My roommate's a writer.

2 types of people exist that fascinate me and it's rarely the type that brings up having gone to Harvard,

nor the type that "writes"

My roommate, who isn't either of those 2 thing but proclaims to be one of them

Is the type of "writer"

to think it's better to have written than to write.

"So is it better then, to have busted a nut than to Be busting a nut?"

We both remember the time I walked in on him prematurely and forget all the times a mid afternoon nap was walked in upon.

My friend, the roommate, is the type of writer that makes me wish I'd been warned when learning how to read. .

He's the type I both sometimes wish would just let the self involved misery consume him and finally just FUCKING DO IT

And

The type that after 3 or 4 rough drafts later, (dozen) the suicide note left would be so... Just..

Had it by miracle not become a pile of mush from its own self stroking ejaculate,

And by another miracle not been eaten by his invisible unpotty trained feline fuck tard demon spawn pet he pretends doesn't exist since cat's aren't allowed here,

Then

That suicide letter/ essay/ picture book

Would be so immediately insufferable that the crayon dustings and font changes alone- the headache from the eye roll that could not would not be contained from the first glance at such a Pompous post-mortem page of self pitying

But I digress

My friend, the WrItEr

Is certainly one of the reasons I shit blood like It's something I'm good at

In the quiet corners of my mind,

Where dreams and hopes are hard to find,

I stand, a shadow in the light,

Wishing for the will to fight.

The world rushes by, a vibrant hue,

While I feel lost, with no clear view.

Each day’s a whisper, a silent plea,

Yearning for a chance to be free.

I watch as others chase their fire,

While my heart aches, caught in desire.

The weight of doubt, a heavy chain,

Leaves me longing, lost in pain.

Yet in the stillness, a spark ignites,

A flicker of hope in the darkest nights.

I dream of mountains, of skies so wide,

Of breaking free from this aching tide.

So here I stand, feeling so small,

But in this moment, I’ll rise, not fall.

For even in shadows, I’ll find my way,

To colors and dreams that lead me to play.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

In a world that often feels chaotic and overwhelming, we all need a safe haven—somewhere to retreat when the weight of life becomes too much to bear. For me, that sanctuary is my kitchen. Baking has become my comforting escape, a sweet refuge where I find solace, joy, and connection.

1. The Therapeutic Process of Baking

Baking is more than just a task; it’s a beautiful ritual that envelops me in warmth. As I pour flour into a mixing bowl, the soft, powdery texture reminds me to breathe. Measuring sugar and cracking eggs feels like a dance, a choreography of movements that ground me in the present moment. Each whisk and stir washes away the worries of the day, leaving room for creativity to flow freely. It’s in these moments that I rediscover the simple joys of life.

2. The Joy of Creating

There’s an unmatched exhilaration in transforming raw ingredients into something delectable. As I mix the batter, anticipation builds within me, igniting a spark of happiness. I imagine the delightful aroma that will soon fill my home, enveloping my family in a warm embrace. Each step in the baking process becomes a celebration, a reminder that I have the power to create something beautiful. With each sprinkle of chocolate chips or swirl of frosting, I pour my heart into every creation, sharing a piece of my soul with those I love.

3. Sharing and Connection

One of the most magical aspects of baking is its ability to bring people together. There’s a unique joy that comes from sharing the fruits of my labor. As I pull a batch of cookies from the oven, the warm, buttery scent wafts through the air, beckoning my daughters into the kitchen. Their excited squeals and wide-eyed wonder make my heart swell. Watching their faces light up with each bite fills me with a sense of purpose, reminding me that these moments of connection are what truly matter.

Yet, not every baking attempt turns out perfectly. There are times when the cookies spread too thin or the cake doesn’t rise as expected, despite my best efforts. It can be disheartening, but those moments remind me that imperfection is part of the journey. Each misstep is an opportunity to learn, to laugh, and to embrace the beauty of trying something new.

4. A Delicious Reward

The moment I take that first bite of a freshly baked cookie is pure bliss. It’s a sweet reward for my efforts, a delightful experience that dances on my taste buds and warms my heart. Each flavor tells a story, a reminder of the time spent in the kitchen. It’s these little moments of joy that make life’s challenges feel lighter, reminding me that happiness can be found in the simplest of pleasures.

5. Embracing Imperfection

Baking teaches me resilience and the importance of embracing imperfection. Every mistake is a stepping stone toward growth, a reminder that life is about the journey, not just the destination. Sometimes, what comes out of the oven may not be what I envisioned, but it’s a lesson in creativity and adaptability.

Conclusion

Baking has become my heart’s language, a way to express my love for my family and myself. It’s a journey of self-discovery, a therapeutic outlet that fills my home with warmth and joy. I invite you to join me in this delightful adventure. Whether you’re a seasoned baker or a curious novice, let the healing power of baking wrap you in its embrace. Grab your apron, preheat that oven, and let your kitchen transform into a sanctuary of love, creativity, and sweet indulgence. Together, we can savor the magic that unfolds in every delicious bite, celebrating both our successes and our delightful mishaps along the way.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Confidence

October 21, 2024

It was late in October

The Spring colors fading

The Summer winds departing

It is the season of change

People will prepare for the cold

Today the temperature reached 80

The Sun boldly gave another perfect day

People gave this Sunday

One last standing ovation

One woman gave so much more

She wore what was not in style

She did not care if you cared

She danced to her own tune

In a field of Fall’s best

Giving as good as she got

What music lingered in her mind

To ignore the thralls of her critics

And subdue their disparaging banter?

What heart must beat

To lead hundreds on the verge of emulation?

Her confidence soared quantitatively

As did the crowd in close proximity

But alas, those that wanted to break free the most

Were those who moved the least

And a calling became merely a performance

But what a performance!

Worthy of the time well spent

Filed as a memory of many

Remembering one

Instead of one remembering many

Sometimes a man's life comes down to a single question. In this case why am I laying on a sidewalk riddled with bullet holes not knowing nor caring if I live or die? I guess the best way to answer that is to start at the beginning.

For those of you who haven't met me my name is Johnson. I'm a detective or I was. I hadn't done much detective work in the months following the Christmas season. It hadn't been a particularly cheerful holiday for yours truly and if not for an act of charity from my neighbors I'd have been done with the whole thing.

I stood amidst the rows of granite monuments to the Reaper's work. I was visiting the resting place of my preacher buddy. He'd offer wisdom from time to time but now he was dead & I'd put him here. I'd taken the wrong case. The wife snapped. She gunned down her husband, the two lesbians he was having threesomes with, and lastly she blasted away the man who'd officiated her wedding, the same man whose grave I now visited.

He wasn't the only one buried here. An old contact of mine, Finnigan, was buried here as well. His drug-addled life choices had brought his end about. I left the macabre silence of the boneyard and strolled into a coffee house three blocks away. I ordered a cup and sat down to drink. It was liquid mud but I barely noticed. Hot chocolate would have been liquid mud at that point. By chance Munday, a buddy of mine on the Force walked in to pick up a to-go order.

He looked at me, face plastered with a concerned frown. “Johnson, are you doing okay?”

He leaned over the counter “Yeah, why?”

“Well frankly,pal…. You look like hell.”

I must have at that, for Munday was not usually given to any profanity stronger than “darn” and “gee whiz!” A real Beaver Cleaver that one. I had kind of let myself go without noticing. One day I had a beard all of a sudden and I hadn't been to my barber in a while.

“I haven't seen you on the job in a while.” He continued.

“No new clients.”

“That by circumstance or choice? Look, we all know about last December but it wasn't your fault. You didn't make that guy go out and screw two women and you didn't put the gun in his wife's hand.”

I sighed. “The truth is I'm done with this life. I'm giving up the business. One last case then I'm through.”

“What will you do then? Johnson, you've been a private investigator for the whole time I've known you and you were one of us before that.”

“Sure this is all I've known but I've known it too intimately. I need to stop.”

The server brought Munday his order and out the door he went with a farewell on his lips and bagel in hand. I left shortly after and went back to my apartment. With a slam of the door I shut the world out again and went to sleep in my bed.

I can't remember how long I slept, only that I woke up and ate a little something. I had piles of cast off circulars accumulated on my kitchen table. That just wouldn't do. I stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag and walked them to my neighbors’ pad just down the hall. They handed them out to the homeless people at Christmas. I had taken part in that last time and it's the only reason I had a happy holiday.

Eventually I made my way to Joe B's. It was still seedy enough to grow plants and the help wanted sign still hung in the window. Franklin, the owner of the establishment, always chewed me out about that except when the stars aligned or the wind blew a certain way causing him to be jovial. I always ignored the old coot when he was in a bad mood.

Today was no different. I ordered a cider so I could nurse a drink without getting hammered. No matter how lousy I felt I refused to murder my liver. “The sign is still up I see.”

He grumpily replied, “Course it is; I lost my best waitress because of you.”

“Trust me if I could go back and not accept that case I'd sure as heck not do it. You’re not the only one who lost someone over it.”

I walked away, sat down at a table and nursed my drink. By now you've guessed that one of the two women that that angry wife gunned down was the waitress. I never really knew her that well. If I came here I was either grilling someone for information or doing what I was doing now and trying to be by myself.

The sun was still up when I left. I decided to walk around for a little bit, let the cider settle before I got behind the wheel. Munday's question reverberated through my skull like a concert subwoofer. I'd only known the city, having only left it whenever some case required me to. What would I do once I hung all this up? I didn't know.

As I walked down the alley some young blond in a provocative shirt and fishnets began soliciting her wares to me. “How old are you?” I asked though I'd sized her up to be in her early twenties.

“As old as you want, handsome.” She tried to make her voice sound like seductive syrup but it was amateurish and desperate, a low budget porn star could've done it better. “How about I do something for you, Ma'am?”

“Oh, like what?”

“I've got a guy. I know he's a bartender in need of a new waitress.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the direction of Joe B's. “I could take you there and I'm sure he'd hire you on the spot. It's a lot better than what you're doing now.”

She became livid. “Just who are you to butt into my life, Mister? What business is it of yours what I do for a living?”

“I'm a private detective; butting in is how I make my living. As for your other question, I'm trying to keep you from perp walking because you're streetwalking!”

“I don't want your help, Dick Tracy. Get the crap outta here.”

“Fine. Fine.”

I turned on my heel and left the wannabe trollop there. Fast forward to a few days later. I walked down that same alley and headed toward the sound of an enraged cat fighting with its captors. It was the girl in a similarly provocative outfit being arrested as I knew she would be. Fortunately I knew one of the officers, his buddy I had never seen.

As I tried to intervene I discovered he was one of those jackass upstarts, the would-be paladin throwing his weight around & being jerky. In my six years on the Force I saw plenty of his type. They were always fresh out of the academy and the fastest to die doing something showy and stupid.

“Shove off," he told me.

Reuben Paxton, his partner and an old friend of mine from my police days shut him up. “Johnson, it's good to see you. You know this lady?”

“Yeah we met. She's an amateur. She hasn't been doing this long. I tried offering her a job at Joe B’s but she refused now it seems nature's taken its course.”

“Eff you!” she bellowed from the back of the car.

The upstart hurled verbal abuse at her. I grabbed him and got in his face. “Buster, I was a cop for five years and a police detective for one year after that. Let me tell you something: Buttheads like you end up taking dirtnaps cause they think they're Judge freaking Dredd. So zip your lip when Reuben here tells you to and you just might live to enjoy your pension.”

“Are you threatening me,Bright Eyes?”

“No, he's telling you the truth. Now get your tail in the car, we'll talk later.” Reuben commanded.

He turned to me. “Come down to the station. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. I'm worried about her; she's got a shiner. We asked her about it and she dodged around the question. We think a John gave it to her.”

For the uninitiated John as it's used here doesn't mean a toilet. It's slang for a hooker's client. Anyway I went to the station and was in fact able to talk sense into Rachel. I don't know if that was her real name or not and I didn't push it.

The boys in blue turned over to me since I'd been one of them. She was informed that this was her last shot. I drove her to Joe B's and Franklin hired her circumnavigating the application process for the time being. I told her I'd pick her up after her shift. I was unaware I'd stuck my hand into a shark tank but I'd find out soon.

I'd gone back to my apartment and spent the hours doing nothing of value except retrieving some cash from my safe. When I headed back to the bar the sun had set, the sky darkened, and the city had been transformed into a sea of streetlights and neon signs. It was a Heavenly glow hiding hellish decadence. While the citizens piled into the movie house the cockroaches coward in the shadows.

My 1985 Honda Civic came to a stop in front of Joe B’s. About ten minutes after my arrival Rachel exited and spotted my car. She hopped in with an audible sigh. She gave me directions to where she's staying in town, somewhere not far from the corner she'd been trying to work. Upon following her inside I discovered it was a flop house complete with drafts, shady characters, & assorted insects. I handed her a wad of cash and she looked at it quizzically, “What's this for?”

“I'm taking you somewhere nice. It's a well kept motel not far from here. It's cheap but lacking in mold and roaches.

“The owner knows me. I had to crash there once years ago during a case.”

On the way I pumped her for information like an oil rig seeking answers. She was twenty-three. Everything else she answered as vaguely as possible until she became annoyed. “Balls! You're snoopy!” she said huffily.

“Rachel, I've been around the block. I was a cop. I'm a detective. I know when someone is running from something!”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared ahead at the city lights. “So?”

“So when you run, whatever it is is bound to catch up to you eventually. Trust me; I know.”

I got her checked into the Dream Inn. Herbert, the owner, was more than willing to do me a solid. Before I left her room I dropped my ultimatum on top of her. “I'm going to drive around the vicinity of Joe B’s in the morning. If I see you turning tricks in that alley again I'll call the cops myself. Do we understand one another?”

She agreed after a string of profanity used even more colorfully than in Stephen King’s books. I didn't go home right away. Most people think you can't see the stars in the city. There's too much light pollution, blah blah,so on and so forth. Those people are only half right. I drove out into the suburbs and stopped near a park adjacent to a row of designer homes. Sitting on the hood of my car(after the engine cooled), I looked up and beheld the celestial wonders above.

Back home I fell asleep watching something or other on my phone. The sound of it thudding on the floor jarred me awake, but only briefly. Soon I was running in sheer unbridled terror from the zombified husks of those I'd know in life, the preacher, Finney, and the rest. I woke up covered in sweat that was frigid with the words I'd said to Rachel echoing in my skull: When you run whatever it is bound to catch up to you eventually.

I shook off the nightmare and went to the bathroom to begin the process of sprucing myself up. I'd wallowed in pity long enough. Now it was time for one final case, one last paycheck then I'd shake the dust of this town from my feet and go to who knows where.

There, I was smooth-faced yet again. I got dressed, donned my coat and fedora( okay the brim was shorter so it was probably a trilby but I don't have much time to split hairs),and exited my apartment.

The Honda pulled up to my ramshackle office still in the back alley where it'd been for all these years. Once inside I swept my hand over the desk. Hmm, the dust mites had certainly been squatting since I'd been absent. I turned on my desk lamp so as to bathe the ramshackle office in an ambient glow, just the way I liked.

My work cell still sat on the desk where I left it. I turned it on. No use checking the messages; that would be an all day affair. I'd let a case come to me. I never asked why they came to me over all the other private gumshoes in the city… it probably had something to do with my reasonable rates.

If I was closing up shop there was work to do.I sat about shredding old documents, most of these old case files from like five years ago. The paper shredder dealt mostly silent death to the records of lives, scandals, and love affairs I'd stuck my nose into over the years. The files went into a garbage bag, every bit as messy & mangled as those peoples lives.

I wasn't bluffing. I drove past the alley where I met Rachel. She wasn't there. I turned the corner and as I sped by the crappy motel she'd been staying prior to our meeting a man walked out. He was in a white button-up shirt & a tailored jacket and slacks the same shade of brown as my dearly departed Grandma's easy chair.

He wore sunglasses and his blonde hair was combed back slick and tied off in a rat tail. He looked like every Nineties direct to video action villain I'd ever seen. He carried himself as a man does when he's looking for something he can't find and is right cranky about it.

This entire appraisal was made in the span of very quick seconds. What stood out to me was that he was dressed too nicely to have spent a night in that place. He was a birthday clown at a funeral; he stood out and was suspicious. He was shady to be sure but he wasn't my problem.

I passed Joe B’s and saw a taxi come to a stop. Out stepped Rachel in a lavender t-shirt and jeans, getting ready for her shift. Why did I care? Because I needed to. I still blamed myself for the death of the woman she was replacing & I didn't want to see a young woman with this much life ahead of her in and out of jail. So that's why I cared. I shouldn't have, I should have just let the police take her and left it at that but I wanted to leave something positive behind me when I blew this burg.

I arrived back at my hole in the wall office just in time for my work cell to go off with its incessant ringtone. A male voice spoke into my ear, “Detective Johnson?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Jeffery Balent. I wasn't sure you'd answer. I heard you had closed shop.”

“I did but I decided to throw a retirement party and give myself an investigation as a gift.”

“So you'll help me then?”

“That depends on the nature of your case if you've got one. I don't do skip trace work.”

“Nothing like that.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“Now. Is that fine.”

“Mr. Balent, my calendar is clear.”

Later I was consulting a spindly man with glasses and a nervous disposition. This was a man who lived the wallflower lifestyle like it was the life of Tom Cruise. To him both consultations and confrontations were anathema. Yet here he sat in front of my desk. His wife, business mogul Alfia Balent, had been siphoning money from his own account. What he needed me to figure out is where it was going.

I took the case against my better judgment. I won't detail it here. It's irrelevant to the matter at hand & there's not enough time anyway. I will say that it was one of the deepest rabbit holes of toxicity and domestic upheaval I'd ever plunged into.

A few days later I guess is when this all started going downhill. In between leads on the Balent case I was packing. My whole life was here and it fit into a few boxes. I looked at my watch and realized it was nearing time to pick up my charity case. I drove to the bar. I sat down at the table where I'd once threatened to shoot Finnigan in the knee caps unless he gave me information.

I waited. I didn't scroll through my phone like many of the other patrons. It's pure instinct. I wanted to be aware of my surroundings at all times. I noticed a man approaching the door. Strangely it was the Steven Seagal knock off from the flop house. He peered through the glass and then left.

He was on my radar now. I had seen him twice now & both times it was at locales where Rachel had been. There was something she wasn't telling me. I kept telling myself not to care but like situational awareness it was pure instinct.

It had just turned dark when we left Joe B’s. We talked a little about our respective days. Three minutes into the drive I noticed we'd picked up a tail. I chose not to alert my passenger or give the impression to my shadow that I knew I was being followed. She was absorbed in her phone like so many these days.

I carried our conversation while casting furtive glances in my rear view mirror. “Rachel, do you know a man with sunglasses and a rat tail?”

“No!” She answered readily, almost too readily. Human expression is a biological polygraph. She had just lied to my face. I didn't push the issue. Finally our follower pulled into a parking lot of a store we passed. I guess I'd been wrong about the tail.

At the motel I made sure Rachel made it safely to her room. Her phone rang whoever she was talking to,her face turned red and her every manner was a combo of fear and anger. She lobbed colorful language into the conversation and finally she exploded, “I told you it's OVER! Leave me alone!”

She hurled her phone onto her bed. Her body heaved up and down as she took deep breaths to calm herself. I folded my arms across my chest. My eyes bored into hers from beneath my hat.

“Who was that?”

“My ex boyfriend. He's a—”

A profanity infused description followed. She sold it to me but I didn't quite buy it. Nothing more would come of pushing the issue tonight so I tipped my hat and we parted ways.

Late night shopping was the best. I didn't have to contend with masses of people or kids. Kids nowadays were obnoxious & didn't try to be anything more. I guess it was all in the raising but I'd heard enough oddball slang and regurgitated memes that I wanted to jab a pencil through my ears. Thus I chose to shop at night.

Upon exiting the supermarket with a handful of groceries & driving into the sea of streetlights and asphalt I noticed the same car from earlier following behind me again. This time I had no doubt of their intent. Was this related to the Balent case or something else? I've always had a habit of stirring up hornet nests, the time my partner and I stopped a shooter at a strip club that the mayor was visiting for example.

To make sure we exercised discretion-in other words kept our traps shut– the powers that be made us detectives. I went to work everyday for a year after that, sick to my stomach. I resigned and went into the private sector. Even now though I still angered various colonies of hornets.

Strip club, strip club. A rather cheeky idea popped into my head. I knew a certain lady of the night in the red light district. Don't get the wrong idea; I'd simply gotten her sister out of trouble a few years ago. I took my shadow around Laurel's house, weaving through streets and avenues. They hung with me and I played them like a fiddle.

I kept driving until the lights got brighter and the streets sleazier. We were on a straight track to the red light district. Surely the pursuing driver realized by now they'd been made yet they continued and I let them. Rapidly I dialed a number I'd memorized, for my brain was like a copy of the yellow pages. You just never knew when you'd need to dial up an old number.

A woman answered “Who is this?” She demanded.

“Rosey, this is Detective Johnson, remember me?”

Her voice became cat-like. “Of course. I could never forget you, Handsome; I still owe you one.”

“Listen, I'm cashing in that favor.”

“How can I service you?”

“I picked up a member of my fan club. I'm leading him to your place now.

“Think you can get rid of him for me?”

“Sure. Hey just let me know if you ever get bored on a Saturday night. We could get that wayward sister of mine in on the fun too.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

The car was a small black sedan. An 85 Toyota Camery. I led them past an alley between two claptrap apartment complexes. A silver Hyundai collided with the right front fender which caused it to spin like a top. An oncoming pick-up truck finished it off. I saw Rosey exit the Hyundai looking at the damage to her own vehicle and the carnage on the road.

“My phone rang, “Now you owe me one, Detective.”

I took a deep breath. I was back in the saddle now and the horse was bucking hard.

Like Beauty And The Beast it's a tale as old as time; The detective has a straight shot toward his objective then he gets tangled up with a mysterious woman and all of a sudden his brain magically morphs into a giant ball of fuzz. Life can be a fickle, complex mechanism so it's nice to occasionally have it boil down to these simple clichés.

It wasn't until the day after the pile up in the red light district that things really started popping. It began in my office. My work cell rang. I assumed it was of importance to my case so I picked it up and was met with an odd, static silence. Then the line went dead. The number was unidentified. I told myself it was nothing, just a fluke. My gut told me differently.

I took a lunch break at my pad. I was planted on my couch eating a cheap,greasy pizza when the hair on my neck raised. I studied the door leading into my apartment and caught a flicker of movement in the crack near the floor. Someone was here who should not have been. The knob rattled.

I bolted off the couch and scrambled to the door. I flung it open, revealing a retreating figure in an upraised hoody “Hey you, stop!” I yelled.

No dice. He– trust me it was a he– continued to run through the corridors and down the stairs with me in hot pursuit. The chase caused several neighbors to poke their heads out the doors of their own abodes as we ran.

I made it to the ground floor. The mysterious figure turned the corner and dashed out the rear exit. By the time I made it outside they'd escaped. The squeal of tires brought my attention to a very battered Toyota fleeing the scene. Now they were just overplaying their hand.

I re-entered the building. I was met by the landlady, Shirley McNeil. She had had a head of short, ginger curls that were starting to gray. Her face was wrinkled tapestry woven by a hard life and she had a smokers cough that indicated to me there was enough tar in her lungs to fill a half-dozen potholes. But most importantly she was a kind soul and fair to her tenants.

She looked concerned as of course she would be. “What’s all the commotion?”

“An uninvited guest; He was poking around my door.”

“Oh dear, he said he was a friend of yours I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault he lied, Ma'am.”

I was swimming in an ocean of sharks and I could not see the fins. All I could do was go about my business of wading through the muck of this final investigation and wait for my enemies to make the next move.

For now I figured the thing for me to do was stick to my routine. The sharks would swim toward me one or another. I went to pick Rachel up from her shift as usual. I took my usual seat and waited in silence. At a booth near the door behind me I noticed Seagal and a lanky African-American man, mid thirties, hair in cornrows, gold chain necklace, and a pinstripe suit.

He glanced over at me with a satanic smirk and waved arrogantly. He eyed Rachel the way a wolf eyes a sheep. Why all of a sudden was my stomach churning like the sea during a hurricane?

If the woman noticed the two goons at all she didn't acknowledge it in any way. She did briefly glance over and her countenance seemed to change.

At last the duo stood up and departed. Not long after I was driving Rachel back to the motel as usual. “Those men seemed awfully interested in you tonight.” I stated, hoping to glean some clue as to who they were.

“Yes, Detective, I'm quite aware of that. They came in, sat down, and ogled me the entire time; they didn't even order anything.”

“You know them?”

“No! Why would you even ask something like that?”

Because I know a thug when I see one. And his companion was the Blond man I asked you about the other day!”

“I don't know them.”

This would lead nowhere so once again I dropped the matter.

She said she was feeling hungry. I was too. It'd been a long day and I had to deal with a whole lotta stupid. I took her to a place I knew near the motel.

The whap of a cleaver going through meat, the hissing of shrimp, cooking on the hibachi, the smell of miso soup. These were the sounds and aromas that permeated the Japanese restaurant we now dined at. “My ex boyfriend,” Rachel said

“What?”

“The guy at the bar. That's my ex boyfriend. He's stalking me I guess. No clue who Blondie is though.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

I didn't believe it anymore than I did when she was on the phone. I simply went along with it so as not to agitate her. She agitated easily.

“Tell him to kiss off.”

“Hmm. Is he the one that gave you that black eye you had when the police picked you up?”

I ate my octopus and rice. She ate her tempura and then we went back to the motel. “Mind if I sit down for a second?” Once we were in her room.

“Be my guest.”

I flopped down on the edge of the bed and removed my hat. I took a deep breath. I was exhausted and not thinking clearly. That's probably how what happened next did.

Rachel put her purse on the nightstand and took out her phone. She opened some music app and the room was filled with classic rock. She departed into the bathroom to brush her teeth. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead in an effort to decompress. It was useless.

Rachel sat down beside me. A strange look was in her eyes. Longing is the word I would use. “Johnson. I know if you get in my business it's because you care about me. But this isn't one of your mysteries.”

“You're a mystery.” I replied.

“Yes. I want to keep it that way.”

She leaned over and kissed me. I didn't stop her. I embraced her instead and she returned my embrace. I was on my back and she had me pinned. I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to and against all sense I did not want to.

That motel bed had no doubt been the witness to a thousand romantic liaisons of every kind. Now it bore witness to yet another and as I probed the contours of her body Blue Oyster Cult cyranaded us.

Come here girl close to me

A thousand stars your eyes can see

First one we see tonight

I wish I may I wish I might

I turn my hopes up to the sky

I'd like to know before I die

Memories will slowly fade

I lift my eyes and say

Come on take me away

Come on, take me away!

The warmth of the sun is what woke me up. I sat up and got dressed. Rachel was already up leaning out the window and clad in a t-shirt whose hemm stopped at her thighs leaving an enticing view of her underwear. She turned around. “Oh, Detective, You're up. Could you hand me my purse. As I reached over for it I made the statement that foremost in my mind. “We shouldn't have done that.”

“Why?”

“Because this can't work. You have too many secrets and I'm leaving the city once I wrap up my current investigation.”

“Oh. I see. Well, thanks for your help I guess.”

I handed her purse but she fumbled it which caused its contents to spew forth. Among everything you'd expect to find was a baggie containing something that resembled blue gumballs. It wasn't; it was a ghost from my past.

Drugs like viruses never really go away once they're released into the world. I snatched up the baggie angrily. “Do you have any idea what this stuff is?”

“The guy said it would get me high that's all.”

“No it's not all. This stuff is called Reminisce. It makes you nostalgic to the point where even bad memories are happy simply because you remember them.

“You take enough of it you'll start to think the here and now ain't so good. Then you'll repaint the walls with your head or use a rooftop to try out for the Olympic high dive team. I know because I helped the police get this stuff off the streets when it first started circulating!”

“I never asked you to butt into my life, Gumshoe.”

“I kept you out of jail.”

“I never asked you to do anything for me.”

“So that's it. You get a carnal fix out of me and then I'm so much refuse to be tossed away just because I don't want to see you whore yourself out or pump illegal substances through your veins?”

“There’s the door.”

“Fine I'm leaving. Trust me I want nothing more but I'm taking this crap with me!”

I walked out and slammed the door shut behind. It was the only smart thing I'd done in the past few weeks. Little did I know it was much too late but we are getting there.

The days that followed are all blurry, one bleeding over into the next until at last I found a check in my mailbox with a note written by Jeffrey Balent. It said he'd take care of things from here. I didn't want to know what that meant even though I already did.

My job was over and the check was collected. I shut off the lights of the office, threw dust cloths over the meager furnishings, and drove off. My final investigation didn't end as I thought it should but that's life.

I was driving toward Joe B’s my thoughts were not on Rachel; they hadn't been on her in days. I had had half a mind to report her for possession but instead I merely tossed the dope in a trash barrel and burned it.

I was just a few feet away from the bar when a pale blue limousine inched toward me and cut me off. The rear door swung open and out stepped the black man I'd seen in the bar. He raised a pistol and opened fire.

I ducked down and was peppered by glass. I opened the driver door at the same time I drew my own piece and I returned fire. Blond Seagal and two others had exited the limo and had me lined up in the sights of their AK 47s. My bullet passed through the left lense of Segal's sunglasses and he fell back, his dying hand still on the trigger.

Everything that followed was all sound and fury. Finally I fell to my knees succumbing to several bullet wounds. The man looked down at me. “My thanks,Sam Spade. You stole something from me and then led me right back to her.”

Rachel, dressed in the same clothes as when I first met her, stepped from the vehicle. Her eyes glared at me. Her mouth formed a wicked smile. I knew then that she was gone. I'd led the horse to water but not one drop had she drank from it.

I'd at least go down fighting. I squeezed off two more shots at the man I knew now to be a pimp. One hit him in the leg the other punched through his shoulder enough to spin him around. He hit the ground just before I did. “Well I guess we'll see each other in hell.”

Now you have the answer to the single question that my life has boiled down to. It's because I forgot that no good deed goes unpunished.

The cops are here now and the EMTs. If I go into the ground at least I'll be leaving this city behind.

PROLOGUE

PLAZA MEXICO

The crowd had not yet been coaxed into frenzy, but the volume in

the largest bullring in Mexico was like a rising tide and the hum

pushed an electric buzz into the air throughout the arena.

The lancing third or the tercio de varas had begun. The bull

charged at the picador, the man atop a white and brown horse, as he

galloped by and tossed his lance into the creature’s back.

The sharp end pierced the thick hide, the bull bucked and let out

a huff of air and a moan. The man on horseback circled the bull, the

blood dripping down its side barely visible against the dark black

fur. The bull swung its head from side to side at its attacker and

then charged, its large horns grazing the peto, the protective

covering that shielded the horse from harm. The strike had been

purpose filled and if it had not been for the peto, the horse would

have been gored.

The matador stood at a safe distance continuing to watch the bull. Drawing from the animal’s movements which side the bull would favor, thus allowing him to approximate his own future attacks and defenses.

A second picador rushed in and planted a secondary lance into the

hump of muscle just beyond the bull’s neck. These stabs were not to

kill the beast, but their goal was to weaken the hard, dense muscle.

Eventually the strength of the muscles would fade and it would give the bull a considerable struggle to hold his own head high. In the

end, it would be how the animal would die, as if it purposefully

offered the neck to the matador for the killing stroke.

The matador flashed his red cape and the eyes of the bull caught

the movement and lunged after it. The matador gracefully swept the

cape aside and spun his body avoiding contact for the third time

during the bout. And the crowd roared in unison: OLE!

After a few more feints of the cape and his deft maneuvers the

second stage of the battle began: tercio de banderillas.

Three banderillas began to gain the animal’s fury as they stuck and moved and dodged the bull’s attacks. Each attempting to stab two

of their sharp barbed sticks into the shoulder muscles. Again, this is

not to kill, but to slow the beast further.

The red cape fluttered from the breeze and hand movements of the

matador and the bull engaged him again. This time the matador twisted to the opposite direction, the one that was the animal’s stronger side. A true show of courage and pierced the bull with his own stick.

The crowd thundered in their approval.

The time had come for the final part of the duel between bull and

man: tercio de muerte. The third of death. This would be the final

stand for the bull. This would be where the matador lived to see a new day and the bull did not.

Victor Calavera, the matador, entered the ring alone for what

would be the final time of the day. He was hot and perspiring greatly

from the sun above and the exertion of the contest of superiority. The

crowd cheered and he could feel the rhythmic pulse in his feet, both

from the vibrations from the crowd surrounding him and from the hoof

beats of El Rebelde. He thought to himself; the bull had been aptly

named and had put on quite a show today, but as Victor could tell the

animal had grown tired. Now was almost his time to bask in the glory

once again. He still needed to run El Rebelde down perhaps a small

fraction more, but not too much. The crowd would not be pleased if he killed a near defenseless animal, he was to show his victory over a

worthy adversary.

Another charge came and he stabbed at El Rebelde with his wooden sword. This too was for show, to indicate his prowess and to

antagonize the bull further. Rebelde ran at him again, followed by a

second and third. Now, it was time he thought. He exchanged the wooden sword for the real one, the estoque de veridad and readied himself. He initiated Rebelde, almost forcing the bull to attack and the bull complied. Victor Calavera twisted with near effortlessness and struck true as he felt the blade slide into his opponent, knowing well from experience it had entered the heart.

El Rebelde had been bested and slumped to the dirt releasing his

final breath into the earth below.

The arena had come alive. The cheers so loud and blending

together that Victor could only register a distinct whistle here and

there. He bowed to the crowd and the roar intensified. He turned and

bowed again, and then the crowd became silent. He was confused. Had he not entertained them. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the crowd. But it was evident that all eyes were fixed on one thing, and it was not him. He turned slowly and what he saw threw his mind into discord. El Rebelde was standing again. But something was different in the animal this time. He looked fresh. He looked strong. He head was held high, and his fierce eyes were glaring directly at Victor.

Gathering himself quickly, he grabbed his cape and flaunted it

about. He began thinking, perhaps his kill stroke had been slightly

off. The bull continued to stare, and then walked closer to him as if

the mere thought of charging the farthest from El Rebelde’s mind.

Victor continued to feint with the cape, Rebelde’s focus still upon

only him, the cape an afterthought. The distance had been closed to

the point where he could almost taste Rebelde’s breath and smell the

blood in the air.

The bull charged, and tilted its head down and to the left in an attempt to stab him with his horns as it would bring his head up and

to the right. Victor spun left to avoid the collision, but something

changed. But then something remarkable occurred, El Rebelde faked his movements, if that were even possible, just when his head began moving to the right the bull shifted its footing and struck to the left. The horn tore through soft flesh and Victor felt the innards of his belly shift. The horn continued rip through tissue, disemboweling him.

He felt the ground rush up towards him. He was near to the point

of passing out but managed to look up and see the giant frame of the

black bull hovering over him. He heard screaming in the distance but

it seemed so far away. He could hear voices yelling at each other. It

was the picadors and banderillas. They were coming to his aid.

It was then that he looked into the bull’s eyes, and saw something. Something that was there, and perhaps something that shouldn’t be. The eyes. They were dead eyes, as if deep inside they held, nothing. He seemed to be watching him. Watching him die. Victor had never envisioned the tables turning like this.

The bull reared up and brought the full weight of its body upon

him, crushing his chest cavity. His bones snapped like twings under

the assault.

The audience in the arena had never seen ferociousness like this. The previous frenzy had turned into hysteria as the bull continued to

trample the matador into the ground. The display didn’t stop even as the picadors and the banderillas attempted to draw his focus, El

Rebelde's attention on Victor Calavera was unfaltering. The matador’s screams had long since stopped and finally so did El Rebelde. The black beast stood unmoving in the dust cloud that had formed around him and the decimated body of Victor Calavera. Behind the brown cloudthe hollow mask of El Rebelde glared at the crowd and then as if passing through the eye of a storm; all was quiet and the bull dropped dead, for the second time that day.

This is from my current work in progress. Hopefully I can finish and publish this novel in the upcoming future.