Move over, Björk. With the blockbuster 2 Guns (Denzel Washington and Mark Wahlberg) set to explode across U.S. multiplexes this summer, renegade filmmaker Baltasar Kormakur (Contraband) is about to become Iceland’s most popular cultural export. But first, the man once called the “Mayor of Reykjavik” has just released The Deep, an intimate, Icelandic film exploring survival, miracles and the perilous life of fishermen.

What constitutes a miracle?

This question runs through Icelandic director Baltasar Kormakur’s most recent film, The Deep, which chronicles the life of Gulli (played pitch perfectly by Olafur Darri Olafsson), a simple man who survives a night in the frigid North Atlantic Ocean after his ship sinks.

The Deep is based on the true story of the trawler Breki that capsized in 1984 off the coast of Iceland’s Westman Islands. Doctors speculated that Gulli, the lone survivor, stayed alive because he was, metaphorically, part seal due to his rotund frame being insulated by a remarkable amount of body fat. An object of fascination to Icelanders, Gulli quickly became a national icon and the subject of intense scientific investigation into why he didn’t die.

In a nation where the economy is tied so heavily to the fishing industry, Gulli’s miraculous story still resonates, even more so now that the country has been forced to redefine its cultural identity since the banking and finance industries precipitated Iceland’s economic collapse in 2008.

“Bankers are not our heroes. They didn’t give birth to our nation. Our fathers and grandfathers aren’t businessmen,” said Kormakur, currently in Los Angeles wrapping up post production on the blockbuster film 2 Guns.

“Our true heroes wear fishing gear and raincoats.”

Observing his country transform from one rooted in the blue collar fishing industry to one dominated by runaway capitalism, Kormakur “felt we had lost our way, so I wanted to make a movie that reminded us of who we are.”

Edward M. Weinman

Writer, author

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Move over, Björk. With the blockbuster 2 Guns (Denzel Washington and Mark Wahlberg) set to explode across U.S. multiplexes this summer, renegade filmmaker Baltasar Kormakur (Contraband) is about to become Iceland’s most popular cultural export. But first, the man once called the “Mayor of Reykjavik” has just released The Deep, an intimate, Icelandic film exploring survival, miracles and the perilous life of fishermen.

What constitutes a miracle?This question runs through Icelandic director Baltasar Kormakur’s most recent film, The Deep, which chronicles the life of Gulli (played pitch perfectly by Olafur Darri Olafsson), a simple man who survives a night in the frigid North Atlantic Ocean after his ship sinks.

The Deep is based on the true story of the trawler Breki that capsized in 1984 off the coast of Iceland’s Westman Islands. Doctors speculated that Gulli, the lone survivor, stayed alive because he was, metaphorically, part seal due to his rotund frame being insulated by a remarkable amount of body fat. An object of fascination to Icelanders, Gulli quickly became a national icon and the subject of intense scientific investigation into why he didn’t die.

In a nation where the economy is tied so heavily to the fishing industry, Gulli’s miraculous story still resonates, even more so now that the country has been forced to redefine its cultural identity since the banking and finance industries precipitated Iceland’s economic collapse in 2008.

“Bankers are not our heroes. They didn’t give birth to our nation. Our fathers and grandfathers aren’t businessmen,” said Kormakur, currently in Los Angeles wrapping up post production on the blockbuster film 2 Guns.

“Our true heroes wear fishing gear and raincoats.”

Observing his country transform from one rooted in the blue collar fishing industry to one dominated by runaway capitalism, Kormakur “felt we had lost our way, so I wanted to make a movie that reminded us of who we are.”

Kormakur is at the top of his craft in The Deep. While it’s easily his most contemplative movie, the director still brings his trademark grit and realism to the spiritual film, transporting audiences into the life of a rugged sailor and onto a fishing trawler plying some of the most dangerous seas in the world.

In all of his Icelandic films, (including the offbeat 101 Reykjavik and The Sea), Kormakur uses the harsh Icelandic landscape as a character. He doesn’t fake it. In The Deep, he refused to use a tank for the water scenes, and blue screen was out of the question.

“Most films shot on water make the ocean look digital,” Kormakur said. “In Titanic, the boat looked like it was sinking in a pond. Eighty percent of all Icelanders live by the sea. They know what the ocean looks like.

“We just had to get in there and do it.”

Kormakur is drawn to films where characters “go through hell” and struggle, both emotionally and physically. But before sending his actors into the harsh sea, he took the plunge, swimming up to a rocky shore, waves crashing around him, making sure his filming locations were safe.

“If I could do it, I figured they could do it,” said the award-winning director.

This is not the first time Kormakur has gotten his hands dirty (or wet) making a movie. In his second film, The Sea, shot during winter in the rugged East Fjords, the script called for a car to veer off a road, into the frigid bay. With cameras rolling, a hired stuntman drove a car into the water, but when it began sinking he panicked and couldn’t escape. It was Kormakur who waded through the water and pulled the stuntman to safety.

Directing and producing The Deep was a test of Kormakur’s stamina. They had to sink the boat, raise it and sink it again for a second take. And due to the ocean’s current, Olafur kept drifting in and out of the frame, so the director was forced to tie a rope around himself, tether it to his actor and swim backwards to keep Olafur in the shot.

“There were challenges at every step,” Kormakur said. “It was total madness, but we shot everything that we wanted. And you can’t complain about being in the water, or complain that it’s cold, because the real guy was in 40-degree water for six hours. At night.”

The Deep could have easily turned into a melodramatic biopic, but Kormakur’s raw, understated style allows the film to simply unfold on screen. He empowers the audience to decide for themselves whether Gulli’s survival was a miracle, or a freak act of a man who stubbornly refused to die.

The director avoided what he calls “emotional porno” by tenderly training his camera on Olafur, granting the actor the emotional space with which to stoically explore complicated emotions like survivor’s guilt, loss and sudden fame.

“Dead sailors are best kept in a watery grave,” Gulli’s father tells his son early in the film, while Gulli is recovering in a hospital. Later, when doctors are probing him, and his countrymen are fawning over him, Gulli must wonder if he, too, belongs amongst his dead friends who succumbed, like so many Icelandic fisherman before them, to the cold, dark sea.

“The ocean is like our war. We lose men to the sea, and this impacts Icelanders the same way it impacts other countries that lose people in war. Our fishermen risk their lives for the greater good, because this industry always keeps the country going,” Kormakur said.

For Kormakur, and for his fellow Icelanders, The Deep was a film he had to make.

“Whenever someone is lost at sea, it captures the attention of the entire nation.”

The next time you find yourself enjoying a finely crafted beer, you might want to ask yourself what it took to bring that drink to your lips. Tom Acitelli, author of The Audacity of Hops: The History of America’s Craft Beer Revolution (Chicago Review Press) did more than wonder about it: He went off across America in search of the stories behind the suds.

Acitelli, the founding editor of Curbed Boston, and a contributor to The New York Times and other publications, answered a few of our questions about where to find the best beers, how Europe is catching onto America’s craft movement, and what it’s like drinking brews infused with St. John’s Wort or hot peppers.

Here are some of his insights:

Where is the heart of the American craft brewing scene?
Tom Acitelli: There are now more than 2,300 breweries in the United States, the most since the 1880s, so pinpointing a definite geographic heart might be a tad difficult. Spiritually, however, the American craft beer movement indisputably pivots on Northern California—specifically, theSan Francisco Bay Area. The oldest craft brewery still in operation (Anchor Brewery, famous for its steam beer) is in an old coffee roastery in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill neighborhood. The first startup craft brewery since Prohibition (New Albion Brewery, which went out of business in 1983) was also nearby, in Sonoma County wine country; and the nation’s second- and third-oldest brewpubs, Mendocino Brewing and Buffalo Bill’s, started just outside of San Francisco.

If someone wanted to plan a vacation entirely around tasting craft beers, where would you recommend they go?
Wonderful idea! I would recommend three locales. The first would be the San Francisco Bay Area, because of the aforementioned history and the decent public transit within the metro region. The second would beAsheville, N.C., which has been called “San Francisco East,” in no small part due to the explosive growth in craft breweries—and many of these craft breweries are plucky startups that adore visitors. (I should note: most every craft brewery has samples for guests and they’re usually free.) The final one would be Vermont. There are 27 craft breweries in the state of barely 600,000 souls—small area, beautiful environment, lots of choices.

How many beers do you think you tasted during the course of writing this book? What was the strangest, what was the best?
Believe it or not, I stayed stone sober for large portions of researching and writing this book. Part of it was for energy and part of it was because I did not want to fall in love with a particular brewery’s beer and lose a sense of objectivity. I will say this, though: I gained a new appreciation for milder, lower-alcohol beers, the kinds you can sip largely without consequence. On the other hand, I encountered plenty of so-called “extreme beers,” which can be made from all sorts of ingredients beyond the traditional barley, yeast, water and hops (I had one made with St. John’s Wort, another with hot peppers, and one that had been aged in an oak barrel with several gallons of zinfandel wine)—and they pack a huge kick that can render the next morning rather unproductive.

Keep reading…

Ralphie rode in the back of Pete’s Chevy Impala, while Pete steered, and Quentin sat in the front seat next to him. They drove up and down the streets of South Philly, slow, keeping an eye on things.

The sun sat on the horizon, below the row homes, casting deep shadows in the neighborhood.

“I need a refill,” said Ralphie, handing his empty glass to Quentin.

Quentin grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the footwell and poured a double into Ralphie’s glass, and handed it back to him.

“I’m hungry,” said Pete. “You want to get a cheesesteak, Ralphie?”

“Not now,” said Ralphie.

“What kind of cheese do you like on your steak?” said Pete, looking at Ralphie in the rearview mirror. “Whiz, or provolone, or something else?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ralphie.

“Me, I love Whiz,” said Pete. “I won’t eat a steak any other way.”

“You know why they call it Whiz, don’t you?” said Ralphie.

Pete shook his head. “No, why?”

“’Cause it’s got piss in it.”

Quentin looked back at Ralphie over his shoulder, and Ralphie winked at him.

“What?” said Pete.

“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “You know when you want to take a piss, sometimes you say, I got to take a whiz? Well, that’s where they get the name from.”

“No, shit?” said Pete.

“Yeah, why do you think it’s so yellow?” said Quentin.

“Oh, man,” said Pete. “Well, I ain’t going to eat that no more!”

Ralphie and Quentin broke out laughing.

Pete started laughing with them.

“Goddamn,” said Quentin. “That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.”

“Yeah!” said Pete. “I ain’t going to eat it no more!”

Ralphie frowned. He reached forward and slapped Pete on the back of the head.

“You dimwit,” he said. “That’s not why we’re laughing.”

“It ain’t?” said Pete.

“No, you idiot,” said Ralphie. “We’re laughing ‘cause there ain’t no piss in Cheez Whiz.”

“I don’t get it,” said Pete.

Ralphie let out a sigh. “Just drive, will you?”

The car hit a bump, and whiskey splashed out of Ralphie’s glass and onto his pants.

“Jesus, Pete,” he said. “Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

“Sorry, Ralphie. I was just trying to avoid hitting a kid on a bike.”

“Well, fuck him,” said Ralphie. “You made me spill good whiskey.”

“Right,” said Pete. “Good whiskey.”

At the next corner on SouthFourth Street, a young guy in jeans and a black t-shirt flagged down the car. Pete pulled over.

“See what he wants,” said Ralphie.

Quentin rolled down his window.

“What do you want?” he said to the guy.

“I want to talk to Ralphie about a problem I got,” he said.

“Who is he?” said Ralphie.

“Tom from the neighborhood,” said Quentin. “I know him.”

Ralphie took a sip of Jack Daniel’s and rolled down his window. He waved to Tom, and Tom approached the rear door.

“What’s the problem?” said Ralphie.

“I got robbed,” said Tom. “Somebody broke into my house and stole all my money.”

“Why don’t you call the cops?”

“’Cause I stole it from somebody else,” said Tom.

Ralphie nodded. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, I know who done it,” said Tom. “Can you get the money back for me, and maybe, you know, beat the guy up some?”

Ralphie let out a sigh, thinking about it.

“You’d have to pay me in advance,” he said.

The guy, Tom, screwed up his face. “Well, I don’t have no money, ‘cause this asshole stole all of it.”

“I guess you’re out of luck,” said Ralphie.

He pushed the button and rolled the window back up.

Quentin looked back at Ralphie over his shoulder.

“Hey, Ralphie,” he said. “He’s got a really hot sister.”

“Tom does?” said Ralphie.

“Yeah,” said Quentin. “Great tits, really nice face. And she has a stud in her tongue. Those are for giving blowjobs. You ever have a tongue-stud blowjob, Ralphie?”’

“No. No, I haven’t,” said Ralphie.

“Me, I’d sure like to try one,” said Quentin.

“Me, too!” said Pete.

Ralphie nodded and rolled the window back down. The guy, Tom, had retreated from the car, and Ralphie waved him back over.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Ralphie. “But I want your sister to blow me.”

Tom frowned. “My sister?”

“Yeah, tomorrow night at the bar,” said Ralphie.”

“Well, she won’t like that,” said Tom.

“That’s okay,” said Ralphie. “Just make sure she’s there tomorrow night.”

Tom nodded, and Ralphie hit the button to raise the window again.

“Let’s go get that cop,” Ralphie said.

Pete drove them to Bigler Street in the southern most part of South Philly. They parked across the street from the address they had for Officer Steve Dickson.

“This is it,” said Quentin.

Pete turned in the seat to look back at Ralphie.

“Oh, Ralphie,” he said. “Can I do it? Can I kill the cop? After all, I’m the one he busted.”

Ralphie took a sip of whiskey.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think, Quentin. Should I let Pete do it?”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” said Quentin. “Think you can handle it, Pete?”

Pete nodded. “I know I can, guys. I promise. I’ll do it good.”

“I’m afraid you might fuck it up,” said Ralphie.

“I swear I won’t,” said Pete. “I ain’t done it before, but I’ll do it right.”

“Ain’t done what?”said Ralphie. “Killed a cop?”

“Yeah,” said Quentin. “You ain’t killed a cop before?”

“No,” said Pete, shaking his head. “I ain’t killed nobody before.”

Ralphie sat forward in the seat.

“You’re fucking shitting me,” he said. “All this time I’ve known you, and you ain’t killed nobody?”

“No, never,” said Pete.

“I’ll be damned,” said Quentin.

“I beat a dog to death with a shovel once,” said Pete. “But I never killed a person.”

“Far as I can tell,” said Ralphie, downing the rest of his whiskey. “There ain’t much of a difference.”

He climbed out of the car, and Pete and Quentin followed him.

The three of them walked to the house, climbed up onto the stoop, and Ralphie motioned for Pete to stand to the side. Ralphie banged on the front door. Quentin stood next to him. They saw a light come on in the living room¸ and the door opened. Dickson appeared in the doorway wearing a red cotton track suit with stains on it.

“Yeah?” said the cop.

“Officer Dick-son?” said Ralphie.

Pete snickered, standing next to him in the shadows.

“That’s right,” said Dickson, looking back and forth between Ralphie and Quentin. “And I know who you are, Ralphie McNear. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” said Ralphie. “About my buddy, Pete.”

“Who the hell is Pete?”
“I am!” said Pete, stepping into the doorway. He had a gun in his hand.

Dickson’s eyes grew wide, as he backed into the house. Pete followed him in, pointing the gun at the cop.

Ralphie and Quentin stepped into the living room, and Quentin shut the door behind them.

“What the hell’s this about?” said the cop.

Pete shot him twice in the chest. The cop stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. He quivered and gasped for a moment, and fell still.

“Jesus, Pete,” said Quentin.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Ralphie.

“You said I could kill him,” said Pete.

Ralphie put his hands on his hips.

“Goddamn it, Pete,” he said. “We were going to torture him first. Didn’t you know that?”

Pete shook his head. “No, sorry, Ralphie. I didn’t.”

“Man, you’re really dumb,” said Quentin.

“You should at least tell the guy why you’re killing him,” said Ralphie.

“That’s really the way to do it,” said Quentin.

Ralphie pointed to the cop, laying unconscious on the floor.

“Look at this asshole,” he said. “He can’t hear us now. He probably won’t come to. You can’t tell him shit.”

Pete hung his head. “I’m really sorry, you guys,” he said.

“Well, you might as well go ahead and finish him off,” said Ralphie.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, might as well,” he said.

“Okay,” said Pete. “I’ll finish him off. Might as well.”

They all looked at the cop laying on the floor, a blood stain covering the front of his track suit.

“You want me to get you a shovel?” said Ralphie.

The three of them broke out laughing.

“Yeah, I’ll use a shovel!” said Pete. “Like with the dog!”

The three of them laughed even harder, thinking about Pete killing the guy with a shovel.

II.

A week later, on a Saturday evening, Ralphie sat at his booth in the back of Johnny’s Place, drinking whiskey out of a straight glass. The regulars had started to fill the bar, many of them occasionally looking over at Ralphie to see what he was doing or who he was talking to.

The past few nights people from the neighborhood had started bringing gifts to Ralphie’s table, some of them asking for help, and some not. They brought cakes and cookies, bottles of booze, flowers, stuffed animals. Women brought naked pictures of themselves. An auto mechanic left a fan belt and a 30% off coupon for brake alignment. One man brought his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter. Ralphie sent the two of them away, but he did write down the girl’s phone number.

Quentin walked into the room, glanced at the pile of stuff beside the table, and sat down across from Ralphie.

“Pete’s upset,” said Quentin.

“I really don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie.

“He’s upset because everybody thinks you killed that cop, Dickson, and not him.”

“Well, what the fuck does he want me to do about it?” said Ralphie. “Announce it in the fucking Daily News?”

Quentin shrugged. “I’m just telling you he’s upset, that’s all.”

Ralphie reached down and grabbed a bottle of expensive bourbon someone had brought him.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Quentin. “Give this to him. He’ll feel better.”

Quentin pointed. “I bet he’d also like that teddy bear.”

“Take all that shit,” said Ralphie. “I don’t fucking care.”

A commotion started at one of the other booths. A woman stood over the table, while a man sitting there tried to push her away.

“Leave me alone!” said the man.

“Hey, fuck you!” said the woman.

She left the table and walked towards Ralphie and Quentin.

“It’s Sister Rachel,” said Quentin.

“I see her,” said Ralphie.

“Hey Ralphie, hey Quentin,” said the nun, stepping up to the table. “Buy me a drink, and I’ll suck your cock.”

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you,” said Ralphie. “You’re a fucking nun.”

“Not anymore,” she said, slurring her words. “I renounced my vows.”

“Why’d you do that?” said Quentin.

“Because of Ralphie,” she said, leaning over the table. “He convinced me I didn’t know what I was talking about before. I didn’t know anything about vice or Jesus, or being thy neighbor’s keeper, any of that shit.”

“You didn’t have to turn into a drunken whore,” said Ralphie.

“Plus, I haven’t been fucked in so long I can’t stand it!” said the nun. “Not since Father Doherty in the rectory, and that was so long ago!”

Ralphie laughed. “Father Doherty, that old child molester!”

“He doesn’t just like little boys,” said Sister Rachel. “He gets a lot of pussy, too.”

“Good for him,” said Ralphie.

“So, what do you think?” said the nun, winking at them. “Either of you boys want to do me?”

“Fuck no,” said Ralphie, with a wave of his hand. “Get lost.”

Sister Rachel shrugged and walked to another table.

Ralphie held up his empty glass.

“I need another drink,” he said.

Quentin seemed distracted, looking around.

“Hey,” said Ralphie, shoving his glass at Quentin. “I need a refill.”

“Yeah, sure, Ralphie,” he said. “Only…”

“Only what?”

“Well…I’d kind of like, you know…”

“No, what?” said Ralphie.

Quentin shrugged. “Sister Rachel?”

Ralphie scowled at him. “You got to be kidding me? You want to fuck the nun?”

“It’s like we said before,” said Quentin. “She’s got a pussy, same as any other woman. Only it’s special, ‘cause it’s nun-pussy.”

“Not anymore,” said Ralphie. “You heard her, she renounced her vows.”

Quentin shrugged. “That doesn’t really matter to me. I can still picture her as a nun.”

“I don’t care what you do,” said Ralphie. “Just get me another drink first.”

Quentin scooted out from the booth and walked to the front bar.

The blond prostitute who once asked Ralphie to be her pimp appeared at his table.

“Hi, King Ralphie,” she said. “Can I talk to you a second?”

“King?” he said.

“Sure, that’s what everybody calls you now.”

He grinned and leaned back in the seat.

“What do you want?” he said.

“You remember me?” she said.

“Sheri-Lynn something.”

She smiled. “That’s right! Sheri-Lynn Hudley.”

“What do you want?” he said again.

“I just wanted to say how much I appreciate it that you killed that cop for me.”

“For you?”

She nodded. “Yeah, after the awful way he treated me.”

“First, I ain’t admitting I killed anybody,” he said. “And second, why do you think I did it for you?”

“Just on account of how you said you’d handle it if somebody was bothering me.”

“I didn’t know he was bothering you.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Anyways, I’d still like to show you my appreciation. Can I give you a header?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t want a header from you.”

She nodded and turned away from the table.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and she looked back at him. “Since you’d like to show your appreciation, I want you to be nice to my friend Pete, give him whatever he wants. You know him? Really dumb guy hangs around with me? He’ll be in later tonight.”

She smiled again. “Okay, sure, Ralphie. I’m happy to do it!”

He waved his hand to get rid of her, and she left.

Quentin came hurrying back to the table.

“You better come to the front, Ralphie,” he said.

“What’s going on?” said Ralphie.

“It’s Marcie and Annie. They’re fighting.”

“Shit,” said Ralphie, sliding out from the booth.

He walked to the front of the bar, where the crowd had formed a circle around the two women, as they clawed and smacked one another, each of them shouting insults. People cheered them on.

“You fucking bitch!” said Marcie, pulling on Annie’s hair.

“You stupid cunt!” said Annie, digging her fingernails into Marcie’s cheek.

The crowd parted to allow Ralphie through. He stepped up to the two women and pulled them apart. Silence fell over the room.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Marcie, wiping blood off her cheek.

“Yeah, nothing,” said Annie.

“They was fighting over you, Ralphie!” said Pat the Boozehound.

“Is that right?” said Ralphie, looking back and forth between the two of them.

“She started it!” said Annie.

“Bullshit,” said Marcie.

They started leaping at one another, and the crowd began murmuring again. Ralphie struggled to keep them apart.

“Stop it!” said Ralphie.

He wrapped his left arm around Annie, pulling her to his side, then wrapped his right arm around Marcie, pulling her to his other side. He looked at the people surrounding the three of them.

“Shut up, all of you! Shut up!”

People began shushing one another.

“Quiet everybody!” said Pat the Boozehound. “Ralphie wants to speak.”

“King Ralphie is speaking!” said Charlie the Bartender.

“That’s right!” said Ralphie. “I’m the king around here, and I’m making a ruling.”

“A royal decree!” said Pat the Boozehound.

“Right,” said Ralphie with a nod. “I command by the power vested in me by South Philly, and all you assholes, that from now on these two hot girls will put aside their differences and be friends.”

Everyone cheered. Al, Pat, and Dickie started chanting “Ralphie! Ralphie!”

“Come on, you two,” said Ralphie, loosening his grip on them. “I want you to kiss and make up.”

Marcie shrugged and started grinning. Annie seemed reluctant.

“What do you say?” said Marcie.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Annie.

Marcie stepped forward, leaned in, and gave Annie a peck.

“Come on,” said Ralphie, pushing the two of them together. “You can do better than that.”

The crowd continued to cheer. Marcie looked around, then grabbed Annie in her arms and kissed her full on the mouth.

“That’s more like it!” said Ralphie. “Now, to put the seal on my ruling, make it official and all that shit, we’re going back to my place to have a three-way!”

The crowd cheered harder. People clapped and stepped aside to let Ralphie and his girls pass by. Some patted him on the back as the three of them crossed the room and went out the door.

III.

People from the neighborhood packed Johnny’s Place. Ralphie sat in his back booth alone, drinking whiskey. Music played loud on the jukebox.

A fat man, along with his fat wife and fat kid, all of them wearing shorts and Birkenstocks, stepped up to Ralphie’s table.

“Can we take a picture with you?” said the fat man.

“What?” said Ralphie, looking over at them.

“You’re King Ralphie, aren’t you?” said the fat wife.

“We’d love to get a picture of you,” said the fat man. “We’re visiting from Michigan, and we heard all about you from someone at the Starbucks near our hotel.”

“Fuck off,” said Ralphie.

“Oh, my gosh,” said the fat wife, her hand covering her mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah!” said the fat man. “It’s just like in the movies.”

“Just like the movies,” said the fat kid. “Fuck off!”

The three of them laughed as they walked away.

Ralphie let his head sink into his hands, as Quentin slid into the booth across from him.

“You okay, Ralphie?” said Quentin.

“Yeah, I’m just beat,” said Ralphie, looking up. “It’s fucking Marcie and Annie. For three days straight now, all they want to do is fuck. I fuck them ‘til I’m empty, go out for a cigarette, and come back to find the two of them going at it again.”

Quentin frowned. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s not a problem like skin cancer’s a problem,” said Ralphie. “But it’s an issue, believe me. I’m fucking worn out.”

“Me, I got this ex-nun who keeps calling me,” said Quentin. “She won’t leave me alone. I got to change my number.”

“I told you not to get involved with her,” said Ralphie.

“I didn’t get involved,” said Quentin. “I just fucked her twice, three times if you count when I didn’t come, and she blew me three or four times. But that’s it. I guess she took it serious or something.”

“I fucking hate it when they get serious,” said Ralphie.

“Don’t I know it,” said Quentin. He let out a sigh. “At least Pete’s happy, I guess.”

“Not that I care,” said Ralphie. “But why’s he happy?”

“He’s been hanging out with that blond prostitute, the one from Delaware.”

“She’s not from Delaware. She’s from the South,” said Ralphie. “And she’s only hanging out with him ‘cause I told her to.”

They both looked up to see Pete coming through the crowd towards the table.

“Hey guys,” said Pete, as he slid into the booth next to Quentin.

“You know that girl you’re seeing, the prostitute?” said Quentin. “Ralphie says she ain’t from Delaware.”

“She’s not?” said Pete. “You told me she was.”

“I kept thinking she was, for some reason,” said Quentin. “But I guess she ain’t.”

Pete propped his elbows up on the table.

“So, guess what happened,” he said. “I fucking wrecked the Impala. Can you believe that?”

“How’d that happen?” said Quentin.

“Me and Sheri-Lynn was going to get some cheesesteaks, and she started going down on me, right there in the car!”

“Road header,” said Quentin, nodding.

“Yeah, I always loved a good road header,” said Ralphie.

“Yeah, sure it was great,” said Pete. “Except when she was doing it, I lost control and crashed into some old lady’s car. She’d stopped in the middle of the road to drop off her groceries or some shit like that. They had to take her away on a stretcher.”

“What about the Impala?” said Ralphie. “Is it drivable? We’ve got shit to do, places we got to be, and you have to take us.”

“It’s all fucked up,” said Pete. “But don’t worry. I borrowed my mother’s minivan.”

“Minivan?” said Quentin.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Ralphie. “We’re not riding around in some minivan.”

“Tell you what else,” said Quentin. “That old lady shouldn’t have parked in the middle of the street.”

“Just what I thought!” said Pete.

“I’d track her down and make her pay for the damage to the Impala,” said Quentin.

“Forget about the old lady,” said Ralphie. “She ain’t important. What matters is, we got to get a car.”

“Hey, I tell you what,” said Quentin. “We got that money from the other night, the cash we recovered for Tom. We could use that to buy a car. It’s plenty.”

“Good idea,” said Ralphie, nodding. “Now you’re thinking.”

“I forgot to tell you, Ralphie,” said Pete. “There was some guy asking questions about you.”

“What guy?” said Ralphie. “A cop?”

Pete shook his head. “No, he ain’t no cop. He calls himself The Turk.”

“The Turk?” said Ralphie. “What the fuck kind of name is that?”

Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe he likes turkey. You know, from the deli.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Quentin.

“That’s him now,” said Pete, nodding. “The Turk.”

The three of them looked over to see a young guy coming towards them. He wore black trousers, a black shirt, and a black leather jacket. A few feet away from the table, he pulled out a revolver and aimed it at Ralphie.

Quentin and Pete jumped out of the booth towards him.

The Turk fired off a shot, hitting Ralphie in the shoulder, and then another that hit Ralphie in the side. The reports were loud in the small room.

People scattered and ducked for cover. A girl screamed.

Quentin and Pete tackled the Turk to the ground, knocking the gun out of his hand, and started beating him.

Ralphie felt the searing pain in his arm and gut. He pressed a hand against his side, and blood began to seep through his fingers.

Ralphie scooted to the edge of the booth, leaving droplets of blood on the seat. He grimaced and climbed to his feet with effort.

“Stop, stop,” he said to Pete and Quentin, who were smashing the Turk in the face and kicking him in the ribs.

“Stop,” Ralphie said louder.

The two of them stepped back, both breathing hard from the effort. The Turk lay on the floor, his face bloodied.

People started coming back into the room, and they appeared from under the tables where they’d hid.

“He shot Ralphie!” someone said.

“King Ralphie’s been shot!”

“He tried to assassinate Ralphie.”

“Call for an ambulance!” said Pat the Boozehound.

“Shut up,” said Ralphie, and everyone quieted down.

Blood continued to seep through his fingers. He could feel it dribbling into his trousers and down his leg.

“You, Turk,” said Ralphie, nudging the kid on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “You hear me?”

The Turk nodded. “I hear you.”

“I know you?”

“No.”

“You got a grudge?”

“No,” said the Turk, still lying on the floor.

Ralphie took a breath. “So you thought you could make a name for yourself if you shot me.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Thought you could become the new King of South Philly.”

“Yeah,” said the Turk.

“Kill him!” someone said.

“Yeah, Ralphie, kill the bastard!”

Ralphie gritted his teeth from the pain, and shut his eyes for a moment.

“Somebody help Ralphie,” said Al. “Somebody give him a hand.”

Ralphie shook his head. He opened his eyes again.

“Quentin,” said Ralphie. “Pick up the kid’s gun.”

Quentin took a step to where the pistol lay on the floor, and he bent over and picked it up.

“Give it to me,” said Ralphie.

Quentin handed over the revolver, and Ralphie turned it around in his hand. The metal felt hot against his skin. Wincing, he lifted it to his face and sniffed the barrel. He kissed the gun.

Ralphie looked around at the faces in the crowd circling him.

“Who’s the fucking King of South Philly?” he said.

“You are!” said Dickie.

“King Ralphie!” said Pat the Boozehound.

“Ralphie’s the King!”

“Hear that Turk?” said Ralphie, raising his voice. “I’m the fucking King of South Philly. I am!”

Ralphie wobbled, lost his balance, and fell to one knee. Quentin and Pete rushed to help him. They each grabbed an arm and got him to his feet.

“Fuck off,” said Ralphie.

Quentin and Pete let him go and stepped back.

Ralphie shuffled towards the Turk, still laying on the floor, and pointed the revolver at him.

“Do it!” said Pat the Boozehound. “Kill him!”

“Shoot him, Ralphie!” said Al.

Some of the girls turned away.

The Turk put up a hand in defense.

“Bang,” said Ralphie in a weak voice. “You’re fucking dead.”

He dropped the revolver onto the floor next to the Turk. It landed with a thud.

Ralphie started hobbling away from the Turk, towards the front of the bar. Blood had run down his leg, so he left a trail as he went. People stepped aside to let him through.

“Any time you want to, kid,” Ralphie said over his shoulder, “go ahead and take another shot at me.”

“What?” said the Turk, behind him.

Ralphie paused and looked back. “You heard me,” he said. “Take your shot any time.”

“What’re you doing, Ralphie?” said Pat the Boozehound.

“King Ralphie’s invincible!” said Dickie.

Ralphie smirked and grimaced. “I ain’t invincible,” he said.

“Then why’re you doing it?” said Al.

“Why?” said Ralphie, looking around the room at the faces staring at him.

“Yeah, why’re you giving the kid another shot?” said Dickie.

Ralphie cocked his head to the side and spit blood onto the floor.

“’Cause I just don’t give a shit,” he said.

Ralphie pressed his hand harder to his side. He limped towards the exit and went through the door, and into the South Philly night.

Waking across the airport motel parking lot, Sheri-Lynn spotted two girls. She recognized them as Chrystal and Champagne, regulars at the motel. They both seemed like nice girls, Sheri-Lynn thought, even though Champagne was black.

Sheri-Lynn originally hailed from North Carolina, but she’d come up north six years ago. At the time, she thought it would be nice to have a change of scenery.

“Hi, Sheri-Lynn,” said the two girls.

They leaned up against an old Ford Escort, underneath a streetlamp. They looked sexy in their cut-off jeans and halter tops.

Sheri-Lynn said hi to them.

Chrystal said, “Where you been?”

“Oh, I had an office call,” said Sheri-Lynn. “You know that insurance salesman, the one with the funny hair, calls himself Snarky?”

“Ooh,” said Champagne, crinkling her nose. “He’s gross.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Sheri-Lynn.

“We were just going to have a little smoke,” said Chrystal, holding up a joint. “Care to join us?”

“Sure,” said Sheri-Lynn.

Champagne held out the lighter and lit the joint for Chrystal. She took a hit, and passed it to Champagne.

“How’ve things been around here?” said Sheri-Lynn.

“Slow,” said Chrystal, letting out the smoke. “Real slow. Some college boys wanted to pull a train, and then Mr. Allen, works for the Eagles—you know him?”

Sheri-Lynn nodded, taking the joint from Champagne.

“He had me come to his office once, after hours,” said Sheri-Lynn. “It was pretty neat being there, but the place was kind of spooky when it was deserted, and he wanted to do it on the desk. That was uncomfortable. His stapler kept poking me in the butt.”

“You have such a cute accent—‘it was pretty neat being there’,” Chrystal said, trying to imitate Sheri-Lynn.

She and Champagne laughed.

Sheri-Lynn shrugged. “I guess. I know I don’t talk like you city girls.”

“Anyways, that’s all we seen tonight,” said Chrystal. “Hardly worth leaving the house for. Might as well have stayed home and watched the Home Shopping Network.”

“Me, I like game shows,” said Sheri-Lynn.

She took a hit of the reefer, then passed it back to Chrystal.

Breathing out the smoke, Sheri-Lynn said, “Wheel—Of—Fortune!”

Champagne laughed and said, “We were talking earlier about how we got started in this business. How’d you get into it, Sheri-Lynn?”

Sheri-Lynn shrugged again. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I was just born for it.”

“Why don’t you quit and do something else?” said Chrystal.

“I guess I just don’t know what else to do with myself. I don’t really have no ambitions to do anything in particular, so I might as well do this. Better than nothing, I guess.”

“You could be a waitress, or maybe even a hostess at a restaurant,” said Chrystal.

“Oh, shoot, I don’t think I could do anything like that,” said Sheri-Lynn.

“Maybe you could get Vanna White’s job turning letters.”

The three of them started laughing, and Sheri-Lynn blushed.

Champagne said, “Did your father love you?”

“He sure did,” said Sheri-Lynn. “He was a good Christian and tried to make me into a good Christian, so he beat me something awful, on account of my bad disposition. He beat me, and I pretended like I didn’t care any when I was younger, but I really hated it. He even broke my arm this one time. I understand now why he did it. He loved me, and there was just nothing else he could do with me. I mean, what do you do with a girl with a naturally bad disposition? You got to at least try to set her right. But, unfortunately, it didn’t take. I’ll never be a good Christian. I know that.”

“My father used to rape me,” said Champagne. “Then he’d give me presents afterwards, so I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“What kind of presents?”

“Oh, different things,” she said. “Cute little jewelry, or bags of candy. But one time he bought me a new bike.”

“Wow,” said Chrystal. “That must’ve been nice.”

“It was,” said Champagne. “It was really nice, but it turned out to be stolen, so the cops came and took it away.”

“Shoot!” said Sheri-Lynn. “Did your daddy get in trouble?”

“Oh, no. He just told the cops that I stole it. That was the first time I got arrested.”

“Too bad about the bike,” said Chrystal.

Champagne nodded.

A car pulled into the parking lot, and its headlights lit up the three girls and the Escort. It was a newish-looking Buick with out of state license plates. It parked two spaces away from the Ford.

“I guess I’m up,” said Chrystal, and she walked over to the driver’s side of the car and bent down to talk to the man.

“Neat car,” said Sheri-Lynn. “I like the color—green.”

“Yeah, and from Jersey,” said Champagne.

They watched Chrystal nod, as the man pointed towards Sheri-Lynn. Chrystal walked back to them.

“He wants you,” she said to Sheri-Lynn. “Partial to blonds, I guess.”

Sheri-Lynn walked to the car and bent down to get a look at the guy. She took him for a businessman on a trip. In his thirties, he wore glasses, had a round face, and looked nervous, like this might’ve been his first time.

“Hi, honey,” said Sheri-Lynn. “What’s your name?”

“John,” he said.

She snickered. “Well, that works out, now, don’t it?”

“No, it really is my name,” he said, trying to smile.

“Well, relax. You don’t need to be scared. What can I do for you tonight?”

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice. “I…”

“C’mon, now, don’t be shy,” she said. “You want the whole works? You want something fancy? You just want a header?”

He started nodding. “Yeah…Yeah, that’s what I want!”

“Okay, no problem at all,” she said. “That’ll cost you twenty—that okay with you?”

Normally, she’d only charge ten, but since he was out of state and probably didn’t know any better, she thought she’d see if he’d go for more.

“Oh, yeah, that’s…that’s terrific,” he said, hunching up to pull out his wallet. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

She put it into the little black purse she carried.

“Now scoot on over,” she said, opening the car door.

“No!” he said, pulling the door closed again. “Not here! Not out here! I paid for a room!”

She frowned. “Well, you didn’t have to go and do that. I could’ve taken care of you right here and saved you the money.”

“Well, it’s already paid for,” he said, showing her the key with the green plastic diamond attached to it. The plastic diamond read ‘10’ in white numerals.

“Ten’s right over here,” said Sheri-Lynn, pointing over her shoulder. “So just shut off your car and come with me.”

The man nodded, turned off the engine, and rolled up the windows. He locked the doors and stepped out of the car. He was shorter than Sheri-Lynn had expected, maybe five eight, just a little taller than she was. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away, looking around the parking lot and over at the other two girls. She grinned, and they walked to number 10.

He opened the door, and they went inside.

Sheri-Lynn turned on the bedside lamp. She hadn’t ever been in this particular room, but it looked like all the others she’d seen. A white brocaded bedspread covered the queen-sized bed. A TV sat on a stand opposite the bed, and an easy chair butted up against the corner. The bathroom sat off to the left. The room seemed clean enough, but it felt well-worn, with a threadbare carpet, and all the furnishings looked at least twenty years old.

“Why don’t you just sit down here,” said Sheri-Lynn, patting the edge of the bed. “And make yourself comfortable.”

She tossed her purse onto the armchair.

The man, “John,” locked the door, and, still in his overcoat, walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Sheri-Lynn knelt down in front of him, running her hands along his thighs.

“Now, honey, you just relax a little bit,” she said. “You seem awful uptight.”

He nodded at her, and she could tell he was nervous, though he was getting excited. His erection poked up at his trousers.

“Mmmm….honey,” she said, looking down. “I guess you ain’t too nervous!”

“What’s your name?” he managed to say in a thick voice.

“Sheri-Lynn,” she said. “Sheri-Lynn Hudley.”

She rubbed his cock through the material of his trousers.

“Is your name really John?”

He nodded, his eyes closed, head leaning back.

“That’s so cute,” she said. “You know, it’d be nice if we had a little music, but there ain’t no radio. Some of the rooms have them, but this one don’t. We could put on the TV, but that’s not quite the same.”

She continued to rub him through the fabric of his pants.

“Me, I like game shows on the TV,” she said. “Once in a while I’ll watch a cooking show or one of them day-time talk shows. I even—”

He cut her off then, by stopping her hand and unzipping his fly.

She grinned. “Well, I guess you are about ready, aren’t you, honey?”

She reached inside his open fly, grabbed his penis, and pulled it out. Smaller than she’d expected, it bent a little to the right. She pulled a condom out of her jeans pocket, tore open the package, and rolled it down over his cock. She began to stroke him with her hand.

John started saying, “Oh, God,” his eyes closed, head back.

Sheri-Lynn bent down, taking him into her mouth, tasting latex.

A loud bang erupted, and the door to the room burst open. Sheri-Lynn pulled her head up, and they both looked over.

A man in a police uniform came through the door. Chubby, he had black hair, and wore mirrored sunglasses, even though the sun had set a while ago.

“Philly PD,” he said, as he shut the door behind him. “This is a bust!”

“Oh, shit!” said John, zipping himself up.

Sheri-Lynn grabbed his hand, trying to comfort him. She’d been through this many times.

The cop paused a moment, looking at the two of them.

“Up off your knees, sweetheart,” he said.

Sheri-Lynn stood up. She got a look at his name tag. It read: “Dickson.”

He hooked his thumbs through his black gun belt.

“Get your ass in the bathroom, ” he said with a nod. “I’ll tell you when to come out.”

Sheri-Lynn gave him a smile. She grabbed her little black purse from the armchair and walked to the bathroom, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. She had to pee anyway, so she didn’t mind being shut in there.

Through the door she could hear voices, mostly the officer talking, but she couldn’t really make out what he said. She thought she heard John whimpering, or maybe crying, and she felt bad for him.

She felt a little sticky and gross and thought she might like to take a shower, but she didn’t know how long she’d have to be there in the bathroom, and she didn’t want to piss off the officer, so she decided not to risk it.

After a few minutes, the door to the bathroom opened, and the cop said, “Come on out here.”

Sheri-Lynn walked out into the main room to see that John had left. She turned to face the cop, expecting him to read her her rights and handcuff her. But that’s not what he did.

He grabbed her by the arm and sat her down on the edge of the bed. He still wore the mirrored sunglasses, and now she could see the sweat stains under his arms.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Sheri-Lynn Hudley.”

“Well, Sheri-Lynn Hudley, you’re in a shitload of trouble.”

“Oh, I figured that,” she said. “I already know my rights, so you don’t need to bother—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, and he smacked her open-handed across the face.

It stung, and she lost her breath for a second.

“You got exactly the rights I say you got. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good. Now, here’s the deal. We’re going to have a regular meeting once a week or so at this motel, and you’re going to fuck me for free. If you don’t, or you tell anyone about this, I’m going to bust you on a possession charge.”

“But I don’t do no drugs—”

He smacked her on the side of the head, harder this time. Again it stung, bad.

“Shut the fuck up! You ain’t listening.”

Her ear was ringing. She nodded again.

“You’re going to fuck me whenever I want, and if you don’t, I got a nice little supply of smack I can say I caught you with. You’ll get sent away until you’re old and dried up. Get it?”

She couldn’t understand why he was going through all this. She would have given him freebies anyway, even if he didn’t threaten her. He was kind of cute in his uniform. All he’d have to do is ask.

“We’re going to start tonight,” he said. “Right here, right now, you’re going to get on your knees and suck my big hairy dick.”

“Okay,” she said, sliding off the bed.

She knelt down in front of him. Thinking about it, she looked up at him.

“So this is going to be a regular thing?” she said.

“You got that right, little girl.”

She unzipped his fly.

He reached down, yanked her hair, and smacked her across the face again.

“Get to it!” he said.

She sniffled back some blood and pulled out his cock. She glanced up at his face again, and then ran her hand under her nose, wiping away the blood, and she felt herself smiling.

II.

Ralphie and Annie parked in the airport motel lot and climbed out of the car, Pete’s car, his Chevy Impala. He’d let Ralphie borrow it. Ralphie wore a leather jacket. Annie had on a jean skirt and a plain white t-shirt.

They walked to the manager’s office and asked for a room. Ralphie specifically requested number 8. No one else had taken it, so the manager gave it to them.

As they walked across the parking lot to the room, Annie said, “I don’t understand what we’re doing here. We could’ve fucked at home, Ralphie.”

“Yeah, I know that,” he said.

“Is it ‘cause fucking in a motel is exciting?”

“No, that ain’t it,” he said.

They reached number 8, and Ralphie unlocked it with the key with the green triangle attached to it. They stepped inside to find a dull but clean-looking room, with a queen-sized bed, a TV on a stand, and an easy chair in the corner.

“Well, why’re we here, then?” said Annie. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I don’t mind being here with you. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Have a seat,” said Ralphie, pointing to the bed.

Annie sat down and folded her hands on her lap.

Ralphie let out a sigh. “Marcie’s jealous of you,” he said.

“Oh, is that why we’re here?” she said. “So Marcie won’t find out?”

He shook his head. “No, that ain’t the reason. It’s just something I thought of.”

“Yeah, well I knew she was jealous. I didn’t tell you, but she called me the other day and bitched me out.”

Ralphie frowned. “Well, fuck.”

Annie nodded. “I didn’t respond or anything, but I didn’t appreciate her talking to me like that.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell her not to do it again.”

“Thanks.”

Ralphie looked around the room. “My father used to bring me and Marcie to this motel when we were kids.”

“Your father?” said Annie. “The one everybody says you shot?”

“He’d lock me in the bathroom over there,” he said. “I thought it was some kind of a game, like him and Marcie were hiding something.”

“Was it a game?” said Annie.

“He’d let me out after an hour, and I always thought I’d have to hunt and find some treasure, or some kind of shit like that. But we’d always just climb back into the car and go home.”

“Well, that don’t sound like a game to me.”

Ralphie pulled the automatic pistol from its holster under his jacket.

“But then one time we came here, to this very room, number 8, I’ll never forget. There was a desk and chair in here then, and Howard dragged the chair out onto the porch.”

Ralphie waved the gun towards the front of the room and the door.

“He took me out there and told me he had a job for me to do. He said he wanted me to sit out front and keep watch. He wanted me to keep an eye on things and not let anybody in the room.”

“Did you do it, keep watch like that?”

Ralphie nodded. “Fuck, yeah, I did it. Man, I can’t tell you how good that made me feel. He was trusting me, you understand? He gave me a job to do, gave me responsibility and all that shit. I mean, before that he wouldn’t give me nothing, wouldn’t even pay attention to me. I kept asking him to let me help out around the barbershop, sweep the fucking hair off the floor, some shit like that. But he just ignored me. So him giving me responsibility like that changed me.”

“I think I understand,” said Annie.

Ralphie raised the gun and fired a round into the bathroom door. The report made Annie jump.

Ralphie swung his arm holding the pistol and fired two rounds into the easy chair. Annie put her hands over her ears.

Ralphie swung his arm again and fired two shots into the bed next to Annie, and she screamed.

He tossed the pistol onto the bed, and grabbed Annie and turned her over, so she bent over the side of the bed. He threw up her skirt to expose her bare ass, unzipped and pulled out his cock and mounted her. He pounded her hard, thrusting over and over, and she cried out.

A few more strokes, and he emptied himself inside her and pulled out.

Breathing heavy, he stood up, wiped off his dick, and put it away.

Annie rolled over onto her back, touching herself between the legs. “God, Ralphie,” she said. “It’s never been like that before. I think you made me bleed.”

“Get up,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

She stood and rolled down her skirt.

Ralphie holstered his pistol.

“Go on out to the car,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Annie crossed the room and went out the door.

Ralphie pulled a small can of lighter fluid and a disposable lighter out of his pocket. He squirted fluid on the bed and lit it on fire. He did the same with the drapes, lit them on fire.

The flames started to spread and climb the walls. Smoke filled the room.

Ralphie walked out the door and closed it behind him.

III.

Sheri-Lynn found Officer Dickson washing his car in front of his house on Bigler Street. He wore a loose-fitting blue cotton track suit, and he drove a Hyundai.

In the warm early evening, children played ball and rode bikes up and down the block. In one of the row homes the TV played loud.

Sheri-Lynn, wearing cutoffs and a tube top, grinned as she stepped up to the cop.

“Almost didn’t recognize you without your uniform,” she said.

Dickson frowned and dropped the soapy sponge in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

“Just wanted to see your place. Imagine my surprise to find you right here in South Philly. I thought maybe you’d live in Society Hill, or maybe some swanky suburb. But I guess it makes sense, you wanting to be amongst regular folks, since your job is to protect them and stuff.”

He glanced around at his neighbors’ houses. “What do you want?”

She shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d like to fuck me. Or else I could just give you another blow job.”

“You should get the hell out of here,” said Dickson, shooing her with his hand.

One of his next-door neighbors came out onto the porch, an elderly lady in a house dress.

Dickson waved to the old woman, and grabbed Sheri-Lynn by the arm.

“Come on,” he said. “Before anybody sees you.”

He dragged her across the sidewalk, up onto the stoop, and into his house.

The living room smelled musty. Dickson had left a pair of dirty socks on the floor, and several smut magazines lay on a brown vinyl sofa. A Chinese takeout carton with food still in it sat on the arm of an easy chair.

“This is nice,” said Sheri-Lynn. “But you should get yourself a housekeeper to clean up.”

Dickson clicked on a table lamp. He scooped up his pair of mirrored sunglasses sitting next to it, and put them on. He turned to face Sheri-Lynn, wiping sweat from his upper lip.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, grinning. “That’s more like the officer I know.”

He put his hands on his hips. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have come here. That ain’t part of our deal.”

“I figured I’d save you the trouble of going to that motel,” she said, looking around. “So you like dirty magazines, huh? You probably look at them with all the different girls you got coming through here.”

“None of your fucking business,” he said.

He grabbed the magazine from her hand and tossed it back onto the sofa.

“I ought to bust you for coming here like this,” he said. “Send you up for prostitution and drug possession.”

“I know,” she said with a shrug. “Try not to be too mad at me. You can’t blame a girl like me for being curious about an important person such as yourself.”

“You fucking with me?”

“No, why? Did I say something stupid? I got a bad habit of doing that sometimes.”

He folded his arms. “Well, are you retarded then?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But you know how they say crazy people don’t know they’re crazy? Well, maybe being retarded’s the same thing. If you’re retarded, you don’t know you are. Maybe that’s the way it is with me.”

“Look, just shut up, will you?” said Dickson.

He went to the sofa and stacked the porn magazines, then picked the socks up off the floor and folded them.

“When it gets dark,” he said, “I want you to get the hell out of here.”

“Okay, sure,” she said.

“You’re going to go out the back way and make sure nobody sees you.”

She knelt down in front of him and started to undo the tie on his track suit pants.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said, swatting at her hand.

“Giving you a blow job,” she said.

She got his pants down around his knees, exposing his stained jockey shorts.

He grabbed her by the arm.

“Goddamn it, I’ll tell you when to blow me,” he said.

She pulled down the jockeys to find his dick limp.

“Oh, looks like you ain’t ready, honey.”

He smacked her open-handed across the face.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready,” he said.

She took his limp cock into her mouth.

He smacked her in the head again, harder, and his dick flopped out of her mouth. Blood trickled from her nose, and she sniffed it back.

Dickson grabbed his penis and started stroking it, but it stayed limp.

“I understand why you got to punish me,” she said. “On account of my naturally bad disposition.”

“Shut up,” he said, and he punched her on the other side of the head.

She tumbled back against the sofa. She felt her ear ringing, and blood appeared on her lips. She dabbed it with the back of her hand.

“Now I don’t feel so good,” she said, examining the blood.

She pulled herself into a sitting position and felt wobbly.

“I think I should go home,” she said.

She started to get up, but he pushed her back down onto the floor.

“You’ll go when I tell you to go,” he said.

“But, honey, I think it’s close to being dark out now.”

“Shut up,” he said.

He kept stroking his dick, and it started to get hard. He knelt down in front of her, pulled down her tube top to expose her small breasts, and started pinching her nipple. He yanked on his dick the whole time.

“That hurts,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“Get your shorts off!” he said.

“I told you I don’t feel good,” she said.

“Get your fucking pants off!”

He started struggling with the button of her shorts with his free hand, while he continued to stroke himself.

She grabbed his arm and tried twisting away from him, but he kneeled on her as she lay on her side. She couldn’t move.

He made grunting noises as he started to come, rubbing his cock against her side. She lay still, as he shot his load onto her jean shorts.

He stroked himself a few more times, and fell back against the sofa, sitting on the floor, panting. He still had his dick in his hand, and the sunglasses sat crookedly on his face.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” she said, getting to her feet.

She grabbed his pair of dirty socks, unfolded them, and used one to wipe off the come.

“I’m going to have to wash these now,” she said, examining her shorts.

She pulled up her tube top to cover her breasts.

“You know,” she said. “For an important person, you’re kind of gross, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“Fuck…fuck you,” he said, still breathing hard.

“I thought before I’d like to give you freebies, but now I don’t think so.”

“You…you have to do what I say,” said Dickson.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “You can bust me if you want, but I’ll tell all your neighbors what you just did. Then we’ll be even.”

“What?”

“I’m going home now,” she said, walking towards the front door. “I want to take an Advil and lie down.”

Sitting on the floor, he struggled to get his underwear back up.

“Can I see you again?” he said.

She turned back to look at him.

“Only if you pay me,” she said.

She thought for a moment, glancing at the floor.

“And you have to take a shower first,” she said.

Late on a Saturday afternoon, Ralphie and Quentin sat in a back booth at Johnny’s Place in South Philly, drinking whiskey out of straight glasses. They’d had to move to the back, since more and more the boozehounds who always hung around the bar had started to bug Ralphie and ask him for favors.

For a few minutes, Quentin had been trying to convince Ralphie of the superiority of the Beatles over the Rolling Stones.

“I really don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie.

“Both Lennon and McCartney were great songwriters,” said Quentin. “Either one of them could write a great tune, a great lyric, and it would be a hit song.”

“So the fuck what?”

“So what? So, I’ll tell you so what—the Stones are a one note band. All their songs sound the same—it’s fucking Mick Jagger prancing around, pretending like he’s some nigger, pouting his huge ugly lips, and whining.”

Ralphie sighed and took another drink of straight whiskey.

“I keep telling you,” he said, “I don’t give a fuck. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the fucking Beach Boys, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass for any of them. They all mean shit to me.”

Quentin winced like he’d tasted something terrible. “The Beach Boys? Are you kidding me? We’re talking about the Beatles versus the Rolling Stones. The Beach Boys don’t even enter the picture.”

“Let me make it plain,” said Ralphie. “I don’t give a shit.”

Quentin frowned and took a drink of whiskey. “You’re funny, Ralphie, you know it? You don’t like any of the things everybody else likes. You know what I was thinking? That you’re sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, only without the Dr. Jekyll part.”

“You say some stupid shit sometimes,” said Ralphie. “We’ve been friends a long time, but once in a while I just want to beat your fucking head in with a baseball bat.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I was talking about just now.”

Ralphie looked over to see a blond girl with whorish make up staring at him from across the room. She wore a jean skirt and a black tube top. Ralphie frowned.

“Who’s that?” he said to Quentin.

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Why’s she staring at me?”

“I don’t know that either,” said Quentin.

Ralphie waved to her to come over to the table. The girl looked around, then pointed to herself. Ralphie nodded, and the girl started across the room.

“What’s your name?” said Ralphie, as she stepped up to them.

“Sheri-Lynn,” she said, and she had a cute Southern accent.

“Where you from?” said Quentin. “Delaware?”

She shook her head. “I was born and raised in North Carolina,” she said. “I been here a few years now.”

“What do you want?” said Ralphie.

“Well,” she said. “I heard you’re the guy to come to around here, you know, when you can’t go to the cops.”

Ralphie grinned and nodded and leaned back in the seat. “What if I am?” he said.

“I was kind of wondering,” she said, looking at the floor.

“Wondering what?” said Ralphie. “Spit it out.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to be my manager.”

“Manager?”

“You know, my pimp,” she said, glancing around.

“Shit,” said Ralphie, grinning wider. He looked at Quentin. “You imagine that? Me, a pimp?”

Quentin laughed. “Hell, yeah, you’d make a great pimp! Why don’t you do it, Ralphie?”

Ralphie looked back at the girl. “I don’t know anything about pimping.”

“There really ain’t nothing to it,” said the girl. “You just got to look out for me and make sure nobody takes advantage of me or hurts me, that kind of thing, and I give you a cut of my earnings.”

“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “How much?”

“That’d be up to you, but it’s usually about half.”

“Hey, that ain’t bad,” said Quentin.

“Plus, you get to fuck me whenever you want,” said the girl.

Ralphie looked her up and down. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“And you can beat me if I get out of line,” she said.

“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “That’s part of the arrangement?”

She nodded. “Sure is. It’s part of the pimp/whore relationship. Has been for ages.”

“That sounds pretty good,” said Quentin.

“It’s tempting,” said Ralphie. “But I don’t think so. I got too much other shit to do right now.”

“Okay,” said the girl, hanging her head.

Ralphie let out a sigh, looking at her. “Tell you what.”

“Yeah?” she said, looking up at him.

“If anybody bothers you, just let me know. Maybe I’ll run them off for you.”

“Oh, thanks, Ralphie. Thanks.”

She hurried back to the front bar.

“I really think you ought to go into pimping,” said Quentin. “I’d give you a hand with it. I know Pete would love to help out, too.”

“Nah,” said Ralphie, waving his hand. “Too much trouble.”

“Uh-oh,” said Quentin, looking across the room. “Look who’s here.”

Ralphie glanced over to see a guy they grew up with, Sam, standing in the same spot the prostitute had been standing in, scanning the room. As soon as he spotted Ralphie, he came hurrying over.

In high school, Sam had been in the marching band and played chess, and the rumor had always been that the gym teacher sodomized him. Ralphie hated his guts.

“Hey Ralphie!” said Sam, walking up to the table.

Quentin jumped out of his seat and blocked Sam from getting any closer.

“Just hold up there, Sam,” he said.

“I want to talk to Ralphie,” said Sam.

“Well, maybe Ralphie don’t want to talk to you.”

“It’s important,” said Sam.

Ralphie drank down the whiskey in his glass.

“If you waste my time, Sam,” he said. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you.”

“I swear, it’s not a waste of your time,” said Sam.

“Okay,” said Ralphie with a wave of his hand. “Let him by.”

Quentin stepped aside, and Sam approached the table.

“It’s about a job,” said Sam. “You know my Uncle Ulysses, the pharmacist?”

“What about him?” said Ralphie.

“He’s got this extra large shipment of pain medication in his store right now. I forget what they’re called, but they’re popular on the street. He lives overtop the store, but he went to the Poconos this weekend, so I thought we could break in there and steal them, you and me. They’d be worth a lot of money!”

“I told you not to waste my time,” said Ralphie, sliding out of the booth.

He punched Sam in the face, sending him to his knees. Ralphie bashed him on the side of the head, and kicked him in the guts as he lay on the floor. Sam curled up in a fetal position, whimpering. Ralphie stomped on his hand, breaking several fingers.

Ralphie sat back down in the booth, breathing hard.

“Get him out of here,” he said to Quentin.

Quentin waved to Al, one of the boozehounds, to help him, and the two of them lugged Sam out of the bar.

Ralphie signaled to Charlie the bartender, and Charlie brought a bottle of whiskey to the table and refilled their glasses.

Quentin came back inside, rubbing his hands together, and sat back down at the table.

“Give Pete a call,” said Ralphie. “Tell him to get over here.”

“He’s supposed to be taking his mother to her doctor’s appointment,” said Quentin, taking out his phone.

“That’s okay,” said Ralphie. “He can do that later.”

“Why you want to get him over here?”

“We’re going to rob that pharmacy,” said Ralphie. “It’s a good idea, and I know a guy we can sell that stuff to and make a nice profit.”

“Great,” said Quentin.

“We’ll need Pete to drive us,” said Ralphie.

As Quentin phoned Pete, someone approached the table. Ralphie looked up to see Rachel Almaghetti, the nun. Everyone around the neighborhood called her Sister Rachel Armageddon.

The nun wore ordinary street clothes, a sweater and a pair of jeans, like she always did. No one had ever seen her in her nun’s habit outside of church. Thin and petite, she had chestnut hair that came down to her shoulders

“I saw what you just did to poor Sam,” said Sister Rachel Armageddon.

“Fuck off,” said Ralphie.

“You boys are really cruel,” she said. “Sam’s had a hard life, the way he was molested in high school and everything.”

Ralphie hated the way she’d called them ‘boys’, since the nun was their age. She might even have been younger, still in her twenties. It was like she thought she was better than they were, like she had a calling in life, from God or the Pope, or one of those jerk offs, and she could lord it over you and tell you what to do.

“Fuck him,” said Ralphie. “If he comes around, bothering me, I’ll kick his ass.”

“Well,” said the nun, putting her hands on her hips. “You boys are unrepentant sinners, full of vice—that’s what you are, vicious characters, proud, slothful, angry…”

“Don’t forget lustful, covetous, envious, and gluttonous,” said Ralphie. He’d been to mass enough times as a boy to know the deadly sins.

“That’s right!” said the nun.

“Pete’s on his way,” said Quentin, turning off his phone. “You want another drink?”

Ralphie nodded, and Quentin got up and walked over to the bar.

“So you really think you know what vice is, huh?” Ralphie said to Sister Rachel.

“Of course I do,” said the nun. “As every good Christian should.”

“Bullshit,” said Ralphie. “I don’t think you have a fucking clue. I bet you’ve never really sinned in your life.”

“Maybe so,” said the nun, shaking her head. “But everyone knows what vice is.”

“Yeah?” said Ralphie, taking a drink of whiskey. “If you’re so sure you know what it is, then tell me.”

“I’d be happy to,” said the nun, and she grabbed a chair from another table and sat down next to the booth. “Vice is just what we said a minute ago—lustfulness, pride, sloth, and so on.”

Ralphie sneered. “I wanted to know what vice is,” he said, “and all you did was give me a list of vices. So, it’s like if you wanted to know what a pistol was, and I said, there are Smith and Wesson’s, and Brownings, and Colts, and there are revolvers and automatics, and shit like that. I wouldn’t have told you what you wanted to know.”

“I don’t think that’s the same thing,” said the nun.

“Sure, it’s the same fucking thing,” said Ralphie. “There are other vices besides the seven deadly sins, right?”

“Yes,” said Sister Rachel, nodding her head.

“So you got to know what vice itself is, so that if you run into some other kind, you can still know that it’s a vice. How the hell are you suppose to avoid wickedness, if you don’t even know what the hell it is?”

Quentin came back to the table and sat another glass of whiskey in front of Ralphie. Ralphie grabbed the glass, nodded at Quentin, and took a drink.

“So tell me what it is,” said Ralphie. “Prove to me you know what the fuck you’re talking about, or get the hell out of my face.”

“Okay,” said the nun. “You got it—it’s a kind of habit, or characteristic, part of your character, you know, to act in a certain way.”

She sat back in the chair, satisfied with her answer.

“It’s a habit of acting how?”

“You know,” she said, “to act lustfully, or proudly, or angrily…”

Ralphie laughed, shaking his head. “You dimwit,” he said. “You just said lust, pride, and anger are vices.”

“Yes, so?” she said, her cheeks reddening.

Ralphie looked at Quentin, and then back at the nun. “So your definition of vice is a tendency to act viciously?”

“Yeah? So what?” she said.

“You’re running in a circle and not telling me shit,” said Ralphie.

“I think you’re pulling my leg, Ralphie McNear!”

Quentin laughed out loud, spit flying from his mouth.

“No, I ain’t,” said Ralphie. “I wanted to know what vice is, and you haven’t told me dick.”

“Well, then, smart guy, you tell me what a pistol is,” said the nun, her cheeks burning.

Ralphie shrugged and he reached under his jacket and pulled out a blue-steel automatic pistol and laid it on the table in front of him.

“A pistol is a small firearm that was made to be held and discharged with one hand.”

He turned the automatic on the table until the barrel was pointed at Sister Rachel.

The nun swallowed hard, looking at the gun.

“I think you know exactly what vice is,” she said. “I think you know better than I do.”

“Of course I know,” said Ralphie. “I only said you got no clue about it.”

Sister Rachel Armageddon got up from the table, and backed away, without saying anything else.

“You know,” said Quentin, watching her. “I’d sure like to fuck her.”

Ralphie frowned at him, and put the pistol back in its holster under his jacket. “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s a goddamned nun.”

“I know,” said Quentin. “But, shit, she’s got a pussy, don’t she?”

Ralphie nodded, thinking about it. “You’re right. She’s got a pussy, same as any other woman.”

Quentin grinned. “Sure—it’s all pink on the inside!”

Ralphie laughed. “Yep—all pink on the inside!”

They clinked their glasses together and drank and laughed even harder, thinking about the nun and her pussy.

II.

On the afternoon of the next day, Ralphie and Quentin sat in the back of the bar, in the same booth, drinking whiskey, when the door to the bar opened and Pete came in. He spotted the two of them and walked over to the table.

“Jesus,” he said. “You won’t fucking believe what I’ve been through.”

“You’re late,” said Ralphie.

“Really late,” said Quentin. “Like a whole day late.”

“I know, I know all that,” said Pete. “You want to hear what happened, or not?”

“Not really,” said Ralphie.

“All we know is, you blew our deal,” said Quentin. “We were going to knock over a pharmacy and sell a bunch of medication, but now the pharmacist is back from the Poconos, and we can’t do it.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” said Pete. “Goddamn it, Charlie!” he said to the bartender. “Bring me a Wild Turkey—make it a double!”

Charlie the bartender nodded to him, and reached for a glass.

“I got fucking pulled over by a cop—for speeding, can you believe it?”
Ralphie and Quentin looked at each other, like they were trying to decide if Pete was telling the truth.

“He what?” said Quentin.

“Yes, no shit,” said Pete. “This cop, and he’s not even a real cop, he’s a traffic cop, if you can believe that. He fucking pulls me over for speeding, finds out with his stupid computer that my license is suspended, and then halls my ass to jail!”

“So what did you do?” asked Quentin.

Charlie walked up and set Pete’s double Wild Turkey on the table.

“Do? Nothing I could do,” said Pete, taking a sip. “I had to spend the fucking night in jail. My mother came and finally bailed me out this morning. She missed her doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, our whole plan was shot to hell,” said Ralphie, and he finished his drink.

“It’s not my goddamned fault!” said Pete.

“He’s right,” said Quentin. “It’s not his fault. It’s that goddamned cop’s fault.”

Ralphie thought about it for a moment.

“Shit, you’re right,” he said. “It is that fucking cop’s fault.”

“So what do we do, Ralphie?” said Pete.

“Yeah, what do we do?” said Quentin.

“We get that cop,” said Ralphie. “That’s what we do.”

“It’s decided then,” said Quentin.

“What’s his name?” asked Ralphie.

“Dickson,” said Pete. “Officer Dickson.”

“Dickinson?” said Quentin.

“No,” said Pete. “Not Dickinson. It’s Dickson.”

“What the fuck kind of a name’s that?” said Quentin. “Dickson?”

“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “I heard of guys called Dickinson before, but never Dickson. Shit, that’s just plain stupid.”

Pete laughed. “Yeah, what a stupid fucking name.”

He drank the rest of the Wild Turkey and let the glass slam against the table, then he belched.

“So what’re we going to do about this cop?” he said.

“First we got to find out where he lives,” said Ralphie.

“We could follow him home from work,” said Pete.

“Yeah, or we could just look in the fucking phonebook.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a good…wait a minute, we don’t know his first name.”

“How many people have a stupid name like ‘Dickson’?” said Ralphie.

“Can’t be too many,” said Quentin.

“Hey, Charlie,” Ralphie said. “You got a phonebook?”

Charlie nodded and pulled the phonebook from under the bar. Pete got up from the table and walked over and took the book from Charlie. He set it down then started flipping through the pages.

“Hey guys,” he said. “Get this—there’s a guy named ‘Dick’! Arthur P. Dick—I’m not shitting you!”

Quentin said, “Let me see that.”

He grabbed the phone book.

“Well, I’ll be damned. He’s right—Arthur P. Dick. Art Dick—can you imagine? Look at this Ralphie.”

“I don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie. “Is Dickson listed?”

Quentin scanned further down. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s two of them: M. Dickson and Steve Dickson.”

“Either of those sound familiar, Pete?” said Ralphie.

“Nope, I didn’t hear his first name.”

Quentin said, “Well, we could just call up and ask if this is the Dickson who’s a cop, right?”

“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “Good idea. Don’t use your cell, though. Use the payphone. Who’s got a quarter for the call?”

“I do,” said Pete, digging into his pocket. He pulled out two quarters. “Look, this one’s from Delaware,” he said. “The other is an older one, before they started putting states on them.”

“Go on over to the payphone and call the number for M. Dickson,” said Ralphie. “Ask if he’s a cop.”

Pete stood up, taking the phone book from the table.

“And Pete?” said Ralphie. “For fuck’s sake, make sure you use the old quarter, not the Delaware quarter for the call.”

Pete looked at him, frowning, and looked down at the two quarters. He picked one, and put the other back in his pocket and walked over to the payphone.

“God, he’s dumb,” said Quentin.

“Yeah,” said Ralphie. “He’s really dumb.”

“I wonder sometimes if he didn’t fall on his head when he was a kid or something.”

“Yeah, or maybe his mother smoked a lot of dope when she was pregnant.”

“Not likely,” said Quentin. “She’s so fucking uptight she won’t even let Pete drink beer at home.”

“What the fuck?”

“Tell me about it,” said Quentin. “There’s just something fundamentally wrong with that.”

“Sounds like she’s just plain stupid,” said Ralphie. “So maybe Pete caught it from her.”

“Nah, she’s not dumb like him, at least not in the same way. She’s just uptight.”

Pete walked back over to the table. “There was nobody there except some old lady.”

“Did you ask her if her son or grandson was a cop?” said Quentin.

“I asked her if she knew Officer Dickson.”

“What’d she say?”

“She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Well,” said Ralphie, “I hope you left your name and number, so someone can call us back with that information.”

“Oh, shit,” said Pete. “I didn’t think of that.”

Ralphie and Quentin looked at one another and broke out laughing. Pete started laughing too.

“I was just fucking with you,” said Ralphie, still laughing.

“Shit,” said Quentin. “You really believed that! That’s the funniest fucking thing I ever seen!”

It took almost a minute for the three of them to stop laughing.

“Go on and call the other number,” said Ralphie.

Pete started back towards the phone, but turned around. “Ralphie—I only got that Delaware quarter left.”

“Well, just ask Charlie for some change,” said Ralphie.

“Oh, yeah,” said Pete. “Good idea.”

He walked to the bar, pulling out some bills.

“God, he’s dumb,” said Quentin.

“Yeah,” said Ralphie, nodding. “He’s really dumb.”

Pete called the number for Steve Dickson. No one answered, and he got the machine. In a moment, he hung up the phone and came back to the table.

“Steve Dickson is the guy,” he said.

“You sure?” said Ralphie.

Pete nodded. “I heard his stupid voice on the machine. That’s him all right.”

“Okay,” said Ralphie. “He’s the one we’re going to get.”

III.

Near closing time at Johnny’s Place, Sister Rachel Armageddon approached Ralphie, who sat alone at his back booth.

“You need to come with me,” said the nun.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Ralphie. “Come with you where?”

“To the back office,” she said, inclining her head towards the rear of the room.

“Why would I do that?”

The nun looked around. “It’s Marcie,” she said. “She needs you.”

Ralphie frowned. “Marcie’s not here. She went home.”

The nun laid her hands flat on the table. “I’m telling you, she’s in the office, and she needs you!”

“All right,” said Ralphie, sliding out of the booth. “But I don’t know why the fuck she didn’t just come out here and see me.”

The nun hurried him along to the office. They entered the room, Ralphie going in first. Sister Rachel followed him, clicking on the light, and closing the door behind her.

The office contained a desk and chair, two filing cabinets, and boxes of liquor stacked in the corner.

“What the fuck?” said Ralphie, turning to face the nun. “Where is she?”

“Marcie isn’t here,” said the nun, her back against the door.

“Yeah, I can see that,” said Ralphie. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“I needed to see you in private,” she said. “I’m worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“About the state of your soul!”

“Get the fuck out of here,” said Ralphie, stepping forward.

“No, don’t leave!” said Sister Rachel. “Just give me a few minutes. You never come to church, and you never let me talk to you about serious things.”

“Yeah, because I don’t want to listen to your bullshit,” said Ralphie.

“There’s still time,” she said. “Still time to save your soul, but you have to repent! You have to give yourself over to Jesus.”

Ralphie grabbed her by the shoulders, and started to push her aside, away from the door. She took hold of his arms and held onto him fast.

“You know what they call me?” said the nun.

“Yeah, Sister Rachel Armageddon.”

“No, no, no, that’s not what I mean,” said the nun. “Wait—who calls me that?”

Ralphie shrugged. “Everybody, as far as I know.”

“Well, that’s a terrible nickname.”

“Seems right to me,” said Ralphie.

“Anyway,” said Sister Rachel. “I meant what they call me in the church, officially? I’m called a Bride of Christ.”

“Yeah, so what?”

The nun still clung to him, her arms around his waist now.

“So I took a vow. I married our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

“Good for you,” said Ralphie, rolling his eyes.

“You knew me when I was a teenager,” she said. “I was having religious experiences at that time, glorious, ecstatic experiences. I would look at a picture of Jesus, and electric shocks ran through my body.”

“Probably just getting your period,” said Ralphie.

“I was so moved,” said the nun. “So transformed, that I had to give myself to Christ.”

“Look, you’re really starting to bore the hell out of me,” said Ralphie.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt those shocks,” said Sister Rachel.

Ralphie tried to push her aside, but she locked her arms tight around him.

“I’ve been feeling them again!” she said.

She reached up and kissed him with a wet, slobbery kiss, her tongue bouncing against his lips.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he said.

“I can save you,” she said.

She started rubbing her crotch against his leg. She let out a moan.

“Fucking stop that,” said Ralphie.

“You’re so much stronger than me, Ralphie,” she said. “You could overpower me so easily.”

He kept trying to push her away.

“I took a vow of celibacy,” she said. “But I know you want to have your way with me.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” said Ralphie.

“I see the way you look at me. You’re so strong! I can’t stop you!”

Ralphie twisted her arm hard, and she cried out and let go of him. He dropped her onto the floor, but she grabbed him around the legs.

“I’m helpless, Ralphie,” she said, her face pressed against his thighs. “There’s no way I could stop you from taking me!”

Ralphie smacked her hard against the side of the head. She let go of him and fell onto her side. He walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Quentin stood by the back booth. “Where were you?” he said.

“You won’t fucking believe it,” said Ralphie, walking over to him. “But that idiot nun tried to get me to fuck her.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “No shit? Did you do it?”

“No, fuck no,” said Ralphie.

“Yeah, but we said it’s all pink on the inside,” said Quentin, scratching his head.

Ralphie shrugged.

“I changed my mind,” he said.

Ralphie and Marcie walked into the bar and looked around, surprised at the crowd. Ralphie spotted Quentin and Pete in a corner booth and nodded to them. He didn’t want to sit with them because he noticed that they acted stupid around Marcie. Pete always acted stupid, that’s the way he was. Ralphie figured his parents must have dropped him on his head when he was a kid, or maybe his mother had smoked a lot of crack when she was pregnant. But for some reason Quentin also acted funny whenever Marcie was around.

Ralphie directed Marcie to the end of the bar, as far away from Sister Rachel as he could manage, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to her Catholic bullshit. He called to Charlie the bartender to bring them some drinks.

Marcie wore a black skirt, black stockings, and a white shirt that was open a few buttons, so that it showed off her tits. She’d just had her hair dyed a deep red color like cooked cherries, and that pissed off Ralphie when he first saw it. She had naturally pretty chestnut brown hair, so he didn’t understand why she’d want to go and ruin it like that.

Charlie the bartender sat the drinks in front of them, and they clinked glasses like they wanted to toast something.

“Why’s she do that?” said Marcie, raising her voice, so she could be heard over the crowd.

“Who?” said Ralphie.

“The nun,” she said, nodding at Sister Rachel.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Doesn’t she know those people? Pat and Al, and Dickie—they’ll never change.”

“Wouldn’t if they could,” Ralphie said.

“That’s what I mean,” she said, almost yelling. “I’m not sure anybody can change what they really are, you know, deep inside. Those three sure can’t, so she’s wasting her time.”

“Just makes the situation worse,” said Ralphie.

“You’re right! If they can’t help being who they are, then she’s just making them feel bad by harping at them.”

Ralphie felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Quentin grinning like an idiot. Ralphie and Quentin had been friends since grade school, when Ralphie beat the hell out of him in a schoolyard fight and knocked out three of his teeth.

“I was hoping you guys would show up,” Quentin said.

Ralphie rolled his eyes. Quentin would never say stupid shit like that when Marcie wasn’t around.

“Hi Quentin,” said Marcie, turning to him.

“Hi Marcie. Where’d you guys eat?”

“We ate at the Oregon Diner. Ralphie got mustard on his shirt.”

She reached over and scratched at the yellow stain.

“Have anything good?” Quentin asked.

“Vichyssoise and pâté,” Ralphie said, feeling himself getting angry. “What the fuck does it matter?”

“Don’t be so grumpy,” said Marcie. “I had chicken pot pie, and it wasn’t bad. Ralphie had the chopped steak.”

Ralphie glanced at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar and straightened his tie. The mirror was cracked and cloudy, and it distorted his reflection. He felt vaguely sick looking at himself.

“You guys want to come over and sit with us?” said Quentin, motioning towards the table.

“Maybe later,” Ralphie said.

Quentin shrugged, and turned like he was going back to the booth, but stopped. “I forgot—your father was in here earlier.”

“What?” said Ralphie.

He hadn’t seen his father in three years. He couldn’t believe that the old man would just show up like that, just appear in the neighborhood, without warning.

“Yeah,” said Quentin. “He was in here with some woman, and he asked about you.”

“What woman?” Marcie said.

“I don’t know. Some broad. She was a lot younger. I mean, older than us, but a lot younger than him. She looked kind of cheap, if you ask me.”

“What the fuck did he want?” said Ralphie.

Quentin shrugged. “Beats me. They had a drink at the bar, and when he saw me and Pete, he came over and asked where you were and if you was going to be in tonight.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said you and Marcie were out somewhere eating, and you’d probably show, like you always do.”

Quentin shrugged again, and headed back to where Pete sat.

“Who the hell do you think that woman was?” said Marcie.

“Fuck if I know.”

“What do you think he wanted?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

Marcie picked her glass up off the bar and looked at it, like she’d forgotten about it. She up-ended it, and drank the booze, then smacked the glass back down against the bar.

“Oohh, that burns,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here, want to?”

Her lips had started to narrow, and her cheeks glowed.

“Let’s have another drink first,” said Ralphie. “You’ll feel better!”

“I wish…” she said.

Ralphie looked at her and nodded.

It took Ralphie a moment, but he got Charlie’s attention and ordered another round. By the time the drinks came, the room had quieted down. Ralphie and Marcie touched their glasses together in another fake toast. Ralphie took a drink.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Marcie. “I’m pregnant again.”

Ralphie nodded. “I’ll put the money on the bookcase in the morning, before I go to work.”

He took another drink, and over the rim of the glass he noticed the nun walking over towards them, and he felt himself tense up.

Her name was Sister Rachel Almaghetti, but everyone called her Sister Rachel Armageddon. She was in her late twenties, the same age as Marcie. She’d been an ugly kid in high school, kind of fat, with a face like a bowl of mashed potatoes. None of the guys would have anything to do with her. Her cousin had to take her to the prom. But after high school, and after she decided to become a nun, she lost all that baby fat, fixed her hair, and got some color in her cheeks. Ralphie thought that she wasn’t half bad looking now, and that she could probably find a man if she wanted to.

“I didn’t see you in church today,” she said, stepping up to them.

She wore street clothes—a pair of jeans and a dark blue sweater. She never wore the habit outside St. Mark’s.

Ralphie laughed. “When was the last time you saw us in church?”

Ralphie was Irish Catholic. At least, he had been raised Catholic, and he had very bad memories of his parochial schooling.

“Well, maybe it’s time you went then,” she said. “Sunday’s Easter. It would be a good opportunity for you to recommit yourself to the faith. It’s a time of rebirth and second chances.”

“Shut up,” said Ralphie. “You sound like an idiot.”

“Ralphie!” said Marcie.

“Well, she does!”

“I know that,” said Marcie, “but you don’t have to say it!”

“Today’s Good Friday,” said the nun, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. “The day on which our Lord and Savior died for our sins. He died, so that we may all have eternal life.”

“Right,” said Ralphie. “He died and three days later was resurrected.”

“That’s right,” said Sister Rachel.

Ralphie noticed that she’d arched her back and pushed out her chest, and he wondered if her thing for Jesus, her whole religious conviction, didn’t have something to do with sex. He thought maybe she became a nun in the first place because she couldn’t get laid.

“Say,” he said, thinking about it. “What was Jesus doing during that time?”

“What?” she said, like she hadn’t heard.

“Yeah, what was Jesus doing during those three days between his death and his resurrection? What was he doing?”

“Doing?”

“Yeah, what was he doing? Where was he? I mean, was he playing pinochle, was he in a whorehouse, getting drunk, what?”

“He was…he was dead,” she said, and she sounded shaken.

“Sure, but he’s Jesus, for fuck’s sake. He’s like Superman, only there’s no kryptonite—know what I mean? Nothing can really stop him. Sure his body died, right, but he couldn’t die die. And he didn’t ascend into heaven until forty days later, right? So that means he wasn’t hanging around with the old man during that time. So where was he during those three days? What was he doing?”

Her face turned a deep shade of red, almost the color of Marcie’s hair.

“I hate you Ralphie McNear!” she said, and turned and walked away.

Ralphie watched her little butt moving in her jeans, and he said, “You know what she needs?”

“I can only imagine,” said Marcie.

“She needs to get fucked. She needs her pussy sucked, she needs to have her clock cleaned.”

“Right,” said Marcie, shaking her head. She took a drink of whiskey. “That’s your answer to everything.”

Ralphie shrugged. “Most things, anyway.”

Across the room, the door opened and Ralphie’s father walked in. He was tall, though he stooped, and he had silvery-gray hair and a moustache. He wore a gray pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie. A woman accompanied him. In her late forties, she had straight pasta-colored hair, and she wore a short, sparkly blue dress. She clung to his arm.

Ralphie felt Marcie go rigid next to him.

“Jesus Christ,” said Marcie. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Why the fuck would he come here like that?” said Ralphie.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” said Marcie.

Ralphie’s father’s name was Howard. He owned a barbershop and worked as a barber. He caught sight of them standing at the bar, and he walked over to them. The blond woman held onto his arm the whole time. Ralphie’s father smiled.

“Ralphie! Marcie!” said Howard the Barber. “I was hoping we’d find you here!”

Ralphie scowled. Marcie turned her head.

“I want to introduce you to…” said Howard, looking at the woman with the yellow hair. He cleared his throat. “I mean, this is Sandy…Mrs. Simes, I mean. She’s a librarian.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Ralphie.

“Mrs. Simes and me—we’re going to be married!”

“I can’t believe you’d come here,” said Ralphie.

His father frowned. “Son, I thought you’d be happy. I wanted to tell you.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Marcie.

“Can I get a drink?” said Mrs. Simes the Librarian, looking around.

“I have to take a shit,” said Ralphie.

He stepped away from the bar and walked through the crowd, towards the men’s room.

The toilet was disgusting, but Ralphie had to go, and the tension from seeing his father only made it worse. He dropped his trousers and sat down on the commode, releasing his bowels at the same time. He sighed.

The door to the stall slammed open. Marcie stood with her feet spread, looking down at him.

“You shouldn’t have left me alone with them,” she said.

“Can’t a man have a little privacy, for God’s sake?” he said.

“I want you to do it,” she said in a thick whisper.

Ralphie raised an eyebrow.

“You heard me—I want you to do it.”

He pointed to the graffiti on the wall. “I was just reading here about this guy named Simon. Seems he likes it up the ass, and he hangs around here on Tuesdays.”

“Stop kidding around,” she said. Her hand was still pressed against door to the stall, where she’d pushed it open. “You know you want it done, as much as I do.”

“Yeah, well it’s going to cost you.”

The idea of making Marcie pay for it excited him.

“I don’t care,” she said.

Ralphie clinched his bowels and let out a loud fart. The whole bathroom stank.

Marcie bent down, grabbed his chin, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Her tongue darted between his lips and caressed his tongue. Ralphie’s dick started to get hard. It pressed against the inside of the toilet bowl.

A shadow fell across them, and Marcie pulled back, her lips moist and swollen, and they both looked up to see his father standing there. Howard the Barber had a disgusted, horrified look on his face.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he said.

Ralphie grinned.

“What do you want?” said Marcie.

“My God, Marcie!” said Howard. “Your own brother!”

“Sorry, Pop,” said Ralphie.

His father ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Marcie leaned in and started kissing Ralphie once more.

Ralphie let out a sigh between the kisses. He was pleased now that he’d made the decision to kill his old man.

II.

Three days after he saw his father at the bar, Ralphie stepped inside the family barbershop on Washington Avenue, and the little bell rang when he opened and closed the door. His father stood behind the barber’s chair, cutting a man’s hair. The man, bald on top of his head, had a shiny crown, and his hair ran around the sides and back in a dark horseshoe. He had a pale green cloth tied around his neck and spread down across his knees, and he read the newspaper. Ralphie’s father wore a white smock that had strands of black hair stuck to it. His father looked up at him with a weary expression when Ralphie came in.

“Hi Pop!” said Ralphie.

His father didn’t say anything, he just went back to cutting the man’s hair. The scissors made a crisp snipping noise in a regular pattern, like he was keeping time to something in his head as he cut hair.

Ralphie sat down in one of the waiting chairs. The man looked up from the newspaper at him, and Ralphie grinned. The man didn’t smile back, he just nodded, and looked down at the newspaper. The front of the newspaper announced in bold letters that a local construction worker had been murdered. His body had been found inside a crushed-up car at an auto wrecking yard.

Ralphie frowned, feeling his pistol digging into his side where he had it tucked into his pants, and he shifted in the seat so it would be more comfortable.

Ralphie’s father put his scissors and comb in the pocket of his smock, and he rubbed some kind of ointment or lotion into the man’s hair, what there was of it. He spun the chair around, so the man faced the mirror, and held a small mirror in back of him so that he could see his ring of dark hair. The man nodded in approval.

“Looks good, Howard,” he said.

Howard set down the mirror, and pulled the pale green cloth off the man and shook the hair out of it. He folded the cloth over his arm and waited, standing by the chair. The man stood up and straightened the crease his trousers, then pulled out his wallet. He handed Howard the Barber a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. Ralphie’s father charged nineteen dollars and fifty cents for haircuts.

“Thanks, Simon,” said Howard.

The man took his jacket from the coat rack, put it on, and said, “See you,” and walked out the door. The little bell rang twice.

Ralphie’s father laid the green cloth over the back of the chair, then took a broom from the corner and started sweeping the little hairs on the floor into a pile.

“So how are you, Pop?” said Ralphie.

“What do you want?” said his father, without looking at him. His eyes focused on the floor and the little hairs he was sweeping up.

“A haircut, of course!” said Ralphie.

He jumped up out of the waiting chair and sat down in the barber chair. His father kept sweeping, so Ralphie reached behind him and grabbed the green cloth and laid it over himself.

“Cut the horseshit,” said his father.

“What horseshit?” said Ralphie. “I need a trim,” and he ran his hand over his head. He kept his red hair cut very close to his skull.

“You haven’t wanted me to cut your hair since you were eight years old,” his father said. He stopped sweeping and set the broom back in the corner.

“Hell, I didn’t want you to cut it then,” said Ralphie, over his shoulder.

“Then what the hell do you want?”

Ralphie put a foot on the floor and turned the chair so that it was facing his father. “I figured you and me ought to have a little chat, that’s all.”

“What about—you and your sister?” his father said in an ugly voice.

“Hmmm…” said Ralphie. “That’s not a bad idea. Why don’t we talk about me and Marcie!”

“So you’re sleeping with her, huh?” his father said.

“Sleeping?” Ralphie laughed. “No, we’re not sleeping together.”

“You’re having sex!”

“And you would know about that, wouldn’t you?” Ralphie said. “You know all about fucking Marcie.”

His father flushed and seemed to lose his balance. He leaned back against the counter behind him.

“All those trips to that motel when we were kids,” said Ralphie. “You had me waiting out in the car, or you locked me in the bathroom. You really think I didn’t know what was going on? You think I didn’t figure it out?”

Ralphie gathered the pale green cloth in his fist and threw it to the floor. He pulled back his jacket to let his father get a look at the pistol sticking in his belt.

“No surprise, Pop, but Marcie hates you. And, frankly, I’m not too fond of you either.”

“What’re you going to do?” his father said, staring at the butt of the pistol.

“Good,” Ralphie said. “Let’s get right to the point. Marcie hates you so much, Pop, she wants me to kill you.”

“You’re…you’re lying. She don’t hate me that much…”

“Oh, on the contrary,” said Ralphie. “She’s going to pay me to do it—pay me in sex. She’s going to blow me, and I’m going to fuck her!”

“That’s disgusting,” said Howard.

“But you know what, Pop? She don’t really even have to pay me. I’d have done this one for free.”

His father shook his head. “If your mother could hear you, she’d be mortified,” he said.

“She’s dead, Pop. So she don’t hear anything.”

Ralphie stood up out of the chair and pulled his jacket back over the pistol.

“Normally,” he said, “I wouldn’t tell a guy I was going to cap him before I did it. Usually it’s a stupid thing to do, for obvious reasons. But in this case, I’m making an exception. You know why?”

“So you’re really going to go through with it? You’re going to kill me?”

“Yeah, of course,” said Ralphie. “But do you know why I’m telling you? That’s what I was asking you.”

His father didn’t say anything, just stared at him.

“I’m telling you ‘cause I wanted you to know it was Marcie’s idea. I mean, I don’t really give a shit what happens to you. Marcie’s the only person I really give a shit about, and I want her to have what she wants. And she wants me to kill your ass, so of course I’m going to do it. Like I said, I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”

Howard picked up the green cloth and folded and refolded it. “You can just go screw yourself,” he said. “You’re a punk, and you always will be one.”

Ralphie laughed with his mouth open. He turned and walked towards the door. Thinking about it, he stopped and said, “Hey, do you still have those suckers you give out? I always loved those root beer suckers.”

He looked around the cash register and saw the jar.

“Yeah, awesome,” he said, and he dug around until he found the right one. He unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. “See you, Pop,” he said, and he walked out the door, and the little bell rang twice.

III.

Mrs. Simes the Librarian fumbled with Howard’s belt and zipper. Already naked, she sat on the side of the bed, one foot on the floor. Her yellow hair hung in her face and her sagging breasts swung with the motions of her arms.

“You took your Viagra, didn’t you?” she said.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, trying to help her with his trousers.

The room was dim, lit by a violet-colored lamp that sat tilted on the nightstand, casting deep shadows across the walls.

They got his trousers and undershorts off, and Mrs. Simes climbed up onto the bed and turned around, grabbing the headboard.

Howard the Barber climbed onto the bed behind her. “You sure you want to try this?” he said.

She nodded.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said.

“Well, I have—lots of times.”

He frowned a moment, and then reached down and began to rub his penis along the crack of her ass, overtop her anus.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

He leaned to one side to get a look at her face.

She nodded towards the nightstand and the picture of Jesus sitting there. Jesus had his hands folded together and a dull, almost blank, expression on his face, and he looked straight ahead, like he was watching what the two of them were doing.

“Turn that over, will you?”

“Huh?”

“The picture,” she said, nodding. “Goddamn it, turn the picture over!”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and reached over and laid flat the picture of Jesus.

“Okay, good,” she said. “Now do it to me.”

Howard positioned his penis carefully on her anus and began to insert himself, to apply pressure. It was very tight, and he was wondering if he would maintain his erection long enough to complete the act.

Mrs. Simes said nothing, she was motionless and made no noise. He wondered if she liked what he was doing.

With another push, he inserted himself, and it was very tight, and he wondered if he was hurting her, but still she said nothing. He began moving in and out, just a little, and it was exciting—the tightness, and the taboo feeling, that experience of doing something transgressive. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

A muffled popping noise sounded, and Mrs. Simes splayed out in front of him, and dark streaks ran down the wall in front of the headboard, and Howard felt himself coming, riding the orgasm, thrusting into her, and he looked down, and saw that part of her face was missing, blood filling the pillow.

He yelled and pulled himself out of her, and turned to see his son, Ralphie, with a pistol in his hand. The pistol had a silencer on it.

Ralphie grinned. “You got some shit on your dick there, Pop,” he said.

Howard the Barber looked down at the brown smudges on his penis.

“Oh, that’s gross!” he said, and wiped it off on the white sheets.

Ralphie sat on the wooden chair next to the bed. “Anything you want me to tell Marcie?”

“So this is it, huh?” Howard said, looking up. His voice trembled.

“Yep, this is it.”

Howard sighed. “I don’t know…Tell her…Tell her I’m sorry, I guess.”

Ralphie shook his head and smirked. “Shit, Pop, you’re not sorry at all.”

“I know,” Howard said, nodding. “You’re right…I guess I should be, but I’m really not.”

Ralphie stood up.

“That’s what I’ll tell her, then,” he said.

I.

Annie walked into the saloon called Johnny’s Place, where everybody in South Philly hung out. Coming out of the bright afternoon sun, she had to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She hated the sunlight. It hurt her eyes, gave her a headache, and made her freckle, and she fucking hated freckles. She wore her good denim skirt, a tank top, and a pair of sandals. She thought now maybe she should’ve dressed up a little more, but her black skirt, the one she wore to her mother’s funeral, was the only dressier thing she had, and that wouldn’t have looked right, not in the middle of the afternoon.

When her eyes adjusted she looked around and spotted Ralphie sitting with his friends at a table. She walked over to them, trying not to hurry, trying not to look like she was in a hurry. They laughed and joked, and she knew they’d been drinking. They didn’t even seem to notice her standing there.

Ralphie’s friend Quentin told a story about his little brother. His little brother was a retard, and Quentin told a funny story about how the kid stuck a knife in a light socket, how he shocked himself and yelled out in this funny retard way.

“You should’ve heard him!” said Quentin, and he imitated his brother yelling.

Everyone laughed hard.

“When he stuck the knife in the socket,” said Pete, “did he have smoke coming out of his hair, the way they do in cartoons?”

Quentin stared at him a moment. “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

Annie spoke up, saying, “Ralphie? Ralphie, can I talk to you?” and her voice sounded too eager. She fucking hated her voice when it sounded like that.

The guys went on drinking and joking, and Ralphie seemed to ignore her. She walked over to his side of the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “Ralphie? Can I talk to you a minute?”

Ralphie drank the whiskey in his glass and belched.

Pete nodded at her and said, “Ralphie, Annie wants to talk to you.”

Ralphie looked over at him like he’d said something stupid.

“No kidding?” he said. “How’d you fucking figure that one out?”

Quentin laughed out loud, and spit flew from his mouth.

Annie bent down close to his ear. “Ralphie, can I talk to you?” she said, this time in a warm voice, making sure he could feel her breath on his ear and neck. She fucking loved her voice when it sounded like that.

He looked up at her. “What about?”

She looked at Quentin and Pete. “It’s kind of private,” she said, using that same voice again.

He kept looking up at her, and their eyes met, and she felt his hand touch her leg. His hand slid up the inside of her leg, under the denim skirt, and she didn’t move and didn’t let her eyes move away from his. When his hand slid all the way up between her legs, he realized she wasn’t wearing any underpants and he grinned.

“Okay,” he said, taking back his hand, and he scooted away from the table.

They walked together across the room, to a table away from the others. He held onto her arm, leading her as they walked. They sat down across from each other. Annie looked over at Ralphie. He was thirty or so, with red hair, redder than hers, buzzed short, and he had pale blue eyes and a full mouth. She found him very handsome. The only thing that detracted from his looks was a thick scar over his left eye, and that made him look rugged more than ugly.

“Carol beat up Cathy again,” she said, referring to her husband and her oldest daughter. “He beats me up all the time, and I don’t really give a shit anymore, but I just can’t stand it when he hits the kids.”

“Does he hit Linda too?”

Linda was her other daughter, the younger one.

“Yeah, he beats them both.”

Carol hardly ever hit Linda, but she wanted Ralphie to think he did.

“Why don’t you stop him?” he said.

“I try, but he’s so much bigger than me, Ralphie.”

She felt herself starting to cry, and she was glad that she was. She hadn’t even tried, it just sort of happened.

“Why don’t you leave him?” Ralphie said to her.

“I would,” she said, sniffling. “Only he said he’d kill me, he’d kill all three of us, if I did.”

Ralphie sat back in the chair with his hands behind his neck. “You think he’s serious?”

She nodded and wiped away a tear. “I know he is. He told me he knows a guy, and this guy drives a tow truck. What he does is, he follows you around, and when he gets you some place kind of isolated, he shoots you in your car, then takes your car to the pound and they crush it all up, and you’re never found.”

“I never heard of that,” said Ralphie, sounding impressed. “I wonder who it is.”

“I don’t know, but I know he’s serious—Carol, I mean.”

Ralphie nodded, still with his hands behind his neck. “So, what do you want me to do?”

Annie looked around, and in a low voice said, “I want you to kill him for me.”

Ralphie stared at her and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

“Oh, Ralphie, everybody knows about you,” she said. “I mean, you got a reputation. People in South Philly know how bad you are.”

Ralphie nodded. He seemed pleased with what she’d said. “All right. I’ll kill him, but I’m doing it for the girls.”

She smiled at him. “Thanks, Ralphie. Thanks a bunch.”

“It’s going to cost you, though.”

She nodded. “I figured that.”

“Can you get out tonight?”

She frowned, thinking about it. “I don’t know. Maybe. I might be able to use my neighbor as an excuse.”

“Well, see if you can. Get out tonight and come over to my place, and we’ll start working on that payment.”

She smiled and felt herself getting moist and warm. She would’ve fucked Ralphie for fun or for no reason at all. Making like it was a payment for services made it seem dirty, and that excited her even more.

“If you can’t get a sitter, bring the girls,” Ralphie said. “We can find something for them to do.”

Annie nodded. She liked the fact that Ralphie liked her kids. She didn’t care anything about his reputation. So long as he liked her kids, he was all right with her.

She pushed away from the table, stood up, and walked across the floor. She hoped he was watching her, but when she reached the door she turned back to look at him, and he was already sitting at the other table with his friends again and wasn’t paying any attention to her.

Quentin and Pete had ordered more whiskey and had drunk theirs but left Ralphie’s sitting by his empty chair. Ralphie sat down at the table and took a drink.

“What’d she want?” said Quentin.

“She wants me to kill Carol,” said Ralphie.

Pete whistled.

Quentin said, “Yeah? You going to do it?”

Ralphie sighed. “I don’t know. I told her I would. He’s a real asshole, so why not?”

Pete whistled again, then said, “How you going to do it?”

Ralphie frowned at him. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Pete,” he said, and Pete shrugged.

Quentin said, “Hey, while you were over there, look what walked in,” and he nudged Ralphie and pointed over to a man a few tables away.

The man was small, in his fifties, and he had small features. He was balding on top, and he had a little moustache, glasses, and he had little girly hands with several rings on his fingers. He wore a denim jacket over a faded red t-shirt. He sat at the table by himself, sipping a drink and reading a book.

“Yeah, so?” said Ralphie.

“He’s funny looking, ain’t he?” said Quentin.

Ralphie nodded. “Hey, you’re right, he is.” Ralphie called over to the bartender. “Hey Charlie, come here a minute, will you?”

Charlie the bartender came around the bar. He wiped his hands with a dishtowel as he approached the table. Ralphie nodded to the funny-looking man. “Who’s that?”

Charlie glanced over at him, then looked back at Ralphie. “Never seen him before.”

Ralphie frowned. “Stranger, huh? What’s he drinking?”

“Coke with a lime in it,” Charlie said.

“Coke with a lime!” said Pete.

Both Quentin and Ralphie looked at him.

“You’re really stupid sometimes, Pete,” said Ralphie.

“Yeah, but Coke with lime in it?” said Pete in a hushed voice. “There’s something wrong with that.”

Ralphie nodded, like he agreed with Pete now.

“Let’s just go have a talk with this guy,” he said, and he stood up.

Pete and Quentin stood up with him, and Charlie went back to work behind the bar.

The three of them walked over to the other table and examined the little man. For a moment they stood there, and he kept looking at his book. Ralphie looked down at his glass to see that, sure enough, he really was drinking Coke with a lime in it. Finally, the man looked up at them and closed his book, marking his place with his finger.

“Yes?” he said, and he had a squeaky voice.

“What you drinking there, stranger?” said Ralphie.

The little man looked down at his glass, then back at Ralphie. “Coke,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s got a lime in it!” said Pete.

The man looked over at Pete. “That’s right, it’s got a lime in it,” and his voice was squeaky and high-pitched, making him sound like the cartoon mouse on TV.

Pete laughed. “Why the hell do you drink it like that?”

The man shrugged. “That’s the way I like it.”

Pete laughed again, louder this time.

Ralphie tugged on Quentin’s arm. The two of them turned aside and took a step away from the table.

“I tell you what,” said Ralphie. “That ain’t no man.”

Quentin frowned and glanced back at the little man. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, that’s a woman.”

Quentin frowned harder. “You’re joking?”

“No,” said Ralphie, “I ain’t. That’s a woman.”

“He’s bald and has a moustache,” said Quentin.

“She’s one of those transsexuals,” said Ralphie.

“Get out!” said Quentin.

Pete joined their huddle. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Ralphie says this guy’s a transsexual,” said Quentin, hooking his thumb back over his shoulder.

“You mean he likes to wear women’s clothes?” said Pete.

“No,” said Ralphie. “I mean this is a woman who had a sex change operation to become a man.”

Pete laughed. “You’re crazy,” he said. “She’s bald and has a moustache.”

“They take hormones,” said Ralphie. “The women take male hormones and that way they can grow moustaches.”

Quentin said, “Hey, that’s right, they do.”

Pete whistled. “No kidding?”

“Yeah,” said Ralphie, “and you know what else? If you’re a man, they cut off your dick, but if you’re a woman they make a dick for you and sew it on.”

“No shit!” said Pete.

“What do they make it out of?” said Quentin.

“Hell if I know,” said Ralphie. “Rubber maybe.”

“Why don’t they take the dicks from the guys and sew them onto the girls?” said Pete.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ralphie, but then he thought maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Why don’t we check it out and see?” said Quentin.

Pete nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to see what her dick looks like, if they made it look real, or what.”

Ralphie said, “Then it’s agreed—we need to get a look at her dick.”

The three of them turned back to the little “man” sitting there. He’d gone back to reading his book, but he had a nervous look about him, like maybe he knew what they were going to do, or had even overheard what they’d been saying.

Ralphie said, “Excuse me, sir—” and all three of them chuckled, “but we’d like to have a look at your goods.”

The little man frowned, and his mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Yeah,” said Pete, “We’d like to get a look at that homemade dick of yours!”

The man dropped his book and made a scared move like he might try to run, and the three of them caught him and dragged him out from behind the table, upsetting the Coke with lime in it. He yelled to the bartender in his high-pitched voice, and the three of them laughed the whole time. They started dragging him kicking across the bar, and finally they lifted him off the floor and carried him towards the men’s room. His glasses fell of his face and broke against the floor, and he kept crying out in his cartoon voice for the bartender to do something.

When they got to the men’s room, Pete said in a loud voice, “Hey, maybe she ain’t allowed in here!” and they laughed harder.

They pushed open the door to the men’s room and carried him inside. Pete kicked the door closed, and they laid him down on the dirty urine-stained floor. He yelled and kicked the whole time, and he got his arm loose and punched Quentin in the side of the face. Quentin stopped laughing and drew back and smashed the little man in the mouth, and his head snapped back and hit the tiled floor hard, and he went limp. He looked dazed and didn’t fight any more.

Pete and Quentin unzipped his fly and pulled down his pants. He wore white jockey shorts, and they were little like a boy’s, like they were boy’s sized.

“Okay,” Ralphie said, standing over them. “Pull his shorts down and let’s get a look.”

Pete giggled and grabbed the elastic and pulled down his shorts, and they all three got a look at the goods. He had a little scrotum and a perfectly formed little penis that was circumcised, both nearly hairless.

“Wow,” said Pete, “that looks real!”

Ralphie straightened up. “You dimwit,” he said. “It is real.”

“What? So they did like I said and cut this off some guy and sewed it on her?”

“No, stupid,” said Quentin. “This ain’t no transsexual.”

“Huh?” said Pete, standing up too. “I don’t get it. How’d she get this dick to look so real?”

Ralphie smacked him playfully on the head. “It is a real dick—don’t you get it? It’s a man!”

“Oh, shit!” said Pete, laughing. “I guess he’s allowed in here after all!”

Quentin and Ralphie started laughing with him, and then Ralphie said, “Okay, pull up his pants and get him up off the floor.”

Quentin and Pete did what Ralphie said. They pulled up the little man’s pants and picked him up off the floor.

“He okay?” said Ralphie.

Quentin tapped him on the cheek. “Hey, you okay?”

“He’s okay,” said Pete.

They walked out of the bathroom, Quentin and Pete carrying the little man. Ralphie picked up his broken glasses, and they took the little man back to the table where he’d been sitting. When the little man started to come out of his stupor, he began to cry.

“Charlie, get the guy another Coke with a lime in it, will you?” said Ralphie. And then he added, “You know what, I’ll try one of those myself.”

And Pete said, “Oh, man, that’s fucking gross!” and the three of them laughed even harder.

II.

Annie was preparing the kids’ supper, when she heard a knock at the door. She warned them to eat their weenies and baked beans, and walked out of the kitchen, across the living room and opened the front door. Ralphie stood on the porch. He grinned at her through the screen door, standing there in the yellow porch light.

“Ralphie, Jesus, I didn’t expect to see you!”

“Well,” Ralphie said, “you going to invite me in, or what?”

Annie turned her head, like there might’ve been someone behind her listening. She lowered her voice. “Carol’s going to be home pretty soon.”

Ralphie shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Well, okay,” she said. “Just for a few minutes, I guess.”

She pushed at the screen door. He opened it the rest of the way and walked in. He’d been to their house a few times before, but always in the afternoon when Carol was working. He looked around at the mismatched furniture, at the sofa with the holes in it, and at Carol’s stupid picture of John Wayne hanging on the wall.

Annie wore a faded pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt that had a picture of a teddy bear on it. She had a fresh bruise around her eye that she was glad Ralphie got to see, but she wished she looked better for him. She wanted him to want her.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she said.

He shrugged again. “What’re the girls doing?”

“They’re eating, having their dinner.” She paused, then said, “You want to say hi to them?”

“Sure,” Ralphie said. He’d always liked Annie’s girls. They were cute, and both of them were smart.

The two of them walked into the kitchen. The kids were fighting over a spoon. Annie said, “Hey, girls, look who’s here!”

They both looked up and grinned at Ralphie standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hi Ralphie!” they said together.

Ralphie walked over to the table. “How are you girls?” He put a hand on each of their shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

“Fine,” said Cathy, the older girl. She had shoulder-length straight blond hair that was almost white and bright blue eyes. She was eight now, and very smart. She said things you wouldn’t expect an eight year old to say. “How are you, Ralphie?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said to her. “What you having for dinner?”

“We’re having beans and weenies,” said Linda. She was six, and just as cute as a little girl could be, with dirty blond hair that was naturally curly.

“Sounds good,” said Ralphie. “Say, me and your mom want to have a little talk.”

“Okay,” said Cathy, going back to her supper.

“So you’ll be all right in here by yourselves for a few minutes?” Ralphie said to her.

“Of course we will,” said Cathy. “We’re not babies!”

“No, you sure aren’t,” said Ralphie, and he tousled her hair.

Ralphie looked at Annie, and she gave him an uncertain, worried glance. He nodded to her, and they walked out of the kitchen. Out in the living room, he grabbed her by the arm and directed her to the master bedroom. He closed the door behind them.

“Ralphie!” said Annie. “I’m telling you—Carol’s going to be home any minute!”

Ralphie pushed her up against the door and grabbed the front of her shirt. “Do I look like I’m worried?” he said, and he tore at her shirt until it ripped in half, right through the teddy bear. He pulled it the rest of the way off and tossed it to the floor, exposing her chest and the black brassiere she was wearing.

“Oh, fuck,” she said, getting very excited. “Oh, fuck.”

Ralphie grabbed her by the waistline of her jeans and pulled her into him. Their bodies met, and he stuck his tongue in her mouth. Annie shot her hands down his hips, then across his groin, feeling his cock, his very large cock through his trousers. Ralphie pulled away from her and pushed her over to the bed, face down. He reached around and unzipped her jeans, and pulled them down around her ankles. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. Annie arched her hips, and Ralphie unzipped his fly and took out his cock and mounted her from behind. He began to pump her very hard, and she moaned. She was very wet, very excited, and Ralphie came quickly, and Annie yelped when she felt him coming.

Ralphie pulled out of her and stood up. He grabbed her t-shirt from the floor and wiped his dick with it, then put his cock away and zipped up. Annie rolled over onto her back on the bed.

“Mmmm…” she said, her eyes closed. She was running her fingers across her breasts. “God, Ralphie, I love the way you fuck me.”

Ralphie pointed to her bruised eye. “Did Carol do that?”

Annie nodded. “Yep. Yesterday. He said he didn’t like the way I was talking to him, like I was giving him lip or something, so he hit me.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” said Ralphie.

Ralphie’s cell phone rang, and he pulled it out and looked at the display. “It’s Marcie,” he said, and answered it. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” said Marcie.

“Nowhere,” said Ralphie. “And I’m busy. What do you want?”

“Are you with someone?” said Marcie. “Are you with another girl?”

“I’ll see you at home later,” said Ralphie, and he clicked off the phone.

“I think she’s jealous,” said Annie.

“I know she is,” said Ralphie.

From the other room they heard the front door open.

“Oh, shit!” Annie said in a whisper. “It’s Carol—he’s home! Shit, what’re we going to do?”

“Relax,” Ralphie said.

“You got to hide!” she said, sitting up on the bed.

“No fucking way,” Ralphie said, smirking.

“Ralphie!”

“Hey—you want me to take care of things, right?”

Annie looked up at him. “Tonight? You’re going to do it tonight? Now? Right here?”

Ralphie shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Ralphie! The kids are here!”

“That’s okay,” Ralphie said. “I brought my silencer.”

He drew his pistol from its holster, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the silencer. He fitted it onto the end of the barrel and screwed it into place.

“The kids won’t hear a thing.”

“Fuck, Ralphie! Fuck,” said Annie, as she went to the dresser and pulled out a new t-shirt, a yellow one that had a picture of a baby duck on it.

The doorknob turned as Annie pulled the t-shirt over her head, and the door swung open. Carol stood in the doorway. Thin and muscular, he had dark brown hair, and he was unshaven. He wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, jeans and work boots. Carol did construction work, and he was strong.

Ralphie stood against the bedroom closet with the pistol behind his back. Annie tried to get herself straightened up, smoothing her hair and zipping her jeans.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Carol said.

“Hey, Carol,” said Ralphie.

“What the fuck’re you doing in my house?” said Carol. “What the fuck’re you doing in my bedroom?”

“Nice to see you, Carol,” said Ralphie. “Me and Annie were just having a little chat.”

“Get the fucking hell out of my house!” Carol said.

“Shhhh,” Ralphie said, putting a finger to his lips, the pistol still behind his back. “You’re going to scare the girls.”

“I don’t give a fuck—!”

“Hey!” Ralphie said, whipping the pistol around and pointing it at Carol now. “I told you not to fucking yell!”

Carol’s eyes bulged at the sight of the gun.

“Now close the fucking door,” Ralphie said.

Carol did, he closed the bedroom door and turned back to face the two of them.

“Good,” said Ralphie, and he aimed and shot Carol through the bridge of the nose. Annie screamed, and Carol tumbled to the floor in a heap.

A smear of blood and maybe brains remained on the white bedroom door about the height where Carol’s head had been.

“Shit,” said Ralphie. “I was aiming for his eye, but I got him right through the nose.”

There was a knock at the door. “Mommy?” said Cathy’s voice. “Mommy, what happened? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Ralphie said through the door. “Nothing at all. Go back to your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Is Mommy okay?”

“I’m fine, honey,” Annie said. “Go on back in the kitchen.”

They heard her little feet padding across the living room floor and into the kitchen. Ralphie unscrewed the silencer from his pistol and put them both away. He walked over and nudged Carol’s body with the toe of his shoe.

“He’s dead,” said Ralphie.

“Oh, Ralphie,” said Annie, stepping up beside him, her hand to her mouth.

“Yeah? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Sure…sure it is. I’m just, you know, a little freaked out now, looking at him laying there like that.”

Ralphie reached over and grabbed her hand then, and placed it on his cock.

“I don’t know why,” he said, “but killing somebody always makes me horny.”

Annie rubbed his swelling cock through his trousers, while she stared at the body on the floor. Ralphie got her attention, and put a hand on her shoulder and eased her down onto the floor, on her knees. She was kneeling now beside Carol’s dead body, and she unzipped Ralphie’s pants and took his penis out. She stroked it with her hand, as she stole another look at the body.

“Oooo… Ralphie, there’s blood on the floor,” she said, pointing with her free hand.

“That’s okay,” he said. “You can clean that up later.”

He grabbed the back of her head with his hand and turned it to face him. She opened her mouth then and took his penis and started sucking it.

Annie knew how to give a good blowjob, and Ralphie got very excited. He didn’t like to come standing up, though, so he pulled his dick out of her mouth and turned her around, and knelt down behind her. She was facing the dead body now, Carol’s dead body, laying inches in front of her on the floor in a pool of blood. Ralphie reached around and unzipped her jeans again and pulled them down around her knees. He climbed down on the floor on top of her, and mounted her once more. Her pussy was even hotter and wetter than it was the first time, like killing her husband had excited her, too. Ralphie started thrusting into her, pounding her, the both of them looking at that dead body, and in a moment they both started to come. Ralphie could feel her coming, feel the contractions, and it made him come, and they both made little noises and came together.

Ralphie gave her a few more strokes and pulled out of her. His knees felt weak now, and he laid down on the floor beside her. They both had their heads resting against Carol’s dead body.

“God, Ralphie,” she said. “That was so good. I haven’t been fucked like that in a long time.”

“Carol wasn’t giving it to you, huh?” he said to her.

“No. You know that little slut, Lisa Miller? I think he was fucking her.”

“Lisa Miller?” said Ralphie, like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus, you’re way better looking than she is.”

“You’re so sweet, Ralphie. Carol would never say nice things like that to me, at least he hasn’t for a long time.”

“Well, I’m not saying it to be nice,” he said. “I mean it. You’re hands down better looking than she is. I mean, you’ve got a great little body, and she’s fat if you ask me.”

“She’s a goddamned hippo,” said Annie.

Ralphie laughed. “A hippo—that’s a good one. I’ll have to tell Quentin and Pete you said that. A hippo. Shoot.”

Annie reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Anyway,” she said. “I think you’re sweet.”

The King of South Philly, Part 2 will be live tomorrow at 9pm. Subscribe to the Weekly Rogue (the Daily Rogue for this week only!) to have each story delivered straight to your inbox.

In a spoon, mix some On the Road with a drop of vinegar and a squirt of water. Bring to a boil and let it cool, then add just the right amount of Catcher in the Rye. Suction through the balled up cotton of a cigarette Pulp/Noir filter. Find a vein. Inject and wait for the rush.

Junkie Love, Joe Clifford’s second novel (his third book if you include his great short-story collection Choice Cuts) is as raw and candid a story as you’ll ever experience. It’s a gritty literary memoir that reads like the fiction of a James M. Cain or Jim Thompson and will take you on a visceral trip down the darkest alleys of drug addiction.

Early in the novel, Joe wonders “how a good-looking, lapsed Catholic from Connecticut turned into a no-good, thieving junkie, homeless on the streets of San Francisco.” Junkie Love is, at least in part, the author’s attempt to answer that question. At this stage in the story, however, one of the explanations Joe offers us is that he may have read too many books. 

There aren’t many possibilities left for true adventure in our world today for a rebellious young man stuck in a small town, his mind ablaze with the stories of Conrad, Melville, and the spirit of the Beats, his dreams pulsing to a rock & roll soundtrack. There are no more riverboats languidly wheel-paddling up and down the Mississippi River, and hopping freight trains across America just doesn’t have the same romantic appeal it once had before the Interstate Highway System. In theory, one can still embark on a ship across the oceans, though it is hard to imagine anything more boring that being stuck on one of these storm-proof, container-laden supertankers for weeks on end with a foreign crew.

This, I believe, is one of the numerous reasons why the world of drugs can appear so seductive to many young people. Dark and dangerous, but still romantic—at least in an 18^th Century Romanticism sense—drugs represent one of the last, readily accessible roads away from conformity and a square, boring life. For kids who may not fit in with the mainstream and polite society, kids who feel they are different, special even, drugs are the ultimate fuck you.

And they make you high.

They are of course also a trap.

Some, the lucky ones, will realize this and pull back in time. For others, it will be too late.

Joe Clifford belongs to the latter group, a young man who went to San Francisco with rock & roll dreams of making it as a musician, only to end up living on the streets, swallowed whole by a spiraling addiction to methamphetamines then heroin. Committing crimes to feed his habit, he ends up betraying and breaking the heart of everyone who ever loved him, as junkies are wont to do.

Very few people make it out of that world; fewer still end up creating art out of their experiences. Poignant, horrific, and at times uproariously funny, Junkie Love is not only a journey through hell and back but also a story of redemption and hope.

One must be careful not to glorify an addict’s ‘war stories’, Joe points out somewhere in the book. This is very true, for any junkie’s suffering is, at least originally, self-inflicted.

The fact remains that, in a roundabout, twisted, painful way ten years in the making, Joe Clifford may have achieved what he set out to do when he first hit the highway in search of adventure. “The best teacher is experience,” writes Jack Kerouac in On the Road. Joe Clifford embarked on a wild perilous trip, pushed his luck as far as it would go and almost didn’t make it back. But he did, and in the process found his identity and his own unique voice, creating music not out of notes but out of words.

Go west, young man, go west. It amazes me that Joe and I both headed that call the same year, in 1991. He was twenty-one at the time, I was twenty-two. He came from Connecticut and I from France, but we both ended up in the same place, physically and metaphorically. Although we never met back then, we lived in the same San Francisco neighborhood, and, to be sure, frequented some of the same places and characters.

Two decades later, we are both published writers. We both have families of our own.

Sometimes, real-life Noir stories have happy endings.

Ro Cuzon is the author of the Adel Destin crime series, including the critically acclaimed Under the Dixie Moon and Under the Carib Sun. Hailed by George Pelecanos, Sean Chercover, Laura Lippman, and James Sallis as a writer to watch, Ro’s novels are all available here at the Rogue Reader and at ebook retailers everywhere. 

A demon puts on a scavenger hunt for a university professor, and the prize for winning is the chance to bring his daughter back from purgatory.

The one-sentence summary of Andrew Pyper’s latest novel, The Demonologist (Simon & Schuster: 304 pp., $25), doesn’t do it justice. The narrative of this Canadian native’s latest delves much deeper than one might expect from a such a high-concept thriller, and Pyper delivers an emotionally-charged, high-energy, spine-tingling story that brings you right into the mind of a skeptic faced with an unsettling truth.

Professor David Ullman, the novel’s well-educated and chronically-morose protagonist, is an odd combination of ardent atheist and scholar of biblical texts, and an enthusiast of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. When a disturbingly thin woman approaches David with an invitation to spend an all-expenses-paid weekend in Venice, he is unable to decline the generous offer. Taking his daughter Tess on the Italian excursion, he leaves her with a nanny one afternoon so that he can uphold his end of the bargain and witness whatever happening he was brought here to view.

The phenomenon – a man in a dark room, chained to a chair, with an unnatural voice and speaking of future events – horrifies David and begins immediately to corrupt his atheist beliefs. Back at his hotel and eager to return to his New York City home, David loses his daughter for a moment, only to find her on the roof of the hotel, standing on  its ledge and speaking in the same unnatural voice as the man in the dark room. Just before Tess’s possessed body plummets into the Venice canal, David hears Tess’s real voice utter, find me.

The experience leaves David broken and hollow, yet determined to carry through with his daughter’s request. Armed only with a video recording he made of the man in the dark room, his mastery of the mythology of Paradise Lost, and the conviction his daughter must still be alive, David tries to interpret the signs that have begun to pop up around him–signs that suggest there are more things in heaven and earth than he had dreamed of his philosophy, signs he hopes will lead to his daughter’s safe return.

David’s journey, like Milton’s hero’s, proves circuitous and difficult, and he’s without a kind guide to show him the way to hell and back. Instead, he stumbles forward into a paranoid-filled road trip across the U.S. in which he attempts to escape the forces pursuing him, and pursue the forces that have escaped with the thing in life he loved most. Along his journey, David comes across haunting examples of the demon’s handiwork, and with the help (and occasional ridicule) of his close friend, Elaine O’Brien, he tries to find place these strange encounters inside the larger puzzle, in order to understand what the demon wants–and why it wanted Tess.

The Demonologist is filled to the brim with disturbing images, exhilarating danger, and a provocative sense of the numinous. But where Andrew Pyper really excels is in his ability to convey the thoughts and feelings swirling around in the mind of his hero. Balancing bullet-fast pacing with internal struggle, Pyper gives us a thriller that’s as cerebral as it is muscular. David’s constant melancholy–his loving an unobtainable woman, experiencing an event that puts his entire belief system into question, being instantly driven into a state of urgency at the thought of saving Tess–somehow doesn’t spiral into indulgence, but instead raises the stakes even higher. (Pyper himself addresses this tactic in his recent piece in the Wall Street Journal.)

Pyper’s novel might be properly categorized not as suspense, but as horror, a genre that has proven again and again–from Poe to James to King to Cronin–that it can marry plot with a prose that reaches a higher literary register. With The Demonologist, Pyper has won himself a place on that list.

Despite its lovely prose and thoughtful execution, we offer a word of caution before you dive headfirst into Pyper’s latest: don’t plan on getting a good night’s sleep. Between your desperate attempt to finish it in one sitting and the novel’s abundance of absolutely frightening passages, you’ll be searching for sleep as desperately as Pyper’s hero searches for answers. And it will be just as difficult to find.

I write crime fiction, and I also play guitar in a blues band—the kind of New York City band that plays in small, divey clubs where the sound equipment is generally awful, and sometimes hardly anybody shows up to watch you play, but you have fun anyway because you love the music so much.

Mind you, I’m not the only writer who dabbles in music. Ian Rankin once sang in a punk band called The Dancing Pigs, and Jonathan Coe played in a band known as The Peer Group. Wayne Arthurson is a drummer in an indie rock band, BeerBelly. Also, the Norwegian author Jo Nesbø is the vocalist for a rock band, Di Derre. And the big daddy of suspense and horror, Stephen King, plays in The Rock Bottom Remainders. Pete Morin plays in a rock band, but he loves the blues like I do and does blues jams. Besides the two of us, I haven’t found any other writers who are blues guys. (If anyone knows of any others, be sure to let me know.)

Now, I think there’s an interesting parallel between crime fiction and the Blues, and not just because of the dark, noirish themes that they share, though that’s important. I think there’s also a parallel in the structure of the two.

To begin, the Blues has a very regular structure. It generally consists of three chords, which are known as the I, IV, and V, played in a repeating twelve bar pattern. A common version of this is: four bars of the I, two bars of the IV, two bars of the I, one bar of the V, one bar of the IV, and two bars of the I. So the basic pattern is quite regular, though sometimes musicians will play around with it. So what makes the Blues so captivating? It’s the variations in the solos that you play over the pattern, and the basic feeling that you inject into the song. Listen to any song by Muddy Waters, or Elmore James, or Howin’ Wolf, or any of the straight blues stuff of Clapton or the Allman Brothers, or Stevie Ray Vaughan: almost all those songs fall into the twelve bar pattern, and they’re all great because of the genius of the solos, and the earth-moving feeling these guys are able to infuse into their playing.

This brings me to crime fiction. The patterns might not be quite as regimented or few as the twelve bar pattern of the Blues, but there are conventions of the genre, and there are basic plot lines. Take this one for example: A private investigator is hired by a client to…take your pick: find a missing loved one, remove a threat, get someone off his back, re-open an investigation into a death that the cops botched, etc. In the process of the investigation, the private eye himself comes under suspicion (usually of murder), and/or gets drawn into a situation where he has to perform certain actions that are illegal or immoral and that he normally wouldn’t have performed. Further, he discovers that the client has set him up from the beginning to take a fall for whatever he’s accused of. So the private eye has to keep himself out of jail and keep himself alive, and he has to bust those who were trying to set him up. This he succeeds in doing, though at the cost of something, his partner, his girlfriend, his general health, his job.

Thus in crime fiction, too, the pattern is quite regular. What makes the stories so additive? First, it’s the riffing that the writer does, which means his facility with language, his ability to grab your attention and to make the characters come alive. For example, describing a woman he just met, Marlowe, in Farwell, My Lovely, says: “It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.” That line is genius because of the way it describes the woman (telling you more than oceans of description of her features ever could), the way it reveals Marlowe’s character, and the beautiful tension or contradiction it provides in not only a bishop who’d fall over himself for this woman, but who’d be so hot for her that he’d kick a hole in the church window because of his desire. The plot I outlined above describes many of Raymond Chandler’s novels, but they’re all terrific and endlessly re-readable because of his greatness with the language.

As with the Blues, the second element that makes crime stories so captivating is the feeling that the writer is able to bring to the story and to the language. Just as a blues solo has to move you, has to make you want to dance, or has to tear you up inside, so a crime story has to excite you, has to grab your attention, has to make you wonder what’s going to happen next. That feeling is what the great books have and the lesser ones lack. Read Chandler, Cain, or Hammett, read James Ellroy, Jim Thompson, or Elmore Leonard, some of the virtuosos of the genre. They’ve got the touch, they bring the feeling, they make the language sing, even while describing the darkest side of life.

So: a regular pattern that the artist riffs on and solos around, and a captivating feeling the artist injects into the work. This is where the Blues and crime fiction meet.

Mark T Conard is the author of the Philly Payback Series, including the novels Dark as Night and Killer’s Coda. He’s also the Chair of the Philosophy Department at Marymount Manhattan College, and the editor of numerous volumes on Noir and Philosophy. Follow him on Twitter.