Taco Noir (19 page)

“I said you’re under arrest,” I repeated patiently, keeping my gun trained on the man that appeared to be their leader. He kept his hands up, but he wore an expression that they failed to teach me at the Bureau.

“Is this guy serious?” asked one of the men at the recorder. His partner shrugged and placed his gun on the table.

It appeared that I was going to have to work on my ‘presence of authority.’

“You guys know that I’m arresting you, right?”  The leader started to speak, but was interrupted by the voice behind me.

“Mrs. Petravich can’t leave her kitchen right now. Are you going to help me with this, or what?”

The browed gentleman stood behind me and peered over my shoulder at the scene unfolding. I saw his face turn from anger to surprise to fear in the span of a moment. It was a breath-taking spectrum of colors. I attempted to explain to the citizen that I was busy at the moment, but he suddenly turned on his heels and ran. I was so surprised I nearly dropped my gun.

The men at the listening post quickly grabbed their weapons. Their leader pulled his weapon from his jacket, and accompanied the pistol with a badge. He roared the word “Police” and sprinted after the citizen, shoving me backwards with more force than I should have thought necessary.

“Cover the fire escape!” barked the lead man to the two others as he bolted down the hall. I fished the badge out of my pocket and held it high above my head.

“Wait, a second,” I called after them, my gun pointed at no one in particular. “You can’t just…”

“Shut the hell up!” growled the lead cop over his shoulder. As the men split up, I felt that I might have been guilty of a small lapse in judgment. I stood near the wooden crate that dominated the upstairs hallway and tried to figure out how to put all this in my report. As I turned a few snappy phrases over in my head, I noticed my shoelace was untied. The prudent thing to do before springing into action would be to tie it, so my course was clear.

The ‘W’ stood for prudence!

I had bent over to tie the lace when my world came to a sudden and definite crash.

The man with the single eyebrow had fled downstairs and had dawdled in the hallway, trying to devise an escape. Running to the rear entrance, he met the officers as they made their way down the fire escape. Turning towards the front entrance he saw the officer in the blue suit. In a panic he ran back up the stairs at full speed.

He failed to notice me tying my shoelace.

Tripping over me, the Eyebrow Man found himself airborne, flying full-speed into the wooden crate. With a deafening crash the crate smashed to rubble, and knocked the fugitive unconscious in the process.

I turned to find him napping on a bed of freshly-printed twenty-dollar bills, along with the printing plates for the bills and a small press on which to print them. I stood up and dusted myself off as the officers ran up the stairs, just in time to find their suspect being arrested by yours truly.

I read him his rights, and being unconscious, he chose to remain silent.

The officers, as well as the men around the Bureau, seemed to take the news of my promotion rather poorly, but such is the fate of the rising star. I managed to take down a big fish in the Chicago counterfeiting arena, procuring the first of what I’m sure was to be many commendations by the Washington office, and picked up a pizza sauce recipe for an old friend in the process.

The ‘W’ stood for, on the rare occasion, “Winning!”

ROSSI’S ALL-AMERICAN PIZZA SAUCE

1 (28-ounce) can of whole peeled tomatoes

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

2 medium cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon dried oregano

Pinch red pepper flakes

Kosher salt

2 sprigs of fresh basil

1 medium yellow onion, diced

1 teaspoon sugar

• Run the tomatoes through a food mill or hand blender until they are pureed. It doesn’t have to be completely smooth, but your better angels should tell you when. Set the tomatoes aside.
  

• Combine the butter and oil in a saucepan and heat over medium-low heat until the butter is melted and the oil is well assimilated. Add garlic, oregano, pepper flakes, and a pinch of salt. Practice vigilance and stir frequently, cooking for about 3 minutes. Add the puree, basil, onion, and sugar. Bring to a simmer and reduce the heat to its lowest setting, with bubbles barely breaking the surface. Remember, patience is a virtue.
  

• Cook for about one hour, or until the sauce is reduced by ½. Season to taste and allow to cool in a covered container in the icebox. Start a report or two while you wait!
  

            Enjoy with pizza dough and toppings!

PREVIEW OF KRINGLE NOIR

I’m Dreaming of a Dark Christmas

CHAPTER ONE

              When I was a kid Christmas was a big thing. My brothers and I used to hang stockings up near the fireplace, sing songs, and pretend to sleep while mom and pop gave Santa a helping hand. Sometime around three in the morning we managed to actually fall asleep, and when we woke we found a Christmas tree flush with presents that, while maybe weren’t what we’d asked for, were exactly what we wanted. Pop took the day off and mom cooked a goose. The kids took turns swiping toys from each other, screaming, laughing, and creating the kind of ruckus that kids can only get away with on Christmas day.

              It was a great time to be a kid, but I was no longer a kid.

              Yeah, all right, it was still a great time of the year.

              I got to my office and found a note from Jimmy Two-Fingers, a criminal and reprobate I had known for most of my life. It said to meet him that evening in the city square at eight o’clock sharp and hinted that he needed help. It also asked me to bring the fifth of bourbon that I kept in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, filed under “N” for “Necessity.”

              Jimmy might have been a reprobate and a criminal, but he was also a friend, and he knew me well.

              I pulled my coat on, shoved the bottle of booze into my left waist pocket, and tucked my snub-nose .38 into the lapel pocket of my coat. Jimmy’s plans might include anything from late dinner and conversation to proposing the theft of the Mona Lisa, and often times both. I had no clue, but I wouldn’t want to be caught without either a trusty firearm or bourbon.

              The busses were running smoothly to the downtown area, shuttling passengers from department store to department store to get their wallets lightened. I found a bench between the outdoor skating rink and the giant Christmas tree that stood at City Park. Ace Thorndike, the mug who pulled the strings to City Hall, liked to decorate during the season. It gave the illusion that he possessed the virtue of charity, or any virtue for that matter.

In the distance I saw a small hut lighted with holiday cheer and low-wattage bulbs. There was a line of hard-faced and determined adults with their kids in tow. The queue moved slowly while two elf enforcers prevented a tyke from yanking Santa’s beard. I wondered if the Saint Nick’s pants were water-proofed. I stood up to get the circulation going.  In the rink children skated counter-clockwise and I tried to keep warm while not snickering as the odd cherub took a tumble onto the ice. I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter after eight.

              Second-story men like Jimmy Two-Fingers weren’t usually late for anything. Not the good ones. The jails were full of B&E men who couldn’t be counted on, who didn’t know when to leave a big, expensive item for ten smaller ones. The good ones, the ones who did it long enough to “retire” as Jimmy did, were precise. As precise as the watches they stole from the swells who were foolish enough to shake their hands with them. I watched the herd of kiddies thin out as I stood to take my leave, cursing Jimmy’s name as I did.

              “Ho ho ho,” said a voice from behind me. “That’s no way for a gentleman to talk during the holiday season. Even a gentleman such as yourself!”

              “Well, if you don’t like it,” I said, turning towards the loudmouth, “then why don’t you just kiss my….”

              The words evaporated on my lips like Vermouth. Standing in front of me was old Saint Nick himself, in the flesh. Since my usual associates fall short of sainthood, it took me a few moments to realize that the knob in front of me wore a threadbare red suit, moth-eaten white cotton beard, and was at least a pillow short of being a full-figured, jolly old elf.  Slowly, the shock of being confronted by Santa faded, and I chalked it up to the cold.

              “Jimmy?” I said. I could see that the elf’s cheeks were uncharacteristically lean, and his squinty eyes were too close together.

              “In the jolly old flesh,” he said with a laugh, and his stomach shook like…whatever. Behind him the two helper elves locked up the shack for the night and turned out the lights. In front of us the kids at the rink were being dragged home by their parents. Jimmy gave a shifty look to his left and right before he spoke in the conspiratorial tone which I usually associated with him.

              “Did you bring that bottle from the filing cabinet, like I told you?”

              I reached into my coat pocket and handed him the bottle. He pulled his beard down, stretching the rubber bands that held it in place, and took a long, satisfying glug.

              “Man did I need that. I’ve had kids on my lap since eleven this morning!”

              “You’re the City Park Santa Claus?”

              “Don’t be ridiculous,” said the skinny crook. “Santa lives at the North Pole! We’re just his wingmen!” He took another large swig and handed me back the half-empty bottle.

              “We?” I asked.

              “Perhaps we should adjourn for the evening. Asking crying tots what they want for Christmas takes it out of a fellow. When we get to where we’re going we’ll talk shop.” He yanked off his beard and cap and shoved them into the pocket of his bright red coat as we marched off into the evening. As he walked, I could hear bells jingling.

              “Talk shop?” I asked.

“You’ll find out,” he said, walking towards the street. I almost had to run to keep up with his long stride. We got to the curb and Santa threw a hand towards the nearest cab.

“Uh, you do have some cash, don’t you? These suits don’t have back pockets.

              “Of course they don’t,” I sighed. “Of course they don’t.”

You can pick up YOUR copy of
Kringle Noir
at
http://tinyurl.com/b9t37yf
!

*****

PREVIEW OF THE CURSE

By Steven Gomez

We were born in greatest nation the world had ever known. We lived in its greatest city and called its greatest neighborhood our own. From our childhood, gods walked among us. Titans who held thunder in their clenched fists and wore greatness on their sleeves. We of our tribe knew we were better than those of others. We felt it in our hearts. We knew it in our bones. We believed it with our souls.

              We were the greatest generation.

              Our finest stood toe-to-toe against invading hordes and fought them back. Despite overwhelming odds and superior forces ours triumphed, and did so with a grace and determination never before seen. Ours were the stuff of stories, of legend, of song. We went to sleep each night secure in the knowledge that our cause was just and awoke each day bolstered with greatness. Our paths were chiseled by the fates.

              But each year, every season, our songs remained the same, and the victories turned to ash in our mouths.

              Our hopes were dashed and our heroes fell.

              And each year The Curse grew stronger.

              Bernard knelt in the garden, combing his fingers through the sod, battling the stray clumps of crabgrass that were too hardy or too stubborn to fall to the Round Up he had sprayed last week. He heard the high-pitched squeal of delivery van breaks pulling to the curb and looked up in time to see a young man dressed in brown, with a dark complexion and endless energy, dart from the driver’s seat into the dark recesses of the van. A smile crept across Bernard’s face. It had been years since he possessed even half as much energy as the young man. While the driver sorted through his cargo, Bernard struggled to his feet, grimacing his way through the pain that invaded his joints nightly. He had fought his way to a crouch by the time the driver reached him, and the young man helped him upright, still carrying a small cardboard box in one hand.

              “Hello Douglas,” Bernard told the young man, brushing the dirt from his knees and wiping his hands. “How’s tricks?”

Get your copy of
The Curse
at
http://tinyurl.com/9wquadj

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost there is my wife, Deborah. Like most of what I do and who I am, this would not exist without her. From the big things to the small stuff, there is no way to list everything she does. I can only thank her for it.

              Also there are my kids, Joseph and Kendall, who never fail to make me proud. My fondest wish is that they will be as proud of me as I am of them.