"A Better Place to Be"

There was a time when every thing was all right. Wasn't there?

Roslyn stuck her thumb in her mouth then pointed that same thumb out over the highway.

Take me there, she whispered to herself as she climbed into the backseat of the blue convertible driven by the laughing couple with the expensive sunglasses.

Let's go.

# # #

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"Crash! Boom!"

"It's not supposed to be this easy," Ramrod said as he handcuffed the scruffy, would-be jewelry store robber to the lamppost.

"That's what they all say at first, but you get used to it," said King. King was about six-and-a-half feet tall, in his mid-fifties with grizzled white hair, blue eyes blinking behind a black mask and a perfect physique beneath a black spandex shirt and sweatpants.

"They don't make villains like they used to, do they?" Ramrod asked. He had a lot of respect for the old man, and it showed.

King grunted and spat on the sidewalk. "Kid, the villains make themselves. And no one with half a brain would be a super villain. What's the point?"

Ramrod laughed. "Taking over the world, of course. You got power, you want to rule the world, right? That's what Doctor Dread did, right?"

"Doctor Dread was a mental case who just happened to have access to nukes. Look, how the hell can anyone rule the world? The bureaucracy alone would kill you."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Shut up, kid." King had a phone to his ear, mumbled a few words, then snapped it shut. "The cops are on their way. You'll want to get out of here."

"What about you?"

"I'll give 'em their report, then I'm out of here, too. I'm too old for this."

Ramrod laughed. King was always saying that. But there he was, every night, cruising the streets, beating up muggers, foiling robberies, busting dealers. Ramrod knew. He'd been tracking King for years. He'd learned his every move, duplicated and even improved upon his equipment. For instance, Ramrod's grappling hook actually worked. And he'd tried a number of projectiles -- billy club, throwing stars, boomerang -- but finally settled on the taser. It just worked better.

Well, Ramrod thought, my work here is done. He shouted a goodbye to King, but the old man ignored him. So he jogged down the street, rounded the corner and tore off his painted motorcycle helmet and mask and started to drive.

He was hungry, so he stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for a coffee and chocolate honey dipped. He smiled at straw-haired girl behind the counter, who ignored him. He sat down on the curb and ate the donut while he waited for the coffee to cool down.

A pair of black leather boots and dark slacks stopped in front of him. Ramrod looked up.

"Got a job for you," said a deep voice that came from somewhere behind dark glasses and a hooded windbreaker.

"Mmmphf?" Ramrod said, spitting pieces of donut. He swallowed. "I'm not looking for work."

"You're looking for this work."

Ramrod stood up. He wasn't a small man himself -- six-foot-three and all the muscle he could grunt out of himself at Jerry's Gym. But this man was huge. Had to be at least seven feet tall. But stood up straight, like a statue of a hero.

Ramrod stuck out his chest and balled up his fists. Always be ready.

"Are you looking for trouble?" Ramrod said to the man's chest. "Because I'm not looking for trouble. But I've got it to spare." Ramrod thought for a moment. He'd never been good at talking tough. He could throw a punch, take a punch, but threats... "Trouble, I mean," he clarified.

"Got a job for you," the man said again. "Follow me."

Ramrod stared after the man, striding like a giant, two-legged cat toward a black Humvee.

"What the hell do you want you sonofabitch!" Ramrod shouted.

The man turned and slowly pulled back his hood. Out of the shadows, his face was remarkably red. Smoke poured from his head. He removed his gloves. Smoke and fire billowed from his hands.

Then all at once, there was a sound, like a sonic boom. Smoke and fire burst from the man's body, advancing on Ramrod. Ramrod screamed. Then he stopped and collapsed in smoking heap.

The man put his hood back on his head, and pulled on his gloves. The smoke and fire dissipated. The man exhaled and looked up at the stars. Nice night.

"It was a good job," the man said, flatly.

He got into his car and drove off.

# # #

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"She Can Kill with a Smile..."

I didn't think it would be that easy. But it was.

I walked into the flower shop, all casual like. I grabbed one red long-stemmed rose, careful not to prick my finger.

I smiled at the workers in the back, busily snipping stems and arranging arrangements. They nodded back at me. I browsed the Hallmarks for a minute. Then I walked out, the door jingling behind me.

She was in the car. She stared straight ahead, careful not to avert her eyes from whatever she watched as walked in front of the car. I sat down in the driver's seat.

"For you, m'dear," I said, leaning over for what I hoped would be a kiss worthy of a certain kind of cinema.

"Nice," she said instead, looking down at the flower then taking it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. "What am I supposed to do with it now?"

"What do women ever do with flowers?" I said, leaning back, silently swearing at the car roof. "We buy them, you tell us how sweet we are, you stick them in a vase, they die a few days later, you throw them out and life goes on."

"So, it's the thought that counts? That's what you're saying?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"Nice."

I looked at her, noting how her long black hair was pulled tight over her head and tied into a ponytail. At her full red lips, lightly lipsticked against her light brown skin. Her dark eyes, framed by unnaturally long lashes. I looked at her and I could feel her moving against me.

Moving against me.

"You thought this would make a difference?" she asked, brushing the red petals against her lips as breathed its scent.

"I took great risks," I offered.

She was quiet for some time.

"Did it work?" I asked. I raised my eyebrows for comic effect.

"Not really," she said I and I slammed my palm against the steering wheel.

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing really," she said.

And then she turned to me and smiled.

# # #

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"Bringing 'Em Home"

"Crazy days, don't you think?"

"How do you figure, Jesse?" I flicked a tiny hunk of meat from a toothpick while Jesse talked at me. I knew from long experience that when we set on the bench in front of Sam's place, we weren't so likely to have a conversation as much as I was going to be the straight man for a soliloquy. I shifted in my seat as to make myself more comfortable and took a pull of cream soda from the bottle.

"How do you not figure, Augie? You got your troops out there in that desert place..."

"Ee-rock."

"Yeah. Eye-rak. What are we doing there?"

"That's what a lot of people are asking these days, Jesse."

"Well, I'll tell you what we're doing there. We're there because the folks in Washington want us to take our eye off the ball, if you know what I'm saying."

"I'm not sure I do, Jesse. Maybe you better help me out." As I talked, I couldn't help but to smile. I took out my notepad and started to sketching a picture of him, just for fun, sitting there in his John Deere cap and overalls, even though he'd never done a lick of farming in all his years, which must have been more than 70 or so.

"What I'm saying is...and maybe you'd better take notes here, Augie...what I'm saying here is that we're over there so the terrorists won't go bother us over here. What I'm saying here is that the longer we're over there, the terrorists will be happy to kill as many of us over there as they can, while the folks here are safe in their comfy beds."

"Well, maybe we'll get 'em home soon, Jesse."

"Get 'em home? Why would we do that? Hell, at least out there, it's a fair fight. Our boys have got guns and tanks and air support and the Green Zone and all that. What have we got here? Nothing! Those Al Qaeda guys ..." He made the name of the terrorist group sound like a fellow that lived down the street. "Those guys can just slip in here and 'boom'! We'll never know what hit us!"

"Pretty damn scary, that is."

"So you want to keep our boys out there? Hell, see that's the problem. We don't want 'em to stay out there -- it's just not right. But mark my words, soon as they come home, all that stuff that's happening there? It's going to be happening here."

"You think so?" I said, scuffling my pencil on my notepad to darken the shadows under Jesse's cap.

"Mark my words, son. Mark my words. We're taking our eyes off the ball."

"So you said. You ought to explain that part."

"Look, Augie. Those boys...and the girls, too... they're the best America has to offer out there, right?"

"Sure."

"Wrong! They're great people, don't get me wrong. I've been there, you know that right? Army, 1953."

"Sure, Jesse."

"What I'm saying is, we've got to show these people the real America. The America that's about folks helping other folks. About letting people be who they want to be, and be ruled by who they want to be ruled by. The America that when we invade a country and screw up, we leave 'em better than when we found them. If it was me, I'd kill 'em with kindness, that's what I'd do. Get every last one of us thinking and working about how to make that country better, and then make it our mission to help those terrorists see that we're here to help. Make sure people know that we're the good guys. Stop at nothing. That's what I'd do.

"Sounds a little Pollyanna to me, Jesse. Maybe those folks just plain hate us, you know?"

"Ah, Augie, I thought you were smarter than that."

"I am what I am, Jesse."

"What are you scribbling at there, anyway?" Jesse asked peering over to my side of the bench. I showed him. A not-half-bad sketch of an old man in a John Deere cap, standing at attention, arm raised in a stiff salute, flag waving in the background.

Jesse chuckled, clapped me on the shoulder, and stood up.

"You're all right, Augie."

"You, too. You take care now."

"Oh I will."

And I watched him go, on his proud, creaky legs, marching home.

----------------------------------
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"A Bold, New Direction"

If you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there.
- Lewis Carroll

And they were off!

It was a tight-knit, unusual crew, trooping through the forest trail, single file. Young Harry took the point, 10 years old and full of spirit. "If we run into a bear, boys, just stay behind me!"

Harry had read in his parents' National Geographic (or thought he did) that bears smell fear and have terrible eyesight. Before they set out on their journey, he practiced in the mirror, raising his arms over his head and growling. They'd think you were bigger if you did that.

Behind Harry was Samir, the youngest and smallest of the troop at the age of 8. Samir, skinny and short with a mop of curly black hair, walked in great loping strides to keep up with Harry, whom he idolized. Samir wore a backpack, carried a walking stick he'd borrowed from his visiting Grandpa, and had a purple felt cape tied loosely around his neck.

Then there was Grant, at a burly 10 and a half, who looked as if he was ready for a rest mere moments into the journey. Grant enviously eyed Samir's Grandpa's walking stick and regretted his own knapsack, with its thin black string that cut into his shoulder as he lumbered along behind his fellows.

Pushing up the rear was dreamy Roslyn, a slim girl of nine, and Grant's little sister, whose curly brown hair spilled in shiny ringlets about her face and shoulders. Roslyn insisted on joining the boys, and no one dared argue with Roslyn. They knew better than to take a stand when her turned fiery red and her fingers curled up into cute little fists. She wore a t-shirt that sparkled with comets and stars and a pink knapsack festooned with dangling streamers and trinkets.

And it came to pass that after a long journey through the forest the little crew stopped in a clearing under the trees and unwrapped the plastic from their hummus-on-wheat sandwiches and sipped from tiny straws that punctured their juice boxes that he fell from tree into the little clearing, starting the children so that even brave Harry scurried behind a fallen tree with the rest and peered through the branches as the man carefully stood and dusted off his leafy green jacket.

"Are you lost?" the man said in the general direction of the little crew.

The man seemed impossibly tall, even for a grown-up, and strangely thin and angular, in Samir's assessment. He wore a leafy green jacket that was the color of thick maple leaves in the summer, and knit cap that fit just a little too tight, allowing bursts of blond hair to jut here and there in no certain pattern. His pants were green cloth and his boots were tall and brown, laced almost to his knees.

"What is he, Harry?" Samir whispered.

"Probably a Park Ranger," Harry said, without his usual confidence.

"That's stupid," Grant scowled. "That is no Park Ranger."

"Well what do you think he is, smarty?" Harry shot back.

"Yeah?" Samir said.

"I don't know. But it's no Park Ranger."

"Hmmph," Harry said.

"Yeah, hmmph," said Samir.

Roslyn spat on the ground in front of the boys, and stood up. "I'm going to ask him!"

And amid cries of "No!", and "You can't!" and "Stranger!", Roslyn stamped out of the brush to stand before the tall stranger.

"We're not lost, sir. Are you? My friends and I," and at this point she gestured urgently for the boys to join her, and they reluctantly complied, "are on a journey through these woods. You might call us Explorers."

The man bent down so that his face was nearly level with that of Roslyn, and tilted his head his eyes wide with amusement.

"And what, milady, is it that you seek? Perhaps it is something that I might help you to find?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can't," Roslyn said.

"Oh, you would be surprised at what I know," the main said, smiling.

"If I tell you, you can't tell anyone," Roslyn said, pointing a pink fingernail at the man's rather large nose.

"My word is my bond, milady." Roslyn blushed, thinking that this man speaks like he comes from the land of fairy tales, and the thought crossed her mind that he could well be an elf. That would be silly, she thought, but not impossible.

"Whose word?" Grant blurted.

"Whose? Ah," the man said, understanding. "You may call me Stilt."

"I'll need to talk with my friends, Stilt" Roslyn said. She gathered Harry, Grant and Samir in a huddle.

"Well, he seems nice," Grant said.

"What do you think, Harry?" Samir said.

"'What do you think, Harry,'" Roslyn mocked. "What do you think, Samir?"

"I think we should tell him. He seems, I don't know, magical or something."

"Hmmph," said Harry, and Samir's face turned quickly from pleased to crestfallen. "I think I should get out there and make him go away."

"He's not a bear, Harry," Grant said.

"A Hairy Bear, Harry?" Samir giggled and then stopped at an angry glance from Harry.

"I'm going to tell him," Roslyn finally said. "Sir, we seek the remains of the Last of the Unicorns!"

The man stopped and sat down heavily, head bowed low, arms on his knees, which were about as tall as Harry's nose. Finally, he looked up, gazing deep into Roslyn's green eyes.

"Why do you seek this?" he asked gravely.

"Because it's there!" Harry declared.

"Because it's magic!" Samir shouted.

"Because it's dead!" breathed Grant.

"Because I wasn't going to be left behind," Roslyn said.

Stilt laughed. "That may be the best reason of all, milady." He stood again. "If you must see it, then you must see it. Let us go there now."

Stilt walked into the woods and the children looked at each other and Grant shrugged and Harry nodded and the little troop hurried after him.

It wasn't far. They climbed over a hill, clambered over the rocky, barely visible trail on the other side that led down to bustling little creek. They followed the creek for a little ways till they saw it. The animal lay on its side, its legs limp and bony, its fur a dirty brown and white. As they drew closer, they could see the fuzzy branches of its antlers, and the brown stain in its side...

"Antlers?" Harry shouted.

"Have some respect, young man," Stilt warned.

"But...but..." Harry sputtered. "Unicorns don't have antlers!"

They were close enough to touch the beast now, but no one did. They stood, staring.

"There is no such thing as a unicorn, young man," Stilt said.

"But what about you?" Grant asked, tearing his eyes away from the fallen beast.

"Me?" Stilt asked in mock surprise.

"Yeah. There's no such thing as you, either!" Samir accused, like a prosecutor revealing a witness' lies. Stilt just laughed his long, funny laugh.

"No, you're right. I'm very...magical... is that what you would say? I'd prefer mythological, but to each his own."

"So?" Harry asked, practically shouting.

"So? What?" Stilt paused.

"So how are you here?" Harry shouted, almost in tears.

"Ah. Don't worry, young man. It will be all right, milady," he said to Roslyn, who was wiping away a tear of her own. "You're never too young to learn that some magic isn't real while other magic is very real."

"And how will we know?" Samir asked, smiling, quivering.

"I can't tell you that, my friend," Stilt said, placing a giant hand on the boy's head and tousling his hair. "But I can tell you that every bit of magic lost is a chance to turn this way or that. To choose a bold, new direction. To learn what is knowable and to seek the unknown."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Grant said, spitting.

"You're being rude, Grant," Roslyn said, throwing a handful of dirt at the boy.

"It's OK, Grant, milady. You know what you know now. The poor beast will be here for a long time. But you have places to go, wonders to see, people to be. Go home my friends, go home."

And Stilt doffed his cap and bowed low and Samir bowed low back to him and smiled a happy smile and led the little troop back into the wood trail, back toward home.

# # #

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The Complete "Peter Flak, Big Time Detective"

Now that I've gotten the sordid tale of Peter Flak, Big Time Detective out of my system, here is the whole thrilling tale in one convenient post:

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Part X
Part XI
Part XII

Thanks for reading... and now, back to our regularly scheduled short bursts of randomness!



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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part XII

The "Thrilling" Conclusion

Flak dug his hands deeper in the pockets of his trench coat. He thought about the sitcoms he hated the most: the comical misunderstanding resulting from a character talking on and on about something to someone who thinks or knows something completely different. Like, say, Jack is going on about his special spicy meatballs to the new chef who thinks all this talk about "balls" is because Jack is gay. It always made Flak squirm. He hated to be embarrassed, even for someone else.

And as he listened uncomfortably to Janey's mule-like bray, he was embarrassed for her. Lucky no one else was around.

"Oh, Petey...stand up straight. And wipe that silly grimace off your face." Janey patted Flak's cheek. "Haven't I told you that you have to look confident to be confident? Don't you want them to take you seriously?"

"Janey...Janey..."

"You're babbling, Peter," she said, hands on her hips like an old schoolmarm. Or a teenager pretending to be one.

"You're dead!" Flak finally blurted.

"Haven't we been over that already? Sit down, Petey. Have a drink." And Janey went to the bar, pressed a martini glass into Flak's hand, shook a mixer and, very deliberately and carefully poured him a drink. "Sorry, honey. No cherries." Flak sat down heavily on the couch. Janey pulled up a chair across from him, spun it around and straddled it, arms over the back, chin on her hands.

"Are you ready for the story now, Petey?"

Flak sipped the martini. The cold ran down his chest like mercury in a thermometer -- thick and slow.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not if you know what's good for you, Petey!"

"You always know best, Janey."

"That's my boy! OK, Petey. Here's the deal: I rounded the corner, got out of the car, and blew it up by remote control."

"Oh Kay."

"It's not that complicated, really. The mob's been doing it for years."

"Hm."

"OK so far? Good boy, Petey. Now, here's the deal. You are going to solve the murder of Laine Bannister. We are going to call the press here to get the video of you capturing the killer. The resulting fame will catapult you into the highest echelons of power. You'll be nominated for commissioner next year, of course, when Grant retires. From there, it's only a matter of time: Mayor, Governor...the sky's the limit!"

"Great plan, Janey. But how am I going to solve the Bannister murder? I hope you have something for me because I've gotten nowhere so far..."

"Petey, you big dumb cutie. I killed Laine Bannister!"

Flak laughed, splashing his drink onto his lap. "Janey! That's silly!"

Janey's face turned pale and grim. "Don't you ever underestimate me, Peter Flak."

"Oh, I won't. But you'll have to do more than just say it for me to believe it." Janey stared icicles at Flak for a moment. Then her eyes warmed. She leaned over, lifted a green gym bag and dropped it on the coffee table with a clank. She unzipped the top.

"Have a look...don't touch it!" Janey said, slapping at Flak's hand, or more specifically, his fingerprints. "It's all there: Icepick, claw hammer, letter opener, electric nail gun, exacto knife, granite paperweight, and that silly Lucite publicity award shaped like a pyramid we won for your Super Cop story. All in resealable plastic bags, at least what would fit. I bet the blood isn't even dry!"

Janey smiled expectantly at Flak, waiting for a reaction. Flak didn't move. But he did notice an audible click and a flash of red from somewhere behind Janey.

"But, why, Janey? Why did you do it?" Janey spat inelegantly, and stalked over to the couch. She sat down next to Flak, leaned in close, whispering in his ear.

"For you, Petey. All for you."

"Janey, I..."

"I love you, Peter Flak. Love me, Petey," she pleaded. "Right here, right now. Before they take me away. Just this once, and it'll be enough forever."

Flak stood, abruptly. Janey's grip slipped from his arm. She fell on the floor with a thud. She quickly stood and fixed her suit, checked her hair.

"Petey, I..."

"Janey, you are under arrest," Flak pointed at her with a dramatic flourish. "For the murder of Laine Bannister."

"Wonderful, Petey, but you can do that after. For the camer..."

"You have the right to remain silent."

"Ooh...handcuffs! Peter, if that's what..."

"Anything you say can be used against you..."

"What are you doing? Not here. Not now!" Janey's head whipped back and forth in a panic, then stopped short as she faced the round black lens of a Channel 5 news camera and the disapproving scowl of Samara Steele, reporter.

"Oh, Petey," she said, straightening her posture and licking her lips. "Touche."





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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part XI

Flak took a deep breath, exhaled on his hand and sniffed.

Minty fresh.

He licked his lips, took another deep breath, visualizing himself a lot calmer and his heart beating a lot slower than it was right now as he prepared to insert the key card that would unlock room 215 of the Carstairs Hotel at the request of his recently dead publicist, who, he expected, he would find behind the door.

I can't imagine how this can be good for me. Janey would tell me to leave now and send someone else.

Flak rubbed his temples.

But Janey's dead. Or behind this door.

Irony gave him headaches.

He put the card in the slot.

"So! What have we here?" Flak jumped back from the door as Samara Steele strode smartly down the hallway. "A rendezvous with a secret source? Or, perhaps a rendezvous of another sort, hm?"

"Steele," Flak said, regaining his posture and mustering a nervous sort of condescension. "This is police business."

"Yeah, and this is First Amendment business!" Steele boomed. Flak was impressed. She was just as dramatic live as she was on TV. Shorter, though. Regardless, he wasn't ready to face whatever was behind that door with a reporter. Especially one without a camera.

"Listen, Steele. You're smart and you're cute." That should butter her up! "You'll get your story. But I can't let you in here." He narrowed his eyes. "There's too much at stake."

"Really, Flak," Steele said. "Like what?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Where's your camera?" Flak asked.

"Coming up the back stairs. He'll be here any minute. We can go live like ..." she snapped her fingers under Flak's nose... "that."

"Look," Flak said, trying to achieve some sort of 'I'm-on-your-side' tone of exasperation, "wait by the stairs with your cameraman. I have to go in there alone."

Steele bit her lip. "I'll get the story?"

"Exclusive. Do you see anyone else here?"

"Don't screw me, Flak," Steele threatened.

"Not unless you ask," Flak said. Good one, Flak!

Steele turned on her spiked heels and stalked back down the hall toward the stairwell. He admired her ambitious, merciless gait.

Then he slipped the key card into the door, waited for the soft click of the lock mechanism, jammed the handle down and shoved the door open, stumbling as if he'd been pushed from behind. Thus, it was from the floor that he saw her -- the shiny patent leather boots, the fishnet stockinged legs, the wide -- too wide -- leather skirt, the cream-colored silk blouse accented by a chain of gold links. The smiling face, the professionally whitened teeth, the lipstick just a little too red. The big brown eyes and painted on eyebrows. The dark bobbed hair sprayed to perfection, the hair of someone ready to pitch, to sell and any time, any place.

Janey.

"Petey! So nice of you to drop in."

"Janey!" Flak croaked out loud. "You're dead!"

"Rumors, statistics and lies, Petey," Janey said. She knelt down next to Flak and smiled a wide-mouthed grin. "I thought you were a detective." Then she stood up and laughed. And laughed some more.

Flak was getting uncomfortable. This was more laughing than was appropriate.

# # #

NEXT TIME -- Part XII: The thrilling conclusion!

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