Through Rose tinted glasses

The trouble that you face when you get about my age is that which every passing day, is that you seem to believe ever more fervently is that you are going to end up alone.

An illogical yet very real fear.

The bigger trouble with this is that you see all your past relationships with rose tinted glasses. No matter how horrid they were, you convince yourself that they weren't all that bad. This is an urge that must be fought. Trust me.

As ironic as it may seem, I think I will always try to live up to her expectations, or rather how she saw me through her rose tinted glasses. To be a better man, not for anyone else, but for my own self.

Ironic. But it's the best I can take away from it.

A vision

A vision,
Deep in my subconscious.

A vision that men dream of,
something that gives a reason to live,
something that I'd want to forget,
something I'd tried to forget.

You stick in my mind,
despite what I've tried.
I don't know who you are,
I don't know where you are.


But you are not a lie,
you are.
And as you are, I shall seek,
And I shall find you,
as you are,
and where you are.

But not before,
Not before it is the time.

And for it,
I must wait.

The otter and the sword (cont.)

I got there early, at about quarter before 8. I think.

Needed to clear my head, the whole thing about the CI. In addition, as much as I hate to admit it, the whole thing about how Cecilia left had upset me. She was breaking my heart. Hadn't affected my confidence yet though. Heh.

I got my regular, at sat at my regular. Got my regular food and enjoyed my regular view. The regular music was playing and the regular smells punched you in the face. I liked this place. In a world of irregular this was my regular. My fortress of solitude. Except the solitude.

I was lost in my thoughts when by brother walked in. Without his regular buddies and cronies. This is was not good, not regular. Pretty fucking irregular. I didn't like the sight of it.

He got his regular and sat himself down.

The chatter began.

"Anything?"

"No. Anything?"

"No."

That settled the progression of our investigations.

"So why did you call me here?"

"Well not to look at your pretty face, Alice! I needed to talk to you."

"Go on then"

"They might be taking me off the case"

"What? It's only been about 2 days since the murder. Have you guys already given up?"

My brother didn't seem very amused. "Not the time for amusements. I think the order came from way upstairs. I am not to involve myself in 'any way, form or capacity".

"So what you going to do?"

"I'm going to involve myself in every 'way, form or capacity. Albeit discreetly."

"You don't know how to be discreet. You just come in loud and dumb."

"Well I guess i gotta learn. And soon."

"Yup, be careful though"

"I shall." He pause, "I need to give you something. Here, be discreet while you open it."

Before I could ask what, he downed his whiskey, handed me a brown paper bag, and made his way out.

I looked in. Discreetly.

Smith & Wesson. Numbers filed off.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The otter and the sword.

God help me i love a seedy bar. I love the anonymity of it. No one here bothers you. No one cares who you are, or how much you make or who you do. There ain't no judgement in a seedy bar.

The Otter and the Sword is where me and my brother come regularly, along with the regular mix of cops, journos and some of the nearby residents. But what has always surprised me is that you often find at least a dozen good looking birds. The younger ones on the force, the recent inductees to journalism and the occasional bold one from the local university. Basically the kinds who dont have much to spend on recreation but still love playing fast and loose. God bless their souls and I hope their kind never ends.

The bar is like any bar you see around these parts of town, dimly lit with an oddly greenish fluorescent tinge. There are a couple of booths on the left side, the bar on the right. At the far end an old pool table, a couple of low overhanging lights and a few serious men hanging over it. Behind the bar, old Butch stands serving the drinks and keeping an eye over any signs of trouble. There is a eight foot large display cabinet behind him stocked to the rafters with cheap whisky. The kind that has exactly the right amount of potency you need after a hard day's work.

Me, my brother and a few of his friends from the local precinct did exactly so. After a day's worth of fruitless investigations, my brother had had enough and told me to meet him at the Otter at half past eight. The same could almost be said about me, my own investigations were leading nowhere, I was fed up, annoyed, angry and needed a bloody drink. The Otter was our oasis in the dessert, it was our home. And the steady supply of distractions for our eyes didn't exactly do harm to the heart.

INTERLUDE - uno

I was born here in a area that could be called both middle class or lower middle class depending upon the time of the year. My brother was about two years elder to me and never missed an opportunity to remind me of that fact.
Six years ago before I was born my parents came here as political refugees fleeing the oppression of Josef Stalin. Born in St. Petersburg ( then called Leningrad), my father belong to a rather wealthy family who had made their money in steel and had multiplied that during the Second World War, along with the favour of the Communists. However, my father was never war-minded and fancied himself to be a rebel journalist. This naturally found him trouble, and despite my grandfather's strong connections and influence, he could not be guaranteed a safe haven in his country and grandfather used whatever connections he had to ensure a safe passage for his son and his new daughter-in-law.

My father and mother met at the Leningrad State University, he being a year elder. They both were studying politics, my father immediately taking to principles of Marx. After finishing that my parents decided to get married. My father was 22, and mother, 21. It was when my father pursued his diploma in journalism, soon after marriage, that he felt a fire rising within him. At the age of 23 he began having frequent run-ins with the Communist Leadership. Within the year he had ruffled enough feathers to force him to leave his Homeland.
My father returned to St. Petersburg only after 30 years, for the funeral of grandfather, it was also the first time I ever saw Russia. However, grandfather used to visit us at least thrice every year and each time he used to recant tales of the Motherland and the War, must to the charign of my father. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like Leonid Brezhnev, and apparently was good friends with him too.
----
At the age of 27 my father started The Midday Enquirer, out of a garage on Frenchurch Lane with his two friends, Jim Bradley and Lester Irving. Now it has it's own building, a 80 year old Neo-Gothic structure called the The Enquirer House on Stravinsky Avenue. Not bad for a short journey of 30 years in the Media business.
I worked there for a while before I left and came here to work for ol' Hannibal. Don't ask me why though, but apparently it's a Freudian thing or something. Ever since then, as you can imagine, my father and I have had a strained relationship. The only bridges being my mother and my brother.

Day 3

Morality and ethics is best left to philosophers. Judgement is however under the sole command of us commoners. A CI was dead, and my brother was fairly confident that one of my colleagues at the News & Dispatch was his 'employer'.

In this town, for as long as I can remember, CIs were for the sole use of policemen. But since the 80s cops here had started to become very unreliable. A CI could not feel safe with his ol' buddies. I could think of at least five or six instances where dirty cops had bumped of their own informers.

Ever since the CIs started favouring scribes, but if my brother's hunch proves to be correct, the CIs will soon have to hunt for greener pastures. Sure, there have been cases where a CI got careless and found himself floating on the Hayworth river. But there has never been a case where a CI was betrayed by his scribemaster.

As these thoughts passed my mind I knew I had to keep my poker face on. I couldn't let anyone know about the information I was carrying. This would also mean that I would have to carry out my own investigations with a greater deal of care and secrecy. I can't let anyone know about what I know, however I can't keep on telling Hannibal that I am getting nowhere, I will have to lie to keep him of my trail. My only problem is Mac, I can't keep him out of the loop, I have to keep informed and hope he wasn't the dirty one.
-----
I got to work at a leisurely 11 am, Hannibal surprisingly wasn't in yet, so I quitely reached my desk and turned on the computer.
There was an email from my brother, he had some more information for me.

Day 2.6: The Usual Whodunit

It was my brother at the door, with a sergeant from his office. On a Sunday? I really did strike me as unusual, but i suppose it wasn't out of the ordinary. He must have some information on the murder.

"How you holding up kid?", he inquired.

"I'm fine. Can I get you something? A drink perhaps"

"You definitely shouldn't be taking anymore."

"And you sergeant?" I asked, ignoring my brother's condescending remark.

"Water", he grumbled. Not a joyful man, this copper.

"So what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you Alice, I'm here regarding yesterday's crime scene, the Sergeant has some photographs you might want to look at."

"But I already saw the dead guy's face enough" I gave the Sergeant the glass and exchanged it for the yellow folder.

"Well you haven't seen him alive, now have you, Katie?"

"I gotta ask, what's with the girl's names?"

"It suits you", my brother retorted. And I could have sworn I saw the Sergeant smile for the first time. Or maybe he it was a smirk.

I take a look a the pictures, a few surveillance, and a mug-shot too boot. Obviously a man with a checkered past.

"What's his name?"

"Well surprisingly, we don't have his real name, even the address isn't real. Only a street name, Billy."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, I'm sure this isn't the first instance of police incompetence. I'm I right sarge?" One quick glance was enough to know that I had received the intended reaction.

"So, a drug related hit?"
"Maybe so, we don't know yet. But I'am showing you these pictures, because apparently he also used to provide someone in your Newspaper with information. A scribe's Confidential Informant, would you believe that!!"
"Pfft!!", the Sergeant chimed in.
"So what's wrong with that?," I added.
"Well, a CI should always work for a cop. We keep 'em alive, unlike your colleagues. But more seriously, it is possible that this is a underworld hit, for you know, talking out of turn."

"Well, then it's a normal Sherlock whodunit!" I stated.
"Maybe, or maybe it may be something else, but what I need from you, is to find out who he was feeding information too." Turning to the sergeant he said, "Could you wait for me outside? I need a minute here"

Putting the glass on the table firmly, the Sergeant walked out briskly.


"What's his problem?"
"I doubt I'll ever have that much time to explain." With a more serious expression on his face, he looked dead at me, "How you holding up Kid?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"
"I'm concerned, ever since she left you, you haven't seemed the same."
"Well it's rather difficult to stay stoic when your girlfriend of 3 years just leaves without even a goodbye."
"Have you heard from her yet? What did her parents say?"
"No, I haven't heard from her and neither have her parents. Can't believe she didn't even say anything to them."
"When you get the chance you better apologise for what you did okay?"
"Yeah, I will," I said, just wishing he would shut up.
"All right I have to get back to the station, the media is such a bitch. No offence." He smirked.
"Oh yes, very funny!! I'll see you later." I shut the door, and went back to the pictures.

How could he have worked for someone at the office, and I not have seen him?