《Detectives for Hire》


 The Disgraced Detective

    October 7, 1943


    Ernie the newspaper stand owner of Sutter Street stands in the weak October sun, bracing both hands against his hips.  He leans back as far as his rheumatism will allow until something pops satisfyingly along the lower spine.


    His bones ache.  The autumn chill never did him any good, especially now that he¡¯s hit seventy.  ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll start selling roasted peanuts and coffee as an extra service to customers.  Give these hands something to keep warm,¡± he  considers wistfully.


    ¡°Ahoy, Ernie!  What fresh disasters have I missed since yesterday?¡±


    The greeting belongs to Hal, a young buck working as a salesman in the garment district.  He deftly weaves through morning traffic to cross the street, wearing a lopsided smile as he draws up.


    Ernie grins back, pleased to see him.  ¡°Quite a doozy, if you ask me,¡± he says, handing over a copy of The San Francisco Times.


    Hal scans the top headline, shaking his head.


    ¡°Ah!  The Russians and Canadians have gone to war!  No surprise there.¡±


    Ernie remembers his eldest son getting drafted once before.  What are the chances, if any, that he¡¯d return home a second time?  ¡°Think it¡¯ll come to our shores, Hal?¡±  Ernie asks, scratching his cheek.  It¡¯s a nervous habit, one he does unconsciously whenever something worries him.  Hal notices and responds accordingly.


    ¡°Hah!  Fat chance.  Can you imagine?  After the Great War no one needs a sequel.  Can you imagine Germany going to war again?¡± Hal scoffs, fishing out a nickel for the newspaper.  ¡°Besides, there¡¯s no reason for us to get involved.  Not this time.¡± His enthusiasm reassures Ernie and the two trade gossip for an hour, pausing now and again so the newspaper vendor can tend to customers.


    As Hal absently thumbs through the headlines, something in the periphery draws his attention.  A man walks briskly past the newspaper stand, wine red overcoat flaring out behind him.


    ¡°Friend of yours?¡± Asks Ernie when Hal trails off mid-sentence, watching the retreating figure melt into the flow of pedestrians along the sidewalk.  Hal frowns, uncertain.


    ¡°Naw, but he looks familiar¡­where have I seen that mug before?¡±


    ¡°Looks just like me, back in the day,¡± nods Ernie.  ¡°Tall, dark, and handsome.  The ladies couldn¡¯t get enough of me.  Said I looked like Rudolph Valentino. ¡±


    ¡°Is that right,¡± Hal says, still racking his brain for a useful memory.


    The man stood at least six feet, broad shouldered and barrel chested.  Well-built but limber enough to be considered athletic instead of brutish; his black hair neatly trimmed, short bangs framing intelligent eyes, an aquiline nose, and a defined jaw.  Even had that exotic amber skin some dames went gaga over.


    Looking at him was irritating, somehow.


    Eureka.


    ¡°Hold the phone!¡± Hal shouts so abruptly it startles Ernie into dropping a fresh stack of newspapers he¡¯s been restocking.


    ¡°Aw gee, I¡¯m sorry Ernie.   No, no, come on, remember your back¡­I¡¯ve got it, just¡ªgo to page five in the Times,¡± Hal urges, gathering up the scattered pile while his friend leans against the wooden paneling of the stall, turning to the requested page.


    DISGRACED DETECTIVE!  SHOCKING STORY!  BEAUTIFUL WOMAN TELLS ALL!


    Under the scandalous headline is a crisp picture of detective Gino Rosetti in profile juxtaposed against a grainy portrait of the SFPD¡¯s police chief.


    ¡°See?  That¡¯s him, ain¡¯t it?¡± Hal crows with confidence.  Ernie isn¡¯t so uncertain.  ¡°If you say, so.  I didn¡¯t get a good look at his face.  Says here he was involved in something real ugly.  ¡®He was a wild man!  I feared for my life,¡¯ recounts Miss Mary Carlyle,¡± reads Ernie, eyebrows raising.


    ¡°And get this,¡± adds Hal, already nose-deep in another copy of the same article.  ¡°She and her husband are trying to sue the entire police department!¡±  Ernie skims the rest of the story, muttering to himself,


    ¡°A wild man, is he?  Not like me at all when I was young.¡±  Then, remembering the brilliant idea from earlier, he folds the paper shut and asks,


    ¡°Say Hal, what if I started selling roasted nuts and coffee in the mornings?¡±


    *


    The cable car traveling to detective Gino Rosetti¡¯s residence towards Waller Street on Haight and Ashbury is a familiar route but he¡¯s so lost in thought he almost boards the wrong car, regardless.


    There aren¡¯t many passengers but he makes his way towards the back where it¡¯s unoccupied and private.  He leans against the cold brass railing as they begin their ascent from the bustling downtown to quieter suburbs.


    The compartment rattles, speeding swiftly along while Gino stares at the honeysuckle sky.  He wants to appreciate the sight, but thoughts from earlier that morning resurface and suddenly suck him under so he¡¯s back at work, standing in front of police chief, Anna Song.


    She¡¯s a serious woman with a regal air, an athletic build, and short cropped hair framing an honest face.


    Anna hasn¡¯t said anything for over a minute since he¡¯s been called in.  Her fingertips are pressed tightly to her temple as she stares at a glossy sheet of paper sitting on her desk before sliding it towards him.  Gino holds himself upright, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the axe to drop.


    ¡°Two months.  You¡¯re suspended without pay.  I need you to hand in your badge and gun.¡±


    He lays both items down softly on the gleaming oak desk.  She doesn¡¯t look up.


    ¡°They¡¯ve threatened to sue us, Gino.  The couple¡¯s convinced the press to run a hit piece.  I need you to lie low for now, understand?¡± She instructs curtly.  The stress adds a rough edge to her voice.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She finally lifts her head to meet his eyes.


    ¡°One more thing.  I¡¯ve instructed Pierce to close your investigation.¡±


    That gets a rise out of him, as expected.


    ¡°What?  No, chief, you can¡¯t¡ª¡°


    ¡°I can¡¯t what?¡± She demands sharply.  He holds his silence for a moment.  At the risk of insubordination, he insists again.


    ¡°Chief.  This case isn¡¯t something we should just drop.  There¡¯s more to Emilio Rosa¡¯s death. Something sinister is going on and I have evidence that-¡°


    ¡°Conjecture, Gino.  Conjecture is what you have.  The case is open shut.¡±


    Something sickening twists in his gut as she speaks.  He feels the disquieting horror of something important slipping away.


    ¡°I won¡¯t have any officer entertaining conspiracies when there are ongoing cases to solve.  It¡¯s done.  Pierce is filing away the paperwork as we speak,¡±


    She says, rising to her feet.  When he doesn¡¯t respond, she adds, more gently,


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.  But you¡¯ve left me no other choice.  Go home and cool your head.  Wait for this whole mess to blow over.¡±  Her heels click as she makes her way toward a filing cabinet at the back of the room, suspension letter in hand.


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    ¡°Close the door on your way out.¡±


    *


    A cascade of timidly spoken Italian slingshots Gino back to the present moment.


    A small elderly woman wearing purple from tip to toe tugs gently at the detective¡¯s sleeve.  She¡¯s heavily perfumed and asking is he¡¯d be a dear and help her disembark the cable car on the upcoming stop.


    Gino smiles softly at her, replying in their native tongue even though the words feel awkward in his mouth.  He hasn''t spoken Italian in over seventeen years.  Not since his father died.


    She¡¯s thanking him profusely when the detective notices she''s leaning heavily on her left leg.  He helps steady her on his arm as her stop looms into view.  She thanks him again.


    "My pleasure, madame."


    *


    Gino Rosetti carries his new acquaintance, Bianca Allegri, bridal style down the block towards her comfortable little home where a sweet-tempered calico cat and parakeet await her return.


    ¡°Take a right at this street?¡± He asks as they reach the end of the street.


    ¡°Ye-yes.  Really though, you needn¡¯t trouble yourself, my darling.   I can walk just fine,¡± Bianca replies, flustered.


    Why a strapping gentleman has insisted on carrying her home is a mystery as she¡¯s been literally swept off her feet when all she¡¯d requested was a hand.


    ¡°You were going to walk all this way?  That¡¯s too far, in your condition,¡± he tells her with a small frown.  She blinks in confusion.  ¡°My condition?¡±  Really now, he is so handsome.


    ¡°Your right foot, madame.  I noticed you were resting all your weight on the left side, earlier.  Did you injure your ankle?  It would have been quite painful to walk these six blocks home in such a state.¡±


    ¡°Oh!  To think you noticed that so easily!  But I¡¯m sorry to burden you like this,¡± she marvels in awe.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give it another thought.  I¡¯m glad our paths crossed.¡±


    ¡°Yes.  God looks after all His children.  He even sent you to me!¡±


    He smiles again.


    ¡°Yes, madame.¡±


    *


    After dropping Bianca off and promising to visit for riposo one of these days to enjoy coffee and a homemade meal, Gino embarks on the forty minute walk home, admiring local architecture and working up an appetite as the last of the afternoon sun bleeds into the horizon.


    By the time he''s made it back, swaths of baby pink clouds float delicately across the sky, softening the burning copper sunset framing a row of austere Victorian homes lining his street.


    The enticing aromas of homemade dinners waft through open windows as Gino turns the brass key to his building, ascending the short flight of steps to his rooms on the second floor.  There''s the sea bream he purchased yesterday at Fisherman¡¯s Wharf waiting in the fridge.  Adding some roasted vegetables and chardonnay should fit the bill for tonight.


    Once inside, Gino feels the sweet relief of being home again as he affectionately calls out, ¡°Daisy May!  I¡¯m home.¡±  He flicks on the amber lights to the living room in time to see a something stir beside a tufted sofa chair.


    Daisy May, a beautiful dyspeptic pug rises to greet him, tongue lolling and front paws click-clacking over smooth herringbone wood floors.  Her unusable back legs trail behind her.


    While it was the untimely death of her previous owner that had brought them together, Daisy May¡¯s temporary stay turned permanent once the detective realized she was unlikely to be adopted and put to sleep due to her condition.  And, while her warm and trusting nature made the little creature useless as a guard dog, it made for an excellent companion.


    ¡°Hey there, gorgeous.  You been a good girl while daddy was away?¡± Daisy May snuffles in response, eagerly pushing the crown of her head into Gino¡¯s hands.  She¡¯s unable to understand the question because she is a dog but Gino pretends she does and gently massages the wrinkles in her crinkled forehead.  ¡°Let¡¯s have dinner.  How does that sound?¡±  This question she does understand.


    *


    Preparing dinner is a straightforward affair that¡¯s comforting in it¡¯s familiarity.  Once it¡¯s ready, the detective decides to enjoy it in the living room.


    While the entire one bedroom apartment is tastefully decorated, it¡¯s the living room that¡¯s most inviting, containing elegant yet comfortable furniture.  A plush emerald green couch faces a robust home library containing rare leather-bound novels lining the wall above a beautiful alabaster fireplace, and a collection of potted plants thriving beside floor to wall windows.  Instead of a television set there¡¯s a radio and a well maintained gramophone playing Nat King Cole ballads as night settles over suburbia and the city beyond.


    After dinner, Gino sighs contentedly, pushing away a half finished glass of wine.  It¡¯s his third pour and a vague but comforting fuzziness indicates he¡¯s pressing against the edge of tipsiness.  By his feet, Daisy May whines to be picked up and is soon snuggling comfortably on her owner¡¯s chest.  She lets out a raspy huff.


    ¡°Hmm¡­two months of this, huh?¡± Gino thinks aloud, staring out the window at a distant moon suspended against an inky black canvas.  ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure the time will fly by.  I¡¯ve got evidence to review.¡±  He snorts derisively.  ¡°With or without the case files, I¡¯m still trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces won¡¯t fit.  Only now I¡¯ve got no resources and no permission to investigate.  What do you make of that, girl?¡±


    Daisy may licks his chin and burrows her face deeper into the crook of his neck.  Her breathing is warm and moist against his skin.  Gino gently scratches the back of her ears.


    His thoughts return to the night of the case in question.  The tragedy of two weeks ago.  And just like that, he¡¯s no longer home anymore.  He¡¯s standing in the doorway next to his partner again, heart sinking as he takes in a gruesome sight that¡¯s burned itself into his memory forever.


    *


    Emilio Rosa lies still in a shallow pool of blood.  He¡¯s on his back, only wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt and black high-waisted boxer shorts.  The pallor of his skin says he¡¯s been dead for hours.


    Rich amber light spills into the room as two detectives stand under the doorframe; their shadows blanketing Emilio¡¯s body in shadow.


    Pierce is reciting something in Hebrew.  Once she¡¯s finished, he asks her what it means.  She dips her head minutely, a subconscious gesture of respect, saying,


    ¡°Blessed be the Judge of Truth.  Emilio Rosa, may his memory be a blessing.¡±


    Gino lets the words seep into the atmosphere before crossing the threshold to crouch by the deceased.


    He takes the man¡¯s hand in his own, scrutinizing it, eyes roving over the rest of him.  The stiffness feels familiar in his grasp.  Emilio¡¯s features are drawn tight, his arm and the joints of his fingers unyielding but still able to bend with some manipulation.  He¡¯s still warm to the touch, but just barely.


    ¡°Moderate rigor mortis.  Time of death¡­pushing on six to eight hours,¡± Gino observes.  Pierce hums thoughtfully behind him, maintaining her post at the door.  Gino leans in closer, taking in the battered flesh and blood on the left side of the face.   The top of Emilio¡¯s skull is caved in, some shards of white bone peeking through the carnage.


    There¡¯s so much blood.


    ¡°Cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma.  No sign of self defense wounds,  That would be strange, except-¡±


    He leans in, inhaling a few breaths by Emilio¡¯s open mouth.


    ¡°-except there¡¯s a strong scent of alcohol.  He may have been intoxicated when the attack occurred.  Caught off guard and unable to defend himself,¡± Gino concludes grimly.  He leans back on his heels, lapsing into silence.  He doesn¡¯t let go of Emilio¡¯s hand.


    Pierce leans against the doorway, arms crossing.


    ¡°What do you figure that is?¡± She finally asks, regarding an unnerving detail on Emilio¡¯s exposed chest.  She can hear the uneasiness in her partner¡¯s voice as he responds.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure.  But it¡¯s burned into his skin.  Some kind of flower¡­a magnolia?¡±


    It¡¯s impossible to miss the ugly welted flesh on Emilio¡¯s right pectoral.  A large flower shape that¡¯s scarred the skin is prominent; close in size to a man¡¯s outstretched palm.  Gino feels sick as he tells his partner, ¡°Looks like a branding iron was used.  Somebody marked him as if¡­as if he was livestock.¡±


    If the information repulses Pierce, it doesn¡¯t show.  ¡°Either Emilio had some¡­unconventional hobbies, or he upset the wrong people.  My money¡¯s on the latter.  We¡¯d better call in,¡± she says, glancing back down the hallway.  It¡¯s quiet.  None of the neighbors have stirred yet.  ¡°Maybe we can get everything wrapped up without fuss, for once.¡±


    When her partner doesn¡¯t reply or stir she shifts, turning towards him.


    ¡°Gino?¡±


    ¡°He married his childhood sweetheart three weeks ago.  Her name¡¯s, Evelyn.  She¡¯s expecting,¡± Gino tells her.  He¡¯s angled his body so she¡¯s facing his back.


    ¡°That so,¡± Pierce replies, not unkindly.   What else is there to say?


    She considers approaching to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder.  The gesture may be appropriate, considering how much harder he takes tragedies like this.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to find whoever did this.  I¡¯ll find him if it¡¯s the last thing I do.   And when I¡¯ve caught him...¡±


    Her partner¡¯s voice has gone dangerously low and quiet.  The only other time she¡¯s heard him speak this way was when a suspect shot her in the side while trying to escape.  When they¡¯d finally cornered him, Gino had broken the man¡¯s jaw.


    She shudders at his next words.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make him answer for the evil he¡¯s done.¡±


    *


    Daisy May''s little snores mingle with the gramophone''s music, her pudgy little body pillowed comfortably between the sofa and her owner¡¯s side.  Gino caresses her double chins.  His eyelids are sliding shut.


    ¡°I need to convince the chief to reopen the investigation.  But first¡ª¡°


    A yawn.


    ¡°¡ªthirty winks.  I am on vacation, after all.¡±


    No sooner have the words left his lips, when a commotion starts outside.  The detective¡¯s body instinctively pitches forward into sitting position, startling Daisy May awake.


    A crash.


    ¡°Get back here, brat!¡±


    A thunk.


    ¡°Agh!! He bit me!¡±


    ¡°Why you little-¡°


    Fading footsteps.


    Gino¡¯s leaning out the window overlooking the street.  The din sounds close but there aren¡¯t any figures running through the neighborhood.  It must be behind the building, then, towards the alley.


    Daisy May watches watery-eyed as her owner grabs a half-empty wine bottle, takes a breath to steel himself, and runs out; slamming the front door shut behind him.


    She sits in uneasy silence before lying back down over to the spot where Gino lay only moments before, drawing comfort from the fading warmth he¡¯s left behind.

 The Stray

    Dalton¡¯s lungs burn.


    The air cuts like shrapnel slicing down his throat.He runs, hearing the pursuing footsteps drawing closer.Then something loops the inside of his shirt collar and he¡¯s yanked back, both feet leaving the ground as he¡¯s violently introduced to a brick wall.The impact cues an explosion of stars behind his eyes.


    Someone¡¯s shouting in his face but it all sounds like gibberish.


    Two men tower over him. They¡¯re both heavier by at least sixty pounds, their figures outlined by glim streetlight spilling into the dead-end alley.


    ¡°Thought you could give us the slip, eh, clever dick?¡± Snipes one of the men, clearly struggling to catch his breath.


    ¡°Can¡¯t blame a guy for tryin,¡¯¡± Dalton mutters as he¡¯s roughly hoisted to his feet.


    ¡°On your feet, you little weasel!¡± Barks the man. The stench of sardines clings to his breath.


    Despite the disgust, a wavering smile stretches across Dalton¡¯s face. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he hears himself say, "Y''know, I think this is all a huge mix-up, fellas." Sardine breath


    just snorts derisively. ¡°A mix-up? That¡¯s a laugh.¡± He huffs, voice dropping to a snarl. ¡°What¡¯s the big idea, skulking around where you¡¯re not welcome?¡±


    Behind him, Sardine¡¯s partner holds up an injured hand to display red puncture wounds lining the palm in a semi-circle.


    ¡°This better not get infected. The little spitfire really bit me. Look, Joe. Joe, look at this,¡± he insists, hand waving in a bid to draw his partner¡¯s attention.


    ¡°Not now George,¡± mutters Joe before shaking Dalton.¡°Hey, you!Eyes up!How¡¯d you get into the boss¡¯s office? Talk, ya brat!¡±


    Dalton feels a spiteful smirk on his face.


    ¡°Woah, there. Easy, fella. Get anymore handsy and you¡¯ll have to buy me dinner first-¡°


    The quip is barely out of his mouth when something strikes him across the face with enough force to knock him to the ground. The concrete swims and swirls beneath him as the earth tilts dangerously off center.


    ¡°Tch! Mouthy brat.¡±


    A weary sigh.


    ¡°We¡¯re wasting out time. The kid¡¯s just a common thief.¡±


    Dalton gingerly touches his brow. His fingertips come away crimson.


    Something clicks open.


    Now he¡¯s on his knees somehow with the pointy end of a knife trained on his face.


    Bitter fear twists his gut, blending with hot indignation and adrenaline; the cocktail of emotions making him feel shaky and sick.


    ¡°Tha-ha-ha-hat¡¯s a knife!  You have a knife. That¡¯s really¡ªwoh¡ªthat looks pretty sharp,¡± he babbles, talking around the panic clawing up his throat. ¡°So, um, wait a second fella, wait a second, wait! You-you wanna know how I broke in, right? Right?¡±


    The blade tilts away far enough to give him a false sense of security.


    ¡°That¡¯s more like it. Who gave you the key to the boss¡¯s office? I want names.¡±


    He should cooperate.


    ¡°I bet you do.¡±


    He needs to cooperate.


    ¡°But what you really oughta know, is¡ª¡°


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    He¡¯s gonna cooperate.


    Dalton spits, a pinkish glob of blood and saliva landing on Joe¡¯s lapel.


    A for effort.


    ¡°Bite me, you sinfully ugly, avocado-headed, subhuman, scum-sucking son of a man who never loved you¡ªand eats pig fertilizer for a living!¡±


    There¡¯s a stunned silence. George is the first to break it. ¡°That¡¯s disgusting.¡± He sounds genuinely mortified. ¡°You kiss your mother with that mouth?¡±


    ¡°I kiss yours,¡± Dalton sneers.


    ¡°That¡¯s it! You¡¯ve had it!¡± Joe roars, a vein throbbing on his temple. The blade closes in. Now he¡¯s done it. Never could keep his mouth shut when it made sense to. Couldn¡¯t be bothered with common sense. What a disappointing waste of life.


    ¡°Not the face, not the face!¡± Dalton cries, eyes squeezing shut and hands raising to shield himself.


    ¡°Oi!!¡±


    Everything stops.


    When getting skewered doesn¡¯t happen, Dalton squints one eye open.


    A long shadow runs from the entrance of the alley, cloaking a tall, unfamiliar figure in darkness.


    ¡°Beat it bub. This ain¡¯t your fight,¡± Joe warns, knife poised. George tenses.


    ¡°Wassamatta? I-hic-I oughta call the coppers on youuuu¡­¡± The stranger slurs in a deep baritone. ¡°Come onnn, bohh-both of ya. Let¡¯s all jus¡¯ calm down and have a drink, okay?¡±


    Liquid sloshes in a bottle the stranger¡¯s holding as he sways, bracing a free hand against the brick wall for support.


    A dumbbell of dread drops in Dalton¡¯s stomach as his tormenters shoulders drop, relaxing. Nothing is ever allowed to work out in his favor, apparently.


    ¡°It¡¯s just a drunk,¡± George reminds them, releasing a breath. The drunkard takes uneven steps towards the group, his body listing to the left so much that his shoulder scrapes against wall. He nearly loses his balance several times, threatening to face-plant at any moment. Then he stops, looking confused.


    Joe scowls, exasperated.


    ¡°Ya got stupid between your ears, or something? I said get lost, ya lummox, before I¡ª¡°


    ¡°HELP!¡± Dalton interrupts, voice loud enough to be heard down several blocks. He struggles, twisting his body desperately to try and wrest free. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there looking ornamental! You waiting for an invitation or something!? Help me! Help m-mphh!¡±


    A hand clamps over his mouth and suddenly he¡¯s back on the ground, scrambling to get away but it¡¯s no use; he¡¯s pinned under a much heavier opponent who¡¯s glaring at him with a sheen of bloodlust in his eyes.


    ¡°Orders be damned, I¡¯ve had just about enough out of you.¡±


    Dalton gapes in horror as Joe¡¯s grip tightens over the knife¡¯s handle. He bears down to drive the blade into Dalton¡¯s face¡ªonly to catch an explosion of glass against his own temple as Gino hurls the bottle through the air with savage force.


    Dalton catches a splash of wine on his cheek and scurries away as Joe¡¯s eyes roll back, exposing the whites of his eyes. His body goes limp, colliding into the pavement with enough force to ensure at least some amount of lifelong damage.


    Gino surges forward, arms raised in a defensive stance as he barrels towards George who, understandably, panics.


    ¡°W-wait! Stop! I didn¡¯t do anything! Stop!!¡± George pleads, backing up towards the dead end behind him.


    His request is firmly denied as the detective bum-rushes into George¡¯s space, hooking an arm under the man¡¯s thigh while charging into him and using the combined force and momentum to knock him off balance. George is slammed onto his back, unable to rise as a knee is planted on his chest to keep him in place.


    It¡¯s a wrestling move Gino¡¯s executed hundreds of times before in sparring sessions with the only deviation being an a swift elbow strike to his George¡¯s face which forces the man into unconsciousness.


    For a while, everything is still. The only noises filtering into the night air are the distant sounds of traffic and Gino¡¯s labored breathing.


    He¡¯s barely broken a sweat but still feels the unique exhaustion brought on from finally allowing himself to relax after a prolonged surge of adrenaline. He¡¯d anticipated getting hurt tonight and whispers a silent prayer of thanks that it hasn¡¯t happened.


    Gino rises to his feet, turning to the young man leaning against the wall a few feet away. He looks dazed, eyes transfixed on the assailant lying in a puddle of mid-priced wine and gleaming glass. The knife lies discarded, out of reach.


    Gino approaches Dalton taking care to make some noise to signal his approach. He pitches his voice slower and softer before speaking.


    ¡°Excuse me, sir¡­are you alright?¡±


    The young man startles anyway, looking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. His ginger hair is fashioned into a disheveled pompadour. A red gash above his left eyebrow dribbles blood down the length of his face towards his neck; staining a bright pinstripe turquoise shirt and teal vest. He¡¯s fine-featured, slender and fair skinned; a spattering of freckles adorning his face.


    Rather than handsome, he¡¯s beautiful. Gino¡¯s fairly sure he¡¯s seen more than a passing resemblance in French oil paintings.


    Gino waits patiently for an answer. When none arrives, he¡¯s about to ask the question again when Dalton opens his mouth. Blood spills over his lips instead of words and he sways. Gino reaches out instinctively, catching him before he collapses into an unconscious heap.


    ¡°Right.Let¡¯s get you somewhere safe, for now,¡± Gino mutters to himself, gingerly manipulating the unconscious man until he¡¯s properly secured over his shoulder.


    He half carries, half walks them out of the alley, sparing a glance over his shoulder to make doubly sure the attackers are still unconscious.


    Reassured, the two make their way down the street as a chilled Autumn wind whistles far above them.

 The Wolves

    Elsewhere...


    Inside an dilapidated warehouse in New York city¡¯s east side are two men hovering near a body drenched in fresh blood.


    One, a tall sturdy blonde with a weathered face puffs idly on a cigarette.He¡¯s smartly dressed in polished oxfords and a pressed linen suit.


    There¡¯s a notch of skin missing on the ridge of his left ear from a stray bullet and three faded scars on his face: one over his lips, another running from cheek and jawline, and the third over his left eye, the pupil cloudy and sightless.


    His name is Ransom and at forty seven he¡¯s comfortable with violence and familiar with pain the way only a career mercenary can be.


    In front of him, crouched over the prone body is a twenty-something hitman-for-hire who, despite hailing from Czechoslovakia, insists on going by the name Oswald.


    Perhaps it¡¯s cultural differences that explain the fine light brown hair he wears hanging loosely shoulder-length like a woman.Ransom can¡¯t say for sure, never having been to Europe.


    Apart from that, Oswald towers well over six feet, lithe and muscular like a dancer. He sports a deep blue turtle neck, knee high khaki shorts, and white socks up to his calves with brown loafers


    in need of a polish.He¡¯s soaked, as if someone¡¯s poured a gallon of paint on his chest and thighs.His hands are sticky with crimson.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you stop?¡± Asks Ransom, at length.Oswald tilts his head, eyebrow raising.He takes a fistful of hair from the man splayed out motionless between them, shaking the man¡¯s head half-heartedly.


    The head bobs at the motion, face mottled and swollen beyond recognition.


    ¡°He¡¯s not even awake anymore.There¡¯s no point going on,¡± Oswald replies unenthusiastically, voice silky.


    ¡°Sure he¡¯s still alive?¡± Ransom asks pointedly.Oswald wipes the edge of the straight razor held in his left hand before pressing the flat end of it under the man¡¯s mouth.After a beat, the steel fogs up


    ¡°Mm-hmm.Yep.¡±


    ¡°Okay.We¡¯ll finish up tomorrow,¡± Ransom decides, taking a seat on a nearby crate.  He casts a sidelong glance at the other poor bastard they¡®d tied to one of the concrete pillars before torturing his associate.


    With less than ten feet separating them, they all smell the acrid ammonia stench of urine emanating from him.Ransom catches the man¡¯s horrified eye and winks.


    ¡°You¡¯re next, Danny.¡±


    Danny shudders, stifled sobs escaping the gag shoved between his lips. His partner had been stubborn.Danny will be in a more helpful mood.Beside him, Oswald groans.


    ¡°You got a problem with that?¡± Ransom asks, evenly.


    ¡°I do,¡± the hitman replies, arms crossing and voice bristling.  ¡°This is boring.What¡¯s the point of torturing them if we¡¯re just going to kill them, anyway?¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°That''s the job.¡± Ransom explains, exhaling another plume of smoke.The gritty flavor of Danny¡¯s cigarettes are making Ransom long for his Havanas back home.


    Ordinary people were satisfied with such meager things.Life must be charmingly uncomplicated for them.  He turns to consider the full moon spying on them through the dust-blurred windows.


    Suddenly, a thought occurs.


    ¡°Don¡¯t come in tomorrow.I¡¯ve got another job for you.¡±So saying, Ransom plucks at a slim gold chain around his neck, drawing the oval locket that rests against his breast.


    It clicks open to reveal the picture of a little boy, no older than ten.His hair is neatly brushed, dark eyes wide and doleful.The portrait reminds Oswald of a brittle porcelain doll.


    The opposite side holds a curl of hair.¡°Cute, huh?¡± Ransom prompts around the smoke between his lips.


    When there¡¯s no response, he sighs and turns the picture back towards himself, gazing at it fondly.


    ¡°He ran away a few weeks ago. Sad, isn¡¯t it?¡±¡±


    Oswald shrugs, scuffing his shoe on the concrete to wipe away the blood seeping into the leather.  "Not really," he sniffs, disinterested.  Ransom pockets the necklace, gesturing with the lit cigarette.


    "Find him and your debt is paid."


    Oswald''s head shoots up suddenly, hair bouncing.


    His surprise lasts only a moment.light, Ransom sees his eyes narrowing quickly; enthusiasm cooling with suspicion.


    "All of it?"  It¡¯s a hefty sum, they both know.


    "To the penny."


    "My, my, how very generous," Oswald intones flatly.  The offer sounds too good to be true.  There¡¯s a catch.


    "Bring him back unharmed.  If I find even a scratch on him, your debt remains as is," Ransom clarifies, taking a final drag before dropping the remaining tobacco into the cooling pool of blood below.


    The embers die with a satisfying hiss.


    Oswald watches as the man''s hand slips into his blazer''s inner pocket, withdrawing a slim wallet before fisbeeing it in his direction.  Oswald barely catches it, instantly irritated by the stupid theatrics.


    "There''s enough money there to keep you in San Francisco until you find him," Ransom says.


    Oswald opens the billfold to find an unfamiliar face staring back beside a fistful of Lincolns.


    "That''s what he looks like now," Ransom explains.  Oswald resists the urge to slap the man with his own wallet.  Instead he asks, "What was the point of showing me his kid picture, then?"


    Danny¡¯s muffled whimpering punctures the thoughtful silence.


    Ransom stands and walks across the blood puddle separating them, tracking red prints over the dusty floor.  He finally stops within arms reach of Oswald, smiling wide.  It doesn''t reach his eyes.


    The moonlight reflecting off his linen suit makes him look unnervingly ghostly.  His pale hair glows, eyes almost transparent.


    "Because.He may be bigger now, but I still want you to treat him with kid gloves.  He''s so easy to break, see?But I¡¯m the only one who knows how to do it and put him back together again.¡±


    Oswald doesn¡¯t hide the disgust crossing his face.Ransom continues.


    ¡°If you bring him back with even a single bruise I''ll return the favor tenfold and you get nothing.¡±Ransom claps him good-naturedly on the shoulders with enough force to make Danny startle in the corner.


    ¡°Get it?"


    Oswald straightens.  He''s not intimidated.He should be, but he isn¡¯t.


    "What a totally normal and reasonable request,¡± he answers blandly.¡°So, what, am I supposed to politely ask him to follow me or just leave a trail of breadcrumbs?  Candy, maybe?"


    Oswald shakes off Ransom''s cold hand and steps away to pace.  It''s late and he''s tired.  More than tired.  Exhausted to the bone from being the Magnolia Syndicate''s rabid dog a mere two months.


    Torture sessions aren''t his modus operandi but that''s all they want him for.Getting paired up on assignment with an actual lunatic is just salt in the wound.


    And lately.


    Lately all the sights and sounds are dredging up memories of his time in Bavaria.The whole damnable reason he¡¯s currently an ocean away from home, entangled with American madmen and shadowy organizations galore.


    The nightmares have been wrecking havoc on his sleep.  So.If one impractical kidnapping is all that stands between more of this and freedom...


    Oswald releases a weary sigh, finally pocketing the wallet with an air of surrender.


    "What''s his name?"


    Ransom smiles.This time it almost reaches his eyes.

 The Agreement

    When Dalton wakes he feels a familiar terror grip him.


    The specter of imminent danger forces him awake with a gasp, arms flying up to guard his face as an out-of-focus body looms over him.


    The figure immediately withdraws, taking the shape of a man holding his arms up loosely to show his empty palms.


    ¡°Woah, there¡­easy¡­easy.It¡¯s alright, you¡¯re safe.¡±


    Dalton stares at Gino, wild-eyed and wary, head swiveling every which way to take in unfamiliar surroundings.


    When nothing catastrophic happens and it becomes clear Gino doesn¡¯t pose any immediate harm, his breathing slows and he releases his death-grip on the sofa¡¯s armrests.


    ¡°You¡¯ve only been out for a couple minutes.We''re in my living room, a few blocks from the alley,¡± the man explains slowly.


    His voice is resonant and reassuring, giving the impression that he¡¯d make a killing reading bedtime stories to fussy babies or brokering a hostage situation.


    Dalton sizes him up, unsure if it¡¯s the calming presence or the memory of the man mowing down Joe and George like pins in a bowling alley with ease that solidifies a fact he cannot contest:


    He needs this massive man.


    The delight that he¡¯s made a crucial discovery prompts Dalton to shout, ¡°You¡¯re perfect!¡± as he surges forward, closing the short distance between them to clasp/grasp Gino¡¯s biceps.His eyes shine, pupils blown wide; frantic.


    ¡°Let me have a look at you,¡± Dalton continues, leaning back enough to better scan the detective from tip to toe.His hands are trembling slightly.


    Gino stands, too stunned to pull away when Dalton¡¯s eyes settle on his face again, eyes warm with awe and unsettling intensity.


    The gaze feels too fond for a stranger, so he looks away, gently prizing Dalton¡¯s hands off his arms.


    Dalton either doesn¡¯t notice or doesn¡¯t care, immediately circling Gino like a curious seal that¡¯s taken a shine to a diver.He gestures excitedly as he speaks.


    ¡°Oh man, you shoulda seen yourself!The way you took out the first loser in one go?And-and then pummeled the second degenerate after that? It was like¡­like a ballet!¡±


    Dalton pauses, eyes narrowing in thought.¡°No.No, wait, that¡¯s not¡­yeah.Yeah!Like a violent, macho ballet!You¡¯re like a-a-a wall of meat!¡± He crows, satisfied with the comparison.


    ¡°But you got brains even,¡± he adds in wonder, as if the notion of Gino possessing more than calibrated violence is a novel discovery.


    ¡°The full package!Just the man I need in my enterprise.What a find!Anyway, you¡¯ve got the job.Say what¡¯s your name, anyhow?I¡¯m Dalton.¡±


    Any doubts Gino possessed about the possibility of head trauma induced mania are obliterated.


    Even if Dalton¡¯s pupils didn¡¯t look unevenly dilated he was talking nonsense and so frenzied that Gino, who¡¯s been resisting the urge for some time, finally gives in and places his hands on Dalton¡¯s shoulders to lower him onto the sofa.


    ¡°Sir, you¡¯ve been in a traumatic incident.My name is Gino and I believe you may be experiencing delirium from head trauma.I need you to remain calm and stay still, while I-¡°


    Dalton slaps his hand away, expression sour.¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, I¡¯m not delirious,¡± he snaps.  ¡°Now where was I?Oh yeah, I need you to-¡°


    Daisy May, who¡¯s been observing their unusual exchange finally takes the opportunity to paw affectionately at Dalton¡¯s ankle.Dalton looks down, nose wrinkling at the sight of her.


    ¡°Eww.What¡¯s this moist, ugly thing?¡±


    Daisy May isn¡¯t offended.


    Instead, she immediately begins hacking up a dust bunny she¡¯d ingested earlier.


    ¡°Augh!! Oh, gross!¡±


    He draws his knees to his chest to put as much distance as possible from the contagion when he notices Gino standing by a telephone, the receiver to his ear.


    ¡°Hello, operator?Please connect me to the police station.Yes, I¡¯d like to report a crime.Yes, that¡¯s right.Please dispatch an officer and a doctor for a house call.No, no ambulance necessary.Yes.The address is-¡°


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Whatever the operator says next is drowned out by the terrific crash of an expensive gramophone colliding with the base of the telephone, effectively ripping it out of the wall and sending a spray of wall plaster and plastic into the carpet.


    Gino Rosetti has experienced several things in his distinguished career as a police detective which have led him to believe there is little that can catch him unawares.He is wrong.


    The sudden destruction coupled with the sight of a wiry twenty something darting forward to scoop up the damaged telephone remains and making a beeline for the nearest window is enough to keep him frozen in stupefied wonder for a solid four seconds.


    This delay guarantees that Gino is too late to prevent what happens next.


    He catches up to Dalton in time to grab the young man by the wrist and draw him back only to witness him frisbee damaged device into the night sky and watches it plummet into the windshield of a parked Volkswagen below.


    ¡°That¡¯s my landlady¡¯s car,¡± Gino states blankly, grip loosening on Dalton¡¯s wrist as he runs a hand through his hair in disbelief.A flicker of self-consciousness crosses Dalton¡¯s face.


    ¡°I mean¡­she¡¯s probably insured, right?¡±


    Gino groans.


    ¡°Right?¡±


    Before he can answer, Dalton falters, eyes screwing shut and face going pale.His grip on the windowsill tightens as he sinks to the floor, head hanging.Drops of fresh blood drip onto the wood floor.  His wound¡¯s reopened.


    ¡°Woahhh¡­ev¡­everything¡¯s getting spinny,¡± Dalton says quietly, head resting on one knee.Gino feels a flash of anger.


    ¡°Small wonder!You keep losing blood and are likely concussed.We need to get you to a hospital.Now.¡±His tone implies there¡¯s no room for argument.


    ¡°No.No hospital.You do it.First aid.I¡¯m¡­¡± He trails off as a wave of nausea breaks over him.


    The puddle of red beneath him widens.


    ¡°I just need to sleep it off,¡± Dalton insists weakly.


    Gino¡¯s heard stories of men who¡¯ve looked less battered refusing to see a doctor after a bad fall.Men who have walked away from an automobile accident without so much as a scratch on.


    Cases where such men have gone to bed without worry or pain only to bleed out internally during the night; dead as doornails by daylight.


    Gino won¡¯t let that happen to Dalton.


    He sighs, dropping to his knees alongside Dalton.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry sir, but this is for your own good¡­you¡¯re not in your right mind.¡±


    So saying, Gino scoops the injured man into his arms easily.He¡¯s so light.Then, as carefully as he can manage, he settles the thin body over his shoulders in a fireman¡¯s carry.


    Once the initial shock wears off, Dalton squawks and thrashes.¡°He-hey! Put me down!Put me down this instant, you overgrown Goliath!¡±


    That¡¯s a new one.


    Gino tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice, vying for as much detached professionalism as possible.¡°Wish I could.Truly.Please don¡¯t struggle.It will aggravate your injuries.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?Aggravate this!¡±


    From her front row seat on the couch, Daisy May barks as her owner takes a punishing blow to the face.


    Disoriented, the detective stumbles back a few steps, hold loosening enough for Dalton to wiggle free and slam onto the ground.He¡¯s on his feet in an instant and running towards the exit.


    Gino blinks away tears as a warm ribbon of blood streams down his nose.


    The stranger he¡¯s risked his neck to save and brought into his home just kneed him in the face at full strength without reservation.What is the world coming to?


    Pinching the bridge of his nose to staunch the bleeding, Gino turns towards the front door expecting to find it flung open.It¡¯s still shut.


    A cool breeze wafts into the room behind him and a cursory glance reveals an unprecedented sight:


    The red-haired human hurricane is awkwardly shimmying out a window leading onto the fire escape.Gino stares quietly, wondering if he should bother being surprised by anything at this point.


    After twenty seconds of struggling, Dalton manages to plant both feet on the metal platform outside.


    He shivers, sensing the intangible weight of being watched and lifts his gaze to the full length window where Gino stands, observing wordlessly. They¡¯re less than six feet apart.


    Dalton blinks.


    What?


    Gino blinks.


    Nothing.


    Dalton returns his attention to executing the slowest escape the detective has ever seen.He¡¯s just out of sight when a pained cry marks the end of his progress.


    Gino rushes outside, fearing the worst, but only finds Dalton doubled over in pain, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other clutching the stairwell¡¯s metal railing.Gino begins descending the steps towards him.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± He begins, uncertainly.  ¡°Are you-¡°


    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±


    The detective freezes, mid-step.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare come closer or I¡¯ll rip your throat out,¡± Dalton grits out, head swiveling to meet Gino¡¯s gaze.  Dalton''s eyes are dark, mouth curling into an ugly snarl: all teeth, all bite.


    Gino has seen this expression before.He¡¯s seen it in the desperate, hunted eyes of criminals driven into a corner; dangerous with desperation¡ªready to claw out fistfuls of flesh to stay free one more second.


    But the young man glowering at him isn¡¯t a criminal.He¡¯s not even fully grown, not really.Gino feels a surge of shame.His approach has been wrong all evening.


    So, the detective lowers his hands, letting them hang limply at his sides.Dalton watches warily as Gino reverses slowly up the stairs and sits down, hands clasped together, prayer-like, elbows resting on his knees.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says.¡°Please, don¡¯t run,You¡¯re safe.I...¡°


    Clouds drift across the moon¡¯s face, masking them both in darkness.The wind curls around them, sending shivers up their spines.Then the milky light returns to reveal Dalton watching Gino intently.


    ¡°I won¡¯t call the police.Or hospital.You¡¯re free to go, but¡­you¡¯re injured.And it¡¯s late.¡±


    Dalton scowls, staring down at the sidewalk below.Gino knows whatever he says next will determine whether he stays or flees.


    ¡°I can treat your wounds.If you¡¯ll allow me.¡±


    No response.


    ¡°¡­Please.¡±


    Dalton keeps staring down the street below them.


    ¡°Not here.My place.¡±


    Gino holds back a smile.


    ¡°Alright.You¡¯re in charge,¡± he reassures.Dalton sniffs, tilting his chin up like a young emperor considering a servant.


    ¡°That¡¯s right.And don¡¯t you forget it.¡±