And as the lovers walked, their future was as open as the ocean was wide. She nuzzled into his shoulder and squeezed his arm, the golden retriever ran on ahead in pursuit of play. Through tricks of light and feelings of love, the world was a golden embrace. The willow, the river, the grass all shone. His face was stern, but as guard to her comfort. Archie Grey and Susan Deleuze, lovers that swore to be together for all time - with the rest of the world as challenge.
"Ma'am,"
The bridge of the Leviathan surrounds her now, signal lights of all size compete for attention. She stands upon the raised platform of the bridge, and looks down on operations. All around her is grey filled with nervous eyes. A peculiarly helpful ensign stands in front and salutes and continues.
"Approaching Cape Horn, strong wind to the north west, we could anchor for up to 45 minutes."
"And the Eastern forces?"
"Remain on intercept, our scouts have not yet returned. Scans suggest 6 squads' worth of giants."
Captain Chatham gets to his feet slowly like a piece of Earth being moved by an unseen and unshakeable force. The old, fierce eyes meet with the Liaison Deleuze wearily, too tired to protest…they have been over this before. She does not sway, though her hands betray her, minutely shaking, ill at ease.
"Prepare to anchor," her voice level as steel. She dismounts the platform and gives the helm the coordinates. The Captain clenches his jaw. He decides to act, realizing that this could lead to the end of his career. It doesn't matter, he thinks, for what is a captain without command?
Meanwhile, 32 decks down, and 184 columns a stern, Isaac is paged.
"Shit, now I'll be damned too!.. we've got clearance."
Sera looks up surprised, leaning against the steel wall of the engine room, her short blond hair covering one eye. "I guess the old guy really was serious."
Virgil and Deep look over their shoulders as they guard the door.
"Wow" remarks Virgil.
Deep nods.
"Does this mean we're really going to..."
Deep nods again.
"Wow!"
Isaac crunches on his toothpick and snaps it in half. His hands are the main activity, working the control panel with furious speed.
"Sooo, these rudders haven't been used, in like, ever… I think. The main idea was this would be a backup steering system if primary power failed, and they had to go wind power. Problem is: the Leviathan was never out fitted with wind power," He turns to Sera, "Basically, this could not work."
Sera steps forward, amused.
"We'll be forgotten if we don't try."
Isaac turns round and reminds himself that they'll be forgotten either way.
With screams of steel, giant plates move out towards the engines. Sera moves, and her companions are quick to follow, running from the control panel as the loud plates whine.
"Ma'am..."
Back above and across, Susan has to make eyes with the insufferable ensign again.
"...we've got a problem."
She reads the situation, and only a hint of anger showing in her grey eyes, she turns to face Chatham, surprisingly he's still there.
"You did this, didn't you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
She walks slowly up to him and grates his face with her eyes. She says nothing, which is worse.
She strides back to the captain's seat and turns on the mic.
"Belay anchor, and about face. All hands: it appears our Captain has chosen to betray my commands, and therefore the Western government… Arrest him." The Liasion's marines were always her own, and they quickly grab Chatham as he stares down Susan, who ignores the look. "It appears the ship's steering system is temporarily compromised, we'll engage the East here. Drop Titans…execute."
She sits in the chair and the crew has been trained to know that's final.
And as the lovers walked, their future was as open as the ocean was wide. The couple now stand still against the rail of the harbor in golden light. He takes out a dossier, full of recommendation letters. Her eyes are incredulous. He smiles gently and casually produces one by one and throws them into the water…being slow to remind her these are merely copies. She laughs and the dog barks and the world is very much their own. Time is still, and she is happy.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Fire burns more of two colors
The light flickers in Rain's cabin, he's forgotten to note that it needs a change of bulb. With a groan, the tired captain collapses back onto his stiff bed. He closes his eyes and thoughts invade.
Two weeks. Its been two whole weeks since the President's Liason claimed control of his ship, the Leviathan III. Two weeks of him giving orders, the crew nodding but not fully accepting them, having to check with the Liason's agents before completing them, for fear of neuroshock. Two weeks of him being a shadow of a commander, not really a captain - his role had been stripped of him.
Rain Chatham turns to his bedside table, a dull red burn of his artificial lamp, a whiskey bottle and an actual paper copy of The old man and the sea. He doesn't feel like reading, and, in a rare moment, he doesn't feel like drinking. This disturbs him and is marked by a growl. He puts on his uniform and leaves his cabin.
The two guards outside salute, in Chatham's stupor, he's forgotten the time, so he asks for an interpretation. "It's 1AM sir." Rain nods and walks away.
Night or day the ship is busy. That's what you get in war time on a dying ship. Rain catches him doing a fondness: his hand tracing along the seam of welding of the hallway. He's been with the Test of the Leviathan for the last ten years. This metal rings of his own telling.
He passes a repair crew: a crack has opened up just south of a hydraulic valve for shutter disclosure. Rain comments on it and they're surprised: he can't tell if its because he's a drunken captain or they didn't know it. They get him to point it out exactly and he tells them to piss off, its apparently not a joke to them and he settles with a "just, be careful."
The Titan hanger. A flurry of activity its been ever since Wilco and Delta squad joined, apparently they're the best in the West. He believes it. The hangar is cleaner than it has ever been, a space surrounds each Titan like a halo, assuring the onlooker that nothing touches it that isn't needed.
He walks along the line of monuments. They're not all the same, like a regular squad. Each has its own weaponry and weight calibration but even more, Rain can tell that they've all been reengineered differently.
He stops at one. Deep red and smooth surfaced. Twin bazookas on its back. Twin magblades concealed in its hip, and a standard issue rifle, but modded heavily. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but Rain is enchanted by just how much this rifle is designed to look like one but in fact, actually isn't.
Her voice floats through his head "I don't need to assuage your fears, Captain. I do require efficiency. Trust me, I hold these people to my heart." Rain smirks. Perhaps there's more to high priced china than he gave credit.
The prison door opens, the same as it would during visiting hours. The room holds 10 occupants, each divided by a cell. Even so, Sera sits. She's slept well the past 2 weeks, and needs a different challenges. She's gone through another recollection of her life, for the 7th time. No secrets now, just the highlights, the best and the worst. She's more than the sum of her parts, but she's still in jail.
The footsteps down the hall are heavy. If its Jayson, he's desperate. Perhaps it's Ryan... Most likely its some thug asking for rations.
He stands outside: the Captain of the Leviathan, 800 strong. He looks tired.
"I hear you're the best. Let's make things happen."
A simple nod to the guard, a short walk and the guard opens the cell. Captain Chatham holds his arm out and gestures towards the exit. Sera smiles.
"It's About Time."
Two weeks. Its been two whole weeks since the President's Liason claimed control of his ship, the Leviathan III. Two weeks of him giving orders, the crew nodding but not fully accepting them, having to check with the Liason's agents before completing them, for fear of neuroshock. Two weeks of him being a shadow of a commander, not really a captain - his role had been stripped of him.
Rain Chatham turns to his bedside table, a dull red burn of his artificial lamp, a whiskey bottle and an actual paper copy of The old man and the sea. He doesn't feel like reading, and, in a rare moment, he doesn't feel like drinking. This disturbs him and is marked by a growl. He puts on his uniform and leaves his cabin.
The two guards outside salute, in Chatham's stupor, he's forgotten the time, so he asks for an interpretation. "It's 1AM sir." Rain nods and walks away.
Night or day the ship is busy. That's what you get in war time on a dying ship. Rain catches him doing a fondness: his hand tracing along the seam of welding of the hallway. He's been with the Test of the Leviathan for the last ten years. This metal rings of his own telling.
He passes a repair crew: a crack has opened up just south of a hydraulic valve for shutter disclosure. Rain comments on it and they're surprised: he can't tell if its because he's a drunken captain or they didn't know it. They get him to point it out exactly and he tells them to piss off, its apparently not a joke to them and he settles with a "just, be careful."
The Titan hanger. A flurry of activity its been ever since Wilco and Delta squad joined, apparently they're the best in the West. He believes it. The hangar is cleaner than it has ever been, a space surrounds each Titan like a halo, assuring the onlooker that nothing touches it that isn't needed.
He walks along the line of monuments. They're not all the same, like a regular squad. Each has its own weaponry and weight calibration but even more, Rain can tell that they've all been reengineered differently.
He stops at one. Deep red and smooth surfaced. Twin bazookas on its back. Twin magblades concealed in its hip, and a standard issue rifle, but modded heavily. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but Rain is enchanted by just how much this rifle is designed to look like one but in fact, actually isn't.
Her voice floats through his head "I don't need to assuage your fears, Captain. I do require efficiency. Trust me, I hold these people to my heart." Rain smirks. Perhaps there's more to high priced china than he gave credit.
The prison door opens, the same as it would during visiting hours. The room holds 10 occupants, each divided by a cell. Even so, Sera sits. She's slept well the past 2 weeks, and needs a different challenges. She's gone through another recollection of her life, for the 7th time. No secrets now, just the highlights, the best and the worst. She's more than the sum of her parts, but she's still in jail.
The footsteps down the hall are heavy. If its Jayson, he's desperate. Perhaps it's Ryan... Most likely its some thug asking for rations.
He stands outside: the Captain of the Leviathan, 800 strong. He looks tired.
"I hear you're the best. Let's make things happen."
A simple nod to the guard, a short walk and the guard opens the cell. Captain Chatham holds his arm out and gestures towards the exit. Sera smiles.
"It's About Time."
Friday, November 25, 2011
Two Brutés- Complete
Hey dudes! This is an old one- for some reason being back on the road made me return to it. It's sorta long, but I'm hoping we don't mind the bumpage. I posted the first few bits of this on here before, but they've been edited and for the sake of completeness I'll just whack it all out here.
FRANK DALEY
They say that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and believe me, it shows. City’s a tangled mess of ancient buildings, vine covered terraces and statues… goddamn statues everywhere. It’s like the whole town’s taking you to its basement and showing you the slides from the family photo album. Well, I’m squirming on the couch down here. Had just about enough history, and just about half enough scotch for one night. I shake my tin flask and the pizzicato melody tells me it’s time to head back to the hotel, unless I’m ready to start mixing the grape and the grain. They’re all about wine in this town. Every night’s a singalong and the words are glug glug glug.
I haul myself off the curb and step out into the rain. That first drop is always the worst. The awning drips beachballs of water that slap the cobblestones like they tried to cop a feel- hitting twice as heavy as any rain that was allowed to land where mother nature intended. If I miss those first, fat drops, I count myself lucky. I can take a hundred drops of rain on my back, but that first one, if I feel it… it chills me to the bone.
Kinda reminds me of the stiff I’m here for. Guy was a pretty smooth customer. Clean teeth, probably a few good hats in his closet. Named Julius Caesar- you might have heard of him. Does a lot of work in salads back in L.A. Poor guy had it pretty rough at the end, though. When Caesar was on his way down to his chalk outline the daggers were falling on his back like a cold March rain… but Jules and me got something in common. For him, it was that first drop that was the kicker. That first knife. Seems to me this stabbing was like when a box of doughnuts lands on the desk at the precinct at about ten forty-five. Everyone just stares at it till one mug makes the first move, and from there it’s free for all. Before ten-to, you got nothin’ but crumbs.
They pulled the crumbs off the bloody floor of the theatre of Pompey this morning, and tonight Rome is crying. So I’m asking myself- who was holding that fist knife? Which of these sharks smelled blood while it was still snug in Caesar’s veins, before the feeding frenzy started? All I got’s a bunch of questions and one lead that’s about as solid as the coating on my tongue- the one that sets in after about a half an hour dry and, right now, drives me to push open the doors to the hotel and lubricate my investigation.
Nice digs. Caesar’s Palace- I’d been here once before when I was on Narcotics in Vegas. I’d barely cut my teeth back then. You know how when you go back to a place you visited when you were a kid, everything seems small? Well, can’t say as to why, but it wasn’t working that way for me this time. Maybe when you take out all the slot machines, the palace seems a lot bigger.
I push past the togas, and sidle up to the bar. It’s a regular party in here- guess the Emperor getting chopped up like an olive loaf is a good reason to tie one on. Eddie’s got his hands full, as usual. I’ll tell ya: I’ve been to a lot of places, and there aren’t many out there where a good barman can’t find work pretty quick- and Eddie’s the best there ever was. Wherever I am, no matter the time, I bring Ed along and it’s seen me through. There are prettier faces you could ask for to comfort you on a hard case, but there’s nobody with more sense screwed into ‘em. Besides, when it comes to pretty, I prefer local colour. Ed catches a glimpse of the one mug in the joint slapped in a trenchcoat and slips over,
“You find anything in your flask, Frank?”
“Yeah- the bottom.”
Ed drops some clay cup on the counter and three icecubes lead the way for three ounces of golden fire. I watch the candlelight bounce off the scotch as it pours into the cup because I know how much I’ll miss it when it’s down in the dark. I miss glass.
“The way you’re looking at that drink, I’d say you were thinking about buying it dinner.”
“Get serious, Eddie… when was the last time you saw me eat dinner?”
“1945, Dortmund.”
“Hey, they offered, and I didn’t want to offend anybody.”
“You slugged the host between courses.”
“Well, he offended me. I got a Jewish cousin, y’know.” I stir up a little music in my glass and let the aroma play with matches in my sinuses. Eddie’s eyebrows start trying to fix his hair.
”What’s up Ed?”
“Hmm… I got good news and I got bad news, Frankie.”
“Always the bad news first Eddie.”
“Sure thing. The bad news is that you just drained the dregs of our whiskey collection.” Some small part of me dies as Ed goes on- “But the good news is that there’s a much better candidate for that night on the town giving you the bedroom eyes over there by the bathhouse door.”
When I roll my neck to catch a peek, I feel like I’m looking at one of those optical illusions where you can’t see the full picture until you unfocus your eyes and stop staring at the details. Right now I couldn’t tell you if what I was looking at was a woman or a sailboat lounging on a setee, but I could probably give you the measurements to make a very flattering dress for it. Though, truth be told, it would be a damn shame to cover up with a dress what she saw fit to artfully obscure with scattered bits of gold and silk.
“Now that’s an outfit.”
“It’s almost an outfit. You know who that is, Frank?” My eyes are still busy with connect the dots. I’ve ruled out the sailboat, but with all the curves I’m taking in, it might still be a side street in the Hollywood Hills. I guess I answered Ed with some kinda grunt or gurgle, ‘cause he keeps talkin’- “You ever hear of the Queen of the Nile?”
“You gonna tell me another story about your ex-wife? Hardly seems like the time or place. I don’t wanna be reminded of female frailty at a time like this.”
“Alls I’m saying is watch your step, ol’ pal. Until they repainted the Pompey theatre last night, that was Caesar’s girl.”
“Well, she ain’t wearin’ black… unless she’s wearing it underneath. And I doubt that’s possible, but you’re right, Ed. I should investigate.” I take a sip of the only decent scotch the world will see for about a thousand years, and let its warm fingers guide me across the room towards a picture of a girl that just gets better and better. “If she’s not mourning, maybe she’s a suspect. After all, the quickest way to a man’s back is through his front.”
She sees me coming and shoos away the pair of brick walls in bath-sheets that are acting as her bodyguards. Suits me fine. I give a nod of friendly reassurance that I hope one of them can see through all the muscle and pretty soon I’m within spitting distance of this gorgeous dame with my fingers crossed… and if she doesn’t stop giving me the doe eyes I’m gonna have to have my legs crossed, too. I bet that’s what the togas are all about. I raise my cup.
“To Caesar.” She doe eyes me for another second just to let me know that she’s not in a rush, and then her decanter pops up to mine with a clack.
“To Caesar.” We drink, and she sucks the wine out of her lower lip. She looks like a girl with an honest face. Actually, she looks like a girl with six or seven honest faces to choose from on any given day. She takes a quick glance around before leaning in at an uncomfortable angle.
“Frank Daley?” I nod and maintain eye contact. “Is it true that you’re an inquisitor?”
“In so many words, that’s the case.”
“I need to speak with you in private, Mr. Daley.” She glides off her seat with a little helping hand from yours truly, and heads through the archway into the bathhouse “No one will bother us here.” She walks off into the dark stone hall one step at a time, and my eyes are right behind. I straighten my tie, hitch up my suspenders, and follow in after her feelin’ like I got the keys to the kingdom and the candy store. When the heavy wooden door slams shut it’s just me, Beautiful and a hot tub. Rome is looking better every minute. I leave myself one sip of scotch for the afterglow, but the rest of the glass starts the sauna up in my lungs and I get right to work.
“Who’s Bruté?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Daley?”
“Please, call me Frank.” I fold my coat over my arm, “And I asked you if you know a guy named Bruté who might’ve wanted to perforate your husband.”
“Bruté? Do you mean Brutus?” Bingo. “Yes, I know him. Why do you ask, Frank?”
“Caesar’s last words were ‘Et tu, Bruté?’ Now I know he was on his way to punching his ticket, so he was bein’ fancy and speaking French, which, according to my research means he was asking, ‘You too, Bruté?’” I knew watching all that late-nite TV would pay off. I can’t tell you how many of these things I’ve cracked thanks to Masterpiece Theatre. I just wish I didn’t always fall asleep in act three. “So I figure, we find this Bruté, or Brutus, close enough, we find our man. You say you know him. Where do I find him?” This is turning out to be easier than I thought.
“Which one?”
“Come again?” But then again, I always think too soon.
“Marcus Brutus or Decimus Brutus? Both were loyal men of Caesar’s. Which one of them do you suspect?”
This is just what I needed. Two Brutés. Whose idea was this? I hear the one shoe dropping and get the feeling that I’m gonna wind up with dirty knuckles before I hear the other one. This is exactly the kind of act three crap I was talking about. Now I’ve gotta sniff the wet streets for Marcus and Decy when I should be getting a sponge bath sans-sponge from this Cadillac dame. I look long and hard at the last dregs of my drink and I guess my face is telling a long story, because Beautiful pipes up, wrapping a welcome arm around my shoulder,
“Are you all right, Frank? It must be a stressful labour to face these assassins with such courage. Let me loosen these strange clothes…” Now I’ve learned from some experience that letting pre-colonial girls try to wrestle with a Windsor knot after a decanter or two usually winds up in embarrassment for all involved, but still, at that moment in the bathhouse, I was thinking pretty seriously about letting this one slide into the unsolved mysteries file, and slipping myself out of the uniform and into a nice hot soak. Honestly don’t know what I’d have done to pull it together if the door hadn’t split open at that second and thrown a couple of toga wearing monkey wrenches into my plumbing. Specifically, the first one lands right on my left faucet, sending me spilling onto the stone floor thinking about how some things never change. I can hear my bath-buddy screaming out as Monkey Wrench number two grabs her and shoves her towards the door through a flurry of slaps, scratches and kicks. She’s pushed out and the door slams shut again, leaving us to our personal, gentlemanly business.
FIN
Let me know your thoughts! Like, all of them.
Not just about this.
---
FRANK DALEY
In
“TWO BRUTÉS”
They say that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and believe me, it shows. City’s a tangled mess of ancient buildings, vine covered terraces and statues… goddamn statues everywhere. It’s like the whole town’s taking you to its basement and showing you the slides from the family photo album. Well, I’m squirming on the couch down here. Had just about enough history, and just about half enough scotch for one night. I shake my tin flask and the pizzicato melody tells me it’s time to head back to the hotel, unless I’m ready to start mixing the grape and the grain. They’re all about wine in this town. Every night’s a singalong and the words are glug glug glug.
I haul myself off the curb and step out into the rain. That first drop is always the worst. The awning drips beachballs of water that slap the cobblestones like they tried to cop a feel- hitting twice as heavy as any rain that was allowed to land where mother nature intended. If I miss those first, fat drops, I count myself lucky. I can take a hundred drops of rain on my back, but that first one, if I feel it… it chills me to the bone.
Kinda reminds me of the stiff I’m here for. Guy was a pretty smooth customer. Clean teeth, probably a few good hats in his closet. Named Julius Caesar- you might have heard of him. Does a lot of work in salads back in L.A. Poor guy had it pretty rough at the end, though. When Caesar was on his way down to his chalk outline the daggers were falling on his back like a cold March rain… but Jules and me got something in common. For him, it was that first drop that was the kicker. That first knife. Seems to me this stabbing was like when a box of doughnuts lands on the desk at the precinct at about ten forty-five. Everyone just stares at it till one mug makes the first move, and from there it’s free for all. Before ten-to, you got nothin’ but crumbs.
They pulled the crumbs off the bloody floor of the theatre of Pompey this morning, and tonight Rome is crying. So I’m asking myself- who was holding that fist knife? Which of these sharks smelled blood while it was still snug in Caesar’s veins, before the feeding frenzy started? All I got’s a bunch of questions and one lead that’s about as solid as the coating on my tongue- the one that sets in after about a half an hour dry and, right now, drives me to push open the doors to the hotel and lubricate my investigation.
Nice digs. Caesar’s Palace- I’d been here once before when I was on Narcotics in Vegas. I’d barely cut my teeth back then. You know how when you go back to a place you visited when you were a kid, everything seems small? Well, can’t say as to why, but it wasn’t working that way for me this time. Maybe when you take out all the slot machines, the palace seems a lot bigger.
I push past the togas, and sidle up to the bar. It’s a regular party in here- guess the Emperor getting chopped up like an olive loaf is a good reason to tie one on. Eddie’s got his hands full, as usual. I’ll tell ya: I’ve been to a lot of places, and there aren’t many out there where a good barman can’t find work pretty quick- and Eddie’s the best there ever was. Wherever I am, no matter the time, I bring Ed along and it’s seen me through. There are prettier faces you could ask for to comfort you on a hard case, but there’s nobody with more sense screwed into ‘em. Besides, when it comes to pretty, I prefer local colour. Ed catches a glimpse of the one mug in the joint slapped in a trenchcoat and slips over,
“You find anything in your flask, Frank?”
“Yeah- the bottom.”
Ed drops some clay cup on the counter and three icecubes lead the way for three ounces of golden fire. I watch the candlelight bounce off the scotch as it pours into the cup because I know how much I’ll miss it when it’s down in the dark. I miss glass.
“The way you’re looking at that drink, I’d say you were thinking about buying it dinner.”
“Get serious, Eddie… when was the last time you saw me eat dinner?”
“1945, Dortmund.”
“Hey, they offered, and I didn’t want to offend anybody.”
“You slugged the host between courses.”
“Well, he offended me. I got a Jewish cousin, y’know.” I stir up a little music in my glass and let the aroma play with matches in my sinuses. Eddie’s eyebrows start trying to fix his hair.
”What’s up Ed?”
“Hmm… I got good news and I got bad news, Frankie.”
“Always the bad news first Eddie.”
“Sure thing. The bad news is that you just drained the dregs of our whiskey collection.” Some small part of me dies as Ed goes on- “But the good news is that there’s a much better candidate for that night on the town giving you the bedroom eyes over there by the bathhouse door.”
When I roll my neck to catch a peek, I feel like I’m looking at one of those optical illusions where you can’t see the full picture until you unfocus your eyes and stop staring at the details. Right now I couldn’t tell you if what I was looking at was a woman or a sailboat lounging on a setee, but I could probably give you the measurements to make a very flattering dress for it. Though, truth be told, it would be a damn shame to cover up with a dress what she saw fit to artfully obscure with scattered bits of gold and silk.
“Now that’s an outfit.”
“It’s almost an outfit. You know who that is, Frank?” My eyes are still busy with connect the dots. I’ve ruled out the sailboat, but with all the curves I’m taking in, it might still be a side street in the Hollywood Hills. I guess I answered Ed with some kinda grunt or gurgle, ‘cause he keeps talkin’- “You ever hear of the Queen of the Nile?”
“You gonna tell me another story about your ex-wife? Hardly seems like the time or place. I don’t wanna be reminded of female frailty at a time like this.”
“Alls I’m saying is watch your step, ol’ pal. Until they repainted the Pompey theatre last night, that was Caesar’s girl.”
“Well, she ain’t wearin’ black… unless she’s wearing it underneath. And I doubt that’s possible, but you’re right, Ed. I should investigate.” I take a sip of the only decent scotch the world will see for about a thousand years, and let its warm fingers guide me across the room towards a picture of a girl that just gets better and better. “If she’s not mourning, maybe she’s a suspect. After all, the quickest way to a man’s back is through his front.”
She sees me coming and shoos away the pair of brick walls in bath-sheets that are acting as her bodyguards. Suits me fine. I give a nod of friendly reassurance that I hope one of them can see through all the muscle and pretty soon I’m within spitting distance of this gorgeous dame with my fingers crossed… and if she doesn’t stop giving me the doe eyes I’m gonna have to have my legs crossed, too. I bet that’s what the togas are all about. I raise my cup.
“To Caesar.” She doe eyes me for another second just to let me know that she’s not in a rush, and then her decanter pops up to mine with a clack.
“To Caesar.” We drink, and she sucks the wine out of her lower lip. She looks like a girl with an honest face. Actually, she looks like a girl with six or seven honest faces to choose from on any given day. She takes a quick glance around before leaning in at an uncomfortable angle.
“Frank Daley?” I nod and maintain eye contact. “Is it true that you’re an inquisitor?”
“In so many words, that’s the case.”
“I need to speak with you in private, Mr. Daley.” She glides off her seat with a little helping hand from yours truly, and heads through the archway into the bathhouse “No one will bother us here.” She walks off into the dark stone hall one step at a time, and my eyes are right behind. I straighten my tie, hitch up my suspenders, and follow in after her feelin’ like I got the keys to the kingdom and the candy store. When the heavy wooden door slams shut it’s just me, Beautiful and a hot tub. Rome is looking better every minute. I leave myself one sip of scotch for the afterglow, but the rest of the glass starts the sauna up in my lungs and I get right to work.
“Who’s Bruté?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Daley?”
“Please, call me Frank.” I fold my coat over my arm, “And I asked you if you know a guy named Bruté who might’ve wanted to perforate your husband.”
“Bruté? Do you mean Brutus?” Bingo. “Yes, I know him. Why do you ask, Frank?”
“Caesar’s last words were ‘Et tu, Bruté?’ Now I know he was on his way to punching his ticket, so he was bein’ fancy and speaking French, which, according to my research means he was asking, ‘You too, Bruté?’” I knew watching all that late-nite TV would pay off. I can’t tell you how many of these things I’ve cracked thanks to Masterpiece Theatre. I just wish I didn’t always fall asleep in act three. “So I figure, we find this Bruté, or Brutus, close enough, we find our man. You say you know him. Where do I find him?” This is turning out to be easier than I thought.
“Which one?”
“Come again?” But then again, I always think too soon.
“Marcus Brutus or Decimus Brutus? Both were loyal men of Caesar’s. Which one of them do you suspect?”
This is just what I needed. Two Brutés. Whose idea was this? I hear the one shoe dropping and get the feeling that I’m gonna wind up with dirty knuckles before I hear the other one. This is exactly the kind of act three crap I was talking about. Now I’ve gotta sniff the wet streets for Marcus and Decy when I should be getting a sponge bath sans-sponge from this Cadillac dame. I look long and hard at the last dregs of my drink and I guess my face is telling a long story, because Beautiful pipes up, wrapping a welcome arm around my shoulder,
“Are you all right, Frank? It must be a stressful labour to face these assassins with such courage. Let me loosen these strange clothes…” Now I’ve learned from some experience that letting pre-colonial girls try to wrestle with a Windsor knot after a decanter or two usually winds up in embarrassment for all involved, but still, at that moment in the bathhouse, I was thinking pretty seriously about letting this one slide into the unsolved mysteries file, and slipping myself out of the uniform and into a nice hot soak. Honestly don’t know what I’d have done to pull it together if the door hadn’t split open at that second and thrown a couple of toga wearing monkey wrenches into my plumbing. Specifically, the first one lands right on my left faucet, sending me spilling onto the stone floor thinking about how some things never change. I can hear my bath-buddy screaming out as Monkey Wrench number two grabs her and shoves her towards the door through a flurry of slaps, scratches and kicks. She’s pushed out and the door slams shut again, leaving us to our personal, gentlemanly business.
* * *
Now, it’s ‘round about this time that I start to drift off. I figure- you been in one bare-knuckle brawl, you been in ‘em all- it doesn’t really hold my interest too well, so my mind naturally starts to wander. I’m thinking of a case I had back before all this business with jumping around through the bad-fashion parade of ancient history ever got started. I didn’t have so much perspective back then, see? I was just a hard-nosed kid with a chip on my shoulder from a heavy-handed, safe-boosting dad, and a chip out of my right elbow from my citizen’s arrest of the same. I had it out for crime, though. The crooks of LA were my dancing shoes and I was taking classes every Tuesday and Friday night. Saturday too, on holiday weekends.
In those early days, there was only one time when I ever played hooky from the law. Some mug down in San Diego forgot to get out of his car while on a scenic drive over the edge of a pier. Funny, because he had plenty of time to tie his wrists to the wheel, gag himself, and give himself a mild concussion. Now, I’m not a holy man, but I’ve always thought Thou Shalt Not Kill had a nice ring to it, so I looked into the situation. When I get to the mug’s house his whole family’s gathered in tears. Tricky thing was- they were tears of joy. I seem to recall some songs being sung. Seems puzzling, but the more stones I flipped on this guy, the more reason I saw to pop a cork for his going away party. You mess with people enough, you’re asking to wind up with a four-door fishbowl for a coffin, and this guy was practically setting a deep-sea diver on his dashboard. When I finally find the architect of the situation? He’s having a Gin with the mug’s wife and kids and telling the story. I didn’t like doing it, but I let it go. Sue me if you think I was wrong.
Don’t know why exactly this popped to mind just then. You know how it is when you get that 3:30 feeling at your 9 to 5. Guess my eyes just glazed over. When I open them again, I’m looking up at Ed’s sorry chops, and he looks like shit.
“You look like shit.”
“You’re the one I had to fish outta the bowl, Frank.”
“You don’t fish shit outta the bowl.”
“Well, I thought I’d make an exception on account of this shit signs my cheques.”
Ed’s got a good point. Usually does. I take a peek down at myself and I look like a wet cat. Soaked to the bone. Pisses me off because I doubt there’s a Laundromat anywhere in Caesar’s palace.
Ed waves his fingers in front of my face to get my attention, “Hey. I got good news and I got bad news, Frankie.”
“Why do you keep putting this to me, Ed? Bad news.” He holds up a mirror. “Okay. Good news?” He picks up my cup of whiskey from the wet tile floor and swirls it around. This time the pizzicato is a welcome sound. I let out a sigh and take the drink.
“It was in your hand when I found you. Must’ve had a death grip on that thing, cause you were head first in the hot tub at the time. You’re lucky I got curious when I saw those goons hustling out of here with your date.”
“I gotta start paying more attention during these fights.” I feel something in the palm of my left mitt and open it up. Two molars and an incisor? I snatch up the mirror and do a quick headcount, “Naw… these aren’t mine.” As the teeth clatter on the tiles I swish the blood off of my fingers and massage my aching jaw. This case just got a lot more personal. I already knew that Bruté, aka ‘Knife One’, had buddies in on the action, but now it looks like they know I’m in town as well. Plus they’ve just dragged away the best lead and best follow Rome had to offer. I’m gonna have to watch my step ‘cause somebody else certainly is.
“Where’d they take her? She could be in trouble.”
“Don’t know exactly. Out of the Palace. They were in some rush and she wasn’t really in a cooperative mood.”
“Good to know. Get back to the bar, Ed. Gotta keep the party going. I’ll take it from here.”
“Whatever you say Mr. Daley. You be careful out there.”
“Oh and Eddie-“ He cocks his head over his shoulder, “Thanks for the save.” I raise my glass to him. Eddie Bachman- this isn’t the first or the last time he’ll pull my head out of a wet death. The weird thing is that I know that for a fact. A couple thousand years from now he’ll even take a bullet for me. He’s just that kind of guy.
As the door closes and last call makes it’s way down my raw, waterlogged gullet, I realize that it’s time to take it up a notch. I strip off my wet clothes and they splat hard and heavy at my feet. I pick up Ed’s mirror and take stock. I’m pretty dinged up. My ribs are a roadmap of bruises, my nose’s red n’ swollen and my knuckles look like I’ve been playing cat’s cradle with a girl with barbed wire fingers. On top of all that, I need a shave. That means this thing’s been going on too long. I toss on the only dry clothes I’ve got- my old trenchcoat. Great. Now I look like I just flashed Joe Frazier.
It’s then that I get the first good idea I’ve had all day- a plan to get back on the scene without calling too much attention to myself… when in Rome…
* * *
I step out into the palace with a makeshift toga that’d make any fratboy proud and get my bare feet pounding towards the bar before I have time to well up any tears for what’s become of my old coat. Gotta make sacrifices after all, and it sounds like I’m not the only one getting that line tonight, because over by the bar I hear someone howling like a 3 AM car alarm. When I lean out around the corner I see a familiar looking gorilla with a rag tied around his jaw. It’s monkey wrench number two and he’s trying to fill up the bloody holes in his gums with drink. I can’t help from smiling as he splashes a shot over my fistprint and lets out another shriek. Ed shakes his head at the goon and shoots me a nod of approval for my new disguise. I sidle up to the most deeply shadowed seat I can find.
“Hey there, friend, something wrong?”
“Hwaahh… huhhh… my cheeth… dog broke my cheeth.” His fist pounds the counter, “Ih hurchs…”
“Yeah, looks… serious. Well, you’re in luck, friend. I’m a dentist and in honour of Caesar’s death I’d be happy to take a look at you before you do yourself any more harm.”
“Dentisht?”
“Best damning dentist all Rome!” Ed says in passing, wiping down the inside of a mug, “You’ve got problem, for you I’d go for where he did goes!” The guy looks a bit put off, but convinced enough. Ed’s helpful and all, but his Latin is kind of embarrassing.
“Let’s get to somewhere with some decent light. The shadows are too deep here.” I stand up and head to an empty-looking corridor, with the whimpering thug tagging along behind.
Now, I’ll spare you the messy details, but you can imagine that if you stick two fingers up a guy’s nose and three fingers into bleeding holes in his gums the poor sap’ll tell you just about anything you want to know. He just won’t say it very clear. So it was only after stalking around the streets of Rome for an hour that I finally caught his meaning and found myself standing in the rain outside of the Senate Hall. If monkey wrench was squeaking right, and I’d bet that he was, this’d be where I’d find the Brutés. Both of ‘em.
So here I was. My coat had been ripped up into a party favour, the girl had been swiped out from under me, and my flask was empty. I weaved through the beachballs splashing off the awning onto the dry porch, lit a cigarette from my left breast pocket (which was now hanging over the family jewels), and headed inside for private meetings with two Brutés.
* * *
“It remains too difficult to say, my dear Decimus. Much chaos still lingers around the Tyrant’s death.”
“Difficult? I don’t want to hear about your difficulties, swine! Ceasar’s blood is on my hands… on all our hands! And if it does not lead to a new, more suitable Emperor taking the laurel, then it has all been for naught!”
Bingo. As stakeouts go, this could be a lot worse. I don’t even have time to start craving a cup of Joe before Decy drops this gem. The guy has barely stopped talking since I started following his jack-in-the box cackle back down at the entrance. I take a drag off my smoke and listen as he brags to his entourage…
“And who more suitable than Decimus Brutus! Let Antony and Cassius think they stand heir- the people rejoice because they know that soon, Emperor Brutus will Sheppard them to tomorrow!”
And so on… seriously, the guy sounds like a baby goose in a washing machine. If he was in a church choir he’d be singin’ the part only dogs are supposed to hear. I’ve heard about enough, but his room’s full to the brim with hairy-knuckled grape stompers, so it’s time for some of that Frank Daley magic.
“The people rejoice, my dear Decimus, because the Tyrant has fallen, they have not had time to think of a successo… does anyone smell smoke?”
“Fire!!! Fire in the senate hall!!”
“Well, don’t just stand here you fools, go! Go and deal with it!”
The usual Frank Daley magic would have been a little brushed-tin .38 named Margaret, but I left her at the office. Marge is a sweet girl, but quick to get jealous… and I was planning on stretching my feet on this case, so for the time being I gotta make do with using the senate records as an astray for my diversion. It works like a Swiss watch though, as Decy’s muscle sloshes out of the room to stamp at the smoke. I, being the gentleman that I am, shut the door behind them, leaving me Mano a Bruté at long last.
He sounds like a goose and he looks like a gander. A short drink of water. Looks like he’d be about a hundred pounds soaking wet, and for a moment, I think about dragging him back to the bath house to verify forcibly. These Romans are old fashioned, but not so old that they don’t know ‘eye for an eye’. ‘Course, if it’s all the same to everyone, I’d leave out the tooth for a tooth bit. Anyway, he seemed surprised to see me, so I took the initiative,
“So, you’re the brains of this operation, huh?”
“The brains indeed. You are looking at the next Emperor of Rome! Now who by Jupiter are you?”
“Let’s keep this down to earth, Decy. I-“
I guess it must have been something in my tone… or maybe just something in my face. I know I don’t have the friendliest mug on this side of the Mediterranean… especially not after you crack it against the marble a few times and wrap it in a five o’ clock shadow that’s already got my hangover from tomorrow morning… sorta dulls the civility in a guy, you know? Also coulda been the way I was warming up my sore knuckles as I spoke to him. Whichever way he came to it, this little Emperor-to-be got spooked. And I gotta give him some credit, ‘cause wet blanket though he may be, the little squawker’s fast. Before I could blink (though, at this stage of the evening that’d take about a minute and a half) he had whipped his flippers up between my legs and clapped a cork-popping death-grip on my most treasured possessions.
“This should keep the conversation firmly rooted, don’t you think?”
I was speechless. Stunned. I hoped he wasn’t coming on to me.
“Who sent you? Cassius? Marcus? Talk!”
He puts a crunch on the merchandise, just to make his point, and stops short. I feel him fidget with his grip in disbelief, then I grab his collar and took a real close look at the bridge of his nose all sudden-like. I guess I should have mentioned- when I said he grabbed my “treasured possessions” I meant the smokes in my former left breast pocket. Decy’s guard drops when my wedding tackle crumples like cardboard in his mitts, and it seems like an opportune time for what the French call a ‘head-to-head’ on the situation. Personally, I woulda thought that the hard right angles might have tipped him off in the first place… but then, I’ve never felt Roman balls.
Decy tumbles back from the head-butt and I plant my heel in ‘Hamourabi’s Position’. It’s the first time I felt he really opened up to me. Probably just as scared as I was of getting his personal vinyard all over my stomping foot. This is just one of the many reasons why shoes are such a great idea.
“It wasn’t me! Caesar didn’t even know my name! I was just a follower… it was…”
Damn. Wrong Bruté. As this loser-in waiting drones on about his supposed innocence, I light a crumpled cigarette and reflect on the facts. There are three times when a guy never lies; when someone’s hand is in his tooth-holes, when he finds himself talking to wild animals, and when someone’s about to end his relationship with the “family planning” aisle in an unplanned sort of way. Looks like Marcus is our Knife One. Decy here is a grade-A schlub, but he’s not the schlub I’m after. I can tell by his confession, in fact just by the pitch of it, that he’s not the star of this show. He’d lose his nerve stabbing into my Aunt Sally’s meatloaf, let alone Julius frigging Caesar.
So, to recap- I’m out the girl, outta scotch, out of unmolested cigarettes, mostly out a perfectly decent trenchcoat, and definitely out of patience. I’m outta time too, and now I’ve got a phalanx of angry volunteer fire fighters pounding on the door as Decy’s guards finally wise up to my senatorial ashtray diversion. But at least I know my perp… and goddammit this Bruté’s gonna pay.
Now, under normal circumstances, I’m really not the vengeful sort of guy. Tricky thing about revenge- once it gets up a good head of steam, it’s hard to stop. Revenge is like opening up your liquor cabinet during a crisis of the soul, and finding a thousand bottles with just a sip left each. Drink one down and those dregs always just tip you off on how the next bottle over was behind it the whole time. Pretty soon the whole cabinet’s involved. It’s never enough and the whole time you’re thirsty. Thirsty like I was now. Thirsty for something I knew I wasn’t gonna get…
Scotch.
And revenge, I guess.
Kinda reminds me of this time back in Santa Monica. You know… the formative years. A guy’s gotta have a home, and sometimes, that home’s in Santa Monica. And sometimes that guy’s just a kid. Particularly in the past… but as I have discovered, this is not always the case. Anyway, sometimes this kid is in a go-kart derby that means more than the friggin’ crown jewels laid out over Ms. Teen USA’s swimsuit collection and a pack of ball cards with a solid gold stick of chewing gum. I wanted to win, y’know what I mean? I was strapped in- wheels oiled, helmet ready, teeth gritted and eyes steeled on that finish line. I wanted it all. But sometimes in life, there’s a top dog. And that top dog takes the gold medal, the checkered flag, and the chewing gum, no questions asked. It’s like challengin’ the Mona Lisa to a staring contest in a hailstorm… you’ve got no chance. In this particular case, the Mona Lisa’s name was Farrah. She had the fastest wheels, the friends in the judge’s booth, and beautiful, silken-gold hair shining in the hot California sun. I’d have done anything to snatch the laurel wreath from her smooth, artfully-freckled brow. Me in my rag-tag roller- put together on later-than-late nights between Masterpiece Theatre and the paper route with the occasional helping hand from Pa: Usually amounting in a stroke of paint and three or four strokes of bourbon-fuelled brilliance on how to lift on old lady’s handbag without having a foot chase on your hands. I tell ya, the old man was a piece of work. He’d have swiped Santa’s toys from the sleigh if he’d a found a ladder tall enough. Meanwhile, Farrah’s riding the latest luxury sedan in 4 by 6 form with a cassette player and the top down. It’s David versus Goliath on four tiny little wheels, and I’m getting a keen bite of nature against nurture. Farrah knew it too. I remember her looking out to me across the starting line with this weird look on her face, like she was thinking, “God, even YOU want my crown?”
Well I did. I wanted that crown, just like I wanted this mug to pay for throwing his knife out where no-one else but Caesar had the guts. And that’s to say nothing of kidnapping the only friendly female face in the Empire immediately pre rub-a-dub, and leaving me in this rotten state: Assailed at the door by… Now what was I bein’ assailed by?
I could hear grunts and screams from behind the door. It sounded like P.T. Barnum’s prize elephant was making his way to the men’s room during halftime at a Laker’s game. The guards at the door were being tossed aside like old news, and the Weekend Edition was on its way. The question was- who’s the headliner? I stored Decy away in a handy closet with something to chew on, and did my Sunday best to look innocent. When the door came splintering in, my jaw dropped.
“Ed! Boy are you a sight for sore eyes!”
“Good to see ya, Frank. I come bearing news!”
So Ed was the papeboy- that’s a welcome surprise. Trouble is, Ed’s news always seems to have a price. He always seems to find the silver lining on the dark cloud, but then again, it’s never all silver either…
“Good news and bad news, Eddie?”
“Both kinds, ol’ pal.”
I thought for a moment. “You know what Ed? I think I’m gonna need to break with our little tradition and get the good news first. I know it might upset you, but I’m hangin’ by a thread here.”
“Well, then you’ll like this- the good news is: I brought help!” Ed beamed at someone in the hall.
I had been wondering how Eddie had been able to clear out the hounds at the door- I’ve learned that it’s usually best to leave him his mysteries, but still, I was curious. I caned my neck out the door to get a peek, “Great! So who’s the reinforcements?”
As far as I could tell, Ed had brought along four beefy knuckles and a curled up thumb as our backup. Clearly they were friendly, cause they rushed up to give me a big wet kiss between the eyebrows before I could say ‘How’s your mother?’ That’s when the light show started.
Ed was glowing purple and in a tight orbit around himself as he spoke, “That’s the bad news, Frank. Let me introduce our new friend, Marc Antony.”
I followed his nod to two, well-groomed gorillas who were rubbing their fists in unison. It was a coin-toss as to who was bigger, Mark or Tony, but they both woulda given a Mac truck a run for his money. I like to give new friends the benefit of the doubt, so I guessed it was just the way of their people to greet a fella with a sock to the brain-box.
“Hi Mark. Hi Tony. That’s quite a handshake you got there.” I was blinking just to prove to myself that I could when King and Kong started in on me in perfect stereo,
“The bathhouse Mr, Daley! Do you remember the bathhouse in Caesar’s Palace?!?”
“Now, Marc Antony, I told’ya-” Ed tries to intervene before I answer,
“ Can’t say I was payin’ too much attention to the scenery fellas, given the company and all.”
“Company?” Mark and Tony each plant a mitt on the scruff of my collar and haul me up against the wall,
“Sure. She might’ve been a little hairless for your tastes, but she was right up my alley, I’ll tell ya. I’d have returned the favor, too, if Bruté’s goons hadn’t shown up.”
“See? I told you they didn’t do nothing.” Ed plants a reassuring hand on both Mark and Tony’s shoulders somehow, and their faces soften up like bagels in the rain.
“Oho! Sorry about that Mr. Daley. I’m sure you can imagine, I’m a little quick to jealousy when it comes to Cleopatra.”
“Oh yeah? You her… boyfriends or something?”
“We are very much in love.” As they set me down, the two of them smile and swoon in a way that, to be frank in more than name alone, makes me a little uncomfortable. Stands to reason, I suppose. A dame of Cleopatra’s calibre deserves her eccentricities. Why these apes are jealous of me, and not each other, I’ll leave alone. I straighten my toga, crack my neck, and count my teeth for the second time today,
“Well, our relationship was… uhh strictly professional. I assure you. But, if you don’t mind my asking, wasn’t she supposed to be Caesar’s girl?”
“That was a purely political position.”
“It’s hard to imagine her in any pure position.”
Ed, always the diplomat, interrupts, “Well, it’s a hell of a position she’s in now, anyway. Marc here agreed to help when I told him you were looking for the mugs who kidnapped Cleopatra, and last time I checked, she was still kidnapped.”
“Ed’s right. Mark. Tony. We’ve got work to do. The bum holding our girl is none other than Marcus Bruté.”
“Marcus Brutus!?!” Close enough. “By Hermes… Caesar slain by his own son… but- Brutus’ chambers are right here in the Senate!” Mark and Tony charge off down the hall, clenching their fists, “If he’s harmed a hair on Cleopatra’s head, I’ll break him in two!”
If you ask me, there’s already too many Brutés to keep track of, and I shudder to think of making any more of them, half or whole. While I shudder, we tear through the Senate Hall. Bruté’s got a legionnaire or two stationed outside his chambers, but Marc and Tony are more than happy to un-station them. When we get into the chambers, however, the goon soup starts to thicken up; the Roman gorillas are pretty occupied with each other, so I get Ed to watch my back as I search the few side rooms Bruté’s got to hide in. Gets a lot easier as my double-vision clears up.
I case the joint in short order looking for any sign of Bruté or Cleopatra until I find one of the local goons in what looks like the boss’ bedroom. He jumps when he sees me- looks like I interrupted him in gathering up some no-doubt incriminating parchments. I’m wasting no time, so in four paces he’s pinned to the wall with an earful of probing questions and a noseful of fingers.
“He… he’s taken the girl! Downstairs to the stable! He’s… He’s probably taken off in his chariot by now! Please don’t-“
Assuming he was asking me not to delay his evening naptime, I comply and dash to the balcony, throwing open the sopping wet curtains. I hear a familiar shriek from below, and sure enough, a horse-drawn chariot featuring Knife One and my bigamous beauty thunders right underneath me out of the Senate Hall and onto the wet streets. Marcus Brutus yanks on the reins and shouts back into the hall,
“Gaius! Lucius! Make certain the Inquisitor doesn’t follow us! The freedom of Rome is in your hands!”
With that, and a crack of his whip, my perp takes off into the night, still holding Cleopatra by the wrist. I feel the rumbling of another chariot below- the thugs that Marcus was hollering at are about to follow in his tracks, and I know it’s now or never. I roll my shoulders and slap my cheek. I wait, and listen to the hooves pounding below…
Then I make like the rain and drop.
Remember what I said before about the first raindrop you feel being the worst? Well Lucius over here feels that in a big way, the drop in question being yours truly landing knees-first on his kidneys. Even with him there to soften the blow, the drop still knocks the wind outta me, and I have to cling desperately to the side of the chariot to keep from spilling out the back. Lucius tumbles out, but plants a meaty palm around my ankle on his way and starts belly-dragging along behind us. I do my best one-footed Flamenco on his face and he tries to add a few inches to my height until the chariot takes a sharp left and he’s thrown clear in a wave of rainwater.
Lucius’ scream gets Gaius’ attention, and I just have time to stand up and square off before he hauls back with the horsewhip to let me have it. I don’t have the time to explain to him in any delicate way that that’s not the sort of thing I’m into, but in cases like these, I’ve always found there’s nothing that etiquette has to offer that can’t be said with an uppercut, so I uppercut him. With the look of surprise on his face, you’d think it was a new invention to the Romans, so I uppercut him again just to show him the finer points of the punch. He’s still curious. Well, good. This is one case where I’m happy to leave my future-man wisdom with the scholars of yesterday. I give him the grand tour, from Genghis Kahn to Mike Tyson, and Gaius doesn’t know it but he’s the most educated speed bump on the streets of Rome that night.
With the reinforcements out of the way, I snap the reigns and get my new best friends galloping after Marcus’ wake. Through the streaking rain, I see his chariot getting closer. He makes a hard turn towards the Coliseum, and starts rolling up a ramp lined with the columns they’re so fond of around here. I follow suit, and as I gain ground, Cleopatra looks back and we lock eyes,
“Fraaaank!”
I’m happy to see her too, but she did just give away any element of surprise I might’ve hoped for. It’s all worth it to see the look on Bruté’s face, though. When he whirls around his jaw drops like a hat full of pennies. I yell out,
“Marcus Bruté, you’re under arrest!”
He laughs a wild laugh, “Hahaha!!! I’m impressed! You’re quite persistent, aren’t you, Inquisitor?”
“Like a bloodstain on a bedsheet, pal!”
“No matter! I’ve come too far to let you stop me now! I’ll kill you too if I have to!”
Through all the formalities and chit chat, I’ve gained on him enough to give him a clear snap at me with his horsewhip. The night air explodes beside my ear as the whip cracks closer than my barber’s razor and I stumble to keep my feet. He howls with laughter again and snakes the whip back. I hedge my bets and lift my forearm over my head. The whip winds around it, biting into my bare skin like a family of hungry rattlesnakes, and through the blinding pain I feel it go taut. Marcus yanks on his end and I crash against the side of the chariot, bracing myself to keep from flipping out and over. There’s not much room between the rows of columns whipping by, and we’re so close now our wheels are clashing. Marcus has left his horses to their own business, and my boys are slowly overtaking them. I’m proud of them, don’t get me wrong, but just at the moment I’m more concerned about the looney-tune in the next wagon over. He’s got this look in his eye… it’s a desperate look, and I’ve seen it somewhere before…
Before I can muse too much about familiar looks on Roman mugs, another shriek from Cleopatra snaps me out of it. I gotta stop drifting off in these moments of tension and high drama. Doesn’t impress the ladies. Feeling the need to express my masculinity, I dig in my feet and return fire, hauling on the whip wrapped around my arm with all my might. Bruté lurches, but he’s smart enough to let go of his end before I take him over, and the horsewhip arcs through the rain over to my side. Cleopatra takes her chance, and when Marcus curses and turns back to the wheel, he gets a well-sculpted, chocolate-brown knee right in the Ides. Like I said: a Cadillac dame. I haven’t been to a time yet where the ladies hadn’t figured that move out, but it always brings a smile to my face. Well… almost always.
One way or another, Bruté’s distracted for a moment- I rip the whip off my arm, and think fast. Cleopatra raises her hands to her face in defense as Marcus recovers from her love-tap and looms over her in a none-too-gentlemanly manner. My plan clicks and I pull back hard on the reigns. My boys rear up, stopping on whatever passes for a dime in this town, and I shout out,
“Abajada! Mishan abtul!”
I guess nobody ever taught Marcus any Egyptian, because he just turns around a looks at me like I got two heads instead of hitting the deck like I asked. I flourish the whip and lash out. Marcus flinches in anticipation of a facefull of leather , but again is left holding the bag. The whip flies across the road, snaps around a column and I pull it as tight as I can as Marcus rolls blind into the clothesline. His eyes bug out and his chariot rolls on as the line catches him like floss catches broccoli. I drop the whip and he spills down to the street, gasping for air. Cleopatra, having heard the heads up, stands up and works to get Bruté’s chariot back under control. For once I’m glad I took that gig in Cairo snooping for the Sphinx’s nose. I hop off of my go-kart and relish the approach to Brutés quivering form,
“Looks like persistence pays, pal. But you know what doesn’t?” I scoop him up off the wet ground and slam him into the column, “Crime. Crime doesn’t pay, Bruté. Now I know that might be new for you, but trust me, after tonight it’s gonna be your new motto. Personally, I think it’s got a much better ring than that ‘I came, I saw’ crap.”
He breathes in slow through the nose and looks up at me with that look again, “I’m no criminal… I did what I had to… it was my responsibility.”
“Responsibility? It was your responsibility to throw a party in Caesar’s back? Where’d you sign up for that one??”
“Caesar was a tyrant! He was mad with power! Rome couldn’t stand his rule any longer… I tell you it had to be done! You see how many other knives agreed?”
“And you think that gets you off the hook? They were only playing follow the leader- you were the one takin’ them on a trip through the tall grass!”
“I said it was my respon-“ A crack on the chin shuts his trap,
“You’re not talking your way out of this one, Marcus.” I force him around, press him face-first into the masonry and start unwrapping the whip to tie him up, being short on cuffs at the moment, “If we were in L.A. I’d tell you you had the right to remain silent, but I dunno what kinda rights they’ve got in Rome just yet, so I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.” I laugh, “If you can handle the responsibility, that is.”
Marcus stews as I lash his wrists together, hugging the column, and mutters, “You wouldn’t understand…”
“Oh yeah? Try me.”
“I was the only one who could lead the revolt, and Gods forgive me, I wanted to do it. Caesar was my father.”
I stopped cold. Just then I remembered Tony saying something about Caesar being offed by his kid… or was it Mark? I guess it escaped me what with the brain-quake. That desperate look Bruté’d had before was starting to settle in my gut like one drink too many. He went on,
“I didn’t want anyone else to be the one to stop him. I’m his son, and it is my responsibility to free the world of his tyranny… even if I must die for it. Rome will be a better place now that he’s gone. The streets will be safer…”
He keeps talking like this for a while and I’ve never had much patience for monologues, so I get to thinking… to keep myself occupied, y’know? I’m thinking about the party rocking the walls at Caesar’s palace… about all the smiling faces and clinking mugs in a crowd that oughta have been mourning a great leader. Reminds me of a little soiree down in San Diego thrown in honour of another mug’s send-off. I’m thinking about Farrah and her crown that no one could touch, and about how exactly you’d go about putting an Emperor under arrest. But mostly, I’m thinking about the night I threw my own knife out at the ol’ man. Cept’ I did it to his face… his jaw, specifically… and it was more my elbow than a knife. Point is- I know how this kid feels. I recognized that desperate look he’d had on because I know it from my own mug. I was wearin’ it on Hollywood and Vine one night when I decided to end the tyranny of John Daley… because I knew it was my responsibility. When he was behind bars, there were some of the boys who talked to me about how tough it must’ve been to collar one’s own dad, but truth is, it was easy. I’d have done anything to bring justice to my name.
“Alright Bruté, shut your cake-hole.” His rambling takes a pause, “Now call me a softy… but you’ve touched on a nerve here. You’re right, maybe, and maybe it was your responsibility. So, I’m not taking you in.” His eyes turn to me. Hopeful, suspicious. “Buuut. You DID give and awful scare to this beautiful creature over here,” I gesture towards Cleopatra, who’s pulling up alongside us in Marcus’ chariot, “and you DID hire goons to try to drown me in a bathtub…” I stop and try to think this over. What would lady justice do, I wonder? “So I’m just gonna leave you here. We’ll see what Rome thinks of you when whoever finds you has their say. And, of course, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
All too often, this phrase is used in a metaphorical sense, but I find the literal interpretation has a classic appeal. As a result, my best guess is that Marcus Bruté will find a classic appeal in big soft cushions on his chairs for a few weeks. I feel a hand on my shoulder,
“Thank you for saving me, Frank. I knew from the first time I saw you that you would find your man. Thank you.” I don’t need to tell you that Cleopatra in the rain is a sight for sore eyes. She throws herself against me, and I do my best to shelter her from the downpour. Turns out she’s a touch for sore hands, too,
“All in a day’s work, sweetheart. I couldn’t have done it without you.” If she was giving me doe eyes before, they’re a whole petting zoo right now.
“Oh, Frank…” She slowly cranes her neck up to me, and then with a start we both snap to attention, hearing the sound of horses hurrying up behind us.
“I told you he works fast, Marc!” Ed comes trotting up the pass with Marc Antony riding along behind him. Ed gives me a warm smile, shaking his head, and Marc Antony gives me a cold stare, shaking his fist. At least he doesn’t outnumber me anymore.
“Cleopatra, my darling! I’m so glad you’re safe!”
“Yes, in Mr. Daley’s capable hands.” She’s not making this any easier. In fact she’s doing just the opposite. If I didn’t know any better I’d guess she’s trying to bum a cigarette, with the way her hands are wandering. I swallow hard,
“Hey big guy. You just missed the show.” I give Cleopatra a very convincing platonic pat on the shoulder, and she starts nibbling on my earlobe.
“Looks to me like the show’s just starting.” Ed tries to hold back a chuckle.
Antony steels himself and gestures to Bruté, “You’ve found him… good, now let me-“
“Hold it right there. Leave him. We’re finished with this bum for tonight. He’s gonna stay right there and think about what he’s done. And we…” and give a knowing look to Ed, “we’re late for another appointment.”
I’ve never been good at goodbyes, but Cleopatra helps by keeping my lips occupied so I don’t have to fumble for too many words.
“Till next time, Frank.”
“Any time you like, sweetheart.”
We stare into each other’s eyes in the rain for perhaps a bit longer than politeness would dictate.
“Bye, Antony.” He growls.
“Bye, Bruté.” He groans.
“Aurevederchi, Rome.” Rome rains, probably sad to see me go.
“Ed?”
“Yeah Frank?”
“See you later.”
* * *
A couple thousand years later, I’m checking into a hotel at Hollywood and Vine. The Sunset Inn. I’ve been here before, and I happen to know that I’ll be here again. I brush the rain off my brand new trenchcoat, and shake off my hat. I check my watch, and it looks to me like I’m right on time. I head up to the guy behind the counter, an innkeeper and booze-slinger with a nametag that says “Edward”. He gives me a friendly, but curious look,
“Good evening, sir. You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a room with a window facing north, would you?” He raises his eyebrow. I belly up to the bar and flash him a smile,
“That’s a really good guess…” I glance at his nametag, like I need to, “…Eddie. And hey-“
“A glass of Scotch? Two rocks?” Ed points at my favorite label.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I roll my tongue around in my mouth, “You’re really good at your job, Ed.”
He pours a glass and hands me a plastic-tagged room key, “Thanks- Room 404- I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“You and me both.” I pick up the glass and head to the stairs.
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
I stop and think, then turn back to him with a half-grin, “Not unless you know what room Cleopatra’s stayin’ in tonight.”
He laughs and shakes his head, “That’s a new one! Sorry, sir, but I’m not THAT good.”
I stomp up the stairs and check out the décor in 404. Not bad. Nice endtable. Very beautiful ‘sunflowers-in-a-vase’ reproduction painting. Some artful stains and blotches. But most importantly, a window with flimsy grey curtains that put up no fight whatsoever against the light of the streetlight outside. I hunker down by the window, and take a sip of Ed’s recommendation.
After a half a glass of waiting, I see a man on the street below walking fast out of an alley. In a second another man with a desperate look in his eye follows after him. I watch, rubbing my jaw. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this. Not the second either. I’m in at least a half dozen rooms facing north at the Sunset, and if you want to know the truth… I’ll bet that I’m in every single one. I might even be in a few places across the street. A burst of action catches my attention down below, as the desperate man knocks over the first man. He rolls onto his back, brings a hand up to his chops, and says,
“You too, Frankie-boy?”
I empty my glass, “Yeah, dad. Me too.”
FIN
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