Father Julien (Four of Five)

Pride makes you do stupid things, like steal free stuff cause you can't look someone in the face, admit you need help. I couldn't blame em, just knew how they felt. Didn't excuse it, though. Understanding and forgiveness are two different things, like I'm sure God almighty knows. We were looking for someone ashamed to be seen, just lost their job, their house, didn't know how to deal with it. All men's clothes went missing. Food enough for one, definitely not for two.

I checked the doors and windows. I got some hairs from Dara, licked them and laid them across the locks last night [I wish he had not revealed that detail. Disgusting. -Dara]. All still there. He wasn't coming in through these, had to be some other entrance.

At this point, I called Dara. Told her we might be looking for some guy probably just lost his job and his house or apartment, mighta just lost his wife. Told her to look for evictions, foreclosures, separations. She told me she'd also look for recent job resumes, see if any jobs come up, cause it was possible they were living paycheck to paycheck, still looking for another job.

Father Julien had to open the church for outreach. I helped em make some sort of hobo stew. Reminded me of my childhood, mom putting together random ingredients in the pot. I also helped with the soup line. Too many grimy faces staring back at me. After a while, I started seeing my face in theirs. I was thankful it wasn't me, at least today. Was that why Father Julien came to me in the first place? Did he recognize me from this line?

Dara was standing next to me the whole time. She kept fidgeting and blowing her hair out of her eyes. I wish she pretended it wasn't so bad. Told her that it was what she wanted, to help out. Besides, I figured she was used to staying up all night [Studying. -Dara].

I took a nap after taking a nip of bourbon, had some more coffee. It wasn't great, but I was ready for another long night. It was a few days since he took any food. He would probably go after that. Father Julien took Dara and her giant bag over to the kitchen. I asked her what was in there, she just said it was some stuff.

Father Julien and me went to the clothes stores. I walked around, sipping coffee, while he kept nodding off and waking up. He had a long day, priesting and all.

Come morning, we walked to the kitchen, find Dara snoring in her sleeping bag.

Father Julien (Three of Five)

First thing I did was go to mass on Sunday, scope out the church, see if any people stuck out. I hadn't worn my Sunday finest in around 30 years. Broke it out and tried it on. There was still a blue cornflower on the lapel. I took it off, left it in my drawer, didn't need to get too dolled up for church [Trace never discusses his past with anyone, except with perhaps his mother. Was it left over from prom? A wedding? Did he get left at the altar? Did Joan pin this on him? -Dara]. Didn't have much of a flower smell anymore, but it was still deep blue. Kinda surprised it lasted this long. My suit was kinda loose then, kinda tight now, but I could get the belt on without icepicking a new notch.

Great thing about mass, you follow everyone else. They sit, you sit. They sing, you sing. They stand, you stand. Sad that I didn't know, because I hadn't gone in so long. It's little things like that make me a bad Catholic. Well, that and the big thing, not going to church.

Later that night, after everybody left, Father Julien locked the main doors. Far as we knew, we were the only ones left inside. He handed me turkey on rye. We also had pea soup and canned peaches, leftover from lunch. I asked him if he always ate like this. He told me he was always blessed to have dinner.

Earlier, he introduced me to all the outreach group. I told him that they didn't seem like any of them needed to steal, because the way they were bragging about their house renovations and kids, they were all doing it for respect, prove they were more pious than the next.

We talked a while longer about God almighty and the afterlife and heaven and hell, the normal stuff you talk about with a priest when you got nothing else to say. He went to watch the clothes, I stayed near the food. It was a long night, and I really wanted some Irish cream for my coffee.

Come the morning, I found Father Julien asleep on the floor. When I woke him up, he did a survey. Pair of snow pants went missing.

Father Julien (Two of Five)

Father Julien yanked out another few threads of hair. He got a Mag-lite, started patrolling the place. Stuff kept disappearing. He had a locksmith deadbolt every window. Someone was still sneaking out with the goods. Sometimes, he had some volunteers with him, and no one saw anything. He couldn't even trust them anymore. Father Julien fidgeted in his seat. He tried to sip the tea, but his hand shook so bad he just ended up spilling it on his cat's sock [Trace means cassock, the traditional priest's garment. When I explained the term, he responded, “Guess it helps em be more quiet?” -Dara].

I asked him why he was taking it so personal. He said there was someone he couldn't trust in his parish, couldn't do anything but take it personal. I asked him if he went to the cops. All they did was take some pics and leave. Made sense, no money in a small community church like Shepherd's Cave. If this was one of em super churches out in the burbs, they'd have cops crawling like ants all over it. No one with any money, or no one that wanted any money, had a reason to care about Shepherd's Cave.

Father Julien read my mind. He told me he didn't have much, except some money he'd been saving up, a couple warm meals, and God almighty's grace. Then he sat and stared at me and Dara. Put his hands together, closed his eyes, started praying to God almighty that we'd help him. I told him I'd tell him by the end of the day. We shook hands after I let him give me his hand, then he shook Dara's hand. He almost tiptoed out, like he was waiting for something to come screaming at him, then eased the door closed behind him.

Five seconds passed. Dara laid into me with a dame rant. Told me she couldn't believe I wouldn't take the case after he prayed out loud in our office, said that we were gonna help him. I told her we were busy, it was gonna take a lot of time for a small flat fee and some soup. She told me I didn't have a heart. I told her I had a head, and I had to use it. This wasn't gonna be worth it, and we had to concentrate on Mrs. Vetter strutting it up downtown without Mr. Vetter. Long nights and long days meant I'd be burned.

Thing is, Dara can do some real dame things. She started full-on bawling. I told her it was my office, my rules, and I wasn't gonna stand for her crying over this. So I left the office and stood in the hallway to let herself get composed. She was faking, I knew she was.

Ten minutes I'm waiting. She starts bawling even harder.

Went back in, told her we'd give it a week, and if nothing happened, we'd shift back to Mrs. Vetter. Wouldn't you know it, she starts laughing and hugs me around the neck [Depsite Trace's protestations, I wasn't faking my tears. I was genuinely distraught by Father Julien's plight. I may have exaggerated the physical signs of my distress, but nonetheless, I think it was more than worth it for Trace to take on this case. -Dara].

Father Julien (One of Five)

I named my gun Joan. Her parents, Smith and Wesson, named her 910. That's no name for a lady [This is not the only gun he's named Joan. For whatever reason, they're all named Joan. I have to assume there's some significance to the name. However, Trace has no online footprint. How am I going to locate the original Joan? -Dara] She takes fifteen 9mm rounds. Every time I reload, I kiss each bullet, for Mark. I also make sure the last bullet in the clip, the first I fire, is a blank. Bullets ain't expensive, but sometimes, I need to threaten a shot more than the bullet. If I need to actually shoot, I just pull a second time. One time I pulled the trigger was 7 or 8 months back, was kinda a mistake, but I definitely didn't need the bullet. Really, just needed the threat more than anything, and it worked out better that way.

Most slobs walk in, they start making fools of themselves in front of Dara. Not Father Julien, man of God almighty. Shook her hand, called her Ms. Leggett, did everything slobs didn't. Then I went to shake his hand. He said I looked familiar, but I told him I got one of em faces. When we shook hands, I could feel Father Julien's fingernails scabbed over. He moved quick and twitchy, but he wasn't fast, almost kinda peaceful. First time I ever saw it from someone didn't play cornerback. His face was all sunken and faded, like he really was giving his life to God almighty. Even with his black robe, sweat stains soaked through.

He sat on the edge of his chair, ran his hand through the thin patch of string he called hair. Every so often, I could see a few brown strands break off. Made me jealous I didn't have that problem any more. He ran Shepherd's Cave parish a few blocks away. I'd seen it, one of the older places, right from the postcard. Even been inside once or twice when I need to talk to someone and the bars were all closed.

They also ran community outreach, lots of clothes and food and stuff. Few weeks back, some of it started disappearing. First, they thought it was one of the volunteers, borrowing a sweater cause it was cold. Then it was some food, loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter, didn't stop. Father Julien started keeping watch. Did rounds every night and morning, locked the church up tight. Sometimes there was a pair of shoes missing at night, sometimes lettuce in the morning. It wasn't more than a couple things, but it was starting to get noticeable. He bit his fingernails some more, said it was a new habit.

Mathilda (Five of Five)

Going back to Mathilda's, I saw kids running through the street again. Kept going from house to house, but all day long, they went across the street. None of them even came close to Mathilda's, even though it was the quickest way to get anywhere. Mathilda said that kids took the sidewalk in front of her yard all the time.

We went outside, waited until the kids got close. I told her too loud we weren't gonna find that gnome. She started sobbing like someone cracked her upside the head. The kids watched a bit, then went back to their play.

Time for plan B. I flashed my badge, corralled all of them, told em I knew one of em did it, but I couldn't figure out which, and I was gonna have to take em all down to the station. They all started leaning away from a couple of boys with frowns on their faces. I grabbed em, one in each hand, dragged them by their shirt collars to Mathilda. They hissed and squirmed, wouldn't even look her in the eye.

Bobby finally took us to his backyard, through his house. His parents followed all of us, both of them sighing like this wasn't the first time. Him and Lev dragged a box out from the tool shed. I flipped it open and reached in, nicked my hand real deep. Mathilda's gnome had a giant hole in the top where I cut myself, a bunch of porcelain bits inside it. They tried to jump over the gnome last night, cracked it with their feet. Mom shook her head. Dad shook his fist. I asked why they didn't just leave it. They said TV shows said to always get rid of the body.

They called Lev's parents over, and all the parents were screaming and yelling. Then Mathilda started bawling, everyone shut up, and she told everyone about Harry, the last thing he bought. There was more screaming and yelling. I asked what if we glued it back together. Bobby and Lev thought I was crazy, cause there were a jillion pieces. Mathilda blew her nose and said it was her last reminder of Henry.

I went back four more Saturdays to help. Most of the time, I just sat there picking up the pieces like some dumb monkey. Every once and a while, I'd find a match. Eventually, we got it back together. Mathilda was so happy she started crying again. Like how the gnome reminded her of a loved one, my cornflower reminds me of a loved one. I guess the scar does, too.

[This man hoards his emotion, and very rarely exposes it to the world. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at his admission, but his mother is still alive, and Mark didn't strike me as a man obsessed with cornflowers. I've seen how he looks at Becca, even if he doesn't realize how he looks at her. There's a woman that Trace has never mentioned, will not mention to me. How can I find out who she is? -Dara]

Mathilda (Four of Five)

Next were the college students down the way. Christmas lights choked their lawn, blinking in Morse code. I was rusty, but it looked like a recipe for apple pie. Bits of broken stuff glued into frames, looked like some kinda stained glass pictures hung outside. I figured it'd be a house full of slobs and dames, rich kids taking money from mommy and daddy.

Don't get me wrong, college is great if it helps you make more money than the rest of the slobs out there. Problem is all those dames with degrees in art history. You end up working at a flower nursery [Thankfully, I matriculated with a computer engineering degree. Otherwise, I might end up another “dame” to Trace. -Dara].

Some kid opened the door, dressed in all black, clothes 2 sizes too small, whiskers on his chin like a dead rat. Soon as he saw me, he slammed the door in my face. Knocked again, flashed my fake badge, showed him my PI license. He stepped outside, making sure not to open the door too wide.

Kid was just the right mix of nervous and careless and relaxed. Smelled like Pat chewed Lee [Patchouli. -Dara]. Thing is, you put the screws to rich kids, they give up everything real quick, or they clam up and you have some real fun. He started singing like the fat lady. Woulda started bawling if I hadn'ta slapped him and told him to man up.

I told him he could bring out everything didn't belong to him, and we could leave the cops to take their afternoon nap, call it a day. Or, we could see who his one phone call would be. I grabbed his shoulder, told him if there were any garden gnomes, he should get those first.

When he came back out, he shoved a giant cardboard box into my hands, then waited. I asked him where the gnome was, and he just stared at me, then looked at his hands like they were televisions. Inside the box, I coulda started a pharmacy, pills in there I didn't even recognize. Buncha college slobs and dames, probably couldn't organize to steal the gnome if they wanted to.

Mathilda (Three of Five)

First was the Bensons, few houses down. Lot of metal and paneling, everything looked shiny and sharp. When I knocked, a middle-aged guy with thick coke bottle glasses squinted, let me in.

Clocks everywhere inside, wall clocks, cuckoo clocks, pocket watches, all of em on time. His wife came out, her glasses even thicker. They looked bug-eyed and curious, like aliens. She had some tweezers in her hand, and a little gear in those tweezers. They invited me to the dining room, just the cedar table and a few tall chairs and all the clocks on the walls. They sat on either side of me, got real close like Europeans do, blinked and squinted at me.

I asked em what they were doing last night. They said they were fixing clocks in the basement, watched the Tonight Show, then went to bed. Each other as their alibi was just as good as no alibi. They told me Mathilda was getting old. Every year, she got more paranoid about the competition. They talked to her, liked her, said they wouldn't do nothing to her.

I asked if they could drive me back to her place, and they told me they didn't have any licenses, cause they were both legally blind. I doubted they could walk more than a few feet without getting hurt. Couldn'ta been them. I left a card on the table cloth, told em they could contact me whenever. Both of them ran their hands over the table, trying to find the card, looking like they were giving the table a back rub.

Mathilda (Two of Five)

She drove us to her place. I stepped out of her car, and stepped back in time. Kids playing with their toys all up and down the sidewalk. Concrete sidewalks clean and neat, kinda like what I thought heaven mighta looked like. It felt like I didn't make enough money to walk there. Maybe if I came in hanging off the back of a garbage truck, but even then, I'd need spic and span gloves and a clean jumpsuit.

Mathilda lived on a street island. There were a few lawn ornaments, and a big gaping hole in the middle. She walked me through the yard. She and her husband Henry brought back Mr. Flamingo from Florida. The milk jug came from a Wisconsin dairy farm. Then, the gnome. Last thing Henry bought before he died. More than just the contest, it was her moment O'Murray, what she remembered of her husband.

The lawn was crowded. The green grass was trampled, mostly her because she couldn't step as light as she used to 50 years ago. I found a few colored bits, smaller than my fingernail, chipped off when they dragged the gnome away. Long dirt rut from the original spot out to the driveway, but the trail ended there.

She gave me the name of two houses also competing. I saw them while she drove us in, looked like home and garden stores exploded in their front yards. No bars nearby, so I couldn't talk to people there. They probably all drank wine or brandy, aged thirty years to the day. I was lucky if a bottle of bourbon made it five days in my office.  

Mathilda (One of Five)

My scars are my moment O'Murrays [Trace means memento mori, the reminders of death. The rough translation is “remember you must die.” His response: “O'Murray knows what's going on. He related to the guy made Murphy's law?” -Dara]. Scars tell stories, remind you of something. I also got a blue cornflower tattoo on my left shoulder. It ain't a scar, but it definitely makes my heart hurt every time I think about what went on with that. So, I guess I got scars on my heart. I guess that also makes me a dame [Trace has feelings besides hate and anger. What happened? -Dara].

Aside from the tat, I think the most fun scar was the two inch one on the back of my hand. When I make a fist, it looks like a smile, at least to me. Slob on the receiving end just sees a frown sitting on top of my broken knucks. Mighta been thirteen or so years ago, back when you were in diapers, Dara [I was in middle school at the time. -Dara]. I was sitting around reading the paper when someone knocked. Nearly fell out of my chair. Eight in the morning, couldn't be good.

Mathilda woulda been four-seven if she coulda stood up straight. Metal cane, pill box hat and veil, blue suit. I invited her in, helped her sit, offered her some coffee. She took off the hat. Red eyed, she'd been crying all night. Dark black hair, finest dye money could buy. She looked like a little prune. Someone stole her garden gnome, and she wanted me to get it back. Her homeowner's association was judging lawns on Friday, and that gnome would win her the title for sure.

I asked her why she didn't just buy another one, cause it woulda been cheaper than hiring me. She told me it was the principal [Trace means principle, though the error is fairly common. I won't hold him liable for this particular mistake. -Dara] She said she would get whoever did it disqualified from the judging. I asked her what the cops thought. They just laughed at her. I wasn't the first PI she'd been to, but I was the first hadn't laughed. Good thing I wasn't gonna drink for another couple hours that morning.

Evan (Ten of Ten)

I got greedy stupid. Five g's in your pocket will do that to you. Shouldn'ta taken the case. Felt worse for Dara, even though she didn't care about the money. It was on me to turn Evan down, soon as he opened his mouth. Now because of that, I was taking money out of Dara's mouth.

I still had the number he gave. Dara called and arranged for a meeting. He came in after a couple hours. Same exact suit, but really wrinkled now, like he balled it up in the corner after he took it off. He had a few bloody nicks on his lip and chin, and his hair? Not anywhere near neat.

I handed back the money, told him I couldn't continue with the case, that there was some other stuff came up, and I was sorry. He scratched his ear, and I noticed a bit of plastic sticking out. He snuffled and shifted his feet.

Finally, he told us that he'd still pay for the time we spent working the case. Peeled off five hundred, said through gritted teeth that he insisted. He looked like he might cry any minute. I took it. If I refused again, they might get real angry. He asked what we found, and I told him about the buzz by the docks, that it wasn't much to go on, but it'd have to do. He thanked me and shook my hand. His hand was drenched and clammy.

A day's pay, an honest wage, and it kept Evan from getting shot or worse. I could deal with that. I had to deal with that. I peeled off half, gave it to Dara. Told her to take the rest of the day off, go spend time with Billy, take him out to dinner or something.

I got a couple bottles of bourbon down the street, poured myself a shot when I got back. It went down like jagged glass. I tried to forget that you don't win all the time. A few more shots, and I felt like a champ.

Evan (Nine of Ten)

I figured what woulda happened, we'd somehow find C.K., I'd work out a deal with Sgt. Miller, we'd go get the guy and I'd split the bill with the city. Then, they'd figure out who hired the guy, or really, fail. Guys like that don't give up nothing.

Now, we jumped all that. Guy footing the bill, he was responsible for all this, and using us to cover his tracks. Someone probably said too much, or he was done fixing his family. Dara showed me the family tree. All the new people I heard of. All the old people, no clue who they were. It made perfect sense. My head still whanged like steel drums, but this was amazing. Problem was, what were we gonna do with it? No real evidence, just a good theory. And that theory and a dollar would get you a cup of coffee.

She said we should go to the cops. I laughed at that, and she got mad. Started yelling, went full-on dame on me. Don't get me wrong. Dara's great. Got a degree, knows computers, good with people, she'll live a better life than a slob like me. Problem is, she's still a kid, thinking everything works in the end, and it's a fairy tale life. It ain't. God almighty bless her heart, she's been here 6 years, still thinks that. I wasn't laughing at you, I'm sorry. [I accept your apology. -Dara]

Families pay off the cops. Only times the cops can do anything is when the families call for blood. We had to bring in C.K., nobody else. We tell them about this, we become targets. Well, not her, Don would keep her safe. Ain't no one gonna make Leggett Shipping angry in this town. No, I become a target. Like I said before, people want to tell their secrets. I wanted to sing, but I couldn't.

She looked at me like I kicked a puppy across the room. I told her we still got a nice payday out of it, but that didn't help. Why would it? To her, it's just peanuts. To me, it's real money.

She asked if we could keep looking for C.K. I said we'd be wasting our time, because even if we did find him, we'd all of a sudden end up in the mob's pocket.

That's when it hit me, we couldn't keep their dirty money.

Evan (Eight of Ten)

Dara figured something out using the internets. I'm gonna let her explain.

[Trace drew several further conclusions based on the information we had gathered. The contractor possessed extensive resources; a contract killer hired to assassinate a mob boss's mistress would have carried a steep price tag. He likely wouldn't have been anyone we knew, for a high-end assassin would keep a very low profile. This individual probably worked only for the mob families. Who else could secure those sorts of funds? They had been active for a while, so any unsolved mob murder from the past few years that also carried a high-enough profile to make the news likely was perpetrated by our mystery man.

Trace examined the crime scene and the Wharf Rat to determine whether or not any new information might come to light. Meanwhile, after I returned to the office, I searched the Tribune-Bugle's archives dating back an arbitrary seven years, locating five other unsolved murders, all victims members of the Rivano family. Armed with their names, I started locating other members of the family, using Facebook and Myspace, looking for friends, associates and the like.

One trend stood out. All of the murder victims held very close ties to “Marbles” Rivano. At first, it appeared some other entity was systematically trying to destroy the Rivano family. Obliterate the support system, and Mr. Rivano would be left vulnerable to a coup or an outside threat, like the Devarises.

However, something seemed suspicious about the murder victims. I charted the current Rivano organization, then placed the deceased next to their current counterparts. I checked the dates of the murders, and based on newspaper articles and size of the family, I charted their strength relative to the other crime families. Even a mere decade ago, they were the weakest family. Two decades ago, when I was a toddler, they weren't even considered a major player.

Their rise to prominence turned out to correlate with the assassinations. Somehow, these murders were strengthening the organization. Every replaced murder victim proved to provide a major influence on the family's business. Their predecessors? Nary a drop in the bucket. No one had yet replaced “Marbles's” mistress, but based on the information, we could expect some power player within the next few months to fill the void.

“Marbles” ordered the assassination of his own people. -Dara]

I figure she typed what she did in there. Me, I came back at four in the morning, and she was still pecking away at her keyboard. Next morning, I woke up with a hangover the size of an elephant. Then she dropped that lead weight on me, that Marbles was fixing his family.

Evan (Seven of Ten)

One thing I can't stand is dames making a big fuss over nothing. I came in the office, and Dara flips out. It's a black eye, it only hurts when someone touches it, like she did. Told her to stop touching it, I got it under control. I would say dames need a black eye so they can understand it only hurts when someone touches it, but that's just gonna end bad. [Trace is not advocating abusing women. We had a discussion. -Dara]

She's saying I should let Billy look at it, but what's that gonna solve? I never had a permanent black eye, nothing's broke except my pride. On the other hand, he sees this, he's gonna wonder what we do, I might be out one secretary. I don't wanna learn how to use a computer, I can't hire some random dame.

Poured myself a double shot of bourbon, and we compared notes. She handed me a coffee. I poured the bourbon in, then poured another shot in my shot glass. Dara extended her pinky while she sipped from her cup. Turned out Jess was actually the mistress of Vito “Marbles” Rivano, head of the Rivano family. This put it on the Devarises, probably one of their contract killers. Tensions were high the past few weeks, probably cause nothing else was going on.

The Devarises weren't taking responsibility, flat out denied it. I hadn't read anything in the paper. I asked Dara how she found out, and she said “MySpace”. I figured it was more of the internets. On the other hand, the Rivanos were shooting mad. Turned out they'd been hiring slobs left and right to find the killer, including this slob right here.

I told her that Mickey saw a guy in all black, wearing cowboy boots, drive up and dump the body, wrapped in a carpet. It was around three in the morning. The guy was thin, tall, forgettable in the daylight. Just what you want from a contract killer, except for the carpet and cowboy boots. I sipped the coffee. Tasted awful with the bourbon, but I was already warming up.

Evan (Six of Ten)

Dames bond by talking. Guys bond by doing stuff. Quickest way to make a friend, get in a fair barfight. Gotta be one on one, give as good as you get. It helps if you get popped in the face only once or twice. Too many smacks in the face, the other guy's trying to ruin your life. Too few, he's saying you're a sissy, you can't take getting hit in the face.

I wasn't great in Golden Gloves, but I'm still better than your average slob, and I know how to take a punch. Half of it is in your head. It's not as bad as you think. You gotta take a few shots first, find out it's not the end of the world. Also helps to get shot. Getting shot hurts almost as bad as heartbreak, and next to that, a punch is nothing.

So, I found myself out back throwing fists at a guy half a foot shorter than me, his boys cheering him on, me trying not to break him in the first two minutes. I dropped my left hand a second to take a punch, see what I was up against. His right hook came in, and my eyes burst into sparkles. Even tensing my stomach, I really felt it. I mighta been in over my head.

He wasn't no slob, tell you that much. I had a couple good pops, but he was getting in and treating me like I came home late on a school night. I kept trying to jab at him, play keep away, but I was kind of loaded, he was just too quick.

We'd been going for what felt like two hours, was probably just ten minutes, when he flashed his left jab. I stepped left, into his right hook again. Crumpled like a house of cards.

They helped me up. I apologized for taking his seat, took a shot, spit some blood into my empty shot glass before slamming it on the bar. He apologized for kicking my butt. Told me his name was Mickey, and he won Golden Gloves once, a long time ago.

He also drank me under the table.

Evan (Five of Ten)

Can't blame em for lawyering up. Middle of the day, don't know who's your friend, who's in the union, who's working for Don, who's working for the mob, who's gonna sell you out for a few extra bucks. They weren't gonna talk now, which meant I had to keep playing the game.

There were half a dozen bars in walking distance. I had to figure out which one I was gonna frequent during happy hour. Went to see Dara and Don. To make sure she didn't get bored, I told her to go check the internets and see what she could find on Evan's wife. Then Don came over, put his hand on my shoulder and asked if Dara could take the day off. He pressed down and I could feel myself start to sink into the wooden planks under me. I told him yes. Don only pretends to ask for things. Really, he tells people what they're supposed to do.

That left me to go bar hopping before happy hour. Six beers, one at each bar, I figured the Blue Barnacle made the most sense. Cheap happy hour specials, lots of dart boards, and the bartender was the only one under fifty and female. Perfect recipe to pull in the dock hands.

I found a stool with a butt groove and sat in it. Guy that formed that indent, he was probably a regular. How else could he take the same stool every night? Twyla, the bartender, she warned me not to sit there, and I told her I was gonna take my chances. She walked away, polishing a glass with a blue spit rag.

Sure enough, at 5:15, six hands barged through the door living it up. I glanced back at them, then looked into the bottom of my glass through the dark brown bourbon. They got quiet for a second, then five of them sat in the stools near me.

Last guy, he tapped me in the lower back, asked if I'd mind moving, cause I was in his seat. I turned around. He was the shortest one of all them, five-four if he was an inch, staring up at me. He looked like someone crushed a basketball player down like a soda can. He had gnarled hands and rough skin and a thick, dark sweater you'd expect. Polite, but not too much, and the creases around his eyes meant he had to be in his forties, a lifer. Probably worked the docks since he dropped out of middle school.

I told him I was here first, turned around and kept sipping my beer.

Evan (Four of Ten)

Evan in the fine suit, he told us it happened by the docks. Sea's the biggest grave there is. We drove down. I take Dara on field trips to the docks to see her dad. He's Don Leggett, Leggett Shipping. High roller. Sometimes, if I gotta hit Mercy Medical, I take Dara so she can see her fiancee. He's Billy Parker. You don't know him yet, and you probably won't, unless you take a bullet to the gut and survive long enough to make it there. He'll probably yank it outta you.

We drive up to Leggett Shipping, and Dara runs up to her dad. He picks her up at the waist, twirls her like a ballerina. He used to work the docks. Even now, man's made of granite. You sorta see how they're related, but more because of how they act than how they look. Dara's mom was the pretty one in that marriage. With that mustache, Don kinda looks like a walrus [One, this is true. Two, Trace has no room to discuss other people's looks. -Dara].

We shake hands. He crushes mine like white bread. I think it's part because he doesn't really trust me, cause he thinks I'm gonna get Dara in trouble, ruin her marriage, spoil her outlook on life. But I also think it's part because he's just that strong.

I leave them to daddy-daughter time and go check the pier. There's a lot of dried blood on the wood, fish blood, dock worker blood, victim blood. Couldn't tell you how many people had accidents down there. When I try to ask about Jess, all the dock hands clam up. Gonna take a lot more money to pry their mouths open.

Evan (Three of Ten)

Now I know why Hemingway drank so much. Writing ain't easy. Bourbon makes it go down smoother. Not that I mind this too much. It's kinda nice, pretending I'll live to see sixty, make it to retirement, tell my kids these bedtime stories. Well, not bedtime. I tell them at bedtime, they ain't sleeping.

I ain't an alky. I'm a personal investigator. Just so happens one of the unwritten PI rules is that you need to drink to sleep through the night. It's funny, money problems keep me up, so I drink to pass out. More I drink, more I need to drink to pass out. More I drink, more I buy, and the worse my money problems get. Worse my money problems get, worse my sleep gets. It's one of them oar rowboaters [Trace and I were discussing the symbolism of the ouroboros. He liked the possibility of rebirth, believing that in his next life, if reincarnated, he would have accumulated enough karma to merit something better. “Maybe a garbageman or a teacher” is how he put it. -Dara].

Alcohol's only a problem when it interferes with your life. Hell, it makes my job possible. Some guys get information by going out and beating up everyone that knows more than them. Some people toss money around like confetti, watch where it lands. You usually read about them in the obits. Some dames shake their hips all around town. Me, I go to bars and listen. People don't talk until they're comfortable. Truth is, people love to talk. They want to tell you their secrets. You just gotta convince them to trust you, and no one trusts a guy in a bar, doesn't drink.

Sure, I track other leads. Can't spend your whole life in a bar. Sometimes, leads come outta left field, you gotta chase them down. A lot of the time, you find out stuff sharing a cold one. The other good thing about liquor, makes you strong, makes you harder to poison. And I gotta lot of enemies. Some of em might be crazy enough to try to poison me.

Evan (Two of Ten)

Look at the guy two weeks back, Evan. Suit fit him like he was sewn into it. Shoes so shiny and fresh, they hadn't seen pavement before yesterday at the earliest. Fine shave, not a trace of stubble. He got it probably a couple of hours ago, cause of how hairy he was. Backs of his hands were like fur mittens.

He looked the part just fine, but then he had to open his mouth. It was like watching someone read off cue cards. His voice shook when he said “Mr.” and “Ms.”, He forgot his lines and said “dem f------ apes,” “shot the s--- outta Jess,” and “fish food in the ocean.” Real raspy voice, couple packs a day for maybe a decade. He wanted us to find the guy that killed his wife.

When he handed Dara the wad of cash as a retainer, two things went wrong. Nobody ever pays me a thick stack that isn't $1 bills up front, and he couldn't even bring himself to let it go. She had to pry it from him. He kept leaning in, ready for action, not talk. When he turned to leave, I could feel his steps in the floor. Real flat-footed, he never had to learn how to step light.

Soon as he left, Dara and me looked at each other, then at the five g's. Felt crisp, new, clean as sunshine. He probably borrowed it from the mob at a hundred percent. Ain't no one know about the state's you sure he [Trace means usury. -Dara] laws. Gotta figure that he was some slob worked in construction, maybe a teamster, but didn't want to go through the union. Love makes people do stupid things, like ridiculous loans so they can get revenge.

Evan (One of Ten)

They say you shouldn't sleep where you work. I don't, I just sleep next door to where I work. Building's zoned for residential, but I pay rent more or less on the regular. Still better than most everyone else in here. Super gives me a break, but I think he's keeping me around just so he can throw me out one night, big smile on his face when he does it.

If you come in, first thing you're gonna see is Dara sitting at the big desk with her computer. I got the small desk to the right cause the light from the window helps me read the paper. Setup like that, most people come in, can't figure out why the looker redhead is doing the detective thing. “Tracy” on the front door doesn't help.

Throws a lotta people off. These days, I let them talk to her first a little bit, before introducing myself. Amazing how many slobs can't deal with a pretty face, just let themselves get stupid. Most of the time, after they leave, we try to figure out what the real story is. If you're coming here, there's the story you tell us, then there's the truth. They're like trains passing each other, except that when the lies and the truth meet, there's a train wreck.

Two kinds of people come here. You got the poor, can't go anywhere else cause they can't afford to, I'm their last hope. They mean well, but some of them treat me like dirt, because they been stepped on their whole lives, so they need me just to feel a little better.

Then you got your Richie Riches, their watches worth more than I make in a year. They got something to hide, from the authorities, from their family, from themselves, so they come to me. Thing is, like the poor, I'm their last hope. They also mean well, but some of them are just used to stepping on everyone didn't grow up with a silver spoon in their mouths and a funny accent from up north.

That's what I'm here for. Good to know I can help.

Mark (Five of Five)

Ain't never a standard case. We learned that the hard way. Had to track down some sleaze named Peters, ducked out on his family and stuck them with a bunch of gambling debts. Mob was starting to squeeze them, they were starting to get desperate. Cause he spent all their money, they didn't have much choice except to come to us.

Why didn't he leave town? Probably cause he didn't want to go on the run. People don't know how hard it is, leaving behind your loved ones. They think they could just up and leave if they won the lottery tomorrow, and they could. Problem is, that money won't give a damn when you come home at night, ain't gonna listen to you complain, and you can only get so intimate with paper. It's just money. You can make more money. You can't make more family. Well, kids, yeah, but they don't replace what family you got.

We looked like gumshoes, trench coats flapping, guns in hand, hats held down with other hand. Raining hard, like a bunch of wet needles. We trailed him to his motel, cornered him. Mark knocked on the door, told him to come out peacefully. That was when I saw the door explode into him, blowing him backwards. Shotgun blast, near point blank. I can't forget his screams, like a wounded dog. He kept twitching.

I didn't hear movement inside. That didn't mean he just up and disappeared. He knew I was still outside. We had ourselves a fine standoff. We talked for a few minutes, real casual, calm voices, like we were old friends seeing each other after ten years apart. I threw down my piece in the doorway. He came out, the shaking barrels trained on me, snot bubbling from his nose. You push people, you find out just what they're capable of. He wasn't a real criminal until he killed someone, that Peters. Now he rated the newspaper.

He backed all the way to the parking lot, got in and drove. I couldn't care less, I went over to Mark. He looked like raw hamburger, sounded like a slowly deflating balloon. Couldn't do a damned thing except hold him for the next few minutes, talk to him while whatever made him special leaked out of him. Once it was all gone, he stopped panting. I had to close his eyes. They felt like grapes. I haven't eaten a grape since.

I took his gun before the paramedics took him away. Popped the clip, took out a bullet, all bronze-like and innocent. Never been fired. I kissed it, slipped it in my pocket. Still got it, it's around my neck now. That's where I came up with the name, Kissing Bullets. It was my last good memory of Mark. Dara, you wanted me to name this thing? I'll one up you.

Mark, this is yours more than anyone's.

Mark (Four of Five)

Six months in, our running joke was we weren't real PIs until we killed someone, only we'd replace PI with other jobs. It made sense at first, doctors, mobsters, cops, but then we ran with it, chefs, waiters, schoolteachers. We always thought about the big time, where we'd get that one case with some millionaire too rich to go the authorities, too dumb to come to anyone but us. There we'd be raining bullets every which way, coming through untouched, kind of like the four-colors in the Sunday funnies. That was different, back then. We didn't know better.

Another slow day, we were joking about librarians, how we weren't real librarians until we killed someone. Bore them to death with a lecture on how to organize the stacks. We were also cleaning our pieces. I didn't name that one, but it was my first. Real beauty, Colt .45 revolver, sat in my hand like home. Mark had a Glock, he was loading his clip. Every bullet he thumbed in, he kissed. I told him that kind of action was out on the corner for twenty a pop.

He told me it was his signature, kinda like how they would draw crosses on silver bullets before shooting werewolves. I told him he was drunk and this wasn't the movies, but he didn't want none of that. Told me it was all about what it meant to him, that each bullet really could be the kiss of death, his kiss of death. Kissed the tip of the bullet as he said it. I told him what else he could kiss.

Mark (Three of Five)

Me and Mark, I met him at the academy, we got our PI licenses and rented out this hole in the wall. Something blue dripping from the corner, weird hump in the middle of the floor, rats everywhere. But it was cheap, it was in the middle of the city, and it was safe. Weird, cause it was in the worst part of the city, but it was like being in the eye of a tornado. Stuff happened all around us, there was always a lot of potential business, but nothing happened to us, at least not in the building.

The hardest part, that first year, getting people in the door. Had to figure, every time a scream woke me up in the middle of the night, that coulda been a job next morning. But we couldn't find enough clients. We also learned when you gotta choose between getting dinner, keeping the lights on, or getting a drink, you don't get picky about what you do. After a while, things got better, but I'da done anything for a buck those days.

That's the thing about being a PI, you do things you thought you'd never do for money. I never thought as a kid, when I was getting my guts tenderized by someone's fists, I'd end up taking pictures of fat guys and pretty women for a living. They can't keep it in their pants, and I keep a roof over my head another week. Another thing, sneaking up on slackers and handing them a court order, telling them they've been served. I even been a bodyguard every once and a while.

When I talk to strangers and they're trying to be friendly, they ask me for good stories, I know they're thinking of the murders and thefts and rapes. It's human nature, you wanna hear the worst of everything, because it makes you feel better about yourself, you're above that, you weren't the slob on the other side. When I start describing process service in the middle of a lake, eyes start rolling. They don't get it. Things you don't expect make the best stories.

Mark (Two of Five)

I'm gonna try not to make these too long. I got respect for those people with the fancy sheepskins on their wall that write enough to kill a forest. Me, I'm just another PI loaded with six shots of bourbon, and no cases to go on. Well, there's Miz Becca in 3-B, and her lost cat. Every week for a year now, she asks me if I found Fluffers, and every week I gotta break her heart. Dames. There's also Von Braun, the super. Asked me if I found last month's rent. Funny guy. I told him I should pay him extra for the comedy act.

The name on my door says Tracy Lowell, but only my mom and my secretary call me that. You can call me Trace. Everyone gets one warning. Last guy called me Tracy a second time, he's got a scar on his knuckle where his fist met my teeth, and twitches when he lifts his beer. I ain't saying I'm a great fighter, just that you won't make that mistake again.

Mom meant well. She didn't want to name me James, after my deadbeat dad ran out on her two weeks before she gave birth, so she named me after her granddad. It's fine, but kids got no respect for history. Or girl's names. I can count on one hand the times I came home from elementary school without bleeding. What could mom do? Go to school and tell the slacker principal? Bullies get a week's detention, come at me twice as hard when the week's up.

Can't blame them. I woulda done the same if I was them.

I joined the Silver Gloves soon as I turned ten. Hoofed it an hour after school to get to the gym, then hitched rides back home. Sometimes I worked so hard I'd throw up all over the place. It hurt worse than the beatings in the ring, but I had to keep going. Bullies weren't gonna let up until I showed them I wouldn't back down, and even then. By that point, it was more like brothers; I hated them, they hated me, but damned if we couldn't be apart. Guess that's why I get along so well with people after fights.

Golden Gloves wasn't too much better, but at least I knew how to take a punch by now, which is more than a lot of them had. I held my own, and it got me ready for the academy. I don't want to talk about the academy too much, but let's just say we weren't like brothers.