Causality - 6. Chapter 4.1: (9 Years Ago)

Chapter 4.1: (9 Years ago)

Queens, NYC, October 20th, 2004

(Alex’s excerpt from Book of Fate)

I am on another wild “ghost” chase. Damn them, why am I here? There are better experts on paleo-nuclear technology and even better spirit trackers. It’s not like I am getting free tickets to watch game 7 of the American League Playoffs. Some cryptic message from a precognitive Tao-Ming member directed me to look for a “ghost” around New York City, in order to find a miniature statue of a “Glowing Eye in a chariot drawn by Seven Horses”. The thing is probably a fusion reactor from the Mahabharata war between Rama Kingdom of Southwestern Asia and Atlantis.

If you ask me, someone should have sent the damn statue to one of our outposts on Sirius or Cygnus a century ago. Sure, it is not a piece of Tao-Ming technology, but it is still too dangerous to have been allowed to disappear into the wild for 5 decades, several of which held the real prospects of a full scale thermo-nuclear exchange by nation-states. We were lucky no one ever figured out the statue was a controlled fusion device; chalk that up to poor imagination from its holders and poorer native investigations on a glowing statue, other than worshipping it as a sign of Surya.

Patrick appears at my side with no luck. He says, “Yeah, I am sorry for being useless.”

Worst of all, I hate making my boyfriend feel like he’s useless. We’ve been at this stuff for a few years, but Patrick is not my ghostly sidekick, he’s my other half, literally. He’s better at reading people than I am. He can be serious, when he’s not ogling at the well-dressed NYU boys and ghosts. I’ll freely admit, they do look cute in their mix of preppy outfits…Fuck, he’s doing it again. I love him, but I have a job to do and can’t get sidetracked by my ghostly gay lover’s telepathic connection.

Sensing he was feeling my distress, he stopped looking, “Sorry, I was just…”

After 7 years, I’ve never been angry about his glances, “Don’t be”. No more words were needed, either verbally or telepathically between us to convey our trust or love.

The current search for the missing statue has led us to a townhouse in Flushing. The Book of Fate only gave me an address after a night of pleading, which is ridiculous coming from an artificial intelligence capable of answering any question ever asked. I think it likes to torture me, but it usually doesn’t screw with me. The townhouse seemed nice, despite lack of upkeep.

After a few knocks on the door, I sent Patrick in, under invisibility, to check out the interior. I focused my mind and using our “Heaven’s Eye”, I saw what he saw. Nothing looked out of the ordinary until Patrick reached a study. There was a ghostly orb floating beside an unconscious human male, who appeared to be in his 50’s and aging rapidly. I noticed that there was a broken urn on the floor, potentially the containment vessel of the ghost. Patrick flashed to the front door and opened it for me. Urns can become holding places for spirits, if the soul does not depart the body or its ashes. However, due to the length of time, a spirit’s energy dissipates. Orbs are one of the lowest energy forms for ghosts, when they are running out of living energy to maintain their integrity. Even without intent, the spirit is indirectly siphoning the life energy from the unconscious man.

When we entered the room, I called out to the spirit, “Stop, you’re killing him.”

The spirit took the form of a man in his 50’s with black hair and a small straggly beard; he looked down in shock, “Fuck Sammy, what happened to you? Last thing I remember was looking at the shop and feeling….Oh my God, I’m dead…”

Patrick tried to calm him, “Hey, you need to relax and try to balance your energy flow or else you’re going to kill him,” the ghost began to change towards a solid bluish aura, “Can you tell us your name, we’re here to help. Do you know what year, it is?”

He looked at us, “My name is Jack and it’s 1977. I remember now…the power went out and there was looting everywhere. Some kids broke into my shop, robbed it, and…burned it down!”

He flickered into nothing before any further queries could be made. I called an ambulance to pick up the unconscious man and went back in the car with Patrick.

I am pissed off at how cryptic this entire thing has been, so I vented to the damn Book, “Listen, can you give me something to work with? I know it was not an accident that we should come here right now before he accidentally siphoned off the old guy’s living energy. Tell me something: a name, a list of events, or even a story about his life.”

The Book of Fate began to display a story:

(***)

The Story of Jack Amos

I was born in November 1st 1925 in New York’s Lower East Side. My Abba and Eemma were tailors from the “old country”. They came here, when something bad started, they called it the pogroms. For the first years of my life, we lived in a small one bedroom apartment. My Abba barely made enough to keep our family fed and put a roof over our heads. It is not to say his work was bad; my Abba could make a “perfect-fit” suit within 16 hours. It was the gangsters, who extorted money from us, and even the cops who wanted us to pay protection money. My Abba cursed that in America, people like them existed. It all made life rough. Then the Depression happened, streets were dotted with Hoovervilles and soup lines after a year. Mayor Welker was no real help to anyone; he was too busy kicking it back with his gangland friends, catching kickbacks, and screwing some showgirl. We were desperate and running out of money to even pay for rent in our one room apartment.

It got much better, when Mayor LaGuardia came into the office. He was the right man to clean up a rotten city. After two years, the entire police force was replaced, the gangsters were arrested, and New York was being built to new heights. I remember hearing an old story over the radio about him running a trial of a woman, who stole a loaf of bread to feed her kids. Instead of throwing the book at her, he fined the entire court room fifty cents, “for living in a city where a person has to steal bread to eat.” My Abba would point him out, whenever he was touring the city’s public parks. Things were getting so much better by the time I turned 9, we moved into a bigger apartment with our own shop on the bottom. It was one of the happiest days of my life. My Abba and Eemma started teaching me how to thread and use the sewing machines. I also met my first real friends and Saul, my first best friend among other things. Saul and I were the same age and we were born a few days apart. His folks owned the local grocery store. We always had free tonics. Those days around the neighborhood were carefree and innocent. I discovered things about myself and the other boys which shaped my life.

Then, the War happened. Everyone heard it happening in Europe, when Hitler annexed those countries. It went downhill from there. My ears along with everyone else’s were focused on Europe, but it all changed in December 1941, when the Japs hit us without warning. After the attack, my Abba went to work at a textile factory, leaving the shop to be cared for by my Eemma. I helped around the shop for a year, basically just stitching and patching since most fabric was rationed for the war effort.

Saul and I enlisted on our 17th birthdays in November, 1942. It took a couple months, but we were finally deployed…to Ledo, India as part of forward scouting for the military engineers for what history will call the “Ledo Road”. In addition to military engineers, there were a lot of Negroes from the US army, who were building the damn road through Burma. I don’t envy their task; breaking cliffs, bulldozing forests thicker than molasses, and fighting constant flooding. A couple of them joined us on scouting missions from time to time, but most were on work detail.

On a scouting mission, my company found a group of Japs in the middle of the forest. They had wagons full of wares and foodstuff, probably from a raiding mission into the nearby villages. We killed them all in a matter of minutes with a line of submachine fire and two grenades. After the japs were settled, my eyes caught on a weird statue on the ground that looked like 7 horses and some kind of big eye-ball in a chariot. The weird eye seemed to glow slightly, which was intriguing. I place the thing in my pack and the company headed back to base.

(***)

So he did have the statue at least in 1943, “Alright, narrow search parameters. I want to focus on his interactions to this statue. I don’t need autobiographical details unless it is related to the statue.”

Patrick made a few mock snores, “Damn, we’re not interviewing this guy for the biography channel or a documentary. Can we drop the autobiography?”

I shook my head, “Since, you couldn’t find the statue at the address; my guess is the thing must be in the possession of someone else.”

Patrick moaned out of aggravation, which for a ghost is indistinguishable with other moans.

The Book of Fate reformed and continued narrating:

(***)

…I can’t believe what they did. I’m no commie, why the fuck did they bring me to this board. After the war, I went to law school and got myself a job starting from a lowly associate working the streets to a partner working on business deals. I spent the last few years making deals worth millions; I haven’t even met a communist sympathizer during that entire time. You think someone like me would be beyond reproach from these vultures. Sure, I get why Hollywood and the unions are being implicated, but young lawyers and veterans are mixed in with the same bunch. What gives these people the right to say I am less patriotic than them? What gives them the right to judge my loyalty to this country?

Rutgers, a member private New York board for anti-subversive activities, sent me the summons to this sham trial. I’ve been pelted with circumstantial evidence and hearsay for the last two hours. I did not put a flag out for VE day, so I must not be patriotic. I did not finish making a pledge of allegiance during a baseball game, I must not believe in American values. I bought a red shirt, I must be a communist sympathizer. How stupid is the average American to think that these trivialities represent what patriotism is? I am nearing my final straw.

After the last round of questioning, I asked pointedly, “Okay cut to the chase, what are you bringing against me? I have done nothing wrong and I am definitely not a Commie.”

Rutgers shook his head, “We have more Mr. Amos. We have a signed affidavit from one Saul Abramsky, who reports you have in your possession a suspicious object which emits a strange glow. While we cannot identify the source of the luminescent, it is not a distant notion to presume this is soviet technology. Also, Mr. Abramsky has admitted to being lured by you through a homosexual liaison to be part of subversive activities. Even without further evidence, we can send this affidavit to the New York State Bar Association as a basis for disbarment under “Moral Fortitude”, which based on your behavior and mental status is severely lacking.”

Saul betrayed me, I can’t believe it. We have been friends for decades, fought together in the jungles against the japs, and shared the same bed. How could he betray me? I loved him….

….Saul brought the damn statue back to the apartment like a peace offering; I slapped him on sight. “You’re a traitor, why did you lie to them about me? Why did you tell them I seduced you? Why did you bring that thing to them as proof I am some commie spy?”

Saul placed his hands to his cheek and angrily responded, “Jack, what we do is unnatural to most folks. They were looking for someone, anyone in the firm to dig up dirt on. They found out I had dinner with Bartley Crum a few months ago. I was thinking of joining his practice and maybe getting my feet wet with his political connections. Now, he’s been all over the news as a commie lawyer with all his ties to President Truman broken. They were going to fire me and disbar me, if I couldn’t name someone else. My folks lost the grocery store last year during the fire; I’m their only source of income.”

I was beyond outraged, “So instead, you put me up on the altar for sacrifice. I would’ve defended you against them. I was in a position to do something.”

Saul shook his head, “That’s the point. You are the youngest partner in the firm, smarter than most people, and a big money maker. They started asking about my relationship to you and questioning your affiliations. I didn’t bring up your name, but they knew everything. All I did was sign off on the paper. They promised to let me keep my job and you wouldn’t go to jail.”

I punched the dining table causing it to splinter and angrily replied, “They couldn’t arrest me. They have no evidence. This entire thing was a fishing expedition. They were just guessing at everything, because we know each other, work together, and live together. You gave me away for nothing and now I have my own hell to live through.”

Saul left that night and never came back into my life. He committed suicide a few years later after a second “inquiry” caused him to lose his job. A few days after being fired, I sold our apartment and went to my parent’s home. My Abba had passed away a few years ago. My Eemma never lived my shame down. She lived the next few years of her life in seclusion at our home; she stopped going to temple and gave up tailoring…

(***)

“Alright, I get why we were chosen for this mission now. Stop the narration and narrow parameters further. I am assuming Sammy and Jack were romantically linked after his relationship with Saul. I need a cross-referencing point between Jack, Sammy, and the statue.”

Patrick noticeably less bored by the story chimed in, “Now, that is some story. I kind of feel for Jack, he’s had a rough life. I never knew the 1950’s were so rough on gays and I thought the anti-communism stuff was limited to Movie stars and Hollywood. The preachy Jim Carrey movie made it seem simple. That was bullshit what he went through; I mean who fucking cares if you buy a red shirt; you bought two the other day.”

I nodded in agreement, “The era was filled with paranoia, anti-intellectuals, and anti-technology advocates. Sputnik scared most Americans. A glowing statue with no wires, a gay veteran with a powerful position, and even a red shirt was enough to prove guilt. Jim Carrey’s movie was just an abridged version of the truth; the singular truth of the era was fear rising above reason.”

I could feel a surge of anger coming from my impulsive boyfriend, “We’re in the United States, not Russia or China. People are better than that; I know we are better, right. What ever happened to love your neighbor? What ever happened to mercy?”

I scowled and replied, “No, Americans are not, nor is a majority of human beings above the primal fears of the unknown. The Tao-Ming spent centuries trying to breed out humanity’s natural fears and paranoia without “total” success. Even among the greatest advocates of science and the unknown, we still carry fear within us. Those concepts are ingrained in our DNA and our souls. If the positions were reversed, not many gay people have the ability to sit back and not judge out of fear, either.”

The Book reformed once and restarted its narration:

(***)

…Crazy power outage is causing everyone to look for candles. It’s 1965, not 1865; we should be past this crap. Lucky for me, I can still do my work in the dark. That damn statue had a use after all; its glow was good enough to be a small lantern. Stitching by hand is a dying trade; I bet half of these new tailors don’t even know how to do double-layered silk threading without a machine.

With just my bare hands and a weird glow to guide my way, all my work is quickly finished. Now, I have time to kill. I could go down to Dirty Dicks and try my luck at finding someone decent for a night. Even if that failed, there were plenty of “trucks” around and I could grab a quick blowjob. No one ever bothered to close them up after unloading at night. Some guys even think the truckers are actually queer and leave it open for that purpose. I loved those trucks; they were nice spots for guys to just enjoy themselves. The cops knew about them, but they didn’t hassle us much, except a few warnings about vice and trespassing.

As I am driving, the city seems to still be alive and vibrant, people are carrying blankets and casserole dishes to their neighbors. That’s one thing I got to say about us New Yorkers; despite being a big city, we look after our own really well. I bet Mayor LaGuardia is smiling from heaven at the city he built. Well, I’m in the village and there’s plenty of action. The streets are lined with studs, which even in the dark you can notice. I licked my upper lip and parked the car on the side streets. I headed for my destination with full intention to get my rocks off that night. However, as I was halfway to Dicks, I bumped into an absentminded kid. He was lanky, skinny, and tall. His shirt was in tatters and he smelled like dried cum and whiskey.

I stared at the kid, trying to appraise his visage, when he shoved me back and slurred out, “Get…you…the fuck…out of…my way. I’m…looking for…action”.

I don’t know why I cared or what clicked in me, but I offered him some help, “Hey kid, you look out of it. Want me to take you home or something…” at those words, he tried to throw a punch, which I intercepted rather easily, “…Come on kid, what gives?”

He half-heartedly tried to get out of my hold, and then began to cry “Don’t give a shit about home, nor does home give a shit about me.”

I heard the sob stories before from other guys over the years; their folks found them in bed with their friends and kicked them out. They’re too young to be given government assistance and too old to be put into orphanages, not to mention the entire “gay” label guarantees no good homes. They live on the streets looking for food and money.

I grabbed the punk and started walking back to my car, “You can crash at my place tonight. What’s your name, kid?”

He looked up at me, “Sam Adler, I can give you a blow job for…”

He reeked like shit, there’s no way I am going to let him anywhere near my dick, “First, you need to wash up, and then we’ll talk about stuff. Come on, my car is over there.”

He just followed me without hesitation or doubt. It’s not the first time I’ve brought some random guy home. After my Eemma passed away, I gave in to my desires. Life is too short to mull over family, friends, or bonds. All that matters is just the pleasure you feel in the moment, because after it’s gone, there’s no telling if it will come back. Still, there was something different about bringing home a tough luck kid on the streets.

The power was still out in the house and being short sighted, I hadn’t realized there was no water coming from the faucets. Lucky for the kid, I had a couple gallons in reserve for emergency; doubt I’d ever really use it if an H-Bomb went off in New York. I tossed him a bar of soap and a towel to go along with the jug of water. As he went into the bathroom, I hid the statue in my secret spot behind the bookshelf. It was still giving off a faint glow, which was made ever more present by the utter darkness. I found my Abba’s old candles and our chanukkiyah, which hasn’t seen use in at least a decade. I lit the nine candles and soon the living room was filled with its warm evanescent glow. I took stock of what was around me and noticed the kid out of the corner of my eye. He was completely naked, which in the candlelight only heightened my sexual urges. He was boney and covered with acne from his head down to his chest. There was a harsh beauty in his features. I could tell by his looks, the size of his pubic area, and his subtle trembling, he was probably too young, way too young for me or anyone else. I could back out now; I could just give him a few bucks and send him off to his next trick. I should, but I can’t remove my eyes from him.

He looked over at me and gave a coy smile, “You ready for that blowjob now.”

I might regret this, but damn it, I can’t help myself…

(***)

I mentally halted the story and gave new instructions, “Narrow search parameters once more, I want to know the moments leading to Jack’s death in connection with the Statue.”

Patrick was wailing like a ghost in heat, “Aw come on, we were getting into the juicy parts.”

I understood his feeling, but we have a job to do. “We’re not reading a nifty story right now; this is work, Patrick. Also, after everything is settled and done, we will need to send him off to the afterlife. He stole someone’s life energy to survive as a ghost; it’s a crime against nature itself.”

Patrick was visibly shaking, “No, I bet you Sam would have given up the energy voluntarily for Jack, if he knew. I can imagine their relationship in a time before social services gave a rat’s ass about gay kids. This isn’t just some nifty story to get people off; it’s real. Relationships are not perfect “barely legal 18 year old guy with friend around the same age” or two kids “playing show me yours and I will show you mine” games. We’re like the weirdest gay couple ever.”

I knew that stuff, too. I am a gay man; I’m not colored by perceptions and labels. Today with all the laws and social mechanisms, I’d probably arrest Jack for sexual abuse of minor, but in the 1960’s, I don’t know what I would have done. Before the HIV/AIDS era, before Harvey Milk and Gay Liberation, what was right and what was wrong? American society turned their backs on homosexuals; despite the rise of President Johnson’s “Great Society” programs. It was not a great society for gay, lesbian, or bisexual teenagers, who were thrown out on the streets by their parents with no shelters, no helpful GLBT coalition, and no sympathetic ear.

As I ponder my future actions, the Book finished reformatting and started narrating:

(***)

…Sam was persistent, “Come on, we can partner up. All you need to do is challenge the New York Bar’s decision and get yourself reinstated. You’ve spent the last two decades hemming dresses and stitching suits. Would a commie spy have spent so long being a tailor in Crown Heights Brooklyn?”

Sam is undeniably the most driven and stubborn guy I’ve ever been with. From the first night he conned his way into my bed with his boyish charms and orphan Oliver quality to now, I was whipped. He’s been living with me for 12 years now. He got his GED and is going to law school on my dime. The age difference somehow doesn’t matter; he’s 27 and I am 52. I could easily be his father

Still, I am even more stubborn in my ways, “Sam, we’ve been over this. I like the way things are. I’ve been a tailor longer than I was a lawyer. Business law has changed a lot; I doubt I have the energy to jump back in. This is assuming that they will give me my license back. Being gay is still not popular even if it is not a mental disease.”

Sam gingerly rubbed my shoulders as I threaded another seam; he changed tactics, “How about moving after I pass the Bar? With my salary, we could move over to the village, where you could create your own line and designs to sell.”

Now that was a tempting offer, I had thought about moving out of Crown Heights for years now. The Negro…African Americans had started to come in and they weren’t exactly the friendliest bunch. Sam and I both know the situation is getting worse with more of them coming into this part of town. It’s not that I am against them moving in; I’ve never been racist in my life; I had fought with many fine people of color during the war. I’ve also felt the sting of prejudice more than once myself. No, this time, it was different. These folks didn’t know about LaGuardia’s values for our city or the unspoken kindness New Yorkers shared once. There was history that they brought, baggage from another place and another time.

Still, looking at the place around me, I could hear whispers of my own childhood. This was the place I fell back to when the world rejected me. This was the place I picked up my life. It is where I fell in love with a stray boy, when the world rejected him, too. I’ve spent many happy years here. If I were to give it up, then I’d be giving up my own safety net. I love Sam, but did I love him enough to give this up. I haven’t thought of Saul in many years, but an image of his face stung me.

Before I could answer him, the sewing machine shut down. At first, I thought it was just the heat acting on the old motor, but the TV set had fallen silent.

Sam and I both cried out in unison, “Shit!”

I found my old hand crank radio, which I quickly wound to hear the latest FM news flash, “This just in…Major Blackout reported in Metropolitan New York…all power is down …Reports…coming…”

What do you do during a blackout? I mean having sex is only going to take up so much time and energy. We got some candles and a gas powered lantern out, to give us light at night. I brought out that queer statue and Sam brought out a bowl of water. Sam discovered while cleaning it with water, it would emit a brighter glow. I never cleaned it with water; I just use a rag to wipe off the dust.

The first day and night passed by rather normally. Without power, we lit our gas stove with matches and cooked only what we could finish. Since it was July and hot, neither of us bothered to put on more than our briefs and an undershirt. In the deepest part of night, we made love like we always did.

Things were fine throughout the next day, but something ominous began to happen. I kept getting feeds from the radio: “Riots”, “Mobs”, “Black youths”, and “Fire”. Sam had gone to the library to brush up on his municipal codes, which was a relief to me. Since it was summer, there were fewer items in the shop and fewer orders from customers. No one needed a new suit in the middle of July, the summer dresses were all sold in June, and school outfits were still far off.

At the hottest point in the day, around 2 PM, Tyrone came into the shop with some other boys. I had known him, because his mother was always asking me to re-stitch her old dress for church. However, I could tell this was not a regular fix it job.

I stared intently at both of them and asked, “What can I do for you boys?”

Tyrone spoke first. “I want my mama’s money back, ya’ hear. The strap fell off again and I’m on to ya’ tricks.”

Sensing the deadly atmosphere, I gave in and reached for my lockbox to give them the refund. As I unlocked it, I heard Tyrone yell, “Grab the money!” I struggled with them, but one of them hit me with a baseball bat and another brought out a switchblade.

Tyrone slapped me and grabbed a wad of cash from the lockbox, “Where’s your boyfriend, Faggot? Is he putting on his panties?”

Defeated, I mumbled out a reply, “Just take the money and go.”

Tyrone grabbed the baseball bat from one of his boys and struck me, “Cracker thinkin’ he can give me an order. Ya’ll know this ain’t just about fuckin’ money. This cracker faggot has been cheatin’ our old ladies for years with his cheap “last minute” fixes. Well, it’s time to get what’s coming to you.”

Those dresses were old and worn out; it was miracle I could keep them wearable for all these years at little to no cost. I didn’t cheat their mothers; I don’t deserve this. They dragged me out of the shop and held me down on the sidewalk. Two of them began to beat me with crowbars. The neighbors stood outside on their stoops just watching as Tyrone and his boys were robbing me. They stole my money, my TV set, my good china, and even chairs. Why won’t anyone step up and stop them? Why won’t anyone look for a cop?

After the last of his boys had their fill of beating me, Tyrone came up to me with the glowing statue in one hand and a box of matches in the other, “See this is how we get even with a faggot like you. You need a lesson.”

He lit off all the matches and tossed it into the shop, I screamed, “No! Please, I’m sorry for whatever you think I’ve done to you. Don’t burn down my shop, my home.”

They must have soaked the floor with gasoline, because the flames had already travelled up towards the second story into my childhood home. As the shock of my loss and the trauma took hold, blood drained from my face and all feeling left my body. I felt death whispering my name and I was ready to go, but I also heard another voice. It was Sammy; I could hear him screaming for me to wake up. I could hear him saying it was his fault for leaving me. I could hear him say, “I love you”.

For a moment, the confusion cleared and I felt like I could see and hear everything. I was in a hospital room and Sam was next to me. I felt his hand holding mine. I started remembering what had happened to me, what had happened to the shop, and…my heart began to race. I heard Sam yelling, “Don’t Go, I still need you”. I wanted to stay, but did not know how. The confusion came back and I felt lost…

(***)

I drove in silence after the narration ended; neither of us was willing or able to make a comment at the sheer brutality of Jack’s final moments. Racial tensions have gone down in New York, but it is an undercurrent, which has never completely disappeared. Crown Heights was formerly a predominant Jewish neighborhood before the 1970’s. As late as 1991, there were still racially oriented riots.

When we entered the neighborhood, I asked Patrick to help me sense for Jack. Our connection allows us to seek out any ghost or spirit without the need for any equipment. We found Jack in front of a West Indian Restaurant. The scorch marks on the building’s exterior implies this was his shop and his home. He was invisible to most people, except those with spiritual senses or in my case, a “Heaven’s eye”.

Patrick went over to him first, “Hey, are you okay? You seemed sort of wacked out back at your boyfriend’s townhouse.”

Jack turned his attention to Patrick, “Is he alright? Did I…Did I hurt him?”

Patrick tried his best to be at ease, “Not permanently. You probably did shave off 10 years of his life, though.”

Jack’s aura turned slightly green, “I didn’t mean to. Is there anything I can do to give him back what I took?”

Patrick shook his head, “No, nothing that would be permitted.”

Jack languished, “All I ever wanted was just a simple life with the person I cared about. I thought I’d grow old with Sammy. I thought I’d…it might sound weird, but I wanted to marry him.”

Patrick laughed at that, “Hey, it is 2004; a couple states do allow gay partnerships and Massachusetts actually lets two guys marry.”

Jack’s ghostly cackles scared a few stray cats, “I figured it’d be them. Those Boston boys always like to be in front of everything from voting out Nixon to two guys marrying. Too bad their baseball team never could get any wind.”

Patrick mischievously smirks, “They’re on the seventh game in the ALCS against the Yankees right now. They were trailing 3-0 at one point in the series, and then came back in the last 3 games; they might just make it this year after all.”

A sudden breeze came up as Jack responded to the surprising news, “I guess its divine intervention.”

While Baseball talk might interest Patrick and Jack, we had pressing concerns. I approached Jack next. “Jack, we need to find the statue you brought back from Burma.”

Jack studied me and Patrick for a few moments, and then he spoke, “What was that thing? Was it cursed or something?”

I shook in the strongest negative; I wanted to be completely honest with him, “No, there are no such things as curses or hexes. Most of that stuff stems from psychological behavior rather than physical forces. The statue is actually a thermo-nuclear device. It needs to be put under lock and key.”

If Jack had jaws, it would drop out of his face, “That thing was nuclear? Holy Shit!”

I shook my head again, “No, it is a controlled reaction. Far more advanced than the H-Bomb you are used to. I’m being honest with you right now, because I want to give you a chance at redemption. Usually, you’d be sent off to the afterlife and punished for stealing living energy even if it was unintentional. However, if you can help us find Tyrone and the statue; I’ll overlook it and help you locate closer to Sammy.”

I’m not without a heart and I could tell this guy deserves a chance at some peace and comfort in his afterlife. With his help, we located Tyrone, who had become a notorious smuggler and gangster in his own right. His contraband and human trafficking operations from Miami to New York placed him high up on the FBI’s internal watch list, but publicly he was clean and a major donor to the black community, so he had political protection. However, there are more paths to justice than merely arresting a crook.