Balls

Confederate John Singleton Mosby and two other scouts, riding behind Union lines along Virginia's Pamunkey River in the area of Hanover and King William counties, came upon a Union supply wagon, which they promptly captured.  Mosby left one man to guard the wagon and its team, and rode on with the other.  Further upriver, after discovering two Union supply schooners at dock, he sent the other scout back to inform Gen. J.E.B. Stuart, and rode on alone.

Mosby soon came upon a company of Pennsylvania cavalry, mounted and drawn up in a line across the road. 

Evening was drawing nigh and Mosby's horse had tired from the daylong ride.  He knew if he turned to flee, the Union riders could overtake him with their fresh mounts.  He pulled up at the crest of a hill, made a show of drawing his saber and turned in the saddle, waving it in the air as if beckoning followers.  "Come on, boys!" he shouted, "Come on!"

The Pennsylvania troopers executed a smart wheel-around and vanished in a cloud of dust down the road. 

From the book If the Woodsman is Late 

When the buck stops

I saw surprise distort Albert's face when he appeared in the doorway that separated his office from what he called “the big office”. He was holding the morning mail pouch, which he ordinarily carries to my working office across the oval room where I sit now.

“Good morning Albert,” I said. My voice came out unusually light, almost cheerful. I found myself giving him the smile I usually save for the public.

“Good morning, ma'am,” he said, after quickly composing himself. He added, “You're here early.”

I held the smile and nodded. “I am. This is an important day and I just felt like getting a head start.”

“Yes, ma'am, I left a note on your...other desk that the ambassador has taken ill and won't be in this morning as scheduled.”

“Oh? Well, that's just as well. Gives me more time to prepare.” He set the mail pouch on the corner of the Truman Desk, bowed slightly and hesitated. I knew he was concerned about my haggard appearance, but I had no desire to tell him what was wrong and he knew better than to ask. “Thanks, Albert,” I said, and he bowed again and returned to his office.

The stress I've been feeling the previous couple of weeks has been unprecedented, ever since the second call came in. This call had no video, but I dreaded it as I had dreaded nothing else. The call came after breakfast as I walked from our living quarters down to the West Wing. I recognized the unique ring tone that had heralded the first call, the trumpet flourishes that introduce Hail to the Chief.

The first call had come on Inauguration Day as my husband and I were getting ready for bed. There was a short video and the text message: “Congratulations! We'll be in touch.”

Bill was in the bathroom. The video ended before he came out. I didn't tell him, partly because I didn't wish to spoil the moment and also because I was unable to save the images. There was no evidence of what I had just seen.

The video was old. Its colors were faded and marked by scratches and the other signs of deterioration incurred by film over time. What the video depicted was a familiar scene, one I had seen many times over the years, filmed by a man named Abraham Zapruder. The only difference was this film had been shot from a higher elevation and at a considerable distance from where Zapruder was standing. This was looking down from what we know as The Grassy Knoll.

I decided not to tell anyone about the call, sensing intuitively it was not a prank, that the video was real and represented a conspiracy so enduring and complex I knew I couldn't trust anybody with what I'd seen. I served the next two years with a darkness on my heart. I avoided the Oval Office except when absolutely necessary, feeling its mockery of the neutered office it represented. Finally two years later came the moment of truth.

In an Oval Office ceremony later today I am to sign the most controversial piece of legislation of my presidency thus far. It's the health care reform bill we should have gotten in 2010. It passed Congress by the slimmest of margins. It could not withstand a veto. The second phone call informed me a veto was expected. My constituents will disown me if I do so. I would sooner die.

Nov. 22, 1963

 

The day Gert had my back

My dad began morphing into Kasper Guttman at the Selective Service office in Portage, Wis.   We'd driven there to appeal a notice I received lifting my student draft deferment after I flunked out of college for the third time.  The notice said I'd be re-classified 1-A unless I could persuade the local draft board otherwise.

It was spring 1963. U.S. military involvement in Vietnam was growing. Our role was still classified as advisory, but more and more American troops and war materials were showing up in that distant land every day. I was more annoyed than worried.  I didn't especially want to be a soldier, but the prospect of adventure had a vague attraction.  My dad was dead set against my being drafted.

We'd talked a little about my strategy on the hour-long drive from Columbus. Were I enrolled in a community college I might get to keep my deferment. Trouble was, I was tired of school.  I had lousy study habits.  I had graduated with honors from high school, but it was a small school and the coursework wasn't rigorous. I hadn't developed enough self-discipline to cope with the independence, academic demands and social distractions of a major university. Maybe I could handle a smaller college, something more like my high school.

“Are you enrolled?” The woman behind the desk was the only person in the small office. Her hair was gray, but she was no sweet, cheek-pinching grandma. No smile, no friendly greeting, flat voice. All business, this bureaucrat.

“Umm...”

My dad took over. “Not yet,” he said, “But he intends to apply as soon as possible.” There was some question as to whether my academic status might prevent me from enrolling in any college. We hadn't looked into that yet.

The woman's eyes never left mine. She asked another question or two, and each time my dad responded before I could say a word. Finally, she turned from me and addressed my dad. “Who is the applicant here, you or him?” She motioned with her head back at me, her voice arched with sarcasm.

Our little session was over.  My dad abruptly stood. “Thank you,” he snapped, then, to me, “Let's go.” We did.

Just outside the office, loudly enough so the woman could hear him through the glass door, my dad told me not to worry, that he had some kind of legal leverage over one of the draft board members. A slap in the face couldn't have hurt me more than those words. I was stunned, but not so much that I couldn't feel the unfamiliar emotion that was born at that moment somewhere inside my heart. It started as a spark of disbelief and quickly burst into disillusionment. Despite the frailties I had come to see in my dad – and there was a fair bill of particulars, considering his lawyerly self-loathing arrogance – my sense of his personal honor had never been in doubt. Seeing him now in a Sydney Greenstreet role, the kind of wheeling dealing villain who did what he had to do to get what he wanted no matter how foul or who might get hurt, The Maltese Falcon's Kasper Guttman, was my first unsentimental glimpse of the man I had once wanted to be.

We drove home in silence. Next day I told my mother I was going to enlist in the Army. That evening, my dad tried to talk me out of it, hurling the usual clichés about throwing my life away and how dare I do this to them. I didn't budge. Then he played his trump card.

“You realize you're killing your mother with this, don't you? Your mother is dying a little every minute because of this.” 

My anger was more controlled than I believe it had ever been. It was hard and cold and determined. I looked at my mother, who sat in a separate chair next to his.

“Are you, Gert? Are you dying a little every minute because I've decided to join the Army?” Our eyes locked. Ordinarily she'd have glanced at her husband before answering a question so clearly defiant of his authority. Instead she smiled, shook her head slightly and murmured, “No.”

From the book If the Woodsman is Late

Lloyd & Gert, R.I.P.

Doubting Dylan

Do not go raging into that bleak night,

Old age should know frustration's not the way;

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

Wise men at their end know it be quite

Demeaning to our dignity to bray,

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Bad men blame the universe with spite

For taking their proud fantasies away,

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

Dreamers at last see what's wrong and right,

And know that what they wanted would not stay,

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Brave men, dying, who're forced to quit the fight,

Realize then there's nothing left to say,

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

And you, my friend, with verbiage so bright,

Remind me now as darkness comes my way:

Do not embarrass others with your fright.

Float, float when all about you's losing light.

Review of Dead Man's Gun and Other Western Stories by Ed Gorman

Of all the valuable stories in this collection "The Face" alone is worth many times more than the $2.99 you commit to download the book. Many times more. It is a masterpiece of craft, sensibility and sheer artistry. If you are uncomfortable with the image of the revolver pointing out from the cover of "Dead Man's Gun", you may find solace in regarding it as a symbol of the cruel, true and timeless poetry "The Face" will fire into the depths of your heart. For this price, every high school history and English teacher in the country can afford to download it in the classroom, and every high school student should be assigned to read it. There need be no test given afterward. "The Face" will stay with them the rest of their lives, as it will with their teachers and with you, as it will with me. This I can guarantee without fear of contradiction by any who have read this brief, profound, elegant, haunting story, no matter their religion, their politics or their station in life.

I came to "The Face" because I am a longtime admirer of its author, Ed Gorman, a prolific, masterful spinner of tales in almost every genre imaginable. This book contains the first of his western stories I've read, and although westerns are not ordinarily my cup of tea those in "Dead Man's Gun" are no less entertaining and enlightening than his mysteries and political thrillers - my preferred genres. "The Face", in fact, falls outside all three of these categories. It's a story from the American Civil War, as told by a Confederate battlefield surgeon. I'm something of a Civil War buff, having grown up in the Midwest and lived most of my adult life in Virginia. I do not exaggerate when I say "The Face" is the most sublime, horrifying and memorable Civil War story I have read. It may well be the most powerful anti-war story ever published. I would not be at all surprised to learn that many if not most as they read "The Face" will hear in their minds and hearts, as did I, the hallowed strains of that old plantation gospel song, "Down by the Riverside" with its achingly hopeful refrain, "Ain't gonna study war no more." 

Click to order

    

Sacrifice (excerpt)

The Game is Afoot

It's a good thing I had to pee before we started up the hidden stairs to head into battle, because by the time I got back to the group waiting at the base of the stairs our plan was changing. And a good thing it was. Evidently Gladys was the one who brought up the likelihood Pink's life no longer was necessarily valuable to anyone but himself.

“Look at it this way,” she argued. “Nigeria wants him alive because he's the only one who knows how to make the enhanced Vulcana, which they want so they can blackmail the developed countries, the oligarchies. That was my job, to get him safely to Nigeria. You can bet Wilde Labs has no interest in the enhanced formula. Their only interest is profits. They think I can make the basic stuff, which is where the money is. They don't need Pink, long as they've got me.”

“What if they think you're dead?” This was Joan.

“A lot depends on how much Hendrian knows,” said Gladys. “He hired Chesapeake, but he might not know Elliot's dead. There's got to be some confusion in the ranks. The zombies are just kids. They don't know shit, except for the head zombie, who's probly Kelleher, their chief operations officer. This is their first field op. I can see Kelleher leading the team. I can see him taking Elliot down, too. Those two never got along.”

“What we need to know is whether Kelleher - if that's who it is - is more than a tactical commander,” said Joan. “If Elliot was the contact point with Hendrian, Kelleher might have killed the critical link in his chain of command. Those zombies may not know who to shoot and who to protect.”

“When in doubt, shoot. That's how we train,” said Ashmore.

“Lemme see if I got this right,” I said. “Our goal is to get to Hendrian without losing anybody. We think Hendrian's interested only in the basic formula, so he doesn't need Pink. All he needs is Gladys, unless he thinks Gladys is dead. Gladys, did the head zombie ever see you?”

“Not that I know of, Al. I got here before the zombies arrived. Came back dressed as a courier. Said I was from Wilde's main office. Nobody recognized me and I pretty much stayed in the lab until Elliot got here.”

“Hard to imagine anyone who knew you not recognizing you, Gladys,” I said.

“Well, thank you, Al, I'm sure, but I'm pretty good with disguises. I'll bet I could have fooled even Mr. Pinkerton.” She shot a grin Pink's way, which he ignored.

As our resolve began wavering I expected Pink to have second thoughts about volunteering to approach a zombie unarmed and attempt to wrestle him into position for a dart shot to an armpit from Cromwell. If he was reconsidering this audacity, he gave no sign, and instead pushed us closer to accepting the plan.

“Nobody knows what the fuck's going on. That's what I think,” Pink said, surprising me out of some intense wondering what alternatives we might have.

“They're just gamer punks. Maybe they've seen a photo of me and maybe of Gladys, but after what just happened all they're doing is trying to catch us and protect Hendrian. They're not gonna deliberately kill anybody, unless Hendrian tells them to. The leader killed Elliot because Elliot was acting crazy, it sounds like. The other zombie killed the other guy because the other guy shot him. The kid'd probly never been shot before. He panicked. That's what I think.”

“So you're still willing to do this, Pink?” I said.

“What else can we do? We keep blasting them with guns, they're gonna boil our guts with their killer rays. They're wearing armor, but it still hurts to get shot. It'll scare the shit out of them and piss them off.”

“Where do you want me in all of this?” asked Dr. Knoe.

Cromwell responded: “I'll need a little cover, because I'll be the only one with a gun. They see that and they're liable to shoot without thinking.”

“I'll be your cover, Tony,” said Gladys. We all turned to look at her. She was smiling. “These are teenage nerds, remember? Probly virgins.” She started disrobing. “I'll be flashing those boys like crazy, and they'll be too busy watching my little show to see anything else.”

First Sonnet (for slam challenge)

Shit, I guess I'm gonna hafta

Sit here, wrack my lobes and crafta

Sonnet for the first time only,

Or be lettered lost and lonely.

Sonnets silly are not favored,

Serious stuff is what is savored,

Yet my temperament finds follies

De rigueur to feed my jollies.

Nevermore shall I endeavor

Such an effort to be clever,

As prize of praise being faintly doled

Incentively doth leave me cold.

Yet tap the keyboard I can do

My faint praise I shall save for you.

Love Defined

Love heals.
Lovers know this from the start,
Yet they may not know with certainty
What love is.

Not that it matters especially
When they find the magic within the power
Of unfolding lust,
Of redemption,
Of unmitigated joy.

There's a mutual recognition
In the eye to eye surrendering
To trust,
To promise,
To the unimaginable other.

And when all is gone its memory remains
To wield the rage,
Reminding the heart
What love is.

Tribute to a Planet

He called it Rosebud, this chocolate starfish orb
Of jacksy ring
To rectify the back door thing
His brown-eyed, elementary cleft did sing
For Venus, Mars and more
Considering the sun don’t shine
So much on Jupiter, but for
The Plutoid bung of Saturn’s rung
To run with Mercury’s speed on Earth
“No!” they cried You never tried
Your Neptudism’s tune’s derived
Uranus, you must call this find.

Cloudstopper

It started one evening, she was home all alone,

Adrift in the hot tub with a drink and her phone.

She wanted to party so she called a few friends

But nobody answered; she was now at loose ends.

So she fired a doobie and took her a hit,

Which lightened her mood and she giggled a bit.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one you remember when there's talk of the blow.

This evening alone in her tub she looked up

And saw the clouds moving without interrupt.

Quite high from her doobie she stared at the sky

Her mind now adrift as she watched the clouds fly.

They slid and they scudded across the deep blue

And some became angels with wings the wind blew.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one you remember when you think of the blow.

The seraphim smiled and she felt a thrill;

It made her feel special but it gave her a chill.

She smiled back at the cherubs and begged them to stay,

For she feared what would happen if they went away.

She silently prayed and she pleaded until

The clouds all stopped moving and the angels stood still.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman you think of when remembering the blow.

She told all her friends what had happened that day;

They grinned and they nodded but had nothing to say.

Yet Clementine knew what she'd done was for real;

She practiced and practiced and she prayed a great deal.

She'd make the clouds stop with her friends standing by;

They'd pretend not to notice, wouldn't look at the sky.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the one who got lost on the day of the blow.

The day when the blow came it started out warm,

But it hinted of weather that might bring a storm.

Well, sure enough along came a front rolling in

With black clouds and lightning and a thunderous din.

Now Clementine watched this from her favorite tub,

As she soaked in hot water and her skin gave a scrub.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman we speak of from the day of the blow.

Well, Clementine studied the clouds overhead

As they swirled, flashed and grumbled she was looking instead

For her angels 'til she found one, then she willed it to stop,

It was dark and looked angry and it started to drop.

It came closer, growing larger and its mouth opened wide

And Clementine's tub went a'sailing inside.

She was Clementine Cropper and didn't you know

She's the woman who vanished on the day of the blow.

Executive Pink (exerpt)

The Sting

Guests are filling the place up now. It’s funny the attraction Hollywood has for people - even the real people that Hollywood people pretend to be. A dozen Medal of Honor winners would hardly draw the likes of both House Speaker Edith Glick and House Majority Leader Gus Rosenow and Sen. Jay C. Tillers and Edna Usher and the Vice President and Sen. Bart Gladstone and…Bart Bullshit is here? Why that sure as hell is him, and that’s Crowell Kenyon pushing him in a wheelchair. Well, shit, will wonders never cease. But of course. The old lecher wouldn’t miss a chance to try and pinch Lorelei Walquer, death bed or no. I suppose I gotta give the fat prick some credit for gumption.

My kids’d be here, too, under normal circumstances. As it is, they don’t even know Lorelei Walquer is in town. The President’s nanny is tending them and has instructions to keep them away from the West Wing, no matter what.

So which TV crew is Lorelei’s? There is quite a pile of them gathering in front of the colonnade, but I should be able to recognize one or two of our villains if they look anything at all like the photos I studied. Trouble is, all the men are wearing hats, or caps or bandannas - not because it’s sunny, which it has become, which is why I’m wearing my faded black Leon Russell cap (visor forward), but because it’s fashionable. I am not being condescendingly judgmental of them. Simply stating a fact. I assume they’re the same bunch that routinely attends White House press events and their heads are covered, always, as they are now whatever the weather, outdoors or in.

My watch says three o’clock. This is it. Any minute now. My god, here comes the President. Adele is with her. I should be with her, too. They came out of the Colonnade Door precisely seven steps from where the dais and bank of microphones are set up. [sustained applause] And there’s a group right behind them. I see Lorelei. [applause continues] She’s wearing white pants. God, I love white pants on women. Don’t know why. Just do. Her blouse is black. Great combination. Hair is kind of piled in back. Parted a little left of center over her forehead. Devastating. Thank god she’s wearing shades. I’ve been worried about the danger of looking in her eyes. Now I won’t have…

Jayzuz, something’s wrong! Roger Ashmore is supposed to be with the decoy van, but he’s up there with Lorelei. He looks funny. I’m, what, ten feet from the dais and it looks like…oh, shit. Ashmore’s wearing the girdle! Something is wrong. WARREN! GODDAMMIT, WARREN, WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

People all over the garden are yelling FREEZE! and DON’T MOVE! Where the hell are Warren and Rose? This is totally out of control.

“OOOF! Get off me, god damn you!”

“It’s all right, sir, it’s Special Agent McClean. Just stay down..”

“What the hell’s happening, Orlo? Where’s Bob…where’s your boss?”

“I’m not permitted to say, sir. But you know he’s supposed to be with the President. I’m assigned to you right now, but if it looks like the President needs help I’ll be following my secondary assignment, sir, and I’ll have to go to her.”

“Well you damned well better, Orlo. Protecting the President is your primary assignment. Always has been, always will be.”

“Strategically, yes, you are correct, sir. But this is a tactical assignment, and until I learn differently I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Not going to argue with you, Orlo. You have the gun. Just don’t freak when you hear me talking to myself. I’m wired. Transmitting to a tape recorder in my office. Historical record, you see.”

“I see, sir. You go right ahead, sir. I won’t pay it no mind.”

“OK.” Ashmore’s face has gone almost as white as Lorelei’s pants. A couple of men wearing reversed baseball caps are moving from the press area toward the dais. They’re reaching into their vests. Guns? No doubt. Orlo McClean is raising his pistol toward the two men. He’s holding it with both hands. I think he’s going to shoot.

“Wait, Orlo! Follow the script!”

“Can’t do that, man. Looks like the script’s been tossed out. [UNGH] Orlo’s just collapsed in front of me. Someone’s grabbing my shoulder from behind. “What…”

Executive Pink (excerpt)

Spirit of Security

The usual rooftop gunners are at the stations they man twenty-four hours a day every day, but today there seems to be more of them. Maybe they’re just more exposed than usual. Can’t imagine why, unless it’s so they can get a better look at Lorelei Walquer. I can dig it, although I should hope they have a better reason, a security reason. I hope they’re taking this job as seriously as Special Agents Orlo McClean and Hector Cyre. Assigned specifically to guard the President’s body, they are standing next to the Oval Office, in front of the colonnade where the ceremony will take place, practicing their surveillance swivels.

Of the two, McClean is the runaway smoothest. He may be the smoothest who ever lived. By contrast Cyre seems like a mechanical doll: left, 180 degrees right, then quarter back, center, quarter left, left, 180 degrees right, 180 degrees left, then quarter back, center and so forth. His moves aren’t grotesquely jerky, but there’s a certain sameness about them. The timing didn’t vary. Anyone keying in on him could figure out the pattern in no time, then do whatever they don’t want him to see when he’s at the back of his arc, like the Stalag 17 boys playing mouse to the Nazis’ searchlight cats.

McClean is an artist, an actor. His baggy suit, sunglasses and earplug give him away as an agent, but his head swivels are much craftier than Cyre’s. McClean uses a syncopation - a little quicker here, an elongated pause there - and other movements, such as rubbing his fingers under his chin, to distract from the positioning of his head. And he looks like he’s really looking at things, that things have gotten his attention. There’s brow movement as if he’s squinting to get a better focus. He’s so convincing in appearing to be actually looking at something that if you’re watching him and if it’s not you he seems to be looking at you’re inclined to take a look yourself and try to find out what it is he may be seeing.

Only if you watch him awhile does it become obvious there can’t be that many different things of interest to a Secret Service agent that don't require more action than hard looks. There’d be running, leaping, tackling or even gunfire, surely. And if you’re watching Cyre, too, you’d know that if he saw something really suspicious he’d become less mechanical, more reactive or, one would hope, more improvisational. Their lips would be moving as they murmured into their little throat-worm microphones.

Executive Pink (excerpt)

It's a Plan

I liked the sound of the word abduction a lot better than the word assassination. I still do, even knowing it’s only a subtle difference, that the gunfire that can break out in a kidnapping attempt is just as deadly as a shot aimed carefully at a presidential cranium. Maybe it’s the softer consonants. I think it’s something more, though. There seems to be something more civilized, more liberal, socially considerate about the terror of seizing a living body and holding it prisoner until terms are met than the terror of deliberately murdering someone. While assassination may be more sophisticated, there’s an element of ignobility about it that’s missing from abduction.

As a reward for his opting for life over death the kidnapper assumes a greater risk of himself being caught and perhaps killed. Akin maybe to the Lakota brave counting coups with his lance, touching the enemy to let him know he could have killed him. I’m not sure what the tactical point of this might have been, unless it was to win a psychological advantage. Abducting a modern U.S. president has got to be rapturously ballsy if not a plain stupid thing to do. “Four months yesterday, sir,” Ashmore said. He looked to be in his late twenties and spoke in the flat, rapid, memorized manner universal among rookie cops and soldiers addressing superiors or civilians. “You sleeping with her?” “Sir?” “Are you having sexual congress with Miss Walquer, Agent Ashmore?”

“Sir, with all due respect…”

Yoga mat for sale. Used once. - $1 (Bellevue)

Yoga mat for sale. Used once at lunch hour class in December 2009. Usage timeline as follows:

11:45a
Register for hot yoga class. Infinite wisdom tells me to commit to 5 class package and purchase a yoga mat. I pay $89.74. Money well spent, I smugly confirm to myself.

11:55a
Open door to yoga room. A gush of hot dry air rushes through and past me. It smells of breath, sweat and hot. Take spot on floor in back of room next to cute blonde. We will date.

11:57a
I feel the need to be as near to naked as possible. This is a problem because of the hot blonde to my left and our pending courtship. She will not be pleased to learn that I need to lose 30 pounds before I propose to her. 

Jump to MindBodyGreen for the full Craig's list ad

Sacrifice (excerpt)

Getting to Know You

Did I mention it rained during our drive back to the Days Inn? I was wrong. It dumped. It deluged across the highway in sheets so thick and furious at one point I lost sight of the roadway but was afraid to pull the Crown Vic onto the shoulder because I couldn't see it either and couldn't remember how deep the ditches were along that stretch. We slowed to a crawl, not worried some maniac might ram us because anyone stupid enough to drive over 5 m.p.h. in that stuff would soon have been boogying off road to nowhere fun. Nonetheless at the first flash glimpse through the wall of rain I eased the Vic off the roadway and put it in park. I kept the engine running so I could leave the flashers on just in case our theoretical maniac managed to make it that far in one piece.

With the rain doing a Gene Krupa solo on the car and sealing us from view or viewing, our closeted intimacy spoke urgently to my already anxious libido in a voice I hadn't heard since my salad days. I turned toward Joan with what I'm sure she saw as a wolfish grin on my face. Her expression was ambiguous, offering just enough warmth that I started to lean in with obvious intent.

“Al,” she said in a voice that sounded more professional than I was expecting, “Liz and Pink may well be dead.”

As I scrambled to come up with something to say that wouldn't sound stupid, she continued, “That would have been the place to do it. He could have buried them and booked before we got there.”

“Should we go back?” I knew this was stupid the instant I said it. Oh, well, I figured, it could be the first test of our nascent mutual affection.

“No point now, Al.” She gave me a gentle smile, letting me know she was withholding the deserved duh, but carrying a sadness as well. There was personal loss for her in this grim prospect. I had found Dr. Knoe attractive, but, then, fresh out of prison as I was I'd been finding myself taken with almost every nubile female who caught my eye. I half-expected these musings to dash a bit of cool water on my enthusiasm of the moment. Oddly this didn't happen. It seemed our shared concern over the fate of these two associates, albeit in the privacy of our individual thoughts, made us all the hornier.

Sacrifice (excerpt)

Catch My Drift 

         I drove the Crown Vic to the ambush site. Joan had tossed me the keys without a word after we rented the motel room. She climbed into the passenger side, her face drawn and haggard. She sagged for a moment against the door before struggling half-heartedly into her seatbelt.

“You think Pink's one of them?” I said, trying to inject energy into my voice to counter the sense of defeat Joan conveyed.

“I think Gladys is. I've never trusted her.” Her voice was flat and she didn't bother to look at me. I waited for more, and when it became apparent she was finished speaking, I said, “Why?”

Now she turned her head and looked at me. She was frowning and one side of her mouth was stretched in a sneer. This told me she found my question irritatingly stupid, and, upon reflection, I had to agree. I added, “I mean, why always? I suspect her now, too, obviously because of her unusual disappearance and what's been happening since...”

Joan interrupted my rambling. Her face had relaxed some, and the sneer was gone. “I can't put my finger on it,” she said. “There was just something about her. The way she sort of glommed onto Pink, wrapped him around her pinky haha. Too much personality, too manipulative for someone who's supposed to be a nerd.”

“Woman's intuition?” I regretted it soon as I said it. It won me another sneer.

“How about just plain intuition? Or maybe a cop's sixth sense?” I kept my eyes on the road ahead. She let her words hang awhile, then added, “OK, maybe you're right. She definitely has a way with men that...I wouldn't call it jealousy, but I found it annoying how easily she handles men and how obvious she is about it. And maybe it doesn't have a damned thing to do with what we have now.” She sighed and I could see one of her shoulders lift in a shrug.

“It might have made you more observant of her, you know, if you don't trust somebody, or even if you just don't like them you're apt to watch them a bit more closely.”

“I suppose I did.”

“So maybe you'll remember something you noticed but it didn't mean anything at the time and now it'll be like finding a piece to a puzzle, you know?”

“You read too many mysteries, Al. Or is it TV? You never used to watch TV.”

“Never had time. Don't watch it much now.”

“I caught you reading a mystery once in your office, before I 'died'.”

“I remember that, Joan. You needled me about it, too.”

“I did. Said I'd tell Ruth you needed more to do. I think I can even remember the name of the book. Something with a song title...wait, don't tell me...Bad Moon Rising! Ha! Am I right? I am! That's what you were reading!”

“Wow, talk about a cop's memory! That was a while back, too. You got it. Bad Moon Rising. One of Ed Gorman's Sam McCain series. Set in Iowa. I've read 'em all.”

“I had a crush on John Fogerty. Still do, truth be told. Creedence.” She reached to the dash and ran her fingers over the buttons. Finally looked up at me, smiling. “Know how to turn this radio on?”

“I haven't a clue, Joan. There should be a power button there somewhere.”

She fussed some more and finally gave up. “We need a child here to show us how. Kids know all that tech stuff.”

She'd gotten fidgety, squirmed in her seat, looked out the windows as if trying to be casual, but her movements were abrupt. Were she a smoker I'd've figured that was the problem, that she needed a cigarette.

“You don't smoke, do you, Joan?”

She turned her head, frowning. “You ever see me with a cigarette, Al?”

“No, but that could mean you're just careful. It was just a question. You seem antsy.”

She barked a laugh. No mirth. “I'm worried. Are you surprised?”

“That sounds a little defensive, Joan. I guess I am surprised in a sense. You're usually the cool professional.”

“I'm usually driving.”

“Hey, you want the wheel, it's yours. You tossed the keys, remember?”

“I was fucking tired, OK? I'm still tired. And worried, but I'm OK. Don't be worried about me, Al.” After a long pause she said, her voice still strained but not as cutting, “Al, what the fuck's going on?

“It's Liz, isn't it.”

“Did you say 'Liz'?”

“I did.”

“So what are you trying to say, Al? Why don't you just come out with it?”

“An odd choice of words.”

“Oh, shit. Al. What the fuck?”

“What, you don't trust me?”

“Al, Jesus Christ. Gimme a break, huh?”

“Why don't you come out with it, Joan? It's just you and me.”

“Goddammit, Al...LOOK OUT!!”

A salute to poetry month last, and a hello to May

Something

Fleeting moments of tension free,
Sensory glimpses of how it could be,
A sweet easy rhythm in synchrony
Is how it seems for you, too, to me.
There's nothing really but memory,
Yet promise of something's
The world I see.