Detective Bartholomew always wore red underpants and matching red socks to work. If he was killed on the job, he wanted the coroner to be shocked by his matching under garments. Not that a coroner could be shocked by anything, most have seen it all. It was also his lucky charm. He hadn’t been shot yet in his red ensemble. Shot at but not connected, no wounds from bullets. He had been stepped on and beaten but not penetrated, except for the knife wound. The Kevlar vest helped, but he only wore it when he went out on his own. His vest was his only permanent partner. His mother had bought him the vest. She also got him the red socks. He refused to take underwear from her since he graduated high school.

He didn’t have the vest on right now. He was just stopping at the ATM. He knew the M meant machine, so he never said ATM machine, still, his people kept reminding him. Everyone wanted to tell him what to do. Now, some bank robber was shooting at him. Bartholomew had told the robber to drop the rifle and get on his knees, so Bartholomew was telling him what to do. But Bartholomew got paid to male such demands, despite his wages though, the bank robber didn’t take this professional advice. Bartholomew now sat behind the wheel well of an SUV. They were all over the parking lot and were a good place to protect yourself from bullets. Bartholomew did have his gun. He had it drawn when he told the bank robber to get down on the ground. Bartholomew forgot he wasn’t wearing his vest just his red undertakings. He had sense enough though to dive for cover when the bank robber decided not to listen to him. Sirens were blaring and the firing continued. Bartholomew got close to the ground and looked under the SUV. He saw the robber’s boots. They were the first things Bartholomew had seen when the bank robber burst out of the bank doors. Bartholomew aimed and fired twice. The bank robber stopped firing and started yowling. “Now he ‘s on the ground. Should have listened to me in the first place.” Bartholomew looked around the front of the SUV. The rifle was on the ground too. The robber was grasping his ankles. “Both of them? It was an odd angle.” Bartholomew went to the gun range regularly just to get away from the other Detectives. “There is value in all things.” It was something his mother used to say in bad situations. “Apparently, mom was right.”

Other officers had arrived and were approaching the grounded, yowling felon. “Let them finish up. I still need to get cash.” Bartholomew always carried $200. “Never know when you will need cash.” Another mother phrase. He would get his cash and then give his statement on events. Firing his revolver outside the gun range required extra forms. There was even a form for wounding a felon and another for killing a felon. The killing one was longer. “Wound ‘em if you can.” This was an academy instructor’s phrase. Not easy to do though. “Shoot the boot.” Was the instructor’s suggestion. Clearly, it was a good one. In the sky, the marine layer was burning off. It was going to be another hot LA afternoon.

***

“Laika. That was the dog’s name.” Jingle nodded in his knowing manner.

“No. That’s that crazy guy on that Taxi show.” Skunk was leaning back on the stairs as he inhaled.

“Others can use the name too.” Spin-stir sighed. The back stairwell was stuffy and smelled of the fire which happened over a year ago. They called it the ‘stairwell of spleen’ because they went there to vent. There was always something to rant about.

“And that character’s name was Latka. Close. yes.”

“Laika never came back. Sputnik 2 had no reentry procedure. The first canine in space was going to stay there. Walkies had a totally different meaning.”

Bartholomew came back here as an alternative to the gun range. He had done his shooting for the day. He did call these guys the Smoking Guns. He had to surrender his service revolver to forensics. So, no real smoking gun here. Just vaping.

“Ghost dog in space. Truly, far out.” Skunk muttered. He had worked his shift, just hadn’t gone home. He was allowed to be stoned, by his estimation.

“Deep space surveillance occasionally hears barking.” Jingle ho, ho, hoed. His eye twinkled.

“Balderdash!” Spin-stir waved his hands in the air.

“Good story though.” Bartholomew came here to be amused. He was. “The dog story is true. Poor Laika had a one-way ticket in the space race.”

“Ghost dog, we salute you.” Skunk saluted up the stairwell. He remained reclined. The other three stood straight and made a formal salute.

“The brave and foolish should be remembered.” Spin-stir spun around once.

“Can a dog be foolish?” Skunk vaped.

“Dogs are loyal to humans, so yes, dogs are foolish, regularly.” Spin-stir never sat on the stairs.

“Like cops.” Bartholomew sighed. “Need to get back to work. Thanks.” Bartholomew saluted them and exited the stairwell.

“Are we the brave or the foolish?” Jingle smiled.

“Not worth the effort to discuss.” Spin-stir snapped his fingers. It was loud and echoed in the stairwell. “or attempt to make the distinction.”

***

As Bartholomew approached, the Lieutenant stood at the door of the abandoned forensic lab smiling. Smiling bosses made Bartholomew uncomfortable. “Detective Bartholomew, you have done me a great service this day.” The Lieutenant was always enthusiastic but he was more so now. “That was a serial bank robber you took down this morning. Up above has been pissing in my head about it. You gave me a big hat. Thank you.”

Bartholomew opened the forensic lab door. There was a faint smell of pastrami and rubbing alcohol . Bartholomew did science experiments during his lunch hour. “I, it, I just went to get cash.” Bartholomew sat his backpack on the desk.

“Cash, who uses cash now? Ha!” The Lieutenant thought himself funny. He was not. “You solve cases. Yes, you do, so here is another rainstorm. One that has been soaking me. Get me an umbrella.” The Lieutenant handed Bartholomew a bright red flash drive. “I know you will keep me dry.” The Lieutenant left without saying goodbye. Most bosses did it. They wanted the staff to always feel their presence, so no goodbyes, which was Bartholomew’s assumption. “I get the shit, is what I get.” Bartholomew opened the file on the flash drive. He exhaled, “Fish shit! Another dead fish case? Dead fish of celebrities. Oh, that makes it so different. Ten incidents in a year?” He sighed. “Print out the addresses and start interviewing.” Bartholomew rubbed his nose. “No Detective contact, only the uniforms. If they weren’t celebrities, no one would care. Hollywood! This is where dreams are made. Wet dreams!” There was an old printer in the abandoned forensic lab, so the other detective didn’t have to know his shit for a case. Bartholomew bought the paper with his own cash.

***

“Yes, they are expense to purchase and maintain. You do the maintenance yourself?” Bartholomew repeated this statement four times. The answer had always been, no. They used a service, Aqua Marine. Another interviewee there. And these first four had switched from saltwater tanks to freshwater tanks so the equipment was all different. The new service was Pond Com. “Maybe number five? Lucky number five. Do number five tomorrow.”

***

Rita Hayworth called him as he sat in LA freeway traffic heading home. She wanted to go to dinner. “No sushi!” He was too emphatic. “Oh, sorry. Just not fish. Yes, you will not be surprised, another dead fish case. But no giant sting rays or sharks. Well, a couple of sharks but small ones. Let’s eat something with legs or no appendages at all, like vegetables or tubers. I’m in traffic now. Could you look up a place and text me the address? I will meet you there.”

***

It was an Indian restaurant. Bartholomew was happy. She always knew what would make him happy. She was in the cop biz too. A Detective for the Los Angeles County sheriff’s department. She liked assisting Bartholomew. She liked him and that always gave him a shock. Most of his other cop colleagues were annoyed by him. ‘She likes me!’ Would pop into his head every time they were together. She always picked the restaurants, she always made good choices. He was talking shop. She would to it too. It was nice being together.

“In these first four, the fish were fine and then one morning they were all dead. The service had checked the water for heavy metals, algal toxins, pH fluctuations, and salt concentrations. All were a negative.” The food was spicy and without fish, thus perfect.

“Fish are hard to do. I have killed many before I gave up.” She looked like the Rita Hayworth of the classic movies. It amused her.

Bartholomew nodded while chewing. “Yes, they can be. Except for goldfish. These fish weren’t goldfish or carp of any kind. Saltwater tropical fish. The fish seemed to have drowned. Was one of the observations.”

She shook her head. “The only way a fish can drown is if it was electrocuted. They go unconscious and lose the breathing reflex and don’t get the proper oxygenation of their blood.” Rita raised her movie start eyebrows. “I once dropped the tank light into the water.” She shrugged her movie lovely shoulders. “Some recovered, some didn’t.”
“I have to get a look at the old equipment. Death by misadventure or an equipment failure? Have a few more questions for Aqua Marine. They could be covering their wet butts.”

“I am always available to cover your flank.” She smiled at Bartholomew.

“Yes. You saved us with the other fish story. Hopefully, there are no eco-terrorists involved here.” Bartholomew smiled back.

***

“Pond Com?” Bartholomew was surprised. With number five they were freshwater tropical fish and thus the other company. Number five was a well-known comedian who had a bad disposition. He was a very grumpy comedian. It was an irony-based comedy.

“Fuckin’ fish. Just got it because the insignificant other wanted to look at something pretty. She was making a critique on my ugly face. When the fish died, the relationship if that’s what it was, went too. Fuckin’ fish were expensive. I wanted to sue the Pond Sum guys. They are the ones who reported it to you, I don’t know who. Wasn’t me. I hate filling out forms. Hate procedure. Comic here, not a cop. Ah, no offense.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “Do you happen to have the equipment? The tanks, lights, air pumps and heaters?” He inhaled with hope. “I would like to give them a look.”

The grumpy comedian squinted his eyes. “Hanky panky? Foul play? I guess fish play ha! Maybe I could sue someone after all. Ha! Yeah, I got the crap. It is in the gardener’s shed. You can have it. Examine it all you want. Take it. Take it, please.” Bartholomew did.

He took it back to the abandoned forensic lab and arranged all of the components on the longest lab bench. He was methodical. He worked down the bench component by component. He took pictures of all steps, for the record. He pulled schematics for each component from the Internet. He compared the schematics to the actual device in hand. It was at the tank water heater a variation occurred. There was an external wire that should not be there. It was connected to a small box that shouldn’t be there either. The box contained a circuit board with the configuration of a voltage amplifier. It was under the control of a remotely activated switch. Bartholomew smiled at his discovery. “The electrocution mechanism. The fish electric chair. A drone at that. Have to find out the distance for remote activation. But they wouldn’t have to be in the house. It was why there was never a ‘break-in’ reported. Has to be someone in the fish service companies. Someone who worked at both.” Bartholomew wanted to call Rita or visit the ‘stairwell of spleen.’ He even thought of calling the Lieutenant to say that he had a break in the case. It was misadventure. He will have the water heater and attached electrocution box checked for fingerprints. He should get a name on the suspect first. Also, what was the motive? A fish serial killer? Or he liked putting celebrities in a foul mood? Why would anyone go to such trouble? It was too late to call the companies for an employees list. So simple, look for the same guy at both companies. No real rush. “Take your time.” Bartholomew whispered. His mother would whisper it to him when he was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle when he was a kid. He would start rushing as he was close to completion of the picture. By the age of twelve he was doing 1,000 pieces of the single-color puzzles, Blizzard, Red devil, and black as night. “Take your time. Anxieties clouds the mind.”

He had four more victims on the list. He would interview them tomorrow if they were around. He could call for the employee lists as he drove. He needed a motive. They were all celebrities, in the public eye. He would ask about threats. Celebrities get threatened regularly. He had been on more than a few cases of celebrity threat and threatening behavior reports. Fan was short for fanatic. Bartholomew had a scar to support that observation. He should go home and get some sleep. It was late and there were no pets to be feed or walked. Not even fish or a turtle. Only cactus and a bonsai tree, neither needed attention. He had a cot in the lab. He had an extra emergency shirt. Even emergency red underpants and socks. This job caused all kinds of odd circumstances which needed precautions and forethought. He would stay in the lab. Get an early start. “Beat the traffic.” It made him laugh. He had one case where the felon had been doing just that. He had run along the traffic jammed highway beating on cars with a metal bat. Someone had shot him. He had been Bartholomew’s dubious honor to find the shooter. With the aid of videos showing the traffic beater and the final incident, he had apprehended the shooter. A guy from San Bernardino. Unfortunately for all involved, the traffic beater had survived, to beat again. The shooter got a few years in state prison. Bartholomew didn’t really care, but the case always made him chuckle when he heard that phrase.

***

“Lucas Hood?” Bartholomew frowned. “That’s not a real name.” He was a substitute teacher, thus the fingerprints in the database. Lucas Hood was not on the list of victims. The employee lists from the two fish service companies were coming. First time the LAPD lab beat out the public. He needed confirmation of some type before he talked to Mr. Hood. He would visit the last four victims. See if they heard of this guy Lucas Hood.

The sixth victim had gotten out of fish as pets, the equipment had been donated to some local school, and she didn’t remember anything about the fish service people. She traveled a lot. The housekeeper dealt with that sort of thing. The fish had all died one night while she was away. The housekeeper had reported it to the police just so she wouldn’t be blamed. Still, the housekeeper had left a few months after the mass death. A dead end in so many different ways.

The seventh victim had used both companies. He liked the fish. He remember seeing a service person he recognized who worked with both companies. But he didn’t remember his name. They had never been introduced. Bartholomew brightened. “Can I see your tanks now?”

“Sure. Got some beauties now. This way.” The celebrity’s face finally registered with Bartholomew. He was a support actor in many cop movies. Bartholomew had never known his name just his face. “There they are.” He waved at the large tanks in the main hallway.

Bartholomew went directly for the tank heater. He put on his examination gloves and unplugged the heater. He pulled it out gently. There was no wire. There was no box. “OK. On that one.” Bartholomew smiled and put the heater back.

“You think there is sabotage going on?” The fish owner gasped over dramatically. “Those fish were killed?” Bartholomew shrugged as he moved to the other tank. “Oh, yeah. On going investigation and all. I thought it was negligence. Why I switched companies. I reported it to you guys for an insurance record.”

Bartholomew took the same care with the other heater. There was a wire. “Are these the expensive fish?” Bartholomew pointed at the tank.

The owner nodded. “Couple of those in there are in the thousands. I call that expensive.”

“I am going to take this heater. You will have to get a replacement.” Bartholomew pulled out an evidence bag to insert the heater.

“I have an extra one. Ah, could you look at it? See if it is ok?”

Bartholomew nodded. “Happy to. Oh, don’t call the service people on this.”

The owner nodded. “On going investigation. Said that a lot in my movies.”

Bartholomew nodded. “Because it is true.”

***

Bartholomew hurried to meet with the last three on the list of fish homicide victims. Eight and nine had stopped keeping fish after the mass death. “Bad Karma.” Both had stated without prompting. They had both given the equipment to a charity. Bartholomew did ask if they had gotten any threatening letters or texts. Separately, they had both said basically the same thing. “As a person in the public realm, I get all kinds of messages, positive and negative. I don’t read any of them. I have a service do it, the reading and responding. So, I don’t know.”

“Would you let me contact that service to ask them the same question?” Bartholomew got a yes, from one and a no, from the other. During an investigation, he always attempted to accentuate the positive. “Things are going well.”

And then he met with number ten. She was the biggest star on the list. Maybe the Lieutenant had put her at the end on purpose. She immediately disapproved of Bartholomew’s suit. “It? Ah, yes. It is cheap. I buy the cheap ones for work. I never know what will happen on a case. I wear cloths I can throw away with no remorse.”

She nodded her head. “Dress with a purpose. Not very social but understandable. Hum.” She tapped her foot on the tile floor. It was a big house with an echo, even the echo had an echo.

‘She must live alone. Very understandable.’ Bartholomew thought but did not speak.

“What took you guys so long?” She walked away. Bartholomew had not been invited in but he followed her anyway. She continued to talk so he had done the right thing. “Twice this has happened. I know the Mayor, well a Mayor, LA has too many cities in it. I had heard of others having the same issue. I thought it some sort of harassment or hate speech. I want it stopped.”

“It happened to you twice?” Bartholomew looked at the room they had stopped in. Its walls were fish tanks. “Impressive!” The room had a cooling but warm effect on Bartholomew. It was tranquil despite the owner’s disposition. Contradictory but maybe thus necessary. “Can I ask the companies you use. Aqua Marine and Pond Com?”

She nodded her head. “Both. Fresh water on the side walls. Saltwater for the main large tank.”

“Could I inspect the equipment, specifically the heaters?”

“I thought you were with the police. Not a tank inspector. I pay a lot of money to keep these in perfect shape?” Her foot was tapping again.

Bartholomew shook his head. “No, no. I have no fault related to you. It is directed to a possible cause of the deaths.”

“The services replaced everything. It wasn’t a toxin. Or algal bloom.” She frowned at Bartholomew’s suit again.

“No, well, I have found equipment anomalies with some of the other victims.” Bartholomew pointed at the tanks.

“You went to them before me!” She yelled. It echoed too.

“I am working down the list I was given.” When Bartholomew said it he knew it was a mistake.

“I am at the bottom of a list?” She yelled again. The proof she lived alone came with no one responding.

“Ah, could I take a look. Keep the investigation moving ahead.” Bartholomew couldn’t think of anything else to say.

There was only the contradictory cooling warmth of the room. The bubbling of water. It reminded Bartholomew of his other fish case. People had died that time. No humans thus far, but maybe it will be him. He remained quiet. Waiting was always good.

Her foot tapping stopped. “You are actually investigating this? It isn’t just for show. To keep me happy?”

Bartholomew shook his head. “I would never do that.”

“You think you can find out who is attempting to intimate me? I don’t intimate.”

Bartholomew nodded. “I am making progress. I just want to make certain these tanks will remain functioning and without further incident.”

“Those two tanks. I had had one of those fish for almost twenty years.” She whispered.

“The very reason I want to verify if things are ok.” Bartholomew kept a serious tone. “I will remove any suspicious devices.”

“But there were no break-ins. The staff, well, they are bonded. Oh, oh. You think it was some, the services. But one was fresh and one salty.” She clicked her long nails. “Someone who works for both services. Right. It makes sense.”

“Could I check first? Want to make sure you are safe.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. I shouldn’t complain to the services.” She stated.

“No, no. Let me take care of this.” Bartholomew pointed at the tanks.

She nodded. “Yes, certainly. Please do. But promise me you will let me know what this is all about.”

“When I know, I will let everyone know. I’ll check now.”

***

Lucas Hood was his actual name. After number ten checked out ok, Bartholomew went to the companies without checking the employee list. Bartholomew found Lucas Hood at Aqua Marine. Bartholomew had wanted to arrest him, but he wasn’t certain on what. Malicious destruction? Not much of a charge. Just an interview first. So, they sat outside of Aqua Marine. It was in a Beverly Hills shopping area. The well-dressed shoppers who walked by them always frowned at Bartholomew’s cheap suit. He had worn his best friends; his Kelvar vest, red socks, and underpants. He was ready for any eventually. He had his service weapon, of course.

Bartholomew showed Mr. Hood pictures of the modified heaters. “You can see these circuits are not standard. Do you know what they are for?”

Mr. Hood’s face and neck turned red. He started blinking rapidly.

“So, you know what they are.” Bartholomew leaned in. “Could you explain? You installed this equipment. Fingerprints you know. Gives you away every times.” Silence. “I assume the device is triggered remotely to give a substantial jolt to the fish, knock them unconscious so they drown.”

Mr. Hood seem to be getting smaller. He was hugging himself.

“You don’t like fish? You work around them every day. Are you tired of them? You want them to just die?”

Mr. Hood nodded. “Like fish.” He muttered.

“But you killed them. On a number if occasions.” Bartholomew showed him more pictures. “You did this didn’t you? It was just you, I bet.”

“It was.” Mr. Hood shivered, “They didn’t respond.”

“The fish? How would they?” Bartholomew leaned in more.

“Not the fish. That’s ridiculous.” Mr. Hood looked up at Bartholomew quickly. “The people, those fancy celebrities. No response. Arrogant! Arrogance. I am a small business owner.”

Bartholomew wasn’t recording their conversation. He didn’t know what would happen. “Respond in what way?”

“It was simple. They pay me $1,000 and the fish would be fine. It was insurance. Those fish are expensive. It is a reasonable thing. A sound investment. I had backing to cover any claims.”

“But no one said yes. Oh, so you had to make them aware of the need for your insurance.” Bartholomew pulled back slightly.

“I, it was, a business decision.” Mr. Hood started rocking slightly. Despite the upscale shopping area, the chairs were not very comfortable.

"But they still didn’t respond correct?”

Mr. Hood stopped rocking. “People now are just so rude. Especially the stars. The stars.”

“Well, I have talked to at least ten of your potential clients and they never got your advertising. You were just more spam to them. Too much media. It is like a blizzard, you can’t see the snow, because of all the snow.” Bartholomew knew he got too much spam. He used to glance at it, but he just sent it to oblivion. He wished there was an electronic hell. “Blame the spam, not the man.” Bartholomew felt embarrassed for what he just said.

Mr. Hood looked down at the expensive outdoor floor tiles. He scratched his nose. “Need to hire a marketing service, I guess.”

“I ah, I think your business model isn’t viable. And you owe those potential clients for the fish. Price of doing business, I think.” Bartholomew had to take him in. He had to talk to the prosecutor about charges. Likely just be a fine and restitution. “Come on Lucas, we have to go to the station and talk this out with the higher ups.”

Mr. Hood tapped his foot on the expensive tile. “You know this tile is expensive.” He stood up. “Am I under arrest?”

Bartholomew stood too. “Not at this time. But we need to work things out. This situation cannot continue.”

Mr. Hood nodded. He looked older than he did earlier. He was just an average person who looked average.

***

The Lieutenant was smiling, it was a personal one, not a professional smile. He was standing inside the abandoned forensic lab when Bartholomew got there. “Detective. Detective. You figured that one out. I thought I was just going to drown, but no. You threw me a life preserver. You preserved my life.” The Lieutenant clapped Bartholomew hard on the back. “The Sargent said you were good with the oddities. You certainly are. Ha! A life preserver, most certainly.”

“Lucky me.” Bartholomew put his backpack on the desk. “No complaints about my cheap suits?”

“Complaints? Complaints. No, just praise. Satisfaction with the department’s previous response was at its worst. Satisfaction is never guaranteed, you know. But it was had with you. Satisfaction was expressed more than once, say multiple times. So, great. Great.” The Lieutenant seemed to be running out of enthusiasm.

“Just doing the job Lieutenant, just doing the job.”

“Keep doing it. Keep doing it, Detective.” The Lieutenant nodded slowly, glanced around the lab, shook his head, and strolled out with a wave. It was almost a goodbye.

“So long,” Bartholomew waved back. “and thanks for all the fish.”

Emma’s short fiction has appeared in the literary magazines Ginosko Literary Journal and The Gravity of the Thing. Though she grew up in Japan as a mix of writer, artist, and dancer, she has moved to Scotland and has settled down fully as a scribbler, both of words and of images.

I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this. My client, a Mr. Chester C. Chenay, was insisting he help me in my investigation. I explained to him I was the professional, and that if he was capable of solving the case he would have had no reason to hire me in the first place, but he was a man used to getting his way and wasn’t easily dissuaded.

Mr. Chenay was a stout little man of about forty with a handlebar mustache like the villain in a Charlie Chaplin picture. He looked a bit like a shrunk down Grover Cleveland. His most identifying feature, however, was a left hand bereft of a ring finger, forcing him to wear his wedding band on his right hand. I suppose he could have worn it on his left index finger, but having put it on while he was slim, he would have had difficulty getting it off now that he wasn’t. He’d been married that long.

His wife came across as a meek little hen, content to follow along in his shadow, occasionally clucking at the man when he spouted something especially rude, but otherwise keeping her mouth shut. I suspected from the way Mr. Chenay looked at her for approval after nearly every utterance that she wasn’t quite as timid as she seemed, and had merely adjusted to life with a blowhard by letting him pretend to steer the ship she was piloting.

He’d hired me to track down a maid who Mrs. Chenay believed had absconded with her favorite pearl necklace, coming to me after the police had lost interest. It seems Mrs. Chenay had been misplacing jewelry for years, and it had always turned up in unlikely places without anybody ever being charged. I didn’t think anybody would be charged this time either, but Chenay was willing to pay to find his wayward maid, so I was willing to hunt for her.

I’d made the mistake of telling Chenay I had a lead, and he insisted on helping me follow it up, saying he wanted to be there when I caught “The scoundrel.” He met me at my office at noon, showing up in a brand new Bentley Mark V. Turning up his nose at my heap, he insisted we use his car for the trip, despite my protestations that taking it to the neighborhood we were headed to would be like taking a stroll through Hooverville with hundred dollar bills pinned to our chests. He didn’t care. We were taking the Bentley.

When we pulled up in front of the dilapidated shotgun house in the ninth ward, it was like the circus had come to town. I told him to stay with the car if he wanted anything to be left of it, and climbed out to push my way through the crowd.

“What you boys doing here in that fancy automobile?” a man asked, spreading his thick brown hand out and pressing it against my chest.

“The police commissioner likes to ride in style,” I said loud enough for it to carry. The hand fell away from my chest and the man faded away along with the rest of the crowd. Aside from a handful of kids, the street was empty. Of course, they were still watching, peering at us from behind tattered curtains and from around the corner of the wooden fence surrounding an empty lot across the street. I hoped Chenay was spooked enough to stay put.

“We already got a Bible,” the old woman said, opening the door just enough to deliver the message.

“Good for you,” I said, using my foot to keep the door from slamming in my face. “I’m not selling anything.”

“You the police?” she asked, looking me up in down while pressing on the door.

“I’m looking for Marie Jenkins,” I said, evading the question. “She left her position without collecting her pay, and her employer wants to make good on it.”

“I never heard of no man going out of his way to give away money,” she said suspiciously, easing off the door just a little.

“It’s a tax thing,” I told her. “His accountant needs to clear the books so he can file all the deductions.” It didn’t make a lot of sense, but it hit the right notes. She turned her head and hollered for the girl. A second later I was standing in front of Marie Jenkins. Her skin was a light caramel and her hazel-green eyes might have been described as beautiful if it wasn’t for the hint of hardness in them. The thing that most attracted my attention, though, was the make-shift sling supporting her left arm. Unfortunately, I didn’t have long to study her. She took one look at the Bentley and tried to shut me out. That’s when Chenay lit the fuse.

“There’s the thief!” he shouted as he jumped out of the car. A second later he was stomping up the walkway. My toes having had enough abuse for the day, I let the door slam shut.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shouted, grabbing him by the lapels of his top coat and spinning him around. I gave him a shove toward the car and wasn’t too gentle about it. He turned to complain but a bottle to the side of his head cut him off. It had come from the bushes running along the side of the Jenkins’ driveway. Chenay stood there, gaping at the blood he’d just transferred from his face to his hand. He needed more time to make sense of what had just happened to him, but I couldn’t afford to give it to him. That bottle had been the first volley. I pulled him to the car, threw him in the passenger seat, and climbed in behind the wheel. Seeing us on the run inspired the troops to rally. They swarmed out into the street armed with boards, hammers, bottles, and anything else they could lay their hands on that might inflict damage. Thankfully, I didn’t see any guns. I jammed the car into gear and got the hell out of there, forcing the men rushing toward us to the side of the road.

Thanks to his own stupidity, Chenay had come out of the expedition with a gash on his face that was sure to leave a scar once the stitches came out, and a bunch of dents in his car from all the rocks that had been bounced off it. He’d actually gotten off easy. As for me, I was through. I wished him luck finding Marie Jenkins again, and went off to find some clients less likely to get me killed.

I didn’t give another thought to Chenay or his missing pearls until about a month later when the morning edition of the Times Picayune told me Mrs. Chenay had been stabbed to death in her bed. The only thing determined to have been taken was a floral brooch of insignificant value. The article came with a reproduction of Marie Jenkins’ mug shot from an earlier arrest on an extortion charge. I read how Jenkins had been seen rushing down Chenay’s driveway by a neighbor who recognized her and recalled the reason for her termination from the Chenay’s employ. This neighbor stated he’d shouted to ask why she was creeping around her former employer’s property at night, but she’d fled in a roadster driven by a man in a broad brimmed hat and white gloves without giving an answer. The neighbor had noticed the gloves because the man had been waving his hands at Jenkins, urging her to hurry. The neighbor claimed the driver’s face had been obscured by his upturned coat collar, and that he might have also been wearing a dark scarf. My contact on with the police department confirmed the details of the story, adding that the killer had come in and exited through the French windows in the parlor, and that whatever weapon had been used on Mrs. Chenay had had an oddly curved blade and left a hell of a mess.

Eager to turn my curiosity into a payday, but not wanting to deal with Mr. Chenay again, I wrote down the name of the sister the article claimed Mrs. Chenay had left behind, and disinterred the phone directory from the pile of folders on the corner of my desk.

Mrs. Dorignac was everything her sister was not. Plump and boisterous, she didn’t seem the type to take gruff from anybody, least of all her husband who did his best to blend into the furnishings during our interview. She had more money than her sister and liked to show it off, smoking from a diamond studded cigarette holder which she held in her diamond adorned fingers. After a few minutes spent convincing her I was better equipped than the police to bring in her sister’s killer, she waved her cigarette in an arc that took it to the checkbook in her husband’s vest pocket. She didn’t need to say a word. He took a pen out of another pocket and started filling in the numbers I’d rattled off earlier. When I left, a little woozy from all the gin and tonics Mrs. Dorignac had forced on me, I was on the clock.

I headed over to Chenay’s to look up the neighbor mentioned in the article. The article hadn’t given his name or address, but there was only one house with a good view of the front of Chenay’s driveway and that was the one directly across the street, the view on the sides being blocked by hedges. I still wasn’t too sure though since a row of magnolia trees left only a small gap with which to view Chenay’s house. Walking up the pathway to the house I wondered if the term Garden District hadn’t originated right there. The property looked like a botanical garden. The smell reminded me of a funeral parlor.

The man who answered the door was wearing a green apron over his suit and clutched a small spade in his left hand. I wondered what kind of gardening emergency had come up that wouldn’t allow him time to change his clothes, but then some people insist on wearing a suit even when they’re home alone. He looked like the type. A tall man, he glared down at me through the pince nez glasses, seemingly glued to the end of his long nose, like I was a weed he’d found in his flower bed. I’d expected a butler, but it turned out I was speaking to the lord of the manor himself, Doctor Alfred Blout.

“I’ve already said all I have to say on the matter,” he told me. “I’ve no interest in being interviewed.”

“I’m not with the press,” I said, handing him the card I carried with “Jack Craig, Private Investigator” printed in big bold letters across the front. He read it up close to his face and then handed it back with a sneer.

“Did Chenay hire you?” he asked.

“I’ve been employed by Mrs. Chenay’s sister,” I said. “Mr. Chenay knows nothing about it.” That loosened him up a bit.

“Mrs. Chenay was a decent, proper woman—a wonderful woman,” he said. “She was very fond of orchids. We had many a conversation on the topic. She deserved better than that reprobate. The man was a gambler and a drunkard.”

“What makes you think he gambled?” I asked.

“It was common knowledge,” He said. “He’d lost his finger after failing to pay what he owed to some unsavory men when he was younger, but he still didn’t learn his lesson. He was always going about the club, begging for loans to pay off his debts. He became so obnoxious, they finally had to revoke his membership.”

After that I didn’t get much more out of him. He seemed plenty interested in revealing Mr. Chenay’s many faults, when he wasn’t extolling the virtues of Mrs. Chenay, but everything else bored him, including me. I didn’t get anything more about the night of the murder out of him than what had been reported in the papers. I asked if I could drop by again, and was told he’d be out of town for the foreseeable future, attending a horticultural convention in Chicago. Normally I’d have thought he was giving me the brush off, but looking around, I believed him.

My first stop after that was the morgue of the Picayune where a clerk I didn’t recognize helped me dig up everything they had on Marie Jenkins. They had a lot. Marie Jenkins, also known as Mary Jenkins, Maude Jenkins, and Marie Pacanier, had been quite the bad girl. She’d been arrested for helping to smuggle booze in 1931, vagrancy twice in 1932, petty theft in ’34 and again in ’35, and had been mentioned as the other woman in a divorce suit in 1936. What interested me most was the extortion charge she was up on in 1937. A man she was working for while under the Pacanier alias had accused her of blackmailing him over an affair the two had been having, but the case fell apart when the victim refused to confirm the affair. His line was that she was making it all up, but when it turned out the evidence wasn’t going to let him get by with that, he’d made a quick retraction.

Next I was off to the bank where Chenay kept his money. I’d pulled the manager out of a tight spot once, and was sure he’d be willing to bend the rules a bit for me. He was. I’d asked to see the records of Chenay’s deposits and withdraws since January, about the time he’d hired Jenkins, with the idea of looking for any unusually large withdraws that might indicate Chenay was paying Jenkins off. I found more than I’d expected. There were a series of withdraws of significant amounts, the last being made by Mrs. Chenay just a few days before the murder. A check Chenay had written to the New Orleans Gentleman’s club for twenty five dollars the day before the murder had been returned for insufficient funds. Chenay was broke.

It was still early, but I decided to head for Mocasso’s. The gin and tonics had worn off and I needed a drink to take the edge off the headache I’d gotten from staring at all that small print. By the time I got there the morning drunks were stumbling out to make room for the late afternoon drunks to start their shift. I was looking for a guy pulling a double, specifically a gregarious gentleman named Gustave Beauregard. Everybody with a story to tell found their way to Mocasso’s at some point, and Gustave was always there to listen. Of course, it usually worked out better if he’d done his listening in the morning before he started his afternoon crying jag.

I found him in his usual spot on the balcony, leaning on one arm over a Vieux Carre, flicking peanuts at the pigeons. The pigeons weren’t in much danger. I cut a path through the flock and dropped into the chair across from him.

“What is that?” he said, sneering at my beer.

“That’s what people who want to sit at the table instead of sleeping under it drink,” I said. “What’s the latest?”

“Rye, cognac, and a touch of sweet vermouth,” he said holding up his glass and shaking it to let the ice clink against the sides.

“I’m not interested in your cocktail,” I said. “Give me the dope on the Chenay murder.”

“I might have heard something,” he said, downing his drink, “but I’m having trouble remembering.”

I tossed a fin on the table and waited while he went to the bar to exchange it for another glass of poison. It was half empty by the time he got back to me, but his memory had improved.

“I was chatting with a fellow just this morning about the tragedy,” he said. “This young man claimed to know a friend of the young lady who was implicated in the crime, and suggested the two of them were making plans to relocate.”

“What about some names?”

“No names,” he said, “But would the address where this young lady and her paramour are currently, as you say, holed up, be of help?” I told him it would. He emptied his glass and pretended to be trying to recall the number.

Another five spot later, and I was on my way back to the Lower Nine. The address took me to a shanty behind a mechanic’s shop surrounded by two vacant lots, but I didn’t need to check the number. As I pulled up Marie Jenkins was right out front, her arm no longer in a sling, kicking the hell out of something that could have been a man curled up in the dirt. Behind her, a red coupe sat with its engine humming, the vibrations making the suitcase leaning up against the driver’s door seem to dance. Marie didn’t stop kicking as I pulled up. She didn’t even look up.

“Damn lousy muggle head!” she shouted, giving him one last kick before making for the shovel propping up the porch railing. I got to her just in time to keep her from bringing it down on the guy’s head.

“Stinking loser!” She was still screaming at him, but she was kicking at me now. I twisted the shovel out of her hands and sent it flying, losing my grip on her right wrist. Instead of taking the opportunity to try to break free, she squandered it, throwing her suddenly unoccupied claws at my face. Her nails had just started to dig into my cheek when I shoved her to the ground. Going for my cheek was her second mistake. She should have gone for my eyes.

I’d pushed her a little harder than I’d meant to, and it took her a second to get her breath after being bounced off the ground. She just sat there next to her boyfriend, panting and glaring at me. The boyfriend stared at me too, but judging by the grin he gave me, he liked me a lot better than she did. The guy was loaded up on a lot more than just weed.

“Looks like you had a trip planned,” I said, nodding toward the suitcase. “Too bad your driver punked out on you.”

“I didn’t have nothing to do with that woman getting killed,” Marie insisted. “And I wasn’t nowhere near that house the night it happened.”

“But you can’t say where you really were because that would land you in the slammer too,” I said, pleased with myself when she nodded at what had been a guess. I walked over to her car and shut it off, tossed her baggage in the back seat of my car, and then walked back to pull her to her feet.

“You taking me in?” she asked dejectedly, the last of the fight in her fading away. She seemed a lot smaller now, and almost fragile, now that her claws were in.

“Nope,” I said, pushing her toward my car. “We’re going to go see Mr. Chenay. You can tell me all about the special relationship you shared with him along the way.”

She didn’t have a lot to say to me at first, but she opened up when I offered to feed her on the way to Chenay’s. It turns out she’d worked up an appetite kicking the hop head’s ribs in. I parked next to a news stand still selling the papers with her face on the front page and suggested she pretend to be napping until I got back. She was hungry and exhausted, and glad not to be in the hands of the police, so I figured she’d stay put. I walked the half a block to the Central Grocery, ordered a muffuletta for her and a ham and swiss on rye for me, and asked if they had a phone I could use. It turns out they did so long as I was willing to overlook an extra quarter added to my bill. I called to get the train schedule from New Orleans to Chicago, finding out the Panama Limited rolled out in two hours, and then called Robert Landry over at the homicide division.

Marie was still busy decorating my front seat with crumbs when Landry pulled up in front of Chenay’s house. Marie wasn’t happy I’d invited the man who’d been hunting her to the party, but I assured her she wouldn’t be the one going off in cuffs, at least not for the murder of Mrs. Chenay. The three of us went up to Chenay’s door and Landry rapped on it.

I hadn’t been looking forward to spending the evening with the stout, nattily dressed blowhard who’d bungled my case, but I needn’t have worried. That man was gone, replaced by a sallow-faced disheveled wreck. The pajamas he wore under his robe were stained and rumpled and his hand trembled around the bottle of wine he’d brought with him to the door. He looked right through me and Landry, focusing his bloodshot gaze on Marie.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, waving a finger at her. Landry answered for her, showing Chenay his badge. Chenay took a swig off the bottle, wiped his chin on his sleeve, and stumbled back into the house. We followed, ending up in the parlor where Chenay collapsed into a chair by the French windows the killer had come through. Marie and Landry took their places on the divan. I leaned against the mantle and lit a cigarette.

“You might want to call our man at the train station,” I said checking my pocket watch. Landry went out to the phone on the pedestal in the hall and came back a few minutes later, shaking his head.

“It’s still early,” I said. “He’ll show.”

“What’s this all about?” Chenay muttered, staring at the bottle he’d just let roll off his lap onto the floor. I wasn’t sure he’d understand me if I told him, but it didn’t matter. What I had to say was mostly for Landry.

“It’s about a woman with a husband who couldn’t stop losing money,” I said. “She probably knew he was a compulsive gambler when she married him, but women tend to operate under the delusion they can change a man. It never works out, as Miss Jenkins can attest. Even kicking the hell out of them won’t work the trick. This woman tried to keep her husband close, but he always managed to slip off to place a bet, though he’d gotten better over the years at hiding it. He worked out a system where he’d pawn her jewelry to pay his debts so he didn’t have to touch the money in the bank. She might have noticed the bank account, but apparently didn’t look in the jewelry box that often. When he’d win, he’d get the jewelry out of hock and put it back. Occasionally, Mrs. Chenay would notice something missing, but, considering her husband cured, never suspected he was the culprit.

“It went on like that for years, until Mr. Chenay had the misfortune to loose big at the same time Miss Jenkins came to work for him as a maid. Miss Jenkins found out about the loss and threatened to expose Chenay unless she was financially compensated. It put Chenay in quite a fix. He ended up having to dip deeper into the jewelry box than usual. What Chenay didn’t know was Jenkins was getting paid by Mrs. Chenay as well.” Chenay suddenly came to life, lifting his head for the first time since I started.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, leaning forward like he was about to jump out of his seat.

“Your wife was being blackmailed for having an affair with Alfred Blout,” I said. “That’s why your check to the country club didn’t clear. She’d been making large withdraws to pay off Jenkins, something you wouldn’t have done for fear your wife would notice. Jenkins confirmed it on the ride over.”

“She’s a damn liar!” Chenay shouted. Marie started to get up, probably intending to give him some of what she’d dished out to the doper, but Landry shoved her back down.

“He’s the liar!” she shouted. “He knew about it all! That’s why he killed her!” It was my turn to push someone down. I shoved Chenay back down hard and stood over him to make sure he stayed seated.

I waited for everyone to catch their breath, before continuing: “Your wife noticed the missing pearls, probably when she ran out of money in the bank and was thinking of pulling the same trick you were, but it was probably Blout who’d insisted on hiring a detective to find Jenkins. Blout had confronted her, and she’d come out of it with a sprained arm. She isn’t one to scare easy, but Blout had spooked her, causing her to go into hiding. Not knowing where she was, or what she intended to do was too much for him to handle. Of course, you didn’t know anything about that. You were more concerned with what Jenkins would say to your wife. That’s why you made sure you were around to gum up the works.”

I’d known Landry since our days together as Treasury Agents, and I could tell he was getting impatient by the way he tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor. I wondered how long it would be before he asked me to wrap it up for him.

“So which one of them is the killer?” Landry asked, as though reading my mind.

Neither of them,” I replied. “Blout did it. That’s why I asked you to have him picked up before he boarded a streamliner out of town. He was probably wearing his gardening apron with his hand spade in the pocket when they started quarreling. After he’d lost his head and killed her with the spade, he decided to pin it on Marie. Only he couldn’t help trying to implicate Chenay too. He concocted the story about the man in the white gloves, hoping people would see it as Chenay trying to disguise his disfigurement. Later he told me Chenay had been kicked out of the club where he’d learned about Chenay’s gambling, but I found out Chenay was still paying dues, or trying to, right up to the time of the murder. I think if you check, you’ll find Blout was the one who got the boot, probably for his violent temper. Then there was the floral brooch—I’m guessing it was modeled on an orchid—that was taken. You’ll probably find it on him when you pinch him. He’d taken it after the murder because he’d given it to her, but didn’t think she deserved it anymore. Even after hacking her up, he was still angry at her.”

Landry rushed out to the phone to call the train station. When he got back with the news Blout had been taken, he found me alone with Chenay with the wind blowing dead leaves in through the open French windows. Marie had kicked off her shoes and made a run for it, and with my bum leg there was no way I was going to catch her. Even with two good legs I wouldn’t have tried. I was too busy squeezing Chenay’s arm, searching for a pulse. I never did find one. As best as I could guess, he’d had a heart attack.

  Photo by Wren Meinberg on Unsplash

Allegra wasn’t going to miss Rafael. He was family but he’d also been a lecher and a lout and now he was dead. Still she was expected to look appropriately mournful at his funeral. This required some preparation.

Getting her haircut was a chore she disliked. She made an appointment with her favourite hairdresser, a stout forty year old.

Confined to her stylist’s chair Allegra impatiently flipped through the pages of a women’s magazine filled with gossip about movies stars. At the end of the session she took a moment to survey the results in the salon mirror. For a moment her cold blue eyes softened and a smile danced across her cruel lips. The dark brown tint was good, she decided. She stood by the cash and searched in her purse for her credit card holder. Her fingers moved gingerly so as not to touch the trigger of the handgun she always carried. The safety was on but one had to be cautious.

“I was sorry to hear about your Uncle Rafael,” the stylist said. “My condolences.” She made the sign of the cross and exhaled a little sigh.

“Heart attack,” Allegra said flatly. “He’d just left the restaurant, Ottava Via, with my brother Gino. Poor Rafael grasped his chest and collapsed.” The salon owner looked skeptical but said nothing. “The funeral is this afternoon.”

Allegra gave up looking for her credit card and handed the woman cash.

“Keep it,” she said referring to the large tip she’d grudgingly handed over.

Sitting in her Accord she looked in the sun visor mirror. Despite her annoyance at the process she was pleased with the long hairstyle that now framed her pretty face. At forty-three she looked ten years younger.

On the way home she stopped at a post office and mailed birthday cards to her twin daughters. They were in Paris for the summer studying French. She was proud of the girls. They were good students and obedient children. The twins meant everything to her.

At the house she changed out of the pants and top she had recently bought at an upscale shop in Yorkville and slipped into a funeral black dress. The bulky purse was replaced by a small shoulder bag.

Luca, Allegra’s husband, was a burly man with a wide friendly face. After they finished lunch he got behind the wheel of their white Lexus and the couple headed to the church for Rafael’s funeral mass. At Saint Francis’ they parked on the street under a red maple tree. Luca wore a dark blue suit and walked with the aid of a cane. “Work injury,” he told people if they asked. And in a way it was true. Most people were wise enough not to expect details.

Cars lined both sides of the road by the church. Police and reporters milled about, watching a long row of men and women dressed in expensive dark attire enter the sanctuary.

After the service the mourners made their way to the burial ground. Rafael’s interment was at Queen of Heaven Cemetery. At the graveside Luca took a minute to talk with Dr. Bianco, a short man in a fine black bespoke suit. Allegra chatted quietly with her mother and brother as shovels full of soil landed on the coffin now lying in a cold pit. The two women stopped whispering from time to time to wipe away deceitful tears.

The somber proceedings over Allegra and Luca drove home in silence.

In the living room she lit a cigarette and poured brandy for Luca and herself. “So what did the doctor say?” Her voice sounded tough, icy.

“It was definitely a hypodermic needle, Bianco told me. Rafael was dead before he hit the ground.”

Luca’s cell rang. “Yeah, I know something will have to be done about Gino but it won’t be me. I can’t move like I used to.” He stood up and began to pace, grimaced with pain, gave up and returned to the sofa. A minute later he got up again.

“Let’s go into the backyard.” He motioned to his wife and the couple stepped through French doors and walked down the stone pathway to the back fence. The yard bordered a ravine. Birds sang to one another. A blue jay looked down at them from the top branches of their plum tree. Luca held on to his cane as he leaned against the tree’s trunk.

“I needed to stretch my back, stand up for a bit. That idiot shouldn’t have called me on my personal cell, not about that anyway. Someone might be listening.”

“What did he want?” Allegra said impatiently.

“You have to talk to Gino soon or things will get ugly. He doesn’t understand the meaning of self-control. So Rafael ripped him off. It’s not nice but these things happen and you work it out. If you can’t work it out on your own, you consult with family before doing anything rash.” He shifted his weight and grunted. “God damn it. If only my legs still worked.”

Three years earlier someone broke Luca’s right leg due to a business misunderstanding. Not long afterward the other guy disappeared permanently.

“It’s not up to us,” Allegra said. “Gino refuses to behave properly. I doubt my talking to him would make any difference. Let someone else deal with him.” She frowned and after a long pause said, “it’s sure to be a waste of time but I might talk to him anyway.”

“All you can do is try and make him understand.” Leaning on his cane Luca limped back to the sofa in the living room.

“Hand me one of those Demerols.”

She brought him a glass of water and one of the painkillers. He swallowed the white pill, stretched out on the couch and was soon asleep. Allegra pitied the now disabled man she was married to.

Business had been good before Luca was injured. Allegra now looked after the warehouse. For the past three years under her management business was even better than when Luca had been in charge. Importing furniture and other items from Italy and Mexico turned a nice profit.

When she first took over running the depot the employees called her Allegra, then after a while, Mrs. Carbone, and now Ms Carbone. She knew that behind her back they also called her bitch. She didn’t care. Call me whatever you want, just do what I say.

The workers weren’t the only ones that now referred to her as a bitch. Family would also whisper the term with trepidation. She smiled sardonically whenever she thought of how others now trembled at the sight of her.

The day after Rafael’s funeral she was the first person at work. In the warehouse parking lot she moved one of the 16-foot cube trucks to a far corner of the yard. It had to make way for a transport truck expected to arrive soon. In the cavernous depot she climbed into the seat of a forklift and used the machine to relocate a wooden pallet. On the pallet lay boxes filled with side tables from Italy.

When the first workers made their way into the warehouse locker room, she entered her office. Her name and title were stenciled on the door’s frosted window, Allegra Carbone, Vice President. She sat down at her desk and booted up the computer. The room was comfortable but plain. Behind her, two dirty windows obscured by blinds, looked out on the paved yard. A faint scent of tobacco smoke and diesel lingered in the office. Three wing-chairs, looking out of place, were shoved against one wall. Against the other gray wall a plush couch stood under a framed photo of the Vatican. The office, like the rest of the warehouse, was lit by harsh white LED bulbs. The unkind light reminded Allegra of the prisons she’d visited to meet relatives and business associates who were inmates.

For a fleeting moment Allegra thought about the previous day’s funeral then leaned back in her chair, lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The shipment to arrive this morning from Mexico was larger than usual. Handmade colonial style accent tables, glass mosaic folding tables and wooden cabinets.

When the tractor-trailer showed up the crew worked quickly to unload it. They were instructed not to open the boxes. After Allegra briefly inspected the contents, she contacted the manufacturer in Mexico from her office phone.

“Yes, Miguel it arrived. Everything appears okay. It’s busy around here but I’ll have a closer look later and let you know if there’s a problem.”

She took a quick puff on her cigarette then walked outside. The strap of her bag hung across her chest. She liked to keep it close. A dozen similar cross-body bags in different colors were stored in her walk-in closet at home.

She fished around in her purse for her cell phone then dialed her brother. “Gino, I want you to come by the warehouse after six tonight, okay?”

The sooner they met the sooner she could explain to him how he might be able to appease the people who were now out to eliminate him.

“What’s up?”

“I need some help with a shipment.”

“I’m busy tonight. Find someone else.”

“Find someone else?” Her voice dropped to a low growl. “No, you drag your ass over here at six. Got it?”

Long pause. “Yeah, fine,” he said sounding deflated.

What had happened to the sweet boy she’d grown up with? He’d been a good student and popular. After he went off to university in Kingston he changed. At first he had plans. He was going to study Latin and Italian then go for his PhD in Italy. But at Queens he became lazy and started looking for ways to make easy money. Still somehow he graduated, found a nice girl in Woodbridge from a good family. There was talk of marriage but he stole from her and she dumped him.

Now he lived with a waitress, a bird-like woman desperate to be loved even if was by a deceiving bastard like Gino. He betrayed her time and again. Allegra pitied her. He’d taken big chances for small, miserable prizes. His girlfriend refused to recognize how risky his stunts were.

Standing in the parking lot Allegra reminded herself that he was also a treacherous man, just look at what happened to Rafael. Even members of the family were careful to watch their backs when Gino was around.

She didn’t like having to call him. Normally she would have asked her foreman to assist her. They were close and occasionally they made love on her office sofa. But he was far off in Palermo at his dying grandmother’s side. Anyway this would give her a chance to have a frank chat with her brother.

At a little after five the last employee drove out of the company yard. In the warehouse Allegra climbed onto a forklift truck and retrieved a pallet stacked with cardboard boxes. She moved it close to the office door. With a box opener she cut through the tape of the first carton. Wearing latex gloves she gently removed a lovely accent table. Her heart raced with anticipation. Using a rubber mallet she tapped on one of the legs until it became dislodged from the rest of the table. She examined the hollowed-out leg with a flashlight. From her office she brought out long stainless steel food tongs. Her hands trembled slightly as she retrieved one of the clear plastic bags filled with white powder and carried it to her office desk.

Her cell phone rang. It was her husband calling. “Hi Luca, are you okay?”

“Yeah just wondering where you put the remote.”

She took a deep breath and felt her shoulders relax. “Oh, look by the banana plant in the den.”

“Why the hell did you put it there?” Pause. “I got it now, thanks.”

From her office window she noticed a shiny new Lamborghini Urus drive into the warehouse parking lot. It stopped on the side facing the railroad tracks. Two men got out of the SUV. She was expecting only Gino.

“What a surprise,” she said as she met the men at back door of the depot. “Raul, nice to see you.”

But it was not nice to see him. Raul was the son of her eldest sister, an awful man, one of the family members she’d had to visit when he was in prison. He had spent four years locked up at a Kingston correctional facility for beating two men to a pulp. Raul reminded her of a comic book ogre, hairy and hulking with a face to match.

“So things must be going well if you can afford to be driving a Lamborghini,” Allegra said.

“Yeah, things are going real well,” Raul said icily.

The pair, she was convinced, had come to steal from her. Uncle Rafael’s sudden death meant Gino needed money to disappear, probably to some tropical island backwater.

“Hi Alley Cat,” Gino said. It was a nickname he dredged up periodically from their childhood, a name she loathed. And he knew it.

Allegra acted as if none of this was unwelcome. They got to work and gingerly removed bags of heroin from hollowed-out furniture legs. It took time but the end was eventually in sight. Allegra knew she had to act before that, before the end. She considered running for her car. But that would be suicidal. Instead she went to the washroom. From the bottom of her handbag she removed a Beretta Nano 9mm loosely wrapped in a silk scarf. She had no legal right to own a gun. It had been a gift from Luca smuggled in from the US. The weapon was small, light and lethal. Perfect for a woman’s hand. She made sure the safety was off, wrapped the pistol back in the scarf then rested her index finger on the trigger. She had never shot anyone and hoped she wouldn’t have to.

When she stepped out of the washroom the two men were waiting for her. While Gino looked at her with a sunny smile on his face Raul appeared grim. He waved a Glock in his right hand. Not the prettiest gun but reliable and deadly.

“I’m afraid we’re taking the crack and you’re going to have to hand over the cash in the safe,” the ogre said. “We’ll also need your credit cards.”

“Credit cards...?” To Allegra this indicated they were going to kill her. “I need a cigarette,” she said.

The split second the men’s brains were trying to digest the idea of her smoking a cigarette was all she needed. She didn’t wait but fired three bullets into Raul then two into Gino. They fell to the floor. Dead silence followed. She walked over to the bodies, gave each one a hard kick. Neither moved. Raul’s eyes and mouth were open in astonishment. Mercifully Gino’s eyes were shut. For a second she thought she might vomit. She turned away from the gruesome sight and puffed on a cigarette before putting on latex gloves.

Tears streamed down her face as she took the cash from their wallets then placed the wallets back in their pockets. She was hoping that if the bodies were found, the cops might think it was a robbery gone wrong. She turned off Gino and Raul’s cell phones and returned them to their jackets. She chain-smoked, waiting until after sunset. Then she raised the bodies with a forklift and carried them to the dumpster outside. She also tossed Raul’s gun into the same bin. It was three more hours before the garbage truck arrived and emptied the dumpster into its rear loader where the garbage was compacted.

In a few hours the bodies would be deposited in a vast dump outside Detroit along with the rest of Toronto’s garbage. No one would ever find them. The corpses now gone, she carefully hosed down the concrete floor in the warehouse. It was time to get rid of Raul’s vehicle. The stars were out and the air felt cool against her skin. Wearing fresh latex gloves she drove the SUV to a suburban strip mall a mile west and parked between a pickup truck and a Jeep. As she got out and prepared to walk back to the warehouse, a police cruiser stopped in front of her.

Two cops jumped out. They looked agitated.

“You lady, don’t move!” said the female officer. Her right hand hovered above her holstered pistol. “I need you to turn around slowly and keep your hands away from your sides where I can see them. Now gently lower your purse to the ground and take one step forward.” The cop picked up the purse.

The policeman returned to the cruiser for a couple of minutes then rejoined his partner and Allegra.

“Yes, it’s definitely the stolen Lamborghini,” he said to the other cop.

The police woman put on gloves and rummaged around Allegra’s purse.

“And look what I found in here.” She gave the handbag to her partner. With her right hand she held up the Beretta to the moonlight.

A tear formed in the corner of Allegra’s eye but she willed it not to fall.

A long time ago, in a land far away, there lived a poor orphan boy who had nothing but his hunger and a small creature who lived in his ear. The creature would give the boy advice on where to go, what to eat, and how to live. Sometimes the advice got the boy into trouble, but the creature always got him back out of trouble. And every night, the creature would chirp a lullaby into the boy’s ear until he fell asleep. For this reason, the boy called his friend “Cricket.” The two had been together for as long as the boy could remember.

One bright and warm day as they walked along the road, the pair heard a great noise in a distant town. “That sounds like a celebration,” said Cricket. “Go there. Parties always have lots of food.” The boy agreed.

The town was celebrating the return of its king. The boy grabbed fruits, breads and sweets from open tables. When he came to the town square, a glorious parade was passing by. The king was dressed in magnificent finery, but it was a girl at the king’s side who caught the boy’s eye. “Who is that girl?” he asked a man beside him.

“That’s the princess, the most adored maiden in all the kingdom,” said the man.

Indeed, the girl was beautiful. Golden hair flowed from the top of her head down to her waist. A heart-shaped face framed a tiny nose, full lips, and large round eyes that sparkled like two stars. Wherever she walked a hush would fall over the crowd, in awe of her beauty and grace.

“Oh, that girl is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen!” said the boy to Cricket, but Cricket already knew what the boy was thinking. “Take care boy, or you will lose your heart, and once lost, a heart is very difficult to get back.”

“I think it is too late,” sighed the boy. “For I shall die if I cannot gaze into that lovely face every day for the rest of my life.”

“You are a fool,” said Cricket. “Nevertheless, I can tell what you say is true. You should go to the king and ask for the princess’ hand in marriage.”

“Oh! That’s a marvelous idea!” said the boy.

“Head for the castle,” said Cricket. “The party will continue there. Ask for the girl’s hand during the happy feasting, and the king might agree.”

Indeed, it was easy for the boy to pass through the great halls of the castle, right to the very court of the king himself. He arrived just as the king sat down on his throne, with the princess at his side.

“What do I do?” asked the boy.

“Throw yourself down on your knees before the king and call out, ‘Your majesty! May I ask a favor?’ If he agrees, then say, ‘please give me the hand of the fair princess in marriage, for I love her more than anything else in this world,’ and then hope the king will say yes.”

So, the boy did as Cricket said. He threw himself down on his knees before the king and called out in a loud voice, “Your majesty! May I ask a favor?”

The crowd quieted, amazed at the temerity of this poor peasant boy, and nervous how the king would respond.

“What is your request?” said the king, a clever man with sharp eyes and a stout face. He looked down at this impudent boy in the hopes of some amusement.

The boy lifted his head and looked the king square in the face. He spoke as Cricket advised him. “Please give me the hand of the fair princess in marriage, for I love her more than anything else in the world!”

This time the entire assembly fell into a stupefied silence, horrified that the boy could be so presumptuous. All eyes went to the king.

The king’s own eyes narrowed. His lower lip pushed upwards, and his broad chin dimpled as he considered the outrageous request from this worthless urchin from the street.

Then he burst out laughing. The throng did the same, and the room was filled with the sound of laughter.

“Poor peasant boy,” said the king. “To marry my daughter, you must prove yourself worthy. Come back here with a halo on top of your head, and then will I give my consent.” The king chuckled and pointed at the door. “Now go! Fulfill this quest I have given you but take care. If you fail, I shall cut off your head!”

Then he burst out laughing again. Guards took the boy by the arms and led him back outside. And so, the boy was on his own, walking down the road as he had always done.

“That was not good advice,” the boy said to Cricket.

“Perhaps not,” said the creature. “If you fail, we shall avoid that place. But I have an idea. There is a glen in an old forest. No one has gone there for ages, but I have heard that a saint was martyred there. Perhaps this glen can help you find the halo you seek.”

And so, the boy, with the guidance of Cricket, found the old forest and the glen. In the middle of the glen sat a stone with some words inscribed on it.

“I cannot read the words, Cricket. What do I do?”

“Do you see anything else?” asked Cricket.

“I see blood on the stone.”

“Touch the blood,” said Cricket. “Then you will be able to read the words.”

The boy touched the blood and found the Cricket’s advice was true.

“Now read the words aloud,” said Cricket.

“I cannot just read the words,” said the boy. “The words are lyrics set to music.”

“Then sing the words according to the music,” said Cricket.

And so, the boy began to sing.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus
Dominus Deus Sabaoth
Pleni sunt cæli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis.
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Hosanna in excelsis.

The boy sang the chorus again and again. He could not stop, for a spirit had taken hold of him. Then the greens and browns of the land, and the blues of the sky changed to white, and the trees transformed into magnificent angels, tall as trees themselves. The angels had shining wings and sang in voices that made the air shimmer. They, like the boy, were singing the song.

Then, one by one, the angels fell silent and drew away from the boy, until the boy was singing all by himself once more. The boy’s voice did not make the air shimmer, but his pitch was pure and true. Some of the angels looked like they were about to burst out laughing. Some had faces contorted into scowls. A few were weeping. But all were staring at the boy.

“That’s enough singing, boy,” said Cricket. “Stop singing and see if they will speak to you. And get on your knees! Even the king himself is nothing next to these beings!”

The boy stopped singing and fell to his knees, and the angel who had been at the head of the choir, who seemed to be the leader, flew down and alighted in front of boy.

“My child,” said the lead angel. “How did you arrive at this place?”

The boy trembled because he knew he was kneeling before an angel of singular power. The tallest angel of them all had robes that shone like the moon and wings that could make the wind blow at their slightest stirring. Nevertheless, the boy screwed up his courage, and told his tale about the forest, the glen, the stone, the blood, and how he began to sing. The angels looked at one another and spoke in hushed murmurs. Then the lead angel held up his hand.

“All is well, child. None have approached this stone and sung its song in a long time. Indeed, your people have forgotten their creator and the heavenly host. And so, I may give you a wish. Is there anything you would like to have?”

“Now is your chance,” said Cricket. “Ask for the halo. But try to be polite about it.”

The boy began to speak. “Thank you, oh wondrous angel. There is one thing I would like to have—if it is not too much—and that is a halo. May I please have one of my own?”

The angels fell back to murmuring, and the boy raised his eyes and looked around. But again, the lead angel held up his hand.

“All is well,” he said. “You shall have a halo of your own.” He reached up into the whiteness of the heavens, higher than the boy could see. He brought down a shining band of light just like the halos that the angels themselves wore. And the lead angel affixed it to the top of the boy’s head.

“Thank you,” said the boy, filled with wonder that the halo lit his own surroundings. “Now I must leave and present myself before the king and show him that I have done as he requested.”

“Farewell, then, my child,” said the lead angel. “And remember, if you wish to return, you need only come to the glen and sing the song again. Farewell.”

The boy began to walk, and with each step, the angels looked more and more like trees, and the heavenly whiteness turned back into the land and sky.

The afternoon sun warmed the boy’s face as he walked back to the town, guided by Cricket. The clouds and the whole heavens looked close to the ground, like they were trying to embrace the earth below. Vast fields, heavy with grain and fruit, gave assurance of the abundance of the lands and the boy sang the stone’s lyrics as he walked.

When he arrived at the town, the people were astonished to see the boy wearing the halo as the king commanded. By the time the castle came into view, a vast throng had assembled behind him.

But as he approached the gates, a powerful longing seized the boy. “Oh Cricket! My heart aches to the point that it will burst! For I long to be singing with the angels again. I never could have imagined their glories before, and now everything is different.”

“You are a fool,” said Cricket. “First you will die if you don’t have the princess—now your heart will burst if you are not singing with those angels. Will you not make up your mind? But if that is what you want, you need only do as the lead angel instructed. Return to the glen and sing the song. Then you will be back with the angels.”

And so, the haloed boy pushed his way through the townspeople, who fell back as he approached. He returned to the glen in the forest and began to sing—and just as before, the greens and blues of the land and the sky transformed into magnificent whiteness, and the trees transformed into angels. The boy sang with them as before, happy as he had ever been. And, as before, the angels fell silent to listen to the boy. The lead angel flew down and alighted before him.

“You have returned, my child. Why? Did you not present yourself to the king?”

“No, I did not,” said the boy. “I no longer desire the things of the earth. I only wish to be with the choirs here, and to sing their glorious praises forevermore!”

The angels fell into a murmuring, and their movements were animated. The lead angel held up his hand. “All is well,” he said. “You shall be one of us this very day. You shall have wings like us, a voice like us and a body like us. You shall have our powers, and you shall be free of the woes, the blights and the vermin of the earth—like that creature that dwells in your head.”

The boy put a hand over his ear. “Vermin? You mean Cricket? But he is my friend. I cannot leave him. Not this way.”

The lead angel knelt down beside the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “We have no other way,” he said.

The boy’s heart was breaking, for a terrible decision loomed before him. Nevertheless, he delayed his answer only long enough to draw breath.

“No,” he said. And his head shook. “I cannot join your glorious choir.”

The boy reached up, removed the halo from his head and held it up to the lead angel. “I am sorry, but I must go. Thank you for all you have done for me.”

And as the boy looked into the lead angel’s face and the faces of all the angels, he saw great sadness and great joy—like the parents of a bride and groom—sad to see their offspring leave, but happy at the future ahead of them.

The lead angel accepted the halo and placed it back into the impenetrable whiteness of the heavens. “Bless you, my child. Your gifts, your faithfulness have served you well, and I foresee that your life will bring great blessings to the entire world.”

And so, the boy took his leave. As he walked, the angels and the whiteness transformed into the rich colors of the old forest, which was rapidly descending into night. The boy was very tired. He lay down at the base of an old oak and made ready to sleep.

“You are a fool, boy,” said Cricket. “You have lost the princess, the angels, and your halo. You have lost everything.”

“I have lost nothing,” said the boy. “I still have the song, which has been my key to all I truly desire. And I still have you, my friend, without whom I could not imagine living—even for a moment.”

The boy felt a stirring in his ear, like the soft throbs of an old woman weeping. “Thank you,” said Cricket. “I am truly the luckiest creature alive to have a friend like you.”

And the creature chirped a lullaby for the boy.

“Is that her?”

“No, Mr. Elam. The tuner’s still here. He’s playing some chords to make sure the piano is tuned.”

“But she is coming?”

“Yes, she’ll be here.”

“When?”

“Soon.” Frieda, his home health aide, straightened the oxygen feed under Elam’s nose. She glanced at the display on his pulse oximeter. Any lower and you’re going to the hospital whether you want to or not. The doorbell rang. “I bet that’s her now. I’ll go see.”

She reached the foyer as the tuner closed his tool kit. “Fine old piano. I remember tuning it for Mrs. Elam a while back. I take it she passed.”

“Some time ago,” said Frieda. “It was before my time.”

“Nice lady. That’ll be a hundred and seventy-five.”

Frieda pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it over. “Hope you don’t mind cash.”

“That’s fine.” He took the envelope and opened the door. A young lady stood on the small porch. She held a portfolio. “Scuse me,” he said, squeezing past her.

“You must be Donna,” said Frieda. “Sorry, didn’t mean for you to have to wait out there.

"I’m Frieda. I’m the one who called. Come in.” Donna stepped into the foyer. To her right, a wide arch opened into the living room. An upright piano stood against the wall.

“In there?” she asked.

“Yes. That was the piano tuner you passed on the porch. Apparently, it hasn’t been played for several years. But it sounds as good as new to me.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Donna.

“You get set up. I’ll go make sure he’s awake,” said Frieda. “You’re going to warm up aren’t you? He wants you to.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Once you have warmed up, you may play the piece. Mr. Elam will not be joining you. He will listen from his bedroom.”

“Okay.” Donna hesitated before asking, “You want only this piece? I brought sheet music for others. There’s no extra charge.”

“He asked for only one. When you’re finished, I let him know you have more if he wants.”

Frieda walked down the hall to Elam’s bedroom. His eyes were closed. She checked his pulse oximeter. Holding. She gently shook his shoulder. “Mr. Elam, Donna is here to play for you. She’s warming up now.” Soft notes floated down the hall and seeped into the bedroom. “Do you hear?”

Elam opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes, yes,” he whispered. “It's beautiful.”

Donna played her scales, chords, and arpeggios for about ten minutes before she paused. Pulling some sheet music from her portfolio, she placed it on the piano’s music shelf and began to play.

“Sounds like she’s started,” said Frieda. “You sure you don’t want me to get you in your wheelchair and take you to the living room? You’ll be able to hear it a lot better there. It's no problem. I can have her wait.”

“No. That would ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“Frieda, do you know what piece she is playing?”

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“It's the Petit Adagio for piano by Glazunov,” said Elam, “my favorite piece. Margaret learned it for me years ago.”

“Very nice. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the living room?”

“Frieda, you don’t understand.” Elam began sucking in short breaths.

Frieda took a quick look at the display. Heart rate too high, O2 sagging. “Calm down, Mr. Elam,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “Remember, slow deep breaths.”

A few moments elapsed before his breathing settled down. Frieda checked the monitor. That’s better. “Now what was that you were saying?”

“You see,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave sin. “I never went into the living room while she played. I didn’t need to. Her music was everywhere. Always there for me. It was part of what made this a home. I never told Margaret, but sometimes…He held up his hand. “Listen, this next part is lovely. ”The music reached a crescendo, then gently settled back into the melody. Elam dropped his hand. “… sometimes when I was watching TV down in the basement, I would mute the sound to listen to her play. The very walls and floor of this house acted as her soundboard. Her music filled my life.”

Frieda watched his monitor. Okay, everything’s settled down. “You need to watch getting so excited, Mr. Elam. It’s not good for you.”

Elam smiled. “She was a music teacher, you see. Always practicing something on her piano. She had it before we got married. I can’t think of her without hearing that piano. Sometimes she would sing while she played. So beautiful. Me, I never could sing.” He held up his hand again, and they listened in silence. Finally, the music ended and Elam lowered his hand.

“Donna brought more sheet music,” said Frieda. “She said she would play some more if you wanted.”

Elam smiled. “I want to hear the Adagio again. Did you put a bonus in her envelope?”

“Yes,”

“Good. Take it to her and tell her it is wonderful.”

“Be right back,” said Frieda, picking up an envelope from the dresser. Donna was still seated at the piano when she arrived. “Donna, he wants to hear the Adagio again. And he asked me to thank you and give you this.” She handed her the envelope. “He said you play beautifully. When you are done, can you let yourself out? I need to get back to Mr. Elam.

“Yes, and tell Mr. Elam I am happy to come anytime.”

“I will,” said Frieda. “Now if you will excuse me.”

She stopped in the hallway, listening as the soft melody flowed past her on its way to Elam. It is very beautiful. I’ll let him enjoy his music without interruption.

When she finally reached his room, he was still, eyes closed, lips smiling. Having no need anymore, he had removed his oxygen tube and turned off his pulse oximeter.

CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a pushcart nominated writer and communication professor with accolades in film, academia, and creative writing who speaks, signs, acts, publishes, sings, performs, writes, paints, teaches and rarely relaxes.  She has presented over 50 times at communication conferences, published 15 academic articles, two academic books, three full-length literary collections: God Bless Paul, Soup Stories: A Reconstructed Memoir, and Writing Our Love Story, and three chapbooks: The Way We Were, Tumbleweed:  Against All Odds, and The Villain Wore a Hero’s Face.  She is raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra, CA. 

W.P. Gerace grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and moved to Phoenix Arizona back in 2013 with his partner Carlos and their fur baby Skittles. He currently works full-time for a major bank in the Quality Assurance Department from home. An avid fan of horror and science fiction since he was a young adult he loves to read horror stories. His favorite authors are Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Additionally, he is a fan of crime and police detective shows. His favorites are Forensic Files, NCIS,  and Criminal Minds. He loves writing horror and science fiction.

As on most days, Lenny was obsessed watching the construction of the new building next door from the comfort of his eighth-floor high-rise condo. He was fascinated with the order and planning of the project. A part of him daydreamed that he was the construction project manager of the project, responsible for all aspects from pre-design to close-out, and guiding the construction crew in transforming the vacant lot into a state-of-the-art, seven-story biotech building with office and lab space.

As he watched that day, three men were busy excavating large pits that he assumed would be used to help anchor the building foundation. The backhoe operator finished scooping the final shovel of dirt from a pit. He efficiently transferred the dirt onto a large pile adjacent to the hole. Then one of the workers gave the operator a hand signal that Lenny had not seen before. Suddenly, without warning, the operator brought the shovel careening into the second worker knocking him into the hole. Lenny was horrified.

Just then, another worker standing nearby wrestled a hose from a nearby cement mixer over the hole and sprayed a stream of wet cement onto the fallen worker. Within seconds, the man was buried alive by the thick, gray paste until there wasn’t a trace of him left. The backhoe operator walked up to the two other construction workers and slapped them on the backs. They all seemed in jovial spirits.

The dead man must have been a real asshole, Lenny thought.

The backhoe operator happened to glance up and catch Lenny looking at them from above. The others glanced up, too. After a few seconds, the operator tipped his hardhat at Lenny. Lenny obligingly nodded back.

Anything that improved morale and kept the project on schedule was okay in Lenny’s book.

Phillip Temples resides in Watertown, Massachusetts. He's had five mystery-thriller novels, a novella, and four short story anthologies published in addition to over 190 short stories online.  Phil is a member of GrubStreet and the Bagel Bards. You can learn more about him at https://temples.com.