Mother's Wishes

Mothers Wishes

The iron horse rode the dusty cattle track up from Dayton, out towards the Sawmill Flats. Phelps watched it bounce along the track with its occupant’s a’ bouncing and hanging on for dear life. He spat over the neck of his horse and wondered why folk would give up their own two legs for a “contrapulation” like that kind of thing. He sat his saddle in his flannel clothes from back east and jeans and waited for the contraption to disappear over the ridge towards the house; then he turned Montana horse and headed up the trail with his hound dogging his heels. He would get there eventually.

The occupants of the motorized car were Bryson Phelps at the steering bar and Grayson Stewart, Dayton’s marshal beside him, with Mrs. Linda Phelps behind him in the bucket seat. It was Bryson’s first car and he was proud as anything to be showing the marshal how it beat traveling by horse.

“It’s like having your own rail car!” He shouted above the roar of the engine and the ruckus of the track. The marshal didn’t respond which no surprise was given the sick look of terror on his face. Instead he clung to his hat and the car door for dear life.

Linda smiled at her husband and then gagged as she remembered that opening her mouth was a good way to gain a throat full of road grit and dust. She gripped the seat and spat into her handkerchief as the car bounced its way on down towards the house. She was going to have to insist that her husband put a proper road in when they eventually moved there.

Out of the trees and green bladed hills the house appeared nestled between two hillocks and down among the pines. A Ranch house with adobe brick walls and wood posted porch.  As the car pulled towards the house, a pack of angry and howling dogs gave chase leaving the sheep to wander out from where they had just been herding them. They circled the vehicle as if hoping to herd it off to the barn, it pulled to a stop a few yards from the house. The dogs continued to circle as the dust settled, wary and suspicious but keeping their distance.

An Injun woman came out of the house; she was a dark beauty of middling height and long straight black hair. She wore plain brown woolens and a long skirt over moccasins. She shaded her eyes to watch the iron horse and its occupants arrange themselves and exit via the doors of the wagon. She gave a high pitched whistle at the dogs to clear them off, hoping they would return to the fields and their sheep. They did not budge but gave a wide berth to the newcomers.

 She shook her head at these white folks and their big village ways. Not for the first time, she paused to wonder what had possessed her to leave the tribe and follow Phelps back east across the Dakotas to this place so far from her lands.

Her small reminder of those reasons clutched at her skirt and peered out at the new strangers and the hulking metal beast. Daywolf looked at the monstrous thing, this horseless carriage in wide eyed fear as the white people came out from inside it wearing gray dresses and long coats and strange head-dresses that covered their eyes. He was a small boy, the product of the Cheyenne woman and her cowboy.

Now strangers had come here with marshal Stewart, she could not say what they would want but she could say that it was probably trouble. Stewart only came when there was a promise of trouble. She took her eyes away from the group dusting themselves off to look to the Winchester leaning in the corner by the door. She wished that Phelps would ride hard to return but it was not his way. He would come slowly and sure on that old mustang of his. He would handle it when he arrived.

Bryson looked at the woman on the porch as the boy peeped out from behind her skirts. He figured this must be the Indian woman that he had heard that his brother had taken up with but he hadn’t heard of a son. Where was his brother, he wondered as he took off his driving coat and then paused to take his wife’s as well. She smiled up at him and then bent to straighten her dress. He turned back to the house and began to approach, smiling.

“Better watch where you step.” The Indian said with a grimace.

            Bryson stopped, alarmed, he looked at her and then over at Stewart who had also stopped- he showed confusion but a smile also ghosted across his face. Bryson raised an eyebrow and Stewart looked down. Bryson looked down too. His shoe was inches from a pile of manure. He relaxed and skirted the obstruction.

            “Hello. My name is Bryson; I am Phelps’ younger brother from the city.”

He stuck out his hand. She looked at his hand as if it were some venomous snake and then back at him. She said nothing, nor did she take his hand, she just continued looking at him.

            “Molly.” Stewart said and tipped his hat. “We just came to see Phelps.”

            “He ‘aint here marshal.” The woman- Molly said. “And my name aint no Molly either.”

            “Now Molly, that is what the preacher man said it was so that you and Phelps could have a right Christian marriage- you gotta have a Christian name.” Stewart said this condescendingly as if he viewed her as a child. “Where is he anyway?”

            Molly made a face and pointed past them out towards the prairie at the silhouette of the lone rider approaching. Bryson turned to look and saw his brother come ambling over a small rise as he approached the house. The old cowboy was much the same as he had always been, not that Bryson had taken much time to stay in touch. Phelps rejected even letter writing and had never given over on the education that Bryson had gotten in the past. Bryson would not have even known of Ma’s passing had not Phelps considered that important enough to send a telegram.

            Bryson waited until his brother had pulled up his horse and hitched it to the rail, a sharp word from him and the dogs tucked their collective tails and scattered off to herd the sheep. Then as the cowboy turned back towards Bryson, he spoke up.

            “Hello Phelps. I-“

            “What you want Bryson?” Phelps answered as he walked onto the porch.

            “Can’t I just come to see you? You are my brother after all.” He moved to follow Phelps to the porch.

            Phelps turned and held up his hand to stop him. Linda had started too but then stopped, embarrassed, she blushed under the scrutinizing gaze.

            “Two years since Ma died and I haven’t seen you.” Phelps said.

            “I have written you several times.” Bryson said indignantly.

            “Sure, I got them and read them.” Phelps said as he sat down on the old rocker by the door, he reached up and took the Molly’s hand.

            “You never wrote anything back.” Bryson said looking around but seeing no other chairs.

            “Had nothing to say. Besides, you bring the marshal here- so that means that you want something lil’ brother.” Phelps said and then spat.

            “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Linda spoke up hopefully.

            “No ma’am, I reckon your husband wants something- so he can come right out an’ say it. No offense to you.” Phelps said giving her a nod. Linda paled and began to back away from the porch until Bryson reached out and took her by the arm. She gave a nervous jump and came to stand beside him.

            “Alright, since you want to get to the point and to hell with civility then I will say my peace.” Bryson declared and Phelps nodded waiting for him to continue.

            “When Ma died, I figured you would need- we would both need time to mourn her rightly. But now that time has passed and I want my share of the inheritance.”

            Phelps cursed and stood up and walked down the porch to lean on the post and look his brother in the eye.

            “I take you mean to come and take this ranch from me?” Phelps crossed his arms.

            Bryson swallowed and for a moment said nothing.

            “Well not exactly, I figured we could split the lands and I could have the house and the tract down to the river and you could take the prairie and tracts up to the mountains.” Bryson smiled and spread his hands. “That gives you most of the good lands and leaves me with enough to live on.”

            “Hell Bryson, it’s all my land, Ma got you learned and me I got the ranch and the work.” Phelps said it with disbelief; once upon a time this was the boy who had ridden the range at his side.

            “So you are saying that you won’t honor Ma’s will?” Bryson said reaching into his wallet and extracting a piece of paper.

            “There’s no will Bryson, she couldn’t even write- so don’t go waving that paper at me. She done sold off you part of the land to pay for your learning.” Phelps said searching for a calm that was fast escaping him.

            “She- she wrote a will. I got it right here-“Bryson said waving the paper. “What you mean she sold the land?”

            “That piece of paper was written by pa before he died. Ma took your half of the land and sold it so you could go to school.”

            Bryson stopped waving the paper and looked at the paper in his hand. He took some deep breaths and then looked back at Phelps.

            “Well, how do I know you telling the truth?”

            “You will have to make that decision on your own lil’ brother, but I will tell you this- this is my and my woman’s land and it will be my son’s.” And with that his hand came to rest on the butt of his pistol at his waist.

            Bryson’s eyes grew wide and he looked from Phelps to the gun and back to Phelps. Then as if he had forgotten he glanced over at Stewart to see him holding his own hand above his pistol. He swallowed again longing for water and time. He felt a pain in his left arm and looked down to see Linda’s hands gripping his arm. He looked back to see the strained expression on her all too pale face. He turned back to his older brother and held up his hands.

            “You wouldn’t shoot your own flesh and blood?”

            “Get off my land, lil’ brother and we won’t find out.” Phelps said.

            “I will be back, Phelps, with a court order if its necessary.” Bryson said brandishing the will like a sword.

            “I will burn this house before I let you live in it.” Phelps replied.

            Bryson backed away and got into his car, then stopped and looked at his stricken wife. He cursed and got out and helped her back into the bucket seat. When he got back in Stewart was already there. He looked back at Phelps who stood on the porch with his Indian woman and that half-breed child of theirs.

            “It’s not over, I will get my share!” He called.

            “It’s over.” Phelps said. “You are no brother of mine.”

            With that Bryson turned his car away from the house and drove away as fast as it would go, hoping that the dust and wind would dry his tears.

            

Balance

Balance

            For a long time Martin Sprock stared out across the cityscape lit by a multitude of lights as if they were the reflections of the star-filled sky. Martin was a real estate agent in upper west side Manhattan and he specialized in leasing high priced rental properties with panoramic views of New York City skylines. He was standing on the balcony of one such property now, glass of champagne in hand taking in the view quietly reciting his pitch in undertones. A party was going on two floors below him, the sounds of the laughter and jazz filtering up to him as he stood above it.

            Martin was a good man by most accounts, he thought himself as mostly honest- only lying when the truth was not sufficient or strong enough to make a sale. He hardly ever used flattery or chicanery to sell his leases to clients. He had been mostly successful but had never married and often failed to keep up his relationships beyond a couple of months. He wanted to live well, but a strong Irish Catholic upbringing had made him miserly so he spent very little beyond his most basic needs and banked the rest.

            Martin Sprock brushed his teeth twice a day, flossed between meals, swallowed a handful of vitamins down with decaffeinated coffee each morning before walking over from his studio apartment on the lower east side to the world of his work each morning. He was perhaps the most understated agent in town and ironically the best. He had a way of letting the apartments sell and lease themselves. It was as if he could get the apartments to talk through him though he said little to nothing and the clients would eat it right up like a kitten to a bowl of warm milk.

            Yet here he was on top of the world as he knew it but alone standing on a precipice of his own doom. Martin Sprock had come here not to celebrate his success but rather to end it. He stared in reverie at this city he worshipped and glorified in his own way, then back at the unforgiving stars that had seen fit to make his life meaningless. His tears burned his eyes as he got ready to jump over the balcony rail and down to the unfeeling concrete below.

            “Are you going to jump or not?”

            At first Martin Sprock was sure he had imagined the woman’s voice, but her presence was with him as he gripped the rail. He turned around guiltily like a boy caught with his hand in the till to look for her. She stood casually against the wall next to the French doors he had opened for this occasion.

            “Well?” She repeated, one eyebrow raised on her smooth tan face, her straight black bangs blowing gently over her nose and eyes. She was at once dark and mysterious and perhaps the most beautiful woman Martin Sprock had ever seen.

            He stared at her dumbfounded to be confronted by this vision of beauty at his moment of utmost despair. He forgot his drink was still in his hand as pointed it at her.

            “Who- how did you get in here?” he sputtered out

            “Who or how, I will only answer one of those questions.” She replied calmly crossing her slender arms. He saw that she wore a black turtleneck shirt and black pants.

            “What?” He uttered in confusion..

            “Another question Martin?” She replied as if taunting him, perhaps she was. “Just choose one and I will answer that.”

            Martin sat down at the base of the balcony in a thump as his drink sloshed out over his hand and down his sleeve. He looked at her in bafflement then at the drink before tossing it aside. The glass shattered as it hit the pavement of the balcony, the liquid splashing out in a brilliant arc. Martin Sprock noticing how it caught the lights of the city as it fell. Like rain he thought in wonder that things had never seemed to real until a moment ago when- when the woman had spoke. His eyes snapped back to where she had been standing but she was not there. He sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the rail.

            “You know they say that you see details you would have never noticed before when you are about to die.”

            Martin’s eyes popped open and his head swung around wildly as he searched for the speaker. She was standing further down the rail looking out across the city. Her rich chocolate hands on top of the stone her body slightly arching. Her feature smooth contours and fitting her clothes tightly as her body pressed against the fabric. He could almost smell the cinnamon if her perfume and see the rouge on her cheeks.

            “Are you going to die soon Martin?” She asked him without looking over.

            “Who are you? How did you-.“  He stopped mid-sentence as she turned towards him and raised her finger to her lips.

            “Only one question Martin, only one will I answer, nothing more- so choose wisely.” She smiled, a knowing look heating her gaze as she looked over at him.

            Martin Sprock opened his mouth and closed it again several times as the mysterious woman continued to smile at him with her dark amber eyes. Finally, not being able to take his confusion anymore he chose one question and closed his eyes again.

            “Am I going to die?”

            “Yes.”

            “What?” His eyes popped open again. “That’s it? Not some cryptic message, some veiled threat, some last chance?”

            “You didn’t ask for any such thing like that.”

            “That’s Bull- that’s crazy.” He had begun to gasp for air.

            She laughed a soft chuckle and walked back to where she had stood before opposite him. She squatted down to his level against the wall and gazed over at him.

            “You are going to die.” She said it with a finality that left nothing to doubt.

            “But how do you know that, how can you possibly know such a thing?”

            “It’s not all that hard, Martin. Everybody dies.” She ended with a smile.

            Martin sat for a long moment in silence before the truth of what she said hit him like a loose branch in the woods. At first he gaped then he coughed and slowly he laughed shaking his head. His laughter continued until it was almost a sob and he cut himself short.

            “You…. You had me going there for a bit.” He wagged his finger at her.

            “I did.” She replied curtly but her mirth did not reach her eyes. It stopped him mid-thought and mid-finger-shake.

            “What are you not telling me?”

            “You are all questions tonight and no answers, Martin.” She spoke softly, she raised an eyebrow and then spoke again. “Perhaps that is why you find yourself standing on the balcony of this building preparing to leap into the great beyond because you ask questions that you don’t really want answers to.”

            Martin stared in shock at her soft reply, finding himself speechless for the first time that night. Had he not just toasted the latest sale to the happy couple downstairs? Had he not just flirted with the blonde at the bar, unsuccessfully? Had he not come up here in dejection only to realize the futility if his worthless existence? His wonderings found an answer and as it dawned on him, Martin could see that the woman could see it as well.

            “I am still going to jump.”

            “Never expected you not too.”

            “Oh.”

            “Well?”

            “Well what?”

            “Are you going to jump or not?”

            “Right.” He said as he forced his body up and climbed onto the railing. Then he stopped and looked back at the woman who stood half in shadow. He balanced there precariously.

            “You want to jump with me?” He asked half hoping she would, half praying she would not.

            “I already have.” She said fading into the night.

            It was then Martin Sprock lost his balance.

Showdown at the Gold Digger Saloon

Showdown at the Gold Digger Saloon

            When Jeremiah Jones rolled into town that bleak September morning he brought trouble with him. Riding his hips were six shooters, a dull gleam in the light of the midday sun. The mustang he rode was salty with trail dust and stained with sweat. His hat was worn and gray and his trail coat of rough brown leather draped over the back of his horse. The dust rolled around in his wake like mist blurring the light from the ponderosa.

            Singing Bird looked up from his work shaving the boards for coffins long enough to give him a nod as Jones rode by the Sagebrush Funeral Home. Jones tipped his hat at the Cheyenne as he rode by on towards the Gold Digger Saloon in the gold rush town. The town had been built from imported pine and painted in garish colors now bleached by long exposure to the sun. The vibrant yellows and oranges had faded to a more mellow sandy hue.

            Word spread like wildfire as people saw and recognized the infamous gunfighter from the wanted posters as he rode through the streets. Many stood in wide eyed wonder to be witness to the passing of such a man. The townsfolk were astir with the prospect of why this famous gunfighter had come to town on this day in Montana. What had brought this notorious killer to Sagebrush and who had he come to kill.

Jones came to a stop outside the saloon and hitched his horse. His hands checked his guns and he adjusted his belt. The spurred boots jingled as he strode across the creaking boards of the walk.

            Lady Caroline looked down at the swinging doors of the Digger from the balcony above the bar, as Jones sauntered through.  He came to a stop in front of the bar. All talking stopped in the saloon as he shifted his coat to free his guns. Jones smiled, thin and sharp as he soaked in the fear that slithered through the room like a snake.

            Her hands became clammy with sweat. Lady Caroline dried them on her skirts as if smoothing a crease. She reached down to pick up the purse that lay on a small table by the stairs and clutched it at her side. It was heavy like her heart that trembled as she gazed down at the man who rode death next to the bar. Jones followed the swift glances of the few patrons that got enough courage to look away and up to where Lady Caroline stood. She smoothed her skirts down with her hands and regally crossed the balustrade to the wide stairs. Jones looked up at her with his flat grey almost colorless eyes.

            She froze in place as the memories of that desperate flight from Chicago, one step ahead of a posse in 1868. Since that night she had known fear, living with chance and doubt. She had fled with a gambler, her lover, away from the trouble that had hounded her since. He had died last winter, an outcast, near Poker Flats. Now the cold fear ran up her spine, goose-fleshing her back. Her eyes had gone wide at the thought but Jones took it for himself, his grin became a leer.

            “Howdy Miss Caroline.”

She stood rigid but the thrill of fear had ceased, replacing by a new feeling. She looked at him narrowly. With a calm that surprised her, she answered him.

“So, you’ve come at last.”

“Yes’m I have. It’s time for a whore like you to atone for your crimes.”

He spoke to her still leering, the smile of which never reaching his cold eyes.

            Now she could feel the eyes of all present turn upon her, for a moment she looked back at each of them in turn. What she saw was amazement and surprise and shock. She felt their shame at this gunman’s label, their dismay at the news of her torrid past. Her past! No, her past was over, there was only her now, the present. She looked back at Jones and took a long breath.

            “The Lady Caroline is no whore.”

            All eyes turned to Singing Bird, the old medicine man stood in the doorway, hands at his side. Her eyes flew to the old Injun who had been such a good friend to her since she had come to High Plains. Jones spun at the man’s words, his six shooters a blur of silver and steel. Bird stood there unafraid as the gunslinger drew bead on him. The patrons were not as confident as the Injun and fell over each other and the tables and chairs as they scrambled for the walls. A space emptied around Jones like sand sifting through a sieve, leaving the gunslinger and the Injun alone in the center.

            “I don’ care what she is now- but what she was then.”

Jones waved his right pistol around in a flippant gesture.

            “You live in the past. You have no future.”

            “I have no future?”

 Jones laughed and looked around glaring at the cringing townspeople.

“You and that whore have no future!”

With a snarl he brought both pistols to bear and shot. The Injun stood as the bullets hit him as if he were in a windstorm. The impacts made holes but the man withstood it until Jones was finished. Then he sank to his knees with her name on his lips before he crumpled to the floor. There was blood on the swinging doors.

            She heard a sob and realized it was hers as the gunslinger turned slowly around the smoke poured out of his twin barrels. The patrons took their cue to dash for cover behind tables and each other. She heard glasses and a few bottles shatter as the ones at the bar went diving over it.

            “Now who’s going to save you Miss Caroline?”

She started forward then stopped and glared down at this monster.

“The Gambler’s dead- shot himself out there in the snow.”

            “I guess you could get the sheriff...”

 His smile was triumphant and with that she raised the colt and shot Jones in the chest. Stunned, he glanced down at the smoking hole in his chest. Then he fell to his knees, he looked back at her in bewilderment and surprise, his guns pointing at the floor.

“I am the sheriff.”

She said it with all the rage of those lost years. She shot him again between his flat grey eyes.

           

once upon a time

once upon a time, not so long ago, and a land that is not so far away, there lived a girl whose father had made bad choices. A lot of them. She would have rather been living with her mother but her mother had seen fit to go on a mission to another land one which was not ideal for small girls to grow up in. Once the girl had known which land but it had been so long since she had seen her mother that she had forgotten where it was she had gone. Her father had remarried a very beautiful woman who was vain and envious of all around her. This new mother was indeed wicked, indeed she was a wicked stepmother.
Well that was what Darcy White thought of her anyway, because it made Darcy feel better about being abandoned. The truth was not something that Darcy liked to think about. Truth was ugly and cruel and Darcy wanted no part of it. She wanted the fairy tale and the comfort it provided. She wanted well crafted lies to explain why she was so unhappy. To Darcy, her father who she had adored had remarried a wicked and selfish woman who would not let Darcy have everything as her father had let her have and was controlling to the point of setting definite bed times.
Her father, had lost all hope at happiness when her wicked stepmother had made him get another job. He had become little more than a shadow in Darcy's life as his new job took him out on the road and farther away from the daughter he loved for longer and longer stretches until one day Darcy could not remember seeing him two days in a row.
Her wicked Stepmother was self-employed and made Darcy do all the chores and cooking while she herself sat around all day doing her nails and talking to her magic mirror who would assure her stepmother that she was still beautiful and desirable. Everyday, her stepmother would sit down at the mirror and type it messages and listen to it tell her how pretty she was and the day would go by with her stepmother making her do all the work. She was never commanded to do the work, but her stepmother would ask so sweetly to disguise the threat that Darcy was sure was really there.

this came from an experience on an english train and influenced by Celestial Navigations

            She slept as the darkened hills slipped by the windows into a blur. Silent breaths pumped out to fog the glass under her pillowed head. I watched her silently as my busy hands sketched her image into the paper.

            The train coasted out of the lights of  small towns into the golden hues of sunset. It was there into my silence, came a murmur. From her lips murmured the name of someone lost in pronunciation in the clickity clack of the rails. She trembled and clutched at the short rough blanket that had mostly fallen from her body.

            She woke suddenly gasping, then fell quickly silent and flushed as she saw I was staring. The blood rose to my face as I  guiltily looked away out of my own window.

In the reflection, I could see her now staring into nothing over quivering lips hugging her pillow like a small child. The moon rose and shed waning light off its crescent as the mist wisps turning white swinging wide of the rush of our train.

            A murmur of misery brought me back to her reflection as she bit her lip hard in order to hold back the pain. Her shifting eyes betrayed her letting loose in rivulets of tears on her cheeks. I found myself walking across the swaying car to sit down by her now

hunched body. She had hidden her face behind her hands muffling her sobs. She jerked and shivered as I put my coat around her and held her to me. She looked at me in apology and said "I miss.." but couldn't finish, I said "I know."

            We sat there for an eternity saying nothing, looking somewhere else. She suddenly cuddled against me and drifted off to sleep, serenity slowly returning to her face. I smiled and held her closer and looked out into the night knowing that neither of us were alone or strangers.

            I awoke in the warming sunlightstill holding the coat. She was gone and so was my sketchbook, but there was a rose-crushed in its place and a note...

            She wrote, "I don't even know your name and there is no way I can repay your kindness and love. I hope I can find the strength in your pictures, please take the rose as a trade. Thank you, Vanessa."

            It was at that moment I felt on my cheek a faint impression of a kiss.

..

and the score is...

He spotted her in the hotel bar; she was at once serious yet wistful as she looked into her drink. A smile played at her lips as she swirled the bourbon in her glass, at least he thought it was bourbon. He watched her for awhile as he sat in his secluded nook opposite her, a good view of the bar. He would have bet the house that she was in law enforcement by her demeanor. This was just too bad for the four suits who sat at the bar behind her deciding who would get to hit on her first.

            The first suit came up; he wore a spotted yellow “power” tie with his blue attire. He watched her tell him, politely, that she wasn’t interested. To his credit he was quite good looking with wavy blonde hair and a dimple in his chin. The suit turned and strode back to the bar signaling for the bartender. She sipped her drink, her lips cupping the glass as the brown liquid flowed between them. He noticed that her dark lipstick matched her drink

            The suit returned with a drink in each hand to try again. He leaned close around her back and sat the mixed drink in front of her. She took one look at it and informed him that she didn’t want a silly drink with an umbrella and a guy in it. He clearly didn’t get the joke or the insult for that matter but shuffled his feet at her clear rejection of him. He slunk back to his friends, drinks in hand. They clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on his dismal failure.

            The woman returned to her contemplation and her drink. She looked out of the window into the cold city night, the snow covering the building and sidewalks. The streets were all but deserted at this time of the night; it made the scene all that more lonely. She absently brushed her hand at a lock of hair that had come loose from the tight bun she had it pulled back in. Her hair was dark chocolate brown almost black, the loose strand curled a bit as if too say that she liked to be all business until she let her hair down. The smooth color of her dark skin said she probably was Latina like a creamy coffee or latte.

            She spotted his stare in the reflection of the window. Her right eyebrow rose in a Vulcan salute at him as she turned her amber eyes to look into his. The breath caught in his throat as he took on the full impact of her attention. He smiled slyly and held up a napkin mark home team two, visitors zero. Her puzzlement deepened until he pointed his finger slightly to her left. She frowned and then her eyes rolled in exasperation as she realized who he was pointing at.

            This guy was better dressed in a professional Armani style suit, bark grey with an electric blue paisley. He put his hand on her shoulder leaning down and whispered something in her ear. A look of revulsion painted itself on her face and she removed his hand like he bore the plague. She looked up at him and said no.

            “You never know you might like it.” The Armani guy leered.

            She politely told him to go to hell in so many words. He looked as if she had stood up and slapped him across the face. He turned around and walked back to his friends like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. She watched him go, turned back to a drink and almost choked as she saw the updated score. She laughed and her white teeth sparkled in her mouth as she grabbed a napkin to dry her mouth.

            Round four started as the third Suit stood up in his somewhat rumpled attire, very relaxed with a thin black tie and cyan colored jacket and strolled over. She was about to say something when Mr. Smooth stepped in front of her and apologized for the behavior of his friend. He introduced himself and shook her hand and then sat down next to her. She said something quietly and he leaned in as if the words were an invitation to a kiss. Her left hand balled into a fist revealing why the men were so eager to hit on her, no rings.

            Finally as he continued to talk and push towards her, she held up her hand giving him a gentle but steady push back into his own chair. He stared at her in disbelief as she told him goodbye and waved with her right. The guy started to say something but she shushed him with her left index finger. He stood up and trudged back downfallen.

            When she looked back across at him she gave a small celebratory punch at the new napkin sign. Home team 3, visitors zip. She looked down at her drink for awhile and then making a decision bent to pick up her purse. When she came back up the fourth suit had arrived for round four.

            He sat down opposite her handing her a fresh glass of bourbon. He was infinitely casual and smooth; he began with some gestures at his pals who in turn raised their own cups to her. She smiled and nodded then turning back to him knocked her empty glass off the table. As suitor four reached down to get it, she looked straight over and mouthed “help” before he could straighten.

            The moment of truth had come, he left his nook, grabbed his book bag, jogged over to her table and into battle.

            “Sorry I am so late, Detective” he said arriving at her table as if he had just run all the way there. He silently hoped that the suits had not seen him. ”The crime lab guys took their own sweet time with it-as usual.”

            “Well, it’s about time.” She said with mock anger and getting the frustration into her voice.

            “I hope I am not interrupting anything Detective?” He said looking down at the surprised man sitting opposite her.

            “Ted was just going, weren’t you Ted?” She said pulling out the chair next to her. Her shoulders relaxed as she fell into the drama.

            “Todd, its Todd.” The guy said almost squirming, throwing him a glance as he sat down.

            “You don’t mind if I interrupt then Ted?” taking his cue about Todd’s name from her. “This will just take a few minutes then you two can get back to your drink and talk. He gave Todd a wide smile, as he fumbled with the zipper on his bag. She made a slashing sign with her hand but had to cover it as Todd looked back at her in bewilderment.”

            “Ok I guess I can wait a bit.” his confidence flooding back into his voice while she shot them both a look of anger.

            “Detective, I have the crime scene photos you requested here.” He said turning back to her and winked. “I am sorry about the blood stains on them; Delaney had a bleeder in the morgue. Blood went everywhere, including on the table where I was comparing them with Office Douglas.”

            “Blood?” Todd said nervously, no make that peevishly, the color drained from his face.

            “Yeah,” he said nodding as he reached into his bag, pulling a stack of paper out. “A real bleeder, massively obese- the pictures will explain it better.”

            “I- ugh- got to go.” Todd stumbled to his feet. “Oh God, I think- I am going to be- sorry.”

Todd ran past his friends and out of the bar. She looked at him as if for the first time, reevaluating him. His friends laughed after Todd, and then they all got up as if to come over and find out what the joke was about.

            “A floater.” She said loudly. “How many days was he in the river?”

            “At least six, he was so bloated that we had a hard time identifying his sex.”

            The trio stopped dead, drinks in hand, stunned expressions.

            “It was bloated so bad that the body popped when McCourt fished him out of the river and onto the dock.”

            “Popped?” She asked trying very hard to keep a straight face.

            “That’s how Owen described it afterward. Guts went flying everywhere, McCourt was screaming, covered in most of it and the coroner fainted face first into the mess.”

            The trio of guys backed away slowly until Armani made a dash for the men’s room followed by the two others. She burst out laughing and gave him a high five. She continued until tears rolled down her face. He laughed at her laughter.

            “That was amazing.” She said when she could speak again.

            “Thanks, but you’re still ahead in points of rejection.”

            “How did you know?”

            “That you are a cop?”

            “I am, or rather I was.” She said rolling her glass around in her hand. “I just became a US Marshal.”

            “An educated guess, and you just look like a cop-” Her eyebrows rose slowly “or rather there is this air that says to me- I am the Law in these here streets, pal.”

            “Really? Wow that’s better than the other compliments I have gotten tonight.”

            “Gee, thanks, I figured I was toast when you caught me looking at you earlier.”

            She laughed again.

            “No, I only burn white bread when it comes spread with cheesy pick up lines.”

            Her eyes sparkled.

            “Now that was a great comeback, I will need to write that down.”

            She blushed as he said it, she looked down at her drink and then back into his eyes. He could get lost in those eyes. She sat back in her chair, and looked him up and down as if to decide if she would eat him or just take him home. Then as if a thought had just occurred to her; she leaned forward until they were face to face.

            “That was quite a little con you just pulled. How did you come up with it so quickly?”

            “You could say that I just wrote it.”

            “You wrote it?”

            “With your help, of course.” He answered, feeling the wisps of her breath on his nose.

            “Of course.” She said enjoying the intimacy. “So you’re writing a book. That is so cool.”

            He was sure they were about to kiss.

            “Will I be in it?” She said her eyes closing slightly.

            “Why you are the book.” He said as he kissed her.

            

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rereading this you realize a few things word's correct feature can butcher anything