[This one’s inspired by Billy Batson’s powerful imagery found in “I’ve Got a Long Way to Go” as sung by Hedge and Donna.  I saw that singing couple on a Pete Seeger show years ago, liked them a lot, and bought their LP—that old vinyl technology for recording music for those born after the CD revolution.  It’s the first LP I managed to get into my iTunes database.  The story is partly based on real events and occurs at a time when PTSD didn’t exist as an acronym.]

Glory Road

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

Paul saw the explosion just before he heard it.  When he awoke, he was no longer in Vietnam.  The nurses and doctors were U.S. Army people, but the hospital was in Tokyo.  He figured that out without seeing much—just blurs and splashes of pastel colors.  He felt very much alone.

A bit later, a soft hand took his wrist.  “How are you doing, soldier?”

“Not great, if I’m here.  You’re from the South.”  He liked her soft voice, but was the tone pitying or compassionate?

“Good ears.  You’ll need them,” the nurse said.

“Because I can’t see?  Is that permanent?”

“When we get you back to the States, we’ll find out.  Right now, count yourself lucky.  Others in your patrol lost their lives.  You’re pretty much intact, except for the eyes and losing a few fingers.  I think they dug a round out of your back.  That will be sore, but the least of your worries.”

“Right hand,” he said, wiggling his fingers enough to feel the heavy bandage.  He already knew his eyes were bandaged.  “Why am I here?”

“On the way back,” she said.  “You’re going home.  Your trek down that glory road is over, at least as far as Vietnam is concerned.”

***

Paul relived the attack many times in many hospitals before he ended up back in Indianapolis, his home.  Jersey was the lieutenant, he was the sergeant, and the others were new at combat.  Ricardo Santos, called Jersey because he was from there and spoke with the accent, was OK, but some of the new recruits didn’t like him.  He asked a lot of everybody, but the new guys had lost the lottery and some were bitter about it.  One in particular, Jimmy Coulter, a Southerner, didn’t like taking orders from Jersey.  Paul had tried to mend fences, but there was always tension.

But was it bad enough to shoot Jersey and me in the back?  Catching them both by surprise, he had turned enough to see Coulter and wound up facing the blast.  The shot was insignificant as Jersey took the brunt of the explosion, shielding Paul.  Is Jimmy dead?  Paul hoped not.  He wanted to find the bastard! (more…)

[Note from Steve: July 2015 data show 58, 270 homeless people, including 13, 875 families and 23, 490 children slept in NYC’s shelters.  These are the sheltered; the numbers don’t count the many who wander aimlessly and sleep on the streets, heating grates, and park benches.  Many of them have mental and health problems.  A good number are veterans.  Mayor De Blasio recently changed his opinion and recognized the problem, but it isn’t just a problem for NYC.  Nevertheless, in this story, the homeless person isn’t the victim.  The story was inspired by Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Mornin’s Comin’ Down.”  Enjoy.]

Sunday Mornin’

Copyright Steven M. Moore, 2015

                Jimmy kicked the can down the street and enjoyed the tolling of the church bells as he made his way to the soup kitchen.  He saw the lines, decided he’d rather panhandle some change for breakfast than wait for the slop they served, and headed for his favorite corner.  It was shady in the morning and had plenty of street traffic as New Yorkers headed for a day of worship or a day of labors within and among the brooding skyscrapers.  The day still had a lazy feel to it…God’s day, a day of rest, and work for those who provided city services, often 24/7.

He decided to save some time and cut through an alleyway.  “C’mon, old boy.  Who knows?  We might find a trash bin or two with some edible scraps.  Saturday night’s always a good scrap producer.”

He’d named the mongrel Emyouteetee, for M-U-T-T.  Colleagues were surprised when they asked about the name and he told them it was the name of a famous Buddhist monk.  One old fellow named Benjamin had even held the dog’s head and looked into his eyes, searching for divine revelation.  Out of guilt, Jimmy had almost told the old man about the name because he and Jimmy often shared weed, but Benjamin had seemed so at peace gazing into the dog’s eyes that Jimmy hadn’t wanted to ruin the spell.

James Earl Pennington, Jr. had served in both Afghanistan and Iraq.  Except for the nightmares, he thought he was sane.  The medics had saved his left arm and leg in the battlefield hospital, but not his left eye.  He spoke southern Pashto, Iraqi Arabic, and Colombian Spanish, but most of his night school students had spoken either Arabic or Spanish.  He was facile with languages because of his mother, a Louisiana Creole, who spoke her maternal dialect, French, and Spanish, as well as English (he had no idea who Mr. Pennington, Sr. was).  The Army had considered him a natural for a home-grown translator, but that had put him into squads that combed the streets of towns and villages looking for the enemy.
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[Note from Steve: I’ve decided to title this series of short stories suggested by musical pieces as above, so don’t be surprised to see a short story collection later on that sports this title.  For now, you can read them for free and find it, along with the others, in “Steve’s Shorts.”  This one is inspired by the Second Movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G.  If you think that dude is an impressionist/jazz composer, think again.  This music is about as romantic as you can get.  Enjoy.]

The Tightrope Walker, Part Three of Three

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

“We have a shell casing with a partial,” said the CSI.

“You’re kidding.  Where did you find it?”

“You told us to go over the center ring again where Yuri was practicing.  We were a bit more thorough this time, that’s all.  Or luckier.  It was wedged into a seam in the ring’s border with moist sawdust.”

“By someone?”

“Probably not.  Probably just kicked there.  Everyone practices in that main ring.  The only ring.  It’s a small circus.”

I nodded.  “OK, so who’s the partial belong to?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” said the CSI with a smile.

“Try me.”

“Cynthia Brock.”  Thought a moment; then I jumped up.  “Where are you going, Detective?”

“I need to see if Cynthia was in the circus that night watching the practice,” I said.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: I’ve decided to title this series of short stories suggested by musical pieces as above, so don’t be surprised to see a short story collection later on that sports this title.  For now, you can read them for free and find it, along with the others, in “Steve’s Shorts.”  This one is inspired by the Second Movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G.  If you think that dude is an impressionist/jazz composer, think again.  This music is about as romantic as you can get.  Enjoy.]

The Tightrope Walker, Part Two of Three

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

Cynthia had become involved in theater in college.  I began snooping around in that world and discovered a nexus with Yuri through Arthur Hill.  While Hill clearly didn’t have time now to spend the summer at a convent in a theater group, he had acted while in college.  Before becoming engrossed in his work, he had also acted in a local theater with Cynthia.

“Hill played Romeo and Cynthia Juliet in one production,” said the director of that thespian group.  “I’ll have to say they both gave it their all.  Our local rag said something like ‘lust over love in the new Romeo and Juliet production,” if I recall.  It was quite the success, at least on our level.”

“Was Yuri Ledovskoy present at any of the rehearsals or functions?” I said.

“Can’t help you there.  I don’t know the fellow, and I pay no attention to who’s in the audience.  The theater’s dark anyway.  I do recall both Cynthia and Arthur saying they practiced their lines with someone.  Maybe that was Ledovskoy?  No, I take it back.  It was a woman.  Maybe one of Cynthia’s friends.  God knows, it was so long ago.”

I handed him my card.  “If you happen to remember the woman’s name, call me.  Did Cynthia and Arthur seem close outside the production?”

“Not really.  There was just a lot of chemistry on stage.  I didn’t see much off.”

“Did Cynthia ever mention a boyfriend or someone she wanted to be with?”

“My dear, I think Cynthia pursued many males.  She even pursued me and was furious when she found out I’m gay.”  He shrugged.  “Not much I could do about that, right?”

“I guess not.”  I could commiserate with Cynthia’s disappointment.  The director was a good-looking hunk.

***

Two days before Cynthia was due back from her summer theater sojourn, I had developed quite a background file on the case.  My lieutenant was getting antsy as the pile of caseloads on my desk grew.  And we seemed to have much more to do because the uniforms spent more time on the street now.  “Integrating with the community,” the Commish called it.  Or, was that the mayor?  Having once been in uniform, I know for a fact that uniforms were a great help to detectives, offloading a lot of grunt work in solving crimes.  I missed that now as a detective.

“No leads yet?” he said.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Today it’s a doubleheader.  Here you have part one of a short story.  Next you have a book review of a very intense and weird book, but in a good way.  The short story is a new one in my continuing series of stories inspired by music.  I’ve decided to title this series of short stories as above, so don’t be surprised to see a short story collection later on that sports this title.  For now, you can read them for free and find it, along with the others, in “Steve’s Shorts.”  This one is inspired by the Second Movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G.  If you think that dude is an impressionist/jazz “classical” composer, think again.  This music is about as romantic as you can get.  Enjoy.  And don’t forget the review.]

The Tightrope Walker, Part One of Three

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

Yuri Ledovskoy was the son of immigrants.  His father had been a doctor; his mother a pianist and prof in a local music school.  I accepted the tea she offered.  Didn’t like it much, although I’ve heard it’s an Irish staple, but some people even in the U.S. think it’s the civilized thing to offer.  Couldn’t much turn it down.  I was on duty, but tea didn’t qualify as an alcoholic beverage that would impair my on-the-job performance.

I’d introduced myself to Mrs. Ledovskoy at the ME’s when she came to identify her son’s body.  She immediately went from Sgt. Myra O’Connell, NYPD Homicide, to just plain Myra.  Made me think she was a good music teacher, at least in making her students comfortable.  The situation was worse for her than me.

Not exactly pleasant circumstances; her life would start and end badly.  Both she and her husband had been in Nazi camps as very young children.  They weren’t Jews, but the SS had also put suspected commies in the camps after Stalin joined up with Churchill and later Roosevelt to defeat the Nazis.  We’d agreed to meet at her house because I had some more background questions.

The ME had declared the case a homicide.  It was an unusual one.  The son was practicing his circus tightrope walk when he fell.  He broke many things when he landed, but the ME said he was already dead.  Someone had shot him from below—a gun with a silencer, no doubt, because there was a small audience even for a rehearsal—the bullet had entered the base of the neck and out the top of his head, so he was shot on the wire.  Every member in the circus was under suspicion.

“If you’ll pardon me saying so, didn’t your son have an unusual profession for someone who has such accomplished parents?”

Evgeniya Ledovskoy eyed me over the brim of her cup.  “You don’t have children, I take it?”

As a detective, a person answering a question with another question is problematic.  In this case, it was also personal.  I eyed the elderly woman a moment.  She was pale and wrinkled, but her blue eyes beamed intelligence and good humor.

“Not yet,” I said with a smile.  My mother had five by my age.  I wasn’t that good of a Catholic.  You say Hail Mary and I first think of a last minute pass in a football game, a la Doug Flutie.  “Maybe someday.”

“We only had Yuri, but that’s irrelevant.  Parents should let their children seek their own futures.  We can guide them, educate them, and offer them different opportunities, but they must make their own choices.  We have the freedom to do that in this country.  It’s an important one.  Parents shouldn’t push their children into bad choices.  It only can breed resentment in future years.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This is the continuation of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs.  Some you might know, like the Billy Joel classic, “The Piano Man,” motivation for the first story; others, like this one, homage to “Zamba de Mi Esperanza,” sung by the Chachaleros, are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available).  They’re freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is.  The Argentine zamba, sometimes written samba (technically a mistake and one I made in the title of one of my ebooks), isn’t a dance, as Wikipedia claims, and shouldn’t be confused with the Brazilian dance.  Enjoy!]

Zamba Argentina (cont)

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

When Marco arrived, he saw the German Karl Brandt talking to the Sub.  Is he complaining about me?  He regretted his slipup.  While it was true that South American countries had provided safe haven for many Nazis during and after World War Two, some Germans, like Italians and other nationalities, had just been fleeing the violence in Europe.  Because of his family’s history, though, he firmly believed that the influx of people leaning toward fascism had sowed the bitter seed that led to the Junta and their Dirty War.

He put such thoughts out of his mind and called Interpol.  His friend there promised to dig into the lives of Klaus Ihlenfeldt, Melissa Brentwood, and, for added measure, Karl Brandt.  His friend said it would take at least a day.

He also had a contact in Scotland Yard.  He called and asked her to check on the British side of the victim’s life.

Someone turned on lights.  It had started to rain again, bringing gloom to the port city and the office.

He was reviewing the case file and the new forensic information when two shadows created from the flickering fluorescents fell over the papers.  He looked up.

“Inspector, I learned you’ve already met my old friend, Karl,” said the Sub.

Brandt smiled at Marco.  The Sub wasn’t smiling.

“Yes, he was good enough to let me get about doing my job.  What can I do for you, Brandt?”

“Just saying hi to Raul and checking in with you.  Any news about the case?”

“If you have contacts with the German police, information about the victim and her husband would be helpful.  Forensics and ME results show this wasn’t a robbery gone bad or a random act of violence.”

“I concur.  Someone wanted Melissa Brentwood dead.  The two are married, by the way; she didn’t take his name, but that’s common nowadays.  Anything else I can do?”

“I might interview Herr Ihlenfeldt again today.  He was distraught yesterday, so I’m assuming he wasn’t thinking too clearly.  He has problems with English and Spanish, and my German is worse than my English.  I was planning on taking a translator, but if you’re there, it might be better for him.”

“Of course.  Set it up.  Give me some warning, though.  Our Ambassador tends to improvise on his schedule a lot.  So far he’s sleeping off cocktails and canapés at La Casa Rosada, but that could change at a moment’s notice.”

“Understood.  I’ll give you fair warning.  I’ll keep you posted too.  Or, do you prefer to handle that?”

The last question, aimed at the Sub, who had been staring out the window at the downpour, caught his boss by surprise.

“No, you can inform Karl of developments in the case.  We need to avoid any international repercussions, of course.”

“Of course,” said Marco.

***

Marco entered the interrogation room and recoiled a bit.  A witness had come forward in response to the police request for information, no questions asked.  He was a slovenly dressed bald man with a straggly beard turning to gray who seemed at ease in the old wooden chair that was probably older than Marco.

“I’m told you have information about our victim.”

“What’s in it for me?”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This is the continuation of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs.  Some you might know, like the Billy Joel classic, “The Piano Man,” motivation for the first story; others, like this one, homage to “Zamba de Mi Esperanza,” sung by the Chachaleros, are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available).  They’re freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is.  The Argentine zamba, sometimes written samba (technically a mistake, and one I made in the title of one of my ebooks), isn’t a dance, as Wikipedia claims, and shouldn’t be confused with the Brazilian dance.  Enjoy!]

Zamba Argentina

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

            “Who’s up?” said the Sub-Commissioner.

Marco looked up from the report he was writing.  It was the Sub’s idea of irony.  The rest of the squad room was empty.  “I’m your man, I guess.  But I was writing a report.”

“Later,” said the Sub.  “This one’s a German tourist.  The embassy wants swift action.  The Deputy Chief wants swift action.”

“And so you want swift action?”

“You guessed it, Atahualpa.”

The Sub was referring to Marco’s Native American blood.  His father was a Porteño, but his mother was from Salta.  Only his mother was still alive on that side of the family.  Too many family members on both sides had died in the Dirty War when the Junta made anyone suspected of being connected to the opposition “disappear.”

The Sub had a strange sense of humor, but Marco didn’t mind—he admired the man.  He’d come up the hard way from poverty and had been a shaker and mover when the new Policia Metropolitana de Buenos Aires was created.  The capital’s Scotland Yard was modeled after the London Metropolitan Police and the NYPD.  It had a zero tolerance policy, but the port city’s civilians trusted it more than the Argentine Federal Police, known for high levels of corruption like the Mexican Federales.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This is the start of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs.  Some you might know, like this Billy Joel classic; others are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available).  The stories are freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is.  Enjoy!]

The Piano Man – Part Two

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

Peterson walked into the interrogation room and nodded to the public defender.

“Hello, Nora,” said Bob Ortega.  “You’re looking well.”

She took a chair across from Walter Ellison and Ortega.  “I’m not in the mood for ass kissing today, counselor.”  She pushed a paper across to Ellison.  It had GGGEb written on it.  “Can you tell me what that means?”

Ellison studied it.  “Is this some kind of code?  I can’t break codes.  I always admired those guys when I was fighting in Afghanistan.  I can say it doesn’t make sense because G is repeated.”

Is this an act?  “Let’s say they’re musical notes.”

Ellison hummed.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  It’s the four opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.”

“Does it have any other meaning?”

“Hmm.  If I remember my Boy Scout merit badge work correctly and take it to signify dot-dot-dot-dash, that’s V.  In World War Two, I think Churchill used both the notes and V to rally the Brits—V for victory.”  He looked at Ortega.  “I thought we were going to discuss the charges against me.”

“We were,” said Ortega.  “Where is this going, Detective?”

“Do you know the name of your victim?” Peterson said to Ellison.

“You’re leading my client,” said Ortega.  “It’s incumbent upon the police and the DA to prove my client had something to do with this crime.  Use of the pronoun ‘your’ is tantamount to asking him to confess to a crime.”
(more…)

Steve’s Shorts: The Piano Man…Part One of Two

[Note from Steve: This is the start of a series of short stories inspired by my favorite songs.  Some you might know, like this Billy Joel classic; others are a wee bit obscure (and possibly no longer available).  The stories are freebies for readers of this blog…until they appear in a short story collection, that is.  Enjoy!]

The Piano Man – Part One

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

            “Hey buddy, are you OK?”

Through the fog of his hangover Walter Ellison stirred and then awoke as the flashlight’s beam fell on his face.  “Go away.  I’m trying to sleep.”

He saw the beam sweep over the contents of his van.  Still hugging his keyboard with his left arm like his Angela, he pushed up with his right and saw a face in the penumbra behind the beam.  Shadowy lips moved.

“You can’t sleep here, bro.  The park closes at eight.”

Walter looked at his watch.  “That’s five hours from now.  I’ll leave by then.”

“Eight p.m., idiot, not eight a.m.  Come on buddy, we don’t want to haul you in for vagrancy.”

“I’m no vagrant.  I have a gig at the night club three blocks from here.  It’s a regular job.”

“But you can’t park your van here,” said the closest voice.

“What do you want?  Do you want me to drive around drunk so you can haul me in for DUI?  Or cause an accident where I kill someone?  FYI: I don’t like sleeping in jail.  Let me sleep it off here in peace.”

“OK.  Just this once.  The park opens at eight.  You’d better be gone by then.  And don’t come back.”

“Thank you, officers.  You’ll get your reward in heaven.”

Walter snuggled with Angela and went back to sleep.

***

(more…)

[This short story could be considered segue to my sci-fi thriller Full Medical, the first novel in the “Clones and Mutants Trilogy.”  Enjoy.]

The Call

Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore

                Dirk Eddy looked more like a jockey than a thief, but that was his secret weapon.  His size was an asset in his business.  He could squeeze through tight spaces and slip by security guards and cops like the invisible man.

With penlight in his mouth, he walked around the mansion, selecting his loot.  A decorative chalice here, an iPhone there, but focusing more on lightweight items he could run with if needed.  He was a pro.

In a bedroom closet, he saw the flashing red LED light on the security panel.  He’d tripped a silent alarm.  He removed a gold crucifix from the wall and a pearl necklace from a dressing table drawer and was on his way out when the phone rang.  After two rings, he picked it up, thinking it was a security company checking for a false alarm.

“Hello?”

“Just you and wifey in the house?”  The connection wasn’t great, but Dirk knew it was a man—the voice was a deep baritone.

“Yes,” he said, thinking he’d just report a false alarm.  That would eliminate any visits by security agents or cops.

“The truck’s almost there.  Get the garage open.”  There was a click and the line went dead.

What the hell?  Truck?  The call wasn’t from security at all.  Do they assume I’m the homeowner? (more…)