Yesterday I discovered a tick on the back of my neck after pine needling the natural areas around the house. Seems early for ticks, but this is the south, so….

Because it was on the back of my neck I asked my wife, who detests and is illogically afraid of ticks, to help remove it. After a long discussion which included promises of future foot rubs, shoulder massages, and raised shopping allowances (among other things), she hesitatingly agreed, so we headed out to the back porch with a self-made tick removal kit which included tweezers, cotton balls, alcohol, and a lighter.

For my part I stood bravely ready, but she?

After many “ewwwws,” several, “ooooohs,” some anxious runnings in place along with assorted other squeamish ridiculousnesses, she finally managed to clasp the tweezers to the tick.

But this is where the real problems began, as she was afraid to pull. Not only was she afraid to pull, she was also afraid to release her clutches.

”What do you mean, you can’t let go?” I exacerbated.

”It might come after me!”

”Ahem. It already has me,” I reminded her.

”Yes, but you didn’t attack it with tweezers.”

This went on for a good ten minutes while she pincered my neck, until I finally hollered at her, ”Jesus Honey, just PULL IT OUT already.”

So she did. Or should I say she tried, as the tick was apparently very deeply embedded.

When I say it hurt, I mean it really, really hurt. It hurt like the damned blue blazes. “Shit, Babe! I hope you got it?”

”Hold still!“ She said with furrowed intensity. “Almost.”

”Almost?” I cried “Holy shit! What are you doing back there?”

“Just hold still. It’s in deep.” With that she placed her left hand on my upper back for leverage and began to pull for real.

”Shit, Shit, SHIT! Stop!” I cried out. “What the hell?”

”Stop whining, you big baby!” She was really pulling now; red-faced pulling, Michael Jordan-tongue out-to-the-side pulling.

I heard a plopping noise back there, as a cork makes from a bottle. “Aaaaggghhh! What was that?” I am afraid I was truly screaming now, my “tough guy” act coming undone.

”I think it was your tonsils, but hang on, I’ve almost got it!” She was really tugging now, both hands gripping the tweezers and grunting with each new effort, the force of each unexpected wrench jerking me bodily backward.

”Hey, yuh-yuh-yuh! Hey, yuh-yuh-yuh!” This repeated utterance along with its expected rain dance was what I was reduced to, howling it out between yanks until finally my uvula and tongue followed their tonsil friends through the tiny opening.

”I got it!” My victorious wife exclaimed whilst climbing up from her ass, where the momentum of the tick’s sudden release had dropped her, the tweezers extended at arms length both for my inspection and to keep the little bugger as far as possible from her timorous hide. “Look, I got it!”

”Ah he!“ I replied, more joyous even than her that it was over. “Geat hob, Hummy!”

Elated, she thrust the tweezers out for me to take and bounded inside, leaving the critter for me to burn and my neck to disinfect on my own, but that was fine… the ordeal was mostly done, with only figuring out how to get my parts and pieces back inside to do.

My daughter ran out to the porch then, a distressed look replacing her smile when she saw my pile of entrails lying on the floor. “Daddy! Are you ok?”

”Ay am oh-hay… hanks!”

The beaming smile returned to her pretty face. “Great! Mom said she’s got your credit card, so we’re going to lunch and to do some shopping! See ya!” Giving my cheek a peck she started back inside, her negligent foot kicking my tonsils across the rough and filthy concrete as she went.

Strangely, I was never so proud of my little woman as I was at that moment, surprised nearly as much at the physical strength she had displayed as I was at the intestinal fortitude she had manifested in overcoming her fear of creepy-crawly ticks. And as I picked up my uvula, wiping the dirt from it onto my shirt before shoving it in my mouth and working it back into place, I could hear them backing out of the driveway, already singing along to Cyndi Lauper’s, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” on the radio.

”How wheat,” I told myself lovingly, still pitifully tongue-less. “Wha a wucky mam hi am!”

What the fuck was I doing here? Living on the side of a highway on borrowed land on another man's land was there a better life? There must be somewhere pushed from pillar to post all my life so many houses to live in so many lives lived who was I back then?

A lover a fighter and adventurer a poet a painter a seeker.

What am I now? a writer a son the good son? Always the good son.

How would we end up? Us so fragile and broken yet searching for peace and light.

Was the fight over? No not in this life not in this world not ever.

As long as you give it a go give it a shot be true that was what mattered.

Pass fail not the point as long as you tried.

These days, I feel like a puzzle – a collection of pieces that don’t always seem to fit together, and half of the pieces are missing. I know my name, and most days, I know the names and faces of my children. When I hear music, I remember that I love to play the piano and sing, but I wouldn’t know what to do with my fingers if I tried to play, and I could never remember the words to my favorite songs.

I've heard them utter the word "dementia," and it sounds like a death sentence. I can never remember where I am. I know I am safe; the people around me are kind, and they call me by name like they know me, though I don’t know them. But my room is tiny, and I feel trapped in this space that isn’t mine. I remember my home – a dark green carpet and marble-topped tables that belonged to my mother in the living room, a piano in the corner. But that’s gone now. I know I can’t go back, but I’m not sure why.

I stare at the pictures that decorate my little room. I look at their smiling faces, and the tiniest voice in the back of my head tells me that they love me, but if they loved me, wouldn't they visit me? Wouldn't they take me away from this place? But they don't, and I'm left to wonder if there's anyone left who cares about me, who needs me, who even remembers me.

So, now I wander this tiny space with one short hallway like a lost ghost, unsure of who I am. I eat, I bathe, I take my medication; all of these things tell me that my body is alive. But some days I wonder – if even I have forgotten who I am, am I really alive?

The yellow dress was neither her most expensive nor the prettiest, but Alisha was well aware of what baits her trap held and the yellow dress flaunted those feminine enticements in spades. It was the same dress, in fact, that she’d worn to catch Nat Duncan’s eye those years ago. This yellow dress had won her man then and it would win him now. Not long after his sentencing Nat had affirmed to her in a letter (which she’d read ragged) that his desire to give her “everything she’d never had” was what had landed him on the “inside”. It stood to reason that if his desire for her had put him in, then might her own yearnings for him not pluck him back out again?

Alisha (thirty years old) was no flouncy child, so when she’d looked into the warden’s eyes that last time the price she would have to pay for Nat’s freedom became obvious. It was certainly not a debt she relished paying, but the warden’s unspoken, non-monetary suggestion to her was coincidentally the only form of payment she currently had the means to render, making the offer seem fair enough, and was the only reason she considered it. Besides, need her jealous-hearted Nat ever even know?

So, after very little deliberation here she was, her yellow dress carefully folded beneath her knees to cushion them away from the industrial tiled floor.

Not knowing who was there was painfully awkward for her when the door’s latch clicked open behind her, creeping a cold draft up her unclothed back, though the hand gripping the back of her head prevented her from turning, prompting the continued humming from her that this sordid work necessitated until it finally became obvious to both people involved that the job was satisfactorily completed. And as the hand relaxed from its dissolute pull she was permitted a curious peek back to see who was there, a peek which revealed to her Nat’s naturally expressed revulsion at the sight of it; the sight of her unexpected nakedness and obsequious posture, that is. Made sick herself by her love’s blatant and obvious disgust in her Alisha wretched back up what had just gone down. At that Nat turned away from her, his ogling guard in tow, their clanking chains the only voice given to his rejection of her as he shuffled away forever into the prison’s bowels, a disconsolate Alisha trailing behind, crawling along the filthy floor in distressed, if useless, supplication.

And further back behind her the warden chuckled apathetically at her plight as his rapacious hands reached for her, their fingers sinking into her g form about it’s warmly rounded hips, his grip not only checking her progress, but also bodily lifting and dragging her disconsolate form back into the room for his continued depravity.

“It appears the sentence will be thirty more years, Mrs. Duncan,” Nat’s trustee counseled as he petted. “Thirty years or life… with time deferred for good behavior, of course.”

‘‘Whoa— there- don’t be afraid, child. C’mon in. All are welcome in this humble abode!’’

The radio static like voice startled the kid. But soon after recalling that there might be some tasty snacks/treats in here, the child stepped into the abandoned building. Pieces of glass were scattered all about the floor. The place had no lights on. The only light that was present was the one that seemed to pour in through the cracks on the roof. The walls of the building looked as if someone, or something had been chipping away at the paint. There were a bunch of cigarette butts that were lying around in random corners of the old building. The kid wondered if someone, or a bunch of other folks had been around here not too long ago.

The child stared at the random still life Dutch paintings- and one in particularly kinda looked like the building, but it seemed to be a throw back to what it might have been like back in its glory days. The more the kid gazed at the painting, the more it seemed to come to life. What kind of trickster was pulling this off?

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching brought the kid back to the present moment. Then a pair of hands landed on the child’s shoulders, and the child let out a scream. Turning around to face the person, or whatever the thing was, the kid came face to face with an elderly person. The older folk smiled, and then revealed a pair of beaver teeth.

The cries for help from the abandoned building could not be heard by any other person around. The child had not listened to its parents warning. The kid had wandered too far away from the village, and ended up lost in the middle of thether world.

The elderly woman rubbed her hands together, and hummed along to the sounds of the spectres playing lively jazz music in the parlor. She bowed her head, and one of the spectres came along to dance with her. They spun around in circles— while waiting for her good and traditional famous hot dish to be ready that she liked to call: Petit Oiseau. She would enjoy and have the meal all to herself.

The spectres did not need to eat anything anyway…well what they enjoyed was something much more tasty. The elderly woman would need an extra boost of strength first before she set out to gather what the spectres liked to devour.

#CORVUS (All Rights Reserved)

Lundi, 10.03.2025

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=MDbYmImkKMg

The airport is throbbing with people. A sea of masks. A field of anxious eyes. People's voices muffled beneath the fabric. The sharp scent of hand sanitiser and fear.

My hands are clutching slightly crumpled A4 sheets of paper. My flight details, vaccine certificate, international vaccine certificate. My passport. It's been a long time since I was in an airport. I’m still in Sydney and yet it already feels like some foreign place. The hum of worried murmurs fills the air.

I join one of the snaking queues and slowly shuffle forward with my backpack. I'm early of course, but so is everyone else. As if they're scared that even a small mishap might derail everything. This hope, this excitement, it feels precious and fragile – like it could shatter at any moment.

When I finally reach the counter, my knees are shaking. There's a jagged stone in my stomach. I'm terrified I will be denied passage and be doomed to stay in this place – where I have no home, no job, no life.

But the man at the check-in has kind eyes. He asks me to lift my mask as he studies my passport and compares it to my face. I don't really recognise the young woman in that photo, she looks so young, so full of life, so carefree – but I hope that he does. He nods, checks my bag in and hands me a boarding pass. I feel like a fugitive as I thank him and scurry to the security line.

At the boarding gate, I am giddy. I call my mother. I call my brother. I call my best friend. Then, there is nothing left to do but wait.

After aeons of impatience, boarding commences. The flight is long. I'm caught somewhere between an unsettling adrenaline high and a torrent of accumulated exhaustion that has been creeping up on me for months. The rest is a blur. Singapore, ugly carpet. Another snaking queue to board the flight. Decidedly average plane food. Helsinki, seven types of waste bin and a restaurant at every gate. Now that's civilisation. And finally – after an eternity, Stockholm.

Clean, crisp, and a sea of faces. With mouths. And smiles. Not a single mask in sight. I tear the stinking fabric from my face and deposit it in the nearest trash can. The pandemic is finally over.

It is a relentlessly cold February morning, temperatures well below freezing. Silence breaks as each step is strategically placed with a resounding crunch echoing across the frozen pond. All else remains quiet with nary an animal in sight. Even the birds have not dared to venture forth so early. Greta thinks she must be mad, crossing the ice in such conditions. She has no no other choice, however, save allowing a life’s demise.

The pond’s been frozen solid for more than a month, making Greta’s weekly trek a bit easier while also shorter. She knows she shouldn’t chance it, but considering all that's to be accomplished in a given day, taking the shorter route has been worth the risk.

Greta glances up, watching illustrious clouds drift across dark skies. Delicate snowflakes are beginning to fall in rapid succession. She’s struck by the contrast betwixt intricately laced snowflakes and despairing, shadowed skies. The dismal thought lurches to the pit of her stomach as though a foreboding of things to come. Despite wearing boots and heavy layers, Greta shivers. Will the darkness of winter ever give way to spring? She will gleefully dance when she witnesses a blossom of new life. This winter's been a long one and spring cannot come soon enough.

She spies Grandma Agatha’s house in the distance, just before the heavy coppice of trees. The trees' branches, along with the house’s roof, are already laden with snowfall. Greta sighs with relief as spirals of smoke escape the chimney. Thankfully, Grandma Agatha won’t freeze for there is an abundance of logs to burn within easy reach.

Today, Greta’s basket carries loaves of freshly baked bread, red apples, tart cheese, as well as carrots and cabbage from the winter garden. Greta has made the same treacherous trip each week since mid-fall to ensure Grandma Agatha lacks for nothing. She can’t risk the old woman starving, especially when she has no other willing to offer assistance. The old woman lived a promiscuous life – certainly not up to the villager’s standards - so in older years, she is paying steeply. Greta’s conscience, however, dictates she help the woman for judgement is God’s alone to make.

Reaching the center of the pond, a noise resounds in the eerie silence. Panicked, adrenalin pumping, Greta begins to run, slipping and falling less than ten feet away. Spread eagle, she watches as an apple rolls across the ice, its redness resembling blood against the whiteness of the newly fallen snow.

The crack expands; cold-water invades. Greta bobs in the frigid water, gasping and struggling for only a moment before acceptance registers. No one hears save the birds, their wings flapping against air. The sound fills Greta’s ears.

Calming numbness floods. Hands, fingers already frozen, slide across the ice. The irony strikes hard and swift and confusion mounts as warmth infuses and peace encompasses. Has spring arrived?

A single leaf falls on the snow. A whisper of a selfless prayer.

“Please don’t let Grandma Agatha starve.”

The early morning envelops the city in a gentle half-light, and I, shivering as I wrap my scarf tighter, climb into a taxi. The cold air still clings to my fingers, but the thought of seeing her warms me better than any heater ever could. I pull out my phone and, smiling to myself, type a message: "I’m on my way, please make me some coffee." I send it and gaze out the window, watching the sleepy streets flicker by, already anticipating the cozy warmth of her apartment.

When the taxi finally pulls up to her familiar building, I pay quickly and nearly run to the door. She opens it with that same smile—half-asleep, a little mischievous, but so dear that my heart can’t help but tighten with affection. I step inside, shrug off my coat, shake out my hair still chilled from the wind, and ask with a hint of eager anticipation:

“Where’s the coffee?”

She looks at me with wide eyes, as if I’ve just said something utterly unexpected.

“What coffee?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“But I texted you!” I reply, already laughing as I reach for my phone to show her the proof.

She grabs her own phone in a flash, opens the messenger, and… before I can even blink, she not only reads my message but also likes it. Her fingers freeze over the screen, and then she looks up at me, her expression brimming with genuine bewilderment.

“How did I do that?” she mutters, staring at her phone as if it’s just revealed some grand universal secret.

I can’t hold back my laughter, and she, catching my smile, heads to the kitchen. She sets the kettle on the stove and turns to me, leaning against the fridge. Her eyes—warm, a little drowsy, but so full of love—gaze at me with an inexplicable softness. I nod toward the stove:

“You forgot to turn on the gas.”

She blinks, then flushes and laughs—a bright, slightly embarrassed sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“I forget everything!” she exclaims, but there’s no trace of annoyance in her voice, just a light, self-mocking tone.

And it’s true—her forgetfulness is something extraordinary. She can forget not only to turn on the gas but also that her shoe size is 38, not 41. As a result, she buys herself oversized slippers, her tiny feet sinking into them like they’re fluffy clouds. I don’t know how she manages it, but there’s something wonderfully natural in her clumsiness, something that makes her so… real. She does it with such grace and ease that I can only shake my head and smile tenderly.

“You’re the sweetest when you get so flustered,” I say, looking at her with warmth.

She smiles back—that smile that turns my insides upside down—and turns to the stove again. She clicks the lighter, but then pauses, stares at the kettle, and realizes the gas still isn’t on. She hurriedly fixes it, and finally, a cheerful blue flame flickers to life beneath the kettle. She turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See?” I laugh. “The coffee’s coming after all.”

She nods, still smiling, and whispers softly:

“It’s just that you distract me…”

Her words hang in the air, simple yet so significant. I look at her—at her slightly tousled hair, her gentle gaze, her slender fingers still clutching the lighter—and realize there’s nothing more precious than these morning moments. These forgotten messages, kettles on the stove, slippers too big for her feet. Because in her absentmindedness lies all her tenderness, her warmth, her love.

There was another moment like that, too. Once, I went to her workplace and called her:

“Where are you? I’m here.”

Suddenly, I hear her voice behind me:

“I’m right here.”

I turned around, end the call, and there she is, standing close, smiling at me. And then she lifts the phone back to her ear. I stared at her, puzzled:

“Who are you talking to now?”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me that enigmatic smile and slips the phone into her bag with a graceful motion. And how could I not love her after that? She catches my gaze, smiles—and in that smile is my entire world. I look at her and know: her absentmindedness is the stars lighting up my life, and her love is my home, the place I’ll always return to.

Victoria Lunar. 2025.

He had more money than God and more secrets than the devil. He was a tough nut to crack even if you brought down the hammer. Stickier than toffee and slicker than silk. A guy like that was made to make trouble for a guy like me, and damned if I didn't like it.

The chain cord of my desk lamp was teasing me like a feather does a cat: I just had to tug it. The office was dark, damp, and starting to smell. Just like everything in this city. If I could afford a better place, I still wouldn't, though. What can I say: I'm a sucker for black mould.

The dark helped me think. Not that I'm not a fan of that beautiful buzz of fluorescent lights, but if I had to see one more word on my pages about that man then it would just blind me. Something about not seeing the wood for the trees, you know how it goes. Nah, I had to know him better than that. Better than a file, better than my supervisors, and better than his fucking wife. I'd eat, breathe, and sleep with this man, if I could just pin him.

Opportunities come like taxis, so long as you alight them properly. I was actually waiting for a taxi when I got my first lead on him.

Rain was coming down in sheets, and the little umbrella I stole from a coworker weeks ago finally breathed its last under the weight of it. I tossed the crumpled mess of aluminium and nylon into the gutter, and turned up my drenched collar as if that would make any difference. I could've just gone back to the office: it's not like I haven't slept there before. But something stubborn in me kept holding out my hand to the street, waiting and waiting until I would've gone in any car that so much as slowed down near me. The yellow streetlights always flickered when there was a downpour like this, and it made my shadow jump out and retreat back against the pavement. Something I'd never do. Once I have my sights on something, I cross the word "retreat" out of my dictionary.

And then the car came. Cadillac, I thought. Not the taxi I was after, but sure as hell the ride I was looking for.

"Detective Cohen, the weather's quite poor today. I must insist on giving you a lift."

"How considerate: I'm of the mind that you should let street dogs drown, but I'm not complaining."

"Even dogs wouldn't be out in this. Get in."

"Woof-woof."

I climbed in the car, all urgency and no grace, and shamelessly let myself soak the seats as I shook the water out of my hair, playing the part of the pup. "Business must be slow these days, is the minister still giving you a hard time?" I asked. He turned from the passenger seat to look back at me with a raised eyebrow. "Just figured things must be tight if you're having to pick up shifts as a cabbie."

"Well, my meter runs faster than your mouth: I'll make the money back with one job. Where to?"

"Your place?"

"I don't have pets on the estate, I'm afraid. Stop barking and I'll consider it."

I shrugged into a laugh. "Meow?"

He turned away from me and gave his driver a simple wave of the hand, telling him to go. The rearview mirror didn't show his lips, but I saw a smile in those eyes.

I'd been at his heels for months, a dog indeed, though we'd never spoken much before this. The waters were tested: hell, I'd just been soaked in them. Now I just had to figure out how to push further.

I kept my face neutral, but the fact that he actually took me back to his place was enough to get my hackles rising. I staked this place out enough, to no effect. And bribed enough of his guards, to the effect of my empty wallet. But I never set foot in it. I already knew pretty well how many people that went in there were found with cement shoes later on. Never anything actually connecting the incidents, of course, but just enough to catch my interest. Enough to be feeling a cold sweat mix with the rain down my back when I got out of the car. At least my face is already so wet that he wouldn't notice if I started to cry, I thought pleasantly.

"You're dripping everywhere," he complained, handing his overcoat to a subordinate who waited, bent at the waist, for the order to come. "Bring detective Cohen a towel."

"You're gonna wrap me in a towel?"

"What else would I wrap you in?" His eyes were daring.

"A rug." My eyes were about the only daring part of me left, so I had to match him with them.

He laughed then. God, what a laugh. "You read too many horror stories. Why waste the rug?"

"I'm not worth a rug?"

"You were hardly worth the drive."

My turn to laugh. Just being polite. I had a gun in my belt and a knife in my boot, but he had everyone in the damned building. I didn't have enough security to play nice, so I thought about playing nasty. "My feet are too big for cement shoes: they'd never fit. But the ones we found on Eric Longwood were so nice I was almost jealous. Wasn't he your business partner? Heard your sister was gonna marry the bastard next spring. What, not worth the dowry?"

"Eric was a good man," he said flatly. I started to notice how all the people milling around the place had vanished, leaving us alone. If it was one-on-one, I fancied my chances, but I'd still have to get out of the place afterwards. "I thought detectives were supposed to investigate these things, but this is the first I'm hearing about it. From the official channels, at least." He waved a hand towards me. "It's not even been in the news yet. How nice of you to tell me personally."

"You're admitting you already knew," I pointed out.

"It wouldn't have been a good threat if I didn't know about it."

I blinked at him, outwardly dumbfounded but inwardly letting my gears turn.

"Richardson?" was all I asked.

"If I knew you could think that far ahead on your own, I wouldn't have invited you over." He sighed, and waved a hand again, this time summoning back the lackey with a towel for me. "Let's talk over tea: I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

We talked through most of the night, and I got the jist of it. If I hadn't already spent all my waking moments and most of my sleeping ones trying to decipher this man then I would have been led in circles just listening to him, but as it was I was decent enough at mind games myself. He was very good at keeping secrets, and he wasn't going to happily show his hand to me even though he was asking for a favour. What's more, for every secret I learned, I found ten more under it. His was an empire built on blood, and it kept raking in the money. Sure enough, I wasn't the only lowlife in the city trying to take him down, but I was the one he turned to for help that day. For all he could offer me, I'd have done it for free. But I wasn't about to tell him that.

"I'm just a dog, right? Throw me a bone and I'll chew on it."

"No need to chew Richardson," he cautioned.

"Not in my business to let other guys take my quarry. If you're putting me on him then he's mine."

I watched him spin his glass. We'd gone from tea to wine to scotch in the time we talked, and cigar smoke mingled with the alcohol in the air.

"You must leave a string of jilted lovers behind you on every case."

"I don't mean to boast." I drained the last of my scotch. "But what's that got to do with this?"

"You've had your eyes on me for months, but just the hint of another man and you're leaving me behind."

"You couldn't pay me to leave you alone, even after Richardson. Don't get too lonely: some of the boys from the brass will keep watching you."

"But they aren't as easy on the eyes."

"Well, they're all married, they let themselves go. I see your wife isn't around tonight."

"Oh, was I married?"

"Last I heard."

"Louise is in France."

I could've asked why, but I already knew. As if there was anything I didn't know about him. Still, if he wouldn't show his hand then I was gonna keep mine just as close to the vest. "So the cat's away? Is that why we're getting to play tonight?"

"I thought you were the cat." He gave me a meaningful glance. "We can play whenever you want, detective, what's my wife got to do with it?"

"Wow, my jilted lovers must have nothing on yours."

"We can compare numbers if you'd like."

"Don't tease me too much, mister Gillingham, or I'll get jealous."

"Why so formal? Call me Bruce."

"Fine. Bruce it is."

Richardson was a more or less upstanding citizen, squeaky clean by all accounts. No one was looking into him before this, and no one would help me with it now. He wasn't like Gillingham, who stood out so much he glowed, and had crime and law alike looking at him. Nah, Richardson wasn't anything like that, which was why he could pull off even worse shit than we were accusing Gillingham of. The only reason I guessed it was him who was threatening my man was because they were competitors for oil rights a while back, and Richardson was the only one rich enough to look at Gillingham without bowing his head.

The more I dug into Richardson, the more I learned about Gillingham, and that was all the motivation I needed. It was just a matter of de-clawing the tiger before slaying the dragon, or so I thought.

No one on my side knew what I was looking into, so I'd discuss findings and theories with Bruce. Yeah, always “Bruce” when we met after that night. I don't remember when I stopped being “detective” and started being “Paul” but he sure was smooth about the transition. Getting all this face time with the guy I’d been obsessing over was just kindling to the flames, and damn if I didn't blaze when it came to Bruce.

I was staking out one of Richardson’s boats by the dock when it all went south. The waters were so turbulent that night, I should've known I was in for it. Afterall, I knew better than anyone how the people close enough to Bruce to enter the estate all got those cement shoes, and here I was as the guy who knew him best just offering myself up to the chopping board. Richardson’s goons got me. I was trussed up and half-pummeled before I even knew what hit me, but they made one fatal mistake: forgetting to shut my mouth.

“Detective, I’m sure I don't know what this is about,” Richardson said.

“Check tomorrow's paper and you’ll hear all about it,” I bluffed. “I sent over my findings a few hours ago. Backup’s on the way for me.”

“If that were true, why would you come alone in the first place?”

“I live close by.”

“Bruce’s estate is on the other side of the city: I’d hardly call that close.”

“Since when do we live together?”

“Oh? You spend enough time with him I was sure he would put you up. Better than the flat on the high street that you scrape by for rent each month.”

I grinned at him, not letting any panic show, but I couldn't bullshit him forever.

“Oh, Paul, you could’ve told me if you were struggling,” an overly familiar voice floated over, and the way it calmed me is something I’ll take to the grave. “Move in anytime: I’d be a very fair landlord.”

“I couldn't afford you,” I found myself saying, barely registering the bullets flying over my head.

The bodies were down, the moonlight making the blood look black against the ground. Now there was just me, on my knees, and Bruce, on his feet. Ain't that typical.

“I don't need your money,” he was saying, speaking to me like he always did, as if we weren't surrounded by corpses.

“Want me to pay with my body, then?”

“You’ve practically paid for yourself tonight.”

“Finally worth a rug?”

“For you? The whole carpet.”

I hung my head and let a sigh escape into the wind. Rather than a barrel and a bullet on my brow, I got his hand instead. Petting me like the dog I was.

“‘Hero detective bravely uncovers Richardson’s dirty dealings and takes down captors’.”

“You come up with that yourself?” I asked, not raising my head yet because there wasn't any rain that night to hide my tears.

“I’ve got someone drafting the article as we speak. The boys used a service revolver, so the bullets should match yours just fine.” He crouched down then, and made me face him. “I said “practically” paid for yourself: I’m not done with you yet. Get that body of yours moving already, I think I deserve a tip for tonight's expenses.”

I knew him. God, how I knew him. But he could still surprise me. My turn to surprise him, then.

He was already so close, it only took me moving an inch and I’d finally capture him. Capture my real aim, for who knows how long: those lips.

At last, Saturday afternoon arrives. The line of teen-agers and wannabe teens on the sidewalk stretches all the way from the box office window to the end of the block. And kids are still coming.

Fortunately, I am third in line for the Atlas Theatre’s Horror Movie Spectacular. That is enough to irk the kids directly behind me. And they go ballistic when I give cuts to my two younger brothers, Larry and Arty. A freckle-faced boy shoves me. His friend yells, “Back of the line, dudes.” But armed with a growth spurt and the heady pride of a fourteen-year-old, I stare down the shorter whiners. There is no need to say anything, but Larry feels compelled to explain to the kids that we had been taking turns in line since this morning.

It is one-thirty p.m. and the line begins to move. Brimming with excitement, my brothers and I pay for our tickets, skip the concessions, and run into the dimly lit theater. The only two kids in this giant place are in the front row; it’s like we have the Atlas to ourselves. But more kids pour in, so we three grab primo seats: in a row that is a third of the way back, and on the aisle. We have a great view of the screen and the ability to make an easy exit to get candy or take a leak.

Empty seats are all around when a shadowy figure stops in the aisle and glares at us.

“Don’t look at him,” I whisper to my brothers sitting on my right and left.

I see out of the corner of my eye that the figure is that bully at the end of our street. Everybody calls him “Big Bill.” The tough guy is wearing his high school letter jacket. He recently made Arty pay to cross his sidewalk, and threatened to make me suffer the same fate as Tommy Blair. Tommy and his family used to live on our street until they mysteriously disappeared.

“Ahem.”

The figure clears his throat, but we do not look up.

Another voice approaches. “What’s the holdup, Big Bill?”

Bill loudly tells his toady, “Some punks are in our seats.”

Bill reaches into the aisle seat, grabs Larry by the shirt collar, and growls, “I’m gonna count. When I hit three, you three kids better be gone—or else. … One, two…”

“We are not moving!” I hear myself utter as I look straight ahead.

Big Bell comes into our row and sits on my lap. He says, “Did you say something?”

Now I am looking into the back of Big Bill’s neck. But I say loudly, “We are not moving, are we Larry and Arty. … Larry? … Arty?”

Big Bill stands up to let me leave.

I slowly walk back up the aisle to search for Larry and Arty. And hope that I have another growth spurt.