Chapter 4

I was always the kind of kid who impulsively opened his presents before reading the card. That tendency carried into my adult life, provided one can consider a raving alkie like myself an adult, that is. I tend to handle investigative cases in much the same way I did childhood presents, looking at the physical evidence before reading any files that might be attached. Being at a crime scene, holding a murder weapon, seeing photographs or security camera tapes, it just puts me right in the middle of the mystery, and makes me a part of it. I get all caught up in a kind of thrill, much like a child given a gift.

That's why my hand went straight into my pocket the second the door of the Pub hammered shut behind me. The folded piece of paper went untouched for the moment. I was completely absorbed with the cross that had been placed in my care. The brief glimpse of it in the darkened bar had only fueled my mushrooming curiosity. Feeling it in my pocket, and not being able to look more closely, had me chomping at the bit.

"Shit!"

I cursed the sunlight once the little cross came out in the open. Coming from the cool darkness of the bar into the blazing brightness of a late spring afternoon, had my booze ravaged eyes stinging. Until my pupils contracted to the right size, I was forced to get my first impressions of the object by touch alone.

Heavy, for such a small thing; I remember how heavy it felt the first time I truly held one. Cold too, especially for something that had been in my pocket just seconds before. Right away I could tell that it had been carved out of stone, and by someone with talent for such work; A smooth, polished, flawless surface, like glass.

It wasn't a Christian cross, at least not like those representative of the crucifixion. Each arm stretched outward at equal lengths of half an inch from its center. The ends of each arm were flared, like that of the Iron Cross used by Germany during World War I, only more subtle.

I became very familiar with that particular symbol as a child. My dad, the grounded fly boy, continued a hobby long past his own childhood to compensate him in his disappointment. That hobby was the meticulous building of model planes. He built all kinds. But, his favorites were of the first designs ever flown in war. The true dog fighters, he called them. I grew up hearing tales of Baron Von Richthofen, the Red Baron for those of you who didn't have an obsessed father. Pap told dozens of stories over and over of the Baron's deft piloting in battles high above the clouds. A crimson triplane adorned with a black Iron Cross.

This cross, however, was of a more unique and detailed design. The juncture of the four arms united at a small disk, the center of which had a hole bored through from one side to the other.

I blinked a few times, helping my eyes readjust to the light, and finally got a look at the object I'd been fingering. The tactile image I created in my mind proved to be fairly accurate, but details were missing.

Details such as the thin silver ring that passed through all four arms, bisecting them at an equal distance from the center. This ring was so thin, maybe the width of a hair, that it almost disappeared from sight altogether. If it hadn't been for the bright sunlight that I'd just been cursing, I would have missed the slight glimmering completely.

Pinching the cross between my thumb and finger, I held it up to the sun to get a look at the hole through the center. Five silver clips lined the inner perimeter. A setting, now empty, that once held something in place, perhaps a gemstone that had been pried free.

All in all the craftsmanship was top notch. Mind you, I'm no expert when it comes to jewelry, but I can tell the good stuff from the crap. Years of dealing with robberies had helped me hone that skill. People tend to exaggerate the value of items stolen from them.

I can understand their reasons, though. Theft is a violation. It hurts when you realize that something you've worked hard for has been taken. My guess, and this is just a guess, is that by inflating the value of the stolen goods, they hope to increase the punishment doled out on the thief.

Then again, it's probably just for the insurance money. People don't value things as much as they used to. Now days, it's all about the price tag attached.

A cross like the one I held on that fateful day would go unnoticed in a jewelry store. Not enough "Bling" for today's tastes. Something about it made me feel uneasy, queasy even. At the time, I just chalked it up to the lingering effects of Jack, even though that bastard had been curiously quiet for quite some time.

BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

The blaring of a car horn saved my life, giving me just enough time to jump out of the way of a speeding cab. Traffic buzzed past me in all directions. Horns screeched and drivers cursed as I tried desperately to get to the sidewalk without getting killed. I made it, barely, and collapsed on the concrete safe haven, puffing and sweating like I had just run a marathon.

"Jesus Christ," I panted, as the crowd of people who had gathered hoping morbidly to see if I would make it or not slowly dispersed. I felt dizzy, and inexplicably lost; Quite an odd feeling even for me. Surreal. Unreal, like I'd been drugged. It took me a few minutes just to regain my bearings. What the hell?

The entire time I held that cross up to the light I had been walking, my mind concentrating on the object and not on the world around me. Somehow, I ended up twelve blocks from the pub and standing in the middle of Canal Street staring at the sun through the cross.

"Smooth, Nicky... ", Jack chimed in, " ... real smooth. Maybe now you'll take that drink, huh?"

"Piss off, you little shit!"

I spoke out loud, drawing the attention of some of the stragglers who had remained behind to see if I needed some help. My little outburst confirmed to them that I was mentally ill.

"Hey buddy, you okay? You need a doctor?" I looked up to find a tall, thin guy dressed in a blue suit looming over me, with a look on his face bordering on both concern for me, and concern for his own safety.

"Na, I just..." My mouth felt dry. "I've had the flu, the medicine I took is wacking me out." Hey, why come up with a new lie if the old one has been working so well?

He reached down and helped me up on my wobbly feet. "Yeah, well, ya almost got yerself killed out there," he said, while pointing out to the middle of traffic. "You shouldn't be out walking around like a damned zombie."

"You're right." I steadied myself against a no parking sign. "I think I'll take a cab home."

"Good idea, buddy." He put his fingers to his lips and whistled that high pitched tune synonymous with hailing taxis. Almost instantly one stopped, and he helped me into the back seat. "No more playing in traffic today. Go home and sleep it off, alright buddy?"

"Yeah, I'll do just that," I gasped, and slumped into the seat as he closed the door for me. I turned and thanked him for his help through the open window. "Thanks, man."

"No problem. You just get better, okay Nicky?" and the cab took off down the street, taking me away. It was only after telling the driver where to go that I suddenly snapped out of my trance.

"How did he know my name?"

"What?" the driver asked.

"Nothing." I shook my head. "Just talking to myself."

The cab got me back to my building a little before six. My little journey from the Pub to Canal Street had taken a longer than I thought, hours longer, in fact. Missing time. I had experienced it before. All heavy drinkers do at some point, but this seemed eerily different. I hadn't touched a drop of Jack since the night before. Ah hell, I guess some things linger long after the soothing burn of your last swig.

Past the eye opening scent of the first floor coffee shop, and the musty smell of the used bookstore on the second, up the stairs I trudged to find the safety of my office. It wasn't until I twisted the knob on my door that I realized that I could actually smell again. Well, not that I had lost my sense of smell or anything like that, but I'd begun to notice scents again. Drinking befuddles your mind, you tend not to notice little things like odors, especially not your own. Now that I was sobering up the acrid tang of my sweat as it oozed from my pores, carrying the remaining alcohol from my system, stung my sinuses.

If I thought I stunk, I was totally unprepared for what awaited me once I had my door opened. A wave of horrid, nostrils burning, eye watering, and stomach churning rancid odors greeted me.

"Oh God!"

I choked back the bile rising in my throat and took a step back from the doorway.

"How in the hell did I live in there?"

"You didn't!" Jack made his own retching sound, mimicking mine. "That's where you rotted."

Holding my nose, I forced myself to breach the threshold.

"Where do I start?"

"I don't know, but I think you should have a drink first. No sense in suffering through this without some help."

Good ole' Jack; Always a wealth of suggestions. "Not going to happen, so you might as well crawl back to whatever part of my mind you came out of."

"What, and miss all of this?"

"Miss what?" I asked him, as I began to pull out long untouched cleaning supplies.

"You're making a fool of yourself. What are you going to do, huh? Clean up the office? Clean up yourself? Get your life back in order?"

He chuckled.

"It'll never happen, Nick. Just admit it, you're a loser. You always were a loser, and you will always be a loser. Give it up now before you fail again."

He kept that sort of rant up the entire time I cleaned. Some friend! What ever had made me fall into his clutches in the first place? As I emptied my fridge of the decaying remains of Lo-Mein and Pizza, he prated on about how my lifelong dream of being a PI was nothing more than a child's fantasy. As I gathered up the empty liquor and beer bottles littered about the place, he told me I would never know the touch of a woman again, because none would have me.