THE BENEFACTOR

CREDIT IS DUE

Chief Editors: Marc Saleme & Ashley d’Avignon Goodwin

Creative Director: Ashley d’Avignon Goodwin
Contriubutor: Lisa Dalla Gassa

questions, comments & submissions:

thebenefactor@thebenefactormagazine.com

or send paper: 4031 Locust St. #3, Kansas City, MO 64110

visit us on the web: www.thebenefactormagazine.com

© 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 ex-
ploits 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 particu-
larly 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 uninvit-
ingly.
In walked a man who could have been the an-
nouncer of death, he was so official. He was
deaths PR guy, or maybe he just owned the build-
ing and was announcing that he was going to de-
molish it. He didn’t pull up the chair from the cor-
ner 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 Haver-
sham.” 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 ap-
proached me differently. This is a matter of fidel-
ity, 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 defi-
nition of marriage, Mr. Marlowe.”
“You’re kind of marriage is the most
offensive thing here,” Marlowe said, with insou-
ciance. “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. Mar-
lowe. Are you finished considering our busi-
ness?”
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 So-
kolowski 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 begin-
ning of the new year. The trees were a-dance
with energy from the wind. He remembered see-
ing 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 some-
place 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, Mar-
lowe, 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 spi-
der 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. Mar-
lowe 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 secur-
ing 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 bin-
oculars 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 pas-
senger 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 EarthAmbas-
sadors 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 leav-
ing the house. “I think I’ll be attaining some per-
spective 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 sus-
pense-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, lis-
ten—your fellah Israel, he’s with EarthAmbas-
sadors, right?” “Great, I need you to find out for
me where is a central headquarters, any upcom-
ing 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 cod-
ing 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 for-
est 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 feed-
ing 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 Mar-
lowe 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 mur-
derous 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 any-
thing—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. Mar-
lowe 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 electri-
cal 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. Some-
body 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 get-
ting 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-in-
cheek, 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. Mar-
lowe 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 differ-
ently 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 remem-
ber them, for right now the only thing he saw
is ceiling. All the ideas occurring to a three-
year-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 sit-
ting, somewhere out of the way of the counter.
Marlowe and the young Miss Sokolows-
ki 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 dis-
tant 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 mo-
ment, then divulged, “There’s another gun on
the scene. Someone your father has on board, I
believe in conjunction with the EarthAmbassa-
dors threat.”
“He knows about the EarthAmbassa-
dors?”
“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 in-
formation, 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 lead-
ing 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 Termi-
nator 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 pas-
tries 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 apart-
ment.
 II.
The boardroom sounded like a bee-
box, 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 consid-
erations; 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 differ-
ence.
“Bob, take it from here.” He ushers the man sit-
ting 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 morn-
ing.”
“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 re-
sponding 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 it-
hasn’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 invol-
untarily. 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 infor-
mation. 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, al-
though 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 scum-
bag 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 Me-
linda?”
“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 experi-
ence.”
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 admir-
ing 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 de-
clawed.”
“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 fuck-
ing 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 won-
dered 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 pos-
sible.”
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 base-
ment. Be careful, baby, they’ll probably be ap-
prehensive 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 blos-
som 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 en-
tered 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 speak-
ing. “First we will show you some very difficult
digitals depicting the egregious acts of these
so-called organic farms, the heinous condi-
tions 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 Sokolows-
ki, the D of A, Merhardt, Finkle, and the nefari-
ous 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 meet-
ing 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 unex-
pected 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 vis-
à-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, mean-
ing lobbying campaigns, civil service buy-outs,
bribes, and a few people on ice. This is a big bar-
rage of monkey wrenches in the plans of the es-
tablishment. 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 go-
ing 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 dump-
ster, 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 surveil-
lance job, albeit one which was unfolding to
reveal some interesting nuances, but still a fuck-
ing 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 Pe-
terson, 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 Han-
delmann 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 state-
ment 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 stair-
well 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, Mar-
lowe 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 im-
petus. He went to his apartment and climbed
the twenty-seven steps, and went to his work-
shop, 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 de-
pressed, 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 remain-
der 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, Mar-
lowe.”
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 oc-
casional 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 ele-
ment. 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 domes-
ticates. 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 domesti-
cated 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 avail-
able 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 reg-
gae 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 indi-
cated, 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 fol-
lowed. 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 extract-
ed 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 ham-
mer. “I’m going in,” he said.
Inside there, he watched her get a cof-
fee 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 re-
minded 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 exhilarat-
ing 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 won-
dered 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 dicta-
tor 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 clan-
destine 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, teth-
ered 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. Mar-
lowe spat with compassion for them, and with
hope. It felt good. It felt like an old friend.
IV.
David Sokolowski sat with his compa-
triot, 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 toler-
ance 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 big-
ger—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 hap-
pen like clockwork.”
Sokolowski said, “No—“ he puffed his
cigar. “These kinds of things are not like clock-
work. 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 assem-
bling 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, pre-
sumably of EarthAmbassador affiliation was buy-
ing 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 organiza-
tion 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 bas-
tions 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 Laun-
dromat 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 snooz-
ing 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 ter-
rorizing 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. So-
kolowski and Lt. Henry.”
“That his real name?”
Marlowe shook his head. “No. So how they met
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 follow-
ing 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

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 car-
ton 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.” Mar-
lowe 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-
free for now