THE WILL'S THE WAY ~ #Fiction on the Flash

THE WILL'S THE WAY

~ By Absolutely*Kate,

as gleaned from Detective Nelle Callahan

As we look back into our tale of two trenches trudging a tough night, the rain-washed streets are easing some pain-washed minds. So it seems, well, so it seems. It's not always as it seems, as they say. But it seems so here, on this street . . . on this night, doesn't it?

We left off with the telling of  ~ "THE DAMP FEDORA"

Earlier Intro to NELLE appears in ~ "GOT NOIR"? 

 

"Mean streets, Callahan? But aren't mean streets just yesterday's versions of chivalric forests? We all have to travel them. Immerse oneself in the destructive elements and become tougher, finer, more aware of what the world is handing out, dealing down. Sometimes the dealing's dirty. Sometimes it's aces up.  We travel them, the mean streets and bewildering forests to find where we're headed ourselves," reflectively sighed the tall man under a dampened fedora, pausing the tower of his shadow in what light flickered beneath an aging grey lamp post, to pull his deck, light his Lucky. His gaze took all the perimeters in. This was not a streetcorner of optimum desire. "Uh, it is Miss Callahan?"

 
"Interesting take there Mr Harry. You're a tough guy with a lotta learnin' under that soggy fedora. And yes. No miss on Miss. Proud of skirting some slippery slides down some pitfalls in matrimonial affairs. There are collisions that stop your heart and there are long lonesome highway crashes of the bad road variety. Why am I telling you this Buster? You're a guy who's been around, seen his way through forests and mean streets, and seems to be able to string together words with more than two syllables. There are days that's actually remarkable to come across in my line of work. Now, about this finding something you're looking for -- "
 
The 1949 dark DeSoto skidded in the puddle off the curb of the confab of the detective and her new client, a tall man itching, but quietly so, with something to tell, who preferred to be hailed by the moniker of Harry for the time being. No tellin' yet who he really was, how close he carried his story. No time to read those pages right now. An arm which meant business took a shot in the dark to stage a near miss near the Miss. No mistaking that miss. Warnings seldom are. Nelle stepped into the street, stooped low and plucked a slug from a 45 still spinning against the curb as the car spun speedy its getaway. No plates. She'd bet a berry it was a bent car on the lam. Looked like three goons with all the shoulders attached within.

"Friends of yours Callahan?"

"I've made a few along my way. Howzabout you? Anyone know of all the dick joints on all the streets in all the world you were gonna walk into mine tonight?"

"I was possibly pondering that point myself Nelle. I can call you Nelle now, right? We've just had our first share of lead squirt our way. In places like Bolivia that's as bonding as riffling romance. And, could this be our coffee shop?"

"Sure, sure, you got the right to call me Nelle, Wise Guy. Yep. This is it, Hill o'Beans. Best cup o'joe a dark rainy night can brew. You'll see. I like my coffee. Gives me pause to ruminate. You ruminate a lot instead of just bumping gums, don't you Harry?"
 
Albert DeFonse Magrudy heard the little silver bell tinkle yet again above the doorway where he brewed the best beans this town had ever sipped. Despite the drench of trenches creating new rivulets in his tired linoleum under the Hill o'Beans'  coat tree, he smiled up large when he realized it was Nelle. Never a dull encounter when Nelle was at the counter. This fellow with her though - some little tick at the back of his mind told him he'd seen him before. Couldn't place where. Couldn't place when. It'd come to him though. It always did. He ambled over, spiffing up the pale blue apron he favoured as the couple settled into their swivel stools.
  
"What's it all about Albie? World treating you jake?" As soon as she'd shot her customary greeting  to her customary coffee guy, Nelle winced at the stab even saying 'jake' still jabbed. The tall man who'd kept his damp fedora in place noticed. The coffee man with the twinkle to his eye and the jut to his chin noticed the notice.
  
"Same new same new Miss Nelle. Life be what you brew. And you?", with a glance to the fellow still giving him the once over under the soppy brim, "What's it for you Bub?"
  
"Cup o'your strongest and a piece of lemon pie. I like my pie when I take my time to talk to a delicious dame."

Nelle tugged a few tangles of damp tresses out of the back of her collar and mocked a Get-this-guy glance with ol' Albert. Swiveling into the now smug smile of the man still going by the moniker of Harry, she visibly relaxed into the familiar aromas of a fresh brew and an old strain -- Frankie Lane's Mule Train finishing up on the yellow Philco behind the battered counter. A good place to start in ~

"Why the smug smile? What d'you need me to find that a smart fellow like you can't find, that the cops can't find? Huh Harry?"

"Smile's cause I like your style. You don't flinch much. Knowing that comes in handy should I ever need a clear-thinker in a tight spot. You've known tight spots Callahan. You've come through."

"Fair enough. Now, what is it that you've lost or misplaced or cheesed in the wrong nook of the wrong cupboard?"
 

Strong black coffee in white porcelain mugs with a pungent piece of lemon pie on a chipped blue plate slid before the two main attractions at the battered cream counter. Only other customer was that guy in the back booth with the newspaper who'd come in just before these two. Albert slipped back to some sorting of spoons and rattling of forks while he took the jib jab jive of their conversation in. No grifter or button man was going to pull a flimflam on his niece, and that's what this slick bruno seemed. Unless he proved otherwise.

"I didn't lose it. I just can't find it."

"Is it there? Does it exist?"

"I wouldn't have come rapping on your door, Miss Goody Gumshoe and be gulping black coffee with you now -- HEY, THIS IS GOOD -- if I didn't know it was indeed there -- real, true, solid."

"You gonna tell me what it is so's I can find it all the better?" Nelle sipped, watching his eyes. There was something about his eyes. She'd never seen them stay in one place for too long.

"It's a will."

"Will? Duck soup Harry. Eggs in the coffee. No offense Albie. Easy solution to your convolution. You just need to find a lawyer's door for your rapping,  not a detective's."

"I did."

"Why d'you need me then Harry?"

"I went to his office. I found him behind his desk. A Mr Gerald Dunnigan, Esquire. With two holes plugged where his Esquire used to be his yap was closed. This mouthpiece just wasn't talkin' Callahan."

Across the Hill o'Beans Coffee Shoppe, way back in the corner booth, sports pages rustled more than just the news that Philadelphia Phillies first baseman Eddie Waitkus was shot in Chicago by deranged fan Ruth Ann Steinhagen.

The radio switched to a new tune, Evelyn Knight warbling "A Little Bird Told Me" . . . 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

 Stay Tuned. 

There'll be more.

 

There's always more
brewing than a Hill o'Beans 

when trouble's on the scene

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

I'm Detective Nelle Callahan.

I've met some of you before and no doubt I'll run a lookover on some of youse when we meet up some dark rendezvous that spooks or sparks a soul. But for now I gotta case -- and a dead guy and something to find, as well as finding out why I should be finding it. I'll keep you posted ... You take care now. Don't take any wooden nickels, hear?

(c) 2010 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate

graced by HippyDream, KAGoldberg and Joel Emberson photos

Earlier Intro to NELLE appears in "GOT NOIR"? 

This case started off with  ~ "THE DAMP FEDORA"

*AT THE BIJOU* 

WRITERS' RAVES FOR READERS' FAVES

THE DAMP FEDORA ~ By Absolutely*Kate

THE DAMP FEDORA

~ By Absolutely*Kate 

It was raining that night in the City by the Bay. A hard rain. The kind of rain that washes the regrets from men's souls and streams the chalk outlines off the sidewalks. I was in my office, waiting for the phone to peal a ring-a-ding-ding. I had just finished a case which had me peeking from behind the Iron Curtain under cover so deep I'd almost forgotten my own name. But it was worth it. I had stopped a war, broke a Ukranian heart, and made enough money to put me straight with some old and very unpleasant acquaintances. Now that I'd paid my landlord the rent I owed on my office, I was finally back up to broke, on the nut and needing fast new action. 

I heard the crunch of his Florsheims before I saw his silhouette go rugged behind the frosted glass of my office door. He rapped that glass like he really meant it. 

"It's open, " I called out. 

He stepped in like the breeze off a good Narragansett sail and strutted his stuff just as robust to my desk. "You Callahan?" he barked. 

"That's how it reads on the door, mister."

"I'm looking for something. You find somethings?" He challenged like a chip with a man on its shoulder. You could cut his bluster with Ace Hardware power tools. Yet, I knew my stuff. I let his bluster muster and his jets cool. Hey, I'm no fool.

 

"That's the business I'm in. What's the searching you're for?" 

  

Only sound was the scratch of his match. To make it darb, he did it off the side of my desk. Nope - flinching wasn't in me, nor was his check if I did. So wise guy, that's the way it's gonna play. He took a deep drag on a Pall Mall. I actually had places to go and promises to keep on keeping on but not the desire to have it known. 

Nix on that. Why, I'd bet the George Washington under my steel file cab -- Yep, my bottom dollar -- this was going to prove very interesting. Time wasn't on my side though to wait out his tease test. At the moment the ash got too big for itself, the ruby red manicure of my left hand slid a blue crystal ashtray his way, while my right hand readied accoutrements to become my write-hand. As the canary yellow pad moved several inches closer, the yellow canary in the cage feathered likewise. "Your name?" I queried him an easy one. 

 

"I could be any Tom, Dick or Harry . . . hell, even just your average Joe, " he front parried. A no-nonsense look leveled that nonsense. Our eyes locked for just a split. No blink, no flinch. Same bottom GW ruled out the Joe right away - no profile fit average on this bub.

"Howsabout I just call you Harry until all four of you figure who steps forward?"

 

Imperceptible smile mingled with gauntlet of perceptible hand doing the slow mo to doff his dampened fedora. Soon, a soggy spot was morphing my mahogany. I hate when someone messes with my mahogany. Matter of pride. Matter of principle. As a matter of fact this darn rogue's tryin' to get under my skin.

 

His bushier eyebrow challenged.

 

I quirked back, double time.

 

Statements understated are best understood. "Harry it is," his voice lowered, timbre of pillow talk. Ticked me off, that talk. Reminded me of my partner -- well, former mush partner yet still stuck-as-a-gumshoe partner -- Jake. Since that jingle-brained chippy had chirped in his nest, things were no longer jake with Jake. Timbre like that's tough to take. Timbre that makes you fall hard once, makes your caution take root and branch out. Didn't know who was going to get a rise out of what first, but no one was seeing this dame flap under the warmth of any cool breezer.

 

"Fine -- I ever get wild over you, I'm all set with lyrics." Now, to burst the urge of his puss showboating non-expression all over again, plus getting his damn damp fedora off the new puddle on my old mahogany, a change of venue was in order. Time to blow. 

"Cup o'Joe, Harry?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Trenches kept stride. Professional pride, ya know? No tippin' of the mitts goin' on here. We gave each other the old ups and downs along the gutters of the silent slosh that ran up State Street, that gritty fate street. Even the shadows know who's boss on a mean street. 

"Tough place. People seem bewildered by the world they see around here." His gruff observation edged down cool night air the rain had forgotten to freshen up.

 

Reminiscent of the way the wind's song played on my mind, my retort shot back same temp as that disheartening air ~ 

"That's what a town without pity will do."

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Stay Tuned.

There'll be more.

There's always more
when a guy like this
struts serious in your door.
~  ~  ~  ~  ~

I'm Detective Nelle Callahan.

I've met some of you before and no doubt I'll run a lookover on some of youse when we meet up some dark rendezvous that spooks or sparks a meandering soul. But for now I gotta case -- well it looks like it. I'll keep you posted ... You take care til then. Don't take any wooden nickels, hear?

©  ~ Author Absolutely*Kate

graced by Bryan Costin and Michael Penn photos

Earlier Intro to NELLE appears in "GOT NOIR"? 

*AT THE BIJOU* 

WRITERS' RAVES FOR READERS' FAVES 

 

RIDDLE ME THIS, HAT MAN . . .

WHEN is a Double*Feature
still a double feature
when there's only one guy, albeit one very special guy
starring solo on the screen scene?

Why ask why?
Fools do that stuff. Wise guys never try.
And this guy, well he's a wise guy, for sure.

ANSWER:

A Double*Feature of LEON,
that dapper man under the hat is a great read and a healing therapy as well.

But under the hat, here's what Leon had to say to me about that ~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

ABSOLUTELY*KATE: Well, well, well Leon,
You had to go way back to when the Yankees lost . . . to surprise me with a perfect pitch that a man in a fedora who is a straight shooter by the name of Gunn slides under my door! And imagine ... just imagine, the full-fledged grinnnn when I saw the nice little bar the feller stopped right in.

Glad you left a nice tip at Kate's -- it's my kind of bar and I'd sure like to meet up with you or Jacob there -- I sure would.

Lotta cool details in here Leon, etching out time and place - like the apartment building lady - you could easily build a full novel storyline out of JG's moving into that building and his ensuing interactions with characters of his neighborly characters. Well crafted, talented sir ~ It's the longest piece I ever got for AT THE BIJOU, but I'm gonna go with it as "a feature film" and ask folks to just sit in their seats all the longer.

HOW ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? What brought this dynamic piece out of you? Love the title setting instant karmic mood ... as I said before ... love the possibilities this one could play around with. I see lucky broads comin' into sashay-mode around Mr Gunn's pistol (forgive me my puns). You seriously should keep on keepin' on with this Leon, and I betcha, sure as shootin', that the folks who come 'round AT THE BIJOU will tell you that too . . . but let me run it, let me run it!

Thank*you for your warm depth of friendship always, my cherished colleague, both aboard the mighty Harbinger*33 as synopsis lieutenant of grand storied gold, and always for your gentle quick wit gracing others' grins. Do appreci'kate the slight dive I made to let you slide ahead of me by one ESPN pigskin-pickem in A League of Our Own. Honestly, the things I do to stroke a good man's ego.

Best to the zest of your rest.
You take care, dearest Mr Fedora,

~ Hope/Trusting you're *enjoying* AT THE BIJOU as much as I am in creating a screening joint for the so deserving keyboard's zeal.

LEON: Kate-

I'm glad you liked my story. You may run "November 1955" at the Bijou anytime. I wrote the story while in rehab. It sorta came to me. I'm reading Hemingway and Walter Mosley, both writers write simply, directly and realistically, which is what I wanted in this story. I wrote in my 1950's style journal with the fake alligator skin cover to get me in the time period and I just wrote what I felt.

I too would like to buy you a shot or two of Jack at a suitably classy watering hole, (we will have to make that happen) I'll wear a hat and you gotta wear the teal heels.

I'm still in rehab and I'm getting better, getting stronger and I hope to be out soon. If you like to give me a call my room phone number is 609.386.8201. I'm out a lot but I'm usually in my room around 1:30pm for about an hour and at 4pm. That is usually my writing time.


ABSOLUTELY*KATE {in a stage wisp of whisper} ~ Call him you guys, call him! Leon will love it and can curse me out later for taking away from writing time by giving him more *JOY* time. Hell, what are friends for?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Teal heel clad ladies
and fedora flung gents

~ AT THE BIJOU ~
most proudly presents

DOUBLE*FEATURE THURSDAY!

LEON JACKSON DAVENPORT
and his alter ego?
Jacob Gunn

Oh! Do Enjoy!

~ Absolutely*Kate

November 1955 ~ by Leon Jackson Davenport of Harbinger*33

November 1955

By Leon Jackson Davenport

She was beautiful, tall, and slender with dark brown eyes in which one can lose his soul; her light skin was perfect, her smile mesmerizing, and her taste in clothes impeccable; she was the kind of woman we all dream of attracting, one that will be the envy of both genders; the women want to be like her and we men need her to love us.

It was November 1955 and I was still basking in the glow of the Dodger’s victory over the Yankees in the World Series. It was made even sweeter because the Dodgers did it with so many Negro players: Joe Black, Don Newcombe, Roy Campanella, Jim Gilliam, Sandy Amoros and the man, Jackie Robinson all played pivotal parts in helping the beloved team from Brooklyn win.

I was drinking Jack Daniels, in a little bar near my office, which I frequent just to be sociable and keep up on what’s happening in the neighborhood, (the combination of good reliable information, a quick right hand and a ready smile usually gets me what I want), I’m not bragging just laying out the facts.

She was walking over to me, gliding as every eye in the place watched her.

“Mr. Gunn? Mr. Jacob Gunn?”

“Yeah, I’m Gunn. What can I do for you, Miss, ah?”

“Jones, Amanda Jones.”

“What can I do for you Miss Jones?”

“I’d like to talk to you in private Mr. Gunn. Can we move to that booth over there in the back?”

“You’re new here aren’t you?” I said smiling. “That booth belongs to Tommy Brown. He runs the numbers in this neighborhood. Nobody sits in Tommy’s booth, not even me. Lets go over there,” I say pointing to a booth next to Tommy’s a little closer to the back door.

“It is quiet and we can talk.” She led the way and every head in the bar turned to watch.

She told me about her predicament: a former boyfriend was threatening her and she was scared. All she wanted was to be left alone and could I pay him a visit and convince him that the best course of action was to move on. She made it very plain, that it was all right with her, if he was slapped around a little in the process; after all, he slapped her around, more than a few times, over the three years they were together. I asked if she had a current boyfriend and her answer was vague. I figured she did and he must have been white and married. He couldn’t get his hands dirty or he didn’t know about the old boyfriend; but the old boyfriend knew about the new boyfriend and he was threatening to louse up her new life. I told her that I’d talk to him. She slid an envelope across the table. In the envelope were three $50 bills and a card with a name and address along with a picture of the gentleman in question. She said there would be another couple of hundred in it for me when I completed the job. I told her I’d have something to tell her in a couple of days. She gives me her thanks and a smile and disappears into the night.

* * *

The next morning I went to the address on the card. It was a prewar apartment building with black and white tiles in the lobby, high ceilings, ornate moldings, and grand archways; it was a beautiful building. I wondered if they had any vacancies, I would have liked to live there. Then I thought about the business I was about and I decided it was only a pipe dream, I was going to kick the snot out of one of my perspective neighbors, not a good way to introduce yourself.

It was an elevator building without a doorman or front desk, so, once I get someone to buzz me in, I could go right up. I had a photo of the target and as I walked by, a guy resembling my client’s former boyfriend came walking out the front door. He had a lunchbox and was wearing coveralls with his name on one side and “Quality Auto Repair” on the other.

While he was gone, I decided to go upstairs and make myself at home. The guy I wanted, lived on the third floor near the back. The front door was locked but I knew from experience, with a little patience someone will let you in. It could be a teacher going off to work; or a factory worker dragging in after third shift; a kid off to school or a mom off to buy groceries. Sometimes it would take a nice smile and nod of the head, but someone will always let you in.

Today it was the teacher; she eyed me up and down, noticing how sharply I was dressed. I wore a fedora, brim pulled low; neatly pressed tan pants with a white dress shirt, light starch and a blue blazer with gold buttons and my shoes were shined to a high gloss. I smiled; that confident, friendly, useful smile that has gotten me out of more scrapes than I could count.

“Thank-you ma’am.”

“That’s miss.”

“Oh, thank-you miss.”

“Gloria, Gloria Powell, from 4c. Are you new to the building?”

“I’m thinking of moving in. Do you know of any vacancies, Miss Gloria?”

“I think 2d is moving. But check with the super and don’t let him swindle you, he sometime tries to add $10 or $15 to the rent for new people.”

“Why, thank-you Miss Gloria, with that information, I’ll be ready for him.”

“Hope you get that apartment.”

“Me, too. Thank-you Miss Gloria, have a nice day.”

“Good-bye Mr.?”

“Gunn, Jacob Gunn.”

“Good-bye Mr. Gunn.”

I offer my hand and she takes it.

“Please, Miss Gloria, call me Jacob.”

“All right, good-bye Jacob.” She pulls her hand away slowly teasing my fingers. I hold open the door and watch her walk down the street and around the corner; she didn’t look back, but you could tell she knew I was watching.

I walked up to the third floor and tried the lock, it was open, amazing in this day an age people still left their front doors open. I looked around the apartment, he lived simply, a small black and white TV was on a table in the corner, the radio on the kitchen counter was tuned to a jazz station; the living room was furnished with a couch and an easy chair placed in front of the TV; a cheap turquoise dinette for two was next to the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, no pictures, not of him, my client or his parents, he’s a loner or maybe an orphan. In the single bedroom he had made his bed, he was probably a military man, judging from the spartan furnishings and the shoes shined and placed neatly in the closet; one, no two nice suits, they looked tailor made, no women’s clothes, no clothes that didn’t belong to him. He was a big guy 52 long; most of the clothes came from Macy’s, there was one suit with a fancy Italian label probably a gift, but from who? The client dropped a hundred and fifty beans without batting an eye. Maybe she gave it to him; she was the kind of woman that would want her man to look good if she was going to be on his arm.

I found his checkbook and a savings passbook; he has a balance of $318.76, really $328.76 in the checking, (he forgot to carry the one) and $1521 in savings. That seems like a lot of money for a mechanic, he could be saving for a car, he could almost buy a new Chevy, or Ford, but if he wanted a Pontiac he was a few hundred short. I wondered if he earned it the old fashion way or if it was a payoff to keep silent.

Well, I got the lay of the land and it was time to go, I put everything back the way I found it, because I was going to come back tonight and have a talk with Mr. William Little. I checked the hallway, no one was around, and as I closed the door, I thought “Mr. Little it has been a pleasure getting to know you.”

* * *

He left for work around 8am so I figured a half hour on the subway, arriving at work about 8:30am; 8 hours working; a half hour for lunch means he’d clock out at 5pm; another half hour on the subway home, arriving around 5:30pm; add another hour to clean up and eat he should be ready for our little chat around 6:30pm tonight.

I came back around 6pm just in time to see him leaving. I admit I was curious how Mr. Little spent his evenings so I followed him. He stopped at a payphone and made a call. It was a local call because he only put in one nickel. I was too far away to hear who he was talking too or what was said, but I could see that he was very upset. A minute or two into the call he began to strike the side of the telephone, over and over, harder and harder, faster and faster; like he was beating out a message, suddenly he shouts something into the telephone and violently hangs up.

“I bet I know where he is headed next,” I say out loud.

The name of the bar was Kate’s, it was a nice neighborhood bar that served food, which looked and smelled good; it had my favorite beer on tap, Schlitz, and if you were of a different mind, Budweiser and Miller High Life. The prices were reasonable, Kate was friendly, and the other patrons were into minding their own business.

I took a seat near the back, ordered pastrami on rye and a beer, and watched Mr. Little drown his sorrows.

It seemed that Mr. Little preferred Budweiser, which was the only thing I found, so far, that wasn’t likeable; well, except that he likes to slap dames around. I couldn’t do much about the former but the latter I was going to address later tonight.

I finished my sandwich and left a healthy tip for Kate; and then I went to Mr. Little’s apartment and waited for him to return. Again, he left the door open and I slipped inside. I sat in the living room chair with the lights off thinking I’d surprise him, he was a big guy and even after a few drinks he could be hard to handle.

By the time he got home he was tight, not drunk but you could tell he was feeling it. Fumbling with the door he managed to get it closed and was feeling around for the light switch when I spoke.

“Mr. Little?”

Startled he hit the light switch and spun around.

“Who are you and why the fuck are you in my living room?”

“Mr. Little I have been asked by a young woman, Miss Amanda Jones, that I believe you know, to ask you to stop bothering her. She feels that your time together, while somewhat amusing, is over and the smart thing to do would be to have no further contact with her.”

“What business is it of yours? That is between me and Amanda.”

“I was asked, by Miss Jones, to deliver this message to you.”

“Right, like I give a good god damn.”

“Mr. Little, you should give a damn. I’m here to deliver the message; and come to an equitable accommodation; so, I can overlook your unfortunate outburst, but understand I will protect my clients interest, vigorously.”

“Okay, what’ll she pay?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss that with you.”

“Then why am I wasting my time talking to you? It is like I told her on the phone tonight, she gives me what I want or I’ll tell her fine, married, white boy, not only isn’t she white but (here is the cherry on top): I was there first; big, black, me. I’d bet that little cracker will run for the hills or back to his wife’s bed, if she’ll have him, and Amanda will be left out in the cold.”

“Mr. Little, I‘m here to see that doesn’t happen.”

“Who’s going to stop me? You?"

”Yes.”
He was three inches taller and 35 or so pounds heaver and well muscled. I was a star football player in college, starting at fullback and linebacker, and I was the place kicker too. I never did mind a little scrap; I enjoyed it occasionally; it felt good besting another man with fist, knife, or gun it didn’t matter to me.

Mr. Little charged me; I stood up and relied on a skill learned on the gridiron. I gave him my 35-yard field goal kick, right in the balls, which dropped him to his knees. A quick left, left, right, and he was finished, curled up on the floor holding his nuts and trying to regain feeling in his face.

I sat back down in the chair and waited until he could talk. After a while he spoke.

“You son-of-a-bitch! I’m going to rip your balls off.”

“Really? That was my 35-yard place kick; you know I made field goals from 40 and 45 yards, too. Would you like me to demonstrate? I usually don’t like to kick a guy in the nuts, (there is something unmanly about it), but for a guy that likes to slap dames around I will make an exception. So, Mr. Little are you going to leave my client alone?”

“No way! She tossed me aside. I was saving up for a ring. We could have been happy, next month I start with the Transit Authority, that is a real good job, it pays well and we would have had a good life. I just don’t understand, why wasn’t that good enough, why wasn’t I good enough?”

“Get off the floor, Mr. Little and sit over there,” I say pointing to the couch, he groans, rises and sits gingerly on the couch.

“You got a hell of a kick mister. I guess this is where you tell me that if I don’t stop you will come back and show me that 40 yard kick, huh?”

I nod.

“You won’t have to come back, I got the message. Mister, would you give her a message?”

“What is it?”

“If it don’t work out for her, she can come back. Tell her, I‘m sorry I hit her and it won’t happen again. You are right; I was listening to a man on the corner from the Nation who said, “If you berate and beat your women you damage yourself,” he was right. Tell her mister, please.”

“Alright Mr. Little, good-bye.”

As I closed the door, I looked back, at the broken man sitting with his head in his hands. Like I said before, she is the kind of woman we need to love, so, imagine the heartbreaking pain, to have that love and all of her and then lose it.