The Last Laugh

By Joe Foley

What if you could have a bird’s-eye view of the stylings of a brilliant, yet diabolical, serial killer? A killer whose campaign of horror intersects with the investigative talents of his equal - a driven, talented detective, determined to end the gruesome crusade. Imagine watching up close as their thought processes manifest in a psychotic game, a contest in which every move necessitates the placement of a new game piece – the game pieces being dead bodies. You are invited to witness the spine-tingling terror as it unfolds, right through to The Last Laugh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781642378115

Book preview

Sheila

The Captain began with Maggie Fox, a beautiful twenty-four-year-old transplant from Dallas, Texas. By all accounts, Maggie was the salt of the earth. Anyone with eyes could plainly see from her pictures that she was a real stunner. At five-foot-eight, a hundred and twenty pounds, long blonde hair with the most beautiful dark brown eyes, one had to wonder how long it had been since she’d actually had to purchase her own drink at a bar or in a nightclub. Probably quite some time, given the fact that Maggie rarely frequented bars. She was said to have loathed the club scene and preferred spending an evening in with friends. Alternatively, Maggie would often just spend the evening by herself with a cup of chamomile tea and a New York Times Best Seller. She had been casually dating several men, all of whom were enchanted by her mystifying combination of beauty, kindness, intelligence, and charm. Whenever Maggie walked through a door, the room seemed to tilt in her direction. There was always something very special about her that seemed to make everyone take notice. Tragically, the Captain was no exception.

He finally laid eyes upon her as she otherwise blended in with the rest of the pedestrian herd meandering through Broad Street, in the heart of the financial district of downtown Boston. There she was, walking toward Faneuil Hall on an unseasonably cool summer afternoon in August, without a care in the world. Watching her move, flesh and blood, he decided that her yearbook photograph did not do her justice. No, not at all. She was on her lunch break shortly after 1:00 p.m., holding a Gaia’s Garden salad bag in one hand and a paperback novel, Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres, in the other. He wondered what kind of gluten-free, low-cal dressing was her pleasure. Raspberry vinaigrette? Perhaps. He followed her as she crossed Broad Street and headed toward State Street in the direction of Quincy Market. She was wearing pure white pants, a petite size four, with a tantalizing sheer aqua blouse that revealed the faintest presence of a summer breeze in the air. Shame, she would think, on any man who would dare take notice.

He imagined that she would park her privileged ass on one of the outdoor benches at Quincy Market. Before sitting, of course, she would begin lining her throne with the prophylactic wads that she’d snatched from the napkin dispenser at Gaia’s Garden in order to protect herself from micro-organisms left behind by the hoi polloi. He remained ten steps behind as he followed her. And then, seven. Then, just five. Don’t get careless! My God! Only three. Caution went to the wind. He, the Captain, caught up to her. Finally, he caught up to her. Yes! He was a mere two feet away, and as he closed the gap and continued anonymously beside her, he reveled in the scent of it all. He was close enough to read the inverted tag from the collar of her blouse when the moment was interrupted - so imperfectly. So rudely. Maggie’s cell phone rang.

She answered it with beaming white teeth and wide, smiling eyes. Congratulations, he heard her say. I told you! That is so great! Congratulations, hon! I just knew that he would ask you! Have you guys set the date yet?

The Captain smirked and knew that the balance of Maggie’s telephone conversation was moot. He knew that the date of her girlfriend’s forthcoming nuptials didn’t matter. He knew that the color of the bridesmaid dresses was of no consequence, and that there would be no need to order a dress for the special day in a petite size four. For he knew, then, that Maggie was living on borrowed time, and that he, the Captain, was to call the note. Now the fun begins, he thought, barely able to corral his euphoria. What shall be my way in? How shall I make her acquaintance?

Moments later, a matronly bookstore clerk, whose younger, carefree days remained well camouflaged by the passage of time and an East Coast relocation, approached a remarkably handsome man in the romance novel section.

May I help you find something, sir? she asked from behind her sensible, oversized, horn-rimmed disguise.

Yes, please, the man replied politely, "Corelli’s Mandolin."

The Captain enjoyed the sights and sounds of downtown Boston on this particularly beautiful September day. He appreciated the pierced navels of the young, cellulite-free college cherubs in skinny jeans. That said, he appreciated the more sophisticated talents of the post-graduate genre as well. With his digression halted, the perfect targets entered his field of vision. The Captain momentarily considered moving on from them in favor of a more challenging duo. But just momentarily. The two marks had Tourists with capital T’s written on their foreheads. The elderly female was practically decomposing as she stood next to the granite statue of Samuel Adams in front of Faneuil Hall. Her husband struggled with the camera in his feeble attempt to take a picture of his spouse, who had been holding her position, propped up beside the statue. As he struggled with the camera, his arthritic, disfigured hand dislodged the Miami Hurricanes hat from his balding, weathered dome. The old man looked petrified as he saw the hat blowing away, dancing across the cobblestones farther and farther away from where he stood, mouth agape.

The Captain chuckled as he turned his attention to the statue of the proud and daring Samuel Adams, the base of which had been inscribed with the words A Statesman, Incorruptible and Fearless. Indeed, mocked the Captain as he grinned wildly at the elderly visiting snowbirds. "Fearless, indeed."

He scooped up the dancing hat from the pavement and walked toward them, armed with the charm and looks that had served him well more times than he could possibly begin to recount.

I could not help but notice that you’re visiting our historic gem of a city, offered the Captain, as he brushed off specks of dirt from the old man’s cap before presenting it to him with all the pomp and circumstance of a ceremonial accolade. Welcome to Boston!

Oh, yes, the honoree’s wife answered, Gil and I are visiting here from Miami.

Miami! The home of the Hurricanes! Go Hurricanes! cried the Captain as he handed over the hat, shaking his free fist over his head as if he were the most devout Hurricanes fan alive.

Go Hurricanes! cried Gil happily in response, as he reacquired the hat that he had received, compliments of the University of Miami, as one of the first five hundred fans in attendance at opening day many, many seasons earlier. The old man placed the well-worn souvenir upon his liver-spotted head. This time, he pulled it down a little tighter than had been the custom. Go Hurricanes!

How precious, stated the Captain. Say, he directed toward the Mrs., what are you doing posing here all alone in front of Mr. Adams? Why don’t you allow me the pleasure of snapping this memory for you and your husband of, may I ask, how many years?

Fifty-six, she said proudly, in a loving, affectionate way. Fifty-six wonderful, unforgettable years, she repeated.

How perfectly precious! exalted the Captain. How wonderful, indeed.

You wouldn’t mind doing that for us? asked Gil timidly while handing over the camera to the Captain.

Would you mind taking our picture, young man? asked the woman.

Not at all, my dear friends. Heavens no, not at all!

Oh Gilly, isn’t he so nice? whispered the Mrs. in a voice designed to be overheard. And so handsome, too! she added.

Come now, come now, I’m sure you say that about every local man you meet. But I do thank you for the kind words, Mrs.…?

Botelho, Stephanie Botelho.

The Captain approached Mrs. Botelho with a secret that was moving from his brain toward his lips.

And, confidentially speaking, he whispered to her conspiratorially, if you were only twenty years younger, and I were just twenty years older, you wouldn’t be going back to Miami any time soon, hm, hmm, hmmm….

Oh, you! screamed Mrs. Botelho light-heartedly, as she held her lips with her left hand while playfully slapping the Captain with her right. A trifecta of giggles ensued.

Okay, now. On the count of three! The Captain prepared to take the picture by saying, Ready? One…. The Botelhos joined in at two, then three, and the spectacle was followed by the mechanical click of the camera’s shutter.

As the Botelhos celebrated their historic pictorial heirloom, the Captain looked up to the heavens with teary eyes, handkerchief at the ready, and clapped slowly as the Botelhos approached his post. He removed the camera strap from around his neck and blurted out, Oops, as he bobbled the old man’s camera. Gil reacted like a Hurricanes’ wide receiver, as he brushed up against the Captain to catch the camera before it was fumbled to the solid gray brick and cobblestone sidewalk.

What a catch! screamed the Captain, as he grabbed a supportive hold on Mr. Botelho. Did you see that? Bravo!

The Captain high-fived Gil and congratulated the man of the hour. Bravo! Bravo, indeed!

The Captain then witnessed Mrs. Botelho whispering something into Gil’s ear, followed by Gil nodding affirmatively. Young man, please have lunch with us, implored Gil.

Our treat, oh, please, added Mrs. Botelho.

Oh, I would love to, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid that I must be moving along, now. Go now, just the two of you and enjoy a romantic lunch. And please, please do have a most pleasant visit. Goodbye now. The Captain fought the urge to recoil from Mrs. Botelho as she affectionately reached up around his neck, pulling him down to her level. The attack was followed by a revolting sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Thank you so much! she cried. I’d love to introduce you to my granddaughter. She’s twenty-five years old, and my God, she’s absolutely goooorgeous!

I’m sure she is, Mrs. Botelho, I’m sure she is. After all, the fruit does not fall too far from the tree! However, I really must be going. Enjoy the rest of your visit, now, you promise?

Oh yes, we promise, replied the Mrs.

So long! cried the couple. Bye, bye!

As he walked away from the statue of Samuel Adams, the Captain wiped Mrs. Botelho’s lipstick from his cheek and then looked with disgust at the handkerchief upon which the evidence of the assault presented itself. He thumbed through Gil’s wallet, keeping only the old man’s Florida driver’s license for himself and tossing the World War II-era brown leather wallet and its $344 contents to a familiar bum who was sitting atop two stacked, dark gray milk crates on North Street, begging for change.

From North Street, he walked down Congress Street in the direction of Causeway Street, toward the O’Neill Federal Building, named after Massachusetts legend Thomas P. Tip O’Neill. Feeling nostalgic, the Captain entered the Town Crier Tavern and ordered a pint of his favorite stout, a mere few yards from where Paul Revere and his contemporaries had gathered to quench their own dusty, patriotic thirsts. After extinguishing his own flame, the Captain made his way to Causeway Street and entered Hub City Photo, one of a handful of shops in the area that proudly displayed a sign that read Passport Photos - $15.

Upon entering, the Captain found himself surrounded by photographs of great times past. He focused on an oversized framed, autographed print of little-known walk-on kicker David Gordon sending the Boston College Eagles to a stunning, last-second 41-39 victory over heavily favored Notre Dame in front of a stunned South Bend, Indiana crowd of eighty thousand Fighting Irish fanatics. Looking past that print, he saw another joyous moment in time, when Adam Vinatieri had kicked the New England Patriots to victory over the St. Louis Rams and into the era of arguably the greatest dynasty in football history. As his attention shifted to the opposite wall, he gazed upon a life-sized fixture featuring the front of a Red Sox uniform with a baseball cap suspended over it. There was a face-sized, oval mirror just below the cap. Fans were invited to step up to the mirror, and they would be instantly transformed into a Red Sox player, with the reflection of their face occupying the mirrored oval under the baseball cap. When the Captain stepped up to the mirror and aligned his face directly under the cap, he looked at himself. He did not see the thirty-two-year-old man looking back at him. No. What he saw was a young adolescent, an adolescent saddened in grief beyond belief. The momentary joy that he felt was instantly exterminated by his overwhelming sense of loss. Robbed of his ability to revisit such times with fondness ever again, he refocused upon his purpose and walked in a determined fashion up to the store’s owner, a man of Middle Eastern descent.

I need a passport photograph taken, please, said the Captain.

Right this way, my friend. Right this way, responded the merchant, gesturing toward a circa-1972 metal stool poised seven feet from a camera atop an antiquated tripod. My name is Omar. My pleasure. I’ll take two shots, and you pick the best of the two.

"The better of the two," mumbled the Captain to himself.

You said, my friend? questioned Omar in response to the Captain’s unsolicited grammatical lesson.

Nothing, nothing at all. Just tell me when to smile, responded the Captain.

On the count of three. But you must not smile so much. You know, for a passport photo. Just look down here at the lens whenever you feel ready.

I am ready. Begin counting.

Okay, then, on three. One, two, three….

The Captain then exhibited his most welcoming smile, which was well-practiced and friendly, indeed. After the photo had been taken, Omar fiddled with the camera and walked behind the counter.

How do you like? he asked as he presented the two photographs to the Captain.

They are both fine.

You must choose one for your passport, so have one handy when you go across the street to have it made.

Looking down at the pictures, the Captain realized that the photographs were too large for his true intended purpose. Say, he said as he pretended to think aloud, you are really good. Do you take individual photographs for other occasions?

Not really, sir. Just these passport photographs.

That is a shame. I run a Little League program, and our banquet is next week. I was hoping you could snap pictures of a hundred and fifty or so ball players - all of them are ‘all stars’ in their own rights. I am sure that the parents would gladly pay the fifteen dollars per picture. In fact, the parents may even order dozens of the shots, you know, for family and friends. The pictures have to be a little smaller, though – about the size of a driver’s license photo.

I’ll do it! exclaimed Omar with thoughts of a fat American payday. Of course, I will do it, for the children.

Let me see how one will look in the smaller format, please, before I have them all pouring into your studio here.

Right away, sir. Right away. Just come over here again. I’ll take your picture, just to show you how the smaller photos come out. Ready?

Yes, smiled the Captain.

Again, on three. Ready – one, two, three.

Once again, Omar snapped the Captain’s picture. A moment later, he emerged from behind the counter and displayed the new, smaller photograph.

It is perfect! said the Captain, genuinely impressed with the best smile that he had ever flashed. This will do. May I….

Of course, sir, of course, interrupted Omar. Take the picture, with my compliments. Please.

Thank you. That is so very kind, stroked the Captain. He paid the $15.94 for the passport photographs, and as the transaction was being completed, Omar asked, So, when can I expect the Little Leaguers?

Before the banquet, responded the Captain with a dismissive tone.

As he exited the shop, the Captain paused, closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath of good, old, salty Boston air. He looked at the O’Neill Federal Building, where passports were generated, and he walked in the opposite direction. As he faded from the shadow of the O’Neill Building, he began wondering what type of flowers would be appropriate for his dear, dying grandmother, were he to have a dear, dying grandmother.

He entered The Victorian Boutique, the premier floral emporium in Boston, and approached the distinguished-looking brunette woman who was working rather deliberately on an exquisite arrangement. Upon his entry, a pleasant chime had sounded, and she reflexively glanced in its direction. She then froze, as she ceased working on the floral masterpiece, the importance of which had been instantly subordinated to a matter of greater potential. Then, she asked in her most seductive tone, How may I please you today, Mr…?

Adams, responded the Captain as he thought of the statue of The Statesman, Incorruptible and Fearless, Stephen Adams. He watched as the attractive, thirty-ish woman slithered from behind the counter toward the front of the showroom. Her chocolate-colored miniskirt, as tightly wrapped as humanly possible, rose perfectly over her lean, toned thighs. Her cream-colored, silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough, clung majestically to that which moved so gracefully underneath. The way in which her neck directed him to her perfectly sculpted jawline nearly made him lose sight of the importance of his visit. In a word, she was perfect.

I need an arrangement for my very sick grandmother, responded the Captain, determined not to lose total focus of the task at hand. Would you be able to make any recommendations for me?

Of course, I will. How very sweet of you to be so thoughtful. My name is Juliette Raszner, and I am sure that I will be able to create a beautiful arrangement for you to present to your grandmother. Juliette noted that the gentleman was not wearing a wedding band, and then she turned toward an album stationed atop a delicately crafted marble podium. She placed her hand lightly upon his shoulder and opened the album. Do you have a particular price point in mind, Mr. Adams?

I really do not have much experience at this type of thing, fortunately, responded the Captain. My experience is limited to red roses, usually presented under much more pleasant circumstances, might I add.

As she nodded ever so professionally, Juliette imagined herself on the receiving end of such a gesture from Mr. Adams, and then envisioned showering her appreciation upon him in ways that he would remember eternally.

"For your inaugural visit to The Victorian Boutique, I will ensure that you delight your dear grandmother, at a price point that you will find most reasonable."

That is just fine, Ms. Raszner, thank you.

Juliette, please, insisted the enamored florist. Please, you may call me Juliette.

Thank you, Juliette, and please, you may call me Stephen.

Juliette went to work on her creation, making sure to arch her back and roll her shoulders in an effort, and a successful one at that, to highlight the perfection of her gravity-defying, surgically enhanced form. After confirming the beauty and elegance of the arrangement, as well as the brilliance of the crystal vase, pronounced vozze, the Captain reached for his wallet and looked up at Juliette once more.

Now, began Juliette, that will be ninety-five dollars, including the vase. Will that be cash or charge, Stephen?

Cash, Juliette, and thank you so much. The vase alone looks like it must be priced over ninety-five dollars. Upon the completion of the purchase, the Captain extended his hand. It has been a pleasure, Juliette. You have been so helpful. Thank you.

You are entirely welcome, Stephen, and… added Juliette in a seductive and delicate tone, the next time you are choosing roses, I do hope that you will think of me.

The Captain smiled and nodded affirmatively. I will. Goodbye, Juliette, and again, thank you so very much. As he left the boutique, Juliette reached for the phone and called her best friend to inform her that she had just met a looker, and he was simply to die for.

Oh, come on, Gilly! implored Stephanie Botelho to her husband of fifty-six years. "Please, no more fast food. Let’s have a nice meal. It is our vacation, after all. And how often are we in Boston, huh, Gilly? Besides, we offered to take that nice, young gentleman out to lunch. We offered him lunch on us. Remember? He couldn’t take us up on our offer, Gilly. Oh, please, we’ll save money right there since he could not take us up on our offer. Oh, please…."

Oh, Stephanie, you know how expensive fancy meals….

Please, Gilly, my love, interrupted Stephanie.

You know how overpriced restaurants are in big cities, Stephanie, interjected Gil.

I do, she responded before pulling out the heavy artillery. But I also know how much you truly love me.

Defenseless, Gil and his lovely bride entered the Oyster House, where the sky, he proclaimed as he looked into Stephanie’s cataract-impaired eyes, is the limit!

A couple of house salads, a shared bowl of chowder, a three-pound lobster, a bottle of sensible Chardonnay, and two espressos later, Gil reached for the bill. A pittance, he announced with a wink and nod toward his best gal, when compared to the fifty-six years of happiness you’ve given to me, Stephanie, my love.

I shall treasure this moment forever! replied Stephanie with tears in her eyes. I will never forget it.

Gil moved his hand toward the back side of his Hagar brand, poly-cotton blend, non-wrinkle slacks. As he did so, his hand began the trek toward his well-worn, disintegrating brown wallet. As his fingertips descended, he felt his pillowing love-handle as it spilled over the confines of his surrendering leather belt. And then his fingers invaded the envelope of his unbuttoned back pocket, traveling downward past the pilling bulbs of fabric nested within. And then he felt…and then he…and then, he felt nothing. Nothing. Nothing?

Oh, Gilly, responded Stephanie with adoring, tear-filled eyes. As she wiped her cheek with a finely embroidered hanky, she noticed that a disturbing look had overcome her husband’s face. A sickening look. The same look that had hijacked Gil’s face when he had been told that President Kennedy had been assassinated.

What is the matter, Gilly? Receiving no response, Stephanie asked him again, this time louder. Gilly, what is the matter with you, my love? You are scaring me!

As Gil barely heard the echoing inquiry coming from the general direction of his wife across the table, he remembered the scene in front of the Samuel Adams statue. The image of the young man brushing against him as he, Gil, the man of the hour, had caught the camera and prevented it from smashing upon the pavement. The precise moment that he, Gilly Botelho, had been taken. That he had been had.

What is it, my love? Are you okay? questioned Stephanie.

That son of a bitch, murmured Gil.

Who, Gilly? asked Stephanie.

That son of a bitch, repeated Gil.

What son of a bitch? What is it, Gilly?

"That son of a bitch!" reiterated Gil, this time louder than before.

What son of a bitch, Gilly? Please tell me, what son of a bitch? questioned Stephanie.

"That son of a bitch. The one who couldn’t have lunch with us," answered Gil.

Oh, Gilly, to talk like that! Why do you say such a thing?

Because, that son of a bitch took us up on our offer after all!

What? asked Stephanie.

My wallet, it’s… managed Gilly, …it’s… missing.

Gil looked down at his plate. What remained of his lemon-drenched lobster corpse was looking up at him, smiling at him, laughing at him. Mocking him. Gil blinked, rubbed his eyes, and shifted his gaze back to a dismal-looking Stephanie. As they stared blankly in disbelief toward one another at the end of their otherwise beautiful meal, they said into the empty space between them, in perfect unison, in calm, somber tones, That son of a bitch!

Jason Greko had it all. Had being the operative word. But somewhere along the way, all had been lost. Gone were the congratulatory pats on the shoulder pads. Gone were the cheers. Gone were the adulations and words of praise directed toward him from the principal, Father Jerome Kelly, during four years’ worth of high school assemblies and pep rallies. Gone were the fights among the cheerleaders over the rights to star quarterback and all-time St. Joseph’s High School career passing leader, Jason Greko.

As he looked into the mirror of the custodian’s closet at the St. Francis Shelter for the Indigent, the pride of yesterday succumbed to the shame of today. The helmet he once wore so proudly had long since been retired and enshrined behind aged glass at St. Joseph’s, a testament to the seven touchdown passes that he threw during the state championship game in which his St. Joseph’s Jets defeated the heavily favored Osgood High Spartans, 55-48. As he stared into the mirror, he hated himself for his post-glory transformation. The custodian’s cap he wore today replaced his Jets helmet, and the mere sight of the grease-stained brim intensified his resentment toward those who had forgotten him. Those who had abandoned him. Those who had moved on. Those who had married, had kids, and had purchased homes. Those who had gracefully exited the halls of the past. Those who were living in the present, really living. Those who had dreams of a bright future. A beautiful retirement. A proud legacy. Grandchildren to spoil. He hated them all.

He worked the broom without the precision with which he had thrown the record-breaking touchdown passes against the Spartans. The chalk lines on the football field had been replaced by urine puddles on the floor. The cheers from the stands had been substituted by the mad ramblings from the under-medicated homeless outcasts who had no clue as to the current year, save any knowledge as to what they were babbling about. The hand that had once so masterfully tossed a beautiful forty-yard spiral now squeezed the excess gray water from an experienced sponge.

Greko bent over to chisel free from the floor what he convinced himself was something other than hardened snot that had been summoned from deep within the gut of one of last evening’s guests. The bullshit he had to deal with, coupled with the indignity of being expected to work as a janitor for a bed and a meal, angered Greko beyond belief. His Moron Lawyer, as Greko called him, had referred him to this shelter for losers, and he was now a member of Team Loser with all the rest. The lawyer wasn’t even his lawyer. Greko had never needed one. No, he was a friend of a friend who’d thought that the shelter would benefit an undesirable like Greko. The arrangement that Greko had struck with the shelter was that he would reside there, for free, in exchange for enduring a certain degree of humiliating indentured servitude and submitting to random drug and alcohol screenings. The deal, thought Greko, actually sucked. Fortunately, he’d befriended an equally pissed-off slave of the shelter, whose below minimum-wage culinary stylings were supplemented by his sale of the random drug screening and locker inspection schedules.

Greko didn’t appreciate the deeds of those professionals who had volunteered their precious time to tend to him and all the other inhabitants of the shelter. He did not appreciate the doctor who attended to the needs of the unfortunates at the shelter once a month. The same doctor who’d cured his infected eye, treated his bacterial infection, kept a close watch on a few of his moles and, on more than one occasion, rid him of the crabs. He dismissed the efforts of the dentist who provided a full dental examination, complete with x-rays, impressions, and cleanings. The same dentist who’d filled his cavities and removed tartar, plaque, and other debris that had collected in his Petri dish of a mouth throughout the years. He avoided the services of the addiction specialist who visited more times in a month than all the other volunteers did in a year - combined. He scoffed at the Alcoholics Anonymous survivor who availed himself whenever he was needed, and whose services were always in high demand.

Greko hated the deal that had sent him to live as a slave to the shelter. He suffered yet the additional indignity of having to beg on the streets of Boston just to scramble up enough change to buy a six-pack of beer and, on a good night, some generic brand smokes. He hated his life. He hated those who’d stopped applauding. He hated the cheerleaders who had once lined up to date him, but who now passed him on the street without so much as a glance or a dollar from their Louis Vuitton handbags. It is better, he often thought, that they don’t even recognize me. He hated the nerds from high school who now spent more money in a month on pet expenses than Greko hustled in a full year. But most of all, he hated himself. He hated the fact that he, the St. Joseph Jets’ career touchdown passing leader, had himself been passed by life and intercepted by shame.

As the gritty water squeezed free from the sponge, Greko’s thoughts turned to Courtney. At least he’d had that lucky break. There was at least that. There was now a better place to sleep. A nicer place to stay. A place to eat, apart from the shelter. Thanks to Courtney, a prostitute who, for reasons totally unknown, took a liking to him a couple of months ago as he, a have-not, harassed the haves outside of a bustling downtown restaurant. He’d noticed her smiling at him as he’d intimidated the white-collar diners who, according to Greko, were all in their own respective nine-to-five ways, every bit the hustlers that he and Courtney were. He recalled how she’d approached him, given him some of her smokes, passed him her bottle, and invited him to party. She’d passed him the remains of a half-smoked joint and shared with him the last tokes back and forth, clasped between the tongs of an experienced roach clip. Finally, she’d shared a cab ride with him to a run-down apartment in Roxbury - funded, she’d explained, by one of her johns who preferred to meet with her at desolated street corners, and always very discreetly.

Upon entering the apartment that first time, Greko and Courtney had showered together, smoked pot incessantly, drank until they could drink no more, and had had sex until they both hurt. The next afternoon, when they awoke, they’d had sex again. And again. Then again. Courtney had showered, given Greko a key, and left. She made it clear that their newfound arrangement would prevail if, and only if, two conditions were met. The first, that he would do exactly whatever was asked of him, regardless of the nature of said request. And, second, that he would ask no questions. Period. Those were the ground rules. Just as she had to answer to her constituents, he had to answer to her. Greko, his pride hurting nearly as much as his pelvis, agreed to the terms of the covenant.

From time to time, she would come home with a gift - purchased, Greko assumed but never verified, with the proceeds of her