#my disappearing acts are more impressive than Houdini

[bethanysmiled]

seeing artist I love abandon their accounts and disappear forever is the saddest thing in the world I s2g it leaves a hole in my heart

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: Abra Kadabra

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Abra Kadabra, real name unknown. Patient suffers from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, and a number of delusions, including the belief that he has magical powers and the belief that he is from the 64th century. Session One. So, Mr. Kadabra, how are you feeling today? 

Abra Kadabra: Oh, hello, Doctor. Would you like to see a magic trick? 

Hugo Strange: Pardon? 

Abra Kadabra: Certainly you won’t turn down an opportunity to witness a performance by Abra Kadabra, magician extraordinaire! Why, it will even be free of charge! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, this is a therapy session, not a talent show. I have no time to watch you pull a rabbit out of your hat. 

Abra Kadabra: You woefully underestimate my talents, Doctor. I am no mere sideshow attraction. I am the Prince of Prestidigitation, the Sultan of Sleight-of-Hand, the Master Magician of the 64th Century! Only a fool would deny themselves the chance to see my unmatched brilliance in the art of stage magic! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, you are not a famous magician. You are a sick man who is suffering from delusions of grandeur. 

Abra Kadabra: (Annoyed) Delusions of grandeur? I assure you, my grandeur is quite real. The great Houdini himself pales in comparison to my mastery of magic! 

Hugo Strange: If you are so famous, why have I never heard of you, Mr. Kadabra? 

Abra Kadabra: Don’t be ridiculous! Everyone in this primitive century knows of me! My epic confrontations with the Scarlet-Clad Speedster invariably make the front page! My skills as a magician are renowned far and wide! Why, even Superman has agreed to play parts in my act! 

Hugo Strange: (Trying to change the subject) So, Mr. Kadabra, you believe that you are from the 64th century. Why is that? 

Abra Kadabra: Because I am from the 64th century. I understand that that is likely difficult for your primitive mind to grasp, but it is nevertheless true. 

Hugo Strange: You cannot possibly be from the 64th century, Mr. Kadabra. That is patently absurd. 

Abra Kadabra: More patently absurd than a plant-woman hybrid? A sentient clay creature? A Martian? A Kryptonian? A billionaire who dresses up as a bat in order to fight crime? 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, there is absolutely no evidence, beyond your own claims, that you are from the future. 

Abra Kadabra: And the word of Abra Kadabra, the 64th Century’s Master Magician, isn’t evidence enough? I am offended! 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I need a bit more proof than the word of an unstable lunatic. 

Abra Kadabra: Proof? PROOF? I will show you proof! Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; then “poof!” sound) Are you convinced now, doctor? 

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Where are we? What have you done, Mr. Kadabra? 

Abra Kadabra: Welcome to the 64th century, doctor! 

(The noises of a bustling city are heard; but with a noticeable sci-fi twist) 

Hugo Strange: What...h-how? What is this? 

Abra Kadabra: Time travel! Just one of the many tricks in my repertoire! 

(Hugo Strange starts applauding involuntarily) 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, how are you doing this? 

Abra Kadabra: (Laughs) A magician never reveals his secrets! (The forced applause continues) Thank you, thank you. You’re a very appreciative audience, doctor. 

Hugo Strange: Enough of this, Mr. Kadabra! Take me back to the Asylum now! 

Abra Kadabra: You dare to make demands of Abra Kadabra? If I did not require an appreciative audience, I would turn you into a tortoise for such insolence! 

Hugo Strange: A tortoise? What sort of fool do you think I am, Mr. Kadabra? I do not know how you managed this illusion, but I am in charge here, not you. Return us to Arkham Asylum at once! 

Abra Kadabra: On second thought, I’ve done tortoises before, and I don’t often like to repeat tricks. (Pause) No, I think some sort of extinct creature would be preferable. Yes, I shall turn you into a Bos taurus!

Hugo Strange: Now wait just a-

Abra Kadabra: Abra Kadabra!

Hugo Strange: Mooooo! 

(Forced applause from 64th-century citizens) 

Abra Kadabra: Thank you, thank you! You are too kind! (Pause) Unfortunately, I cannot stay. I have a much larger audience elsewhere, so I must depart. Abra Kadabra! 

(Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: Moooo! 

Abra Kadabra: You know, doctor, I was quite disappointed the first time I saw a Bos taurus. It was not nearly so fearsome a creature as paleontological reconstructions suggested. (Pause) But I suppose that that is neither here nor there. And as much as I have come to appreciate the true appearance of the Bos taurus, you are a marginally better audience in your true form. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: (Disoriented) W...what happened? 

Abra Kadabra: Don’t worry, doctor. Time travel and transmogrification are always disorienting the first few times, but the feeling soon passes. 

Hugo Strange: Time travel? Transmogrification? Who are you? 

Abra Kadabra: I’ve told you! I am Abra Kadabra, master magician of the 64th century! I’ve come to your primitive era to pursue fame and fortune, which I have been denied in my own time! 

Hugo Strange: But..but how could you possibly have...you are not a metahuman! 

Abra Kadabra: I would very much appreciate it if you would stop asking me for the secrets of my act, doctor. Why, if I told you, some unimaginative hack might steal them for their own act-and that would be an unparalleled tragedy. 

Hugo Strange: (Frustrated) Mr. Kadabra, you are not a magician! You are a criminal who suffers from a number of delusions and personality disorders.

Abra Kadabra: Hmph. If I’d known that I would spend this session being insulted by a primitive, balding, myopic peon, I would never have agreed to it. 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid these sessions are not optional on your part, Mr. Kadabra. You are a very sick man. 

Abra Kadabra: Sick? (Pause) Hmm...now there’s an idea. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: (Coughs violently) What (coughs) have you (hack, caugh) done to me? 

Abra Kadabra: I have infected you with the charming creation of one of my cooked colleagues. Though he’s a primitive savage, I must admit that Murmur’s Frenzy Virus is superbly dramatic. It liquifies the lungs; then the sufferer literally chokes to death on their own blood. (Pause) Oh, and it’s dreadfully contagious. Fortuitously, I have already been vaccinated, so the dread disease will have no deleterious effect on me, but I doubt the staff of this institution are as lucky. 

Hugo Strange: (More violent coughing) Mr. Kadabara, if you do not (hack, cough, cough) undo this immediately, I will (cough, cough, hack, cough) ensure that you spend the rest of your (hack, cough) very long sentence in solitary. 

Abra Kadabra: (Laughs) You really think you can keep the Prince of Prestidigitation locked up in this primitive institution? The only reason I didn’t escape days ago was because I thought this so-called therapy session would give me a private audience to whom I could display my brilliance. But you, doctor, have proven most unappreciative, so I will be taking my leave. 

Hugo Strange: (Coughing violently) On the contrary, Mr. Kadabra (hack, cough)...I have been (hack, cough, cough) most impressed by your talent. I am simply not (cough, cough) used to bearing witness to such an astonishing display. 

Abra Kadabra: (Pleased) In that case, I forgive you, doctor. (Pause) Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound; Hugo Strange’s coughing stops) But nevertheless, I am afraid that it is time for our session to come to an end. I have a much grander performance scheduled for later today, and I cannot disappoint my adoring public. (More forced applause from Hugo Strange) Thank you, thank you! You are much too kind! But do not be dismayed by my departure. The Master Magician of the 64th Century shall return for an encore performance at some later date. (Pause) Farewell for now, doctor. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra? (Pause) Mr. Kadabra? (Pause; then, frustrated) He’s disappeared. How is it that all of the criminals from the Twin Cities are master escape artists?

[ironhusband]

Just Friends?

Who else is feeling angsty? 

~~~

“We’re just friends.” 

Stephen hears those words at least once a week, and still, they don’t ever stop stinging. It’s not that Stephen hates being friends with Tony. No, being friends with Tony means laughing at some joke only they can understand, it means creating new things with ease only they can manage, it’s having race cars like they just got their license in a way only they don’t consider reckless. So, no, Stephen doesn’t hate being friends with Tony. 

It’s just that he wants more than that. 

Sure, he already gets the easy chemistry, the flirting, the sex. But he wants more than that. He wants Tony cuddling with him until Stephen’s eyes drift close, he wants arguments in the kitchen and the living room about which dinner and which movie, that end with Tony kissing him, and he wants being told by Tony “I love you” and being called by him honey. And most of all, he wants that longing look that Tony gives Pepper and Rhodey, the look Stephen hopes Tony secretly gives him. 

“Stephen is my business date. Y’know, we made these prosthetics together, I think he deserves a dinner and a movie,” Tony jokes and the investors laugh. 

Stephen forces out a smile, and teases back, “only if you don’t choose the movie.” 

Tony smiles at him, oh so brightly. Stephen almost sighs with longing. “Ah, well, I guess just dinner then.” 

The investors continue chuckling, and the topic of the conversation moves back on to the reason they are all here today. Stephen drones it out as Tony talks details with the investors. 

To be honest, he should be listening. After all, it’s his project, and he should be a part of persuading these buyers. He cares so much about the prosthetics, he and Tony worked for six months on it, sacrificing other parts of their career and social life. But as Stephen looks at Tony, as Stephen remembers how Tony thinks of him, as Stephen knows all this flirting isn’t serious... it turns out he cares more about Tony. 

He hates it. 

“-I’m just the showman, though. Stephen knows more about this part, honestly. So, Stephen, would you care to jump in?” 

Stephen blinks, focusing back on the present and less on his thoughts. He clears his throat and improvises on the spot, “actually, you seem to be handling it as good as you can. I think I might go talk to some other people.” 

Before Tony, or anyone else could object, Stephen cuts through the crowd and heads straight out of the room. 

~~~

Stephen has known the solution to this problem for a while. He has known it ever since he realized he was in love with Tony. 

The solution was to run away. Cut things off with Tony and focus back on his career. It was the easiest way to fall out of love with Tony, to stop this path to heartbreak, to not wear his heart on his sleeve. It was the smart thing to do. It was what he usually does. Why isn’t he doing it? 

Tony is like the sun. Everything and everyone orbits around him, whether they like to or not. And Tony? Tony pretends to like it, Tony pretends that it’s by design, pretends that it’s how it’s supposed to be, but underneath all that, when you know the real Tony... he’s not the sun. You’re not drawn to regardless of your choice. He’s just someone you feel lucky to be near. 

Stephen likes to think he’s different, but Tony continues proving to him again and again, that he’s not. 

“Hey,” Tony pops out of nowhere, and Stephen tries to bring back that mask. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Trying the disappearing Houdini act?” 

Tony’s smile is the kind of smile to make you think he’s the most charming man alive. When his smile is real... the effects are even worse. 

He doesn't show it, however. “Always count on Tony Stark to avoid his responsibilities of impressing a room full of people, to chase a man who disappeared.” 

Tony’s smile becomes a little less wide, but no less bright, “well, you know how those rich people are. Fun to play with, but get boring very quickly after they give you their money.” 

Stephen looks pointedly at Tony, “yes, I do know those rich people.” 

Tony gives him the finger and Stephen chuckles. “You’re an asshole. I was just about to say I’d much rather be with you.” 

Stephen softens. Tony has a way of making him do that. Stephen hates it more than everything. So of course, he ruins it, “well, of course, you would want to be with me, I’m the only one asshole enough to match you.” 

Tony laughs, sitting next to him, looking directly at Stephen. 

A lot of people find Stephen to be a jerk, or heartless, or hiding his emotions with sarcasm. Some of it isn’t untrue but... Tony sees through all that. He knows that him being a dick is just a mask for him being a sweetheart. He knows because he does the same. 

At least that’s what Stephen thinks the look Tony is giving Stephen right now means. 

Tony looks intently into his eyes, his stare soft and soul-searching. His gaze falls to Stephen’s lips, and Tony leans in, calloused fingers on Stephen's chin gently encouraging him to do the same as Tony. When their lips evidently touch it’s different. It’s... slow and relaxed. All they do is kiss, a mess of lips, and muted desires. It’s gentle butterfly kisses. No one is trying to angle their heads for better access, no one is trying to involve tounges, no one is trying to make it anything deeper than a gentle kiss. It’s just lips connecting with lips. 

Stephen should hate it. It’s intimate and destructive and barely a kiss. They’re kissing like two teenagers scared to do anything more. But instead, he doesn’t hate it. Instead, it’s everything he’s ever wanted. 

Then Tony tries to sneak in his tongue, and Stephen is immediately reminded that they don’t have those kinds of kisses. 

Stephen breaks it off. 

Tony watches as Stephen stands up, seeming in the midst of his own personal storm, as Tony is too shocked by the rejection to process it. “Hey, are you-” 

“Seriously, Tony?!” Stephen snaps, cutting him off, “Is that what I am to you? A friend you can flirt with and tell all those romantic things to, and then fuck and leave like you don’t give a shit?” 

Stunned, Tony replies, “I thought... I thought that was the agreement, yes.” Stephen glares at him, unamused, “stop it.” 

“Sorry,” Tony mutters, and then a little louder, repeats, “sorry. Stephen, what is going on with you?” 

Stephen paces, too upset to stand still, “you know, I thought I could be okay with this, but it turns out I can’t. I can’t just be some whore you’re fucking. I can’t just be a friend to you, either. I want to be with you. Completely with you.”  

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times, until he finally settles for, “where is this coming for?” 

Stephen stares at him for a moment, stopping his pacing, trying to see how serious Tony is. And then he realizes... it's obvious. He’s totally serious about never being serious about him. Stephen laughs, “of course! How could I ever think you’d want to be with me? I’m not Rhodey or Pepper after all! How could I even compare?” 

“Hey, you leave them out of this!” 

“Then you leave the bullshit behind and answer my question!” Stephen challenges back.

“What question?”

Stephen snorts, “what question...?! The question of if you want to be with me or not!” 

“Why are you getting so pissed off?!” Tony yells right back, “from the moment you confessed your feelings for me, you’ve done nothing but be a complete piece of shit!”

Stephen pauses, realizing Tony was right. If he ever wanted a chance with Tony... he picked the worst possible way to word it. Stephen inhales, trying to gather the courage to look honestly in Tony’s eyes and say the words that feel to him more like an admission of guilt and not love. “I...” Stephen carefully says, trying not to look away from Tony’s eyes, emotions he can’t explain in them, “I want to be with you. I’m in love with you.” Stephen knows the emotion in Tony's eyes right now is hesitation. “Do you feel the same way? Do you want to be with me, too? Yes or no?”

Tony takes a while to answer, thinking long and hard, seemingly preparing some sort of speech in his head. Stephen wants to yell the answer out of him, but before his patience is brought to its limit, Tony answers. 

“No,” he says only.

Stephen takes a deep breath, trying to force back tears that were coming. “Okay,” he replies, “then we’re done here.” 

Stephen doesn’t wait for Tony to respond (if he even bothered to do that) as he walks away from him, preparing to leave the building. 

There is nothing Stephen wants more, however, than to look back.

~~~

Stephen doesn’t know, maybe he never will know, but as he walked away, Tony looks at him. The same kind of look Tony gives Pepper and Rhodey. The same kind of look Stephen wants. The same kind of look Tony never dares to do expect when Stephen isn’t watching.

Tagging mutuals: 

@salty-ironstrange-shipper @lgbtonystarks @atypical-snowman @carrottheluvmachine @van-dyne @amethyst-noir @babywarg

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (2/18)

Chapter 2: How to Be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons

It’s a new year, and Madelyn is trying to stay busy. Hancock pays a visit to the Detective Agency with an olive branch in the guise of a case for Nick. On the beat, a former mercenary turns informant with more information about the mysterious Railroad. Nick and Madelyn track down their missing person while Eddie Winter makes his first deadly move.  

“Well, sure there is. It comes complete with diagrams, on page 47 of 'How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons,' correspondence school text-book and, uh, your father offered me a drink.” - Philip Marlowe as played by Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep, 1946)

x - x

Without giving much away, this is a content warning for a minor character suicide that mirrors the canon in-game side quest.

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

January 10th, 1958

Nick’s desk was covered in case files, whiskey and cigarette ash—an organized chaos was what he liked to call it, but all Madelyn saw was a fire hazard. This was the way Detective Valentine worked best, however, frazzled and hunched over his scattered notebooks, mumbling incoherently behind the wafting plumes of smoke. The agency was for many the one gleaming beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and dishonest world. Nick had proved his reputation with the people was well earned by helping the community the best he could with the limited resources he had, maintaining a network of clients that kept him in business over the years.

“Everybody deserves their fair chance,” Nick always said, so much so that Madelyn considered putting it on a plaque for his wall—if the walls weren’t covered in photos, wrinkled maps and scribbled handwritten notes.

She found it all admirable, part of the reason she agreed to work with him when initially assigned by the District Attorney’s office two years prior. She didn’t realize that by staying, she’d be forging one of her strongest friendships, discovering one of her most trusted of confidants. Yet, as Madelyn lingered in the doorway of his office, she found it difficult to find the right words to say. She wanted to tell Nick about the clandestine note she received on New Year’s Eve, tell him she felt paranoid about being followed and wanted another training session at the shooting range. Instead, she continued to worry at her bottom lip, awkwardly shuffling the small stack of papers in her hands.

“You can stand there lookin’ like a doll or you can come in here and help,” he spoke, not bothering to glance up at her. Still, she noted his little smirk, eyes lit up as he scrawled away on his notepad.

“I know you didn’t hire me to be a pretty face,” Madelyn bantered, knowing it was all in good, clean fun.  She crossed the small space, planting herself comfortably on the cushioned seat in front of his desk.  

Nick gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t exactly hire you. You just showed up here on my doorstep like some kitten left out in the rain.”

She laughed, thinking back to the early days of their partnership. Providing legal aid to a private detective that didn’t always play by the rules—it wasn’t the easiest of jobs for Madelyn. It wasn’t until she realized Nick was forced into the unscrupulous position by the Boston Police Department, who saw his presence as interference rather than assistance, never giving the agency the insider access they desperately needed. Perhaps if they did, there wouldn’t be so many unsolved disappearances or murders plaguing the city. That being said, she made sure Nick stayed out of trouble, pulling in favors where she could, the two using their powers of persuasion to find answers to burning questions. It was easier to toe the line than cross it, but each day as the violence and corruption spread across the city, the line became harder to see.

“What’s on the docket for today?”

The question had barely left her lips when there was a commotion in the lobby, Ellie’s frantic voice calling out as her heels clicked across the wooden floors. “Sir, sir! You can’t just walk in there. You have to have an appointment and—"

“No worries, sister,” the familiar, dulcet voice approached. “They’ll be happy to see me.”

John McDonough—Hancock—strolled through the doorway like he owned the place, ignoring Ellie’s protests. The mayor’s younger brother looked considerably different than he did the night of the police gala—dressed in dark slacks and half-buttoned up shirt, a faded red jacket with golden, frilled trim more suited for Halloween than streetwear. He plopped into the empty armchair, hooking his knees over one side and glancing to Madelyn with a wink.

Nick’s demeanor immediately soured. He pointed at the other man. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t for nothing, Nicky boy,” Hancock grinned. “Can’t you bend an ear to an old friend?”

Madelyn focused on the detective’s expression, eyebrows knitted together in quiet contemplation as he rummaged for a cigarette before realizing he was fresh out. Hancock noticed, instantly reacting to produce a pack from his jacket pocket. He leaned forward to offer her first, but she declined with a silent wave, causing him to move to Nick. He hesitated, scrutinizing the gesture with narrow eyes before ultimately obliging.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asked, sounding more like the start of an interrogation as he struck a match.

Hancock appeared amused by Nick’s insistence on the name as he lounged back in the chair. “I have a peace offering for you. A case that the local police can’t be bothered with because of the victim’s so-called lifestyle.”

At Nick’s silence, Madelyn interjected. “What is it?”

“Missing person.”

Finally, Nick sighed, relenting. “Give us the details.”

As Hancock spoke, Madelyn wrote in her notepad, neat and succinct lines—they’d have more luck with her organization skills. The missing? Earl Sterling. Twenty-five-year-old bartender from the Fens who worked at the local sports bar across the street from Fenway Park. “Vadim, who owns the bar—close personal friend—came to me crying, thinking Earl had been snatched up by the boogeyman. But who would want to hurt Earl? He ain’t out to hurt nobody.”

Nick was nodding along, jaw clenched, clearly in frustration of another disappeared citizen. That would be thirteen—that they knew of. “And Boston P.D.? They think Earl was undeserving of a proper investigation?”

Hancock scoffed. “Friends in low places. Doesn’t matter that he’s squeaky clean. But since Vadim’s a Russian immigrant, a refugee that has had his run-ins with the law…”

“Of course,” Madelyn sighed, disheartened. It was a cruel underlying fact that not all Bostonians were keen to the changes the war brought. Most carried on with quiet discontent, but others were far more vocal to the point of outright bigotry. A child raised by virtuous parents, Madelyn knew better, ashamed of the city she had lived in all her life.

Nick could sense her stewing restlessness and spoke, nodding at Hancock. “We’ll take the case, track Earl down. One way or another.”

Curiosity got the better of Madelyn as she stared at the two men, sensing the lingering tension. Ever since Piper first mentioned the younger McDonough brother, Nick’s attitude had been uncharacteristically dismissive, and without explanation it was gnawing at her mind. “What’s the deal here?”

Hancock’s eyebrow arched high against his forehead. “Whatcha mean, sister?”

“The animosity in the air is thick enough that I could bottle it up and sell it as a fragrance,” she joked. “Might get rich enough that I could retire early. Buy that cabin up in Maine I always dreamed about.”

While Hancock bellowed out an impressed laugh, Nick sighed through his nose, lips set in a flat line as his cigarette dangled. Still, Madelyn knew he was amused, green eyes bright as he rolled them her way. Hancock’s entertainment settled as he crossed his arms over his chest with a final, breathless chuckle. “I’m surprised ol’ Nicky never told you about me and our time overseas.”

“You two served together?” she asked.

Nick reluctantly nodded, fingers tightening around the wrist of his prosthetic hand, the plastic-metal blend flexing. He didn’t like to talk about it—no matter how many years had passed between the end of the war and the present, it was still an open wound for many, including the detective. He balled his hand into a fist.

“London, during the Blitz,” he explained, in grim conciseness. “Was stationed in Kent in ‘41 during the bombsite recovery. As was John, though he was mostly preoccupied by the local…entertainment.”

Hancock hummed, with a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s something about the English accent, ya’ know?”

“You were disillusioned then, and you’re disillusioned now!” Nick suddenly snapped, hands smacked against the table as he stood up to loom over the other man. Hancock hardly looked intimidated, not even flinching as Madelyn did. “Sneaking off base to get your kicks in some back alley, coming back high as an Air Force bomber. No wonder you’re turned into a beatnik.”

“Better a beatnik than a dick,” Hancock murmured.

“Boys! Boys!” Madelyn stood up with a loud clap of her hands, garnering both of their attention as she stood. “Jesus Christ! Do I need to put you two in separate corners for time out like the curtain-climbers you are?”

Nick scrambled to sit back down, knowing it was a rare thing for her to use the lord’s name in vain, even lightly. Hancock snickered, but flinched when she whipped her head in his direction. “I think you owe Nick an apology, Mr. McDonough.”

He shifted uncomfortably like she had asked him to perform one of Houdini’s acts. “Sorry, Valentine.”

“We’re good, John,” Nick stood again, this time reaching over to extend his hand in some display of goodwill. Hancock took the offer, shaking it with a satisfied grin. “We’ll find out where Earl is.”

As the conversation came full-circle, Hancock tugged on the lapels of his coat and smoothed out the lines of his pleated slacks. He regarded Madelyn with a toothy smile, nodding his head once. “Miss Hardy.”  

She watched as he turned on his heel, slinking out the way he came. Ellie’s disapproving voice called out to him again in the lobby as the bell above the front door chimed, signaling his exit. Miss Perkins’ usual sunny disposition was marred as she leaned into the doorway of Nick’s office, bottom lip jutted out in a frown. “Who was that?”

“Sorry Ellie,” Nick sighed, moving to grab his faded trench coat from the nearby rack. Madelyn smirked, knowing Jenny had purchased him a new one over the holidays—one for Hanukah and Christmas—but there he was, slipping his arms into the same dusty rag. “Hopefully you won’t need to experience such indecency again.”

“Heading out?” Their secretary questioned, looking between the two of them with a shine of excitement in her features. She always liked when they were busy.

Madelyn gathered the case notes under her arm before quickly shuffling back to her own office, pulling on her cream-colored coat that was in much better condition than her partner’s. Purse and papers in hand, she met him and Ellie in the front room.

Nick was adjusting his hat. “Keep a light on for us, won’t you?”  

Ellie flashed a charming smile. “Always.”

Outside, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the sidewalk and a crisp chill in the air. Their destination was a short distance—only a few blocks east. She thought about what sparked their journey.

“Did you really mean that?” Madelyn questioned Nick as they walked in the direction of the Dugout Inn. He glanced at her, unsure of what she meant. “Disillusionment? Do you really not believe in Hancock’s cause?”

He made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan as he rubbed at his chin. “I believe in results,” he answered, keeping his eyes focused on their path. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The Dugout Inn was a tiny hole-in-the-wall, located right on the corner of Boylston Street, opposite of Fenway Park. The clientele were mostly refugees, thanks to the owners, Vadim and Yefim Bobrov—immigrants from Russia who established the bar shortly after V-Day in 1945. Unassuming enough, though the two had their fair share of run-ins with Boston police over the years, mostly for expired liquor licenses or smuggling illicit moonshine. Never anything as serious as money laundering, tax evasion or murder. Mr. Bobrov’s good natured attitude had made him a valuable ally to Nick, perhaps even a friend, somebody the detective could turn to when searching for leads among the downtrodden and forgotten within the city.

Being a mid-morning Friday, it wasn’t surprising that the Dugout Inn was mostly devoid of patrons, save for Vadim’s twin brother and their lone waitress Scarlett who was dutifully sweeping near the back. There was one daytime drunkard, however, sleeping off his hangover in a faraway booth. Yefim was balancing the books at a nearby table, muttering about needing to pay the gas bill, barely acknowledging the passing duo with a wave. As they approached the bar, Vadim was beaming, wiping the countertop before them in earnest.

“Ah, my favorite gumshoe back to see old Vadim,” he set out two glasses, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to try the latest batch? May not have ripened yet, but…you always had a good sense of knowing!”

Nick softly chuckled, but shook his head as he removed his hat, placing it on the bar. “I’m not going to be your guinea pig again, Vadim.”

“And what about the lovely lady lawyer? My lapochka?”

Madelyn smiled at his flattery but waved her hand at his offering. “No, thank you.”

Vadim went to speak but hesitated, instead scrutinizing their appearance in his bar. Sudden realization dawned in his expression as he tightened his fist into the cleaning cloth. “Are you here about Earl?”

Nick had barely nodded before Vadim continued with a sagging hang of his head. “Oh, poor Earl. Gone, just like that. Such a good bartender. Good friend,” he trailed with a forlorn expression that morphed into one of slight amusement. “Terrible with the women, mind you.”

“Always in his cups about his face getting in the way,” he further explained. “I say, no mug is too ugly for any woman! What says you, Miss Hardy?”

She joined him in laughter, humoring the old flirt. “Oh, Mister Bobrov, if you were thirty years younger you might have a decent chance at making an honest woman of me…again!”

Even Nick snickered, shaking his head at the exchange. But they were here on business, not for a friendly exchange of words or a casual drink. They had a man to find, sooner, rather than later. At his signal, Madelyn pulled her notepad from her purse, pencil at the ready for any information they might gleam.

“See anybody from Winter’s gang around here lately?” Nick asked, eyes narrowed when Vadim quickly shook his head, coughing to clear his throat as the tone shifted. Nick quickly glanced to Madelyn who offered a quick shrug. Maybe zeroing in on Eddie Winter wasn’t the best idea. Would Vadim even know what a mobster type looked like?

“Oh!” The proprietor said excitedly, hands waving for emphasis. “A few days ago, there was this young mercenary type that I’d never seen before. Lingered about for a few days. Greaser kid that looked like he belonged to a bad crowd.”

“Did he and Earl speak?” Madelyn questioned.

Vadim shrugged, eyes glanced upwards as he remembered. “Yes? No. All I know is he looked suspicious. A—and I haven’t seen him since Earl disappeared!”

Nick was twisting his lips—a telltale sign he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the credibility of the information—but they had nothing else to go on. He tapped his finger against the counter impatiently. “Do you have a name? A location? Think carefully, Vadim. For Earl’s sake.”

A moment passed as the bartender mulled it over in his head. Vadim then straightened, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “MacCready! That’s his name! Rum and cola. Overheard him mention a hotel near Scollay Square…”

“The Rexford?” Nick mused, more to Madelyn than Vadim.

She nodded. “The Rexford.” 

Scollay Square by 1958 was not the thriving center of Boston theatre and community it once was. Practically a ghost town, with most buildings boarded up after being destroyed by fire or looters, few businesses remained. The Old Howard Theatre—long shut down by the Boston vice squad stood at the epicenter like a shining reminder of the past. Always Something Doing—but not anymore. The area was now known colloquially as Goodneighbor, nicknamed after Mary Goodneighbor’s 1953 striptease that ended it all. Goodneighbor was a hive of sex work and drug runners, bootleggers and mobsters, all just out to make their living in the world—the perfect place for a person to disappear.

Nick decided the trip west warranted the use of his black Cadillac. They’d make better time, and even he wasn’t one to be caught walking through Boston Common—even armed—at any time of day with the increasing crime rates. As they pulled up outside the Hotel Rexford, they observed a disturbance on the sidewalk, snow flurries disrupting their view. Madelyn was exiting the vehicle before Nick could rush over to pull open the passenger door, ever the gentleman as he offered his hand to her. But she was more focused on the three men in a clear argument on the hotel steps, carefully observing the interaction as she hooked her elbow around Nick’s arm.

“Well, we’re outside now!” The scrawnier of the three shouted from the stoop.

On the sidewalk below, a man with wide shoulders and a crew cut snarled back. “Didn’t have to be like this, MacCready! We were just here to deliver a message!”

Madelyn and Nick exchanged knowing glances but refrained from interfering. While they had their lead identified, the situation was hardly any of their business. It didn’t mean that they weren’t going to eavesdrop and make it their business, gather information that might come in useful later on.

“It only took you six months to track me down,” MacCready spoke, taunting his aggressors. “Winlock and Barnes. You two always hold hands across Boston? Don’t you know I left your wannabe gang for good?”

The man Madelyn assumed as Winlock shook his head, irritated as ever. “Yet here you are, taking jobs where you shouldn’t be. Listen carefully, MacCready, it has to stop.”

“Like I have to take orders from you,” he laughed and for a split-second Madelyn wondered if there was going to be a firefight the way the third man’s hand flinched along his side, reaching under his jacket.

Instead, Winlock defused the situation with a curt nod, signaling to his partner Barnes to step back. “We aren’t going to kill you. Today. Wouldn’t want a war with Goodneighbor, or with Winter.”

Nick’s hand around Madelyn’s arm tightened at the mention. Whoever these people were, they weren’t affiliated with the mob organization terrorizing Boston. MacCready crossed his arms, seemingly bored with the conversation. “Are we done here?”

The two thugs traded steely looks—this wasn’t over—not by a long shot. “We’re done. For now.”

As Winlock and Barnes passed the Cadillac, they took one slow, up-and-down look at the pair of onlookers before disappearing down an alleyway. Madelyn looked after them, deeply unsettled, but snapped back to the present as Nick swiftly led them to the lone man left on the hotel stairs, pacing as he kicked at the snow with his sneakers.

“MacCready?”

“Look pal, I’m not looking for any friends,” he said with a wince, shaking his head.

Madelyn looked at their would-be suspect now that they were up-close. For Vadim to have called him suspicious was not wrong, but if anything, the man simply appeared to be down on his luck. Overall, he looked nonthreatening: faded, rolled up jeans, dark flannel shirt with an army bomber jacket and a matching cap atop his dusty brown hair. He was skinny, like he had missed a few meals, and it made her wonder if he was another veteran of the streets that had returned from the war with no home to return to.

“We aren’t here to make friends,” Nick’s tone was firm, signaling it was time to take the proverbial gloves off. The man was squirmy and would need the two of them to act fast if they wanted the right information. “Do you know anything about an Earl Sterling?”

MacCready didn’t take to intimidation lightly. He narrowed his eyes, looking over both of them. “What are you, some kind of cop? Can’t do his job without his lady wife?”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, removing her hand from Nick’s arm. She gestured in her partner’s direction. “Detective. Best not say anything that incriminates yourself.”

Nick laid it on thick. “We know you were at the Dugout Inn when Sterling disappeared, MacCready. So do us both a favor and tell us everything you know!”

The man held up his hands defensively, bewilderment spread across his features. “Jeez! Okay!”

“I was only there for two days, following up on…something. Yeah I saw Earl there. Nice guy, if not a bit ugly, but who am I to judge?” MacCready talked and the pair listened, Madelyn scribbling away in her notepad the important details. “He kept talking about needing to get out of town. At first it was innocent like…for a fresh start to meet the perfect woman, but the more drunk he got, the more it sounded like he was running from the wrong kind of people.”

“Who?” she followed up quickly.

“Heck if I know,” he responded.

Nick prodded further. “He didn’t mention the mob or a loan shark? The Railroad?”

The mention sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine. Why, she wasn’t sure. For all of their digging in the last two weeks, the organization—if it even existed—was still shrouded in mystery. She stalled in her notetaking and tuned out most of Macready’s response. “…it’s just a myth.”

A familiar expression fell across Nick’s face as he mulled over MacCready’s words. Helpful? Hardly. It was more of the same of what Vadim had offered, leaving them at square one. Earl was still missing, and they were no closer to determining why beyond a vague threat of needing to get away.

“I might have something you can use,” MacCready voiced, shifting awkwardly down the snowy stairs so he was closer to them. “But if I’m gonna help you, you gotta help me.”

“What happened to ‘not looking for a friend’?” Nick remarked with a light smirk.

MacCready grumbled under his breath, clearly uncomfortable with the circumstances of their visit. He wasn’t having a good day, it seemed. “All bets are off when your life gets threatened in broad daylight.”

“Is that what that was all about?” Madelyn asked, motioning towards the alley where Winlock and Barnes had wandered off to. She flashed a teasing smile, hoping to get a rise out of the man. “Colleagues of yours?”

“Fu—heck no,” he answered, censoring himself. Odd. She chalked it up to a man not wanting to curse before a lady and rolled her eyes. “They are Gunners. Small town gang that operates out of Quincy. I—I uh, used to run with them about five years ago. When I was younger. Dumber. But then I wised up. Got married and had a kid. Gig like that doesn’t really pay the bills, you know?”

“You’re married?” Nick asked, the two seemed to simultaneously note the missing wedding band. He was trying a different, more sympathetic angle.  

MacCready gave a solemn shrug, but his eyebrows furrowed with annoyance. “I was. But that isn’t any of your business.”

“Excuse me,” Madelyn blinked, the math not adding up in her head. “How old are you?”

MacCready chuckled like he was asked the question every day. “Twenty-two.”

Both her and Nick made the same surprised sound, staring at their suspect-turned-dud in disbelief. There went her veteran theory.

“I have a son, Duncan. He’s five years old,” MacCready continued, the emotions he expressed sincere. “I’m just trying to do the best I can by him. Can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“How do we fit into this equation?” Nick asked, tone softer than before. Madelyn smiled, knowing he couldn’t resist a hardship tale.

MacCready tilted his head back and forth with a low hum. “Two hot shot detectives like yourselves need an informant on the streets, right? Let me help you, and in return…”

“Lawyer,” Madelyn corrected, again.

“Exactly!” he replied, far too excited. “Crime and Punishment that sh—stuff.”

She decided not to lecture him on Russian literature and its vast differences to her actual career, which in itself were completely separate than what services she provided for the Valentine Detective Agency. She exchanged a silent, somewhat amused look with Nick, who seemed just as bewildered by the person they had crossed paths with. Finally, the two nodded and the detective extended his hand.

“Nick Valentine, Valentine Detective Agency,” he formally greeted.

MacCready chuckled as they shook hands. “You couldn’t make that stuff up, could you?”

His handshake with Madelyn was much softer, less amused. If anything, he seemed genuinely impressed. “Madelyn Hardy, attorney at law.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he grinned. “RJ, Mac, MacCready. Whatever’s cool.”

“You have something for us?” she reminded, and he quickly removed his hand from hers with a short, excited inhale. The two watched as he patted the front of his jacket before digging through his pockets, finally producing a small key on a golden chain. “Is that…”

“Earl’s key,” MacCready answered with a sheepish smile, shifting his eyes away. “Figured if he was going to be running away, it might come in handy later on. Lives in those apartments near the stadium.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear this,” Nick muttered, shaking his head.

Madelyn wasn’t pleased that their best lead was stolen property, but at this rate, it was their best chance of tracking Earl Sterling down. She snatched the key from him before he could change his mind, tucking it away into her purse along with her notepad.

MacCready regarded her with a stern expression. “Remember my offer!”

She would. But for now, she and Nick had more work to do. 

That wasn’t the first time Madelyn and Nick had backtracked across town, chasing a lead on a case. As they raced through the Fens past the stadium to the grouping of apartments that matched the name on Earl’s golden key, she was grateful that at least this time they hadn’t been sent to Quincy, or Concord. By the time they reached the Parkview Apartments, the sun was setting and the frosty chill from the morning had settled to a near freeze. She couldn’t explain it, but an eerie sense of dread settled in her gut, putting her on edge. Nick seemed to feel it as well, the two dashing up the flights of stairs to make it to Earl’s door.

“What do you think we’ll find?” she asked, nervous.

“Not sure, but we’re about to find out,” he answered, prompting her to unlock the door.

Madelyn was careful, quiet in her actions as she clicked open the lock, Nick taking the lead as he pushed open the door inch by inch. She followed closely behind, the two making their way blindly in the darkened room, the only guiding light the moon that shined in through a broken window shade.

“Mr. Sterling?” Nick called out in a low voice, scanning the area. It was a tiny, studio apartment, with a kitchen nook, a foldaway bed, a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. From what Madelyn could tell, their missing person wasn’t there. Still, Nick called out again. “Earl? Are you here?”

“Nick, something doesn’t seem right,” she whispered, stepping away to inspect the foldaway bed. Even in the darkness she could see the mismatched stains in the carpet, an overturned nightstand and a few pieces of broken glass. She held her breath before tugging sharply on the release, jumping backwards as the bed—and Earl—came tumbling out. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Nick managed to turn on a lamp, revealing what she had found, rushing over to her side as she turned away from the horror, covering her nose and mouth as to not retch. He wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders, exhaling a low, defeated sigh. Earl was dead, but more than that, he had been brutally murdered.

“This wasn’t Winter,” Nick mumbled, drawing a quick conclusion. Madelyn had to agree, even if they only had the scene to go by—Eddie’s men weren’t into butchering their victims. “We need to call—”

They both froze as a clattering sound echoed from beyond the closed bathroom door. Nick swiftly pulled his weapon from its side holster—a well-cared for .44 revolver—and motioned for Madelyn to move behind him. She followed his silent instructions, and reminded him that she too was armed, calmly removing the small pistol she carried from the purse on her arm. He glanced at her with a startled expression—she’d hear about this later—but kept moving closer towards the closed door.

“We know you’re in there!”

When the door creaked open, the two were faced with a familiar, but horrifying sight. Doctor Crocker, a local cosmetic surgeon stood with a wild and strung out look in his eyes—a far cry from the friendly face on the billboard ads plastered around town. He cackled out a laugh. “Naughty, naughty! You’re not supposed to be here! But that’s okay! I can fix that. I can fix anything!”

Madelyn resisted the urge to curse or to scream. For a brief moment, she wondered if she felt this terrified when held at gunpoint more than a year prior by a different madman. Doctor Crocker, however, appeared completely unhinged, dangerous and unpredictable. He hadn’t just shot somebody. He had cut them apart and used their blood as paint for the walls.

“Take it easy, doc,” Nick attempted, raising one hand in a calming gesture, all the while keeping his gun aimed towards the doorway. “Let’s talk.”

“I—I didn’t mean to do it! Doctor Crocker is a brilliant surgeon!”

Talking in the third person was never a good sign, she decided, thinking he had to be high on some kind of illicit drug. Mixed with the adrenaline, the doctor was teetering on the edge of outright disaster.

“He never makes mistakes or loses patients! Only happy patients for Doctor Crocker!” he announced, reaching back to grab what turned out to be his own pistol. Now, Madelyn was petrified. And yet, she didn’t scream, resolve getting the best of her.

“You made a mistake, Doctor Crocker,” she tried Nick’s brand of persuasion, even if it made her skin crawl. “Do the right thing. Just think it through. Come with us quietly.”

At first, her words seemed to have an effect, the daze lifting from his eyes as he glanced down at the red stains that covered his clothes and the state of disarray surrounding them. Doctor Crocker flicked his gaze back to Nick and Madelyn, and the panic returned. “Oh god! I killed a man! There’s so much blood! Blood! All over me!”

He was weeping now, loud and hysterically. Hesitantly, Nick stepped closer in a last-ditch effort to resolve the situation. The doctor lashed out, pushing him away. Madelyn’s heart skipped a beat, and she thought she would be reliving the past all over again. “No! No one can find out!”

But Doctor Crocker didn’t aim towards them. Instead, he turned the gun on himself, barrel pressed firm against his chest before firing. The action took less than a second, faster than Nick or Madelyn could react or intervene. His body collapsed in the bathroom doorway, clearly dead on impact.

“You should’ve seen that,” Nick hushed, his faded coat coming into view as he tucked her head close into his shoulder. She didn’t even realize she was trembling. “You shouldn’t have seen any of that.”

A voice, somewhere in the back of her head told her it was just the beginning. She would become tempered, experienced. Most of all, she would heal. But first, she would see so much more.  

Just like that, the Earl Sterling case was closed.

The Boston Police weren’t pleased with them, but then again, they never were. It wasn’t until past midnight when they were released from the scene, not without a scolding from Sergeant Danny Sullivan. It didn’t matter that they had tracked down Earl Sterling when Boston Police wouldn’t (or couldn’t) and had managed to hunt down a killer in the process. As the police saw it, because any blood was shed, it looked indecent on their behalf, and it all had to be handled very carefully. Nick and Madelyn feared that was codeword for coverup. But they weren’t threatened, or told to keep quiet, which further fed into the detective’s either hypothesis—that Winter had nothing to do with Earl’s death. What had started as a run of the mill case had left them with more questions than answers.

Madelyn and Nick were exhausted by the time they returned to the agency. Ellie had left her little glass lamp turned on, just as she promised, but the brunette was long gone. Instead, a different, familiar voice called to them from Valentine’s office.

“Rough night?”

Piper winced as soon as she saw them come through the door, clenching her teeth in a sharp hiss. It was likely obvious how ragged they appeared, and Madelyn was sure some of their clothes were splattered with blood from Earl’s apartment. Nick pulled off his coat with a groan, tossing his hat across his desk as he snatched up the fresh pack of cigarettes Ellie had left behind. Madelyn didn’t bother, practically collapsing into her favored armchair on the left and slinking down, no matter how undignified her posture appeared.

“That bad?” Piper asked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick responded, puffing out smoke before taking in another deep inhale.

The reporter tapped the rolled-up newspaper she carried against her palm, shifting her gaze between the two of them. “Well, since we’re already swimming in it,” she half-heartedly joked before unfurling the newsprint, dumping it atop Nick’s desk so he could see. “Johnny Montrano Jr. is dead. They found his body in the Harbor this morning while you two were running around.”

Fury seemed to be fueling Nick now, who was already starting on his second cigarette. Madelyn perked up at the news, realizing what his reaction would be. “The bastard’s finally done it. He’s finally had him offed. Fed to the fishes.”

“Fishes didn’t really get to do their job though,” Piper mused, rolling her eyes when the two remained silent, too focused.

Madelyn looked to Nick. “He’s looking to take over the northern territories.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Nick replied in an ominous tone. “Nobody is safe anymore.”

Eddie Winter had just made his first deadly move.

[riley1cannon]

Favorite books of 2017

A Murder is Announced, Agatha Christie; Miss Marple mystery

The Zig Zag Girl, Elly Griffiths; first in the Magic Men mysteries (Brighton, after the war; DI Edgar Stephens & Max Mephisto – if you want to picture, say, Dan Stevens and Matthew Goode, I certainly won’t object – are on the case.)

Wouldn’t It Be Deadly?, D.E. Ireland (Eliza Doolittle has to prove Henry Higgings didn’t murder someone. Yes, I know, and honestly my expectations were set really low for this one, but it was vritually free so what the heck. Turned out to be fun, however, and the main trick was fancasting the characters in my head to provide distance from the musical.)

Ghost Talkers, Mary Robinette Kowal (The Great War, mediums employed – in a scheme dreamed up by Houdini and Cona Doyle – to debrief soldiers who have passed over; a cameo by J.R.R. Tolkein; a tear jerker romance; a murder and other skullduggery to solve; and ghosts.)

Design for Dying, Renee Patrick (Our heroine, Lillian Frost, teams up with not-yet-legendary costume designer Edith Head to solve the murder of a starlet – and Lillian’s former roommate – Ruby Carroll in 1930s Hollywood. Look for cameos by Preston Sturgess, Bob Hope, and Barbara Stanwyck, along with a fun cast of original characters, and a pretty good mystery.

Rules of Murder and Death by the Book, Julianna Deering (Books one and two in the Drew Farthering Golden Age-style mysteries. One head’s up: These are from a Christian book publisher, and matters of faith do pop up. It’s not pervasive or preachy, however, so unless you just absolutely loathe even the tiniest whiff of that, you should be able to enjoy these. Example: There is a romantic subplot going on, and while things are kept chaste and above board, there is plenty of sizzle going on between Drew and Madeline.)

Lost Among the Living, Simone St. James (The author’s farewell to the 1920s, but still featuring a heroine getting to the bottom of a what’s behind a haunting.)

A Fatal Winter, G.M. Malliet (The second Max Tudor mystery, and rather better than the first, although I enjoyed that too, with a couple of reservations. Max is former MI5 agent who left the service after a mission went bad, and found a new calling as vicar Nether Monkslip. His former skill set serves him well when murder comes to his parish. If you love Grantchester, this should go over well. Frankly, Max may prove better company than Sidney does at times.)

Lois Lane: Fallout, Gwenda Bond (While I didn’t love this one as much as hoped, it was still a lot of fun. There is a strong Smallville vibe, and that’s not a bad thing.)

Holding Court, K.C. Held (The other YA title on my list. This one is a mystery, with some romance, some laughs, and twist or two along the way. It’s a stand alone title but could easily be the start of a series.)

Speaking From Among the Bones & The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, Alan Bradley (Books five and six in the Flavia de Luce series.)

The Invisible Library, Genevieve Cogman (Librarians saving the universe, w/steampunk fanasty elements. Difficult to describe; heap of fun to read.)

Claws for Alarm & Crime and Catnip, T.C. LoTempio (Books two and three in the Nick and Nora cozy series. Nora is a former true crime reporter, now operating a sandwich shop in a fictional SoCal town; Nick is the cat who adopted her after his other human, a private eye, disappeared. If you like cozy mysteries with cats, this is a good series to check out. And in case you don’t know, cozy mysteries with cats is a huge, huge thing.)

Romancing the Duke, Tessa Dare (A romantic frolic with engaging characters, and enough substance to maintain interest. Just when you think it’s going right over the top, it doesn’t. If that make any sense. Steam rating: High.)

Foxglove Summer, Ben Aaronovitch (Wacky paranormal hijinks for Peter Grant in the English countryside. So, you know, par for the course, and enjoyable as the preceding books. Bonus points for this one for giving us some more insights into Nightingale, although the man himself doesn’t appear very often. And when am I going to get around to reading The Hanging Tree? It’s been in my to read stack for ages now...)

Indigo Slam, Robert Crais (Private eye novel featuring L.A. detective Elvis Cole and Joe Pike. This time the guys are hired by some kids to find their father. Since it’s Elvis and Joe, of course things get way more complicated.

Property of a Lady, Sarah Rayne (Another ghost story/mystery, the first in a series featuring Oxford don Michael Flint and antiques dealer Nell West. The story revolves around a creepy old house, and there are some genuine chills as Michael and Nell investigate. Their primary means of investigating involves discovering hidden documents. That begins to strain credulity a bit, but I found I coud put up with it. I will probably read more, to see if something at the end of this one is followed up in a subsequent book, and to discover if we ever actually meet Michael’s cat, Wilberforce.)

Night of the Living Deed, E.J. Copperman (Another cozy, this time with ghosts.)

Borrower of the Night, Elizabeth Peters (The first Vicky Bliss novel, and a fun intro to her and her life. John won’t turn up until the next book but there are other romantic interests. Not to mention mysterious shennanigans in a creep old castle, some shivery moments, and a bit of history along the way.)

A Familiar Tail & By Familiar Means, Delia James (Another cozy cat mystery, this time with a pinch of witchcraft as well.)

Whiskey Beach, Nora Roberts (Suspense, romance, family ties, longer than it needed to be but someone I mind that less with Nora than some other authors. Steam rating: Moderate.)

Garden of Lies, Amanda Quick (One of the things I love about AQ books is that along with the romance, we usually get a murder mystery to solve, often with paranormal elements. Another thing is, that although she has some Regencies in her backlist, she’s staked out the Victorian Era as her primary time period. Nothing against Regencies but this reader does sometimes need a break from the ton and all that. Now AQ appears to be moving into the 20th century, which this reader also applauds. Bring on the Jazz Age, baby! Anyway, I liked this one and only wish it was the start of a series of Ursula and Slater mystery romances. Oh well… Steam rating: Moderate.)

Agatha Christie: They Came to Bagdhad; A Pocketful of Rye, The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side, Murder with Mirrors, 4:50 from Paddington (The first is one of her non-series novels, a fun thriller that kept me on the edge of my seat, and also made me wish Dame Agatha had turned her hand to spy thrillers more. The rest are Miss Marple mysteries.)

Mary Stewart: This Rough Magic & Madam, Will You Talk? (This Rough Magic was a reread, and one that held up quite nicely. Young actress on holiday on Corfu, intrigue, romance, gorgeous scenery, and a charming dolphin. Madam, Will You Talk? is her first novel, but just as polished as the later ones. Young, war widowed teacher on holiday in France, brooding hero with dark past, gorgeous scenery, and even car chases. Why there aren’t a series of movies based on these books mystifies me.)

Those were the print books. Here are the ebooks that made a good impression:

Little Clock House on the Green, Eve Devon (Contemporary romantic comedy set in a quirky English village. My only complaint with this one is that certain reveals, re: the heroine’s motivations, took too long to come to light. It wasn’t a huge problem for me, though. The characters were good company. Steam level: practically Hallmark Channel.)

Murder at the Brightwell, Ashley Weaver (First book is the Amory Ames mystery, an homage to the Golden Age, and this one isn’t bonkers. Amory is at the Brightwell, a resort hotel, to help out an old friend--and one-time romantic partner--as well as evaluate the state of her marriage to husband Milo. And then of course there’s a murder. I went into this one expecting one thing to happen, re: Amory and the men in her life, and wound up rather nicely surprised at developments. The mystery was good too.

The Yankee Club, Michael Murphy (Another historical mystery. This time we’re in 1930s New York, with a private eye-turned-mystery writer back in town and getting involved in the murder of his former partner, reunited with his former girlfriend, now a Broadway star, and winding up hip deep in a conspiracy that threatens the very foundations of America. There’s some actual history to back that up, however, and it doesn’t play as over the top as it may sound. Like Design for Dying above, there are cameos by real life celebrities of the time like Cole Porter.)

Bed, Breakfast & Bones, Carolyn L. Dean (Young woman in need of a change moves to a small town on the West Coast, decided to revive the bed & breakfast, finds a body--the usual cozy formula. It’s played well here and I wouldn’t mind reading more books in the series.)

Southern Spirits, Angie Fox (This time our cozy heroine is struggling to keep her ancestral home, while she gets involved in a mystery and is assisted by both the local hunky sheriff and a ghost. I went in expecting nothing, and in fact anticipating to wind up deleting it, and wound up pleasantly surprised. An instance of: don’t judge a book by its cover.)

The Undateable, Sarah Title (Contemporary romantic comedy. A librarian finds herself part a meme that goes viral. This leads to a makeover and a quest to prove she is not the most undateable woman in San Francisco, and it is really way better than I’m making it sound. Promise. Steam level: practically Hallmark Channel.

Act Like It, Lucy Parker (Contemporary romantic comedy, set agains the background of the British theater world, and employing the fake dating trope. I loved it. Steam level: also moderate.)

Marriage is Murder, Emma Jameson (Historical mystery once more. England just before the War, and our doctor hero is sent to a small town in Cornwall, the same town his wife left behind her, and where secrets abound. They no sooner arrive than the wife is killed in a hit-and-run, and the husband left badly injured. Horrible accident or was it murder?)

There were other books–58, total–and many not listed here had their merits, but this batch were the ones that were the page turners, the don’t want to put it down and go to bed ones, the can’t wait to get back to it ones.

There were several books started and not finished; there were others started and put back the shelf to try another time. The latter, I think, is the better option. They may win me yet.

I have no reading agenda for 2018. Just more books, good books, and if I’m lucky one or two that surprise me by being so much better than they looked going in. Love when that happens.

[sarahkhalilsa]

I wasn't certain specifically what I intended to perform with them, however after browsing the ones I bought, I made a decision to keep it straightforward as well as utilized a black sheet with printed stars for the background. You can pick to begin with the easiest, and as you enhance move on to the extra complicated ones. Today, he's almost failed to remember, eclipsed in history by his contemporary Harry Houdini, although Houdini was more of an escaper than an illusionist. Also your sibling, wiping the tears from her eyes, says, "I have never had more fun than I did seeing your magic program. When you do this, they'll be following your words, and won't also take note of the can up until it's far too late. Learn just how to get your customers interest and concentrate on what you are doing. Many of them are rather easy to do yet all of them will certainly evaluate your mind differently and also assist keep your mind in great shape! Your mind waves will certainly clear up right into a frequency that allows you to come to be extra unwinded as well as innovative. Rory Feldman, an illusionist with a Thurston collection of even more than 65,000 items.

By 1925, a typical Thurston program included aspects of the circus, dancing women, and also a full band and included an amazing 36 presentations with design wonders. I am going to reveal you something currently, ladies as well as gents, you will bear in mind a long as you live. The trainee thats also active to getting coffee or keying up a report for the station supervisor isn't going to be the one making the airplay choice. 100 expense, as well as making torn bucks end up being entire once more. Occasionally, a Baltimore reporter created, the number of assistants accentuated the "difficult device" that made a specific trick work. If you take place to be in a bar, and also desire to make a perception on a woman, this is a fantastic means to obtain her contact number. "The impression that he made on individuals was so solid. A checklist for Act 3, from among Thurston's workbooks: 9 Individuals Closet, Pigeon Pie, Bangkok Bungalow, Egg Method, Glass Method, Detainee of Canton, Phantom Piano, Lady as well as Child, Triple Secret.

With everything, the target market felt Thurston's love. And also the tales he shared felt like he was saying them for the very first time," he says. Like a whole lot of people, I consider David Beckham to be the Premier Organization's best-ever crosser, however De Bruyne is starting to match my former England team-mate. Thurston acquired the "mantle of magic" from Harry Kellar, who promoted the floating female illusion, or the "Levitation of Princess Karnac." Thurston included Ziegfeld-inspired touches to his show, like tasteless outfits for his aides. He says growing up in New Mexico, he was "smitten" by his local magic shop, Fool's Paradise. While contemporary accounts reported that he 'd been training for the ministry when he picked magic, biographer Jim Steinmeyer claims that the young Thurston was a near-criminal that left institutionalization by claiming he had located faith. The current method most all magicians are now utilizing is a riffle of the deck while asking the spectator to remain quit.

Julius also did a card trick with Kate as well as Eamonn while he got on the program - which Kate stated had left her "made speechless". Julius Dein recently baffled Drake with an excellent magic trick - yet regrettably for the UK illusionist, his act didn't have fairly the same result on Greetings Britain viewers when he showed up to make his glasses drift. Positive in his answer, Drake instantly addressed: "Batman". Virtually every method entails an audience volunteer and Blake's reactions to target market interjections were some of the craziest as well as most spontaneous moments of the night. As time marches one, the magic usually disappears faster than a coin throughout an illusionist's technique. Many vaudeville programs included magic acts. He executed annual programs for orphanages. Thurston carried out for nobility, stars as well as head of states. In his white tie and also tails, Thurston performed extraordinary methods. Steinmeyer discovered communication in between authorities about the high-school aged Thurston. As well as he closely observed European magicians he experienced, as Steinmeyer creates, specifically those at London's Egyptian Hall, where the most established magicians gathered. He was truly one of the most extremely truthful magician that we had," says Steinmeyer. "He had an astounding understanding of what the target market wanted.

A single blunder can make you a laughing supply on phase as opposed to being a powerful magician. Via being in touch with what they give the globe, they won't really feel the need to confirm themselves to other individuals. Click on this link to discover today what you need to do to capture his heart for life. This is the card that you find magically later on. He made believe to shatter Head of state Calvin Coolidge's watch to pieces, only to have Mrs. Coolidge find it in a loaf of bread. If you ever watch old footage of Thurston, it actually is what you would see if you went to a magic program today. Theodore Roosevelt's child Quentin saw the program a lot of times that he outmaneuvered Thurston as soon as, by bringing a bag that foiled a method involving an egg. But some eagle-eyed audiences asserted they can see a string that seemed used to make his technique take place.

[vultury]

« § Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’ § || Closed with @mysteriousillusion​ »

☆——» Polluted haze of pomegranate DUSK overtakes the cloud-chalked New York sky, encroaching darkness of twilight a mere hour wait away at most. It’s a near perfect start to what was already turning out to be a promising evening, so long as lady luck continued to smile down upon the sole occupant of a charcoal-gray Oldsmobile. The unassuming vehicle rolls to a quiet stop alongside the curb of the derelict plaza, conveniently parking in front of the gradually crumbling Broadripple theater. && although the driver exits the vehicle to make the short jaunt up the sidewalk on his own, Adrian Toomes was far from working alone tonight.

There are eyes above him in the sky ;; his Tinkering partner-in-crime keeping faithful watch, giving short updates when necessary && being charged with the heavy responsibility of being his Criminal-in-Chief’s remote-controlled contingency plan for when worst case scenario becomes unfortunate reality. But Toomes knows there might be another pair of eyes spying on him as he approaches the front doors belonging to the dilapidated, forgotten theater. A new set of matter phase shifters are procured from a jacket pocket, placed along the door && activated. Through the wormhole Toomes gingerly steps, vigilant && wary as he silently enters another thief’s den of sanctuary.

He doesn’t know enough about his prey to assume if it’s merely poetic irony that the criminal magician is going for, or if there was something more than just simple symbolism to establish this rundown show-house as a suitable hideout. Word of mouth && police reports could only offer so much intel on the mysterious guy ;; all Adrian knew was that there was more than just slight-of-hand tricks && Houdini disappearing acts in this guy’s wheelhouse, && that they also suffered from a rather annoying pest problem.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend ;; a trite idiom, but one that Toomes hoped could become a shared rumination, sticking to that thought ( && the Glock at his hip ) as he traveled down the dimly lit hallway that eventually lead to the main stage. It’s an absolute wreck within the seating areas ;; ceiling debris littered && occupied most of the back rows, leftover remnants from the Battle of New York. Abandonment && the local riff-raff could be blamed for the majority of other damages && missing furniture. But, keen eyes are near immediately drawn to center stage ;; that large sequined curtain looked rather vibrant, even in such piss-poor lighting conditions. && the stage itself –  - someone had taken the time to clean, repair it.

Down the sloping main aisle he slowly saunters, making sure to cast a glance over a shoulder every now && again before approaching the elevated stage. With the tip of a steel-toed boot, the tune of of ‘Shave & a haircut’ is kicked into the face of the stage. Hopefully the mirthful melody carried less threatening connotations than what his naturally intimidating voice might as it fills the theater.

❝ Did you hear that? – - That was the sound of opportunity come a’knockin’ ! ❞

He pauses long enough to listen for anyone backstage, or up in the small balcony upstairs. He doesn’t know if this dude was the type to rabbit when cornered, or was a more trigger-happy fellow when intruded upon. Regardless, Toomes was well on his guard, attempting to anticipate where an attack could come from while he speaks once more.

❝ I’ve got a GIG that I think will more than pique your interest – - take you to a higher platform that’ll better utilize your very specific, impressive, talents… – - maybe even get a little revenge on an annoying little Spider, if you’re into that sorta thing…  unless you’re not this MYSTERIO guy I’ve been searching for, then I’ll take my business elsewhere. ❞

[robininthelabyrinth]

Hole in the Fence (Coldwave with goats) - 2

Fic: Hole in the Fence (ao3 link) - chapter 2/4 Fandom: Flash, DC’s Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: Mick Rory’s life was changed forever by the fire he didn’t escape.

(in which Mick Rory retires, raises goats, and saves the world more than a few times)

WARNINGS: medical procedures, hospitalization, detailed description of injury recovery, emotional trauma, hurt/comfort

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Mick stares.

The goat, perched delicately on Mick’s belly, stares back down.

It is a very small goat. It’s pale white and speckled dove grey all over, except for a darker blotch on its eyes and again right above its tail.

The goat bleats.

It’s a little trilling sound.

Mick blinks.

“Hello to you, too,” he says.

The goat bleats a bit more and headbutts Mick’s face very lightly.

“Oh my god,” a voice says, and a woman rushes in. “I am so sorry.”

Mick blinks. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen this woman before. “Sorry?” he asks.

She points at the goat. “I have no idea how he got out again,” she confesses. “I mean, I know, goats, right? If there’s a hole in the fence, a goat will find it, that’s the saying, but I swear we’ve blocked up all the holes and he’s still managing to end up god only knows where every day.”

“Why is there a goat?” Mick asks. That seems like an important question.

The woman blinks at him. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry. My name’s Maple Dzvorak. Please call me Mab. I run the farm.”

“The…farm.”

“Yes,” Mab says. “The farm? Downstairs?” When Mick continues to look blankly at her, she clarifies, “The fully functional dairy farm attached to the land?”

“I did not know that,” Mick says. It does explain the bird noises early in the morning and the grunting animal noises later on; he’d assumed that was some sort of noise machine or local wildlife. “We’re on a farm?”

Mab grins. “Yeah,” she says. “You are. No offense, but I don’t think your Mr. Snart was thinking very rationally when he bought the place. He literally ran in one day, looked at the house and offered us cash for it; I’m pretty sure he was just totally panicking the entire time. Had a wild sort of look in his eyes. Not that I object, of course; I get to keep doing what I do best, which right now is raising goats. We – well, my colleagues, Juanita and Rashid, anyway – sell the milk and the cheese at some of the local farmer’s markets. Any leftovers we’ve got we give to Pre down by old armory, she runs a clinic and knows all the non-corrupt food distribution places.”

“Really?” Mick asks. Mab nods. “That’s cool.”

“Want to come see?” she asks. “I know you’re still convalescing, but if you’d like to help me bring back Houdini here, I’d be happy to show you around, you being half-owner and all.”

Mick transfers himself to his wheelchair and the goat leaps straight into his lap and settles down, regal-like, as if he had been waiting for Mick to get with the program.

Mick snorts.

Arrogant little snot. Reminds him of Len.

“He’s normally more standoffish than that,” Mab observes. “He’s kind of an introvert, except when he’s playing pranks on the other goats.

“Do you actually call him Houdini?” Mick asks her.

“Nah,” she says. “This is the newest batch of kids. We haven’t named ‘em yet. I just thought it fit because he’s always breaking in and out of places where he doesn’t belong, and making stupid jumps from one place to another and somehow making them. You have something in mind?”

“Yeah,” Mick says. “I’m calling this one Boss.”

Mab arches her eyebrows.

“It fits, trust me,” Mick assures her.

“You’re the –” she pauses, making Mick smirk because he knows she was about to say ‘boss’. “– owner.”

“What does that mean, anyway?” Mick asks. He has no idea what someone who owns a farm actually does. His parents were farmers, but it's been a long time since he was eleven.

“Well, we weren’t exactly doing that well financially,” Mab says wryly. “Still aren’t. The family before you bought this place to make it into a farm because they thought it was ‘cute’, but it turned out they didn’t like it all that much. Too much dirt, not enough cute. And that was bad, because we’re not self-sustaining yet, so losing their support would mean we lose the farm. We looked for someone else to rent out the place to – the rent being how we planned to keep the farm running for a little longer.”

“And we’re the renters?”

“No,” Mab says patiently. “Mr. Snart showed up one day, asked about wheelchair accessibility, and bought the whole place – house, farm, everything – in a glorious, glorious amounts of cash, then told me to just keep doing what I’m doing. Is he likely to keep up with that, do you think?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t care,” Mick says. “Carry on and so on.”

Mab wheels him down to the porch.

Mick wonders for a moment if this is a very well-thought-out kidnapping, but no. The goat is just too weird to be anything other than real.

Sure enough, there are goats outside.

Actual goats.

A good number of them, too.

Mick is impressed, right up until one of little ones – even littler than the one sitting on his lap – barrels up the porch stairs and head-butts his shin.

Hard.

“If you were any bigger, that might have hurt,” Mick tells the goat. It’s even smaller than Boss.

The goat just headbutts him again. Then headbutts Mab and the door, too, for good measure.

“This one’s the runt,” Mab says, trying to hide a smile. “Makes up for it by being willing to fight literally anything at any time.”

“Good goat,” Mick says, smiling a little. He likes headbutting people, too.

Boss jumps down and nuzzles the little goat, which headbutts him, but lightly, and then nuzzles back. Then they go prancing off, Boss in the lead and the littler goat happily leaping from side to side in Boss’ wake.

“Fights anything, you say?” Mick says, watching them.

“Anything, everything, everyone,” Mab confirms. “Especially anyone who gets in, ah, Boss’ way. They’re inseparable.”

“I’m calling that one Mick,” Mick decides. “Or Mickey, anyway, till he’s grown.”

Mab shakes her head. “She. And don’t you dare name all of them,” she warns. “Some are for selling as breeding stock, not milk.”

“I’ll keep it limited,” Mick lies.

“Mick,” Shlomit calls, coming out through the porch door. “I didn’t know you were coming outside.”

Little Mickey turns on a heel and zips back up the stairs to headbutt her, too.

“Nice,” Mick says approvingly. “Go, Mickey.”

Mickey bleats proudly, then goes to rejoin Boss in the field.

“Did you just attack me with a goat?” Shlomit asks, looking amused. “You have attack goats, now?”

“Mickey’s a good little fighter,” Mick says.

“'Mickey' is a girl,” Mab says.

“So?”

Mab considers for a moment, then shrugs. “Have it your way,” she says. “Shlomit, can he stay out? I wanted to show him the farm.”

“Only if we put sunscreen on first,” Shlomit says firmly, but in the end Mick gets his tour.

They have a fair sized herd of goats. They get fed and graze and after a bit of watching, Mick asks Mab, “Doesn’t the food affect how their cheese tastes?”

“Yeah,” Mab says. “I’m hoping to experiment when we have a bit more money – maybe partitioning them off or something? – but we’re not quite there yet. Here, let me introduce you to our crew – they help with the milking and the cheese process –”

Len comes back that evening.

“I just got headbutted by a goat,” he says, looking bemused.

“Did you now?” Mick asks innocently.

“I wouldn’t have commented on it, except that I’m informed that they’re your, uh, attack goats now.”

“Yep,” Mick says, lacing his fingers together and leaning back in his wheelchair with a satisfied smirk.

Len looks him dead in the eye. “Mick,” he says, sounding serious.

Mick’s smirk disappears. “What?”

“Next time, you need to tell me before you adopt any kids.”

It takes a few seconds for the pun to hit and then Mick groans and puts his head in his hands while Len laughs his goddamn ass off.

“You’re a dick,” Mick grouses as Len wipes the tears out of his eyes. “It wasn’t even that funny.”

“Your face was that funny.”

“Fuck you. I thought you wanted to say something serious!”

Len sits down, still sniggering.

Boss noses his way into the room, closely followed by Mickey. Mickey immediately goes straight to Len, who immediately scoops her up to sit on his lap.

She noses around his lap a little and then makes herself at home, while Boss starts casing the room.

“I like this one,” Len says, petting Mickey. “Good goat. Fierce goat. Yes you are.”

“She is, that,” Mick says. “Fights anything she sees. Headbutts anything and everyone.”

“I like her,” Len declares. “This one’s my favorite.”

Mick hides a smile.

“I like that, too,” Len says.

“Like what?”

“You seem – happier. Today. You’ve been down recently.”

Mick arches his eyebrows. “We actually talking about this? Thought we didn’t do feelings.”

“Ji-hyun threatened to light me on fire if we didn’t,” Len admits cheerfully. “And she says you’ve taught her everything she knows about arson.”

“Aww,” Mick says. “She remembers all that? Best shrink ever.”

“She’s pretty tough.”

“You should see her.”

Len makes a face.

“I’m telling you,” Mick says. This is an old argument. “Going a few times won’t hurt anyone.”

“I’ll think about it,” Len says, instead of his usual ‘it hurts me’ rebuttal.

Mick arches his eyebrows.

Len shrugs. “I’ve had some issues recently,” he says. “Recurring and inconveniently timed panic attacks. Maybe seeing a shrink isn’t the end of the world.”

“No, it definitely is,” Mick says. “Leonard Snart agreeing to go see a shrink? Definitely a sign of the apocalypse.”

“Fuck off,” Len says, but pleasant and friendly-like. “So what’s going on? Ji-hyun says you barely talk to her about anything, Shlomit is about ten seconds away from suggesting even more pills, and you’ve been acting –” He hesitates.

“Like a dick?” Mick offers.

“Like you’ve finally figured out that you don’t want me around anymore,” Len says. His knuckles are white, Mick notices, wrapped around the edges of the chair; little Mickey is nosing at his wrist anxiously.

It takes a few seconds for Len’s words to sink in.

“Wait,” Mick says, because what even, “me not want you around anymore?!”

Len nods stiffly. He’s as tense as a tightly wound spring.

“Why?”

“It was my idea,” Len bursts out. “That stupid fucking job in Shreveport – I was the one who wanted to go, I was the one who should’ve cased the place better –”

“Are you still beating yourself up about that?” Mick asks, amazed. “Jesus, Len. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

“You got burned,” Len says, and his eyes aren’t focusing right. He’s looking at a memory, not at Mick. “You burned, Mick – you were screaming –”

Mick feels a stab of regret. “You always knew I wanted to burn in the end,” he says gruffly, trying to cover it up.

“I always thought I’d be there by your side,” Len says. “Not watching.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Mick frowns, watching him. This whole thing, it hit Len bad; much worse than Mick had noticed. This isn’t like Len, who hates his emotions and tries to avoid them when possible.

This isn’t Len trying to cut things off. This is Len off-balance, unsteady, making stupid decisions and sticking with them out of stubbornness, shaking and hurting and Mick’s only ever seen him like this when –

“Is Lisa okay?” Mick asks.

Len gives him a look. “She’s fine,” he says. “Where’d that even come from?”

Mick didn’t really doubt it, but it makes him feel funny inside, that Len can be knocked off his feet so bad by something happening to Mick in the same way as with Lisa. Mick would’ve said that Lisa was the only person Len really loved, before today.

Today he thinks – really believes, for the first time – that maybe Lisa’s not the only one Len loves.

“You’re not planning on ditching me,” he says softly. Len doesn’t give up on people he loves, not ever; that’s why he loves so few of them.

“Ditching you?” Len exclaims, opening his eyes and looking offended. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“I’m no use to you now, am I?” Mick points out gently. “Shlomit says my recovery could take – it’s not months, Lenny. It’s years. Between my beat-up lungs and my beat-up arms, I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can stand by your side again, if ever.”

“So what?” Len says challengingly. “I don’t give a damn about that.”

“You don’t carry dead weight.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t just use you for your muscle, Mick; you’re my partner. You do so much more than that.”

Mick scowls.

“You do,” Len insists. “You keep an eye on the crew –”

“They’d stab you in the back otherwise,” Mick grumbles. “You have terrible judgment of people. Remember Charlie?”

“– you keep me from doing anything too dumb –”

“As much as possible.”

“– and you keep me from going over the line,” Len finishes. He rubs at his eyes. He looks so tired, suddenly, the bags under his eyes coming into clear relief. Mick doesn’t know what Len does all day, but he bets it has something to do with how Len’s been spending money like it grows on trees. Len’s stash isn’t endless. “It’s not the way it was before, without you. I’ve worked without you before, when we split up, but I was always angry, then. I knew I’d get you back eventually and I worked every job thinking I’ll show him the whole damn time. But this time I know exactly where you are, and why you’re not with me, and it’s my goddamn fault.”

“It ain’t your fault, Len,” Mick says again. “You saw the flames and ran out; I didn’t.”

“It’s my job,” Len says firmly. “My job, my crew; it’s on me to get everyone out. I know about you and fire, Mick; me better than anyone else in the world, except maybe Ji-hyun. I should’ve prioritized getting you out of there. I should’ve figured out ahead of time that that warehouse would go up so quick.”

“You can’t plan for everything.”

“I should’ve run in to get you out,” Len says.

Mick frowns. “You did,” he says. He remembers that. Len had dragged him out, half the way, ditching only when he saw the ambulances coming.

“Not soon enough,” Len says. “Third degree burns could’ve been two. The smoke that fucked over your lungs – you wouldn’t have breathed so much in, if I hadn’t run out after some pointless yelling. I should’ve realized I needed to get you out some other way.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mick says. “I’m serious. I don’t blame you.”

Len smiles humorlessly. “You should.”

“I don’t, and I’m not gonna,” Mick says firmly. “You don’t get to pick who I blame.”

Len shakes his head a little. “Fine,” he says. “Then you don’t get to get rid of me, either, even if you think it’s for my own good.”

Len’s always been a perceptive little shit.

“Fine,” Mick says. “But what am I gonna do now? I've got nothing except being an arsonist and some crew's muscle, other than being your partner. What do I do?”

Len shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ll start planning my jobs here again, if you want to tell me I’m dumb during the planning stages.”

“You’d better plan them here,” Mick says, alarmed by the idea that Len has been planning some of his more ridiculous stupid-ass stunts without him.

“I don’t know what else.” Len frowns. “What about the kitchen?”

Mick frowns in return. “What about the kitchen?”

“Well, you like cooking, don’t you?” Len says, like he hasn’t voraciously devoured everything Mick’s ever made him (except for the greens) for nearly two decades.

“What’ve you been eating?” Mick asks, suddenly suspicious. The answer had better not be ‘fast food’.

“Hospital cafeteria meals, mostly.”

That’s worse.

“Fine,” Mick says. “I’ll cook for you again.”

“We’ll need to renovate the kitchen,” Len says. “Adaptive stuff.”

“More ovens,” Mick says automatically. He’s always wanted to renovate a kitchen to his liking. He has feelings about appliances.

“You ain't even seen the kitchen!”

“You always need more ovens.”

“Fine,” Len says. “More ovens. I’ll call a guy. But this is coming out of your stash.”

Mick smiles.

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“Is there any reason not to try roses?” Mick asks, picking Bumblebee, the newest runt in the litter and Mickey’s newest playmate, off the floor before she eats the rug. “They eat the neighbor’s patch all the goddamn time whether we want them too or not.”

“I mean, I guess,” Mab says, frowning thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be that hard to keep track of the ones that eat nowhere else and segregate their cheese…okay, I have to know. I know you well enough by this point. What recipe are you thinking?”

“Taillevent mentioned a rose-tinted pottage...”

“Hah! I knew you had a reason!”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was also thinking we could vary the type of rennet we use,” Mick says. He lays out the plan he’s been working on - done up like Len's blueprints - and points to the various boxes he’s created. “See, I don’t know if it’ll have any effect, but I was listening to a book that said that vegetable or animal-based makes a difference in the –”

“Can we go back to stealing stuff?” Len bitches from where he’s lying face-down on the couch.

“No,” Mick says. “Also, you’re reading me the next two chapters of that book tonight, so don’t smother yourself before then.”

“Uuuuuuugh.”

“He’s just bitter that his last job just finished and he’s bored again already,” Mick tells Mab. Len enforces the lying low part of a job as strictly as he does the rest, but what he’d never let on to his crews is that he really, really hates it, too.

Mick’s happy, though; it means Len will be spending the next few weeks here.

“I’m just happy you’re not Family affiliated criminals,” Mab says dryly. “It’s Central: I’ll accept criminals, but a girl has got to draw the line somewhere.”

“Speaking of lines,” Mick asks, putting Bumblebee down. She prances over to Len. They all love Len, every one of them. “How are Billy and Nanny T. Goat settling in?”

Mab groans.

Len sniggers into his couch cushion.

“This is your fault,” Mick informs him.

“Yeah, I know,” Len says. “But I couldn’t just leave them there!”

Mick rolls his eyes. “You didn’t have to drop them off and run away without explanation.”

“There was no explanation!” Len protests.

“No,” Mab says tartly. “There is no explanation for giving a goat farm a gift in the form of two baby alpacas.”

“They were malnourished and sad,” Len says firmly. “That wealthy idiot wanted them as pets, but just shoved them in a room and basically forgot about them. They were baaing softly in sadness. I regret nothing.”

Mab sighs. “Well,” she says, “they were babies and babies bounce back pretty well. That being said, they’re being raised by the goats, so they definitely think they’re goats now. Those names didn’t help.”

“Boss adopted ‘em,” Mick says with satisfaction.

Len grumbles. He’s still never entirely forgiven Mick for naming the goat after him, especially when Mick points out that Boss’s tendency to run jail-breaks from just about anywhere and also the fact that he’s more or less taken over the flock despite being only a couple of years old are really quite similar to their namesake’s own actions.

The fact that Mickey never grew all that big and ended up being the smallest, fiercest goat in the entire herd has only mollified that annoyance slightly.

“That’s going to be interesting in a few years,” Mab sighs. “But sure, let’s talk rennet.”

“You know what,” Len says, sitting up. “I’m going to go steal a diamond.”

“You’re doing no such thing.”

“I am too! There’s one coming in to Central City museum. I saw a flyer earlier today.”

“Do you have a reason to steal a diamond?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “Not being here to discuss rennet. I know what that’s made of.”

Mick snorts and wheels over to the couch just to smack Len.

He doesn’t need the wheelchair all the time anymore, just on days like today, when his joints start acting up and everything is sore. Shlomit has returned to her day job, though she checks in once a week to run him through his PT and OT exercises because she doesn’t trust him. Mick’s pretty sure Len pays her for doing it, though he doesn’t think there’s an official contract or anything.

Mick still needs the massages and the lotion on a daily basis, which Len manages with the fierce regularity of the drill sergeant that secretly lives in his head even if his hands are always gentle; and Mick slathers on sunscreen like a dying man before going out for a regular day out on the farm. Mab and the rest of the workers have strict orders to watch him to make sure that he doesn’t overdo it, because he has collapsed from heatstroke from exercising too hard – turns out the body’s ability to sweat is really quite crucial to things like exercise or even sitting around, if the day is hot enough. He’s got some gait issues left over, which he’s usually fine with, though some days call for a cane and others for crutches or the chair; his legs have never quite uncurled the full way out, though Disha has looked him over and declared that it’s as good as modern surgery can get him.

The carbon monoxide poisoning did come back to kick his ass with a pneumonia infection that recurs every year, but on the other hand, the damage that happened to his kidneys – Disha uses cheerful terms like ‘tubular necrosis’ and ‘acute renal failure’ which make Len go white-lipped and distant – has basically gone away for good.

The brief relapse he had into what Disha called ‘burn delirium’ is best never discussed. He never gets back most of the memories he had of the weeks leading up to the job that went wrong, but Len informs him they were pretty boring anyway – typical job lead-up.

Len is in fact seeing a therapist at long last, one that Ji-hyun recommended after her initial session with him. Apparently, Len does as well with tough old Jewish ladies as Mick does with equally tough old Korean ladies.

They apparently spend about 10 minutes criticizing each other’s family at the start of each session, just to get into the mood.

All in all, Mick isn’t actually unhappy with his life right now. Sure, he misses the game - the local biker gang is happy to indulge him in bar fights, which helps with the excitement and violence even if he suspects they're not going all in, and Len has established a tough-as-nails reputation that is starting to be scarily bloodthirsty but at least keeps him safe – but he likes what he’s doing now, too.

The dairy farm is doing well, he’s named every single one of the goats, and he goes into Central three times a week to sell at the farmer’s markets, with Juanita and Rashid taking the opportunity to search out new markets further afield like they’ve always wanted to.

He cooks for Len, who comes home every day he can, and Lisa whenever she’s in the area. Mab, Shlomit, and Disha are all regular invitees, and the goats – led by Boss, as always – make regular incursions into the household to try to eat some of Mick’s cooking. Len’s trickier than the goats, though, so he’s set up a system of sweet-smelling boxes for the goats to find that makes them feel like they’ve accomplished something while maintaining Mick’s strict diets for each of them.

Life is pretty good.

Of course, Mick would be a disgrace to his Irish heritage if he wasn’t inherently suspicious of such things.

So when he flicks on the TV not a month after Len’s decision to go steal a diamond and finds Len fighting a bolt of lightning, he’s almost not surprised.

The news starts by reporting a scuffle on the transit, people with liquid nitrogen; that sounds like Len. They mention a Streak – helpfully, they give a short summary of what’s known about it, which is literally nothing but conspiracy theories – and the next thing they report is a fight in a movie theater.

There are pictures – crappy, cell-phone recordings – of Len using some sort of futuristic gun that freezes anything it touches.

And then –

Well.

He waits until Len gets home – a train! He jumped off a train! What the fuck?! – to say anything.

Len slinks into the house like a man with a guilty conscience, and he jumps near a foot in the air when Mick clears his throat from where he’s sitting on the couch, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed in a glare.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Len says.

“You mean you hoped.”

“…you saw the news.”

“I saw the news.”

“I got you a present?” Len offers.

Mick arches his eyebrows. “If it’s a diamond, I told you years ago, I don’t want one. I’m not that type of floozy.”

Len snorts. “Yeah, no. It’s this.”

‘This’ turns out to be a gun. A gun that works on principles of heat, everything from a flamethrower to a tight laser of heat so hot it melts metal.

Mick loves it on sight.

“You want me by your side?” he asks, examining it. He’ll take it apart, later; he’ll figure out how it works. He’ll know every inch of it, backwards and forwards, soon enough. He’ll do the same for Len’s cold gun – he’s always been the more mechanically minded of the two of them. He might not read the way Len does, he might not talk the way Len does, but he can make a machine sing under his hands.

“No,” Len says, and it doesn’t even hurt anymore when he says it, because Mick might not be able to stand by Len when he goes on crazy missions anymore, but Mick’s the one Len comes home to every day when he can, and he’s the one Len defers to on the craziness of a given mission. Len doesn’t trust himself, not all the way, not since the fire; Mick is his reminder not to let the ice in his veins freeze him solid.

“Then what’s it for?”

Len’s smile quirks up. “It’s a bribe,” he says. “For helping me plan out how to beat a superhero.”

“So it’s a hero, then?”

“Just a man,” Len confirms. “With a bleeding heart.”

Mick grins. “My favorite.”

[itsdigitri]

Soushitsu Reaction (per episode)

Posting below the cut, just to be safe

Episode 14

- My theory about Daigo and Maki being the OG Chosen was so right. But that entire scene was a giant clusterfuck. I couldn’t tell you what the fuck was going on other than the fact that it appeared they got their asses handed to them by the Dark Masters and then Maki’s partner disappeared (died?)

- The train tracks and the cart. The nostalgia. The reunion is so cute. Yamato acting as if he wasn’t excited to see Tsunomon again made me laugh. Poor Sora tried so hard to reconnect with Yokomon. Now my heart hurts.

- Daddy Jou is back and all about finding something to eat and somewhere to sleep. 

- Mimi appears and fakes tears (i think) and is super optimistic about how they’ll return home. Such character development, I’m shook. 

- Taichi chases after Meicoomon when she appears. WHAT A GOOD BOY.

- Nostalgia kicks in again ‘cause it’s lunch time. Mimi is real slick with that comment about Sora’s future husband. Koushiro my dear child is so adorable with his rant about oolong tea. Motimon cutting him off to remind him to eat before Tokomon does is so typical. I laughed. 

- Poor Sora looks so lonely without Yokomon

- Then we have Taichi unsure of what to do about the Meicoomon thing and he has a flashback to her demon mode (meicrackmon is such an ugly name I don't want to use it). Yamato reminds him that Meiko is one of them and walks off like geesh he really doesn’t cut that man any slack lmao. 

- Taichi and Agumon have a moment and I want to die because it’s so damn cute. 

- Sora goes to bat with the lil’ brat Yokomon again and loses and my heart hurts again because Sora doesn’t deserve this.  

- Back to the debate about what to do next, everyone is upset that the reboot may have been for nothing since Meicoomon wasn’t affected. Taichi finally recovers his role as leader and is resolved to reunite his friends. Everyone is on board as well. Yay ~~

- The Digimon are now adults. I’m a little disappointed since they were following nostalgia to a T and the little rainbow light striking them would’ve really just nailed it. 

15

- Biyomon is still being a brat even in adult form

- Flashback of mini Mei’s, how cute. But i still understand nothing about their partnership other than the fact that Meiko keeps Meicoomon’s demon side under wraps

- Taichi returns from looking for distortions and I’m just wondering how the hell he missed the giant purple coming from Meicoomon. 

- Mimi has her cell phone and this is new and kind of weird to see 

- Takeru calls Meiko hopeless and Hikari teases him. Yay Takari??

- Lmao  Takeru is still saying he loves Yamato the most and Yamato is blushing after Taichi calls him out

- Sora is so upset and it continues to chip away at my heart

- That Taiorato scene…yikes. That was a golden opportunity to distinguish boyfriend from best friend and Toei completely fucked it up. I'm irritated. Taichi is her best friend and an idiot so him being oblivious is normal. I’m not even a shippy person but Yamato and Sora are supposedly end game so I feel like that scene should have gone down differently. Like the whole clenching his fist and staying quiet and looking to Taichi for help. WHAT WAS THAT. And then asking if they should ask Takeru with her right there (I get it was with good intentions but...) ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. THAT’S YOUR FUTURE WOMAN. COMFORT HER. That was some horribly shitty writing. 

- Then Meicoomon ruins that oh-so-sweet moment  just as Mugendramon appears in a flash of light. Like literally what. the fuck. I dead ass expected Meiko to appear instead because it looked like the gate had opened. Nope, just a Dark Master here to fuck things up again

- We’re back to the real world and Daigo is finally figuring shit out. Unsurprisingly, Maki is shady and is working with Yggdrasil and used Meicoomon to cause the reboot so she could see her dead partner again. I get it, but how selfish can you be? There’s a super cute flashback to teenage Daigo/Maki and Daigo is SMOOTH ASF with that partner line as he comforts Maki. Like shit, please teach Taichi and Yamato your ways.

- Back in the Digi World the gang is reunited and they call for their partners to Digivolve and the Digimon are like ????

- They’re blasted by Mugendramon and i’m over here like how tf did they survive. Then it’s revealed a distortion appeared and saved them all, but they’re all separated without their right partner

- Biyomon is back to being a brat and makes Sora cry - there goes another part of my heart. Then they find Meiko and i’m just like wtf is she Houdini now??

- The others are in other parts of the world and the nostalgia is real. I swear Toei’s goal was ‘how much nostalgia can we fit in one movie’

16 

- Meiko = mountain/country girl = good at making fires

- Biyomon is only being nice to Meiko. What. A. Brat. 

- Mimi and Tentomon make a good name-calling team 

- Yamato and Koushiro are the dream team lmao. Koushiro showing the digimon pictures of their adventures in the real world warmed my heart. Agumon questioning Yamato about Taichi was priceless. ALSO LETS JUST STAND HERE UNTIL THE TRAIN IS INCHES AWAY FROM US AND THEN JUMP. Like how could let that happen Koushiro, you’re smarter than this.

- Taichi is being gloomy because he doesn’t know what they are to their partners anymore and Hikari is like ‘nah just accept them for how they are now because for Plotmon, it’s better this way.’ So wise beyond your years, Hikari. 

- More cut scenes. Takeru is in primary village getting patched up by our good pal Elecmon. Again, nostalgia. 

- Hackmon is filling in Daigo. He’s on the good side aka Homeostatis. We learn that Gennai has dabbled with the darkness and he refers to Meicoomon as libra (I think) because ANOTHER MYSTERY IS JUST WHAT WE NEED AT THIS POINT

- We’re back to Sora and Meiko. Sora is depressed once again and doesn’t know what to do to fix things. Meiko throws her words back at her and i’m screaming because she’s SUCH A GOOD GIRL. 

- Meicoomon appears and is pissed and starts attacking like WUT. Meiko is cool asf and is like ‘yes, you’re bad but i’m also bad for abandoning you i’ll never do that again.’ 

- Dark Gennai appears in Ken form and is all like hi let’s play. He’s reveals he is on the side of Yggdrasil. Meicoomon says bye and goes after Mugendramon but is tossed aside like she’s nothing and falls into DGs hands. Sora shows up all queen-like and throws rocks. DG tackles her and feels her up for her DigiVice (also, what the FUCK was the unnecessary licking, i’m disgusted Toei). Dumb and Dumber (i apologize, I’m still very salty about the previous episode) show up to save Sora just in time. Everyone is reunited due to the distortions and Gennai reveals even more information - Yggdrasil doesn’t want the two species interacting and wants to destroy the Human world. Unsurprisingly, the Chosen have played into Yggrasil’s plan accordingly, and honestly, i’m so over it. They couldn’t have come up with anything better??

- They’re about to be blasted away and Plotmon becomes a total badass and allows them to escape to a boat of all places

- DG finds them easily and Dumb and Dumber along with Hikari come up with the genius plan to let themselves be decoys while the others escape. DG is like HA YOU THOUGHT and sends MetalSeadramon to play. Nice going, guys. 

- Back on the boat, Sora and Meiko are still there. Biyomon finally comes to her senses and realizes what a beautiful soul Sora is and i’m soaring 

- The Chosen are on the run and DG is still babbling nonsense. JYOU FUCKING TACKLES HIM AND I’M CACKLING. HOLY SHIT THAT JUST MADE THIS MOVIE FOR ME. The digimon are ruthless asf and attack him one after the other - it’s fantastic. 

- We see Maki temporarily reunite with Tapirmon and she’s pissed he doesn’t remember her. Like girl what did you think would happen??

- Back in the water Dumb and Dumber are fighting with MetalSeadramon and then they disappear under water after protecting Agumon and Gabumon. They have the MOST GAY MOMENT OFF ALL TIME as they swim towards the surface. Then they’re out of oxygen but somehow are having a conversation with their partners. Agumon and Gabumon save them AND THEY CHEAT US THE EVOLUTION SCENE AGAIN. Plotmon evolves to save Hikari and it’s beautiful. 

- MSD is defeated and scene cuts to Sora returning to the others. DG escapes and disappears. Mugendramon goes after Biyomon, Sora jumps on to get her back. While Sora gets pummeled into the wall the two bond and it’s beautiful and Biyomon evolves. PHOENIXMON IS SO MAJESTIC. 

- Cut scene to Meiko being cornered by DG and him being a creepy bastard again. 

- Back to the action, the two attack, Sora gets knocked off AND JYOU COMES TO THE RESCUE AGAIN. Then all of a sudden, Patamon wants to fight so he evolves and we finally see Seraphimon. Next is Tentomon and now it’s overkill and i’m not happy with the way this played out either. Like them wanting to fight is seriously what triggered their evolution? What. The. Hell. 

- Meiko is being strangled by DG to trigger Meicoomon’s evolution. He says some pretty harsh stuff to her. Like geez, yeah she’s not exactly the best partner but to say she should’ve never been born? Rude asf. 

- Mugendramon is defeated and everyone is ecstatic because they still have a bond. Jyou is smug even though Gomamon didn’t evolve lmao what a cutie. Sora forgives Dumb and Dumber after they apologize (+10 points) but I’m still aggravated by the whole ordeal 

- The world shakes and we see Meicoomon in demon form and the movie ends with DG laughing manically with Meiko passed out

Gotta say that overall I really wasn’t impressed. Confession was pretty hard to follow up with but…this? This was not what I expected at all. I’m pretty disappointed but there’s still two more movies so my fingers are crossed that it’ll get better from here.

[msarki]

Houdini's Box by Adam Phillips

Houdini's Box by Adam Phillips Hardcover, 192 pages Published July 24th 2001 by Pantheon Books Original Title: Houdini's Box: The Art of Escape ISBN: 0375406360 (ISBN13: 9780375406362) Edition Language: English

…Real magic is the illusion that there is such a thing as real magic…

Years ago Houdini became for me more than just a famous magician and escape artist.  I felt I knew him. Back in grade school my mother provided me a book allowance so that monthly I could order a few dollars worth of titles off a scholastic list our teacher provided.  I remember ordering a book about Harry Houdini, eagerly awaiting its arrival, and after reading it being in awe of his story.  I could not believe all the trouble Houdini made for himself. There was also a Paramount Pictures film made the year I was born in 1953 about the life of Houdini that starred Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh.  I loved that movie. And my blood rushed within every dangerous obstacle and subsequent escape Houdini ever made.  Reading Houdini’s Box has now taken me back to that time as a young boy and also forced another look into what originally impressed me so about this man.  Of course, it isn’t really Houdini I am looking for. In fact, it is my very own mirror I am gazing into.

…To boast is to shout down claims of one’s inferiority, the vanishing act in which one’s shame disappears…

For years I made efforts to overcome my fears. Whether it was learning to stand up to bullies or embarking on long-distance excursions in order to prove how adventurous and brave I was, I continued to fail at convincing even myself.  My list of sallies is long and could be construed as winsome.  I was lucky to survive them.  Even after more than six decades fear, in its many guises, continues to threaten me and I reluctantly face it willingly with the confidence to succeed in light of its many dangers.    

…The sheer scale of fear between people—the terrors and uncertainties people can generate in each other—make a life of exits and more occasional entrances a virtual necessity.  A person who is running away from something, the psychoanalyst Michael Balint once remarked, is also running towards something else…Things are not frightening because they are real, they are real because they are frightening.

Surprised at the age of thirty-two to learn from a substance abuse center that I was an alcoholic, and immediately carrying through on the center’s instruction, I attended the first of my initial one hundred contiguous AA meetings.  After establishing a base of sobriety I branched out into paid therapy sessions beginning with a respected past member of the clergy who had gone into private practice.  Dr. Tom Bumpus was my first terrible mistake in recovering from a disease that had affected me in ways that are still present at my current age of sixty-three.  I believe it was my second session with this crackpot when he asked me what I thought my problem was. I remarked that it was this fear I had felt for so many years that was at the root of what ailed me.  He called me a liar and informed me that all addicts are liars and I was no different. I was shocked that this so-called doctor would treat my most honest attempt at expressing the truth behind my disease with such disdain and ridicule. I walked out his door never to return.  But Tom Bumpus scarred me and continues to haunt my good nature even thirty years later.  Reading Adam Phillips immediately conjures up that doughy goofball and I remember how he made me feel so ashamed and doubtful of myself.  Of course, because he was an authority figure, I questioned my truthfulness and attempted to place the blame on my failures directly on my own inability to perhaps be honest with myself.  But thirty years of uninterrupted self-examination has provided me ample opportunities to prove and galvanize my belief in the power of that fear, and I remember still vividly the many times I have been forced to flee or overcome it by standing my ground and taking steps towards it.  If asked the same question today I would answer that for good or bad, fear is the driving force behind me.  

…the absence of desire and real death, of which the death of desire is a foreshadowing, are the two great hauntings…

This morning I am feeling old and unimportant. My wife is still in bed as she generally remains sleeping for another two hours after I initially rise to read and write in quiet.  But I am bothered this morning by her oldness too.  She is not the same young girl I met when we were seventeen.  Though she remains desirable to me, and most likely will always interest me sexually, she could not possibly be as alluring to others these days as she used to be.  Nor am I. Looking back on our life together I can see where her attractiveness played a most important role in my personal happiness.  She being desired by a person not myself.  And I am grateful that she stayed faithful to me.  I was rarely jealous, and if I was it was of my own doing.  Beverly was remarkable in the sense she could have been with just about anybody she wanted to, but instead chose me.  But now it does not matter. She is no longer the young woman she used to be.  Not only have I lost interest in our risking an infidelity, but she cares little about the sordid fantasy as well.  It used to be what we did for fun.  We were collaborators.  And my reading Adam Phillips this morning led me back to a time I believe was seductively delicious.  This morning he mentioned In Praise of Older Women and I remembered Beverly enjoying that book herself many years ago.  And this morning I wonder what that book would mean to her now?  The novel details a young man’s obsession with older women and his being with them sexually.  Perhaps my young wife, even back then, was subconsciously dwelling in the possibility?

Adam Phillips posits that escape is about what it is we want. One can either escape into doubt about what one wants, or one can escape from doubt about what one wants. For example, a pervert knows exactly what he wants. And he will flee from the confusion and uncertainty about what he wants and whether, in fact, he wants anything.  

The convinced are in flight from the experimental nature of wanting, from the fact that you can only find something else that you hadn’t known you wanted.  The unsure are in flight from acting on inclination, from following the compass of their excitement.  For the unsure there is always a safe haven of compromise, of world-weary wisdom about the impossibility of satisfaction, and the noble truth in disappointment: whereas the convinced live in a different kind of inner superiority, the belief that they really know what everyone really wants, but that they are the only ones with the courage, the recklessness, the moral strength, or the good fortune to be capable of the ultimate satisfactions that life has to offer.  

The teacher Gordon Lish instructed us to be open and frank in order to entice, and as Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, to name my bird without a gun.  It is a fact I continue to follow their advice.  And trust their words ambiguously.