentrate on their gambling or newspaper. Mickey paced.

Slowly in a shroud of cigarette smoke, he treaded back and forth, from the window to the door, the thin soles of his boots noiseless on the smooth wooden floor.

The door to the office opened. Drago filled its frame and beckoned to some men. Mickey continued to pace. He ignored the growing emptiness in the hall as Drago sent them on their assignments.

Again he was last.

Mickey stalked into the office. Cool and confident and with a slow flourish, he withdrew a crisp, brown envelope from his pocket placing it squarely on the blotter in front of the agent. Drago was about to laugh, but quickly changed his mind when he saw the cold light in Mickey's eyes. Instead, his brow raised beads of sweat. Drago mopped them with the back of his hairy hand.

When Mickey had gone, the agent collected the jumble of envelopes from the drawer and secured them with a rubber band, wrapping it twice around the package. Mickey's envelope was on top, boldly lettered with Drago's name.

Hurriedly, his eyes swept the office. He took his coat from the back of the chair and draped it over his arm, not bothering to turn the lining side out, and left the hall two stairs at a time. He almost fell, turning his ankle on the bottom step.

In the corner by the pile of discarded tires, and old Tom, battle-scarred, one eye shut and blinded, watched as Drago limped his way to the parking lot. The cat licked his lips, and nuzzled the quivering rat still squirming in its claws.

# ******THE LADY ACROSS THE HALL**

The smell of ether was strong and made me nauseous, but it didn't seem to bother the lady sitting across the hall. Maybe that's why she smoked. I watched her slowly turning the pages of her magazine and tried to ignore the antiseptic smells and crush of the pale green walls. She was pretty in a sort of tailored way, with her hair combed back in the way my mother kept hers before she got sick.

"You can go in now."

The nurse smiled at me and held the door open.

I went in.

She was sitting propped against her pillows. Her legs were drawn up and her pointy knees made a tent in the blankets. I put my purse on the chair by the window and went over to kiss her. She was holding my father's hand. The thin scarf covering her scalp was soiled and the few strands of hair that remained were dry and coarse. The room smelled of her dying and persisted through the smell of my father's after-shave.

"Hi, Momma. I brought some fruit. Oranges and apples."

She took the bag but the chemo had sapped her strength and she didn't have the energy to open it, so my father obliged, inspecting the contents before placing them on the bedside table separating the fruit into two groups. She reached for his hand. He held it briefly in his healthy palm then got up abruptly, tucking his tie into his trousers before buttoning his jacket.

"I'll leave you an apple and one of the oranges. You won't feel like eating and there's no sense letting them go to waste." He placed the fruit carefully into the bag then put on his topcoat and went to the door, where he paused with his hand on the handle.

"Is there anything that you need?"

"Some new nighties?" She asked, tugging at the one she was wearing, faded and worn from countless washings. He smiled and returned to her bedside and kissed her forehead. The smile faded when his sealed lips touched her skin.

"Did you start dinner yet? He said to me.

"Yes. I got everything ready when I got home from school. All I have to do...."

"That's good, then I'll go on ahead. You visit with your mother a while." On his way out he stopped and straightened his tie in the mirror over the washbasin. He left, the door closing behind him with a little sigh.

"I brought you something else Momma. Some perfume. I hope you like it. It's Lily of the Valley." I fished it out of my purse and handed it to her. I had been saving it for her birthday, but that was still two months away. She struggled with the vial so I loosened the cap for her and she dabbed the scent on her wrists and behind her ears. When she was done I put the tiny bottle away for her in the drawer of the night table.

"There. When you want to freshen up a bit all you have to do is ask the nurse." I sat down beside her in the chair my father used and said, "You look good, Momma. Are you feeling better?"

She didn't look good at all, but I needed to say it. I wanted to believe she was getting better and would be coming back home. I still needed her.

"I feel okay, I guess. But I'm always cold." She added trying to be funny, "Where I'm going I don't think I'll need to worry about keeping warm."

"Oh, Momma, don't talk that way. You'll be with the angels."

"I'm sorry, dear. At least it doesn't hurt anymore, but at times I'm a little dizzy and confused. The doctor said the drugs would do that." She tried not to cough, and pressed her hand against her abdomen. "What about you? Are you keeping up with your school work?"

"Yes." I lied for the second time. Between keeping house for my father and coming to the hospital I was falling behind rapidly. My mother was dying, who thought about school?

"That's good, dear. I wouldn't want you to neglect your education. It's the only thing that'll give you any independence.

She tired easily these days and when her eyes began getting heavy, it was time for me to go. I left reluctantly, feeling cheated; the hour had passed too quickly.

"I'll come again tomorrow, Momma." But she was already asleep and making little throaty sounds, the same noises that reassured me when I was a child and would wake up frightened by bad dreams. I kissed her and wiped my tears from her cheek; the perfume made a difference and she smelled alive.

Sometimes the lady from across the hall sat in the solarium at the end of the corridor and I'd watch her smoking or reading, keeping her own vigil, trying to contain her own discomfort. In the distance she reminded me even more of my mother, not that she looked like her, but she seemed more like what my mother should have been. Her dresses were always conservative; perhaps discreet was a better word. And her shoes and gloves always matched. And when she walked, it was with the confidence of someone used to being in control. But she never smiled. Like me, I guess, she had nothing to smile about.

The corridor depressed me so I went into the solarium to feel the warmth of the sun; it was winter and the long walk up the hill from the bus stop had chilled me. The lady shifted in her seat and hid behind the magazine withdrawing into her own private isolation.

I stood at the window trying to catch the last of the afternoon sun but the cold draft coming off the frosted glass made me shiver and I pulled my jacket closer. My feet too were still tingling. Perhaps my mother would let me use her boots. A hand on my shoulder made me shiver again; it was my father.

"You can go in now and see her. And if you want you can stay later, I won't be home for diner." He stood facing me holding his Homburg in both hands. The dying rays of the sun glinted on his gold tie-bar.

"I already started dinner."

"It'll keep. It always does. Anyway don't keep your mother waiting."

I left him and walked hurriedly to her room passing the lady as she headed down the dimly lit hall towards the elevators.

Mother looked the same. Grey. But I told her colour was good, and it seemed to cheer her.

"Didn't you bring me a clean nightie?"

"No, I thought dad was going to."

"He forgot, I guess he has a lot on his mind." She turned her head and stared at the window.

"I'm sorry, Momma. I would've brought it, it's just that I thought...."

"Never mind, dear, I don't suppose it matters. Well, how are you?" She looked at me and held out her hands. Her grip seemed stronger and she smelled clean. The volunteer service was marvelous. We talked about nothing and everything, and it seemed that she was the one doing the cheering up. During a lull in the conversation, her face grew serious and she started to cough. I panicked and wanted to buzz the nurse, but she waved me back finally catching her breath.

"I'm okay now," she said, still breathing heavily, "but I want to say a few things before... before it's to late. I want you to be strong," she said, and at that I buried my face in my hands. I was sitting on the edge of her bed and she patted my back. "You have to be strong for your father's sake. It's been awfully hard on him these last few months and he's going to depend on you even more after I'm gone." She hushed me, stroking the back of my neck like she did when I was a child.

"I know it's been hard on you too, but your father's not a strong man, emotionally I mean. So you need to help him through this. Goodness knows the man's suffered enough. It's all he can do to look at me, poor man. All these years to be a burden and now this. Thank goodness the doctor said it wouldn't be long. So you see, I'm depending on you.

"Come now. Let's dry those tears," she said reaching for a tissue. Her own eyes were moist.

"There's something I want you to have. It isn't much but it's the only thing I have to leave you. In my bureau at home, in the top right hand drawer. There's a little box under a packet of cards. Inside you'll find a ring, a diamond ring. It used to belong to my mother, and now I want you to have it." I pulled myself together with her help and dried my eyes and hugged her. It was like holding a rag doll.

"When you wear it, think of me and happier times."

I stopped crying and went to the sink to splash some water on my face and when she thought I had sufficiently recovered, her own strength left her, and she collapsed exhausted against the pillows.

"I'm very tired, dear. Do you mind leaving now?"

I leaned down and kissed her, and without opening her eyes she barely whispered, "Remind your father to bring me some clean clothes."

I went home and ate my supper such as it was. Cold ham and salad. I didn't bother cooking the potatoes.

After doing some laundry I ironed the best of my mother's worn nighties taking care not to scorch the ripe parts. I wished he would buy her some new ones or at least give me the money to buy them. I was still washing the floor when he came home and he pulled away when I greeted him not wanting the washrag to touch his coat. He smelled faintly of gin. I think it was gin; we never kept liquor in the house, but he reeled a bit and smelled perfumy.

"Are you hungry, Dad? There's still some cold ham. I could fix you something."

"No, I'm not hungry. You go on with your chores." He took off his coat and hung it in the closet and carefully folded his silk scarf putting it beside the hat on the shelf. Then he went into the living room. I had left the sewing basket on his chair; he mumbled something and pushed it to the floor spilling the contents. He sat down and unlaced his shoes removing them and placing them neatly beside the chair.

"Dad?"

"What is it, girl? Can't you see I'm tired!" I couldn't. He seemed the same as always except for being a bit short tempered, but as my mother had said, he was taking it pretty hard.

"Dad, could you leave me some money so's I can buy mother a new nightie, her old ones...."

"I'll do it tomorrow. Now leave me be. And don't go waxing the floor, you know I can't stand the smell." He switched the lamp off and fell asleep. I finished washing the floor smearing the tears as they splattered on the linoleum.

The next day was bitterly cold and my mother's boots and one of her sweaters helped keep the chill out of me. I sat in the solarium reading a magazine while he visited with my mother; I always gave them some time alone. The lady from across the hall was there and after I had installed myself she got up and relocated to the chair by the door opposite my mother's room. Like me she was here every day. Waiting. And I wondered if it was for the same reason. It was hard to tell from her face what she felt. She never smiled and in the weeks that I'd seen her I don't think I ever heard her speak. I knew nothing about her, except that she too seemed to be waiting for someone to die. This was the chronic care floor and no one ever went home again.

After flipping through the pages of most of the old magazines, I checked the time on the clock over the soft drink machine, then I sauntered down to the room to wait outside the door. He came out as I approached, holding the new nightie draped over his arm. He blocked the doorway.

"Didn't mother like it?"

"She won't be needing it."

He tried to keep me from going in but I forced his arm away and pushed through the door and I think I heard the lady across the hall running towards the elevators.

There was no funeral. Dad could never have handled that. So against mother's wishes he had her cremated.

Those first few weeks were the hardest and the loneliest.

My father hardly spoke to me but I was too busy with my own grief to notice his. He did manage to wipe the house of most of her things in an attempt to erase the pain he was suffering, but I salvaged a couple of old sweaters and kept the boots. And when I felt particularly alone, I'd go into the room they once shared and take out the diamond ring, replacing it carefully in the box and returning it to the drawer when I was through. Even when she was alive he hated it if I went into his bedroom.

Eventually my father began to change, becoming less hostile, and he didn't nag me quite so much about the housekeeping. I suppose my cooking did improve. At any rate, whatever the reason, he complained a lot less. And I was feeling better too, having finished high school and found a job as a junior typist with a legal firm. My mother was right; a little independence did go a long way. The pay wasn't great but it was a down payment on freedom. But then again, maybe he hadn't changed. Perhaps it was me. Or the job. Whatever the reason, we got along better and were both happier.

Six months later, to the day my mother died, I was in the middle of getting dinner when my father arrived home with a friend. I was stunned!

"We're getting married," he said, stammering slightly. "And I suppose now that you're working you'll be wanting to move into a place of your own."

"Good heavens! Don't rush the poor girl." She fluttered her eyes and brought her left hand to her chin.

The lady from across the hall was wearing my mother's ring.

# ******ROLLER BOARDS**

Rourke wheeled his rollerboard forward and back, adjusting the thumbscrews, his calloused fingers in the gauntlets playing with the tension to minimize drag. He kept the stump of his right leg, using it like a brake, on the hard steel floor. Malley, the other captain, did the same and smiled, the gash in his face checkered with broken teeth. Overhead, the referee dangled in his harness like a plucked bird, the large boom swinging his legless torso over the players. When the anthem was over the men donned their helmets, fastened the chinstrap; the boss in the middle of their foreheads glowing a dull green.

Instructions crackled from the P. A.

"There is one rule gentlemen, and one rule only. Survive." The boom operator pulled the referee up and over the heads of the two captains facing each other in the center of the arena. The gong sounded and eight players—four Blue and four Purple—roared into action, the boards thundering across the floor, the referee waiting until the eight men were spaced equidistantly, then dropped the steel ball.

Rourke gripped the edge of his board and raised the stump of his right leg to deflect the ball, sending it wobbling to connect with the boss on the helmet of the Blue point man. There was a loud crack as the triggered explosive split the man's skull.

"Rourke! Rourke! Rourke!" The crowd roared. Hysterical screams of maimed and crippled men filled the forum. For six years he was the reigning champion. Only Malley had more kills. The teams held their places while the body of the stricken player was removed, the noise of their rollerboards competing with the cries from the crowd.

Rourke sited Malley. He'd been waiting for this day, for six long years, since the day the mine went off taking his legs. Malley had been his CO. Malley was supposed to be his eyes and ears while Rourke scouted ahead through the thick jungle. His CO was a demolition expert and when he gave the okay to cross the minefield, they had all believed him. Fourteen men had died. Rourke had his legs blown off. Malley too, paid for his incompetence. Nevertheless, Rourke owed him for his folly.

Rourke circled the arena, ape-knuckling his board to the top of the banked curves, then thundering down the sides, crisscrossing the narrow oval, waiting for the referee's 'All Clear'. The first kill had been easy, but Malley was noted for his short-handed offensives. He kept one eye on Malley and the other on Malley's wingman. The smiling wingman got closer, driving his board with hard steady strokes. Rourke hunched on his board his head down cutting resistance, weaving into a position between his own wingman and the arena wall. Ahead of him, two team mates understood his strategy and let him pass, sealing the opening when he knifed by.

The Blue wingman hung back, no match for the steel-studded leather elbows of Rourke's men. He slowed his board touching the metal edge of his stump on the floor raising a shower of cold sparks. Rourke's men dropped their arms, knuckling closer to their captain.

The 'All Clear' came before the attendants finished wiping away the blood and when a Blue wingman swerved to avoid the sticky mess Rourke seized the advantage to eliminate another player. Putting his stump in front of the leading wheel, he deflected the man's board, catapulting him end over end into the plasti-glass. Rourke ducked as the ball zinged past. His wingman caught the rebound flinging it against the gong eliminating another player.

No sooner had Rourke's team scored, Malley made a hit. Rourke's wingman went down, his brains splattered. Again the teams slowed, staying in position, circling the oval while the debris was cleared. Malley clung to Rourke's tail.

'You're next, Rourke." He grinned and waved his arm, fingers grotesque from years of knuckling. The crowd booed and jeered. They hated him. They hated all of them.

Malley had been court-martialed, but Rourke, the only other survivor, had been an unreliable witness to the debacle and the case against 'Hotshot Malley' had been dropped. Today the matter would finally be settled.

Rourke swung his arm out catching Malley on the side of his head. The referee, his one keen eye sharp, warned him off with an electrical jolt searing him through his helmet. Another foul and the shock would kill him. Malley laughed throwing his head back.

"C'mon Rourke," he taunted, skidding his board into him. "Hit me!" He laughed again. Rourke ignored him. His temper, his anger could get him killed. With a burst of energy, he thundered down the bank putting distance between him and his anger.

It had been a bad war, and these crippled men had nothing more to lose. They focused their hate, their energy turning it against themselves as they sought to destroy what they were.

Rourke's knuckles wore through the hard leather casings in his desperation to outpace Malley. Equally hard driving, Malley kept right behind him, goading, trying to provoke and attack. The referee still hadn't sounded the 'All Clear'. Malley kept pace with Rourke scoffing and ridiculing. Rourke kept his anger, barely. But his wingman couldn't hold his fury. He swung his stump in a wide arc, the sharp edge, honed against the floor, caught Malley on the shoulder, ripping through the leather. Malley had been ready and responded by braking just enough to avoid serious injury. The referee caught the foul and zapped the wingman, sending him careening into the wall. Another delay. Malley dropped back and conferred out of earshot with his two teammates.

The crowd roared and littered the arena with their displeasure. Rourke steered his board carefully through the maze of twisted straps and braces, through the outcasts, with no hope or future, only a crippled hold on the present.

The referee swooped and hooked the fallen player, hauling him up, his arms and stumps dangling and dropped him spiraling into the bin behind the goal zone.

Rourke and his two remaining teammates circled Malley and his man, faster and faster. The boards growled and screeched and sparks flew as they braked and accelerated. The 'All Clear' sounded, the ball dropped, and six men thundered into action. Malley missed it and cursed, the biased weight masking its trajectory. Adjusting his speed, Malley's wingman deflected the ball at the end of its arc and it struck the gong. Rourke, the captain, pointed to the intended victim and eliminated another Blue from the deadly game. Without missing a stroke, the banished player propelled himself through the opening at the end of the arena and out of the contest. For him the game was over.

In the din, Rourke and his two men wheeled for two laps to let the referee retrieve the ball. In their zeal to please the crowd, Rourke's men dropped their guard, focusing on the cheering instead of Malley and his remaining men. The ball was dropped and before it struck the floor, Malley leaned on his stump, upended his board and changed direction. With one hand on the front of his board, he rolled down the bank in a shower of sparks, his trailing stump dragging on the steel floor. In the center of the arena, Malley snapped the ball out of the air and fired it at Rourke's man, hitting him squarely and before the man dropped, Malley correctly calculated the deflection as it bounced off his helmet and scored another hit.

Two kills. The crowd was hysterical.

Anyone scoring two successive kills was entitled to keep the ball. Malley coasted to the fallen players and rolled the ball in the blood. Holding it aloft he circled the arena in victory, then threw the ball over the plasti-glass. The spectators went wild fighting for the trophy and three more men died.

A new ball was dropped and Rourke caught it. Malley and his men kept their last opponent between them, circling and teasing. They slowed making themselves easy targets trying to make Rourke throw and lose his advantage. Rourke feinted and missed. The man caught the ball and passed it to his captain, who laughed and made no attempt to score. Faster and faster they rolled, trying to disorient him, passing the ball back and forth, the crowd braying their disapproval.

Rourke was tiring; the muscles on his neck were twisted cables and his arms burned. Malley now had the advantage and with his record should have scored a kill. Rourke realized they were toying with him and let them play their game, waiting for an opening.

Malley's man assumed Rourke was weakening, but Malley knew better; they had spent four years in the jungle. Malley decided to sacrifice his teammate; he wanted to face his adversary alone. It was time to settle the old score.

On the last pass, Rourke intercepted the ball. While the man mocked him he scored the kill, arcing the steel orb in a wobbly loop and catching him squarely between the eyes.

The referee hauled up the mangled man like a doomed bird dropping him into the collector.

Rourke, concentrating on Malley, saw none of this. Leather, gristle and bone thundered towards each other at breakneck speed, clashing their stumps, slashing each other. The crowd cheered at the sight of blood and booed for more.

Rourke drove his board to the top of the bank gaining distance and time. His only chance was fighting with a clear mind.

Malley had more kills.

Malley was shrewd.

Malley was also faster than Rourke and stayed on his tail.

The crowd, intoxicated by the smell of fear and death roared. The referee kept the ball and sent electric jolts forcing the men to spar and torment each other.

"Hey, Rourke!" Rourke drove his bleeding knuckles into the floor, ignoring the crowd, focusing on containing his anger.

"Hey, Rourke! I'm going to get you, you legless freak. I've been waiting six years for this." Malley pulled alongside continuing his taunts, leaning his face almost against Rourke's ear.

"Remember? Remember the fragging?" The remark stunned him, and Malley read the surprise, a moment of weakness, and swung his leathered fist into Rourke's head. The second blow caught him below the shoulder sending him summersaulting across the floor. He hung onto his board and soared down the steep bank to the other side. Malley stayed back, glad the referee still hadn't thrown the ball. Malley wanted to wear him down.

The delay gave Rourke time.

Time to think about the war. Time to think about the explosion that took his legs and the lives of the other men. He thought too, of the long years he waited for Malley, to meet him on the boards.

"Hey, Rourke. I almost got you with the mine. This time I ain't gonna miss."

"Rourke was confused.

"What do you mean?" Rourke kept just out of his reach.

"Don't give me that!" Malley's eyes blazed. Both his stumps were pointed like cannons at Rourke's head.

"You set me up. You and the others. But your plan failed, didn't it? That was your mistake. A big one. You should have made sure I was taken out."

He was still balancing on his hands, gripping the edge of his board, his stumps still poised as he plummeted down the slope after Rourke. Another jolt from the referee reminded them of their obligation to the crowd. Malley connected, his stump tearing out Rourke's left front wheel. Rourke shifted his weight and narrowly avoided Malley's thrust to his head.

"But I got the others, Rourke, and I would have got you too if that mine had been wired right." With a burst of pure energy, Malley propelled his board with such speed and fury into Rourke they both spilled onto the steel floor, rolling and tumbling in a shower of sparks.

Two grotesque dwarfs, locked together, their stumps scraping and shrieking on the steel floor. They stalled, stalking, collecting their breath, the crowd screaming. The referee jolted them again and again, electric arcs crackling and sparking between the green glows on their helmets. The last jolt stiffened them and their macabre forms danced on the steel floor.

The referee, at last, dropped the ball.

Malley struggled to his stumps first, leaning on his fists like some early ape, his leathers in tatters. Behind him Rourke crabbed towards the ball. Malley found it first.

Straddling Rourke and pinning his shoulders with his stumps, he raised the ball over his head. It was slippery with gore and he fumbled. Rourke spat at Malley and drove his fist into the side of his head, ripping his ear. Malley tore it away, flinging it across the arena. The crowd roared and he hammered both fists into Rourke's face.

He grabbed Malley's hands and forced them back snapping the wrists. Malley screamed and fell backwards, rolling down the slope towards the ball. He tried to pick it up but his hands were useless.

Rourke slowly struggled to his stumps and went over to the fallen gladiator. He stood over him and stared at the broken form.

"Go on," Malley hissed. "Finish me! Kill me!"

Rourke picked up the ball and held it over the dull green glow on Malley's helmet.

He paused.

He looked into the man's eyes, the man who had taken his legs.

He slowly raised the ball over his head to deliver the final blow.

At the last second Rourke pivoted and hurled the ball at the gong. 

# ******CRAP SHOOT**

Bucky Mackenzie couldn't be trusted with his paycheck. Every Thursday morning Joan and the twins would wait for him with the other wives outside the shed. When the Brinks truck pulled up, a line of men, many accompanied by their wives, formed at the wicket. Joan wasn't alone waiting the line for her husband to cash his check.

"I'll need another ninety. I owe some of the guys."

"Bucky, you promised. You said you'd stay out of crap games. That ninety..."

"I know, Joanie, I now! But it wasn't cards or craps"

She lowered her voice. "Bucky. We can't afford to..."

He cut her off. "Joanie, drop it, okay? If I don't pay up the ninety, next week it'll be a hundred. And the following week...?"

Joanie caught on. She'd heard enough stories about how debts were collected at the docks.

"Okay, Bucky. Here's the ninety. How many more weeks?"

"Only ten."

"Ten!" She looked around, but no one paid them attention, too busy with their own money woes.

"You only borrowed five hundred and you've been paying it back for weeks. For weeks, Bucky. Can't you just pay off the balance, clear it and be done? We can scrape it together."

"It doesn't work that way Joanie. You know that!

"I'd wish you'd..."

It was my turn at the wicket now and when she saw me she stopped talking.

"Hi Joanie. Bucky. The girls sure are growing." I smiled at the twins. Like most four year olds they were a bit shy, especially down here what with the noise and strange people. They held their mother's skirt and swayed the way little girls do.

"Hello, John," she said forcing a weak smile

"Hey, John. You mind giving me a lift home after work?" He clapped me on the shoulder.

"I might have to work tonight, Bucky. Don't think the gang will finish her by five."

"No problem, I'll probably draw some overtime myself."

"Okay, then. I'll be glad to."

"Thanks." He turned to his wife and handed her the keys.

"Take the car Joanie. John will drop me."

"I can take the bus, I don't mind you know. Really."

"Jeezus, Joanie. Just take the car will you? It won't break down." He took her hand and roughly placed the keys in it.

"I'll be late, so don't hold supper." He bent down and kissed his daughters.

"You guys be good, you her. Mind mommy, okay?" Then in a softer voice adding, "Don't worry. I'll come right home. Promise." He kissed her cheek. "Right, John?"

"Right," I agreed. Straight home, Joanie. No stopping off."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." She kissed my cheek. Her eyes were misted and I bit my cheek to keep from saying anything.

Bucky and I watched as she took the twins by the hand and headed to their car parked by the fence, stepping carefully over the tracks. We were about to start back to the shed when her voice called out.

"I'll bake something. You'll both be hungry."

The twins waved back at me. There was a loud rumble and black smoke poured from the exhaust when she started the engine.

The November wind bit deeply and I pulled up the hood on my parka. Bucky bunched his shoulders and blew on his hands as we jogged back to the shed.

"It's none of my business, Bucky, but I couldn't help overhearing. You into the sharks?"

"Nothing I can't handle. But you're right. It's none of your business." He laughed and slapped my back.

"Jesus, it's cold," he said. "Could use a drink. Think we could get ourselves a case?"

"I doubt it. That checker from the liquor never takes his eyes off the shipment. Stealing liquor meant a swift and immediate firing.

"Yah, you're right. He's got eyes in back of his head. Hell, when the old man was on the job whole shipments would disappear."

"I know, but the gang I'm with are pretty good. More interested in their tonnage bonus." I looked at him. "Let's not screw it up. Okay?"

"Hey, Johnny boy, you know me." He winked. Yes, I did know him. All too well. Bucky was more interested in a few quick drinks and a chance to win big in a crap game. He was an easy mark for any get-rich-quick scheme. So far, for his efforts, all he got was deeper and deeper into the sharks. Poor Joanie.

Our break was over and two hours remained until lunch. Bucky, me, and six other longshoremen managed to clear the hatch with a half hour to spare, so the foreman signaled us to break early, too late to start on the other hold.

"Coming for a beer."

"Thanks," I told him. "I've brought my lunch. Enough for two actually, so you're welcome to share."

"Not today, thanks. Think I'll head to the _Guvnor's_ for a couple. The cold really gets to me."

I waved him off and headed for the warmth of the lunchroom behind the office and washed down two tuna sandwiches with gulps of steaming coffee from my thermos. While some of the boys played cards I grabbed a few winks on the bench against the radiator. I could sleep through the noise but the dank smell of dirty, wet work clothes took getting used to.

When the one o'clock whistle blew, Bucky hadn't returned.

It was hard work. In the raw cold the wind whipped our breath away and numbed our fingers. Gloves and mitts were useless when handling ropes and slings. November, before the freeze, was the worse time of year.

Normally our six-man crew would spell one or two men at a time to give them a break, but in this weather we all worked to stay warm. Consequently, our tonnage was high. Bucky still hadn't returned but the men never complained. They were all hard workers and hard drinkers too. Whenever one of them missed, was late or missed a shift because of too much booze, the others covered tacitly expecting the same consideration when their turn came up.

At two-thirty Bucky came weaving and singing into the shed, his coat was open and his hook dangled on his shoulder. He was so drunk he didn't see the forklift almost walking into the blades. There were a lot of accidents on the docks. Some intentional. Bucky could barely stand and if the foreman saw him he'd lose an afternoon's wages. A lot was tolerated on the docks, but Bucky went too far.

"Hey, Johnny boy. Wanna drink?" He bobbed and lurched; waving a bottle he had pilfered. He slipped on a patch of ice and went down cursing on a heap of burlap bags.

"Bucky. Damn it!" I took the bottle and threw it behind the bales and tried to fasten his coat. In his state, numb to the cold, he'd be sure to catch pneumonia. He was heavy and it took some doing, but I got him bundled and propped him up between the bales. He had passed out and I didn't want him lying down to choke on his own vomit. Kicking some grain out of the way where rats had gnawed a hole in a sack, I tried to make him comfortable, although he was in no condition to notice.

Back with my gang, we worked through from five until six, picking up an extra hour paying time and a half, before we got the high sign from the walking boss to knock off for supper.

"Back at eight, boys and off at eleven. There's overnight work if you want it, otherwise back here tomorrow. Don't forget to sign the sheet." He hadn't noticed we were a man short.

The boys didn't need any encouragement and left hurriedly. I went to check on Bucky. He was still wedged between the bales, but had sobered some and was trying unsuccessfully to get up.

"C'mon," I said, grabbing his collar and hauling him to his feet. He smelled of stale beer and piss. "Let's get some coffee into you." He mumbled incoherently.

The canteen was at the other end of the shed and the coffee was always strong and hot. I steered him onto a stool and ordered two steaming mugs. I laced his with a half dozen spoons of sugar to give him energy.

Halfway through his second cup, I asked. "Think you can last till quitting time?" He didn't answer.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" I elbowed him hard. I was pissed.

"Lay off, John. Will yah? I'll make it, don't worry, stop bitching at me." He was sobering and in a foul mood. When his coffee was finished he got up and headed to the door. I paid the girl and followed him into the bitter night, into a last of arctic air. If this didn't sober him, nothing would.

That night we set a tonnage record, working hard to keep from freezing. It was so cold my breath made icicles in my mustache. Time hung still in the winter air and we worked quickly, desperately, to make it move. The bright deck lights threw harsh shadows and the creak of the ship against the pier reminded us to be watchful in the dark.

At eleven, one shrill blast from the ship's horn sent us home.

Bucky made it to his front door unattended, sparing me an encounter with Joanie. What more could I say? I got him home safely. What more could I do?

The weather stayed cold with no sign of letting up, so there was a lot of overtime for those who wanted it, as we prepared the harbor for her long winter sleep. It was both the worst and best time of year, the toughest season to survive, compensated by huge paychecks. A lot of new cars would be bought in time for Christmas.

Three weeks went by and Bucky stayed sober. He also remained aloof, speaking to me only when he couldn't avoid it.

"Hi, Joanie." The kids were in the car.

"Oh, hi John." She stood with her hands in the pockets of her thin coat and stamped her feet.

"You'd think they'd park out of the wind at least," pointing her chin at the armoured truck.

"Yah," I agreed. "You okay?" She was counting the money while Bucky went to the car to see his girls.

"Oh sure. Only six more payments. I hope he's smart enough to stay clear of him." She glanced cautiously at the man in the expensive overcoat. He drew a small crowd like flies buzzing around garbage on a hot day.

"I hope so too, Joanie. Maybe this time..."

"Joanie!" Bucky came over with the twins. Take a cab will ya, I'll keep the car."

"I can give you a lift."

"Thanks, John." He didn't look at me.

"Joanie?"

"Okay, okay! I'll take a cab. Here." She handed him some money and he went over immediately to the man in the expensive overcoat. He was back in seconds. No receipt neither asked nor given. In this business the man in the overcoat operated on trust, the borrower on hope.

"Bye, kids," he waved. "I'll be back late so don't hold dinner."

I went over to the girls and gave them each a five dollar bill."

"Happy Birthday!" They laughed. Their birthdays weren't for a few more weeks. I nodded to Joanie and we parted company, going three separated ways.

During the next few days I saw very little of Bucky. Work was winding down and he'd been assigned to another gang. Icebreakers plied the river working against nature to keep the channel open for the few ships still in port. If you were young and had the stamina to endure round-the-clock overtime, wages could be five or six times the weekly average. If you were lucky to be working with a good crew the bonus could pay for a winter south in the sun.

Bucky's gang was good, spelling each other so they could grab some sleep and refresh themselves to keep their tonnage high and draw the largest checks.

Some men weren't as shrewd or as productive and tried to make up what the missed in wages by shooting craps in one of the floating games. Big money meant big games and Vinny the Shark was always near the action to oblige the losers with a few hundred to help change their luck. They never realized Vinny was the only winner.

At this time of year a hundred thousand dollars could change hands a dozen times in a noon hour game. And if some of the wives didn't come down on payday many a longshoreman went home stony broke. More than once I'd given a hapless gambler the price of a meal and bus fare. It was a mean time. A man could spend Christmas in the hospital as tempers flared and hopes were dashed.

I watched from a distance, any closer and I might be tempted to put up a few bucks myself; such was the lure of a big payoff. So I stayed well beyond the fringe.

There must have been over a hundred and twenty men standing in knotted clumps. A lucky shooter was backed and designated to roll the dice. When his luck ran out another filled in. Wads of money changed hands as bets were covered and lost. Tips were paid to the shooters hoping they would continue to throw winning numbers. The noise was incredible, growing wildly as bets and risks mounted.

From my perch atop a packing case I watched the white flash of dice thrown against the wall. Quick hands gathered the cubes, the shooters kissing and blowing on them, whispering promises they would never keep.

My heart sank when I noticed Bucky squatting down on one heel in the center of the crowd. He blew on the dice for luck before tossing them; in his left hand he waved a thick bundle of bills. He called for bets offering to cover them himself at odds he couldn't possibly pay if he lost. Vinny in his expensive overcoat edged closer and closer.

"C'mon boxcars!" The knot of men grew tighter and the noise subsided. Bucky took his time, praying to Lady Luck, extolling her virtues, honouring her charms. Superstition became religion. He was nervous, the wad in his hand amounted to several thousand dollars. Why he didn't quit was beyond me.

Bets were still being made and Bucky nodded or shook his head to close a deal. Side bets were placed and the men began calling for his to shoot.

I held my breath.

If he lost, Vinny would cover for him but Bucky would owe him his soul. I thought of Joanie and the twins and felt sick.

But Bucky defied the odds and the wad grew thicker with each pass. When the whistle blew no one wanted to stop, especially the losers who were doubling down. Bucky flashed his hook and the men parted. A few who'd been drinking cursed him and shouted insults, but he stood firm, waiting for them to let his through. I got up and headed for the office.

"Johnny!" This was the first time in over two weeks that he spoke to me. I stopped and turned.

"Looks like you luck changed."

"And about time too. You mind holding this for me, Johnny? I've some unfinished business I need to attend to." He peeled away several bills and handed me the wad before I could answer, then walked over to the man in the expensive overcoat, who was handing out money and collecting souls.

I couldn't hear them, but the way Vinny shook his head told me he didn't want more from Bucky than his weekly installment. Angrily, Bucky added several more bills to the pile and Vinny stopped shaking his head. He took the money, counted it slowly, shifting the cold cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. A slap on Bucky's shoulder told me he was satisfied.

"You finally square with that snake?"

"Finally. And I hope he chokes on it. Paid more than five times what I borrowed." He shook his head. "Five times!" he repeated. "The creep."

"Thanks," he said as I gave him back the money.

"I'm knocking off the rest of the day." We were walking towards the office. "How about you?"

"No," I told him, "I'll finish the day. Boss has me on shed check so it'll be an easy afternoon. But you better get to a bank." I pointed to his bulging pocket.

"Don't worry. You know there's enough for a new car, even a down payment for the house we're renting.

"That's great. Joanie will be absolutely thrilled."

"She'll be thrilled, that's for sure. But she'll be mad as hell too, but that won't last long after she counts it." He patted his pocket and smiled. "I'm taking it right home, so don't worry, okay? Right home, I promise."

"Okay, Bucky. That's good. And you'll have plenty to celebrate this Christmas too."

"You said it! Well, I'll be going, I want to stop at the _Guvnor's_ first."

I gave him a look.

"Hey, it's not what you think, I just got to square my bar bill. Don't look so worried."

"Okay, Bucky, but be real careful. That's a lot of money. And a lot of people know."

"Yah, yah. I'll be fine. Sure you don't want to knock off with me? Come for a visit?"

"I'd love to see Joanie's face, but I'll take a rain check. I'll see you tomorrow and you can tell me her reaction."

"Count on it!"

I watched him head to his car. The engine cranked a long time before catching and he drove off noisily.

I finished late. It was dark and it was cold.

As I headed to the parking lot I was startled by the sharp glare of headlights and frantic tooting. I jumped out of the way as Bucky swerved towards me, with his head sticking out of his window yelling at me.

He was drunk again.

"C'mon, Johnny. Get in. I'll run you home."

"I got my car here, Bucky."

"C'mon. I want you there when I show Joanie the money."

The money was scattered across the bench seat, the bills blowing around.

"What? You think I can't drive? It was just a couple a beers. With chasers." He laughed.

"Why don't you leave your car here and I'll drive?"

"Forget it then," he shouted. And stomped the gas. When he drank he became quick tempered. And reckless.

I ran to my car to follow him.

Miraculously he drove sensibly keeping to the limit.

I stayed back a bit, out of sight, as he pulled into his driveway, and watched Bucky haul himself out of the car and open the garage door. He got back in and lurched the car safely into the garage.

Overwhelmed with relief I went home.

When I entered the office for my morning orders, the walking boss and staff looked up at me. Someone had died, I could tell. Grief hung over them like a dense fog.

"What's the matter? Oh, no. Is it Bucky?"

"Bucky will be okay, but he might lose a couple of fingers. The cops found him early this morning passed out in the in the snow on his front steps."

"What's the matter? You said he's going to be okay."

"Sit down, Johnny."

The walking boss got up, poured a big belt of whiskey into a chipped mug and shoved it into my hand.

"Drink it, Johnny.

I stared at the mug, then at him.

"What's going on?"

"Johnny.... When Bucky parked his car in the garage last night, he left the engine running.

"I'm so sorry, Johnny. Your sister and the twins are dead."

# ******PRIME CUTS**

Simone sat across from the young reporter and dangled her leg over the arm of her chair, her support hose failing to conceal the bulging veins on her thick calf. She was a heavy woman who had seen a lot of life, the seamy side, and the years had not been kind to her. Between puffs on a Gauloise, her breath came in wheezy gasps. She coughed and shut her eyes, the heavy lids squeezing out tears.

When the fit passed, the young man said.

"Miss Simoneau, would you say that this case was the most bizarre of all your investigations?"

"Oh, non! There have been many. The insurance business, you know, is full of—as you say— bizarre cases. And believe me, after twenty-seven years I have seen many. Many." She stubbed out the butt and reached for her glass.

"Another brandy, Mr. Kendall?"

"Ah, no. Thank you, Miss Simoneau. I'm fine." He held up his glass showing it was still half full.

Simone swung her leg down, leaned forward and rested her arms on her knees, her forearms straining the fabric of her red velvet dress.

"Mr. Kendall. Let us not be so formal. Please call me Simone and if you do not mind, I'll call you Alistair." She looked at him through hooded eyes.

"Yes. Yes of course. Simone."

She continued to stare at him, making him uncomfortable. Alistair shifted in his chair and flipped to a new page in his note pad.

"Where were we?"

"I was offering another you another brandy, Alistair."

"I mean before that. You were telling me about _Prime Cuts_. Dimitri's restaurant."

"That's right. _Prime Cuts_. Dimitri built an incredibly successful business solely on the basis of ground beef. Only the choicest pieces, hence the name of his restaurant. Can you imagine? Hamburger. That's all he served. Mind you, I refer only to the meat. His restaurant was a fantastic cover for his real business and he went undetected for years. No one ever suspected that Dimitri was a killer for hire." She leaned back into the deep chair and as she crossed her legs, her dress rose up. Whitish flesh bulged over the elastic stockings that came only to her knees. Alistair shifted again and looked at his note pad.

"How was it then, Miss...ah, Simone, that you discovered what he'd been doing?"

"The beauty of it is I was working on something totally unrelated. At least at the time, it _appeared_ to be unrelated. I was investigating a claim for a lost ring. The claimant turned out to be the widow of Dimitri's last hit. She couldn't claim his life insurance, not yet, as he'd been missing only a few weeks and there was nothing to indicate the man was dead. She needed money, so decided to make a claim for the missing ring. A valuable ring belonging, or shall I say— _had_ belonged to her husband."

"And that made you suspicious?" He glanced at her over the top of his glasses.

"Non, non. There was nothing to be suspicious about. Not yet. For me, it was just routine. You know. Questions to be asked. Some forms to fill. No, I was not suspicious yet. That came later." Her glass was empty and in reaching for the bottle she knocked it off the little table. It rolled towards Alistair and he picked it up.

"Thank you, Alistair." Taking the glass, she held his hand a fraction longer than necessary, then filled it to the brim and resumed the story.

"Non. I became suspicious when she produced the bill for the ring. I noticed the purchaser's name was not what I expected."

"I don't understand."

She looked at him impatiently.

"Come, come, Alistair. The widow claimed she purchased the ring as a gift for her husband. It was not her name on the invoice. The name on the bill, Alistair, was that of her sister."

"And that made you suspicious?"

Simone rolled her eyes. "Of course! So I acted confused. As you are doing now. I looked at the bill, studying it, turning it over this way and that. I said nothing, just acted puzzled. You know, Alistair, often a confused look is enough to make people talk. Open up. The widow fidgeted. She was getting embarrassed and she said: 'Miss Simoneau, my sister gave the ring to Henri. I didn't know this until I went through his papers. He's still missing, you know.'"

"Of course I knew! I let the widow talk, pretending not to be interested in her domestic troubles. But, Alistair," here she tapped her nose, "I listened very carefully."

"The widow told me and I quote, 'Actually Miss Simone if you must know, Henri told me his company gave him the ring as a gift. A bonus. Henri was—is a very good architect. And because of him his firm had won many awards. They often rewarded him. When he told me they gave him the ring, I of course, believed him. However, for some time now I have suspected Henri of having an affair. When I found this bill among his papers, I knew it. But I was surprised that the other woman was Adele. She had given him the bill for insurance purposes. My twin sister would you believe. Since the ring is lost, I decided to make a claim. And now Henri is missing too. And he may be dead, but I can't claim his life insurance until that is proven.' She was very nervous telling me all this."

"Did you say anything? If Henri was still alive, the ring wouldn't be considered lost, would it?"

"A good question, Alistair. A good question. Perhaps. Perhaps not. If he is dead, the ring will turn up with his body. If a body is discovered. But let us not digress _s'il vous plaît_. Non, I did not say anything about that. But I did confirm that the policy on the ring was for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars!"

"A lot of money," he said scribbling in note pad.

"Oh yes. I produced the necessary forms for her signature and let her think it was just a matter of a few days before we issued her a cheque."

"But you had no intention of paying the claim?"

"That's correct. It 's a very large sum, Alistair. Her home was palatial. Exquisitely furnished. And she was beautifully and expensively dressed. She was young, about thirty-two or three. And very attractive. But she was too anxious. You see, Henri was the one with money. The widow in fact was broke. Until his body turned up—his dead body that is—there would be no life insurance money. That's why she was claiming for the ring. She figured we'd pay quickly. Perhaps she thought his disappearance would cloud the issue. Her exact thoughts, I do not know."

"How did all of this make you suspect something was fishy?"

"Contrast."

"Contrast? What do you mean?'

"Amid all that wealth and beautiful material possessions, there was an ugliness. Non, not a physical ugliness, as I said the widow was a real stunner. But there was ugliness in her character. This widow was restrained. Not in displaying her grief at her husband's disappearance or suspected probable death, but she was restrained in showing her disdain—maybe hatred is a better word—for her husband. Women, when they lose the man they love, even if he was unfaithful, they still grieve. They express their hate, which in itself is a kind of bizarre expression of love; of the love they once shared. Non. She was restrained as if concealing the fact that she _knew_ he was dead. Of course this is precisely what she was doing as it turned out."

Alistair uncrossed and flexed his leg to restore circulation, and said, "You were able to figure all that out just from what the widow didn't say? Amazing Miss, er, Simone."

"Not from what she didn't say. From what she didn't show. Emotionally, I mean. But, Alistair, you must remember—I have been observing and studying human nature for a great many years. People usually over compensate for their feelings often by saying the opposite of what they mean. But. If you watch their bodies, the way they move and stand. Or sit. They give away their true feelings."

Alistair shifted uneasily, trying for a more open posture.

"Can you illustrate that point for me? You know, make it clearer for my readers."

"Of course. In spite of being restrained, of dressing conservatively, I could sense the aggression she harboured. She clenched her jaws, and her hands constantly played with a handkerchief. Twisting and pulling until the lace gave way. And her hair. She wore it in a bun. Like mine." Her hand went unconsciously to her head and patted the big knot.

"Except she had pulled it so severely giving her eyes a decidedly oriental look. It also exposed a strawberry birthmark on her left temple near her ear. His wife—the widow—worked hard to give the appearance of proper behavior by controlling carefully what she said. And how she dressed."

Alistair put the pad and pen down, balancing them on the arm of his chair. "You were suspicious at this point, but when did you know for sure?"

"I'm afraid that took some time. I concluded our meeting, said goodbye and left. I didn't want to ask too many questions and push my luck. When you get too nosey, that's when people clam up. But at that point, in my mind, my investigation was just beginning to warm up."

Alistair picked up his pen and pad.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything? I've some very good cheeses. And a nice baguette."

Alistair blushed and crossed his legs, but remembering her words decided to sit with both feet flat on the floor. Simone smiled, and Alistair felt naked.

"Nothing, thank you, and changing the subject he added, "What direction did your investigation take after your talk with the widow?"

"I was curious, as you can well imagine," she rubbed her hands together. "So I decided to check on the sister. You know—speak to the neighbours, _le facteur_ , delivery people. To establish a profile on her. And her habits. And as I suspected, these people confirmed that Henri was indeed a regular caller at Adele's flat." She paused and lit a cigarette. "Things were beginning to take shape. A love triangle. And a love triangle is always a motive for murder."

"But no body was ever found. No proof that Henri had been killed. Why did you keep digging?"

"Alistair, Alistair. You have to know people. The widow suggested that her sister was involved with Henri. So I followed her cue and visited Adele pretending not to know anything about the affair. I was simply an agent for my company confirming information about the ring before paying the claim."

His pen scratched the paper furiously.

"Of course, Adele denied knowledge of the ring and I went into my act again and played the fool. 'I'm sorry', I told her, 'there seems to be a mistake.' I showed her the bill and asked, 'isn't this your signature?' She couldn't deny it. Not only was it her signature but her address as well. 'Yes,' she said. 'But please, keep my name out of it. My sister has enough grief. I don't want to cause her more hurt. She didn't know about Henri and me.' Again I noted use of the past tense."

"Perhaps because Henri had disappeared. Or maybe decided to end the relationship, not because he had disappeared. Or worse."

"You'd make a good detective, Alistair. I considered that, of course, and didn't dismiss that thought entirely. Anyway at that point the woman broke down and sobbed unashamedly. 'I just know something has happened to him. He would never go off without a word to me. I'm sure she's done something to him. She hated Henri, you know. She wants the insurance.'"

"Unlike her sister, Adele is very demonstrative of her emotions."

"Yes, very." Simone made a tent of her fingers and peered over the top at Alistair.

"Did Adele have a birthmark too?"

What? Oh no. You remembered. I'm impressed, Alistair."

"And unlike her sister, Adele's emotions must have suggested a certain innocence about Henri's—let's say disappearance. She was innocent, so to speak, apart from an affair with her sister's husband that is."

"I thought so too. At first. But later, I wondered why she so openly showed her emotions. She too, had assumed something had befallen Henri. Remember her use of the past tense. And such an emotional display." She rolled her eyes. "An emotional display for my benefit, I'm sure. No, these sisters were—are, I should say, consummate actresses. Each was playing a role, but for quite different purposes. My job was to discover the reasons."

"Simone, it is incredible how you read people. The widow acts without emotion, you are suspicious. Adele displays emotion, you are suspicious."

"It is simply a matter of degree, Alistair. I left Adele's, but apart from my suspicions, I really didn't know anything of consequence, and I was no further ahead." She took another drag and had a coughing fit.

"At what point does all this lead to Dimitri and his restaurant?"

"Oh yes. Dimitri. I'll get to Dimitri momentarily. The route, however, is circuitous. As I've said. I had nothing. Just suspicions. But I am a very curious person, Alistair." She took another deep puff.

"Are you sure I can't offer you something? Non? You're quite comfortable? You can remove your jacket if you wish." She eyed him.

"Anyway, since I am so curious, I kept thinking about these two women. Two beautiful women who shared, or rather tried to share, the same man. It never works, you know. The man had disappeared so I had to study his women.

"Adele had never married. She lived alone in a very exclusive part of town. Her condominium is worth somewhere in the seven figures. She made her fortune in real estate. Unlike her sister, Adele was loaded. And in her own right. The poor widow had only what her husband afforded her, which by the way was quite considerable. But with him gone, so was the good life.

"Now, here was the dilemma. The widow, whom I suspected of foul play, stood to gain enormously by her husband's death. However, death could not be proved without a body. His wife, or widow, would gain nothing. No insurance claim would be paid, at least not in the immediate future. And Adele, well, if she was involved, she would get nothing anyway. I was puzzled to say the least."

"How then, did Adele figure into all of this?"

"I asked myself that question, Alistair, over and over. In the end I concluded it could not have been her. She had nothing to gain. Actually, as the _other woman_ in this triangle, she had much more to gain with Henri alive. So I dismissed that thought. I was pretty sure it was the wife. But I didn't know how to prove it."

"What did you do?"

"Alistair. I spent a great deal of time thinking." She tapped the side of her head.

"Please, go on, Simone," he said, his pen poised.

"I went to see the so-called grieving widow, and suggested that I suspected her sister of being involved with Henri's disappearance."

"Adele? You told her you thought Adele had killed Henri?"

"Non, non, non, Alistair! I just planted the seed and waited for it to germinate. The widow was, if I may be permitted a pun, a great horticulturist, and almost immediately my seed began to sprout." She narrowed her eyes and nodded.

"'I'm not surprised!' the widow told me. 'Adele was always like that. If my sister couldn't have something that belonged to me—she destroyed it!'

"As I've said, she's a good actress, and she continued to describe their rivalry. As children they fought over childish things. But, she told me; Adele was vindictive, destroying what she couldn't have to keep the widow from having it. She was a good actress, as I've said, but I had the sense the woman was lying. Call it my special intuition if you like. Of course I played along pretending to believe her."

"Incredible, Simone, just incredible. You are an amazing judge of human character."

"Thank you, Alistair." She waved her hand dismissing the compliment. "But it gets better."

"You mean Dimitri and _Prime Cuts_."

'Yes, Dimitri, but not quite yet. Be patient." The apartment was warm, too warm. She wiped away the perspiration on her lip with the back of her hand, smearing the too red lipstick.

"As I was saying." She paused again, and blew smoke in his direction adding to the haze already filling the room.

"I decided to dig a little deeper. There had to be another link. I didn't think Henri's widow was capable of doing away with him on her own. She wasn't a tall woman and not nearly strong enough to handle and dispose of a body. Henri was big. Over six feet and he was a heavy man. So I had her phone tapped and got lucky."

"Isn't that illegal?" He put his pen down and looked at her as if she'd been the one to commit the crime.

"Come now." Simone batted her lashes and pouted. "I did what was necessary."

"In court, would this information be..."

"Alistair. You are being very tedious, you know. The phone tap was simply something to give me an edge. Not to gather evidence to be used in court. And, as I've said, it paid off. A few days later she received a call demanding ten thousand dollars."

"That sounds blackmail."

"Non, not blackmail. It sounded more like someone trying to collect on a debt. Anyway, she told the caller—it was a male voice—to be patient. She expected to come into some money very soon and would pay him. The voice said he'd wait a week and contact her again."

"Did he leave a name? Or a clue to his identity?"

"Not hardly, Alistair. But we did trace the call to a phone booth not far from Dimitri's restaurant. Now the phone booth needed watching. Over the next several days that phone booth was used by many as you can well imagine. But one user was a regular visitor."

"Don't tell me. Dimitri."

"Okay, I won't. I personally watched the booth on the day the voice was to contact the widow."

"Now you have the missing link."

"That's right. But I'm still nowhere nearer the solution to this puzzle. All I have are my suspicions and loose threads."

"What did you do next?"

"I went on a trip. A fishing trip."

"A fishing trip?"

Simone laughed throatily, smoke billowing from her mouth and coughed.

"I invited both Adele and her sister to meet me for lunch at _Prime Cuts_."

"You didn't!"

"Oh, yes."

"Simone, that was brazen. You must have been desperate to resort to such a risk."

"Dear Alistair," she said almost demurely, "I have never been desperate. For anything. I was fishing. Nothing risky there. I wanted to have the two of them together. To see how they would act. Or react, actually. And I especially wanted them where Dimitri could—how shall put it—interact?"

"Well. It must have been a shock to Dimitri to see the three of you together?"

"Not at all. Of course, he knew the two women. Henri often dined there with the sisters. Separately, mind you. And as for me? He didn't know who I was. Non, he wasn't in the least surprised. Remember his special service was a well-kept secret. He hid his identity from his clients very carefully."

"I don't understand then. How did Henri's wife hire him? She did hire him, didn't she?"

"Yes, she hired him alright, but she didn't know it was Dimitri."

"What do you mean?"

"I learned after her arrest how she came about to engage a hit man. One afternoon, while lunching alone at _Prime Cuts_ , she confided to Dimitri. Told him of her husband's extramarital exploits. Dimitri of course knew. He'd seen Adele and Henri on more than one occasion. Anyway she told him how angry and hurt she was. Then she took a chance. You see, there is a rumour about Dimitri. He is suspected of having connections to the _mob_. Our widow hinted about acquiring a gun. Did he know someone? Could he help? Dimitri is no fool. He acted shocked and tried to dissuade her. You know. He played her, said he understood how angry she was, but really. A gun? Did she really want to do that?" She leaned over and poured herself a large measure of brandy. Alistair shook his head no, when she held the bottle out to him.

"He tried to calm her. Mind you she was still the actress, and only feigning this—discomfort so to speak. Finally he told her to go home and he'd see what he could do. And that she could expect a phone call." She paused for a swallow.

"Anyway, Dimitri let a couple of days go by and calls our widow. Disguising his voice with one of those devices, you know the kind makes your voice sound robotic? He offers to solve her problem for a price. Fifteen thousand dollars. Five up front and the balance when the job is done. Our widow agrees."

"Amazing!"

"Yes, it certainly is."

"What happened with the three of you? At the restaurant?"

"Well, if the sisters were surprised to see each other they kept that fact well hidden.

We sat down, commented on the décor, the ambience, and Dimitri came over to our table with the menu and took our orders personally. He was very polite, very suave. Ever the sophisticated restaurateur. One would never believe that this short, bald man was in fact a killer for hire. He greeted us, and bowed like a European gentleman. Mind you he did not kiss my hand! Anyway he chatted and asked if we'd let him choose our dishes, that we would not be disappointed.

"The reason for such superb beef, he told us, was because he chose the carcasses himself. Only the best. Prime Cuts. Hence the name of his establishment. Apparently he ages the meat in his own cold-room. And according to Dimitri, two things are critical when hanging meat; temperature and time. But there was also a _third_ variable which I'll mention later.

"In any case, the sisters ordered. Something with a Greek name. I chose a salad. To me, ground beef is ground beef in any language. I did ask him to recommend a good wine however, since my company was paying. Besides, a little wine is a very good tongue loosener."

"Oh, Simone. You are wicked!"

I know, Alistair. I know."

"Then what?"

"Well," she said, toying with the hem on her skirt. "I took my time and didn't initiate any conversation. A ploy that usually works. People get uncomfortable in prolonged silences and start talking. But these two were ice, let me tell you. I had to prod a little."

"You couldn't make any accusations I'm sure."

"Non, non, of course not. But I knew something the others did not. I knew Dimitri was a killer. And I knew who had hired him. I also knew he was still waiting for his money and would be taking a very keen interest in our conversation, as would our widow. Don't forget, that call about the money had to make her a little nervous I'm sure. She had to woo me if my company was to come up with the lost ring money.

"So I mentioned casually, that there were formalities to consider—nothing to worry about—and it would be a little while before we would honour the claim. I made excuses regarding Adele's name on the bill."

"That must have unsettled her."

"It did. Mind you, it wasn't true, but a little lie can work wonders."

"And her reaction to all this?"

"This set the widow against her sister. Adele received a torrent of verbal abuse. I watched and listened. My head moving like it was a tennis match! She accused Adele of things going back to their childhood. A thirty-year history of sibling rivalry and hatred surfaced in minutes. It was fascinating if I'm truthful. She stripped Adele of every dignity and finally blamed her for losing out on the insurance money."

"Sounds like it was quite a scene."

"Oh, it was. Quiet a scene, yes. Quite a scene."

"And you didn't intervene?"

"Certainly not! It was family business."

"Was anything resolved?"

Simone laughed, her ample stomach quivering and she coughed again.

"You might say that. When she ran out of steam, it was Adele's turn. And that's when the damn burst."

"The damn burst?"

"Adele was vile. She dropped her guard and admitted she had hired an assassin to kill Henri."

"What? This in front of Dimitri."

"Dimitri had left us before the widow tore apart her sister. He was playing the host to his other customers, but he kept his eye on our booth."

"What an incredible turn of events. Of course, Simone, you had anticipated all of this."

"Unfortunately, Alistair, I hadn't a clue. I was stunned by Adele's revelation. My vast knowledge of human nature had failed me."

"You must have been devastated."

"To say the least! I was shocked. Too stunned to say anything, which was just as well, since it allowed Adele to continue her confession. She positively gloated, describing in exquisite detail how she arranged with the caller to kill Henri. Adele, through her real estate dealings had come to know, let me say, some rather unsavory characters. One of her acquaintances put her in touch with Dimitri. Or rather his phone booth. She had to ring that number at a prearranged time. I don't have to tell you who answered. She got so excited in confessing, it was as if she entered an altered state. She had him killed, she said, because if she couldn't have Henri, well, neither would his wife. Apparently Henri had threatened to end the affair."

"Wait a minute. Dimitri had made a deal with the widow. He was still trying to collect his fee."

"That's true. Dimitri was very sly. Obviously. Both sisters, coincidentally, each without the other's knowledge, had contracted with him to kill Henri. Dimitri saw a way to double his fee for the same job."

Incredible. I'm amazed you were able to sort all of this out. So that was it. Cased solved?" He put his pen down and snapped his note pad shut.

"Non, non. Not quite."

"There's more?"

"Oh yes. A crime was still yet to be proved."

"You have the phone taps. And now, Adele's confession. What more? Isn't that enough?"

"Non. Both women did hire Dimitri to kill Henri. So theoretically they are both guilty. But there still was no body. The killer had guaranteed that. That's Dimitri's trademark. The corpse is _never_ found."

"You mean, no body—no crime?"

"That's right. Correct."

"So, in spite of what you know, there still was no proof?"

"Exactly."

"And your company. They didn't have to pay out on the life policy."

"Not so far. But now the sisters have taken my company to court. They are suing for the settlement."

"You lost me. The sisters are suing? After what they did?"

"Yes."

"Even though there was no body, no corpse, how can they sue?"

"Even though Henri's body was never recovered, it was proved that he was killed. The three of them are in prison for the murder. But since my company won't release the money, the sisters are suing."

"Can they do that? Can they actually profit from their crime?"

"Not my concern, Alistair. Not my concern." She reached for the brandy.

"But I'm still a bit unclear, Simone."

"How so?"

"If Henri's body was never recovered, how on earth did you solve the crime?"

"By accident, I quite hate to admit. Totally by accident."

"By accident?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Simone." Alistair was getting impatient, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

"Please, Simone. I am at a complete loss here."

Simone laughed. After a coughing fit, she said.

"When Adele finally ran out of steam, she sat and folded her arms, and stared smugly across at her sister, who was fuming and sputtering. She beseeched me to do something. I explained there was nothing I could do. It had to be _proved_ that Henri was killed. Adele's confession, oddly enough, would not be enough. His remains had to be found before a murder charge could be brought."

"But you did solve the crime. The sisters and Dimitri are in prison. How then did you do it?"

"After the sisters calmed a little, Dimitri brought over our dinner and a complimentary bottle of wine. At my invitation he sat down and had a glass with us.

"Thank you ladies," he said and proposed a toast, raising his glass and saying, 'to beautiful women and Prime Cuts.' We touched glasses and began to eat."

"After all this you were able to eat. Incredible."

"Well, the sisters ate. I watched and picked at my salad. Dimitri drank some wine. And I assure you; the wine and food did nothing to quell the animosity between the sisters. The tension between them crackled."

Simone paused, got up and went into the kitchen. Alistair could smell the pleasant aroma permeating the small apartment.

"Where was I?" she asked settling in her chair toying with a cigarette, deciding whether she should light it.

"You're eating. And the sisters are still furious."

"Furious!" She spat the word, and Alistair jumped.

"I was afraid they'd begin another fight. And at this point I was still trying to figure how I could trap these two, these two murderers. But as I've said—no body." She lit the cigarette and after a long lung-scorching drag, continued.

"I waited. What could I do at this point, but wait." Then leaning forward added in a whisper almost, "My patience paid off."

"I'm afraid, Simone, I am not as patient as you are."

"It was beautiful, Alistair. Henri's wife—our widow, was tearing and chewing her food like a carnivore. When suddenly she began to cough. She was choking. Have you ever seen someone choke, Alistair? It is very alarming. I felt utterly helpless. Utterly." She shook her head.

"And Dimitri was on the verge of panic himself. But that Adele, she's a frosty one. She just sat calmly eating as if nothing was happening. When the widow's spasm ended, Adele looked across at her sister and said, 'Did you choke on a bone, dear?'"

"Alistair, it was at that very point that I understood and solved the crime. I had the _three_ of them." Simone tipped her glass and drained the brandy.

"Non, the widow answers, and spits out the obstacle into her napkin. Not a bone, the widow says."

Simone leaned forward and put her hand on Alistair's knee.

"The third variable, Alistair. Dimitri is very fastidious in preparing the carcasses. They are cleaned scrupulously before hanging. This time, he was a little careless.

"Alistair. It wasn't a bone. It was Henri's ring."

#  FRANK'S TIES

Lisa had been a social worker for thirteen years and had long given up counting the number of altercations she had with her referrals. But this was different. It was the first time she had to hide out because of a threat against her life. Frank lay on the bed watching her dress, trying to think of something to say, an argument that would convince her to stay home.

Lisa pulled the sweater over her head, shook her blond curls into place and went into the bathroom to put on her makeup.

"Thanks, Frank." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, taking care not to smudge her lipstick.

"When I asked you to move in with me I expected you do it voluntarily. " He held her neck and drew her closer.

"Mmm. Careful, my makeup."

"Forget the makeup. I wish you'd stay home. I'm really worried." His dark eyes, head of thick curls and dark stubble of beard gave him a decidedly sinister look.

"I know you're worried. But I can't. I've a bunch of kids I have to see. You know I can't let them down. Their welfare is important, and they're my responsibility too."

"Okay. But what about your responsibility to your self? To me. If you get hurt you won't do any anyone any good. Besides I have to wonder if your efforts really make a difference."

"Frank!" She stood abruptly. Still in her slip, it clung to her, accentuating her full hips.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry he placated holding up his hands. "I know what your works means to you. And the kids. But you can't change a leopard's spots."

"I don't want to argue. And I'm not changing spots. Okay! All I'm trying to do," she paused. "All I'm trying to do is _tame_ the leopard a little."

She tried not to let her anger show. This wasn't the first time he broached the subject. In her haste to put on her skirt she caught the heel of her shoe in the hem and lost her balance falling onto the bed.

"I don't want to argue either," he said making peace with a kiss. "I just don't want you getting hurt. Those people... _I mean_ the kids," he amended seeing her face, "the kids you're trying to help. From my experience dealing with people and from what you've told me, their parents, their families don't want your interference."

"Frank. You are skating on thin ice, buddy!"

"Look," he said, propping himself up on an elbow. "I'm sorry. Again. I know you aren't interfering. It's your profession. I get it. You're a social worker. But that's not how you come across to the parents. They see you as a meddler. Sticking your nose in the their business. Their business, not yours."

She stared at him, not sure how to respond to his sincerity. His aggravating sincerity.

"In that neighbourhood those people play for keeps."

She kissed him. "I'll be careful Frank. I promise. "Now let me go. I'll be late.

She finished dressing, looking more like a corporate executive than a social worker.

Frank got up to shave. Over the sound of running water he called, "I'll be a little late tonight. Got to meet with the architect to discuss the next phase. Why don't we meet up at that restaurant you like? You know, Francoise's. Better still I'll pick you up here and we can go together."

"Great. I'll make the reservation. See you later."

For two years he'd been asking her to move in. Since her divorce Lisa was reluctant to make any kind of emotional commitment. She barricaded herself behind a wall of independence and self-sufficiency. If it took a threat to her physical well being, maybe she'd realize she couldn't do everything alone.

He locked the apartment door behind him and rode the elevator down to the lobby. He laughed at his reflection in the polished doors. In his blue jeans, plaid shirt and construction boots he looked more like one of his crew than an engineer.

In Parker's office, Lisa's second interview was ending in a disaster.

"You tink you can fix everything with talk." Terri waved her hands at them, and pointed at Lisa.

"And you tink you are _so_ good. Miss Goody Two-Shoes in her fancy clothes. You tink because you're rich and fancy you can come down here and make everything smell good. It don't work."

"Terri, there has to be some trust between us before we can help you." Lisa put her hand over her wrist covering the gold bracelets.

"Trust? You want me to trust some... some White Ass? Someone who goes home to her fancy apartment when she can't stand the smell down here no more. Some dirt no hot water or nice soap can get rid of. You don't know nothin!"

"Terri," Parker said. "I think we've heard quite enough. We're here to decide whether or not you'll be allowed to continue in school."

The principal, Mr. Parker, wasn't going to suspend her again. This time it would be expulsion.

"I had enough of you guys. I don't need your stupid school. Or your stupid teachers," she pointed at Burt. Burt taught History and Phys. Ed.

Burt was tall and even while sitting was an intimidating presence. Terri shifted slightly turning to face him.

"You tink I care about the lousy Battle of Hastings? I'm sick of you people pushing me around." Nervous energy and hate spilled from her. Her feet were crossed at the ankle and a broken lace dangled loosely from a boot. Winding and twisting the lace around her finger she gathered steam for her next torrent.

"And nobody! Get this," she said to Burt, "Nobody tells me when to take a shower."

The meeting was precipitated by her refusal to shower after gym class. Her teacher reported this to Burt, the department head, and push came to shove. Terri already labeled a _trouble maker_ didn't waste time digging in her heels to stand her ground.

"I'm sorry, Terri. You give me no choice." Parker was tapping Terri's thick file. "I'm afraid this time it's expulsion. This isn't entirely up to me, however. The board may see otherwise, but they usually follow my recommendations. I really am sorry. This is does not solve the problem Terri. It just covers it up."

Terri stared at him, her knees jiggling, her fingers playing with a torn flap in her jeans, pulling threads. _Iron_ _Maiden_ and _Twisted Sister_ was untidily scrawled on her denim jacket and her _Black Sabbath_ tee- shirt was so worn it showed the pattern of her bra.

"We've tried to help you," Parker continued. "We've been very tolerant. But Terri, you've made no attempt to fit in, no attempt to follow rules. Miss Semple has tried really hard. I can' tell you how many times she's been to bat for you."

"Don't need her help! All you're trying to do is make me one of you. I won't. Kick me out I don't care."

She got up. "Are we done, cuz I'm going?" With that she wrenched open the door and left.

"I guess we've lost another one." Burt's eyes undressed Lisa as she stood to go, her hand on the doorknob.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he said, his hands laced over his belly. It had been a while since he played basketball. Or had a shower Lisa thought.

"Well Burt. I do worry about her. She's clever. If she drops out she's screwed. And given her background not likely to go very far. The least, the very least we can do is try harder to keep her in school.

"At what cost? She's not the only kid here you know. We can't have them thinking they can run rough-shod over us."

"And what is the cost of a lost life Burt?"

"Hey, don't get so involved, Lisa. Look at her. Do you really think she'll amount to anything? Maybe if she was more, ah, feminine looking?" He kept eying her.

"I fail to see what her appearance has anything to do with this."

"Everything Lisa. It has everything to do with it."

"I'd like to continue this with you Burt, but I've work to do."

She nodded to Parker and left. Maybe Burt had a point. Maybe appearance was part of it. Terri certainly resented her looks. Miss Goody Two Shoes. Did she really look like that? Give that vibe?

And the threatening phone calls. At first they didn't bother her. Well not too much. But that rock smashing through her living room window was a different story. That scared her.

Mind your business Miss White Ass or wake up dead, the note said.

Occasionally the Indians referred to the white kids as White Asses, often thrown out as a term of—if not affection one of friendship. Adolescents.

But Terri was the first one to call her that to her face. Was the note connected to Terri?

She didn't consider herself _fancy_ and she couldn't help it if she was rich. Actually her mother was rich. She studied her image in the lady's room mirror, recalling her first husband and the countless fights they had over money. The day her divorce had settled he returned every gift she'd given him. The box was large. She also remembered the note. "Love can't be bought Lisa. Only given. I'm sorry."

Well she wasn't going to screw up with Frank. Early in their relationship she had given him a tie. He loved it he said, but had never worn it. Thinking about this now, she realized he never wore ties at all.

Terri left the school dejected and confused. It was too early for the school bus so she decided to walk the three miles. Her kind of day, cloudy and rainy, the long walk would give her plenty of time to think, although she had already made up her mind. She slouched along, hands in pockets, her short red hair scraggily from the rain, thinking what she'd prepare for dinner. Something her father and brothers would like, something they'd say _thank you_ for. If it was really good, maybe they wouldn't start to drink. She hated it when they drank. Especially her father. She tried to dress and act like her brothers so he'd like her; treat like he treated his sons. But when he was full of booze he'd yell and say she was like her mother and wouldn't leave her alone. Hot showers don't wash off all the dirt Miss White Ass.

Terri went into the house and checked the time. Two hours before she had to start dinner. In her room, under her pillow she took out the book she kept hidden. _Flowers in the Attic_ and turned to page 297.

Lisa had already changed and dressed for dinner when Frank arrived at eight-thirty.

"Hi. Sorry I'm so late, but the meeting went longer than expected. Do you still want to go out?"

"I certainly do. I'm starved. And figuring you might be late I made reservations for nine-thirty. You've about forty minutes to shower and get ready."

"That's what I like about you." He hugged her and began to nuzzle her neck.

"Okay, lover boy. It's shower or..."

"I like _or_ a lot better."

The restaurant was crowded and Frank slipped the Maître D' a twenty to get a quiet table.

"How was your day? Save any souls?"

"Lost one actually. I think Terri—you know who I mean—is going to drop out." Franked nodded.

"Maybe some people just aren't cut out for school." He shrugged.

"Terri's a bright girl. If she quits, or if she's expelled, it's the end of the road for her."

The soft light from the candle flickered in her eyes. Her brow was creased with worry.

"Your future for her may not be the future she wants for herself or envisioned by her family. Don't buck generations of tradition. She may be entirely content to live that way."

"Yes, but she'd clever enough to do or become whatever she wants." She punctuated her remarks with gestures. To finalize a point she picked a crumb from the cuff of his blazer.

"Lisa. Don't take this the wrong way, but what if Terri doesn't want to become anything other than what she is? Her goals may not coincide with what you think her goals ought to be. You don't share the same values—her values. You've got to stop fitting people—squeezing them into molds, _your_ molds."

"I can't agree. Without an education..." She sighed.

"Education is important, sure. But more than that maybe she needs your understanding, not your insistence on remodeling her. I think you're being too much of a... of a..."

"Goody Two-Shoes?"

"Yeah. Goody Two-Shoes." He pushed away the shrimp cocktail.

"That's what she called me."

"Who?"

"Terri."

"Terri? She called you Goody Two-Shoes?"

"Yes, among other things."

"That's what I mean. You come off too intense. As if you're trying to remake the world. Change people, turn them into something they're not, something you want them to be. Something you think they should be."

"What are you getting at, Frank?" Her tone was, not angry.

"The way you dress for one thing."

"What's wrong with the way I dress?" She said a bit to loud.

"Nothing's wrong. You dress beautifully and you've got great taste." He leaned over and took her hands. But for work, _your_ work. Tell me. What kind of people are you dealing with? Your clients. Do you think for one minute they see you as someone who can help them? As someone who understands—really understands their problems?" He sighed and took a breath.

"What I'm trying to say Lisa is that you are too rich for their blood. Historically native people have a heck of a lot to resent about us. What did you say they call us—White Asses? You probably represent the very thing they are trying to avoid becoming. How can I put it? Your fingernails are too clean."

She nodded, beginning to see his point and Terri's accusations.

She pulled her hands away, picked up her fork and stared at her food.

"Don't get mad Lisa."

"I'm not mad. I'm thinking."

"Okay. Let's change the subject."

"The subject's fine. I really want to help people, you know? But lately I'm not getting through. Certainly not with Terri, that's for sure."

"You have to meet them on their turf. Metaphorically speaking you don't have any dirt under your fingernails."

"What does that mean?"

"I come from the same side of the tracks you know. Their side, not yours. My parents were immigrants. Poor. My father spilled his guts out at the end of a shovel."

"But your business is huge. Isn't it?"

"Now, yes. Thanks to my old man's efforts to keep me and my brother in school. We're both engineers. And with my father's experience and contacts he made over forty years the company has prospered—is prospering— very well. But he didn't want his sons to take anything for granted. We both had to work on a job site every summer. Weekends. Holidays. And we weren't given cushy jobs believe me! And we still work hard. No inheritance in my family."

She winced at the slight but didn't comment. The hardest thing she did was deciding which colour of eye shadow to wear.

"What I'm trying to say is sometimes you've got to leave well enough alone. Help them if you can, but don't interfere. You can't change cultural differences. In my business you get to learn this real fast. We don't preach to the men. Most don't have much education. A couple are ex-cons. They work, they get paid. If they're late or miss a day, there are consequences, sure. They feel it in their pocket. But we don't evangelize or preach the virtues of punctuality.

"Now that being said we also try be fair too. Maybe they're late because a child is sick. Whatever. We aren't heartless."

That night Lisa didn't sleep well.

The next morning Frank left early, leaving Lisa trying to decide what to wear. Even her jeans had designer labels. She settled for an old pair and a cotton shirt that had seen better days. She passed on the makeup except for lipstick and left off the jewelry.

When she got to work the place was in an uproar. Parker was doing his best to field questions and explain to the staff what had happened. When Burt arrived and was checking the locker rooms before classes, he discovered Terri unconscious in a shower stall lying in a pool of blood. She had slashed her wrists.

He found her in time and called an ambulance.

Lisa wasted no time getting to the hospital.

At first the nurse refused to give her any information, but after introducing herself as Lisa's social worker, she was asked to wait while the doctor was summoned.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Miss Semple. I'm Doctor Martin. Lets talk in my office," he said leading her down the corridor.

"Miss Semple, you're her case worker, is that right?"

"Yes. I've been working with Terri for several months now. I regret I've not been very successful on her behalf."

"Not your fault. She's going to fine by the way. Physically anyway. She didn't lose much blood. I don't know if you were aware, but Terri was pregnant. Unfortunately the baby didn't survive. I'm so sorry about that." He sighed and blew out a breath.

"Oh no! I had no idea. How awful. I feel like I failed her." She was on the verge of tears.

"Terrible to be sure, but Miss Semple, it's not your fault. Don't blame yourself."

"Oh I know that. Still." She dug unsuccessfully in her purse for a tissue."

Doctor Martin pushed the box of tissues on his desk towards her."

"But there's more, I'm afraid. I'm pretty sure Terri's been abused. Physically and sexually."

"Oh God. Had I been doing my job right I should have known."

"No, Miss Semple... Lisa. There was no way for you to know. Sadly when these things come to light the damage has been done. My concern now is placing Terri in a more suitable environment. She'll be ready to leave the hospital in a day or two but I don't want her going back home. She'll have to go into foster care, and you know what that means."

It wasn't easy to have a child removed from their family and when sexual abuse was an issue it could get messy.

"Maybe you'd better move in permanently. Her father will do more than throw rocks if you're responsible for getting Terry into foster care."

"Come on Frank. We don't know for sure it was him."

"You want to hang around and find out? I sure as hell don't. Make a list of what you need and I'll pick them up. You're staying here. By the way," he added who knows you're staying here?"

"Just Parker, he's the principal. I gave him your number in case he needed to reach me."

Terri was temporarily made a ward of the court and placed in a foster home and to Lisa's surprise she didn't seem to object, but her father was another story. He approached Lisa outside the courtroom after the hearing.

"You got big trouble now Miss White Ass." He'd been drinking and leaned too close, leering at her when he spoke.

"You keep watching over your shoulder. One day someone is going to teach you a lesson Miss White Ass to mind your business." He turned his head and spat on the floor.

"I thought my world was seamy. My guys are tough, but some of the people you deal with," he shook his head. Animals."

It was Saturday morning and he didn't have to be on site until noon, his brother having taken the morning shift.

"You can find abuse anywhere Frank. It crosses all boundaries, cultural as well as economic. Donna, my best friend from high school was a victim. And she came from a very wealthy family. Her father was a judge."

"You're kidding! " His hand stopped in mid-air and egg yolk dripped from the toast.

"I wish I were. You've no idea how wide spread abuse is. Doesn't only happen in the so-called lower classes." She made quote marks in the air. "The upper crust is just better at hiding it."

"I'm beginning to understand why you don't quit. As hard as it is. But I tell you I don't think I could do it. You've got a lot of guts Lisa."

"I don't know Frank. I wouldn't call it guts. But sometimes I feel I'm tilting at windmills. But I keep thinking of Donna. She killed herself you know. When she could no longer cope with the abuse."

"I'm really sorry Lisa. At first it seemed pointless to me, the way you were banging your head like that. Maybe her suicide is what drives you to help these kids. Saving even one person makes it worthwhile. I really admire your determination."

"I'm learning it takes more than determination and good intentions. You also need their trust. And that's where I failed Terri. We were—we are worlds apart. No wonder she didn't trust me. At least now she gets a second chance. Donna didn't."

"Be grateful for that! Listen. I promised Marco I'd meet with him, so I better get going." He drained his cup, got up, kissed the top of her head and took his white hard hat from the chair. She finished her coffee and the paper, then stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and set the timer.

An hour later the phone rang.

"Miss Semple, is that you?"

"Yes, it is."

"Can you come? I need you."

"Terri? What is it? Where are you?"

Lisa scribbled a note to Frank and dashed off. Terri sounded desperate.

The back door to the gymnasium was open and as Lisa burst through she was knocked to the floor.

"I'm sorry Miss Semple. He made me do it." Terri tried to help her up.

"Leave her!" He said, shoving the girl way. He yanked Lisa up, grabbing her arm and twisting roughly.

"Get up! You started and I'm going to finish it." He shoved her towards the showers.

"This is where it started and this is where it going to end. I'm going to teach you to mind your business Miss White Ass. In one swift move he grabbed her collar and tore her blouse from her.

Terri screamed at her father and ran between them.

"Get away girl," he said, kicking her.

"Leave her alone," Lisa yelled trying to twist away. His next kick connected with Lisa and she fell across the girl.

"I'm sorry Miss, I'm sorry. He made me call." Terri's sobs mingled with shame and anger.

"Stay behind me Terri." Lisa's blouse was in tatters and he tore the shreds from her shoulders.

I'm going to fix you good Miss White Ass. No one going to take my girl from me. No one."

Terri was trembling.

"No! Leave her. I won't run away. I promise."

"Damn right!" He lashed out with is foot catching the girl on the shoulder.

"Terri! Stay behind me."

Terri's father towered over them. He was drunk and strong no match for Lisa.

He loosened his belt, pulled the leather strap away from his pants and lashed Lisa across her chest and shoulders as she tried to protect Terri. He grabbed Lisa, hauling her out from under a changing bench, his other arm pushing his pants down and kicking them off.

There was a loud clatter. Terri's father was thrown against the wall his pants tangled around his ankles, landing in an unconscious heap.

"Lisa! Lisa, are you alright? I'll kill him! Terri you okay?"

"We're fine, Frank. We're fine. I think."

She struggled to her feet and with his help reached to give Terri a hand. She put her arms around the sobbing girl hugging her close. Frank took off his jacket and placed it gently over her naked shoulders.

"It's over now Terri. He won't hurt you any more."

"I'm real sorry Miss, I didn't want him to do it, but he made me call. I was hoping you wouldn't come. I knew what he wanted to do."

"Terri, how could you think I wouldn't come?" She hugged her again.

"I don't know Miss. It's just, I don't know. I just figured you wouldn't. Nobody cares." The girl broke down and buried her face in her hands. "No one ever cared about me like that before. And the way you let him hit you instead of me. I'm sorry; I should have listened to you right from the beginning. I was so stupid."

"No, Terri. You are not stupid. But I should have listened to you. It's over."

Lisa stopped abruptly suddenly perplexed.

"Terri, how in the world did you get my phone number?"

"I heard you tell it to Parker, I mean Mr. Parker. I remembered it easy. 365-Battle of Hastings."

"Battle of Hastings? I don't get it."

"365-1066. Battle of Hastings. I really like history. Mr. Harper not so much."

"I guess we both owe Mr. Harper our thanks." Still hugging Terri.

"And Miss?"

"What is it Terri?"

"I don't want to go back to that foster place. Can't I stay with you?"

Lisa was taken aback.

"Well. I don't know, Terri. We'll have to talk about that. A lot of things have to be considered and worked out. Like getting you back in school."

"I know Miss. But I'll do better. I promise. School ain't—isn't that hard.

Frank interrupted. "Let's get the two of you home," he said steering them to his car.

"You know, Lisa," he said in a whisper. "The courts prefer adoptive parents to be married."

He smiled and kissed her cheek.

#  GRANDMOTHER'S COAT

The kitchen was warm and smelled faintly of cooked apples, like a pie just out of the oven. A pot of soup simmered on the wood-stove. The bubbles around the edge of the lid piff-piffed as they burst. I sat at the chipped enamel table and watched as my grandmother made me a ham sandwich. She stood with her back to me at the counter next to the deep tub sink. Her slip showed a good two inches below the hem of her housedress and one of her stockings was twisted at her ankle. I could hear her breathing with a slight wheeze; the rhythm matched the strokes of the knife as she buttered the bread. Generously. She brought it over on a paper towel, placing it in front of me before cutting it in half, not diagonally, but the other way, and left the crusts. The knife, thin and worn from years of honing, squashed the fresh white bread.

There was nothing particularly special about her ham sandwiches. She never used mustard or mayonnaise; just plain white bread, real butter, and cooked ham sliced thin by the butcher and wrapped in waxed brown paper. They were the best ham sandwiches I have ever eaten. A ham sandwich was her answer for whatever ailed you. And it worked; I always came away feeling good.

"Glass milk?"

"Uh uh, I'm fine, Yia Yia. Thanks."

"You sure? It's good milk. Not Two _Poorcent_. I mix in the cream."

"Well, maybe half a glass.

She smiled almost, got up and went to the fridge and poured me a glass of the good milk, a full glass. Some of it spilled as she put down the glass. Sometimes she stumbled if she didn't use her cane. Her hip wasn't right since she broke it three winters ago, shoveling snow from the back steps.

"Mmm," I said, "nice and cold."

"Drink. For your bones. So you not get like me." She slapped her thigh in disgust as if her own bones had betrayed her.

"You want I fix another sandwich?"

"Oh, no! This is plenty."

"I got lots ham."

"Honest, Yia Yia. One is enough. I don't want to get fat." I patted my stomach. It wasn't as flat as I would have liked.

"Fat!" She said, turning her head sideways. "You not get fat on ham sandwich." She reached over and took my cheek between her thumb and index finger and squeezed; I was twenty-five but she still treated me as if I were still ten years old. I took her hand and held it. It was soft and the nails were cracked, and the skin on her arm hung in a loose wrinkled fold. In her tired eyes I imagined I could read the accumulated grief and disappointment, of poverty (long before my time) and the pain of having borne nine children, all of them girls, and of having outlived all but two. The survivors were my mother and my aunt. We didn't talk much; we didn't have to; we communicated on a different plane. She thought I was the best thing that happened in her life and I loved her more than anything in the world.

She put the milk back in the fridge and then went to the sink and filled a plastic jug with a daisy on it, to water some plants, testing the soil first by poking it with a finger. When she finished, she put the jug back on the knick-knack shelf, the one I made for her when I was in the eighth grade. It was a bad piece of carpentry, chipped and splintered, the cracks sloppily filled with wood putty. Beneath it stood the plant stand, its perfect mate, fashioned clumsily from nearly four straight tree branches, tied in the middle with wire to form an X. They supported an inverted wooden fruit box for the table part. My grandfather had made it, she told me. She painted it regularly, yet the name _Olympic Oranges,_ persisted in bleeding through the pale blue enamel.

She wiped her finger on her apron, then sat down at the table to watch me eat.

The doorbell rang. That would be my aunt coming home from work. I started to get up to answer but she raised her hand saying, "Stay. Drink your milk, drink your milk."

Uneasily and a little guiltily, I watched her. She limped with a pronounced sway, and her right foot clumped on the linoleum.

"Hi!" I said, "Much traffic?"

"Yes. It took me over an hour. The buses were so crowded, you can't imagine. Full of Eye-talians. You know the types. The guy next to me was so filthy." She shrugged her shoulders, sending a shiver through her body. "I kept giving him a dirty look, but I'm sure he was too stupid to know what I was driving at. And the stink! The garlic must be in their pores. You'd think to God they'd wash once in a while. How they can stand themselves, I'll never know."

She took off her fur hood and shook out the droplets, doing the same with her Persian lamb, then tossed her head. The tight henna curls didn't budge. She was a steno and most of her wages went on her back.

"Been here long?"

I could hear her removing her overshoes, and arguing with her mother about the newspapers on the floor. She didn't approve of that sort of economy; a nice mat would have been better.

"Long enough to have a ham sandwich," I called out. "The principal closed the school early because of the storm."

"Well, I'm glad someone has some sense." She walked into the kitchen rubbing her hands; the thin kid gloves did nothing for her in this weather.

"My God, Mamma! You've been in this country for over sixty years. When are you going to learn to set a table? I suppose you don't like those nice plates I bought you." She descended on the paper towel, crumpled it, and put it in the garbage bag under the sink. "I've told you and told you. Plates. Plates! It's a good thing we never have company, or I'd die of embarrassment."

My grandmother's face melted, and she touched her hair, tucking the steel strands into the bun on the back of her head. She didn't look at me.

"That's okay, Auntie. Saves washing up."

"That's it. Take her part. I do my best to make things presentable around here, try to teach her a few manners, and what do I get?"

"I'm sorry," I said. It's just... well, I didn't think it really mattered."

"I don't have time to argue. If I don't hurry, I'll be late for my hair appointment. What's for diner?"

"Soup. I make your favourite. Lemon soup."

"Oh, great!" She rolled her eyes. "I hope it's not as sour as the last time. I couldn't even swallow it."

This time I did get up and started to set my Aunt's place, but my grandmother took the plate out of my hand; it was her job and she had to do it right. With a stoicism I'd never seen in her, she prepared the place, while my aunt washed up in the bathroom next to the kitchen, flushing the toilet to cover her functions. She would have been horrified had she thought we could hear her noises.

First a quilted place mat, with little corn flowers, then a dinner plate, with a soup dish on top. She remembered the two spoons. One for the tea and one, the larger one, for the soup. To the left, a side plate with two slices of white bread. My aunt only ate white bread. Salt and pepper went in the middle of the table. And in front of them, a bowl, for the chicken bones. She didn't forget the cloth napkin, but she had to rummage around in the drawer to find one that wasn't too wrinkled.

"That's better, Mamma," she said, smoothing her skirt. "You're learning. And it's about time, don't you think?"

We sat, the three of us silent, and I tried not to listen to her little slup-slups as she sipped the soup, spooning it from the back of the bowl.

"I can't eat anymore. I'll be late." She frowned, cramping her features, and pushed the plate away having hardly touched the food.

I was glad when she was gone, and so was my grandmother, though wild horses couldn't make her admit it. I looked at her and could feel my face reddening.

"It's okay," she said softly. "Don't be mad." She always knew, and when I was a child it had amazed me, until one day she confessed that the birthmark on my neck got very pink when I was angry.

"She work hard and she pay for everything. She not lucky like you. She not getting marry, I don't think so. Too late for _hor._ But you. You young. You got nice _gell._

I'll know, Yia Yia, I know.... but." I didn't finish. Pointing out what had to be obvious would only make her feel ashamed, and I would never do that.

I hung around a while to keep her company and watched some television, which brought back a flood of memories. Every Friday night, after Cubs, I'd come over when she lived at he old place, and spend the night. We'd sit in the orange glow of the flickering oil burner, and listen to the mysteries on the radio. Tonight, she sat in the same old rocking chair, wearing the same cream-coloured shawl draped over her shoulders. I sat on the sofa. As I child it served as my bed and had seemed much bigger, but it was still soft and just as comforting.

Around eight-thirty, I got up and kissed her cheek; it was moist and she smelled like the sofa. I said goodnight and went downstairs to where I lived with my parents. Being close like that was a good arrangement, but I would have traveled any distance to see her.

The next day was Saturday, grocery day for my grandmother, so I rang the bell after finishing my breakfast. She liked to shop early, otherwise, she said, there was nothing of value left in the store. My aunt answered, and the door opened; the buzzer was as sharp as her tongue.

"What time do you want to go shopping, Yia-Yia?"

She was coming in from the shed with an armload of wood scraps, and wiped her runny nose on her shoulder; her old sweater was unraveling at the sleeves and full of holes. I took the wood from her and placed it in the box by the stove. My aunt was still eating her breakfast and reading the paper, trying to do the crossword puzzle.

She brushed the splinters from her apron, then dug in a pocket for a Kleenex; it was balled up and useless, but she managed nonetheless to use it.

"You go see your _gell?_ "

"Maybe tonight. It's pretty bad out, Yia Yia. You'd better let me take you shopping."

"Oh, no. Too much troubles. I be careful, don't worry." My aunt didn't even look up.

"It's no trouble. I want to take you. Remember last summer? When I dropped the watermelon in the parking lot?"

She laughed, remembering the mess I had made.

"Hah! No _carpuzzi_ today. Too cold! Okay, wait. I get my coat."

The word coat brought my aunt to life.

"I wish you'd get rid of that old thing. I wouldn't be caught dead in it!"

"I don't need new coat. Why? So I look nice in the ground?" She spoke through the hatpin she held in her mouth.

"Are you two still arguing over that?" I said, trying to ease the tension. "Every fall, at least for the last seven years, you've been trying to get Yia Yia to buy a coat."

"Have you seen it lately?" She said arching her eyebrows. She had abandoned the crossword, tossing the paper across the table. I didn't see very many words filled in. "It's ten years old if it's a day and...."

"Only nine!" answered my grandmother, indignant.

"Ten," came the reply, like a shot. "It's so threadbare, and the colour... Why, you can't tell whether it's black or green."

My grandmother stood firm, her chin up, and her jaw set, but she didn't answer. What would be the use?

"Go on then." She waved me away. "Get her groceries. And when you bring her back _we_ are going out for a new coat." She turned to her mother and added, "Your grandson is getting married in three weeks. Do you want to embarrass him on his wedding day?"

She had put down her hat, having decided at the last minute to water the plants in the alcove. But when I was a Cub Scout, we had started some grapefruit seeds; hers had survived. In truth, they were trees, all of five feet tall. The water leaked through the soil quickly, dripping out of the rusty pail onto the linoleum.

"I don't know why you bother with those damn things; nothing ever blooms anyway." My aunt got up and made an effort to mop up the dirty, brown stain. My grandmother picked up the coleus, and wiped the saucer it sat in. That coleus, except for her housedress, was the only bright thing in the place.

"Listen. I've got an idea. Why don't we go for the groceries, then the two of us can shop for your coat?"

"That's great!" Said my aunt. "It'll give me a chance to do some shopping for myself. I still need shoes and a dress for the wedding. Some people want to look presentable."

She finished her coffee and rinsed the cup under the tap, leaving it in the sink for her mother to wash.

"But I'm telling you," she added, "You'll regret it. She can never make up her mind."

My grandmother smiled at me; the twinkle was back, and she went into her room to get her things.

"Don't forget your cane. It's slippery out."

She came out ready to go, wearing her old coat, which looked fine to me, and carrying her cane, a heavy bent-wood stick with a great rubber knob on the end.

"Would you look at that," she said, pointing to the cane. I'm sure glad you're taking her." Me too I thought.

"It's fine!" I said, a little too sharply. "It's better in this weather." I caught my grandmother in the mirror; she was making a face, telling me not to waste my breath.

We had a wonderful time. She held my arm tightly, and together we shopped, and talked, and laughed. We even had lunch in what she thought was a fancy restaurant.

But my aunt was right. She couldn't make up her mind. Not because she didn't know what she wanted, but because she didn't know what my aunt would consider proper.

"We can't go home empty handed, Yia Yia; we have to buy something." I said this as we passed the florist, and before she could say anything, I steered her inside.

"You know, Yia Yia, I've never bought you flowers, so today I'm going to change that." It was warm and humid in the shop, and I held her purse while she loosened her headscarf. Her cheeks were red and her eyes watered from the cold, I think, and she stood very tall, hardly needing the cane. I wanted to buy her the biggest bouquet they had.

"Do you like these?" I held a huge bundle; daisies, white and red carnations, rose buds about to bloom, mums and asters, all wrapped in layers of that green florist's tissue.

"Such beautiful colour." She put her hands to her face, her eyes wet and glistening.

"No. Beautiful, but no." She shook her head.

"I can afford them, Yia Yia. Really."

"It's not for the money, I say no. I say no, because the flowers they already dead. Beautiful, yes, but dead. I prefer plant. Plant strong." She clenched her fist. "Plant can live, grow old."

She chose something with thick, shiny leaves, erect and firm. It was strong and vigorous, a lot like her. The clerk wrapped it well, but he couldn't guarantee that it would bloom; the cold weather shock might be too much for it.

It had been a long day, and she was tired; on the way home she dozed, holding the plant close to her, protecting it from winter's chill.

At the top of the stairs, standing with her arms crossed defiantly across her chest, my aunt greeted us with a, "So? Did you get the coat?" My grandmother didn't answer and neither did I.

"I knew it!" she snapped. "But I won't have you going to the wedding in that rag. Try it on." She inclined her head to the chair. Draped over it was a black cloth coat, the collar and cuffs trimmed in silver fox. Down the front, sensible black buttons rimmed in gold. It was beautiful, but it wasn't my grandmother.

"Try it on," she repeated. "It's your size."

"Not now. I have to see Maria." She unpacked the bag of groceries, separating the two chickens.

"Maria? What on earth for?" She made a face. Maria had children. Triplets.

"To give her chicken."

"What? Now I'm feeding the neighbours too? Good God." She stood with her hands on her hips, her perfect nails tipped in blood.

"Can't that good for nothing husband of hers feed his own family?"

"You know he good man. He try to find work."

"Yeah, well, maybe he should try a little harder."

My grandmother was furious, but words failed her. My aunt had almost gone too far.

The chickens fell victim to her fury and when she had calmed a bit, said to me by way of excuse: "He drive taxi!" Then to my aunt, who was hiding in the bathroom: "Chicken is for the _gells_!"

The next three weeks were hectic; I had little time to spend with my grandmother. When I did, she constantly reminded me that I shouldn't neglect my ' _gell_ '. On the other hand, my aunt acted as though it were she who was getting married, what with her visits to hairdressers and dressmakers and the shoe stores. At least it kept her off my grandmother's back.

Those weeks went quickly, and when the day arrived, the whole family was in a flap, yet for some reason, both my grandmother and I were relatively calm.

"How do I look, Yia Yia?" She had never seem me in a Tuxedo, albeit a rented one, so I had gone upstairs to show off.

"Very _hansome_ , very _hansome_." She held my face in both of her hands and kissed me.

"Handsome. I told you, it's HANDSOME! " My aunt was nearly apoplectic.

We laughed, both of us too happy to have the occasion spoiled.

"You look good in your coat, Yia Yia." It was her turn to model.

"Ah," she waved me away. "It's too tight here." She clutched her throat, pulling at the fur Trim.

"Mamma. Hurry. We have to leave soon."

"I'm going first to show Maria. I want to ask if she want to come to _Chorch_."

"My God, Mamma. Don't you dare!" She turned to me and said: "The woman dresses like a beggar."

"I'm going to show Maria my coat."

"Fine then. Have it your way. But if you're not back in five minutes, I'm leaving without you. It'll serve you right if you miss the wedding."

I had had enough, so I leaned over and whispered so my aunt wouldn't hear. "Want to drive with me?"

"Oh no," she whispered back. "She wait for me."

"Sure?"

"Sure. But if she go, don't worry. Maria's husband, he drive. You don't mind I ask Maria?"

"Of course not. She's your friend. Bring her. But please, Yia Yia. Don't be late."

"I not be late." She kissed me again and said, "Wait. I want to give you something." She limped to her room using the wall for support, and came back with a package wrapped in coarse paper and tied with string.

"I want to give you this. I keep it from your _Papou."_

I opened it carefully; the string was old and it broke when I tried to undo the knot.

"It belong your _Papou_. He bring it from Old Country. Every night he read to me from this book."

It was old and worn. The cover was brittle and the pages yellowed.

"Maybe you read it to your wife like your _Papou_."

I opened the Bible and looked at the faded entries on the first page where the family records, the births and the deaths had been recorded. The dates were all I could read; everything else was written In Greek. My grandmother had never been to school and she didn't realize that written languages differed.

"Yes, Yia Yia. I'll try to be like _Papou_." We were both on the verge of tears but she was more successful at concealing it.

"Go. Go get marry. And be happy."

I went downstairs; my aunt was already standing on the sidewalk waiting for my parents and looking as if she were going to a funeral, not a wedding.

The church was packed. I stood nervously waiting for my fiancée to appear. The organ played softly, and a little sadly, reminding me somehow of my grandmother's kitchen. I looked around at all the smiling and mumbling faces. I didn't see my grandmother among them.

My aunt, who was doing her utmost to look proper, fidgeted and kept looking around at the door. Heaven forbid my grandmother should walk in late and embarrass her.

I could feel a warm rush creeping over me, so I concentrated on counting the squares in the ceiling tiles, anything to stay calm.

A few minutes later the music stopped. The church was quiet except for some coughing, and I could hear the familiar clump-clump of my grandmother's cane. I was overjoyed. I turned in time to see the look on my aunt's face. She gasped, and damn near fainted.

My grandmother stood at the end of the aisle, head high, her chin thrust proudly forward. Her threadbare coat shining like a beacon.

Beside her, clutching her arm stood Maria, wearing my grandmother's new, black coat.

#  THE PIGEON

The cloud, mottled and gray, descended on Kelly, blocking the sun as he lured the pigeons with crusts from his lunch. The bench was covered with their guano and stuck with bits of feather. Kelly dug the last of his bait from the paper bag and cast it ahead of him, scattering the birds, sending them cooing after the crusts. Their silvery iridescence shimmered in the harsh noon light.

It was hot. The brass disk shifted, Nelson's shadow no longer a comfort, so Kelly left the bench and the monument tacking his way down the hill.

It was a short walk but the waves of cobblestones slowed him, his gait unsure on the rough surface. He crossed St. Paul Street ignoring the staring tourists and the caleche driver sleepily clucking his nag through the Old Town. The tired horse tossed his head and swished his tail disturbing the flies settling on the open sores. Kelly walked on, steering a course through the gate and the chain link fence towards the shed, back to his job checking a shipment of Dutch beer.

"Hi, ya, Kelly. How's the boy?"

Kelly nodded to Bucky, his expression somewhere between a grin and a scowl in his pockmarked face. He rarely spoke.

When the whistle blew bringing the docks to life, Kelly had already anchored himself near the mooring lines of the ship. A longshoreman sauntered over and winked slipping him a couple of bottles of the imported beer. Kelly grinned, took the bottles and stashed them out sight between the pallets. The afternoon was a pleasant one and Kelly spent it smoking and toying with his lighter. The beer was good too.

The next morning he was back at the union hall waiting with the other spares to be called. Kelly paced the bare wooden floor, walking angularly, his long, stick legs folding and unfolding like a crane.

It had been eight years since the accident. He'd been working the hatch, deep in the hold of the ship, checking a consignment of mixed cargo. The river was threatening to freeze so the crews had to work her round the clock. It was dark and the men were tired at the end of the sixteen-hour shift. The light illuminating the hold was dim. When the cable on the sling snapped, Kelly didn't see it. Kelly didn't see the large heavy drum rolling towards him. It pinned him against the ladder. It crushed his legs.

Seven months in hospital, then a year of physical therapy to let him walk again. If walking was what Kelly did. He had to flip his legs forward, launching them from the hip, flapping his feet on the ground with each awkward step. Kelly managed to get around alright, but the accident left him a little crazy. He never boarded a ship again, let alone go down in the hold.

Old Man Teasdale obliged him, sending Kelly on the better, cleaner jobs. He'd been down there long enough to become a union man but for some reason had never been sponsored, so when the Old Man sent Kelly out with the first bunch no one complained.

When Old Man Teasdale retired, the union elected Drago Marx to replace him as business agent and things at the sheds began to change. He did a pretty good job at first, treating the men fairly, but soon his new authority got the best of him. He became a loud-mouthed bully.

Old Man Teasdale used to rotate the men, doing his best to give all the men a fair shake at the easy tasks. But not Drago.

If you wanted to work at all, you had to slip the agent a two-dollar bill. Cheap enough in exchange for a day's work.

But with Kelly it was a different story. Drago just didn't like him. Two dollars or not, he'd give Kelly the worst jobs just out of meanness.

"Zorry, Shikken Legs, you work ze hatch or you go home." Drago put the two dollars into his shirt pocket, already bulging.

Kelly was furious, his face twitched and he blinked repeatedly, each orb slightly out of focus, working independently. No one called Kelly 'chicken legs' to his face and got away with it, not since he lit the fire in the watchman's shack. Even behind his back few dared to call him that. No, Kelly had earned their respect and it didn't hurt that they were a little afraid of him. The watchman face was still scarred.

Kelly paced the room and finished his cigarette before leaving the hall. He muttered and strutted, his feet flapping the floor.

"Hey, Kelly. C'mon. I'll give you a lift." Bucky had been sent to the same shed at the east end.

"Don't sweat it, Kelly. I'll switch with you."

Kelly didn't answer. He sat impassively, swaying in time with the foam dice hanging from the mirror as the big Buick swerved to avoid the many potholes.

Bucky parked against the fence and the two men headed towards the long corrugated steel building; one of the new sheds, hot as the tropics in summer and colder than the Atlantic in winter. It took Bucky several strides before matching Kelly's gait and avoid knocking into him. Bucky repeated his offer but Kelly shrugged it off and went to the ship.

The longshoremen were standing in a clump waiting for the winch man to install himself at his levers and when they saw Kelly approaching there was a minor hubbub. The foreman intercepted Kelly and said something to him waving his arm and pointing to a stack of boxes near the mooring post. Kelly looked at the boxes then back at the grinning foreman.

"You can keep tally from here, okay? No room in the hold for you anyway. I'm working two gangs." He indicated the boxes again and Kelly zigzagged over, shifted a couple of cartons and made himself a seat. He put his clipboard on another box and lit up a cigarette. Smoking was prohibited, but no one said anything. If Drago caught him there'd be a problem.

Other than occasionally getting up to check some goods on the sling or note some damage, Kelly stayed moored to his post. At lunchtime when the gang dispersed the foreman hauled a rope out of the water, pulling up a net load of chilled beer. Two bottles found their way to Kelly. He gave Kelly a quick salute then went off with his friends leaving Kelly to share his sandwiches with the gulls filling the air with shrill cries, diving and swooping for the bits of bread, lugging away their catch to feed selfishly.

It was a big ship and the head checker called him back and for the next three days Kelly was able to work the hatch without boarding the ship. The following Monday however, he had to report back to the hall.

"Zo, Shikken Legs! I hear you like to work ze hatch, yah? Goot, goot. Drago got more hatches for you."

The cruel man handed Kelly a slip with a number on it, the shed number, and the name of the man he was to report to. Kelly took one look at it, crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it at the agent. The big man's smile disappeared, his face hard, eyes slits.

"Hif you vant to work zis month Shikken Legs, get out and go vere I send you. You understand, yah?" Drago wiped his brow wetting the back of his hairy hand. Kelly answered him, his lips barely moving, his eyes out of focus.

"I understand, yah," he sneered. He gave the agent a Nazi salute and did his best to click his heels. Drago, thinking Kelly was going to hit him, flinched, almost toppling backwards out of his chair.

"C'mon, Drago. Give him a break. I'll take the hatch."

"Mister Buckee," Drago paused, then got up.

"Drago giffs ze orders. Hif you don't like zem, don't come to ze hall." He was a tall man, taller than Bucky who stood over six feet, and looked down at him. Bucky wasn't intimidated but he wasn't stupid either. Crossing swords with the agent meant at least a week without work. Few could afford such reprisals. So Bucky kept his mouth shut, thinking better of arguing and went back to lean against the window and cool off.

Kelly stood muttering and shaking his head. His hands shook and he couldn't light his cigarette. Bucky offered a light from his own lighter.

The men missed Old Man Teasdale but there was nothing they could do. The union put Drago in charge and that was that. Spares were dirt according the union and any grumbling would only get them blacklisted, barring them from the waterfront. Drago knew this. And he made sure to hammer this point home.

Kelly acknowledged the light with a nod.

"Don't leave yet," Bucky told him. "I'll find out where I'm going, _if I'm going_ ," he added with a laugh. "Maybe I can drop you."

Kelly didn't answer. He stayed leaning against the wall, smoking and flicking his lighter. The rest of the men went back to their coffee and newspapers waiting their turn to be called,

"C'mon." Bucky came out of the office and signaled Kelly to follow. "I'm going to the same shed, a boat load of tires!"

They left quickly, Kelly sort of adding a half skip to his gait to keep up.

"Listen. And don't argue. You take the tire and give me the hatch. Drago'll never know the difference. At the end of the shift we can sign each other's bills. Just be sure your tally's right. There's more than one way to skin a bastard." He clapped Kelly on the shoulder. "Let's go."

The arrangement was a good one. Bucky didn't care where he went as long as he worked.

"Think you'll finish the hatch today?" Bucky was startled. His friend rarely spoke more than a few words.

"Uh, don't think so. Maybe if they put the gang on overtime. What about those tires?" he ventured, hoping he wasn't expecting too much of Kelly to answer.

"Dunno. Guy's slow and he's got two trailers to fill. Barely got one done today." He jerked his head towards the big rig. The driver was whistling, hardly straining himself as he shifted the tires from the pallets, stacking them in the trailer.

"Great. Maybe we'll get to pull the same deal tomorrow. What are you doing for lunch?"

Kelly didn't answer. He went back to the truck to tally another load.

At a quarter to five the head checker made his rounds giving orders for the next day.

"No overtime today, Kelly. Be back tomorrow." The head checker continued along. He was bent and stooped from arthritis; his face a mask of pain, and shouted his orders to save some steps. Bucky's head emerged from the hatch and he waved his clipboard confirming he heard.

"Need a lift in the morning?" He asked as they crossed the tracks to the parking area.

"Bus," Kelly said and added a curt, "Thanks."

"Okay, buddy. See yah tomorrow."

The next day was cold and rainy, but he didn't mind. He had his plastic raincoat and except for the bottoms of his pants, he was dry. The trucker didn't fare as well, getting completely drenched and began to sneeze. Punished, Kelly thought, for goldbricking the previous day.

By mid-morning the driver had finished loading the truck and was arranging the tarpaulin. He came over to Kelly wearing a friendly face.

"Trente-et un," he said referring to the number of pallets he'd loaded.

Kelly glanced at his tally and replied. "Non. Trente deux." He held up two fingers.

"Ben, non! J'ai compté trente-et-un!" His smile gone and his arms bulged when he brought the match to his cigarette.

"Thirty-two. Thirty-two pallets at thirty-six tires a pallet. One thousand, one hundred and fifty-two tires. Are you going to sign? Or do you want to unload for a recount?" Kelly thrust the clipboard at the man.

The trucker looked at Kelly fiercely. He understood enough English to know he couldn't pull a fast one.

Had Kelly agreed to his count of thirty-one the driver would have been able to bootleg the extra tires. Small wonder he was angry. He yanked the clipboard from Kelly's hand and scribbled his mark across the page.

"Tiens!" He spat, shoving it back at Kelly. Kelly didn't bother to answer, just folded the metal lid over the soggy pages.

The angry man went to his colleague reading a paper in the cab. He pointed to Kelly and shook his head. Their plans to make a few extra dollars thwarted. The first truck pulled out of the yard and the new driver in the second truck took his time positioning his vehicle. Knowing he couldn't scam Kelly he'd damn well steal time if not tires. Kelly didn't care. It kept him out of the hatch.

The job leaked into the third day, two trailer loads and a pick-up truck completed the delivery by noon. Bucky's job would go until five.

As the pick-up was leaving, Miller, the head checker appeared in the shed door. The bright sun casting a grotesque shadow of the twisted man.

"Kelly," he shouted, looking at his watch, the other hand on his hip. "Knock off for lunch but be back here at one. I'll put you on shed check for the afternoon.

Kelly raised his hand and Miller disappeared swallowed in shadow.

Shed check was easy. All he had to do was look for misplaced cargo, match the numbers against the bills and note their location. It was tedious work entailing a lot of walking and most men hated it. But not Kelly. No one would bother him and he could work alone.

The afternoon was hot and humid, and the dank shed smelled of urine. A ship load of crystalized mare's piss, destined for some pharmaceutical company, was piled high at the end of the shed waiting to be picked up and a number of bags were split, their contents mushing in the dirty puddles that trickled in from yesterday's heavy rain. The smell was overpowering and Kelly concentrated his search at the other end of the building.

As it happened, Drago had union business that afternoon with Miller. Kelly didn't see the agent come into the shed but unfortunately, Drago saw Kelly.

An hour later Kelly stood outside the shed smoking, not because of the smoking ban but to escape the smell of urine. Kelly smoked and ate a donut. It was break time anyway, and the men swarmed around the mobile canteen laughing and drinking and eating. Kelly threw the last of his donut at a gull hovering nearby waiting for a handout. His aim was poor and the donut went off the edge of the pier. The heavy bird swooped and caught it.

"Zo! You like birds, Shikken Legs!"

"Huh!" Kelly startled, turned abruptly. The big man's smile showed his widely spaced teeth.

Kelly didn't answer. He couldn't. He began to shake. He was caught and knew Drago would make him pay for the deception.

"Tomorrow, Shikken Legs. Tomorrow. You come see Drago at the hall. Drago haff nice job for you, yah. You like birds? You like animals, yah? Tomorrow Drago fix you hup." The big man stood close. Kelly could smell his sweat through the cheap cologne.

"Tomorrow," he repeated, pointing to the pallets stacked with the leaking bags of crystals. "You vil vork ze hatch and Drago vil vatch you, yah?" He laughed. "I hope you like horses, Shikken Legs."

The big man threw his head back and walked away, his laugh echoing in Kelly's head.

Kelly couldn't do it. Not the hatch. Not those bags. He'd suffocate down there. He threw the butt on the ground and crushed it with his foot then went back to the cool, liquid interior of the dark shed.

The next day Kelly didn't go to the hall. He spent the morning in the square, feeding the pigeons while Nelson stood guard.

It was already unbearably hot. When Bucky reached the top of the hill he was sweating. He stopped in front of Kelly and shielded his eyes from the glare putting Nelson between him and the sun.

"The hall burned down last night, Kelly. Right to the ground. Still smoking too."

"No kidding?" He threw the last of his crumbs, got up and tacked his way down the hill. The breeze was freshening and it caught his clothes furling his loose garments.

#  ALLYSON'S GHOST

I could hear him stumbling home half way down the block, his huge bulk swaying from too much beer. As he climbed the stairs to our third story flat, I disappeared out the back ducking my head to avoid the washtubs and rusting baby carriage that hung in the shed, taking the steps two at a time avoiding the ones that were splintered and broken. He beat me for the last time.

My mother, spent and grey, put up with it in stoic silence, but I ran off leaving my sister to face him. She could always appease him no matter his moods and in his drunkenness was the only one who could keep him from wrecking the few sticks of furniture that we had.

He liked her. My sister that is. When he was sober he brought her little treats, candy or a new teen fashion magazine. His kindness to her pleased me too because it kept him off my back, but my sister feared being favoured would make me jealous. It didn't.

Her guilt for being his favourite showed in her nervous glances towards me whenever she was the object of his affections. I'd smile at her and nod approvingly. Nevertheless, she suffered and tried to make it up to me by sharing her treats. When she could.

She didn't understand, but I knew. Instead of making me jealous and resentful he only succeeded driving us closer.

When he was in one of his rare pleasant moods, he'd want to play catch with me downstairs on the patch of dirt behind the flat that was supposed to be yard. The game began, supposedly in the spirit of fun but always ended disastrously with him cursing, his baldhead sweating and me silent, expressionless and boiling with rage. My hatred compounded with guilt for my horrible thoughts.

I'd catch the first few tosses throwing them back accurately. Slowly his pitches became harder backed by over two hundred pounds of soft muscle and fat turning the game into a battle of wills and a contest of manhood. Eventually my hands were red and swollen from the driving force that intensified with each throw. We didn't use gloves or mitts. We played barehanded with a real baseball. Hard and unforgiving.

I caught every one, never missing, never fumbling, never dropping the ball. But because the game slowed as I paused between pitches to recover from the hurt, he'd laugh.

"What's the matter, am I throwing too hard?" he'd sneer.

I wouldn't answer, I just kept catching and returning the ball, tears of anger and humiliation tricking down my cheeks.

Finally when he'd had enough of my silence, and my tears, the taunts and sarcasm would stop and we'd go back upstairs.

"Back already?" my mother saying over her shoulder as she scrubbed the sink or prepared supper.

"Yah, sissy here wanted to quit, the ball was hurting his hands."

It wasn't fear that kept me silent; I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of goading me into a reaction. If I retaliated he'd harangue me about measuring up or about being a 'man'. I resolved never to give him justification to mistreat me, not that he needed much provocation. So I quietly went about the business of putting away the ball, washing up or getting ready for dinner by helping my sister set the table.

She didn't have to say anything, just being near her, brushing my hand as we worked together was enough to know she cared and understood. I could cope as long as I had her.

My mother, tired from trying to please him, pretended not to notice the tension or perhaps she didn't want to start an argument. It didn't take much. The air was already electric and crackling as we dueled emotionally. He, ready to throw barbs, me, ready to stand firm.

But it was my sister who suffered, always consciously aware of how I felt and desperately trying to ease my hurt. Constantly apologizing in her quiet way for my shabby treatment by a look or going to her room, or distract by making me laugh. So I'd laugh for her sake, sometimes hugging her as she fought to hold back tears.

Now, at fifteen, I was as tall as he and stronger. We rarely spoke let alone played ball anymore and he had given up goading me with his sharp tongue. The rift between us was awesome, a chasm wide with hatred and deep with resentments.

Having had my fill I left the house that afternoon in confused rage and now as I pressed against the doorway to hide I knew my sister would die of disappointment. As my heart pounded, my leg leaving a sticky smear against the jamb, I thought of all the times she had taken the blame for my simple crimes that had put him in a rage.

"Allyson!" he'd yell at me through clenched teeth. "Did you leave the door unlocked when you went out?"

"No, Daddy. I was me," my sister lied.

"Oh", in his voice for her, "Well try to remember to lock it next time, would you dear?"

It was cowardly not to own up but we both knew this was the easiest way to avoid his violent outbursts.

Although I did my best to keep out of his way, it was impossible not to do something that would set him off. If I washed the dishes, he didn't like how I hung the dishrags to dry; if I read the paper, I'd forget to refold it correctly.

I remember once when I was about four, he hadn't liked how I wore my cap, so he slapped me and threw me across the room, my heading hitting the corner of the table leg and opening a gash. I had pushed the peak up the way the street cleaners did with theirs. "Just wait until I grow up!" I thought plotting.

This time she wouldn't be able to get me off the hook. She'd warned me not to hang around with the 'guys' on the corner. "Losers!" she said. "And you'll get in trouble too!" But I was fifteen. I knew everything. I could take care of myself.

I'd bend and kiss her on the cheek and tell her not to worry, I knew what I was doing. Then I'd run off down the back stairs and looking back I'd wave to where she'd be watching from the kitchen window.

I was in control now because of my size, the steely coldness in his eyes and the annoyance on his face as he grit his teeth tightening his jaw no longer scared me. And on the few evenings I stayed in I'd watch television, sitting on the slipcovered sofa, one leg over the arm and a cigarette in the corner of my mouth. He hated the way I sat, so I did it. Hated my smoking too.

My sister claimed he expected me to rise above him ensuring his success through my achievements and he picked on me because I failed in his eyes to be his salvation.

"He doesn't expect you to support or take care of him," she said. "He just wants to feel a sense of pride for having a part in your creation. He wants you to face the world. To conquer it. If you survive, succeed, then he does too. Don't you see?"

I didn't.

"Why does he pick on me, and laugh and act like I'm so stupid. Why is he never satisfied with anything I ever do?"

"He picks on you because he expects you to do it right. He never had a second chance. He blew it. And he's scared you will too. He hates himself for failing to be the kind of man that can't provide more; that he can't give his family the things he wanted for himself. When he picks on you it's because he's so aware of his own shortcomings.

"Crap! You're just making excuses. He never gives a thought about success or failure or anything else. If he was so concerned about our welfare he'd spend a lot less on beer!"

"Remember when you played ball and you'd come upstairs with sore hands and wet cheeks?"

"Yah. How could I forget?"

"He wasn't trying to be mean..."

"Could have fooled me!"

"Listen. He wasn't trying to be mean. He was trying to make you tough. The tough survive. He was testing you. He wants you to be tough enough to face the world. Your tears he saw as a sign of weakness. Not your rage. Not your anger. Maybe you should have answered back, yelled at him or communicated your feelings instead of holding everything in. The silence that was your strength he saw as weakness, furthering his disappointment and destroying any chance of his own survival through you."

I listened to her, watching her trying to convince me that my father expected me to be his savior.

"It isn't that he thinks his way is always right or that you're wrong, it's because he's afraid. Afraid that unless you get it the first time, from the start, it'll be too late for you too. Watching you failing to measure up to what he thinks is right just reminds him of how he screwed up. He sees in you the chance at success that he never had. You can stay in school, learn a trade and do something with your life. Seeing you hang around those lowlifes smoking and drinking scares the hell out of him. And me too!"

Maybe she was right, but my stubbornness refused to let me admit it, even to myself. If I stopped to think about it I'd give in. I couldn't see any compromise. Either give in or continue to rebel. I rebelled.

Over the years having heard how tough his life had been and how lucky I was to have been born into a situation that, although was far from wealthy, still presented considerable opportunity for decent future made me resentful. I was tired of hearing how ungrateful I was for what he considered to be my good fortune.

His brother too, would rub it in. When he came to the house they would sit and drink gin all afternoon. Not from shot glasses. Not with ice or a mix but straight from big tumblers. They'd sit at the kitchen table, sipping away, my father at one end, his usual place, and my uncle with his fat belly, on the other side farthest from the sink and counter so he wouldn't be in the way. Between them on the table stood the forty ouncer. The cheap stuff. Sharp and perfumey.

There they'd sit, my uncle complaining about lost opportunities and my father nodding in agreement, giving accounts of his own experiences of job discrimination to further illustrate how fate had unfairly kept them from advancing. These two were never responsible for their own misfortunes.

Occasionally they'd laugh at the fun they once had as kids in spite of the poverty they grew up in.

They disgusted me, getting drunker and more stupid as the afternoon wore on.

On my way out, during one of my uncle's visits, he slurred at me. "Where'd ya get those pansy shoes?" He laughed and coughed, his belly jerking at each catch of his breath. With each convulsion his knees would try to come together to keep his bladder from leaking.

You'll piss yourself yet, I thought, watching his gut force his legs apart.

"Hey, where are ya going in those faggot shoes?" He laughed grabbing my wrist to keep me from squeezing by. I pulled away but his grip was strong so I relaxed. They were both laughing at me now and I stood uncomfortably while these two drunks played their game. When I didn't react he let go preferring to refill his glass from the almost empty bottle.

I left the kitchen and these two bitter old men, cut from coarse cloth, and took off down the back stairs. Even my sister had gone out. My mother, never participating or getting involved, stayed in the front room knitting.

Bleeding and leaning against the door, I remained hidden in the darkness thinking of my sister. I cursed myself for becoming what she had most feared. "You don't need them," her voice said. "They'll get you killed."

Holding my leg I pressed into the shadows. The pain throbbing, the bleeding persisting, plastering my jeans.

In the thick shadows I hid for what felt like hours but in reality it had only been twenty minutes since I'd left the two drunks to meet my friends. I sneaked a look and saw that my end of the street was deserted, at the other end, intermittently bathed in a red glow, a crowd gathered around police cruisers.

My brain dragged my body from the dark niche and I struggled across the street scuffing the shoe of my trailing leg. On the other side I fell against the wrought iron fence of the cemetery and using it for support continued down the block increasing my distance from the flashing lights.

"Hold still Allyson," she said bathing the cut and scraped knee. It hurt. She picked at the bits of embedded dirt and gravel. I pretended it didn't, joking and complaining about the fuss she was making.

I almost missed the ball and went down. I ignored the pain and continued to play imagining I was somewhere else. This time I was a soldier and instead of a ball I was lobbing grenades.

Eventually a truce was called and we went upstairs, my sister having a fit seeing my bloody knee.

"Hold still!" she repeated. "You don't want it to get infected."

I clutched my leg and dragged along the fence trying to avoid further injury from the iron pickets when I stumbled. The pain was unbearable but I kept moving.

"They're not your friends," I could hear her. "They'll get you in real trouble."

Her voice kept me from passing out and I regretted not heeding her warnings, more for her sake than mine. My fate, my undoing, my stubbornness, my fault. She would be shattered, all her hopes for me destroyed in one reckless evening.

In seconds I had lost my freedom, had thrown away all hope of a future. For both of us.

She had warned me. "They're using you. Destroying you!"

In my obsession to escape from my father, I had let myself become detached from reality. I was suckered as the lookout so Ruiz and Louis could rip-off the old man.

"Al, you stay here and yell if anyone comes. Louis and me are going to have some fun."

"What do you mean, some fun?" I said.

"Don't worry," Ruiz told me. "You know how he hates for us to touch the magazines, eh? Well me and Louis are gonna get him going just for laughs, okay? Just stay outside and watch for us."

"Okay," I said thinking it was kind of dumb but stood outside the store and lit a cigarette.

I'd no sooner taken a puff than I heard Ruiz and Louis burst through the door running. The old man followed.

"Crooks! Crooks!" Three rapid shots echoed through the hot summer night and I felt a sharp pain in my thigh. I stumbled trying to catch up to Ruiz and Louis but lost them. In truth they had abandoned me.

Cursing my stupidity for ignoring my sister's warnings I continued along the fence. It was a large cemetery but if I could reach the gate before getting caught or collapsing I might get away. I groped along in the dark playing the pickets like a harp to keep from falling, crickets chorused scolding my clumsiness.

I crawled more than stumbled until I found the opening, the cement pillars studded with rocks. On a bronze plaque, raised letters proclaimed Eternal Peace.

Exhausted now, I fell on the damp grass slumping against a headstone. The cold granite chilled me and the fire in my leg subsided and with it all feeling. I tugged my jacket down, the stone cold and unforgiving. I had no desire to find a more comforting spot.

I lay on the ground. The smell of dirt, the smell of rot, reminded me of the boxcar.

The three of us had been scavenging around the rail yards. Louis and I alert for rats, Ruiz ready with his twenty-two. Old mattresses, plumbing fixtures, rotting garbage, the perfect breeding ground for hordes of rats, rats so huge that in a contest with a cat, the cat would lose. Summer. Heat. Humidity. Lots of target practice.

I hated the stench and the clatter of coupling cars. The clash of shunting scared me. I was also afraid of Ruiz and his rifle. I didn't trust that rats were his only targets. But, for some reason I was drawn to him. Like being drawn to stare at a cripple.

There were fewer rats in the winter but Ruiz convinced us to go to the yards. It was cold in the yards and getting colder as daylight waned. And treacherous, the puddles solid ice. Louis scampered up into a boxcar. The door was open and he pressed his palms on the floor heaving his short heavy body forward and swinging his legs to follow. Once in, he rolled over and sat against the far wall.

Ruiz pushed his rifle into the boxcar and followed.

"Come on," he said to me. "Get in."

Reluctantly I clambered up catching and tearing my pants on a rusty nail and silently cursed the thin trickle of blood.

Ruiz was fiddling with the bolt of his twenty-two, so I sat on his right and watched Louis dance around slapping his body with pudgy hands to beat out the cold.

It was cold.

I must have dozed or was daydreaming when suddenly a loud clang startled me. Louis had been playing with the door sliding it back and forth.

The door, designed to be opened only from the outside, slammed shut. In our panic we began to kick and yell until our feet hurt and our voices were hoarse. Realizing the futility we fell exhausted to the floor.

"Stop your bawling!" Ruiz viciously kicked Louis cringing in the corner whimpering."

"And get up," I told him. "The cold will make us sleepy. We have to stay alert and keep moving. If our bodies don't generate enough heat we'll freeze to death. Do you want that?" I kicked him too. "C'mon. Get up!"

We kept poking and talking to him, Ruiz cursing and punching him whenever his eyes closed. Louis' weakness kept us alive.

As day approached staying awake was a little easier as light filtered through the cracks brightening the boxcar and our hopes, but fatigue, cold and depression finally overtook us on the afternoon of the second day, when both Louis and Ruiz succumbed to sleep. Unable to keep my eyes open I began to dream, chased by a ferocious dog, the barking getting louder and louder. Suddenly the door to our tomb rumbled open and the dream became reality.

I struggled up and moved deeper into the graveyard, long shadows tripping me as I zigzagged over the graves between stone markers crouching low to remain hidden but mostly because my leg kept me from standing.

Thinking that Louis and Ruiz might be ahead somewhere I called to them. We'd often roam the cemetery at night testing each other's nerve with the dead, hiding behind headstones trying to scare each other. The game didn't frighten me but I played and hollered and laughed at the right times. When the game got boring we'd quit and go home, but not before Ruiz knocked over a headstone or two. Louis, scared we'd be punished by ghosts or God, begged him not to do that but Ruiz just laughed. I ignored them and usually found my way out and home alone.

I crawled and stumbled during those conscious moments when I hadn't blacked out from pain or blood loss. My hands were raw and my face scratched and bloody from the gravel, my clothes were torn and I had lost a shoe.

By now the sky was beginning to brighten but not yet light enough to see my way clearly. I stumbled on some freshly turned earth, lost my grip on a granite block and tumbled into an open grave.

The sun was high when I awoke.

The wormy stink and tight dirt walls smothered.

Painfully I pulled myself up and over the crumbling edge of the grave and lay panting when a loud piercing moan broke the silence, its dying echoes hanging like a sticky web.

She fell on the coarse green carpet not seeing me, the veiled hat falling from my mother's face.

Behind her, my sister, sad and empty, followed by two old men.

My father and uncle stumbling on wasted legs carrying a small white coffin.

#  MIND SET

Life aboard the orbiting space station was dull and Zarf hated every minute of it. He especially hated his family. Until six years ago he had been quite happy, in spite of Adoranda, his bossy sister. Like all older sisters, she insisted it was her responsibility to take charge of him and since he was three years younger and a lot smaller, he had to endure being Adoranda's real-live toy doll. Actually it was fun and wouldn't have been too bad except she dressed him in frilly girl's clothes.

His parents were too busy to spend time with him, but since he was their chosen child, the one they had picked from the Inter Planetary Adoption Center, they provided him with the latest and best toys, assuring him of their love. After Adoranda was born, his parents had been unable to have another child, so wanting a son, they adopted baby Zarf.

"You were the most beautiful baby in the nursery," said his mother hugging and rocking him on her knee. "And tomorrow I'll have a special surprise for you. Now go to sleep quickly. There's a good boy."

For his first seven years, life could not have been better, full of love and surprises and dreams of the beautiful things he would wake up to. Zarf could not have been happier. He was the center of his parent's affection and the proud joy of his sister, and when he flawlessly recited the poems she taught him, entertaining family guests with his skills and girlish charms, she was especially proud.

Then, as often is the case when couples adopt, his mother became pregnant. Bendar was born and everything changed. Bendar, the long awaited son. Bendar, the natural heir. Bendar, blonde and blue eyed, usurped his birthright. He couldn't recite poetry, but he was strong and good at rough stuff.

The new star on the horizon eclipsed his light, and now six years later, the light was barely a glimmer.

Chandar, his father, tall and dark-haired and with a pointed beard flecked with white, occupied a high position on the station. Meticulous in habit and ambitious to a fault, he rose quickly from technician to chief engineer. He was in charge of maintaining the artificial gravity at the required level; one point two Earths. His mother, once pretty, was someone to be proud of, and once he had been proud of her. She was head of the Edu-Center, an historian with a perpetual squint from the contact lenses she wore, and was responsible for supervising and programming the learning systems for the Mind Sets. Her penchant was ancient history, Medieval, Roman, Egyptian, and she was expert and thoroughly familiar with all of them. She was also credited with the unique development of the Mind Sets and their adaptation for use in the Edu-Center. The Mind Set was essential to Time Travel and aboard the space station Time Travel was a favourite pastime. Actually it was the only form of entertainment that really satisfied; no one watched cinevids and reading was too slow. Anyone wishing to travel, to explore exotic places, had only to put on a Mind Set, adjust the dials and choose a destination. Time Travel was the 'in thing'. Worn like a hat with a chinstrap, the Mind Set was no bigger than a small saucer; the power unit, about the size of a pack of playing cards was worn on the hip and fastened with a belt clip. The Traveller was now ready.

Darwenda requisitioned a number of these units and programmed them to various places of historical significance.

"The foundation of all learning, if it is to be meaningful, must be based on experiences, the Mind Set is the perfect medium through which our students may travel and learn," argued his mother, the cut of her tailored suit accenting her angularity.

The Council of Regents, of which Chandar was a member, approved Darwenda's proposal. Considering that all aboard the station would spend their entire lives there, they wanted their children to have a first-class education. And Time Travel would take the boredom and drudgery out of schoolwork. With that in mind, the council unanimously approved her plan. Chandar, of course, abstained from the vote, as it would have constituted a conflict of interest.

Zarf was fed up with the adulation and attention accorded his famous parents. He was fed up too with his sister who now spent all of her time playing with Bendar. He hated Bendar; jealous of the way he had taken over, replacing him as the star attraction.

Using the Mind Set for more than just learning his history, Zarf began to hatch a plot to do away with his family. To escape the misery and loneliness of rejection he spent hours and hours Time Travelling. His favourite haunts were the narrow streets and bazaars of Ancient Rome and because his real parents, according to the agency had been of Italian descent, he was able to fit right in. With his dark hair curling over his collar, his straight patrician nose and olive skin, Zarf indeed looked very Roman.

Donning his Mind Set and adjusting his Power Pak, triggering a blinding light, he would flash back thousands of years to explore the Old City becoming as familiar with it as he was with his own cell on the station. It was during his last trip that Zarf decided to rid himself of his selfish family.

"Why don't we go to Rome?" he said in an off-hand manner, not even bothering to look up from his cards.

Needless to say, his parents were thrilled with the prospect. For some time now, Chandar and Darwenda had been concerned about the quiet and withdrawn behavior of their adopted son. They had often suggested outings but Zarf always refused to participate.

"Wonderful," Chandar said enthusiastically, his short beard bobbing. Looking at his wife, he added, "And you can carry the Power Pak. It's time we gave you more responsibility."

Zarf smiled broadly, but his eyes were cold. It was going better than he'd expected. Getting to carry the Power Pak was an added bonus. He grinned at his freckled sister her braces flashing as she smiled and chucked him under the chin.

Chandar got the Mind Sets and stooped to adjust the unit on Zarf's hip. Travelling as a family only one power source was necessary. Once underway, Zarf would conceal it beneath his Roman tunic. The mind Sets would be invisible under their hats.

"All set?" Chandar asked.

"All set," they replied in joyous unison. Even young Bendar joined in, raising a fist in a Roman salute that got laughs from everyone though not all for the same reasons.

Zarf made a big 'do' out of pressing the buttons and in a bright flash lasting a few dizzying seconds, they found themselves in front of the Coliseum. It was a festive day, the Romans had many, and vendors took advantage offering their wares to the huge crowds gathering at the arena for the games.

Chandar leaned forward and extended his long arms gathering them in.

"Let's stay together, we don't want to get separated in this mob."

"Don't worry," Zarf assured him. "I've got the Pak. As long as the three of you stay close to each other I can locate you with the tracking scanner.

The crowded town made it difficult to stay together, so Zarf seeing his advantage, slipped away, a malicious sneer on his face. With the tracking scanner it would be easy to find them but he had no intention of doing so, and without him they would never get back to the station. So far his plan was working perfectly and he was amazed at the ease he'd been able to execute it. Execute is the right word, he thought. Soon he would be rid of them for good. All that remained was for Zarf to flashback claiming they'd been separated, that the scanner had malfunctioned. He reset the controls ensuring no one else could go back to retrieve them. He'd have to lie about where they'd gone, but that would not be a problem.

Since Rome was one of his favourite haunts, he decided to stay a while, so went into the arena to watch the bouts. He always cheered for the gladiators, who skilled as they were with net and triton, were never a match for the lions.

One paw.

One swipe.

One crushed skull.

While watching the sport he spied his family directly across the arena from him and hoping they didn't see him, Zarf got up to lose himself in the throng. From behind a pillar, when he thought it safe, he dared to look back. They were still in their seats wildly cheering the combatants, totally unconcerned, trusting in him and the scanner. Zarf thought it best to put as much distance between himself and his family. He couldn't just flash back. At least not yet. Arriving at the station alone and so soon would make the security officer suspicious.

Carefully feeling his way along in the dark corridor, he found an opening expecting it to lead outside. Occasionally a roar from the crowd rose to deafening heights when some unfortunate gladiator fell victim to the lions. How barbaric, he thought and suddenly tripped on a loose plank plunging headlong forward. The passage sloped downward and he rolled several feet before tumbling into a void. It seemed a long fall and he landed with a thud on a pile of straw, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Miraculously he wasn't hurt beyond breathless and as life returned in noisy gasps, he heard a low throaty growl. Pushing himself up he glanced over his shoulder. A lion sniffed and scratched the ground. Fighting panic, Zarf quickly looked around. He was in the enclosure from which the lions were released into the arena and determining from the iron rings in the wall it was also used to confine prisoners. If he could reach the nearest ring he could swing and propel himself over the wooden beam and out of the lion's reach.

Rising slowly to a crouch, he lunged at the ring. Grabbing it on the run, he swung up and using his momentum hooked one leg over the beam. His other leg followed, then his arms, the weaker Earth gravity making it easy. Below, sniffing and shaking, the lion stared up at Zarf.

Zarf was frightened. With sweaty hands he fumbled at the controls on the Mind Set and closed his eyes for the flash. Nothing happened. He pressed again. Still nothing. Frantically he checked and rechecked the controls realizing in his haste to reach the beam he had lost the Power Pak. It lay in the dust beneath him, sniffed and pawed by the curious beast. Zarf's only hope was to distract the beast before he destroyed the Power Pak.

Suddenly he heard the barrier raising, and raising too his hopes of escape. Waiting until only the animal's hindquarters were visible beneath the gate, Zarf then dropped down, falling and twisting his ankle. He was still several feet from the Power Pak and as he rolled to reach it, the gate opened wide admitting six victorious lions, roaring and shaking their blood-soaked manes, stretching their jaws wide and growling.

Zarf leapt at the Pak and pressed the controls.

A paw swiped.

#  BOUNCE

As well as being the slowest kid in the school at the one hundred yard dash, I was also the worst coordinated. Small wonder whenever there was any sort of pick-up game of ball or hockey, I was the last to be picked. Actually I was never picked, but only tolerated by the team that unfortunately remains a man short after the two groups had been formed.

The captains' positions informally filled by the two best athletes, (and sometimes bullies) were responsible for choosing up sides Quickly, they realized, in an even numbered group the one having first pick could avoid having me on their team.

Normally settling the matter of first pick was easy. Flipping a coin, alternately choking the bat or calling evens and odds, before simultaneously thrusting out one or two fingers was all that was needed.

But if I was around threatening to play, the accusations of cheating to get first pick were loud and a fight broke out, each side warring to avoid picking me as a teammate.

If there was an odd number? No problem. I was the bonus player, the captains casting lots for me in spite of my lack of skills. They'd play around me and maybe—just maybe—I'd do something right for the team.

To make up for what I lacked on the athletic field, I began to develop other skills, activities that I could do by myself. Without disapproval of my peers. I spent a lot of time alone, obviously, and became rather skilled at a number of things and it wasn't long that my talents as an artist were recognized. Soon I was the envy of the class. Where I failed on the field I excelled with pencil and colour. I was the best drawer in the school. Ever. I could draw anything. Especially drawings of my classmates playing their games.

But there is where my popularity ended. (Secretly I would have traded my drawing skills for a little athletic ability.) Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth I accepted my notoriety and enjoyed the deferential treatment.

Drawing though, was not my real passion. Sure it was my passport away from loneliness but what really consumed my energy was the practice of quite a different skill.

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

I was getting very good at it.

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

Champ. Made in Taiwan from selected hardwoods. Patents pending.

My official "Lil Champ" Bolo Bat, became my most treasured possession.

I'd hurry home from school, change out of my school clothes and get my homework over with as quickly as possible. Then...

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

My mother put up with this for almost a week. Finally she had enough.

At first it was, "Don't you think you should be doing some schoolwork?"

"Finished it , Maw."

"What about reviewing your history or math then?"

"I did, Maw."

"Have you finished that drawing for your Grandmother?'

Did it at school, Maw. At lunch."

Her diplomatic stabs to get me to stop batting the ball failed.

"Well take that ball and bat and play it in the shed if that's all you're going to do!"

Her outburst startled me and I missed a stroke.

I carefully untangled the thin elastic lifeline tether from around the reading lamp that hung over my bed. The one I made in wood class.

Walking through the kitchen to the back door leading to the balcony and shed I slowly would some of the elastic around the handle covering "Taiwan." The ceiling in the shed was too low and full of junk for full extension.

With a short tether I couldn't practice any fancy paddle word.

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

I could practice wrist action. I could practice over and under, make the action smoother. Not really a challenge but it would have to do.

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

I was fascinated by different sounds, the different rhythms that achieved even in the confines of the shed. The muffled echoes awakening in me a kind of primitive tribalism, the beats and rhythms hypnotic.

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

TUKah TUKah TUKah

PAK PAK

I spent hours whacking away.

My first fascination with the Bolo Bat occurred one day at school during lunch period. It was autumn, cool but not quite ball hockey weather so we still played softball. This time however I was outcast completely and was allowed only to watch.

While leaning against the chain link fence, I became aware of a small group of younger kids bunching just outside the main gate still on the property. They were milling against the fence forming a nucleus around someone. I wandered over and caught a glimpse of a boy too tall to be one of us, wearing a hoodie covered with dozens of pins and badges.

I could hear a kind of

Pak Pak Tuk

Pak Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

and saw a little red ball bouncing over their heads.

The badges were awards for Bolo Bat tournaments. Fascinated and wishing to command such a following, I resolved right then and there to become a Bolo Bat Champion.

I whacked morning, noon and night. Afternoons. Evenings. Before school in the morning. I drove my parents crazy. But I was a good student so they couldn't deny me my Bolo Bat.

Of course I'd been threatened if my school grades faltered that would be it. Just thinking of being a champion kept me performing well at school.

I never did become a champ. Nor did I get any badges or win any tournaments. I just couldn't bring myself to perform well in front of an audience. Oh, I was good enough but a contest was just too much pressure.

My parents were shattered. They'd figured this was the way for me to become socially oriented.

"It's not normal!" I overheard my father say. "All day, Whack, Whack, Whack! All night Bam! Bam! Bam! It's not normal."

"I know," Mom answered. "All he wants is to be alone in the shed whacking away!"

Mt father was agitated, going from anger to frustration, not really knowing which emotion was right. And my mother? She'd wring her hands worrying how to coax me out of the shed.

Those contests were their last hope, a chance for me to join the world. Failing meant disaster. It didn't bother me, not winning that is, but I was disappointed. Everyone knew how good I was, they could hear and occasionally see me in the shed. I often noticed kids from school and the neighbourhood sneaking up the back stairs to watch a champ in the making.

Eventually time wore on. I entered and completed high school but did not abandon my Bolo Bat. Mind you, I needed only a few hours a week to keep up my skill practicing whenever the chance came up. I carried my Lil Champ everywhere in a special compartment in my back pack allocated just for my bat, spare elastics and a back-up ball.

Thus prepared I could practice between classes and lunch breaks without having to steal time from schoolwork, High School being more demanding.

Being virtually unknown now my eccentric pastime met with derisive laughter and remarks like "check the weirdo" or "who's the faggot with the Bolo Bat?"

Luckily I was considered so off the wall they made a point to avoid me altogether.

And so it went

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

All through junior school

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

All through High School

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

All through adolescence, while other kids were smoking, drinking beer and going to dances

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

I did well and eventually got accepted into a Liberal Arts program at university. Although I had the grades no one would accept me into a science or business program. "Too unstable, seems a real flake." I'd discovered a counselor had written as a reference on an application form.

My only hope of getting a degree was a Liberal Arts program accepting flakes.

Among the hippies, the beads, the beards and the granny dresses, I could lose myself with my Bolo Bat. Camouflage was survival. I wouldn't get past day one in a calculus class full of military haircuts, cuffs three inches above white socks and shirt pockets full of ballpoint pens.

So while my bleary-eyed classmates discussed Dylan Thomas' "force driving the green fuse" I played my Bolo Bat at poetry readings keeping the beat with the bongo drums. I literally whacked my way through Lit one-o-one.

"Bring your Bolo Bat, eh?" Or "We're going to the Cock'n Bull, hope you're coming."

So I went to all the parties constantly in demand as back up and sometimes as celebrity soloist. Sadly my skill and popularity never got me to first base with the opposite sex. With either sex actually.

While the poets and folksingers managed to get paired off I ended up the odd man out. The poets and singers, their lamentable songs and verses, drew the girls like moths to a flame.

There they sat, cross-legged on cushions, reading verses or strumming a guitar and immediately young, nubile and impressionable girls were at their sides.

Who could get close enough with a ten-foot pole, let alone sit by my side when I needed an area the size of an arena for my inane

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

After enduring four years, I graduated with honours. Armed with a completely useless degree in Modern English Literature and my Bolo Bat, I set on a job hunt.

The interviews were disasters!

Even though I had taken a course on how to prepare for job interviews and read self-help books on the subject, the outcome was always the same. No Job.

I dressed conservatively in a suit and tie, had my hair cut in the acceptable fashion, made sure my shoes weren't scruffy and that my hands and nails were clean.

Every morning before honouring my appointments, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, used mouthwash, deodorant and otherwise made sure my physical presence would not offend.

I even practiced my opening speech in front of a mirror and shook hands with myself to practice my grip. Not too limp. Not crushing. Firm the books said. Be assertive the book said. But the book didn't say leave your Bolo Bat at home.

So each day setting out conservatively attired and optimistic about landing a job, I strode confidently to each interview with a song in my heart and a bulge in my trousers were I had thrust my Bolo Bat.

Although my appointments were fixed in time, they invariably ran late. So I took my place with a host of other hopefuls in the waiting rooms. Periodically everyone would get up and advance one chair closer to the interview office door. Eventually my turn arrived and when called, got up and went into the personnel manager's office. Those behind also got up and shuffled one chair closer.

"Have a seat," he'd say not looking up.

I put my hand back by my right side thinking that I wouldn't get to use the grip I'd been practicing. Consciously aware of my posture I would occupy the proffered seat as the books suggested. Don't slouch. Don't sit like a vulture ready to pounce. And don't hold the chair like it was going to take off.

I tried to relax. Concentrate on the interviewer.

"So, you've a B.A. in Modern English Literature, eh?" He said this without looking at me.

"Yes," I said uneasily.

"Where'd ya go?"

"Pardon?"

"Where'd ya go? Where'd ya study."

"Oh! At Ulysses University." We usually referred to our Alma Mater as U. U., but it always sounded Like "You! You!" an accusation. Never comfortable with abbreviations or initials I said Ulysses University.

"Just graduated eh? Ever work before?"

"No," I replied. Repeating, "No Sir."

"Summer jobs?"

"No Sir."

"Part time. After school?"

"No Sir."

"Clubs?"

"No Sir."

"Boy Scouts?"

"No Sir."

"Student Council?"

"No Sir."

I could see his was going badly.

"No experience with people of any kind," he mumbled and wrote this into a file.

"What about hobbies?" He still hadn't looked at me. "Got any?"

"No Sir. " Then said, "Actually yes, I do. I do have a hobby."

He put down the pen and looked up at me. I was thrilled at finally being able to answer in the affirmative.

"Yes, I do have a hobby!" I said excitedly, " I play Bolo Bat!"

"Bolo Bat." His face deadpan.

"You know, Bolo Bat."

"Bolo Bat," he repeated.

"Yes."

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

He looked at me. "PaTUKah... PaTUKah...?"

"Yes! Yes!" I exclaimed getting up from my chair and reaching into my pocket, his eyes fixed on the bulge in my pants.

Whatzat?"

"My Bolo Bat, Sir. See?"

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

I demonstrated. I was really hot, and managed to get off a few good rhythmical beats before the elastic broke sending the ball bouncing crazily around the tiny interview room. The manager lost his glasses ducking and dodging to avoid the little red ball.

"Get out," he shouted. "Out!"

As I scurried around the floor looking for my ball, his secretary ran in alarmed by the commotion.

"Get that nut out of here!" he shouted to her.

I left hurriedly, without my ball, pursued by his shouts and stares of the remaining interviewees.

Dejectedly, I hit the pavement. I had over two hours to kill until my next appointment giving me ample time to brood. With hands thrust into pockets, my coat tails flapping and my maimed Bolo Bat under my arm trailing the broken elastic I stumbled along.

I was a mess. Physically. Emotionally. Covered with dust and bits of debris from his none too clean floor. I had the appearance of a skid row bum. My suit was soiled and wrinkled. There was even a thin trickle of dried blood on my forehead, where I'd banged it on the edge of his desk.

Drained and exhausted I decided to have a coffee at the lunch counter in Woolworth's.

All the available seats were occupied as the regular crowd filtered in for their dinner. According to custom, waiting patrons took up their vigil behind one of the eaters in the hopes of encouraging them to hurry and give up their stool.

I looked at each diner and the line forming behind them and decided to wait behind an old lady finishing the last puffs of a cigarette. The eater eased herself of the stool and disappeared. The smoker took the seat and ordered.

"God, I'll be here forever," I mumbled, when I heard what she'd ordered. Soup, main course, dessert, coffee, black. The list went on as she dictated to the waitress.

Unconsciously, in order to pass the time, I reached for my Bolo Bat. Damn! No Ball. Damn! Damn! Damn! I couldn't even knock off a few strokes while waiting my turn. And there'd be enough room too, but no ball, no way. Damn!

Finally my turn did come.

I never went to my next appointment. It was a futile and hopeless effort. I'd been looking for weeks without any luck. But as I scanned the newspaper that afternoon an ad caught my eye:

Needed Immediately!

Teacher of English for Junior High.

Candidate should possess a degree in English literature

_No previous_ _experience necessary._

_Call Mr. Spriggs Superintendent_ _of schools_

555-1234

I phoned immediately not expecting any one to answer as it was quite late in the afternoon. To my surprise Spriggs himself answered. I said my name, why I was calling and my qualifications.

"Great!" he said. "Can you start tomorrow?"

"Without an interview?"

"Not necessary. You sound right for the job. School starts at 8:45 be there a half hour before to meet the principal."

"Wait," I said. "What school? And where?"

"Oh, right." He gave me the information. "Just see the principal first." And he hung up.

I was thrilled. To celebrate for supper I had steak and a good bottle of red wine, then I attached a brand new ball to my Bolo Bat.

The next hour was bliss.

I was at the school at eight o'clock. It took me all of ten minutes to discover the way to the central office and the principal. Asking directions, the students told me were to go but it wasn't the office. The teachers, adults anyway just ignored me.

"Here. Sign this."

"Pardon..?"

"Sign. Sign it! It's your contract!"

"Contract?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, pushing aside the little hardwood sign that said Clarence Treadwell, Principal.

"You can't hold a teaching post without a contract. You want the job, don't you?"

"Well, yes..."

"Well what are you waiting for? Go ahead and sign it. Your first class starts in twenty minutes."

I signed it.

"Where's the regular teacher? The one I'm replacing."

"Hospital," he mumbled.

I stared.

"Hospital. Hospital!" louder now.

"Accident?"

"Breakdown?" Mumbling again.

"Car?"

"No. Nerves!" Almost shouting.

Too late. I'd already signed.

He whisked the contract, in triplicate, into a desk drawer, slammed it, stood up and shook my hand all in one fluid motion.

"You'll like it here. Nice school."

"I'm sure I will." I lied.

"By the way, the staff all pitches in with extra curricular." He smiled.

I stared.

"You know. Sports and stuff. Clubs."

"Oh."

"Got any hobbies?

"No! " I almost shouted.

I broke into a cold clammy sweat in anticipation of the horror I was about to face. By mid-morning break my worst fears were realized. I should never have begun by introducing them to Holden Caulfield.

Holden's farting in assembly was more than these thirty-two fourteen and fifteen year olds could be bare.

They whooped, they hooted, they hollered. Some broke wind. When the bell signaled the end of class I waited for the stampede to pass before venturing out. I grabbed my briefcase and headed to the staff lounge and men's washroom.

Bursting through the door and into a cubicle I turned and shot the bolt. Thank God I hadn't forgotten my Bolo Bat.

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

The space was confining but with a really short line I could easily manage.

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

"What the hell's that?"

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

"Hey you! What the hell!"

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

"You!" The voice became a pounding on the cubicle door.

"What's going on."

Back in reality I realized the voice was addressing me.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Bolo Bat."

"What?"

"Bolo Bat. Bolo Bat! Playing my Bolo Bat!"

"Jesus H. Christ!"

The door slammed. The voice had left.

Calm now, I coiled the rest of my line around the bat and replaced it in my briefcase. I opened the cubicle, went to the line of sinks, washed my hands and splashed water on my face. I dried myself with the abrasive paper towels knowing how a scourging must feel.

I finger combed my hair and patted away some of the wrinkles in my suit. Picking up my briefcase I strode purposefully to the door, opened it and walked straight into a group of twenty or thirty teachers.

I stopped mid-stride, stunned by the reception realizing suddenly why they were there. Being curious they wanted to see the nut job for themselves.

Masking my surprise, I lifted my chin and eased my way through the throng trying not to step on anyone's feet.

They followed at a distance. In the lounge they watched as I inserted coins in the coffee machine pressing buttons for extra lite, no sugar. Lifting the window, I removed the plastic cup, took a sip and scalded my mouth. Painfully I drained the cup while they silently watched.

I tossed the empty cup in the bin, picked up my case and left the lounge.

I went straight with my rage to the principal and resigned.

They were picking up teams again and as usual I was still the odd man out. Occasionally when I did get to play it was on a decent baseball diamond. All properly measured and laid out. The mound was sandy and groomed as were the bases and base lines. We even had proper uniforms, baggy in places, but real uniforms, although I didn't care for the stripes.

It was still more fun to watch than play so I didn't mind not being picked. Their play was too aggressive anyway. So I sat on the spectators' bench with my pencils and drawing pad, recording the game.

Sometimes players waiting for their turn at bat would come over and watch me work. Always amazed at my skill they'd ooh and aah, as I immortalized them in action.

During one game however, I thought I heard a familiar sound. I dismissed it as just my imagination in action.

No. There it was again.

Pak Pak Tuk

Pak Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

Putting down my pencil I slowly picked up a rock and placed it on my drawing pad to keep it from blowing away. I got up and moved towards the sound.

Pak Pak Tuk

Pak Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

Tuk Pak Tuk

The sound grew louder as I edged towards the fence. There he was. The same hoodie. The same badges.

I moved closer to the fence for a better look, being careful not to touch it because now it was electrified. A loudhailer cautioned me to move back. Turning, I raised my head. Two guards in the tower, one with a bullhorn warning me back, the other his rifle pointing at me.

I slowly walked back to the bench and resumed drawing.

I swore I hadn't done it, I was innocent, but the jury convicted me, and I was sentenced to twenty-five without parole.

The principal had been found sprawled dead across his desk with my contract clutched in his hand and my Bolo Bat tightly wound his throat choking out his life.

That was seventeen years ago. Eight more to go.....then

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

PaTUKah PaTUKah PaTUKah

#  SHAFT

John swiveled in his office chair; gangly legs stretched out, and listened to his wife's tirade. Strident, with lips pulled back showing small even teeth, she ranted.

John took another pull from his flask trying to blot out her voice, trying to remember back to the early years, the happy years. When had it started to go wrong?

Twenty-three years ago, the two of them fresh out of university —him a geologist, and Mary, a mining engineer— had gotten married, pooled their resources, bought a beat up jeep, some prospecting tools, camping equipment, and headed for the hills.

Fueled by passion and youthful enthusiasm, they scoured the hills together in search of their dream. For eighteen months, they crawled the rough terrain, toughening their bodies to the harsh rocky environment, their prospector's hammers chipping and digging.

Cold, rain, sun, rockslides, even rattlesnakes, made them dependent on each other. More than once, Mary relied on her husband's superior strengths for survival. Then it happened. Gold! They struck gold!

John capped the flask and shoved it deep into the pocket of his down vest. He pulled his legs in and when he stood, he stumbled and fell back into his chair. The pitch of her voice rose and he closed his eyes.

"John! If we don't sell out now, we'll lose everything. Are you listening, John?" She stood over him, fists on hips and leaned her face close to his.

"Yes. Yes I'm listening." He stared up at her. She was still beautiful. Her tan set off the blue eyes and in spite of the years spent out doors her skin was still smooth. She was furious and even in her fury desirable.

She moved back and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand wiping a fleck of saliva from the corner of her mouth. She took a breath, smoothed her skirt and paced, calming herself before sitting at her desk.

"John," she said softly. "Be sensible. Sign the papers. Please." She picked up the sheaf and waved them. "It's our only chance." They owned equal shares in their mining operation.

"John," she continued, "we've worked hard for over twenty years. And we've done well. Very well, you've got to admit. But now the price is way down. We've closed two of the three shafts. And now, what's left in number three is hardly worth digging for. It costs us more to haul it to the surface than what the stuff is worth. For God's sake, John. Be reasonable. If you don't sign the sale won't go through and we'll lose our shirts."

She stared at him; her mouth clamped tight.

"Come on, Mary. It's not that bad. I know we've worked hard – _you've_ worked hard. I've not been exactly..." He shrugged. "But," he added. "I've hired a geologist. She's good, Mary. Her preliminary studies show promise."

"Christ, John. Give me some credit. I've tolerated your drinking and carousing. Don't snow me with that bullshit. I've seen how your _geologist_ looks at you. You're not digging for gold, John."

He didn't answer. She was right. She put up with a lot. Any other woman would have divorced him long ago. He was a drunk. Weak. Immature even. And for a long time had not been able —even to himself— to admit that their prosperity was due to her abilities running the operation. And by the time he could accept this fact it was too late, already enclosed behind a wall of self-pity.

But she was wrong about one thing. He'd never been unfaithful. Not once.

"You miserable bastard. It's not enough that you've destroyed yourself; you want to ruin me too. I won't let you. It's a wonder there's anything left to save after the way you spend money." She dug in a pile of papers.

"Look! Here. And here. Paper. Paper. Paper! Stock certificates in useless hare-brained schemes. Shares in every conceivable idiotic venture a man can dream up. And you fall for them every time! There's not one damn financial thing that you've touched that hasn't cost us bundles. Why I put up with it all these years I'll never know. Maybe I thought that one day you'd come to your senses. Or that by some miracle one of these schemes would pan out, but it hasn't. Everything you touch, you ruin!"

He deserved it, he told himself. She was right; he did just about ruin them. And more than once. But this time he knew he was right. He could feel it. If only she'd listen. He had to convince her.

She got up, put her hands on the desk and leaned towards him, "Are you going to sign?"

"Mary. Wait a bit. Please. I'll sign, but give me a couple of weeks. Two weeks. Two. Claire's report will be complete by then. Just two weeks is all I ask." He smiled weakly.

Once, his smile melted her heart.

"We don't have two weeks. Unless I give them an answer, a firm one by next week, we are sunk. It'll be over. Caput! Broke! And if you make me lose this deal, John, I'll..."

"Mary. You can stall them. If they really want the mine, they'll wait two weeks. I'll talk to Claire and see if she can speed things up."

"John. I'm not blind. And I'm no fool. If you won't sign, you'll be stuck too." She tried another tack. "You know the mine will be useless. How long do you think Claire will hang around then?"

"Mary, I keep telling you. There's nothing between..."

She raised her hand to silence him and interrupted. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anymore. You do what you have to do." As I will, she added under her breath. She shouldered her leather bag and strode to the door. He watched her through the window as she headed to her jeep. Beside the jeep, his Mercedes sport model gleamed conspicuously out of place amid the work vehicles and rough buildings.

Smoothly, she engaged the gears, backed out of her spot and drove away leaving a dusty cloud. John lit a cigar, pulled out his flask and finished the contents in a long burning swallow.

She just wouldn't listen. Two weeks was all he needed. He was sure there was another vein down there, in the number three. Claire was good. She knew her geology. And Mary was wrong. There was nothing between them. Claire was a geologist. That's all.

As she drove back to their ranch, Mary decided what she had to do. Without his signature there was no way she could sell the mine. But here was another way. This time he wouldn't stand in her way. She would not let him ruin all they had worked for. All _she_ had worked for. Twenty-three years of sweat, of dirt, of backbreaking work were not going to be destroyed by a weak, whimpering drunk. She had enough. No more, she told herself. No more.

She had to kill him.

By the time she reached the ranch, Mary had devised the nucleus of what she believed was a foolproof plan. With John dead, she'd inherit his shares, sell the mine and retire. Jamaica. The Bahamas. Or Hawaii. Yes, Hawaii. She'd never been there. Come to think of it, she'd never taken a vacation before. Well, all that was about to change. And soon.

She put the jeep in the garage and entered the house, her steps light and springy and poured herself a celebratory drink. Scotch. After lighting a fire and replenishing her drink, she sat across from the flames warming her feet. It was damp this time of year and the fire took the chill out of the air.

When John pulled in later that evening she didn't hear him, dozing as she was in front of the dying embers. Mary rarely drank, but tonight was an occasion and the scotch had lulled her to sleep. Not wanting to wake her and cause another row, he tiptoed to his own room trying not to stumble.

The next day she was happier than she'd been in years. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with health. She looked younger, smiling and humming. John noticed and complimented her on how pretty she looked. She ignored him and continued humming.

That afternoon Mary contacted the company informing them she'd have an answer within a week. She could have told them right then her answer was yes, she'd accept their offer, but that would have been premature.

Mary couldn't remember exactly when their relationship began to sour. She'd been happy, very happy, when they'd worked together doing the physical things, prospecting, staking claims, living in the bush and scrubland. Even shooting game for their meals.

She also remembered being comforted by John's strong arms in the sleeping bag they shared under the stars. She shivered now as a coyote howled in her imagination. And then, after their first strike, the major one, slowly the relationship once built on trust and sharing, started to crumble. Brick by brick, they began to dismantle that solid structure, John with his drinking and she by further taking over the reins of power. She tried letting him run parts of the operation but he had no head for business. His strengths were in the field, scouring and exploring. When that part was over John seemed to shrink, become less, less than a man. And that was when she began to despise him. But what choice did she have, she asked herself. Didn't she have to be the strong one? To take control? To keep his ineptitude from ruining them?

No. She had to get rid of him. She carried him for too many years. The time had come to end it.

During the next two days, Mary spent every available minute down in shaft number three. She didn't hide her actions and John mistakenly thought his wife was beginning to see things his way.

"You've decided then. To wait until the report is ready?"

"Yes, John. I've decided."

His boyish grin was wasted. Years ago that impish grin would have made her rush into his arms. Today, all she could think of was his boozy breath as she lay beneath him in bed.

The shaft consisted of a number of room-like enclosures, linked by a series of tunnels. As the rich mineral bearing ore was depleted, the stopes were abandoned. More and more of the stopes had been closed, and now that the price of gold was at an all-time low, it was no longer feasible to continue the operation. A large conglomerate, like the one wanting to buy them out, would turn a profit, but they were too small to do it themselves. They were losing money, and clearly, it was time to get out.

Mary continued to study the various abandoned rooms, looking for the features required for her plan to work. It had to be a deep area, where the shoring was old and the timbers weak. Preferably where water seepage was a problem. An area with lots of loose rubble and crumbly walls would be ideal. An area already on the verge of collapse.

On the second day she found what she needed. The August Room. Each room was named after the month that the strike was made. The August Room was one of their earliest and richest, but now long abandoned. Years of dynamiting and blasting had weakened the shoring and Mary could easily see where the timbers were not secure. With some encouragement they could be loosened to create a cave-in, a cave-in allowing the walls to collapse and solidly block the entrance to the stope.

She would lure him down into the shaft, and when he was in the stope, collapse the tunnel sealing him in. A good plan, she thought, but not good enough. She had to eliminate all possibility of a successful rescue. The mine was equipped for emergencies and John would be dug out. No, she told herself. He had to die. The stope would be his tomb. She could not risk having him discovered alive.

Mary sat on a rock, well back from the weak supports. The light on her helmet played across the stony surface throwing eerie shadows. The shaft was silent except for the plink-plink of dripping water.

Goose bumps covered her arms. She imagined scurrying rats, reminding her when mice had gotten into her sleeping bag. John had calmed her, never once laughing or teasing her about it. She pushed the thought away, got up, and started towards the elevator that would take her to the surface.

Just as she was about to enter the cage, she stopped abruptly. Off to the side stood a set of welder's tanks. The cage had recently been repaired and the tanks were still there. It was a lapse in safety procedures but one she could turn to her advantage. She checked the gauges. Nearly full. Her mind raced as she hauled them backwards towards the August Room, the wheels creaking on their rusty bearings.

That night, she had two more scotches in front of the fire and fell asleep.

John was pleased that Mary was taking an interest in shaft number three, but said nothing. Dialogue between them was strained. If they spoke at all, Mary was barely civil, so he didn't press his luck. He smiled to himself, took a pull from his flask and lit a cigar with a kitchen match.

On the third day, Mary went back down into the ground to finish her plan. It was strenuous work, being a small spare woman, and what she had to do taxed her enormously. Moving rocks and hiding the tanks behind them, close to the stope entrance, was not easy. It was even harder to loosen the shored timbers, digging away enough rock and rubble to weaken the structure yet avoid an immediate collapse. When she was satisfied one heavy tug on the rope would bring down the timber precipitating the cave-in, she rested.

When her heart stopped racing and her breath no longer ragged, she got up and hid the rope along the contours and crevasses on the rock face, checking first that the other end was securely tied to the loosened timber. That done there remained one more thing to do.

She uncoiled the rubber hose from the tank, removed the welding tip, and fed the hose through a tiny gap between the rock and timber supports into the stope. From the stope side, she pulled the tube into the August Room concealing the length along the rough surface. In the dark it would never be noticed.

The plan was in place. All she had to do was lure John down into the shaft. That would be easy.

John had the habit of spending his afternoons and evenings in the bar. But before going home, he had the added quirk of returning to the mining offices. No matter the hour, John went to his office and checked his desk to see if he had any correspondence. He never did.

Mary had arranged for him to find a note on his desk, a note from Claire, asking him to meet her down in the shaft. Claire was conscientious —Mary gave her credit for that— and sometimes worked late in the evenings. Day or night, the shafts were dark, so there was nothing unusual about going below in the evenings.

Using the old Underwood, Mary wrote:

_John. Have great news! Meet me below when you come in._ _The August Room._

Under the typed script Mary penned a scrawling "C", imitating as best she could the way Claire initialed her name. Of course she new Claire wouldn't be around, having earlier heard her tell the foreman she had business in town, so wouldn't be back in time to thwart her plans. She also knew John would be in no condition to notice that Claire's car was not in the compound.

The next day, when work was over, Mary stayed in the office doing paperwork. Before leaving, she left the typed note on top of John's desk where he was sure to see it. Then she headed to the shaft after parking her jeep well out of sight of the office so her husband wouldn't see it.

It was a long wait and she didn't like the dark; but the glow from the lamps in the stope took some of the edge off the blackness.

Eventually she heard the cage go up and return with its lone passenger, the whine and hum loud in the deep tunnel. Mary held her breath. An eternity passed before John appeared swaying slightly, his miner's lamp cutting through the tunnel ahead of him.

"Claire," he called. Mary didn't dare breathe. He passed close enough for her to touch him.

"Claire," he called again.

He was in the stope now and only seconds before noticing he was alone and came out looking for Claire. Mary counted to three. Then pulled the rope. The timbers came loose and the walls and ceiling collapsed, filling the tunnel and sealing John in the August Room. She thought she heard him scream.

The dust was thick and heavy, so thick it obscured her vision even with her powerful headlamp. But she had rehearsed well and knew almost by feel what she had to do.

While the dust was still thick and the sounds of tumbling rock loud in her ears, she opened the valve on the tank of gas. Even in the din she could hear the hiss. In a couple of hours he'd be dead, sooner if he struck a match. The lamps in the stope would have surely gone out. Yes, she could count on him to strike a match and the explosion would destroy any trace of the hose fed into the August Room.

Mary hurried back to the cage, rose to the surface, went into the office lavatory and cleaned herself. Surprisingly, she wasn't that dirty. She dried herself, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths.

At the door, she paused, went to her husband's desk and retrieved the note. Her heart pounded. Stay calm, she told herself, realizing that forgetting the note would have been her undoing.

She took the note and carefully looked over the office. The note was the only incriminating evidence. She'd burn it when she got back to the ranch.

She switched off the office lights, closed the door behind her and went to the hidden jeep. It was a cool night, the stars bright, a prospector's night. She drove quickly, thinking about the vacations she'd missed and the long trips she could look forward to.

This was her mother lode.

She slept soundly. Tonight she didn't need the scotch.

The next morning, Mary was up early, alert and refreshed, filled with the joyous feeling of freedom. After her coffee she phoned the company and told them to prepare the papers. She and her husband had decided to sell.

Everything was settled. John was dead and the mine was hers. By next week at the latest, when things had settled, the papers would only need one signature.

She hung up the phone, had a second cup of coffee, then happily headed for the mine.

There was an unusual amount of activity, although she hadn't expected it so soon. She jumped out of the jeep and stormed towards the office, shouldering her way through the throng of miners filtering into the room.

"What the hell's going on?" she snapped at the foreman.

"You tell her, Miss." He removed his hard hat and inclined his head towards Claire and smiled.

"Claire! What are you doing here? What's going on?"

"Oh, Mary. Didn't John tell you? He was so excited yesterday afternoon he almost burst. My report confirmed John's hunch. The north face of the August Room. Shaft three. There's a very rich vein.

"A mother lode, I guess you'd call it."

# Prime Cuts

The stories in this collection, for the most part, are built around a grain of truth—bits of memory that are floating around somewhere in my subconscious and occasionally come suddenly flooding to mind. And the memories are not always pleasant.

When I was about four years old, my aunt would take me to Belmont Park where I'd ride the bumper cars, play the ring toss and only once ride the caterpillar. Just that one time because I threw up.

Before going to the park we would first visit my grandfather in the hospital where he suffered from a wasting and debilitating disease. I never found out what that was. I don't remember the name of the hospital and my memory of _Papou_ is rather dim, but I do remember an old man with snow-white hair and big bushy mustache lying immobile in his hospital bed.

What did become seared in my mind was the legless man who propelled himself through the hospital corridors by using his hands and fists to drive himself forward on what I would today describe as a skateboard. I believe now he was a veteran of the Second World War and had lost his legs in battle. This image, the image of a large torso on a wooden plank with wheels, his leg stumps encased in leather caps—like a Fez attached to his stumps—was very frightening; frightening and fascinating and my aunt would admonish me not to stare. That was impolite. But, hey! I was only four.

This image, which has remained with me and surfaces periodically, became the motivating force behind writing _Rollerboards_.

Back when I was a kid there were stables in the neighbourhood. Milk, bread, ice were all delivered by horse drawn carts. And Billy, whom we called Horse Bun Billy, did throw manure at us. Billy found his way into _The Forge,_ but the Billy from my childhood was not a bully, just a scruffy kid with a wicked right arm.

And the stories on the docks? Yes, there was a _Drago_ , there was a _Bucky_ and there was a _Mickey_ too.

My writing, from novels to short stories, all grow from a kernel of truth, from past experiences, from a fleeting memory. My short stories in particular are rooted in a piece of my past often from my childhood, my adolescence and sometimes from working summer jobs to earn my university tuition.

And by the way—like _Mickey_ , I too was a third generation dockworker.

# About Victor C. Bush

Victor has been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team artist on an archeological dig, in Amman, Jordan.

While attending night school in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed by graduate courses in administration, he taught in both elementary and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both English and French.

# Copyright

Victor C. Bush 2017

# ISBN

978-0-9940847-4-3
