Quietly Caroling

There was a blissful moment in her slumber. Angels softly singing to her. Whispering of love and warmth, of sunshine and rainbows, ponies and dolls. Mommy had taken her to see a pony once, it was at a farm that belonged to one of daddy's friends. Mommy said they couldn't go back to visit the pony again. It made no sense, the man had seemed so friendly. He gave her a dolly and fixed her a cold sodapop. The nice man even patted her on her shoulder and gave her a big kiss on the forehead. And if mommy didn't like him why did she go off to talk to him like she did for so long? Mommy was funny at times.

When the harsh knocks arose from the doorframe, the small child awoke with a most frightful start. Bad men. Bad man. She wanted to call out to mommy. To yell no don't do it. But the dream angel hadn't flitted away to the corner like she normally did. Instead the bright spot in the little girl's dreams stood fast, hushing the her little charge as if playing a game of hide-and-go-seek with the boys down the block.

She liked that game. She could hide for hours. Why would you hide from mommy? Mommy had said you should only ever hide from daddy, and that's only when he smelled bad like the landlord. Still, little Anna knew she could hide better than anyone if the angel wanted her to.

Hours seemed to pass in the dark room for the confused girl during that span of a few moments. Only once did the deep fear touch her, a shadow seemed to pass through the door, but the angel stood strong against the shadow, like how mommy always stood strong between her and daddy's friends.

When the shadow had pulled back through the door living only the dim fear of what had passed within the room the angel motioned Anna. Somewhere deep down the little girl knew it was time to go. Putting on her slippers, grabbing her thick winter's robe with the whistle the officer gave her in its pocket, and taking her trusty flashlight, Anna was ready for her adventure.

Going out the window and down the trellace was easy. Last summer her and Little Jim had did it on a lark, he fell and broke his arm. But not Anna, she knew that she had to test the wood before blindly trusting herself to it, just like everything else in her short life. Always test it before cutting loose, that's what daddy always said and daddy was the smartest man in the world when he didn't smell like the landlord.

Only once going down did her slippers give the child trouble, and then the angel was close at hand to help her through it.

Once on the pavement, she didn't know where to go. Mommy would have known, but somewhere deep down Anna had begun to suspect she might not ever get to ask her mommy anything ever again.

The angel was close at hand though, and although the silent companion never spoke, it made plainly clear which way the little girl was to run. As Anna dashed along a soft white snow began to bathe the city in a blissful slumber. All the filth and grime born from the toils of men became covered in a downy blanket so that a child could be spared the squalor that men so easlly let themselves fall into. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the early morning save the steady slap of leather sandles on wet concrete and the heavy breathing brought on by the continued effort put forth by the child.

Never before had Anna seen the streets so empty. She liked it. Especially as the white flakes of renewal began to accumulate all around her. Mommy had said she missed snow, mommy would have liked this.

Once in the distance the child could hear the rhythmic beat of a cane, but the angel was quick to turn her away from that side road. No she had to keep going. She had to get to the bridge. Anna could see it in her mind. The angel was taking her someplace safe. Taking her to a place she would never be hurt again. The angel was her friend.

Maybe I could live with the angel.

Anna had always enjoyed such fancy notions, but now maybe, just maybe, it could come true. Angels were never hurt. They never felt cold the way Anna had been feeling for some time now during her mad adventure through the city.

Taking a short cut through a narrow alley Anna knew she was getting closer to the bridge. She could sit down when she got there. Maybe she could even fly.

The metal door was thrown open, crashing hard into the building's brick. The sudden noise caused Anna to trip over the hem of her robe and take a tumble into the hard wet pavement.

A big man came out from the abrupt opening. He stank worse than the landlord thought Anna.

The big man, drunk from all the holiday spirits he had been buying and still not satisfied after the Christmas whores he had endulged in, staggered forwards a few more steps and eyed the girlchild sprawled out in the night before him. Soft blonde hair, the smell of innocence. The harsh man was beginning to allow his thoughts to go down the very darkest parts of his soul.

Anna had seen that look only a few times before in a man's face, and each time mommy had been there to shove her out of the room. This time she was with an angel, and the angel couldn't touch her. Could take the bad man away.

With two more steps the drunkard wobbled towards his gift from heaven. His sadistic, drug inspired choice, damning him to the hottest fires of hell even before getting to act on the evils his lust had inspired him to.

Scrambling to her feet, Anna knew she had to run. Had to run harder and faster than she ever had before. The angel always just a half-step ahead encouraging the frightened little girl to not look back to keep going.

Somewhere back over her shoulder she heard a man shout out something she didn't quite understand and then two firecrackers went off, each louder than any she had ever heard on the fourth of July. Anna never looked back. She had to get to the bridge.

Rounding the corner and taking across the open road Anna could see the rusting metal arches, the sidewalk rails, she had made it.

Stopping short of the sidewalk. Anna began to lose faith in her angel. The angel was wanting her to fly. Anna thought the medicine mommy gave her must be all used up like when the coughs came back last year. She was no longer so sure she could fly.

Standing still, lost in trying to puzzle out what the angel was wanting, Anna didn't hear the engine or see the headlights until the car had swung onto the bridge.

Minor Keys

Staggering out from the cast off safety once offered by the once classy flophouse, Margo was barely able to stay on her feet. The surge of power she had felt only moments earlier washed away by the bleak fear of an unknowable tomorrow. She had to get away. Far away. She could feel the sirens. They screamed at her from the alleys, shrill squawks of patrol cars crawling up from the sewer grates, hounds barking from shadows. All the whispered voices calling out shouting the worst parts of her for all the world to embrace. Harlot. Liar. Murderer.

Reaching the black packard took all Margo felt she had left. Clawing open its heavy door Margo collapsed into the driver's seat. Tears flowed freely from her cheeks. A violent fit of trembling threatened to overwhelm her. There was too much blood to wipe away now. How can there be a tomorrow if you've bartered away all your happy endings?

With no strength left to hold her head up on her already overweighted shoulders, Margo fell into the still machine's steering wheel. From somewhere inside her. Some forgotten bit of yesterday she could hear her mother's voice, Margaret Temperance Thatcher, sit up straight. The good lord didn't make my girl weak. You stand up tall and show them a girl gives as good as she gets.

Memories of stickball and fist fights brought about the oddest little giggle, "Mama, the bullies got big. Maybe too big." The words were spoken to no one in particular, but just saying them somehow began to sort out things.

Then get a bigger stick. That sounded like mama. Mama could always make it so simple.

Bloodshot eyes still filled with tears of tomorrow slowly scanned the dreary street staked out before here. Hidden beneath the mocking lights of a streetlamp Margo caught glimpses of shallow movement. That bastard. I said no. She was not going to give herself over to some devil-sparked double-dealing wanna-be.

The shadowed figure realized that it had lingered too long. Been too cavalier in its harvesting.

Wiping away the soul stealing tears of despair, Margo found that place her mother had forged in her over the years. Switches and belts, words and silence. All the vindictive traps and tricks parents use to shape the someday grown-ups under their charge.

Maybe there will be sunrises and star-topped pines after all.

As if sensing the fires of passion once more stirring within its metallic hulk, the deep black of the packard let the intensity glitter off its over polished surface giving a subtle halo in the long dark of the night. With a mighty roar the car had forgotten possible it sprang to life, its brighter than life eyes chasing away misspent shadows as it began to sprint towards a new freedom for its sole master.

The lonely figure stood close by as the car fled. It wouldn't be alone long, the sirens were coming.

Pulling away from her own self-pity Margo began to size up her situation again.

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No rags to help wipe away the memories and stains of her grim exploits.

Late night. This night. There won't be anyplace left open for a girl in trouble. The reminder of futility called to the little girl parts of Margo to bign flirting with that ever present and fatal despair. All at once the name Golden's flashed across her mind. Of Course, he always stays open tonight for the working girls. Besides why does an orphan Jew want off for holidays?. Making a hard right at the next narrow intersection Margo changed her course. The night might not be quite so bleak after all.

Barely five minutes waltzed by on the courthouse's clockface when the rumbling engine of her makeshift haven pulled up to the fog tinged windows of Golden's, or more precisely Golden's Second Chance Goods and Finery. It was a well known fence, most every sort of scum seen walking in the shadows of daylight had darkened the business's paint stained stoop. Almost anything could be found in there if you looked just hard enough, but the stink of contempt and loathing that Golden bathed his suppliers in was almost too much for most casual lookers to endure. Margo knew why the store had collected the treasures and trash that littered the cramped store's aisles.

Desperate people do desperate things. Sell their most cherished bits and baubles for a moment's release. Then when you have nothing left you steal away and sell the bits and pieces of those around you. And there was always someone like Golden there to hand over a few dirty bills and a claim stub that will never see its mate again.

It was something she didn't want to think about right then. Margo needed that greedy bastard tonight and needed him bad. Killing the great engine of her consort, Margo entered the store.

The cheap radio crackled out a jolly tune trying to lift the holiday spirit into a world that had forgotten what joy and peace meant. Her vision slowly adjusting to the glaring lights strung about the store, she made her way back to the small selection of women's clothes. She understood what it was that she needed. The clothes were there. Every worn thread and patched spot. The grey dress with black frill whose neckline would tease with barely concealed breasts. A white slip with fancy lace along the bosom. Comfortable shoes and a pair of stiletto heels to serve as a reserve. Every scrap she needed.

Only when she dropped the heap on the counter did Golden bother to look his last customer square in the eyes. Giving over only the slightest effort to poke through rags the waif had placed before him he flatly stated, "Thirty-two dollars. Not a penny less."

Keys. Coat. No shoes. No dress. No wallet. No purse. Margo gave a pensive bite to her lower lip. Thinking of anything she could do to cover herself she slowly rsponded, "Listen I don't have any cash. But this is overcoat is an Imperial, they go for three times that uptown," Margo sought for any tell that might give some hint, still the grimy little man just stared through her. "Well? Willing to trade?"

Finally he let slip a tell. His eyes rolled only for an instant over her form in the just unbottoned coat, "Oh yeah miss, we can trade." He saw the blood stains and didn't care. She wasn't the first dumb broad to off an asshole for hitting to hard, wouldn't be the last as long as the world kept spinning. Still, figured Golden, she sure as hell is going to make my holiday a little nicer.

"You'll take the coat?" Reaching for the lapels to remove it she understood all too well what the little man was thinking. She just had to hear him say it before she could accept another degredation tonight.

"Tell you what little lady, why don't you keep that coat so you don't up and catch a sniffle. In fact why don't you come round this counter and I can maybe help warm you up a little more and we can do a bit o' proper bargaining?" Reaching over the lecherous shopkeep dropped the latch that kept him locked inside his small counter.

What's one more, thought the again defeated woman. As her right hand fell to her side it bumped into the small hard object in the overcoat's pocket. Again she recalled the list of her few prized possessions at the moment.

Keys. Coat. Gun.

Reaching into the furlined pocket she felt the false sense of strength given to her by the small pistol. It still held three bullets. Three small lifelines in a world that had bet against her. Her delicate fingers worked over the grip andhammer, stroked the trigger in its guard.

Revealing for the second time in a single night her seemingly preturnatural speed, she had the .38 pointed straight at Golden's head. "Fuck you and bag the goods."

Percussions

Five stout men held fast their foul breath as beer-fogged eyes followed the twin cubes of cheap bone across the cracked floor tiles until the dice crashed off the wall. Waitng for the dice to stop their tumbling, the only other sound in the crowded room came from the slow drip from a nearby sink. Finally coming to rest, the targets of drunken greed and half-cast dreams showed the small group each showed the same face. Three blackened dots. Swearing and cursing erupted all around the small group, the meanest and drunkest was started on a loud rumble about what he does to cheats and thieves. The hardened man began working his fingers. With too many long hard days invested in the money he had just lost, he started readying a strong grip that regret and desperation were building up for a harsh mistake.

Somewhere deep inside that brute of a loser a dam of pent up frustration broke. He knew he had to slam that damned lucky shooter back into the wall. No uptown punk was going to walk in here and take his scratch. No matter how the game was supposed to go down.

Taking the last handful of wadded bills and shoving them into his pocket the shooter bounced back to his feet. His crisp uniform unscarred by any wrinkles that might have given away the easy money and sinning he had been up to tonight. He had to get back to work.

Only the grunt of surprise from one of his marks had provided any signal.

A fist big as a mellon and harder than steel came slamming into the roller's gut. With no chance to move he braced himself for the hit. It wasn't like anything he had ever felt before. A wave of nausea washed over that almost lucky bastard. His vision growing dim and only the fear of staining that perfect uniform kept his half-digested dinner down. The second fist found its home at the small of the victim's back. An inferno of pain raced across the uniform's every nerve. A few of the shocked onlookers thought they might have heard the tiniest crack of bone beneath the screams of agony. The winner's legs went limp unable to withstand the strains inflicted upon them. A panicked flaling of his arms kept his head from cracking against the hard tiles.

There were no thoughts of his loving wife, his cute children, the scrawny prostitute who always tricked him for free. Just constant pain and the first hints of dilirium that the realization of certain death is known to bring on. Someone nearby was sobbing and coughing. That much he could still comprehend of the outside world.

The brutal loser was rearing back to kick the som'o'bitch that cheated him when his three closest friends tackled him. The bravest of the trio began to whisper into the assailant's ear. Only when the words "Tom-Tom, he's a cop" were repeated for a fifth time did it begin to register.

You can beat cops. You can't kill'em. Those is the rules put down by that big prick George up at the courthouse. Wasn't posted on no walls or nothin', just plain spoke to the guests. No one takes down one of George's Boys without gettin' burnt by the heat. Not too easy ta Damn a rule like that. Heaving in and out one great gasping breath after another, Tom-Tom brought himself down. It was always a little depressing afterwards. He much preferred the adrenillin of his rages to what passed for jollies most of the time.

His friends helping him to his feet Tom-Tom pointed down to the just saved officer of the law, "What 'bout my money?"

Shaking their heads, "Leave it man, those were our dice, he won it fair." Then giving up on stopping Tom-Tom if he had second thoughts the small gang headed out of the restaurant kitchen that had housed their impromptu game of chance.

Tom-Tom came to a decision, I ain't runnin' out no backroom door like a pimped beggar. So he turned and walked into the dining room proper. As he passed the many empty tables, their dirty chairs upturned for the evening the fading brute noticed that a family was still in here making a deal with Mr. Carolla.

Only one looked over at Tom-Tom as he passed by, the grandpa of the clan judging by his age. With stupidy born from stubbornness, the bruiser glared at the old man. Playing with images of him kicking that old fool's cane out from under him if he saw him on the street, Tom-Tom wandered out into the just setting sun.

Now that they were truly alone the bar's owner pulled the father aside to seal the deal, with only a passing glance back at the odd threesome still sitting at the last table, he took the father's anxiousness as a sign of fear. With the Old Man here, that daddy knew the frontman meant business.

Using only gentle, casual tones, Carolla asked, "You sure she's good with this?"

Looking back to his wife, "I'm sure. She knows we owe you and she wants to help take care of the debt." Facing his collector again he added, "She practically begged to do it. She hates it when we get behind like this."

Carolla was looking at the mother, taking in her face, creases of worry branded all her features. She was going to be old too soon. The he sought the reassurances he would need later, "You saying she's not gone turn tail and kick me out the door right?"

"Not if it makes us even. If we're even its a done deal," the head of the family's nerve had begun to waiver. Was Carolla trying to cheat him? If so, what could an ex-pipewelder do about it? Maybe his dad had been right, maybe he was lost cause. Still he survived that old geezer and that had to stand for something. "We will be even when you've had your fill?"

Carolla extended his hand to his newest patsy and passed off a smile both men knew was phony, "Of course we'll be even. I'll come by tomorrow. It will be like giving her a special gift. And if you want to come back when your having better luck on the ponies, well that will be just fine." the quiet chuckle that slipped between Carolla's tight lips after the last remark was enough to let the fool know that this was only the beginning of the road he couldn't pull off it anymore.

Turning back to the man's family they noticed the Old Man was no where to be seen. The sun had finished setting.

Scooping up his family, the man rushed them out the door, not even letting the two beaten down spirits button up their coats as they were forced into the premature chill.

Carolla watched the trio vanish into the darkness. He loved collecting markers. It was always better to pay with markers. Noticing the kitchen still housed two shadows, Carolla nodded his well groomed head once more. Definitely better to pay with markers.

He wasn't sure how long he was sprawled on the floor, but the officer was becoming aware that he had been spared. He just might get to see his special someones again. A gentle tapping on his shoulder informed him he was no longer alone.

"Let me help you up son," the voice cracked like fingers across a chalk-board.

Weather-beaten hands spotted by ancient age heaved the young man up, propping him up on his feet. Dusting away the filth and muck that shouldn't have been on the floor of such an upscale place, "There you go, all better." So close was the old man to the officer the words stung and hissed into him, more felt by frayed nerves than caught by straining ears.

"Thanks, I owe you old-", the officer finally had a moment to size up his makeshift savior. Suddenly he missed the gentle love of Tom-Tom. Given a chance later, he would like to have told Father Cleary what Hell felt like. Me before my kids. It was the only thought left in his rattled brain.

Twice tonight the fledgling officer understood what it meant to see your own death.

Twice tonight he was given another chance.

Turning his back on the boy playing dress-up his last words to him were delivered with a smile forged from the life-love given by a witch's tit, "Just do your job boy. Just do your job."

A Soft-Shoe Shuffle

The weather was turning cold fast tonight. Too cold for this far south. But he was closing in on the origins of that violent outburst that had been consuming him across the city. Still he needed to warm himself a bit before pressing forward on a madman's errand. Even if he would only warm the shell of his cold heart. It was a start.

He knew where to go for oen of the few friendly faces he knew and quick bit of liquid warmth. The dimly lit sign served as his momentary beacon, his oasis in a nightmare that was called his life. Standing just a bit straighter he pressed into the cramped business taking in what was before him.

A scent of death of laced the bar choking out the stench stale booze and burnt tobacco that had hung about the drab little shelter like a celestial wreath. It was the second thing Mike noticed when he forced upon the antique door, its cracked and warped rose-hued glass distorting the bleak images cast by the few occupants of the dive called Grady's. She was the first.

Mike stood in thrall of her callous beauty, damn she was better than I remembered. The world began to fall away for him. The bruises and forget-me-nots left by his last associates were fast becoming a distant memory. Those blonde curls and dimples, her ample cleavage, the tight fabric of her violet dress, she was a goddess given life. A chill wind blew around him calling the self-absorbed to forget their own pity long enough to start a grumble about the tiny business.

"Close the door ya fool!" barked the aging barkeep setting down the chipped glass he had been feverishly cleaning for no patron in particular, "Think we all wanna freeze in 'ere?"

He almost apologized to the man that should have been Grady. The old codger looked like Grady. Tall with a slight slouch. A wild patch of curly black hair ringing his bald pate. Still, the sunken eyes, the limp fingers, his lack of sway after beeing up on his feet for so long on a night like tonight. The door slid from Mike's loose grasp, as it closed taking the fresh air Mike knew Grady wasn't Grady anymore. He caught that ever present whiff of fatal change in the air.

That blonde witch broke the poor old fart. His mind returning to the woman he had fallen in and out of love with again just by entering a room, "Sorry man, rough night."

Never breaking the guilt-ridden stare at his lost fem-fatale Mike claimed the bar's center stool, running a hand across his head to squeeze out a bit of release from his ever fraying nerves Mike felt the dried blood and filth of a day poorly spent, "G, could I get a bourbon and a wet rag?"

Sizing up the last paying customer of the day, the man they were politely calling Grady let out a sigh and set about pouring a drink, "It's a dollar for taking the drink and leaving the stains."

With a mostly mumbled "whatever" Mike pulled a couple of bills off of his dwindling roll and dropped them on the aging wood. He'd be collecting it all soon enough. Joe couldn't be the first, but Mike was certain that the dock-rat wouldn't be the last.

Tagging out a cigarette from its crumpled pack and palming one of the bar's matchbooks he lit his newest addiction and took a long drag. That was pleasure. In the drawn out quiet of the bar, Mike knew that it was beginning. The few others lost to society that clung ot this shallow pocket of pergatory were all staring at him, without actually doing it.

Fuck'em was all Mike could muster to himself at the moment. Was he wearing the old man's mark?

No, more likely the old man had put out a mark on him.

If so, that's going to attract a lot of bottom feeders tonight. He hated having to clean. He had given it up years ago. Made a big deal of it, pawned his .45 for drinking money to celebrate. Of course drinking wasn't so legal back then, but hell, niether was cleaning.

Still it did pay well. He thought about that goddess with the silver deringer that must have been pointed at him by now.

"Been a long time Lace."

"Too long Mike, you broke my heart when you moved to Jersey," hearing the lilting sultry tones of her voice, just hinting at a southern accent sent chills dancing across his spine.

Drawing another long hit of his cigarette, "As I recall I broke your heart, but you broke my arm and four ribs," then watching for the ideal moment to cut off her denial he added, "Seemed fair to me at the time."

Lace tried to look hurt, but pain was something that she was never able to wear, not even if the job called for it. "Listen honey-bear, you have to know he'd be here tonight. Its the one night he's willing to make a house call. You got to leave," she almost seemed concerned about him though, that was something new for both of them to experience, "You shouldn't have gone looking..." It seemed like she wanted to say more but just didn't have the right words. That wasn't it though. It wasn't the words. It was the feelings. She never had the right feelings.

"I'll leave. But not til after the new year gets started," he was scanning her from beneath half closed eyes. He didn't know how far she would take it. And she had the guns. He hated playing the short stack, still he knew Lace and that was something.

"Dammit you stubborn jack-ass, why can't you understand what- who he is?" She had let too much of the concern in. Her walls might be cracking. Lace remembered why she hated this particular SOB so much.

Mike took another hit, the red tip flaring up, its caustic glow serving as good a resonse as any words he might have conjured up if the door hadn't been hammered open by one solid bang.

Everyone and everything still in the bar turned to look at the door.

The metallic click was only a whisper in the room's haze.

Mike was the second to react; damn, a beat cop.

Slow Dancing

Margo's steps back into the room were coldly calculated, each move planned as if trapped in a deadly game of chess. Any trace of anxiety all but completely concealed under facade of desire. Her hips swaying gently, her head tilted down only slightly offering submission to the man that had taught her the act he called love. Taking in his well-muscled, if poorly used form, the young lover's big brown eyes narrowed and locked with the hunger that had sparked again in Adam's emerald eyes. Biting on her lower lip as she neared the foot of the bed, Margo raised her hand to the swell of her breasts and let trembling fingers begin fumbling at pearl buttons.

"Let me help you with those," Adam slid across the bed. He was forcing himself not to simply throw her down on the bed and have at it again. The first time had been reckless and passionate, he wanted this to last. He wanted her to need him after tonight. He could make her need him after tonight. She wasn't the first, she sure as shit won't be the last, his thoughts mingled with a deep well of lust. His focus was distracted. Reaching up he brushed the young woman's shaking fingers away from the top of her gown. He was growing tired of waiting for his prize.

Arching her back into him Margo spread her arms, she was giving him freedom to grope and bite as he pleased. With her head falling backward, the brown doe eyes turning to the ceiling, Adam lost sight of her perfect, impish yet innocent looking smile. He focused totally on her form.

Her arms fully extended, Margo's palm brush the metal of the scissors. Soft fingers coiled around the curved grips. Muscles flexed along her arm giving the strength and bracing the makeshift stiletto for the sinister task at hand.

It was as if a safe's tumblers fell into place. The seduction. Trembling fingers. A momentary tensing of the body. Even as Adam began his panicked lunge he realized that it was too late.

The bite of steel pierced his shoulder and neck, a fountain of crimson sprang into a life of its own. With jerk he tore himself from her hurried embrace. He had to get to the pistol.

Shocked at how much resistance his muscles had given her, Margo plunged the bloody tip down twice more, but only the first attack was close to his mark, barely diving into his marbled gut. As her third blow came at him, Adam gave up on his pistol for the moment and back-handed the cheap whore across her face. Bitch, nobody spills my blood and walks away.

His rough nuckles and gold ring caught her dainty cheek halfway through her attack. The force, far greater than what she had been used to, sent her sprawling over the footboard and onto the floor. The scissors flew over the balcony and into the night beyond as if carried by ephemeral angels from hell.

Dammit Adam, focus, it was all he could do stay moving, the loss of blood had begun to make the room spin, the struggle was taking its toll on him. Still he clawed for the nickel-plated life line that had slid tenuously to the edge of its cheap perch.

Finally understanding what Adam was going for Margo shrieked. "No!" Her speed was greater than he thought possible. Still, not fast enough.

The desperate man's anxious fingers reached out and tapped the butt of his goal, but his meaty hands were slick with the stains of his own fast fading existence. Overextending himself, the revolver dropped off the far side of the table.

With a fear unmatched by any ever felt and a rage of hatred to rival it, Margo siezed the fallen pistol and took aim at Adam's chiseled face.

Not yet. Calling upon the reserves of his own personal damnation, Adam forced himself onto his feat in a single fluid movement. And as Margo raised up to face him across the bed he realized that it was likely to be his last.

Both hands holding the small bits of metal and mechanisms as if in a vise, Margo squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. A third f0r good measure.

It wasn't needed though. Adam had dropped like a forgotten doll as the first bullet began its shrill cry out of the barrel.

"I did it," she hadn't even realized that the words were spoken aloud, "I did it."

Somewhere in the hidden corners of the night Margo seemed to thing a siren had called out declaring her sins for all the world to witness.

The anger was gone as quick as it had came. Only the fear held her close, so that it might stave off the loneliness that was sure to follow all too soon.

Not thinking too clearly she snatched up her victims overcoat and buttoned it up, hoping the sin-soaked gown she still wore would not be seen by any she might pass. Scooping up his keys from the dresser as she skipped over Adam's unmoving body and dropping the still warm pistol into the coat pocket, Margo fled into the night.

Lullaby

Soft songs interupted, interupted by odd bits of popping static, filled the small apartment. It now claimed only three. The first was a frail little girl who slept soundly in her bed, filled with the liquid dreams her mommy had insisted that she rake before bed. When she had told her mommy that she wasn't sick her mommy insisted. This wasn't sick medicine, it was angel medicine. It kept the bed dreams away and let the angels sing to her til sunrise. And if she was really good and drank every drop, just maybe the child could go visit her grandparents. The grandparents were what sealed it for the child. She had so missed her Gransie so much and she hadn't got to see her since the day mommy had said that Gransie had gone away cause of the bad fits. The little girl loved her Gransie.

The second was a once beautiful woman, her blonde locks had begun to fade back to their once dull brown shades, the bottles and bathwater that once kept them bright as pale gold had become cast-offs, more victims of her lost faith. The woman sat alone at her second-hand table staring down at a harmless little, now empty, bottle; the ice box in the corner her only company. As another carol started out of the cracked wilco, the mother struggled to hold back her sobs.

Her child was better off now. This is no life for an angel like her. Good bye Anna, as she mouthed the unspoken words tears started to freely stream down her cheeks. The mother's hands were shaking, shaking worse now than they had ever shaken before.

She had asked for the strength, and she had gotten in. Did what had to be done. There was no comfort to be found in those rationalizations. Growing up Father Dobbs had made it clear where people who did what she did would go. Her husband had forced her to the first time. She could have said now. Should have said no.

But she wasn't strong then.

How could anyone ever forgive her? What made her think that she deserved forgiveness? Or even pity? No, it was her own fault, even if she had been weak, it was her own fault.

Things were different now. By sunrise she knew she wouldn't have a family anymore, she was learning to accept that. I love you Anna. Only when she remembered that she was losing her daughter did she feel remorse now. The child was perfect, and now she had to do it. There was no going back and with the overheard whispers at the last party she had to go to, she knew what people were saying. Who they were beginning to eye.

No more. She found a way to get the strength she needed.

Slowly forcing herself back into the moment for one more task, she picked up the pencil that had waited so patiently in front of her and began to scrawl out a note. Someone had to know. As she made the last of her marks on the tablet she heard the distinct tapping sound coming down the hall.

The rhythmic sound of metal on wood stopped just outside her door. The woman caught her breath, maybe it would go away, maybe he had changed his mind.

After what felt like an eternity three hard knocks slammed into the doorframe. No. It was time to pay. She walked slowly to the door. She opened it slowly, the strength was gone now. Everythig was gone now.

When the old door swung free the one time mother saw his face, she would have screamed if she hadn't been entranced by the horrors found in his eyes.

The dark figure stood alone in the hall for some time, taking in his fee. He knew she hadn't been alone in those dreary rooms, but there was something wrong with the way it smelled to him. No she had paid him what she owed him. That would have to be enough for now.

As the figure drifted back down the hall he hummed softly to the next holiday tune that took its turn on the radio.

Later the police would find the scene and have their own puzzles to solve. The woman dead in the doorway, apparently collapsing while fleeing the scene. A man in his bed, his throat slashed so deep only the spine had kept his head on, and a letter saying where they were to send a little girl who simply wasn’t there.

Whittling

And one was a man.

He had waited too long for the sign. He knew that now. He had let himself become distracted. Let the idle time whittle away his attention. With a sense of relief and eyes fixed firmly on the nightscape's horizon the man managed to strain out a weak smile.

"Look Joe, the damn fool likes it," the voice, cracking in the fashion of teenage boys too cowardly to have yet bed a woman.

With a harsh grunt and glare of hatred, the dock muscle called Joe let fly another fist, this one caught the man square in the jaw, almost knocking the man loose from the two boys holding his arms, "Like hell he likes it." Two more harsh jabs into the man's gut followed.

With the man now drawn fully back into his dilemma he could only begin to speak out some defense before Joe backhanded him again. Then with a sadistic relish even greater than he normally reserved for his own boys the thug called Joe grabbed up a handful of his victim's hair and slammed the man's face into his knee. Only the last minute wrenching of his kneck kept the target of Joe's anger from having his nose and jaw shattered like cheap glass.

Not ready for the reality they had signed on for, the two teens dropped the man into a heap on the ground. Beer money wasn't worth this. And the whore promised wasn't really much to look at. Both of them had reached these same conclusion within a breath of one another. Still gaping at their momentary boss, they let their mouths hang open as Joe kicked the stranger three times hard into the gut and ribs.

Turning his attention to the boys the man called Joe spoke softly to them, like a father to his indignant sons, "Got a problem boys?"

The unvoiced challenge was too much for the duo. They turned and fled into the night, in too big a hurry to escape their could-be attacker to pay attention what alleys they ran down. As their shadows vanished down the forgotten streets of a city in too big to care about the passing of foolish boys; Joe shrugged at his good fortune. More cash and chickies for him.

Sparing his victim only a momentary smirk Joe spit in the fallen man's face, "Mike, you spun the wheel, now you pay the rake. The man always gets his pound of flesh." After a long pause Joe reached the slow conclusion that his victim wasn't worth another kick. He stalked out of the alleyway, it was time to find some liquor. He decided needed some of that holiday cheer after all.

Mike was silent as he saw Joe fade out of sight.

Nerves tried to protest as he slowly rose to his feet.

Feeling what he thought were cracked ribs and too many bruises to worry with at this point, he wiped the spit and blood from his mouth. Only his thoughts kept the chill fog of the docks from sapping his strength, Your right Joe, I spun the wheel, so did you, wait and see who ante's up that pound at the last table.

Mike knew the boys weren't long for this world, not that the thought of two less toadies in the really bothered him. It was the holidays after all, and people had to pay their debts.

That's why he came to the city. It was time for him to collect a little of his own.

As he lurched into the heart of the city his muscles started working themselves out, the pain lessened, aches began to fade. He had purpose. Somewhere soon choirs would be singing and smiling children would be walking with candles and telling tall tales about dead jews that got back up or some shit like that.

Mike knew better though. He knew the real score.

A gunshot rang out against the stark silence of the late night, its distant echo calling to him. It was his first present of the year.

Mike knew which direction he had to go.

Serenade

For only a moment thunder trembled across the city, its fierce shudder unable to break the trance of hurried souls lost to their own inner storms. Most never paid attention to the threats of dark clouds ringing the horizon, just rain on forgotten hills. The echo of the tempest barely declared did attract the attention of two.

One was a woman.

Her large brown eyes and petite build did little to portray the conflicting rage and sorrow that was building up within her. She stood lonely upon a balcony, her gaze drifting from the clouds that she more felt than saw in the shadowy dimness of a city night out across the rooftops and alleyways. The empty moonlight combined with the flicker of street lamps to show glimpses of what she had once valued so highly. Behind her she could hear the creak of the bedframe, its matress sighing as the weight on it shifted.

She chose not to look over her shoulder.

By acknowledging that noise she would be forced back into her own small world. The illusion of a storm's fury was far safer than her own seductive torments. Slowly climbing back into herself she again smelled the stink of sex that filled the room. A shiver ran down her spine. She had almost forgotten the feel of shame.

There were scissors on the dresser wedged against the bed, it would be so easy. All she would have to do is turn around and smile. Her smiles were like that.

No. Better to stare out than in. It hurts if you stare at your own demons too long.

"Margo, don't stay out there too long or your going to catch one hell of a cold," his voice was relaxed, confident. He was a man of power and he wore it like dimestore jewelry. Even now, with his clothes in a heap on the floor and his tarnished badge tossed in a washbasin, he radiated control.

Truth was he was in no hurry for this sweet little thing to come back in. He was still recovering from their last tumble and enjoyed the show. With the moon half full, her white gown appeared to be made more from clouds than cotton. The evening glow highlighted her delicate form, revealing all the subtle curves that had attracted originally to her. Margo's silhouette, combined with her mussed up auburn hair, made the blossoming young woman look very sexy to the him. Made her look ripe. Again.

With only a subconscious thought he glanced at his pistol, still unholstered and in easy reach. Then he turned his full attention back to his newest chickie. "Come back to bed honey, its getting lonely over here without you."

Still she stood there, facing the darkness that was beyond their overheated room, lost to him.

"Margo? You okay?"

The young woman was finally drawn back into her own realities, forced back into the consequences of the choices she had made. She knew who he was when she brought him up here.

Hell, she thought to herself, I paid for the damn room.

"Just a moment Adam," her voice a soft, seductive purr.

With only a last glimpse of the sleeping city, she turned to face her lover again and gazing deep into his eyes Margo smiled at Adam.

Foot Tapping

Walking was becoming more difficult. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the crumbling cobblestones that made up the once popular street. The aging man didn't much care about the details, the long evening behind the only door he had felt any sense of love at in too long a time had left his mind clouded in a haze of alcohol scrubbed regrets and washed down sorrows. A fit of spastic coughs siezed the drunkards chest for a moment. The sudden violence of the involuntary movement all but tumbled him down into the middle of the street. If he hadn't been numbed, he might have sensed the odd taste of copper in his mouth that had signalled the blood he had just spit up.

Trying to master himself, the lost soul started to struggle towards the flop-house that he called "home." He needed sleep badly, and he prayed enough drinks had been thrown down to keep the nightmares locked away for at least a little while. Working his legs was becoming more difficult.

The free drinks he thought, too many right before he left. Still it wasn't too far to go.

So focused on finding rest he didn't hear the tapping of a cane that signalled he was no longer alone. If his senses had been intact, he would have known to fear the empty echo of that cane. Everyone feared the cane.

Another fit of coughs succeeded in dropping him to his knees. When his eyes refocused he saw the blood on his hands. His hands had been bloodly for so long that he felt some sense of relief that he could finally see it.

The cane grew closer.

Unable to regain his feet the drunken man began to weep. Too many people, too much pain. He had hurt so many when he was young, beatings, theft, he had even stolen a few too many kisses from girls that didn't want to share them with him. It had been so wrong. He was wrong. Nothing left to him but a shell and his own tormented fears.

More coughing. More blood. He let himself go, his head letting slip a hollow crack as it thumped onto the street. Too late.

His last friend had just sold him out. He knew that now. If he hadn't been there so long he might have noticed the bottle those last free drinks came from. Guess he was going to pay someone else's debt for a change.

Again the tapping of the cane. The shadow of its master fell across the payment. Work is always good during the holidays.

The drunkard no longer tasted the bitter drink that he had lusted after for so long, the scent of blood that stained him faded to black. As his eyes lost focus he swore a car, a hearse, was coming for him. One last spasm and he felt his heart give out, he knew it well because it's spirit had given out long ago, the body had just taken too long to catch up.

His last breath slipped out. No more nightmares. He almost smiled at the thought.

The dark form might have laughed. But any laugh that escaped through those grim lips would have chilled the fires of hell. There were always more nightmares.

Jabbing the corpse with the cane's bronze tip only once, the mojo-maker started down the haunted street. The night was still young. There were still many more debts to collect.

He did love the holidays.

Whistling

Orange light faded to black. Shadows found alleys sprawled out away from the streetlights that shared their poor gift with the decaying cast offs that kept forgotten roads from fading. With only a half-life given and heart long lost, there was little for the once-child to offer up when the mojo-maker finally winds down the street. Wearing dirt and grime and a broken smile, the once-child pieced together the last of his happy memories.

Dreaming of his holidays that never were, images of holly and tensil, costumes and over-full tables, mistle-toe and pensive kisses. The mojo-maker's price was always high and everyone had to pay if they didn't want to leave the alley.

Shadows are in the alley. You can't leave your shadow.

With crinkled paper and tattered ribbons, the boy no longer made a present of all he had left. With tears streaming down his cheeks and the forgetting warming his thoughts he settled down to wait.

The mojo-maker always comes after the shadows do.

Workin' for cash to give to the needy strippers and the cash strapped casinoes....

So I am putting in about 24 hours of OT at the ole job center this weeek. Its boring, tedious and I have to deal with many of the elderly who have nervous break downs because there is no one to tell them what to do.

Working it cause I thought my car engine had crapped out. Got lucky. It was a super simple fix.

Now much will be the extra loot to spend on Christmas gifts and savings or strippers or "massages" or the ever popular casino. Decisions decisions decisions......

Got 18k in words done before I collapsed on the novel. Just wasn't happy with what I was writing.

Life can be what it is. It can also be less and it can be more. We all find the same special treasure at the end of the rainbow though.