“Hey pal, any chance you can divine the future from those rocks?”

The peculiar words tug me back in to reality. The gruff yet familial tone pulls my focus from deep within an empty glass, where it had been languishing for some time. I instinctively turn toward the voice. My eyes are slow to focus.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, just thought perhaps you had uncovered a new form of melted ice divination. I could certainly use the guidance of a bar stool visionary.”

A gentle chuckle escapes the corner of the stranger’s mouth, where a playful smirk has crooked his lips. He is short, barrel-chested and near totally bald. His bushy dark eyebrows soften his stern appearance and add a touch of beatific wisdom to his demeanor. Though it defies rational logic, it has to be Ed Asner.

“Well Ed, in your future I see the first in a lengthy series of drinks. My psychic powers say Scotch-rocks is your poison of choice. Am I right?”

He smiles and nods his head in agreement. I order a round. Asner insists on paying. I do not put up much of a fight.

“I’m Lou by the way.” He extends a firm if stubby hand.

“I’m Dick. What brings you to this sordid dark corner of Wednesday night?”

I was forced to change my routines following the debacle at the Loft. Not that I could have faced Tracey’s judgmental torment anyway, but Henderson, McEndroe and most likely, some shitheal reporter know about The Serpent. So, in exile, I have set up shop across town in one of those faceless taverns where the erosive powers of booze have worn away the line between old time drunks and young ironic hipsters.

“You know the story Dick, women, job, money, the grinding monotony of modern living, the standard shit. How about you?”

“Cops, demons, corpses, as you say the usual fair.”

“I thought I recognized you.” Something in Ed/Lou’s tone betrays his belabored sincerity. “Your some kinda occult P.I., I’ve seen you at a crime scene or two with that detective from the 9-0”

I am becoming suspicious of Ed/Lou’s intentions. I have been waiting for some sly young journo to finish me off after the hit job in The Banner. It has gotten to the point where most of my old friends are keeping a five block berth for fear of ending up on Page 6. What I did not suspect was that the wretched scribbler gunning for me would actually be a beloved seventies TV personality.

“And what brings you to crime scenes Lou? You’re not a reporter by chance are you?”

His soft playful grin develops a pair of sharp angles, lighting his mug in a more sinister hue.

“I’m a newspaper man Dick, but I don’t work a beat anymore. No, I’m stuck behind a desk for twelve plus hours a day.”

“I suppose you worked in TV for a while?”

“Sure did.”

“Minneapolis perhaps?”

“Right again. Have we met somewhere?”

I really need to stop passing out with TV Land on full blast. Or, at least stop that ancient gibberish from bleeding into my personal reality.

“No, Mr. Grant, it’s just my spooky powers of mentalation!”

I wave my fingers dramatically at my temple and reach for my drink, only to find it disappeared. I try to puzzle out where I mislaid my scotch. Then, a well-manicured hand reaches over me and drops my now empty glass on the bar. A gentle breathe rises against the back of my neck.”

“I better get you home before you’re too drunk to be of any use to me.”

It is Qarin, all stealth and seduction, as is her way. She is just in time to rescue me from pouring my heart out to Ed Asner.

“I find myself in no condition to argue with your proposed course of action. Lou… Ed… Mr. Grant you must excuse me but this beautiful young lady requires my full attention.”

***

I wake to the familiar sensation of my brain trying to burst its way out of my skull. I manage to turn the AC to full blast and pull a sheet over my head to hold back the day a few more minutes. I close my eyes and let frantic images of the previous night’s debauchery scroll by. Glimpses of fevered copulations, teasing, taunting, bordering on violence and ending, as has become common, with me handcuffed to the headboard.

A few weeks past, Qarin started turning up in all of my obscure late night haunts. She and Rex had called it quits after the drugged out disaster of Marcy Ave. I was not keen on hooking up with the recent ex of an old friend but she was very persuasive.

My head continues its relentless pounding. Qarin is long gone but this time she has been kind enough to unlock the cuffs. Reluctantly I crawl out of bed to forage for painkillers. I find a small handwritten note on my refrigerator.

“Thank you for the funky time. Call me whenever you want to grind.”

It is signed with some feminized mutation of Prince’s infamously unpronounceable symbol.

“P.S. Smoothie in the fridge. Replenish those fluids!”

Qarin recently discovered that, though I did not own a microwave, like all good lushes I did own a professional grade blender. She has since introduced fruit and veg into my kitchen’s hitherto photosynthesis free environment and taken to performing unholy smoothie related rites at inhuman pre-noon hours.

I wrestle a half-full blender pitcher from among the empty six-pack sleeves and mold riddled salsa jars. After close inspection, I ascertain that the vessel contains some form of mango tinged Orange Julius. I than hypothesize that this fruity liquid may in fact be a perfect vehicle for early afternoon rum delivery. I track down a bottle of rum under the sink, troublingly close to the Drano.

I pour a third of the bottle directly into the blender jar, liberate a straw from a long discarded take out bag and flop down on the couch next to the cat. I drag steadily on the too thin straw while feebly hunting through the cable menu in search of Mary Tyler Moore re-runs. I eventually give up on the re-runs and just let NY1 run. I gently drift back to sleep as the cat eyes up my precariously perched blender jar full of booze and juice.

A casual thing with Qarin quickly developed into a steady and heated routine. She was a welcomed distraction from the guilt and gloom hanging over me after the demon dog affair. That said dating a younger, militantly nocturnal and seemingly insatiable girl was starting to take its toll. The last week has found me unable to keep my eyes open or my feet moving forward.

I struggle awake a few hours later. The cat is snoozing soundly on my chest. His Hawaiian Tropic scent makes me suspicious. The bits of fur floating in my booze smoothie confirm my suspicions. I doubt mango or rum are good for cats but this little guy is a breed apart. Besides who am I to lecture on nutrition, even to a cat?

I gently extricate myself from under the rum drunk feline and pour the rest of the furry liquid down the drain. These impromptu naps are killing me. MacEndroe’s cash is starting to run out and I need to find a paying gig of some kind. Unfortunately, that often involves leaving the house before sundown and staying awake for several hours in a row. After a few futile rounds of splashing cold water on my face, I hatch a plan to combat my nubile vixen induced narcolepsy.

I pull a large trunk from my bedroom closet. Inside it, I locate a wooden box, an ancient backgammon board actually. Inside the game board are several smaller boxes. One of the smaller boxes is full of keys. Another box is dark gray, etched in runic symbols, with a brass lock three sizes bigger than necessary. After a little trial and error, pulling keys from the box of keys, I managed to get the spooky box open, revealing a vacuum-sealed pack of blue pills.

The pills are some ancient cousin of Benzedrine. I do not know all that much about them but I suspect they may have been behind the Allied victory in World War II. They have not been made or sold in the U.S. in my lifetime. One must acquire them from crazy antique narcotics hoarders or obscure third world countries. I had sworn off the military grade rush a few years back, after not sleeping for two months. I had developed a second personality that, unknown to me, tried to run for city council. But that was a long time ago. If I want to keep shagging Qarin, I was going to have to take drastic action. This is something I have to do, not only for myself, but also for aging hipsters with hot young girlfriends everywhere.

I neck two of the blue devils with some tap water and flop on the couch next to snoring feline. No sooner do my eyes flutter shut, then the apartment fills with a shrill electric buzz that sets my teeth. I panic for a moment, fearing that somehow amphetamine psychosis has been lying in wait for me. After a bit of frantic running about, I manage to isolate the buzzer for the front door as the source of the brain-rattling drone. In my defense, I am not big on surprise visitors. The infernal box has sat silent for so long, I had assumed it had been disconnected or fallen into disrepair.

I slip alongside the blinds in the front window, peeking down through the blazing sun at the front stoop below. The identity of the tall figure, dressed in a cheap wool suite despite ninety plus heat, is undeniable. I hotfoot it down the stairs to greet him.

“Rodriquez, what the fuck? How did you get my address?”

“I work for The Man, we know everything. Oh, yeah and I googled your fucking name. Turns out not a lot of Dick Swingshifts in the borough.”

The Detective is all nervous glances and sweating temples. His anxiety is actually comforting. If he stopped by casually on a social call, it would really freak out.

“Can I come in before I fall down dead of heat stroke on your stoop?”

Rodriguez brushes past me through the vestibule and straight up the stairs. I am left with little choice but to follow him. Something mad is brewing and I want in on it.