Falling

“Call me, maybe?”

I stared at her – at Jeannette – as I turned the car engine off. Or more precisely, I stared at her even harder, since I had been staring at her all evening. I said, “Did you just pull a line from that Carly Rae Jepsen song?”

She blinked, then smiled, abashed. “Oh, God, you’re right. Sorry. Emma’s been singing and playing that song nonstop. It’s all I can hear in my head nowadays.” Emma was her daughter, whom she was raising by herself. Emma was thirteen, a budding fashion designer, eco-activist, writer, archer, hip-hop dancer, social entrepreneur – she hadn’t quite decided yet which of her interests to pursue and seemed to keep adding to her growing list of passions every week. She was headstrong, mercurial, and bit of a drama princess who was absolutely certain the world had been specifically designed to torment her. She and Jeannette had taken years to come to terms with Jeannette’s divorce and had finally managed to establish a quiet truce in their relationship – only to have Emma hit her teens and have everything blow up again. Amazing how much you can learn about someone in one conversation when she lowers her guard and just decides to tell you everything.

I was dropping Jeannette off after a night of volunteering at the local food pantry, where we had both been assigned with the other adults to the back warehouse putting food bags together, while the teenage volunteers were up front handing them out to low-income families. I had seen her there before, but for some reason this night we had fallen to talking as we worked – and couldn’t stop talking. After we were done, her car wouldn’t start and AAA had to tow it to the shop, so I offered her a ride home.

She looked at me from the passenger seat while we were parked in front of her house. Her eyes narrowed impishly – and I felt myself slipping one more inch down the hole. She said, “Of course, that begs the question: how did you know that? I can’t imagine that an English Lit professor would normally be listening to teen pop songs.”

“My nieces,” I reminded her. I had told her that between the families of my brother and two sisters and various cousins, my family had enough tweens and teenage girls to form a volleyball squad. I was the doting but fuddy-duddy uncle. I had also told her how it was so strange that once my nieces and nephews started reaching puberty, the comments and the subtle pressure from my family for me to get married began to wane. Either they had finally realized that our clan had added enough human beings to the world’s population without my having to make a contribution, or else my siblings and cousins, at least, had laid off me when they finally crossed the point of total exhaustion raising their own kids. Or perhaps everyone had just given up when I passed forty and there was still no one on the horizon.

Amazing how much you end up revealing about yourself when a beautiful, thoughtful, crazy-smart woman pays attention to your every word.

She said, “The tune’s catchy. Sometimes when I’m cleaning, I dance to it with the vacuum cleaner, since you can be sure it’s blasting from her room.”

I cast my eyes down and nodded slowly, pleased with the image. I said, “And the lyrics are not half bad. It’s actually quite serviceable as poetry.”

“Do tell.”

“Sure. The imagery is fairly precise, and the turns of phrase are clever. The line ‘Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad,’ evokes the Platonic notion of soulmates, in which we long for our long-lost other halves and recognize them immediately when we find them. And this stanza…” – and I sang:

You took your time with the call,

I took no time with the fall,

You gave me nothing at all,

But still you’re in my way.

I explained, “Perfect rhyme and scansion, nice juxtaposition – indicative of the asymmetry of desire – and psychologically accurate. The boy is either indifferent or feigning indifference, which makes her want him even more.”

I was suddenly anxious that I was coming across as simultaneously frivolous and pompous – paradoxical as that may sound – but the momentum of my thoughts and an impulsive need to keep talking made me continue. “And that recurring line ‘But now you’re in my way’” – and again I sang the line – “is an exact metaphor for how love can just suddenly loom before you and block everything else, so that… so that nothing else exists.”

And with that piece of insight I stopped dead in my tracks, and a silence fell between us, and it suddenly became impossible to keep looking at each other. We both turned away. Suddenly we were both shy, after having talked nonstop for four or five hours. But our eyes found each other again and locked, and I could feel the joy coursing up in me, vibrating, from all the way down in my toes. I had to stop myself from bending towards her by force of will. In the same moment I imagined I saw a small movement in her, an ever-so-slight lean towards me.

“Oh. My. God!”

The exclamation took us both by surprise and we turned to the back of the car. Emma was scowling fiercely at us, arms folded across her chest, her face a fascinating mix of shock, consternation, fury, and – I don’t know how else to put it – grossed-outedness. A kind of expression only a young teenage girl can make.

Emma gave me a dirty look, got out of my car, slammed the door, and stomped to the porch of their house and stood there, fuming. Jeannette looked at me, brow furrowed and lips tight with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well, thanks for the ride,” she said, and got out of the car and started walking to her daughter, fishing for her keys from her bag. Just before she went up the porch steps, she turned around and smiled and waved her cell phone and mouthed the words: Call me.

I grinned and nodded. I waved at Emma and collected a glare in exchange. I started my car, and drove off.

* * *

When I got to my apartment building, I went past the entrance to the parking garage and kept on driving. There was no way my apartment was going to contain my energy, I would be bouncing off the walls if I went in now. I dialed the MP3 player in my car to the Jepsen song and played it over and over, singing along as loudly as I could (“I wasn't looking for this, but now you’re in my way”), feeling foolish and giddy and alive. The bounciness of the song fed my elation in a positive feedback loop, so that it took more than an hour of driving all across town before the charge began to subside and my brain started to function again and I finally decided it was time to head back home.

As I drove home, I thought to myself that if anything was to happen between Jeannette and me, I would have to win Emma over somehow – and make it up to her. Jeannette and I had virtually ignored her half the night, and that had been extremely rude and inconsiderate. I owed her an apology. But not an explanation. I would not explain to her that when you are falling, even when you’re far along in years, you’re always blind and thoughtless and stupid and embarrassing, and you always land back at thirteen. She would learn this herself soon enough.

* * *

Turning Emma around wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. A few rather expensive gifts (strategically chosen with Jeannette’s advice) helped. What helped more was my huge family taking to her instantly, and she taking to my nieces. She quickly found a place among them as a cousin in all but name. In fact, if there was any problem, it was Emma’s tendency to try to lord it over them. As Jeannette said, she could be a little domineering. But my nieces are all good-hearted girls, and they worked it out somehow and managed to keep her exuberance somewhat in check.

She couldn’t be stopped eight months later, though, from leading them dancing down the aisle in a procession of the wedding entourage at my and Jeannette’s wedding. Her expression was priceless: she was positively beaming from all the attention. The video of her dancing and leading the way was a minor YouTube viral hit: nearly 200,000 views last time I checked. They didn’t dance to Carly Rae Jepsen, though, but to Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature.” On this point, Jeannette and I put our foot down. It was our wedding, after all.

(July 2012)

 

A Valentine Trinket

My father loves telling this story of me when I was five:

It was Valentine’s Day morning on a Sunday. He woke me up early to help him bring breakfast to my mother in bed. He did the heavy lifting: fried ham, eggs over easy, toast, juice, and coffee on a breakfast tray. My help was nominal: I carried the rose. He basically just wanted to include me in the little celebration.

Nevertheless, I was really proud to be of assistance, he said. After he had carefully lowered the tray on my mother’s lap, I just as ceremoniously gave her the rose. But then he pulled out his Valentine’s present for my mom from the pocket of his robe: a small box wrapped in red foil. My mother opened it and was really happy to find the necklace inside. My father said I was smiling as I looked up at him and my mom from the side of the bed – in sympathetic joy, he thought, but the next words I said let him know that my happiness was, in fact, expectancy.

“What did you get me?” he said I asked.

My father and mother exchanged glances. My father said, “I’m sorry, Ray. It’s Valentine’s Day, so I only got a gift for your mother.”

My father said I was pouting as I said, “But you gave me gifts, too, last time.” “Last time” meaning Christmas, a couple of months before.

“Well… Valentine’s Day is different. Only certain people get gifts on Valentine’s.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, husbands and wives. Sweethearts. People who have boyfriends or girlfriends.”

My father said I looked unconvinced – and a little like I’d been betrayed. “Gina from school is my friend. She’s a girl.”

“Umm… okay?”

“So why didn’t you get me a gift?”

(July 2012)

Moira

We need to talk about Kevin.

He went there. The bastard went there, after he had sworn he never would. The fever of her outrage flushed Moira’s face, suffused her with warmth despite the chill of the deep, winter’s night as she strode on the sidewalk, further and further away from his house.

I got the bank statements today and noticed you made out a $2,000 check to him –

Don’t, she’d warned him. That had pulled him up short, if only for a moment.

I warned him from the start, she thought, pulling the coat she had thrown over her nightgown tighter about herself. I’m damaged goods, she had told him; I drag behind me a shitload of baggage. We can keep seeing each other the way we have; all you have to do is keep helping me out with my rent, my bills. But no; he needed more, he said. He needed to be with her. He wanted to take care of her; he loved her; there wasn’t a minute in his day that wasn’t interrupted by the thought of her.

I love you – the pause did not last very long – I love you, but I can’t let you keep giving him so much money.

He’s my brother.

Half-brother, he had tried to correct her.

Brother. Again, her tone had silenced him temporarily.

The flap-flap-flap of her plush slippers on the ice-cold concrete was the only sound in the crystalline silence of the empty street. With growing despair, she glanced through the frost-laced windows of the darkened houses as they glided by. They were black apertures into empty containers, she was convinced; no one was inside them – no families sleeping, no kids; no dogs, cats, hamsters – nothing that lived and breathed.

I know he’s your family, and I know that marrying you means I have some responsibility for him, too. And I want you to be able to help him. But –

Please. Stop.

– you’re just enabling him. You’re not helping him any if you keep bailing him out every time he gets into trouble. He needs to man up. He needs to stand on his own two feet.

And how’s he going to do that if the loan sharks break his legs, you fat son of a bitch? she yelled at him silently, lengthening her stride. Man up? What about you? I asked you to promise me one thing: to never bring him up, to never ask me about him, to let me keep that part of my life my own – with no accounting. How much of a man are you to break your word?

The money I’ve been putting in your bank account monthly – I wanted you to have money for the things you need and the things you want. She knew another “but” was coming. He kept doing that: saying one thing then pivoting on that word to take it all back. But I didn’t expect you’d be sending him almost everything I give you.

I don’t have to justify myself to you, she’d said through gritted teeth. It’s my money.

Of course, but to spend it all on him –

She started slowing down, the rage finally spending itself. Her face twisted in grief, though she knew no tears would come. She had not cried since her teens. What am I supposed to do? she continued arguing with him in her mind, since she in her fierce pride had not been able to bring herself to do so earlier that night. I know Kevin’s a drunk and a fuck-up, and someday he’s going to be found stiff and cold in an alley. I know that until you took me in I was on a slow road to the same place. But when my stepfather would slap me around when I was a kid, it was Kevin who would come into my room afterwards with ice for my bruises and a dishcloth to wipe away the blood. Do you think there isn’t anything I would do now – no matter how useless in the end – to make sure he stays alive and in one piece?

I need to make sure you act responsibly. So I’m afraid I’ll need to close down your account. You let me know when you want to buy something and I’ll either get it for you or give you enough money for it – but then I’ll need to see the receipts afterwards. Fair enough?

She had glared her hatred at him, and he could not meet her eyes. He was just another coward at heart after all – just one who used his money rather than the back of his hand. He shifted in discomfort on his side of the bed, then reached over to switch off his lamp and turned his back to her to go to sleep. She had remained frozen in place, still leaning against her pillow, the magazine she had been reading when he broached the forbidden subject out of nowhere still resting on her lap. The left side of her body was bathed in the glow of the lamp on her side table. When his breathing had become deeper and started coming out from his nose in soft whistles, she got out of bed, went down the stairs, and stamped off into the night.

Her headlong rush finally lost momentum and came to an end at a crosswalk. She stopped at the curb, stared across the street to the sidewalk that continued on the other side and went on into the distance, into the darkness. What was she doing? Where could she go? Back to a crappy waitressing job and a shoebox of an apartment? Tonight? In her nightgown? She hadn’t even had the presence of mind to stuff her purse into her coat pocket when she left his house like a shot.

She looked back the way she had come: twelve, maybe fifteen blocks she had covered in a straight line, swept along by her fury. She felt sick at the thought of going back, but her anger had dissipated now, and she became aware of how the breeze had numbed her face and legs and was seeping in through the openings in her collar and cuffs. She began the long trudge back, her soul shriveling with each heavy step she took through the icy air. And yet her resolve hardened as well. She thought of Kevin out there on a night like this; she hoped the radiator was finally working in that fleabag motel room he lived in.

When she got back in the house, she stood over a heat register to get warm through before going back upstairs and climbing quietly into bed. She switched off her lamp and lay down, staring at the shadows in the ceiling, tamping down the revulsion that rose like a wave with each sibilant breath the man beside her exhaled. She mapped out in her mind what she had to do.

When the window started letting in the cold, dawn light, just when she thought he was about to wake up, she would crawl under the covers, pull down his pajama bottom, and slowly blow him. He liked it when she took the initiative – it gave him the illusion that she desired him. Then she would ride him until his turgid body collapsed into itself in release. Afterwards, she would make him breakfast and apologize, with downcast eyes. Later in the evening when he came back home, after servicing him some more, she would plead with him – somehow convince him not to cut her off. She would have to remember to keep her voice plaintive and placating.

Nights were long in winter; dawn was still a long ways off – a blessed reprieve. She pulled up the comforter to her chin, and waited.

(July 2012)

Opening Salvo

Jamila smiled at Abigail as she set her tumbler of coffee on the desktop of dispatcher station two. Abigail looked up at her, a little more grim than usual, and said, “Sometimes this job just sinks to a whole new level of depressing.”

Jamila’s smile faded and she put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder commiseratingly. “Busy morning?”

“Not really, but I just got a call about a hit-and-run. A pickup truck ran a stop sign outside Claremont Middle School and hit a woman and two boys crossing the street. The driver just barreled over them and sped off. I’ve got units and ambulances on the way.” Abigail had two children of her own, aged eight and eleven.

“A mother and her kids?”

“Don’t know. Probably. The caller was pretty hysterical.”

Pedro at station three chimed in: “I just got a call on the same incident from another witness. Damn, these things come in bunches, don’t they? I got a report twenty minutes ago of a five-year-old girl who fell from her apartment balcony.”

Abigail looked grieved. “Five years old!” she muttered.

Jamila glanced at the station two display screen to scan the reports. Pedro’s caller knew the hit-and-run victims and had been able to give their names. She nodded at Abigail. “Okay, I got it. You’re relieved. Get out of here.” Abigail logged off the station, stood up, gathered her purse, jacket, and empty Redbull can, and left. Jamila slid into her seat, fitted the earphone into her ear, and logged in. Her station light blinked red at once: a call was being routed to her station.

“911. What is your emergency?” Jamila said, speaking into the mike of her earphone, noting the time automatically: 12:04 pm.

“Are you recording this?” It was a man’s baritone, oddly muffled.

“Yes, sir. It’s department policy to record all 911 calls. What is your emergency, please?”

“I just wanted to confirm that you’re recording this, so I don’t have to repeat myself,” the man said. “I have placed four C-4 explosive devices on timers at heavily trafficked locations throughout the city. The devices are set to detonate in about four hours – at exactly 4:00 pm. The first device is located inside the utility closet under the down escalator of the Trent Street subway station. I will call again at 1:00 pm. This will give you time to check the station and confirm that what I am saying is true. When I call, I will provide you with a list of demands, which I would appreciate you passing on to the Mayor.”

Jamila sat there blinking. The man’s precise way of speaking and matter-of-fact, almost amiable tone made it difficult to take him seriously. She fell back on the playbook. “Sir, making a bomb threat – even a false one – is a crime and subject to prosecution.”

“Go do what you have to do. I’ll call again in one hour.” The phone clicked off.

Jamila pushed herself away from the station, propelled by one long exhalation. Then she waved to Earl at the supervisor’s desk, pulled herself back to her desk, and leaned forward to her screen, tapping on her keyboard to retrieve the call details – the number and location of the caller.

Earl appeared by her side. “What’s up?”

Jamila responded, not looking up, “Bomb threat. Here. Listen to the playback.” She plugged in another earpiece and gave it to Earl, who listened intently to the recording while she dispatched units to both the address from where the call had originated and the subway station.

Earl looked at her. “Think it’s for real?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Earl said, “All right. Block off all further emergency calls to this station. Pedro” – Pedro looked up – “you, too. We’ll use these two stations to coordinate our response. Pedro, call it in to the precinct captain. Tell her she may need to inform the Chief and the Mayor. Then call Metro Rail Transit and tell them to shut down and evacuate Trent Street Station. Tell them units are en route.” Then to Jamila: “Alert the bomb squad.”

Pedro and Jamila got to work. Jamila patched herself to the bomb squad hotline; the officer-on-duty answered, “Lieutenant Evans here.”

Jamila said, “Lieutenant, 911 Dispatch here. I’ll be sending you a recording regarding a multiple bomb threat. The caller claims he has placed explosive devices at four locations. We have one location: the subway station on Trent Street. Details are in the recording. Please be advised: the alleged bomber has said he will call again at 1:00 pm.”

“Whoa. Four bombs? Okay. We’ll gear up and head to the station. Keep us informed.”

Something was niggling at Jamila. “Lieutenant, what’s your full name?”

A pause on the other side of the line. “Lieutenant Curtis Evans. Why?”

The blood drained from Jamila’s face. Evans. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Nothing. We’ll keep you apprised.”

She started breathing deeply to calm herself. Earl looked at her alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Jamila went back to the reports on the hit-and-run. The Lieutenant’s name should have rung bells at once, but Evans was a somewhat nondescript name.

Earl repeated, “Jamila, what’s wrong?” Jamila had brought up the personnel record of  Lieutenant Evans. She read aloud: “Spouse: Christine, age thirty-two. Child: Jack, age ten.” She crosschecked the information with the names of the hit-and-run victims: Christine Evans, Jack Evans, and Kyle Kurita. “Oh, my God.” She looked at Earl and pointed to the screen. “The wife and son of the bomb squad officer-on-duty just figured in a vehicular accident, less than fifteen minutes ago.”

Earl said, “But who’s Kyle Kurita?”

Jamila said, “I don’t know. A neighbor? Classmate? Some kid crossing the street? Hold on.” She brought up the list of emergency calls from the morning shift and began going through them. Then a hunch took hold of her chest in an icy grip, and she turned to Pedro. “That little girl who fell from the balcony. Anything new about her?”

Pedro answered, “Yeah, I’ve been monitoring the updates. The paramedics said she was DOA. And the officers who checked the apartment found a woman unconscious and bleeding on the floor – probably her mother. Looked like she had been beaten. They’re calling it a B&E now.”

“Names?”

“Hold on, I’m checking the hospital records.... The little girl was Megan Choi, the woman was Kerstin Choi. The woman is in the ER at Sandstone Hill Medical.” His eyes suddenly widened as it sunk in. “The bomb squad captain’s name is Harry Choi, isn’t it?”

Jamila, Earl, and Pedro looked at each other in shock. Earl pulled himself out of it and raised his voice to the entire room. “All right, everyone. I want updates and follow-ups on all emergency calls from the past twelve hours copied to stations two and three.” To Jamila, more quietly: “Check all recent victims against the bomb squad roster.”

A radio call came in to Pedro. He reported, “There was no one at the alleged bomber’s location. It was a vacated storefront, not even a phone hook-up. The officers on the scene are doing a search of the surrounding area.”

Another call. He said, “Metro Transit and the officers on the scene are evacuating the Trent Street station. The site commander says the utility closet is unlocked and ajar. They haven’t opened it, of course, but they can see blinking lights through the door crack. The bomb squad is still en route.”

Jamila looked up from her screen, her face a grimace. “Earl, in the past hour, we’ve received reports of an assault on one Jacob Korinsky, husband of Sergeant Stephanie Brand, and a fire at the domicile of Roberto and Maria Esteban, parents of Officer Renato Esteban. The fire is still being put out and they don’t have any information yet on casualties.”

Earl said, “Brand and Esteban are both in the bomb squad?”

“Yes. We should check with the other Regional Dispatch Centers and see if they’ve gotten any other reports of incidents involving members of the families of the bomb squad. My guess is there are more.”

“Have they been informed?”

“I can’t imagine that they haven’t. The site commanders must be calling them at this point, if they haven’t yet.” She continued reluctantly, dreading to put into words what was in all of their minds: “Someone is taking out the families of the bomb squad, just when they may have to take on the delicate work of defusing four ticking bombs. In about five minutes, all hell is going to break loose around here – because someone’s just declared war on this city.”

A silence fell on the three of them. Finally, Earl said, “Who the fuck are we dealing with?”

(June 2012)

Notes on the Previous Four Stories

“A Lakeside Tale” was a lark that came out of nowhere – always a gift. I just saw a pretty woman in my mind (although admittedly, I always see pretty women in my mind) and got to thinking about how that sight tends to make an idiot of most men, and how nice it would be if somehow a guy – even if only in fiction – somehow managed to keep his wits about him even after he has made a complete ass of himself. This story is what came out.

“The White Book” was my and my niece Emily’s entry to Three-Minute Fiction's latest round. As I wrote, I had already written a couple of other pieces in response to this round’s challenge of writing a 600-word-max story whose first line reads: “She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.” But I wanted Emily to try her hand at writing, so we agreed to get together and each write a story, and whatever we wrote we would send in. Unfortunately, I discovered that the rules didn’t allow minors to enter the contest. To try to get around this, I suggested that we do a collaboration instead, and I would submit our story under my name.

I don't think I ever had as much fun (co)writing anything as this story, which Emily and I wrangled into shape over a couple of very pleasant days. I mostly steered and I did provide the twist ending (and put in some constraints: she wanted to include a bunch of adventures, and I had to tell her that we only had space for maybe one scene in a 600-word story), but the main idea and the great, weird imagery – the people with beaks, the medieval costumes, the skates made of animal bones – are hers, from her Social Studies lesson on the Black Plague. During a lunch break, I got to telling her about the Monty Python Black Knight scene, and when we went back to writing, we decided to add a black knight into the mix.

It turned out that we were probably disqualified anyway, since another rule of the contest was that a story should be the sole creation of the person submitting. But – what the heck. As I said, the experience of writing this story with Emily was priceless in itself.

The next couple of stories came from prompts from Flash Friday Fiction.

“Fear” came from the cue: “A story about fear using the words: dark, crunching, eerie, monster, and fear. Word limit: 1,313 words.” I had been wanting to write a story where a protagonist’s experience with a primal emotion shatters his self-conception. I had anger in mind, but when I saw the prompt on Flash Friday Fiction, I figured fear would do as well.

“By Mokelumne River” arose from the cue: “Write a Western short story using these words: rope, dust, whiskey, medicine, and ceremony. Word limit: 1,500 words.” I had thought that of all genres, the Western would be the most difficult for me to write, but it turned out to be very easy. All I had to do was think back on Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, one of my favorite movies, and Firefly, one of my favorite shows, and try to emulate the tone and the penchant for twisty turnabouts of those two entertainments. I can only hope I succeeded somewhat.

By Mokelumne River

Frank Bosworth and Li Ping raised their heads from where they crouched by the shore when Medicine Mutt started barking. They peered up the slope and spied three figures on horses coming down the trail, kicking up dust behind them. Frank and Li Ping poured out the water and gravel from their tin pans back into the river, put the pans down, stood up, and watched as the three men drew nigh.

They were big, mangy fellows, with leathery faces and bristly beards and an ill-favored look about them. Pistols hung from their belts and rifle butts stuck out from their saddles. The one in the lead wore a tall, worn stove pipe hat, and he gave a gaptoothed grin as he drew his horse up half a dozen paces from Frank and Li Ping. Tall Hat’s two companions wore beat-up Stetson hats – one black, one white – and took their places behind him, one to each side.

“Well, now, what have we got here?” Tall Hat said to Frank. “How’s the lady river treating you, fella? She coughing up?”

Frank smiled amiably and shrugged. “She’ll favor us yet.”

Tall Hat looked down at Medicine Mutt and said evenly, “Will you get your dog to stop nipping and sniffin’ at my horse’s heels afore I plug him?”

Frank said, “Now, no need for that. He’s just doing his job.” Then to Mutt: “Down, boy, down. C’mere.” Mutt circled away and lay down at Frank’s feet, staring at the three strangers warily.

Tall Hat looked over Frank appraisingly. He nodded at the revolver that hung low on Frank’s right thigh. He said, “You carry that like you know your ways around a .45. You in the war?”

Frank responded, “I got me into a few scrapes in my time.”

Tall Hat eyed Li Ping, taking in his black pants and black robe, his shaved head with his queue – that long, rope-like braid of hair that Chinese men wore – hanging down his back. Tall Hat snorted and said, still addressing Frank, “Why you got a Chinaman with you? He your cook?”

Frank glanced at Li Ping. “Well,” he admitted slowly, “he’s actually sorta my boss. My prospecting partner, really, but this here stake we got is mostly on his coin.”

Tall Hat straightened up and leaned back in surprise. “Your boss? Well, don’t that beat all!” He turned back to his companions. “Don’t that beat all, fellas? You ever heard of such a thing?”

The one behind him to his right wearing the black Stetson said grimly, “Damned affront to the Almighty, if you ask me. A white man working for a John Chinaman.”

Tall Hat faced Frank again with a look of disapproval. “What’s the story behind that?”

Frank shrugged again. “Li Ping’s been wanting to bring in his girl from across the ocean; been mooning over her and planning his wedding ceremony and all. He’d saved up from his railroad work on the Union Pacific, but he needed a little more, so he thought prospecting might be the way to go. I worked on the Union Pacific myself and knew him from there. He asked me to join him, and so here we are.”

Tall Hat shook his head. “Now, that ain’t right, bringing in a China woman to breed more squinty-eyed pups. Unless’n of course he puts her up for some whoring, which might be okay. Them China women are sweet enough when you ain’t got coin for a proper white whore.” He guffawed when he saw that Li Ping had turned from staring narrow-eyed at Frank to glaring furiously at him. “Why, fellas,” he said, “I do believe this John Chinaman’s getting what I’m saying. So who says their heathen minds can’t fathom Christian talk?”

He sighed expansively and said to Frank, “Well, now, fella, seeing as how you ain’t exactly been living right, taking up with a swarthy Oriental and all, I gotta say that some righteous retribution is in order.” He looked around at the small encampment. “You got some nice prospecting gear here: nice tent, couple of good nags, probably got some good vittles and maybe even some whiskey inside your tent. Not to mention John Chinaman’s coin. And I got a feeling you weren’t exactly forthright about your luck and prolly got a few nice shiny nuggets squirreled away. Ain’t that so?”

Frank sighed.

Tall Hat continued, “So I think taking it all would be a good and proper fine for, you know, breaking all sorts of laws of God and man.”

Frank said placatingly, “Come on, fellas. If I read you right, you boys were in the big fight, same as me. We all seen enough plundering and shooting and killing to last a lifetime. Ain’t no need to go down this road.”

Tall Hat said, “You’re right, there ain’t no need to go down this road. All you gotta do is unhitch your gun belt and let it slide down to the ground and this’ll all turn out nice and peaceful.”

Frank sighed again. “Well, fellas, no one could ever claim I ain’t a peaceable man. Why, I remember a time in Kansas, when I came across a couple of fine gentlemen like yourselves and I – “

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Li Ping said and pulled a gun from his robe and shot Tall Hat in the chest.

Tall Hat’s horse reared, dumping him on the ground. Li Ping shifted his aim to the right of the horse pawing air and plugged White Stetson as he was drawing his rifle from its saddle holster. Frank got Black Stetson on the left. None of the three men got off a shot.

Li Ping strode to the men lying on the ground with Mutt padding by his side, barking excitedly. He kicked the bodies one by one. One of them stirred and moaned; Li Ping aimed at his face and fired.

He walked back to Frank, tucking his gun back in his robe, shaking his head in exasperation.

“What?” Frank said. “I was working my way to it.”

“How? By talking ’em to death?”

“I was, you know, trying to lull them so I could make my play.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. And what was that about telling them about me and my girl back home?”

“What? They was going to be dead anyway. Where’s the harm in shooting the breeze sometimes? You’re always so damn silent.”

Li Ping frowned. “I’m paying good coin for this here business venture. The least you can do is hold up your end and take care of these varmints when they show up, like you’re supposed to. Do I gotta do everything myself?”

“Ahhh, you always take things so damn serious.”

(June 2011)