LADY ON THE HILL

LADY ON THE HILL

Lady Sansa rode on a sorrel mare in silence, smiling and looking away from the bright afternoon sky, blue eyes catching Sandor’s, who sat on a black stallion. The horses pulled close together as they climbed a small incline and came to a stop on top of a hill. The two looked down into a field of lilies, dotted haphazard with fluttering butterflies. Sandor led his stallion down the slope and into the flowers, looking over his shoulder to make sure she followed.

            “It was good of Joffrey to allow me the pleasure of riding today. He must have been in a rare mood indeed,” Sansa said. Sandor grunted in response and turned away, looking ahead. She extended a hand and brushed a palm against the flowers, the feeling of the petals against her skin bringing another smile to her face.

            The sunlight made her hair sparkle as they walked the horses lazily through the field. She sighed and looked into the sky, the sun blurring her sight with hazy spots. She brought her gaze to Sandor again, sitting erect and severe on his horse, wishing he might speak to her.

            “This is a perfect day for a ride, is it not, ser?” she asked him. She knew she made an error and wished she hadn’t said the word.

            “Do not call me ser,” he said as he stopped his horse and looked back at her. She saw a flash of anger mixed with not a small hint of desire.

            “I’m sorry, ser. I mean no insult,” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry again.”

            “Do not say it again,” he said.

            She smiled and did not feel fear as she looked at him. She didn’t feel afraid as the sun made highlights in his dark hair and caused his scars to seem more pronounced. She stopped her horse within a few feet of his, still smiling. His features seemed to soften a bit, but he tried to keep scowling at her.

            “What will you do if I call you ser?” she asked, laughing.

            “Joffrey told me to take you riding. He didn’t mention talking,” Sandor said, trying to ignore her jab.

            “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. She leaned closer to him. “Ser.”

            He growled at her and she laughed, her cheeks flush in the head of midday, her pale blue eyes locked with his. He jumped from his stallion and led Stranger to a tree at the end of the field. She followed after him, patting the mare’s neck and closing her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. He held out a hand and helped her down off the horse and pulled her close to him when her feet touched the ground.

            “I could do things to you, Lady. It’s best not to get me angry.”

            He pressed her against the tree and leaned over her, taller than her by almost a foot. She continued to smile, blue eyes sparkling and daring and luring him.

            “I am unable to fight you, ser. I will have to trust in your good mercy and kindness,” she said. She placed a hand upon his chest and gripped his tunic with her hand.

            “You are bold, Lady,” he said. He pushed her hard against the tree, his large hand squeezing her shoulder. He pressed his face into her hair and breathed deep of her scent. “You smell like flowers.”

            “The maids leave flower petals upon my bed on Joffrey’s orders. Do you like it, ser?”

            “Indeed, little bird,” he said. He kissed her and placed a hand in auburn hair, pulling her against his body. He pressed his lips against her neck and bit the skin, tasting and licking with his tongue. She moaned in his ear and he kissed her once more, pressing himself into her body, grinding hard against her waist. He released her and smirked when she gasped in shock.

            “Ser,” she said after a few moments.

            “You can’t tease me, girl,” he growled. Her eyes moved away from his, seeing a dark patch of clouds rolling over the hilltop. She looked frightened and he stepped back in confusion.

            “It’s not you, ser. Look behind you,” she said, looking more frightened by the moment.

            Sandor turned, irritated at being interrupted, but stopped in shock and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Atop the hill at the end of the field he and Sansa had travelled stood a man in a flowing white robe with a thick rough beard and a young girl in a black overcoat with a hood. The two stood watching, still as stone. He paused for some moments, wondering and fingering his sword.

            “What in seven hells?” Sandor cursed. He began to move forward, dragging the stallion after him. Stranger bucked and pulled away, which further shocked Sandor. He never had known Stanger to be afraid.

            “Ser, perhaps we should go another way,” Sansa said. He could see tears forming in her eyes and felt the fear coming from her.   

            “I am afraid of no man,” he said, mounting Stranger and urging the horse toward the hill. Sansa followed behind on the sorrel, compelled to stay near the hound. Neither the bearded man nor the girl moved as they approached. Sandor stopped less than the length of a man away from the frozen couple. He looked closer and saw the man had no sword or other weapon on his hip and relaxed. 

            “What is your name, ser and state your business on the king’s road,” Sandor said, hand on his sword.

            The man looked at him and smiled, running a hand through straight brown hair that fell below his shoulders. The girl, of pale face and what seemed to Sandor to be red eyes, stared at Sansa in a way that scared him.

            “She looks hungry,” he whispered to himself.

            “We mean you no harm. We saw you in the field and stopped to watch for a few moments. We shall continue on our journey towards King’s Landing,” the man said. 

            Sandor pulled his sword a few inches out of its sheath. The man gave no sign he saw the motion. The girl however seemed to glide towards him as if floating on air. She opened her mouth and two teeth seemed to elongate into mini fanged blades, causing Sandor to pull his sword and hold it high.

            “Your sword will not help you, Hound,” the man said. He reached out a hand and pressed on the sword, forcing Sandor to lower it.

            The girl flew to Sansa’s side and grabbed her head, tilting it to the side to expose her neck.

            “Let me drink of her, master.”

            The man laughed and pushed passed the hound. He removed the girl’s hand from Sansa’s neck and forced her to step away.

            “Nobody touches Lady Sansa,” the man said. He ran a finger over Sansa’s cheek and smiled.

            Sansa began to sob as the man looked at her, still smiling, his hand touching her hair. The man reached for her hand and kissed it before turning away from her.

            “We have business in King’s Landing,” the man said. He began walking in the direction of the city with the girl following behind him.          

            The man turned and faced them, looking at Sansa.

            “Nice to have met you, Lady Stark.” 

TO ROSLIN, WITH LOVE

TO ROSLIN WITH LOVE

Lady Roslin stoked the hearth, filled with nervous energy as she listened to the sounds of violence raging outside her room. She flinched at every scream and clanging of swords. She scanned her chamber, the dim lighting revealing scant furnishings, her eyes resting upon a bookshelf.

            "I shall miss my books most." she said to herself as a tear ran down her cheek.

            She walked to the door and pressed her ear close. She rubbed a hand over the small bump of her stomach as she listened and waited. The sounds of swords increased in volume and the screams of terror were mixed with the wailing of women and children. She heard fighting in the space outside her room and held her breathe, trying to hear the words.

            "For my brother." she heard a voice say. A sword crashed to the floor, followed by an anguished groan of pain.

            "I..." a voice began to say, a voice that sounded like her brother, but did not continue. A heavy thud of a sword meeting flesh silenced the voice.       

            She gasped and took a step away from the door. Heavy footsteps approached and a loud pounding on her chamber door followed.

            "Doom is come," she whispered.

            The pounding continued and she reached her tiny hand toward the latch.

            "Open the door."  A familiar male voice said.

            She removed the latch and opened the door to see Jon standing before her, sword in hand. The blade was dripping with blood, which caused her to gasp again.

            "Jon..." she began, but he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her.

            He sheathed his sword, entered the room and closed the door behind him. He pulled her against him in a deep embrace, taking in her scent and gripping her hair in his hand.

            "What is going on out there, Jon?" she asked, her voice filled with tears. She reached up with a hand and ruffled his black curls.

            "Justice." he said. He led her towards the bed and sat beside her, taking her hands in his own. He ran a finger over her palm, caressing her smooth skin.

            "I trust you received all my ravens." she said, staring into his dark eyes, which were filled with intensity and desire.

            "I did and appreciate the constant letters to keep me company on the wall. I responded as often as duty allowed." he said, moving closer to her. She blushed and stood, hurrying to her bookshelf to retrieve a letter. She held it out to him, reading the salutation.

            “To Roslin, with Love.” she read with a smile and wiping the tears from her cheek. 

            “You kept it.” Jon said. He looked at the letter for a moment before pulling Roslin against him, her thin waist between his legs.

            “I kept all of your letters.” she said. She brushed a curl of hair away from his face and ran a finger over his cheek. 

            Jon put a hand in her hair and pulled her closer. He pressed his lips against hers and kissed her, a slow kiss that seemed to last for minutes. He kissed her neck and she moaned into his ear, her hands gripping his hair. His hands ran over her body, tugging at her dress and pressing against her chest. She brought his mouth to hers again and kissed him, biting his lip.

            The sounds of violence came to an end outside the chambers, leaving them in silence. Roslin looked over her shoulder at the door and knit her brows in concentration.

            “They will be coming for me.” she said in a soft voice. She turned to him, tears in her eyes once again. 

            “I will protect you.” Jon said.

            “And the baby.”

            “The baby.” Jon repeated with a sigh. “That makes it difficult to bear.”

            “What?” she asked.

            “Nothing, I will protect you and the baby.” he said, embracing her once again. 

            She waved him away and walked to the window and opened the shutters. A soft breeze touched her face as she looked at the sky. She felt Jon place his arms around her shoulders and lean against her.

            “I wish things didn’t turn out this way.” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

            “I was sorry to hear about your wedding.” Jon whispered to her. His voice was thick and cracked with emotion.

            “I wanted to have a great wedding, but it turned into…” she began, but was interrupted by a pounding on the door.

            “Jon, are you in there?” A voice said.

            Jon put a finger to his lips and Roslin nodded that she understood.

            “I wish I could have met you before all the war and tragedy befell our families.” he whispered into her ear. She shook her head again, wiping at a tear with her delicate hand. 

            Jon kissed her cheek and hugged her, squeezing her tight against him. Again, someone pounded on the door and yelled for Jon. Jon looked at the door and sighed as Roslin began to shiver in his arms. She shook as fear overtook her self-control and she began to cry in deep sobs.

            “No.” she cried.

            “Yes.” Jon said. 

            He grabbed her by the waist and shoulder and heaved her out the window. He leaned over the sill and watched her fall.

            “For my brother.” he said.

REVELATIONS

CHAPTER 10

REVELATIONS

I

            Peter clicked the screen to end the phone call and placed it on a table next to him.  In front of him and bound to a metal folding chair sat the fat man.  The fat man was covered with a mix of sweat and blood and grime and his pale gray eyes stared lifeless at the dirt floor.  Peter pulled a chair close and sat, lighting a cigarette as he looked over the fat man’s shoulder into a smaller room cut off from the main by metal prison bars. 

            Ray reclined on a bed without sheets, his arms folded behind his head on a dirty pillow.  He watched as Peter placed the cigarette tip on the fat man’s arm, which elicited a low pitched scream. 

            “Give me your name.”  Peter said, dragging the cigarette over his meaty forearm. 

            “I’ve told you a dozen times, I’m Reverend Maher.” The man said. 

            “I do not believe you. What is your attachment to Ray?” 

            “I’m Mary’s uncle.” The fat man answered. 

            “I do not believe in God, so I will call you Mr. Maher.” Peter said, taking a drag from the cigarette. 

            The Reverend opened his mouth as if intending to speak, but remained silent.

            “One of two things is going to happen this afternoon.” Peter said to both of them, alternating his gaze. “You can join us, Ray or you both will die. First, I’ll torture Mr. Maher for your personal entertainment.”

            Peter walked to the bars and placed his hands on the cold metal, looking at Ray. Ray remained motionless, his arms tucked behind his head, eyes locked with Peter’s. Peter took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew it into Ray’s face.  Ray smiled and sat up, placing his back against the wall. 

            “You are going to kill us no matter what I agree to sign, so why don’t you save us all the charade of choice and kill us now.” Ray said.

            “I like it.” Peter said, laughing. “Smoke?”

            “Please.” Ray said.

            Peter retrieved the pack of cigarette and handed one to Ray. Ray put it to his lips and stuck the end through the bars. Peter clicked the lighter and put the flame to the cigarette.  Ray reached and grabbed Peter’s wrist and pulled him closer. Ray inhaled a deep drag and exhaled through his nose. 

            “You best kill me now, Peter. You have no idea what is coming.”

II

            Mary put music on while watching as Ella sit on the couch with Princess in her lap, stroking the black fur.  Ella stared at the wall or at nothing, Mary could not discern. She walked to the couch and sat beside the girl and placed an arm about her shoulder, pulling her into her chest.  She ran her hand through Ella’s hair in slow, methodic strokes. She could feel Ella’s heart pounding against her side, fast and urgent. 

            “What is going on?” Ella said. Her voice hung low and Mary strained to hear it over the music. 

            “I can’t answer that question.” Mary said. She continued stroking her hair. 

            “I can figure out something bad happened if she calls from his phone. I can’t take this stress. I need to see him.” Ella said.

            “Mr. Brown will find him.” Mary said. “And they will all pay.”

            “I want to see her before all of this ends.” Ella said.

            “Be careful what you wish for in this world. Sometimes it comes true.”

            Mary turned Ella’s chin and looked into her blue eyes. She kissed her forehead and pulled her into a tight embrace.

            “I meant what I told her on the phone.” Ella said. 

            “I know you did, girl.”

            They embraced in silence for a few moments, listening to the music. The next song began playing and Ella leaned forward to read the title from the LCD screen on the stereo­- Violin Concerto in D Major by Brahms-

            “What is with all the classical music?” Ella asked.

            “Ray will not listen to anything else.” Mary said.

            Mary’s phone began to vibrate with a new message. She tapped in her code to check. She turned the phone towards Ella.

            GET OUT OF THE HOUSE

            -Mr. Brown

III

            Mr. Brown watched a blonde haired man in a gray suit approach the door of the warehouse through the dirty windshield of a late model Buick. He checked his phone, but there were no new messages. He shook his head in dismay and placed the phone inside his shirt pocket. He reached into the glove box and removed two black handguns, which he shoved into the holsters hanging on each side of his chest.

            He exited the car, walked to the trunk and opened it. He grabbed the matte black shotgun and a handful of shells, which he shoved into his jacket pockets. He strode across the street, not bothering to look for traffic, which had dried up like everything else in the summer violence. He approached the door and waited; the shotgun across his chest.

IV

            Peter lit a cigarette as Jaime entered the room.  Jaime placed his briefcase upon the table, opened it and began arranging papers in neat stacks. He placed Ray’s worn Bible next to the papers. The reverend watched in a stupor, his eyes glazed over with pain and sleep deprived agony.

            “This will be simple, Ray. You sign a few forms transferring cash and assets to an account of my designation and I’ll spare the Reverend.” Peter said.

            Peter grabbed a black bag from the floor and placed it on the table.  He removed several large knives and a large meat cleaver. He arranged them in a row, placing each one with emphasis, looking at Ray. Peter began thumbing through the bible, stopping to read highlighted passages before turning his glance to the fat man.

            Fear God and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come.

            The reverend made a spitting motion and Peter slapped his face hard, three quick hard blows.

            “You picked an appropriate passage. Nice touch.” Jaime said to Peter with a smile.

            “Has Ryan received the message that you’ve turned into a garden variety thief?” Ray said, ignoring Jaime’s comment. He stood near the bars as Peter arranged the knives. 

            Two men entered the door, both with guns at their sides. Ray watched as each of them grabbed an implement from the table and approached the Reverend.

            “Perhaps we shall tie you to the chair, Ray.” Peter said with a smile.

            “It will be a waste of time, he might enjoy it.” The reverend said with effort.

            Peter slapped Maher’s face with the back of his hand. He motioned to Jaime and the men, who surrounded the fat man.

            “I have another matter to attend to at present. Get results.” Peter said to Jaime. 

            “My pleasure.” Jaime answered as Peter exited through the rear door. He held the cleaver against the reverend’s face, slow enough to gather sweat and blood on the blade. He placed the blade against a bound wrist and looked into the fat man’s eyes.

            “Make it quick.” The fat man said.

            Jaime raised the blade high over his shoulder.

            “I know this may not change anything, Ray, but I’m going to enjoy this.” Jaime said as he brought the cleaver down with a sickening whack on Maher’s wrist. The fat man hollered and Ray looked away, shaking his head in dismay.

            Blood gushed from the wound as the reverend thrashed against his restraints, rocking the chair.

            “I will sign nothing. Kill him.” Ray said in anger.

            The reverend’s face lost color as the blood continued to run in rivers. The second man ran a knife over the fat man’s chest, opening a deep gash. 

            The door flew open and Mr. Brown entered, firing the shotgun. The first man fell in a heap and before the second man could draw his gun, Mr. Brown fired again, hitting him in the knees. Mr. Brown drew his handgun and shot him twice in the skull.

            Mr. Brown approached Jaime and motioned for him to drop the cleaver. Jaime dropped the knife and backed away from the reverend, arms high over his head. Mr. Brown looked at the fat man and shot him in the temple.

            “Rest in peace.” He said.

He grabbed the keys off the desk and unlocked the bars. Ray stepped out from his cell and removed the knife from the dead man’s hand. He approached Jaime and without a word rammed the knife deep into his chest. Jaime fell to his knees while trying to remove the knife. He clutched at the blade with fading strength, blood running over his hands and dripping onto the dusty floor. Mr. Brown walked toward him, placed the muzzle against his forehead and fired.

V

            Ella pushed her pasta around with a fork, distracted and watching the waitress working at bussing a table. The woman was of middle age, with shoulder length brown hair and blue gray eyes.

            “She is pretty. I swear I know her from somewhere.” Ella said. Mary looked at the waitress and shrugged.

            “She has worked here since the place opened last year, that’s all I know of her.”

            Ella continued pushing her food and checked her phone with her free hand. There were several messages from her agent and family members, but she ignored them and skipped to the blocked number.

            “You should have switched the locator option in your phone to OFF.”

            “What does this mean?” Ella asked, showing Mary the phone.

            She didn’t have time to answer. A masked man entered with a rifle shouldered and aimed at Mary and Ella. The waitress screamed and the man turned and fired a quick burst, cutting her down. She fell to a heap and the tray of dishes crashed to the floor. A general panic swept the restaurant and patrons ran for the exits as Mary took a handgun from her purse and led Ella towards the kitchen.

            A rush of employees coming out of the kitchen blocked their path and Mary shielded Ella and pointed the gun at the masked man. She fired two shots, but missed. The man took careful aim and fired, hitting Mary in the chest. She fell backwards onto Ella, the gun smacking the floor.

            “Run.” Mary said to her a moment before a second bullet ripped through her neck.

            Ella grabbed the gun and the car keys before forcing her way into the kitchen and running for the emergency door. She pushed through it and found herself in the employee parking lot. She ran around the side of the building to the spot Mary had left the Explorer, tears running down her cheeks. She heard the man following her, the door slamming as she disappeared around the building’s edge.

            She sprinted to the car and opened the door. She started the ignition but instead of trying to drive, closed the door and ran around to the far side, hiding herself.  The man came running towards the car, firing at the driver’s side. He emptied the rifled and ripped the door open. He turned in shock at the moment Ella emerged from the rear of the Explorer, gun pointed at his head.

            For a moment, they eyed each other. The man reached into his pocket for a clip and shoved it into the rifle. Ella gritted her teeth and fired, the bullet hitting the man in the stomach. He fell to his knees, but managed to insert the clip into the rifle. He raised the gun at Ella, but she fired again, hitting the man in the forehead, killing him. 

           

           

               

NOON DAY SUN

NOON DAY SUN          

            Robert looked at his watch and shook his head in irritation. He seemed to be waiting for something, although he did not know what, for indeed he thought to himself, ‘When?’ His lunch remained untouched as he looked over the balcony, located on floor two of the arcade, which gave out onto Westminster Street, affording him a view of Fleet bank. He focused his eyes and his attention on the bank. He watched two businessmen, wearing fit suits of blue and white pin stripe exit the bank chatting and putting receipts, slips and cash into pockets.

            ‘Them,’ he thought to himself, a grin played on his face, stretching wide upon his features, which lent him a temporary look of malice. Indeed he possessed features which of ease lent themselves to such an impression, with deep set brown eyes, a thick broken nose that leaned slight to a side, and ugly pig shaped thick lips. 

‘But not them. Not exactly, but the type, the type is right.’ He said this aloud to himself, knowing he was alone on the balcony. He watched in silence for some minutes men in suits and women in fine cut dresses of red and black enter and exit, a constant stream of commerce, veritable visible success. He eyed one particular blonde, tall and wearing a green skirt with a white blouse, her beauty smiling up at him from the street.  He eyed her long legs, moving sure and straight forward, moving with grace and surety, knowing it brought him no joy to see her body, instead shaking his head in displeasure.

            ‘No, she is not right at all.’ He said to himself, all the while fingering gentle short stokes upon the metal inside his waistband. He looked down upon the street, for a moment diverting his attention from the bank’s rear entrance, to watch the pedestrians and cars make mad day noise. A bright red sedan of obvious make held traffic as it waited for an elderly lady, white hair moving in the breeze, to cross the way, a journey of epic nature or so rather it seemed to him. 

‘Put a move on it.’ He muttered. 

He hated old, couldn’t stand anything old and when three days previous he acquired the piece of metal now safe and secure lodged in his waistband, he said in an emphatic tone to a stunned clerk, “Be sure it is new.” 

The clerk, a youngish man with dull features, in utter shock said, “Sir, I can assure you all of our merchandise is new and backed by a full guarantee.”

            “I do not want a guarantee.” Robert said, putting an end to further conversation.  “Just be sure it is new.”

            “Yes sir.” The clerk responded, nay stuttered. He did not like the look of this man and hesitated, but not wanting to disturb his manager, whom he feared more than this harsh featured man, he simply place the package in a brown bag and pushed it across the counter. He felt a wave of relief when the man took the package away and without further words left the store.

            During the space of those three days, between that and this, Robert wandered lost about the city, looking, searching, searching, looking for time or a place to assert itself, not knowing the first thing himself. He spent a day on the east side strolling without destination past cafes with their blinking neon lights proclaiming for all to see and read, ‘The best cup of java in town.’ He walked past or rather around college students dressed in summer clothes, shorts and tee shirts baring youthful flesh. 

He eyed a young coed; a handsome young man no doubt completing his freshman year of math, English lessons and time spent chasing ladies on campus, wearing gray shorts, a white tank top and the seeming requisite sandals so in vogue, as the student sat drinking coffee and chatting friendly with a red head, rather cute herself with blue eyes to match rosy healthy cheeks.  The woman seemed not to follow his conversation and wished to leave, her feet shifting, one to the other, her eyes roaming the street. Robert smiled and thought to himself,

‘You should have taken her down the street young sir. They have the best java in town.’

            He walked on without further comment and decided the east side, with its cafes, used cd stores, college students struggling to afford the best java in town not to be the place, not right at all. He boarded the bus and left those that would be well enough left alone.

            ‘We must consider carefully what we do.’ He thought. ‘Yes, very carefully.’ 

            These thoughts came as the bus entered the tunnel, bound for downtown, leaving all in darkness.

            He came to, or rather, focused his eyes, which indeed were and had been trained upon the bank the entire time. He saw the man, the right man he knew, rounding the corner and making straight for the bank, head cropped close and held high, hands stuffed with confidence and inside his gray suit pants, a man who was somebody. He saw the straight away, no hiding or denying the fact. The man was the man. He watched, in seeming slow motion, as he, the man, gray suit and all, reached his hand out and opened the door. He smiled and felt cold ice running wild in his blood, cold, cold black ice in his veins. He gripped metal, hard with his fingers to contain his excitement.  The wait indeed would soon be over. 

“When he is done with business, he is done,” he thought, almost daring to laugh aloud at his wittiness, but he thought better. Shaking his head all the while he mumbled under his breath, “I won’t draw attention to myself. Not yet. Not yet.”

            The man in the gray suit, named Ryan, walked, quick and sure to the desk of the loan consultant,, sure because he knew the way, quick because he wished the entire drama to be at an end. He had been to see the loan consultant there several times over  the previous month, all attempts or rather requests for the bank to give him “a bit more’, the exact phrase he used the first day he sat sweating tense nerves and trying to convince the loan consultant to give him an extension on his car loan. 

“I need a bit more time to get my finances in order.” He remembered saying, a memory that caused him discomfort, visible discomfort, as indeed, worry lines appeared without warning above his eyes, his sky blue eyes, his beautiful, troubled sky blue eyes.  It pained him to ask the man behind the desk, whom while he asked and begged for an extension, ‘a bit of time,’ did not look up and instead remained seated, rather on the fat side, flesh pushing over his shirt collar, as he pushed keys on the computer.

            “Name?” the man asked. He still did not possess the courtesy to offer Ryan a look, a greeting or as much as a nod.

            “Ryan.”

            “Last name, please.” The fat man said a hint of irritation in his voice. Ryan thought the fat man might be a smoker, a two pack a day smoker. 

            “Jordan.”

            “One moment.”

            Fat man busied himself with the computer as Ryan stood nervous and impotent, picking at his nails. 

            “Hmm.” The fat man sighed, a pleasure almost bordering on joy inside that sigh.  He seemed happy to see Ryan’s financial difficulties on the screen in front of him, indeed, a smile spreading on his fat features. 

            “Yes, you are here about the extension you requested on the phone.”

            “I am. I just need a bit of time to get things in order. The last few months have been slow at work.”

            “I see. Well, your request is being processed; there is nothing I can tell you today. You can stop in over the next week to check.” The fat man seemed content.  One more life put under the hooks, one more number under pressure, the constant downward pressure of financial ruin.

            Ryan stood there in confusion, not understanding. He thought of things to say, but his words seemed futile. 

‘This man pushes papers.’ He thought as he left a thought that recurred to him as he approached the desk for the fourth and final time.

            He saw no sign of the fat man. He brushed a hand, one sweaty palm over his head, unable to stop the nervous display. He waited, sweat appearing and running free over his forehead, sweat under his arms and upon his palms, which he ran over his cropped hair.

‘I have to remember to dry clean this suit before I give it back to Greg.’ He thought to himself as a lady tapped his shoulder.

            “Can I help you?” She asked. She smiled at him and brushed her hair, long and brown, away from her eyes with fingernails painted a glossy red. Her eyes sparkled brown and friendly and wide, which for a moment gave him respite from his nerves.

            “I’m here to see Mr. Brown.” He said, struggling to remember fat man’s name as he stared into her eyes. She wore a red dress, cut with black trim, which hugged tight against her hips and did little to hide her full breasts.

            “Mr. Brown is at lunch. Can I take a message for you?” She asked her voice sweet and light.

            “No. He told me to be here at one o’clock. I’ll go for lunch myself and come back in an hour.”

            “Okay, great.” She said. Great indeed, he thought to himself.

            “Thank you.” He said, not wanting the conversation to end.

            “No problem.” That voice again, sweet and light, tickled at his spine and caused his knees to weaken, and if just for a moment he no longer felt the constant worry of his finances. 

            He turned away and began to walk, although not so quick as before, towards the door. 

‘I’d like to know her name.’ he thought. ‘I’d like to take her to lunch.’

            The thought of lunch reminded him once again of his present troubles and he removed from his pocket a five dollar bill, the last of his money until payday. He fingered the paper as he walked, thinking where could he get a lunch for five dollars. 

            “It will be a burger and fries, again.” he said to himself as he exited the rear doors of the bank. 

           

            Robert saw Ryan exit the bank, his blonde hair shining in the sun, his eyes shielded by the hand, which held the last of his money. Robert smiled to himself as the man stood there, as if waiting for him, motionless.

            ‘You shall not escape.’ Robert said to himself. He raised his gun and took aim.

            Ryan waited for an opening in traffic to cross the street, the arcade being close enough to see the usual counter person in the window at his burger joint. 

            “I have enough for two cheeseburgers.” He said as he stepped from the curb.

            He heard the shot after he felt the blow against his shoulder and found himself sprawled upon the sidewalk, all this before he realized he was shot. He heard a woman scream and car brakes squeal moments before a second shot smashed into the concrete next to his leg. He pressed his hand against his shoulder and felt sticky wetness and saw red as he lifted his hand. He saw his five dollar bill lying a few feet away and fluttering in the breeze.  He reached for it, but a second pain exploded in his thigh.  He screamed, but his voice sounded thin, as if he heard himself from a distance.  He looked up, blinded by the noon day sun, looked up at the very moment that Robert fired.

Illusion

ILLUSION

           

Ryan sat with two friends at the bar, watching a ballgame.  He sat with one hand holding a mug of ale, growing warm, and the other fingering the money is his pocket.  Twenty five dollars equals five beers or four beers and a shot.  He paced himself as Ray and George raced through beers and shots and mixed drinks, rum and coke, whiskey and ginger ale, tequila straight up and chilled.  He sat silent and sullen as Ray laughed and drank, as George agreed and paid for shots and fun. 

            “You have to do one shot.”  Ray insisted, for what seemed the thousandth time in less than an hour.  Ryan nodded in agreement, as per always, usual, never going to happen.

The seventh inning stretch came with three shots and another round of beers.  As a fat man in expensive clothes crooned, edging sharp and pinched, Ray talked of women.     

“Women are no different than boats or cars.  You need a portfolio on a date today, not pick up lines.”

            George nodded in agreement, as always, as usual.    

As Ray spoke, the lottery drawing for the night interrupted for a moment the commercial break.  Ryan pulled a ticket from his pocket, but didn’t look, his focus remaining on Ray.

            “It’s all about the money.”  Ray said, through a thick smile laden with secrets and knowledge.

            “Plenty of men without money find women to spend their lives with.”  George countered.  His argument felt and sounded false.  He loved playing the other side of any coin, for his own amusement.            ‘Five,’ the announcer read.

            “Things will never change, George.  To the winner goes the spoil.”

            ‘Thirteen.’

            Ryan looked at his ticket, two for two.

            “You speak in clichés.”  George responded. 

            “Women are not bought so easily as a car or a house.  There are other factors.”

            ‘19, 23, 36...’

            Ryan clenched his mug, not believing.  Five for five, one number to go, a drawing worth in excess of ten million dollars.

            “I know, tired, but true.  If you have money, you’ll never suffer loneliness.  Women will fall over you in their attempts to get your money.”

            ‘54.’

            The room seemed to stop, even as Ray and George continued to speak and drink and smoke.  Ryan failed to hear and their lips moved in water motion, not forming words or sentences.

            “I think I won.”  He said, softly, in a near whisper.

            Ray ignored his utterance and get on with his thesis.  “Capitalism is the system of capital.  Those without capital are used by those at the top.  The lack of capital makes one a tool of the machine instead of being one that receives its benefits.”

            ‘5, 13, 19, 23, 36, and 54,’ the announcer repeated.

            “Guys, I won.”  Ryan said, this time with more force.

            Ray and George stopped speaking, drinking and smoking to look at him.  Moment passed into several in silence, bar life moving on around them, ignoring them.  Ryan repeated the words to himself, tears in his eyes.  The bar and those around him faded into nothingness.

            Ryan woke early the next morning with a hangover, yet with a burning desire to begin his day.  In the drunken moments of clarity before sleep he had planned the day down to the minute.  Beside his bed he saw the list, scribbled drunken madness, which he made at three in the morning.         

Pay creditors, purchase a car, preferably foreign, call parents and most important, visit the wife store.  He stared at that last part for some moments, wondering and bewildered. 

            “The wife store?”  He said to himself in astonishment. He rolled from the bed and grabbed the business directory from his desk.  He opened and searched, finding with speed and further astonishment:          

            The Wife Store.  30 Institute Dr.

            He blinked his eyes as if doubting his vision, but the advertisement remained, promising all shapes and sizes of women for sale.  He ripped the page from the book and dressing quickly, made for the door.

            Outside, a warm cloudless summer day, free of humidity greeted him.  As he walked down the steps to the driveway he noticed a row of maples along the edge of the yard. 

            “Maples?”  He whispered.  He shook his head, knowing those maple trees not to be there the previous day.  As he reached his parking spot he saw a brand new sports coupe in the place of his older model economy sedan.  He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, and instead of the ones familiar to him, pulled out a set of keys strange to his eyes.  The key matched the car.  He put it in the lock, as if following unspoken directions, and opened the door.

            He started the ignition and pressed the accelerator, not believing the sound of power under him.  He backed out of the driveway and with a squeal of the tires drove down the boulevard.  A voice in the car gave him directions, which he followed.  A few turns and stoplights led him to the corner of Institute and Main.  He saw the sign a block ahead and pulled in front of the store.  A man wearing a burgundy suit with a white rose in the shoulder pocket met him at the curb.

            “Welcome sir, come right this way.”  The man led him to the front door and opened it, leading him inside.

            He followed the man into a spacious lobby, an open space with a couch and chair against one wall and a desk in the back of the room, behind which sat a pretty brunette.  She stood as they entered, smiling and gracious.

            “You must be Ryan.”  She said, extending her hand.  Her smile seemed permanent, her hand warm and smooth.

            “How did you know?”  He stammered.

            “You made an appointment, remember.”  She said with a wink.  She led him by the hand down a corridor, talking as they walked.

            “We’ve assembled a group of women we believe will be to your liking, according to the answers given on your questionnaire.  The women are divided into groups of price, quality and age.”

            She opened a door at the corridor’s end, which gave way to a wide room, filled with rows of women.  The women each stood on a small circular podium and in front of each hung a placard with various details.

            Ryan stood in the doorway, overcome with bewilderment and amazement.  To his left stood a blonde of medium height, naked save the heels upon her feet.        The secretary pointed to the placard next to the blonde.   “She is five foot seven, one hundred and twenty five pounds.  Cup size thirty four C, waist size 5.  She is clean in every respect; all of our women are given a full physical.  She can cook; sew, as can most all our products, and additionally, she is licensed in physical therapy.  Her price is one hundred thousand, with a yearly upkeep fee of ten thousand.’

            Ryan moved past her and began looking at the other women.  A brunette whose placard promised cooking as well as gardening skills, cup size 36 C, at the price of one hundred twenty.  Another blonde, cup size 34 D, a tailor and clothes designer, master of Italian cuisine, priced 135 K.

            As he moved on, the price rose.  175 thousand for what the placard termed ‘a budding product.’  Indeed, item number twenty five stood no more than five foot two, her breasts no more than promises, her slender waist giving way to thin tight thighs and calves. 

            “How old is she?”  He asked the secretary.

            “She is as young as you want her to be.”  She answered the same smile of permanence on her face. 

            Item twenty five smiled at him and pointed at the second line of the description tagged to her.

            ‘Virgin in all respects, sexually and otherwise.’ Ryan moved on, to the last woman in line.  She seemed not to be in keeping with the others.  He found her to be less attractive, her placard near empty of skills or points to recommend her.  However, to his shock, her price read two hundred and fifty thousand, with a yearly upkeep of twenty five.  Her brown hair seemed too thin to him, her shoulders too narrow, and thighs without the requisite flesh.  Her eyes stared back at him, light brown and plain, lacking emotion. 

            “Why does she cost so much?”  Ryan asked.

            The secretary laughed and pointed to the description.

            Mute.  Ryan looked at her, item twenty six, seeing thin lips and unremarkable features.  He turned to the secretary.

            “How will she express her adoration of me?”    

The secretary seemed shocked and for a moment, her permanent smile faltered.

            “Sir?”  She asked, as if she did not hear him.

            “How will she express her love for me?”  He asked again.

            “Love?”  She asked, laughing.  Her laughing continued, on and on, for millions of years.  Ryan felt dizziness in his head and reached a hand out for support.  Her laughter rang in his ears as he fell, down and down.

            Ray and George talked on and on, as Ryan stared.  The game seemed to stall in the ninth, a third pitcher called on to record a single out. 

“I know what I know.”  Ray said.  George nodded to the agreement of his victory. 

Ryan took his money from his pocket and placed it on the bar, standing as he did so.  He looked at Ray, sadness in his eyes.

“You don’t know shit, friend.”