On The Borderlands (Part 1 rough)

Hell of an ache in my leg.  Must be going to rain.  Good thing I’m wearing my trenchcoat.  Even now, far from the trenches, I can’t escape the need to wear it.  It is one of the best things to fend off the rain, despite how it can sometimes invite the wash-off into my boots.  Good against the New York fog, too.  And the cold New York winters.  My fedora helps also, keeping my head dry, but nothing keeps the chill out of my gimp leg.  Damp, cold pain.  Like a Mauser gone cold in my leg.  As it so happens, it is an old Mauser in my leg.  Medics never could get it out, they said, without risking my artery.  The fact that my artery had healed around it baffled them back then.  Should have bled out, they said.  I did bleed out.  But I am still alive today, for better or for worse.

 She wouldn’t let me die back then.  Sometimes I think she is still here, keeping me alive.

 The sprawl of the docks is like a ship at sea.  The boardwalk sways with the ocean and creaks as if it has a hull breach, keen on sinking.   The boats are in the distance, lost in fog and night and the crowding shadows.  The streetlights lead me along in my uncertainty.  Like a dog on a leash, unsure why his master has a sad face and a loaded rifle.  The dead of New York line the empty streets, like shades on River Styx.  Only I can see them as their apparitions drift by.  Not many living people would put up with the Sight.  Seeing the dead everywhere can really ruin your appetite.

 But the dead are not the people I’m concerned with.  At least, I don’t believe so.  I’m on the lookout for a young man.  His Jewish mother is wanting him home.  Probably went for a visit at a brothel and fell in love with Loose-Lucy.  Or maybe got himself Shanghaied.  Or maybe just left his old mother for another life.  It happens.  If he was dead, I would have seen him in her apartment.  The dead cling to familiar forms of their former lives.  Much like those of us who are half-alive, having lost our former lives in the War.

 I try not to think about the War.  There are enough ghosts on the boardwalk as it is without conjuring more to haunt me.  That old decade is gone, and a new one’s begun, the upstart pup saddled with all of the problems from the old hound dog.  Nobody warned me that the new decade would be of the same pedigree as the old.  Same president, but different war.  Not that I have anything against Truman.  He’s just no Roosevelt, you know?  Maybe he started war with the Koreans because he thinks he needs to live up to Frank.  Maybe there are too many war hawks circling restlessly since 1945.  I don’t know.  Feed them scraps from the table and they think they rule the castle.  I’m no Beatnik, but even I’ve got to say this country’s had enough of war for a while.

 Glad I’m a cripple now.  No war with a side order of conscription for me, thanks.  Then again, there’s always a war going on in New York, isn’t there?

 The bar is called the “Creak-Easy”.  A joke, obviously.  It is on the edge of the city, near the docks.  A good place to funnel some patrons fresh off the boat.  Dock workers.  Sailors.  Fishermen.  The bartender has blonde hair and blue eyes.  Hitler would have loved him slapped up on some propaganda posters.  Only, he is one of our boys.  Navy, I assume, by the pictures of the battleships and sailors and pilots all over the place.  Also, the bloated dead men around him are a hint.  Not much detective work involved, all in all.  Dead men tell no tales, they say, but that isn’t the case at all for me.

 “Hello,” I say.

 “The name’s Dan,” the bartender says, unprompted.  He extends his hand over the counter.  “I like to greet all my new regulars.”

 I hesitate, sizing him up.  I shake his hand.

 “Jim,” I say.  I hold up the photograph Allen’s mother has given to me.  “Private investigator.  Looking for a missing person.  Young man.  Tall.  Big.  Jew.”

 “A tall, big Jew, huh?” Dan says, grinning as he glances at the photograph.  “He’d be easy to spot.  Most Jews I know are little guys with big noses.”  When he sees that I do not share his joke, he shifts uncomfortably, withdrawing his hand.  “Course, they didn’t deserve what the Nazis did to them.  Just saying that your Jew doesn’t sound run of the mill.”

 I ignore his opining.  “His name’s Allen Cronenburg.  Likes to go by ‘Al’ sometimes.”

 “The problem is,” Dan says, “that not many of them come around here.”  He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a Catholic crucifix on the wall.  “Even if he was welcome here—and he wouldn’t be—he wouldn’t dare show his face around here.  Not if he was a smart Jew.”

 “Guess I’ll ask around anyway,” I say, turning to go.

 “Not without buying a drink,” he says, his baby blue eyes hardening.

 I don’t drink anymore.  It gives me a headache, and I see more than I care to see when I’m drunk.  So I try a different tact.

 “You were in the Navy,” I say.  It is not a question.

 “Yeah.  What of it?”

 “Lost a lot of friends to the waves,” I say, trying not to stare too much at the swollen faces of the ghosts around him, behind the bar.

 “Maybe,” he says, shifting uncomfortably.

 “I lost friends, too,” I say.  “In the Death Factory.”

 His scowl dissolves into wonder.  “You survived the Death Factory?”

 “Somewhat,” I say.  “Not completely.”

 He nods.  He stoops down behind the bar and fetches a glass.  He pours a glass of beer and hands it over to me.  “On the house,” he says.

 I take a gulp— just enough to show good faith—and I survey the bar and its patrons.

 “The limp?” Dan asks.

 I nod.  “Lucky I got to keep it.  The leg, I mean.”

 Dan starts talking to me about his own wounds.  I am not listening to him.  One of his ghosts is sputtering with swollen lips, his voice gargling in his distended neck.  It is hard to understand the dead sailor and his babbling, but I get the gist of it.  The dead man tells me his message for Dan, the bartender.  I will tell him later.  Right now I am more concerned with finding the living man I was sent to find.

 “And so I get this shoulder ache pretty badly from time to time,” Dan concludes, grimacing as he rotates an arm.  “Better than dead, I always say.”

 “You don’t know the half of it,” I say.  “But keep the healthy perspective.  Excuse me.”

 I leave the counter and head toward the middle of the room, amidst all of the tables.  None of the ghosts look like a tall, big Jewish boy, so I ignore the ghosts, for now, and focus on the living.  A couple of guys at the far back corner have several dead men around them, their tickets punched to the Stygian shore.  Bullet holes in some.  Others with wires around their throats, eyes bulging out of their sockets.  Mafia men, likely.  One of them smirks up at me—as only a Mafia man can—and winks.  The other one—bigger than the smaller, smirkier one—scowls at me.

 Save those two for last, I think.  I focus on the other patrons before the smaller Mafia man’s smirk loses its edge of humor.  I could use tact with the two Mafia men—butter them up with some jokes and whatnot—but my leg is hurting me, so I just sit down, uninvited.  Sometimes you got to just open with an honest salvo.  Let’s both sides know that there is no flirtation involved.

 “Looking for this guy,” I say, holding up the photograph.  “Allen Cronenburg. You two wouldn’t happen to know what could have happened to him, would he?  He frequented this dock.  Possibly for business.  Possibly for pleasure.”

 “Maybe for both,” the smaller man says, smirking.  “Some of us have the good fortune of business and pleasure at the same time.”

 The bigger man says nothing.  He only nods, his hard gaze unblinking as it, in all likelihood, surveys me for every little bone he could break when need should arise.

 “It can be,” I admit, “but I don’t know the peculiarities of the man enough to know.  You know?  I wanted to make sure he did not get mixed up in anything that wasn’t…kosher.”

 The smaller man— an Italian with dark black hair and a pencil mustache that could underwrite your execution—smiles broadly.  His brown eyes glitter with amusement beneath his fedora.

 “This guy here is funny, ain’t he?” he says to the bigger man.

 “Real funny,” the bigger man says, mirthlessly.

 “And that’s why I’m going to give him a warning,” the Italian says.  “But in a funny way.”  He grabs my arm; not violently, but firmly, and points to his own nose with his other hand.  “We don’t like nosy people,” he says.  “And Jews got big noses, don’t they?”

 He laughs and lets go of my arm.  I smile, but it has no more humor in it than the bigger guy’s openly hostile grimace.  I wait until the Italian’s laughter peters off, then press him while still holding the photograph up.

 “So you’ve never heard of him?”

 The bigger man squints up and down at me like a tailor making an estimation of size for a suit, or an undertaker for a coffin.  The Italian glances at the photograph, briefly, then shrugs.

 “No,” he says, “but you keep sticking your nose where it don’t belong and you’ll wake up to find yourself a rabbi.”  He grins broadly.  “By which I mean you’ll have gotten an aversion to pig’s blood.”

 He chuckles.  His friend—accomplice or partner in crime or whatever he may be—does not share in this joke, either.  His grim expression is set in granite, like a mountain, and like a mountain he is ready to drop those boulders of his fists on my head.

 “What?” the Italian says, looking hurt.  “Nobody appreciates a good joke.  A couple of wet rags, the both of you.”

 “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I say, standing.

 “No problem, gumshoe,” the Italian says, rolling his eyes to watch me step away.  “Happy hunting.”

 I leave their table.  The two Mafia men are not responsible for Allen’s disappearance.  Their table is crowded with people, but none of their ghosts match the photo of Allen.  Their eyes follow me imploringly; wanting revenge or justice or acknowledgment.  I don’t have much time to offer them anything.  There are more dead in this city than there are homeless, and even if I had the money to offer the Ferryman payment to send each of them Beyond, I still wouldn’t have the time to see it through.

 The next person I visit is an old man with the drunken dazzle of the sea in his swaying eyes.

 “Hello there, old-timer,” I say.  “Mind if I shoot the breeze with you for a minute?”

 “It’s a briny breeze,” the old man says, taking a gulp of his beer.  “Awfully salty.  But it’s the way I like it.”

 “I don’t doubt it,” I say.  I sit across from him, the wobbly little table between us.  I show him the photograph.  “Mother’s looking for her son.  Young man, as you can see.  Allen Cronenburg.  Big Jew.  Probably head and shoulders above us all.”

 The old man finishes his beer in one last gulp, then squints at the photograph.  He is wearing a trechcoat, like mine, but faded with too much sun and saltwater.

 “There ain’t no saltwater like a mother crying for her lost child,” he says.  “Big man, hm?”  He rubs his scraggly beard.  “Lots of lads help on the docks.  Different sizes, but few so tall as you say.  Maybe he sought his fortunes over the waves.  Some of us do, and never look back.  Take a new mother to replace the old.”

 “I thought he might,” I say, “but I still need to make sure, if I can.”  I shrug.  “I don’t get paid, otherwise.”

 The old man drinks the rest of his beer, squinting with one eye out the window, toward the docks.  He never blinks.  He seems the type that stares at the sun defiantly, even if it burns out his sea-dazzled eyes.

 “Aye, the payout’s what we are all looking for,” he says.  He sets his empty mug down on the table, in front of me.  “Any sailor worth his saltwater gets a portion forwarded afore the ship sets out to sea.”

 Taking the hint, I pick it up and bring it to the bar.  I tell Dan I need another beer.

 “On the house,” he says.

 “Not for me,” I say, hooking a thumb over my shoulder at the old-timer.  “Him.”

 It is a mistake.

 “His tab is as deep as the Mariana Trench.  I’m not even sure how he got that beer to begin with.  Probably filched it from somebody or suckered them with a sob-story.”

 “I’m not looking for a sob-story,” I assure him.  “Just a trail, or a few breadcrumbs.”

 “You’ll get nothing from him but hogwash.”

 “Regardless,” I say, “I need a beer for him.  I’ll pay.”

 I pay for the beer, then bring it back to the old sailor.  I set the mug in front of him.

 “Thank you, kindly,” he says.  He takes the mug casually, lipping the froth.  I ask him a few questions as he wets his beard.  He ignores my questions in the meantime, then sets his mug down.

 “What you need to know,” he says, “is that men have been dying around here.  Young, old, Christian, Jew, Negro, Pollock.  It don’t matter as to who—they’ve all been turning up dead.  And by ‘turning up’ I mean to say floating up.  We’ve been finding them on the sea near the docks.  Lot’s o’ dead from drowning.  Or so it seemed at first.  Only, they’ve been done a terrible wrong.  Their…well, their lower halves have been violated all bloody.  Mutilated.  And sharks and fishes can only account for so much.  Maybe they all crossed the wrong gang.  I don’t know what Christian would do that to a man to kill him.  A garroter might bloody his hands a little with a little wire, and a hitman might bore a swallow’s nest out of a man’s head, but to do what has been done to some of these boys?  Well, what diabolical bastard would do that?”

 “You think Allen suffered the same treatment?” I ask.

 He takes another swig of his beer, clearing his throat roughly as if he’s got shrapnel in it.

 “Don’t know.  All I know is that even the gangs around here are unnerved by it.  Nobody wants to talk about the bodies.  Even those tough boys over there that you risked your stones to talk to don’t like nobody saying nothing about it when they’re in earshot of it.  Gets them upset.”

 The old-timer chuckles, or gargles glass— it is hard to tell the difference.

 “They go all lily-white,” he says quietly.  “Reminds me of that fellar in London with the knives and the prostitutes.  What’s his name?”

 “Jack the Ripper,” I say.

 He nods.  “Something like him,” he says.  “You don’t want to find a body like that.”  He gives me a knowing look.  “You were in the War, right?”

 “Yes,” I say.

 “Well, it’s like somebody sat on a landmine.  Not a pretty sight.  You know, we used to eat turtles, and one of the ways of cleaning them is to cut off the head and put a hose in the stump, flushing it with water.  These bodies are like that, only reversed.”

 He takes one last swig of his beer, tilting his head back dramatically and draining it to the dregs.  His head sways as if he is ready to fall asleep, but his eyes never shut or blink.  They just keep on squinting.  I wonder if he sleeps with his eyes open, like Captain Ahab ever fixed upon his White Whale.

 “No, sir,” he concludes, “you do not want to witness what we pulled up in our fishing nets.  It’s likely to haunt a man…even a man that’s seen the horrors of War.”

 This conversation finished, I stand up and walk around between some of the other patrons of the Creak-Easy.  Some are more taciturn than others.  Some can’t stop talking; others are tight-lipped as a can of sardines and mercury.  Eventually, someone makes a scene.  Not me, or anyone I am conversing with, but a newcomer barging in through the door.

 “Whooooo!” the newcomer crescendoes, wobbly as a jellyfish.  He is wearing an old, dirty coat and a pair of dirty slacks.  A hat sits crookedly on his head, and seems like it will fall off at any moment as he wobbles left and right.  Ican tell just by the look of him that he has all his shoestrings untied.

 “Leroy, you loon!” Dan yells.  “I’ve told you before to get out and stay out!”

 Leroy’s feet halt, their big boots planting heavily on the floor, but his upper body sways as if he was a plunger struck by a 2×4.  He is a lanky man of indeterminate age, his dirty beard curly and twirly.

 “Oh, Dan!” Leroy exclaims.  “Jus’ lemme’ haf a seagull drink.  Jus’ won drink!”

 “You’ve have enough, by the look of you!” Dan says, scowling.  “Get outta’ here before I have to throw you out.  Go get some sleep!”

 “I can’t,” Leroy says mournfully, blinking back tears I cannot see.  “I ain’t had nuffin’ to eat!  Not won bite!”

 Dan glares all the harder, but says no more.  His anger gives way to blue-eyed pity—reluctantly—and he fishes into his pocket with a hand.  Sighing, he holds up a couple of quarters.

 “Go get something to eat,” Dan says, “somewhere else.”

 Leroy wobbles to the bar, takes the two quarters, and stands there, staring at all of the liquor behind Dan.

 “I said go,” Dan repeats.  “Somewhere else.”

 Leroy purses his lips thirstily, then sighs as if someone told him his childhood sweetheart has died.

 “Ain’t no love fo’ ol’ Leroy ‘round ear,” Leroy groans.  “Jus’ haf to throw mah’selth in the oshun if I wanna’ drink.  Like ‘em lizard people.  THE LIZARD PEOPLE!” he shouts at the end for emphasis.

 Leroy staggered toward the door, the two quarters now gone into his dirty coat pocket.  Smelling a potential trail, I head after him.  Drunks with loose lips can reveal things that others are less likely to say.

 Dan meets me at the door.

 “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but Leroy’s a lost cause.  He can’t offer you any info except what color the park bench is under its seat.”

 “What happened to him?” I ask, still eying Leroy as he goes through the door.

 “Same thing that happened to everybody else,” Dan says.  “The War.  Leroy was a cook on my ship.  He wasn’t a bad guy, just a bad cook.  All he could cook well was his own brain.  And then a kamikaze hit us and he took a heavy kettle to the head.  He has been dazed ever since. Dazed and confused and drunk.  Once, when sober, he begged me for a drink.  Saying he kept hearing ‘voices’.”

 “Lizard men?” I say.

 Dan shook his head.  “No, the voices of all of the men trapped below-deck.  The ship was taking on water and we had to abandon ship.  We…we all hear those voices sometimes.  That’s why I can’t stand the Japs next-door.  I won’t go out of my way to tell them so, but I can’t stand them.”

 “What are they, tenants?”

 “Something like that,” he says, scowling.  “But they also sell food to idiots willing to eat it.  They act innocent, but no Jap’s ever been straight.  Even their eyes are slanted, ya’ know?  Probably been killing people and putting them in their soup.  They’re goddamn cannibals, and I would know.  I’ve heard stories from buddies in the Pacific.  Japs don’t even value their own lives.  Kamikazes will tell you that much.  Crashed into us like they were playing chicken while blindfolded.”

 Japs next-door.  Cannibal soup.  Farfetched, I know, but I think I’ll bite this hook and see where it takes me.

The Afterlove


Chittering cricket in the city, wake

the sleeper eyes agog, double take;

thunder rumbling the apartment above,

rhythms and rapid moans of fumbling love.

An ashtray smouldering on the night-stand,

he takes a cigarette in trembling hand

and tries to think of nothing, traffic lights

flashing dim through the window, up the heights

and rain falling in crackling snake whispers

while he thumbs his lighter the switch hiss-purrs

and fire flashes, a tantalizing tongue;

a drag of the cigarette, his head hung

with heavy thoughts, shadows, old memories

from a former life while the ember flees

from the last bit of cigarette, his face

veiled, the light gone out from that lonely place.

The cricket chirps.  A question?  Or a plea?

He does not answer it, but silently

stares toward a photo that is face-down

of a woman with curly hair, a crown

like sunlight itself, now his world but noir,

that woman gone.  Somewhere else.  Somewhere far.

The climax above gives way to silence

he feels the throb of emptiness, the sense

that Afterlove is like afterlife: death.

It settles in.  He breathes black plumes of breath.

The Afterlove is like the afterlife: unknown

as he listens to a cricket, alone.



The carts rumble and creak, the train slowing

as it passes through the black hills, going

toward the city, and beyond the hills;

lightning flashes as she awakes; she feels

alone, the man beside her a stranger

in her bed, the wedding ring a change her

head accepted, but not her heart awake

in the insomniac country, no break

from day to day, but at night the disguise

slips off and she goes to the window, eyes

seeking the highway and that haunting hint

of what could be, what was, of what he meant

when he sent that anonymous letter

that was blank, unmarked, as if to get her

to fill it with the words she wanted said,

but which, like the wind, could never be read

except with searching fingers now the train

rattles in the black breast of the hills, rain

falling somewhere faraway, on dark glass

like the pane before her as the nights pass

to a cricket chorus among the woods

while dreamers lay beneath nocturnal hoods.

The man exhales, and rolls to his side,

but does not wake, reaching for his new bride,

clutching her vacancy; her depression;

it has been weeks since their last love session

and gloom brings rain, at last, to the window

trickling and salty, sparkling in the glow

of passing headlights along the highway

while she wonders whether or not to stay.

Her heart hitchhikes from car to truck to car,

riding the rainy road, traveling far

out to the city, to the heights and lights

while she stays here for these Afterlove nights


His black snakeskin raincoat slithered
as it dragged along slick, neon streets,
its sibilant song scarcely heard
above the thunderstorm’s manic drumbeats.

Standing in her bathrobe alone,
she smoked a cigarette by the window;
the skyline lit when lightning shone,
her green eyes blinded by the fork-tongued glow.

He passed beneath the storm unseen,
slithering through serpentine streets aflood;
his fanged love was a thing unclean,
a brood of vipers nesting in his blood.

Looking through glass and feeling old
as she counted the purse of silver coins,
his love gleamed so false and so cold—
her robe parted, snakes coiling in her loins.

Noir And Napalm

The night is black coffee— no sugar or cream—
and she appears in the window, a wakeful dream;
her sinuous silhouette beyond curtained shade,
backlit by candid candles that flicker and fade,
the crook of her spine as curved as a snake
and her bustline full, her figure lethal in make.
Below, the red light street lusts lustrously in rain
and a man in a fedora staggers down the lane,
his trenchcoat hiding a priceless photo portfolio,
his body wet from rain and a bleeding bullet hole.
The building is a bordello of shadow and of light,
the staircase rising into the rumor that is midnight
while insomniacs and sleepwalkers idle and drone
like soldiers, with shellshock, wandering a war zone.
She opens her door to him and he stumbles in,
asking her if Lucifer ever stank of so much sin
and throwing the photos onto her Babylonian bed—
sitting down, with a groan, his fedora falling from his head.
The photos are black and white and stained scarlet
with the passion of his spilling heart for his harlot.
She lights a cigarette, blowing smoke at his concerns,
then kisses the bullet hole with fire until it burns—
not to cauterize the wound, but to see if he can still feel
after all of these years in a world so monochrome and unreal.
“Was it worth it?” she asks him, dabbing her ashes into his hat.
He speaks of Vietnam, but she is a distracted, fickle cat.
She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his waist,
her nakedness as stark and waking as the blood he can taste.
Undoing his clothes, she mounts him, her holster to his gun,
and smiles like a cat having caught a mouse on the run.
As she gyrates and clings to him like a vulture of love
he listens to the rain falling, like tears, on the rooftop above.
She is loving him to death, he knows, with each grind
of her predatory pelvis, juicing him like the rind
of a blood orange, colored like the flames of her candles,
and so he releases his hands from her swaying love-handles.
He grabs and tosses his hat at the candles near the curtain,
knocking them over, the tongues of fire climbing as if certain
they could reach heaven by rising from this doomed city,
like devils wanting to escape hell and beg for pity
even as they clamber over one another to reach the ceiling
and scramble together, victims unto victims, all unfeeling.
When she sees the flames, she hisses and tries to pull away,
but he holds her to him, in the bloody bed where he lay.
Seeing the look in his eyes, her scowl softens to a smile
and she continues to make love to him, tenderly, while
the flames circle the room, burning away all night—
all the shadows of the past, cast in the garish neon light.

The barking of black dogs, like thunder, is thereafter lost
beneath the heavy downpour, the sleepless city glossed
with sultry neon lights and angel tears from heaven
while devils set fire to their sins, each night—Eleven to Seven.