《Eliot Ness for Mayor》 This is a Work of Fiction This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author''s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Re: Language ¡ª Set in 1978, characters in this story use period-appropriate racial terms that I find offensive. Realism dictated I use them, but heeding the people of color whom I trust, I chose to bleep-out the ''n-word,'' using "n***er." However, I have kept the milder racial language, like "coloreds," intact. My aim was to reflect racial sensitivity while allowing the reader''s imagination to fill in the realism.
I created the cover using several public domain images, available from the links below. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
1) 1938 Campaign Sign on Building at 36TH Street and Cedar Avenue by Frank J. Aleksandrowicz: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1938_campaign_sign_on_building_at_36th_Street_and_Cedar_Avenue,_Cleveland._-_NARA_-_550133.jpg 2) Back View of Detective or Mafia Boss by Master1305: https://www.freepik.com/photos/person/ 3) Photo of a 1960s Opal Diplomat, a streetlamp, an energy ball, the pavement, and a grunge paper texture: https://pixabay.com/
ELIOT NESS FOR MAYOR: a Fantasy ELIOT NESS FOR MAYOR A Fantasy by Leo E. Walsh Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. A stand-alone Shantytown Cycle book Copyright by the author. All rights reserved.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I''ll rise. ¨D Maya Angelou, Still I Rise
PART I — SAINT GEORGE PART I ¡ª SAINT GEORGE
John Henry told his captain This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. ''A man ain''t nothin'' but a man But before I let your steam drill beat me down I''ll die with a hammer in my hand. Lord, Lord. I''ll die with a hammer in my hand.'' ¡ª Traditional Folk Song, John Henry
Chapter 1.

Chapter 1.

(Friday, October 13th, 1978; Cleveland, Ohio)
As the traffic light turned red, catching Frank O¡¯Brien, who had drifted into la-la land, unawares, he snapped present and slammed the brakes. The work tools in the truck¡¯s bed thudded against the cab¡¯s rear with a metallic crunch. Not great for his headache, he reckoned, reaching for the empty Coca-Cola can he kept in the cup holder, but so it goes. He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the jury-rigged spittoon before returning it, and raised his gaze to the dark, deserted downtown. Cleveland in the wee hours seemed large and vacant, a concrete canyon, with Prospect Avenue, still damp with a late-night shower, a too-straight river shimmering in the street lamps. He snorted, shaking his head. Canyon? A river? As if. A memory of a vacation out west drifted to mind. Utah. The rugged, bolder-strewn canyon the Lower Provo River had carved over the centuries, snow-capped mountains in the distance, the earthy aroma of sagebrush and fish, and his son Pat wading chest-deep in the trout-infested water next to him. Now that¡¯s a canyon, while this empty expanse reeking of diesel exhaust, well¡­ Bemused, Frank drummed on the steering wheel to the Sam and Dave eight-track, the volume low, and glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to meet his boss, Howard Roark, who¡¯d called a six-thirty meeting. Six-thirty. Ninety minutes early for a meeting that would take ten, fifteen to hold. Which meant Saint George Construction would pay Frank, an hourly employee, for the entire hour-and-a-half per union contract. He scoffed, thinking about Howard. Idiot. Tired of the music, Frank jabbed ¡®EJECT¡¯ as the light turned green and he eased the truck into gear, switching to a brash sportscaster¡¯s rant about the World Series, predicting a Dodgers victory over the Yankees. Frank hoped the announcer was right because he despised the spoiled rotten New York golden boys, a long-time rival of his Cleveland Indians. The Yank¡¯s reckoning would come. Perhaps the Dodgers would clobber them this year¡­ or not. Who knew? Time would tell true, he supposed, shifting to second. As the truck rumbled up Prospect, the only other vehicles on the road several blocks in his rearview, Frank sensed a golden opportunity: today was payday and the opening day of the World Series. So he¡¯d treat his wife, Maddie, and his little princess, Peggy, to dinner at Muldoon¡¯s, a bar and grill on East 185th. The joint was family-friendly, serving decent food and cold beer. Plus, they had pinball and bowling machines to keep Peggy busy, and several TVs over the bar they¡¯d tune to the Series for Maddie and him. Yay Muldoon¡¯s, go Dodgers, and fuck the Yankees. At the worksite¡¯s entrance, he stopped and signaled, but a pale, narrow fellow dressed in black starched slacks and topcoat, buttoned tight, jaywalked in front of Frank¡¯s truck, with slow, deliberate movements. When smack-dab in front of Frank, the thin man halted, flashing a defiant side-eye from under the brim of his black fedora, before slithering past and disappearing into an alley. Frank sighed. The only other living human he¡¯d had seen downtown is a rude idiot. Go figure. At the locked gate, Frank honked, hoping the encounter didn¡¯t portend a crappy day. Unlikely, but who knew? The security hut¡¯s door opened, and the portly, red-cheeked night watchman Earl exited, pulling his winter jacket¡¯s collar high against the wind, and waddled towards the entrance. The watchman waved and swung the fence open, yelling, ¡°Wait up Frank,¡± as he shut the gate and, blowing warmth into his hands, walked towards Frank, who eased his truck to a stop. Now, Frank wanted to ignore Earl, but fought the impulse. Just because he felt shitty was no reason to spoil Earl¡¯s morning. It¡¯s like the world-famous self-help author Dale Carnegie said in that class he¡¯d attended, on the company¡¯s dime, ¡°Treating others as if they mattered matters.¡± So as Earl neared, Frank silenced the sportscaster and cranked down the window, a blast of frosty air burning his face and fogging the windows. He leaned out and turned away, spitting. ¡°Morning,¡± he said, facing the watchman, trying to force himself cheerful. Earl leaned on the truck door. ¡°Long time no see, Frank. Early day?¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Yup, meeting with Howard. Union business. Only thing besides family that¡¯d rouse me at this ungodly hour.¡± ¡°Not even fishing?¡± Frank shook his head, his chest warming. ¡°No need. Lake Erie walleyes and perch hold tight until nine o¡¯clock, days I fish. Have to. Union rules. It¡¯s in the contract.¡± Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Earl chuckled. ¡°You¡¯re a goof.¡± Frank grinned, tapping his watch. ¡°Gotta motor, buddy. Can¡¯t keep the boss-man waiting. Tell the wife I said ¡®Hi,¡¯ will you?¡± ¡°Will do, you too, and good weekend.¡± Earl slapped the F-100¡¯s roof and turned towards the security hut, his breath a vapor cloud trailing behind him, pushed by the steady breeze. Frank shut the window, feeling more himself, once again amazed at the ineffable wisdom of Dale Carnegie. By helping others, you also help yourself, he mused. Something cosmic about that. Scoffing at his granola-munching insight¡ªthe ¡®cosmic¡¯ and whatnot, not Carnegie¡¯s correctness, which was gospel¡ªFrank drove through the rutted gravel parking lot which ringed the unfinished, boxy glass and steel skyscraper, its top floors¡¯ raw girders exposed to the heavens. He parked, facing a neglected turn-of-the-century brick office building across the street which his employer, Saint George Construction, would demolish next year. Frank¡¯s crew would follow, raising a shiny-new skyscraper. A shame, he thought, surveying the precise masonry work, and sculpted cornices, angels, and gargoyles along the top ledge, twelve stories up. What craftsmanship. They don¡¯t raise workaday buildings like that anymore. And yet, graffiti defiled the statues and cornice. Frank shook his head, his heart heavy. Damn vandals. No respect. What a waste. A wry smile stretched his face. Though we¡¯ll do much worse, in the name of urban renewal with the City Council¡¯s blessing¡­ Life¡¯s weird that way. Frank reached into the glove compartment for the bottle of suntan lotion, his gaze slipping to the six-story-tall ¡®ELIOT NESS FOR MAYOR OF CLEVELAND¡¯ campaign mural on the building¡¯s south-facing wall, a weatherbeaten advert for the former FBI director. The exact year he ran eluded Frank, some time in the ¡®30s or ¡®40s, but he remembered Ness got shellacked. Regardless, that mural was a piece of history he¡¯d help destroy and replace. Fake-shooting the painted legend with his imaginary finger-gun, Frank said, ¡°Sorry, bud, but you gotta go when you gotta go. As the good book says, ashes to ashes.¡± He uncapped the sunscreen, its chemical yet fruity scent flooding his nostrils, and slathered it over his face, neck, and arms. Doctor¡¯s orders, a prescription that worked. Before Doc ordered him to wear it, he¡¯d had three melanomas removed within four years. Since wearing it, none in six. That egghead knew his stuff, and Frank appreciated know-how. After returning the lotion to the glove compartment, Frank cut the engine and grabbed his lunchbox, zipping tight, pulling an emerald green Saint George skullcap from the pocket of his Carhartts.
The stench of mildew, cigarette smoke, and rotting garbage greeted Frank as he entered the deserted employee Quonset hut. He punched in, stowing the gear in his assigned locker, and passed through the small break area choc-full of aluminum benches and vending machines hoping to snag a cup of too-expensive, too-harsh, yet well-caffeinated instant, but stopped dead, groaning. Someone had unplugged the machine. He plugged in the damned thing, which took over twenty minutes to warm up. Ergo, no go-juice before Howard. Crap. The longer Frank wallowed in the hut¡¯s stagnant air, the worse it stank. He considered cracking a window to air it out, but soon rejected the notion. It was colder than a witch¡¯s left tit in a brass bra outside, so screw that. Instead, he clicked on the propane heater, rubbing his hands over it for almost a minute, absorbing the radiant heat. Hopefully, its fan would move and freshen the stale air. Sure, the muckety-mucks would grouse about the fuel bill, ninety minutes heating an unoccupied hut, and whatnot, but screw them. The guys would enjoy the heat when they trickled in, nearer eight. He looked at his watch, and his face twisted. Pleasant as warming up was, he had a six-thirty, so he exited the employee Quonset and headed towards Howard¡¯s office in the prefab management bunker. Halfway there, a shiver shot up his spine, and he stopped, sensing shadowy figures flitting in his periphery. Though he didn¡¯t feel threatened, drunks and junkies haunted downtown, and a hardcore jones could make the meekest lamb a lion. So he steeled and spun, searching behind, left, and right. Nothing. Removing his Saint George skullcap to scratch his head, Frank examined the scene, reckoning the flitting figures he imagined were mere shadows cast by the overlapping beams of street lamps catching birds as they scavenged. Huge overreaction. He grunted, chastising himself for being a drama queen, before donning his cap and continuing towards his meeting when the distant Eliot Ness mural¡­ tipped its hat, and nodded? He blinked, and the hat rested again upon Eliot Ness¡¯s unmoving head. Of course. Another trick the light, crows, seagulls, and shadows played on his mind, which was fuzzy and scratchy as steel wool that morning. Bottom line, murals don¡¯t move, being pigment painted over concrete and brick¡­ and yet it had seemed so real. He shrugged. Odd, him being this sluggish, but so it goes. Frank entered the building, halting in the reception lobby outside of Howard¡¯s office. The wall clock¡¯s hands showed six twenty-seven. Early being on time in Frank¡¯s book, he breathed deep. Before rapping on the office door, he fished the chaw from his cheek and pitched it into the nearby garbage can. Decades back, Saint George Construction had banned smoking in offices to avoid fire damage to expensive, often irreplaceable blueprints. Sensible. However, the putz Howard extended that ban to chewing tobacco in May, making as much sense as tits on a bull. No sparks, no matches, no ashes, and no flame means no danger, and yet¡­ Frank suspected Howard had done it to spite him, though he lacked proof. Regardless, Howard was an asshole, so Frank wouldn¡¯t put it past him. He knocked. The office door opened, and the dark-haired, puffy-eyed operations manager, Rubin, stuck his head out, thrusting his thumb towards the waiting room. ¡°Hey Frank, would you mind? We¡¯re on the phone with Manny and Junior.¡± Frank drifted towards the lobby. ¡°Sure thing, boss.¡± He understood. Muckety-mucks always needed to control things. Howard was the firm¡¯s youngest project manager, so his grandfather and uncle¡ªEmmanuel ¡®Manny¡¯ St. Georges and his eldest son, Manny Junior¡ªwere keeping the whelp leashed tight. As Rubin shut the door, Frank plopped into a cushy chair. What did he care? He was on the clock, and they¡¯d pay him whether he twiddled his thumbs or pounded girders home, so he stretched his legs and leaned back, pulling the skullcap over his eyes. Chapter 2. Chapter 2.
Frank¡¯s pulse surged as someone called in the darkness. Awake, he jerked the hat from his eyes, wary of the Nazi patrol outside the cellar where his fireteam hid. A deep breath filled his lungs as the world about him clarified. His heartbeat steadied. Because he wasn¡¯t starving and sweaty, stuck hiding in that root cellar in Normandy, AR at his side, jackbooted Huns lurking, sometimes near, sometimes far, but always deadly. Instead, he stood facing the empty reception desk, a smirking Rubin motioning from the doorway. Rotten war, rotten memories, Frank thought, stretching, still stuck in my craw, haunting my dreams, like a mental scar. ¡°Sorry, Frank,¡± Rubin said, his puffy eyes round and mouth a bemused grin, ¡°didn¡¯t mean to scare you like that, but goddamn, were you dead to the world.¡± ¡°Yeah, in la-la land, dreaming.¡± Frank stood and sauntered towards the office. ¡°Reckon, I need my beauty rest.¡± ¡°Beauty rest? You? Aren¡¯t enough hours in the day.¡± Frank laughed, clapping Rubin on the back as he passed. ¡°Got me there, brother, you got me there.¡± If Rubin¡¯s ribbing buoyed Frank¡¯s heart, seeing Howard Roark, grandson of the company founder, Emmanuel ¡®Manny¡¯ St-Georges, as he entered the office caused it to fall splat. The gaunt, gray-eyed thirty-something Howard, dressed in a charcoal suit and red tie, shook his head, tapping a pen on the metallic desk as if the world wasn¡¯t moving fast enough for him. Pompous putz, Frank thought, preparing to be a thorn in Howard''s side, but nipped his stinkin¡¯ thinkin¡¯ in the bud, forcing a smile. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, he reckoned. The meeting started friendly, Howard apologizing for the twenty minutes they left Frank alone in the lobby. Frank shrugged. ¡°No worries.¡± Howard shifted gears with an abruptness that made Frank¡¯s innards lurch. The muckety-muck leaned forward, his gaze piercing. ¡°As you know, the project¡¯s running late, so I¡¯d like to hire extra hands, short-term contracts, for the topper crew beginning Monday, to beat the winter. That doable?¡± Frank leaned back, considering. Recruiting workers would be simple, but completing all thirty-two floors before winter shut them down? Near impossible. Still, he¡¯d play along. Winter was hell on the trades, with many of his union brothers laid-off until spring, and they¡¯d love extra Christmas money. ¡°I¡¯ll have Art round up the usual suspects,¡± he said, the ¡®Art¡¯ in question being the local union boss. ¡°Got a req?¡± Rubin handed over a paper from his clipboard. ¡°Thanks.¡± Frank glanced at the requisition. ¡°Equipment?¡± Rubin nodded. ¡°Leased from Five Points last night, for delivery Sunday.¡± The meeting continued, but with a nic-fit driving Frank crazy, like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. He longed to leave so he could chew a chaw, but they obviously needed a union rep around, so he forced himself present. He soon learned why: the project¡¯s girder supplier, the steel giant CLV, had missed another delivery. Which they''d been doing since slick Wall Street raiders bought the company in a ¡°hostile takeover,¡± whatever that was. Rich as they were, the idiots couldn¡¯t run a deli, let alone a steel mill. Anyway, Rubin reckoned they¡¯d run out of girders near lunchtime, and Howard offered half-days for the topper crew: crane operators, and ironworkers like Frank. ¡°Dock-time,¡± Howard said, ¡°but it¡¯ll be a three-day weekend.¡± ¡°Long weekend sounds good, but,¡± Frank leaned forward, brandishing the requisition, saying, ¡°you¡¯re bringing in more toppers Monday. We gonna be ready?¡± Rubin paged through the clipboard, nodding. ¡°We¡¯ve already sourced material from three suppliers. They¡¯re delivering late tonight and early tomorrow, guaranteed. And sicced the corporate lawyer on CLV, for breach of contract.¡± ¡°And general incompetence,¡± Howard said, smirking. ¡°They¡¯re costing us. Big. Time to draw first blood.¡± His face glowed with a passion, reminding Frank of Manny. Maybe the kid wasn¡¯t a lost cause. ¡°Unleash the hounds of war,¡± Frank said. The men chortled, and Howard faced Frank. ¡°About the half-day?¡± ¡°My guess is it¡¯ll be a ¡®yes,¡¯¡± Frank said, tasting the free time. ¡°I¡¯ll run a quick vote at eight.¡± Howard growled. ¡°Can¡¯t you just order them?¡± Frank set his jaw, suppressing an eye roll. ¡°Can¡¯t order them to do nothing. I ain¡¯t their boss, I¡¯m their union rep, which means I represent them in discussions with management. I don¡¯t dictate, it¡¯s a democracy.¡± Howard grinned, smug. ¡°That¡¯s why I don¡¯t like unions, they¡¯re inefficient.¡± He narrowed his eyes. ¡°Oh, and one last thing: the Otto business.¡± Fire shot up Frank¡¯s spine, lodging like a red-hot rivet between his eyebrows. ¡°Not this again.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Howard¡¯s face tautened. ¡°Yes, this again. It¡¯s my project, my family¡¯s company, and I want him gone.¡± To avoid saying something he¡¯d regret, Frank took several deep breaths, forcing a smile to his face. The anger cooled to mere frustration. Now controlled, Frank considered the ¡®Otto business.¡¯ Otto was an apprentice ironworker, albeit a good one: smart, steady, and reliable. The poor guy was up against a family emergency: his pregnant wife in the hospital, her sky-high blood pressure threatening both mother and unborn child. The guy was distraught, sleeping on a cot next to his wife, seldom leaving her side. Howard had a young family, so should empathize. Instead, he had a hard-on for the apprentice that wouldn¡¯t quit. Why the hell? Frank squared, staring Howard down, saying, ¡°The union''s lawyer discussed Otto with your grandfather and his lawyer on Wednesday. So you can''t fire him. If you have questions, call them.¡± Howard tapped a jagged rhythm on his desktop. ¡°You¡¯re sure you can¡¯t go out on a limb for me?¡± Frank scoffed. ¡°I can, but I won¡¯t.¡± A lost, hapless look flashed across Howard¡¯s face, replaced by feigned self-assured arrogance. Sensing he had Howard on the ropes, Frank remained silent and let the muckety-muck stew. Howard tapped his pen, fiddled with his tie, and scowled, muttering under his breath, seeming uncomfortable and hot under the collar to Frank. Enough torture, Frank thought half a minute later. To break the tension, he placed his hands palms-down on the desk. ¡°Come on, boss, leave Otto alone. He¡¯s an excellent employee. Do right by him, I guarantee it¡¯ll pay off. Call Manny, talk it over.¡± They sat without speaking, the room silent except for the swooshing wind and the tapping pen. Howard¡¯s eyes shifted towards the door, and he pouted. Actually pouted. Lightweight, Frank thought, suppressing a derisive laugh. Not that Frank fancied himself Ali, but he knew from tough. In WW2, he¡¯d faced Huns trained to put a bullet in his brainpan as Patton¡¯s army marched across Europe. Compared to that, Howard was a paper tiger. Still, Howard could fire Otto and him if he wanted. Though Howard would lose in court, he could make their lives hell waiting for the payout. Which made the paper tiger not quite toothless. Howard sighed. ¡°So, that¡¯s the union¡¯s stance?¡± ¡°It is. A contract¡¯s a contract, Manny¡¯s word¡¯s his bond.¡± Howard glanced sidelong at Rubin, who shrugged, his expression a wordless, ¡°Told you so.¡± Grinding his molars, Howard¡¯s attention ping-ponged between the other men for several beats with a steady tempo. ¡°So you¡¯re both taking that lazy half-breed coon¡¯s side against the firm?¡± he asked, referring to Otto¡¯s heritage, his father an Ottawa Indian and his mother black. A jolt shot up Frank¡¯s spine, and he said, in a harsh, steely voice, ¡°Knock off that race crap. It¡¯s nineteen-seventy-eight, not nineteen-oh-eight, for Christ¡¯s sake. Besides, Otto¡¯s a Vietnam vet, so America owes him.¡± Howard¡¯s mouth gaped open, and he held his hands in front of him, palms open. ¡°Wait. I mean ¡ª I mean, I didn¡¯t mean ¡ª Christ, I meant no disrespect.¡± ¡°Forget about it.¡± Frank paused for emphasis. ¡°Anyway, Otto stays on the payroll, per the agreement, on personal leave.¡± Howard muttered to himself, looking towards Rubin, whose shoulders shrugged, his expression a non-verbal, ¡°So it goes.¡± Frank leaned forward, and their attention shifted to him. ¡°Look, firing Otto''s a lost cause. The union will drag you into court, and you¡¯ll lose. And consider the consequences. The guys know Otto''s facing a family tragedy. Could be them tomorrow. Fire him, they¡¯ll pull a slowdown and threaten to strike. Sure, Art and I will intervene, but that¡¯ll take time, sending the project further behind schedule. You want that?¡± Howard stewed in silence, and the pen resumed tapping. A smirk Frank couldn¡¯t control slid across his face because he had Howard dead to rights. ¡°And you won¡¯t be able to fire them either.¡± Howard scoffed, and then said, his voice pinched and his face flushing red, ¡°The damned agreement?¡± ¡°Yup.¡± Frank leaned back, steepling his fingers. Howard¡¯s face went stark, all cheekbones and tight lips, his focus inward. ¡°Fucking unions.¡± Frank pumped his imaginary fist into the imaginary air, thinking, Knockout. But once again, his conscience pinched, and he gulped, realizing he was acting as prideful as Howard. He envisioned Saint Peter, scale in one hand and the key to the kingdom in the other, asking why Frank hadn¡¯t ¡°done onto Howard as he¡¯d have had Howard do unto him.¡± Worse, Peter would know the company had sent Frank to that Dale Carnegie Course on Effective Communications when he first became a union rep, where he learned techniques for ¡°doing well onto others.¡± No fooling Peter. Frank smirked at the irony. It was like God had pranked him into seeing Howard¡¯s pride while acting like a prideful prick himself. He recalled that old saw, about seeing the splinter in your neighbor¡¯s eye, but not the plank in your own, and sighed. Scripture. It gets you every time. Ready to stand, he planted his boots on the ground. ¡°Mind if I go call Art and have the guys vote?¡± Howard frowned. ¡°We¡¯re done, but it¡¯s still bullshit. My company, my choice, but, you fucking union assholes¡­.¡± Pushing upright, Frank steeled and said, ¡°We¡¯re just regular guys looking out for each other. Manny appreciates the work we do, negotiated in good faith, and signed an agreement. Don¡¯t like it, call him, and don¡¯t insult us, don¡¯t try making me feel inferior because I wasn''t born rich.¡± Howard¡¯s glance flicked away. A cold, mischievous grin slid across Frank¡¯s face as he leaned back on his boot heels, victorious. Maybe he was Ali. ¡°Mind if I take care of the union business, boss?¡± Howard waved, dismissing him. Frank shut the office door with a thud, reaching into his pocket, chomping off a plug of tobacco, savoring the nicotine buzz which washed away the bitter taste Howard left in his craw. He called Art from the receptionist¡¯s phone. No answer, so he called the union¡¯s answering service, leaving a message with the payphone number in the employee hut. After donning the skullcap, Frank split the construction office, heading for the employee bunker. I¡¯ll never understand that prick. I mean gunning for Otto, kicking a defenseless man when he¡¯s down. What the hell? His Irish up, Frank saluted the image of Eliot Ness, the FBI man who put down the murderous Al Capone. Ness¡¯s stony gaze followed him as he marched, the earth quivering with each step, his heels sledgehammers splintering cement and smashing bedrock, sending a murder of crows, a gaggle of geese, and a flock of seagulls, who¡¯d been foraging in the parking lot, scattering skyward as he stomped past, saying ¡°Goddamned flying rats,¡± his voice booming so loud that the rats themselves dove for cover. Chapter 3. Chapter 3.
Someone shook his shoulder, rousing Frank from a sound slumber. He groaned, easing the hat from his eyes, amazed that he¡¯d fallen asleep AGAIN. Umberto Fratino, a stocky crane operator, his round face topped by an unruly mass of salt and pepper curls, stood over Frank, who sprawled on a chrome and plastic chair beside the time clock. ¡°Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,¡± Umberto said, chin-pointing at the payphone receiver that dangled from its stainless steel cord. ¡°Art.¡± Umberto plunked next to Frank, removing the Friday edition of the Cleveland Plain Dealer from under his arm. ¡°Oh, crap, I need to talk to him.¡± Frank shot to his feet, walking towards the phone, fishing the tobacco from his pocket. ¡°Surprised the ringing didn¡¯t wake me, but I can¡¯t keep my eyes open today.¡± ¡°Happens when you get old.¡± Frank halted, peering over his shoulder, gnawing off a fresh chew. ¡°Younger than you.¡± Umberto shrugged, raising the newspaper. ¡°Perhaps, but you was napping like an old man, old man.¡± A roguish grin stretched Frank¡¯s cheeks taut, and he said, ¡°Pug a Mahone.¡± Which kinda-sorta meant ¡®kiss my royal Irish arse¡¯ in his rotten pidgin Gaelic that¡¯d cause a real Irishman to cringe, which didn¡¯t bother Frank. Because he took great pride in both his Irish roots and American heritage, and botching Old-World culture was an age-old mark of American pride. Frank snagged the phone and greeted Art. After some small-talk, he pulled the tiny notepad where he¡¯d recorded notes of his conversation with Howard from his flannel shirt pocket, detailing the meeting. When Frank hit the Otto crap, Art scoffed. ¡°This project¡¯s four months behind, with winter about to put it in deep freeze, and yet he¡¯s humping after a poor working stiff with his wife and kid in the hospital? The fuck¡¯s the matter with him?¡± ¡°Hell if I know.¡± Frank spat tobacco juice into a smelly garbage can. Art cleared his throat. ¡°You know, ain¡¯t no way this gets done before spring, right?¡± Frank sneered, saying, ¡°Not even Jumpin¡¯ Jesus-In-A-Hardhat could raise this scraper before snow shuts us down.¡± ¡°No truer words, Frank, no truer words. Anyway, dock time¡¯s up to the guys. And tell Rubin, new guys¡¯ll be there, eight-sharp Monday.¡± ¡°Will do.¡± ¡°Good weekend.¡± ¡°You too, boss.¡± Frank hung up, fishing change and jabbing a vending machine button for a strong coffee with cream and sugar. The machine hummed to life, and Frank waited, glancing out the window, his eyes drifting with the crows and seagulls. In the distance, Earl had opened the gate and directed the slow, steady arrival of the crew. The vending machine clicked off, and Frank took the burnt-smelling instant, snagging a second, empty cup for a spittoon. He spat tobacco juice and then sipped the pale, sugary drink, wincing. Crappy joe, but to hell with it. He needed the jolt. Cups in hand, he again took his seat next to Umberto. ¡°You¡¯re early.¡± Umberto nodded, lowering the paper. ¡°Car¡¯s in the shop, so my eldest dropped me off on his way to work.¡± ¡°That sucks.¡± Frank spat tobacco juice into the empty cup. Umberto scrunched his face. ¡°Disgusting. How the hell you drink coffee with that nasty crap in your lip, I¡¯ll never know.¡± Frank shrugged. ¡°Acquired taste, I reckon. I¡¯m just too tired to care. Plus, Howard got my Irish up, so I got a headache.¡± Umberto relaxed the paper, leaning forward. ¡°Anyone here can give you a headache, it¡¯s Howie Doody.¡± Frank shook his head. ¡°Let¡¯s just say, he¡¯s no Manny. Oh, and guess what? CLV flubbed another order.¡± ¡°The fuck you say?¡± ¡°Yup. We¡¯ll be out of material noon-ish. Means a long weekend for the topping crew, we want it.¡± ¡°Long weekend, of course, we¡¯ll want it. Outstanding.¡± Frank tapped Umberto¡¯s arm, pointing at the paper. ¡°Done with the sports page?¡± Umberto nodded, handing it over. ¡°Thanks. Didn¡¯t have time to read it this morning, on account of the meeting.¡± If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Umberto nodded, lifting the paper. ¡°Forget about it.¡± Frank opened the paper and had a flash. ¡°By the way, I¡¯m dragging Maddy and Peggy to Muldoons, around six-thirty to catch the Series opener. You and Lucy want to come?¡± A bemused look crossed Umberto¡¯s face. ¡°Ain¡¯t this the weekend of Peggy¡¯s swanky concert?¡± Frank¡¯s heart went splat. ¡°Jaysus, you¡¯re right.¡± ¡°You invited us. We¡¯re taking our ten-year-old granddaughter Rosa tonight, get her some culture.¡± Frank tsked, annoyed at himself. ¡°Can¡¯t believe I forgot.¡± And then, though he loved Peggy and supported her talents, the realization that he¡¯d miss the Series, the Browns, and the Buckeyes to watch her play classical violin stung. He hated to admit it. It made him sound cold and self-absorbed, but damn it, he liked sports, and that University Heights world of museums and Beethoven and Mozart made him uncomfortable. Still, it was Peg. he loved her, and family was family. He shrugged, picking up the sports page. ¡°Christ, Frankie.¡± Umberto leaned forward, and Frank shifted in his seat. ¡°Remember them cops and ambulances on Prospect yesterday morning? Turns out some bum died in the alley.¡± ¡°That so?¡± His curiosity piqued, Frank reached for Umberto¡¯s paper. ¡°May I?¡± Umberto nodded, handing the paper over, and Frank skimmed. The guy had been sleeping on the streets since July and had ¡°died of exposure¡± during Wednesday¡¯s cold snap. Frank handed the paper back to Umberto, sighing. ¡°Freezing to death, alone in an alley. Crappy way to die, no?¡± ¡°Gets worse,¡± said Nickie ¡®Boots¡¯ Bukovec, a lanky man with twig legs, ropey arms, and an enormous beer belly which seemed out-of-place on his scrawny frame. ¡°My neighbor drives an ambulance. Word around the campfire is, rats ate his cheeks, tongue, and eyes.¡± Frank¡¯s belly tightened, lip curling, repulsed. ¡°I freaking hate rats,¡± he said, turning towards Nickie. ¡°Like I was telling Umberto, crappy way to go, no?¡± ¡°Got that right,¡± Boots said, patting his pockets. ¡°Fuck, forgot my smokes, back in a flash.¡± He shot off towards the vending machine. Umberto reached for the paper, and Frank handed it over, returning to the sports page. He tried reading, but couldn¡¯t. Fucking Howard, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. Drags me here early, for nothing. What a putz. Umberto snapped the newspaper taut, pointing to the report¡¯s last paragraph. ¡°Says here the dead guy was a black male named Odell Cornelius Wallace, thirty-two, Vietnam vet, two kids in Mississippi¡­ Think it¡¯s Bad Leg?¡± ¡°Bad who?¡± ¡°Bad Leg. You know, Cornelius. Crazy hot dog vendor who walks with a limp, got injured in Nam. Wears that ratty old straw hat.¡± Frank chuckled, remembering. ¡°Oh, you mean Corny?¡± Umberto nodded. ¡°They call him Bad Leg.¡± ¡°Didn¡¯t know he had a nickname. Anyway, guy¡¯s odd as a three-dollar bill, but I like him, always chatty, smiling, and honest with the change.¡± Frank grimaced, remembering. ¡°But you ever let him corner you? Guy¡¯s a world-class crank.¡± Umberto wrinkled his brow. ¡°How so?¡± ¡°Drove him home once during a transit strike, and the guy ranted for, like, twenty minutes. Pure nonsense about MK Ultra this and Tuskegee that, and alien abductions and some karate teacher in Kirtland killing a goat with his mind.¡± Umberto laughed, his eyes twinkling. ¡°All that, in a drive home?¡± Frank nodded, a grin tightening his cheeks. ¡°Yup. non-stop, guy never came up for air. I swear if I hadn¡¯t kicked him out, he¡¯d still be talking.¡± Umberto¡¯s round face grew rounder as he smiled. ¡°Winding up a crank is better than TV, my opinion. Frank spat. ¡°I¡¯ll second that.¡± ¡°Crank or not, seems a decent sort.¡± Umberto¡¯s face hardened, his gaze sliding towards the parking lot. ¡°Hope it wasn¡¯t him, the dead guy.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s check his corner during lunch," Frank said. Umberto nodded his agreement, his gaze drifting skyward. ¡°You think maybe it¡¯s too cold to hawk dogs?¡± Frank took stock. High, billowy clouds hung low and moved fast, pushed by the steady wind off the lake, promising a bitch of a day. ¡°Good point, cold as hell.¡± Frank''s gaze landed on Eliot Ness, and Frank realized the lawman would have seen the bum die from that perch were he alive. His heart grew heavy as he imagined dying, alone and in an alley, with the rats gnawing at his eyes. His mind drifted with the seagulls swirling higher and higher in the current. Umberto called him back to earth. ¡°You know where the guy stays, then?¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Some roach motel, off Shaw near the bus depot... leastways, I think...¡± He sighed, trying to remember. ¡°Think you can find it?¡± Frank shrugged. ¡°I reckon. You know me, I¡¯m like a homing pigeon.¡± Boots returned, an unlit smoke dangling from his upper lip. ¡°You mean, you got a bird brain, live in a coup, shit on cars, and are dumb enough to be hunted to extinction?¡± They laughed a hardy laugh, and filled Boots in, how they wanted to check that the dead guy wasn¡¯t the half-crazed black hotdog vendor, but seeing it was too cold to vend, he¡¯d maybe have to swing by his place to check on him. ¡°Corny¡¯s a fellow Army combat vet,¡± Frank said, ¡°so I feel I owe him. And if it was him, maybe we old-timers can attend the service. Especially the vets, for a fellow soldier.¡± ¡°I¡¯m down with that,¡± Korean War vet Boots said, plopping next to Frank. Umberto, a World War II vet like Frank, cleared his throat, face solemn. ¡°I¡¯d like that if it was him died. All soldiers deserve twenty-one guns, homeless or not, and no one deserves to die unremembered.¡± ¡°Amen,¡± Boots said, lighting the cigarette with his Zippo. ¡°I liked Bad Leg, good people.¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Indeed.¡± By then, several dozen men huddled around the time clock, and Frank realized he had union business to conduct. So he rounded up the topping crew, starting with Boots and Umberto, informing them there¡¯d be a quick meeting at eight. Chapter 4. Chapter 4.
Hands shot into the air. From his makeshift stage atop an aluminum bench, Frank counted votes and grinned, savoring the promise of a long weekend. ¡°The ¡®ayes¡¯ have it,¡± he said, ¡°and we knock off at lunchtime.¡± Most of the topping crew cheered in agreement, though a handful grumbled. But whether happy, sad, or somewhere in-between, the toppers disbursed, mingling with guys from other departments, enjoying the proverbial calm before the storm as they prepared to raise the forty-story monstrosity. Frank shook his head, heart somehow melancholy as he noted the vote count in his notepad, pondering the futility of making everyone happy. Which brought to mind yet another pearl of Dale Carnegie¡¯s wisdom: ¡°Happiness doesn¡¯t depend on what happens to you, but what happens within you.¡± Spot-on. Deep in thought, he stepped down and wove through the crowd towards the round-faced cherub Umberto and gawky gargoyle Boots. Umberto nudged the tools stashed at his feet towards Frank, saying, ¡°Glad as fuck it went through.¡± ¡°Amen.¡± Boots nodded, pulling on his heavy canvas outer jacket and zipping up. ¡°Hey Frank, what do ya say, Theatrical for a liquid lunch? A lot of toppers¡¯ll be there.¡± Frank hoisted his tools. ¡°Sure. Burgers and beer are the cornerstones of every nutritious diet.¡± Laughing, they entered the lift, ascending towards the top of the building. Today, they should be able to complete the thirty-second floor before noon, provided they had enough material. As it was, they were almost nine floors from the skeleton being done, with like fifteen needing their glass and steel skin. Frank sighed, bemused at Howard¡¯s stupidity, bringing in another crew. The elevator thudded to a stop, depositing them on a platform on the twenty-fifth floor, the last stop. They headed for their separate workstations: Boots helping bolt the skin in place a story up, Umberto to his crane, and Frank climbing to the open sky where he tight-roped the girders towards the spot where Umberto would lift the next beam which Otto and he would bolt into place. He winced, strapping himself into his safety harness, realizing it wouldn¡¯t be Otto. Instead, Rubin had stuck him with Beauregard ¡®Bo¡¯ Childress. Bo¡¯s father was a retired union brother, a mean-as-cuss numbnuts who¡¯d retired a few years ago, getting Bo on as an apprentice after he knocked up some waitress he worked with and needed a job that¡¯d pay for more than a beat-up Chevy, dope, speeders, and beer. Frank sighed. Who was he to judge? He¡¯d made plenty of mistakes in his life, especially in his twenties and thirties. Straddling a horizontal beam and leaning his back against a vertical one, he sat, feet dangling thirty-two stories above the ground, bored. He reckoned the worst thing about relying on Bo was waiting. Frank had lived in constant motion, a blur moving from task to task: lather, rinse, repeat. Today¡¯s idleness stressed Frank more than having too much on his plate. Still, there was no way around it. He couldn¡¯t work without help, so he replaced his ¡®work mind¡¯ with his ¡®fishing mind¡¯ since fishing was the only place you¡¯d find Frank chilled and silent, sitting on his keister for hours. For the first time in ages, he enjoyed the pretty view from his sky-perch. The clouds drifted, puffy pillows. And the crisp, cool air smelled clean, the breeze whisking away the chemical stench the plants in the industrial flats belched. Thinking of industrial stink brought the fuck-ups at CLV Steel to Frank¡¯s mind, so his eyes drifted towards the jagged jungle of smokestacks lining the Cuyahoga River, trying to locate the plant. No luck. The flats were too distant and jumbled, with nearby skyscrapers obstructing his view. But he had an unobstructed view of the river, and the dozens of barges hauling freight. Some had to carry their steel, he supposed. His gaze leaped from barge to barge up the river, through the port, trying but failing to find a CLV marker. But he soon forgot CLV and followed the line of barges past the metal and concrete break wall. A dozen or twenty miles out, in the deeper water of Lake Erie¡¯s central basin, the stream of barges split. A handful headed east, towards Buffalo, Ontario, or the Seaway. But most cruised west, bringing steel and tires and salt and whatnot to Detroit, Gary, Chicago, or wherever. Frank¡¯s gaze swept the river, and he shook his head, remembering that the river had caught fire. A burning river: imagine that. Pollution. Factories, the lifeblood of Cleveland, damn near destroying it. CLV Steel giveth life, and CLV Steel taketh life away, he thought, a grim grin stretching his lips tight. Something biblical about rivers burning. What did the Bible say? Not water, but fire next time, and water burning sure reeked of God¡¯s judgment. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. And yet, after that fire, they resurrected Lake Erie, cleaning the water. Hell, many weekends would find him out on the water, fishing for perch and walleye, fish they¡¯d left for extinct in the ¡®60s. Frank reckoned that was biblical too: death, cleansing, rebirth. But people forget the resurrection, fixating on death and destruction. Why? He shook his head, saddened by the ignorance of people. Frank reckoned he could ofttimes also act the fool. ¡°Welcome to humanity,¡± he said, his voice dry and wry. He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice, which the wind scattered into tiny droplets. From this high, spit never made the ground. Still, he imagined. following the pretend path of fantasy spittle to ground level, where it pelted pedestrians who eddied around building entrances. Some entered, others emerged. Some had briefcases, some had purses, the rest were empty-handed. Dozens shivered, sipping steaming styrofoam cups of coffee they¡¯d purchased from a nearby deli. They scurried hither and thither, like ants. From this height, absent clues like a purse, he couldn¡¯t tell if a bundled figure was male, female, young, old, black, white, or whatnot. Instead, their individuality melted into a liquid flow. He smiled, content and relaxed, in awe of everything: people bustling, industry shipping, the cooks at the corner deli slinging hash and pouring coffee, parents carting their kids to school or the doctors, etc. And he had his small part, raising buildings, a stage where those lives unfurled. His eye rested on his old buddy, Eliot Ness, nodding a hello. He imagined Ness nodding back, tipping his hat, which made Frank belly-laugh. His artisan¡¯s eye assayed the old building¡¯s workmanship. Astounding. The mason work looked machined, precise, near perfect. And the detailing was superb, the harsh brick and concrete corners softened by sculpted floral flourishes and sculptures of cherubim spreading their joy across the world, with the armed seraphim protecting and fierce gargoyles scaring away demons. Or so the story goes. A story he put not one iota of stock in. Frank stood, hands on his hips, balancing on an iron beam, and closed his eyes. Like a Druid of old, he laughed, his spirit merging with the wind. Filled with reverence, he made the Sign of the Cross, thanking God for the glorious day. Then, he asked God to help Otto¡¯s family, to grant Otto and his wife strength and solace, and to stop him from strangling that rat-fink Howard. When he opened his eyes, winged seraphim and cherubim circled about him, singing a glorious ¡°Hallelujah,¡± in an ornate, choral style. He laughed, breathed deep, filling his lungs. And then, he spread wide his arms, transforming into a mourning dove to join the angels in flight. A forty-foot tall Eliot Ness struggled free from the building across the street, the brick liquid, Ness¡¯s figure emerging from the wall into three-dimensional space, like a mixing-stick emerging from a can of paint, or a building emerging from blueprints. Ness bounded across the street, leaping up the building Frank was working on, catching Frank as he leaped in the flat of his brick hand. Ness set his brow. ¡°Don¡¯t be a fool,¡± he said, his voice rumbling so deep Frank felt it in his molars. ¡°People don¡¯t fly, they splat.¡±
In a flash, Frank woke. His heart surged in his breast. He still sat on the girder, teetering on the edge between life and death, where he¡¯d worked almost every day of his adult life. And for the umpteenth time, he dozed off and almost fell. Also, for the umpteenth time, he did not fall. Who knew what umpteen-plus-one-times held for him, he pondered, suddenly afraid. He gulped, having seen safety harnesses fail, but he shrugged it off, steadying himself. He was used to the edge, having been a topper for over thirty years. Odds were, he¡¯d retire, whole, hale, and healthy from that ledge, though only God knew for sure. A movement behind Frank stirred him. Done wool-gathering, he stood and snapped a mock salute to Bo. The tall, shaggy biker saluted back as Frank sauntered with feline grace along the narrow beam towards the staging area, Bo meeting him there. Frank summarized the work plan, slapping Bo¡¯s back. ¡°And now, we gotta motor. You¡¯re late, we¡¯re behind, and twiddling away our time.¡± Bo¡¯s face assumed a knowing look, nodding as if in understanding. ¡°Sure enough,¡± he said with a faint West Virginia twang. Which made Frank want to roll his eyes, because Bo grew up several blocks from Frank, in Cleveland¡¯s Shantytown neighborhood. ¡°Like my pap always says, can¡¯t never trust no coon to work.¡± Frank suppressed a snarl, but he sensed displeasure clouding his face. ¡°Jesus, Bo, no race crap. Otto¡¯s a union brother, a family man with his wife and kid sick. Have a heart.¡± Bo waved to the distance as if dismissing Frank. ¡°Whatever, man. You know what they say about leopards and their spots.¡± Frank groaned to himself. He knew Bo well. He also knew from leopards and spots. Bo was a neighborhood kid who¡¯d graduated with his daughter Mary Lou. He had always been one of ¡®those¡¯ kids, flunking twice and always fighting, cutting class, stealing cars, and whatnot. Nothing but trouble. And Bo didn¡¯t change after graduating. He dodged the draft, worked a series of low-rent jobs, and had indifferent references. The only reason Bo didn¡¯t get the boot was his father¡¯s union card. Period. Lucky for him, being a legacy carried weight in the trades. Frank turned and spat. This lout, whose father all-but-guaranteed him a job, has the nerve to call Otto, a straight-shooter who¡¯d earned respect through hard work a ¡°lazy coon?¡± Really? Frank gestured to Umberto, who fired up his crane, and turned to Bo. ¡°Let¡¯s get going, fast as we can. We need to catch up. But quality work, no slop.¡± PART II — THEATRICAL PART II ¡ª THEATRICAL
"Life is what happens to you while you''re busy making other plans." If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡ª Allen Saunders in Reader''s Digest. Quoted by John Lennon in the song "Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)" from the LP Double Fantasy, so it''s often misattributed.
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The Theatrical was a glitzy restaurant on Vincent Avenue, a road that Clevelanders called ¡®Short Vincent¡¯ since it was a truncated road running a single city block between East 6th and East 9th. From the 1920s through the ¡®60s, Short Vincent was the heart of Cleveland¡¯s nightlife, home to the Roxy Theater, the city¡¯s premier venue for big-name acts. Before performing, stars like Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and Judy Garland drank and dined at the nearby Theatrical, elbow to elbow with celebs like Joe DiMaggio, Marilyn Monroe, the New York mobster, the boss of bosses, Vito Genovese¡­ and, with less fanfare, working stiffs like Frank, Umberto, and Boots. Times change. Since the late ¡®60s, Cleveland City Council pushed for urban renewal. Over the years, contractors demolished the district brick by brick, razing gritty bars to raise slick modern office towers in their place. Regardless, the Theatrical and Roxy hung tough, two pit bulls with lock-jaw. Sure, they had lost some luster. Instead of booking household names like Tony Bennett, the Roxy featured classy but less popular entertainers. And since the nightlife had shifted towards the suburbs, the restaurant now focused on the lunch and happy hour crowd. But the food was still good, the drinks still strong, and the prices not bad. A great place for office workers on one-martini lunches or working stiffs looking for a tasty burger and frosty beer.
Frank opened the door, holding it as Umberto slipped past, reading the marquee over the Roxy. Jazz pianist Oscar Peterson headlined that night, and he shook his head. He loved jazz, but he¡¯d miss Peterson being stuck listening to his granddaughter Peggy¡¯s violin concert. Ugh. Still, family is family, and Peggy was his princess. He shut the door, sniffing onions, beef, cigarettes, and booze. His mouth watering, Frank shuffled after Umberto, who wove through the busy lunch-hour dining crowd with a fleetness of foot you¡¯d never expect from the overweight guy. Frank shivered. Until the moist heat hit him, Frank was unaware that the cold had chilled him to the bone. The thermometer had plummeted since the morning, another cold-front moving in. But Frank thawed as he bopped past the well-dressed business crowd towards the bar, where the guys sat at several crunched-together pub tables, eating burgers and drinking booze and beers while yucking it up. Boots looked up, wiping burger grease from his mouth with his napkin. ¡°Where you guys been? Hell, I¡¯m on my second beer.¡± He scooted aside, making room for them, and Frank snagged two unoccupied chairs, dragging them into place. ¡°Looking for Corny, walked past his post on Public Square,¡± he said, sitting and panning the busy dining room for their waitress. Boots sipped his beer. ¡°Crap, that¡¯s right. I forgot. He okay?¡± The barmaid¡¯s eye caught Frank, and he motioned her over, saying, ¡°No one vending nothing today. Too cold by half.¡± Boots nodded in understanding as the chipper brunette barmaid handed Frank and Umberto menus, taking their drink order. Frank ordered a Jameson neat with a beer chaser. Umberto ordered his usual, Amaretto and scotch, a ¡®Godfather.¡¯ The barmaid scurried to the bar, and Frank read the menu, debating whether to go with the Americana bacon burger or their Italian sausage, onion and green pepper sandwich when a voice emerged from the background buzz. He turned to see Bo. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Frank asked. ¡°Concerned about Bad Leg, eh?¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Think he may have died, but aren¡¯t sure, so we were checking.¡± Bo snorted. ¡°First it¡¯s Otto, and now it¡¯s Bad Leg. What is it with you and n****rs, Frankie?¡± Not here, not now, Frank thought. I mean, between Howard being a putz and now this fool itching for a fight? Jesus, what a day. But noting the challenge on Bo¡¯s face combined with the idiot¡¯s pure ignorance, Frank stood to face him. Bo stood a touch taller than Frank, maybe six-three. Outweighed Frank, too, but much of that weight was flab. Frank stood speechless, playing chicken. Turned out Bo sucked at playing chicken and broke, asking, ¡°Well, what are you, some kinda n****r lover?¡± The barmaid delivered the drinks, evidently hearing Bo since her gaze flicked between them for a heartbeat before scurrying to the dumpy-looking crewcut manager behind the bar, whispering in his ear. The manager stood, hitching up his pants, gesturing towards the bouncer. Frank put them out of mind and stared at Bo, sipping his whiskey. ¡°Well, I like most people I¡¯ve met. Love a handful. The colored people I know ain¡¯t no different from white folk, so I like most and love a couple.¡± Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. That ought to have ended it, since Bo wasn¡¯t clever enough to troll a response. Problem was, Bo knew his daughter from school, and Bo escalated tensions. ¡°Ah, like your Black son-in-law? Your Mary Lou¡¯s a n****r lover too. Helped them pinkos register them in Mississippi, and married a n****r.¡± Frank¡¯s Irish boiled, and he felt the back of his neck turning red as hot steel, but he breathed deep, reeling in his anger. ¡°Hector¡¯s Puerto Rican, a scientist who worked for Uncle Sam in Los Alamos for a decade, doing top-secret work to help us defeat Godless commies.¡± His expression slack, Bo shrugged his shoulder, as if unimpressed. ¡°But he ain¡¯t white.¡± Frank raised his palms, pleading for peace. ¡°Well, like most Puerto Ricans, he¡¯s part European, part¡ªWait.¡± He stopped dead, realizing he was apologizing to a nimrod. ¡°You know, I owe you nothing. You''re an idiot. Hector¡¯s a better man on his worse days than you on your best.¡± Bo smirked. ¡°Whatever. Your baby girl must¡¯ve gotten plenty of n****r cock in Mississippi. Likes that dark meat. How¡¯s it feel, knowing your girl¡¯s giving her poontang to them gorillas?¡± Frank narrowed his eyes and curled his lips, his heart pounding and hackle up. ¡°She¡¯s better married to Hector than to a no-account shit kicker like you, an uneducated fool with a chip on his shoulder.¡± Triggered, Bo sprang and swung at Frank, hitting him in the jaw. Surprised more than hurt, Frank¡¯s knees buckled, but held. Fire in his belly, he faced Bo as Umberto shot from his seat, grabbing at Bo¡¯s arm. Another topper, Delany Chase, tackled Umberto, and the two bumped into a table, sending glasses, beer bottles, and plates shattering to the floor. Alert, Frank assumed a classic boxing stance, his body perpendicular to Bo and hands raised, protecting his face. Bo charged, swinging with wild abandon. Frank ducked and weaved, blocking Bo¡¯s flurry. Frustration drawing his lips tight and eyes narrow, Bo changed tactics and bull-rushed. Frank sidestepped, and Bo shot by, tripping on Delany and crashing to the ground, running into several tables, knocking plates and glasses and beer bottles to the ground. Frank offered Bo a hand-up. ¡°Enough of this crap, Bo, okay? Let me buy you a beer.¡± Bo shunned the hand and stood, thumbing his nose. ¡°Enough nothing, you n****r lover, who lets his girl be fu¡ª¡± Jackass was besmirching his daughter. Enough. Frank howled with primal rage, anger flooding his limbs. White-hot, he leaped forward, grabbed Bo by the shirt collar, and smashed him against a post. Bo swung, and Frank ducked, surprising even himself with his dexterity. Frank got so close Bo¡¯s punches could not connect with force, and Frank lifted the squirming guy off the floor by his flannel¡¯s collar, forcing Bo to his tippy-toes. Frank cocked his arm. ¡°Keep my girl out of your mouth, understand?¡± Fear in his darting, ferret eyes, Bo nodded and Frank released him, the man collapsing like dirty laundry. Frank remained wary, not trusting Bo as Umberto handed him his jacket in a not-so-subtle suggestion that they should leave. As he reached for the jacket, Bo charged again. But Frank was ready, pivoting clear and landing a roundhouse punch square on Bo¡¯s nose, which exploded into a bloody mess. Enraged, Bo swung wildly several times, but couldn¡¯t connect with Frank, who dodged and blocked the punches. And then he threw a jab, connecting with Bo''s face. And another. And another. And then a right-cross. Frank sent Bo crashing. Out, cold. Delany rushed forward, leaning over his buddy, splashing water on his face to revive him, snagging a napkin and holding it to Bo¡¯s nose, which gushed blood. As if waking from a dream, Frank noticed his pounding heart and heard the excited voices around him. The crewcut manager, whom he¡¯d forgotten in his laser-focus on Bo, screamed orders. Before he could get his bearings, Umberto and Boots grabbed an elbow each, hustling him towards the door. ¡°Let¡¯s go, Frankie,¡± Umberto said, his black eyes darting side to side as they reached the sidewalk. ¡°Cops.¡± After hitting the near-frigid air outside, Frank¡¯s adrenaline subsided. And he realized he¡¯d been in an actual knock-down, drag-out fisticuffs, the first fistfight he¡¯d been in since the service. The threesome bustled up Short Vincent and Frank shook his sore hand, flexing and relaxing it. ¡°Christ, that hurts,¡± ¡°Guarantee, it hurts less than Bo¡¯s nose,¡± Boots said, looking over his shoulder as they turned the corner onto East 9th. ¡°One hell of a club you got there.¡± ¡°Think I broke his nose?¡± Umberto laughed, steering the crew towards Euclid. ¡°Squashed it flat.¡± Boots clapped Frank on his back. ¡°Mohammed freaking Ali, I tell ya.¡± ¡°Here, here,¡± Umberto said, as his ear cocked towards the roar of sirens that seemed to come from East 6th, so he turned towards 9th. ¡°Not bad for an old guy.¡± Umberto led them into the Chop House, and they watched a cherry-topped Dodge Dart roll up Short Vincent from the foyer. Once it disappeared around the corner, they drifted through the door. ¡°C¡¯mon champ,¡± Boots said to Frank, his face goofy with a grin, ¡°first drink¡¯s on me.¡± Still amazed by the surreal character of a normal life gone crazy, Frank followed Boots towards three unoccupied seats as the cherry wood bar.
About twenty minutes later, cops nowhere in sight, Frank, Boots, and Umberto hoofed it for Buehler¡¯s Taphouse on Superior, the Chop House being too expensive for a working man. But when they got there, it was closed, a stocky bouncer-type saying that the owner had a heart attack, so they were waiting on the night manager to open. Slump-shouldered and starving, Frank and his posse crossed the street to Hagan¡¯s, a low-rent pub near Muni Stadium. They crashed in the back of the joint, ordering from the cadaverous, wrinkled mess of a bartender. His hand growing painful and stiff, Frank requested a pint glass of ice and a towel to ice his hand. The burgers tasted okay, if overcooked: miles short of Theatrical quality, sad to say. Cheaper, though. And while the food and booze revived Frank, even his buddies¡¯ calling him Ali and his fight ¡°The Thrilla in Manilla¡± couldn¡¯t fill the damp chill sitting in the middle of his soul. No accounting for it. The victory should have him pumped with pride. He¡¯d bashed that fool, who had been insulting his daughter. If anyone deserved a smashed nose, Bo did. And yet, the cold pit remained. Chapter 6. Chapter 6.
They cashed their tabs, hustling to catch the 1:50 bus to the worksite instead of hoofing it. Boots volunteered to take Umberto home, so they left Frank on the curb as Umberto bopped to the payphone under Eliot Ness to leave word at his son¡¯s job while Boots picked up a carton of smokes at the building¡¯s liquor store. Waving goodbye, Frank crossed the parking lot, fishing in his deep canvas pockets for his keys. Someone hailed him, and he stopped, turning towards the voice. A long-haired electrician with a droopy mustache emerged from a shadowy corner trailing a pungent cloud of marijuana smoke and asked, ¡°You hear about Otto?¡± Frank¡¯s heart fell. ¡°The kid?¡± The electrician¡¯s hand gestured, ¡®STOP,¡¯ his head shaking. ¡°No, thank God. But they fired him and are challenging his unemployment claim.¡± Frank clamped his jaw and said, ¡°Why that son-of-a-bitch...¡± He nodded a sharp farewell and turned, crossing the lobby, anger smoldering in his breadbasket. Each step fanned the flame, so by the time he entered the bunker, the flame in his belly glowed, white-hot. Because Howard knew he¡¯d be firing Otto during this morning¡¯s meeting and kept mum. Goddamned snake. He rapped at Howard¡¯s door, wincing at a faint pain in his Bo-stopping fist. ¡°One minute,¡± Howard said, his tenor muffled by the door. On the phone, Frank reckoned, digging the plug from his breast pocket and gnawing off a chew. He stewed, chomping the tobacco with wolfish ferocity, waiting. As the juice built, he spat into a garbage can. Several beats later, Howard opened the door, his face open with shock as he retreated into the office. ¡°I... I assumed you¡¯d gone home.¡± ¡°You assumed wrong.¡± Frank braced himself on the jamb, snarling. ¡°You canned Otto?¡± Howard moved back, seating himself on the edge of the desk. ¡°Had to. It was just business.¡± Frank¡¯s face flushed, his cheeks hot. ¡°Bull. This wasn¡¯t business, it was personal. You got this inexplicable hard-on for Otto that wouldn¡¯t quit. I mean, Manny wouldn¡¯t do anything half this rotten. He¡¯d know better because he¡¯d been there, but not you.¡± Howard ground his molars. ¡°Fuck off, Frank. Otto missed¡ª¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Frank said, cutting him off, entering the office, and standing face-to-face with Howard. ¡°Art and I are gonna pull double-duty to keep the toothpaste in the tube when the guys hear you fired a union brother with a sick child. There¡¯ll be slowdowns, call-offs, even talk of an outright strike. And after Art and I warned you dozens of times.¡± ¡°Goddammit,¡± Howard said, his face flushing red, ¡°Saint George is my family¡¯s business, not yours.¡± Frank glowered at Howard for several long beats, and the scales fell from his eyes. Howard always seemed so dapper to Frank. No more. Now, Frank focused, seeing his drooping suit, the askew tie, and a wrinkled shirt with sweat stains yellowing the collar. Howard was no muckety-muck. He was just a spoiled rich slob, born on third and thinking he¡¯d hit a triple, afraid and fraying, acting big and hoping no one caught the empty bluster. How had he missed that, Frank wondered? Frank hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and leaned back on his heels, and spat a mouthful of phlegmy tobacco juice into the trash can. A defiant grin crept across his face, a grin that did not reach his narrowed eyes. Howard¡¯s face went round with shock. ¡°Hey, no tobacco in the office.¡± ¡°Fuck you. It¡¯s chew. Ain¡¯t never gonna burn nothing, idiot.¡± Before Howard could respond, Frank slammed shut the door and clomped towards the exit.
Frank¡¯s tread pounded across the parking lot and into the tarp-strew lobby which smelled of fresh latex paint. While wondering where the painters were, he marched through the finished lobby with its beige and green ceramic tiles, cursing Howard under his breath. As he threw open the front door, the cooler air hit his face. He breathed deep and stood for a second, willing his pulse to return to normal. He watched the crows and seagulls picking from a discarded, overturned container of fast-food fries. Scavengers, he thought, but smiled. With their flitting and flying and chirping and cooing and cawing, Frank had always liked birds. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Before he knew it, his breathing steadied, and he sauntered through the lot towards his truck. And then he planted his heels, halting and groaning. He had to call Howard. The nearest payphone was next to the liquor store, so he turned towards Prospect, passed the security gate, and jabbed the crosswalk button. When the pedestrian light flashed ¡®WALK,¡¯ he crossed, looking up and pretend-shooting Eliot Ness with his forefinger, and then bounded to the phone. While humming the theme to The Untouchables, he fed the phone change. He dialed, and after three rings got Art¡¯s secretary, who put Frank on hold. As he waited, he realized the bum had frozen to death in this very alley. He shivered, hoping the guy had passed before the rats gnawed at his fingers, cheeks, and eyes. He had seen rats gnawing bodies, some still alive, in France during The War, and it still turned his stomach. God, I hated that war. All those young soldiers dying, most with kids at home. For what? What a waste of life. Then he considered the death camps, reckoning he fought on the right side. He spat tobacco, rubbing spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. To hell with the Nazis, and fuck Hitler, the murderous little prick. The line clicked. ¡°Art Leadbetter, how may I help you.¡± Frank snapped present. ¡°Hey Art, it¡¯s Frank. You hear about Otto?¡± ¡°Oh, hi Frank. And, yeah, I did. Just hung up with him. He¡¯s nervous.¡± ¡°You blame him? That some rotten shit. Anyway, you told him we¡¯ll take a collection to tide them over, right?¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Art said, his lawyer¡¯s voice ringing with commanding certainty. ¡°We¡¯d never leave him hanging in the wind.¡± ¡°Good, I figured.¡± Frank sighed, and then shifted gears. ¡°Anyways, you know we¡¯ll have our work cut out for us come Monday. The guys¡¯ll go wildcat. I mean, with all due respect, Howard didn¡¯t think this through.¡± ¡°Nope. Not a wise move at all.¡± Art hummed without speaking for several long beats as if thinking. ¡°An inexperienced manager, in over his head, trying to establish his bona fides as the tough guy and overplaying his hand.¡± ¡°About right, but I was... you know, following that Dale Carnegie stuff Manny sprung for.¡± Art chuckled. ¡°Don¡¯t bother. Fuck him. Off the record, Howard¡¯s a rotten human being who¡¯s going to end up bankrupting his grandfather¡¯s company if he ever gets hold of it.¡± Frank grunted his agreement. After two beats of uncomfortable silence, Art cleared his throat. ¡°One other thing, someone called in a complaint against you.¡± A black cloud rose in Frank¡¯s mind, and he shook his head. ¡°Bo?¡± ¡°Roundabout. Delaney Chase, point of fact. Said you busted Bo¡¯s schnoz, sent him to the hospital.¡± ¡°That was me.¡± Frank¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°I mean, the guy was insulting my daughter, and he swung first. Plus we weren¡¯t at work...¡± ¡°Witnesses?¡± ¡°Plenty.¡± ¡°Good, but I¡¯ll have to investigate.¡± ¡°Figured. I mean, maybe I should have held back, him a union brother and whatnot. But dammit, he insulted my girl and called my son-in-law a n****r.¡± ¡°You did what anyone would. And off the record, you¡¯re among a handful of guys I¡¯d trust both next to me in a foxhole AND alone with my wife. Wouldn¡¯t trust Bo or Delaney dog sitting.¡± Frank¡¯s heart warmed, expanding like liquid light. ¡°Thanks, Art. You here Monday?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll be there. we¡¯ll keep the peace.¡± Art sighed as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. ¡°Long weekend ahead of me, filing briefs for Otto, and now Monday¡¯s fucked.¡± Frank shook his head. ¡°Sorry.¡± Art scoffed, saying, ¡°Wasn¡¯t you, it was Howard.¡± Frank smiled, glad he made his living with a hammer in his hand. Can¡¯t take girders home with you. He hung up with Art at just after three, crossing back over to the worksite and jingling his keys as he sauntered toward his Ford truck. A swirl caught his attention as he flushed several gulls, and his eyes traced their flight, losing them behind a building. When he reached his parking spot, he stopped dead. Someone had written ¡®N***R LOVER¡¯ on the driver¡¯s side, and ¡®RACE TRAITOR¡¯ on the hood and windshield in red spray paint. His blood boiled so hot it ran cold, and he said, ¡°Son of a¡­ I¡¯ll knock Bo and Delany into next week¡­¡± Frank fumed, his heart threatening to burst free of his chest, but caught himself. Anger wouldn¡¯t help him, only action would: he had work to do. No use griping, so he turned and marched back to the payphone to file a vandalism report with his son Pat, his insurance agent, clenching and unclenching his tender fist, muttering under his breath. Once again, Frank waited for the signal before crossing. Halfway through the intersection, he stopped dead, his heart throbbing, because he swore he¡¯d seen a gargoyle statue above the liquor store move. Curious, he tilted back on his heels, hands in his pockets, and squinted up, peering at the building¡¯s cornices and seeing nothing but seven solid stone sculptures, their surfaces eroded by the acid rain and defiled by wild-colored graffiti. A car honked. Shrugging and smiling in apology to the rail-thin driver dressed in a sharp black suit and black fedora, Frank said, ¡°Sorry.¡± Without warning, the skinny fucker flicked-off Frank, causing him to bristle and growl. Bo, Howard, the vandalism to his truck, and now this rude prick had Frank ready to explode, dragging this rude idiot from his car and beat him to a pup. But he couldn¡¯t, so he turned back towards the payphone and was soon on the sidewalk, trying to remember a Dale Carnegie ditty to help him ¡°do unto others¡± in this situation, but couldn¡¯t. At the payphone, he fished out more change, dialing his son Pat¡¯s insurance agency. As it rang, he sensed a powerful entity protecting the softness within him, like the seraphim, and gargoyles protecting cherubs. The phone continued ringing, and Frank counted until ten before hanging up. He wondered if he had the number right, so fished out his wallet for the insurance card. As he double-checked the number, he swore he saw Eliot Ness nod to him, like a cop on his beat. Frank laughed to himself, taking his change from the coin-return and feeding the payphone again. ¡°Moving statues, Eliot Ness coming alive¡­ damn, do I need some sleep,¡± he said, dialing from the card. PART III — GARDEN PART III ¡ª GARDEN
"The garden of the world has no limits, except in your mind." A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡ª Rumi, Ode # 332 from Diwan-e Shams-e Tabrizi.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 7. Chapter 7.
About a quarter till three, Frank turned off the narrow, tree-lined street of tiny bungalows and duplexes crammed cheek to jowl, and entered his driveway. What he dubbed ¡°Castle O¡¯Brien¡± seemed palatial in their Irish Town neighborhood. Not because of the narrow, cookie-cutter colonial-style bungalow built circa 1920, which was nothing special. What made Castle O¡¯Brien seem palatial was its double-lot¡ªcloser to two-and-a-half of the neighborhood¡¯s tiny lots¡ªmaking their yard an unofficial park for the neighborhood kids back in the day. He liked that since Maddy and he could watch the boys, steering them clear of trouble, especially getting wrapped up with Irish Town¡¯s mobsters, or the Hell¡¯s Angels, who had a local clubhouse on nearby Waterloo. No future in the rackets but jail, bail, bullets, or bombs, seemed to Frank, but he understood the draw the outlaw mystique held for blue-collar kids like his. Great times, until his girl Mary Lou, a stunner, hit thirteen and attracted every hormone-addled adolescent in a fifty-block radius, forcing Frank to fence in the yard. Which still stood, a veritable fortress, plumb, and level as the day he raised it. Good thing, with the boys already hound-dogging Peggy. He sighed, a resigned grin pinching his face tight. Blink, and they¡¯ve grown. His shoulders relaxed and his gaze softened as he remembered the yard crawling with the neighborhood kids playing baseball, football, cowboys and Indians, kick the can, or whatnot. Head swimming in memories, dreams, and desires, he lifted the detached garage door, squeezing his truck into its place. His wife''s car was gone, so Frank reckoned she was picking up Peggy and her dress, getting her ready for the youth orchestra concert. He slid from the truck, thinking, Imagine an O¡¯Brien playing classical music where the Cleveland Symphony plays, being coached by orchestra musicians and conducted by an honest-to-goodness conductor. Real pros, not just junior high teachers doing their best. Who¡¯da thunk? His heart swelled with pride, floating like a hot-air balloon. But then he surveyed his truck and reality rushed in, popping that balloon. It would take hundreds of dollars and a few days in the body shop to fix his damned Ford. Frigging Bo, frigging Delany, frigging assholes, he thought, grinding his molars. While growling and cursing under his breath, Frank pulled down the garage door. His dog Emer barked from the back door, no doubt hearing him. He reckoned she¡¯d keep, so he turned to inspect his ¡°farm,¡± a productive Victory Garden they¡¯d kept for decades. He walked the wide rows, admiring the fall lettuce, cabbage, beet, and spinach crop, before tapping the acorn squash, checking their ripeness. Most were ready. Nice. Big harvest tomorrow, which Maddy would convert to a tasty side dish for a pork roast or a chicken. Frank¡¯s mouth watered in anticipation. The weather forecast called for frost, so he pulled the thermal fleece over the rows of tender squash, beans, peppers, and zucchini, which were still producing, cinching the edges with two-by-fours he kept on hand so cold air would not leak under, killing the summer crops. Content, Frank closed the rabbit-proof gate and walked through the apple, pear, and plum trees that ran along his yard¡¯s northern edge. No reason, since he¡¯d already harvested and pruned, except he wanted to stretch his legs, inhaling the soft, lingering scent of apples. The trees swayed in the brisk wind, their leaves turning red and a brilliant, greenish-gold, their trunks shaped in the open vase shape he¡¯d learned from his dad, who¡¯d learned it from his father, who had learned it from his own father who tended his trees on the frigid farm he sharecropped in Ireland. Frank ended his inspection tour at the rose and perennial garden he¡¯d planted for his wife Maddy, nestled between the back porch, garage, and shed. He¡¯d more or less prepared it for the winter. The roses had stopped producing a while back, so he had hard-pruned the bushes and shrubs, leaving tattered sticks and spindly branches in their place. But in contrast, the mums, Japanese anemones, and Michaelmas daisies still thrived in drifts: islands of bloom and vibrant green foliage. The nearby trees and buildings buffered the wind, keeping the garden¡¯s air calm, so he sank onto the bench and gazed at the statue of the Virgin Mother, the plot¡¯s focal point. He sat for a few minutes, listening to the rustling leaves and birdsong, smelling the spicy scent of fall leaves, his eye following the dart of birds and the sway of the trees before settling on Mary again. Otto drifted to mind, and Frank prayed to Mary for him and his wife, beseeching her to keep them safe. ¡°It¡¯s a hard world,¡± he thought-spoke to Mary, the words intentional but silent. And then he prayed for Maddy. And that Peggy would hit all her notes tonight, and he thanked the Lord for giving her the chance to play at Severance Hall. He forced himself past his spiteful, unruly heart to pray for Bo, Delaney, and Howard, and petitioned the Lord to help him suffer fools. Done praying, Frank leaned back, enjoying the vital, thriving landscape he¡¯d put so much time into. He drew a breath deep into his lungs, thanking God for the ground he owned and tilled, and the skill to make it bloom, yielding food for his family, feeding bodies and souls.
A roar louder than a B-52 roused Frank, and he bolted to his feet. A hurricane-strength wind swirled the fallen leaves, bent trees, snapped limbs, and almost knocked him back onto his ass. His gaze snapped towards a flash in the sky, and his jaw went slack. ¡°What the¡­ no way,¡± he said, his pounding heart sending shock and awe swooshing through his brain. Because he THOUGHT he saw a band of angels painted in vivid colors, like graffiti gone wild, carrying flaming swords flying up his street from Lakeshore Avenue, their wingbeats driving the wind. Impossible. So he steadied for a beat, a trick he¡¯d learned as an infantryman under Patton, making certain he saw what he thought he saw. He breathed air deep into his lungs, blinked, and looked again. No change, just more details. Forty improbable, four-headed graffiti-covered angels carrying flaming swords were landing in front of his house, folding their wings. The cyclone calmed, and the angels turned with mechanical precision towards him. Startled, he dashed towards his back porch, seeking shelter, but the angels flashed past, lightning-fast, and encircled him. From pure instinct, he rolled into a ball, covering his face and head with his arms, and then laughed at his folly. As if playing pill-bug will save my dumb-ass from supernatural beings with four heads and inhuman speed. Idiot. Somewhat leavened by the self-deprecating gallows humor, Frank waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing happened, so MAYBE he was safe? After a quick prayer, Frank took a leap of faith and stood, assessing his situation. The angels hadn¡¯t slaughtered him but had instead secured him inside a square-phalanx formation. It was creepy, because while he faced an impenetrable sea of marble backs, each of the angels¡¯ rear faces stared at him, their eyes glowing with a soft, diffuse white light. Frank nodded his greeting at the eyes and tapped at the stone wall, finding no gap. While stifling a barrage of curses, he raised his gaze to a random pair of eyes. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it He cleared his throat, asking, ¡°Am I your prisoner?¡± No answer. The dog snarled, scratching the kitchen door. He had to calm her and let her out before she peed all over the kitchen, so he tried to push past but couldn¡¯t. They had him locked tight. The angels were giants, too tall to leap, and he found no hand-hold to help him climb. He thought for a few beats, trying to stay calm, but the frustration built. He needed to get shit done, and these angelic assholes were impeding him. Like a boiler bursting under pressure, he lashed out, kicking the marble as hard as he could with his steel-toe boots. Each time he connected, an angel gasped and whimpered with annoyance, and the wall opened a sliver. Before he could scamper through, though, the gap sealed. Frank stopped kicking and glowered at an angel¡¯s empty-headed, glowing eyes. ¡°Let me out, God damn it!¡± Reality warped. Frank couldn¡¯t explain how, but even as each of the angels¡¯ faces still pointed at the four compass points, every single one glared at him. Three-hundred-and-twenty eyes, now glowing blood-red, focused on him. One-hundred-and-sixty mouths said in unison, the ground quaking as they spoke, ¡°Thou shalt not use the name of the Lord your God in vain.¡± He gulped, troubled by their fiery gazes. ¡°Sorry,¡± he said, feeling foolish. ¡°Thing is, my dog needs to pee, and I need to catch a youth orchestra recital tonight¡­ I want to¡­ I need to¡­. I mean, can you let me go?¡± Reality unwarped, leaving only forty creepy, earnest yet expressionless faces, their eyes glowing soft white. One majestic angel, taller than the rest, its robes painted ermine and face, hands and arms rendered in a rich burnt umber detached from the rest. Frank knew to his bones that this was the leader. ¡°We cannot,¡± the leader said, his breath reeking of incense and holy oil. ¡°Why?¡± The angel cleared his throat, flaring his wings. ¡°I am Metatron, member of the Inner Council, one of the Select Protectors of the throne of He-Who-Is-Who-He-Is, the Lord Jehovah, Who has granted me this Holy See to protect you from the marauding hordes.¡± Frank scoffed. ¡°What marauding hordes?¡± Metatron pointed with his flaming sword. Again, reality warped. Though still ensconced behind the angels, Frank spied a dark dust cloud swirling around a thin, lanky man dressed in a swanky black suit. But it wasn¡¯t dust. Instead, the cloud resolved into a swarm of skeletons swathed in black leather biker chaps and jackets bearing pikes and riding smoke-snorting dragons with crow-like wings and lizard bodies. He gulped. The horde numbered one thousand strong, a battalion of Demon Dragon Riders against Metatron¡¯s paltry platoon: twenty-five to one. Frank remembered his squad pinned down behind German lines in France after they¡¯d stormed Normandy Beach as a Kraut company marched past, retreating. The Germans were far from full strength, yet they still outnumbered Frank¡¯s men twenty-to-one, and they had three tanks. Outnumbered and outgunned, the GIs hid like scared rats in a church basement. Frank would die for America, but facing-off and fighting, force to force, while outnumbered twenty-to-one? That wasn¡¯t heroism, but stupidity. Suicide. No thanks. And yet outmanned twenty-five to one, Metatron¡¯s Morons stood pat, itching to fight. Needless to say, Frank did not feel safe, flaming swords or not. Dumb is dumb, whether the dumbass was human or divine. So he beat on stone backs, saying, ¡°Let me out,¡± but Metatron¡¯s Morons ignored him, concentrating on the Demon Dragon Riders, who smelled of sulfur and sewer gas. Somehow, the Demons surrounded the Morons, even from above and below. Weird, Frank thought, impossible. And yet it happened. But things grew even weirder when Metatron¡¯s Morons again warped space, this time occupying three dimensions, surrounding him in a rock-hard stone cocoon. Frank¡¯s skin crawled. He didn¡¯t like it. Sure, Metatron¡¯s Morons would keep him safe, but they had him trapped: not good. Worse, he could no longer see outside the protective shell, where a battle raged: steel rang on steel, bones crunched and stones cracked. Dozens of angelic faces dimmed. Injuries, Frank reckoned. And then, one by one, their eyes went dark. Frank gulped, a hollow void forming between his eyebrows as he realized his protectors were dead. Forlorn, he sunk to the ground, numb, entombed in dark stone. He sighed, thinking, This is like hiding in that church basement, Jerry under duress, retreating, marching past us mere yards away¡­. Well, sort of... This was worse by Frank''s reckoning. Though that was horrific, at least back then he hoped, knowing the GIs were marching towards them. But this was just hopeless. The Demon Dragon Riders celebrated with discordant hollers and call and response cheers. Their dragons¡¯ wings beat with the sound of twenty-thousand Harleys revving at Altamont. Entombed by dead angels, Frank doubted he¡¯d ever see Maddy and the family again, let alone catch Peggy¡¯s concert. His heart broke. And then he heard a tapping. A cane pierced the cocoon, wedging it open, letting in light. He spied a man wearing a corn-cob hat and black and red cardigan peering through the crack. The man said, in a deep Mississippi drawl, ¡°Brother Frank, to be good and godly¡ªand I mean full-on, bone-deep, Jesus-like good brother¡ªyou need to be free. So fuck the angels, and fuck the demons. Don¡¯t hollow yourself out, but fill yourself with soul and spirit. Rage. Howl. Follow angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, brother. Don¡¯t let MK Ultra and the CIA and all that government mind-control shit squash your mojo. Live, love, fight, laugh and dance, despite The Man. Free your mind, and your ass will follow.¡± Frank chuckled, recognizing Corny¡¯s corny-ass words, but in a voice that sounded exactly like him, while being completely different. Catching the contradiction, Frank let out a nervous laugh. The man disappeared, replaced by a fair-skinned negro saxophonist, sporting a white suit, silver tie, and charcoal porkpie hat. And that cat played his horn, hard. Frank sensed the tune was ¡®Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,¡¯ but the cat played with the song, taking it apart and reassembling the pieces, the exact same but brand-spanking new. He was stamping and swaying, like he was playing at an old-time tent revival meeting. The guy had serious chops: great, even. It was the best sax playing Frank had ever heard, whether live or on vinyl, and he¡¯d been a jazz freak since hearing his first uncut ¡°race record,¡± Count Basie¡¯s ¡®One O¡¯Clock Jump,¡¯ back in the day. And this cat was the flea¡¯s eyebrows. The sax player hit the end of the tune, a fifth note teasing but not delivering the home key, as the lyrics in Frank¡¯s head sang, ¡°coming for to carry me home.¡± The sax player stayed on that note, sustaining it, his vibrato rich and surging, never resolving. And the music man began glowing. Brighter and brighter and growing larger and larger. The rich note, while unmoved and unmoving, surged as free and varied as life itself. Soon, the man¡¯s feet stood on molten magma and his head scraped the moon, and his horn glowed, bright as a supernova. And then¡­ he imploded, his huge being and walloping sound condensed to a point so fine it smacked of nothingness. Movement seemed impossible, the squeeze too tight, and yet the musician played, shook his tail-feather, stomped his platform shoes, and¡­ ¡®BOOM!¡¯ He exploded, the flash brighter than ten thousand suns. Frank shielded his eyes, and he heard the stone angels shattered into rock dust, his face blistering, burned by the explosion.
All was silence and birdsong and Emer barking and whining. A few beats later, he opened his eyes. He stood in his backyard, freed from the stone cocoon, facing a statue of Mary. Heart leaping for joy in his breast, Frank strode towards the porch door to liberate Emer. But stopped dead in his tracks. Again, a cyclone swirled, blowing so hard he could not move. A din filled his ears, and the scents of incense and sulfur mingled in his nostrils. Distraught, his gaze shot skyward. Metatron¡¯s Moronic Angels swooped towards him from the right, Demon Dragon Riders to the left. The wind ripped, so powerful it shattered Mary into pieces, lifting whole chunks of her into the cyclone which swirled about him. Frank struggled against the wind, dodging stone chunks, trying for the backdoor and shelter. And yet, the opposing forces rushed closer and closer, threatening to squash him between them like a bug. Not to mention chunks of Mary. Frank''s pulse raced, and he saw a large rock aimed square at him. The damned thing would shatter him like a cannonball. Try as he might, though, the gale-force winds made moving near impossible as he struggled to twist free of the cannonball''s path. Chapter 8. Chapter 8.
A hit to his breadbasket knocked Frank¡¯s wind out of him. He flailed, eyes popping open to a small freckled face nestling on his chest, giggling. ¡°Wake up, sleepyhead.¡± Frank chuckled, messing his five-year-old grandson Ben¡¯s blue-black hair, and asked, ¡°Hey, kiddo, what brings you here?¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to the orchestra with you,¡± Ben said, pronouncing his l¡¯s and r¡¯s like w¡¯s. ¡°Peggy¡¯s playing violin at Serious Hall.¡± Frank belly-laughed. ¡°Not ¡®Serious¡¯ Hall, ¡®Severance¡¯ Hall. Can you say ¡®Severance?¡¯¡± ¡°Sure. Severus.¡± ¡°No. Try again,¡± he said, and then broke the word into clear, easy-to-digest syllables: ¡°SEV-ER-ANCE.¡± ¡°Severance.¡± ¡°Atta boy.¡± Ben slid to the ground, glowing with pride, and Frank stood. ¡°Now let¡¯s go see your Gram.¡± They walked through the dining room where Peggy, an elfish wisp of a girl, struggled to lift a baby carrier onto the solid oak table. Frank swooped in, hoisting it, and unclasped Ben¡¯s brother, Ted. Frank kissed Ted¡¯s forehead, easing him to the ground. The lad toddled after Emer, a calm terrier mutt, his hand opening and closing as if grasping for her, and towed a doting Peg playing mother behind. Frank rolled back on his heels, patting his belly, content, thinking, Kids. ¡°What happened Frank?¡± Maddy stood in the breezeway door, short and stout but stylish in her dark print dress, concern flooding her ocean-blue eyes. He lifted his tea-towel-wrapped hand, which held a bag of melted ice. ¡°This?¡± ¡°Well, I meant your truck, but that too.¡± He raised a finger, motioning her to wait a minute, and turned to his grandchildren. ¡°Hey, Peg.¡± She turned, her bright face eager. ¡°Yeah?¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°Would you take your cousins outside so Gram and I can talk?¡± ¡°Sure Gramps,¡± she said. Ben shot out the door. Peggy hooked Emer to her dog-run before helping Ted outside. ¡°And keep Ben clean,¡± Maddy said, shaking her head, ¡°kid¡¯s a mud magnet.¡±
Once alone, Maddy filled the teakettle and fired the burner while Frank spoke about Howard screwing Otto, the fisticuffs with Bo, and discovering the vandalism. She was a good listener, so listened in silence as Frank spoke, her demeanor serious. When he¡¯d finished, she sighed. ¡°Will insurance pay to fix it?¡± He hung his head. ¡°I reckon so, but ain¡¯t positive. Tried to call Pat¡¯s office,¡± he said, referring to their son, Ben and Ted¡¯s father, ¡°but got no answer.¡± Maddy smiled, nodding towards the backyard. ¡°No one there. Sheila and Pat are in Toledo for a wedding. Their sitter got sick, and we got the boys.¡± ¡°Ah, the gray-haired daycare to the rescue.¡± She grinned. ¡°That¡¯s us.¡± In silence, Frank replenished the ice, fastening it to his fist with the towel. She sighed, her gaze drifting from his iced-down hand to the kids visible through the rear window. ¡°A fistfight, and trying to sort out labor troubles with a hard-headed, hard-hearted man like Howard Rourke at your age? I mean, you¡¯re sixty-six, you can retire.¡± ¡°Come on Maddy,¡± he said, his blood pressure rising, ¡°we¡¯ve been through this. Peggy¡¯s bright, like her mom, so she¡¯ll need college tuition, and things like these violin lessons aren¡¯t cheap.¡± Maddy¡¯s face softened to a warm smile and she laid her hand on his cheek, caressing. ¡°Frank, we¡¯ve got more than enough. Sure, we ain¡¯t Rockefellers, but the house is paid off, no car notes or credit card debt, and we got how much money squirreled away?¡± Somber, he leaned forward, staring into his palms. ¡°It ain¡¯t just money. I make a difference, fighting the good fight... like this Otto business, for instance.¡± Her eyes soft, she removed her hand from his cheek. ¡°You know, Saint George and the union were around before you, they¡¯ll survive you leaving.¡± ¡°Point taken,¡± Frank said, wanting to continue, to share from a deep place but stymieing the impulse. Truth was, Frank continued working because death terrified him. His father had died at sixty-eight, three years after retiring. It was a horrible death, his memory going bit-by-bit. At the end, he¡¯d forgotten everyone and everything and sat like a vegetable, sipping soup and smoking. Frank did not want to follow his dad, diminishing in death. He wanted to die with his boots on. He longed to share this with Maddy, but couldn¡¯t. Hell, he couldn¡¯t even tell Father Klein, the best priest he¡¯d ever known, so Frank chastised himself for cowardice. To hide his discomfort, he stood, turned off the whistling teakettle, and poured water over tea bags for Maddy and himself. He shuffled to his chair in front of the Hi-Fi which blared BB King. From the kitchen, Maddy sighed as if an enormous weight pressed on her shoulders. Somehow, this annoyed him, so he stifled a derisive groan while setting the steaming tea on the coffee table to cool and pulled the ornate brass spittoon Maddy insisted he use indoors from its nook. Listening to ¡®The Thrill Is Gone,¡¯ he gnawed off a plug and leaned back, nodding to the music as the tobacco sharpened his mind, waiting for his tea to cool. Chapter 9. Chapter 9.
As usual, Maddie¡¯s lamb stew was delish, sticking to Frank''s ribs. Though no longer hungry, he snagged the final dinner roll and slathered it with butter, crunching into its firm crust which contrasted with the soft, warm inner crumb. He chewed, leaning back and lacing his fingers about his belly. Yum. The grandkids seemed to agree, giggling and gulping down the dregs. Ben hated vegetables, so had fussed about having to eat the parsnips, carrots, and peas in the stew, but forgot when he tried a bite. Turns out, the rugrat had polished an almost adult-sized portion and now was saying how much he liked parsnips and carrots. Kids. Dinner over, Frank and Peggy started the dishes as Maddy moved into the living room with the kids and nestled on the sofa, reading Winnie the Pooh. Maddy was a born actress, making characters come alive, each character phrased with a distinct voice as if she were a medium and the characters were spirits communicating through her. The phone rang as he completed scrubbing the last pan. Maddy ceased reading, answered, and then said, ¡°It¡¯s Art,¡± in her elf-like, sing-song voice. ¡°Got it.¡± Frank lay aside the scratchpad and excused himself to Peggy. He reckoned Art called to plan for Monday, to mollify the brothers who¡¯d want to go wildcat on Howard¡¯s ass, so he pulled the kitchen phone¡¯s coiled handset cord into the dining room for privacy. It turned out he was wrong. Instead, Art warned him that the police could be on their way to his house. Frank¡¯s jaw about hit the table. ¡°The cops, for what?¡± ¡°Remember my cop cousin, Tiny, the fat one? Anyway, this afternoon Tiny overhears some chit-chat with your name. Now, he knows you aren¡¯t a criminal, figures it ain¡¯t you, but he calls me to be safe. I prod him, he digs up the paperwork, and it turns out Bo¡¯s pressing charges.¡± ¡°Why, that son-of-a-bi¡ª¡± Frank cut himself off, remembering his grandchildren and censoring his words. He lowered his voice. ¡°I mean, that son-of-a-pup starts it, insults my daughter, insults my son-in-law, hits me first, vandalizes my truck, and HE¡¯s pressing charges?¡± Maddy gasped, the line clicking as she hung up the family room extension. Dammit. She¡¯d been listening. Art continues, saying, ¡°It¡¯s a criminal case, so the union cannot help, but if you want the name of a good criminal lawyer, I have one. You got a pen?¡± ¡°Expensive?¡± ¡°Yes, and no. I called Umberto, Boots, and some other witnesses. From what I heard, Bo was being an all-fire dick and jumped you. Self-defense. Clear as it seems, a good criminal lawyer will save you time, fines, and keep you from jail. They cost, but they fight for you, pulling strings you don¡¯t know exist.¡± Frank pondered, nodding to himself, and said, ¡°Give me his digits, I¡¯ll call him.¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°Just remember, though, his sage advice costs.¡± Art quoted the lawyer¡¯s rate, and Frank let out a low whistle. ¡°Another bill, just what I need.¡± Deflated, he snagged a pen and a pad from the sideboard and jotted the name and number. After trading salutations, he hung up and faced Maddy, who loomed in the doorway. He said, ¡°Take it you overheard?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Distress rose in her eyes. ¡°Well, I¡¯m hot-footing outta here, just in case. I mean, I want to see Peggy, but cannot do that from¡­ you know where." His heart sank as he noticed tears pooling in her eyes. "Anyway, I¡¯ll meet you at Severance.¡± ¡°The cops?¡± she asked, sitting next to him, whispering to avoid little ears. ¡°It¡¯s nothing, and I mean it. Bo jumped me, we fought, I won. Now that loser is sore¡¯s all. It¡¯ll blow over.¡± Her face set. ¡°A union brother, turning on you? To hell with the lot of them.¡± The low blow, her insulting the union, left Frank tongue-tied. He glanced at the kids who huddled, scared at the adult stuff, pretending to not pay attention. ¡°Please, not in front of the kids.¡± She went pale. ¡°I know, I know¡­¡± He kissed her cheek and wiped her tears before bounding to their bedroom. He showered, tossed on his starched white shirt, and tied his tie. Ready, he snatched the suit jacket and overcoat and emerged into the dining room. ¡°Hey, Princess Peggy-Bear,¡± he said as his granddaughter turned her doe-eyes on him, putting down a plate she was drying. ¡°I gotta take care of some business, but I¡¯ll catch you on stage. I promise.¡± She nodded and looked so forlorn that Frank¡¯s insides shriveled and tinted the cobalt blue of a Miles Davis lonesome. So he opened his arms, and she crashed into him with reckless abandon. ¡°You don¡¯t have to be there, Gramps,¡± she said, half asking, half stating, as if unsure, her stable reality quaking under her, threatening to send her tumbling. ¡°I mean, if it¡¯s serious¡­¡± Frank wiped the auburn hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead. ¡°Ain¡¯t nothing more serious than me watching you perform. I¡¯ll be there.¡± Next, he hugged the boys goodbye as they huddled, silent and shivering. Frank knew they knew something had soured. So with a heavy heart, he slid into his overcoat and walked out the door, feeling the rough pavement through the thin soles of his dress shoes. His heels clicked towards the garage, where he heaved open the door and climbed into his truck and eased it into the drive, where he saw Maddy hugging herself on the side-lawn, trying to stay warm in the brisk wind. So he stepped down from the cab, walking to his wife. ¡°You want I should close it?¡± He gestured at the door. ¡°You¡¯ve got about an hour, give or take.¡± Maddy shook her head, Frank imagining he heard her heavy sigh, though the distance and roaring wind made that impossible. He wanted to roll his eyes since she was acting over-dramatic as usual. Instead, he suppressed his gut, shuffling towards her. ¡°Listen dear, I¡¯m sorry to have¡ª¡± ¡°Wait.¡± She cut him off by raising her hand. ¡°I¡¯m the sorry one, for tearing into you in front of the kids. I should trust you. You¡¯ve earned it, you¡¯re a good man, but¡­ well¡­ picking up the kids, eating, and getting Peggy dressed and backstage was challenge enough. But adding the cops to this¡­ I mean¡­¡± Her soft face relaxed, its expression sad yet full. ¡°Look, if I were guilty, I¡¯d fess up, but I¡¯m not.¡± The sides of her mouth quirked. ¡°I know, dear, I know, but can you do me a favor?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± ¡°With Ben and Ted spending the night, can you maybe stay at Paul¡¯s?¡± With Paul being their son, who lived half an hour away in the bedroom suburb of Mentor. ¡°I¡¯d hate them to see their grandfather dragged off in handcuffs.¡± Again, Frank stifled a scoff at the melodrama. But she had a point, and until he faced and fixed this cop-thing, well¡­ ¡°This is crazy,¡± he said, laughing at his situation. ¡°I busted an ignorant jackass in the schnoz, and the cops are hunting me like I¡¯m public enemy number one¡­ Crazy. But, you¡¯re right. I¡¯ll call Paul, for the kids.¡± Frank hoisted himself into the cab, backed up, and drove away, frustrated by her melodrama, and yet angry at himself. She was right. If only he¡¯d have held his fists at the Theatrical... PART IV — COMPASS PART IV ¡ª COMPASS
¡°Think you''re escaping and run into yourself.¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡ª James Joyce, Ulysses "To those who would sleep through the wounds they inflict on others, I offer pain to help them awaken, Ju-Ju, Tom-Toms & the magic of a talking burning bush." ¡ª Krista Franklin, Manifesto, or Ars Poetica #2
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Frank eased his truck along Coventry Boulevard, a hip street of brick stores, bars, and restaurants in Cleveland Heights, searching for a curbside parking space. Lady Luck smiled, and a car pulled out. He squeezed into the spot, about three storefronts from Record Rendezvous, his destination. Ecstatic, he pumped his fist. Nice. Better to be lucky than good. After checking his side mirror, Frank stepped onto the street, strutting like ¡®Lucky¡¯ Luciano in his monkey suit, though his twelve-year-old pickup, beat-up and vandalized, destroyed the illusion. He was no urbane killer. But then Frank realized that, like the mafioso, he WAS ducking the law. His mouth quirked. So, maybe I am like Luciano. A bit at least... He chuckled at the absurdity, halting to gnaw off a chaw and feed the meter change. As the tobacco softened and the dial registered ¡®TWO HOURS,¡¯ he scanned the street for a payphone to call his middle son Paul, spotting one outside of Medic Drugs. He fed the phone change, too. Paul answered, and Frank pleaded his case. Paul said that his sofa was always open, and they shared a laugh when Paul called Frank ¡°Rocky,¡± performing a silly ¡°Yo, Adrian¡± bit, sounding like the Italian star who played Rocky and talked like he had rocks in his mouth. Vintage Paul: upbeat and silver-tongued. Smart guy, Frank thought, rolling the chew around his jaw, blowing into his hands, warming them. He understands Dale Carnegie, even without training. He¡¯s got the knack, and I¡¯m a hack. Next, Frank called Maddy to tell her. No answer. Odds were, she was dropping Peggy at Severance, so he shrugged and headed to Record Rendezvous, where he pawed through crate after crate of records, some new, some used. Nothing grabbed him. Stranger still, he rejected the two albums he¡¯d come for: a three-volume Lester Young compilation, and a mint-condition Thelonious Monk. He pondered, puzzled. Him, a music freak in a record store with two albums he wanted, but buying diddley-squat? Weird. Unsatisfied, Frank figured he¡¯d grab a cup of coffee at the nearby Arabica coffee shop. Maybe some joe would perk him. He pushed through the door, buttoning his overcoat against the blast of frigid air, and ran headlong into a pale, rail-thin man dressed in coal-black who smelled of sour cider. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. ¡°Watch yourself,¡± the man said, his voice scratchy and challenging. Taken aback, Frank held up his hands in mock surrender. ¡°Sorry, didn¡¯t see you, my bad.¡± ¡°Bet your ass it¡¯s your bad.¡± The man¡¯s beady eyes skewered Frank before darting towards the street. ¡°And, they don¡¯t need your help.¡± Confused, Frank did a double-take. ¡°Say what, now?¡± The man scoffed, his nostrils twitching, and chin-pointed to the curb, saying, ¡°Truck¡¯s yours, right?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°The coloreds. They don¡¯t need you.¡± Frank grinned, meek and embarrassed. ¡°Oh, you mean the graffiti? Duked it out with a jackass who¡ª¡± The black-clad man cut him off, his voice harsh and face sharp as an ax. ¡°Pay attention, you dumbass n****r loving oaf. I said the coloreds don¡¯t need you, don¡¯t need white bleeding hearts trying to fix them. As if they need fixing. And if they do, they¡¯ll fix themselves.¡± ¡°I know they don¡¯t¡ªBut that doesn¡¯t mean¡ªI mean¡­¡± Frank said, but halted, tongue-tied and irate, at once furious and cowed. The man cackled, his face twisting into a cruel grin. And then he spun on his heel, as if victorious, and shot down the street, leaving Frank gape-jawed and shaking his head, confused and smelling rotten apples. What the fuck was that? Frank moved towards the coffee shop, the man¡¯s idiocy at once amusing in its banality and annoying in its rudeness. He spat a stream of tobacco juice down the storm sewer. A gust of wind rustled a Cleveland Press someone had discarded but missed the garbage can. He swooped it up, thumbing through and finding it whole, including the sports page. Nice. He¡¯d need something to read over coffee since he had almost two hours to kill. And then, as the wind surged, threatening to rip the paper free, Frank halted, a lightbulb firing in his head. He remembered his early morning conversation with Umberto over the Plain Dealer about the bum dying on Prospect. In a flash, he knew what was bothering him. It wasn¡¯t the cops. Nor was it Mozart and monkey suits and Severance Hall instead of the World Series, Buckeyes, and Browns. Instead, he¡¯d forgotten his promise to Umberto and Boots to check on Corny. He looked at his watch. He could visit Corny¡¯s place in East Cleveland and then catch Peggy in University Heights with time to spare. So he tossed the paper in the garbage and turned back towards his truck. He pulled from his spot, pausing for a red light before turning onto Mayfield Road. He sensed more than heard someone screaming, and he turned to the pale, black-clad man who hollered Frank''s way, his hands around his mouth. Frank rolled down his window. ¡°What?¡± The guy popped Frank off, laughing. Frank tightened his jaw and stewed, but wouldn¡¯t give the rude bastard the benefit of a response. The light turned green, and Frank spat out the window before turning towards East Cleveland. The black-clad guy stood, a spiteful manikin still tapping his pocket, and pivoted as Frank turned, the mock salute tracking him. Chapter 11. Chapter 11.
Peeved by the rude idiot, Frank gunned up Mayfield Avenue, bristling. Uncalled for, he thought, rolling down the window, spitting a phlegmy gob of tobacco juice, his jaw set in spite. And fucking Maddy giving me the boot. Jaysus, crappiest of crappy days and not improving. At all. He shook his head, cranking up the window. Several blocks later, it got even worse, traffic crawling to a near stop at an intersection strobed by a cop car¡¯s flashers. A rueful chuckle escaped his clenched jaw. Can¡¯t win for losing. To avoid the ¡°poor me¡¯s,¡± he searched his soul for something to be thankful for. It took a beat, but a content smile tightened his eyes. At least there¡¯s tobacco, he thought, even if my egghead doctor wants me to quit on account of cancer. He scoffed, hawking into the empty Coke can. Fuck that. And then he groaned. Even his attempted positivity fell flat, Dale Carnegie failing him. Been that kind of day. A tow truck approached from the side street, its husky driver got out, bellowing to the cops interviewing the distraught driver. The cop motioned thumbs-up, so the tow truck driver hooked and hoisted an undrivable Cutlass Supreme Brougham, crawled into the truck, and unstopped the bottleneck, allowing Mayfield traffic to flow. Liberated, Frank punched the air in victory, gliding past the remaining mess a few beats later. And then he remembered the Sam and Dave 8-track, popped it in, and sang along, telling the world he was a soul man bringing good loving by the truckload down that dusty road. A grin quirked the corners of his mouth, and he thanked God for Sam and Dave too.
Frank¡¯s Ford turned onto Hayward, rumbling through the neighborhood of unkempt bungalows, multi-family homes, and apartment buildings interspersed with the flickering, half-lit neon signs of tiny groceries, liquor stores, and bars. Rundown, high-crime area, he thought, side-eying the mostly colored people bundled against the autumn chill as he zipped by. He¡¯d hate being caught here after dark. He stopped at a light across from a beat-down bungalow, its paint faded, and lawn a rat¡¯s-nest of grass, crabgrass, clover, and dandelions, neglect so deep it seemed criminal. Frank snagged the empty pop can from the cup holder and spat, glancing around, and remembered Rubin lived near here when he was just another hardhat. The guy threw the epic parties, especially when the Browns played Shitsburg back then. He replaced the can. Those were the days. Before Rubin had kids. Before he finished his degree at Fenn Engineering College. Before he entered management. Before he moved to Chardon in bum-fuck Egypt, an hour from downtown, deep in the snow-belt. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Frank asked why you¡¯d move that far from work, biting off a huge mortgage payment. Rubin grumbled about Judge Battista desegregating the schools and forcing kids to bus crosstown. Which struck Frank as silly, but his kids were older. Heck, his youngest, Pat, was almost twelve years older than Rubin¡¯s eldest, so his experience was worlds different. But despite Umberto¡¯s urging, he had stayed in Cleveland City Limits, his house paid off, and sent his children to mixed-race parochial schools, Holy Cross, Saint Joe¡¯s, and Villa Angela, without incident. No big deal. They ended up fine, going to college or the service, stable family men and women. Rubin heard none of it. Frank sighed, shaking his head as the cross-light turned amber, and he readied to pop his clutch. Rubin was Rubin, and Frank was Frank, he supposed. He peered at the derelict house again, saddened by the neglect. What had happened to this neighborhood? he wondered, shrugging. Hell if he knew. Green light. The clutch popped, the truck lurching forward, the sudden motion swirling the lamb stew in his belly.
A few blocks further, his awareness snapped to attention: Corny¡¯s place was near. Problem was, Frank could not remember the exact location. As he neared the bus depot, he slowed further, the traffic behind veering around him. There, he thought, recognizing a five-story brick building, its first-story windows boarded up and painted with the same cheap, high-gloss black they¡¯d painted the door trim with. He signaled, pulling to the curb to be sure, and read the sign: ¡®NORTH POINT ESTATES,¡¯ the ¡®O¡¯ in ¡®NORTH¡¯, a stylized compass. Yes, the compass, that¡¯s it. Relief lifting a weight from his shoulders, Frank entered the potholed parking lot, easing into a visitor¡¯s spot. He stepped from the cab, entering the burnt-out end of a smoky day and locking the door. A woman¡¯s twittering laughter roused him, and he turned. A white woman clad in a ragged electric-pink ski jacket over a dress, pushing a shopping cart filled with discarded two-by-fours and plywood, grinned at him. ¡°Nice paint job,¡± she said, her eyes cruel and her sharp chin almost touching her sharper nose. A shit-eating grin he couldn¡¯t control tugged at Frank¡¯s eyes. ¡°Earl Scheib. Only forty-nine ninety-five.¡± The hag¡¯s face sparked, the harshness softening as she caught the reference, and they shared a cackle at the joke. And then her shoulders went stiff, her neck bowed as if escaping a blow, and she returned to her search for wood. Firewood¡­ she¡¯s homeless, Frank realized, his heart heavy as he opened the door. A well-dressed, muscular colored man of seventy-odd years ran headlong into him, distracted by shoving an indigo velvet draw-string satchel into his pocket. The old man¡¯s charcoal brown face went slack with surprise, his intense gaze softening to a soulful smile. ¡°I am so sorry, sir,¡± he said, Deep Dixie tones tinged with Caribbean singing through in his deep, commanding voice. Frank shrugged it off. ¡°Forget about it, happens to the best of us.¡± ¡°Problem is, I ain¡¯t the best, but a scoundrel.¡± The man grinned, his warm gaze focused on the middle distance. ¡°I can dig that, boss man, one reprobate to another,¡± Frank said, chuckling softly. ¡°Say, you know a guy named Cornelius who lives here? With a cane, maybe nicknamed Bad Leg? I¡¯m his buddy but don¡¯t recollect his room number.¡± The man winced, shaking his close-cropped silver hair. ¡°Sorry, sir, but I¡¯m from New Orleans way, an out-of-towner visiting. But there¡¯s a manager in the lobby.¡± ¡°Thanks, and have a safe trip,¡± Frank said. ¡°And New Orleans is a great town, with splendid music.¡± ¡°Indeed, sir.¡± The old-timer sunned Frank with a smile. ¡°The best to you and yours, boss man. Best to you and yours.¡± ¡°Back at you.¡± The door clanged shut, its hydraulic catch all-but shot, and Frank entered the lobby. A few paces in, he stumbled upon the frizzy-haired, furry-faced, fuzzy-chested manager in a white tank top behind a cage watching a Barney Miller rerun on the local UHF channel. Frank knocked, asking about Corny. After a derisive gaze, the manager stood, telling Frank that Corny¡¯s name was Cornelius Keyes, his room 303. Frank walked towards the elevators, which he didn¡¯t trust in the rundown tenement. So he opened the fire-door to the stairwell, climbing to the third floor. PART V — LITTLE WINGS PART V ¡ª LITTLE WINGS Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!
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Oblivious to the Cultural Gardens flashing past the AMC Matador¡¯s passenger-side window, Peggy O¡¯Brien-Martin cradled her violin, deep in thought. She shivered, hugging herself, afraid to bring up what she saw, uncertain of what was real versus imagined. Her grandmother¡¯s uncanny ¡°Spidey sense¡± kicked in, though. As she steered through the heavy evening traffic along Liberty Boulevard, she glanced at Peg, sidelong, asking, ¡°You okay, Peggy Bear?¡± Peggy sighed and her heart raced, fear and confusion helping the stagefright tie her belly into knots. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ About Gramps. What¡­¡± She could not say what she meant, which frustrated her. Gram stopped behind a line of cars at the traffic circle, turning her round, rouged, blue-eyed face, granting Peg the full force of her attention. Her smile warmed Peg, making her feel safe, though still confused. Grams said, her voice soft and sing-song, ¡°I know you overheard us. It¡¯s unavoidable, little people having the biggest ears.¡± Peg sat, tongue-tied and caught. Behind them, a horn honked, and Grams edged forward two car lengths. As usual, Grams read her mind. ¡°Well, what did you hear? It¡¯s okay to listen.¡± A weight lifted from her heart, and tears welled her eyes, like a genie rushing from an unstoppered bottle. ¡°Is Gramps in trouble with the cops, going to prison?¡± Gram laughed as she eased forward, now first in line, waiting as traffic flashed by, and she merged into a narrow gap before gunning it, joining the swirl of traffic that had always both awed and intimidated the eleven-year-old. ¡°No. Well, probably not. Anyway, here¡¯s the scoop, kiddo. He had a fight with someone at work and broke his nose. The police want to ask about the fight, nothing more.¡± Peggy liked it when adults leveled with her, so she breathed deep. ¡°That why they ruined Gramps¡¯s truck?¡± Gram nodded. Peg¡¯s heart raced. She knew about fighting, watching the boys dust-up over dumb stuff during recess. Nuns handled them with detentions, and maybe spankings for the instigators. She assumed the police would be no different. ¡°He didn¡¯t start it, did he?¡± Grandma laughed a deep, lyrical belly laugh. ¡°Deary, no. You know your Gramps. He looks hard, but he¡¯s like an M and M, crunchy on the outside, melty chocolate inside.¡± Peggy grinned. That was him. ¡°But he is tough, right? He won?¡± Grams nodded, easing to a stop at a red light. ¡°Yes, if you can win a fight outright. He hurt his hand. And he¡¯s a little worried about the police.¡± She motioned towards the back seat, where Ben and Ted slept. ¡°And since we¡¯d hate to have those two see Gramps hauled away in handcuffs, he¡¯s sleeping at Uncle Paul¡¯s tonight.¡± ¡°Now I get it.¡± Thoughtful, Peggy ran the incidents through her mind. ¡°What about the bad words on his truck?¡± Gram shook her head, her attention flashing full onto Peg before returning to the road. ¡°There¡¯s hateful people in this world, Peggy Bear. People who think because a man¡¯s Black, he¡¯s less. UnChristian and sinful, seems to me, folks being folks, but some prefer ignorance to the light of Jesus.¡± The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Peggy¡¯s heart swelled, proud of him. ¡°He¡¯s like my Mom, then?¡± She idolized her mother, who worked as a Freedom Rider, placing her education on hold to register colored people to vote despite the danger. Gram giggled. ¡°Um, a little, in his own way, but DON¡¯T tell him. His head would swell like a pumpkin.¡± Gram tapped on the brakes, signaling to enter the Severance Hall parking lot. ¡°Plus, where your mother¡¯s smart and civil, your grandfather¡¯s more dumb blood and guts. Though the loveable old coot will rush in where the angels fear treading¡­ Dumb, but brave.¡± Peg¡¯s heart and blood steeled, proud of her grandfather. He WAS a loveable coot AND a hero, a warrior, fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. A real-life Superman. Her thoughts shifted. ¡°Why do people feel like that? About Black people, I mean.¡± Gram eased into a parking spot designated for orchestra members and snorted while fishing a parking pass from her purse. ¡°Who knows? I guess to feel bigger, they gotta make someone else smaller.¡± Peg nodded as Gram placed the pass on the dashboard, and said, ¡°Makes sense, Grams.¡± Gram cleared her throat, pulling Peggy close, pushing the bangs from her granddaughter¡¯s eyes. ¡°That help, kiddo?¡± Peggy nodded. ¡°Thanks,¡± she said, because Gram had explained MOST things. Behind Gram, Ben stirred in the rear seat. Gram opened the door and dragged him free. Peggy followed suit, laying the black violin case on the passenger seat to get Ted, still sleeping, but Gram said, ¡°I¡¯ll get him. Just grab your violin and go. You only got ten, twelve minutes, don¡¯t want to be late. Early birds catch worms.¡± Peggy glanced at her watch and gasped. Gram was right. So she snagged the violin and scurried towards Severance Hall¡¯s entrance, wondering if Gram knew what she knew, or saw what she saw. Did Gram know Gramps had wings, wielded a flaming sword, and wore robes, which looked ridiculous with his Army boots? Well, if you squint the right way¡­ Did Gram see the broken skeletons in black leather Hell¡¯s Angels jackets that littered the back yard and street? Or the scattered remnants of statues covered with graffiti? Or the immense crater in the backyard that reminded Peggy of the images she¡¯d seen in her history books of Hiroshima? That was true, what she saw. Maybe. But only when she squinted. So it may be just her imagination¡­. Unsure, she climbed the stairs at the front of the hall, which funneled dozens of young musicians hauling their instruments, scrambling to beat the clock. She joined the throng, greeting the now-familiar faces from every corner of the Greater Cleveland area as they rushed towards the stage where several musicians already sat in their places. Most were tuning their instrument to the tone, A-440, being piped through the speakers, while others ran through errant strains of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and Appalachian Spring, pieces they¡¯d be playing. Her mouth went dry, looking out at the empty seats, realizing they¡¯d soon fill. Not only with parents, grandparents, family, and friends, but classical music buffs, and writers from the papers. And maybe even TV? Gulp! Butterflies fluttering in her belly, Peggy shed her coat and removed the violin from its case, handing coat and case to the performer¡¯s coatroom attendant, who smiled, handing Peggy a claim check ticket and telling her not to lose it. Eight minutes early by her watch, Peggy settled into her chair, removing the watch and placing it into her blazer pocket, and began tuning. A black saxophone player approached her, dressed like he¡¯d walked off the stage of Soul Train: sunglasses, platform shoes, porkpie hat, bell bottoms, and a wild-colored tie. He looked out of place until she realized the man was like the crater, bones, and shattered statues in her backyard: simultaneously real and imagined. The man glowed and winked, gesturing to the stage. He mouthed, ¡®Break a leg.¡¯ He glowed brighter. He grew huge. He kissed the sky. And Peggy¡¯s tuning hit A-440. Chapter 13. Chapter 13. (Frank O''Brien. Friday, October 13th, 1978. Cleveland Heights, Ohio)
Corny¡¯s floor proved seedier than Frank expected. The hallway stank of mold, and ground-in dirt stained the threadbare carpet. A shudder climbed his spine. Disgusting. Struggling to get his bearings in the dim light, Frank glanced around and halted, appraising. Despite the grime, the building had great bones, her walls real plaster of Paris, with swanky but long-neglected crown molding. And the door frames¡ªand thus, he imagined, the window frames¡ªlooked like painted over oak, hiding the beautiful woodgrain. He grimaced. What a waste. They don¡¯t raise buildings like this anymore, yet the asshole slumlord owner let it rot. Criminal negligence. What a mess¡­ How can these people live like this? Powerless to fix the mess, Frank returned to his quest for room three-oh-three, his shoulders slumping, annoyed by another sign of criminal neglect: every door he passed had missing digits. The fuck. I can¡¯t zero-in on three-oh-three without numbers pointing the way. Angered, Frank ground his molars, cursing the slumlord. But he halted, tilting his ear towards music that drifted past a dinged-up green door halfway down the hall. He grinned. While the signage may suck, Frank trusted people to help where dumb dead things, like door numbers, failed. Even the destitute seldom failed him. Thus resolved, he walked to the music, knocking. The door inched open, and a gaunt, yellow-skinned black man with a wild Afro glanced through the safety-chained opening. ¡°As-salaam-alaykum,¡± the man said, his chest puffed, rooster-like, challenging. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Frank recognized him, but couldn¡¯t recollect how. He wanted to ask, but the dude¡¯s surly demeanor made that precarious. Besides, the guy seemed high as a kite, his pupils shrunk to pin-prick-size despite the low light, so Frank began asking about Corny. ¡°Sorry to bother you, but¡ª¡± The guy cut off Frank with a clipped, scratchy tenor. ¡°Tell the Sultan I¡¯ll have his money later. And I KINDLY ask his ¡®highness¡¯ to quit sending dimwitted, neckless thugs to shake me down. His tired bullshit beats down a brother¡¯s patience something fierce.¡± Hot steel shot up Frank¡¯s backbone. Enough, he thought, digging in his heels and squaring. A day¡¯s worth of pent vitriol threatened to burst forth, white-hot, but he caught his tongue and breathed deep, steadying himself, to reel in his temper. As Dale Carnegie said, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. A beat later, he said, with as much honey as he could muster, ¡°Relax, boss. I¡¯m just looking for a buddy of mine. Cornelius Keyes. Know him? Older guy, uses a cane?¡± ¡°Hell yeah, I know Bad Leg.¡± The man relaxed, his arms falling to his sides, the stench of sweat, urine, and boiled vinegar billowing off him. ¡°Sorry, dude. I... thought¡­ Anyway, I apologize.¡± With a sheepish slump of his shoulders, he unchained the door, poked his head out, and pointed to Frank¡¯s left. ¡°Third door on the right, past the hall leading to the elevator.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± Frank said, his nose curling at the overpowering stench wafting through the gaping door. His face relaxing to a half-smile, the guy said, ¡°Don¡¯t mention it.¡± Frank turned, nodding farewell, and sauntered to Corny¡¯s door. Where he found a pleasant surprise: though the numbers had fallen off his door, Corny taped index cards with his name and room number in precise block letters. Frank nodded, appreciative. He liked precision. With a simple and futile gesture, Corny had created an island of order in this dump, no mean feat. Frank knocked. Inside the apartment, someone stirred. ¡°One second,¡± Corny said, and he walked towards Frank, his cane tapping with each step. The green door swung open, revealing a middle-aged black man dressed in a snappy red and black cardigan and a straw hat that, despite the apparent incongruity, worked well together. A warm grin spread over Corny¡¯s dark-brown face. ¡°Well, glory be, if it ain¡¯t ''Construction'' Frank, from downtown.¡± He pointed to Frank¡¯s hand. ¡°And swinging more than a hammer. I see it burning, but it ain¡¯t hurt bad, though. You can bank that. But you a real Superman, Franky. I mean, like motherfucking Ali. The Thriller in Manilla. Truth, justice, and the American Way. Justice. And freedom. Riders, I mean¡­.¡± He drifted off, a satisfied look on his face. ¡°Leastways, my shining tells me, and she righteous.¡± Frank grinned at Corny¡¯s disjointed rambling, bemused. ¡°Your what?¡± ¡°My shining. My gift, second sight. Tells me you broke a villain¡¯s nose. But never mind that.¡± Corny opened the door, the pleasant perfume of onions, pork, and pipe tobacco wafting into the hall, and pivoted on his cane to motion Frank in. ¡°Come in, set a spell.¡± Frank followed him in, feeling whimsical. Though Corny was nuttier than a fruitcake, for whatever reason he liked the goof, bone-deep, no lie. Chapter 14. Chapter 14.
The door clanged shut behind Frank, his eyes narrowed, adjusting to the room¡¯s warm light, and he gazed around. Corny had little: a made twin bed, a bakelite dinette with chrome legs, three kitchen chairs, and a small television viewing area facing the window. Several pictures in inexpensive but tasteful frames graced the ornate wood-cased TV, a contraption so old it had to be black and white. Thus oriented, Frank walked to the television, chin-pointing at a photo of Corny with three teens. ¡°Your kids?¡± Corny nodded, limping forward and handing Frank the photo, his puppy-dog eyes filled with longing. ¡°Yes, sir. Latest one. The ex snapped it in August at my family reunion.¡± ¡°Down south?¡± Corny snorted. ¡°Hell, no. My people moved to Cleveland. Jobs. I mean, grubbing for the man in a steel mill or auto plant pays better than sharecropping in Mississippi, by a country mile. Same sweat, more cash, you dig.¡± ¡°I do.¡± Frank said, examining the photo and whistling, impressed. The kids¡ªone boy, two girls¡ªsmiled that goofy group photo smile, but made a handsome group, all straight teeth, and wide, robust faces. ¡°Sharp looking bunch. They live nearby?¡± ¡°No,¡± Corny said, as Frank handed him the picture. ¡°They moved to Detroit last summer. My ex¡¯s people are from there, and her mother got real sick. They with her, taking care.¡± Frank sighed. ¡°That sucks. You ever get to see them? The kids, I mean, not your in-laws¡­. Er, ex-in-laws¡­ The outlaws?¡± Corny grinned at the joke, his eyes dancing as he positioned the picture on the television with care. ¡°I take Greyhound to see them when I can afford it. As you¡¯d guess, I ain¡¯t too popular with the¡­ ah¡­ with the ¡®mother-out-law,¡¯ so I stay at the Y most nights. Cheap digs. Once, they were full, so I spent the night sleeping on a church pew, the most uncomfortable night I¡¯ve spent since Nam. Still, you gotta do what you gotta do.¡± ¡°Indeed, for the kids,¡± Frank said, a cloud of melancholy settling over him. ¡°Family¡¯s family, and yinz gotta look out for each other.¡± Frank shifted his eye to the other pictures scattered across the room: Corny wearing fatigues in Vietnam, clowning with his platoon, MLK, Malcolm X, and some other yellowing photos and tin-types of African-Americans that Frank assumed were Corny¡¯s parents and grandparents. Corny cleared his throat. ¡°Enough of my bellyaching.¡± He turned his warm eyes Frank¡¯s way, their irises so dark brown they almost seemed black. ¡°Never thought I¡¯d see downtown customers here. Lucky for you, got me a pot of red beans and rice on, slow-simmered for hours. Oughta be ready it half an hour, forty-five minutes.¡± Frank threw up his hands. ¡°Ah, Crap. Sounds great, but I gotta be at Severance Hall before eight.¡± ¡°Hoo, wee,¡± Corny said, ¡°Severance Hall, just like the rich folk.¡± The lamed man shuffled towards the kitchen, a small island with a hotplate, Crockpot, and mini-fridge. ¡°Guess slaying dragons pays good, no?¡± Frank guffawed, following. ¡°Slaying dragons?¡± At the table, Corny crumpled into a chrome-framed kitchen chair with a plump cushioned seat upholstered in red vinyl. ¡°You know. Saint George killed him a dragon, according to legend, so you work for a dragon-slaying outfit, making you a dragon slayer.¡± Frank shook his head and laughed, hoping Corny didn¡¯t think he slaughtered imaginary creatures for a living. A grin lit Corny¡¯s face. ¡°I don¡¯t think you slay real-live dragons, fool. I was just goofing, paying homage to Saint George, a powerful Loa.¡± The chair¡¯s puffy cushion went ¡®pfffffffffffffffft,¡¯ deflating as Frank sat, his mind blanking. ¡°A what, now?¡± ¡°¡®Loa.¡¯ It¡¯s an African word, what my people call the great saints, spirits of power that intercede with the Lord, God Almighty on our behalf. Think, Saint George or Saint Peter or Mary. It¡¯s a Mississippi thing, like the blues, I suppose.¡± Before Frank could gather himself to reply, Corny rapped the table. ¡°Anyway, if you ain¡¯t got time to eat, care for a drink? A Cuba Libre? I even got limes I snuck out of Club Seventy-Nine, a juke I visit now and again.¡± ¡°Please,¡± Frank said, wincing, ¡°but not too strong. I gotta sit through Mozart without dozing.¡± ¡°Hoo-wee, Mozart at Servance Hall, and you pimped to-the-nines like Charlemagne.¡± Corny stood, walked to the kitchen area, bumping around glasses and ice. Frank gazed out the window. The view surprised him. It was postcard-perfect, looking out at the crossroads of Hayden and Shaw, the window framing a clear sightline to the distant downtown skyline. ¡°Anyway,¡± Corny said, delivering Frank¡¯s glass to the table and hobbling back for his own, ¡°what brings you here?¡± Frank took the proffered spirits and ran through the story, starting with Umberto reading the Plain Dealer, Boots chiming in, and how they worried. Corny¡¯s expression relaxed as he eased into his seat opposite Frank. ¡°Imagine that, y¡¯all gentlemen worried about Cornelius Keyes, an old fool who ain¡¯t nothing but a lame hotdog vendor. And you a Severance Hall Mozart-man to boot. Pure class, Cleveland¡¯s Charlemagne, working for a dragon slayer, but maiden-like modest regarding your prowess with the flaming sword.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. A quick, nervous hoot of laughter escaped Frank. He thought, What the¡­ Charlemagne, and prowess with a flaming sword? To hide his discomfort, Frank cleared his throat and sipped his drink, savoring the sugary fizz of the cola tempered by the citrus tang and alcohol bite. He grimaced, realizing he still had a chaw in, and fished it out, mulling over Corny¡¯s question. A few beats later, he said, ¡°Reckon we regular folks gotta look out for each other.¡± Corny chuckled, leaning his chin on the cane. ¡°You are the Star Child, Frankie. The bomb, chasing the noses away. Can you dig it, Mister Big Mozart man slaying dragons and chasing noses, Protector of the Pleasure Principle and all that?¡± ¡°I guess¡­¡± Frank chuckled, lost in the labyrinth of Corny¡¯s words, which hovered between sense and nonsense. But unlike his wild words, Corny sat calm, earthy, and solid, sipping his rum and Coke and lighting a match, the sulfur strong in the air. He snagged a pipe from an ashtray and breathed in, spittle bubbling in the pipe stem. Soon the pungent-sweet incense of cherry pipe tobacco filled the air. Corny raised his glass. ¡°Here¡¯s to friends.¡± ¡°To friends.¡± They toasted, and Frank sipped. As the pleasant drink fizzed in his belly, he stood, displaying the spent tobacco. ¡°Garbage can?¡± ¡°In the commode, next to the kitchen.¡± Corny pointed to a narrow door and Frank stood and threw away his chaw, washing tobacco juice from his hands in the spotless porcelain sink. After patting his hands dry, he shuffled back towards the table but stopped dead in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. Now, Frank reckoned Corny worked hard keeping his place together, washing, dusting, sweeping, and mopping. The apartment¡¯s condition provided ample evidence. And yet, the apartment¡¯s front wall stood in stark contrast, its entire length and width defaced by graffiti, blocks of text written in multi-colored magic markers. Gape-jawed, Frank edged forward for a closer look. Large gaps of vertical space divided the display into three major sections, each identified by large, red magic marker titles written in handwriting so neat it would look at home on an architectural blueprint. The sections read: ¡®MK Ultra & CIA & Government Mind Control,¡¯ ¡®Majestic 12 & Area 51 & UFOs,¡¯ and ¡®New World Order & Illuminati & Rothschild.¡¯ Snaking purple lines connected these with several dozen subthemes written in smaller text with a blue marker. Which split into hundreds if not thousands of factoids recorded in a rainbow of fine-point Sharpie text, the ideas interconnected by a kaleidoscopic swirl of connecting lines, the result a rainbow snarl. Wild, he thought, a freaking spiderweb of crazy, laid bare for public display. ¡°It¡¯s all true.¡± Corny stood, waving the pipestem at the defaced wall. ¡°I saw MK Ultra at work in Nam, brother. The Man fucked with us big-time, putting acid in our water, even drove one of our boys crazy. I tripped hard on patrol, twice. Twice. And I never touched no drugs¡­ Well, I smoked reefer, but that¡¯s it, no drugs¡­ So I know the CIA snuck acid in that cracker¡¯s water, the one who flew the Dixie flag and shot all them negroes up in sixty-two. That fool could¡¯ve, should¡¯ve killed me, but I survived. I declare, that mean-ass peckerwood wasn¡¯t crazy before then. The Man drove him bonkers.¡± By turns uncomfortable and bemused, Frank cleared his throat. ¡°Sounds serious.¡± Corny snarled. ¡°Serious as a heart attack, brother. And it doesn¡¯t stop there. I swear before the Lord God Jesus Christ that some brothers scrounged evidence the CIA is pushing heroin on the streets to fund monkey business in Latin America. They put it in a book, and I guarantee, the Man doesn¡¯t want you reading that shit. Nam all over again, but paid for by negro addicts. And then¡ªget this¡ªOld Uncle Sam sends brothers to jail for getting a taste of the junk they supply¡­ It¡¯s in the book.¡± Corny stood, sucking his teeth, his face pinched with displeasure. ¡°Shit just ain¡¯t right, man, when your Rothchild-controlled government plays people like pawns for the Wall Street money lenders. Playing We, the People like game pieces, like we ain¡¯t human.¡± Frank stifled an eye roll, though a wry grin he could not control flashed across his face. He reached for a bit of Dale Carnegie wisdom to help him, so he considered Corny¡¯s words. It wasn¡¯t all bonkers. Frank agreed with parts in principle, and voiced his agreement: ¡°You got that right, goddamned Washington elites, always got a boot to the workingman¡¯s throat.¡± Corny nodded his agreement, jammed the pipe into his mouth, and tapped Frank¡¯s shoulder with his cane, nudging him aside. Frank flinched, as if the crazy were catching, but moved to his left as Corny shuffled past him towards a rickety bookcase tucked into the corner. ¡°Case you think this is just a silly fool fussing, I got that book here, if I can find it, I¡¯ll loan you it. Several others, too. Eye-opening revelations, brother, stuff THEY don¡¯t want plebes like us seeing, dig?¡± A mischievous grin stretched Frank¡¯s face taut as he followed. ¡°I dig you, boss, I dig you. Can¡¯t wait.¡± Corny strained to read book spines, the light in the corner dim, the evening light streaming through the window casting inconvenient shadows. He snagged one that Frank recognized from the bookstore, Chariots Of The Gods? by Eric Von Danekin, and another with a dolphin and a seeing-eye within a pyramid from the top shelf. From the shelf below, he fished out a volume with a plain white cover overlaid with stark text. Frank couldn¡¯t read the title, but the words ¡®CIA¡¯s Illegal War¡¯ featured prominently. Corny placed those on the filing cabinet, reaching toward another tome on the lower shelf. Frank¡¯s eyes went round with shock as Corny¡¯s bad leg split into two pieces. The lame man teetered like a chopped tree, knocked books and nicknacks off the shelf, and thudded to the ground. Frank shot towards him, kneeling at his side. ¡°Jesus, you okay?¡± Corny smiled, as if self-conscious, and he struggled to his feet, leaning on Frank and a filing cabinet, patting himself, evidently checking for injuries. His boney butt sliding into a chair, Corny shook his head, his expression wry. ¡°Nothing bruised but my pride,¡± he said, rolling up his pant leg to reveal a detached wooden leg. ¡°You¡¯d figure after fifteen years, I¡¯d remember, but once a fool¡­¡± Frank grinned, dusting off Corny¡¯s back as he undid the cheap prosthetic''s leather buckles. ¡°Freaking wars,¡± Frank said, ¡°didn¡¯t know you¡¯d lost that leg¡­ Need a hand?¡± Corny shook his head, aligning the prosthetic and buckling leather straps with practiced precision while cursing under his breath. Frank said, ¡°I got your cane,¡± striding forward and grabbing it from near the door. On his way back, he swooped to pick up the blessedly unbroken statue of Saint Peter holding two gold keys that Corny had knocked over, which proved heavier than expected. Behind him, Corny screamed, ¡°No. One at a time, ain¡¯t safe for the uninitiated¡­¡± Frank¡¯s mischievous grin grew wider, and he laughed at the crazy. But he gasped. A purple-blue lightning bolt arced between cane and Saint Peter, with Frank caught between. His torso burned as if twenty thousand spiders bit him at once. A force knocked him backward, wrenching cane and statue from his grasp.
His belly swirled as he plummeted earthward, a skyscraper''s girders zipping past at thirty-two feet per second per second. The rushing air filled his ears, roaring like a gale-force wind. He braced for impact, praying a Hail Mary. PART VI — THE UNTOUCHABLES PART VI ¡ª THE UNTOUCHABLES This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"To those who would sleep through the wounds they inflict on others, I offer pain to help them awaken, Ju-Ju, Tom-Toms & the magic of a talking burning bush." ¡ª Krista Franklin, Manifesto, or Ars Poetica #2
Chapter 15. Chapter 15.
But Frank didn¡¯t go splat. Instead, when he smashed into the alley, traveling near a hundred miles-per-hour, the solid ground stretched like taffy, absorbing his velocity, until he was several feet deep. And then, like a trampoline rebounding, the pavement unwarped, shooting him into the air. When next he hit the ground, it remained solid. The impact snapped him backward, his skull thudding off concrete and gravel, pain flooding his mind with a blinding light. A beat later, his senses gathered, and he checked his head for blood, finding none. He breathed deep, wincing. ¡°Damn, that hurts,¡± Frank said to the empty alley, patting his body, searching for breaks or other injury. Though his ass and skull throbbed, he seemed okay. Nothing serious. So he stood, taking his bearings, and what had happened flashed through his noggin. Corny had fallen after his prosthetic leg detached, knocking crap all over his apartment¡­. Frank picked up some stuff before tumbling crown over soles¡­ And then fell thirty-some stories from a skyscraper?¡­ Before he hit the ground¡­. Which gave way¡­. Like Laffy Taffy? He snorted at the absurdity. Impossible. No way in hell THAT happened, he thought, standing up and dusting cinders off his suit. Regardless, I¡¯m stuck in an alley and I¡¯ve got to hit Severance by eight. He checked his watch and breathed easy since he had ample time, albeit little to spare. He straightened his tie, cocking the fedora atop his head, again feeling like Lucky Luciano. Now, where am I? His gaze swept the alley. Typical: a brick building to his left, a small duplex right, a weedy fringe, and chest-high chain-link fence separating commercial from residential. He recognized the place when he glanced up, reading the weatherbeaten ¡®ELIOT NESS FOR MAYOR OF CLEVELAND¡¯ mural. It wasn¡¯t the one across from the worksite, but another, on E. 76th, near Hough. He snorted, wondering how the hell he¡¯d ended up there, dozens of blocks west of his truck. ¡°Fuck,¡± he said to Eliot Ness¡¯s faded visage. ¡°That gimpy idiot must¡¯ve spiked my drink with hippie joy-juice. MK-Ultra and ¡®I don¡¯t do drugs,¡¯ my ass.¡± Shuffling towards the alley mouth, he removed his jacket because the evening air was hot and unbearably muggy, sweat threatening to pool in his¡ªFrank froze, his gaze shooting to Ness¡¯s image. ¡°Damp armpits? It was colder than a witch¡¯s left tit in a brass bra.¡± He concentrated, sensing the oppressive ambient air. Had to be ninety. ¡°Leastways, it WAS cold, but now¡­¡± A growl radiated from deep in his belly. Nothing made sense... When he saw Corny, he¡¯d wring his scrawny neck for this monkey business. ¡°After watching Peggy perform, of course.¡± Ness¡¯s menacing mien gazed down in stony silence, and Frank shrugged. Though the painting gave Frank someone¡ªor technically something¡ªto talk to, the G-Man¡¯s flat image couldn¡¯t help Frank in three-dimensional reality. To catch a bus or hail a cab to Severance Hall, he walked towards Hough Avenue. Metal screeching on metal and the puff of brakes announced an RTA bus. Frank thanked God, turned left, and dashed for it as a lone black male in a chef¡¯s whites stepped to the concrete. Frank closed the distance, sprinting from intersection to intersection, slowing to check for traffic at each crosswalk before bolting towards the ¡®proletariat chariot,¡¯ waving his arms and hollering. Instead of heeding him, the driver shut the door and pulled a U-turn, driving away and stranding Frank. Crap. He stopped and hunched, hands on his hips, catching his breath, his lungs on fire and heartbeats thudding like tom-toms. God, I hate growing old. The black cook crossed Hough Avenue, so Frank raised his voice and trotted his way, saying, ¡°Wait up, would you, young fella?¡± The cook halted as Frank jaywalked, catching up. ¡°Hey, you know which bus runs to University Heights?¡± ¡°That one, sir, the number nine.¡± He nodded at the bus rumbling up the road, burying his hands in his pockets. ¡°Doubt more are coming tonight.¡± Frank asked, ¡°Why, it¡¯s early?¡± The chef pointed up the street, ¡°Riot, sir.¡± Frank gulped, noticing a large crowd of coloreds milling across Hough from a dive bar. A smaller group, white men armed with rifles, faced them, protecting the watering hole. Further up the street, a small grocery store burned. ¡°The fuck¡­¡± Frank said, slipping into amazement for several beats. ¡°You know what happened?¡± The cook shrugged. ¡°Hell if I know, just finished working. Riding home, the bus dispatcher orders the driver to head back downtown. I begged him to let me off. Gotta pick up my kids from my mama, who¡¯s babysitting, but I want to avoid this mess.¡± Disgust on his face as he peered at the mob, he sucked his teeth. Frank whistled. ¡°Amen, boss, amen.¡± A ¡®CRASH¡¯ sent his pulse racing. A flash, and his eyes shot up the block. With a ¡®WHOOF,¡¯ a mint-condition, black late ¡®50s Cadillac Coupe De Ville in an apartment parking lot went up in flames, fins and all. Across from it, two slender negro high schoolers hightailed through a scrubby, vacant field. Heedless of the danger, Frank dashed after them but gave up as he reached the car. He skidded to a stop, almost falling on his ass because the dress shoes, lacking the waffle-soles he was used to, slipped on the tree lawn. As his heart slowed to normal, he watched the scrubby field, straining to see the firebugs, but they¡¯d vanished. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. I have to call the fire department and then the cops. Because trash like that, burning a mint-condition Caddie¡­. Why? He considered the painstaking work that went into the refurb. The hours locating parts, buffing, polishing, and matching original specs. That careful craftsmanship, destroyed by a bottle, gas, rags, and a Zippo. Anger raged in his belly as he peered into the darkening evening, inhaling the rancid scent of burning plastic and gasoline, searching for the kids he knew he¡¯d never see. He ground his molars, thinking, God damned low-life vandals¡­ It¡¯s hard work, building things up, easy-peasy tearing shit down. He sighed, turning back towards Hough, where he¡¯d for sure find a payphone to call in five-oh and the firedogs. As he walked, Frank groused, thinking about the mindless vandalism. He could dig a dude robbing for food since he had robbed money-grubbing grocers during the Depression, him a growing youth, always hungry, his parents struggling to survive. And he could understand crimes of passion. Further, he had seen drunks and addicts in DTs, so could dig why they robbed to support their habits. But blowing up a classic car for kicks makes no sense, he thought. Idiocy. At the intersection, Frank peered both ways, scanning for a phone booth. Odds were, the bar, which the sign declared was ¡®CLUB SEVENTY NINE¡¯ had one inside. He snorted. Between white dudes with rifles and colored guys with rocks, Molotovs, and whatnot, he¡¯d avoid Club Seventy-Nine like the plague. As Frank crossed Hough, the cook emerged from a side street and halted in front of the dive, raising his hands. Three large, beefy cops swooped after the cook, a red-haired thug tackling him. The cook cowered in supplication. But the police kicked and bashed him, over and over, the cook squirming in pain, grunting. Mortified, Frank dashed up the road towards them. ¡°Wait, stop,¡± he said, his voice booming. ¡°Any fool can see the kid¡¯s not resisting.¡± Confused, the police halted, looking at him, their mouths hanging open, gasping with exertion. ¡°Besides,¡± Frank said, pointing towards the burning car, ¡°just saw two young kids firebomb a Caddie up the road. Colored boys, high schoolers.¡± A plug-ugly, pock-marked cop kicked the kid, grabbing his short afro and turning his face towards Frank. ¡°He¡¯s the vandal, right?¡± Frank laughed, spiteful, his lip snarling. ¡°Not a snowball¡¯s chance in hell. The kid was helping me. We saw the firebomb go off, was some teeny-boppers. Maybe sixteen, eighteen¡­ five, even ten years younger than him, easy.¡± Frank¡¯s gaze shot to the cop, his eyes narrowing as his gorge rose. ¡°And what¡¯s your badge number, officer? Christ, clubbing and kicking an unarmed civilian¡ª¡± Stars, literal stars flashing across his vision, cut Frank off. His knees buckled. A pain burned along his eye socket. Without thinking, he ducked and raised his arms, protecting his head. The officers followed suit. Because bottles and chunks of brick and concrete rained down upon them. Sensing safety, Frank dashed to the other side of the street, the three cops trailing behind, towards Club Seventy-Nine. The armed white men rushed towards them, waving their rifles, keeping the rioters at bay. A husky man in a cheap navy suit ran to him, raising his rifle to the stone-throwers. Their ardor quelled by the threat, mob retreated. The man dragged Frank to the bar¡¯s entrance, and grabbed his chin with his stubby fingers, shaking his head. ¡°Christ, old timer, you¡¯re gonna have a shiner there.¡± Across the street, several colored men dressed in black leather, two wearing Black Panthers berets, hustled the chef away. Frank was glad the kid was safe. He didn¡¯t deserve the beat-down the cops gave him. The stocky armed man released Frank¡¯s chin, pushing him through the door. ¡°Get some ice on that.¡± Frank dug in his heels, and asked, ¡°Payphone in there? I¡¯ve got to call my son in Mentor. After the fire department.¡± The man nodded. ¡°Out of order, but tell the bartender Zac said you can use the phone behind the bar. On the house.¡± As the door closed behind him, Frank breathed deep, the air inside heavy, humid and boozy. But quiet. He savored the contrast. The street was a cacophony of chaos: people yelling, rocks and bottles smashing, and whatnot. Club Seventy-Nine seemed like a fortress of solitude. Frank crumpled into a barstool. A small black-and-white TV set in a cubby over the bar showed an Indians¡¯ game against the Angels. The Tribe had a runner on second, with Rocky Colavito stepping to the plate. Frank wanted the phone, bad, but the bartender huddled with a group of armed partisans near the entrance, handing out soda pops, their outsides dripping with condensation, planning their protection, he reckoned. It seemed reasonable, given the nearby grocery burning, swarmed with firemen protected by a ring of coppers. Weird day. Glad to have something good to watch, Frank settled in, removing his fedora and suit jacket and placing them on the stool next to him, savoring the bar¡¯s ceiling fans. The bartender returned, and Frank ordered a whisky with a beer chaser, ice for his eye, and a phone. ¡°Zac told me to say he sent me.¡± The bartender nodded, scurrying off, Frank snapped his fingers, dragging out his plug of tobacco. ¡°Oh. and an empty plastic cup.¡± The guy shrugged, laying out the empty cup first as Frank bit off a chew, settling the chaw between cheek and gum. He nodded. Life is good. One by one, the bartender laid the shot and beer before Frank. Frank reached for his wallet, and the man shook his head. ¡°Not if Zac sent you, day like this.¡± ¡°Thanks boss. The phone?¡± ¡°Oh, shit, forgot,¡± the bartender said as he took a phone from behind the bar, wrestling the cord free from the floor mats. A few beats later, he succeeded and lay the phone at Frank¡¯s elbow. ¡°Thanks. Saw a firebug out there, I gotta report,¡± Frank said, spitting before sipping his beer, motioning out the window. ¡°Though it looks like the locals have the fire department working double-time tonight, saving them shops down the street.¡± The bartender nodded, his lip curling with disgust. ¡°Animals, the lot. I say, if you don¡¯t like America, go back to Africa, see how you like it there.¡± ¡°Amen,¡± Frank said, nodding and picking up the receiver. ¡°No respect.¡± ¡°You can say that again.¡± His jaw muscles bulging, the bartender leaned back, watching the TV as Rocky Colavito cracked a two-run homer, and the barkeep punched the air. ¡°Atta boy, Rocky.¡± Frank clapped¡­ before doing a double-take. Freaking Colavito batting for the Indians¡­ tonight? Impossible. He¡¯s retired, ¡°the radio voice of the Tribe¡± as that boob-tube commercial says¡­ The fuck¡¯s going on here? Laying the phone back in its cradle, Frank tapped the bartender¡¯s shoulder to get his attention. ¡°Hey, boss, what¡¯s the date today?¡± The guy turned and shrugged. ¡°July eighteenth.¡± Frank nodded, fishing for information. ¡°Seventy-eight?¡± The bartender laughed. ¡°You some sorta hippie smoking that wacky tobacky?¡± Frank¡¯s cheeks grew hot as the man shook his head, a whimsical expression on his face. ¡°Just busting your balls, buddy. It¡¯s still sixty-six.¡± ¡°Of course, of course.¡± Frank narrowed his eyes, hiding the shock he felt. He didn¡¯t want to look like a fruit loop from The Twilight Zone, so he laughed and said, sensing an easy out, ¡°I just meant, is this seventy-eight¡­ you know,for the dispatcher, 78th and Hough?¡± ¡°Oh, I get it, no, 79th.¡± ¡°Thanks.¡± Frank gulped. Fuck. To disguise his anguish, Frank spit tobacco juice and sipped his whisky, cursing Corny silently. He grimaced: the whiskey was harsh, and nasty, bottom-shelf well liquor. Still, it calmed his nerves. The bartender went back to watching the game and Frank dialed zero for the operator, asking for the fire department when she picked up. The phone buzzed with clicks and static as the operator connected him. He spat into the plastic cup, sneering. Freaking July,1966. How am I gonna get back to Severance Hall in Cotober,1978 to see Peggy? Zero ideas floated to mind except for waiting twelve years and three months. Fuck. A few beats later, as Frank sipped and stewed, a dispatcher picked up, and he reported the flaming car. Chapter 16. Chapter 16.
A lit cigarette dangling from his lip, the bartender rushed to Frank as he hung up. ¡°You said those animals burned a black Caddie on Seventy-Seventh?¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Nice one, a classic.¡± ¡°In an apartment¡¯s parking lot?¡± Frank nodded. The bartender snarled and slammed the flat of his fist on the bar, the tendons of his thick neck visible. ¡°My brother¡¯s car¡­ No respect for a man¡¯s property.¡± Frank nodded. ¡°Amen. Mindless thugs destroying that beauty. No respect.¡± The bartender stewed for a beat, gazing out the window with his jaw clenched tight, and said under his breath, ¡°Fucking thugs and criminals.¡± And then he exploded into fiery motion, snagging a rifle and rushing towards the door. ¡°Wait until Zac hears about this shit.¡± Frank drank, astonished by the violent reaction. As the bartender burst through the door, though, street noise roared through Club Seventy-Nine. Frank did a double-take and shot upright, gazing through the front windows. His jaw fell open, shocked. The mob had swelled to several hundred colored rioters strong. He sensed their anger. They chanted, yelled, and threw bricks and stones across Hough Avenue at the businesses, focusing the brunt of their fury on the bar. A handful of police and armed partisans held them at bay. The bartender and Zac bustled from the alley, bolting up Hough to East 77th, where Zac¡¯s shoulders slumped as he gazed at the burning car. Frank sighed, shaking his head. ¡°I feel your pain, boss.¡± He turned to grab his drink as his ears perked. He stopped, snapping to attention because something sounded¡­ it just sounded off. He opened the door. Over the roaring crowd, he heard faint scratches and voices from the alley Zac had been guarding. Blood singing in his ears, Frank darted through the door. In the alley, he surprised two black men with a can of red spray paint tagging the wall with graffiti. ¡°Hey, stop,¡± Frank said, his baritone bellowing. Startled, two heads whipped around, and, seeing him, the vandals bolted into the dark, Frank straining to see them in the gloom. No dice. Several white partisans converged on the alley, probably hearing Frank, waving their flashlights. A beefy, slovenly man sneered, saying, with a deep Appalachian accent, ¡°Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe, catch a n****r by the toe.¡± The men howled in laughter. ¡°Come out, boy,¡± another partisan said, sneering. ¡°We ain¡¯t gonna hurt you¡­ much.¡± Again, cold peals of laughter as flashlight beams ping ponged off the alley¡¯s walls, searching. Eyeballs glinted, and the beams converged on the vandals hiding on a fire escape landing. The vandals jumped to the ground, darting towards the chain-link fence bounding the alley¡¯s rear. ¡°Git that n****r,¡± the beefy slob yelled, raising his rifle and running as the vandals leaped a fence into an adjacent backyard, whooping like a pack of hounds trailing prey. Frank joined in, jumping the fence and fanning out in pursuit, thinking: Goddamned vandals, destroying stuff for kicks, idiotic followers emboldened by the mob mentality, lashing out for¡­ Frank¡¯s brow knit, realizing he did not know what had set off the rioters. He had seen Walter Cronkite talking about police brutality in Watts and Bedford¨CStuyvesant, but doubted Cleveland cops were that thuggish. Well, not the cops he knew¡­. But he couldn¡¯t think because the slob called off the hunt. Enlivened by the chase, the partisans hooted and talked trash as they marched to Club Seventy-Nine. Outside the front door, Frank wiped his damp forehead with his kerchief. Zac and the bartender returned, and the slob briefed the brothers about the vandalism as the others retook their posts. When beefy finished, he followed suit. Zac cleared his throat, elbowing the bartender in the ribs, pointing to Frank. ¡°Check this citizen, Jon. The guy don¡¯t know us from Adam, but rushes in, unarmed. Did they have guns? Didn¡¯t matter to this soldier. Nothing phased him.¡± Zac clapped Frank on the back. ¡°You got a serious pair, soldier. I mean, stones the size of Gibraltar.¡± They shared a laugh. Zac smiled, saying, ¡°Joking aside, thanks. We appreciate it, soldier. You¡¯re a real-life GI Joe.¡± Frank laughed a clipped, nervous laugh, unconvinced he¡¯d done anything special. ¡°Just doing my neighborly best. Besides, I finished soldiering years ago, and left that glory hound nonsense in Germany.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Zac took Frank¡¯s measure. ¡°But you¡¯re a war vet, ain¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yup. Served in the big one.¡± Frank¡¯s chest puffed with pride. ¡°Staff sergeant, Third Infantry Division in France.¡± Zac nodded, as if impressed. ¡°Nice.¡± He pulled a flashlight from its belt clip. They rounded the corner to assess the damage, which could be worse, like the firebombing Frank had feared. Instead, graffiti in red paint said, ¡°NO WATER FOR N****RS.¡± ¡°Well, back to the trenches," Jon said.¡°Thank God it¡¯s just graffiti.¡± Frank snorted in disgust. ¡°Just graffiti?¡± Jon stopped as Frank said, ¡°What the hell did you guys do to deserve this? And them firebombing the Caddie? Nothing. Goddamned vandals. Street trash. No respect for people¡¯s stuff.¡± ¡°Got that right,¡± Jon said, slipping through the door. "But what you gonna do?" The door shut. Zac turned to Frank with a gleam in his eye. ¡°Say, old timer, you want to help us? We ain¡¯t the Rockefeller brothers, but we¡¯ll make it worth your while.¡± Frank shrugged. ¡°Sure, if you need.¡± ¡°We do. Here.¡± Zac offered Frank the small-caliber rifle he¡¯d been carrying. Frank grabbed it, and a wry grin sprang to his lips. Because it was a freaking squirrel gun, miles short of the man-stopping carbine he¡¯d used in the War. He suppressed a shrug, not wanting to seem glib. But still¡­ a twenty-two? To hold off a mob? Are you serious? Zac didn¡¯t catch Frank¡¯s cynicism, though, because his serious demeanor didn¡¯t crack as he said, ¡°Back in a flash.¡± He disappeared into the bar, emerging a few seconds later toting a Springfield thirty-ought-six rifle. Impressed, Frank leaned back on his heels. Now THAT would stop a man. Zac assigned Frank to watch the rear of the alley and handed Frank an ice-cold Coke he¡¯d brought for him. Thanking Zac, Frank grabbed the bottle and looked for a safe perch with a comfy seat, things that made along, dull watch bearable in his experience. After a careful survey, he settled on a sealed-off doorway, recessed eight inches into the wall, with a clear view of the back. He looked around, pleased. This would do. He smiled, pulled a milk crate from the detritus in the alley for a chair, and sat, tickled that Zac had given Frank a purpose. And Frank relished purposeful action and teamwork. He swigged the cola, its chilly sweetness refreshing in the heavy summer air with the faint whiff of foul smoke on the breeze. He knew where the smoke came from. The rioters. They¡¯d torched a sharp-looking classic car restored with painstaking precision, and the small grocery up the street. Such petty violence seemed pointless. Scumbags. # Frank settled in for the long-haul, seated and half-camouflaged by the doorway¡¯s shadows. At the alley¡¯s other mouth, Zac leaned against the wall, jacketless and tie loosened, chain-smoking Marlboros and cursing under his breath as the hook and ladder arrived to extinguish the smoldering remains of his car. Zac seemed too exposed to Frank¡¯s tooth, but the rioters had gone silent, retreating again. So maybe Frank was being too cautious? Regardless, they had to protect the bar, a vital asset in the Partisan Empire. Not that Frank understood what made Club Seventy-Nine so vital, but so it goes. He was a mere Staff Sargeant, a non-com, and what he didn¡¯t know dwarfed what he did a million to one. As usual, watch duty proved boring as watching concrete cure. It was hot as hell, and even though Frank stood stock-still, he sweated like a stuck pig. So he removed his jacket, excusing himself to drape it over a barstool inside. Frank resumed his post, protecting the rear flank of a God-forsaken dive bar in the God-forsaken Hough neighborhood on a steamy, God-forsaken night. But he¡¯d promised, and his word was his bond. # Ninety minutes past last light by Frank¡¯s reckoning, the Vandals attacked. Three, maybe four hundred colored men emerged from the shadows, swarming across the street, heaving flaming Molotov Cocktails, lit rags doused in oil that threw off a putrid black smoke, and stones and Club Seventy-Nine. They came nowhere near hitting the bar, but the oil smoke choked Frank, so he pulled on his gas mask. He looked to Zac, his CO and the ranking Partisan officer in this hell-hole, for orders. But the ballsy bastard wasn¡¯t paying attention to Frank. Nor was he cowed by the onslaught. Instead, he stood tall, undeterred by the smoking oil that burned the eyes and smelled like scorched asphalt, his thirty-ought-six trained across the street to keep the Vandals at bay. The other Partisan soldiers took courage from him, because they all held, despite the threat of actual violence. The Vandals¡¯ first charges proved ineffectual. They¡¯d advance, toss projectiles, and retreat to safety. Lob after lob, their tosses fell short. But they outnumbered the Partisans twenty-to-one. And Frank saw a desperate determination in their eyes, reminding him of the French Maquis, the deadly guerillas who pestered the Vichy fascists, armed with hunting rifles, Molotovs, and second-rate military equipment, often WW1 castoffs. Both GIs and fascist soldiers were tough, trained, and well-armed, but they were doing a job while the Maquis had a soul-deep mission: defending their way of life. Fired-up, those glorious bastards fought like the Devil himself. No conscripted army could defeat that level of passion. You just can''t pay people that much. The Nazis tried for a decade. It was like playing Whack-A-Mole. They¡¯d put down a Maquis uprising in one village, and the guerillas would pop up two villages away, dynamiting train tracks and opening fire on barracks before melting into the rural terrain. Pests, no doubt. And the Maquis could never win outright, without major help. But they didn¡¯t care. They were fighting for ¡°Libert¨¦, ¨¦galit¨¦, fraternit¨¦,¡± for God and family and their villages, not dull abstract concepts, like a nation. And definitely not for a paycheck. Frank sensed that in the Vandals. An experienced soldier, he knew the Partisans could never hold their fortified position despite being better armed and with law enforcement backing. Doesn¡¯t bode well. So, while keeping his eyeballs peeled to the rear alley, he scurried over to Zac and motioned to the handy-talkie radio strapped to his side, asking, ¡°Should I call in air support, sir?¡± Without flinching or taking his stony, smoke-reddened gaze from the Vandal horde, Zac nodded. ¡°Show these boys what we¡¯re made of, soldier.¡± Chapter 17 Chapter 17.
Frank retreated to his cubbyhole and pulled out a map, his gaze flitting between it, the cityscape, and his guard assignment. After estimating their location as precisely as he could sans surveyor¡¯s equipment, he powered up the large, heavy hand radio. After Cent Com verified his identity from the daily codebook, Frank summoned close air support and tanks to their location: forty-one degrees, thirty-four minutes north, eighty-one degrees, thirty-eight minutes west. He cautioned the signaler about how close the Partisans were to the Maquis¡ªum, Vandals. The signaler gave Frank a seven-minute ETA for the flyboys, and ten to fifteen for the mechanized calvary. ¡°We heard Hough¡¯s hotter than hell tonight. You and the boys, hold tight, soldier, and stay alive. That¡¯s an order. Over and out.¡± Laughing, Frank cut the juice, holstered the bulky radio, leaned forward, catching Zac¡¯s eye, and signaled thumbs up, flashing seven fingers. Zac nodded, understanding, and disappeared behind the bar¡¯s front facade, passing the word. A few seconds later, Zac returned and Frank settled in. The bar¡¯s rear remained silent. But chanting Vandals surged across Hough, storming the club¡¯s far side. Zac rushed into the fray, ordering Frank to stay, abandoning him to watch both sides of the alley. Not smart. A flash caught Frank¡¯s eye, and his heart skipped a beat. He steeled as a dozen colored men rushed his position. Heart pounding, Frank raised his gun, reckoning he couldn¡¯t hold them off with his pea-shooter, but he aimed, doing his duty, protecting Club Seventy-Nine. The Maquis¡ªum, Vandals¡ªevidently couldn¡¯t distinguish a twenty-two from a carbine, because they turned tail, hands raised in surrender. But one threw a lit Molotov cocktail in a high, arcing spiral worthy of Terry ¡®Fucking¡¯ Bradshaw. The firebomb crashed into the front edifice, the glass bottle shattering. The bomb proved a dud, though, its gasoline splattering unlit across the wall, front windows, and sidewalk, its pungent chemical scent scorching Frank¡¯s nostrils. He dashed after the retreating Vandals, stopping as he hit the edge of the sidewalk, wavering between pursuit and manning his post, protecting this vital interest. A soldier to the end, he stopped. Orders were orders. No sense losing his head, rushing off to leave an exposed flank. He drifted back towards Club Seventy-Nine because Zac deployed Frank to protect their flank, and he vowed to follow through, though what made a dive bar a ¡°vital interested¡± eluded Frank. His brow furled, he hunkered down, watching the alley, and wondered about the muckety-muck¡¯s so-called strategy. Zac once again changed course, dashing across the street after Terry ¡®Fucking¡¯ Bradshaw and his crew, the slovenly Private behind him. As they ran, they emptied their rifle clips, luckily hitting no Maquis¡ªum, Vandals. Frank groaned. What was it with him getting loopy? Anyway, the guerillas had disappeared behind a narrow brownstone triplex and melted into the nearby alleys and backyards. Frank thanked God Zac¡¯s crew had shot no one. I mean, firing like blind fools¡­. Frank gulped, knitting his brow, and his heart leaped in his chest. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. But wait. They were firing on the Enemy, right?¡­ The battle¡¯s heated action cut short his reflections, though. He had no time, with an enemy storming their stronghold, so he held his post. Zac leaped back into the fray, again abandoning Frank to guard the alley alone. Frank sucked his teeth in disgust. Despite outranking him, Zac was no soldier. He didn¡¯t stand pat but ran from fray to fray like a decapitated chicken. Idiot. Something scorched Frank¡¯s cheek. He leaped back, his eyes bugging. Fire! The Molotov had worked, after all. Frank plowed through the door, fishing a hefty red fire extinguisher from behind the bar, and returned, blasting the burning wall with foam, suppressing the blaze. The bartender Jon trailed behind, his eyes wild with rage, saying, ¡°Fucking animals.¡±
With a roar of engines, the fly-boys zoomed over the horizon, raining bombs on the enemy position. The alleys and residential area bordering Hough Avenue exploded into balls of flame. Vandal guerillas retreated. As the explosions knocked houses and apartment buildings askew, unarmed civilians flooded from the burning buildings: men, women, and children, some cradling babies or aiding elderly and handicapped people. With another, quieter pop, the lights flickered and went dark. Gazing at the damage, Frank¡¯s heart fell. Dozens of poor, working people watched their life¡¯s paltry possessions going up in flames. He felt their pain. Though he¡¯d been lucky, surviving okay, he remembered the Depression. The O¡¯Brien clan had diddly squat for five years, which was the pits. His father dug ditches for farmers in rural Perry when the construction trades dried up, earning pennies instead of dollars, and his mother cleaned houses for Shaker Heights muckety-mucks: doctors, lawyers, and whatnot. And he remembered Uncle Sheamus, the Teamster, dumping bundles of Cleveland Press papers for Frank to deliver on a semi-official route he¡¯d somehow pilfered from the company. Unlike other paperboys, Frank and his uncle split all the money: nothing for the company, nothing for the union, every cent going to feed their families. A scam, maybe. Illegal, probably. But Frank didn''t care. They had grumbling bellies that needed filling. Period. That''s all that mattered. These folks milling like zombies, dazed by the flames, were like his folks. Hardworking regular people trying their best to raise, feed, clothe and house their families. But¡­. He shook his head, thinking of the burning Caddie, the graffiti, and the firebomb he¡¯d put out. Vandals were guilty of these crimes, and the citizens pouring from the rubble provided them aid and succor. He hadn¡¯t, his folks hadn¡¯t, but these animals had, deserving every dessert the Partisans served them, cold. Fuck them. Friends of my enemy are my enemies. Next, the calvary rolled in. Twelve Sherman tanks, decorated with the Cleveland Police Department¡¯s insignia and promise to ¡®PROTECT AND SERVE¡¯, thundered up Hough Avenue. With mechanical precision, they fanned out between Club Seventy-Nine and the torched grocery, forming a border between the violent Vandal mob and valiant Partisan heroes. As if a single machine, they turned their turrets towards the fleeing people and opened fire. The people scrambled for cover behind cars, rubble, or even inside burning buildings, weighing danger against danger. As if enraptured by the destruction, Zac drifted towards Frank and clapped him on the back. In the orange glow of the flames, Zac resembled a demonic jack-o¡¯-lantern, from rictus grin to hollow eyes. He said, ¡°That showed them Goddamned firebombers what we¡¯re made of, eh soldier? Kill ¡®em all, let God sort ¡®em out is what I say.¡± Frank pulled back, mortified. ¡°But they¡¯re women, children, and old people... And they¡¯re Americans¡­¡± Frank drifted off, his head and heart swirling cyclones of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Zac scoffed. ¡°Subhuman scum. Look at the squalor they live in. Americans my ass, they¡¯re animals.¡± Before Frank could respond, a raging wind almost knocked him on his ass. Zac wasn¡¯t so lucky and fell, the gale pushing him into the alley. Frank covered his ears as a roar louder than a hundred thunderclaps boomed. Chapter 18. Chapter 18.
When, lo, Metatron¡¯s Morons thundered over the horizon, darkening the sky like a swarm of eagles. They landed on Hough, creating a hurricane-force wind, sending discarded papers and fast-food containers swirling down the street. The Morons stood shoulder to shoulder along the center lane, a granite fence between the opposing forces. Both Maquis projectiles and Partisan shells bounced off the granite angels, the ordinance dying on the street and injuring no one. After several minutes of useless fire, both sides gave up. The Maquis retreated to the shadows, and the tanks went silent their hatches popping open, disgorging dazed soldiers dressed, not in the Army greens and camo fatigues Frank had expected, but in navy blue, with ¡®POLICE¡¯ stamped on the back of their uniforms. Unaware he¡¯d been holding his breath, Frank breathed out, glad the angels had stepped in. They¡¯d stopped the rioters from vandalizing businesses, thus sparing the innocents, who scurried away from the fighting and their burning homes. The Maquis sympathizers were lucky that American Partisans drove the tanks and planes and weren''t commies, Frank reckoned. Unlike Soviet leadership, who killed citizens for sport and sent dissidents to freeze and starve to death in desolate Siberia, Cent-Com would not order a slaughter on their own people. Sure, there was collateral damage, with Partisan troops firing on unarmed Maquis. Frank assumed Cent-Com must¡¯ve made an honest mistake. After all, Americans were the good guys, defending liberty, freedom, justice, and democracy. GIs weren¡¯t brutes. They loved baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Jimmy Stewart in It¡¯s A Wonderful Life, not violence. So firing on innocent people had to be a regrettable mistake. Had to be. Cent-Com wouldn¡¯t have ordered wanton destruction like that. It seemed un-American. But Frank replayed the battle in his mind¡¯s eye and bit his lip. Those retreating American citizens counted for more than American property to Cent-Com¡­ Right? Confused and doubting government, which he¡¯d been doing more since Nixon shenanigans, Frank stared into the middle distance, his throat bone-dry. He realized Metatron had saved Americans from American troops and leadership. That was ghastly because, without divine intervention, the cops would have gunned down families fleeing the destruction Cent-Com had wrought. Despite the heat, he shivered, wondering. Metatron derailed Frank¡¯s train of thought by raising his flaming sword in a stony-faced greeting. Frank nodded in reply. With a solemn mien, Metatron took a knee and said in his deep, thunderous roar, ¡°All praise the Lord of Hosts, the God of gods, the Nameless One who contains all names and reigns over the living and the dead. Thou shalt have no God before Him. And remember, ye bags of worm food, that whatsoever you do to the least amongst you, that you do also unto Him.¡± Frank considered the bible passage¡­ if it was scripture. Regardless, the speech sounded scriptural, and scripture got him all the time. So Frank beat his chest and lowered his eyes, replying with a reverent, ¡°Amen.¡± The Morons raised their swords in agreement, and Frank hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, leaned back on his heels, and grinned. He sorta liked these idiots. Sure, they were dumbasses, dense as the granite they were carved from, but they had gumption, valor, and the courage of their convictions. They¡¯d show up and fight the good fight, ignoring the risks. That took stones. Feeling safe under the angels¡¯ protection, Frank sauntered towards the alley, aiming to resume his rearguard post. But his breath caught, and he stopped, dead in his tracks halfway up the alley, glancing back. The blood drained from his face. Because the Morons¡¯ swords all pointed his way. His heart skipped several beats as reality sunk in. The Morons weren¡¯t protecting Club Seventy-Nine. Instead, they were protecting innocent civilians from him and the Partisan Army. Yikes. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Horrified at the discovery, Frank scurried towards Club Seventy-Nine¡¯s door, planning to turn in his gun and grab his discarded jacket when Metatron said, ¡°Stop,¡± his booming voice rattling windows. Frank halted, his face and neck flashing hot with annoyance. ¡°Jaysus, Metatron, chill out. I get the message. I¡¯m done, turning in my gun and heading home.¡± Metatron said, ¡°Not now. Look.¡± His gaze flicked towards the Eliot Ness campaign ad, and he chin-pointed to where Zac and the beefy slob kicked and stomped a defenseless man on the sidewalk. Frank hesitated, considering the odds. First, he had tons to lose: his life, his wife, his family, and his granddaughter¡¯s concert at Severance Hall, to name a few. Which made point two devastating: his chances sucked. Alone, Zac and Beefy outnumbered him two-to-one and outgunned Frank¡¯s squirrel gun with two large-caliber hunting rifles. Frank¡¯s odds plummeted when he factored in Partisan soldiers and cops. Million-to-one? Maybe even a billion-to-one. ¡°It¡¯s a fucking suicide mission,¡± Frank said to Eliot Ness¡¯s unmoving visage under his breath. ¡°Now,¡± Metatron said, his voice quaking the earth and shattering the front windows of the duplex nearest him. Frank snapped to, trotting up the street towards the Partisans as they kicked the Maquis. The man played possum, covering his face and head. Zac and Beefy stepped back. With a flash of white coat and tight-checked pants, Frank halted, recognizing the chef. Frank¡¯s eyes widened as Zac raised his rifle. Frank hollered at the top of his lungs to get their attention. No dice, so he sprinted fast as he could muster to stop the encroaching tragedy. His legs burned. He gasped for breath. He tried moving faster, but couldn¡¯t. And yet, he tried reaching deeper. Had to. An innocent man¡¯s life hung in the balance. With Frank now half a block away and closing fast, Zac smirked sidelong at Beefy and cradled the gun to his shoulder before eyeing the sight. The safety clicked ¡®OFF,¡¯ and Zac finalized his aim. Now within ten feet, Frank launched himself like a linebacker at Zac as his hand tightened around the trigger. The powder ignited as Frank hit Zac full in the ribs. The gun fired, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs and guns. The blast rang Frank¡¯s ears, and the burned sulfur stench of spent powder polluted his nostrils. Afraid he was too late, he sprang to his feet, dashing to the chef¡¯s side. The man sat up, alive, and Frank¡¯s gaze swept over his body, finding no bullet wound. Frank heaved a sigh, and his heart leaped in his chest, relieved. Zac had missed. Standing between the chef and his attackers, Frank raised his hands and said through short, gasping breaths, ¡°Wait. I was there. This guy¡¯s innocent. Just trying to get home. To protect his kids.¡± Zac stood, leveling his gun at Frank. ¡°How do you know? Cops told us a black man in a chef¡¯s uniform torched my car, and this scumbag¡¯s a black man in a chef¡¯s uniform. Can¡¯t be many n****r cooks floating around.¡± His breath steadying, Frank snorted. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what I told the cops: it wasn¡¯t him. He was helping me, and we watched the firebombers torch your Caddie. Together. No way it was him.¡± His face pinched with disgust, Zac sneered at Frank, his eyes black and emotionless in the dusky summer night. ¡°Bullshit.¡± Frank squared, glowering at Zac. ¡°The fuck it is, asshole. I saw what I saw. I¡¯d testify in any court, swear on a stack of bibles.¡± Zac snorted, aiming the barrel at Frank, who raised his hands. Frank said, ¡°Hold on there, boss. Don¡¯t shoot the messenger, for Christ¡¯s sake.¡± With a rustle of fabric, the beefy slob also leveled his rifle on Frank. Fuck. ¡°I call bullshit, too,¡± Beefy said, pointing across Hough. ¡°You on their side? A turncoat, a n****r loving traitor against your kind?¡± Frank narrowed his gaze. ¡°Look, I ain¡¯t got time for this schoolyard crap. I¡¯ve got things I gotta do. Grownup things. Responsible things.¡± He raised his arms, his rifle pointing skyward, a threat to no one. ¡°Look, guys, I¡¯ve got to go. My granddaughter¡¯s playing with a youth orchestra tonight, and I promised I¡¯d be there, watching. So¡ª¡± ¡®Click.¡¯ The beefy slob cocked his gun, saying. ¡°Well, ain¡¯t that just sweet. We got us a n****r-loving family man here. And a real swanky one at that, going the Severance Hall like a freaking Rothschild.¡± ¡®Click.¡¯ Zac also cocked, aiming. Frank¡¯s heart fell, his throat gone dry as the Mohave Desert. And then, he heard a roar from Club Seventy-Nine as a horde of Partisans accompanied by a legion of skeletal bikers on dragons swarmed their way. In the lead and riding a dragon that flew above them, the rail-thin man, his face pale as a carp¡¯s belly and sunken eyes glowing red, bee-lined straight for Frank, his bony fingers outstretched like the claws of a carrion crow. With a rush, Frank remembered the thin man¡¯s words on Coventry: ¡°They don¡¯t need you,¡± meaning the coloreds. The thin man was wrong. The colored chef had needed Frank. Still did, since they''d beat him bloody and senseless. Didn''t matter, though, Frank reckoned, since they¡¯d both soon be dead. Fuck. Chapter 19. Chapter 19. (Peggy O''Brien-Hughes. Friday, October 13th, 1978; Severance Hall.)
In her imagination, Peggy and the gigantic saxophonist in his wild, Soul Train-worthy threads walked through the clouds. Albeit, they managed in different ways. Sax Man stood next to the mountain, his head in the sky and clear-heeled platform shoes digging into the earth. Peggy, on the other hand, drifted like a butterfly, dancing in three dimensions over strains of the opening allegro to Mozart¡¯s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik some musicians played, warming up. She breathed deep, smelling linseed oil and dust. And smiled because the music shimmered like moonbeams. And then she tensed, remembering her performance that evening. Enough daydreaming, she thought. Forcing her circus mind present, Peggy bade her imaginary friend farewell and double-checked her violin¡¯s A-string against the 440-hertz tone piping over the PA. Perfect. One at a time, she tested the other strings, tuning from the A-string. Again, perfect. Content, she smiled, rosining her bow, and listened to the assorted second violins, violas, cellos, and woodwinds who played Nachtmusik, orienting herself. And then, without thinking, instead of running through her scales, Peggy played the first violin bits. Others arrived, jostling chairs, snapping open cases, and tuning in the background. Like her, most ditched mechanical warm-ups and joined in. Playing music, Peggy thought, was a groovier way to warm-up, by a mile. Peggy knew their performance wasn¡¯t by-Hoyle pretty. Since they hadn¡¯t run scales, many players¡¯ intonation was off. And new arrivals jostled elbows, interrupting players¡¯ phrasing and rhythm. Worse, some musicians had jumped in untuned, and, playing from memory, everyone, including Peggy, sometimes veered off-score as others moved forward, coaxing those in error back on course. The performance sounded ragged, unpolished, and off-the-cuff. But it didn¡¯t matter. Despite the mistakes, their version of Nachtmusik rocked. Big-time. Sure, it lacked polish, but she¡¯d dug it, hard. The effect reminded Peggy of Gramps¡¯s rag-tag jazz records: loose-limbed and exuberant. When the allegro ended, the musicians giggled and clapped, happy with their effort. Peggy figured that the Cleveland Orchestra Youth Orchestra¡¯s conductor, Maestro Stanislaw Klaczko, would cringe. But fuck it. Playing Mozart jostled a tad out-of-tune and elbowed off-rhythm was a freaking blast, crisp or not, full-stop. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Smiling at her quiet rebellion, Peggy began her favorite part of the night¡¯s program, the section of Appalachian Spring based on the song ¡®Lord of the Dance.¡¯ At least, that¡¯s what she called the tune, which Sister Ursula Marie taught her in second-grade music class. Gram and Gramps insisted that the tune was some ancient Irish folk song, and the maestro maintained that Copland¡¯s inspiration was a Shaker hymn. Peggy rolled her eyes. Grownups can be such dorks, arguing as if that crap matters. It¡¯s just a groovy tune, and I love it, full-stop. The melody made her imagine the spring and Easter, with Jesus and Mary dragging all the wild animals, birds, bees, and flowers from their winter slumber as he danced, celebrating the green and growing world. She grinned and played. As if by instinct, the others joined in, following her. It made sense. She held the second chair in the first violin section. Since the first chair hadn¡¯t arrived, she became the de facto concertmaster. So she played the tune with vigor¡ªor, ¡®con brio,¡¯ in official ¡°orchestra speak¡±¡ªand they followed her lead. Buoyed by her rebellious heart and egged by her followers, Peggy ditched constraint, accentuating rhythm over melody, expressiveness over technique. Just playing and having fun. Soon, the entire room swelled as the young musicians jammed con brio. As they played, her mind floated, dancing on the wind. Copland¡¯s first run through the ¡®Lord of the Dance¡¯ theme ended, and Peggy wrapped up the tune, full-stop, but on the tonic instead of modulating to a remote key and shifting to the next theme as in the score. But the orchestra read her mind and resolved on-key. Everyone followed? Groovy. Freaky. Like we have ESP. She smiled, tallying another reason to love music: it helped you read minds, like Spock¡¯s Vulcan mind-meld. And then, clapping drifted from backstage as the conductor emerged. He stood, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit and starched white shirt, his arms outstretched, with a look of unbridled joy on his face. ¡°Now that, that was crisp playing. Though maybe madame concertmaster¡­,¡± he halted, bowing with respect towards Peggy, whose cheeks burned hot, ¡°played with too dotted a rhythm. But overall, it was vital, alive. It danced. Copland would approve.¡± Maestro bowed. Peggy smiled, basking in the applause. She liked that even a muckety-muck like Maestro Klaczko, the backup conductor of the Cleveland Orchestra, felt like she did about music. Maestro stepped forward, clapping, calling the players like the Pied Piper. From the wings, missing musicians scurried to their chairs. Soon, Peggy¡¯s run as concertmaster ended as first violinist Dexter Forester, a bespectacled cutey, all elbows and bulging Adam''s-apple, took his seat next to Peggy and began tuning. Sax Man, now shrunken to life-size, shrugged, his eyes kind and a little sad, as if lost in a sweet memory he longed to relive. And then he applauded, his yellow-brown face exploding into a grin, his Hollywood-white teeth flashing wanton joy. This made Peggy ecstatic as she ran through scales. Like Maestro Klaczko, Sax Man approved. And he reminded her of Jimi Hendrix, who was cool as hell despite being a golden oldie who had died when she was, like, four or five. Though the saxophone dork wore goofier threads than the rock god and played saxophone instead of guitar. Nevertheless, the resemblance was there¡­. Sort of? Maybe? The same, but completely different? Joy tightened her cheeks and squinched her eyes as the logically illogical but somehow accurate statement landed. Regardless, both Maestro and Sax Man appreciated the rendition she led as concertmaster. Both were pros, one hip, one square, but both talented, and both dug her ¡®Lord of the Dance.¡¯ That meant something. At least she thought it did¡­ until she realized that she¡¯d imagined Sax Man into existence. Which made her feel decadent and devilish, cherishing his approval even more. Chapter 20. Chapter 20. (Frank O''Brien. Monday, July 18th, 1966; Outside Club Seventy-Nine.)
Distracted by the commotion behind them, Zac and Beefy spun around, as if forgetting Frank, and froze. Frank dug it, his own blood also running cold. Because the leather-clad skeleton horde dismounted their dragons on the side streets flanking Club Seventy-Nine, falling into formation and brandishing their swords, lances, and battle-axes, a chilling sight. On his dragon, smoke and the hint of flames curling from its nostrils, Thin Man hovered. ¡°To victory,¡± he said in a gravelly voice, raising his fist to the air. The horde cheered, the sound loud but bodiless, like a million vinyl records spinning on a million turntables without amplification. Thin Man motioned forwards, and the skeletons in black leather began a methodical march towards Frank¡¯s side of the street. Fuck, he thought, a shudder creeping along his spine. As the horde advanced, Thin Man pointed at Frank and the men huddled around the bleeding chef and dug his heels into the dragon, which climbed over a hundred feet into the air before swooping. Zac and Beefy ducked for cover behind an awning and fired at the beast, missing. It didn¡¯t matter, though, since the dragon ignored them. Instead, Thin Man¡¯s dark eyes fixated on Frank, who searched for an escape, finding none. Fuck. Without thinking, Frank settled on a last-ditch ¡®plan,¡¯ if you could call a gut-reaction a plan. He baited the dragon, feigning to be frozen with fear. Thin Man took the bait, spurring the dragon into pouncing. At the last second, Frank leaped behind a row of rancid aluminum garbage cans set curbside. The dragon swooped and missed. Undeterred, it loped past, rising over the street¡¯s roof and tree-line and banking in a graceful arc. From his perch atop the beast, Thin Man surveyed the street, his hat at the perfect, rakish angle. Even from the distance, Frank saw the hint of a grin spreading across Thin Man¡¯s heretofore expressionless face as his gaze locked on Frank. Fuck. Though Frank¡¯s heart skipped, imagining the dragon¡¯s talons sinking into him, he kept his wits. Options flashed like lightning through his mind. His best, and perhaps only chance, lay running through the horde, past Eliot Ness, and into the adjacent maze of narrow back alleys and backyards. He snorted at the absurdity of running through the horde, but they pressed tight. God willing, he¡¯d be able to weave through with them being unable to swing. ¡°Here¡¯s to the luck of the Irish,¡± he said to Ness¡¯s image, before smashing through enemy lines. He wove through the skeletons like Jim Brown through a defense, evading their grasping hands. Sure enough, the skeletons couldn¡¯t swing their weapons or even move sideways, packed tight as they were. So he wove, ducked, and scrambled through them, his progress slow but steady. A few feet across Hough, though, the bodies pressed so tight that he couldn¡¯t move. Fear thudded in his ears as he gazed into the dark, empty eye sockets of a skeleton biker raising his lance to strike. Fuck. Frank tensed, raising his arms to protect his head. But the demon didn¡¯t strike. Instead, it stood, arms raised, lance twitching and head swinging side-to-side. The thing looked confused. Frank reckoned it wanted to snuff him, but didn¡¯t want to hurt its mates. Frank reckoned that wouldn¡¯t last, since he doubted demons had a code of ethics. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. He¡¯d have to move. Skeletal demons filled in the swath he¡¯d cleared behind him. All around him, they swiped at with their free hands. One snagged his pant leg for an instant before Frank jerked free. He wouldn¡¯t last long standing still. Given time, one demon would worm around and get a firm grasp. That would be game over. ¡°Move it, grunt,¡± he said aloud to himself, his voice resolute. Because, with all due respect to Saint Peter, Frank wasn¡¯t ready to meet him at the pearly gates yet. To hell with that. And he lowered his shoulder and lunged into the lance-bearer¡¯s ribcage. To Frank¡¯s shock, the damned thing shattered, being naught but bone and air. His jaw gaping, Frank surveyed the wreckage. A grim, gleeful grin tightened his cheeks and narrowed his eyes as he snagged the lance. If slaying one demon proved that effortless, he reckoned, the others would, too. Thus liberated by a burst of hopeful adrenaline, Frank stood tall, pressed forward and, like a farmer reaping with a scythe, swung the lance in a wide, sweeping arc. Dozens of skeletal demons fell with each swing, shattering into leather, dust, and bones. It seemed odd that defeating them proved this easy. They had demolished Metatron¡¯s Morons in Frank¡¯s backyard earlier. A competent soldier would have recognized the enemy¡¯s weakness. Should have. And yet despite this, Metatron ordered his Morons to stand pat, allowing the enemy to take lethal full swings? What an idiot. Now, Frank wasn¡¯t Metatron. He was a battle-hardened soldier, a GI survivor of Patton¡¯s march across Europe. He¡¯d seen ungodly shit fighting the Krauts and Vichy French as they foot-slogged towards Hitler in Berlin. Hell, he¡¯d done ungodly shit to stay alive. Soldiering was a rotten job, but he¡¯d learned its lessons well. So, unlike Metatron, he pressed the advantage. He smashed and bashed his way from the sidewalk to the center lane, leaving a pile of bones and stunned skeletons cowering and pressing backward to avoid his blows. Frank ruled the skeletal biker trash until a hot wind and a sulfuric brimstone stench behind him caused him to halt. Adam¡¯s apple bobbing, Frank glanced over his shoulder. Thin Man¡¯s dragon descended towards him slow and steady, its claw-like talons extended. Fuck. He turned back to the alley, estimating the enemy soldiers between him and the alley, and sighed. He¡¯d never make it before the dragon pounced. Fuck. He glanced right, then left, searching for an escape. He saw none. Thin Man would corner and kill him. He was running a suicide mission, fighting a lost cause. Fuck. As reality sank in, Frank¡¯s shoulders slumped, sapping the fire from his soul. It was over. He¡¯d never see Peggy perform, never see Maddy, never see his children and grandchildren again, never fish again, never bend elbows over a smokey bar with Umberto and boots again, never cross swords with Howard again, or whatnot. Never. Fuck. The desire to lay aside his weapon, surrendering to the inevitable, burned deep in his soul until a thought roused him. An ember of purpose lodged between his eyebrows. If he had to die, he¡¯d at least slay as many evil-doers as he could manage. It was the right thing to do. It was what the Morons did, their hearts running plum-upright despite their idiotic tactics. And perhaps, what he¡¯d done, goose-stepping Krauts and hairy-ass Frenchies on the battlefield while fighting un-American fascist filth. Regardless, he had to balance the scales in his favor. He¡¯d done a lot of evil in his time. Even murder and looting, like these rioters, albeit Uncle Sam and the Geneva Convention sanctioned his crimes. What nonsense. His fireteam had killed women, children, priests, elders, and whatnot. He¡¯d destroyed churches and schools and small farms and ransacked villages all across Europe. Peter would judge him for that, weighing that against the good he¡¯d done. He doubted the smooth-talking muckety-mucks, with their euphemistic ¡°collateral damage¡± nonsense, would help him much come Judgement Day. Perhaps killing demons would help him answer Saint Peter, saving his tail from purgatory or hell for his sins? Perhaps. Regardless, it seemed the sort of upright, selfless action Father Klein always prattled on about in his homilies. So he howled an ecstatic war cry and, feeling like an ancient Celtic warrior, redoubled his effort, wading into the horde. With a grim glee rising to his eyes and tightening his cheeks, he swung, raining holy terror on the cowering skeletal horde. Because fuck that scrawny, evil asshole, fuck his horde, and fuck his goddamned dragon. Today is a good day to die. Chapter 21. Chapter 21.
And then, lo, a gale-force wind roared, scattering in its wake shattered bones, dust, gravel, and sundry trash¡ªincluding (but not limited to) cigarette butts, fast food containers, newspapers, and fliers for a funk concert ripped from telephone poles and shop windows¡ªfurther cowering the horde and sending Frank to his knee. Not in adoration, but to keep from falling yet again onto his keister. He¡¯d seen this movie before. Sure as shooting, a rainbow-graffiti blur flashed past Frank a quarter-beat later. He grinned, recognizing Metatron on the wing. With a loud ¡®WHACK,¡¯ the angel smashed into the dragon, wrestling it to the ground as Thin Man tumbled, arse over teakettle, to the pavement. Frank winced, sharing Thin Man¡¯s pain, until glee tugged Frank¡¯s face into a grin that he KNEW was evil, but didn¡¯t care. Serves the putz right, he thought, gloating over Thin Man¡¯s defeat. Metatron sparring with the beast, however, proved more interesting than the pale putz by a country mile. Hell, even the black leather skeletons ceased marching and watched the fight. Frank leaned on the lance, joining them. It was like the Thriller in Manilla times a million. What a spectacle. Two superhuman monsters in a death-match. The bee¡¯s knees¡­ though he doubted Umberto or Boots would believe him should he share this tale. He was Irish-America and his tribe¡¯s penchant for tall-tales haunted him DESPITE his down-home nature. Freaking stereotypes. Though, truth be told, he did like a pint or two, and a dash of the old whisky, and he possessed the gift of gab in spades, aided in no small measure by his Dale Carnegie training. So maybe they are right¡­ at least a little? It didn¡¯t matter, though, because Frank watched, gobsmacked as the dragon slashed, its razor-sharp claws ineffectual against Metatron¡¯s granite skin. The angel dragged the fire-spitting dragon off its rear legs and, in a blur of speed, drove it across Hough and into the alley, planting the beast several feet into the Eliot Ness mural. The dragon slumped, either knocked silly or dead. Frank rocked back on his heels, impressed, pounding the lance into the ground in applause. Perhaps Metatron is a dimwit, but he¡¯s one tough dimwit. Though it had escaped his notice, between the gale-force wind and Metatron¡¯s sparring with a dragon, the Morons no longer stood post between Maquis and Partisans. Instead, they waded through the skeleton horde, mowing down demons by the score. Frank reckoned they¡¯d learned from watching hij, since they emulated his tactics. # A pained whimper rose from the intersection. Frank¡¯s gaze whipped back towards the sound, and his heart skipped. Thin Man stood over the supine chef, gloating. Mortified, Frank rushed forward, bracing for yet another battle. But when Thin Man placed a two-tone wingtip oxford on the chef¡¯s throat, Frank skidded to a stop and raised his hands. ¡°Whoa, hold on there,¡± Frank said, ¡°don¡¯t kill him.¡± Thin Man¡¯s face sharpened into a dead-eyed, joyless grin. ¡°Look at you, a knight in shining armor out to save the princess he¡¯s sweet on from the evil ogre. So noble, so heroic, so¡­ romantic.¡± Frank snorted. He knew this putz¡¯s game: mock, sneer, and probe for an exposed underbelly. Having no time for that schoolyard bully nonsense, Frank squared, staring Thin Man deep in the eyes. ¡°Just let the guy go. He ain¡¯t but a working stiff trying to get home to his family.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ think about it,¡± Thin Man said, stroking his chin in a mocking pantomime of deep thought. Frank suppressed an eye roll as he lay aside the lance, suing for peace. ¡°Look, buddy. Not sure why, but you¡¯ve got a hard-on for me, so just take me, leave him. He didn¡¯t do nothing, and you can take that to the bank.¡± Thin Man¡¯s face cracked into a creepy, ecstatic grin as he ground his heel into the moaning chef¡¯s throat. ¡°Nothing? Did I hear you right?¡± His mouth bone-dry, Frank inched forward, nodding. ¡°You heard true.¡± ¡°Liar.¡± Thin Man¡¯s dark eyes brimmed. ¡°Two duly appointed officers of the Cleveland Police told me he burned this poor man¡¯s Cadillac.¡± Thin Man motioned over his shoulder to Zac, who emerged with Beefy from their hidey-hole behind a late ¡®50s rust bucket of a Chevy, training their weapons on Frank. Thin Man cleared his throat. ¡°Rifles down, fellas.¡± He nodded Frank¡¯s way. ¡°This ¡®valiant hero,¡¯ this loser with a savior complex is mine. Have your way with the colored boy when I¡¯m done and gone.¡± ¡°Wait, wait, wait,¡± Frank said, his arms raised, fear for the colored man draining the heat from his cheeks, his gaze darting to Zac. ¡°Don¡¯t lynch him. Call off the dogs and then call the cops. I beg of you. Let them lock him up, investigate. I¡­ I swear he¡¯s innocent. You¡¯ll¡­ you¡¯ll see.¡± Beefy scoffed, cocking his rifle and pointing it at the chef, saying, ¡°Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe, catch a n****r by the toe¡­¡± Zac chuckled, nodding in approval, his cold and hooded gaze laser-focused on the chef. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Frank gulped, helpless and wondering why no one heeded him, a credible witness and solid citizen. Even Zac, who seemed a reasonable sort, wasn¡¯t listening. Now, he could understand Thin Man ignoring him. That guy probably tortured cats as a hobby. Frank could also understand Beefy. He¡¯d met the type often enough. In fact, Beefy most reminded Frank of a fat Mississippian he¡¯d almost fought in Liverpool during The War. The idiot went ballistic when Frank played Louis Armstrong¡¯s innocuous ditty ¡®Jeepers, Creepers¡¯ on a jukebox. Jeepers freaking Creepers, for Christ¡¯s sake, and he goes off like a Roman candle. What an ass. Anyway, that fool called Frank a race-traitor for listening to ¡°n****r jungle music.¡± The asshole never paid mind that Frank¡¯s next song was the Carter Family playing some hillbilly gospel ditty which Frank also liked. Assholes are assholes. And then the Mississippi fool had the nerve to say, ¡°The South shall rise again, Yankee boy.¡± Frank smirked, considering the ignorance the man displayed. First off, calling Frank O¡¯Brien a ¡°Yank¡± was absurd. He hated the Yankees more than he hated Satan himself. Worse, Frank was born and raised in Ohio, the land of Grant and Sherman, the generals who ended that rotten slaveholder¡¯s rebellion. No way the South would rise again after the ass-kicking they doled. Dumbass. Lucky for Frank, the pub owner flagged the MPs before things boiled over, and the mental midget scurried out the rear door. The barkeep stood Frank a pint, telling him in his cockney accent, ¡°I like you GIs well enough, but to hell with Jim Crow.¡± Frank agreed. That Mississippian, like Beefy, was white trash. Not that Frank begrudged a simple man, being but a workingman himself. Thing was, In his experience, most simple people weren¡¯t trash. Beefy and that Mississippi fool, on the other hand¡­ Fuck the dumbass peckerwoods, and fuck Thin Man, the sadistic monster, and God help them when they meet their maker. Contrariwise, Zac seemed a solid citizen. He owned a business and worked hard. The guy was an American dreamer living the American Dream. So following Dale Carnegie¡¯s advice, Frank moved forward with his arms raised, chest and chin high, and appealed to Zac¡¯s better angels. ¡°Look, boss, I understand today¡¯s sucked for you. An angry mob wants to destroy the bar you¡¯ve built, brick by brick. But that¡¯s just stuff, boss. Things. You can fix things, or buy new stuff. Besides, things ain¡¯t the measure of a man, it¡¯s what he does, who he is, and the people he raises up. His family, his community, and whatnot: you know, what he builds, and you of all people should know it¡¯s harder to build than destroy.¡± Zac waved his hands at the surrounding buildings, a sudden pain flooding his visage. ¡°That¡¯s why these thugs slay me. They¡¯re hell-bent on destroying my life, my livelihood, and I¡¯m not sure if I have the energy to rebuild.¡± A knot in Frank¡¯s heart eased as Zac¡¯s shoulders relaxed. ¡°Look, I feel your pain. I know what the cops told you. They told me too, but they¡¯re wrong. I was there. This boy did NOT burn your car. Hell, he¡¯s not even a rioter. He was giving me directions when some other dudes firebombed your car. You kill this man, lynch him or whatever you call it, you become a murderer, and that¡¯s forever, between you and your maker. And, God forbid, the cops arrest you for murder. Think of your family. You want them to fend for themselves?¡± Thin Man scoffed, smoothing his ruffled suit. ¡°Listen to ¡®the conscience of a generation,¡¯ the new Ghandi.¡± He sneered, eyes narrow and slicing like lasers as Zac¡¯s attention shifted to him. ¡°Besides, aren¡¯t you a businessman, an entrepreneur who creates jobs for other people? Are you going to let this nobody dictate to you?¡± A fire hotter than dragon breath raging in his solar plexus, Frank squared against Thin Man. ¡°Fuck off, slim.¡± A beat later, Frank¡¯s focus shifted back to Zac. ¡°Ignore the fool. Look¡­ okay, okay¡­ sure, I¡¯m just a palooka, a nobody, a journeyman ironworker, but I¡¯ll promise you this. I¡¯m a long, long way from home and won¡¯t, probably can¡¯t, see my family for years. Facts are, I¡¯m lost. If you let the chef go, or maybe call the cops so I can testify on his behalf, I¡¯ll help you rebuild your bar. I promise. I can do most anything in construction: carpentry, pipefitting, cement work, masonry, wiring electrical and whatnot. You name it, and I can do it. Pay me apprentice wages, get me some strong backs and I can get them humming along. It¡¯s what I do. We can rebuild you on the cheap.¡± Thin Man choked on a stifled laugh. His eyes cut into Frank, sharp and sarcastic. ¡°God, are you sanctimonious, a wannabe ¡®working-class hero.¡¯ Face facts, Frankie, you¡¯ve always been and will always be, an insignificant nothing. A nobody.¡± Frank suppressed a wince. This guy knew where to prod. But Frank would not fall down that rabbit hole. Decades of negotiating labor contracts had taught him a thing or three, so he took a deep breath. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right, maybe you¡¯re wrong, but facts are the chef¡¯s still innocent, so bugger off, slim.¡± Thin Man smirked. And then his face went blank, peering over Frank¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Not him,¡± he said through gritted teeth, his jaw muscles flexing as he struggled to keep his fake grin pasted on his face, ¡°he¡¯ll spoil the game.¡± A sound Frank couldn¡¯t identify startled him, and he followed Thin Man¡¯s gaze. In a flash, he realized the sound was silence. Blessed peace. No longer were angels fighting demons. No longer were rioters huddling in the shadows, plotting against the armed, rag-tag shop owners and their families struggling to protect the tiny piece of America that sustained their families. Instead, the action had stilled. And Corny¡­ glowed¡­ well, sort of¡­. The gift of Blarney failed Frank¡¯s golden tongue, and he lacked the words for what he saw, but Frank trusted his eyes. Corny didn¡¯t glow, per se. His skin was still the same rich, dark brown, his cardigan still red and black, and his straw cowboy hat a dull, dusty, faded charcoal gray. Despite this, Corny stood out from the background, more real than real, more in-focus than the surrounding reality. He glowed¡­ without glowing¡­ ? Frank shrugged. Words or not, he saw what he saw. At the far end of the intersection, Corny raised his eyes, ¡°Now, Zoltan, what in God¡¯s green earth are you doing torturing my friend?¡± ¡°Mind your own business, brother.¡± ¡°My friends are my business,¡± Corny said, halting and leaning on his cane. ¡°Now, leave him be. He ain¡¯t your plaything. He doesn¡¯t belong here, let me take him back where he does.¡± With a wince, Corny stepped forward, looking down as he stepped off the curb, favoring his fake leg, balancing to ensure that it stayed put. An arm around his shoulder caught Frank by surprise. Before he could shrug from Thin Man¡¯s grasp, the man, proving far stronger than Frank would have guessed, pulled Frank off-balance. ¡°Fuck that old gimp,¡± Thin Man said, his voice panicked and caustic. He waved his hand in front of them, slicing reality like it was a movie screen, revealing a dark emptiness behind. Before Corny looked back up, Thin Man had dragged Frank into the inky blackness, stitching the hole between the universes tight with another wave of his hand. Chapter 22. Chapter 22.
The immediate shock of disappearing into the rip in reality dissipating, Frank¡¯s head cleared, and he assessed his situation. Thin Man¡ªor ¡®Zolt¨¢n¡¯, as Corny had called him¡ªsteered him by the collar through an inky darkness. After several turns, Frank reckoned they trod a corridor of sorts, but he couldn¡¯t see. Despite the dark, the space wasn¡¯t cold and creepy, but cozy, albeit unearthly. It brought to mind floating on his back a warm, tropical ocean, and he sensed the sun, moon, and stars lingering just out of view. Regardless, this was no vacation. He was Thin Man''s prisoner, and Zac and Beefy were fixing to lynch the chef. Fuck that. He had to stop the injustice, so he planted his heels, trying to squirm clear from Thin Man¡¯s grasp. No dice. The narrow fellow was far stronger than Frank would have guessed. ¡°Stop struggling,¡± Thin Man said, halting. ¡°You¡¯ll never escape.¡± On realizing that struggling was futile, Frank relaxed, giving in as Thin Man eased him along. ¡°Let me go, for Christ¡¯s sake. Zac¡¯s gonna kill an innocent man. I gotta stop it.¡± ¡°Not my problem,¡± Thin Man said, pushing Frank. ¡°Fuck it isn¡¯t. You left an innocent colored man with a distraught barkeep, who has a mob threatening his livelihood, and a mean as piss good-ole-boy? What do you think will happen?¡± Thin Man stopped, yanking Frank around, as if staring him down. ¡°Like I said, not my problem. It¡¯s their decision, not mine.¡± ¡°But the chef did nothing.¡± Thin Man scoffed. ¡°But the cops said¡ª¡± Frank landed a solid right hook on Thin Man¡¯s jaw, cutting him off. ¡°Fuck off, Zolt¨¢n, or whatever Corny called you. I told you I saw the arsonists. You know he didn¡¯t do it. And yet, you knowingly set that colored boy up to be lynched, set up Zac to be a murderer, pretending to believe the police. As if that absolves you of guilt. The fuck¡¯s the matter with you?¡± Thin Man spun Frank around, grabbing hold of his collar firmer. ¡°First off, call me ¡®The Sultan.¡¯ I only let old acquaintances like Papa Bad Leg call me Zolt¨¢n, not nobodies like you.¡± A defiant sneer crept across Frank¡¯s face. ¡°Sure thing, Zolt¨¢n.¡± To Frank¡¯s shock, Thin Man hoisted him from his feet by his collar and tie, saying, ¡°It¡¯s The Sultan to you, you dumb oaf.¡± Frank kicked out like a hanged man as he struggled to breathe, roping his fingers into the tightened collar to free his windpipe. ¡°Okay, ¡®Sultan,¡¯ I got it,¡± he said, his voice thin and reedy. ¡°THE Sultan,¡± Thin Man said, with a distinct emphasis on the word ¡®the¡¯ as he lowered Frank to his feet. The idiot¡¯s pomposity made Frank want to laugh, but he stifled the impulse. He wanted to live, not die, strangled in the lonely darkness. Besides, he still held a flicker of hope that he¡¯d make it to Severance Hall to catch Peggy, and dying would monkeywrench that plan. Thin Man¡ªor, The Sultan¡ªchuckled. ¡°You feckless, febrile mollycoddle. I threaten the ¡®big hero¡¯, a teensie bit, and you run, tail between your legs, and abandon a helpless colored boy to a murderous peckerwood and a business owner in shock. You have the backbone of a jellyfish. All on a hope and a prayer that you can live, and make your precious, spoiled-rotten granddaughter¡¯s concert recital.¡± He pushed Frank, who relaxed and complied as The Sultan hustled, pushing him onward through the dark, twisting tunnels. Though he told himself that he wasn¡¯t giving in, but waiting for an opening, deep down Frank knew he had folded like a French map. The Sultan stopped, and slashed open another hole in the universe, letting in a faint, yellow light, the unexpected scent of pork, beans, and cajun spices wafting through. Frank winced, squeezing tight his dark-accustomed eyes against the glare. ¡°Where you taking me?¡± ¡°Where Bad Leg isn¡¯t,¡± The Sultan said, booting Frank through the hole and jumping through after him. ¡°Since the gimp¡¯s outside of Club Seventy-Nine, he can¡¯t be in his apartment.¡± Frank¡¯s heart leaped as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. Indeed, they stood in Corny¡¯s apartment on Shaw Avenue. And he knew it was October 13th, 1978, the same day: same overcast sky, same wind roaring outside, the same scent of red beans and rice lingering in the air. He glanced at the clock and grinned. Seven-forty. Just enough time. His shoulders relaxed, releasing a knot in his breast he hadn¡¯t expected. If he hurried, he could make it to Severance without speeding. He reached into his pocket, and his keys jingled. He nodded, encouraged. Peggy needed to understand she was his princess. Especially with her mother abandoning her like so much trash. She¡¯d miss him. Maddie would too. And Paul would call out the calvary if he didn¡¯t show tonight. Pleased, Frank hooked his thumbs in his belt, leaning back on his heels. God, he loved his family. People looking out for people they love. They¡¯d miss him like he had missed them. The realization made his eyes tear. And then he looked down, groaning. The riotous evening had turned his once-clean and crisp white shirt dingy with dirt, grime, and sweat. He figured to disguise the mess behind his suit jacket, but groaned, remembering he¡¯d left it at Club Seventy-Nine. Fuck. Stolen novel; please report. He considered stopping home before the recital for a fresh shirt, but that would make him late. Instead, he¡¯d have to show up looking homeless. Fuck. A police siren chirped underneath the apartment¡¯s window, breaking his train of thought. Two young colored boys in their Sunday best stood, arms raised in the parking lot. Rif-raff, probably drug dealers, he reckoned since East Cleveland was a high-crime area. The chef leaped back to mind, and the knot tightened again in his chest. Frank turned to The Sultan, who gazed up with a whimsical expression at the wall Corny had splayed his delusion with its tangled swirl of text, lines and photos snipped from newspapers and magazines. Frank asked, ¡°What about the chef? Will he make it?¡± The Sultan shrugged. ¡°I do not know. Not my problem. Besides, that was over twelve years ago. My advice is to get on with your life, you dumb oaf. Live. Eat, drunk and be merry. Let go of bygone days.¡± Frank¡¯s shoulder¡¯s slumped. ¡°But he¡¯s innocent.¡± The Sultan sneered. ¡°You weren¡¯t so concerned about protecting him when you ran from my dragon, were you? You abandoned him to save your skin. Nor when you stood gape-jawed, watching angels battle demons, a mini Armageddon unfolding on the shores of Lake Erie, were you? No, you watched the duel like it was a Hollywood spectacle. Nor when you were playing soldier, calling in the airforce, getting innocent civilians killed, were you? Instead, you forgot about him to protect an insignificant bar on an insignificant corner on an insignificant street in an insignificant city¡­ from what? Killing to save a business from destruction? Just like all you ¡®high-minded GIs¡¯ in World War II, killing civilians so GM and GE could expand its market, earning billions rebuilding Europe. Do you think America¡¯s high command gave two shits about the people of Europe? Or you dumbass soldiers? Hell, no. They only cared about what matters: money, the bankers, the people with juice. That didn¡¯t matter to you, though. You complied like a meek little pup, following order, and became a vicious, blood-thirsty attack dog.¡± A flame kindled in Frank¡¯s belly, and he defended himself, saying, ¡°Jaysus, it was war, and I was a soldier under duress. We were fighting the Nazi bastards who exterminated helpless Jews in death camps. We stood against evil. You can¡¯t expect a man¡­¡± His words dissolved into doubt. The Sultan¡¯s rictus grin grew wider and colder. ¡°Tout au contaire, mon fr¨¨re. I can expect a man to live by his best, or admit he¡¯s a fraud. You failed. Ergo, you are a fraud, Frank. A wannabe. A nobody who thinks he¡¯s someone with moral authority, like some modern-day Jesus. As if.¡± He paused, laughing, his tone caustic. With memories of the evening flashing before his mind, Frank¡¯s heart fell through a pit in his solar plexus. He saw true The Sultan¡¯s words. Helping Zac, a man in need, had drawn him in. Then the action outside of Club Seventy-Nine had mesmerized him. And his survival instinct kicked in, like it had in The War. Lost in the technicolor action, he neglected the beat-down chef. The Sultan¡¯s comments also stirred memories of his soldiering days. To his shame, he remembered his time under Patton, marching across Europe and tossing grenades and firing his carbide willy-nilly, caring not one iota who he killed. Women, children, priest, nuns, elderly, or whatnot, it didn¡¯t matter in the heat of battle. All he¡¯d cared about was keeping himself and his men alive. Worse, he was no teeny-bopper, like most soldiers under his command. He was pushing thirty when the Army drafted him. He was supposed to be wiser, more mature. That¡¯s why they¡¯d promoted him to staff Sargeant. Despite that, he¡¯d proved rash and heartless as the next, losing his head under fire, fighting only for his life. A monster no different from a stormtrooper torturing and murdering unarmed Jews in those horrific gas chambers. He was no hero, but a fraud. The Sultan had hit that nail square, driving it true. Hand on the doorknob, The Sultan, still staring at Corny¡¯s spiderweb of crazy, whistled whimsically. ¡°Damn, this negro¡¯s fucked in the head.¡± A beat later, he turned to Frank. ¡°You can go now, you racist fraud.¡± Frank¡¯s nostrils flared, and he squared to the Sultan. ¡°I may be a fraud, but I¡¯m no racist.¡± ¡°Sure you are.¡± "Am not. My daughter''s married to a colored man, and my wife and I approve." The Sultan shook his head. "You mean, the daughter who''s all-but disowned you after that custody battle over your precious princess, Peggy?" "Well, that was before she married Hector... when she was on that hippie commune, and Peggy was starving, dressed in rags...." His mind wheeled, searching for evidence to prove he wasn''t Jim Crow, lighting up like a slot machine showing three cherries. ¡°And I marched with MLK, so there''s that.¡± The Sultan grinned, opening the door to the grimy hall with its dinged-up paint and soiled carpet, a stark contrast with the neatness of Corny¡¯s place. ¡°Indeed you did, but during the Poor People¡¯s Campaign, where you had ponies in the race. You didn¡¯t march across Pettis Bridge, putting your life on the line fighting for colored people¡¯s civil rights. You and your union brothers marched to stick it to the rich, hoping Washington power-brokers would throw you and your white trash cronies some crumbs. Some ¡®high-minded idealist¡¯ you are.¡± Frank couldn¡¯t argue. The Sultan was right. He WAS a fraud. ¡°Go, see the brat, my faux-working-class anti-hero with his inflated sense of bourgeois moral high-mindedness,¡± The Sultan said. And then something occurred to Frank. ¡°Wait. How¡¯d you learn about my life, inside-out? Best I can reckon, I¡¯ve never spoken with you, yet you know about Peggy, her concert, how important seeking her perform is to me, that I marched with my union brothers in the Poor People¡¯s Campaign, and whatnot. You know me better than my friends. How?¡± The Sultan¡¯s rictus grin grew manic. ¡°Let¡¯s just say¡­ I know people, I¡­ have my ways.¡± Frank halted, remembering the man¡¯s game: poke, prod, and provoke, like an eighth-grade bully. And he¡¯d fallen into the trap. God, what a dumbass. It didn¡¯t matter, though. Odds were, he never left 1978 and the chef crap was a delusion. One of those drug trips the young loved. Like the hippies that Tom Wolfe book The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, which he and Maddie had read to understand Peggy¡¯s mom, the anti-war hippie Mary Lou, after she ditched Kent State after the shooting for a commune in Oregon. Still, seen true in a certain light, he was a giant fraud, a hollow man with no moral backbone. But the state of his soul did not matter right then. He¡¯d address that in the confessional with Father Klein. What mattered there and then was that he stood within striking distance of his goal: Severance Hall. The Sultan motioned Frank out the door, saying with exaggerated civility, ¡°You¡¯re free to resume your insignificant life, my good sir.¡± Frank stirred, rolling his eyes as he strode, thinking, Pompous ass. Before he reached the door, though, The Sultan¡¯s jaw dropped, his gaze snapping down the hall to something Frank couldn¡¯t see. The Sultan yelled, saying, ¡°Not you again¡­ but, how?¡­¡± A pulse of light threw The Sultan down the hall, a smaller shock wave knocking Frank backward, through the tear in reality and back into the dark. He leaped to his feet as the light pulse cauterized the rupture, which Frank clawed at, desperate as it closed. After several minutes of futile struggle, the aperture had sealed, and all was dark. And he was alone, unseeing, unseen, with no direction home. He slid to the ground, distraught and alone. He¡¯d been so close¡­. Fuck. Chapter 23. Chapter 23. (Friday. October 13th, 1978; Severance Hall.)
Peggy squirmed, the pressure in her bladder growing as Maestro Klaczko wrapped up his pep-talk to applause and hoots from the young players. A saucy grin spreading across her face, she stood, elbowing the thin, nerdy kid next to her, Dexter Forster, in the ribs, saying, ¡°Good thing that¡¯s over, because I gotta pee so bad I can taste it.¡± Dexter laughed, brushing the bangs from his eyes, round with shock. He was cute, and she knew her sassy mouth put him off his game, which was cool. Gramps taught her goofball sayings like that, old-timey and salty. They came in handy because throwing boys off their game gave her power over cute, sweet, nerdy boys like Dexter. Because girls rule, boys drool, and she liked boys drooling over her. Feeling sassy, Peg strode backstage, thinking about her grandfather, hoping he was okay. She didn¡¯t stew, though, because he was a survivor who¡¯d beat this rap. And even though Gramps was, like, over sixty and ANCIENT, everyone, family, friends, neighbors, and cronies alike, said he was strong as steel. They were correct. Gramps would survive and thrive. The line at the backstage lady¡¯s room stretched into the hall, so she searched for a stage manager, asking to use a public restroom. Permission granted, a thankful Peggy bolted through the wings and up the aisle towards the lobby. She gulped, glancing at the faces rushing past, ignoring the nervous flutter in her chest. Yikes. People galore. She gulped, thinking about the newspaper critics and potential TV crew, looking at the scrubbed faces dressed to the nines. Hundreds hustled past her, ready to sit, with more pouring in. Yikes to the twenty-fifth power. From the main stairwell. Her imaginary friend Sax Man flashed her the thumbs up, spinning on his heels like Mister Bojangles from the goofy song she used to like when she was a kid. Tilting his porkpie hat, he leaned on the banister, looking cool and debonaire. Peg shrugged. The goofball was clowning to distract her. She relaxed, knowing he¡¯d probably felt nervous before going on stage, too, yet he chopped down mountains with his sax. If he could survive, she would survive the butterflies. Glad that Sax Man didn¡¯t follow, Peg entered the lady¡¯s restroom. She giggled, tickled that her imaginary friends had manners. She¡¯d taught them well.
Restroom door swinging shut behind her, a relieved Peggy hustled towards the stage until someone called her, and she turned. Her heart leaped. It was Gram, Ted in her arms, standing with Mister and Missis Fratino, Gramps¡¯s union buddy and his wife, who waved at her. Ben, his once-combed hair already becoming undone, crashed into her legs, hugging her and laughing. She picked him up, struggling to carry him towards the group. To free himself, Ben wriggled, and Peggy let go as they reached Gram, the rug rat jumping up and down, evidentially enthralled by how his hard-soled shoes echoed in the marble halls. Boys. Peg turned to Mister and Missis Fratino. ¡°Hey guys, thanks for coming.¡± Missis Fratino grabbed Peggy¡¯s shoulders, planted a kiss on her cheek, smelling of cherry lipstick and soap, and said, her voice dramatic and expressive, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t miss this for the world. I try to come to Severance at least once a year, for the opera. It¡¯s so lovely, so classy, so sophisticated. And the music, deary. We heard you warming up. It sounded glorious.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Peggy¡¯s ears and cheeks grew hot as Missis Fratino piled on the praise before introducing their granddaughter Rosa, a short, skinny thing a year or two younger than her. Rosa looked like ¡®good people,¡¯ as Grams would say, one of her quaint, old-fashioned colloquialisms Peggy loved. Old people could be such loveable dorks. Speaking of Gram, she cleared her throat, Peggy¡¯s attention shifting to her. Gram said, ¡°And she plays piano. Maybe you two can play together for the Saint George Christmas party, performing Christmas carols?¡± Exuberant, Missis Fratino clapped and threw open her arms wide. ¡°I love the way piano and violin sound together. So romantic. You guys want, the whole family¡¯s invited for Sunday dinners after Thanksgiving to rehearse. We have a piano. The old goats can watch football, we moms will keep them out of trouble, and you girls can practice.¡± Peggy¡¯s heart leaped, because Missis Fratino¡¯s Sunday dinners were legendary, especially her homemade pasta with homemade red sauce, not the jars of Ragu and boxed noodles Gram used. But Rosa squirmed, grabbing Mister Fratino¡¯s sleeve, and he bent to listen, nodding as she swept the curly salt and pepper locks from his ear and pleaded. A few beats later, he stood, shrugged, and placed a hand on Rosa¡¯s head. ¡°She¡¯s afraid she¡¯s not good enough, you playing here and all.¡± Peggy laughed. ¡°Forget about it. I¡¯m not bad, but you should hear the rich kids playing. Holy moly, they¡¯re good. Their parents can afford primo teachers from, like, Oberlin or the orchestra. Compared to them, I stink. Doesn¡¯t matter, I just love playing. It¡¯s fun. Let¡¯s do it, the carols?¡± The bashful girl considered, bit her lip and, her eyes obscured by her bangs, nodded. ¡°Me too. I mean, I love playing¡­. er, umm¡­ okay,¡± she said, her voice rising a half-step on the last word, making it a half-question. Peg understood: the younger girl was questioning herself. No need, because Rosa was a Fratino, a member of Gramps¡¯s union family, making her kin. So, pasting a crooked grin on her face, Peggy offered her hand to Rosa. ¡°Done deal.¡± Rosa smiled, her aura expanding as she relaxed and grew excited, and Peggy sensed Rosa''s half-question resolving into a definite ¡®yes.¡¯ Peg nodded at her hand. ¡°Well?¡± They shook. And then Peg¡¯s cheeks went cold as she remembered her grandfather. She tugged Mister Fratino¡¯s sleeve, asking, ¡°Hey, you heard from my Gramps?¡± His eyes soft, he lay a hand on Peggy¡¯s shoulder, shaking his head. ¡°Nope. Left him in the parking lot after lunch, about two. Your grandmother told us about the police, but ain¡¯t seen him since.¡± ¡°Think they¡¯ll arrest him?¡± Mister Fratino snorted. ¡°For bloodying the nose of a low-life like Bo Childress? Unlikely. Cleveland Police have much bigger fish to fry, Peggy.¡± Encouraged, Peggy asked, ¡°He¡¯ll be here?¡± The cherubic man nodded. ¡°If I know Frank, he¡¯ll move mountains to get here. But I suspect he¡¯s in East Cleveland, checking on a friend of ours, some half-baked street vendor we met working downtown. Great guy, but loony. Anyway, he¡¯s got¡­,¡± Mister Fratino lifted his cuff and checked his watch, ¡°¡­ over twenty minutes to get here before curtain call. Like I said, he¡¯ll move mountains.¡± ¡°Thanks Mister Fratino.¡± She stepped back, speaking to everyone. ¡°Hey guys, I gotta go.¡± ¡°Good luck,¡± said Gram. ¡°Knock ¡®em dead,¡± said Mister Fratino, looking uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit. ¡°Break a leg,¡± said Missis Fratino. ¡°Luck,¡± said Ben, His voice raised while stomping loud, the slap echoing down the halls. Boys. Happy, she spun, fixing to hustle back to the stage¡­ but turned on a dime, and aimed a question at Mister Fratino. ¡°Hey, Mister Fratino, Gramps won, right?¡± A spark lit the stocky man¡¯s face, and he nodded. ¡°Knocked that young buck out cold. Amazing, like seeing Ali walloping Frazier, but eyeball-to-eyeball.¡± Gram¡¯s face went slack. ¡°He didn¡¯t start it, did he?¡± Mister Fratino shook his head. ¡°Nope. That jacka¡ªI mean, that fine, upstanding young fella insults Peggy¡¯s mother on account she married that Puerto Rican fella, calling her foul names. The bigoted jackhole¡ªpardon my implied French¡ªgot what he deserved. I mean, insulting a man¡¯s daughter. And then, this dumb mamaluke sucker punches Frank, who knocks him silly, squashing his nose flat as a pancake.¡± The stocky man rocked back on his heels, belly-laughing. ¡°Stupid is as stupid does, saying goes.¡± Peggy¡¯s heart soared in her chest, and she almost floated like a butterfly down the aisle towards the stage. Go, Gramps. Chapter 24. Chapter 24. (unknown date; unknown location.)
In the warm dark nothing, Frank plopped to the ground, his back against the wall that felt so smooth and spongy it seemed organic, and pulled his knees into his chest. He ached all over. A hollow pain settled behind his eyebrows, his cheek where the rock hit him throbbed, and the hand he¡¯s broken Bo¡¯s nose with was stiff and achy. Worse, he was stuck in this void. Blind in the pitch dark, he could never find his way around. He also lacked the Sultan¡¯s knack for slicing holes in the void which led to reality. Stuck: a human fly caught in one of those amber fossils his son Paul collected as a Cub Scout. Fuck. Now, his situation wasn¡¯t completely grim, a small compensation. Despite being dark, the void was comfortable as a hot bath, and he sensed the sun, moon, stars and green, growing world sprouting just beyond the edges of his perception¡­. Knowledge which sucked, since he couldn¡¯t see, feel, or touch that world. Instead, the universe chained him like a dog, then dangled a promise beyond his reach: a cruel joke. Okay, I stand corrected, Frank thought, pulling possum-tight. My situation is completely grim. Facts were, the worst-case seemed most likely: he would die here, rot here, alone, wrapped in the silent void. He sighed, praying, but stopped. What was the point? He¡¯d never get to Severance Hall, never see Peggy perform, never see his wife, kids, or grandkids again. Otto would have one less ally against Howard and Saint George¡¯s Chamber of Commerce-fueled power. And worse, he¡¯d never save the chef from being lynched, or Zac from making a grievous mistake. The Sultan was right. He was a powerless fraud, incapable of changing anything that mattered.
Sans external clues, like light, dark, sight and sound, Frank couldn¡¯t guess how long he sat and stewed. Minutes, hours, days, weeks¡­ how could he know? And what did it matter? Deep down, though, he realized moping and doing nothing did¡­ well¡­ nothing. Sure, he had a rough row to hoe. Sure, there seemed little chance of success. But preferring grit under his nails to gathering moss, Frank forced himself upright, asking God for strength. In answer to his prayer, a Dale Carnegie quote sprung to mind: ¡°If you want to conquer fear and apathy, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy.¡± He nodded, steeling his resolve, followed the divine intervention, and got busy. Walking aimlessly at first, he bumped into the walls at turns as he acclimated to moving through the dark. Soon, his feet detected that the floor wasn¡¯t flat, but curved. Following a hunch, he stretched his hand, running it up and down the warm, soft surface as he walked. As he suspected, it bowed. Frank realized the void was cave-like: a tunnel, not a corridor with straight walls raised on level floors. Through his thin-soled shoes, he learned to sense the floor¡¯s curvature, and he could soon detect, from feel alone, the tunnel¡¯s central channel. Once mastering the art, he no longer stumbled, but cooked along, faring forward. One step towards freedom, Frank thought, glad he¡¯d heeded Dale Carnegie¡¯s sage advice. By his lights, the self-help guru was the Muhammed Ali of thinkers: the greatest of all-time. Carnegie was no stuffed-shirt sitting on his arse, pontificating from his ivory tower. Instead, his words were practical as a shovel, and Frank loved shovels and dug shoveling¡­ bad pun intended. How else could you dig a hole when a hole needs digging? With your fingers or a stick? Don¡¯t be dim. Having conquered the simple act of walking, Frank wondered where he¡¯d walk to. The void rendered his keen sense of direction, which had proved handy as hell on family vacations and fishing trips, useless at tits on a bull. So he walked, counting steps from one to a thousand, cycling back to one, a ploy to keep his head engaged. God will provide, he thought, repeating a Maddie-ism, choosing to believe his wife¡¯s wisdom. Preach, Sister Maddie, preach: God provides.
Several thousand steps, his only measure of time and distance, he halted, doing a double-take. Because, though Frank had not noticed, his ¡®gut¡¯ had assumed command, leading the way for the past thousand-ish steps, choosing tunnels at the jumbled intersections without hesitation. No mean feat, because the void¡¯s caves twisted, maze-like, each intersection veering in six, eight or even ten directions, with most paths climbing or dropping to different levels. He hadn¡¯t the foggiest notion where his gut led him, but he no longer drifted rudderless. A vast improvement. Now, Frank possessed smarts enough to know that his gut feeling could be pure bunk. He could as easily be lost, walking in circles, as heading somewhere. But choosing his instincts gave him a sense of control, which he relished given the arse-over-teakettle day he¡¯d had. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Right or wrong, he¡¯d follow his instincts. Better than moping, playing a lump on a log, he reckoned. A snap in his step, he walked faster, singing a Beatles medley off-key in his scratchy baritone in-time with his steps, from ¡®Eleanor Rigby¡¯ to ¡®Here Comes the Sun,¡¯ amused by his awful voice but cherishing the songs. A few thousand steps later, Frank screeched to a halt. That¡¯s odd, he thought, wondering why. He stilled himself, a fisherman bobbing on the waves, tense with expectation and waiting for a nibble. The metaphorical fish took the bait several deep breaths later: he heard a faint, indistinct noise in the undeterminable distance. Heard. Sounds. Faint, but there. Funny that he, Francis Aloysius O¡¯Brien proper, hadn¡¯t noticed, but the back of his mind had¡­ and stopped him? He snorted. Out-thought by not thinking? Odd thing, the brain. Wary of reality in this dark, unreal place, Frank wondered if it wasn¡¯t his mind playing tricks. Little today had made sense. Still, his gut had led him here, and the noises seemed real, so he followed his ears, searching for its source, glad to have a concrete goal. Since he¡¯d stopped counting and started listening, the lightless, twisty tunnels made time and distance harder to measure, but he reckoned it a mile later when he halted again, sizing things up. The sounds had grown louder, resolving into a faint, though still distant, hum. How far away, though, remained fuzzy. Decades of construction experience told him that the soft, organic walls would absorb noise, but how much they would absorb escaped him. That was egghead business, while he just hammered the egghead¡¯s shit home. Nor did he know how loud the humming was. He wouldn¡¯t venture a guess: too many unknowns. Regardless, he was closer, making progress. That mattered. So Frank honed on the noise, walking and thinking about music halls and soundproof baffling, which brought to mind the Theatrical and Oscar Peterson on stage that night as his mind drifted. The assorted record albums he owned with Peterson as either headliner or sideman rose to mind: seventeen, by his count. Soon he contemplated his sprawling record collection, listing the hundreds of album he owned from memory, pining after those he lacked, like the Lester Young and Thelonious Monk LPs he¡¯d rejected at Record Rendezvous earlier that evening despite eyeing them for months. His collection needed both. Why the heck hadn¡¯t he snagged them? Because of dumbass Bo and five-oh, he reckoned. Still, big mistake. He¡¯d pick them up tomorrow. Frank trudged along, singing under his breath, having passed from the Beatles to a rhythm and blues mix, thinking, The soft, warm walls must be why I can¡¯t make out this music. His gravelly version of Sam and Dave¡¯s ¡®Soul Man¡¯ ceased as he hit the brakes, asking the void, ¡°Did I just say I heard music?¡± After replaying the scene, he reckoned he had, so he cocked his right ear towards the noise. Soft acoustic music, the tune hinted at but indistinct. And he realized the back of his mind had stopped him once again, hearing sounds he missed. What the¡­ out-thought by not thinking¡­ again? Made him wonder who was in charge. He chuckled at the notion. Nonsense. He had to get out of here, not navel-gaze, pontificating on bizarre, useless notions instead of locating the music¡¯s source. Frank needed to find the musician¡­ or the Hi-Fi set, or whatnot: anything that¡¯d explain music in the lifeless void. Because music meant people, and people meant possibility. So he walked, silent so he could hear, towards the possible, his step light, suppressing a burning desire to sing ¡®Soul Man.¡¯ As he clicked along at a brisk pace, Frank recalled The Sultan, the air-strikes, the riot, and all the other nonsense he¡¯d been through since bloodying Bo¡¯s nose. The memories made Frank slow down. He wasn¡¯t in Kansas anymore. Places he¡¯d once deemed humdrum, like his backyard and dive bars, now crawled with dangerous demons, dim-witted angels, toothy dragons, and whatnot, so he reckoned the music itself could be a trap. Like the sirens in The Odyssey, his favorite book from junior high, before the Depression and food made him ditch school to dig ditches, helping feed the family. So he slowed, his senses on high alert, balancing the dual needs of finding the music¡¯s source and staying alive. It¡¯d suck to crash a hootenanny only to have the goon squad bushwhack you, no?
Before the music resolved into a hummable tune, a threshold Frank sensed nearing, a heady perfume of rain, soil, grass, and flowers tickled his nose hairs. The spring-like scents sent his nostrils flaring, and he followed his nose. Ears, too, since the sound grew clearer with every step. And soon the music gained context, with birdsong weaving through the swoosh of leaves in the breeze. But when the breeze itself tingled across his cheeks, Frank nodded, a grin tightening his face. Talk about vast improvements. Fresh air meant reality and ditching the stale, moist air of this dark tunnel. Which could lead him back home, to Severance, to his family, to his life, God willing. Frank¡¯s lot continued improving. Besides the music, earthy aromas, and fresh breeze, he saw his feet¡­ meaning light. A dim light, its illumination increasing as he inched forward. Soon, he made out that the walls were a reddish pink, not the coal-black he¡¯d expected. Frank hoped to God this wasn¡¯t a trick The Sultan was playing on him. He wouldn¡¯t put it past the cruel idiot. Sure, he had followed his gut here, and it had been right. His gut sensed he had little to fear now. However, he reckoned every fish caught lured by a spinner bait, mistaking the flashing metal for prey, trusted its gut, too¡­ and damn, were they wrong. He¡¯d hate to end up in someone¡¯s frying pan. So he moved on, trusting his gut¡­ but slower and with care, verifying each step. As he¡¯d learned in the army, being over-eager could get you killed. It wasn¡¯t long before he emerged from the tunnels into an Appalachian meadow. He stopped, hands on his hips and feet wide, taking in the scene: all green and golden, wild yet domesticated, a cultivated garden ringed by the rugged mountains and cool, silent wildness of the forest, bees, bugs, and insects buzzing, faint dots in the glorious landscape. Until the memory of The Sultan and his horde flashed to mind, reminding him of his danger, so he slipped behind a tree for cover. No frying pan for me, thanks. Hidden, Frank surveyed the dale for a path offering ample cover. First things first: he was thirsty. Dehydration kills, so he took a risk, sidling towards a clear mountain stream. He squatted, peering for predators, before sipping water so cold it stung his teeth. After several deep gulps, he retreated to a clump of bushes to plot his course. Paranoia, perhaps, he thought, finalizing his route with a precision he¡¯d gained soldiering in the European countryside. Overkill, maybe. But as the saying goes, just because you¡¯re paranoid don¡¯t mean they¡¯re not after you.