Peril By Streetlight | Chapter 4: Roberto and Rosita

Peril By Streetlight

Chapter 4: Roberto and Rosita

by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

“Ah, one Dee Marks returned already, minus one 'Swipes' Wagner,. What can I do for you?” said the accountant.

“Swipes had to go check on his step-daughter. The don told me to pick your brain about the painting.”

“Ah, yes. Well, there is very little about it in my brain, but I do have....” he walked over to an ambitiously decorated wooden file cabinet and selected a small folder, “....one, two, three, four! Ah, four pages of information on it you are welcome to review. I must insist you commit them to memory, as I cannot allow you to leave with physical, ah, evidence of Don Ucello's business interests.”

“Gotcha.” I held out my hand for the folder. The first page was a mimeograph of the painting, which depicted a grove of trees beneath a mountain that was almost-but-not-quite French impressionist. The second was a copy of an encyclopedia entry on the painting. I whistled when I read it. “It's really worth that much?” I asked.

“Picolo Alberi Felici is considered the most singular Rossini painting in his entire catalog. It is, ah, supposed to be the finest example of his emphasis on the joy of natural discovery. Of course, I am not an expert.”

The third page was an encyclopedia entry on the artist: Roberto Rossini. He was an Italian veteran who had sworn a vow of pacifism after the Great War and taken up painting. At first, he had been widely mocked for the simplicity of his style, but eventually the artistic community had come around.  According to the article, he he was currently considered the greatest living Italian painter. At the end of the article, a handwritten note added “Died last year. Ruled natural causes, but some irregularities.”

“'Some irregularities'?,” I asked.

“One Roberto Rossini attempted to organize no less than fifteen public protests against the government of Benito Mussolini. He was also in perfect health at the time of his death, according to his wife. However, I did not investigate further, as his cause of death is irrelevant to Don Uccello's business interest.”

“Are you sure about that, buddy?”

“Quite. The painting was on the auction block in the free world long before one Roberto Rossini's, ah, unfortunate demise.”

I shrugged, thinking for a bit. Could Don Ucello have pulled some strings to have Rossini killed so the painting would be worth more? I couldn't rule it out, but it seemed like an unnecessary complication. It was far more likely that the bloke had just tread on Mussolini's toes too many times. I read the fourth page, which was an analysis of how much stealing the painting would cost versus how much it could fetch on the black market, all couched in vague and non-incriminating terms. Then I closed the folder and handed it back to the accountant. 

“Thanks,” I said. “The don also said something about an expense account.” 

“What is your estimation of expenses at this time, followed by your reasoning for each item?” he said, taking out a pen. I sighed inwardly.

The accountant wasn't satisfied with my vague guesses; he insisted on itemizing everything. I eventually left his office though with about 50 dollars in cash, and a letter that would get me ten times that from a bank. I would probably go through all of it I was going to be continent-hopping after Carmen. A pity; I could have paid my rent for the whole year with that amount.

I headed up the street towards the apartment building Swipes had told me to meet him at. I was going to smoke downstairs, but a woman in a turquoise dress stuck her head out of the fire escape and called out to me in Spanish. I started at her accent.

“You're Mexican?!” I called back in surprise.

“Too far to shout. Swipes says 'come upstairs',” she replied.

I shrugged and headed up to the third floor. A door opened with Swipes behind it.

“Come on in, Dora. Just finishing up with Rosita here, and then we can head out.”

I entered into a small kitchen full of familiar smells. The woman from the fire escape was cooking lunch by the stove. “Do you prefer English or Spanish?”she asked.

“English,” I said, smiling. With her white hair drawn into a bun, cheerily stirring a pot of rice and beans, she reminded me of my grandmother. “My Spanish is very rusty.”

“Rosita has been watching my daughter for me,” Swipes said. “I'm gonna go see if Natasha is awake from her nap so you can meet her.” Swipes ducked out of the kitchen.

“Do you want something to eat?” asked Rosita.

I did, but I shook my head. It was hard for me to eat when on the case, and I was eager to get over to Swipes apartment to check for clues.

“Your family, they are from Mexico too?” asked Rosita.

“My grandparents on my mother's side came from Mexico," I replied. "My father's family has been living in California since before the Mexican-American war.”

“California,” she shivered. “How did they fare in la purga...the deportation?” she asked.

“My mother and grandmother were well-liked and well-known in our town,” I said. “They were unmolested. You?”

“My children are all still here, thank God. My husband, God rest his soul, moved us to this city years ago. When the trouble started out west, I said to them 'Thank God for your Father and his wisdom. There is no way these gringos will notice a few Mexicans among all these Puerto Ricans.' They can't even tell the difference.” My responding laugh might have been a bit bitter, because she continued, “You lost someone though, yes?”

“I lost...something. I don't want to talk about it.”

“I'm sorry. Me, I lost two nephews out west. Both of them were citizens, but you think they got a chance to prove that? They arrested at work, with no word to their families for three days.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She shrugged sadly, “What can you do?”

Swipes ducked back into the kitchen. “She's still asleep. You want to stop by my place for clues, first, and then we'll come back here, and I'll say goodbye to her?”

“Sounds like a plan.  You're learning, Swipes.”

He grinned. “Thanks. See you in a few, Rosita.”

“¡Chao!” she replied. “Or adios. Who knows, in times like these?”

Image Credit

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This is a work of parody based on characters not owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper, but all original aspects are owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper. Thanks for reading. Please don't forget to follow our Facebook page and subscribe to this blog.

Peril By Streetlight | Chapter 3: Scotch and Sunshine

Peril By Streetlight

Chapter 3: Scotch and Sunshine

by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

I stepped into an entry-way lit only by a bare, dim bulb, facing yet a second door. The brown-eyed attendant revealed himself to be a squat, olive-skinned man with a wide face. He wore a billy-club on his belt, but the large, child-like smile gave me the feeling it was mostly for show. He looked at me perplexed for a second, as if trying to fit together a jigsaw puzzle that was all sky. 

“Done staring yet buddy, or can we move on?”

“Ummm...” 

“He's supposed to pat you down, Dee,” said Swipes from behind me. 

“Gotcha. Let me save you the awkwardness, buddy.” I unbuckled my holster and handed him my .44. Of course, I still had the .22 in the small of my back, but no need for him to know that.

Swipes handed Ernie our note from the accountant, whose lips moved while he read it. Then he patted Swipes down and opened the other door.

“This way please,” he said, waving us through.

I stepped through into an honest-to-goodness speakeasy. A bar stood in the middle of a windowless room, attended by round wooden tables draped in checkered tablecloths (empty of course, considering the time). A rail-thin, sallow fellow leaned against the bar; a quick assessment of the folds in his poorly-fitting barkeep's uniform revealed a gun stuck into his belt, which he clearly didn't favor, and two long knives up each sleeve, which he did. So there was the real body-guard.

“With all due respect to Frau Kraus, my 2:30 appointment is lovelier than usual,” boomed a jovial voice behind me.

I spun. There was an alcove to the side of the door with yet another table, a clever way to watch whoever entered the room, and to ensure I couldn't keep my eye on the guard and the boss at the same time. In that alcove sat Don Ucello.

He was perhaps the largest man I had ever seen in my life. He loomed over the table, his head brushing the ceiling. A beak of a nose graced a round head perched on a massive pear-shaped body. He spread his hands in a welcome gesture, and muscles moved beneath a flamboyant suit the color of dusty sunshine.

“Swipes too! Oh-ho! What a treat! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Gotta talk to you about the job, B.B.,” mumbled Swipes.

“Of course, of course! I knew if there were any important developments, you'd come straight to me, and not, say, first hire a consulting PI to clean up your mess.” B.B's smile didn't move, but Swipes froze. “Swipes, please, have a seat. I'm delighted to see you, and in such illustrious company. Please sit down, doll, and tell Bert here what he can fix you to drink.”

“Scotch whiskey, straight,” I said, sitting. “And I ain't your doll”

“You're right. You ain't. You are the famous Dora Marquez, gentlewoman explorer of the Hidden Temple, definitive discreditor of the sorceress Eureka, translator of the songs of Gullah-Gullah,documentor of the geyser of Harajaku. And, more recently, a distinguished private investigator, lately moved to my city under the name of 'Dee Marks'. I am most honored that you would visit my humble establishment.”

Shoot, he had me on the back foot. “Alright, so that I don't waste your time, what don't you know?” I took a sip of the scotch that Bert put in front of me, which was a great deal better than the cheap stuff I'd been getting for myself.

“A real go-getter, just like your reputation says. But, if you'll pardon me, I am accustomed to certain pleasantries before business. What about you, Swipes? What'll you have to drink?”

Swipes sank despairing into the chair next to me. “Nothing for me, thanks B.B.”

“Nothing?! Don't be ridiculous.. Get him some of my stuff Bert. I get it shipped in special from the old country. Top-shelf only.”

Bert put a glass in front of Swipes and poured a generous portion of red wine in it. He then refilled Don Ucello's glass from the same bottle. The don took a sip and closed his eyes. “Ah, reminds me of the time my parents took me back to Italy to meet my grandparents. The last day there, I sat under a lemon tree overlooking the Adriatic and wept like a baby. I was afraid I'd never see a sunny day like that again. We don't get days like that in this city, though I do what I can to bring sunshine into people's lives.” He gestured at his yellow suit. “Tell me, Dora, do you ever feel that? Like the blood in your veins misses a more tropical sun?”

“I grew up in Southern California. I got all the sun I wanted,,” I said. “There's no point in romanticizing the past, Don Ucello. Both our families left their respective 'old countries' for a reason.”

“I suppose, but I hanker for an America where I don't have to make my own sun.” He sighed. “Alrighty, time to talk business. Explain to me why I should not have Bert take Swipes out back and shoot him for losing my painting.”

Swipes flinched, “B.B., I'm--”

BB held up a hand, “Swipes, you brought in a negotiator for a reason. Let her negotiate for you.”

Swipes put his head down on the table and let out a single whimper. Don Ucello turned to me expectantly.

“Because I can get your painting back.”

“No, you can't.”

“Bull. You know my reputation: I tracked the Rock of Fraggle twice, and across three countries to boot. You think I can't track down some opportunistic floozy?”

Don Ucello gave a low chuckle. “A floozy? Is that all you think she was? I see Swipes didn't describe her very well for you. Swipes, why don't you tell Miss Marquez here what your 'floozy' looked like?”

Swipes looked up. “Umm, well, she was a real knockout, yah know. I mean, well, her—ummm..” He glanced sideways at me. “She was just a knockout, you know.”

Don Ucello signed. “I ain't always a gentleman, Swipes, but I can at least remember more about a woman than how she made me feel, even when drunk. I saw her leave your apartment window, the painting rolled under her arm. Want me to describe her?”

Swipes started. “What? You saw. Ummm, why didn't you stop her?”

“Why didn't I stop her. Well, that's the million dollar question, ain't it. I ain't an educated man, you know, but I'm told there are frogs in the jungle that, instead of trying to blend in, wear bright colors to let predators know they are poisonous. That woman is a poison frog.” He paused thoughtfully.

“How do you mean?” I prompted.

“I'll tell you why I didn't stop her. I know her by reputation, like I know you by reputation, Dora. The woman left Swipe's apartment window...” he paused again, taking a breath, “...wearing a bright scarlet trench coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat. Get the picture?”

I loose with a curse so vile that the last time I used it, a beau dropped me for being too foul-mouthed. Swipes jumped.

“You're pulling my leg!” I said to Don Ucello. “It couldn't have been her."

“I ain't.”

“She's way out of your weight class,” I said.

“I know,” said the Don. “She's out of yours too.”

I twirled my whiskey and stewed. “No, she ain't,” I said speaking directly to the glass.

“You'll never catch her,” said the don. “You're a smart and dangerous women, but she's smarter than you. She's more dangerous than both of us put together. That painting is gone.” He turned to Swipes, who was twisting his neck furiously trying to look at B.B., Bert, and me all at once. “I'm sorry Swipes. You're a good guy and all. But I can't just let a slip-up like this go.” 

The don nodded to Bert, who came up and put a hand on Swipe's shoulder, almost comfortingly. “Come on, Swipes,” he said. “Let's take a walk out back. I promise I'll make it easy as possible for you.”

“Give her a chance, will ya!” screamed Swipes, standing. “You don't know how good she is! She can take whoever this is!”

Don Ucello looked pained. “Please, Swipes, you're just embarrassing yourself.”

“She can do it! She can do it! Please, I have a daughter!.” Bert began guiding him away from the the table.

“I can do it,” I said quietly. “I've dealt with her before.”

Bert paused. Don Ucello looked impressed. “Oh, this I had not heard. Please, tell me the story.”

“It was during the 20s. You know how King Faisal hired me to get the Rock of Fraggle back from the Turks after the war?” B.B. nodded. “Well, she stole it from him a few years after I did. That's why I had to track it down a second time, bushwhacking my way from the coast to the middle of the Amazon jungle, and during the Armada Revolt to boot.”

“I didn't know she was the gal who stole it from King Faisal. Interesting. But if memory serves, you never got it back.”

“No, I snuck into her camp at night to reclaim the gem, and we had a tussle. But I. Found. Her.” I said, emphasizing every word. “How many people do you know that can say that? Plus, I fought her. True, I lost, but I survived.” Don Ucello seemed to be on the fence, so I pushed ahead. “Look,” I said, “I know it's long odds. But you won't find another person in the world more qualified to get your painting back than me. Kill Swipes, and you're wasting a loyal soldier. Hire me, and you have a chance. You can always write off your losses later if I fail.”

Don Ucello pensively sipped his wine. “If you fail, she could come for me.”

“Nah, she won't. That isn't her style. She'll kill somebody as soon as look at them if they're in her way, but if she has what she wants she doesn't waste time on petty revenge.”

Don Ucello stared hard at me for a beat, and then broke into a wide grin. “Alright! Let's do it. It's been a while since I bet on the long odds.” He nodded to Bert, who pushed Swipes back into his chair. Don Ucello lifted his glass “To your success and survival, Dora Marquez.”

“I'll drink to that,” I said, draining my own glass.

“Anything you need, talk to my accountant. He'll get you some cash for expenses, and also get you the dish on the painting itself in case that's helpful. If you succeed, I'll throw on a bonus to what Swipes is paying you. If you fail, well, you'll probably be dead, so no need to pay me back.” He grinned again.

I stood, “Thanks, Don Ucello”

“Please call me B.B. And yah, I suppose you'd better get going. If you do succeed though, you got an open invite here. I'd love to have a longer drink with you. We could talk about sunshine.”

“Perhaps,” I said grabbing a blubbering Swipes by the arm and dragging him towards the door. “Nice ta meet ya.”

“The same, Dora Marquez,” B.B. said, but I was already out.

Out in the street, I let Swipes sink down on the sidewalk and sob for a bit. After about five minutes, he caught his breath. “Thanks Dora,” he said, “You're a real—a real lifesaver.” That set him off again. I had a smoke while it passed. Finally he stood, wiping his eyes with an overused hanky. “So, where to?”

“To the accountant,” I said. "I need to learn more about this painting."

“Any idea why this Argentine doll would want it?”

“Probably just for its own sake,” I said. “She ain't poor. She steals for the fun of it.”

This idea seemed to perplex Swipes. “For the fun of it? Who the heck is she?”

“Nobody knows her real name,” I said, “But she goes by Carmen. And despite what I told the don back there, I have no idea where in the world she is.”

Image Credit

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This is a work of parody based on characters not owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper, but all original aspects are owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper. Thanks for reading. Please don't forget to follow our Facebook page and subscribe to this blog.

Peril By Streetlight | Chapter 2: Appointment with the Accountant

Peril By Streetlight

Chapeter 2

by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

Swipes and I took the M04 bus across and then downtown. He tried to make nervous small talk, but I've always enjoyed silence as much as scotch when I'm on a case. I had some big thinking to do, from which approach to use with B.B., to where to find an Argentinian con-artist, to how to break it to Swipes he was in no position to take care of an addled child. After about 30 minutes, Swipes signaled for us to get off, and I got my first look at S Street.

It was a vibrant neighborhood, to say the least. Colorful clothes hung drying from every fire escape, and kids shouted and ran playfully in the street. Produce spilled out of stores, and shopkeepers greeted pedestrians as they passed.

“This place doesn't look so bad.” I said. “I thought you said some big-time mafioso ran this street.”

“He does, but he also lives here, Dora. Bosses don't like messes in their own backyard. He treats this neighborhood nice. Keeps the air sweet. The trouble happens in other places.”

“You'd be suprised how few mob bosses have that sort of discipline.' I said.  "So where can we find him?”

“Well, I can't go straight to him. We gotta make an appointment with his ummm, accountant”

“I don't talk to subordinates. Where's this B.B.?”

“I'm telling ya, Dora. You gotta do this proper!”

“Keep your voice down, will yah. For safety's sake, call me Dee when we're out in public.”

“I thought you wanted B.B. to know who you are.”

“I do, but just you and B.B. Not everyone.” I looked up and down the street. "Fine, where is this 'accountant'?”

Swipes pointed to a building with a sign out front that read 'Fortune Teller' in bold pink letters. “He works in the back office there.”

I moved across the street with Swipes tailing behind, and entered into some sort of curio shop. A young girl in a too-large fortune teller's outfit sat behind a a crystal ball and incense burner.

“Welcome travelers!” she piped. “I see you have journeyed far seeking answers. A glance back at the inner mists, and I can tell you all!”

“Give it a rest, Abby,” said Swipes. “Is the bean-counter in?”

“Did you like the 'glance back at the inner mists part'? I worked on it all weekend”

“Yah, it was all fancy and obtuse. Can I see him or not?”

“You're all business lately, Swipes. He's in the back.” She gestured at the beaded curtain behind the counter.

“Thanks.”

Swipes led us to a windowless back room that was...delightfully exotic, if not exactly my style. Portraits of different European nobles from various eras covered the walls, framed by black velvet. Two piles of books sat on a large mahogany table, framing a pale man with a beak of a nose, dressed almost as elaborately as the highfalutin types in the portraits.

The man looked up.  “Ah, one Swipes Wagner and one unknown guest, come to pay me a visit, ah.” A cold voice echoed from the patrician face. “To what do I owe this, ah, singular pleasure?” His “ah” might have been his equivalent of “ummm” or it might have been a half-laugh, but it sounded like a sword being drawn.

“Heya, ummm, sir. This here is Do-”

“Dee Marks, PI” I said, holding out my hand. The accountant looked at me as if I were a cat who had just piddled on the carpet.

Swipes gently reached out and pushed my hand down, “The accountant doesn't touch people.”

“Okay,” I said, miffed. “Waddya want me to do, buddy, bow?”

“That will not be, ah, necessary,” the accountant said. He picked up a pen and (of all things) a monocle. Placing the monocle on his eye and placing the pen above a line in his ledger, he wrote the date. “Please state your business.”

“Dee here needs to see B.B.,” Swipes said.

The accountant wrote while speaking, “'One Dee Marks, Private investigator to request appointment with one Don Ucello'....regarding?”

“Errr....”

“Swipes botched the painting theft. I'm here to plead for the low-life's life and get the painting back,” I said.

The accountant didn't bat an eye, but he did pause for a moment in what might have been surprise at my directness, (or he was just charmed by my dazzling beauty). “...'regarding special business venture #0406 complications. Additional expenses possible.' Yes, most wise that you see him, ah, posthaste.” He closed that book and flipped to another that looked like a day planner, then took out a legal pad and scribbled a note, “'To one Frau Kraus, your 2:30 appointment with one Don Ucello is hereby rescheduled to 2:30 next week.'” He scribbled another note saying the same thing, but addressed to Don Ucello, adding “'to meet with one Dee Marks, Private Investigator, and one 'Swipes' Wagner regarding special business venture #0406 instead.'” He handed both notes to us. “Please leave the first note with my receptionist on your way out, and she will have it delivered at the cost of, ah, 50 cents, which will be deducted from your fee, Swipes. You will find Don Ucello at Hooper's.”

Swipes took the notes as if they were our writs of execution. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” replied the accountant mechanically, “You have, ah, 16 minutes and 29 seconds to be on time for your appointment. Goodbye.”

“See ya,” I waved and followed Swipes out.

Back in the fortune teller's shop, Swipes handed one of the notes to Abby. “The bean-counter says have one of the boys run this over to Frau Kraus post-haste, but don't pay them more than 50 cents.”

“Will do!” piped Abby, staring into her crystal ball and practicing waving gestures.

“I mean it, Abby. She's probably on her way to see B.B. now, and we need to see him.”

“Alright, alright. You're no fun anymore Swipes.” Abby hopped down from her stool and grabbed the paper. “There's usually a few playing next door who are always happy to make a quarter or two,” Abby explained to me, as she opened a side door into an alley revealing a pile of tussling boys. “You!” she shouted at no one in particular, “Run this over to Frau Kraus without ripping it, and there's a shiny quarter in it for you. Two quarters if you get it to her right now.” The entire pile of boys untangled itself and rushed at her. The paper was yanked violently out of her hand, and the boys disappeared from the alley, running after the victor.

Abby closed the door. “Shouldn't you scurry too? If you got an appointment that quickly, it can't be good news you're giving him.”

“Yah, we should get out of here. Come on, Do—Dee.”

“Alright,” I said as we stepped out into the sunshine, “that guy was weird.”

“The bean counter? Yah, he makes me nervous, but he's a barrel of laughs compared to B.B. You sure you up for this negotiation?”

“Am I gonna drop the ball, you mean? Nah,I know how to handle guys like B.B.”

“Great, Hooper's is down the block a bit. Come on.” Swipes shoulder relaxed a little. I was gratified that my reassurances worked. And they weren't all bluff. Mafia bosses, in my experience, valued three things. The smart ones put loyalty first, money second and pride third. The dumb ones put pride first and everything else after. Seeing this neighborhood, I was convinced that B.B. was one of the smart ones. If Swipes approached him directly with a solution, he'd have the best chance of saving his tail.

Swipes let me down the street to the largest of the many general stores. An elderly man with bow tie and suspenders was working behind the deli counter. Swipes and he nodded to each other, but Swipes kept walking back to the 'Employees Only' door.  He knocked in an irregular rhythm, and a slot opened to reveal a pair of large brown eyes.

“'One of these doors is not like the other',” said the voice behind the door.

“'Beware to those who don't belong'” intoned Swipes “We've got an appointment, Ernie. Open the door.” Swipes held up the note.

The brown eyes scanned the note, “Who's the broad?” Ernie asked.

“A dame the boss will want to hear from.”

“She with you?”

“No, Ernie, she just happened to show up at the door at the same time. Yes, she's with me!”

The brown eyes looked hesitant.

“Ha” I interrupted, “I ain't with nobody. Swipes is with me. And together, we can save your boss a lot of hurt feelings and a lot of green.”

That did it.  The door swung open into darkness. I moved to go in but Swipes grabbed my forearm and held me back for a second. “You sure you wanna do this, Dee?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“You're asking now?”

“Last chance. You can still back out and I can say you were just some clingy broad who I met last night. After this, whatever happens to me might happen to you.”

“Aww, Swipes, I know you think you are being noble now..." I swatted his hand away, "but actually you're just being selfish. You're trying to reassure your conscience--in case everything goes wrong--that you gave me every opportunity to back out. Well, I don't think everything will go wrong, but I'll ease your conscious for you: my fear of death got pilfered a long time ago.”

Swipes couldn't decide whether to ask a follow up question of defend himself.  I didn't give him a chance to decide which.  Chin held high, I stepped boldly through the doorway into the lair of Don Ucello.

Image Credit

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This is a work of parody based on characters not owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper, but all original aspects are owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper.    Thanks for reading.  Please don't forget to follow our Facebook page and subscribe to this blog.  

Pausing as Prayer

"PATIENCE, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know."
--Gerard Manley Hopkins

On a walk with my father last fortnight, I confessed the need to reexamine my life in light of a recent shift in my economic stability.

"I think," I said, "that I need at least today and tomorrow to brainstorm, but I feel guilty for taking those two days."

He paused and replied, "I think you should take two months."

The world is currently in crisis, and I fear being weighed, measured, and found "nonessential." A very small percentage of this desire is virtuous and natural: it is indeed an "all-hands-on-deck" situation for humanity, and not to assist within the scope of my powers would be tantamount to desertion of fellow troops in battle. However, the majority of this desire is nothing more than that old bugbear, pride. It is a demand that I not only be useful/heroic/unique/indispensable but seen as such by others.  I gather signs that read "productive member of society" about me as a shield against anyone looking too closely at my other vices.  If I "have my pride," who would bother? Except, of course, God.

I was discussing this impulse with a friend, who said something very insightful to me: "Perhaps, pausing can be a prayer."  Indeed.

With your kind indulgence, dear reader, I would like to reflect on "pausing as prayer" in light of today, Holy Saturday.

The first Holy Saturday was a theological contrast. First, on earth, it was a day of mourning and rest. The disciples were resting for the Sabbath while mourning The Lord's death. Also, our Lord's body was resting in the tomb. An early anonymous homily for this day begins: "What is happening? Today there is a great silence over the earth, a great silence, and stillness, a great silence because the King sleeps."

Beyond the bounds of the cosmos, however, it was quite busy. The "Harrowing of Hell" (more accurate to call it the "Harrowing of Hades" (Note 1)) was occuring. Christ's spirit, having descent to the state (realm?...again, see Note 1) of the dead was redeeming the just.  The battle to kill death forever, seemingly lost on earth, was being won in the afterlife. In short, it was nothing like the quiet on earth.

I believe that the periods of quiet, of rest, (and yes, of mourning) in our life are a bit like Holy Saturday. Not much appears to be going on corporeally, but God can accomplish a whole host of things in us spiritually during these times. When we take time to pause, to reflect, and to mourn, God plants seeds in us that will sprout when they are needed (Note 2).

Of course, I am certainly not making the argument that as one of young and healthy disposition, I should not be helping with the immediate crisis how I can. (In other words, I am not making the argument for an eight hour Netflix binge as a spiritual practice). What I am saying is that, having suddenly found a vast swath of my life is seemingly superfluous to the current state of the world, it is right and good that I should not know where to go next.  It is okay to seem, for the time being, nonessential (Note 3).

So I will pause. I will pray. I will have my Holy Saturday. 

I will strive to listen to that Small Whispering sound in the heart: 

Do what you can.  As for the rest, wait and see.
Do you hear, in the quiet, My work within you?

Behold, I am doing something new...

Image Credit

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Note 1: The so-called "Harrowing of Hell" does not mean that the just who died before Christ's sacrifice were damned. This is a theological subject touching on controversial heterodox concepts, and I am not qualified to expound upon it. For the purposes of this reflection, I read this and this beforehand.

Note 2: I got this metaphor from the hymn Holy Darkness by Dan Schuette, (which is in turn inspired by St. John of the Cross and his "Dark Night of the Soul," another complex theological topic beyond the scope of my qualifications at this time.)

Note 3: Of course, if you are reading this as a working parent trying to homeschool your child OR if you are a healthcare worker or some other essential worker, this period is hardly a time of pause for you. It must be annoying we artists are behmoning our extra time.  However, I hope this article drops some useful gems for the next period of pause in your life, whenever that may be.  And thank you for your service.

The Limits of Darkness

"It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until about three in the afternoon"--Luke 23:44

What a blessing it is to be able to experience most of history as history. I enjoy a good Renaissance faire as much as the next person, but I'm quite happy to merely be a visitor from the land of flush toilets and dentistry. I am exquisitely grateful that I shall never have to suffer the sack of Rome, or the Bubonic Plague, or World War Two first hand. These sufferings are already defined; limited to a space in history that I can number and name. World War Two lasted from 1939 to 1945, and it always will have those boundaries.

St. Luke must have felt the same relief when he wrote his crucifixion narrative. He did not have to flee the temple guards in the garden of Gethsemane. He did not have to weep at the foot of the cross with the Blessed Mother. He did not huddle in the upper room, wondering what was the point of giving the last three years of his life to a man who was now dead. Luke, being a post-Easter convert, already knew about the happy ending. To him, Good Friday was history that had already been endured by others (Note 1). The boundaries of darkness were defined: noon until three.

We've heard this story so many times that we tend to forget that the first time, it was not history.  They felt as uncertain as we do now.  The disciples had bet their careers, their reputations, their time, their relationships, and their own self-worth on a miracle-working itinerant rabbi in the hopes that he would be the new king of Israel. And now he was dead. What a waste! Where to go next? Did St. James think about going back to his father's fishing boat? Did St. Matthew wonder if he could get his tax collector position back? Did St. Simon think about going back to his guerilla war with the Romans? Did the unnamed "sinful woman" worry she would have to go back to prostitution? Did St. Mary Magdalene wish that the demons would return so at least she wouldn't have to be herself, feeling this grief?

Good Friday had no limits for those who lived it. No answer to the question "what to do next?" except perhaps the tiny God-whisper is every human heart. No final defined time of when it would end. No guarantee when Easter would come. No knowledge that there could be such a thing as an Easter.  (Note 2)

Our present suffering is similar, but not identical. For those of us (all of us) grieving careers, relationships, routines, goals, purpose, rest, work, loved ones, lives, we do not know how long our grief will last, but we do know that it will not last forever.  As I write this, millions of shock troops (in hospitals, research labs, farms, and grocery stores) join the battle to bind the darkness and set its limits.  The length of the battle is unknown, but victory is assured.  Easter will come, perhaps not on the third day or even on the third month, but eventually.  What a blessing to know about Easter. What a relief to know that one day, our suffering will be history.

Christ of Saint John of the Cross by Salvador Dali

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Note 1: Okay, technically the sacrifice of Christ works backwards and forwards throughout all of history, if I understand correctly.  And every Mass is that same sacrifice theologically.  So really it is more than mere history, but that's a reflection for another time.

Note 2: Yes, Jesus told the disciples about Easter, but it's pretty clear they either didn't understand or didn't believe.  

Peril By Streetlight | Chapter 1: Nicked at Night

Peril By Streetlight: Chapter 1

Original Serialized Fiction by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

It was the summer after the Dipsy case. Things got too hot back in the old town, so I nicked out of there and started in a new city with a new name. I thought there wasn't a familiar face in miles, and that suited me just fine. But then, Swipes paid me a visit.

He slouched into that broom closet my lease called an office, two days red stubble on his chin.

“Hiya Dora,” he said.

I gulped down the last of the cheap scotch I had been nursing all morning, and threw the cup at him. He ducked in an endearing way (I've always liked the terrified-for-their-lives-look on a beau) as the tin cup bounced off wall above his head.

“Swipes Wagner, as I live and breath!” I said cheerily, scanning the surface of my desk for something else to throw. I hefted the laughing Buddha I use as a paperweight experimentally. “I had no idea you settled down in this river-stain of a city too. What brings you to my office?” I decided the Buddha was probably too nice to throw, but I kept it at the ready in case I changed my mind.

“Jeez Dora! Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Nope,” I said, and threw the Buddha one foot to his left. He dodged anyway. The Buddha hit my bookshelf and knocked a taxidermied monkey onto its face.

“Darnit Dora! I need your help!”

“You got money?”

“That's complicated.”

“No it ain't,” I said. “It's simple stuff. The 1 with the two 0s in the corners are best.”

“Dora...”

“Got a balding, smart-looking fella on them.” After feeling around the the drawers of the desk I found a pencil, but it made for an unintimidating projectile as it careened off his thigh and out the open door.

“Stop throwing things at me! You want money—here!” He took a wallet out of his pocket and held it towards me so that I could see it was engorged with green.

“Alright, now that's a bit different” I was out of ammunition anyway. “Why don't you have a seat and tell me about this help you need.”

“Ummm, I'll stand thanks”

“Well, now never let it be said that I am inhospitable, Swipes. Close the door and have a seat.”

“There ain't any place to sit, Dora.”

“Nonsense, you think those suitcase are in front of my desk as an art deco display? The room only came with one chair”

He closed the door that said “D. Marks, Private Investigator” and perched gingerly on the edge of one of my suitcases.

“A birdy told me you moved to this city, but it was a bit tough finding you. You changed your name? ”

“Unofficially. Dora Márquez made a few enemies back home. People know me as Dee around here, or they will, once they start to know me.” I started to pour myself a scotch, then realized the cup was across the room. Dang Swipes and his little birdy; I had thought I covered my tracks better than that. 

“Sorry to hear that Dora. How is everyone back home?”

“You came here to make small talk?” I asked around a gulp from the bottle.

“I need a moment to calm my nerves and collect my thoughts,” he said. “Ummm, Old Blue ever retire?”

“Yep! And let me tell you, the cops ain't worth half as much without him. Nobody could sniff out a clue like Blue.”

“Eh, you and Harriet could give him a run for his money. I know from experience. How is Harriet?”

“Spook for OSS. Haven't heard from her since all the political noise started across the pond”

“Hot Dog! Are you pulling my leg?” he asked. I shook my head. “Well, good for her. She always wanted to do that. And your family?”

“No news is good news”

“What about ol' Dipsy?”

“Didn't you need my help with something rather urgent?”

“Right, right. Okay...where to begin?” He took a breath. “I after I hightailed it out of the old homestead a heartbeat ahead of the arrest warrant...” He paused to give me a kicked puppy look.

“You're welcome for that,” I interjected chipperly.

“...well, anyway, I hung my hat up on the rough side of the street here. I was paying my way with odd jobs until I met a lady friend who ran a hostel. We got married and---”

I sprayed the desk with my mouthful of scotch. “Ha! You! Married? You don't have to dress it up with pretty lies; just tell me the bare facts, Swipes.”

"I ain't lying, Dora. I got married. People do that sometimes”

“Ha! What's her name?”

“Ingrid. Was Ingrid. She died”

I paused with the bottle halfway to my mouth. “George Washington on a motorbike! You're dead serious, aren't you?”

“Yes, Dora, I'm 'dead' serious. Cancer o' the pancreas. Went quick. Didn't have long to suffer. But it was bad.”

“Dang, I'm sorry Swipes.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, its a bit of a tangle, but she had a daughter. My stepdaughter now, and the sweetest thing” I must have been giving him some look, but he continued, “She's ehhh, touched in the head. Docs say she'll never talk. But she's mine. And I was beginning to think that this wouldn't be such a bad life. Living clean, running the hostel, taking care of a daughter, all that.”

“But then her real dad reared his ugly head,” I guessed.

“Dang, you're good at this Dora. Yah, he's a real mean drunk. See, even though they were never married, he and Ingrid owned the hotel fifty-fifty. Before she died, he was happy to take half the money and drink it away. But now, he wants Natasha too.”

“Let me guess on the rest. The hostel wasn't bringing in enough money to win at court, so you decided to take a big job, bigger than you've done before, for somebody with deep pockets”

“Yah, goes by the moniker of B.B, and he runs my whole neighborhood. Wanted this fancy Italian painting stolen from this museum. Paid a quarter of the money up front.”

“And you couldn't get it”

“You wound me, Dora.  I burgled it without a hitch. But B.B. he told me to keep it at my place for a few days until the heat died down. The cops know he's behind everything around here, and they'd go to him first. But ummm...here's where things get really embarrassing...” I gestured for him to continue. “Well, the next night, I left Natasha at a neighbor's and went to a fancy uptown place to celebrate.  I had a bit too much to drink, and forgot where I was and...”

“Shoot or sugar! You mouthed off, didn't you?”

“Yah, started bragging, and this Argentinian gal—you should have seen her; well, I guess you wouldn't care, but she was a knockout—seemed real interested in the details of the heist and the painting I stole. Started asking me all these questions, and buying me drinks, and I took her back home. I don't think we actually ummm, got too friendly after all, because I definitely would have remembered that with someone like her, no matter how much I had. I blacked out right as we got in the door, and when I woke up the painting was gone.”

“Here,” I said, thrusting the bottle at him. “You're brain's already dead, so your liver might as well join it.”

He didn't reach for the bottle. “I need your help Dora. B.B.'s gonna kill me.”

“Give him the money back. You can't have spent that much on one night of partying.”

“I could do that, but all that means is he'd shoot me rather than skin me. It's the painting he wants, not the money.”

“So what do you need from me?”

“I need you to find the painting. I can pay you from B.B.'s advance. Heck, you can have all of B.B.'s advance.  The rest will be enough for the court fees. I just want to keep my life and my daughter”

“You really think you are responsible enough to take care any daughter, never mind a mute one? You just made a pretty strong case that you're not.”

“I could be. I would be. Given a chance, I'll be the best damn papa she could have.”

“From what you tell me that's a low bar”

“I get drunk once in a blue moon, Dora. He's drunk every day. Which would you want her raised by, if you were her mama's spirit looking down?”

“Pirates and peg-legs! Fine! But we're not gonna do it your way. We're gonna do it mine.”

“How do you mean?”

“We're gonna start by seeing B.B. and telling him what happened.”

He went pale. “He'll kill me, Dora. Why would you want to do that?”

“One, because if he's as well connected as you say, we'll need his help to find it. Two, because he'll probably find out before I find the painting, and then we'll have him on our tails. And three, since my reputation has apparently preceded me here (despite my best efforts), he'll be happy to have me on the case.”

Swipes took a nervous breath. “Okay. Okay. Alright. We'll try that. I just hope you are feeling persuasive.”

“Why Swipes,” I said, baring my teeth while standing to loom over the desk, “when have you known me to not get my way?”

“Fair, fair.” Another breath. “Alright, let's do this. Just like old times, eh?”

“Hardly,” I said, strapping on a holster and grabbing my jacket. “Let's go.”

Image Credit

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This is a work of parody based on characters not owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper, but all original aspects are owned by Joseph Salvatore Knipper.  Thanks for reading.  Please don't forget to follow our Facebook page and subscribe to this blog.