Story of the Day - Installment 3

Before he can answer, the waitress is back with the drinks. Cocktails napkins, then the booze, and finally the coffee with its own saucer. Like I said, all business. I pick up mine gently. Give it a swish and let it settle on the tongue. Their cheapest is a damn site better than I've had in a long while. I savor it. Maybe the giant will get the tab.

He's not so delicate. He treats it like a shot. All down at once. One of the reasons I don't like rich people - no manners, no finesse. He puts the glass back on the table. Hard. Then he glares at me. I take my time with the second sip. Good stuff. Finally I set it down. Gently. With a long breath he begins:

"I work at a club, The Pendulum. There have been three murders there in the last six months."

"Yeah, I read about the lastest one," I interrupt to see the effect. Nothing.

"The police have come dutifully each time," he continues. "They look around, interview the customers, the staff. They tell us they'll let us know when they find something. And that's that. The first one they chalked up to inebriation. Drunks getting jealous or something like that. The victim took several powerful blows to the head. A few people saw him in the bathroom. Looked alive. They thought he'd passed out. We didn't figure it out until closing time. By then he was dead."

"The police stick it on anyone?" I ask as the giant sips his coffee. He cradles the cup in between drinks. Figures.

"Not that I know of, no. The victim wasn't a regular. No one remembered him sticking out that night. Except the bartender; remembered because he tipped well, but otherwise he was just another customer. The second was a month and a half ago. A woman this time. We don't actually know if she was killed in the club, but the dish washer found her body out back. She had been stabbed twice. That much was clear. Several people remembered her. She was a bit more, well, memorable. Again, the police came. The whole rigamorole. Everyone questioned. Apparently she had been there alone. No suspects. Nothing."

"No arrests?" I ask incredulously. The giant shakes his head slowly. Surprising trend. In this town, there's always a suspect. Someone always gets pinched. Some poor schmucks even get pinched for imaginary crimes. I take another drink. "I know about the third. Young guy. Stabbed last week. Happened out in the open according to the papers. At a table, yeah?" The giant nods his assent. "The police caught the guy though. Saw his picture in the paper."

"The police have the wrong person," and with this the giant looks me in the eye, "the man they say did it was at the bar that night. But he wasn't with the victim. No where near him in fact. He was with me, out back. We were talking, smoking, wasting time." He leans back - relaxes a bit. "Several people vouched for him in fact, but the police took him in anyway, along with others. The others have all been released, and, as you say, you saw the accused pictured in the paper."

He stops to let me figure out the rest. I take my time. I hate murder cases. They always end bad. Always. But I'm broke. Like usual. They do get that part right in the stories. And it's clear this guy has money to burn. With care, I finish the scotch. Very deliberately my glass finds its way to the table.

"So," I draw it out, "you want me to prove who did it, so-" but the giant won't let me finish. Cuts me off sharply.

"I don't care who did it. Any of it. I want you to prove that my acquaintence didn't do it. That's it. The rest can burn for all I care."

Story of the Day - Installment 2

You can tell a lot about a guy by his clothes. The giant had nice ones. Pants and shirt were tailor-made. Shoes matched the belt - both were patent leather. His overcoat was nice too, a hell of a lot nicer than mine. And warmer. He moved comfortably in them. He was well-healed. Had been for a while.

"I need a drink. You?" I ask as we pause at the lip of the alley.

"Whatever. Just make it warm," the giant replies. "And clean." Apparently fastidiousness is a fetish for this guy. As we walk I noticed a slight limp. It doesn't seem to faze him. Probably forgot about it long ago. It looked like the type of injury that a comfortable guy like this got playing prep football.

"In here," I motioned him into the second bar we passed. I walked in like I owned the place. But I didn't know the joint. I make it a rule never to meet business contacts at bars I frequent. That's one thing the stories get wrong. The place looked clean. The barkeep had on a tie. The waitresses were good-looking but not young. They knew their business. Despite the rain, the bar was well-lit. Another advantage when meeting with unknown informants. Especially giant ones.

I lead us to a table in the corner and take the seat facing the door. It always seems like a good idea to face the door. Except when you get pinned in by a giant. If things went bad, I'd have to get past the brute. Bad planning. I blame the adrenaline. It's still pumping and I'm consciously keeping my breaths measured. The waitress watches us sit down and then walks over to the table. All business.

"Scotch, neat," I say before she can ask. She looks at me. She looks around. Her rolling gaze forces me to look around too. That's when I notice the detail. The place isn't just nice - it's spectacular. Her eyes stop on the bar. I get the picture. "Whatever's cheap." She rolls her eyes and looks at the brute. She takes in the clothes and the man in a glance. Her expectations rise. "Same," he says, and then adds with that incongruously high voice "with a coffee, black." The eye roll is even worse this time. She saunters off without a word.

While waiting for the drinks, we take each other's measure. I leave my hat on and project quiet confidence. The giant takes his hat off. Pulls out a handkerchief and wipes down his face. The clothes and voice don't match the face. This guy's seen life. The bad part. It's not that he's ugly. Or scarred. But his eyes have seen stuff that make him cringe. Perpetually. It's a haunting look. I look down. Can't meet his eyes. That doesn't happen often.

And then I notice the hands. Fighter's hands. Not recently, but at some point the brute broke people. Noses, jaws, probably ribs. The adrenaline starts up again. I sit up straighter. Look him in the eye. No fear.

"What do you got for me?" I throw out. All business.

Story of the Day...An installment

The alley was dark. They always are in this kind of story. And damp too. And full of dirty things. The type of things that you wouldn't want to touch without gloves. And there I was in the middle of it. Not too happy to be there all things considered. But what are you gonna do? Fate, that dirty mischevious bastard, puts us in uncomfortable places all the time. You can either get scared and stay home or walk the earth and deal with it. I choose the latter. Most of the time anyway.

So I'm waiting for a guy, a guy with information. I realize it all sounds pretty vague. But that's how I operate. So I'm waiting. And I'm waiting. It's wet. I'm cold. Cigarettes make you look cool, and I love 'em. But they're hell on the hands, and they don't draw worth dick in the damp. Plus, the guy, the one with the information, looks like a no-show. I'll give him a few more minutes then I'm outta here.

A silhouette passes in front of the street. A pause. This might be the guy. He turns down the alley. I tense up and try to keep the adrenaline rush from making me jittery. Happens every time, the adrenaline that is. Makes it hard to think. And hard to focus.

He's cautious. He sees me. But he takes his sweet damn time ambling down to the doorway I've settled in to. As he gets closer, I notice that he's huge. Not the type of guy I'm expecting. Informants tend to be small jittery types, but not this guy. He's a beast, six and half feet tall and broader than professional boxers. The adrenaline kicks up another notch. I drop the cigarette and stub it out, just so my body has something to do other than twitch. I've been in fights, but I've never really taken a good beating. Maybe that'll change.

"You Sloan?" the giant asks in a surprisingly high voice.

"Yeah," I answer. He obviously knows me or he wouldn't be here. The question was a formality. Maybe I won't get pummeled after all.

"Can we go somewhere? This alley's cold." He looks around. "And filthy." He doesn't need to ask twice. I button my coat and gesture for him to lead the way. Guys get pummeled in alleys all the time. At least they do in stories like this. I'll take my chances somewhere more public. And warmer.

Fuck You World

There are days when I walk in to work - I teach at an amazing yet chaotic alternative/college prep high school - and I just want to scream and go off like it's a mosh pit. One of my students, a freshman at that, got nabbed for burglary and assault. It's not his first felony either, so he'll be doing time. The student in question chose me as his mentor. He checked in with me a couple of times a week, and things seemed to being going well. He had great support from a family member, and he was thriving. But his family seems to be a plague. His brother got caught too; I tried to "save" his brother last year, but he dropped out anyway. It's like I'm headed to a fight with a dead herring.

Then there's the pregnant senior who started the year with everything, I mean everything - she was on track for valedictorian, full-ride scholarships, the works - but she met a fucked up 30 year old pervert whose idea of a good night was to get stoned and have unprotected sex. Now she's pregnant. She quit the weed, but she still smokes a half pack a day. I doubt she'll even start college. Every teacher in the building watched it happen, but we sure as hell weren't passive. We begged and pleaded and cajoled and yelled, and the principal almost went vigilante on the guy; but we were about as potent as a fart in the wind.

Our senior class started out ten strong. We'll be lucky if half make it the last few weeks. It's infuriating. And the freshman are no better. They have no passion. I understand laziness, procrastination even, but there's no love, no elan vital. It's like a lobotomy workshop somedays. And every member of the faculty is an activist of some sort or another, so the student faculty dichotomy is crazy.

Maybe all teachers have these days/weeks/semesters. Which perhaps explains the teacher attrition rate.

But there are bright spots - the student who found her voice in writing, the student who is getting his diploma because of his two year old daughter, the unexpected acting class which has saved a few of the students who would have drifted away. We have our moments, not many, but we have them.

You know life is good when Weezer and the Flobots are topping out the alternative rock charts. Between the two bands, there's enough for just about everyone. And if there isn't, then there's something wrong with you and you should seek counseling.

No, I'm serious. Seek counseling.