Because You Have Wings

He always asked for me. I told myself I never really knew why. For the most part, I’m just an old (okay, not too old) black bear who can do his job well, no one particularly memorable. I like to think that I give my clients something special, even if it’s not a “happy ending.” Quite apart from the risk of violating the idiotic and unconscionably male-biased laws against prostitution, I just don’t enjoy the idea of getting paid for sex. I am a little too old to think that it’s “just sex” anymore. There’s always that possibility, sure — the back room of a certain pub, or the male’s room stalls of various establishments, or places in the park whether day or night, or even in the back of a bus or tram or subway train, if it’s reasonably deserted. Fast, furious, anonymous, sometimes even exciting. But always empty. Besides, when you do what you love just for money, both suffer.

It’s possible that he asked for me because I took special care of him. Again, nothing sexual. I just feel that, if one is to plunk down some bucks for a bit of pampering in a spa, one should be able to expect great treatment, from massage to grooming. It’s the grooming that turns the trick, though. Leaving the spa feeling beautiful, glorious, glowing with health, confidence, and more than a little sex appeal… that’s my goal for my clients. Having spent a good number of years at my trade and craft, I’ve learned some things that have made me notable in a quiet way. My expertise is neither cheap nor outrageously expensive; I get by on what I make (a bit more than just get by, truth told), and I’ve learned not to expect too much from this world. I work hard, and it was my reputation that eventually drew him into the spa, perhaps because he knew about my special grooming talents. Few enough of our clients are feathered, and so far as I knew, he was the only one who had feathers as well as a full and beautiful coat, mane, and tail.

“Gavin? Manny’s here.”

I pressed the key on the intercom. “Send him back, would you, Celeste?”

“On his way.”

The thick carpeting laid throughout the spa is designed both to feel good on the hindpaws and to muffle sound, for those clients who have non-retractable claws or hooves that might click or clop on a bare floor. I couldn’t hear him, but I could sense him getting nearer. Hallways here are wide, ceilings and doorways are tall, yet I sometimes thought that he could fill them with his heart alone, much less his physical presence. He strode into my parlor, unpretentious yet stunning, even with his wings furled. Magical because of rarity, if nothing else, a Pegasus is always awe-inspiring.

He bent from his height of something over two full meters, his arms outstretched to receive the “bear hug” that we had shared almost from his first visit. Smiling warmly, he tucked his equine chin over my shoulder, confident that I would not try to wrap my arms around his wings. He shifted them slightly so that I could reach under them to complete the hug. Even through his clothing, I could feel the warmth of the summer’s heat radiating from him.

“Good to see you, Emmanuel,” I told him. I could never bear to hear so beautiful a name shortened to Manny.

“Very glad to be here, Gavin,” he murmured in my ear. “I could use more than a little pampering today.”

I pulled back to eye him quizzically. “You okay?”

“I will be.” He sighed, a tired smile on his face. “Nothing to worry about, especially when I’ve got such a great chance to really relax. How about I strip off?”

“Of course,” I said. He moved behind the screen as I set up the station for him. I’ll admit that I’m a bit privileged here, with not one but two massage and grooming treatment rooms. Emmanuel wasn’t my only client who was, shall we say, vertically gifted. Ours was one of the few spas in town that could cater to those well over two meters tall. One of my regulars is a highland bull who not only stood nearly 250cm but also had one of the shaggiest and nearly untamable coats in the known galaxy. I always was able to clean him up brilliantly (not just my own opinion, that), but we did require some special drains and grooming supplies to deal with the copious quantities of excess fur. He was so happy with the work that he allowed photos of himself in our various advertisements. He autographed one for me, and it appears, oversized and framed, in pride of place on my wall of satisfied customers.

In moments, the good-looking, well-formed, and completely unclothed Pegasus had arranged himself, belly down, on the oversized massage table, an extra-large towel draped over his backside. He was a study in raw beauty, with his coat of the finest, smoothest caramel; his mane, tail, and hoof feathers a white-golden blond; and his wing feathers white like moonlight and polar ice. Spread wide, those wings were easily seven meters from tip to tip; for now, they were comfortably furled, and he’d move them when I got to the point of rubbing down his back. He had already settled his large head into the padded ring that I had set in place for him and, his white-blazed nose pointed to the floor, he said, “Don’t hold back, Gavin. I think I might need a sledge hammer to loosen up these shoulder muscles today.”

I activated the pod in the stereo setup, playing the original Syntonic Research sounds of ocean waves, knowing that it was his favorite. Padding around to the head of the table, I found the ready supply of the special massage liniment that I kept available for him. I put some onto my forepaws, rubbed them together to warm up the liquid. The scent of fresh apples wafted gently on the air, and I heard him nicker slightly at the scent. As cliché as it sounded, he did love his apples. “Good evening, folks,” I echoed the old comedian. “I just flew in from Jersey, and oy, are my arms tired.”

That fetched what was best described as a horse laugh, but even that was cut short when I applied my large bear paws to his shoulders. What came out was more like a moan, and it made me smile, as it did every time. It’s always a joy to be appreciated, and Emmanuel was never stingy with his praise, verbal and otherwise. The liniment made his beautiful coat glisten; the formulation would rinse out easily, still leaving the glow behind. His shoulder muscles were indeed terribly tight, and I made sure to use the balm to its best advantage. I dug my thumbs firmly into the worst spots; the deep massage, combined with the soothing sounds of crashing surf, was helping him to relax completely. “That’s starting to feel better,” I observed.

“Can I get an AMEN, brothers and sisters?” He chuckled softly. “It’s wonderful, Gavin, thank you.”

I kept up the massage across his shoulders and neck, being careful around the base of his wings. “Would you like to talk, or maybe you’d like to have some peace and quiet today?”

“As if you could keep quiet.” I could hear the grin in his voice. We both knew what a chatterbox I can be.

“Just wanted to know if you wanted to talk for a change.” I hesitated in my speaking, my paws never stopping. “You seemed to have a problem on your mind. I’m like a bartender, in that sense: The psychotherapy is part of the service.”

That got another chuckle from him. He seemed to consider for a moment, then asked, “How are you with relationship problems?”

“Depends on the problem.”

“Ain’t got one.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a problem. Neither have I.” I got some more liniment on my paws and moved around toward the middle of the table. On cue, he raised his wings a bit, and I worked on his spine and his powerfully-formed back muscles. The hoss could model for Gray’s Equine Anatomy. I could hear appreciative grunts as I worked, using the sounds to help me know how to apply the proper pressure. “Any prospects?”

“Maybe,” he said, grunting as I worked on what felt like concrete supports in his lower back.

“Good grief, Emmanuel, what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Rugby.”

“As the Python lads would put it, say no more.” I adjusted the towel slightly so that I could reach the area at the base of his tail. “You’re not keeping a record of your injuries as a trophy, are you?”

“You mean the sprained flexor tendons, the twice-broken arm, the once dislocated shoulder, the rebuilt teeth — ya know, two of those were 3D-printed, right there in the office — and the various stitches in various locations? No, not keeping a record at all.”

My considered response was a playful yank of his tail. “You cover it all up very well.”

“The miraculous healing of Percheron ancestry, no doubt.”

“I thought you stemmed from Clydesdale?”

“Old family secrets.” He paused. “Um… would you…?”

“Glutes sore?”

“Yeah.”

“No problem.” I fetched more liniment, then came back to pull the towel back discreetly. I applied my paws properly, professionally, and resisted the temptation to drool. I smiled at myself, once more appreciating that Emmanuel trusted me, knowing that I’m gay, always impressed by his physical presence, and even more impressed by those astonishingly wonderful buns. There are proper, therapeutic ways to massage the gluteal muscles, and I applied my knowledge with care, professionalism, and discretion. For example, I discreetly refrained from whistling while I worked.

“So,” I said, trying to focus the earlier part of the conversation. “A ‘maybe’ in the offing?”

“Possibly. I don’t know quite what to do.”

“Start a conversation; that’s usually the best way. Do you have a chance to do that?”

Another pause. “Yes. I guess I’m just scared to try. I mean, how do you know when someone is actually interested in you?” He nickered in self-deprecating amusement. “Guess that’s not exactly a new question, huh?”

I finished bear-fondling his glutes and put the towel back over him before I started work on his massive hamstrings. I was already sweating a bit; a proper massage can be its own workout. “You’ve been in relationships before,” I observed casually. “We’ve talked about a few during your sessions here. How did those get started?”

“About what you might expect, sadly enough.” He coughed, hesitating. “It sounds vain as hell if I say it.”

“You’re beautiful, Emmanuel. You’re rare, good-looking, and you have an aura of kindness and warmth about you that makes you very attractive.”

“Okay, I wasn’t going to say all that much.” Again, I heard the smile.

“It’s okay for me to say it. You aren’t vain enough. Or perhaps arrogant enough. It’s all true, though, and there’s a difference between vanity and being realistic. Let’s just say that you’re clearly very attractive indeed.” I turned my muzzle back toward him to make sure he could hear me. “Which flexor tendon did you sprain, and how long ago?”

An ear flicked backward, although I was sure he could hear me well enough. “Both of them, more than once, but not recently. I appreciate the caution.”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

The great Pegasus was quiet for a while as I worked on his lower legs, paying careful attention to the tendons. I saw evidence of his wearing a protective boot on his left leg for a while, perhaps while playing, but I knew that such boots were difficult to fit on Clydes and, wings or no, he had the general anatomy of his ancestry. I suppressed an urge to tell him to take better care of himself. He was no mere foal, in any sense of the term.

I patted his rump through the towel. “Roll over for me, eh? Careful, don’t slip and slide.” I discreetly turned my back, as I did for all my clients as they shifted. Towels are notorious for not staying where they belong during such maneuvering. Occasionally, they fall to the floor, and I had perfected a means of bending carefully, picking up the stray cloth, and passing it back behind me without turning around. Most of my clients (including Emmanuel) weren’t nearly so shy as all that, but it allowed me to say that I never treated my customers in anything other than a strictly professional manner.

“All set,” he said.

I turned around to find him properly adorned, smiling softly at me. I never figured out how he could be comfortable sprawled on his back, even with his wings very slightly unfurled so that he wasn’t lying directly on them. Clearly, he must have been able to work it out over the years. I slipped a small pillow under his head so that he wouldn’t have to nestle it entirely into the ring. “I’m going to take some time with that mane today,” I said. “Found some new conditioner I was hoping to try out on you.”

“Tail too, I suppose?”

“Of course; got to have you matching, after all.” I got more liniment onto my paws and moved to stand over his head, reaching down to begin massaging his impressive pectorals. “So, where were we?”

“Talking about how wonderful I am,” he grinned.

“That’s a topic that would run the clock on your session, pony!” I grinned back.

He grunted softly as I moved my paws outward toward the delts, continuing to make his luscious caramel coat glow as if freshly poured from the candy-maker. “Do you really think so?”

I paused for a moment, looking at him from my upside-down perspective. “You’d be the last person I’d suspect of having self-doubts.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry; I just trod all over your feelings. I only meant…”

“I know.” His soft smile returned, looking lovely on his velvety lips. “I’ll take it as a vote of confidence.”

“At the very least!” I smiled, moving to his right side, putting his right forepaw on my shoulder as I began to work the muscles of his arms. “Can you tell me what you don’t feel confident about?”

“Do you know what I do for a living? I stand around and look pretty.”

“You’re an artist’s model, and you sometimes do advertising and photographic spreads too.” I tapped his nose with a teasing finger. “Don’t put yourself down. It’s a perfectly respectable job.”

“And it pays well, too. Usually.”

I caught a bit of melancholy in his voice that I didn’t understand at that moment. “I guess I should be grateful for trickle-down economics then.”

He fetched a playful and utterly painless slap at my face with his right forepaw. I laughed softly as I lowered his arm to his side and laid it carefully where it covered part of his wing. Moving around to his other side, I took his left arm and began working it as I had the right.

“They think I’m an idiot.”

“Who?”

“The people in those art classes. The ad execs. Everyone around them. I’m just the dumb and pretty wingie-horsey.” He sighed softly. “Heard someone say that the other day. ‘Wingie-horsey’.”

I rubbed down his strong biceps and triceps, honed and expanded with the pride of repeated and well-crafted workouts. “Someone doesn’t know the word ‘Pegasus’?”

“No wonder we’re such a dying breed.”

My face turned to his, brows furrowed. “What…?”

“No, not dying. Not really. Just… rare, I guess.” Some of the light went out of his eyes as I lay his arm down. He didn’t speak further as I worked on his thighs and lower legs; I had the feeling that he was weighing something in his mind and, for once, I didn’t let idle talk interrupt deep thought. Moving at last back around to his head, I put a paw to his forehead and rubbed gently, the coup de grâce of my profession. He closed his eyes and sighed. I think it was one of contentment with the massage, but still, that sense of melancholy lingered.

“Rest for a minute,” I said. “I’ll get some rinse ready.”

I went to the sink to prepare some mild soap solution in hot water, to help get any excess liniment out of his coat. Much of it would sink in to relieve the muscles, or even just evaporate, as it’s supposed to do, but there’s always a bit left. Some clients prefer to shower, while others, like Emmanuel, enjoy the luxury of being sponged down. I had to be careful about how much and what kind of soap I used; his feathers had oils in them that wouldn’t do to be stripped off. I had a very special cleaning and grooming process for anyone with feathers; the Pegasus was a greater challenge, as he had both hide and feathers to tend to, and I had to keep things toward separate.

“…cut them off.”

I spun around quickly, certain that I could not have heard what I thought I heard. “What did you say?”

“My agent. He said I should cut them off.”

“What?” I dropped the materials into the sink, water still running, to stand by him. “Emmanuel, you can’t be serious… cut off your wings?”

“It would make me more bankable. More mainstream.”

“It would make you mutilated! It would make you…” The frustration in me stole my words. I took his chin into my paw and looked at him intently. “Emmanuel, you can’t. You mustn’t. I beg of you, don’t even think about it.”

He said nothing, and after a few moments, I went back to the sink to finish the preparations. My forepaws were shaking. I couldn’t tell you why I was so horrified, so repulsed. My stomach churned violently; I actually thought I was going to vomit. I wanted to find Emmanuel’s agent and beat him senseless. How dare he even broach the idea, give it the slightest credence? And yet, even in my fury, I had the sense that this wouldn’t have come up for the Pegasus unless something else was happening. This was not something that came out of nowhere.

I took the plastic basin of warm soapy water back to the table and, large soft loofa sponge in paw, began to clean off his chest and arms. “Would you really want to do that?”

The large equine didn’t answer for a long time. I bathed his firm belly, moved down to his legs, waited anxiously until he finally spoke.

“I was called a freak when I was a kid,” he said. “I never knew my parents, and… you know most of it already.”

I did. A tale of orphanages and foster homes, a string of horrible schools and a brush with the darkest side of everything. I had told him often how glad I was that he didn’t succumb to all that, and that he’d found legitimate modeling instead of porn, drugs, and prostitution. I knew a lion who wasn’t so lucky, who fell into the trap of his pretty golden mane, until age and abuse caught up to him, and he could face it no longer. I still light a candle each year on October 6, the day of his suicide, the day that his fleeting beauty finally murdered him. I couldn’t bear to think of Emmanuel in that kind of pain.

“It’s not like they’re necessary or something. Not like I can really fly. I mean, I’ve heard about other Pegasi who have had it done. It’s a fairly short recovery time, surprisingly. It shouldn’t show scars, and my recovery would include all of my workout routine, so I could keep my figure…”

“Stop.” I said it softly and without emphasis. I just couldn’t bear to hear anymore. I tried to put the basin down gently, but it fell to the floor just as I did. I sat hard on the tile floor, the contents of the basin flowing into the drain under the table, and I sat in a hunched ball and cried.

“Gavin!” I felt more than saw the Pegasus move off the far side of the table and come around to me, kneeling next to me, his powerful arms pulling me against his huge muscled body, holding me tightly as I shook with uncontrollable sobbing. “Gavin, I’m sorry…”

I couldn’t speak for what felt like several minutes, and he just held me, softly apologizing from time to time. I finally managed to get my breath back, yet I still couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He just held on to me and waited, all strength and warmth and shaking slightly like myself. Eventually, I patted his arms and made motions to get us both stood up. He turned me to face him and hugged me tightly, his chin tucked over my shoulder. It was only then that I realized that he too had been crying. I reached around him and under his wings — his beautiful, precious wings — and held him close. We stood together, trying not to get each other crying again. He planted a kiss atop my head and pulled away from me slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, then nickered softly. “Aside from being wet.”

A small chuckle found its way out of me from somewhere. “We may both need towels. Do you…” I paused, not sure how this question would come out. “Do you want me to groom your wings today as well?”

“Yes, Gavin.” He smiled at me gently. “Yes, I do. And I think my hoof feathers may need a bit of trimming, if you’re up to it.”

“And your mane and tail as well, as I promised.” I nodded, returning the smile, if shakily. “I need to finish rinsing you off.”

He brushed his forepaw against my cheek tenderly. “I’ll hose myself off in the shower. You need a dry shirt, I’d say.”

“Fair enough. For you, fresh towels, still warm from the dryer. Back in just a few — you okay on your own?”

“As long as you promise to come back.”

Revealing more than I’d intended, I whispered, “For you… always.”

* * * * *

Over the next two minutes, I did all I could to force my mind to stop imagining the horrifying vision of Emmanuel without his wings. I donned a fresh shirt, gathered towels, tried to gather what few wits I thought I had. This was not a problem to take head-on; I had to think, to listen to him, really hear him. Perhaps I could find a way to convince him to keep his wings, but I also had to let him discover for himself whatever it was that he truly wanted to do.

…as if I could be that grown-up about it.

As I came back into my grooming area, fresh from my errand, I heard him turn off the water in the curtained-off shower area. “Back,” I called out, feigning nonchalance. “Fresh towel for you; I’ll set it on the side table.”

For many furs, it’s enough to wick off most of the water with towels, then stand in front of the warm air blowers to help get the rest; I always was ready to touch up any fur that might get disheveled in the process. Emmanuel didn’t much care for the blowers, when he was here, because it jostled his feathers so much and tended to dry them out. He moved gracefully out of the shower, the towel I’d provided wrapped around his firm middle. I padded up to him with a few more. He took one, to dry off his chest, and I took the other to look after his shoulders and back.

“They really are warm,” he nickered softly. “I thought you were being facetious.”

“Had a batch going before you got here,” I said, rubbing firmly yet tenderly on the areas above the waist-hugging towel. He gave in to the secondary massage, shifting his wings slightly to give me room to step up closer. I marveled at how they grew from his back, knowing that he had a whole set of muscles adapted from the lats and rhomboids to control and make his wings move properly. Even his pecs, looking fully like other sapients’ chest muscles, must have had a species-adapted version of the supracoracoideus muscles that raised the wings in bird species. What would happen to all that muscle tissue if he cut…

I held my breath, forced the emotions back down.

Kneeling behind the Pegasus, I rubbed down his powerful legs, taking a moment to see that his hoof feathers — the fine hair like his mane and tail, yet still called “feathers” on equines, with or without wings — did indeed want a bit of evening out. I looked up at him, towering above me, his magnificent wings still mostly furled, and something quite primitive awoke in me, something that touched the need to pray to something, someone, in reverent thanks for that which is really beautiful in the world… to worship what you truly believe in, and hope — pray — that it believes back.

I patted his fetlock gently. “Gae sit ye doon, laddie,” I said, in my best faux Scots brogue. “I’ll fetch the clippers.”

When he was properly ensconced on what was essentially an oversized barber’s chair, his towel still resting in his lap, I had him place his hooves flat on the floor so that I could trim the feathers evenly with the pull of gravity. My fingers flew, comb in one paw, scissors in the other, comforting myself with the act of aesthetics guided by muscle memory, allowing me to calm my feelings and let other thoughts wash away for a few minutes. Emmanuel, too, was quiet. The space helped me to feel less embarrassed about my breakdown.

I smoothed out the hoof feathers, gleaming white-gold and fine as spun silk. “I think they’ll do,” said softly. “Want a mirror?”

“I’ll wait for the full effect. I love to look stunning all in one go.” I heard the smile in his voice, and I felt better.

Rising, I smiled back at him. “Mane and tail; wing feathers for last.”

“My favorite.”

I prepared the mane and tail by brushing out any tangles or knots that I could find, then readied the conditioner I’d promised him. “Sorry it’s not apples,” I noted. “The manufacturer seems to think that something more like mangoes would be a better sell.”

“It’s good to vary the palate. Bring it on.”

I applied the cream to his tail first, which he did his best to hold still for me, unlike… A thought blossomed in my head. “Emmanuel, how are you with non-sapient horses?”

“What?”

“I have a small ranch, about an hour’s drive north. Have you ever spent time with non-sapient horses?”

“Actually, no.”

“I’d like to invite you up for the weekend.” I paused, sensing his hesitation. “Nice acreage, some wooded sections as well as open fields, very quiet. Horses can be sweetly relaxed companions. It’s a good place to escape the stress of the city, settle back a bit and think. Consider things.”

I combed the conditioner well through his tail, used a damp cloth to remove the excess. The result was wholly satisfying; the white-gold fairly glowed, and the tail hair was soft, full, yet still light and bouncy. His mane would be no less beautiful, when I was done.

“It sounds lovely,” he said at length.

“Emmanuel…” I sighed. “Let me take this head on. I don’t know why you would want even to consider… surgery.” I still couldn’t say cut off your wings; the image was horrifying. “But I know you’ve got no family to lean on, and I’m barely more than a humble servant who enjoys your company. I just want you to have a chance to really think about it, talk to me if you want, or wander around the grounds and woods near the ranch, just to make sure that a decision this huge, this enormous, is the right one.” I began brushing out his mane. “Sorry if I’ve overstepped, I just…”

“It’s okay, Gavin.” He closed his eyes, calmly, as he always did when I worked on his mane. “How did you end up with a horse ranch?”

“Been in the family a long time,” I said. “My grandfather got the land decades ago; my father added to it before too much urban expansion took place, and I’ve been able to keep hold of most of it. We’ve kept non-sapient horses there for about… oh, fifty years now, all told.” I chuckled. “I wasn’t born in a stable, but perhaps I might as well have been.”

The Pegasus chuckled. “Do you ride?”

The novelty of providing the “gay” answer to that question had long since worn off. “There’s a lovely pinto whose grandsire taught me how to ride. I’m a much bigger bear now than I was back then, but Jason doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Jason?”

“His name on the papers is Jason Imperious Three-Socks, and if he’s in a mood, he’ll live up to his middle name. But he’s never been mean. He’ll let you know what he thinks of you, if he’s of a mind that you’re asking too much of him. He hates being ridden early in the morning; took me a while to figure that one out. He loves the evenings, though. Loves the gloaming. As long as he trusts his rider, he’ll even walk in starlight.” I sighed happily. “He’s a lovely feller.”

“Sounds like love to me,” Emmanuel joked. I tapped his cheek gently with the brush, and he chuckled.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it!” I went back to treating his mane. “So how about it — long weekend at your mane-dresser’s country manor?”

“Gavin, I feel like I’m imposing…”

I stepped around to stand in front of him; he put both ears forward to mark me. “I wouldn’t have offered, if I hadn’t meant it. And more importantly, I don’t want…” I paused, sighing. “Emmanuel, please. I can’t tell you what to do with your own life, but please… at least give me this weekend to talk to you. We can leave from here Friday, early evening; I’ll have you back Monday afternoon.” Impulse got the better of me, and I took his long nose and muzzle into my forepaws and looked him in the eyes. “Please.”

The moment stretched, and I was afraid I’d gone too far. I released him gently and moved behind him to get ready to work on his wings. His beautiful wings. I wanted to throw him out, bodily if I had to, never speak to him again; if he was just going to lop them off, who cared what they looked like until then? I fought the pain down again. Right now, he’d asked me to groom him…

“Okay.”

I turned slowly.

“Yes,” he was nodding. “I’ll come visit with you, Gavin. I… think I need to talk.”

Once more, I fought the urge to cry, although this time for relief. “I’m glad,” I managed to croak out. “Thank you.”

“For now…” He rearranged himself slightly in his chair, and he partly unfurled his wings to allow me better access to them. My breath caught again, as it always did when I saw him adjusting and moving his wings. I could see the muscles moving in his back, see the way the feathers slid elegantly over one another, overlapping in complete perfection, whispering as if speaking the language of the wind itself. The white of his feathers was absolute, a radiance as if lit from within by something angelic, something beyond the merely mortal. It made a kind of aura around him, and I knew that I couldn’t be the only one who saw it. I was, however, the only one who knew how to care for those wings, and it was still my Percivalian honor to do so.

“Ready?” I asked.

“More than ever.”

Me too, I thought, taking up my tools. Me too…

* * * * *

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3: The Firm Law

I’d like to have lingered over the tea; it was warm, as was the kitchen, and the company was good. I learned that other required services to the McMansion were provided by independent contractors. No big snows for the past few weeks or more, so no one to clear the driveway and walks; gardeners and groundskeepers not expected until the next day. In this distressingly electronic age, no newspaper delivery, and the mail carrier didn’t get closer than the cluster of boxes at the foot of the lane. No one beyond the cook and the maid would have any information about what went on in the house, what Glover was like. No doubt, I’d find that he treated tradespersons well, perhaps tipped appropriately or even a little extravagantly, but not too much. Not flashy, just genuinely generous. “Nice” would be the adjective used. A flabby, lame word that unintentionally slights the recipient.

With the rest of the merry band of blue-suits and snoops out of the way, it seemed inappropriate for me to linger. Usually, I’d have been Rhett Butler about it, but I took into account that both cook and housemaid might be in for even worse treatment if I kept them from tending to Her Highness’ needs. I made my way to my car — the only one left on the lane, at this point — and climbed inside before getting out my cell phone. Every time I take it out of my pocket and brush a pawpad across the surface to wake it up, I’m reminded that it’s not really a phone; it’s a small, powerful computer that, almost as an afterthought, can connect by voice (and video, if desired) to similar compact devices, laptops, computers, and even — as I imagine yowens everywhere shuddering at the thought — land lines. I had so few contacts that the “Recent Calls” section of the phone (oh, excuse me, the phone app) had all the numbers I needed to dial. I touched one and held the small rectangle with appropriate reverence while it allowed itself to be reduced to the function I used most.

“Crandall,” grumped a harsh voice.

“Luton, checking in,” I allowed.

“Remind me.”

“Glover. Called in as a suicide.”

The pause on the line was expected; it was the duration that would make the difference. Captain Ambrose Crandall, who avoided using his first name at almost all cost, suffered also from a few clichés that made his life difficult when dealing with those who wouldn’t see past them. He was a bulldog, known for being tough and for not tolerating impertinence or incompetence well. Tenacious, hard-working, by-the-book, Crandall was as incorruptible as it was possible for someone in today’s police force to be. As I mentioned before, money talks. Sometimes, it talks to people way above our pay grade, and we get our instructions filtered through the layers.

A short pause was the time it took the cap’n to remember specifics of the case I’d mentioned. A longer pause might mean that he was figuring out if he had room to go by the Book or the Boss. A significantly long pause would mean that he was trying to figure out which rules to bend and to find a good reason for doing it. Either that, or precisely how much tail he was going to chew off, and by what method.

Short pause. “Routine?”

“Glover was right-pawed, the gun was in his left, and the sword was in his right.”

“Say again?”

I did.

This pause was covered by a deep inhalation. I braced for chewing, although I didn’t think things had gotten quite that far. “Okay,” he began, breathing out slowly. “What have you got?”

“Daimler will have the autopsy later, but he doubts he’ll find anything other than the obvious. CSI will have the photos for us; the gun is being traced, and I’ve requested that the sword be analyzed for composition, any hint of who made it, all of that. Wife denies any hint of suicidal tendencies or any threats made by others. Only household staff is a cook and a housemaid; they didn’t have much to add. I’ll make a report on them today.”

“Background?”

“Clean,” I said, hoping Allison’s juvie record wouldn’t pop.

Brief pause — the thought-gathering type. I could almost hear his wheels turning. “You want something.”

“The law firm. Just to make it complete.”

“What are you sniffing, Luton?”

“Just trying to make it add up, boss. If it’s a murder made to look like a suicide, not only was it bass-ackward, it was also too weird to put the sword in his paw. Even the wife isn’t sure where the sword came from; as she put it, ‘it’s not on display.’ It had to have been brought out from somewhere, which brings us back to suicide, seems to me. Even if it’s really suicide, same questions apply. I want to see if there’s any further motive for murder or suicide. Workplace is next.”

“Avoid ruffling fur, feathers, or overstuffed egos. Keep it civil.”

“You want me to look stupid?”

“Just innocent should work.”

“Too late.”

“For both of us.” He hung up before either of us could take that further.

I set the superbeast on the dash, picked up the folder from the passenger seat, and thumbed through it. The background sheet on Glover included his work address. Finding it would be easy. I’ve been told that I could rig the All-Knowing Slab to respond to anything I cared to call it, but I haven’t gotten around to making it answer to a proper name like HAL, Colossus, or Joshua. I’d rather go classical and holler out, “Omniscient Oracle of Delphi, I beg a boon.” Instead, I called up the right app, spoke the address, and let some allegedly female voice give me directions. I’m told I could get other voices as well, and I might look into that, just so I could have someone I could call a friend.

Making myself stop dwelling on such happy matters, I started the car, put it in gear, and followed the electronic breadcrumbs to wherever I was supposed to go next.

* * * * *

The law firm of Langston, Kilgallen, and Mondekirke took up an entire floor of a downtown mid-rise, which was fine with them since they owned the building. They owned a lot of buildings, according to various sources (including their own PR department), and the firm was known for what used to be called “sharp practice” until the distinction was blurred by phrases like “a healthy bottom line” and “strong economy.” I’m sure that “caveat emptor” should have been in there somewhere, but it’s not politically correct.

A badge can get you past security well enough; it’s not always so good with secretaries. I arrived on the 11^th floor (not the top, which I thought odd, until I considered how much money they’d make from renting the top floor) and was met by a well-dressed Shiba Inu who welcomed me with that flavor of artificial bonhomie reserved for those who really don’t want to have to deal with you. She escorted me through the lobby area, which was decorated in classic Conservative Ostentation style, past some rooms that appeared to be for general consults, and finally into another waiting area, where she passed me over to another secretary who had just padded out of a nearby office. I reintroduced myself, offered credentials (which the ringtail regarded with a wholly professional level of disdain), asked to speak to someone about Glover.

“Mr. Glover hasn’t arrived this morning,” she informed me. “Perhaps you’d like to make an appointment?”

“I’m here on official business, not personal. I’d like to speak to Mr. Glover’s superior, perhaps one of the partners.”

“Do you have some complaint against Mr. Glover?”

I stole a glimpse at the sign next to the door that she had come out of. “Ms. Watson, do you work with Mr. Glover?”

“I’m the firm’s general manager.”

“Then I must report to you that you’ll have one less person to manage. Thomas Glover is dead.”

Perhaps because she worked for a law firm, perhaps for more personal reasons, the ringtail didn’t flinch at the news. “When?”

“This morning.”

“Was he in an accident?”

“What happened to him was quite intentional. Perhaps I could speak to someone in charge now?”

She showed no sign of fluster, instead moving to a desk that was bare save for a phone. Sitting in the chair behind it, she made a call to someone else, saying only that “Detective Luton needs a few moments of Mr. Langston’s time.” After a moment, the word “Official” came out. Something more was said on the other end, and the kinkajou disconnected. “Ms. Stokes will be with you in one moment.”

I did my best to keep my stoic as much as she, wondering why it was necessary for either of us. The office manager of a large law firm probably had a lot to do on any given day, yet Ms. Watson sat with her forepaws folded on the empty desk before her, her dark eyes looking at some point past my right hip. Torn between what used to be called “common decency” and professional duties, I hesitated asking any questions for just long enough to be addressed by a well-dressed female cougar bearing down on me from somewhere further down the corridors.

“Detective Luton? Jeanine Stokes, confidential assistant to Mr. Langston. May I ask what this is concerning?”

“I believe you just did.”

“Then perhaps you’d care to answer me.”

“Thomas Glover is dead.”

A response at last, although I mentally banged my wrists together above my head: personal foul, unnecessary roughness. The cougar paused, long enough to tell me that there was a connection of some kind. What kind, or how deep, I couldn’t say.

Her brows came together briefly. “Detective…” Swiftly, her demeanor became professional again. “This way, please.”

She led me down a hallway, bringing me through her own large office before knocking on the door to the inner sanctum. The “come in” was chiseled, all business, but not necessarily unkind. The cougar opened the door and waved me through, following to introduce me to the big boss.

It was a corner office, of course, complete with huge windows to emphasize the point. On one wall, a solid mass of law books, notably a sizeable selection from Corpus Juris Secundum, all kept in pristine condition. They were a form of collectable, by this time; everything was computerized, from cases to the cross-referencing database, with no real need to go back to “dead tree” editions. Like everything else in the office, including a desk of a size that could be used as a runway for small planes, and chairs that had to have cost a packet at Ethan Allen, it was a carefully-designed set piece to reassure clients that every possible contingency for success had been covered. The more subtle variation of this truth is that the success would be guaranteed for the firm and only tangentially for the client. Again, the phrase “caveat emptor” again came to mind.

Rising slowly behind his desk, the great gray rhinoceros, clad in finely-tailored clothing likely to be worth a month or three of a working fur’s salary, provided his best imitation smile while his black eyes maintained their calculating assessment of the situation. Gregory Victor Langston dealt in real estate at levels to rival the worst land barons of earlier centuries. His was a household name in the same way that other infamous names become well-known: He did things that made the rich puff out their chests and the rest of us wonder just how badly we’d be affected. He did not offer a forepaw to me; that, I suspected, went to those who closed deals with him.

“What is this about, Detective…” He flicked a glance to the secretary, who provided my name for him. Secretaries do that.

“I regret to inform you,” I said, breaking out the diplomacy as per my orders, “that Thomas Glover is dead. I’ve been assigned to the case.”

“What ‘case?’ What happened to him?”

“It appears to have been suicide, although there are some unusual aspects that I’m looking into.”

The cougar made some small sound that I couldn’t decipher. Langston’s beady black eyes flicked disapprovingly in her direction, then back to me. “What is it that you want of me, Detective?”

I got my notepad out, as the lawyer’s mental script would have demanded I do. “Just being thorough. What can you tell me about Glover’s current work?”

Resuming his chair, the rhino followed the script that I expected. “You know that I can’t discuss cases with you.”

“Of course not, sir. I just need background, if possible.”

“Why?”

“As I say, I’m being thorough. The body was found this morning and, given the circumstances, I can’t be sure if it was actually a suicide or a murder made to look like suicide.”

“What circumstances?”

“I’m sure you know that I can’t discuss specifics of the case, sir.”

Rhino hides aren’t supposed to “bristle,” but his attitude made it clear that I had scored the point. “A lawyer, by nature of his profession, has enemies, including the law itself.”

“Then you suspect murder?”

His laugh was probably meant to be good-natured. “Not at all. I thought you might want a quote for your prehistoric notepad. Honestly, Detective… papyrus and quills?”

“I wouldn’t think that you’d prefer I used electronic equipment. These days, they seem capable of recording so very much.”

My technique wasn’t going to win me points with my boss. My hope was that I hadn’t riled the attorney enough for him to complain, merely to comply. I got lucky.

“No,” the pachyderm said in low tones. “I doubt that Glover was murdered. He didn’t have the right temperament, if you follow me.”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Detective, I’m not a criminal defense lawyer, although I certainly am aware of that area of the law and of the rudiments of your own profession. To be murdered, one must be deserving of it, in someone’s eyes. Your concern is murder disguised as suicide, so you assume either the cover-up of a crime of passion or premeditation.”

“I can say that circumstances preclude a cover-up.”

He flipped over a forepaw. “Premeditated murder implies that the victim is something, has something, or has done something, heinous or important enough to merit being killed. Glover doesn’t fit that profile.”

“He didn’t do anything?”

“Not sufficient to warrant this, no.” From an ornate box at the side of his desk, Langston produced a narrow cigar that might even have been paw-rolled. He did not offer one to me, not that I’d have taken it. “He was a quiet, competent, hard-working… legal hack, for lack of a more gracious term. A good worker, precise, thorough, but not enthusiastic. I had the idea that he had become a lawyer for reasons other than the law. That’s a mistake.”

“How long had he worked for you?”

The rhino considered briefly as he fired up his high-class stogie with an electronic lighter that looked far too small for his large forepaw. “Twelve years, thereabouts.” He proceeded to build a fog bank around himself, either unaware or uncaring of the rules about smoking indoors in this state. “Came from a smaller firm in Massachusetts, wanted a bigger field for his particular knack for real estate law.”

“Before that?”

“Public defender, upstate New York somewhere. Rochester, maybe Syracuse, somewhere. Got there fresh from law school.”

Langston’s ability to pull that from memory so quickly spoke either to a remarkable memory or to Glover being more important to the firm than the rhino was letting on. I made more scribbles in my notepad, if only to make it look good. “A good real estate lawyer. So may I assume that the case he was working on had something to do with real estate?”

The pachyderm smiled very quickly. Lawyers do that when they’re uncomfortable or preparing to snap shut the trap. “You aren’t easily sidetracked, Detective.”

“Actually, I am. I get my attention pulled away by darting squirrels and flying disks. I just have this peculiar quirk that lets me remember when a question hasn’t been answered.”

“My answer was that I can’t discuss specifics of the case.”

“Glover specialized in real estate, and I know that it had something to do with evicting squatters.” To the concerned look on the rhino’s features, I replied, “His wife.”

“Figures,” he grunted, making more fog.

I flipped a page in the notebook, wondering how long it would take to get the stink of that overpriced cheroot out of my fur, not to mention my nose. “Was the case serious enough to warrant getting Glover out of the way?”

“Wouldn’t do any good. Glover prepared it all, and he’d present it in court to answer challenges, but I’m the attorney of record; the case itself would go on without him.”

“Naturally.”

Cold, obsidian eyes marked me where I stood. I remained immune to what he probably thought of as a Medusan stare. “That’s all the time that I can spare you, Detective.”

“A final question.” I gave the statement credence by pocketing the notebook and pen. “Do you know anything about a sword in Glover’s possession?”

The merest fraction of hesitation. “No.” He turned to the cougar. “Jeanine, I need you to put someone in Glover’s place immediately. I’m sure the Detective can find his own way out.”

Turning to the feline, I saw a moment of hesitation in her as well, a flash of the real furson behind the professional exterior, before she silently indicated the door. I thanked her, moved through her office and into the hall, momentarily wishing that I’d thought to bring a ball of twine with me on the way in. Before I had a chance to feel too lost, I saw a face I recognized. The general manager’s anxious black-and-white tail told a complex story that I only caught part of. Ringtails aren’t common in my world.

“Do you need something, Detective Luton?”

I returned the courtesy. “Looking for the elevators, Ms. Watson,” I said, working to put a smile on my muzzle.

“This way. Would you mind if we stopped by my office on the way? I need to pick up some papers.”

“Of course,” I demurred. It was an easy code to decipher; I wondered why she felt compelled to use it.

I recognized the small waiting area, once we’d found it again. I followed her into her office, discovering that, for a firm which dealt in real estate, the bosses had no concept of allocating space. Langston’s office was unnecessarily huge, while the furson overseeing the essential needs of organizing the whole show was put into a space overcrowded by the materials required to make it all work. The waiting area felt larger.

She didn’t close the door; she simply kept her voice low. “The case was supposed to be heard this morning. The judge’s chambers should have called by now, with an angry notification of the absence. With no one there to represent the complainants, the respondents may get a judgment in their favor; at the least, they’ll have a reprieve. Here.” She passed over a paper that looked very official.

“This is…?”

“A copy of the docket information. The court will have the filing. It’s public record.”

I considered the information. “Why is Langston being so cagey? He would have to know that we’d find all this out eventually.”

“He gives nothing for nothing.” She glanced at the door, then back to me. “I think he sometimes gives nothing for something.”

My nose twitched, and not from the smell of that stinking cigar. What stayed my further questions was twofold: That sort of fraud wasn’t my case, and I didn’t want to get the ringtail into trouble. I had the feeling that there’d be enough of it without my hiking a leg on the pile.

“Thank you, Ms. Watson,” I said softly. “May I contact you if I need you further?”

She reached behind her, taking a business card from a small stack. “My direct line is on there. Please, let me know what you find.” She paused before saying, “I don’t think he’d have had anything to do with it.”

I knew who she meant, nodding as if I understood what “it” might be. I gave her a card of my own, jutting my chin to the door. “Let’s not draw attention.”

Her eyes thanked me as she led me out of her office and back to the lobby. The Shiba Inu was nowhere to be seen, nor was anyone else. The elevator arrived in short order. She shook my forepaw, thanking me for visiting, asking that I let her know if there was anything else that I needed. I thanked her in return, promising to do so. I stepped into the car, carefully avoiding looking at the surveillance camera. I knew there was one here; I didn’t know what others were in play, other than one in the office’s lobby (obviously), and it wouldn’t make any difference to know. Living in a police state, even the police aren’t safe, if they aren’t part of the right type of police.

I shook my head as the doors opened on the ground floor. I had too many bits of misinformation whirling in my mind, and I needed a lunch break, perhaps one that would last for a decade or so. Signing out at the security desk, I asked casually if there was a good place nearby to catch some lunch. The Dobie behind the faux-marble counter ‘llowed as how the place around the corner had a good buffet spread; just take the stairs inside the doors to get to it. I thanked him, and he stopped me before I could leave.

“Tell me to back off if it’s private, but what’s this about?”

“What’s what about?”

“That shield is for homicide. Who got killed?”

“A guy named Glover.”

The Dobie looked stricken. “Aw crap, not Mr. Glover?”

“You knew him?”

“Worked for the big guns upstairs. Wouldn’t have thought he was a lawyer, ‘specially not for that bunch. He was a nice guy, ya know? Called me by name, said hello when he went by. What happened?”

“Still working on that.”

“Ah. Yeah.” He shifted on his hindpaws, looked apologetic. “Sorry.”

“How was he yesterday?”

“Mr. Glover wasn’t in yesterday. I thought he might be feeling bad or something.” He had the good grace to look a little ashamed.

“Did he seem worried lately, off his game, any changes in behavior?”

The guard considered a moment, nodded slowly. “Now ya come to say it… He’d been kinda quiet last week. Started off okay, then got quiet about, say, Wednesday, I think.”

“Quiet, as in worried, distracted…?”

“Distracted, or maybe…” The dog wasn’t stupid, it seemed to me, just hunting for words. It felt like he was trying to be accurate for me. I gave him credit for that when he said, “Lost. That’s more like it. Ya know the kind of look I mean?”

“I think I do,” I nodded. “Started about Wednesday, you say?”

“Yeah.” He also nodded, more definitively. “He hardly said anything to me on Thursday or Friday, not even when he left with that box.”

“Box?”

“Yeah, a wooden box. Maybe this long,” he held his forepaws about a meter apart, “slim, maybe 50-by-30cm.”

“He took it from his office?”

“I guess so. I mean, he was leaving the building with it. I didn’t think to stop him. Did he steal it or somethin’?”

“No, I don’t think so. You had no reason to stop him. He wasn’t acting furtive or anything?”

“No; regular, like always, just quiet.”

The pup passed his vocabulary test. Someone I’d call smarter than his job description. “Any idea what could be in the box?”

Again, he considered carefully. “My uncle is a Marine.” He smiled a little. “Not active in the service anymore, but he always tells me that ‘ex-Marine’ isn’t a real word. Anyway, he’s got a sword used for full-dress occasions, and he keeps it in a wooden box, about that size and shape. That’s what it reminded me of. Was Mr. Glover ever in the service?”

“Not that I know. Besides, how often does your uncle kit out in full-dress?”

“Once every several years, unless there’s funerals involved.”

“And he wouldn’t take it to work?”

The Dobie smiled. “Not the kind of equipment you need to drive a truck.”

“Might be good for directing your way out of a traffic jam.” We shared a laugh, and I passed a card to him. “If you think of anything else, let me know, okay?”

“You bet, Detective… Luton.” He read the card and nodded, sticking out a forepaw to shake. “Nathaniel Cole.” He grinned at me. “Gonna go there?”

“Not on a bet.” I pressed his pads properly, wondering if this Nat was a singer too.

“Thanks.” He sobered a little. “Let me know what you find out.”

“No lynching.”

“Always tempting, never followed through. I might be a rent-a-cop, but I hope I know enough to follow the law.”

“With that attitude, you’re not a rent-a-cop. I’d call you a security guard who might benefit from sitting for the exams. Just a suggestion.”

“Really?”

Remembering Parsons, I nodded. “It’s cliché to say we need better recruits. It’s also true. Give it some thought.”

“You think I’d make it?”

I smiled at him. “Quizás, quizás, quizás.”

His laughter sounded good in my ears as I left the building.

We hope you have enjoyed these sample chapters from The Last Defender of Albion. The paperback edition can be found through Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and many other online bookstores around the world. It is also available as an eBook from many sellers, including B&N, Smashwords, and Apple.

2: What the Maid Saw

I made my own way out of the formal living room, past another uniform in the hallway. I nodded at the large Shep, a fellow older than Parsons, one who also had a far greater sense of decorum (if that’s the phrase I was looking for). He nodded in return. “Anything you need, sir?”

“Directions to the kitchen.”

He gestured toward my left. “Quickest way is through the dining room.”

“Makes sense,” I smiled, sneaking a glimpse at the name tag, then hesitating.

The dog chuckled. “Pah-DEE-ya. Everyone does that.”

“I wondered if it was more like the sounds in ar-mah-DILL-oh. Thanks for helping me out, Officer Padilla.”

“Anytime, sir.”

I moved off, daring to feel that the day might not be as hopeless as first I feared it might be. Cops like Padilla were always good to find; they had a sense of empathy toward others. He helped me avoid a moment of embarrassment by telling me how to pronounce his name. As burned-out as I get these days, I still hope for more like the Shep — in general, in the force, and in those I could work with. Luck of the draw stuck me with Parsons, so I’d live with it.

Navigating my way through an ornate dining room (the type no one in his right mind would use on a daily basis), I padded back into the warmth of a kitchen worthy of the old money that the Glovers pretended to. Generally speaking, “Winchester Heights” was a fancy name for a bunch of McMansions, carefully constructed for ostentation, designed to be mammoth buildings set like architectural sumo wrestlers squatting on perfectly-kept grounds. Having staff for gardening, landscaping, exterior and interior building maintenance, and household servants was a given; if you couldn’t afford them, you couldn’t live here. I made a wager that there were rooms in this house that were elegantly appointed, designer decorated, carefully kept, and never once used by anyone for any purpose. It was possible that the Glovers didn’t even know that they were there.

That was the difference between old and new money. I confess a weakness for a variety of British television programs, and my sense of manor houses made with old money was that they were useful as well as ornate. Even those rooms that look like they should be attic spaces, with dormer windows and a half-dozen sets of stairs to get to, were used by yowens growing up. A whole section of the place would be given over to the house staff, with their own dining areas, modest but well-kept living quarters, and the atmosphere of private gossip and intrigue that became known as “what happens below stairs.” Although that sort of thing didn’t happen often on this side of the pond, I hoped that some member or members of the staff had picked up on something, even if they didn’t know it.

At a kitchen table tucked into its own nook (mentally, I placed a further wager that Mrs. Glover had never stooped to using it), a female white mouse of perhaps twenty-some years sat almost as stiffly as did the white collar of her traditionally-designed gray housekeeper’s uniform. Her furless tail was still, her eyes clear; I figured that the tension was partly due to her not understanding why she was there, and partly shock over hearing of her employer’s death. Sitting with her, an older female panther in a similar gray uniform held the mouse’s forepaw in gentle commiseration. The feline had been there longer, both in terms of service and in terms of who had arrived first that day; the cook would no doubt have been in to prepare breakfast for her employers, and it was she who had kept the coffee pot going.

No matter how quiet I thought my approach, the feline’s ears pegged me before I was halfway across. She looked up first, followed by the mouse. I introduced myself, took out the shield to make it official. The panther took up the duties. “I’m Bessie Long, the cook; this is our housekeeper, Allison Doyle. An officer told us to wait for you, ‘though the missus…”

I nodded. “She buzzed while I was there. I think she wants more coffee. I also told her that I had asked you to stay here until I saw you, so you aren’t to be blamed. Let me know if she says anything to the contrary.”

The panther rose with the fluid grace of her kind, a smile on her muzzle. “I’ll make a cup ready to take through. Saves time.”

“Let me ask the officer in the hall to take it through. It’s sort of a detective thing.” My smile was intended to take the sting out of it; instead, I noticed that it made the mouse at the table more nervous. I turned back toward the feline, who busied herself at the counter near the stove. “Does she often take this much coffee?”

“I think it’s to give herself something to hold on to that feels normal.” The comment was made with a distant compassion. She felt a responsibility toward her mistress, and she was herself compassionate, but not out of a closeness with this employer. The preparation of the brew was quick, made out of ingrained habit, almost without thinking.

“Is so much caffeine healthy for a bereaved tigress?”

“It’s been decaf after the first two cups; she hasn’t noticed.”

That got an appreciative nod from me, and I padded back to the door I had come in by. “Officer Padilla?” I called. “A favor from you.”

The big dog made his way through, nodding genially to the maid and the cook, who passed the cup and saucer to him. “Thanks for waiting on her ladyship,” the panther winked at him.

“Is that what I should call her?”

“For the sake of your tail, please don’t!” The cook laughed gently. “Just ‘Mrs. Glover’ is plenty.”

With an understanding smile, the Shep moved off to deliver the fresh, decaffeinated brew to the mistress of the household, without (I felt sure) supplying the honorific along with it. I wouldn’t have trusted Parsons with the job, if only because the pup would have spilled half of it before he’d gotten back to the living room.

The cook resumed her place next to the young maid, once more taking the younger female’s forepaw into her own. The mouse still had a quiver about her, one that most cops would think came from guilt. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but I also wagered they’d misinterpret it. I supposed it would have been a good time to bring out some charm, but I’d left it in my other overcoat.

“Did you have questions for us, Detective Luton?”

“Just a few, thank you. I’ve already been told that neither of you was here prior to Mrs. Glover telephoning nine-one-one; is that correct?”

“Yes.” At a gentle squeeze from the panther’s forepaw, the mouse nodded.

“I’m looking for information about the household in general, if that’s all right.” I indicated a bench across from them, and the cook waved me to it. As I sat, I took note of the view. The breakfast nook wasn’t in some dark enclosure; two sides of it were made of what appeared to be double-paned glass, looking out onto a meticulously-kept garden of seasonal succulents, or whatever they were called. I’m bright about a lot of things, but gardens, landscaping, even mowing a lawn was not among them. What I did know was that the view was beautiful. Spring may not have sprung, officially, but a lot of these flowers didn’t care.

“Ms. Long, may I ask when you arrived this morning?”

“When the kits are away at school, I’m told to get here to have breakfast ready by seven-thirty on weekdays,” she said, either from a practiced rehearsal or from having it ingrained for a number of years. “That’s for Mr. Glover; he gets to his office about nine, generally, and he usually keeps it simple. The missus, she could want just about anything, but her schedule is… flexible.”

I let the comment pass with a nod. “You arrived today at…?”

“Not quite seven.” Her yellow eyes were half-lidded. “I was stopped at the gates by an officer. He didn’t want to let me in, until the missus insisted. Word was passed by someone or other, I’m guessing.”

“So you were physically in the house at…?”

“Gettin’ on for seven-forty-five, I’d say. I had waited out front, to see if the missus wanted me sent home, and when she finally found out I was outside, she sent the word down. I was let in through the back door, like always. Started coffee. Don’t think she knows how to work the coffee pot.”

I allowed a small smile to agree with her. I took a breath, putting things into a mental timetable; it was creeping slowly toward ten-thirty now. “Are you here through the day, to cook other meals?”

“Weekdays, if the missus goes out, I can have the middle of the day to myself.” The panther leaned back a little, her tail making a lazy sort of twitch behind her. “If she’s here, I can do the grocery shopping after she’s done with breakfast. I get a list, most often, although I can stock up on things we use up regular. I get dinner ready for seven at night, and I can go home after I clean up.”

“Long days.”

“Pay’s okay. I have afternoons out, or take a nap in one of the guest rooms.”

“Lot of years?”

“Seven. Since they moved in here. I worked other big houses; this one’s ‘bout the same.”

I nodded, actually making notes for a change. “How was Mr. Glover to work for?” The panther looked cagy for a moment. “I’m not likely to talk to Mrs. Glover again, and I need to know all I can from you. This is between us.”

She nodded, although she still had some guard up. “He was always very reasonable.” The implication in her tone of voice was that “the missus” was not always so. “Simple tastes. Easy to cook for. Had some favorite recipes that he asked to be sprinkled in among more usual foods. Bad day at the office, he’d call to ask if it would be trouble to make a certain dish, and he was always very grateful for it. Didn’t use his buzzer if he could pad his way here. I’d tell him it was no trouble for me, and he’d say that he needed a chance to get away from his work for a few minutes while I fixed up some tea or cocoa for him. He’d sit at this table and talk to me.”

“Just talk?”

The yellow eyes turned on me, fully open and hostile. “Mr. Glover wasn’t like that.”

I held up a placating forepaw. “You know I had to ask.”

She paused, backed down from her boil. “Yeah, suppose you did. No, he wasn’t like that at all. He was just bein’ pleasant. He treated me like a cook, not a slave. He didn’t demand; he asked. Said that’s why he didn’t like the buzzer. Sounded to him like a scream, not just a signal.”

“You served dinner last night?”

“As always.”

“Anything special?”

“He didn’t ask for a special meal, if that’s what you mean.” The panther took stock of herself and the moment, getting my drift. Her face showed pain at the thought of it. “I have a trick with meatloaf that he liked, and it was a joke sometimes, ‘Meatloaf Monday,’ like we had it all the time. Just happened to fall…”

Her voice trailed off, and I waited a moment before asking gently, “How did he seem?”

“Quiet. Not so unusual; him and the missus didn’t talk much during meals, not for a long while. He was still polite, still turned a smile to me to thank me. It was… well, lookin’ back, it was…” She took a long breath. “Nothin’ I’d expect from that. Nothin’ made me think there was that much wrong.”

“It’s not something you can actually see, they tell us. Not something you could know.”

After a moment, the cook nodded a little. “Such a shame anyhow. He was a good furson. Treated me good.”

I nodded, then turned to the white mouse. “Ms. Doyle, what was he like to you?”

“Same.”

She continued to avoid my eyes. I put the pen and notepad back into my pocket and brought out my softest voice. “Ms. Doyle, are you all right?”

“A’course I am.”

I flicked a glance to the panther, who nodded and leaned a little closer to the mouse. “Allison, how about I make a cup of tea for us? I know you don’t much like coffee. How about you, Lieutenant? Which would you like?”

“Tea would be very nice, thank you. If Mrs. Glover decides she wants more than coffee, she can wait for it.”

The panther allowed herself the tiniest of smirks. She squeezed the mouse’s forepaw again and rose to tend to matters. I shifted, trying to make myself look as casual as possible. “Ms. Doyle, how long have you been working for the Glovers?”

“Three years.”

“That’s time enough to develop some loyalties. I promise I’m not here to dig up dirt or anything. Must seem like it; cops always have ulterior motives, don’t they?”

An involuntary darting of the eyes told me that I’d struck home. Behind me, I heard the panther getting water from the filtered tap to make the tea. Her movements were efficient, and I had solid reason to think that her ears were trained on my every word.

“Ms. Doyle… may I call you Allison?”

She nodded curtly.

“Allison, would you tell me what it was?” She didn’t answer, although her tail shook once through before she could stop it. “You appear rather young. I’m thinking it was a time ago, probably juvenile, so the records are sealed. I promise you, I’m not here to expose anything. Please answer one thing. Look at me at tell me that you’ve had no trouble since.”

She turned her terrified, defiant eyes on me, but still she wouldn’t or couldn’t speak.

“You’re in a position of trust in this household, and you’re worried about losing your job. You won’t, not if I have anything to say about it. Allison, I won’t hold this over your head. I need you to trust me, trust that you can talk to me in confidence, and I’m guessing you haven’t been able to trust that before. Not with a cop.”

The older female returned to the table and reached out for the younger’s forepaw again. “Allie… I won’t let him hurt you. I think maybe we can trust him. If he throws anything to the missus, I’ll call him a liar to his face.”

I smiled a little. “And I’d deserve it, too.”

The young mouse let fly with a kind of laugh that sounded more like a frightened snort, but she managed to loosen up a bit. “Took a car,” she managed.

“Like a joy ride?”

She shook her head. “Had to get away from him. He… he would…”

“I think I understand. How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“I hope juvie was better to you than he was.”

A tiny smile emerged. “Not by much.”

I chuckled softly, then looked to the panther. “That’s why you defended Mr. Glover so firmly.”

She nodded. “He wasn’t like that, not to us, not to anyone I ever saw. The records on Allie were sealed, but she wanted to come clean with him when she answered for the job. It was considered GTA, so the files said nothin’ about the beatings that damned rat gave her. Mr. Glover, he got the whole story from her, gently. Never did anything, just took her forepaw as she got to crying, offered her the job on the spot. Called me in, told me the whole story, told me I was to help watch after her, in case she got any flak from anyone — ground crew, guests, the kits, his missus, anyone. He wasn’t no saint, but he was fair.”

“Then help me find out what happened to him.”

The tea kettle began to whistle as the panther nodded. She gave a squeeze to the mouse’s forepaw again and rose to finish preparing the tea. After a long moment, the young housekeeper managed a small sigh and nodded as well. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Thank you, Allison. I’ll try not to be such a damn cop.”

Despite herself, the mouse giggled (nervously but rather cutely, I thought), and I smiled with what I hoped would be viewed as non-predatory encouragement. I’ve been told, by a few females in my day, that my eyes had a certain quality that they described as “seductively needful.” Apparently, what I had thought of as being a sympathetic look had some tinge of lustful predation to it. I made an effort to keep my ears at a friendly angle and my tail still. I would have had no designs on any female so young, but particularly not one who’d suffered abuse, and at such an early age, and doubly so not one who was connected to a case.

“Let’s start with the easy stuff. What time did you get here today?”

“About eight-thirty. Bus was a little early today.”

“That’s strange by itself!” I smiled, hoping to keep the ice breaking. The smile she gave me made me think it was working. “Which is your stop, to get here?”

“Tolbert Street, about three blocks. Guess I’m still sort of on winter schedules.” She must have registered my confused look. “If the streets and sidewalks are icy, I walk slower. Don’t want to slip.”

“Neither would I. Good thinking. So, about two hours ago?” She nodded. “You were stopped at the gate too?”

“Yes, sir. I was told—”

“Allison, would you like to call me Max?”

A pause. “If you wanted.”

Too far. “It’s just that ‘sir’ makes me feel old.” I smiled again. “Not a problem. What were you told at the gate?”

“They didn’t say much, just called up to the house to make sure I was supposed to be here. Bessie told me what happened.”

I wanted to tell her that it took some guts to face down a bunch of cops, given her experience, but that might also be too far. Sometimes, I can actually figure out that it’s better for me to keep my tongue behind my teeth. “So you usually get here about eight-thirty?”

“Ish,” she said. “Usually, Bessie’s the only one who notices.”

“I ain’t your time clock,” the panther smiled. She set down a tray bearing three mugs of hot water, offered me a china bowl with several types of teas in individual bags. “Sorry for the ‘instant’ treatment, but I didn’t know how much time you wanted to spend here. I’ll fix real tea for you sometime.” She sat, smiling at the mouse, then turned back to me. “Allison’s most flexible between us, probably. The missus doesn’t want to be disturbed by the cleaning up, so it’s the upstairs done anytime after nine, downstairs after lunch.”

“Does that include Mr. Glover’s library?”

The mouse nodded. “His study, yes sir… urm, yes.”

I kept the smile soft as I selected a packet of Constant Comment. Just opening it released the scent of spices into the air. I can be a slave to my nose. So sue me. I took out the bag, put it into the cup, let it soak and sink into the mug to do its work. “Did Mr. Glover ever work from home, Allison?”

“Sometimes.”

“Recently?”

She paused, taking a packet almost at random, as if wanting something to do with her paws. As the panther selected Earl Gray, silently encouraging her again, the mouse found her tongue. “A few days this past week, and he was here yesterday.”

“He didn’t go to the office yesterday?”

“I think maybe he did in the morning, but he came back, or maybe he didn’t go after all. Anyway, he was there in the afternoon when I came in to clean. I think I…” The moment stretched. “I think I interrupted him.”

“What makes you think that, Allison?”

“I didn’t expect him to be there, see, and I just walked in.”

“The door was unlocked?”

“Yes.” She squirmed, her round ears splaying a little. “I usually knock, just to be sure, but yesterday, I was distracted.”

“Music?” the panther asked, and the younger female nodded. The cook looked back at me with a smile. “When Mr. Glover and the missus are out of the house, I let her listen to her music box, whatever it’s called these days.”

“My phone,” the mouse blushed. “I stream music on it, and I’d gotten new songs this week, so I was listening to them.”

“Must be good tunes,” I agreed. “Was Mr. Glover upset?”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t like that…” She paused, looked embarrassed. “Well, he wasn’t… I mean, not usually, and not yesterday either. But it was…”

I nodded encouragement. “Just tell me what happened, Allison.”

One last hesitation, a flick of an ear, and the mouse plunged in. “It just felt different. I mean, I’d goofed up before, and he was pretty good about it, but he was always… usually, he smiled, being nice, as if he didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. This time, it was like he was sad. I apologized all over myself, and he said don’t worry about it. He looked like he was going to ask me something, and then he stopped. He just looked at all the papers on his desk.”

“Could you see what they were? I mean, if they’re just lying there, in plain view…”

“Not to read, no, but… well, you know how lawyers seem to have papers tucked into a piece of blue paper, so that it’s all stapled at the top?”

“Yes. I think they’re called ‘legal covers,’ and a lot of firms use blue or beige. It’s meant to look professional, I think.” I finished dunking my teabag, the liquid in the cup seeming about the right color. “It does stand out, though; you can tell at a glance that it’s supposed to be a legal brief of some kind or other. Were there a lot of them on his desk?”

“That’s the thing, see. Other times, I could see maybe three, four, a half-dozen of them, scattered around. There was only one, and it was over to one side. He was looking at something else, papers in that old-time plastic-backed binding, what’s it called?”

I thought back to self-bound sheafs of paper from clubs and some official offices back before emails, PDFs, all the electronic abolition of dead trees. “Comb binding?”

“That’s it.” She nodded vigorously, her eyes bright, her ears forward. “When I walked in, he closed it up.”

“Like he was trying to hide it?”

“Well, not really, I mean, he didn’t do it fast, like he was ashamed of it or something. He kept a finger in the place where he’d stopped reading, or I guess so. And he wasn’t sharp with me or anything, so it’s not like he was reading porn or something, like some males would do. I asked him if he wanted me to come back later, and he said tomorrow.” She paused, frowning, blinking a little.

“Allison?”

“Sorry,” she flinched a little. “Just… I don’t know if…” She shook her head, trying not to smile. “I know, I know — anything could be important. Like on the TV shows.”

I nodded, smiling gently at her. “Yeah. It’s corny, but it’s true. What were you going to say?”

“Well, he said it twice. ‘Tomorrow.’ The first time, it was like he was just giving me information, as though he’d said the whole sentence, like, ‘Come back tomorrow.’ And then he looked away from me, and he smiled a little, and he said it softer. ‘Tomorrow.’ Like he was thinking about…”

The mouse shuddered once through, violently enough to bump the table and jostle the mugs a little. Bessie reached across, taking Allison’s forepaws in her own, shushing and holding tightly. “You couldn’t have known, Allison. Don’t you take that on, hun; it’s nothin’ you done.”

“No, it isn’t,” I agreed.

“I know, I know,” she said, her muzzle quivering. “It’s just… remembering like that. It feels like maybe I should have known, like…” She stopped again, squeezing the panther’s forepaws, regaining herself slowly. I remembered my thoughts about her having courage, and I adjusted them up a notch. I waited until she had gathered herself enough to nod, release her grip on Bessie, and moved to sweeten up her tea with honey. After she’d had a fortifying sip, she nodded once more and looked at me with a more steady gaze.

“Shall we just enjoy tea for a bit?” I asked gently.

“Only if you’re done with questions.”

“Just one last one, if I may.” Her smile was strong again. “Could you read the title on that comb-bound volume?”

“Not all of it,” she admitted. “His forepaw was over a lot of it. I thought I saw the word ‘Manifest,’ like maybe it was some kind of inventory or something.” The young mouse sat up just a little straighter. “Got my GED.”

“And scored high, I’m sure.” I raised my mug in salute, and the two females returned it gently. I let the flavors of orange and sweet spices dance on my tongue as my mind tried to imagine what a real estate lawyer trying to evict squatters would need an inventory of, much less how or why it would be linked to his murder.

The paperback edition can be found through Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and many other online bookstores around the world. It is also available as an eBook from many sellers, including B&N, Smashwords, and Apple.

Continue reading — Chapter 3: The Firm Law

1: Crime Scene

A lot of things may be said to swarm. Bees do it, as the old song goes. So do football fans at the stadium gates. Groupies at a rock concert. Relatives at a will reading. The swarm that I see most is cops around the house where somebody turns up a body. Especially when the house is located in a fancy neighborhood.

The whole damned thing could have been an April Fool’s day joke, except that this year had decided that April 1^st should also be a Monday, har de har har. As it turned out, there was still some cosmic or karmic mischief lingering the next day. See, I only got the call that Tuesday morning because I was the next detective in the barrel. Some joke, huh? Wait — the punch line takes some build-up to get to.

As far as first looks go, the case wasn’t anything spectacular, like a burglary-cum-homicide, a vendetta killing, or even something juicy enough for the next creepy ghoul-monster-serial-killer movie (a franchise which, rather like its subjects, simply refuses to die). This was a suicide. Or, as the captain put it, “Just a suicide.” As a rule, homicide detectives are not dispatched to such scenes; we do, after all, deal with homicide, not suicide. But in the same way that rank hath its privileges, money speaketh loudly, whatever the crime. I had been sent off on this fool’s errand because Thomas Christian Thaddeus Glover, feline male, age 47, of average weight and build, had significantly above average means. That kind of clout means that the ranking part of the rank-and-file had to look into it. The pressure could have come from friends or enemies in high places, financial or political leverage, whatever; I’d seen it all often enough not to give a hot flying anything at this point. Make an appearance, that’s all that was required of me.

No one had bothered to suggest why the cat would want to pull his own plug. Maybe some big problems at the office, maybe money trouble that nobody knew about. From what I’d heard about him from the captain, as well as from various public information sources, he didn’t seem the type to be blackmailed — too damned straight for that. Then again, none of the other categories seemed to fit either, at least not at first glance. I’m not sure if I was being paid to think or maybe paid not to think. “Any death under unusual circumstances must be investigated” — thus it is written in the Sacred Rule Book. Simple truth was that no one cared if you offed yourself (with the possible exception of life insurance companies and anyone you owe money to), but somefur has to go through the motions, and I got tagged for the job. Even if I did my job right, I didn’t expect it would take very long.

Nasty little traitors, expectations.

I levered myself out of my car, noticed that the sky was clearing. Some of the other cops were clearing, too. I hoped both were good signs.

“Detective Luton?”

The patrol padded over to me, a new pup on the job, much too cheerful, his uniform much too creased. Ears forward, tail reasonably respectful, eyes bright, golden fur clean and brushed to regs, still hot for this new game he had found to play. I’d have felt unkempt and shabby, if I’d given a damn. I noted the name tag, wondered if it would still be on the rosters in six months. “What’ve you got, Parsons?”

“You’re gonna love this one, sir. One body, two weapons.”

I felt an ear twitch. “What?”

A thin forefinger, bearing a carefully clipped claw, wrapped circles around his temple. “Looney Tunes,” he said with confidence. “A nut case suicide. They haven’t taken the body yet; still there in the library. See for yourself — unless you’ve just had breakfast.”

* * * * *

There are days when it just doesn’t pay to be canine. It was still strange to me that the young Labrador in the new uniform wasn’t overwhelmed by the smells of a fresh body. Granted, the usual issues regarding the extrusion of various bodily wastes hadn’t happened yet, but the blood and brains were enough to set most of us to using practically anything in a tin to help deaden the sensitivity of our noses. I may be only 52, but I’d already had too much of it ten years ago, when still a newbie at the detective game. One thing about collies like me: We tend to be tenacious. Oh, and practical. That whole pension thing. About a year left to the magic two-oh on my shield, not that I’m counting.

The scene was plenty grisly enough that I didn’t need a coroner to tell me the cause of death. The gun was still clenched in the victim’s left forepaw, and it was clear that the entry point was the left temple, exiting through the right side of the head — what was left of it.

“Like I said, Detective: Whacko.”

I also didn’t need the running commentary, but Parsons seemed to be operating on a different script. Pardon the stereotyping, but Labs can be yappy if they’re not given a firm paw at an early age. I chalked it up as another indicator of his occupational virginity. He’d adapt or go; that would be up to him. Meanwhile, back in the adult world, I was doing everything by the numbers — checking the scene, looking for clues to confirm the obvious, making mental notes of things to mention to the M.E., and to run a check on Glover himself — but I felt that I was already late to this party. “Has Forensics been here?”

“Been and gone.”

“Everything? Photos, sketches, prints, fur, fiber, ingress, egress?”

“And a partridge in a pear tree. The M.E. is running behind schedule — caught in traffic. We’re waiting for him to okay us to take the body and the weapon. Weapons,” he corrected himself with an almost gleeful swish of his tail.

I knelt by the desk chair, a plush but efficient design like everything else in the meticulously kept study. (Note to Self: Check for a housekeeper. No self-respecting heterosexual male is this neat.) Glover himself was already dressed-for-success, ready for the office or perhaps, in this case, for his funeral. I still couldn’t say for sure if he was the tiger he appeared to be by other fur color and markings; too much of his head had been blown away. My guess was a magnum shell, something that mushroomed out and probably lodged (if any of it stayed intact) in the opposite wall somewhere. Even so, one ear appeared to have the correct colorations for him to be panthera tigris. It would only be important for identification purposes, and his new widow would probably give us that if pawprints and DNA didn’t do the job. (Mentally, I corrected myself: A member of the Bar would have pawprints and, depending on his law firm, DNA records as well. No respectable shysters [pardon the oxymoron] would let members of their firm not have identity markers in some private repository somewhere. The more perceived power you get, the greater the paranoia.)

I looked carefully at the second weapon. Glover’s right forepaw had clutched spasmodically about the shining gold hilt of a brilliantly polished short sword. I could still smell the metal cleaner on it; not a smudge, fingerprint, or blemish on the entire length. Symbols or runes of some kind had been etched down the center of the blade, and they had oxidized sufficiently to stand out in beautiful relief.

“Nothin’ like a little certifiable flip-out to renew your faith in natural selection, eh, Detective?”

“You like natural selection, do you, Parsons?”

“No likin’ or dislikin’, Detective. Just is.”

“That’s what they say, isn’t it? It is what it is.”

“Yah, and that’s how it is.”

“No flies on you, Parsons.”

I let him try to figure out what that meant while I kept looking things over. The desk pad contained a series of scribbles, notations, question marks, doodles — no doubt all the components of a forensic psychoanalyst’s wet dream. It also contained, in a carefully marked-off section, several scrawls that appeared to be the same as the sword runes. No, check that — not the same, but similar. An ornate pen holder lay up and to the right of the desk pad; the only pen in view lay on the right side of the pad itself, virtually pointing toward the scrawled runes.

“Some mess, huh?” continued Parsons jovially.

I could see no suicide note. Not everyone leaves one, of course, but it was another fact to put into my mental list. I stood and scanned the room. Nothing disturbed; shelves of hardcover books, many appearing to be collectables, slip-cased, gilt lettering on the spines, perfectly filed away and kept free of dust (yeah, there’s definitely a housekeeper; subconsciously, I added the unnamed maid to the list of people to question). Two paintings, tastefully framed, hung precisely in carefully measured niches; to my untrained eye, they looked like originals, although I couldn’t place the artist any nearer than 19th century.

The Lab forced a brief chuckle. “I tell ya, they’ll never get it out of that carpet.”

The floor was covered from wall to wall in a thick white pile, easy on the hindpaws, beautiful but cold. On one wall, a mini-bar stood well-stocked and orderly, each element of its finely polished oaken rack precisely placed. All of the glasses were set and clean, the bottles reasonably full. Even the pipe rack was immaculate, perhaps to the point of being merely decorative. There was no scent of tobacco anywhere, and even housekeepers can’t take away that smell well enough to keep it from a nose like mine.

“Are you in charge?” The heavy-set pug who had just entered the room regarded me with respectfully professional uncertainty through Coke-bottle-bottom glasses perched above his pinched muzzle.

“Not necessarily,” I responded. I extended a forepaw as the traditional litany exited my lips unadorned. “Detective Max Luton, Homicide.”

“I’m the M.E.,” he snuffled, taking my paw briskly, smiling. “Daimler, Bertram Daimler — like the car. A little out of date, and I don’t idle so good, but I’m still running.” He released me and set down his black bag — a prop guaranteed to identify him in almost any situation. Just to keep it official, he motioned to the ID tag clipped to his coat; it was proper issue, and no one else would want to be here anyway. He reached into the bag, removing and then snapping on a pair of equally proper issue gloves while I assured him that everyone else had come and gone.

Parsons padded toward the desk, and I intercepted him. He whined at me, “They want to bring in the gurney to bag this guy.”

“Another few minutes, Parsons.”

“You want me to stick around?”

“Take five and go mark a tree. Our guest of honor,” I said to the doctor, indicating the body and moving back to let the old dog work.

He considered briefly. “Standard disclaimers.” I nodded. “Victim appears to be the tiger known as Thomas Glover, according to photos and other information on file. We’ll get verification of that along the way. The obvious C.O.D. may not be it, depending. Some clever bugger might have poisoned him, then staged the suicide scene, hoping we’re not thorough.”

“How likely is that?”

“Too ridiculous to be credited, but bets are made to be hedged.” Daimler continued peering through his thick lenses, the occasional grunt or murmur probably meant to reassure me that he really was taking all this seriously. “You’ve noticed the obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Nice to have a homicide detective I don’t have to train.” He considered further, brought out a probe from his bag and managed to maneuver himself to the victim’s left and crouch next to the body. “Anyone hear the shot?”

“Wife called it in early this morning; she says ‘something’ woke her.”

“I’m getting a little old for this,” he growled softly, maneuvering himself to find a way to insert the probe into the space between two shirt buttons and then into the body. I had to give him bonus points for not simply pushing through the cloth itself. “What’s her definition of early?”

“Nine-one-one call is recorded as being at 6:24.”

After a sufficient time, he removed the probe and nodded. “Close as makes no odds. I’ll try to be more exact, if it proves to be important.”

“Probably won’t,” I admitted, offering him a paw to help him unfold himself from his squatting position. “Anything else for preliminary?”

He shook his head. “At the risk of dating myself, what you see is what you get. They can take the body, and…” Another headshake. “There’s no nice way of saying this: I’ll make sure they scrape up whatever they can, see that it’s properly analyzed.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The old pug removed the gloves and reassembled his bag. “I’ll get a proper report to you as soon as I can. Since it appears to be suicide, you’ll ask about…?”

“The usual suspects.” I padded to the doorway and performed the faintly unpleasant task of calling for Parsons. The Lab appeared all too quickly, along with a pair of suitably-attired attendants with a gurney in tow. “Make sure you bag’n’tag, and I want a make on the gun and the sword.”

“How can there be a make on a sword?” the patrol asked sarcastically.

“I want to know what it’s made of, who made it, where it came from. It may tell us why he had to keep hold of it, even at the last.”

“Because, maybe, he’s a fruitcake?”

“Is Mrs. Glover available?”

He jerked a chin toward the front of the house, where I knew the living room to be. “In there.”

“I’m going in to talk with her.”

“I’ll take you in.”

I leaned into the pup’s face, feeling my ears rise and go backward. “Parsons… who’s your boss?”

He blinked. “McPherson. Sergeant McPherson, out of the two-six.”

“Wrong answer. You got called into a case I’m working on. You’re on my detail, and I’m the one you have to make happy so that you can keep moving up your ladder. So unless you want me to call McPherson at the two-six and get your tail stuck on parking meters for the next six months, I strongly suggest that you get to work on getting that gun checked out and to get more information about that sword. Fail to do so, and I’ll see that you discover a new form of parking meter duty that involves being seated, suddenly, completely, and without lube. Do you need me to write that down for you in words of single syllables?”

Give him credit: The pup didn’t piss himself. “No, sir.”

“Get on it.”

He looked like he wasn’t sure if he should salute or genuflect. I didn’t give him time to do either. I had a grieving widow to talk to.

* * * * *

As it turned out, I was only partially right: I would be talking to a widow. Helena Glover was a tigress of self-imposed regal bearing, too thin for my taste, and too thin for a tigress, I would have thought. She looked almost too thin to have born three kits, although their faces showed in photographs on the wall, all in pride of place, all with the sort of smiles that parents inflict upon their children when evidence of their perfection requires proof in still life. All three were away at boarding school, no doubt being put through their paces.

I sat on the sofa, mindful of my tail and hindpaws. This was one of those living rooms where not a whole lot of living was expected. The tigress herself sat stiffly but calmly in the smaller of a matched pair of wingbacks, his’n’hers thrones of careful design. I gave her a moment or two to ready herself for the onslaught of questions that she was expecting. I’d been nursing one of those “bad feelings” that cops are supposed to get about certain cases, so despite the idea that I was probably there mostly for procedural window dressing, I had a pretty good idea of the information that I was going to get. As a famous barrister once said, “Never ask a question unless you’re sure of the answer.”

“Mrs. Glover,” I said softly, bringing out my notebook as a prop for the show, “I know that you’ve been questioned already, and I apologize for putting you through it all again…”

“Get on with it, Detective.”

Her voice pitched low, raspy, almost masculine, as if deepened by a good number of years of scotch and cigarettes, neither of which was in evidence in this part of the house. At that point, I reckoned that the high collar about her neck was not merely a fashion statement. I decided against pressing the issue. “Yes, ma’am. You found Mr. Glover?”

“I heard the shot.”

“About what time?”

“Not too long after I got up.”

“That would be…?”

“A little after six. Before the alarm. I felt that I was awakened by something, but I didn’t know what it was. A sound, maybe. Anyway, I felt that I wouldn’t get back to sleep, so I was getting myself ready to begin my day when I heard the shot. I came downstairs to see—”

“That was bold of you, Mrs. Glover.”

She actually looked at me for the first time. Anyone needing to get the truth out of someone else will tell you that body language usually speaks louder than spoken words. Her tail held resolutely still, although one ear flicked in irritation. Ears, as a rule, are much more difficult to control, as are pupils which may dilate or shift when the subject is irritated, surprised, or disingenuous. In this case, I figured “irritated.”

“I have a license for my own weapon, Detective, and I practice at a shooting range at least twice a year. I may not be able to predate openly, but I can defend myself quite well.”

I nodded a demurral. “Please continue.”

She gathered herself. “I came downstairs — yes, with my pistol — heard nothing, saw no one. The alarm system was undisturbed, the main outer doors locked. I went to my husband’s study and found…” She trailed off, seeming for the first time shaken in her resolve.

“Did your husband have any visitors last night?”

“No.” She reached for a coffee cup that was likely on its fifth recharge. I was only mildly surprised that she wasn’t taking something stronger, but perhaps she realized how easily I’d smell it on her.

“How would you describe your husband’s mood recently?”

“Fine.” Her response came swiftly. “He was fine.”

“And when he came home last night?”

“Fine.”

“Nothing worrying him?”

“Thomas was always worried about something.”

I nodded, letting the little fibs grow larger in their own good time. I moved the pen around to make it appear that I was writing down the holy writ of unimpeachable testimony. “Do you know what he was working on recently?”

“He rarely spoke of his work.”

“I’m sure his office can tell me, particularly if it has any relevance.”

“I doubt that it does.” She caught herself just a little too late, shifted slightly in her throne, trying to recover. “He specialized in real estate law. I believe that his latest case involved squatters on some country land. Some… commune.” She spat out the word as if it were distasteful to her refined senses. “The client wanted them evicted, and Thomas spearheaded the case. He was to present it to the court today. I had set my alarm early; I wanted to make sure that he would be there on time, because he was—”

Again, the tigress caught herself, although this time it was the tip of her tail that gave the game away. She had begun speaking the truth, and her body was reacting to it automatically. There was little doubt in my mind that the words she was about to speak were because he was upset. I let the point go.

“You found him in his study. Was the door open, closed…?”

“Closed and locked.”

My expression asked the question.

“There’s a set of keys for every room in the house, Detective. They’re inside a cabinet door, in the utility room. When I got no answer from Thomas, and when I realized that I could smell cordite from inside the room, I fetched the key and opened the door.”

I nodded, pretending to make a note on my pad.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I unlocked the door, killed my husband, then relocked the door behind me?”

“Did you?”

“No!”

“I didn’t think so.”

“One of your fellow officers seemed to think it possible.”

I shook my head. “The average beat cop who dreams of being a detective one day also dreams up ridiculous scenarios, trying them on like bad clothing. If you were going to go to such lengths, you wouldn’t have ruined your alibi by leaving the house alarm undisturbed and the doors and windows carefully locked. I’m sorry if they offended you.”

“I’m not easily offended.”

That was particularly easy to believe. I shifted my hindpaws slightly, trying to prevent my back from tightening up, as it had a tendency to do these days. “Considering what you found there, Mrs. Glover, it may be ridiculous to ask if you noticed anything missing, out of place, unusual…?”

She finished what was in her coffee cup and set it back down. “Not that I noticed. I did worry about an intruder, of course; that was why I noticed that the French doors to the patio were closed. I couldn’t tell if they were locked, at that distance, and I didn’t go to look. I was shocked, of course. When I couldn’t find any sign of an intruder in the house, I ran to the kitchen to call nine-one-one. I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“You recognized the sword?”

Once more, the veneer almost broke. I kept my eyes soft, waited for her. “I don’t know.”

“It wasn’t familiar to you?”

“It wasn’t something that was kept on display.”

“It belonged to your husband?”

“So far as I know.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Nothing.”

Between the terse answers and the hardened expression in her eyes, my keen detective skills told me that I wasn’t likely to get more information out of her on this topic. Changing directions seemed best. I brought out Formulaic Homicide Investigation Question #47. “Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to kill your husband?”

“He was rich, and a lawyer, but he didn’t go around making enemies. He was generous to the best charities, an active member of the Bar Association, even spoke at a few conferences. He wasn’t the type to stir up trouble. Even so, anyone who has Something is the enemy of someone who has Nothing.” She frowned at the coffee cup, reached to the front of the arm of her chair and pressed a button that otherwise looked like part of the stuffing. I fancied that I heard the buzzer that must have sounded somewhere in the offing, but it could have been my imagination.

“I asked that we not be disturbed, Mrs. Glover; I won’t be much longer. Just don’t blame your staff.”

The look on her face became harder. “Well?”

“Am I to understand that your husband had no enemies?”

“He did not.”

“No one who might—”

“Detective Luton, the answer is no. There have been no life-endangering cases, no crime bosses, no threats, no black lists, no one at all who would want to kill him.”

“Very well, then. What about suicide?”

Her face changed significantly at that point. Her voice came out as a soft choke. “What?”

“If we rule out murder, then it must be suicide.”

“No.” Her headshake made it final.

I paused, calculating the right effect, setting my ears just so, shifting my hindpaws a little. “Mrs. Glover, if no one else could have killed him, then—”

“It couldn’t have been suicide. He had his whole life…”

The silence rebutted her without any assistance on my part.

“Impossible,” she reiterated softly.

Closing my notebook, I stood slowly. “Mrs. Glover, with that insistence on your part, I must ask you not to leave town for a while. I can’t make any charges, because there’s no evidence. You’ve made yourself into the only suspect in a murder case; I have little choice in the matter. I can see myself out.”

She made no move, and I thought for a moment that I might have gone too far. Taking a tip from the famous television detective, I turned back to consider her more closely. “Mrs. Glover, your husband was right-paw dominant, wasn’t he?”

A blink, a nervous thap of her tailtip, something registering or not. “Yes. Right-pawed, yes.”

I nodded wisely. “Thank you.”

“Detective?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

A long pause. “Why?”

“I can only try to find out, Mrs. Glover.”

Her eyes glazed slightly. I turned to leave, her voice haunting me.

“Couldn’t… couldn’t be…”

The paperback can be found through Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and many other online bookstores around the world. It is also available as an eBook from many sellers, including B&N, Smashwords, and Apple.

Continue reading — Chapter 2: What the Maid Saw

“Detective Max Luton, Homicide.”

My standard intro, and yeah, this old dog’s used it a lot, over the years. I’ve investigated a good many deaths. Maybe too many. This one was strange. Rich tiger, a lawyer a little younger than me, offs himself with a gun in one paw and a short sword in the other. Crazy, but what’s that to me? Nothing… except that the brass wants it to be a murder. After all, no rich guy who has everything would commit suicide, right?

My hunt for a candidate to be a killer led me to several crazy characters who didn’t know nuthin’. Finally, that twisted trail pointed to some group called Timewind that’s wrapped up in his past. Some kind of subversive-hippie-commie bunch, according to the government watch groups that labeled them domestic terrorists. They’d made the sword that I’d found on the tiger. They knew him, once upon a time; maybe they’d know why he killed himself. Maybe it had something to do with this book of theirs, The Tribal Manifesto. I figured I had to check it out.

Might be dangerous, but at least it’d be an interesting way to go…

Max Luton is about to discover the most important part of being a detective: To solve a murder, first make sure who the victim is.

The paperback can be found through Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and many other online bookstores around the world. It is also available as an eBook from many sellers, including B&N, Smashwords, and Apple.

BWI will be posting a few chapters here, to whet your appetite. Come back soon!

Cheers,
Tristan Black Wolf

Publication Year: 1919

Tags: Short Stories, Classic Literature, Literary

Rating: ★★★★★

This collection of stories, published a century ago, is often dismissed as having been once considered great but now considered “pedantic” and something to be passed over and not “inflicted” upon high school students any longer. By this logic, Thornton Wilder’s Our Town should not be taught either, since it’s clearly “outdated” by today’s standards. I would agree that this book should not be taught in high school, since such schools in the United States today most likely don’t have teachers who can understand it well enough to explain it to the bored seniors, with their fourth-grade reading levels and disdain for anything that’s not part of a video game or the Marvel Movie Universe. (I’m now old enough to indulge my cynicism; to use an idiom from today’s meme-based culture, “Change my mind.”)

The very first story in the book, “The Book of the Grotesque,” is the key to the rest of the stories. An old writer had “a dream that was not a dream” (p.22, in this edition), in which he sees a parade of all of the people of his town, and “they were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques.”

The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room, you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion.

For an hour, the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write…

As a writer, I have known this horrible ecstasy for myself. These people, these stories that Anderson tells, are of the truly grotesque (noun, def: “a very ugly or comically distorted figure, creature, or image” [emphasis added]). Without understanding both the origins and literary use of the term “grotesques,” the rest of the stories will bore modern youth, or even contemporary pre-millennials, to babbling. Even with that understanding, modern eyes may not be able to see past the descriptions of the characters of just-pre-war people of the Midwest to discover the even more grotesque parallels to people of our current day. (Note: Although published in 1919, a year after “The Great War” had ended, the stories themselves were imagined for a time closer to the turn of the last century.)

To understand this book, one must settle into the mindset of a century ago, when the word “queer” was used as slang for “poor” (from the British expression of “being thrown onto queer street” to mean penniless), when “making love” referred to courting behavior rather than sexuality, and when the difference between “boy” and “man” was upwards of turning 20 or even 25 years old. One must go back to a time when experience of the world was impossible without physically going into it; there were books and stories, but no Internet to visit the rest of the world and know its people. It was a time when escaping one’s past and childhood home could be considered either progress or cowardice, and returning to that home could mean wanting what was, what used to be, whether or not the dusty streets of that small town were familiar anymore, that the town feels to have grown too much, as one has been away too long. Perhaps one wishes to return because he is retreating from the failure of dealing with that world beyond those dusty small town streets, and the weight of his failure stays with him, oppressive and inescapable. There is, Anderson reveals through his grotesques, great risk in staying, in leaving, in returning. What forms and malforms his characters is the risk itself, and what each character must realize is that nothing truly stays the same.

Each story consists less of a plot and more of an exploration of one or another kind of grotesqueness. Titles such as “Mother”, “Adventure”, “Loneliness”, and “Sophistication” speak to the emotions and circumstances of each brushstroke of the deformed picture that is the person being exposed to himself and others for whatever grotesque thing he might be. The story of “Hands” (first in the book after the exploration of the writer’s dream) is the tale of one man’s downfall by misperception… or perhaps being forced to look at a true perception. The question is not fully answered, and the grotesquery here is the man’s torment of not being sure which idea of himself is the correct one. “The Strength of God” is a tale less about the Rev. Curtis Hartman than it is about the perversion (grotesque description) of faith and the strength of self-deception disguised as religious fervor.

In many ways, all of these stories are now more relevant than ever, in that they peel away the veneer from those “good old days” that hyper-conservatives “remember” with so much fondness that they can’t ever be convinced that they were just as grotesque as these tales. “Not all horrible,” as Anderson tells us, but nowhere near as beautiful and benevolent as they would have us believe. Going back, the old writer shows us, is no less dangerous than having left in the first place; nothing will be as one remembered it.

Ray Bradbury, born a year after this collection was published, said that this book was his inspiration for The Martian Chronicles — his own collection of interconnected stories, set in a “town” (or, ultimately, several towns) that consisted of the first human settlers of the planet Mars. From the perspective of this book, it is easy to see where Bradbury’s own parade of grotesques comes from. It would make an interesting collegiate-level course to compare and contrast the two. It would also help readers of this book to see the richness of Bradbury’s own stories, the better to appreciate the richness of philosophical notion that makes up this collection of tales that are more accurately ideas, emotions, gut-level experience of the grotesques all around us.

This book is a rich collection of emotion, philosophy, psychology, and humanity in all of its grotesqueness (in more than one sense). Don’t read it as light or entertaining stories; read it as if you were the curator of a large group of humans, from the Midwest of the earliest 1900s, patiently uncovering the makeup of romantic memory to see the pentimenti underneath.

Tags: Horror, Haunted House

Notable: Hodgson created many sound effects for Doctor Who; Derbyshire created the electronic version of Ron Grainer’s theme for Doctor Who; two of the six actors of the film are no longer seen after the opening credits roll; Michael Gough (uncredited) appears as Emeric Belasco.

Rating: ★★★★☆

A rich, dying old man hires three psychic investigators to discover the facts regarding survival after death. Their destination: The only indisputably haunted house in the land — the Belasco house, known to the rest of the world as Hell House. Physicist Lionel Barrett is out to prove his theory that “ghosts” are nothing more than electromagnetic phenomena. Mental medium Florence Tanner wants to save the tortured spirits that she feels are haunting the house.  Only physical medium Ben Fisher — the only survivor from the last attempt to investigate Hell House, twenty years ago — remains cautious and aloof; he knows too well that something in that house can kill… and he feels sure it’s in the mood to begin killing again.

The classic haunted house film, against which all others must be judged, is Robert Wise’s The Haunting (1963), based on Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. In that film, we never actually see anything — no blood, no guts, no gore, nothing but sounds, lighting, and camera angles. The terror of this film is the creeping horror that takes over the minds of the investigators and the audience. There is, after all, nothing more terrifying than that which you can imagine.

Compared to that bit of classic cinema, most other haunted house stories fall either toward cliché or to mere jump-scares and grotesquery to create their particular brand of terror. This film, however, learned well from the original masterpiece and leaves enough to your imagination (and the imaginations of the investigators on screen) to frighten sufficiently that it would be wise to keep a spare pair of underwear handy when viewing.

The first thing you’ll see in this film is an affidavit by psychic consultant Tom Corbett (yes, a real person from Limerick, Ireland, who was asked by royalty and affluent folk throughout Europe to investigate their ghostly issues) to the effect that everything that happens in the film could actually occur in what we laughingly refer to as “real life.” According to those who have experienced paranormal phenomena (myself included), everything from the slamming doors to breaths of air, from rushing winds to objects moving on their own, even the strange reactions and behaviors of people in the presence of such phenomena… all of this is part and parcel of the experience. There are moments in the film that make one wonder if it is at least partly a recreated documentary rather than mere fiction.

Director John Hough has a nicely creepy touch, utilizing unusual camera angles and offbeat follow-shots that add to the suspense by their ability intensify our sense of being kept off balance. His use of lighting and shadow has the same effect, and this he may have taken from either the book or film of The Haunting. We are told that Hill House was built without a square corner in it, so that everything is slightly off-kilter. Hough and his set designer teamed up to create a means of placing statuary, room dividers, and other impediments to direct lines of travel, giving the viewer the impression that nothing is on the square.

All four of the main actors deliver solid performances throughout, although there are hints about their characters’ past experiences (all of which are relevant to their behavior) that aren’t developed as fully as I’d like. Barrett (Revill) is a scientific cynic, but his almost violent distrust of psychics borders on the pathological; what caused that? His wife Ann (Hunnicutt) hints at marital issues, perhaps a previous infidelity, but it too is not developed fully. When we first meet Florence (Franklin), we see her outside of a church; is she a nun, or considering taking the veil, and is that the reason for her extreme distaste for any aspect of the house’s history of debauchery and depravity? Ben (McDowall) is the most cautious, perhaps to the point of cowardice, and with reason — he saw eight people die because of the house’s evil machinations — but even he seems to have some hidden motivations that we don’t see developed. (I will say, however, that the final confrontation with haunting forces within the house reveals the secrets that Ben couldn’t have foreseen when he investigated the house twenty years prior. With age comes insight, or so I hope.)

Despite those minor flaws, the film is worth watching, several times. Let yourself become immersed in the atmosphere of Hell House, and you will be enthralled right through to the end.

The rather melodramatic but creepy trailer for the film can be found here on YouTube.

Publication Year: 1980 (illustrated edition 2018)

Tags: Science Fiction, Horror, Overrated

Rating: ★☆☆☆☆

An academic research crew of nine boards a star-bound freighter called the Nightflyer in search of the volcryn — legendary beings who have existed for millennia, passing through the galaxy at sub-light speeds, a mystery hinted at in the writings of many civilizations but never yet proved. As the journey proceeds, the researchers come to wonder more about the ship itself instead of the object of their pursuit. What they’re searching for may be far less of a mystery than what is taking them there.

***SPOILERS AHEAD***

Sometimes, a film is better than its book. Stephen King is said to have liked the film version of his novel The Dead Zone better than his own book, which he described as being “too slow.” This book has been made into a series for the SyFy channel and NetFlix (I’m still not quite clear who owns what or which will show it first); I have not watched it yet. I have, however, watched the 1987 film (Michael Praed, Catherine Mary Stewart, dir: Robert Collector, as TC Blake), and I found it to be worth at least four of five stars. This book, however, is far less intriguing.

There is a joke, made in regard to works like Game Of Thrones, to the effect of “George R. R. Martin and Neil Gaiman walk into a bar. Everyone you love dies.” First spoiler: That’s pretty much true here, except that you won’t love any of these characters. Each is a two-dimensional function with an outrageously absurd name attached. Save for the names of the captain (Royd Eris) and the professor in charge (D’Brannin), the names in the film were made into something one could at least relate to.

The film also provides the various characters with motivations that make more sense than those of the characters in the book. Here, the characters don’t truly develop, and when their various forms of paranoia cause them to do the things that they do, it’s rather like the author tossed them into a cup and assigned the motivations randomly. Although I can recall various actions being taken (largely because I saw them approximated in the film), I can’t begin to tell you who took those actions, nor precisely why. The characters themselves are of such little value that even the list of them found in Wikipedia can only cite them by such vital bits of character development as “wears a jumpsuit and never washes” and another who “does not get along with the other scholars.” Even the lead, Melantha Jhirl, is memorable mostly for her repeated assertions that she is “the advanced model” (or “superior” or “improved” or some such adjective that, like the characters, fade swiftly from my memory).

The story itself is largely boring for the first half of the book. Almost nothing at all happens, beyond setting up a sense of general foreboding that is only there if you’ve seen the 1987 film first; that alone kept me going, as I knew what was supposed to happen. Then, as I was reading along, I was stunned to discover that Martin appears to have stolen, quite blatantly and obviously, an event from the early moments of the David Cronenberg film Scanners (1981). (The publication date of the novella is 1980, but this revised edition appears to have included material not found in the original publication, made up of shorter works.) Second spoiler: As the old joke goes, it’s all fun and games until someone’s head explodes. Spoiler 2.5: It’s someone who, frankly, needs to be kept alive longer in order to fill a more important function in the development of the plot line.

The plot of the novel is convoluted, and the revelations and explanations to explain the plot are almost a case of too little too late. For the 1987 film version, scriptwriter Robert Jaffe found intelligent ways to cut out a myriad superfluities in Martin’s novel, creating a far more believable means of bringing the story to a satisfactory conclusion (with a few exceptions; the film isn’t perfect either). He corrected a simple issue of Martin’s discussing a person’s psychic abilities as being classified, with a “class one” being the highest, thus having to resort to a “better than class one” but being unable to create a sufficient order of magnitude beyond it. Jaffe created a “class ten” as being the best level a human psychic could be, then discussing the issues of a significantly more powerful psychic possibly categorized as a class twenty.

The MacGuffin of the book is the volcryn which, even at the conclusion of the book, is almost worse than superfluous. In the film, it’s left as a mystery; in the novel (Third Spoiler), it’s a mindless thing that simply eats its way across the galaxy with no purpose, no value, not even truly anything mysterious save that it is the final consumption (literally as well as spiritually) of its most devoted fan, D’Brannin. In the final pages of the book (Fourth Spoiler), we find the remaining survivor and semi-survivor continuing observations of the volcryn from afar, playing chess until the final days of the final survivor come to a close, and the ship is repaired enough to be sent, its own Flying Dutchman, toward the world of Avalon, where perhaps someone will take all their data and go better-equipped to find the elusive volcryn after all.

For my writer’s buck, that’s a sad attempt to make the MacGuffin into something it’s not. As Alfred Hitchcock told us, “The MacGuffin is the thing that the spies are after but the audience don’t care.” (from David Boyd’s 1995 book, Perspectives on Alfred Hitchcock) Trying to make the volcryn relevant, important, or even simply tying the book together from front (the comments about the volcryn) to the back, is demonstrative of poor writing technique. I’ll forgive Martin that much; my own early works aren’t necessarily my best examples. This particular volume is one that needs to be avoided. Perhaps this new series on NetFlix-then-SyFy will let the story shine to its author’s best vision. If, however, this book is his best vision, I recommend to him new glasses, and that the rest of us look anywhere but here.

Tags: History, Drama, Terrible

Notable: A train wreck on and off the set; Italian actress Paluzzi wasn’t a good choice for a Southern girl.

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

In a small Alabama town, where the mayor is just another good ol’ boy Klansman, a sheriff has to balance presumably small acts of racial violence with keeping the peace in a powder-keg of personal and political tensions. Tempers flare when a black man is accused of raping a white woman, and an angry man resorts to vigilante justice. As outsiders arrive to cover the story of a civil rights rally, the KKK forms a lynching party, hell-bent on killing anyone — white or black — who gets in their way.

To a modern audience, this film will feel dated and melodramatic or (worse still) “racist.” (That is, rather, the point of the film.) The value of this work lies in its unflinching look at something real in the “deep South” of the 1960s, as well as the fact that some (perhaps many) aspects of this horrifying lens upon this area of the United States are still going on, whether surreptitiously or right out in the open. There’s still the Klan, still lynching, still Jim Crow laws, still blatantly unfair application of “justice,” and still more. To that degree, nothing at all has changed.

Beyond this sad reminder of how civilization has yet to reach that part of the United States after nearly half a century, the film has little to recommend it. The script is uneven at best, made worse by Fuller having written the version preferred by Executive Producer Bill Schiffrin, and Kaufmann writing (“distorting” –Schiffrin) the final draft. The director, Terrence Young, was known at the time for his work on the first three James Bond films, Dr. No, From Russia With Love, and Thunderball. (It was he who hired Luciana Paluzzi, villain Fiona Vulpe in Thunderball, to play a Southern girl named “Trixie”; it was Schiffrin who wanted Joanna Moore for the part, and the studio hired Moore to overdub Paluzzi’s lines.) There are sequences that feel as if they want to be somehow secretive, spy-like, but they come off more like bad conspiracy theories.

What mystifies most reviewers (e.g., Gene Siskel) is that “Lee Marvin and Richard Burton lent their talents to it” (20 Nov 74, Chicago Tribune). It probably didn’t help matters that Burton himself went through three quarts of whiskey per day, often drunk enough that most of his lines had to be delivered with him sitting or lying down, since he was unsteady on his feet. Some of his lines come out slurred, and even more, his gloriously refined Welsh-British accent occasionally fought for supremacy over the Southern accent his character is supposed to provide. According to some, the entire cast was going through difficult times in their personal and professional lives, and all were drinking heavily; even so, each arrived at the set on time, with their lines ready. (As a devoted Richard Burton fan, I was interested in this film to see why he had worked on it; my research says that it was the $40,000/week “plus points” [percentage of the profits] that did it. He was off the sauce and back on his game for films like Equus [1977] and The Medusa Touch [1978].)

It’s been said that films like In the Heat of the Night (1967) and …tick…tick…tick… (1970) are supposed to be films that covered the same literary territory better. I disagree forcefully, not because this film is of superior quality, but because this film is so in-your-face accurate of the horrors of the Deep South. The Poitier/Steiger film of 1967 is a crime drama with the powerful setting of interracial tensions in a small town, but it was not nearly as much a “tinderbox” as is so graphically shown here. Although I’ve not seen the 1970 Jim Brown film, it is widely viewed as “blaxploitation” (a film specifically made to try to attract black audiences with a leading black man and a plot showing the lead overcoming his adversaries, who are usually white), and even more, it shows a “change of heart” in the small town population, where they come to accept their new black sheriff. This film, although terrible for many reasons, paints a greater picture of the true “sound and fury” of the South of that time… and perhaps into the present.