by

Wilkinson Riling

With the silence of a hearse, a pearl black Prius crossed the Uptown intersection before slowing to a stop to unload its peculiar passenger. Beneath fog muted street lamps, the wire frame of Arthur Wellington Kilgore unfolded from the rear seat exiting his Uber. A biting Lake Michigan wind funneled up the empty avenue from darkened docks at the street’s dead end. The frigid evening gust created eerie whispers from the few city trees still left with leaves. Arthur Wellington Kilgore felt a reflexive shudder, uncertain of the source of the unnerving chill; was it the biting cold or the ghost-like emptiness around him that generated a sense of foreboding?

Standing just over six feet tall, donning his signature bone-white bow tie and suited head to toe in a black Yves Saint Laurent tailored ensemble. Arthur’s countenance was reminiscent of Slender Man, the fictional supernatural humanoid who comes to life in children’s imaginations and nightmares. Arthur’s hair, dyed shoe-polish black and combed slick, was styled on the left with a severe part. His Sherlockian nose, sharp and defined, hovered over a prominent chin. His pupils, black as a shark’s eyes were just as unforgiving. Shielded by a rigid brow they were set deep in his angular face registering every detail of his current environment.

Arthur scanned the deep shadowed alleys separating multi-floored buildings lining the vacant block. If not for the bright reds and greens of the hanging traffic signals and a few neon marquees, the tableau suggested more of an ominous horror movie setting than the center for haute cuisine. It would prove to be the perfect backdrop for this night; a night Arthur Wellington Kilgore, Chicago’s most well-known food critic and gastronome had a reservation with destiny-- his own and the future fortunes of a gourmet restaurant, the famed Evelyn’s.

With his long arm and large manicured hands, Arthur cinched his jacket at the neck to stay warm. He couldn’t afford to catch cold on this evening of such importance. While his expression implied a grim demeanor, if you knew Arthur, this only meant he was now focusing on his upcoming task. For he performed his job with the solemnity of a Shakespearian actor. Tonight, the stage was set; dinner for one at Evelyn’s, starring Arthur Wellington Kilgore.

Twenty-nine stories up in a high rise located in the heart of North Side business district and only two years in business, Evelyn’s, like most of the top-tier fine dining establishments, counted on Arthur’s annual review to sustain their three-star Michelin rating. With new restaurants springing up all throughout the greater Chicago area, competition cut kitchen knife close. Evelyn’s management simply could not afford to lose their star status. The current owner was counting on a loan for expansion with additional plans to franchise. Interested investors preferred backing winners, not second place also-rans.

For Arthur there was no second-place in this elitist world he fought so hard join. Because of that travail, Arthur was merciless in his verdicts. He sometimes determined the winners solely based on something as obscure as the thread count in a cloth napkin or the ratio of oil to vinegar in a salad. Last year, Evelyn’s passed muster simply on a last-minute ability to amuse the stern critic. Last year’s stellar review and the reasons behind it still lay fresh in Arthur’s mind.

The critic’s high praise came after an evening of dining on a Black Truffle Souffle, Foie Gras Terrine and Muscovy Duck. But the callous gourmand’s favor was truly earned when the master chef indulged what little remained of Arthur’s inner child by serving him an edible balloon for dessert. The dessert, a proprietary culinary novelty, captured the imagination of the public, but most true epicurean’s saw it as nothing more than a foodie’s gimmick.

For those not familiar with the playful confectionery, it is a specialty of the house at Evelyn’s. Here, Chef Cristophe Arjou practiced the science of molecular gastronomy, providing the gourmand with culinary concoctions based on the chemistry and physics of food. At least that’s how Arthur described it in last year’s review that placed the elite eatery among the world’s most renown restaurants propelling it to its three-star rating. This was Arthur; dry, almost humorless, with the seriousness of a tax accountant in mid-April.

Chef Arjou himself personally prepared the dessert for Arthur. The bladder, formed from a mixture of inverted sugar and natural fruit essence, is filled with helium. The string for the “balloon” is created from shredded green apple dipped in concord grape extract, then tied to the inflated membrane. Floating above the plate, the dish is served with the fanfare of a birthday cake. When bitten, the sugary confection bursts, releasing the gas. Like cotton candy, Arthur ingested the dessert while fully intaking the helium. This caused his voice to take on a cartoon tone, a cross somewhere between Bart Simpson and Mickey Mouse.

When Arthur spoke, each utterance descended on a tonal scale as he exhaled.

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

Arthur repeated the sentence until he expelled all the helium, and his voice returned to its original Karloffian tone. The whole experience managed to bring an unnatural chuckle to the stoic critic. It’s the closest he ever came to true laughter, though it was a laughter unshared, for Arthur has no true friends which was why he always sat alone. Patrons at other tables enjoying their meal, caught up with their own conviviality paid him no mind, nor did many recognize him despite the many books he wrote on gastronomy and numerous public television appearances.

That was a year ago. Tonight, Chef Arjou would need something truly unique to insure a good review. In cooking terms, Arthur’s mood simmered with a petulance marinating in a reduction of irritability.

Arthur looked back with a shoulder glance checking both directions to see the Prius was gone. The street was completely empty. It struck him odd that he never heard the car drive off, as if it had never been there to begin with. With an impatient shrug he headed for the revolving entrance door to the building. The marquee above the entrance had the restaurant’s name in LED white script reading “Evelyn’s.” Crossing beneath and reaching for the door handle, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks as if he’d hit a glass wall. His nose tilted up, drawing in huge dollops of air.

Swiveling as he sniffed, Arthur smelled something odd. What was it, garlic? Pungent and weighty, the smell infiltrated his nostrils like smoke from an exploded firecracker while at the same time delivering a tiny bee sting like feeling deep inside his nasal cavity. Arthur continued, turning in a tight circle, testing the air. Where was that odor emanating from? What could it be? He reached for his pocket handkerchief, covering his nose with a wince, he hissed, “Sriracha!”

At that exact moment at the building’s edge something caught his eye. From out of an alley way, a man, whose exact age was difficult to estimate other than old, slowly shuffled, pushing along a vending cart. The vendor’s umbrella was tied down due to wind. The wheels of the cart whined and wobbled along the concrete walkway.

With his cooking lids locked in place, it appeared to be an end to his long day. There was a large, covered stewpot imbedded into the top of the cart. The steam wafting from it was swept away with each gust of lake breeze. Still, the heavy chili pepper smell of sriracha lingered behind. It was obvious that the food cart was the origin of the attack on Arthur’s olfactory senses. Arthur called out. “You there! Stop!” Arthur marched towards the old man’s cart.

The Latino man’s head barely cleared the level of his cooking kiosk. The first thing that stood out to Arthur was the man’s right eye covered by a patch strapped to his leathered face. The pattern on the patch, made up of Aztecan geometric lines of black thread on gold felt, was accented by a red saffron jewel placed dead center like some kind of evil eye. Facial creases contoured the other lines formed from age and struggle. His bright silver hair, drawn back in a ponytail, pulled his furrowed brows into an angle parallel to the open wedge containing his good eye. The shock of white hair contrasted his caramel skin. Despite his pirate-like visage, the old man smiled the warm way a grandfather greets a child.

“Can I be to help of you, Señor?” His English was as chopped as the onions in his steaming pot.

“You can’t sell your slop here!” Arthur gestured towards the lake. “Go away, do you hear me? Or I shall report you!” Continuing to wave him off, Arthur’s voice raised. “It’s against the law! Can’t you read?” Arthur pointed to a sign on a pole by the curb. It contained the silhouette of a street vendor with an umbrella cart circled in red, a red slash cutting diagonally through the black shape. Above it, large white letters against a deep red background read “NO VENDING ZONE.”

The few food carts in operation in the city could be counted on one hand and were only found in the lower-class sections of town. Arthur knew all too well Chicago had strict laws against street vendors. He, himself, helped push through the discriminate legislation. Backed by a few heated editorials, Arthur single-handedly put a stop to the street vending business in Chicago proper. He had always given a long look down his nose at fast food and street fare. The laws and regulations he helped push through not only made it hard for some immigrants to make a living. He saw to it so it would create a boundary keeping the “undesirable” in their crime ridden neighborhoods. It was a form of restaurant red lining that targeted the poor, cutting one more rung from their ladder to success.

Arthur was visibly upset. Prepared to have a gourmet meal moments from now at one of the most exclusive restaurants in town his sense of smell has just been assaulted by a stench he could almost taste in the back of his mouth.

The old man’s smile remained as he lifted the lid to a hot tray and removed a corn flour tortilla. He raised the cover to the steamer and spooned out a huge helping of meat infused with a hodgepodge of ingredients, placing it neatly into the breaded blanket. Next, he lovingly set the food in a piece of aluminum foil, wrapping it snug to keep in the heat. Arthur watched like the old man was a street hustler running a shell game.

“What are you doing?” Arthur shouted.

“Pruebalo. Taste.” The man’s weathered hands held out the steaming soft taco cradled in foil. “Good.” “Taste.”

Almost instinctual, Arthur slapped it from the man’s hands sending it to the ground in a splatter. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Anthony Bourdain? I don’t eat that street shit!” Through grinding teeth Arthur punctuated his point in a deliberate cadence. “Arthur Wellington Kilgore does not eat junk food.”

The old man’s smile was replaced with a look of confusion, and he quickly started to prepare another taco, this time a flour tortilla. Holding out another serving he pleaded. “No. No. Pruebalo. Good. Taste. Recipe, me. Good. Taste.” He then added the Mayan words for eat. “Hanal.” “Comer.” The old man leaned closer. “Cochinita.”

The Mayan dish Cochinita is made up with thinly sliced meat of choice mixed with other spices and/or vegetables. In this case, the Cochinita was marinated suckling pig in achiote paste, brown sugar and garlic and so much more.

Arthur smelled the air again and leaned back holding his nose. “Yes, yes. Cochinita. A Mayan delicacy, right? I know, I know.” Arthur extended his other hand out finger counting the ingredients. “Suckling pig marinated in citrus juice, plus brown sugar, garlic clove…” He sniffed the air again. “…sesame seeds, achiote, cilantro, red onion, and way, way too much sriracha!” Say what you will about Arthur Wellington Kilgore, he may have the heart of a rabid Doberman Pinscher, but he was gifted with the olfactory sense of a bloodhound. Arthur slapped the second taco to the ground.

“I don’t need to taste it. I already can! You’re food cart is like a dumpster fire on wheels. My eyes are watering from that Red Rooster sauce you smother everything in.” Arthur returned his handkerchief to cover his nose. “Take you trash cart away from here before I call the police.”

The old man knew enough English to recognize the word “police.” He hadn’t escaped Guatemala, taken an arduous journey across several countries through jungle and desert to find refuge in America for his family only to feel the boot heel of injustice on his neck again. He got the message.

The old man’s smile left, never to return. His brow no longer parallel, creased in anger. The old man bent down holding two paper plates and using them as a dustpan and broom scraped up the two fallen tacos. He deposited the waste into a side receptacle on the cart and wiped down its surface with a towel. He closed his wares one-by-one never losing eye contact with Kilgore. All the while, grumbling in guttural Spanish. His tone steady and firm. The only emotion seemed to be in his good eye which was now locked on Arthur. The man leaned forward again, this time pointing to his eye patch. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo.” He lifted the jeweled patch revealing the blackness of an empty eye socket surrounded by scar tissue.

The visage startled Arthur, and for reasons unknown, he was compelled to stand and listen. Perhaps a morbid curiosity. Perhaps waiting for his diatribe to raise in decibels to a shout. It never did. The Latino finished, his final words slow and ominous. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo. Pruebalo.” Arthur recognized the last word spit out like bitter coffee, “Taste.” But his Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate words like “Warlock” and “Evil Eye” and the dozen other curses and epithets hurled his way. The old man lowered the patch then touched his tongue and pointed the moist finger at the stunned critic. “Pruebalo.” “Taste.”

Arthur watched in stunned confusion as streetlights flickered; The marquee and neon signs blinked while a whipping cold wind blew harder off the lake. He felt another blast of icy air snapping him from his almost hypnotic state. Arthur wiped his nose once more and returned his kerchief to his vest pocket. When he looked back, the man and cart were gone without a sound.

Arthur knew what he had to do when he returned to his apartment. He would spend the next day fasting, cleanse his pallet with multiple cups of green tea and perhaps a little purge of this evening’s meal if necessary. He would write and submit his revue of Evelyn’s. Then he would send off an email to his friend at city hall telling him of his run in with the Mexican street vendor.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his senses with the cool air, the deep feeling of righteousness now filling him. Back on mission, Arthur left to do the thing he came to do, his annual review of Evelyn’s. He turned his back to the lake and stepped through the revolving door into the stark art deco lobby of red and gold. Passing a bank of elevators on both sides, Arthur made for the blood red door of a lone elevator by the far back wall. The scarlet doors parted, and Arthur stepped inside. There was no button to press, the elevator had but one destination. The doors closed.

Twenty ounces of rare Waygu Tomahawk steak rested on a sizzling plate, still cooking in its own juices. The expensive Japanese beef, prized for its genetic history, unique flavor profile and tenderness was about to undergo a scrutiny that would make or break the fortunes of Evelyn’s, on Chicago’s North Side, 29 stories up with a city view on one side and Lake Michigan sprawling to the horizon on the other. The upscale restauranteur was celebrating its sophomore year by preparing the menu of a lifetime.

The owner, Chef Cristophe Arjou, artfully plated the premium cut of beef next to a mushroom and truffle pate, lightly dusted with black Kampot Pepper and drizzled with a merlot-infused glaze. It was his signature dish. This evening, it was all in for the neophyte chef. He was playing the highest card he had in his hand with this gourmet meal. After making a once in a lifetime gamble, he sank his life savings into the restaurant two years ago, he had no choice but to pull out all stops. Cristophe hoped to keep his Michelin three-star rating, cementing a place on the map alongside two world renown Chicago dining establishments and competitors, Alinea and Creole. Failure would not be an item on the evening’s menu. That’s why he invited the country’s most read, most popular and most feared food critic to be the guest of honor.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore had already taken his place at the table. Without touching the pieces, Arthur bent slightly forward to inspect the cutlery that was set before him. Leaning back and giving a nod to the negative, he dismissed them with a wave of the hand. A waiter leapt forward and removed the items in a blur. Stepping back, the waiter studied them to see what possible flaw there could be knowing a busser or dishwasher could lose their jobs over such a faux pas.

Pinching his lapel to open his coat, Arthur reached for an inside pocket and removed a black leather case, placing it reverently on the table. A royal seal, the crowned fleur-de-lis embroidered in gold adorned the lid. Pressing a small latch, he opened the box with the care of a fine jeweler unboxing a precious diamond.

Inside, nestled on a lining of crimson silk, lay two pieces of sterling silverware – a knife and fork. Their brilliance and patina gave them an aura of age. Removing them, he set each one a plate-length apart and closed the cover, returning the empty box to his pocket. Arthur glanced up at the gawking waitstaff and Cristophe watching in stunned silence. With a half-smile, Arthur spoke in his deep locution.

“These utensils, were once employed at the palace of Versailles during the reign of King Louis the XIV. They have been passed down from princes, to poets, to presidents.”

With a slight effort to enthrall, Arthur continued, “Introduced to the French court in the 16th century by Catherine de Medici, who brought the first set of pure silver forks and spoons from Italy, by the 18th century pure silver flatware was used all over the world by only the highest levels of society.”

Arthur shared this history not to illuminate or educate his small captive audience, but for them to know the breadth and depth of his knowledge. “Most people are unaware of the antibacterial properties of silver which helped keep diners safe from food-borne illnesses. It is a metal with low reactivity, it won’t change the flavor of food like copper and tin. It is also a malleable metal and thus easy to form into beautifully sculpted pieces of cutlery.”

Still smiling, he gestured to the gleaming utensils. “These are meant for use only by an epicurean of the highest renown.” He folded his hands on the table. “That would be myself."

His voice deepened. “A meal worthy of these implements is a meal worthy of high praise, indeed.” The smile left his face. “Anything less would not just be considered unworthy – it will be a mark of shame for the restaurant. And I will be sure the world knows it.”

Cristophe and the waitstaff stood motionless. Possibly from fear, possibly from awe. Arthur broke the trance. Taking his napkin like a magician, he gave it a flourished snap, unfurling the serviette, and laying it gently across his lap. He set his hands flat upon the table. “Now we may begin.”

With a clap of the hands, Cristophe scattered the staff. The sommelier scrambled off to get the wine, the expediter followed the runner, both heading to the kitchen to alert the chef. Cristophe and the Maître D’ attended to the other patrons who watched with curiosity. The fate of Evelyn’s hung in the air like an approaching winter storm.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore’s single raised brow indicated he was already evaluating the dish before him for its presentation. Like an art dealer inspecting a painting for authenticity, Arthur noted all aspects of the chef’s design: composition, color, and texture. He hovered above the plate, observing it from different angles, ending with a wafting hand sniff and a near imperceptible nod. Satisfied, he gripped the cutlery with the delicate touch of a surgeon and applied them to the expensive cut of meat. Little downward pressure from his fork was needed. Its tines melted into the meat, while the knife slid through the beef like it was room temperature butter. Arthur took the wedge of medium rare steak, skimmed it through the blood juices still roiling on the plate, and lifted it to his lips.

Taking his first bite, one side of his mouth couldn’t help but reveal a hint of a true smile. Arthur loved his job. He loved the perks and prestige and the power a food critic of his caliber possessed, but more than that, he loved to eat. Arthur wasn’t a glutton; he wasn’t fat; he wasn’t even a picky eater when the fare was at this high a level. When it came to fine dining, Arthur was precise. He appreciated the culinary arts, and the heights of gastronomical wonder gourmet cooking could achieve. It was a career that brought him light years from the frozen meals, canned goods, and food stamp family fare he was raised on. He had come a long way to reach his station in life, and he planned to exploit it’s every aspect and show no mercy those he considered unworthy.

Taking his first bite, the warmth of the meat filled his mouth. The steak was juicy and tender, not dry or spongy. He savored its natural flavors, a light, almost imperceptible saltiness, the savory natural flavor that comes from blood and the hearty taste given to meat when grilled to perfection. Arthur closed his eyes as he chewed and the flavors washed over his tongue. He thought this had to be the most delicious piece of steak to grace his palate. For a moment, Arthur believed he was in gastronomical paradise. Everything was about to change forever the moment Arthur tried to swallow.

Attempting to ingest the steak, it felt as if a lightning bolt went off in Arthur’s brain. He would swear he heard the word “Pruebalo” whispered in his ear. His eyes were still closed, but the flash of white inside his head was blinding.

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was no longer in the restaurant. He found himself in a large yellow monochromatic cellar pulsating with blinking and buzzing florescent lights. The sounds of animals snorting, and bellowing bounced off the surrounding twenty-foot concrete walls. A procession of cows pressed forward with Arthur near the lead feeling the tsunami-like push forward. Steel dividing rails guided him ahead while hemming him in.

The metallic copper smell of warm blood, mixed with cow shit and urine, floated on an undercurrent odor of bleach, filling his nostrils, watering his eyes. Nearby, the pendulum paced noise of hydraulic pressure escaping was punctuated by a loud bang. The explosive sound rattled the very air and Arthur felt it to the bone. Arthur Wellington Kilgore wondered where the fuck he was and where did all these cows come from and why did he feel like he was he crawling on all fours?

Added to the confusion, Arthur felt heavier, as if the gravitational pull of Earth itself increased in degree. He looked down, horrified to see two hooves stumble forward on the wet concrete floor where his hands should be. There wasn’t enough room for him to turn around, but he was quick to surmise his feet were no longer the pair he remembered as they clopped beneath him.

Arthur was certain he was in the middle of a nightmare. From behind, he felt himself shoved forward into a set of hind quarters before him. It was a tidal force pushing him to follow while steel guard rails funneled the rest of the livestock into single file. The space to move narrowed. There were indistinguishable human forms on walkways a foot off the ground on both sides of the cramped hallway. The line stopped. He heard the singing sound of sliding chains and the harsh sound of metal locking on metal within the din. The cow in front shuffled forward a few feet.

Arthur watched in horror as the animal vaulted into the air, screaming. The frightened cow hung several feet off the ground, swinging from its hind legs above a large metal grating. Arthur looked into its eyes now bulging out of its skull in fear. Arthur knew at that moment the beast was aware of what was going to happen next. Before its cry of anguish could finish, a nondescript human form leaned forward holding something, from the back of which a hose ran down connecting to a pressure tank. The form’s fingers tightened on a trigger and with a bang the braying animal went limp. A second human form on the other side of the narrow space held out a knife as long as a baby’s arm. Reaching around to the animal’s throat, it created a slit, opening the neck and releasing a torrent of blood into the grating below.

It took seconds for most of the blood to drain from the dying animal. Hoisted on the conveyor belt, it moved on along, following the scores of other carcasses in the distance. Arthur felt the simultaneous grip of cold steel on both his hind quarters as shackles closed around them. With dizzying speed, he lifted skyward. He felt his hip break and his knees pop from their sockets as blood rushed to his head. Pure fear overrode the signals of pain. He felt motion sickness watching the room swing back and forth while dangling upside down from a conveyor chain. Arthur looked down through the grating as if there were an entity below it awaiting his life force or it was a direct portal to hell.

The human form raised a pressurized captive bolt stunner to Arthur’s face. He tried to scream for them to stop, thinking he was forming sentences; “This is a mistake.” “This can’t be happening.” He even yelled “I’m not a cow.” and “I want my mother.” and a dozen other pleading statements. But all that escaped from his mouth was a guttural bellow that crescendoed into a squeal. Arthur was still swinging on his chain when the human form went to touch the penetrative bolt to his skull. Arthur shook his head then heard the convergence of the air pressure and the loud bang as they triggered the pneumatic stunner. For the second time, Arthur saw a flash. This time, an intense ringing in the ears and a hatchet blow of a headache followed it.

Because he had been swinging, the stunner was off target. Instead of rendering him unconscious, the penetrating bolt had only glanced off Arthur’s cranium. He was still very conscious, and bleeding from the skull and he knew what was coming next. Arthur strained his eyes to look behind him for the second human form, who had steadied him for the death cut. It was here things went into slow motion for Arthur. He watched as a hand holding the long knife blade crossed his field of vision inches below or above in his confusing point of view. Arthur saw his reflection for an instant in its stainless-steel blade. The face of mortal fear in the form of a frightened cow was looking back at him. Staring into its eyes, Arthur recognized himself. Despite the broken hip and dislocated legs, he tried to twist and turn to avoid the coming blade but felt the ice-cold steel slice across his neck. He felt the flush of blood empty from his head and body. A waterfall of blood splashing below him was the last thing Arthur saw before he lost consciousness.

Arthur next felt a violent thrust against his abdomen. There was no flash of light this time. He came out of the darkness starving for air. He was suffocating. Instead of the slaughterhouse, he was back now watching the restaurant interior tilt up and down, his vision clouded around the edges like a window etched with frost. The expensive Waygu steak lay on the floor amongst a broken plate, shattered glass, and splattered pate. His chair lay on its side.

Arthur was aware of being at the mercy of a python like grip, lifting him up and down like a rag doll. His abdomen felt a second hard thrust. He felt pressure inside his esophagus as his feet touched the floor once more. Another gut-punch lift caused a piece of Waygu steak to fly from his mouth, landing on the table before him. Arthur greedily drew in air like a deep diver surfacing. His ribs ached. His throat ached. He felt dizzy, for the oxygen hadn’t fully returned to his head. Someone righted his chair for him to sit. He surrendered to it and loosened his bow tie, whipping it off and unbuttoning his shirt by the collar.

“Oh, mon Dieu, Mr. Kilgore. Are you alright?” Chef Cristophe knelt, assessing the shaken critic. He had just administered the Heimlich to Kilgore. “We’re calling 911.”

Arthur spoke almost breathless. “That won’t be necessary. Just some water.” Arthur added, “Not sparkling, and room temperature.” That wasn’t Arthur’s humor coming through. He had none of that. That was his precision in always knowing what he wanted. A server nearby went to fetch a carafe.

Arthur lifted a tremoring hand to his temple. A headache unlike he had ever experienced pulsated and throbbed. “Make it wine.”

“Of course, right away.” Christophe snapped his fingers at another porter. “Wine.”

Before the porter could dart off, Arthur followed up. “Bodega Numanthia, 2013.” Again, Arthur knew precisely that was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Arthur looked at Cristophe. “What happened?”

Cristophe hesitated, then spoke. “Well, sir, you… you were choking, sir. You passed out.” Christophe tried to gage Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur put a finger to his pulse, then lay a hand to his chest. “I don’t believe it. My…my heart is still beating fast.”

Cristophe reassured him. “Please let us call for a doctor.”

Arthur looked at the partially chewed dollop of meat laying on the table then back to Christophe. “You… you almost killed me.”

“No, sir. You just had an accident. Surely, we are not to blame.”

Ricardo, the maître D, returned with the wine bottle, popping the cork as he arrived. He reached for a wine glass. Arthur intervened. He wrestled the bottle from the Ricardo and guzzled a large swig. He repeated three more huge swallows before setting the bottle on the table by the piece of meat now staining the white cloth with juices diluted by Arthur’s own saliva. Arthur’s senses were returning.

“Could someone please do something about that?” nodding to the morsel of meat.

Ricardo was quick to act. Taking a table crumber, he guided the meat into an awaiting napkin, cinched it like a sack and carried it off.

Christophe snapped his fingers. The porters moved in synchronicity, changing the linen, and setting a new placement and cleaning and resetting his prized cutlery. “Mr. Kilgore, sir. Is there anything else we can do?”

There was no way Arthur was going to eat another steak. “Exactly what kind of mushrooms did you cook with that steak?” As far as Arthur was concerned, psychedelic mushrooms were the only explanation for his nightmare of horror.

Christophe objected. “Monsieur, I can assure you, I used no strange mushrooms in my recipe and all our food is top of the line, fresh and organic.”

Arthur was no longer listening. As far as he was concerned dinner was over. He reached for his black case and began to collect his silverware. “I’ll be sure to let my readers know of your recipe for death.”

Cristophe’s world was shattering before him. He would lose his rating. He would lose clientele. He would lose his loan. “Monsieur, you cannot leave until you taste...” Cristophe froze, trying to think.

Arthur was just about to seal the box shut. “Taste? Taste what?"

His head was spinning without thinking he blurted out, “My latest creation for Evelyn’s. It was meant to be a surprise… the Kilgore Salad.” Cristophe bowed. “Named in honor of the enlightenment you’ve bought to fine dining.”

Upon hearing his name, intrigue replaced derision. What could be this new culinary creation bearing his name? Was Cristophe patronizing him or truly bestowing an honor Arthur felt he deserved? Either way, it was enough to give Arthur second thoughts.

As he reset his utensils and returned the case to his pocket, Arthur considered maybe it was his near-death experience that triggered his trip to a Friday-the-Thirteenth-like movie. After all, the chef did, in fact, save his life. Arthur reached for the fresh wine goblet and, taking bottle in hand, poured himself another glass.

Arthur raised his favored brow. “Indeed. Well, I do believe Mr. Kilgore is still hungry. Perhaps Chef could prepare this specially named salad for him?” When Arthur spoke in third person, it was to emphasize his comparative importance over common folk.

Cristophe felt a surge of hope. “Ah, monsieur, you won’t be disappointed. The recipe was delivered from the Ceres, the Roman goddess herself. And it is…” Cristophe pursed his lips, pinched his fingers and, with a chef’s kiss, tossed them away from his mouth. “… heavenly perfection. Give me ten minutes.” Cristophe made the salad in seven.

Arthur was just finishing the bottle of the Bodega Numanthia when Chef Cristophe returned and set the salad before him. “Goûter.” He smiled and gestured to the salad. “Apprécier.” A small crowd of employees stood round, waiting to see Arthur eat. His raised eyebrow and a clearing of his throat chased all but Cristophe and the maître D’ away.

The recently named “Kilgore Salad” had originally been christened “Summer in Provence.” It was another Cristophe specialty created at Le Cordon Blue and he kept as an ace up his sleeve. He had once prepared the organic vegan dish for Macron and his wife in Paris. It won three awards that year, in France, Belgium and Spain. The plating was an artistic tribute to Monet. Almost instinctually, Arthur handled the fork like a brush mixing colors on a palette.

Hesitant, he bought the fork to his mouth. Then Arthur closed his eyes and tasted. A fiesta of flavors danced on his tongue. It was as if the diced beets, chopped cilantro, fresh corn, red pepper and green onions, splashed with an apple cider dressing, then sprinkled with freshly cracked pepper, were celebrating Mardi Gras in his mouth. Dopamine signals burst in his brain until once again he heard the whispering word, “Pruebalo.” Another flash blinded him. In an involuntary reflex, he dropped his knife and fork and gripped the table sides with eyes closed. Arthur panicked. A thought screamed inside his head. “This can’t be happening again!”

But when Arthur opened his eyes, they were met by a sky of perfect blue stretching out before him. Pillow white clouds drifted westerly, their movement almost imperceptible, and interspersed with flocks of blackbirds. The sun tilting slightly away from its noon perigee was a bright yellow-white, warming his face as a moderate summer wind caressed his cheeks. The air, country clean, washed over him, causing him to sway in a cradle like rhythm. Bird song sounded from a group of trees off to his right sifting the light breeze through their leaves. A lone butterfly danced at eye level above the carpet of greenery blanketing to the horizon.

Arthur had never known such peace. He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the child like grin he had from the edible balloon. This was a smile of pure contentment, a comfortable sense of well-being, a calm happiness. For Arthur, this was heaven, he began to hum a tune.

In a nightmare world, Heaven can turn into Hell on a dime. The growing hundred decibel sound of hammering pistons and churning hydraulics pounding over the sound of a droning engine were Arthur’s first clue something was wrong. The sound was coming from behind him, but try as he might, he couldn’t turn to see. He heard another sound closing in. It was the sound of cutting or slicing which Arthur could almost feel getting closer. A frenzy of whipping noises seemed to create a wind, increasing his swaying motion. It was here Arthur could glance behind him and up.

A blood red John Deere combine harvester driven by a nondescript human form was bearing down on Arthur. Heavy blades spun as the teeth of a cutter bar scraped the ground ahead of the machine, tearing up both soil and plant. It’s the first time it occurred to Arthur that he was one of those plants. There was nowhere or no way to run. He tried to scream but couldn’t. Even if he could, the cacophony of chopping sounds married with a motor’s roar would have drowned him out. Arthur felt the cutter dig him out of the soil, root and all. He felt the spin from the rotating blades hurl him back onto a conveyor belt with the force of a cannon. For a brief second, the cockpit of the giant harvester blotted out the blue sky above. Arthur lay helpless as the conveyor carried him up, snaked in a U-turn and, like a slingshot, deposited him into the grain tank beside the mutilated and decapitated forms of the other plants.

Plunging backwards, Arthur was a just another dying chard. The last glimpse of a patch of blue sky was covered as hundreds upon hundreds of harvested beets joined Arthur in the bin until darkness overtook him. The last thought he had was how he was going to destroy Evelyn’s with a review from hell.

On the twenty-ninth floor of the North Shore high rise, a steady wind coming off Lake Michigan blew into Christophe’s restaurant. Tablecloths clung tight to tables while flapping in the breeze. At a window Cristophe stood back several feet, talking to a uniformed cop and a suited man taking notes.

A six-foot high by three wide hole in the window had a firefighter leaning forward and looking down. Nearby, the table Arthur Kilgore was dining at but thirty minutes ago, was empty and surrounded by broken dishes and the scattered vegetables of the Kilgore Salad. The chair this time flat on its back. Cristophe was explaining the series of the recent event to a detective and police officer.

“I can’t explain it. I set down his salad plate. I said…I said… Goûter…”

The cop was writing as fast as he could. He interrupted. “Gootay?"

Cristophe gestured broadly, trying to explain. “Goûter. It means, Taste. It’s French. As I was saying, Mr. Kilgore then took a bite of his salad… by the way, that salad has won me awards!” Cristophe’s agitation grew. “He took one bite, and he closed his eyes and leaned back with the most serene smile I’ve ever seen.” Cristophe took a swig from a bottle of wine. “He… he… he began to sway back and forth. And hum! He was humming a tune. Isn’t that right, Ricardo?”

Ricardo, the maître D’ nodded fiercely. “Si. Si. It was the Carpenters, “Close to You.” He hummed it and then suddenly…”

Cristophe took over. “… Suddenly he shot up from his chair, eyes wide open, and stumbled backwards at full speed. He spun one time and then… and then…”

Cristophe and Ricardo chimed in together, overlapping each other. “He crashed through the window!”

Cristophe continued, “He launched himself straight through the glass without saying a word!”

Ricardo interjected. “No, first he said, ‘Pruebalo’.” He explained. “It too means, taste it.”

Both the detective and the cop stared at Ricardo quizzically. Cristophe shooed him off. “Go see to the kitchen.” Ricardo nodded and scurried off but not before stopping at the table and pocketing the Louis XIV silverware. He knew of a pawnshop on the south side that might give him a few bucks for them.

Cristophe anguished. “Mon Dieu! I’m ruined! I needed that review!”

The detective took another look at the 29-story drop, his tie waving in the breeze, he stared at the crowd below. He shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Your business will triple. People have a morbid fascination with celebrity deaths. They will line up to see where the most famous food critic in the world took his own life.” He turned to leave. “And if the ghouls ask, just tell them Arthur Wellington Kilgore thought the food here was to die for.”

Twenty-nine stories below, the emergency medical team bagged and removed Arthur’s shattered body from the sidewalk. An empty black case with the fleur-de-lis fell out into the gutter as they carted him away. Among the cordoned off crowd witnessing the gruesome “accident” was an old, one-eyed, weathered, Mexican man dutifully tending to his food cart.

The smell of the Cochinita filled the air and a line had formed from the morbid onlookers. Evelyn's restaurant’s marquee in front of the building was the last thing Arthur Wellington struck before hitting the pavement. It now simply read “Evel.” By the curb near the NO VENDING sign, the old man held up a Mayan taco to a waiting customer. With a smile, and in English, he said softly, “Taste.”

by

Wilkinson Riling

Genre: Horror Fiction Approx. 7069 words

With the silence of a hearse, a pearl black Prius crossed the Uptown intersection before slowing to a stop to unload its peculiar passenger. Beneath fog muted street lamps, the wire frame of Arthur Wellington Kilgore unfolded from the rear seat exiting his Uber. A biting Lake Michigan wind funneled up the empty avenue from darkened docks at the street’s dead end. The frigid evening gust created eerie whispers from the few city trees still left with leaves. Arthur Wellington Kilgore felt a reflexive shudder, uncertain of the source of the unnerving chill; was it the biting cold or the ghost-like emptiness around him that generated a sense of foreboding?

Standing just over six feet tall, donning his signature bone-white bow tie and suited head to toe in a black Yves Saint Laurent tailored ensemble. Arthur’s countenance was reminiscent of Slender Man, the fictional supernatural humanoid who comes to life in children’s imaginations and nightmares. Arthur’s hair, dyed shoe-polish black and combed slick, was styled on the left with a severe part. His Sherlockian nose, sharp and defined, hovered over a prominent chin. His pupils, black as a shark’s eyes were just as unforgiving. Shielded by a rigid brow they were set deep in his angular face registering every detail of his current environment.

Arthur scanned the deep shadowed alleys separating multi-floored buildings lining the vacant block. If not for the bright reds and greens of the hanging traffic signals and a few neon marquees, the tableau suggested more of an ominous horror movie setting than the center for haute cuisine. It would prove to be the perfect backdrop for this night; a night Arthur Wellington Kilgore, Chicago’s most well-known food critic and gastronome had a reservation with destiny-- his own and the future fortunes of a gourmet restaurant, the famed Evelyn’s.

With his long arm and large manicured hands, Arthur cinched his jacket at the neck to stay warm. He couldn’t afford to catch cold on this evening of such importance. While his expression implied a grim demeanor, if you knew Arthur, this only meant he was now focusing on his upcoming task. For he performed his job with the solemnity of a Shakespearian actor. Tonight, the stage was set; dinner for one at Evelyn’s, starring Arthur Wellington Kilgore.

Twenty-nine stories up in a high rise located in the heart of North Side business district and only two years in business, Evelyn’s, like most of the top-tier fine dining establishments, counted on Arthur’s annual review to sustain their three-star Michelin rating. With new restaurants springing up all throughout the greater Chicago area, competition cut kitchen knife close. Evelyn’s management simply could not afford to lose their star status. The current owner was counting on a loan for expansion with additional plans to franchise. Interested investors preferred backing winners, not second place also-rans.

For Arthur there was no second-place in this elitist world he fought so hard join. Because of that travail, Arthur was merciless in his verdicts. He sometimes determined the winners solely based on something as obscure as the thread count in a cloth napkin or the ratio of oil to vinegar in a salad. Last year, Evelyn’s passed muster simply on a last-minute ability to amuse the stern critic. Last year’s stellar review and the reasons behind it still lay fresh in Arthur’s mind.

The critic’s high praise came after an evening of dining on a Black Truffle Souffle, Foie Gras Terrine and Muscovy Duck. But the callous gourmand’s favor was truly earned when the master chef indulged what little remained of Arthur’s inner child by serving him an edible balloon for dessert. The dessert, a proprietary culinary novelty, captured the imagination of the public, but most true epicurean’s saw it as nothing more than a foodie’s gimmick.

For those not familiar with the playful confectionery, it is a specialty of the house at Evelyn’s. Here, Chef Cristophe Arjou practiced the science of molecular gastronomy, providing the gourmand with culinary concoctions based on the chemistry and physics of food. At least that’s how Arthur described it in last year’s review that placed the elite eatery among the world’s most renown restaurants propelling it to its three-star rating. This was Arthur; dry, almost humorless, with the seriousness of a tax accountant in mid-April.

Chef Arjou himself personally prepared the dessert for Arthur. The bladder, formed from a mixture of inverted sugar and natural fruit essence, is filled with helium. The string for the “balloon” is created from shredded green apple dipped in concord grape extract, then tied to the inflated membrane. Floating above the plate, the dish is served with the fanfare of a birthday cake. When bitten, the sugary confection bursts, releasing the gas. Like cotton candy, Arthur ingested the dessert while fully intaking the helium. This caused his voice to take on a cartoon tone, a cross somewhere between Bart Simpson and Mickey Mouse.

When Arthur spoke, each utterance descended on a tonal scale as he exhaled.

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

“I am Arthur Wellington Kilgore.”

Arthur repeated the sentence until he expelled all the helium, and his voice returned to its original Karloffian tone. The whole experience managed to bring an unnatural chuckle to the stoic critic. It’s the closest he ever came to true laughter, though it was a laughter unshared, for Arthur has no true friends which was why he always sat alone. Patrons at other tables enjoying their meal, caught up with their own conviviality paid him no mind, nor did many recognize him despite the many books he wrote on gastronomy and numerous public television appearances.

That was a year ago. Tonight, Chef Arjou would need something truly unique to insure a good review. In cooking terms, Arthur’s mood simmered with a petulance marinating in a reduction of irritability.

Arthur looked back with a shoulder glance checking both directions to see the Prius was gone. The street was completely empty. It struck him odd that he never heard the car drive off, as if it had never been there to begin with. With an impatient shrug he headed for the revolving entrance door to the building. The marquee above the entrance had the restaurant’s name in LED white script reading “Evelyn’s.” Crossing beneath and reaching for the door handle, Arthur stopped dead in his tracks as if he’d hit a glass wall. His nose tilted up, drawing in huge dollops of air.

Swiveling as he sniffed, Arthur smelled something odd. What was it, garlic? Pungent and weighty, the smell infiltrated his nostrils like smoke from an exploded firecracker while at the same time delivering a tiny bee sting like feeling deep inside his nasal cavity. Arthur continued, turning in a tight circle, testing the air. Where was that odor emanating from? What could it be? He reached for his pocket handkerchief, covering his nose with a wince, he hissed, “Sriracha!”

At that exact moment at the building’s edge something caught his eye. From out of an alley way, a man, whose exact age was difficult to estimate other than old, slowly shuffled, pushing along a vending cart. The vendor’s umbrella was tied down due to wind. The wheels of the cart whined and wobbled along the concrete walkway.

With his cooking lids locked in place, it appeared to be an end to his long day. There was a large, covered stewpot imbedded into the top of the cart. The steam wafting from it was swept away with each gust of lake breeze. Still, the heavy chili pepper smell of sriracha lingered behind. It was obvious that the food cart was the origin of the attack on Arthur’s olfactory senses. Arthur called out. “You there! Stop!” Arthur marched towards the old man’s cart.

The Latino man’s head barely cleared the level of his cooking kiosk. The first thing that stood out to Arthur was the man’s right eye covered by a patch strapped to his leathered face. The pattern on the patch, made up of Aztecan geometric lines of black thread on gold felt, was accented by a red saffron jewel placed dead center like some kind of evil eye. Facial creases contoured the other lines formed from age and struggle. His bright silver hair, drawn back in a ponytail, pulled his furrowed brows into an angle parallel to the open wedge containing his good eye. The shock of white hair contrasted his caramel skin. Despite his pirate-like visage, the old man smiled the warm way a grandfather greets a child.

“Can I be to help of you, Señor?” His English was as chopped as the onions in his steaming pot.

“You can’t sell your slop here!” Arthur gestured towards the lake. “Go away, do you hear me? Or I shall report you!” Continuing to wave him off, Arthur’s voice raised. “It’s against the law! Can’t you read?” Arthur pointed to a sign on a pole by the curb. It contained the silhouette of a street vendor with an umbrella cart circled in red, a red slash cutting diagonally through the black shape. Above it, large white letters against a deep red background read “NO VENDING ZONE.”

The few food carts in operation in the city could be counted on one hand and were only found in the lower-class sections of town. Arthur knew all too well Chicago had strict laws against street vendors. He, himself, helped push through the discriminate legislation. Backed by a few heated editorials, Arthur single-handedly put a stop to the street vending business in Chicago proper. He had always given a long look down his nose at fast food and street fare. The laws and regulations he helped push through not only made it hard for some immigrants to make a living. He saw to it so it would create a boundary keeping the “undesirable” in their crime ridden neighborhoods. It was a form of restaurant red lining that targeted the poor, cutting one more rung from their ladder to success.

Arthur was visibly upset. Prepared to have a gourmet meal moments from now at one of the most exclusive restaurants in town his sense of smell has just been assaulted by a stench he could almost taste in the back of his mouth.

The old man’s smile remained as he lifted the lid to a hot tray and removed a corn flour tortilla. He raised the cover to the steamer and spooned out a huge helping of meat infused with a hodgepodge of ingredients, placing it neatly into the breaded blanket. Next, he lovingly set the food in a piece of aluminum foil, wrapping it snug to keep in the heat. Arthur watched like the old man was a street hustler running a shell game.

“What are you doing?” Arthur shouted.

“Pruebalo. Taste.” The man’s weathered hands held out the steaming soft taco cradled in foil. “Good.” “Taste.”

Almost instinctual, Arthur slapped it from the man’s hands sending it to the ground in a splatter. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Anthony Bourdain? I don’t eat that street shit!” Through grinding teeth Arthur punctuated his point in a deliberate cadence. “Arthur Wellington Kilgore does not eat junk food.”

The old man’s smile was replaced with a look of confusion, and he quickly started to prepare another taco, this time a flour tortilla. Holding out another serving he pleaded. “No. No. Pruebalo. Good. Taste. Recipe, me. Good. Taste.” He then added the Mayan words for eat. “Hanal.” “Comer.” The old man leaned closer. “Cochinita.”

The Mayan dish Cochinita is made up with thinly sliced meat of choice mixed with other spices and/or vegetables. In this case, the Cochinita was marinated suckling pig in achiote paste, brown sugar and garlic and so much more.

Arthur smelled the air again and leaned back holding his nose. “Yes, yes. Cochinita. A Mayan delicacy, right? I know, I know.” Arthur extended his other hand out finger counting the ingredients. “Suckling pig marinated in citrus juice, plus brown sugar, garlic clove…” He sniffed the air again. “…sesame seeds, achiote, cilantro, red onion, and way, way too much sriracha!” Say what you will about Arthur Wellington Kilgore, he may have the heart of a rabid Doberman Pinscher, but he was gifted with the olfactory sense of a bloodhound. Arthur slapped the second taco to the ground.

“I don’t need to taste it. I already can! You’re food cart is like a dumpster fire on wheels. My eyes are watering from that Red Rooster sauce you smother everything in.” Arthur returned his handkerchief to cover his nose. “Take you trash cart away from here before I call the police.”

The old man knew enough English to recognize the word “police.” He hadn’t escaped Guatemala, taken an arduous journey across several countries through jungle and desert to find refuge in America for his family only to feel the boot heel of injustice on his neck again. He got the message.

The old man’s smile left, never to return. His brow no longer parallel, creased in anger. The old man bent down holding two paper plates and using them as a dustpan and broom scraped up the two fallen tacos. He deposited the waste into a side receptacle on the cart and wiped down its surface with a towel. He closed his wares one-by-one never losing eye contact with Kilgore. All the while, grumbling in guttural Spanish. His tone steady and firm. The only emotion seemed to be in his good eye which was now locked on Arthur. The man leaned forward again, this time pointing to his eye patch. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo.” He lifted the jeweled patch revealing the blackness of an empty eye socket surrounded by scar tissue.

The visage startled Arthur, and for reasons unknown, he was compelled to stand and listen. Perhaps a morbid curiosity. Perhaps waiting for his diatribe to raise in decibels to a shout. It never did. The Latino finished, his final words slow and ominous. “Soy Brujo! El Mal de Ojo. Pruebalo.” Arthur recognized the last word spit out like bitter coffee, “Taste.” But his Spanish wasn’t good enough to translate words like “Warlock” and “Evil Eye” and the dozen other curses and epithets hurled his way. The old man lowered the patch then touched his tongue and pointed the moist finger at the stunned critic. “Pruebalo.” “Taste.”

Arthur watched in stunned confusion as streetlights flickered; The marquee and neon signs blinked while a whipping cold wind blew harder off the lake. He felt another blast of icy air snapping him from his almost hypnotic state. Arthur wiped his nose once more and returned his kerchief to his vest pocket. When he looked back, the man and cart were gone without a sound.

Arthur knew what he had to do when he returned to his apartment. He would spend the next day fasting, cleanse his pallet with multiple cups of green tea and perhaps a little purge of this evening’s meal if necessary. He would write and submit his revue of Evelyn’s. Then he would send off an email to his friend at city hall telling him of his run in with the Mexican street vendor.

Arthur took a deep breath through his nose, clearing his senses with the cool air, the deep feeling of righteousness now filling him. Back on mission, Arthur left to do the thing he came to do, his annual review of Evelyn’s. He turned his back to the lake and stepped through the revolving door into the stark art deco lobby of red and gold. Passing a bank of elevators on both sides, Arthur made for the blood red door of a lone elevator by the far back wall. The scarlet doors parted, and Arthur stepped inside. There was no button to press, the elevator had but one destination. The doors closed.

Twenty ounces of rare Waygu Tomahawk steak rested on a sizzling plate, still cooking in its own juices. The expensive Japanese beef, prized for its genetic history, unique flavor profile and tenderness was about to undergo a scrutiny that would make or break the fortunes of Evelyn’s, on Chicago’s North Side, 29 stories up with a city view on one side and Lake Michigan sprawling to the horizon on the other. The upscale restauranteur was celebrating its sophomore year by preparing the menu of a lifetime.

The owner, Chef Cristophe Arjou, artfully plated the premium cut of beef next to a mushroom and truffle pate, lightly dusted with black Kampot Pepper and drizzled with a merlot-infused glaze. It was his signature dish. This evening, it was all in for the neophyte chef. He was playing the highest card he had in his hand with this gourmet meal. After making a once in a lifetime gamble, he sank his life savings into the restaurant two years ago, he had no choice but to pull out all stops. Cristophe hoped to keep his Michelin three-star rating, cementing a place on the map alongside two world renown Chicago dining establishments and competitors, Alinea and Creole. Failure would not be an item on the evening’s menu. That’s why he invited the country’s most read, most popular and most feared food critic to be the guest of honor.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore had already taken his place at the table. Without touching the pieces, Arthur bent slightly forward to inspect the cutlery that was set before him. Leaning back and giving a nod to the negative, he dismissed them with a wave of the hand. A waiter leapt forward and removed the items in a blur. Stepping back, the waiter studied them to see what possible flaw there could be knowing a busser or dishwasher could lose their jobs over such a faux pas.

Pinching his lapel to open his coat, Arthur reached for an inside pocket and removed a black leather case, placing it reverently on the table. A royal seal, the crowned fleur-de-lis embroidered in gold adorned the lid. Pressing a small latch, he opened the box with the care of a fine jeweler unboxing a precious diamond.

Inside, nestled on a lining of crimson silk, lay two pieces of sterling silverware – a knife and fork. Their brilliance and patina gave them an aura of age. Removing them, he set each one a plate-length apart and closed the cover, returning the empty box to his pocket. Arthur glanced up at the gawking waitstaff and Cristophe watching in stunned silence. With a half-smile, Arthur spoke in his deep locution.

“These utensils, were once employed at the palace of Versailles during the reign of King Louis the XIV. They have been passed down from princes, to poets, to presidents.”

With a slight effort to enthrall, Arthur continued, “Introduced to the French court in the 16th century by Catherine de Medici, who brought the first set of pure silver forks and spoons from Italy, by the 18th century pure silver flatware was used all over the world by only the highest levels of society.”

Arthur shared this history not to illuminate or educate his small captive audience, but for them to know the breadth and depth of his knowledge. “Most people are unaware of the antibacterial properties of silver which helped keep diners safe from food-borne illnesses. It is a metal with low reactivity, it won’t change the flavor of food like copper and tin. It is also a malleable metal and thus easy to form into beautifully sculpted pieces of cutlery.”

Still smiling, he gestured to the gleaming utensils. “These are meant for use only by an epicurean of the highest renown.” He folded his hands on the table. “That would be myself."

His voice deepened. “A meal worthy of these implements is a meal worthy of high praise, indeed.” The smile left his face. “Anything less would not just be considered unworthy – it will be a mark of shame for the restaurant. And I will be sure the world knows it.”

Cristophe and the waitstaff stood motionless. Possibly from fear, possibly from awe. Arthur broke the trance. Taking his napkin like a magician, he gave it a flourished snap, unfurling the serviette, and laying it gently across his lap. He set his hands flat upon the table. “Now we may begin.”

With a clap of the hands, Cristophe scattered the staff. The sommelier scrambled off to get the wine, the expediter followed the runner, both heading to the kitchen to alert the chef. Cristophe and the Maître D’ attended to the other patrons who watched with curiosity. The fate of Evelyn’s hung in the air like an approaching winter storm.

Arthur Wellington Kilgore’s single raised brow indicated he was already evaluating the dish before him for its presentation. Like an art dealer inspecting a painting for authenticity, Arthur noted all aspects of the chef’s design: composition, color, and texture. He hovered above the plate, observing it from different angles, ending with a wafting hand sniff and a near imperceptible nod. Satisfied, he gripped the cutlery with the delicate touch of a surgeon and applied them to the expensive cut of meat. Little downward pressure from his fork was needed. Its tines melted into the meat, while the knife slid through the beef like it was room temperature butter. Arthur took the wedge of medium rare steak, skimmed it through the blood juices still roiling on the plate, and lifted it to his lips.

Taking his first bite, one side of his mouth couldn’t help but reveal a hint of a true smile. Arthur loved his job. He loved the perks and prestige and the power a food critic of his caliber possessed, but more than that, he loved to eat. Arthur wasn’t a glutton; he wasn’t fat; he wasn’t even a picky eater when the fare was at this high a level. When it came to fine dining, Arthur was precise. He appreciated the culinary arts, and the heights of gastronomical wonder gourmet cooking could achieve. It was a career that brought him light years from the frozen meals, canned goods, and food stamp family fare he was raised on. He had come a long way to reach his station in life, and he planned to exploit it’s every aspect and show no mercy those he considered unworthy.

Taking his first bite, the warmth of the meat filled his mouth. The steak was juicy and tender, not dry or spongy. He savored its natural flavors, a light, almost imperceptible saltiness, the savory natural flavor that comes from blood and the hearty taste given to meat when grilled to perfection. Arthur closed his eyes as he chewed and the flavors washed over his tongue. He thought this had to be the most delicious piece of steak to grace his palate. For a moment, Arthur believed he was in gastronomical paradise. Everything was about to change forever the moment Arthur tried to swallow.

Attempting to ingest the steak, it felt as if a lightning bolt went off in Arthur’s brain. He would swear he heard the word “Pruebalo” whispered in his ear. His eyes were still closed, but the flash of white inside his head was blinding.

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was no longer in the restaurant. He found himself in a large yellow monochromatic cellar pulsating with blinking and buzzing florescent lights. The sounds of animals snorting, and bellowing bounced off the surrounding twenty-foot concrete walls. A procession of cows pressed forward with Arthur near the lead feeling the tsunami-like push forward. Steel dividing rails guided him ahead while hemming him in.

The metallic copper smell of warm blood, mixed with cow shit and urine, floated on an undercurrent odor of bleach, filling his nostrils, watering his eyes. Nearby, the pendulum paced noise of hydraulic pressure escaping was punctuated by a loud bang. The explosive sound rattled the very air and Arthur felt it to the bone. Arthur Wellington Kilgore wondered where the fuck he was and where did all these cows come from and why did he feel like he was he crawling on all fours?

Added to the confusion, Arthur felt heavier, as if the gravitational pull of Earth itself increased in degree. He looked down, horrified to see two hooves stumble forward on the wet concrete floor where his hands should be. There wasn’t enough room for him to turn around, but he was quick to surmise his feet were no longer the pair he remembered as they clopped beneath him.

Arthur was certain he was in the middle of a nightmare. From behind, he felt himself shoved forward into a set of hind quarters before him. It was a tidal force pushing him to follow while steel guard rails funneled the rest of the livestock into single file. The space to move narrowed. There were indistinguishable human forms on walkways a foot off the ground on both sides of the cramped hallway. The line stopped. He heard the singing sound of sliding chains and the harsh sound of metal locking on metal within the din. The cow in front shuffled forward a few feet.

Arthur watched in horror as the animal vaulted into the air, screaming. The frightened cow hung several feet off the ground, swinging from its hind legs above a large metal grating. Arthur looked into its eyes now bulging out of its skull in fear. Arthur knew at that moment the beast was aware of what was going to happen next. Before its cry of anguish could finish, a nondescript human form leaned forward holding something, from the back of which a hose ran down connecting to a pressure tank. The form’s fingers tightened on a trigger and with a bang the braying animal went limp. A second human form on the other side of the narrow space held out a knife as long as a baby’s arm. Reaching around to the animal’s throat, it created a slit, opening the neck and releasing a torrent of blood into the grating below.

It took seconds for most of the blood to drain from the dying animal. Hoisted on the conveyor belt, it moved on along, following the scores of other carcasses in the distance. Arthur felt the simultaneous grip of cold steel on both his hind quarters as shackles closed around them. With dizzying speed, he lifted skyward. He felt his hip break and his knees pop from their sockets as blood rushed to his head. Pure fear overrode the signals of pain. He felt motion sickness watching the room swing back and forth while dangling upside down from a conveyor chain. Arthur looked down through the grating as if there were an entity below it awaiting his life force or it was a direct portal to hell.

The human form raised a pressurized captive bolt stunner to Arthur’s face. He tried to scream for them to stop, thinking he was forming sentences; “This is a mistake.” “This can’t be happening.” He even yelled “I’m not a cow.” and “I want my mother.” and a dozen other pleading statements. But all that escaped from his mouth was a guttural bellow that crescendoed into a squeal. Arthur was still swinging on his chain when the human form went to touch the penetrative bolt to his skull. Arthur shook his head then heard the convergence of the air pressure and the loud bang as they triggered the pneumatic stunner. For the second time, Arthur saw a flash. This time, an intense ringing in the ears and a hatchet blow of a headache followed it.

Because he had been swinging, the stunner was off target. Instead of rendering him unconscious, the penetrating bolt had only glanced off Arthur’s cranium. He was still very conscious, and bleeding from the skull and he knew what was coming next. Arthur strained his eyes to look behind him for the second human form, who had steadied him for the death cut. It was here things went into slow motion for Arthur. He watched as a hand holding the long knife blade crossed his field of vision inches below or above in his confusing point of view. Arthur saw his reflection for an instant in its stainless-steel blade. The face of mortal fear in the form of a frightened cow was looking back at him. Staring into its eyes, Arthur recognized himself. Despite the broken hip and dislocated legs, he tried to twist and turn to avoid the coming blade but felt the ice-cold steel slice across his neck. He felt the flush of blood empty from his head and body. A waterfall of blood splashing below him was the last thing Arthur saw before he lost consciousness.

Arthur next felt a violent thrust against his abdomen. There was no flash of light this time. He came out of the darkness starving for air. He was suffocating. Instead of the slaughterhouse, he was back now watching the restaurant interior tilt up and down, his vision clouded around the edges like a window etched with frost. The expensive Waygu steak lay on the floor amongst a broken plate, shattered glass, and splattered pate. His chair lay on its side.

Arthur was aware of being at the mercy of a python like grip, lifting him up and down like a rag doll. His abdomen felt a second hard thrust. He felt pressure inside his esophagus as his feet touched the floor once more. Another gut-punch lift caused a piece of Waygu steak to fly from his mouth, landing on the table before him. Arthur greedily drew in air like a deep diver surfacing. His ribs ached. His throat ached. He felt dizzy, for the oxygen hadn’t fully returned to his head. Someone righted his chair for him to sit. He surrendered to it and loosened his bow tie, whipping it off and unbuttoning his shirt by the collar.

“Oh, mon Dieu, Mr. Kilgore. Are you alright?” Chef Cristophe knelt, assessing the shaken critic. He had just administered the Heimlich to Kilgore. “We’re calling 911.”

Arthur spoke almost breathless. “That won’t be necessary. Just some water.” Arthur added, “Not sparkling, and room temperature.” That wasn’t Arthur’s humor coming through. He had none of that. That was his precision in always knowing what he wanted. A server nearby went to fetch a carafe.

Arthur lifted a tremoring hand to his temple. A headache unlike he had ever experienced pulsated and throbbed. “Make it wine.”

“Of course, right away.” Christophe snapped his fingers at another porter. “Wine.”

Before the porter could dart off, Arthur followed up. “Bodega Numanthia, 2013.” Again, Arthur knew precisely that was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.

Arthur looked at Cristophe. “What happened?”

Cristophe hesitated, then spoke. “Well, sir, you… you were choking, sir. You passed out.” Christophe tried to gage Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur put a finger to his pulse, then lay a hand to his chest. “I don’t believe it. My…my heart is still beating fast.”

Cristophe reassured him. “Please let us call for a doctor.”

Arthur looked at the partially chewed dollop of meat laying on the table then back to Christophe. “You… you almost killed me.”

“No, sir. You just had an accident. Surely, we are not to blame.”

Ricardo, the maître D, returned with the wine bottle, popping the cork as he arrived. He reached for a wine glass. Arthur intervened. He wrestled the bottle from the Ricardo and guzzled a large swig. He repeated three more huge swallows before setting the bottle on the table by the piece of meat now staining the white cloth with juices diluted by Arthur’s own saliva. Arthur’s senses were returning.

“Could someone please do something about that?” nodding to the morsel of meat.

Ricardo was quick to act. Taking a table crumber, he guided the meat into an awaiting napkin, cinched it like a sack and carried it off.

Christophe snapped his fingers. The porters moved in synchronicity, changing the linen, and setting a new placement and cleaning and resetting his prized cutlery. “Mr. Kilgore, sir. Is there anything else we can do?”

There was no way Arthur was going to eat another steak. “Exactly what kind of mushrooms did you cook with that steak?” As far as Arthur was concerned, psychedelic mushrooms were the only explanation for his nightmare of horror.

Christophe objected. “Monsieur, I can assure you, I used no strange mushrooms in my recipe and all our food is top of the line, fresh and organic.”

Arthur was no longer listening. As far as he was concerned dinner was over. He reached for his black case and began to collect his silverware. “I’ll be sure to let my readers know of your recipe for death.”

Cristophe’s world was shattering before him. He would lose his rating. He would lose clientele. He would lose his loan. “Monsieur, you cannot leave until you taste...” Cristophe froze, trying to think.

Arthur was just about to seal the box shut. “Taste? Taste what?"

His head was spinning without thinking he blurted out, “My latest creation for Evelyn’s. It was meant to be a surprise… the Kilgore Salad.” Cristophe bowed. “Named in honor of the enlightenment you’ve bought to fine dining.”

Upon hearing his name, intrigue replaced derision. What could be this new culinary creation bearing his name? Was Cristophe patronizing him or truly bestowing an honor Arthur felt he deserved? Either way, it was enough to give Arthur second thoughts.

As he reset his utensils and returned the case to his pocket, Arthur considered maybe it was his near-death experience that triggered his trip to a Friday-the-Thirteenth-like movie. After all, the chef did, in fact, save his life. Arthur reached for the fresh wine goblet and, taking bottle in hand, poured himself another glass.

Arthur raised his favored brow. “Indeed. Well, I do believe Mr. Kilgore is still hungry. Perhaps Chef could prepare this specially named salad for him?” When Arthur spoke in third person, it was to emphasize his comparative importance over common folk.

Cristophe felt a surge of hope. “Ah, monsieur, you won’t be disappointed. The recipe was delivered from the Ceres, the Roman goddess herself. And it is…” Cristophe pursed his lips, pinched his fingers and, with a chef’s kiss, tossed them away from his mouth. “… heavenly perfection. Give me ten minutes.” Cristophe made the salad in seven.

Arthur was just finishing the bottle of the Bodega Numanthia when Chef Cristophe returned and set the salad before him. “Goûter.” He smiled and gestured to the salad. “Apprécier.” A small crowd of employees stood round, waiting to see Arthur eat. His raised eyebrow and a clearing of his throat chased all but Cristophe and the maître D’ away.

The recently named “Kilgore Salad” had originally been christened “Summer in Provence.” It was another Cristophe specialty created at Le Cordon Blue and he kept as an ace up his sleeve. He had once prepared the organic vegan dish for Macron and his wife in Paris. It won three awards that year, in France, Belgium and Spain. The plating was an artistic tribute to Monet. Almost instinctually, Arthur handled the fork like a brush mixing colors on a palette.

Hesitant, he bought the fork to his mouth. Then Arthur closed his eyes and tasted. A fiesta of flavors danced on his tongue. It was as if the diced beets, chopped cilantro, fresh corn, red pepper and green onions, splashed with an apple cider dressing, then sprinkled with freshly cracked pepper, were celebrating Mardi Gras in his mouth. Dopamine signals burst in his brain until once again he heard the whispering word, “Pruebalo.” Another flash blinded him. In an involuntary reflex, he dropped his knife and fork and gripped the table sides with eyes closed. Arthur panicked. A thought screamed inside his head. “This can’t be happening again!”

But when Arthur opened his eyes, they were met by a sky of perfect blue stretching out before him. Pillow white clouds drifted westerly, their movement almost imperceptible, and interspersed with flocks of blackbirds. The sun tilting slightly away from its noon perigee was a bright yellow-white, warming his face as a moderate summer wind caressed his cheeks. The air, country clean, washed over him, causing him to sway in a cradle like rhythm. Bird song sounded from a group of trees off to his right sifting the light breeze through their leaves. A lone butterfly danced at eye level above the carpet of greenery blanketing to the horizon.

Arthur had never known such peace. He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the child like grin he had from the edible balloon. This was a smile of pure contentment, a comfortable sense of well-being, a calm happiness. For Arthur, this was heaven, he began to hum a tune.

In a nightmare world, Heaven can turn into Hell on a dime. The growing hundred decibel sound of hammering pistons and churning hydraulics pounding over the sound of a droning engine were Arthur’s first clue something was wrong. The sound was coming from behind him, but try as he might, he couldn’t turn to see. He heard another sound closing in. It was the sound of cutting or slicing which Arthur could almost feel getting closer. A frenzy of whipping noises seemed to create a wind, increasing his swaying motion. It was here Arthur could glance behind him and up.

A blood red John Deere combine harvester driven by a nondescript human form was bearing down on Arthur. Heavy blades spun as the teeth of a cutter bar scraped the ground ahead of the machine, tearing up both soil and plant. It’s the first time it occurred to Arthur that he was one of those plants. There was nowhere or no way to run. He tried to scream but couldn’t. Even if he could, the cacophony of chopping sounds married with a motor’s roar would have drowned him out. Arthur felt the cutter dig him out of the soil, root and all. He felt the spin from the rotating blades hurl him back onto a conveyor belt with the force of a cannon. For a brief second, the cockpit of the giant harvester blotted out the blue sky above. Arthur lay helpless as the conveyor carried him up, snaked in a U-turn and, like a slingshot, deposited him into the grain tank beside the mutilated and decapitated forms of the other plants.

Plunging backwards, Arthur was a just another dying chard. The last glimpse of a patch of blue sky was covered as hundreds upon hundreds of harvested beets joined Arthur in the bin until darkness overtook him. The last thought he had was how he was going to destroy Evelyn’s with a review from hell.

On the twenty-ninth floor of the North Shore high rise, a steady wind coming off Lake Michigan blew into Christophe’s restaurant. Tablecloths clung tight to tables while flapping in the breeze. At a window Cristophe stood back several feet, talking to a uniformed cop and a suited man taking notes.

A six-foot high by three wide hole in the window had a firefighter leaning forward and looking down. Nearby, the table Arthur Kilgore was dining at but thirty minutes ago, was empty and surrounded by broken dishes and the scattered vegetables of the Kilgore Salad. The chair this time flat on its back. Cristophe was explaining the series of the recent event to a detective and police officer.

“I can’t explain it. I set down his salad plate. I said…I said… Goûter…”

The cop was writing as fast as he could. He interrupted. “Gootay?"

Cristophe gestured broadly, trying to explain. “Goûter. It means, Taste. It’s French. As I was saying, Mr. Kilgore then took a bite of his salad… by the way, that salad has won me awards!” Cristophe’s agitation grew. “He took one bite, and he closed his eyes and leaned back with the most serene smile I’ve ever seen.” Cristophe took a swig from a bottle of wine. “He… he… he began to sway back and forth. And hum! He was humming a tune. Isn’t that right, Ricardo?”

Ricardo, the maître D’ nodded fiercely. “Si. Si. It was the Carpenters, “Close to You.” He hummed it and then suddenly…”

Cristophe took over. “… Suddenly he shot up from his chair, eyes wide open, and stumbled backwards at full speed. He spun one time and then… and then…”

Cristophe and Ricardo chimed in together, overlapping each other. “He crashed through the window!”

Cristophe continued, “He launched himself straight through the glass without saying a word!”

Ricardo interjected. “No, first he said, ‘Pruebalo’.” He explained. “It too means, taste it.”

Both the detective and the cop stared at Ricardo quizzically. Cristophe shooed him off. “Go see to the kitchen.” Ricardo nodded and scurried off but not before stopping at the table and pocketing the Louis XIV silverware. He knew of a pawnshop on the south side that might give him a few bucks for them.

Cristophe anguished. “Mon Dieu! I’m ruined! I needed that review!”

The detective took another look at the 29-story drop, his tie waving in the breeze, he stared at the crowd below. He shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Your business will triple. People have a morbid fascination with celebrity deaths. They will line up to see where the most famous food critic in the world took his own life.” He turned to leave. “And if the ghouls ask, just tell them Arthur Wellington Kilgore thought the food here was to die for.”

Twenty-nine stories below, the emergency medical team bagged and removed Arthur’s shattered body from the sidewalk. An empty black case with the fleur-de-lis fell out into the gutter as they carted him away. Among the cordoned off crowd witnessing the gruesome “accident” was an old, one-eyed, weathered, Mexican man dutifully tending to his food cart.

The smell of the Cochinita filled the air and a line had formed from the morbid onlookers. Evelyn's restaurant’s marquee in front of the building was the last thing Arthur Wellington struck before hitting the pavement. It now simply read “Evel.” By the curb near the NO VENDING sign, the old man held up a Mayan taco to a waiting customer. With a smile, and in English, he said softly, “Taste.”

(A Detective Fowler Story)

by

Wilkinson Riling

Just after midnight, Detective Jeanette Fowler found herself crossing a lamp lit college campus to climb the main steps of the administrative building while trying to put from her mind the man she just left behind in a warm bed before being rudely summoned to respond to a 187; A murder/homicide.

Wearing a black satin slip dress with matching jacket, Fowler knew she might appear overdressed for a crime scene, but this was her ensemble from her earlier date, the same date whom she left hanging back at a Malibu Beach condo, and having not expected to stay over, left her with no change of clothes. She had received the poorly timed call from her partner, Detective Humberto Goyens who provided only two details; a dead man in his late 50’s and the location of the crime, UCLA.

And now, a mere twenty minutes after the call, the heels of her knock-off Jimmy Choos echoed sharply off the marble floor of an empty mezzanine as she followed a security guard toward the murder scene.

Looking past the waddling girth of the guard, Fowler could see a stretch of bright lemon colored crime scene tape blocking the entrance to an office. Two uniformed officers stood watch. Off to the side of the hallway, several people including another security guard huddled by a bench looked anxious as Fowler closed the distance.

Thanks to the little late-night traffic on the 10 freeway, she was able to beat the coroner and the forensics team to the scene. A set of EMTs stood near, but the second security guard who discovered the body had enough sense to secure the area and lock down the crime scene before they arrived.

Fowler opened her jacket revealing her homicide detective badge to one of the uniforms. “You have a pair of gloves I can borrow?” She stepped up and asked. The officer dug into a pocket and removed a pair of blue nitrile latex gloves and handed them to Fowler. “Thanks, I owe ya.”

Fowler stretched the gloves onto her hands as she ducked under the crime scene tape already held up by the second officer. Both cops watch her from behind. Her dress contoured an athletic body she usually kept obscured beneath workday pant suits or sweats and a hoodie when off duty. Her gun was secured to her hip in a small leather holster. The cops exchanged glances that suggested they were both surprised and impressed with Fowler’s visage.

Her partner Detective Goyens, 37, stocky with wisps of hair and of Mexican descent, wearing a suit looking as if it was recently removed from a laundry bag, stood taking notes across the room by a large oak desk. The area was lit by a lone desk lamp and computer laptop screen. Fowler could see the shadowed bulk of a person in the chair, slumped with head on desk. The room itself was large resembling more of a library than an office of administration. Fowler noted shelf upon shelf of academic books and surmised many were first editions. The setting gave off a deep sense of history. She stepped up next to Goyens, who didn’t look up from his note taking. “A bit over dressed aren’t we J.T.?” He said.

“Save it, H. What are we looking at here?” The two had been working together for little over a year and developed nicknames for each other. He called her J.T. because her full name on her police academy diploma read Jeanette Theresa Fowler.

For her, Humberto was just too long a name for her to keep saying but when she tried to just call him “Bert” it tended to get his hackles up, so she left it as simply “H.”

Goyens filled her in. “Professor Dean McShean, age fifty-two, found like this about two hours ago by the janitor. Gunshot. The security guard called us. Oh, and J.T.... Goyens, gave his “can you believe it?” face, “...he’s the college dean.”

“Dean, Dean McShean?” Fowler asked with a half-smile.

H corrected, “Professor Dean Gene McShean, the college Dean, to be exact.”

Fowler crouched to get a better look. The dean lay slumped on his desk, obviously dead. His eyes half-lidded were rimmed red around the sclera. His nose had a dry trickle of blood while white dried saliva caked lavender lips and a discolored tongue indicating encroaching lividity.

One of the dean’s hands hung down; his forefinger hooking an empty coffee mug that had already dripped its contents onto the polyester rug beneath his desk and chair. His other arm pointed to his MacBook laptop.

She checked a small waste basket under the desk. She reached in and pulled out a deformed piece of apple already browning exposed to air. The other half was at the bottom. She couldn’t be sure if she was seeing teeth marks.

Fowler asked Goyens. “Who called this in as a homicide, could’ve been a suicide or a heart attack. You said he was shot?”

Goyens leaned forward pointing his pen at the back of the corpse. “He took it in the back, so we can rule out suicide.” Fowler’s eyes scanned the dean’s gray tweed jacket, just below the shoulder blade, a small bullet hole was barely noticeable. Add to it no visible signs of blood and it was an easy miss for the homicide detective. Goyens pointed over his shoulder with his pen to the door. “Security guard called it in around 10:50. Any other questions, you’ll have to ask him.”

Fowler stood. “You ask him...” she said, “...To come here.” Her seniority was instantly present.

Goyens closed his eyes, took a breath and headed for the door. “Be right back.”

Fowler approached the desk and with a gloved finger punched the computer’s space bar bringing up the screen. It seemed, she thought, that before the man of letters drew his last breath he had been engaged in a game of WORDLE. Fowler took a glance at his final game guesses:

BIKER

BITER

BAYER

BOWER

BOXER

NICER

With a thumb and forefinger, she pressed the touchpad and scrolled the curser to “HISTORY.” A tab dropped down listing the most recent browser entries. The top three all had the NY Times as the site visited. The earliest of those was the MINI crossword puzzle. The next was for a puzzle called SPANAGRAM and the latest for WORDLE.

The other entries were a Google search for WEB MD. An entry for VERIFY, a people search app, and a search of his own G Mail account. The browser list rounded out with a weather check and movie schedule for the theatre in Westwood for a special screening of the movie “The Graduate.” With a finger tap, Fowler returned the screen to the WORDLE page.

She stood back taking in the scene. “It seems you like puzzles, Professor. You may have left us with one.”

Goyens returned with the security guard who was now also wearing the blue latex gloves. Even at age thirty, the guard’s face was cherubic, his breath short. “I was right, wasn’t I? It’s a murder for sure.” He took another gulp of air. “I’ve seen enough TV shows to know when something’s off. I thought I’d better call it in as a 187.”

Fowler recognized the type of person panting before her. A fan boy. An overzealous, wannabe cop. They usually end up working a mall or on a bank floor. Thing is that this guy was good. Not because he knew his police codes but because he had sense enough to lock down the crime scene. The only part about being a cop he may have taken too far was their legendary love of donuts. There was no chance of him passing an academy physical and most likely no chance of him passing a Dunkin’.

Fowler nodded. “You did great. Your instincts are sharp. Mister?...”

“Security officer McCune, Eric McCune.” His hand snapped up to his forehead.

Jeanette smiled. “No need to salute, Eric. Who are those people in the hallway?”

Detective Goyens interjected. “Those are the last people to see the Dean alive. Before you got here I had Eric pull the security tape. It showed only three people crossed the mezzanine this evening, the only way to get to the Dean’s office, at least without setting off an alarm.”

H continued in a tone letting Fowler know he was on top of things. “Eric, here, identified them and I had Officers Patrick and Lane there bring them here for questioning.”

Almost on cue, Officer Lane poked his head in the door. “Ma’am, coroner’s here.”

Fowler ushered them to the door. “Let’s give him room, everyone to the hallway. I’ll be right with you.”

Goyens assisted. “You heard the boss, everyone out. Let’s go.” They exited and were instantly replaced by the coroner and a forensics team in haz mat suits.

Chief Medical Examiner Albert Buonomo, at 68, was in his thirtieth year with the LA Coroner. People wondered why he just doesn’t retire, and he always answered the same way, “Retire to what?” Jeanette approached him with a smile. “Al, don’t tell me they dragged you out for this?”

“Hey, Jeannie. Good to see you. No, I heard the call on my scanner. I live close by. Believe it or not, this was my Alma Mater, so I took the call.”

They approached the dean’s desk. “The victim’s the Dean. Did you know him?”

“Not personally. Someone mentioned gunshot?” He asked.

Jeanette pointed out the small hole in the back of the jacket. “You’d miss it, if you weren’t paying attention. I’m guessing .22”

Leaning in, Buonomo agreed. “Small enough.” He touched a finger to the hole. “Hmmm. Not much blood. Maybe when the jacket comes off.”

Fowler nodded. “Al, I’m going to need you to give me the works, ASAP. Time of death, bullet trajectory, and when you dig it out of him, caliber. I’ve got several suspects out there. I’m going to shake a few trees.”

Al motioned to the body. “Okay, Jeannie, let me get him back to the garage, up on a lift and I’ll give him a full inspection.”

“Thanks, Al. We’ll be in touch.” With that Fowler stepped out into the hallway. H, still referencing his notes, stood with the security guards and three strangers by a bench.

Jeanette stepped up to the security guards. “Would you guys mind waiting back at your desk? I’ll be along with some questions shortly.”

Eric looked crestfallen. This was the most action he’s had on campus since the protest over the transgender bathrooms. Jeanette tapped his shoulder. “By the way, great job, officer.” His face relit and he marched away with the other guard, elbowing him and whispering, “Did ya hear that? Huh? Officer.”

The other guard chuckled. “In your dreams, McCune.”

Fowler turned to face the persons of interest. “Now, who do we have here?”

A man standing at the end of the bench said nothing. The woman and other man sitting looked stupefied. Each glancing at the other for who would start.

Goyens spoke as he checked his notepad. “As I told you, these were the last people to see Dean McShean alive. We got a time stamp from the CCTV.” H pointed to the girl. “Amy Eckhardt, 23, student, passed through the Mezzanine at 8:20 pm. She left twenty minutes later at 8:40.”

The girl protested while seeming to weep. “Dean McShean wanted to discuss why I dropped his class in Sociolinguistics. I told him the curriculum was too difficult, and he wasn’t giving me enough time on my dissertation. My decision was final.” Amy didn’t like being accused. Her voice turned bitter. “When I left him he was disappointed, but he was alive.”

“He must’ve been a very involved professor.” Fowler quipped. She turned to a man in his sixties wearing an open collar shirt beneath a wool sweater and matching tweed jacket. A pair of thick glasses and a full head of neatly combed white hair.

“And you are?” Fowler asked.

“Professor Emile Langford. Science department. I’ve been teaching here for nearly ten years.”

Goyens interrupted, “We have him crossing the lobby at 9:15 pm and returning thirty minutes later at 9:45.”

“So, what did you and the Dean discuss for thirty minutes, Professor Langford?” Fowler asked.

Langford removed his glasses and cleaned them with a small cloth. “We were discussing tenure. My tenure to be precise. After ten years of my commitment to excellence, I felt I was due consideration.”

“And the Dean felt...?”

“Why he agreed, of course. His vote insured my selection.” Langford put his glasses on. “He was my colleague. I needed his vote. What motive would I possibly have?”

Fowler listened, assessing the professor’s demeanor.

The professor hammered home his point. “They say he was shot? Feel free to test me for gunshot residue.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Science-man, I think I’ll take you up on that.” Fowler looked at the seated man. “And you?”

Goyens said, “This is Barton Coleman, facility janitor. He was recorded servicing the trash cans along the corridor leading to the Dean’s office at 10:35 pm. Emptying trash cans along the way, I estimate he reached the office by 10:45, returned to security at 10:50.”

“Mr. Coleman, care to share what happened?” Asked Fowler.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin. I want my attorney.” He leaned back on the bench and pulled a pack of red Pall Malls from his shirt pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and hung most of it on his bottom lip.

Fowler turned to Goyens, “What do you think, H? Somebody has something to hide?”

“Yep. And somebody can’t read.” He pointed to a “No Vaping” graphic on the wall above the bench. Goyens took the smoke from Barton’s mouth, crumbled it and let it drop into a waste can. Goyens looked at the crumpled cigarette in the waste can, then looked down the hallway. “You got this J.T.? I’ll be back in a minute.”

She answered bemused. “Sure thing.”

“I know my rights; You can’t hold me. You got nothin.” Barton started to stand. “Stick around for a sec, Mr. Coleman, won’t you? As a favor to me. Go ahead and have your smoke.” Fowler was trying a new tactic.

Before she got a word out, Chief Medical Examiner Buonomo led the forensics team out of the room with the dead dean on a gurney, zipped tight in a plastic sleeve. “We’re done with the body in there, you want us to log anything else?”

“Thanks Al, we can tag, bag and box the rest. I’m going to have another look.”

“Okay, Jeannie, you’ll be hearing from me soon.” With that, the team left as Goyens returned.

“Check it out, detective, look what I found.” H’s hand was still gloved holding his pen but dangling from the pen was a small .22 caliber revolver. Barton Coleman buried his head.

Goyens sniffed the barrel. “And it’s been fired recently.”

Fowler looked at Goyens, impressed. “Where’d you find that, H?”

“I remember watching the CCTV. Mr. Coleman there was heading to alert security but made a pitstop at a waste can back there.”

Amy leaned away from Goyens. “Is that... the murder weapon?”

Fowler said, “Let’s ask Barton, he seems to recognize it.”

Barton shot up in the seat. “Lady, I ain’t never seen that before. And I want an attorney.”

Fowler gestured to Lane and Patrick. “See to it everyone sticks around.”

“H, let’s tag and bag.” She motioned for Goyens to follow her back into the office. Let’s bag the gun, the coffee mug and there’s a couple of chunks of apple in the waste basket.”

“You getting the laptop?” Goyens asked.

Fowler took a seat. “In a minute I want to check something first.” It bothered her for a brief second that a minute ago there was a corpse seated where she sat. But an ability to focus quickly took her to the keyboard and monitor.

“Dean, Dean, what did you leave at my crime scene?” She closed the WORDLE and brought up the history and pressed BEEN VERIFIED, the people search app.

A list of names came up under the banner; Barton Coleman. There was a Barton Coleman from Baton Rouge, aged 30. A Barton Coleman from Oakland, aged 53. A B. Coleman, age 46, from Chicago and then... Bingo: Barton Coleman, Sun Valley, California. Aged 62. The dean had never logged out, so Fowler pressed “Criminal History.”

It appeared Dean McShean had learned Barton’s secret. Barton Coleman was a registered sex offender originally from Fullerton, CA some twenty years ago. There was also a recent weapons charge in Sun Valley. The dean was planning to let Coleman go. Detective Fowler clicked her tongue and said one word. “Motive.”

Goyens was about to bag the coffee mug. Fowler stepped in. She warned, “Don’t touch that. Leave it. Give me your pen.” Using the pen, she carefully swept it into the evidence bag.

She went back to the computer and checked the ticket purchase for “The Graduate” the following Friday evening at the Westwood Theatre. Fowler asked Goyens, “H, What time did little Miss Eckhardt visit the Dean?”

Goyens answered, “About 10:40 if memory serves me.”

Fowler checked the time of the ticket purchase. “10:35. Leaving the lovers enough time to make out after planning their date.” She scrolled down and shook her head sadly. “Seems Dean, Dean Gene McShean saw himself as a Tinder machine.” She pressed the cursor revealing another purchase for “Graduate” tickets for Saturday. “Someone was interested in more than plastics.” She said.

H looked puzzled.

Fowler clarified, “Our victim was playing teacher/student with more than one girl. Another possible motive, if Miss Eckhardt somehow found out.”

“Depends one whose gun it is, I’d say.” Goyens lifted the bagged the mug and boxed it.

“I have a feeling about that. But let me check up on the Nutty Professor’s tenure story first.” Fowler said.

Fowler checked the dean’s email, sure enough there was a message cc’d to the faculty heads. It was a paragraph long and a glowing recommendation for Professor Emile Langford, head of the chemistry department. There was only one problem, it read “Edit Draft.”

Fowler sat back and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “Interesting.”

A second email was just between the two. Professor Langford was vouching for Barton Coleman and asking McShean not to fire him. He argued Coleman had paid his debt to society and deserved a second chance. The dean responded tersely that he couldn’t risk having a pedophile on staff, this wasn’t Notre Dame, this was UCLA.

Fowler raised an eyebrow. “More interesting.”

“Why am I retrieving this apple?” Goyens stood pinching the stem and holding an apple half over the waste can.”

“I think it’s tied to the murder.” She said.

“The dean was shot for stealing an apple?” Goyens asked.

“Look here.” Fowler leaned forward and tapped the keyboard and the Wordle puzzle popped up. “Read these answers the dean gave trying to guess today’s Wordle;

BIKER

BITER

BAYER

BOWER

BOXER

NICER

Goyens shrugged. “So what?“

Fowler drummed her fingers on the desk. ”We’re talking about a very intelligent man here. An educated man, a man of letters, if you will.”

“So, he goofed.” Goyens said.

Fowler waved him off. “He was a Sociolinguistic Professor for Chrissakes. He worked with language, cultural codes, he loved words. Just look around at the books on puzzles, anagrams, code words. There’s a book about the enigma machine on his coffee table!”

Goyens said, “I sense you’re going somewhere with all of this...”

Fowler nodded. “BIKER…BITER…BAYER…BOWER…BOXER…NICER… Nicer!? NICER? You can see the B, E and R are green, meaning confirmed.”

“I can?” H asked.

Fowler pointed to the puzzle. “Yes. It’s right there! So why use N? For NICER? BAKER would’ve been my guess. Heck, I would’ve tried BONER before NICER.”

Goyens wasn’t getting it. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the dean left us a clue. An anagram. I’m saying I know who the murder is.” Fowler answered.

“Tell me.”

“Bring them in.”

Goyens sighed again, aware of his place in the pecking order. “Yes, Boss.” He set down the evidence bags and went to get the suspects.

Fowler turned in the chair and moved the laptop to where it could be visible by all. The trio entered led by Goyens and backed by the two officers.

Fowler spoke, “Sorry we had to drag you all out of bed this evening. Actually, we only need to apologize to two of you. Not the murderer.” She looked at Coleman.

“I didn’t shoot the man.” Barton stepped back but Kane and Patrick blocked the exit.

Fowler agreed, “No, you didn’t. In fact, the gun, if it turns out to be yours, which I believe it will, was not the murder weapon. The only mistake you made was eliciting Professor Langford’s help in interceding with Dean McShean on your behalf.”

Barton looked shocked that Fowler knew this.

She explained. “As janitor, Langford counted on you cleaning up some of his chemical messes in secret. The good professor was working on a new compound for methamphetamine. You thought you could trust him and vice versa.”

Barton Coleman stood, mouth agape.

Fowler continued, “Don’t fear, Mister Coleman, your gun did not kill the dean. The dean was already dead when he was shot.” Fowler tapped the keyboard and the WORDLE puzzle came up. “No, sir, the dean was poisoned.” She looked directly at Amy.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t poison him. I loved him.” she protested.

Fowler waved a finger. “Yes, but you were angry with him, you learned he was cheating on you when he gave you the ticket for the wrong evening to see The Graduate. Your date was planned for Friday not Saturday. When you got the Saturday night ticket, you figured out teacher must have another pet.”

Amy snapped back. “He lied to me. I don’t like being lied to. But I don’t kill because of it. I broke it off. Simple as that.”

“I believe you. And I bet when you broke it off, you couldn’t have been nicer.” Fowler turned everyone’s attention to the WORDLE puzzle.

“Speaking of NICER, why would the dean, a professor of language, a veritable wordsmith, use NICER as his final guess?” Jeanette looked at Professor Langford. “Care to take a guess, Prof?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He replied.

“Well, you should. You came here to murder him and succeeded. Go to the head of the class.” Fowler pulled the wrapped coffee mug out of the evidence box. “You came here to beg him for his vote for tenure. When he refused because of your extracurricular chemistry experiments, you put something into his coffee. A caffeine Mickey. After which, what did he do? He continue to play WORDLE right in front of you.” She held up the mug. “Oh, and sip your poisoned coffee.”

Fowler was in her element. “What did it take? A few minutes before his organs began to fail? Abdominal pain became unbearable? Nose started bleeding?” Is that when you told him he was going to die? You probably even boasted and told him what you poisoned him with.”

Langford said coldly, “You’re speculating.”

“The dean went to WEB MD for answers, researching the symptoms, but the pain stopped him. He knew he was going to die. He wanted to leave a clue, but one you wouldn’t understand. He turned to his game of WORDLE and typed in five letters. But NICIR isn’t a real word, so it was rejected by the game. With his last bit of cognitive reasoning, he typed in “NICER.””

Langford shook his head. “You’re babbling. What’s your point?”

Fowler stood. “The word he wanted to type, but WORDLE rejected, was NICIR. An anagram for Ricin, a highly toxic protein extracted from castor beans. Fatal with no known cure. As a chemistry professor, you have the expertise to synthesize ricin from castor beans, a substance that’s nearly undetectable in small amounts. The dean had to use a word the game would accept. Hence, NICER.”

“You’ve seen too many bad Agatha Christie movies.” Langford scoffed.

“I’m not finished.” Fowler got up into Langford’s face. “You college boys think you’re so smart. You knew why McShean was going to fire Coleman. He discovered he was a Ped... ...that he liked them young.

"You read he also had a weapons charge. That weapons charge gave you an idea. You told Barton if he had any guns he’d have to turn it over to prove he’s gone straight. You offered to help and turn it in for him. Now you had a gun, and you had a patsy.”

Barton shot forward but was held back by the two cops. “You son of a bitch!”

Fowler shook her head in agreement. “A clever son of a bitch. He fired a bullet into the dead dean’s back using an apple stuck to the barrel as a silencer. He shot Dean Dean Gene McShean in the spleen and left your gun here as evidence.”

Fowler smiled at Barton. “He planted the gun not knowing you made you janitorial rounds late at night. You must have shit yourself when you saw the dead body and your gun laying there. You scooped it up and dumped it in the first trash can you passed when you saw security doing their rounds.”

Fowler held the mug up to Langford’s face. He leaned back as if facing a viper. “H, do me a favor and call Al at the coroner’s and ask him to test the dean for traces of ricin.”

Goyens looked at his partner, impressed. “I’m on it, J.T.” He whipped out his cellphone to call.

Fowler motioned for the cops. “Officers, escort the Professor here to the precinct. Book him on first degree murder and drug manufacturing and be sure to read him his rights.”

Officers Kane and Patrick, cuffed and led Langford out.

Fowler turned to Amy. “You’re free to go Miss Eckhardt. Please remember this as part of your continuing education. As for you Mr. Coleman, I’m guessing you’ll be talking to your parole officer soon enough.”

Goyens finished his call. “Buonomo said he’s got you covered, J.T.”

“Thanks, H.”

“Goyens looked around the room. “We wrapped that up rather quickly, we make a pretty good team J.T. What do you say to a drink?”

Fowler’s cell buzzed. “Wait, got to take this. It’s the captain.”

"Captain Brandt? He only sticks his nose in the big cases. This is good exposure."

“Hey, chief. Yeah. The Dean. Yeah. No, we caught the guy. I’ll give you a full report as soon as possible.” Fowler clicked off and turned to Goyens.

“Sorry, H. Raincheck. I’m going straight to bed. Can you take care of the evidence box?”

Goyens hated the pecking order moments. “You got it, boss.”

Detective Jeanette Fowler crossed the campus toward her car in the parking garage. She couldn’t help thinking if she wasn’t playing with fire knowing she was on her way to a condo in Malibu to finish her tryst with a married man who happened to be her district captain.

Life was never dull for Detective Jeanette Fowler.

The professor lay slumped on his desk, dead. One hand hung down; a finger hooking an empty coffee mug. His other arm pointed to his MacBook laptop. Before the man of letters drew his last breath he had been engaged in a game of WORDLE. His final game guesses:

BIKER

BITER

BOWER

BAYER

FUDGE

Detective Jeanette Fowler noted the last clue seemed strange. She understood BAKER as the next guess, but FUDGE? She grabbed pen and pad. Rearranging the letters, she looked at suspect Doug Fletcher, the chemistry professor. “I know you poisoned him. I guess your feud is over.”

by Wilkinson Riling

A natural optimist, Thaddeus Coltraine had a knack for always seeing the glass as half full, any empty space remaining was just waiting for a refill as far as he was concerned. Because of his world view he could tell himself he had one of the nicest offices one could find anywhere on Wall Street. Granted, with no windows there wasn’t a view, but in his mind the other amenities were unmatched. Deep rich, recessed mahogany paneling warmly lit by art deco sconces spaced evenly along the interior walls and centered by a bowl chandelier of matching illumination. Fabric wall paper with intricate leafy patterns in a gold matte finish gave the room a muted opulence contrasted by a floor of dark multi-colored ceramic tiles placed in geometric patterns one usually finds in classic Roman atriums. Thaddeus was celebrating his tenth-year servicing Manhattan’s elite movers and shakers. An even more apropos description based on his work location, the restroom of New York City’s most exclusive nightclub “Dorians.”

Six pristine tear drop urinals sporting gold-plated fixtures and individual dividers lined the far wall of the rectangular room. On the near side, a long black marble slab held stone vessel water basins with sensor faucets and swan shaped necks. The LED strip framed mirror spanned the length of the sinks. Individual mahogany doors to five private water closets took up the other side. At the far end of the restroom a slightly larger door opened to a handicapped stall. A wooden stool against the wall served as his “office” chair. An inflatable donut made his hardwood seat tolerable by easing Thaddeus’s chronic lower back pain.

His attendant workspace counter was neatly arranged with OCD precision. He was more than fastidious. Linen hand towels folded in perfect triangles were laid out like freshly folded laundry near a stack of two-ply paper towels placed exactly within arm’s reach. Rolls of replacement toilet tissue, still in their designer wrapping, stood stacked behind several bottles of cologne and mouthwash arranged in a military like display. Several combs and a hairbrush, packs of chewing gum, monogrammed matches, packs of cigarettes, antacids, pain relievers and condoms made up the rest of the assorted toiletries and items. A basket of expensive mints was purposely positioned right next to his chair in front of his tip jar.

Like the items on the counter, Thaddeus paid for his own “uniform.” Tuxedo trousers with a black tailcoat and a red vest over a white cotton pressed shirt accented by a red bow tie. The starched white collar contrasted perfectly against his walnut brown skin. His charcoal hair, curly and peppered gray, was consistent with his trimmed brows and thin mustache. His smile, grandfatherly, yet wry. A kind of smile that knows something you don’t know, not in a cunning way. More like a knowing-what’s-in-your-wrapped-present kind of way. His eyes, brown and honest. They didn’t stare, but they didn’t look away either, nor did they look down like some Stepin Fetchit with hat in hand.

His job was relatively simple. Keep the counters clean, the soap dispensers filled, replace empty toilet rolls, attend to the patron’s apparel needs as much as possible, (he had needle and thread and a hand whisk broom for that.) and clean up any mess that may occur, including unfortunately, any blockages in the stalls. Over the years he’s seen more than his fair share of those. A nearby closet housed a plumber’s helper, bucket and mop and a plethora of deodorizers, even a bag of kitty litter used at times to soak up puddles of vomit. Those instances were a rarity, for which he thanked God. Still, part of his role was to serve as an interim to the janitor and the industrial plumber.

There were of course certain on-the-job rules he had to follow; no reading or scrolling on the phone, no eating or smoking. Rest assured; Thaddeus had no pangs of appetite while at work and quit tobacco years ago. The biggest rule; do not speak unless spoken to and never, ever request a tip. Under these conditions he received four fifteen-minute breaks spread out over his 6 pm to 2 am schedule. A bus boy would throw on a maître D’s three button Perugia jacket and cover Thaddeus on his break which he took in only two places; the kitchen or the back stall of his restroom “office” if and when his irritable bowel insisted. Though he was meant to use the employee bathroom by the kitchen, this was the one luxury he gave himself with a wink and a nod and a few bucks to the bus boy.

Classic bossa nova sounds of Stan Getz & João Gilberto played low from hidden speakers. Had he his druthers, Thaddeus would prefer John Coltrane, no relation. The last name was spelled differently, but while in Vietnam a friend turned him onto the dark brooding tones of jazz which he found calming. In the confines of the restroom, however, Thaddeus was stuck listening whatever the speakers bolted to the walls were fed from Spotify’s algorithm and Coltrane rarely came up. Overall, the job wasn’t difficult.

“Dorians” opened up ten years ago smack dab center in the financial district. Located on the 38th floor of the Hyatt Centric Hotel. The employees of financial institutions from Black Rock to Credit Suisse flooded the nightspot on weekends. New York based celebrities and sports stars were also frequent patrons, accessing secret VIP rooms, exclusivity among the exclusive. But as far as he was concerned, in his “office,” all are equal when it comes to the call of nature and that’s how Thaddeus treated each individual, with equal professionalism.

On this Friday night, Thaddeus arrived a few minutes early, checked his donut to be sure it was properly inflated. In addition to his lower back issues, the cushion provided him relief from a recent hemorrhoidal flare up. From a small tin, he took and placed a dab of Vick’s VapoRub to the base of his wide nostrils just above his moustache his first line of defense against any unpleasant odors.

Thaddeus bent the rules a bit over the past few years but didn’t feel he was breaking them. Applying an ear bud to his left ear, he took his seat. Though he didn’t scroll on his phone per se, he did have his Bluetooth connected to the Audible app on his phone secreted in his vest pocket. Connected via WIFI to his singular earbud he would listen to audio books with authors from James Baldwin to Dostoyevsky to Stephen King. He believed in making the best use of every moment. He consumed knowledge, interesting Ted Talks, Master Classes, podcasts of note and online debates were his diet. Despite the lone ear bud, he could still hear the techno beats thumping through the restroom door from the bar outside. Weekends were not as subdued as the weekday shifts as a younger crowd filled the night club while a guest DJ was put to work.

Traffic to his “office” at the start of the evening was light with a few regulars using the facilities early on. Some knew Thaddeus well and referenced him by his nickname, “Scatman” or “Scat” for short. Not because he had musical rhythm or his smile was an echo of Scatman Crother’s own pearly whites, but due to the very definition of scat: Droppings. Especially those of carnivorous mammals. One could argue there was nothing more carnivorous than a Wall Street wolf.

Speaking of which, a young commodities broker, a regular, by the name of Dean Benjamin entered wearing a power suit jacket over a striped, blue shirt with a throw-back to the eighties solid white collar and paisley navy tie with matching suspenders. He flashed Thaddeus a smile and was already unzipping his fly as he strolled past to a center urinal to relieve himself. “Scat, my man! How’s it hanging?” Dean asked facing the wall.

Thaddeus smiled. “Oh, hangin’fine, Mr. Dean, just fine. Thank you for asking. How are you?”

“Me? Like it’s Black Friday and I’m first in line at the Pussy Store!” The man was in his mid-twenties but still talked like a frat boy. He continued, “You should see the women out there tonight. Yes, sir, tonight the Dean machine is going to be obscene!” He shook off any remaining drops and zipped his fly. Turning, he made for the sink. A dispenser spit out a small squirt of liquid soap. A sensor set off the faucet, and warm water streamed from its cranelike neck. Dean Benjamin gave his hands a vigorous rub rinsing them beneath the running water. Thaddeus was already standing with a linen hand towel to dry him off.

“Thank you, Scat.” Dean leaned over looking at Thaddeus’s wares. “I didn’t have a chance to stop at home, what cologne do you have that will draw the ladies in? Not that I need anything more than this face, but do you have something that compliments the gift that is me?”

Thaddeus looked carefully at several of his cologne bottles inspecting them one by one and looking back at Dean as if trying to find a match. “Tom Ford is a popular one, but for you? Ah, here we are, Versace Eros. A lady killer I’m told.”

He handed Dean the square blue glass bottle. Dean spritzed his wrist, giving it a sniff. “Christ, I think I’m getting hard! Good choice!” He misted his neck behind each ear. “Now a final check of my hair.” Dean picked up a comb from the counter. His dark hair was a feathered coif with a high fade and tapered sideburns. He raised the comb but stopped before he started and leaned back imitating The Fonz from the old Happy Days TV show. “Aaaayyyy., it's da Fonz!” He set the comb down ready to leave.

Thaddeus gestured for him to stop. Taking out his hand whisk, he brushed away any lint left clinging to Dean’s sport coat. “Now, you’re ready.” Thaddeus held up a warning finger and pointed to the exit that led to the bar. “Remember, like the sign on the door says, you’re a gentleman.”

Dean pulled out his money clip releasing a fresh twenty. He placed in Thaddeus’s tip jar, smiled and winked. “But, of course.” He started off again, but Thaddeus halted him again. “Wait.” He held up a wrapped mint. “Mint? “

Dean blew a breath into his own hand and took a quick sniff. He popped the mint in his mouth and with a final wink and a smile, he exited.

Thaddeus took the used towel and after wiping down the basin and counter, tossed it into a hatch leading to a hamper hidden behind the wall. He replaced the lid to the bottle of cologne and reset it in position like a chess piece. His sore back demanded the chair. As he went to sit, a customer waddled in.

Thaddeus watched, thinking the man had seen better days on Wall Street. He was paunchy, his suit wrinkled and worn like a crumpled brown paper bag. His loosened tie swung, a pendulum with each unsteady step. His trading floor badge still clipped to his suit coat despite the fact it was after hours. Thaddeus stood to assist, but the man steam rolled past him and entered the center water closet stall, squeezing past the door and closing it.

Thaddeus had seen this type of floor trader before and recognized him for what he was, a drinker, a gambler and a perennial loser. A man who always went for longshots, riding moments of feast or famine, win and lose, but because of their lack of will power, moved from brokerage house to brokerage house unable to keep steady work until age itself phased them out for the young wolves ready to mark their own territory.

What was about to be unleashed within that small private water closet space was anyone’s guess. There was nothing that could surprise Thaddeus.

He'd experienced it all over the years or thought he had. With a hand bracing his lower spine, he eased back into his seat and raised the volume of his earbud and continued listening to the next chapter from Stephen King’s latest novel.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be enough to drown out the occasional moan from behind the stall door, a fitting harbinger to the olfactory horror yet to come.

Three young professionals entered the restroom. The tallest one, dressed casual-chic like he stepped off of an Abercrombie and Finch catalog cover, disappeared into the nearest stall. The other two, similarly adorned, took up positions at the urinal wall leaving an opened space between them snickering and chuckling the whole time.

The one on the far left spoke out. “Can you believe it? Fucking Malcom Crandall? Did you see him on the dance floor? Fucking weirdo. Trying to moonwalk like Michael fucking Jackson.”

The one to the right answered, “This is who Bear Stearns fucking makes floor manager? What a joke! We both have been there longer, outperforming him on every portfolio dumped in our laps.”

“I’m telling you, Paul, Crandall doesn’t get it. He thinks he got that position on merit. You can’t tell me that black fagola’s not a fucking DEI promotion. Tell me how a degree in finance from Howard University even comes close to our Wharton pedigree? This diversity bullshit is going be the end of democratic capitalism.”

Paul shook his head in agreement. “His degree doesn’t come close in value to ours and he’s gonna learn there’s no jumping ahead in line.” Paul glanced back at Thaddeus who seemed to be elsewhere in his head.

Paul leaned over whispering to his friend, “Psst. Mike, I set Crandall up with that MegaWave Technologies portfolio.” He continued, “It’s a dog. An AI start up, burning through cash like a California wildfire.” Paul chuckled as he directed his stream directly on the urinal cake in the drain.

“Malcom Crandall thinks closing that deal will be his ticket to the top. It’s going to be a nail in his coffin. They are days away from going bankrupt.” Paul tapped up and down on his feet as he finished urinating. He glanced back in Thaddeus’s direction once more. He whispered again. “Psst, Mike! When MegaWave goes bust, he’ll be lucky to get that job.” His head nodding in Thaddeus’s direction.

Mike followed Paul's eyes to Thaddeus who appeared to be paying them no attention. They looked at each other and broke out laughing. Finished, they zipped up in unison and stepped over towards the sink, their laughter continued in contained snorts and guffaws. Mike whispered, “That or a shoe shine boy.” They washed their hands straining not to laugh.

Their friend stepped out of the lavatory stall, his knuckle tapping a nostril. He joined his co-workers at the basins for a hand wash. Thaddeus stood quietly with three separate towels draped over an arm. The tall one turned to take a towel when Thaddeus tapped a finger to his own nose. “Sir, you might want to check the mirror.”

Sure enough, white flecks of cocaine formed a ridge around his right nostril. Once more, he swiped a hand past the sink sensor it wetting it in the flow, and wiped away the tiny remnants of coke.

Still washing up, Paul spoke. “Craig, you got to stop that shit man, stick with ecstasy. Coke is laced with fentanyl these days.” Now speaking freely as if Thaddeus wasn’t even there.

Craig took a towel from Thaddeus while addressing his friend’s reflections in the mirror. “Everything’s laced with Fentanyl these days. Relax, I got myself a trusted source, so don’t worry. Now let’s go party.” Craig threw the towel on the counter and left. Paul followed suit.

Mike stopped and handed Thaddeus his used towel. He looked at the items on display. “Boy, gimme one of those condoms. How much?”

Thaddeus couldn’t remember the last time someone called him boy and kept all their teeth. He ignored the insult and forced a smile. “One dollar.”

Mike grabbed a foiled condom and reached for his wallet. “Just a buck? Well, I’m feeling lucky.” Placing the prophylactic inside his billfold, he removed a dollar. With a snarky grin he stepped back and let the buck fall to the floor. “There’s always someone you can fuck. Or fuck over.” He went through the door, melding into the techno beat pulsating in the bar beyond.

Thaddeus bent to pick up the dollar. A flash of pain caused his lower back to lock up. He didn’t think he could stand straight when a sound as loud as an elephant's trumpet blasted from behind the center stall bouncing off the walls with a short echo. It was a fart so loud Thaddeus forgot his pain shot up and stared warily at the water closet half expecting the door to blow off its hinges from a second volley. From behind the door, the portly man from earlier spoke out weakly. “Sorry, I guess the food here doesn’t agree with me.”

Thaddeus rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t agree with most people. Undercooked and overpriced, if you ask me.” Thaddeus placed his dollar in the tip jar and took a seat, relieving the pressure again off his lower back. “You do what you have to do, sir. I’ll be here to assist you when you finish.”

A few moments later there was a flush. Thaddeus could hear the man wrestling with his belt and trousers then the door swung open. The man, slightly less heavy, squeezed out and crossed to the sink to wash his hands. “Can you believe those little shits?”

Confused, Thaddeus replied, ”Sir?”

The man clarified his point. “Those three asswipes that just left here. Screwing over their fellow trader with that junk bond portfolio. Cocksuckers.” He stood from washing his hands and looked at Thaddeus with tired eyes. “The world doesn’t have to be dog eat dog, y’know.”

Thaddeus nodded. “No, sir. It doesn’t. On that we agree.” He handed the man a hand towel. "I guess it's just business."

"I guess." Drying his hands, the man got lost in thought seemingly speaking to himself. “Even I expected MegaWave to be the next Nvidia, but their security issues outweighed their potential. Unless they merge with a cyber security firm, I wouldn’t go near that stock if you paid me. That dude is getting screwed.” The man snapped out of his trance and handed Thaddeus the damp towel. “Uh, thanks.”

“Sure thing, Mister?...” He waited for a name.

“Bob Clark. Call me, Bob.” Bob reached into his pocket he pulled out a fiver and placed it in the tip jar. “Thank you.”

“Been a pleasure, Bob. You can call me Scat.” Thaddeus gave a grateful nod and held up a candy mint. “Mint?”

Bob answered with a scoff, “If it was a suppository, Scat, I’d say yes. Sorry, about the stink.”

Thaddeus reassured Bob that all was well. “It is what it is.”

Bob nodded, took the mint and left slightly more sober than when he arrived.

Thaddeus rocketed up from the chair thinking “Screw my back!” He spun on his foot and grabbed the bottle of Tom Ford Cologne and began misting the room 360 degrees. “Two hundred and fifty a bottle, and right now worth every cent.” He sniffed the air. “And I do mean scent!” Satisfied he dissipated the funk, he returned to his seat as the restroom door swung open again.

Thaddeus found himself staring at what he believed to the most attractive black woman he’s seen in a long time. Standing around six feet tall in leopard pumps, a matching skirt and a white silk blouse. Diamond stud earrings shone bright against ebony skin. Long black hair in a shag perm hung just below the shoulders.

The customer stopped dead in her tracks as if hitting an invisible wall. “Damn! Smells like porta-potty on Fire Island!” She was reacting to the smell Thaddeus had tried to cover up with multiple sprays of cologne to a point of overkill.

Thaddeus had barely sat down. “Miss, the ladies room is on the other side of the barroom.”

The dark amazon patted Thaddeus’s cheek. “Relax, Pops. The line at the ladies is jammed like the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour. I’ll take but a minute.” The deepness of the voice made Thaddeus blink. The lanky stranger walked past him with a stride of confidence and purpose, her heel steps echoing off the tile floor.

Stopping in front of the center urinal she spread her stance, hiked up her dress revealing a pair of red speedos. After some digital manipulation, she stood straight and began to relieve herself. Thaddeus heard the strong stream striking the porcelain basin. It slowly dawned on him he wasn’t looking at a woman at all. This was a first for Thaddeus. He leaned back against his chair trying to get his bearings and assess the situation. He thought this person is obviously trans.

The ”transexual” finished and returned everything on her person to its proper place. She smoothed out her dress on her way to the sink and stooped to wash her hands. She spoke to Thaddeus using the reflection. “And how are you this evening?”

Thaddeus stood, reaching for a towel. The deep sound of her voice inconguent with the visage in the mirror confusing him. “Fine … fine. Miss … mister …um …” He stuttered, for the first time momentarily at a loss for words.

Facing him, she smiled. “No formalities or pronouns here. Call me Mal.” She took the towel to dry her hands.

Thaddeus returned the smile. “Nice to meet you, Malcolm.” He had no idea why he called her that.

Malcolm startled. “Malcolm? How’d you know my name? Wait. My hands. Tell me my hands gave me away. They are rather big, yes? You must've figured out I’m a man.” Malcom held out a hand as if half expecting Thaddeus to kiss it. “The name’s Malcolm Crandall. It’s a pleasure to meet… you?” Malcolm waited for a handshake.

They shook hands. “Thaddeus. Thaddeus Coltraine. But people call me Scat.”

“Scat? So cute!” Mal turned back to the mirror to apply a lavender lipstick. “Scat, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. But what are you doing here? I mean how did you end up working in a place that smells worse than a New York Subway car in August.”

“It’s really not that bad.” He said.

“Oh, it is that bad. What makes it worse, is they make you dress like the plantation master’s butler and cow tow to the man like you’re some house Uncle Tom. Where’s your pride, man?”

Thaddeus saw no point in telling Malcolm about his military service. How he interrupted his time as a star athlete by dropping out of high school to serve his country. How he still had shrapnel in his lower back from a mortar that obliterated his jazz loving friend over fifty years ago. How ten years ago he finally got the PTSD that kept him from holding down a job under control to where noises like the thumping rhythms from the outside bar no longer set off panic attacks. Or how she, of all people, shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Thaddeus saw no point in going there. He thought for a moment then answered. “I pride myself in doing a good job. Treating everyone with equal respect… and minding my own business.”

Thaddeus sat back on his stool, folded his arms and straightened up. “I’ve got my pride.” As if on cue, the air from his inflatable donut leaked out like the motor of a Model T shutting down or a slow leak from a whoopee cushion.

They stared at each other in an awkward silence then Mal spoke up. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just saying you won’t catch me selling myself short or being beaten down by the man or have him define me or my limitations. They say they want diversity, I got no problem with that. Equity? Let me get my foot in the door, I’ll show you equity. Inclusion? I’ll put on a wig and wear a dress if it means getting included in the big-time money game."

Mal stood straight and gestured to her body. "Check it out, I made sure I hit all the right buttons for today’s hiring practices. A cross-dressing, African American, pan sexual.” Mal returned the lipstick to his purse. “Now look at me, overseeing what will soon be one of the most lucrative hedge fund portfolios on Wall Street.”

Thaddeus lost his smile for a moment trying to assess the situation. “I guess as a trans woman, you have a lot to be proud of.”

Malcom said, “Sweetheart, I am not trans. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as they say. Can't you see I am playing the system. And if I have to cheat to get ahead, so be it.”

Another moment of silence hung in the air. Malcolm sensed Thaddeus's disapproval. Malcom reached for a dollar in his purse. “You’re damn right I’m proud of myself. The only thing I can do is work the system until I’m rich enough to change it. Trust me, I will get there.”

Mal held up a folded dollar and snapped it open in front of Thaddeus’s face. “I’m going out and getting mine. I’m not sitting on my ass waiting for some hand out.” Malcolm pointed to the tip jar and dropped a dollar in. “Ta-ta, Scat. It was a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was mine.” He replied.

He waited until he could no longer hear the heels on tile when he too decided to break a rule. Thaddeus took out his iPhone and with frenzied thumbs scrolled until a website appeared. The initials CSI filled the top of the frame. Beneath the logo the words, Coltraine Securities Index. The next line of text indicated it was run by a large brokerage firm we cannot mention here. With a swipe, the frame showed graphs of stock market trading data. He brought up MegaWave on the exchange, MWE. He selected 100,000 shares and hit “BORROW.”

With that one finger tap Thaddeus Coltraine was in all practical purposes majority shareholder in the AI start up. He then swiped left and typed in Encryptex. It was a cyber security firm had had been eyeing for months. He selected 50,000 shares and selected “BUY.” Now he was majority shareholder in one of the most cutting edge up and coming encryption companies. His after-hours trading done, his plan come Monday would be to dump his MegaWave stock thus shorting it, then contact his brokerage firm to arrange a merger between MegaWave and Encryptex, shoring up both companies and creating an AI player up there with some of the best performing stocks in the world. An unprecedented financial move all done in the palm of his hand.

Over the past ten years Thaddeus Coltraine had become a very rich man mining gold from the most unlikely of mines in the world, a Wall Street restroom. (A place Thaddeus wouldn’t even subject a canary to.) There, he learned to keep his mouth shut and at least one ear open. He overheard everything from stock trends, inside trades, mergers and takeovers, scandals and secrets all leaked by drunken people taking leaks. With that information, Scat invested wisely and out foxed the wolves at every turn.

Looking at his phone Thaddeus knew how the chips would fall come Monday morning. He knew Malcolm at first would think his or her ship has finally come in. Later in the day, as the stock goes into free fall, she would look to unload it before bankruptcy set in. Thaddeus would then swoop in and purchase the stocks at an incredible discount. Malcolm would most likely lose her wig and his job. For Thaddeus it was nothing personal it was just business.

The restroom door sprung open. Thaddeus looked up from his phone as Bob Clark, the rotund man from earlier, burst through the door, his face reddened and panicked. “Sorry about this, Scat, I guess I should’ve said no to that extra pork slider.” Bob shuffled across the tile floor like he was trying to cross a patch of black ice. Choosing a new stall this time, he ripped the door open and settled in for the coming onslaught.

Thaddeus once again took out the VapoRub and reapplied it to his nostrils. He then unwrapped two mints, lodging one in each nostril. Looking at his phone and the trade he just made for one last time, he returned it to his vest with a smile. “No problem, Bob and thanks for the tip.”

The story that follows is a short depiction of moments in the life of my father, Raymond Joseph Riling Sr, self-authored in his 84th year. It does not begin to define the man, nor suggest the influence that he exerted upon the family and friends that he gathered and nurtured in the course of his life. Dad is content to recall the times of his youth, and to mostly consider those events that shaped his formation and helped to chart the course that he followed. Dad’s service in the Second World War is something for which he has been particularly proud, and a personal reference for his life accomplishments. There is nothing that Dad held more dearly than his American citizenship.

Ray Riling Jr.

September 2024

Youth

My brother and I were born on March 25th, 1924, to our mother Ada (whose maiden name was Wilkinson), at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Philadelphia. My mother died from peritonitis seventeen days after giving birth to us; she was twenty-one years old.

My brother Joseph and I were raised by two aunts: Lillian and Frances. We grew up at 1425 West Venango Street in a three-story brownstone row home. My grandmother Anna lived with us. We grew up in a great environment. My folks owned a summer home at 850 Stenton Place in Ocean City, New Jersey, where we spent our school vacation each year. Frances taught school, and Lily was mom to us. Growing up in a family with no father present required us to take over the male counterpart once we were teenagers. We did the heavy work; shovel coal for the furnace, take out the ashes. Grandmom had broken her hip and was living on the third floor, and it was our job to empty the commode, deliver her meals etc; anything that was asked for us to do we did with no fuss.

We went to St. Steven’s Catholic School through third grade; then, because Frances was a public school teacher, changed over to Kenderton Public School, two blocks away, at 1500 West Ontario Street. We graduated from there and went to Gillespie Junior high school for one year. Our grandmother had died, and at that time our parents sold both houses and we moved to Mount Airy, to a row home at 7029 Mower Street. As I remember, we were eleven years old. We attended Roosevelt Junior High on Washington Lane. I went there until eleventh grade, at which time I quit and got a job at Bendix Aviation.

I started out as a shop boy in the Precision grinding department, but between jobs I watched and learned how to run the various grinding machines. There were a number of types of machines in the shop; one was a Centerless Grinder, of which there was only one unit in the shop. I was very friendly with the guy that operated it and he showed me how to set it up and run it. He was running a special job making vanes that were part of air valves for Submarines. One night the guy didn't show up and they found that he had passed away, and no one knew how to how to run the machine. I told the Boss that I could, and he immediately promoted me from shop boy to Machine Operator. Six more units arrived at the shop, and I was promoted to Setup Man, plus I had to teach the new operators how to run them.

My brother had left school shortly after me and was working at Midvale Steel Company (a couple of blocks away from Bendix), making more money on the Repair gang there. War jobs were frozen at that time, so I had to say that I was going to enlist in the service to get released from Bendix. I lied, and got a job at Midvale in their grinding shop. While there, we finished ground rolls in pairs, and 16-inch naval cannons for the battleships; the tolerance was one ten-thousandths of an inch. The unit that we used was made by Mesta and was the biggest machine that I saw. One night, one of the operators didn’t properly grease the centers, and the cannon came out of the machine and rolled over him like he was a pancake. We also had rolls explode if the outer surface was ground too much. I figured I had a better chance of not getting killed in the Army, so I quit after two months and enlisted in the service.

I had just turned seventeen. My brother was drafted into the Navy, where he became the chief Radio Man on an LST [853]; he was in the invasion force at Okinawa. I served four years in the Army and was discharged in 1946. I had a lot of time coming to me on the G.I. Bill of Rights, so I went back to school. My brother also went back and finished his High School education. I went to the Radio Electronics Institute at 13th and Arch Streets. The first course was Basic Radio, and after that I took a course in advanced electronics. Television was in its infancy, so I took a course in that, and then a course in Color TV. At that time there were no sets on the market. At the same time, I got a job repairing Radios at a local record store that did radio repair. RCA just brought out their first TV [Model 630]. The other guy in the shop didn’t know anything about TV, so I talked the boss into taking in televisions for repair.

One day we got news that my Boss dropped dead. They closed the store, and I was out of work. I did both shop work and outside repair calls for twenty-five years with that company.

Army Life

On December 12th 1942, I enlisted in the Reserve Corp of the Army. I was only 17 years old and had to get my father’s permission to enlist. I had some Military training as I had spent six months in the Pennsylvania State Guards, training nights and weekends at the Armory at Broad and Callowhill, which was also known as the 103rd Engineers Armory.

I was sent to “Chamberlain Aircraft School”, located at Broad and Spring Garden Streets in Philadelphia, where I had training for Morse code. My cousin Barry Fisher was a ham radio operator and made me familiar with the code because I would use his set to listen to Ship to Shore Stations.

I was then inducted into active service and sent to Fort Meade, MD. The first night there I pulled KP duty. I never saw such a large Mixmaster in my life; you had to put eggs in by the crate. Every hour a new group of personnel would show up to eat.

After being there for about a week, I shipped out to Camp Crowder, MO, for eight weeks of basic training. The training included the usual combat stuff; rifle range, crawling under barb wire (while they fired live ammo overhead), pole climbing, wire laying, obstacle course, etc. The Drill instructors also would surprise us with mock gas attacks (Tear Gas) while marching from one location to another.

There was one guy in our squad that no one cared for, a real F_ _ K UP who would constantly get the squad in trouble that would lead to our weekend pass to town being pulled. The way the Army gas mask worked was by a very flexible rubber “flutter valve” that allowed you to expel breathed air which was obtained from a filter canister through a hose to the mask, but stopped one from inhaling outside air. This gave the guys (I’m not confessing) the perfect answer to retaliate for all the “lost weekends”. We had two options; one was to stuff a sock down the hose therefore blocking safe air altogether or removing the “flutter valve” completely. In the service you “always want to have a backup so we chose both”. The next gas attack proved the most interesting and satisfying one that the squad had ever witnessed. The Platoon Sergeant hit the gas alarm and everyone put on their masks. The guy got three days of KP for trying to remove his mask to get air. Needless to say we never lost a weekend pass again.

At completion of this training, I was assigned to attend Radio School, which was the general training in code (15wpm) and procedure, upon which time you would be assigned to a unit as a field radio operator in the Infantry or some other branch of the service. My grading with the course lead to me to assigned to High Speed School (25wpm), which generally leads to an assignment in a higher echelon station. I finished HSS and was ready to ship out, when I was approached by the Captain with the news that I was to be assigned to Radio Intelligence School.

At this school I was taught the same procedures as if I were a German Radio Operator, and had to show that I could copy German code at 35 wpm to qualify. The course lasted about eight weeks and I breezed through it. I was then sent to “Camp Miles Standish” near Boston, which was the port of embarkation and boarded the British Cruise ship the “Mauritania” that was the sister ship of the “Queen Mary”, which had been converted into a troop ship.

We sailed escorted by a Navy Destroyer and a Navy Blimp for about two hours then our escorts left and we were on our own. The ship did a zigzag course for the next six days as she was very fast and could outrun enemy submarines. About the night of the third day, a submarine was detected and the engines were stopped and we sat silently there for the rest of the night with all water-tight doors closed, ready for the worst. Every day on the trip the British Gun crews would have target practice. The ship was armed with four Twin Bofors cannons, two multi- tube rocket launchers and at the stern a five-inch cannon. They would launch a parachute target from one of the rocket tubes and fire at it. I never saw them hit any, which was very reassuring.

On the sixth day we arrived at the Port of Liverpool, England and disembarked. From there I was sent to a replacement depot called “Fresbie Farm”. The next day I was on a train headed for East Bourne on the coast to join my outfit that originally formed in Texas, the “129th Signal Radio Intelligence Co”. Our company originally was designated the 114th, but I had wondered why it was changed to the 129th. I was not sure if another outfit had been formed using that designation, but later found out it had been assigned to the 3rd Army. As the train pulled into the station, which was the end of the line, and I opened the door I heard this putt-putt sound and looked up to see my first V1 “Buzz Bomb” being chased by a Spitfire with machine guns blazing. He did the job as the bomb was hit and exploded. The British sailor that I had been with in the railroad car told me that I would see plenty of them and he was right. They were designed to run out of fuel about the time they were over London. The British had made up their minds that this would never happen; sorry to say it did very often.

I reported into Headquarters which was located in a Boys Military Academy, and was told to go to one of the cottages. Each billet housed a squad of eight men and I met my new buddies and was issued a Thompson sub-machine gun as my weapon. I went down to the Channel, which was only a couple blocks away to take a look. It reminded me of being at the beach at Ocean City, NJ, except the whole beach was nothing but barbed wire and tank obstacles placed there to ward off German invasion troops. The British has also placed a pipeline under water along the coast so they could pump fuel oil into the water and ignite it setting the surf on fire. Right\off the coast the British had “Flak Barges” that were armed with anti-aircraft guns. V1s (Buzz Bombs) came over constantly, and some were destroyed, but many hit the London area. Some would run out of fuel early, and as long as you could hear the putt-putt sound you knew you were ok.

One day I was getting ready to leave the house when I heard one overhead, then the silence. I dove under a big heavy oak table that was nearby just before it hit. The ceiling fell down on top of me, but the table saved me. Unfortunately the British searchlight crew of six got hit directly and were all killed. The crew was made up of “Wrens” the Brits name for the Army “Wacs”, so war has no gender.

Always being a souvenir hunter I went out to the tree in front of the house and picked out chunks of shrapnel to send home to my Dad. Nighttime was Air Raid time. The Germans would come over nearly every night. I used to go out on the roof of the headquarters and watch the planes come over, headed for London. It was like the 4th of July, with searchlights and tracer bullets, and now and then a plane would go down in flames.

In the daytime, raids were fewer, but I would see B-17’s on their bombing runs or coming home, some ditching in the channel, others with part of the plane missing. The British Spitfire and Hurricane Fighter pilots were unbelievable. I actually saw one Hurricane pilot catch up to a Buzz Bomb, get his wing under the bomb and flip it so the gyro sent it back over the channel.

Then came an even more terrifying weapon the “V2” rocket. This weapon gave no warning before hitting its target and its destruction was even greater. When one hit it made a thirty-foot deep crater. This was a much more accurate missile, and they really rained terror on the civilian population. Again, the good Lord was looking after me: I had been on a two day leave in London and had just left “Charring Cross Station” and was about two blocks away, when a “V2” hit, causing great devastation and death. I can’t begin to tell you how courageous the British people were during the Battle of Britain”. They had a 9/11 every day.

I was stationed at Eastbourne for about a month before D-day. Our outfit was made combat ready and went by convoy to the port of Plymouth, and there we boarded an old Victory ship for the Channel crossing to France. It was a rough crossing and most of the guys got seasick. Our ship stopped off the beach and we were transferred by cargo net over the side into a Higgins boat which took us onto Omaha beach. The beachhead already had been taken by units of the 29th and 1st infantry divisions. The Germans had put up a heavy resistance, and the Infantry really had a tough time fighting as the land was made up divisions called Hedgerows, but finally the Germans were on the run. We stopped on the outskirts of Paris at a small farming town called " La Ferté-sous-Jouarre”, where I went to one small house and presented the billeting paper I had been given and was granted permission to stay there. The family consisted of the Mom and Pop, a young daughter and young son, and a little lamb that was the kids’ pet. They showed me my room, which was small but had a large goose-down bed in it, and needless to say I had a good night’s sleep. The next day I was told it was the little girl’s birthday, so I went out and shot a large rabbit for dinner. I have to confess that I also stole from the mess tent a gallon size can of carrots. That night we really had a feast, and the old man brought out a bottle of his homemade booze. I must mention that (as I had provided the meal) they gave me the choicest part (in their mind): the Rabbits HEAD.

The next day we were back online. Our outfit went through towns such as Empery-Chateau Thierry-and other WW1 battlefield locations. We entered Germany at Saarbrucken and went thru the Dragon’s Teeth fortification of the Siegfried line. I had taken the grips off my .45 auto pistol, which I carried for four years and still have today, and pasted papers inside them to keep track of the various towns we entered but unfortunately they got lost after the war. Some of the towns - Saarbrucken; Bitche; Manheim; Worms; Strassberg; Colmar; Luniville; Saverne; Nancy; Saarburg; Bensheim; Fulda; and Kaiserlauters, I can remember. Our Company was awarded a unit citation (we called it the toilet seat). The French gave us an award also. We were in the 6th Army Group, commanded by General Divers, consisting of the American 7th Army (13 Steps to Hell, as it was known) commanded by General Patch, and for a short period with the 1st French commanded by General de Tassigny. The last Division we operated with was the 3rd (Rock of the Marne) and, incidentally Audie Murphy’s unit and also my father’s in WWI. He was in Company F, 4th Infantry and was a 2nd Lieutenant. I still have the sidearm he carried in the war. Our outfit swung south down the autobahn past Munich, whose center strip was painted to look like it was divided from the air. We encountered Germans planes and destroyed them with machine gun fire from our ring mounted .50’s.

My Army organization number was 738, which translates to (Radio Intercept German). Our company was comprised of about 250 men, consisting of Intercept Operators 3-Direction finding units (portable and mobile). We had about 47 vehicles: 21 1/2 ton GMC trucks, a ¾ ton weapon carrier, jeeps, a decipher team, and a mobile transmitting station (SCR299) that contained a 500 watt transmitter used for long distance communication, plus teletype equipment. Our outfit was mobile so we were able to be assigned to any division or group that needed us. We also had a team that spoke German fluently, so we could copy Handy-Talky intercept. Our job was to locate, identify and determine the next move of the enemy.

We had what was known as the “Q Book”, which contained information: outfit, number of men, armament - the works. These messages were encoded in the German field code known as HST. The German operator would set his encoding machine (“Enigma”, developed incidentally as a commercial cipher machine in the early 1920’s then adopted by the Germans and modified for military use) each day with a three letter setup. The machine looked like a typewriter. When the operator pressed a key it sent an electrical signal from the keyboard to a set of rotors and plug board that lit up a code alphabet. These rotors were changed at least once a day plus the plugs were rearranged. In order for the receiving station to read the coded message the other operator had to know the exact placement of the rotors plus the three letter setting code that told him how to reset the rotors and the plug board.

The first three letters of the message therefore contained the machine setting. For example, a sequence entered on only one of the keys would repeat itself only after 17,000 entries. By changing the starting position of the keys and further complicated by a built-in 26 socket electric plug board, up to 159 million starting positions were possible. The coded messages were then transmitted in five letter code groups. Our allies the Poles and Brits had broken the German code early in the war and we also had captured a German “Enigma” machine. The last code to be broken and the toughest was the Naval code as they used up to five rotors on their machines. One was finally grabbed off a sinking German submarine by a boarding crew from a British destroyer.

Once the enemy broke radio silence their goose was cooked. We tri-angulated their signal, and if they were to our immediate front we either captured or killed them with ground troops or called in air support and knocked them out. German transmitters had a very distinct clean sound, and Americans were very chirpy, and after a bit you could even recognize the German operator by the way he keyed his transmitter. We were taught to send with what was called a “Mechanical Fist” to avoid this. At one point one of the outfits similar to ours had been captured and the Germans changed their code, and for a number of months our intelligence was nil until we broke the new code.

The Polish (before their country’s invasion by Germans) and British were the real Code Breakers, and they are the ones that deserve most of the credit. It was their work done at Bletchley Park, their headquarters in England (about 50 miles north of London) code-named “Ultra”, where Postal Engineers developed a decoding machine that would read paper tapes at excess of five thousand letters per second. They called the unit “Colossus” (used to crack the Lorenz Cipher) because of its large size. The computing power of the machine could now be put into a microprocessor the size of your thumb today. Actually, it was the first programmable computer.

Our notable intercepts: One was when we were in the woods just outside of the town of Saverne. The Germans had a large Railway gun that had been bombarding the town fiercely. The Germans made the mistake of sending a message that was intercepted by us. The gun position was located, and was destroyed by British bombers that we called in. The other instance didn’t have such a happy ending as we followed the armored buildup for nearly a month in the Ardennes and reported it to a higher headquarters. They claimed the Germans were simply playing transcriptions of tank movements and didn’t act on it. The result was the “Battle of the Bulge”, and a lot of dead GI’s would still be alive had they listened to us.

I passed through the town of Baden-Baden in Bavaria, where my Great-Grandfather was born. I was in Austria when news came of the passing of our Commander-in-Chief (FDR). It was really a morale buster, as just about then the War was over. We had reached the Brenner Pass in Italy.

Then the war was over, and VE Day had arrived. The company was sent north to a town just outside of Kassel, Germany. Our job was finished. We had about fifty men left in the company for various reasons, plus some German prisoners that did all the work. I had been promoted twice and was put in charge of the Motor Pool. So my time was spent riding around in a jeep and hunting with my buddy at Herman Goering’s private estate, which encompassed quite a few hundred acres of ground and provided the company with fresh meat and a lot of fun for us. My buddy and I shot Rey (a small deer much like a chamois), Hirsch (similar to our Elk) and Wild Boar. He was crack shot and used a captured Mousers 98K to hunt with, while I used an MI Garand. We would always drop off some game when returning from a hunt at this small farming town that had a center square with a watering hole in the center for their oxen to drink. The people would wait for us, ready to divide the meat amongst the townspeople. Thank God when VE Day arrived.

I organized a dance band (I played trumpet), and used to play Bob Hope shows and various dances at different outfits: it was a bum’s life. We played one job at an officer club and the tenor sax guy in the band swiped five bottles of American Whiskey, put them in his Sax case, and started to walk across the dance hall floor. It didn’t go too well for him needless to say. My Buddy and I took a trip to visit Hitler’s summer retreat the Berghof where I stood on the same ground where that maniac stood. We also took pictures looking out the large picture windows that are always shown in a newsreel or movie. The house itself had been heavily bombed, so it was just a shell. A couple of months later, replacements came into the company as members of the Army of Occupation. I had plenty of points to come home so I figured it was time to go. I was asked to stay as a sergeant if I re-enlisted for another hitch, but I had had enough and besides, my mother was home and waiting. I knew my brother was back home from the Navy and was with her or I wouldn’t have stayed as long overseas. My hunting buddy did stay in the service, and our Company became part of the National Security Agency. He stayed in the service for 35 years before retiring. I still hear from him today.

One experience that I would like to tell about. When the Company was at rest in the German town of Bensheim, I got to know an old man by talking to him a number of times while I was on Guard duty. He was a Butcher, and he invited me to dinner a couple of times, even with the scarcity of food they had. His son was a German soldier and had been killed in action. He told me that I reminded him of his son. Then our company was sent back online, but I never forget how kind he was to me.

On Christmas Eve the war was over. It was snowing, and I went to the supply tent and grabbed a 10-in-one ration box (containing 3 meals for 10 men). The Army issued three types of meals: K ration, which were individual one meal packs that contained a small can about the size of a can of tuna fish, a small pack of drink or bouillon powder, four cigarettes and a piece of hard candy and some hardtack known as K-1 biscuit (this was the usual ration issued on the line and we were issued three a day). The “C” ration was in a can similar to a can of beans that you could either eat cold or put in hot water to heat. Then came the10-in-1, and then finally a hot meal supplied from a cook tent when you weren’t on the move. I jumped in my jeep and drove about forty miles to Blenheim and presented the Family with “Christmas Dinner”. We really had a party: he had his son’s accordion, and I played a bunch of German traditional songs and some of the popular American dance music.

I will never forget that old man. He must have been about eighty years old.

Another time I had driven a 2 1/2 ton truck to Paris to pick up some motors for our weapon carriers. I had taken a bunch of clothing that I talked the supply Sergeant out of (he wanted to trade for a trip ticket for a jeep that could only be issued by me so he could visit his girl in the next town). I swapped the duds for cases of Wine and Champaign. The weather was horrible; cold as a bitch, and snowing so bad you could hardly see the road. My gas was really running very low when I spotted a sign that pointed to an armored outfit, so I drove there figuring if anybody had gas, they would. They were giving a party for a guy who had just been awarded the Medal of Honor, a little short guy that you would never take to be a hero, proof that what you see may not be what you get. I gassed up and started back down the road and I spotted a woman with a baby struggling her way in the storm. I stopped the truck and talked to her with the sparse German I knew and she told me she was going home to a town that was a bit out of our way. My buddy and I helped her in the truck and took her to the town and dropped her off.

The day finally arrived in 1946 when it was time to bid goodbye to Europe. I left for home from the Port of Cherbourg in France aboard the troop ship General Brooks along with hundreds of other guys retuning home. As I remember, the trip took seven days and I can still picture passing the “Grand Old Lady” in New York harbor. I could hardly believe it, but there waving to me from the dock, was my father. What a nice meeting after four years. Pop had a way of getting where others couldn’t go, as he had a Government Pass because he was employed at that time by the Army Signal Corp. I got permission to visit with him for a bit, then took a bus to Fort Dix, NJ, where I was mustered out and took a bus back to Philly and a taxi home. I gave my Mom a big hug and kiss and took off my uniform for the last time.

P.S.- I am not sure as to the spelling of the towns, nor will you find anything in the above about the devastation and gory parts (the German atrocities at Dachau that to this day give me flash-backs, yet some deny they ever happened). I can tell you that if it wasn’t for the 129th SRI Company and similar outfits (eight in the European Theater) and the guys in them that made the sacrifice, the American body count at the end of the war would have been much greater. I salute all those that served, including my sons Ray and Richard, his son Dennis, and my brother Joe. Our family spans three wars, Theatres and services. God Bless America and the Polish and British, for their skills in Code Breaking.

RAY RILING

UNITED STATES ARMY

13179267

by

William Riling

Reedsy Prompt: Write a story named after, and inspired by, one of

Shakespeare’s plays. Think modern retellings, Meta-narratives, subversions, etc.

Newsflash – June 16th, 2024, Dateline: Verona, Wisconsin—

16-year-old Romeo Montague and 14-year-old Juliet Capulet were found dead today in the parking lot of Verona High School, the result of an apparent suicide pact. Texts of their final moments were found on the star-crossed lover’s iPhones but not released to the public. Funeral services are pending. In lieu of flowers the families are asking donations to be made to Suicide Prevention Hotline of Verona.

----------------------------------------------------------------

(Transcript from Juliet Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: FTT?

Juliet: No. PAW.

Romeo: IDC. Your parents don’t scare me.

Juliet: FYI My dad would see me unalive if he knew we were texting.

Romeo: PLS?

Juliet: W8. BBIAS.

Romeo: Don’t be long.

Juliet: Dad’s GFN. WAG1?

Romeo: Just want to say URA QTPI.

Juliet: U think URA rizzler? AI.

Romeo: BLATES. JSYK, UR Verona High’s hottest cheerleader.

Juliet: LOL! YGTR.

Romeo: I wanted to ask U to the prom BAE.

Juliet: SRSLY?

Romeo: For reals.

Juliet: ICYMI, URA Montague.

Romeo: IK. N URA Capulet.

Juliet: I guess a rose by any other name would still smell, but not like Axe Body Wash.

Romeo: ROFL! Now, that’s DISS.

Juliet: LOL.

Romeo: I dunno why our parents hate each other so much.

Juliet: URZ are MAGA.

Romeo: So, URZ are WOKE.

Juliet: Totally PEAK.

Romeo: ADIH. SUX.

Juliet: Hell? YGTR.

Romeo: So YAV?

Juliet: SRY, not available. Paris already asked me 2 prom.

Romeo: WTF? NO CAP? Paris? He’s like totally G.

Juliet: My parents insist. They see it as a LTR.

Romeo: IDGAF. UR going with me. ILY. I’m climbing up your balcony to get you.

Juliet: LMAO. UR Kray-Kray!

Romeo: SRSBSNS. I’m looking at you now, “WTF's that bright light in that window? OMG! It’s Juliet, like the sun, making the moon jealous 'cause she’s way more lit."

Juliet: ROFL! Now UR just SIMPING.

Romeo: HELLA. ILY.

Juliet: OMG! I don’t believe it.

Romeo: FR.

Juliet: Not U! Paris just sent me a SC.

Romeo: Snap Chat?

Juliet: FR! A dic-pic!

Romeo: SOB! DO U mean (Cucumber emoji)? (IYKYK.)

Juliet: IK! DAFUQ. That’s total DISS.

Romeo: I’m going to kick his A.

Juliet: Not B4 me! W8 until I tell Tybalt!

Romeo: GMAB. I don’t need UR cousin’s help.

Juliet: EZ. He wants to kick UR ass 2.

Romeo: Let him try. I got SWAG to take them both on.

Juliette: PROLLY. I'm you're number 1 STAN.

Romeo: It HITS DIFFERENT when it comes 2 U.

Juliet: IK. I'm you're GF. LET THEM COOK. U N Me R going to prom.

Romeo: KEWL! UR FIRE!

Juliet: N UR the GOAT.

Romeo: I’m going to score some Molly from Mercutio for the after party. YOLO!

Juliet: UR just hoping we be FWB. Remember, UR the LOML(Heart emoji)! MWAH!(Kiss emoji)

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(Transcript from Romeo Montague’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: Mercutio, trying 2 get X or MOLLY ASAP. 4 prom.

Mercutio: I heard the stuff Tybalt has is SUS. Let me check with Benvolio.

Romeo: LMK. I’m FINNA look around.

Mercutio: Benvolio’s got X or GHB if U want 2 make a night of it.

Romeo: NLT. X.

Mercutio: JK. Go EZ on the stuff, OK?

Romeo: BLATES! Let’s M.I.R.L. at the SKL parking lot. THX, TTYL.

Mercutio: YW, OMW.

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(Transcript from Juliette Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Juliette: RRWFATR?

Romeo: OMW. ETA 7pm.

Juliette: Wait until U see the dress Nurse made me. EPIC!

Romeo: CW 2 CU in it, CW 2 CU out of it 2!

Juliette: SMH. U expecting SEGGS? DYOR.

Romeo: U R my dream.

Juliette: N UR my BFF.

Romeo: OK, GF. CUINAMIN.

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(Transcript from Romeo Montague’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: Mercutio, ANSWR UR phone! WTFRU?

Mercutio: WAZZUP?

Romeo: WTFU give me, man!? U said it was MOLLY! Juliette took 2! She ain’t breathing, man!

Mercutio: FU! I didn’t do nothing, GYAT! Benvolio sold me ’em!

Romeo: A curse on both your houses!

Mercutio: IDK! Maybe they’re laced with Fentanyl! Get her to the hospital man, STAT!

Romeo: I can’t hear her heartbeat. I can only hear mine and it’s breaking.

Mercutio: Dude, get ahold of URSELF. Call 911!

Romeo: It’s too late she’s dead! I can’t go on living without her.

Mercutio: DBS. Think!

Romeo: 2L8. I washed the rest of the pills down with a 20 OZ. Yeungling. Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss I die. CYA.

Mercutio: W8 a SEC. Delete these messages first! Romeo?

Mercutio: Romeo?

Mercutio: Romeo?

Mercutio: FML.

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(Transcript from Juliette Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Juliette: OMG! Nurse!

Nurse: What’s wrong Juliette?

Juliette: I must’ve been asleep. I woke up in Romeo’s car to find he OD’d.

Nurse: Are you sure he’s dead? What do you see?

Juliette: What's here? A pill bottle, closed in my true love's hand. An empty can of Yeungling.

Nurse: Call 911.

Juliette: It’s too late for that. He's gone. FML. I found a garden hose in his trunk. O happy tailpipe! This is thy hose; there is exhaust and let me die.

Nurse: Juliette! Stop! You have everything to live for! Don’t do this!

Juliette: I already told Romeo my bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. GTG.

Nurse: Juliette! No!

Juliette: Me…thinks… me feeling very drowsy indeed.

Nurse: I’m calling 911! Juliette!

Nurse: Juliette, answer me!

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(Transcript from Nurse's iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Nurse: Tybalt, I have terrible news.

Tybalt: I heard. I just left the Capulets, and I am on my way over to inform the Montagues.

Nurse: They were so young.

Tybalt: IK. I shouldn't have been so hard on the kid.

Nurse: Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault.

Tybalt: OK. THX. TTYL.

Nurse: It's just a tragedy, for never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

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by

Wilkinson Riling

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes braking on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a dribbled basketball pounding on wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop. All the while surrounded by a cacophony of whistles and whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium just outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey banner, number thirty-three, hung from the very rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin White had dreams of living to see his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but of something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. The rivalry between the two teams went back years and many passions stirred. The gym was packed to spill over with fans from both schools. In the stands things got heated as the game clock wound down on a tight score. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a rowdy bunch of Chester supporters who had no affiliation to either school. In the melee, one of the fans, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band. How he got past the metal detectors was a question for later; no acceptable answer was ever given.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls and being trampled than from gun fire. Still, three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A middle-aged woman near the top of the bleachers on the far side of the gym was struck in the arm. On the floor, a referee caught a slug in his hip. Only by the grace of God, it was said, no one died. Yet, what were the odds that in the middle of a possible game winning lay-up, the final round fired from the .45 caliber weapon would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay wounded beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey trying to stop the blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. For his part, Kelvin felt no pain. His face lay sideways on the parquet floor with Kelvin paralyzed, trying to look back at what was happening behind him, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single jersey banner hanging from the rafter above. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months had passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting as it was called in the media. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, found himself a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to an incredibly successful GoFundMe page they were able to remodel the house for handicapped access with an access ramp, safety bars in the bathroom and throughout, plus a pulley system to assist in transferring from bed to wheelchair. The living room was now converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The wheelchair, too, was purchased from the donated funds. That’s not to say maneuvering within the home was easy. The two-story structure was narrow as was its entrance. That fact made it easier for Kelvin to brace himself and keep his wheelchair from moving forward as his Uncle Nate futilely pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after his sister Rhonda, Kelvin’s mother, was incarcerated for larceny. She had written bad checks on her employer’s account to the tune of a five-figure amount. She was sentenced to five years at a Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. That happened two years before the tragedy. Part of Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. Kelvin never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role, but a more dedicated uncle and brother you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded him.

“You mean they’re pitying me.” Kelvin shot back. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity! And you need their charity! We’re barely staying afloat now with all the medical bills and lawyer fees!” Nate pulled Kelvin back into the house and spoke into his ear. “How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary alone won’t cut this. We need that GoFundMe money to provide you with care until the lawsuit is final. Now I’ll clean your ass everyday until hell freezes over without bitching. The least you can do is help see we both don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway lowering his head with a sigh.

N offered a simple, “Thank you.” He pushed Kelvin out toward the awaiting van and chair lift.

The crowd at the gymnasium couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Kelvin and Nate entered from a side door. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from the speakers. Applause rolled like a wave through the gym as people recognized Kelvin. Reporters from three local channels with camera crews were present. Nate had already vetoed any interviews. Principal Harold Stark guided the pair to center court where two dozen folding chairs set on a black carpet were aligned in rows. They contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers from last season. A rectangular black drape about three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video they were to show of Kelvin’s basketball play had been nixed at the last minute and replaced with a sole high school photo, Kelvin, waist up with an ear-to-ear grin wearing his letterman jacket.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium to speak on the occasion. He spoke of meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows Catholic Grade School where Kelvin was a star athlete in several sports and about how he was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother explained that she named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin scale because of his inner fire—his ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to whatever he does. The coach spent the next several minutes highlighting Kelvin’s statistical accomplishments, ending with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number here at Lower Merion to be retired, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

With that, the black drape was pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers “sixty-four” five feet high and crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ set up by the bleachers played Boys to Men’s slow torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey, followed by a spotlight, ascend like a ghost. Tears began to fill his eyes. His teammate, assistant captain Earnest Stitt, could see the vibe was all wrong. He jumped from his chair toward the DJ, accidentally tilting the folding chair which smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin’s head shook at the sudden noise. Stitt admonished the DJ. The song quickly changed to “Motown Philly” and the crowd began to applaud as Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe Bryant’s jersey banner. Still startled by the noise, Kelvin’s mind was somewhere else, he reached over to Nate. “Take me home.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face with a hand to his brow. “Get me out of here. Take me home, now. Don’t you ever bring me back here.” For Kelvin it was a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion.

Nate could see Kelvin’s urine bag on the side of the wheelchair beginning to fill. He leapt up, pulled a 360 with Kelvin’s chair while at the same time apologizing to Principal Stark and Coach Devers for their hasty exit. The crowd watched in confusion wondering if the ceremony was over. Nate and Kelvin made for the exit. The gym doors closed behind them to a smattering of perplexed applause.

Another three months had passed. Nate, when not at work, had a neighbor check in on Kelvin. He was concerned Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe and spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, which is how his days were beginning to feel. But the house was beginning to smell like a nursing home, and Nate was going to change that on this Saturday.

“Wake up, your going out today.” His uncle opened the living room blinds letting the sun in for the first time in months.

Kelvin shielded his eyes with both arms. “I ain’t going nowhere. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“Either you’re going outside, or the TV is going out in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. You don’t want to test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms to see his uncle’s angry face. Kelvin shook his head in surrender.

An hour and a half later Uncle Nate pulled the van into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. After parking, he lowered Kelvin and his wheelchair down on the lift. They entered the park and stopped. “Now what?” Kelvin grumbled.

“Now you can get yourself some exercise. I’m gonna go play some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age were rolling colored balls across the grass in a game of bocce. Kelvin watched the group greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice came from behind Kelvin. It sounded like Morgan Freeman had just eaten a stick of butter; it was deep and smooth and gentle. Kelvin spun around in his wheelchair. A black man, in his seventies, thin and lanky wearing a fedora was sitting on a green checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Kelvin saw several other stone blocks with men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His large hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

Kelvin retorted. “I never played chess before. Make it checkers and I’ll whip your skinny ass.”

“I can teach you in no time.” The man replied with confidence.

Kelvin turned and wheeled over; the man removed a chair to make space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“White. Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with the white pieces then, shall we? White gets first move.” He turned the board placing the white pieces in front of Kelvin. “Now the first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard. Thirty-two light, Thirty-two dark.”

“Sixty-four?”

“Yes, why do you have a problem with that?” Sam asked.

Kelvin thought it odd it matched his jersey number. “No.”

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal is to capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin pointed to the chess pieces. “Just tell me how these things move, Grady.”

Sam leaned back. “Grady? Who’s Grady?”

The man reminded Kelvin of the character in Sanford and Son. “I meant, Sam. Now show me.”

In under an hour, Kelvin had learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to put a smile on his face when he moved a bishop into place and firmly said, “Check.”

Sam looked at the board, indeed he was in check, and he was in trouble. His hand went to his chin as he surveyed the battle field.

Kelvin pushed. “C’mon, move.”

Sam lowered his hand to his king holding a finger on it deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Sam took his finger off the king and pinched his black knight. He lifted it and toppled Kelvin’s white bishop. He took the piece. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm Kelvin cleared the table scattering the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

Sam pointed to his own head. “You didn’t lose this. I can see you lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity, Grady.”

“But if you lost this.” Sam pointed to his own heart. “That’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, what do you say? Rematch?”

Kelvin tilted his head with a look of disdain. “Fine.”

Sam stood up. “Okay, then. You sit there, leave me to pick up the pieces.”

Two hours later, Nate approached a small crowd gathered around his nephew who was talking with a stranger and playing chess. Behind the spectators Nate peeked over a shoulder just in time to see Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of surprised approval ricocheted within the group; money exchanged hands.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked Nate.

“My nephew.” He extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleased to meet you. I guess you can call me Grady.” He looked at Kelvin. “That was the bet, wasn’t it? You get to call me Grady if you win?”

Kelvin smiled and nodded. Nate double blinked. He hadn’t seen a smile on Kelvin in about a year.

“Nate, your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could achieve an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate cut his sentence short letting it drift into the ether. But it was too late, it still made Kelvin wince. Wishing he could take it back; Nate cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam began to pack his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after a Hungarian physics professor Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo would qualify Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club one of the most prestigious in the country. This could open him up to timed tournament play and monetary awards.” On that he folded the board and stood and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed up. “Thanks, Mr. Simutowe, but I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home now.”

Their familiar silence followed them on the way to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“It’s okay, Unk. I’m just tired. Let’s come back tomorrow and hear more of what Sam has to say. At best, it’ll give me something to do.”

In the coming weeks, Sam helped Kelvin prepare to qualify for acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club. It required him to win club sanctioned tournaments. This included local, regional, national and invitational tourneys with an added wrinkle of needing to learn how to play timed games and how to manage the clock. Kelvin would be pitted against opponents the with highest Elo ratings in order to advance his rank quickly to gain acceptance into the prestigious club.

For the next nine months Kelvin played in seven local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, against a total of thirty-five high ranking players each with an Elo above 1900 resulting in Kelvin achieving an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking was still good enough to rate him a Class A player and procure a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam loaded into the van to make the hour-long ride to the beach side resort. Their first stop was the tournament pairings board. The pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. At the board Sam ran a finger down the list then groaned. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who is he?”

“Just a chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Fine. Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin smiled but got no reaction from Sam, who understood just how badly the odds were stacked against Kelvin.

Kelvin took his place at the tournament table awaiting his opponent. Heads turned as a man entered the room and crossed the playing floor toward Kelvin. Sinclair Beaumont was a balding thirty-year-old, tall and thin with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him following a noxious scent. He seemed to walk on his heels while his arms had little sway to them. He sat down across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent was old money Philadelphian as if Katherine Hepburn’s voice were male. Without looking at him, he addressed Kelvin. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out to greet him that was ignored with a wave from Sinclair who had one eyebrow raised in disgust. “Yes, let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman, but let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur, and son of a felon, like you, has of joining our prestigious club.”

"Well, fuck you too." Kelvin thought in silence.

Sinclair gestured to the official holding the lots that determine who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin reached into the box and pulled out a black chess piece.

Sinclair removed the white. “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game was a best of five timed match with each player under a clock and their color designation selected after each game. They were at a main table and drew a small crowd around them. Kelvin lost the first match in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. They drew for color again and once more Kelvin selected black. Game two was longer if not closer. Kelvin lasted for a time even after losing his queen. But the clock added a pressure he wasn’t used to. He was now down two games to nothing and was looking like their trip would soon come to an end. In the back of the room a gust of ocean wind pushed open a door slamming it against the wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again in his mind. Kelvin froze, now mentally paralyzed in fear.

Sinclair Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to resign? A forfeit at this stage is quite understandable.”

Kelvin could only mouth the question. “What?”

Nate could see Kelvin's urine bag filling. He leaned down, “You okay, Kelvin? You want me to take you home?”

Sam leaned down on the other side. “It’s okay, son. There’s no shame in a withdrawal at this point. It happens all the time.”

Kelvin gathered himself, steadied his breathing. He turned to Sam, "Grady, I got this."

He reached over to the lot box. For a third time Kelvin randomly selected the black chess pieces. This gave the advantage of first move, once again, to Beaumont.

The next two games, Kelvin, playing black and despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out both wins, stunning Beaumont and changing the momentum. Sinclair Beaumont turned to the arbiter and requested a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

When Sinclair returned Kelvin noticed white flecks of powder in the corner of his flared avian nostril. The next several games were played with Sinclair making his moves in rapid succession while Kelvin tried to slow the clock to control the pace, much like he had done when playing basketball. Each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. Both players were beginning to tire the frustration of tie after tie affecting them both.

After a third stalemate and before the next lot draw Sinclair spoke ominously. “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained to Kelvin what it was. “In an Armageddon Game the “white” player or player with the white pieces, has the privilege of a full extra minute of time to make his move. In return, should the game end in yet another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted the terms. He drew the white chess piece. Sinclair smiled still confident, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont was expecting Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to him to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. Kelvin’s moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Sinclair Beaumont who was stumbling trying to keep pace and control his clock at the same time.

Kelvin hadn’t needed the extra time, he attacked with a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. Only the queen wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed. The play matched one of the most beautiful and daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Adolf Anderssen playing against Lionel Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen to deliver a decisive checkmate a few moves later. Which is just what Kelvin did.

Two moves later Kelvin stated, “Checkmate. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Backed by a confident smile.

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table and stood. “Send in your application I’ll get to it when I get to it.” His chair scraped the floor as he turned in a huff and left.

Kelvin smiled at Sam. “Grady, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The ride home took forty-five minutes and was filled with tales of the day’s events and laughter. They dropped Sam off at the park. Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, I want you to have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam refused at first until he told Sam it be easier if he brought it to the park to show off. He could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam agreed and thanked Kelvin.

Nate and Kelvin headed for home. Nate asked Kelvin why he gave the trophy away.

“I dunno. It was never really the trophy I was chasing, now was it?” With that he leaned his head against the window and let his mind drift as they rolled through the West Philly neighborhoods.

The van made its way along Girard Avenue, the trolley track catching its wheels a few times shaking the van. Kelvin shook from his deep thoughts noticing they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” The van headed towards Lower Merion. Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lift lowered; Kelvin felt as if he were descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted, Kelvin's whine continued. “I don’t want to do this. Let’s go home.”

Nate held the lift button. “You just won your way into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium where your name and your number hang from the rafter. Next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it and do the work! You can be great. You can be great at chess, you can be great at…”

Kelvin answered sarcastically, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.” The lift reengaged.

Kelvin disembarked, moving slow, he wheeled himself up the pavement toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed up the van and caught up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door and Kelvin started forward, stopping instantly.

Inside on the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This was a different sound. The dull skidding of rubber, the banging of metal, the drum like dribble of a ball and a group of players calling for the ball. A small crowd cheered and clapped.

Kelvin White watched ten men in wheelchairs scrambling like a boardwalk bumper car attraction back and forth, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting and stopping, passing the b-ball back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player around his age loop under the net and toss the ball one handed behind him for a score. Family and friends in the stands cheered. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; now, it looked more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Yet, within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin found a familiar beat. He looked up to the roof at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s, then back to the game.

Nate stepped up next to Kelvin. “I hear they have a national league, as well.”

Kelvin looked at Nate, then back once more back to the game. He was speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate paused, pretending to think, then grinned. “Your move.”