It's a Ninja, and It's a Scroll, but It's Not ...

Yad at Fifty

Yad, Koppa's foster-brother, at the time of the events of The Wizard, the Prince, the Warrior, and His Son.

 

The Saga of Mr. Chase Bellamy, Agent of the Bureau of Shadows

Journalist, Keeping Body and Soul Together

Missing, A Long Row to Hoe

Pa's Here, Fame and Fortune

We Now Return ...

My thoughts: I couldn't get Simon Horne's accent or his dry and dessicated tone just right; the 'Swamp Ape' seems a little tall and his tenrils not kinetic enough; but Henry Harris Byrd is just right.

Diary 2010: July Starts To Crank Up

7/1/2021: First day of July. Up at 5:30 AM. Prayers and Bible. Cartoons. Made an order to HEB. Called in some stuff for the pharmacy there. Saw Kelsey and Ryan about 3 PM; gave Kelsey $50 as a welcoming present to buy themselves supper. Made chili, corn, noodles. E-mailed John with a gentle hint about my appointment with Dan on the 6^th.

 

7/2/2021: Up about 5:30 AM after a restless night. Prayers and Bible. The cartoons today were all related to the Fourth of July in some way, including the old Porky learns the Pledge of Allegiance. Must stay till the groceries get delivered then get to HEB for my glucometer stuff. Somehow. Bus? As it turned out, my shopper was way late with the groceries, and it was very hot by then. (I was not well pleased with sitting on the bench, which was still wet after two days). I called Kelsey and she came and got me and we went to the pharmacy. I bought us some Whataburger afterward (a grilled chicken salad for me and a mushroom burger for her) and I sampled a peaches and cream milkshake.  Didn’t have to make supper as everyone was going to Freedom Fiesta food trucks in the park, including S&A&Co, J&A&Co., and Kelsey. But I made myself turkey soup with celery and onions. They came back about 9:30 PM and went swimming and John and I visited and yakked about our various aches and pains and philosophy and life. John gave me some tips about people he listened to on YouTube. Everybody left about 11:45 PM. I played DQ8 a while and then to bed.

 

7/3/2021: Grampa Alfred’s memorial service today (I’m not going but thought I should mention it). Up at 6 AM and started watching cartoons. Washed dishes, showered, dressed. Prayers, Bible. Not much doing as the family went to the parade and fireworks in the evening.

 

7/4/2021: The actual Independence Day. I think, but am not sure, the Shanafelts went to the Shanafelt get-together. Despite my fears of predicted thunderstorms and initial reluctance, I went to church and made it home without any mishaps; in fact, it scarcely dripped all day. In the evening I watched “1776” and the new Rick and Morty, which seems to address the dilemma of saving the environment vs. serving the needs of humanity. To bed without seeing or hearing from any of the family. Some desultory fireworks in the evening, but the city display was yesterday. Despite sticking to my diet, my numbers were in the 200s.

 

7/5/2021: Up at 6 AM. Cartoons (today’s batch were Warner’s made in the Eighties, so not good). So, prayers and Bible. No laundry today as it is a holiday and S&A are doing all their Sunday stuff today. Had eggs for breakfast; BS still in the 200’s. Washed dishes, made bed, and finally went through that pile of mail in the pencil drawer. Found a check for about $30! Straightened up the rest of the drawer. It’s now 11 AM, and I’ve arranged for Andy to take me to FamMedCen tomorrow (he’s doing a little mowing). The three cardinal eggs in the nest on the potted plant on the kitchen porch have hatched. It rained off and on afterwards through the day. Didn’t have to make supper but went in at 6:30 PM to boil eggs and make egg salad. Ordered stuff from HEB Pharmacy. Listened to Shippey on Tolkien and Beowulf. Got an e-mail from Kris Jerome saying he wasn’t going to publish me anymore because of his own limitations, and he wants to send me the files.

 

7/6/2021: Well. I got up at 6 AM and was halfways dressed at 7 AM when I thought to check my appointment card and found I wasn’t due till the 9^th! That pulled the rug out from under me especially as I didn’t sleep well last night in anticipation. Slumped down and just slept till almost 1 PM, when I went out and did a load of clothes and made cucumber salad. Rainy on and off. Rest of the day as usual, except I started reading Tolkien’s Beowulf again.

 

7/7/2021: Up at 6 AM, got ready, and caught the bus at 7 AM. Went to HEB, did a little shopping (folders, Underwood Deviled Liverwurst, paper towels, a stiff spatula), then at 8 AM got my pharmacy stuff, including insulin. Caught bus and back home a little after 9 AM. At 10 AM went out and waited for grocery delivery which I then brought in. Turned the AC on only at 1 PM, as it had been a very moderate morning. Went in at 3:30 PM and started supper (the displaced sausage and cabbage usually had on Tuesday). Wrote a respectful and grateful e-mail back to Kris Jerome. Now it’s 7:20 and I’m making one of my big burger patties for supper.

Notes

"Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I never think about them." - Charles Lamb. Wish I could be as care-free as old Charlie, but I'm always unclear about what happened when and I do think about it. Many things that happened five years ago seem to have happened 'just now,' at most three years ago; most things are 'just a while ago.'

HELEN: Is that the time?

MIKE: No, time is an abstract concept. This is a wristwatch. 

- The Young Ones.

Ubi sunt and Carpe diem and all that rot, kiddies.

Well, That Was a Thing

As an experiment, I ran the last blogpost through ChatGPT, chose a meter and rhyme scheme, and asked the AI to turn it into a poem. Here is the result.

Being Self-Ish

Within myself there dwell seven different men,
Who take the reins by turns and call me "I."
The sages gave such riders names divine;
I only know they seldom pass me by.

The first is Boredom, heavy-limbed and still.
He bids me linger where no labor lies,
To waste the golden hours in vacant thought,
And watch dead embers with unseeing eyes.

He asks no feast of triumph or delight,
No noble quest to stir the heart or hand;
To drift, to yawn, to idle through the day—
That is the kingdom where he loves to stand.

The Earthy follows, sturdier by far.
He keeps one foot upon the solid sod.
He dreams of suppers, budgets, roofs, and tools,
Content with things beneath the vault of God.

He prizes clean-swept floors and mended gates,
Good barbecue—or hot dogs, if they must—
The body's needs, the household's daily cares,
The honest claims of appetite and dust.

Above him stands the Family in me,
Who longs to shelter all within his reach;
He cannot heal the world's enormous wounds,
Yet serves with needle, skillet, word, and speech.

He seeks no glory in his little works,
But only that his loved ones safely thrive;
A peaceful home is victory enough,
Where thankful hearts and humble joys survive.

Then Nerdy comes with lifted brow and grin,
Defender of each truth he counts as dear.
He tilts at error like a knight of old,
Though knowing well his blind spots still are near.

His pride is checked by many a foolish slip,
Yet still he'll plant his banner where he's sure;
He loves an argument for truth itself,
A hopeless cause can make him more secure.

Behind thick walls another captive waits,
The Bawdy, laughing, restless, horned one.
I thought the stones had made a prison strong—
Perhaps instead they built a bastion.

For now and then he sallies from the gate
To raid the quiet provinces within;
He plants strange gardens where I least expect,
And mocks the watchmen with a knowing grin.

Then rises Piety with folded hands,
Who fears to wound the grace he longs to keep;
He hastens toward the altar and the cross,
Yet trusts God's mercy deeper than the deep.

He knows beloved sins are still but sins,
However warmly they may plead their cause;
He prays for all he loves with steadfast hope,
And rests beneath his Father's wiser laws.

Last comes the Maker, whom I love the best,
Who gathers every other self as one;
He takes their wheat and chaff into his mill,
Then laughs to see what unexpected's done.

He asks no fame, nor riches, nor applause,
But loses self within the work's delight.
When he steps down, I marvel at the thing
That somehow came from darkness into light.

It still needs polishing; the Nerd agrees.
The flaws remain for later hands to mend.
Yet every honest work that comes to birth
Feels like a gift no labor could pretend.

Perhaps when all the clamor has grown still,
And every lesser ruler yields his claim,

The Maker bears me nearest to the One

Whose image first imagined whence I came.

I think it came out pretty good. It sounds like me, like something I would write. In fact I did produce the content; the program patted it into form.What status do such twi-formed, amphibious works have? Can I really claim it as mine?

Being Self-Ish

"Whuddya Gonna Do?"

Reverting to the subject of my self (which I’m sure everyone finds endlessly fascinating) I’ve identified seven major aspects or avatars. They seem quite distinct to me, though there is some overlap and interaction between them. The ancient Greeks might say they were the gods riding me; the Medievalist the vices and virtues contending for my soul. Modern psychology (or what passed for it thirty years ago) might say they weren’t yet individuated parts of my psyche; ordinary people that they’re just moods I go through. Whatever they are, let me introduce them to you. I present them fancifully clothed as what I like to call the ‘Internal Me,’ since they are concepts, and to show a Me in real life is just too sad.

I’d like to start with a very basic character, the Bored Me. He doesn’t want to move, just vegetate and ruminate. Sloth might be my besetting sin. It is a mood that, as C. S. Lewis said, “You [a devil] no longer need a good book, which he really likes, to keep him from his prayers or his work or his sleep … You can make him waste his time … You can make him do nothing at all for long periods. You can keep him up late at night, not roistering, but staring at a dead fire in a cold room.”

Next on the rung, only slightly better, is what I call the Earthy Me. He’s physical more than metaphysical. If he can’t get barbecue he’ll settle for hot dogs and enjoy them. He dreams about great meals he’s had and plots about the possibilities of great meals to come. He’s not simply food-centered, though; he’s concerned with keeping the house clean, staying on budget, and to a certain extent, health. Mechanical, worldly things are his province.

Up quite a few rungs is Family Me. He’s concerned with the welfare of the family, and to a certain degree the world. He wants everyone to prosper, to be safe, to get through life smoothly and happily. He does not have much power to do this, especially now-a-days, but what he can do he will do, be it cooking a meal or sewing up a tear in a shirt. He is mainly altruistic, but not without a certain element of “Happy Family, Happy Life.”

Then there’s Nerdy Me, the smarty-pants. He would be in danger of the sin of Pride if his own inadequacies and blind spots weren’t a constant check on his assertions. But he can be quite stubborn about what he’s sure is true and is always ready to champion his affections and enthusiasms. Not from any personal stake in the matter but as a Quixotic, almost romantic attachment to what he sees as true.

There’s a Me I’ll call euphemistically the Bawdy Me. Whenever he sticks his horns out, he tends to shock even people who know me well. I like to think I keep him quarantined behind a stone wall, but lately I’m wondering if it’s not so much a prison as a stronghold from which he sallies forth periodically to take prizes and bedevil the other Me’s. He’s growing a strange garden behind that wall.

Of course, the Bawdy Me is of concern to the Pious Me. In some ways the Pious Me is a great worrier: worried about getting to church, going to confession, receiving the Eucharist worthily. On the other hand, he has great peace of mind as long as he tries to improve and not get complacent. He believes that God has the power to save and prays constantly for the family. He does not believe his favorite sins are okay just because he likes them.

Last, we have perhaps the one I like best, the Creative Me. When the Creative Me is in charge, the self seems to go beyond time, indeed forgets itself in the act of making. He seems to participate in all my selves, or at least their better parts, if only to use them as grist for his mill. When he’s at his best he’s not thinking about wealth or fame but only feeling sheer delight in the act. When he steps down out of the driver’s seat, I (the Me that is basically the seat) am usually left to marvel at an artifact that didn’t exist before. Oh, it may need work (that’s for Nerdy Me) but it seems a minor miracle. Perhaps when I’m Creative Me I come closest to my Creator, to Eternity. 

The Esteemed Directors of the Department of Extranatural Affairs

Samuel Ballantine Frobisher 1733 – 1838 (aged 105; started 1788)

Joshua Phineas Williams 1786 – 1888 (aged 101)

Benjamin Franklin Creed 1860 - 1952 (aged 92)

Tyrone Lovett 1909 – 1999 (aged 90)

Henry Harris Byrd 1969 – Present Day (57 in 2026)

Frobisher appears in multiple tales at various times of his life; Williams is shown from the event of The Tzaddick Who Could Walk Through Walls; Creed from The Past is a Different Country; Lovett from Lovett's Last Case; and Byrd from There is a Season. Stories posted here on NOT. You can assume that after Frobisher established the Department, each Director assumed office soon after the death of his predecessor.

Getting Closer

Illustrated Edition

Samuel and Samantha meet their Aunt Jocasta (from the story of the same name on this blog).

The 'Swamp Ape,' from Daisy Bellamy's story And Then There Was the Time (ditto).

And from Ortha and the land of Forlan, the Harvest Pilgim, a fantastic figure of fun who appears at the Autumn Festival, a sort of in-world combo of Santa Claus and Trick-or-Treats.

Someone To Come When You Call

Disclaimer: Although this particular institution for the aged and infirm has become the hunting grounds of some peculiarly malign characters, I in no way mean to impugn in general the many fine institutions that struggle to provide service in this necessary and useful trade.

SOMEONE TO COME WHEN YOU CALL 

     From the outside, Springtown Hospice Center is all clean lawns, brickwork, and gangling young oak trees; inside it is pastel institutional surfaces, constant muted lighting, and muggy heated air. It always gave Duke Fisher the willies, as he told anyone who would listen, but when he got down to his duties as an orderly he could usually set aside his dislike of the assisted living complex and focus it on his needy charges. And, after all, it was a lot cushier than some of the jobs he had run.

     It was a bleak Monday in November when Dr. Osborn (his degree was in business administration, but the title impressed) called Duke from the registration desk where he was signing in to the private office in the back. Duke seemed to fill the file-cramped room like a blue-clad mountain. Even in scrubs he seemed more like a biker than a nurse's aide, with his bulging forearms, neatly trimmed goatee, and lank black hair. There was something in the ripple of muscle as he crossed those arms that made Osborn cough and shuffle papers a little longer than necessary before he started talking.

     "Well, Duke, you know Mrs. Clarence in 4C passed away last Friday night," he began, lacing his fingers.

     "Yes, sir. A damn shame," came the rumbled reply. "A really nice lady."

     Osborn cleared his throat. "Yes, well, there was a bit of unpleasantness when her family came to collect her belongings. It seems a rather expensive ring, her wedding ring, in fact, ah, wasn't with her when they went to view her remains. The medical examiner and funeral parlor both claim they never saw it."

     Duke said nothing, a look of polite inquiry on his face. The administrator ran a hand over his balding head, and continued, babbling slightly.

     "So they hoped it was here, among her personal effects. It was, of course, the logical place to look, and when a thorough search of her room showed it wasn't there, they hit the roof. The daughter in particular raised a hell of a stink." He shuddered.

     "Yes, I suppose she would," Duke said mildly.

     Osborn sighed and leaned forward on his elbows. "The point I'm getting to, Duke, is you were on shift last, before we found her. Did you ... ah ... happen to notice if she had her ring on?"

     "I don't remember if she did or not." Duke stroked a reflective finger around his goatee. "Can't say that I noticed."

     The administrator seemed to deflate, and shrank back in his chair. "All right," he said. "It pains me to say it, but there has been a series of incidences in this facility that began shortly after you joined us. Circumstantial evidence places you on the spot each time. The disappearance of valuable personal items, missing medical supplies, complaints of intimidation..."

     "Oh, come on sir! You can say that almost every other employee here, is here constantly, cramped as the schedule is, and that includes you, sir!"

     The tone was jocular, but there was a hard edge that made Osborn answer quickly. "I know, I know, Duke, but it looks bad. We would hate to lose you: you're prompt and you do your job and it's hard getting someone strong enough to handle our more, ah, heavy guests. But if Springtown gets a bad reputation, well ... heads might roll."

     "Well, I'd hate to go," said Duke sweetly, rising to his feet. He leaned over and put both hands on Osborn's desk. "Because if I got fired without a shred of evidence, why, I'd have to file a lawsuit against you for wrongful dismissal. Besides feeling very, very bad about it. Personally."

     Osborn blanched and tried to shrink even further away. Duke straightened up and gave a theatrically deprecating laugh. "I love my job," he said. "And you know how jittery some of these old people are. My looks are against me, I guess. Of course I make some nervous."

     "Well, no-one is, you know, accusing you, or anything. It could have been the ambulance or funeral parlor," Osborn back-pedaled desperately. "It's just that appearances are against you, as you say, and we want you to know that we are aware of it and we want you to be aware of it, and ... well, be careful."

     Duke backed off a step. "Oh yes, sir. I always am. Very careful." He smiled. "Can I get back to work, sir? I'm a little behind schedule as it is."

     "Oh, yes, of course," Osborn waved him out, relieved. "That's all. I'll tell Mrs. Clarence's family that I've looked into things. According to their written contract we're not responsible, but I had to check."

     "Oh, I understand, sir. Well, I'm gone."

     "Good-bye and, uh, keep up the good work."

     Duke closed the door with a gentle click behind him. Osborn sat back in his chair and wondered quietly to himself just when he had lost control.

 

     The Pepper Tree Mill had been a good bar, fifty years ago, a place for couples to dance and drink on the edge of town. Age and urban sprawl had crept up on it, the decent side of town and newer places moving and blooming in the east. One or two old regulars still came in, drinking in nostalgia and desperation. The rest were people like Duke.

     He slid into the shabby booth, its seats patched with silver duct tape, two cold beers in hand, and smiled at the skinny, flinching man on the seat opposite him.

     "Hello, Larry," he said. "So how's Jim? How'd the business go?"

     "Pretty ... pretty good." The other swallowed, and pulled out a wrinkled envelope from his shirt pocket, damp with sweat. He reached for one of the bottles and grabbed it. He watched as Duke opened the envelope. It almost disintegrated in his fist, showing the gray-green inside.

     Duke looked up. "Is this all of it, Larry?" he asked gravely. The skinny man took a nervous swig before answering.

     "Yeah, that's it. Except for my cut. Jim said he'd give me my cut in product, when it came in. It ain't come in. Jesus, it ain't come in." He was whimpering.

     "Larry, my friend, you know the first rule of the business. You don't give something for nothing. And this money you've handed me? That's too damn close to nothing. How big was your cut in the deal?"

     "Just a quarter, like we agreed. Just a quarter. It ain't come in. He owes me. I'm sweating, Duke, I'm sweating."

     "A quarter of nothing is nothing," Duke said severely. The big man tucked the money away in the inner pocket of his leather vest.

     "There's three thousand dollars there!" Larry hissed in surprised jealousy.

     Duke's head went up and he looked around. There was only one ancient drunk at the bar, and he was immersed in a re-run of Cheers on the TV over the bar. Duke stared at him a moment, then leaned in on Larry.

     "That ring at pawn was worth eight thousand, easy. I deal with your brother because of the friendly discount he gives to me, not the one I give to him, and I wouldn't do that 'cept you and me been friends since elementary."

     Duke reached out and grabbed Larry's scarred, skinny arm with his meaty fist. A silvery steel skull ring gleamed in the blue and red light of the bar sign.

     "Because we're old friends, I'll let it slide for now. But I want these perks; they're the fat on the bone of this shit job. Next deal, I get what I want, or no deal, savvy? No matter how hard you're jonesing." He let the arm go. It was already bruising. "In the meantime, you'll just have to get by on Jimmie's promises without any help from me."

     "Sure, sure Duke." Larry took a bolstering gulp of beer. Duke sipped his own bottle, as if that sealed the understanding. Larry gabbled on, to change the subject. "I don't see how you can take it around those oldies, I really don't. That'd drive me crazy."

     "Hell, you're half-crazy anyway," Duke grinned. He settled back philosophically. "It isn't so hard. Makes me money, and keeps me on parole. I'm not going back in, Larry, even if Springtown's almost as bad as doing time. But I do get out at night, though. And, like I said, there's perks." He frowned. "I don't like being cheated out of my perks. They're what get me through, Larry."

     "Of course, Duke. Of course." The skinny man looked at his old friend and sipped his beer, thinking about his life. He wondered when he had lost control.

 

     Mary Lee Jenner was an eighty-six year old woman with a body like an over-ripe piece of fruit. Her skin was covered with bruises that never seemed to heal, especially on her hands and arms, where intravenous tubes and diabetic sticks routinely pierced her baggy skin. One thing she still had going for her, that many of the inmates of Springtown lacked, was the ability to get around on her own with relative ease. Every day she did her rounds leaning on a pair of mismatched canes that worked well with her arthritis and uneven legs. She was there when the new tenant of 4C was being moved in.

     She rounded the corner of the hall, and there was that Duke bastard with the luggage trolley, all oil and honey, unlocking the room. Next to him stood a shortish skeletal gentleman, dressed to the nines in an old-fashioned black suit, watching intently with hooded eyes while the big attendant went through the procedure with a computerized plastic key.

     Mary Lee had seen some old men in her time, especially since coming to the hospice, and some had been very unpleasantly sick, but this old man took the cake. Without being noticeably infirm, he gave her the feeling that he had already outlived his time on earth, and should have been in the ground some time ago. Still, as he turned to watch her approaching steps, his eyes were purposeful and his movements sure. Mary Lee noted that, and hoped she'd found another card player worth her salt.

     Duke looked up as she approached. He grinned sourly.

     "And that's Mary Lee," he said, as if she couldn't hear him or he didn't care if she did. "She's our little busy bee. Always buzzing around. She'll buzz your ear off if you're not careful."

     "You should talk," she said, shuffling closer. "You need to watch out for this one, mister, he's a bully and a thief. Better count your gold teeth after you finish talking with him."

     "Now that's slander, Mary Lee," he said, feigning hurt. "Sorry, Mr. Horne. Some of our older patients develop paranoia. Don't pay her any mind." He rolled his eyes to indicate the state of the old woman's mind. The door finally opened with a harsh electric bray, and Duke began wrangling the trolley in. It rolled and turned as if the ancient leather cases on it were quite heavy.

     The old man came forward and offered a courtly hand.

     "I do nut minet some company occasionally," he said. He struck his sibilants hard. "It kips life interesting, does it nut?" He lowered his voice and bowed conspiratorially. "Ant I appreciate ze varning." He straightened up, bones clicking into place. "My name iss Simon Horne," he said loudly.

     "Mary Lee Jenner." She shook his hand. Up close, he was even more repellent. His lifeless hair was obviously rinsed in a cheap, metallic hair-dye, giving him a faint chemical odor. The wrinkles of his skin looked unnaturally deep, the top thick and dry, and the creases red and bloody looking, as if he might any minute break apart and leak like a lava flow. His lip was a dried piece of liver that split to show jammed yellow teeth.

     Despite that and his Bela Lugosi accent, she found herself somehow approving of the man. He dressed well and appeared compos mentis; maybe he could be another ally in her struggle with Springtown Hospice Center, Incorporated. As long as he didn't try any of the geriatric romantics so many of the other old goats attempted, going for one last hurrah. Hari-kari by hanky-panky, they called it.

     "What brings you to our little corner of Purgatory, Mr. Horne?" she asked.

     "Alas, I am getting veak," he said. "Zere comes a time ven ze most important think iss to haf someone close to you, ant someone to come ven you call."

     Duke stuck his head out of the room.

     "Come on, Simon," he wheedled. "Let's get you settled down, then you can play with your new friends as much as you want." He popped back inside.

     "How I hate that boy," Mary Lee said. Her voice shook. "I hate him so. I hate this whole stinking place. And you'll hate it, too. Give it time." She was almost crying.

     "Neffer unterestimate ze power of hate," the old man said. "Especially for us old vuns. It is a lifely emotion; it kips the brain yunk. Holt onto your hate. Embrace it."

     "Come on, Simon," Duke said, coming out into the hall. He stood looming over Horne like a cloud over a withered tree. "You can talk to your new girlfriend as much as you want to after you unpack."

     "Indeet." The old man bowed to Mary Lee again. "So gut to alreaty meet somevun so, hm, vifacious, in zis place." He turned and went into the room. Duke stood a few seconds by the doorway, giving her an expressionless stink-eye, then went in and shut the door.

     Mary Lee stood alone in the hallway. She shivered instinctively in revulsion at the thought of the old man's attentions, and shook with gathering anger at the goateed hulk's calculated assessment of her impotence. She was surprised at the strength of her emotions. She wondered when she had lost control.

 

     Rebecca Dixon had a lot in the Shady Oaks Trailer Park, right next to the lopped and leaning stump of one of the namesake trees. She had invited Duke to come live with her after their third date. He seemed sweet and stable, a kind of rough teddy bear. She knew his history, and thought that all he needed was a good woman to guide him. Since then, her expectations and her standards had been sinking, almost imperceptibly. Rather than confess to herself she had made a mistake, she came more and more to accept Duke's view of the world.

     She knew what to expect when he showed up roaring in on his motorcycle with a couple of boxes of pizza and a bottle of wine. It meant he was in high spirits and ready to relieve one of his elderly charges of their unnecessary valuables, in what he called his Robin Hood act.

     "Hello , darlin'," he said amiably. "No cooking for you. Tonight, we feast!" He looked at the table, still covered in dishes and newspaper from breakfast, and wrinkled his nose. "Jeez, what do you do all day?"

     "I was working," she said, hastily gathering the paper and dumping the plates in the sink. "I got a call in to babysit today. I just been home since five, you know."

     He plopped angrily into a chair.

     "You shouldn't be working that part-time shit. You should either get a decent job again or just be a goddam housewife."

     "That would work if I was a goddam wife." She took down a couple of wine glasses and set them on the table with a clunk.

     "God, not that bullshit again. Why should we mess around with what's working fine?" He sighed. "Let's just eat supper, and then when we're full we'll feel better. It's probably all blood sugar. You should hear the oldies bitch when it's running low. And get the ranch dressing."

     She got the dressing out of the mini-fridge and he poured the wine, and for a few minutes they ate in silence except for the scratch of crust on paper plates. After a while Duke began to smile.

     "Hey, Becca, guess what? We got a new old coot named Simon Horne in 4C, and I bet you he's just lo-oa-ded."

     "Oh, yeah? How you figure?" she asked, unbending, interested in spite of herself. She took a sip of wine.

     "Well, you should have seen this guy. Basically he's a walking corpse, but he dresses all fancy, three piece silk suit and everything. If he had a cape, he'd look like Dracula. Talks like him too, in this weird accent."

     "So what? Prolly ready for his funeral. That's what all them oldies are there for anyway, you said, just waiting out their time."

     "No, no, but get this. I'm helping him unpack and there are more silk suits and a bunch of these crumbly old books, in German and Latin and stuff --"

     "How do you know what Latin looks like?"

     "Shut up. I just do." He frowned. For a moment distant memories of being an altar boy flashed through his head. He hurried on. "Real old, probably worth a lot in the right place to the right people. And a bunch of bottles, full of powders and plants and shit that he made me put up in the medicine cabinet. But the one thing he wouldn't let me open was a leather case, a real heavy case, heavier than it should be for its size. You know what I think is in there?"

     "What?" Rebecca smiled. "His truss?"

     "Gold." Duke was solemn. "Nazi gold."

     "What? Pfft! Nazis?" She smirked. "It's been fifty years!"

     "It fits! It all fits!" He said eagerly. He pounded the table happily with a heavy fist. "His accent, the books, his age! I checked his records, and that's a forged birth certificate if I ever saw one. Look, even if he's not a Nazi, there's gold in that case. I can smell it in the way he treats it!"

     "So you're just gonna take it?" Rebecca took another, deeper swig of wine. "Duke, I worry about you, baby. What if you get caught? It doesn't seem safe. It doesn't seem .. right."

     "What would be right? That Osborn got it when the old man pops off? The government? Hell, even he don't need it. There's not any family this time. And when I check into that bag tomorrow during the night shift, if it's just another pile of shit, I'll leave it where it lays, and none the wiser."

     "What if he wakes up and catches you?"

     Duke laughed.

     "I got something from one of the chronic pain cases. He'll have a hard night, but I don't think old Simon will wake up for anything. Hell, as decrepit as he is, he might not wake up at all!"

     "Baby!" she said, shocked, and then laughed a little, pretending that, after all, it must be a joke, couldn't happen.

     "Trust me, it's the kindest thing to do for those people, putting them out of their misery," he said off-handedly. Then he started to laugh. "Think what we could do with that much gold. We'd move out of this shit-hole, for starters!"

     "Yeah. Yeah," Rebecca said quietly, looking around the cluttered, shabby trailer. She had been so proud of it when she had moved out of her mother's house and set up on her own. It used to be so neat, before Duke moved in. She wondered how she had lost control of things.

 

     Duke loved the night shift. No Osborn, no bossy nurses commandeering him, just old Millie on duty at the front desk, reading her romance novels, ass stuck in her chair until the sun came up. Meanwhile he prowled the corridors, making his rounds, moving silently, smoothly, despite his muscled bulk. For all his lowly status, he was master of the Center on nights like these. He was in control.

     He moved stealthily up to 4C, taking no chances. The dose he had slipped the old man at supper probably had him out cold, but ever since his time in jail, he knew that 'probably' didn't cut it. Always be prepared, always have a story to cover your butt, don't leave anything to chance. He took the plastic key card out, slipped it in the slot, and tapped in the code that disabled the door buzzer. The door opened silently and he slipped in.

     ""Simon?" he called, in a voice slightly above a murmur. "Mr. Horne? Did you ring? Do you need something?" In the room, dimly lit by the blue light of the call button, Duke could see an immobile lump under the covers of the bed.

     "Simon!" he said, loudly. Nothing, just the sound of heavy breathing in the room. He pulled out a little flashlight, aiming it at the floor, and stepped noiselessly to the closet door. With a practiced hand he slid it open at just the right speed, to minimize the rolling sound.

     Inside, even its limited space was pitifully filled. Only three black suits, and at the bottom, the mysterious case. Duke took his wallet out, drew a pick from its secret lining, and knelt down before the heavy leather box. He shifted the flashlight to his mouth, and began slowly and methodically to work on the lock.

     It opened with absurd ease, as if it were merely for show. Duke put the pick away carefully. Then, eager as he was, he started to lift the lid up a bit at a time, mindful of any creaks or squeaks. It opened in well-oiled silence until it stopped, held back by two ancient accordion arms. Duke gazed inside in wonder.

     His instinct for the gold had been correct. It lay there in thin bars, unmarked except for a carat stamp. But there was also a tray of cut and uncut gems, sparkling in the flashlight beam; diamonds, mostly, and a scattering of bloody-looking rubies. There were a couple of bricks wrapped in plastic that he would bet was pure cocaine, and half a dozen passports on top. He picked them up and examined them. They were in Spanish and Russian and several Asian languages, and from what he could make out they all bore different names. But the picture on each was of the man calling himself Simon Horne.

     Here were riches that would take him out of this shitty way of life. Away from the hospice, away from Becca, away from Springtown, hell, away from the goddam U. S. of A. The sunny beaches of Mexico were calling. He closed the case with a quiet click, and made to stand up, one hand on the handle.

     "Gut efening, Mr. Duke," came a voice from the darkness. "To vot do I owe ze pleasure uf zis visit?"

     Duke let the handle go, and rose slowly, turning, until the flashlight beam reached the bed. The covers were still up, the lump under them suspiciously quiescent. He moved the light a little to the left. There sat the old man, in a dark satin dressing gown, his hands tented together, eyes glinting in bitter humor in their network of wrinkles.

     For a few seconds Duke thought of apologizing, offering excuses, worming his way out. But something in the smug knowingness of the little man's expression rubbed him the wrong way. His back stiffened.

     "Simon. Simon. Simon," he said, shaking his head. "You've been a bad boy. You should be sleeping right now. You're not all that you seem to be, are you?"

     "No, I am nut," the old man said calmly. "You, howeffer, are eggsactly vat you appear. A thief, a sneak, ant a cowart."

     "Now, that's not a nice way to talk to a friend," Duke purred, taking a step forward. "And I think we should be friends now, don't you? With me knowing the stuff about you that I know now?"

     "You know nuthink."

     "Oh, I think the police would like to know what I know. And maybe Mossad? Them Jews got a long, long memory."

     Horne smiled.

     "No lonker zan mine. But zey bother me nut. My ... oblikations lie elsevere."

     Duke came and stood right in front of Horne, looming over him, cracking his knuckles, cutting off his escape.

     "Look, why don't you just give me a little present, right now, to forget the whole thing. Maybe one of those gold bars, or a diamond maybe. Then we'll be square, until I need something else. We don't want things getting ugly, do we?"

     "It does nut come to your minet, does it, zat I have somevun to come ven I call?" He waved vaguely in the direction of the bed and the call button, glowing in the shadows.

     "Old Millie?" Duke grinned. "Do you really think she could get here in time to save you?"

     "No," the old man said. "But He can." He slammed his ancient palms on the chair arms. "Take him!"

     The covers flew off the bed, and a single red eye bloomed in the darkness. There was a low growl, and something writhed hungrily on the bed. Duke froze in horror.

     "Do nut vorry," the old man chuckled. "He vill nut take all uf you."    

     Before the thing pounced, Duke panicked and lost control, soiling his scrubs.

 

     Next morning two of the regular nurses, Maggie and Dolores, sat in the communal kitchen.

     "Can you imagine Duke just running off in the middle of the night like that?" asked Dolores in wonder.

     "Good riddance," said Maggie. She was older, and far more straightforward.

     "That girlfriend of his was in here, asking for him. Apparently he's just clean gone." Dolores sipped her coffee.

     "You ask me, it was a long time coming. That man was an asshole and a jailbird."

     "How long do we have to watch this guy?" Dolores said, pointing. "What's he frying, anyway?"

     Maggie looked over to where Simon Horne stood over the stove, simmering something in a pan. Already she noted that he was looking healthier, better fed than when he arrived two days ago. As she watched, he deftly flipped something brown over with the spatula.

     "Kidneys," she said. "God knows where he got them. Says they're full of what keeps him young." She shrugged, standing up, and Delores followed. They pushed their chairs under the table. "I guess we can leave him be. He seems to be in control of things." 

Note: Written in 2018. Not one of the Tales from the Bureau of Shadows, but I always think of it as taking place in the same 'universe.' Perhaps a case that never drew their attention.