The Benefactor

THE BENEFACTOR CREDIT IS DUE Chief Editors: Marc Saleme & Ashley d’Avignon Goodwin Creative Director: Ashley d’Avignon Goodwin Contriubutor: Lisa Dalla Gassa

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© MMVIII All rights reserved The Benefactor Magazine

I.

City traffic provides an afternoon concert piped through the open window to Marlowe’s office. There are stacks of paper

intermingling on the desk and in piles on the floor of the small galley office. Marlowe wearing his beat leather jacket was scanning the papers and making new piles. The afternoon was going swimmingly—there was actually less sorting and more scanning going on. He savored some of the great cases from the files. Reading about his exploits and feats of daring-do, or daring-did as it were. The cool spring breeze lavished itself upon the office in bursts, and Marlowe read a particularly scintillating case. It was so cool! There was a missing piece of jewelry worth bazillions, and la maitresse didn’t want any of the society people knowing it was missing, but lo— There was a knock at the door. Who the hell could that be? “Come in!” He shouted uninvitingly. In walked a man who could have been the announcer of death, he was so official. He was deaths PR guy, or maybe he just owned the building and was announcing that he was going to demolish it. He didn’t pull up the chair from the corner and sit down, nor did he look for said chair. He said, “I’m going to make this quick Mr. Marlowe. My name is David Sokolowski. I’m very busy as I’m sure you are, and I would like you to take my case. You were enthusiastically referred by John Haversham.” He paused here, merely as a courtesy. Marlowe raised his eyebrows in acknowl-

edgement. The man said, “I’d like for you to observe my wife in her daily doings. I’d like the full report after one week.” (Another brief pause). “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars total. Here’s half now,” he placed a pregnant envelope on the desk, “and the rest at the end of the week. Do we have a deal Mr. Marlowe?” Marlowe has not missed a single twitch of this man’s body and speech. “Of course not.” The man said nothing, nor did he show surprise. Marlowe said, “What difference does it make what your wife is doing in her spare time? This isn’t a matter of life and death, nor is it a matter of crime. If it were, you would have approached me differently. This is a matter of fidelity, and frankly darling, I don’t give a damn. It’s your wife’s own business who she has sex with.” “I’m afraid you misunderstand the definition of marriage, Mr. Marlowe.” “You’re kind of marriage is the most offensive thing here,” Marlowe said, with insouciance. “Sex is not exclusive to marriage, Mr. Sokolowski. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. If sex doesn’t need marriage, what is marriage good for? It is for partnership. Would you judge the—“ “As I’ve said, I’m a busy man, Mr. Marlowe. Are you finished considering our business?” Marlowe tipped his brow in a nod and took the envelope. “One week.” The man returned with the slightest of bows, spun round and walked out, closing the door behind him. Marlowe got out a cigarette. At the café, the following morning, Barney ordered a plate of croissants and hard baguette with butter and jam. Marlowe sipped his coffee. “And the clincher is, I got an email in the afternoon from Sheila Whitney about an art heist from her home Tuesday evening. She wants

someone to look into it before the media makes it public.” Barney let out a whistle. You’re going to drop this guy, then? “No.” Barney sits back, brows lifted, crosses his legs. “I’m going to give this guy exactly what he wants. I am going to be messenger.” “What’s going on with you?” “What’s going on with me is that I have a case, and I’m doing my job. What do you mean, what’s going on?” “No, you’re spitefully taking joy in this man’s troubles rather than do what you love. How long have you been in this kind of mood?” “I’m not in that kind of mood. Jesus H.” He bites the bread. “Did it come on just recently or have you been stewing for awhile?” “I’m finished with this line.” “Of course you are.” He sips his tea. “So, you going to let Peterson take the art case?” “Don’t bait me. Yes, I’m going to let Peterson take the art case, god damn it.” “Well,” Barney said, “you’ve had your fair share of art cases.” “Listen asshole—alright. I’m sorry. I can get over this mood,” he says more to himself than to Barney. “I’m going to check out Sokolowski today.” Barney nodded. “I’ll see what I can find in the records at work today.” “Thanks, Barney.” Marlowe exited the Bullet Hole firing range, and got into his jeep. Music began, but he shut it off. In honor of spring, the doors are off. It’s a new year, and he should feel good about it. He considered spring to be the practical beginning of the new year. The trees were a-dance with energy from the wind. He remembered seeing such trees his whole life long. Some places they were more noticeable, such as when there

wasn’t much else to look at. In the downtown, the gingko trees were trinkets, as murals on a concrete wall. Not so with all downtowns, he reflected. He should take a trip soon to someplace beautiful and new. New for vacation and recreation, versus quotidian, baseline life. But he didn’t really buy any of that. Every day should be vacation, right? The scenery was increasingly tree’d. He found his way to a turn-off from the main road, and on to a dirt road. Nearby was Loveland organic farms, owned by one David Sokolowski. He was also on the boards of Lean Foods and Superveggies Ltd., as well as the state’s dept. of agriculture. He was not an expert per se, to be included in the office of the dept. of agriculture, but he did have experience in policy making, having done a stint on the city council for seven years while his Loveland was up and coming. And Loveland was now his main squeeze. Marlowe had some leads, and only wanted a look at the operations, so that he could smell the air, feel the dirt, get the lay of the land. Then, he would of course, get the dirt on Sokolowski’s wife. He parked the car on a forty-five degree grade aside the dirt road. He was low enough to be inconspicuous, it seemed. He had checked the topographical map once before leaving the car. That fucking Peterson was probably wetting himself over the Whitney case. Marlowe walked through the woods. He never should have given it to him, never wanted to, but what could he do? Of course, Marlowe was jibing with himself. Peterson was completely adroit for the case, and it was only luck and good contacts that he, Marlowe, had heard about it first. What was it that he had encountered Sokolowski first? You can’t fight City Hall, Marlowe admitted. He walked around a tree to avoid the great spider web. And Peterson is a fuck-face. That blond stringy hair that makes him look a Laguna Beach surfer fag, and the linen suits he wears… for fuck’s sake. Marlowe stepped over a log, trying to avoid stepping on the young plants as he

shuffled through. He came to a fence where the woods, which had been spilling forth and forth, abruptly withdrew. Beyond the fence was a paddock of dirt and sparse grass. Chickens poked around the paddock—hundreds of them. They hung out in cliques like on the school-ground, clucking like hens, scratching the ground, pecking. There were brown ones, speckled ones, white ones, black ones. Some of them glistened feathery in the sun, some of them were mud-caked and dull. Marlowe sat down and pulled out from his pocket a piece of hard bread from breakfast. A face appeared from around side of the barn. “Chickens got out again,” he called. An alarm began shrieking rhythmically to scare the bejeezus out of anything with ears in the acre radius. Marlowe jumped, and looked around. In the next moment, four strapping young farm hands in suspenders and gabardine pants were running after the chickens in drunk figure eights. Little by little, the chickens were ending up in the barn, through no concerted effort of the buffoons who chased them, but happenstance finding shelter from being chased around the yard. When one of the young men would reach out and grab a chicken by the wing or by the leg, the other wing would flap with great force, blowing dirt in his eye. You didn’t realize how big those wings were until one is flapping in your face, and the muscle behind it throws you off balance. A lad would hold the caught one, and try for another. When he had two by the feet, he would try for a third, but you can’t hold four chicken feet in one hand very long. Still he would get two, and sure enough, he’d try for a third again. Finally there was one chicken left in the corner of the paddock. The boys were all securing the door of the barn and laughing about a job well done, cursing the damned fool chickens. There was another man now, in the paddock. He wore dark aviator sunglasses and a track suit.

From his waistband he drew a pistol and shot the last chicken dead. The boys snapped around to see the man and dead chicken. The man said, “You missed one.” They chuckled, then giggled, and then they erupted into laughter. The man blew imaginary smoke from the barrel, and had a laugh, himself. The man in the track suit and aviator glasses then told them something quietly. In the next moment, the boys were running off. Marlowe studied this strange man best he could. He was obviously not a normal fixture on the farm. And what just transpired with this chicken debacle? Marlowe got out his pad and wrote down some notes, when he heard some noise to the left of him. Whoosh. A foot sped by Marlowe’s face, as he whipped back just in time. He struck out with the heel of his hand, connecting with the collateral knee of the offending leg. The boy whose leg missed Marlowe fell to the ground with a cry, thrown off balance. The two other boys from the paddock came from behind and locked Marlowe’s arms. The first one stood up and punched him in the stomach. Are you an EarthAmbassador spy bastard? You green son of a bitch. He punched him in the stomach again. You shouldn’t go sticking your nose in private (punch) business (punch to the face). Marlowe looked through a pair of binoculars at the big white Sokolowski house from the driver’s seat of his car. He was parked on the street outside the iron gates of the perimeter, with his cell phone to his ear. He put down the binoculars and got the ice bag from the passenger seat and held it to his eye. There was a minor cut there, the ice would keep the swelling to a minimal. He would hate to have a puffy eye, looking like an idiot. “Yeah, Barney,” he said. “I got it. So EarthAmbassadors are giving him trouble. I wonder if the

Terminator back there is on the scene related to them. The daughter? I haven’t found anything interesting yet, but uh…” he looked through the binoculars again, seeing a young woman leaving the house. “I think I’ll be attaining some perspective expressly. Tonight at seven? I’ll be there. See you.” He closed the phone, and put the car in gear to follow this young woman, ice bag over the offended eye. He put a CD on. It was suspense-building music-for-following-someone. He put down the ice bag to make another phone call. “Molly,” he said. “Yeah, hi sweety. How’s it going?” He nodded fervently. “Right, yeah. No, I’m doing great.” “Yeah, listen—your fellah Israel, he’s with EarthAmbassadors, right?” “Great, I need you to find out for me where is a central headquarters, any upcoming meetings, and anything exclusive or super secret you can get your hands on.” “Oh, you’re a doll.” “Bye.” With women, you had to talk more sweetly, and more in general. You have to use the increased range of inflection, because they appreciate the added color to the speech. They have more coding for intonation than do men. Marlowe followed the young woman through town to a part which shared less wealth in its sectors than the neighborhood she had previously exited. She went into a chipping forest green house with rotting fenestrations and cracked driveway with grasses and dandelion sprouting from underneath. It looked as though the house were being reclaimed by the Earth beneath. Marlowe parked a ways off, and ran round behind the next-door house. He came to the rear of the chipping forest green house, and peered in through a dirty window. The young woman and a man were kissing briefly. Another man waited placidly. She was a lily among these two thorns, anyone would say. They looked hardened and surely with sharp edges for defense. Their clothes were a match for the dwelling they were haunting. The trio of them headed down some basement steps.

Marlowe came to the kitchen door there, next to the window. It was unlocked. Ever so carefully he stepped. He stepped again. There was a foul stench coming from the sink where some watery macaroni and cheese was feeding bacteria and mold. The whole place then smelled of that sweet-sour fragrance. He could smell it even past the kitchen, where it became a more nuanced scent, not so easily traced back to the source, like maybe the walls just smelled that way. There was carpet, thank god, and Marlowe proceeded quietly down the stairs. For this endeavor he would need to move like the sloth, like that guy driven mad by the old man’s eye. Marlowe was not unpossessed of the same murderous intensity of action, he thought to himself. The stairwell was walled, so he couldn’t yet see nor be seen. The only sounds he could decipher were the odd words like “fuck/fucking”, or some laughter. At the base of the steps, he pulled out a rectangular case from his jacket pocket. He opened it to get his tiny mirror on a telescoping rod, and the case went “creeeeak.” Eyes dilated and wide, Marlowe stepped out around the corner, his palms out toward them. “Don’t be alarmed. I can explain anything—uh, everything. I can explain everything. Just give me a moment, and—“ The kissy-face man stood up near Marlowe and pointed a pistol six inches from his face. He said, “don’t bother.” There was an instant of scene-gelling in everyone’s mind, whereafter Marlowe’s hand struck out like a cobra, holding withdrawn the slide of the Glock, to where it cannot fire. Marlowe met the kissy-man’s eyes teasingly. The man erupted, his hand was a buck ing serpent bronco, trying to extricate his gun from Marlowe’s hand. Marlowe was holding on with perspirant fervor, sweating for the exertion, and for nervousness at being stuck barrel-side. They looked like two men gripping an electrical transformer, shaking and yanking, muscles tensed, unable to let go. “Fucking fuck mother-

fucker. Leggo! Leggo! Leggo!” The man swung his grip upward, being taller than Marlowe, a good strategy. Marlowe leapt in the air, and came down several feet away. Marlowe’s foot finally found the man’s testicles with a connecting force very lucky for Marlowe, and very unlucky for the man and his next two or three hours. Marlowe falls beside him, not too close however, and apologized profusely. From the corner of his eye he noticed the second man was holding a pistol against the young woman’s head—a gruesome sight, this urchin with cheap, ugly pistol, and the lovely flower there, in Chanel spring line dress and Donna Karan shoes. Somebody high on the totem pole does her hair. The man shrieks for Marlowe to put the gun down. Fucking amateur, obviously. Marlowe says, “I don’t know who the fuck that is. This is the man I came to talk to, and it’s his brains getting blown out that I think we really care about here.” The gunman is frozen a moment. Marlowe fills in the blank, “Now you put your gun down, and we’ll talk, as I suggested a bit earlier.” The man writhing on the floor wretches and vomits. “Jesus, I really am sorry about that.” “You fucking fuck, he breathes. I got no guns here. I don’t keep them here. I don’t have any.” Marlowe’s eyes are narrow. Tongue-incheek, he says, “No, I’m here to talk to you about EarthAmbassadors.” The woman says, “That would be my line.” She stands up with her purse, and comes to the man unable to leave his vomit pool on the floor. She kisses him on the clean cheek. “Honey, I’ll call you soon. I’ll get rid of this guy now.” She walks to the stairs and turns to look at Marlowe. Marlowe gets up. The man on the couch is a whipped pup, complete with wide eyes. Marlowe starts up after the woman, then turns and

sets down the gun on the floor, and finally goes up. Inside the café, there was a little boy about three or so years old, best anyone can tell at a glance. He lay on the startlingly bright red tile near the front counter. The counter was not busy, so he lay awhile undisturbed. He saw the ceiling. The floor was a cold pool of red gloss. The music from the speakers resonates differently off the floor than from upright position. Footsteps walking by were oddly loud. All the lights. There were a lot of people in the café at large, but he could only sense them, or remember them, for right now the only thing he saw is ceiling. All the ideas occurring to a threeyear-old mind are good ideas. He lay there, and then a mother, his own, came and stood over him. It was a pleasant thing, his mother’s face appearing in his vision. She tickled him, and he laughed. Then she swept him up in her arms and took him to where she and her company are sitting, somewhere out of the way of the counter. Marlowe and the young Miss Sokolowski sat at a patio table. She got out a cigarette, and Marlowe lit it with his stainless steel lighter, then lit his own, one-handed, as his other hand held the ice-bag to his eye. They heard a distant boy whining, crying, and protesting from indoors. “Ahh,” Marlowe said, “we hear the cries of the young mind. Surely some great injustice is being committed.” “I hate children,” said Miss Sokolowski. “Of course you do,” he said. “Now tell me about—“ “Who are you working for?” “You think if you ask me a few more times, I’ll answer that question?” “I won’t be saying anything much if you don’t. You’re either working for my father or for the government, neither of which will make me excited about talking to you.” “Then tell me who you’d like me to be working for, and that’s who I’ll say,” Marlowe said

with a charming smile. “The only man I trust is the man who works for himself. You might have guessed by my choice in boyfriend.” “Don’t you mean to say you’re choice in camouflage?” “Partly camouflage, partly protection.” “Yeah, I gather that the business here can be rough.” “I gather that you gathered,” she said nodding at the eye. She dragged the cigarette, and inhaled through the nose. “Well, it was your father’s men who did this to me.” “So you’re with EarthAmbassadors,” she asked with raised eyebrow. “On the outskirts,” Marlowe said. “I gather that something big is going on and I’m not in on it. So I’m performing a little of my own research. I’m a very resourceful man, as I will soon be showing my superiors.” She drags the cigarette. He continued, “So a little help, I ask, from one mercenary to another.” “Maybe we could work together to some degree,” she said with apprehension. “I don’t know; I am after my own aims.” “Which happen to be the same aims I’m after.” What the hell could she be talking about, Marlowe wondered. He pondered a moment, then divulged, “There’s another gun on the scene. Someone your father has on board, I believe in conjunction with the EarthAmbassadors threat.” “He knows about the EarthAmbassadors?” “Pretty sure,” he said. “How much do you know about what we’re planning,” he asked. “That’s what I want you to tell me. I know that Robert is selling them guns.” “Well yeah, and good thing too, uh…” Marlowe shrugged. “Robert is his name? Not Robbie or Ro-dog, I thought perhaps?” She scanned the room quickly, and said,

“Come with me, Mr. Marlowe.” She got up, and Marlowe followed. While walking toward the back of the café, he told her, “Listen, I am getting some info very soon that will lead me to quite a bit more information, which I’ll be glad to share with you. Make sure I have your number and I’ll give you what I find, and you keep me abreast of what you—“ They had reached a back hallway leading to the restrooms, where she pushed him toward the wall and stood tiptoe, pressing her lips against his. Bright red lips. And lightly pressed breasts under Chanel cloth. She pulled back after a sufficient duration to melt any man. Marlowe said, “You don’t think that’s going to secure my loyalty, do you?” Her seductive softness transfigured to a sneer. Her hand deftly pulled a taser from her purse, and she zapped him. Marlowe crumpled to the floor. She got down in front of him. “Mr. Marlowe, I am an empowered woman and I am serious about making the world a better place. Either you’ll help me, or you’ll stay out of my way.” “Wo moh. Wo moh,” he wheezed. “One more thing,” he squeaked out. “Won’t this hurt your father?” She scribbled her number on a piece of paper and let it flutter down to his body. “That’s just an added bonus,” she said, and walked away with her nose in the air. Meanwhile, in his apartment, the Terminator was having lunch, wearing his sweatsuit and aviator sunglasses, for the sun was shining directly on him, through the window, there, by his kitchen table. He ate cereal with toaster pastries broken up in it, and instead of milk he used half-and-half. His pistol lay beside the cereal bowl. He looked at a to-do list of people’s names. There was no television anywhere in the apartment.

II.

The boardroom sounded like a beebox, all the men in suits chattering about their business or their personal diversions while they go about their business, making honey, did you see the fight last night, the number of a good and discreet prostitute, the kids, and on. They looked like the loungers in DaVinci’s Last Supper, having a gay old time. The air smelled of coffee. It wasn’t good coffee, it was cheap swill, what the company would pay for. If you wanted good coffee, you would be known by your cup from some outside establishment. When David Sokolowski entered the room, a wave of silence radiated from his person. He said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen and ladies.” He gave a moment of courtesy pause before going on. “We have a lot of exciting things to talk about today, I’m really excited to be here. “First let’s talk about marketing. You folks are doing a bang-up job, I’d like to say—we need to keep up the hormone and fatty-acid considerations; however, we need fresh ones, with a new spin, a new look. Further, we’re going to be launching a new aspect of production—we’ll be talking about the quality of air the cattle are breathing. Briefs should already have reached you; PR is making certain scientific studies more public, and at the fingertips of whomever may come looking. Also keep in mind that we want to bring up—subtly—our partnerships with non-organic farms to help them raise the bar for treatment standards at large, etc. That will be important; it’s one of our bigger stands of community service. Thanks for your hard work on this so far. “On a more personal note, I want you all to make sure that you are engaging in some kind of civil service or volunteer activity. Remember that we care about our community here at Loveland, and such caring is simply a requisite for work-

ing for us. Let me ask you, where would we be without our communities and where would we be without our local services and products? We would be un-American, I tell you. Our society is based upon people doing things for themselves and for the people immediately around them. The organic movement will only work if a good majority of our supplies and our work come from this state.” Pseudo-aside, he adds, “Is what I’m trying to make those bastards in the D of A understand.” Then aloud, “Thanks again for your hard work and your time. I know that we all here appreciate it immensely, as do all the people who are trying to make a difference in the world and allow Loveland to be a part of that difference. “Bob, take it from here.” He ushers the man sitting nearest him to take the stand, and he takes his leave with a bow, to much applause. A silk-suited man accompanied Mr. Sokolowski down the hall, telling him, “I can’t get a hold of Senator Williamson, he seems to have taken an impromptu vacation. The same goes for Pete Helms, and Joseph Gustafson.” “What the hell is that about?” “Not answering their phones.” He shrugged. “Next, your wife agreed to do the photo shoot with the CSA groups. That’ll be a gem.” “Mm-hm.” “How’s your daughter?” “She’s fine, just met with her this morning.” “Great. And we’ll need you to visit the Organic Consumer’s chapter forum tomorrow.” “Jesus, I hate those punks.” “Don’t we all,” he said. “Now for the bad news.” “Shoot.” “The Roosevelt Brigade lobbyists are hitting the labeling issue hard.” “I thought they were busy with the insect rights thing.” “They switched gears.”

“Fuck.” “And our informant Charlie is not responding either.” Sokolowski’s face fell. “Probably at the bottom of the river,” he said. “And the Faust construction crew has come up against some ordinances that have halted construction on the 9th St. building for at least two weeks.” “You mean someone informed the city inspectors about these ordinances” Sokolowski corrected, growing increasingly torqued. “Don’t sugar-coat this.” “Yes sir, I was erring on the side of ithasn’t-been-proven-yet.” They had walked all the way to the parking garage and had arrived at Sokolowski’s Saab. He was a Saab man, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a Beamer. He was nearly growling involuntarily. From the sounds of traffic on the nearby downtown street, a car horn sounded long like a steam whistle. He opened the door and got in, then sped out of the garage. The messenger turned back and went inside. Once indoors, the messenger’s cell phone rang a popular R&B song. He opened it and said, “Yes, Mr. Sokolowski?” Sokolowski’s voice said, “Neighbors, I want you to make visits to Gustafson, Helm, and Williamson’s houses, see if you can get any information. Have someone help you inside. Also, call PR and tell them to be on the lookout for trouble with the information reliability act. Of course, you’ll tell Williamson’s staff, as well as our guys in AgPatriots.” “Got it, boss.” “And Smith, let’s have drinks tomorrow evening at seven. You free?” “Yes sir. The Red Room?” “Yeah, reserve us a private table. That’s all.” Smith closed the phone. In his car, Sokolowski cursed them, “Those vermin!”

Barney was in his kitchen, cutting green onion with scissors over a salad bowl. He wore a cream canvas apron, no longer in his newsroom Calvin Klein; he had changed into jeans and a t-shirt when he got home. Marlowe was sitting in a recliner situated near the kitchen enough for conversation, and sipping a single malt scotch, neat. His cigarette plumed in gentle arcs. Barney said, “Right, and so she’s a real communitarian. She has dabbled in nearly every interest group and volunteer organization, although she obviously has her favorites, you can tell, because some are her staples, and some are one-time token things. Probably for the benefit of the company.” Marlowe pondered this quietly. Barney went on, “I have a list of her mainstay activities, so you’ll know where she is at nearly any given moment, every day of the week.” He poured water from a big jug into a smaller glass pitcher. The kitchen ensemble was all rather mod, and most likely heavily European in make. “It wasn’t very hard to get all this stuff, mind you,” he said. Soon they were eating. Marlowe said, “I talked to Molly today. She’s gonna get me into EarthAmbassadors.” “Oh yeah, isn’t her boy Israel, uh--” “Precisely.” “Is she still working for that fuck-head lawyer?” “I think so. That’s one thing about her, she has an amazing capacity for being content in the strangest of places.” “Right, pushing papers for some scumbag would suck the life out of me, I think.” “He’s not exactly a scumbag, just kind of a prick.” “Well, whatever. I would kill myself if I had to see that face everyday.” Marlowe nodded. “Do you like all of your coworkers? Do you like that Jason or Melinda?” “Just because I don’t like them per se, doesn’t mean I’m repulsed by them. I don’t get

sick after two minutes with them.” “Ah well,” Marlowe said, “Proximity and exposure can lead a person to a different experience.” Barney laughed. “You think I would get used to that guy?” “I know you would,” Marlowe said. “What else would you do, be sullen and sulk everyday that you came to work?” Barney said, “I know what you would do. You’d get the fuck out.” Marlowe said, “Well, what’s wrong with that?” “Nothing; you were just talking about admiring the ability to be content wherever you are, which is something you don’t have.” “It’s not that I’m not content; I just don’t believe in nesting.” There was a mild tensity. Barney nodded a quick agreement. “By the way,” he chewed some. “I’m going to get a cat.” “What cat?” “A three-legged one I saw at the Cat Mission today.” Marlowe nodded. Barney said, “Except I’m not sure what to do about the couch; what if he claws it?” “That’s what cats are supposed to do. Price you pay.” Barney rolled his eyes. “Cats who live with people use scratching posts or get declawed.” “You wouldn’t declaw it,” Marlowe asked with disgust. “Christ, no. But they do have these silicon things you put on their claws. Doesn’t hurt em. Just makes their claws ineffective when they’ve got silicon over them, see? Like little claw booties.” “Yeah. Silicon. The cat will love that.” “Maybe he won’t notice.” “He’ll notice when he can’t use a normal function of his body. That would be pretty fucking frustrating. Do you want to frustrate the poor thing? Directly via your action? Asshole.” “We’ll just see. Maybe he won’t mind at all. Since we don’t know how this hypothetical

cat will react to a hypothetical situation, I guess the only thing to do is try it.” Marlowe smiled, and let the gibe lay to rest. There’s a fine line between jest and joust, which people so often fail to discern. “This is great eggplant. So salty. Eggplant is never salty enough, I’m usually so bored by it.” He took a slug of scotch, and enjoyed himself immensely. After dinner, Barney slouched on the sofa and smoked a joint. He offered to Marlowe, who refused. “I want to work a bit more tonight,” he said. “Sans the haze.” Barney shrugged. Marlowe just kissed his neck. He kissed Barney’s hand and arm, his cheek, and the corner of his mouth. Then they pressed lips deeply and still for a moment. Barney lay in bed on his side, with his back to Marlowe. The light in the room was orange and bright, as the sun had a direct line into the window while it set for the evening. Marlowe lay on his back, looking at the ceiling. He said, “I was thinking about taking a trip soon. Do you want to come with me somewhere for a few days?” “Mmm,” Barney said, “I won’t be able to get away for a few weeks.” He added, “I wonder if Molly would go. Or Andre.” Marlowe nodded. He wondered how much of Barney’s response was tactical. He wondered if the response was for his benefit or for Barney’s own. After some time, he roused, and got clothes on his naked body. Barney got up on one elbow. “Stay with me here, tonight,” he said. Marlowe smiled, and said, “No.” Barney chuckled a bit and lay back down. He said, “I’m headed for Bikram in the hot room.” “You bastard, don’t bait me.” “Phbbt. I’m only a bastard because you want to stay.” “No, you’re a bastard because I would want to stay if I didn’t want to leave, and you’re attempting to tempt me back. Avant thou, foul

temptress! Get thee behind me.” Then he said, “And I mean that in the most insulting way possible.” Barney said, “Listen pal, what I know is that in like, five minutes, I’m going to be in a state of peace and bliss. And you my friend… I don’t know where you’ll be.” “Is that what bothers you?” “Fuck you.” Marlowe saluted and left. In the car, Marlowe saw his phone on the passenger seat. A small red light was blinking on it. He checked his voicemail—it was Molly. “Marlowe,” she had said, “I found out from Israel that there’s a sort of secret meeting going on tonight at the Jazz Cat in the basement. Be careful, baby, they’ll probably be apprehensive about strangers.” Marlowe pressed the button to erase and then closed the phone. He drove to the Jazz Cat listening to smooth music, and kicked back. He was cool breeze and butterscotch, and with undertones from oak barrel. The world was unwinding before him, and opening up into an endless oblivion. It compelled a goofy wide smile. At times like this, the world was like a moonflower or spiderwort that when the time is right, and for a discrete duration, the blossom will unfurl and spew forth its dashing good looks, making all seem right and lovely. Barney had spiderworts in the front lawn, didn’t he? Marlowe couldn’t remember what Barney kept in that flowerbed out front. Arriving at the Jazz Cat, Marlowe entered the front door. It was a hip, swinging place, where all the truest beatniks, and a lot of the hipsters too, as well as a large faction of hippies due to the EarthAmbassador presence, would hang out. There was an experimental noise band playing. On the wall, there were various posters for music events, protests, and get-togethers. Pot-lucks, movie nights, and informational

meetings were often held there, and on any day of the week, some EarthAmbassador seedling wearing hemp and unbleached cotton could be found distributing some informational tract. Marlowe passed the bar, and went down the stairs. He was right on time or a touch late, one of the two. Turned out he was a touch late. He opened the door and took his seat on a metal folding chair in the back of the crowd. There were probably some twenty people in the chairs, one man up front, and two men flanking him in the corners, god knows what for. Marlowe knew that if you act as if you’re supposed to be there, everyone assumes that you are. And the man up front did not skip a beat speaking. “First we will show you some very difficult digitals depicting the egregious acts of these so-called organic farms, the heinous conditions that these animals are living in. You will be repulsed; however, please bear with us for when we discuss the righteous action we will take to address this issue. As we have previously discussed, and as you have all heard before in preparation for this unveiling, the goal here is to cut deep enough to show the man that we have claws. This is as our forefathers of this country were forced to do when faced with a despotic overlord who would usurp our natural rights as creatures of the earth. The same is happening now, and we must act in kind. It is our civil duty! They can lose many battles, and they are still the ruling power—David Sokolowski, the D of A, Merhardt, Finkle, and the nefarious president of OUR United States. We must win great battles to gain ground, and not allow ourselves to suffer counterattack. We will still be but insurgents. However it is only then that we will begin to hold some leverage in this market.” He shrieked that last word. He shot his hands into the air, then led a rousing round of “Allons enfants de la Patrie; le jour de gloire et arrive.” When the song laid to rest, the leader slumped as if thoroughly spent. He quickly erected himself, and then heaved another sigh, said, “Sykes, please show our guest to the room

where guests can wait while we have our meeting with all those who were invited.” Marlowe looked around, flabbergasted. He mimed, Me? pointing at himself. Sykes came from the front of the room and took Marlowe by the arm. They and the other fellow from the front went out a different door from the one Marlowe had come in. It was a side room with no windows and only the one door, probably had been some sort of fallout shelter. Bam! A fist came to Marlowe’s stomach. Bam! Another one. A couple more of those and then the second man said to his compatriot, “Sykes, I think you better let me take it from here.” “What do you mean,” Sykes complained. The second man took Sykes aside. He said, “Some things are better for only one man to witness, and no more. We need you up front.” Sykes’ shoulders fell sullenly, but he obeyed and exited, taking his place at the flank of the speaker. The speaker was talking about sacrifice, and the gain of power for the group. Crack! What could only have been a gunshot was heard behind the door back there. Inside the room, moments earlier, EarthAmbassador wrapped his fingers around Marlowe’s throat and then in a completely unexpected turn of events leaned in his head to press his lips against Marlowe’s in a very passionate and deep drinking kiss. It looked as if the men were quenching the thirst of a steamy summer day spent playing soccer. EarthAmbassador pulled back, eyes still closed. Marlowe said, “Hello, Ashley.” “How’ve you been Marlowe?” “Ashley I need to know everything I can about what EarthAmbassadors are doing visà-vis David Sokolowski, Loveland Organics, the state dept of agriculture, and anything else that’s hot.” Ashley nodded, counting on fingers, “Full-bore assault on the establishment, meaning lobbying campaigns, civil service buy-outs,

bribes, and a few people on ice. This is a big barrage of monkey wrenches in the plans of the establishment. See, we don’t make policy; we just want to protect good ways of doing things— ways that are beneficial to the Earth. But we do have to contend with policy, and there is always a culture war, always will be. We need to be going in the proper direction, not pretending to be going in the proper direction or thinking about going in the proper direction while we continue to profit from ravaging the Earth.” “All that is riveting, Ashley, but I think I have enough understanding now. And now then, how am I going to get the fuck out of here?” “In a body bag. I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, nobody will come in, they’re all listening to Marvin’s talk.” “Isn’t all this a little extreme?” Ashley laughs a bit. “To the uninitiated perhaps.” He discharged the gun into some sand bags in the corner with a loud “crack”, then turned to walk out. Marlowe whispered, “Hey! Where are you going to get a body bag?” “From the trunk of my car.” Marlowe unzipped the body bag and lifted the lid of the dumpster a bit to peek out. Nobody was there. He climbed out of the dumpster, brushed himself off, and strolled out of the alley. He stopped to get out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned up against the building there. Across the street, he saw, was the grand art museum. He gave a sigh, wondering about the Sheila Whitney art case, how it was going, if a perp was soon to be apprehended. Here he was, working on some infidelity surveillance job, albeit one which was unfolding to reveal some interesting nuances, but still a fucking infidelity surveillance, meanwhile there was an illustrious art case happening under his very nose. And he knew about it, but he could take no part, because he had chosen not to, when the opportunity had presented itself. He certainly

couldn’t talk to Nick Peterson about it. It was almost enough to vex a man. However, he was numb to the vexing, somehow. Numb. Maybe it was significant of the mood Marlowe was having lately—he needed something that was not what he used to need. He no longer had control of the usual mechanisms these days. Perhaps this case held something of revelation for him, but it hardly felt like that either. Rather, he felt numb to all. He smoked. Just then, from above, descended Peterson, on belay, rappelled down from the roof of the building Marlowe leaned against. He said, “Hello there, friend.” Marlowe had the bejeezus scared out of him, gripping the wall wide-eyed. “What the fuck are you doing?” “I was, uh, camped on the roof up there. I’ve a suspicion about a certain unsavory character who works here at the museum. You probably know I’m working the Whitney case.” Marlowe fired back. “What are your leads?” “I was having a conversation with this guy, and found out that he knew about the Handelmann case in Paris, which was supposedly very hush-hush.” “Maybe he’s just well-connected.” “All the better position to have the know-how.” “That’s not a lead.” “Don’t be a bitch. You’re favorite line is that a hunch need not be correct, it will lead to more information in any case.” “That’s normally correct. But in this job, it helps to generate hunches that are some where in the right direction. You waste hours because you choose to start the race a half-mile behind the starting line.” “That’s kind of a presumptuous statement for someone with a slightly bruised eye and smelling like garbage. You’ve just come out of a dumpster, haven’t you?” “I was doing some surveillance that required my being in a dumpster. It takes a real

detective to get into a dumpster when you have to.” “A real clever detective would think of a way to avoid the dumpster which would be equally advantageous to the observation.” “How many steps are there in the stairwell of my apartment?” Marlowe asked, looking at his nails. “I don’t know.” “And yet you’ve walked them dozens of times. There are twenty-seven. You’ve seen them, but never observed. That’s why you’re a bad detective.” “Parlor tricks. You know why you’re a bad detective?” asked Peterson. “Why?” “Because you don’t observe when your mood swings bad and you’re a fucking monster to those around you. You’re lucky the people in your life tolerate you as long as they have.” “And you, rather than trying to solve a problem you have with somebody, you walk out, because you’re a bitch who pulls bitch moves like that,” Marlowe said casually. Peterson snorts. “I’m a pragmatist. You know why you’re a bad detective?” Marlowe rolls his eyes and yanks out his pistol from the shoulder holster, then sees that Peterson already has a pistol trained on him. “That’s why,” Peterson said. Marlowe reholstered his pistol, and said, “You know why you’re a bad detective?” Peterson said, “Why?” “Because while you were distracted, you didn’t notice your mark exiting the museum.” Peterson whirled around to see his man getting into a car. When he whirled back, Marlowe was gone. Peterson did a little circle on the sidewalk. He patted his chest—thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump. He blew out a deep breath, and began climbing back up the building. Marlowe charged the alley with impetus. He went to his apartment and climbed

the twenty-seven steps, and went to his workshop, where he spoke some quiet things into a dictophone, took apart his gun and cleaned it. He put his gun back together, and he turned on his motorized grinding wheel and sharpened his axe. He went out back and chopped blocks of wood on the stump for an hour before going in to collapse on the bed. Peterson sat on the ledge of the rooftop, knees by his chest, while he smoked a Dunhill, and his long jacket billowed in the wind. He knew that the gauntlet had been thrown down, and he really had no choice but to pick it up—for that is what a man does for the one he loves. He would return Marlowe’s glove, and then… they would duel with rapiers… to the death… in their minds. Peterson shook his head and sighed.

III.

In the park by the lake, Barney and Marlowe sat on a park bench. The breeze blew through their hair, and the clouds were wispy sweeps across their visions. Barney said, “Thanks for bringing lunch today.” Marlowe nodded. Then Barney said, “I know you’re depressed, but did you have to make liverwurst and onion? Are you trying to bring me down too?” This got a laugh out of Marlowe, who took another bite before throwing the remainder of the sandwich into the lake. “Even in his depths, he is gracious enough to consider the ducks. What a selfless man, he is,” Barney said. “Tell me a story, Marlowe.” Marlowe was good at telling stories, but would he allow himself to be distracted so? He

said, “Look at all those dandelions.” There was a fountain in the middle of the lake, and the occasional spray would grace their faces. “There are hundreds of dandelions just here,” Marlowe continued. “You’ve seen them in any unused field, construction site, countless yards studded with them.” Barney nodded. “I’ve seen lots of them.” “They are so powerful, those little things. They are bastions of the subversive element. They pop up like weeds every few seasons or so; they rear their heads and roar like little lions, and then burst into little snow-capped heads to pepper and confetti our air like fireflies or fluttering apple blossom petals. They rear up and we squash them back down, afraid of what people might think. It’s certainly not acceptable to leave them around. The man in his yard is mowing them down as soon as he realizes they are there. Here in the parks and others, they will be poisoned and choked down. The men will dispatch them forthwith; we have but maybe two weeks to observe them in their splendor and glory. Their winter comes early. And so the subversive, the weeds are become like precious rare blossoms that you must snatch sights of and dream about for the rest of the year, holding that image as inspiration and hope. “What is it about them that is not (thought to be) wanted? It is their wilderness. It is grass that we want and prefer, the domesticates. Dandelions will not be domesticated, and therefore they will be cut down where they stand, the milky white blood spilled across the nation. “They used to be cultivated, see. There were revered for their medicinal properties, of which they are still possessed, as well as their food value. Dandelion greens for the salad, dandelions heads for the garnish and perhaps for making a dye. Dandelions roots roasted and drunk like coffee, dandelion wine. We should have dandelion quiche before this week is up. Barney nodded. Marlowe said, “We were not so egotistic

then, that we must have everything domesticated before we would use it.” Barney said, “Don’t romanticize yourself; people have always been fretful about how to support themselves and make something great out of ‘my’ life. If domestication had been available earlier, dandelions would have been made villains earlier. We don”t trust God, we don’t trust nature, we don’t trust each other. I trust I. You trust you. To do anything different is to destroy the human psyche, or put it into someone else’s hands.” Somewhere in the black ether, a red cartoon man stands, a red silhouette with gun to his own head, whereupon squeezing the trigger and discharging the bullet, red butterflies spray from his head and flutter up and up. In the park, the woman from the café with the floor-child pushed a child-stroller past Marlowe and Barney. The child was asleep, splayed legs hanging out of the cloth seat. “He fell asleep,” Marlowe said, “but he’ll wake up again to start the whole thing over again. That crazy diamond who will over time, be cut, polished, and set into metal prongs of a ring to be worn on some lady’s finger in honor of her institutionalization.” Barney rolled his eyes. Marlowe sat in his car listening to reggae music, drinking a beer. It was an imported beer, to be sure. Mrs. Sokolowski was in his sights, a fetching woman. She was exiting the community center, where, as Barney had indicated, she gave presentations to the community children about patronizing local farmers as well as locally-owned shops and services. She did so with an innovative multimedia format including puppets, hands-on cooking, and a metaphorical game involving the billiards table, at which most of the children had great proficiency. She got into her car, and Marlowe followed. They drove to a nearby district which was

stomping grounds to a younger, “alternative” crowd, where she parked around the corner from a coffee house. Interesting choice for a woman of her ilk, thought Marlowe. Not wanting to be marked by her as of yet, he pulled a box out from under his seat. It was a fishing tackle box, from which he extracted a false mustache, which he put on. He added a pair of aviator sunglasses, and then got a wig from the glove box. The wig was wavy, floppy hair. He pulled his gun slide, cocking the hammer. “I’m going in,” he said. Inside there, he watched her get a coffee and take a seat. Then she got out a cigarette. He appeared to be smoking one of his own and doing a crossword puzzle in the paper. Then a man came to sit down at her table. They were close—there was no introduction, and the conversation had been impatiently waiting to happen. The man wore a plain and sturdy olive jacket and nondescript brown pants. He reminded Marlowe of Lieutenant Frederic Henry. The pair of them talked for some five minutes before quitting their table, her coffee only tasted, and were leaving. They were stopped by another fellow approaching. Holy shit, it was Sykes. Marlowe opened his paper quickly and hid behind it. Then he remembered that he was in disguise, and put it back down. Sykes and Mrs. Sokolowski’s Henry were amiable, and Sykes relayed to him a small scrap of paper. They shook hands, and the couple exited, while Sykes went to the counter for a drink. Marlowe stubbed out the cigarette, and left his paper on the table. He had filled in the spaces with the words Barney, Peterson, Scarlet, Henry, and Cleopatra. In his car, he followed the two of them, faintly singing along to the music. In the hotel, the adulterers had not bothered curtaining the window, to engage in their adult activities, as they were on the tenth floor, and surely it would only be more exhilarating to make love in the open sun. At this point, it was no secret what was about to happen.

Marlowe knew it, they knew it. As Marlowe was fitting his belay to rappel down, he briefly wondered if Sykes knew it. This liaison had political implications, to be sure. The lady was forsaking the General, nay the great dictator—she was betraying the dictator who could offer her worldly riches, and all the lands she sees before her—for a man of the rank and file, and from the subversive element. If she were caught, she would lose her status, her wealth, and perhaps her life, for all anyone knew. Men of David Sokolowski’s standing feel that they are gods and will take certain liberties accordingly. But here in this bedroom, above whose window Marlowe stood perched like a human fly, snake camera viewing from a clandestine corner, Mrs. Sokolowski and the young gent were also gods. Where David Sokolowski held power on Earth, these two held power in Heaven, which could not be taken away by force, by time, nor by death. These two were existing in the moment of all moments, the nunc fluens. It is not the moment which passes, but the moment which unfolds forever. There be no past, nor future… or at least, this is what Marlowe imagined was happening. These two spirits could just as easily fall, tethered to the flesh, and attempt to validate their existences through this act, clutching its weight, hitting the ground hard, as if thrown from this tenth-floor window by some malevolent. Marlowe spat with compassion for them, and with hope. It felt good. It felt like an old friend.

IV.

David Sokolowski sat with his compatriot, the messenger, John Neighbors at a private table in the Red Room. Dusk was falling on this

day of our Lord, and the gears were moving in the great machine. They two sat back like Roman noblesse, smoking Cuban cigars, which only a man with Sokolowski’s connections could afford, and drank twenty dollar scotches. The room was red and painted red at this point by the eyes of the two men, and Neighbors was ultimately happy. He was happy when he was spending time with the big man. Sokolowski said, “You see Neighbors, I just like for people to fulfill their function. I like people to do their job perfectly. I have no tolerance for less, you know? Neighbors nodded with gusto. He was feeling it. He knew. Sokolowski said, “I love clockwork. If a watchmaker is offended by some cog, that cog is excised, you with me? And let’s not fool ourselves about humanity here. This isn’t about humanity. This is about something much bigger—Commerce.” He jabbed the air with his finger. “Who am I to question the way God made the world, really?” “I know,” said Neighbors. “Right—I can’t help what I am, no more than I can help what anybody else is. You just figure it out and embrace it. I am a leader of industry. I am industrious. It is my essence. I can’t help it. My job is to get things done.” Neighbors nodded. “And make lots of money.” Neighbors nodded. Sokolowski said with insouciance, “Tonight, my friend, a great many wrongs of the world will be corrected.” Neighbors nodded. “I believe it will happen like clockwork.” Sokolowski said, “No—“ he puffed his cigar. “These kinds of things are not like clockwork. My employees are like clockwork. They are kept in line by want of money. But these wrongs we have to endure, they are not like clockwork. They are like a bramble vine or those fucking, uh, those fucking morning glories, know what I mean? They’ll never be gone, but if you’re a

diligent gardener, and a smart one, you can keep it under control.” He said, “You keep a good lawn, Neighbors?” “My landscaper keeps an impeccable lawn around my house.” Sokolowski busted laughter. Neighbors cracked up. Sokolowski said, “Who does his own lawn?” He laughed. “Sweet Jesus.” Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, some dark figures were scuttling about in the night. Men who boded ill for others were out and about, en masse, and in synch. The Terminator was in his apartment wearing his jumpsuit but not the aviator sunglasses. He finished assembling his gun and holstered it, grabbed extra ammunition, and put a smaller pistol into his sock. David Bowie was playing on the stereo. He turned off the Bowie, then he turned off the light and exited. Some of these men who lurked and skulked entered a bar and sat two tables down from Marvin Watts, well-known speaker and leader for EarthAmbassadors. One of them looked at his watch. They ordered beers. Some others of these loitered outside a doughnut shop wherein some other guy, presumably of EarthAmbassador affiliation was buying two chocolate-covered raised doughnuts. There were some odd three similar scenes involving ominous men moving into position, ostensibly to prepare for a hit on these five great leaders of EarthAmbassadors, which would surely (we assume) cripple the organization in a way from which they would not readily recover. This is the way of the world, and this is how it would end, as it does for so many bastions of the subversive element. They will be mowed down like dandelions, spilling milky blood all over the grasses. The blood will be on everyone’s head, involved or not. But lo! Two of these men in the shadows were accosted from behind by four vigorous men from further in the shadows. They were bound, gagged and when the cars sped there

and screeched to a halt, the men were rolled over into the trunks. It happened again, on 42nd St., and in front of the doughnut shop. The boys who took care of the guys at the Laundromat got a little overzealous and put a rusty shank through one of them. The other they beat the hell out of, and threw him in a dumpster. They were the ones who experience difficulty following instructions. At the bar where Marvin Watts was having a drink and a smoke, the two thugs were snoozing on the table, beers half gone, and enough GHB leftover to knock out two or three more who might try to finish their beers. Marvin and the bartender calmly drug the men into a back room, where some other boys would take them away. The Terminator, upon leaving his house, was met by three police officers, who quickly had him on the ground, following a tip that an armed man fitting his description and address had been terrorizing the neighbors. Concealed carrying was not legal in this town, and they put him in the back of the cruiser. Somewhere else in the city, in a dilapidated old whore of a house, the young Miss Sokolowski was smoking a cigarette and putting on her high-heeled Pradas next to a bed where her dearest Robert was hog-tied and gagged, and shrieking. She zapped him with her taser, and quitted the house. She may have been going to meet an actual lover, a man she’d met from EarthAmbassadors. And night ceded its possession of that stretch of Earth for day to take its turn. Gotta get up some time, gotta breathe in, gotta give something of yourself, and gotta face facts, says the one to the other. Morning came, and it saw Marlowe and Barney sitting in the park on the bench. The wind would occasionally send a spray of the fountain their way. They ate croissants that Barney had picked up and had coffee and tea. It would have been

ever so quiet, but for the birds, who were noisy as schoolkids at seven in the morning. They chattered like birds. Barney said, “So, what are you going to tell Sokolowski?” “I’m going to tell him the truth. –that she’s clean as a whistle. Pure as the driven snow.” Barney nodded. “You think he’ll believe you?” Marlowe nodded. “Why not? I have a thorough list of her daily doings; it’s apparent that I’ve been doing my job, and a very thorough job of it.” He added, “I have pictures.” Barney smirked. He didn’t ask which ones. Marlowe said, “Hey, I did hear a great story about her, though.” Barney raised his eyebrows. “I ran into an old friend of mine, Ashley. And before I was carried out of the bar in a body bag—remember? He told me about Mrs. Sokolowski and Lt. Henry.” “That his real name?” Marlowe shook his head. “No. So how they met is, he works at one of these grocery co-ops in the deli. And they’ve made eyes at each other numerous times, and she’s probably coming just to see him, at this point, whether she knew it or not.” Marlowe shifts to get into better climax position. “One day, when he passes her the carton of whatever bean and such salad, her fingers overlap his. They pause on it. They fucking pause on it, and… the rest is, you know, history.” Marlowe smiled on it. “How romantic,” said Barney. “Precisement; tout, c’est ca. The whole world is romantic. To sin is to forget it, and you will be damned to hell by your own hand.” Barney rolled his eyes. And they sat there, on the bench in the park, in front of the fountain, with croissants and coffee and tea, while the war raged on behind them in the city--in the minds of men, and so in the lives of men. There would be much more of that war to come, Marlowe mused. Maybe he would do some reconnaissance work for the EarthAmbas-

sadors until the next art case came along. He still might take that vacation. Options were, in fact, endless. Life would surely write him a part somewhere. A small boy ran by, then. He ran at top speed such that his head got a little too far ahead of his body, and the smallest pebble was enough to yoink his feet from beneath him. We won’t have him dive face first into the sidewalk, smearing his face like chalk. Rather, we’ll say that he was pitched askew into grass and the woodchips that surround a tree. Life is often so generous. He rolled over and sat up, lightly bloodied and crying, whereupon his mother, who was following close behind, came and doted on him for a bit. Then they got up, him sniffling now, and began on their way again. After a few meters, he was running again—kind of limp-running, but running. People often mistake this sort of behavior for a lack of understanding about life. Marlowe considered the boy to have inspiration, the little bastard.

Lisa Dalla Gassa

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