Share
25
Related chapters
I-SHIRLEY 26
I-Shirley BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA Peter Benedict saw his reflection and marveled at the way his image was chopped up and scrambled by the optics of the glass. The front of the building was a deeply con- cave surface, soaring ten stories over Wilshire Boulevard, almost sucking you in off the sidewalk toward the two-story disk of a lobby. There was an austere slate courtyard, cool and empty except for a Henry Moore bronze, a lobulated and vaguely human conception off to one side. The building glass was flawlessly mirror like, capturing the mood and color of the environs, and this being Beverly Hills, the mood was usually bright and the color a rich sky blue. Because the concavity was so severe, the glass also caught the images from other panes, tossing them like a salad-clouds, buildings, the Moore, pedestrians, and cars jumbled together. It was wonderful. This was his moment. He had reached the pinnacle. He had a scheduled and con- firmed appointment to see Bernie Sch
I-SHIRLEY 27
I-shirley 27 The pit boss tapped Peter on the shoulder and whispered, "The manager wants to meet you." Peter blanched. "Don't worry, it's all good." Gil Flores, the floor manager of the Constellation, was sleek and urbane, and in his presence Peter felt scruffy and self-conscious. His armpits were damp, he wanted to leave. The manager's office was utilitarian, equipped with multiple flat-screen panels getting live feeds from the tables and slots. Flores was drilling down, trying to figure out the how’s and the whys. How did a civilian spot something his guys didn't and why did he turn them in? "What am I missing here?" Flores asked the timid man. Peter took a sip of water. "I knew the count," Peter admit- ted. "You were counting too?" "Yes." "You're a counter? You're admitting to me you're a counter?" Flores's voice was rising. "I count, but I'm not a counter." Flores's polish rubbed off. "What the fuck does that mean?" "I keep the count-it's kind of a habit, but
I-SHIRLEY 28
Michael WillsNancy BridgetMike had a devastating hangover, the kind that felt like aweasel had woken up warm and cozy inside his skullthen panicked at its confinement and tried to scratch and biteits way out through his eyes.The evening had begun benignly enough. On his wayhome he stopped at his local dive, a yeasty smelling cavecalled Dunigan's, and downed a couple of pops on an emptystomach. Next up, the Pantheon Diner, where he grunted atthe heavily stubbled waiter who grunted back at him andwithout exchanging any fully formed phrases brought himthe same dish he ate two to three days a weeklamb kebabsand rice, washed down, of course, with a couple of beers.Then before decamping to his place for the night he paidhis wobbly respects to his friendly package store and pickedup a fresh half gallon of Black Label, pretty much the onlyluxury item to adorn his life.The apartment was small and spartan, and stripped ofJennifer's feminizing touches, a truly bleak uninterest
I-SHIRLEY 29
Case #5: Milos Ivan Covic, eighty-two-year-old man fromPark Slope, Brooklyn, middle of the afternoon, plunges outOt his ninth floor apartment and makes an ungodly ssOn Prospect Park West, near Grand Army Plaza. His bed-a break-in or robbery. However, several framed black-and-ofWindow is wide open. apartment locked, no STgise photos of a young Covic with others, family probably, are found shattered on the floor by the windowis no suicide note. The man, a Croatian immigrant whwindow. Therehadworked for fifty years as a cobbler, had no living relativand was so reclusive there was no one who could attetohis mental state. The apartment was covered in only on setof fingerprints: his.Will leafed through the stack of vintage photographsAnd there's no ID on any of these people?""None," Nancy replied. "His neighbors were all inter-viewed, we put out feelers among the Croatian-Americancommunity, but nobody knew him. I don't know where toAny ideas?"He pointed his palms towar
I-SHIRLEY 30
Confluence.The word had been rattling around his mind, andwhen he was alone it would occasionally roll off his lips andmake him tremble.He had been preoccupied by the confluence, as had hisbrethren, but he was convinced he was more affected thanthe others, a wholly imagined position since one did notopenly discuss such matters.Of course, there had long been an awareness that this sev-enth day would come, but the feelings of portent had dra-matically escalated when in the month of Maius a cometappeared, and now, two months later, its fiery tail persistedin the night sky.Prior Josephus was awake before the bell rang for Lauds.He threw off his rough coverlet, stood and relieved himselfin his chamber pot, then splashed his face with a handfulof cool water from a basin. One chair, one table, and a cotwith a straw pallet on a hard earthen floor. This was his win-dowless cell; his white tunic of undyed wool and his leathersandals were his only earthly possessions.And he w
I-SHIRLEY 31
The sun was getting high, and Josephus made haste tocomplete his circuit before the community assembled backin the Sanctuary for prayers at Sext. He rushed past the Sis-ters' Dormitory and entered the Chapter House, where therows of pine benches were empty, awaiting the appointeahour when the abbot would read a chapter of The Rule oSt. Benedict to the assembled community. A sparrOwgotten in and was urgently flapping overhead, so he letadthed0ors open in hopes it would find its freedom. At the reaof the house he rapped his knuckles on the entrancejoining private chamber of the abbot.heOswyn was sitting at the study table, his headover his Bible. Golden shats ot light shone throughthe glazed windows and struck the table in a perfect angleto make the holy book appear to be glowing fiery orange.Oswyn straightened himself enough to make eye contactwith his prior. "Ah, Josephus. HOw are things at the abbeytoday?They are well, Father.""And what progress on our church, J
I-SHIRLEY 32
As an only child growing up in Lexington, Massachusetts ,Mark Shackleton was rarely frustrated. His dotinomiddle-class parents satisfied every whim and he grew upwith only a passing relationship with the word no. Nor washis inner life disturbed by feelings of frustration, since hisquick, analytical mind sliced through problems with an ef.ficiency that made learning nearly effortless.Dennis Shackleton, an aerospace engineer at Raytheon,was proud that he'd passed on math genes to his son. AtMark's fifth birthday party, a family affair in their tidysplit-level, Dennis produceda clean sheet of tracing paperand announced, Pythagorean Theorem!" The skinny boygrabbed a fat crayon and felt the eyes of his grandparents,aunts, and uncles follow himn as he approached the diningroom table, drew a big triangle and underneath it wrote: a2+ b2 = c2. "Good!" his father exclaimed, pushing his heavyblack glasses up the bridge of his nose, Now what's this?"he asked, jabbing a finger at t
I-SHIRLEY 33
The man was thin but extremely muscular, clean-shavenman said.to me?" he asked.all over, you know what I mean?"each other, having a jolly time."Maybe not. I'm just saying what I would have done."and black-haired, with soft fleshy lips and oily skin the colorof hazelnuts. He was Puerto Rican with a strong islandaccent, casually dressed in black slackS and loose-fittingtropical shirt open to the breastbone. He had long mani-cured fingers, a square gold ring on each hand, and shinygold chains around his neck. At most he was thirty-five. Heextended a hand, and Mark had to grab it out of politeness.The ring seemed to weigh as much as the appendage. "LuISCamacho," the man said. How you doin' ?"Peter Benedict," Mark replied. "I'm doing okay"Luis pointed emphatically at the floor. "When I'm in towthis is my favorite place. I love the Luxor, man"ed sipped his beer. There was never a good time foremall talk, especially tonight. A blender whirred loudly.JIndeterred, Luis cont
Latest chapter
