Sleeping With The Dead

I sat at the front of the bar, half listening to the girl at the keyboards croon her tune of lament, half watching the first game of the playoffs on television, fully intent on my brown ale and the next shot of Irish whisky. I turned up the tall glass of beer and drained the last few ounces and waited patiently for the bartender to make her way down to me. Liz was a tall, willowy girl, head and shoulders, no pun intended, above the squeaky-voiced, booze-addled sorority chicks that frequent this place.

"Another, Conor?"

"Better make it a short one this time, I'm feeling pretty buzzed right now." She sashayed down the bar to pour me a pint. When she comes back, she was carrying two shot glasses. She sat them down, we each grabbed one, touched them to the bar and knocked them back. Twelve year-old Irish whisky, there's no substitute.

I looked up and saw that the Indians put a five-spot on the Yankees in the fifth. The girl on the stage managed to take the soul out of the song Hallelujah, I could imagine poor Jeff Buckley spinning in his grave. I took another drink of my beer, its coldness chilled the burn of the whisky. I looked at my watch and it's a little past midnight. Time to be ambling home. When Liz made it back down to my end of the bar, I mimed the message to bring me my check.

"No." It came out as a whine. "You don't have to go home yet. It's still early."

"I've got to get going." She ran the total on my debit card. "Suzanne is waiting on me. I don't want her to worry." Liz gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing. I finished my beer and gave her a wave as I walked to the door.

I'd chosen to walk the mile to the bar out of respect for Suzanne. My wife really didn't like it when I drove after drinking, even if it was right around the corner. Besides, I had to drive right past the police substation on Arcadia. The last thing I needed was to give the cruiser boys a one up on their favorite homicide dick. I was weaving down the hill on Hudson when I felt the overwhelming urge to pee. I walked across the street, down the side street and turned into the wide alley that ran behind the houses. It took a few tries, but I found a spot between a tall bush and a garage and did my business. I wished for not the first time that I could learn to take a pee before it became an emergency.

The rest of my trip was uneventful. I avoided the trap of walking through Hound Dogs, avoiding the inherent traps of late night eating and a foray into another bar. I picked up steam as I went down the hill on Dodridge, smiled as I turned the corner on my street when I noticed she'd left the light on for me. I opened the door, kicked off my shoes, flicked off the light, brushed my teeth in the dark. I walked silently into our room and pulled back the covers. In the darkness, I could only sense her, smell her. I climbed in an pulled her close. As I passed out, I was luxuriating in her warmth.

The alarm went off at 5:45 in the morning and I quickly reached over to hit the off button. She didn't have to work that day, so I wanted to let her sleep. I laid there for a moment, contemplated another fifteen minutes of sleep. I reached out to Suzanne, but all I felt was twisted sheets and pillows. I rolled and turned the light on to it's dimmest of settings. Frantically I looked about, but she was nowhere to be seen. It started coming back to me again. Suzanne was dead. Three years gone and I still tasted her in my dreams. I picked up my pistol from the nightstand and put the barrel in my mouth. One squeeze would end this nightmare once and for all. One Squeeze. My thumb didn't possess the strength to make it happen. I put the pistol back down and walked down the hallway to turn the shower on. The water and the steam started to work the alcohol out of my system.

Maybe next time. Maybe next time I can drink enough to bring her back for real. Maybe next time I can drink enough pull the trigger. Maybe next time the dream will last until the morning. Because it is only a dream when I'm asleep. And it's only a nightmare when I wake up.

Vigil

Julius Caesar Lewis was getting ready to close up for the night when she walked in carrying a thirty-eight special that looked like it had been dredged up from the bottom of the Olentangy River. Despite the heat she was wearing a knit ski mask with pink and turquoise snowflakes in neat rows from top to bottom. Shit. Julius had been having a pretty good day by his standards, about two hundred in the till, all cash. No checks or credit cards ever at his Palmetto Market and Carryout. He scrounged a living off the various addictions of some of the poorest folks in all of Columbus. Booze, caffeine, and nicotine were his stock and trade. The poorest blacks, the poorest whites, the poorest Mexicans; they all came to Mr. Julius for their over the counter fix. An integrated neighborhood whose citizens for the most part hated each other with equal opportunity. She leveled the gun at Julius, or rather she leveled her arm. The pistol was pointed at a spot roughly halfway between her feet and Julius. Her hand was shaking so badly that Julius feared she's pull the trigger accidentally.

"Give me the money, Mr. Julius."

"Raquel, what the fuck do you think your doing?" He didn’t like to use such salty language, but sometimes today’s kids needed to be brought up short. A well placed fuck was as good as an exclamation point.

"I ain't Raquel."

"The hell you say. I gave you that hat for Christmas last year. You think I don't know my own niece?"

"I ain't Raquel. Now give me the money, Uncle Julius." Her hand was really quivering and her breath was coming in gulps.

"What you on, girl? Crack? Heroin? What?"

"Please give me the money," she sobbed, her whole body was shaking now and he recognized the signs of withdrawal. The pistol fell to the floor, as did she when she tried to reach down and pick it up. Julius rushed over to her and gently pulled off the mask. Her once beautiful brown cheeks were pallored an unhealthy yellow and she was sweating profusely. She'd wet herself and there was a distinct chemical smell emanating from her.

"Who done this to you, girl?" She didn't answer, just lie there shaking in his arms.

Julius picked her up in his tree-trunk arms and carried her across the street to the garage behind his house, depositing her in the back seat. He ran back to the market and flipped the light switch and dead-bolted the door. The gangsters in the area were not the type to acknowledge a family emergency. He got behind the wheel and headed for Doctor's West. Julius' car was a solid '78 Ford LTD that he'd bought new back in the days when he still had dreams. He liked to brag that the car was "Ohio born and bred," and proved it by showing off the pristine 351 Cleveland engine. The car had never been wrecked and sported a three-year old glossy black paint job that shined like the Batmobile. The Ford was his baby. His wife left him back in '92, so she was the only baby he was likely to have. He rarely took her out on the road these days, preferring to keep her locked in the garage so that the neighbors wouldn't get ideas that he had money. He pulled her into the drop-off for the emergency room, got out and lifted his niece as gently as possible out of the car. He carried her inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"I need a doctor! My niece needs a doctor now." It wasn't doctors but an off duty Columbus cop working security who was first on the scene. He took one look at Raquel and waved for the nurses. A stretcher appeared and Julius placed her on it. As they wheeled her away he used a huge finger to sweep the stray kinky curls out of her eyes.

"You've got to calm down, Mister...?"

"Lewis."

"That's right, Julius Lewis. I responded to your carryout one time when there was some trouble." Officer Scott was careful not to say that Julius had been robbed, because eight years ago the man had beaten a robber with a 1973 Willie Mays baseball bat and sat on him until the police could get there.

"That's right, Officer Scott. I have your card right here." Julius pulled out his wallet and leafed through a collection of business cards until he pulled out the right one. Scott smiled when he saw the cards of at least ten other of his colleagues. Palmetto Street was definitely not Northwest Boulevard in terms of socio-economic strata, even though the two streets were only separated by a few miles of real estate.

"Are you the next of kin? There is some paperwork that needs to be filled out."

"No, I'll have to call my sister."

"If you don't have a cell phone, there's a pay phone right over there." Julius equated the decline of 20th Century civilization to the invention of the cell phone. He walked across the room to call his sister.



Julius and his sister Cleo were sitting in the waiting room a couple of hours later when the doctor came out. Cleo jumped off the couch and ran over to the doctor, her large body undulating like a bag of bowling balls made out of gelatin. Julius hung back, judging the doctor's glum expression expertly. He didn't hear the actual words, but could tell by his sister's reaction that Raquel was dead.

"Oh, my baby. My Baby!" Cleo wailed and thrashed out at the doctor, who backpedaled to get away from her. Julius grabbed his sister a reeled her in against his billboard -sized chest. She clawed at his shirt with talons that would make an eagle proud, and drew blood was the result. They stood immobile for several minutes and he directed her back to their seats.

"Cleopatra, we need to talk."

"I know."

"How long she been on that shit?"

"Not long. She be actin' up, not going to school this year. Been hanging out with some skinny little white boy by the name a Eddie."

"White boy. We didn't raise her to be going with no white boy."

"She that age, Jules. She going ta do what she going ta do. I knew it was gonna be trouble, her hanging out in the village. 'Sides, the boy was kinda comical, always wearing Fubu clothes and talking crazy whack. Don't these white boys know what Fubu mean?"

"Exactly why they wear it. And all that shit is bullshit. You call me and I set that girl straight. What you mean, hanging out in the village?"

"The Wedgewood Village. Them apartments off of Briggs. Lotta shit going down in there." She looked dejected. The fact that Raquel was dead starting to sink in. "I know I should a called you, but I just wanted my little girl to be happy."

"Yeah, who's happy now?" Cleo started bawling again and Julius handed her his hanky. She bent over in the chair and a half-yard of garish satin panty came riding up out of her slacks. Any other time it would have been comical. Julius reached over and pulled his sister's blouse down to cover the impropriety. He was already thinking about how to go about finding this Eddie character. Who's happy now?


The day of the funeral the bulk of the kids at Columbus West High School turned out. Cleo Lewis was a drunken mess and Julius didn't dare leave her side as hundreds of grieving teenagers came up to pay their respects. Conspicuously absent was one white boy named Eddie. Julius put Cleo to bed early and babysat her house while the well-meaning freeloaders of the neighborhood ate all of her food and drank all her booze.

Julius sat brooding at the market for the next week; unsure of his emotions and afraid of what he might do and whom he might do it to. He casually interrogated the teens that frequented his store, getting the 411 on the drug dealers in the area, never mentioning Eddie by name. Most of the kids that came in were too young to provide any good info, the older ones too savvy to give up information to old folks.


On Friday night, Julius locked up the carryout at eight, just like always. He walked over to his house and changed into a black tee shirt and jeans. He put on a black leather baseball hat with no logo on the front. In spite of the heat, he put on a pair of black leather driving gloves. Then he reached up in the top of his closet and pulled out a shoebox. He took the box and placed it on his kitchen table. With two fingers he pulled out a handgun, a Glock 32 that some idiot had left in the carryout during a failed robbery attempt. With quivering hands he took out the clip and ejected the round from the chamber. He turned the pistol around in his hands, trying to figure out how to dismantle and clean it. A dirty gun could mean a jam or a misfire. He heard that somewhere. If he had to use it, he needed to make sure it would work properly. After fifteen minutes of trying to figure it out, he put the clip back in. He stuck it in the front of jeans, but it didn't feel right. He tried the back of his jeans, ditto. He engulfed it in his ham hock of a hand and walked outside to his garage.

The Julesmobile sat gleaming under the florescent light. Julius got into the Ford and set the Glock on the seat next to him. He turned the key over and listened to the throb of the big motor. He gunned it a few times and then let it idle, listening for ticks or misfires. The engine sounded perfect. He walked to the overhead door, hefting it up, and then slowly backed the car out. No newfangled garage door openers for Julius Caesar Lewis. He rolled slowly down the alley, and then out onto Palmetto. Seconds later, he pulled into the Marathon station on Broad Street that he always used. Marathon Oil, Ohio founded, owned by Americans. After filling her up and washing the windows, Julius cruised the Ford west on Broad into the dying sun.

The night was still a little too young for Julius' liking, so he pulled into Polly's Tavern and went in for a drink. The blue-collar happy hour was in full swing and the revelers were loud and raucous. It was a payday Friday and most of these people in the bar were determined to be broke come morning. Julius spotted a seat at the bar and squeezed himself in between a white truck driver and a Mexican construction worker. A skeletal bleach-blonde bartender sidled over to take his order.

"Double bourbon, up."

"Ten High is the well, that okay?" He nodded. "You want a chaser?"

He looked at the mirror behind the bar and parroted its ad copy. "Pabst Blue Ribbon."

The bartender sat the drinks in front of him and Julius took a big swallow of the bourbon. He instantly felt the gorge building in the back of his throat and almost upchucked on the bar. A swig of the Pabst cooled the burn. Julius wasn't much of a drinker, never had been, but if the night went down as he feared, he was going to need a little liquid courage. He finished the drinks, plus another shot, paid the bartender, and went back out into the night.

Two blocks later, Julius pulled onto Wedgewood Drive, and cruised slowly past the cellblock-like buildings sprinkled around the sparse lawns. Wannabe gangsters and delinquent teenagers crowded on every street corner like brazen cockroaches in a dirty kitchen. He followed Wedgewood out of the project and all the way down to where it dead-ended into Clime Road. He went around the block and then went down Briggs, cutting through the center of the project and checking out the access and escape points. Finally, after he'd criss-crossed the area several times, he pulled up next to a group of teenagers.

"Eddie around?"

"Nice ride, man. Ain't no Eddie 'round here, old man. What you need?"

"I got business with Eddie. You know, skinny little white boy?"

"Oh, that Eddie. What you want with his shit? I gots all the same shit that he gots, only better."

"Like I said, I got business with Eddie."

"Okay, your loss old man. He over in 863 building. You can park back in that parking lot over there."

Julius pulled the Ford into the lot and parked. To the left of him he saw 871, so he got out, tucked the Glock in the back of his pants, and walked over to the next building, which said 859. It looked like each building had several entrances, so Julius walked around the side of the building and saw 861. He continued around and came back to 859. Perplexed, he smiled, figuring the boys had pulled a prank on him. As he walked back out to the dark parking lot, he heard footsteps rushing up behind him. He turned to see the boy he'd talked to a few minutes before.

"Oh, it's you. Where can I find Eddie?"

"I done told you there's no Eddie 'round here."

"Why you play with me, son?"

"Son? You ain't my daddy. I ain't gots no daddy."

"Come on now. Where's Eddie?" Julius heard more footsteps coming from behind him. More boys bracketing him.

"The real question, old man, is where's your money."

"You going to rob me?"

"Yes, I am."

Julius reached behind him and took out the Glock, pointing it at the stickup boy. The boy just smiled.

"You gonna shoot me, old man? You might get me, but my boys gonna cut you down like a dog."

Julius yanked the trigger, not knowing that he had to pull the slide back to put a round in the chamber. The stickup boy rushed him and slipped a four-inch blade between his ribs and into a lung. Julius collapsed to the ground and the boys rifled through his pockets. As he lie there on the lawn, more dirt than grass, bleeding out, Julius heard the sound of his Ford being fired up. Oh no, not the Julesmobile.

Ever

An eerie sense of déjà vu washed over me as we walked around the side of the house. My mutt bounded ahead of me across the manicured lawn toward the stand of trees in the back of the property. So many memories from a place I hadn’t seen for forty-five years. Bo barked his baritone as a bird flew past his vision and put on a burst of speed in a futile attempt to catch it. He stood still panting and barking after it. A cool autumn breeze ruffled through the trees and I saw Bo’s ears stand up. He head jerked toward the woods and in an instant he was racing into the trees. Probably chasing another animal.

“Bo. Get back over here! Stay out of those trees!”

Woof woof!

I knew I shouldn’t have come back. It was a shock at the reading of the will. I’d thought my parents got rid of this place decades ago. My father’s words from beyond the grave: Please go back to visit, Johnny. The house is yours and it needs tending. I walked to the edge of the tree line, a chill running up my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The sun was going down and in the dusk I couldn’t see very far into the woods, but I could hear Bo thrashing around in there. Old dogs aren’t supposed to so frisky, but old Bo’s been a city dog all of his life. I don’t remember him ever playing in a yard or in the woods. His domain has been only as far as the leash would let him run.

“Come here, boy.”

Woof!

“Get back here!”

Woof woof!

I step across the threshold of my youth and a stab of real fear courses through my veins. I bend down and pick up a good-sized walking stick as I try to get a bearing on where my dog has gone. Woof! I set off on a barely perceptible trail toward the sound of his bark. A breeze blew through the trees and I shivered along with the leaves around me. I hate this eerie feeling. Ahead I see his tawny tail bristling as he stamps around in frenzy. I finally reach him and place a trembling hand on his coat to calm him, to calm both of us. He is pawing at the ground and I push him away. I see the white stone that he was trying to dig up. I bent down on creaky knees and gently wiped the sparce grass and dirt off of the stone. A tear ran down my face when I read the inscription.

Robbie S. Brennan
1956-1962

I was fifteen, resentful of my parents for leaving me to watch him. It was a perfect time to be alone with Teresa, my first real girlfriend, Yet I was stuck with Robbie, the little pest. When Teresa showed up looking so tanned and beautiful in her skirt and sleeveless white button-down, all I wanted to do was undress her right there in the foyer. My mind raced. Then the light bulb came on. There was still an hour or so of light.

“Robbie, why don’t you go out and play?”

“It’s almost my bed time.”

“Yeah, well it’s Saturday. You can stay up a little later tonight.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“You’re the best, Johnny!”

“Yeah, yeah. Put on your coat. And stay in the yard. If you make me come looking for you this’ll be the last time you’ll ever be allowed to do anything.”

“Okay. Thanks Johnny!”

An hour later I climb off the bed. There was a deep blush that dappled Teresa’s chest and neck where her shirt was unbuttoned. She grabbed at my tee shirt and tried to pull me back down for another kiss. I knew if that I did that, I’d be taking off the rest of her clothes and trying to stick it in her. God would not be pleased. I pulled my jeans back on and went to the back door. The little munchkin was nowhere to be seen.

“Robbie!”

“Where’s Robbie, Johnny?”

“I don’t know.” I grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. “I’ll go look for him.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You stay here. I’ll find him.”

“Johnny, we’ve got to find him. I’m coming with you.” I handed her one of my Mother’s cardigans and we went out into the growing dusk.

“Robbie!”

“Robbie!”

We split up and started searching the woods, which ran back a quarter of a mile all the way to the river. The more hoarse my voice got, the more angry I got. I was almost to the river when I heard it behind me. A blood-curdling scream. I turned and ran back toward Teresa. When I got to her, she was shaking and huddling her arms around her. Tears were streaming down her face. At her feet was Robbie’s body, naked, beaten and lifeless. I nearly fainted and the two of us leaned against each other for support.

Now I stand on the spot of his murder, Decades have passed but I still remember it as if it were yesterday. Bo has gone quiet and I’m suddenly very cold. The air is sucked out of my lungs and my ears don’t register a sound. My knees feel weak and I consider crashing to the ground a good option. I blink away some tears and when my eyes clear he stands before me. My little brother, Robbie.

“Hi, Johnny.”

“Robbie? It can’t be you. You’re…”

“Dead. Yes, Johnny, I’m dead. Have been for many years now.”

“But how can I see you now?”

“I knew you’d come. Dad came out here a few months back and we talked. I told him to send you. He’s waiting for me. I’ve been waiting here for you.”

“How?”

“I have to talk to you before I move on.”

“You’ve been waiting here for me for forty-five years.”

“I need to talk to you, to tell you it wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it was my fault. I should’ve never let you out of my sight.”

“I spied on you. I saw you and Teresa kissing. I decided that I was going to hide from you so I could get your attention back. Make you think I was lost. You were my hero, Johnny.”

“Some hero I turned out to be.”

“I was trying to hide where I could still see the house. I didn’t even hear him coming.”

“Who? Who did this to you, Robbie?”

“Doesn’t matter now. He died in prison a long time ago.”

“Good.”

I heard a rustling behind me and turn, startled. Teresa was behind me, looking as beautiful at sixty as she had at fifteen, her casual teenager clothes exchanged for the habit of a modern nun.

“Hello, Sister Teresa.”

“Hi Robbie.”

“I’m glad you’re here too. I wanted to tell you both that I don’t blame you. You’ve both led such pious and good lives. The people that you’ve helped are innumerable. Your penance is served and you are free of the cloth.” Robbie smiles at us and holds his palms skyward. In unison we look through the trees to the heavens. “I have this on the highest authority.”

When I looked back down, Robbie is replaced by a beam of light. It warms my insides and fills my heart with joy. Without a word I loosen my Roman collar and place it on the memorial. Teresa does the same with her habit. We looked into each other’s eyes as tears streamed down our faces. This woman that I’d loved all my life can finally be mine. I take her hand and together we walk back to the house that we will share for the rest of our lives.

We visit Robbie often; sometimes together, other times separate. He no longer talks to us, but we know he’s always watching. On the hottest days Bo can be found curled up alongside the marker in the shade of the old growth trees. The woods have never been more beautiful. The fear is gone, replaced by peace and serenity.

Rest in peace, little brother.

Lucky Man

I never would have done it if I wasn’t starving. I was down about twenty pounds from my fighting weight. I used the cord off an old appliance and used it to tie my jeans around my waist. I couldn't keep them up, my leather belt worn through until the buckle had fallen off. It's not like I had electricity anyway, that was cut off months ago. Thank God for the free heat in my building, and the fact that the absentee owner hadn't tracked me down yet for the rent that I didn't have. I searched the apartment for food, any food, but I'd repeated this process many times and knew it would be fruitless, no pun intended. My stomach growled inconsolably, but my pride made me wait until darkness fell. I drained off the leftover, boiled-down coffee in the saucepan. The taste was rancid, but at least it put something in my stomach. I lit a candle and carried it into the kitchen to brush my teeth.

I had a tiny mirror attached to the inside of a kitchen cabinet of my tiny efficiency apartment. The face I see in the mirror is gaunt. Hell, I looked the like the hero in the Edvard Munch paintings. I considered shaving off my four-day growth, but thought to myself, what's the point? I brushed my teeth and savored the flavor of the generic toothpaste. You know you're desperate when your toothpaste begins to taste like food. I search through my apartment until I found my black tee shirt. It was stiff with accumulated dirt and sweat. The odor was heady, so much so that I almost regurgitated the meager contents of my stomach. I put the shirt on and my skin crawled in its filth. I found a couple of half inch butts in the ashtray and lit one, the smoke abating the stench. I looked out into the hallway to see if any of my neighbors is lurking about. I hated them, didn’t even like passing them in the staircase. Who would knowingly choose to live in this building? I slipped out the door, pausing to lock both of the deadbolts.

Good luck, Johnny.

Johnny, hell of a name for a forty-five year-old man.

My name is Johnny Luckman. You can imagine the kind of shit I took for that as a kid. Mommy's little lucky man. I was a dot.com millionaire back in the nineties. In 2002 when that market went bust I began the slow downward spiral that landed me in this dump of an apartment in one of Brooklyn's most dicey neighborhoods. It's a far cry from my old place on Central Park West. Looking back, that was probably the beginning of my end, the arrogance of spending millions on a thousand square feet of New York's most expensive real estate. It seemed like the cash was a waterfall, and I was taking a never-ending shower. Suffice it to say, the shower ended and the money dried up.

I walked quickly from the building to the street corner, crossed to the other side of the street so that she won't see me. Before I navigate the three lanes of traffic, I look over, and sure enough, she's working. Sandra. Sandy on her nametag, but Sandra in my heart. The dot.com crash spiraled her too, but hers was much gentler, though it probably didn't seem so. Sandra was a waitress in my favorite restaurant in Midtown. I'd always carried a torch for her, but she'd always been looking for the next big thing. You see, Sandra was an actress. She'd filmed a pilot that almost got picked up by the networks. It all went to shit when the producer of her show got popped in the same bubble that popped me. Her dreams went up in a puff of cyber-smoke, and she was forced to leave Oz for the hinterlands. If Manhattan is Oz, I guess that makes Brooklyn the hinterlands. It took me a while to find her, but love conquered reason and I followed her out to the sticks. That's how I came to be living in this nightmarish perversion of the Big Apple.

I crossed Washington Ave and cut down the alley that runs behind the storefronts that adorn said street. The alley is squalid and barren, save for a few rats that flit between the upended trashcans. The rats were my enemy, tonight and always. I settled into a dark doorway to wait, checking the time on my old Timex. A little past eight. Shouldn't be too long until the cook from Phil's Famous Pizza comes out to deposit tonight's dinner in the dumpster. Then it was just a matter of beating the rats to the prize. Dumpster diving. I would have never done it if I wasn’t starving. Sure, I could go to the soup kitchen and stand in line with the rest of the losers, but that would be admitting defeat. I was a winner. I was the lucky man.

I heard the familiar sound of the creaky back door of Phil's and I peeked around the corner to get my eyes on the prize. Instead, two men emerged from the door and began arguing. I was far enough away that I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized the turgid tone of the argument. These were men who truly hated each other. I ducked back in my cubbyhole. Shit, there goes dinner. My mind was already thinking of contingency plans. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of dumpsters in Brooklyn, but Phil made a damn fine pizza.
The conversation across the way escalated. The violence in the air was palpable. I feel myself shrinking in the darkness. No reason to think that I would become the object of their discontent, but I was fearful nonetheless. Even my friends the rats became silent and unmoving. The confrontation seemed to come to a head.

Boom! Boom!

The unmistakable sound of gunfire, followed closely by the sound of two bodies falling to the pavement. The sound was so startling that it made my bowels leak. If I thought I smelled bad before, imagine what I smelled like then. When the echoes dissipated, the night became eerily quiet. I found myself shivering in my hiding place. Fifteen minutes past, twenty. The only sounds in the alley are the ones of locks being thrown, windows being shuttered. Involvement is a crime on these streets.

After a half hour of torturous waiting, I crept from my spot. To my dismay, I had to pass the bodies in order to get out of the alley. I tried not to look, but I was drawn like a rubber-necker to a traffic mishap. One of the men, a dapper dressed man of East Indian decent, is dead, a viscous worm of blood squiggled through the blow hole in the center of his forehead. The other man lay twitching, his breath frothy with the remnants of his wound. I tried to hurry past him, but the pistol on the ground next to him stopped me dead in my tracks. In spite of myself I pick it up, marveling at the heft and the matte black finish. It had to be worth something to me, a meal, some groceries. Wait a second. There were two shots fired. I walked back to where the Indian guy lay and sure enough, he's holding a shiny silver pistol in his hand. I tucked the first weapon the back of my pants and had to stop to tighten the cord around my waist. The fingers that I pried from the pistol were cool and waxen, much like I'd imagine on a sculpture at Madame Tussaud's museum. As an afterthought, I reached into the man's back pocket and pulled out a fat wallet roughly as thick as a baseball. The thick sheath of bills inside made my mouth start salivating. Dinnertime. I raced over to the other man and searched him, finally finding his wallet in his breast pocket, and pulled it out. As I opened it, I saw the badge and dropped it like it was a live hand grenade. I picked it up, checked both ends of the alley, and walked as fast I could to the nearest exit.

2
As soon as I got home I stripped off my foul clothes, showered and shaved. Pretty much everything that I owned was dirty, but I found an old pair of suit pants that fit me like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. I went commando rather than put a dirty pair of boxers next to my clean skin. On top of that I found an old Polo dress shirt from my days as a corporate fat cat. The lack of a belt was problematic, so I threw on my old windbreaker from my high school baseball days. Almost three decades old and now the sucker fit again. My scuffed beat shoes completed my ensemble. I took a handful of bills from the big fat wallet and shoved them into my empty money clip. I had to fight the urge to take one of my new weapons with me. The rest I shoved into the rip underneath the cushion of my ratty couch. I bagged up my dirty clothes and deposited them in the garbage on my way out of the building.

When I got to the end of my street I cursed myself, why did you have to take so damn long? The coffee shop where Sandra worked was closed for the night. Instead of crossing Washington I walked down a few blocks and cut over to Flatbush. With any luck I would never see that alley again. My head was spinning with the sights and the smells of Flatbush Ave. What should I buy with my newfound prosperity? Italian? Greek? Anything that didn't appear on the McDonald's value menu. I walked into an Italian restaurant and immediately felt stupid and exposed in my nylon windbreaker amongst all the designer suits and dresses. To the maitre de's credit, he didn't immediately show me the door, but took me to a darkened corner where I would be less exposed to ridicule. After I sat down he looked at me expectantly. It took a few seconds but I figured out what he wanted. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wad. His eyes registered the twenty-dollar bills and he was satisfied. I ordered the veal piccata with a carafe of Chianti and proceeded to gorge my empty stomach on the free garlic bread and salad that came with the meal. I managed my third bite of veal before I raced to the conveniently located restroom gave it all back to the establishment. The meal might have been a treat but for the fact that I hadn't had a real meal in at least four months. I settled my bill and walked out the door before the nice maitre de figured out how badly I'd befouled his beautiful facilities.

A few doors down from the restaurant was a Duane Reade drugstore that was open all night. I went in and bought fresh underwear, socks, a pack of smokes, a bath towel, and a full compliment of name brand toiletries. I was carrying the huge shopping bag and planning on going home when I spotted a movie marquee. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End was the feature. I seemed to remember hearing something about this movie so I walked up and bought a ticket. Inside the theater the huge display of concessions dazzled me. I stepped up and bought twenty-five dollars worth of Jujyfruits and popcorn, nachos and a beer. The young girl behind the counter looked at me in disbelief and then resignation. I guess it was that obvious that I was starving. I shoveled the large popcorn down as fast as I could chew it, and drained the beer before the movie started and was fast asleep by the time the opening credits rolled.

"Hey buddy, you can't sleep here."

"Wha, what?"

"I said you can't sleep here. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"I'm watching the movie."

"The movie's over, bub. Now you gots to go."

"Okay, No problem." As I stepped out into the neon-splashed of Flatbush from the darkness of the theater, my eyes were blinded in the contrast. I was disoriented and it took me a minute to figure out which way I was going. The huge LED clock outside of a Bank of America told me that it was almost midnight and forty-seven degrees. I shivered uncontrollably. It hadn't seemed that cold before. I hoped that I wouldn't have a seizure. I walked down a few blocks and then started to walk over to Washington.

"Hi, honey, you looking for a date?"

"What? No!" The hooker startled the shit out of me. So much for the city being cleaned up.
"Why not, sugar? I'll be real good for you."

She looked good, real good, like that chick from that group, Destiny's Child. "I can't."

"You can't? Honey, I can make a dead man hard."

She touched the side of my face and stared into my bloodshot eyes. I did feel a little twitch down there. "It's not that."

"What you don't wanna?" She gave me a smile that would melt chocolate. "What you got in the bag?"

"Toiletries." I felt stupid as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"Toiletries? Well whoop de do. Ain't that some shit?"

Damn, I've got sixty bucks left in my pocket; I wonder how much she wants. I found myself staring into an expanse of goose-bumped brown cleavage. "How much?"

"You aren't a cop are you? No, cops eat a meal once in a while. A hundy to start, after that, 'pends on what you want."

I've got another seven hundred back at my apartment. I can't take her back there. I've got no electricity, and she'll probably rob me. "Sorry honey. I can't afford you tonight. Maybe next time."

"Yeah, maybe next time." She reached inside her top and exposed a breast. Rolling her perfect dark nipple between her thumb and forefinger, she grinned. "Tastes just like Hershey's kiss." It looked like one too. Then she disappeared into the shadows where she came from.

3

Muted light greeted me when I woke the next morning. The Puerto Ricans in the apartment next door were arguing again. Normally it wouldn't bother me, but my head felt like a Halloween pumpkin after it was smashed in the street. I'd slept badly, my dreams filled with dead men with bloody worms coming out of their heads and SWAT teams breaking down my door. I scrambled to the toilet and tried to contort my morning boner to hit the target. Then I walked to the sofa to check my stash. I carefully counted the twenties and then recounted. Enough to pay to have the electric turned back on, but not nearly enough for the rent. Get the phone back on, get cleaned up, get a job, and the rent takes care of itself. Sounds so easy.
I piled up all of my dirty clothes and forced them into my laundry bag. I felt a little bit like Santa Claus hoisting the bag on my shoulder and going down the steps. As I cross the street to go to the cleaners, I look through the window and see Sandra's brown hair bobbing as she talks to a customer. Her smile warmed me up. I hefted the bag onto the counter and the lady hung it on a hook over the scales.

"Twenty-five pounds. Name?"

"Luckman."

"Ah. Lucky Man. You have bag back here. You want now?'

"Sure." I wondered where half my clothes disappeared to.

"Nineteen-fifty."

I handed her a twenty. "Keep the change."

I walked back to my apartment building. When I got to the top of the stairwell, I was huffing mightily. Once inside I ripped open the bag and took out some clean clothes. Taking out a pair of jeans and a Radiohead tee shirt, I quickly changed and headed back out. My heart was pounding as I walked up to the door of the Washington Diner. Entering, I stood next to the Please Wait To Be Seated sign. Sandra walked up with a smile.

"Hi, honey. By yourself today?"

"Yes."

"Window seat okay?"

"I'll sit at the counter."

"Okay. No need to wait here if you want to sit at the counter." The tone of her voice suggested that she was talking to a small child. We walked parallel to each other on out respective sides of the counter. I pick a short stool and she looks down at me. "You need a menu?'

"No thanks. I'll take the usual."

She sharpened her glance at me. "You're going to have to help me out, sweetie."

Shit, she didn't recognize me. Must be the weight loss. "Greek omelet, hash browns, rye, and coffee."

"You got it. Anything else?" Not even a flicker of recognition.

"Nope." I watched her as she bustled around the restaurant. Her skirt was short and I imagined what it was like to be those panty hose. I was shaken out of my reverie by something she said to another diner at the counter.

"The cops were in this morning, guess a couple of guys got shot in the alley across the way. One of 'em was a detective." I ears perked up like a dog.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Behind Phil's Famous."

"Damn."

"They're canvassing the neighborhood today. Gave me a card to call if I hear anything. I think maybe he was flirting. He was kind of cute in a cop sort of way."

She put my plate down in front of me. Suddenly I was not so hungry. I just wanted to get out of there. She refilled my coffee three times with an amused look on her face. When I draped the napkin over my, plate she came over to sweep it away. "For a skinny guy you eat like a horse."
"Sorry, just in a bit of a hurry. Can I get a to-go cup?"

"No need to be sorry. You make Rose feel good when you eat her food like that." We shared a smile and I handed her fifteen bucks. "How much change you need, honey?"

"I think we're good. Yeah, we're good." We'd danced this same dance at least fifty times before and she doesn't play her part. She still didn't remember me.

"Thank you, sir, That's very generous." I scuttle out thinking, this is the last time I waste my time with her. I grabbed Daily News from the newsstand and headed back to my apartment.

4

By the time I got back to my penthouse apartment on top of the Shithole Tower, the arguing next door had been replaced by a throbbing hip-hop beat. The walls were shaking and one of my paintings threatened to relocate to the floor. Even though I knew it was useless, I banged on the wall. I once again pulled my stash from the sofa and carried and the two pistols to the kitchen. In the daylight I could see the weapons much better, A Glock 17 and a Smith & Wesson 1911. Two beautiful handguns. I knew that I needed to get rid of the Glock. No one was going to pay good money for a cop's gun. The 1911 though, I had high hopes for that sucker. Looking up, I saw one of the college girls that lived across the breezeway standing at the sink in her bra. Always running around half naked. She looked up and we made eye contact. She flipped me the bird and ripped her curtains shut. Bitch! She's too fat for me anyway. Damn freshman fifteen.
I went back out and sat on the couch and sipped my coffee. The heat of the liquid found its way into the cavity in the back of my jaw that I'd been meaning to get fixed. Just as soon as I paid off all the other shit that was on the top of the list. The Daily News had a small blurb about my two dead guys. A cop and a successful businessman. What the hell were they doing busting caps into each other? No suspects found. Suspects? These two geniuses offed each other. That should have been pretty obvious. That's right, I took the fucking weapons. It probably did look like somebody killed both of them.

I was getting to the story of the Giants losing to the Packers when there was a light knocking on my door. I looked out the peephole and couldn't see anybody.

"Who is it?"

"It's the police, Mister, err... Luckman."

"What do you want?"

"We're canvassing the neighborhood about the shooting last night."

"I didn't see anything."

"Can you open the door, sir? We need to get a signature on this witness sheet and then we'll leave you alone."

I undid the two deadbolts and opened the door about six inches, looking for the clipboard. Both the men were empty handed. "Where do I sign?"

"Can we come in, Mister Luckman?"

"Can I see some badges?"

"Sure." They both flashed their tin.

"I really need to use the head, Mister Luckman." The big blonde Hitler Youth looking dude pushed past me before I realized what he was doing.

"Wait."

"Don't worry, I'll flush." He walked past me and I followed. His partner grabbed me and steered me to the sofa. He was small, dark and scrappy. A uni-brow accented his forehead.

"Whoa." I knew what the Aryan had found in my kitchen. The whole nine yards.

"I can explain that."

"Explain what, Mister Luckman?" said Detective Scrappy.

"The stuff in the kitchen."

"I'd like to see you try that." Said Detective Hitler. I turned and saw him coming out of the kitchen with the Glock in his latex-gloved hand. He walked over and placed the pistol at my temple.

"Noooo..." He adjusted the angle to simulate a self-inflicted wound. I barely heard the shot over the Puerto Rican hip hop. Voices swirled in my head like radio static.

“Tastes just like a Hershey's kiss. He was kind of cute in a cop sort of way. Damn freshman fifteen. Mommy's little lucky man. Ah. Lucky Man. You have bag back here. Hey buddy, you can't sleep here. I never would have done it if I weren’t starving.”