Rimini and the Young Go-Hards

We met in Florence. They loved hip-hop and rap and straight up gangsta shit. One even wore a Tupac shirt the day I met him. If there is a better indicator of a substantial human outside of a Pac shirt, it may only be a Dallas Cowboys hat. Dutch boys, J and A (even though his name starts with an 'E' but it's pronounced like a long 'A'), they're good kids. One 19 and just staring university, the other 18 and still finishing high school while living at home, they were indeed kids. I love youth, and since I've been on the road, I've had a vampiric attraction to their carelessness and unbending will. The call sign we settled on quickly--and beat to death in our time together--was, "J, A, ladies lemme hear ya now, Y, Z." Because HOVA would want it that way.

We talked about Game of Thrones and Breaking Bad, two shows watched by every single person in Europe. J even offered keen insight into Breaking Bad. He felt it was a satire on America's lack of a safety net. "In Holland, there would be no Walter White, because we have a system." No new junkies strung out on blue meth, a high school chemistry teacher's hands left unbloodied, no protracted police chase hemorrhaging tax dollars, all because they have a system. That had not occurred to us, Dude.

They were, "Euro Tripping," as they liked to say, and I got to ride in the slip stream. We went out in Florence and got absolutely bent. We went to an Irish pub and then to a club. Two Dutch girls recognized they were from the Netherlands only by their dancing. It's some Dutch super power I don't fully comprehend, but they recognize their fellow citizens on sight alone. Fine Dutch ladies, at that. Or, "vlees," as they taught me. Flesh is the literal translation, but a kind of boyish label applied only to that which is Grade A.

J banged some English girl on the floor of the hostel bathroom. He even managed to escape the noose of the dreaded cuddle session. Good kids. We agreed to meet in Rimini a couple of days later. We even booked the same hostel. 

After a punishing walk from the Rimini train station--the kind where you take off your pack next to a street lamp while the sun bears down and think, "Well, I guess that's it for us,"--I made it to the hostel. It looked so close on the map. And a quick note on packs: a good pack is like a child, or what I'm assuming having one of those things is like. You love it to death, it's your everything, but you're always glad to be rid of it. At least for a few days. 

As soon as I walked in, I saw J and A seated on some pillows in the common room. They shot up, and it was big hugs all around. They had already befriended a crew of rowdy Swiss boys and two American girls. One of the American girls taught English in Kuwait. We chatted while I checked in.

"That's cool. I need a job like that," I humored her. Small talk is a tedious exercise, and it's almost endless on these kinds of adventures.

"I can get you a job. All you need is a bachelors degree."

"Well, I don't have one of those."

"Not even a bachelors?" Disdain dripped from her twisted face. "Come on, man."

I hated her instantly. The only one entitled to throw my lack of ambition and direction in my face is me.

I went to my room, dropped my pack, and slipped straight into my swimsuit. At the bottom of the stairs I overheard a gravel voiced man talking about Austin. He was in short shorts, had a flat brush of platinum dyed hair, and a paunch trapped inside a white tank top. Hey, I'm from Austin. He sized me up and didn't like what he saw. An absolute diva, hostel manager, and Rimini party maven, to him, I was some nadir of cool where fun went to die.

"You better be ready to party. This is a big weekend," he growled like an English Harevy Fierstein. 

I left the hostel, grabbed two big Birra Moretti--Moretti, the miserable sunken eyed drunk on the label complete with green fedora casting a shadow over his face, is my Patron Saint--and went to the beach. Stretched out on a small spit of sand, it fell into me. A sensation I've battled against with uncountable childish endeavors and boondoggles, I was feeling old. 30 in some hostel with a bunch of kids. I'll be 31 in less than a month. I drank my first Moretti and fell asleep. Beach sleep is the best, dreamless and isolated. I woke a while later, cracked Moretti number two, and swam in the ocean. The water was warm and shallow.

I returned to the hostel some hours later. The place was already gripped in a haze of cigarette smoke, consumed spirits, and turgid sexuality only the young can excrete with such unbridled aggression. Shower and change, catch a shave, yes, I am going on the pub crawl.

After I secured my ticket for the night's festivities, I was given a band that read, "FOREIGNER," and a red t-shirt bearing the name of the hostel and pub crawl. Handed a pair of fabric scissors, I was expected to customize the cheap tee. To show off my personality. Everyone else had opted for the tank, some more revealing the others. A young American working at the hostel, from Seattle and with an unfortunate name, proudly told me he had been banned from making tanks. Some of the girls complained they were too skimpy. I opted for the toga look. The party maven, who had on a pair of high heels and was leading a Beyonce dance along, took a break to look me over and say, "Ugh. You're such an American."

We drank. Beers turned into shots and shots turned into more shots. The Swiss boys loved to play the game where they'd point at your shirt, and if you made the mistake of looking down, you'd get a nose full of finger and then have to buy a round of shots. Even before we left the hostel, sideways eyes and brazen coupling swept through the little lambs. Eventually we poured into the streets and went to the clubs. At each club we ordered a couple of drinks and were rewarded with two shots on our way out. Around the third or fourth club, my blood went bad. 

This is a phenomenon I've finally given a name. When I was younger, it would spill out onto everyone in an ugly fashion. In my old age, I've come to recognize the moment and excuse myself. When the blood goes bad, my vision goes from blurred drunk to hyper clear. Every face around me is fashioned from my perfect disgust. Howling goons feebly trapped in this mistake of supposed life. I want to prowl around and grind in their ears how they'll be dead and forgotten. How their love will count for nothing. How misery and despair is too good for them. Instead they'll feel nothing, a void from which they are too afraid to escape. The second rate scaffolding they call their person would collapse under the weight. It's like the valve on my well regulated self-contempt is blown open. Why don't these girls choose me? Why am I not your demigod on whose every word you hang yourself like thieving peasants? Why must I know the truth? A little voice turned booming megaphone chanting, "you deserve more, more, more." So I disappeared into the night without so much as a goodbye and went straight to bed.

In the morning, I woke and was upset I had angled for another day in this cesspool of wasted youth. It was the first time I had considered going home. Wherever or whatever that is. I went downstairs and J, A, and the Swiss boys were already awake. Perhaps manufactured, but I could see the hit I'd taken in their esteem. Even J and A, my advocates, looked a little weary of this 30 something. The night was recounted, what I had missed. Believe it or not, they got drunk. J banged a girl who worked at the hostel in the laundry room. Good Kid. Where did I go? Oh, I just have this tendency to wander off. No big deal. Went looking for trouble, went to the beach, laughs all around.

At lunch by myself, the most disgusting hamburger you've ever seen, there was a tempestuous internal board meeting. Any perceived good qualities were dragged out and castigated down to atoms. Bad qualities were exalted and piled on the table, perhaps the only stock on which we can leverage future enterprises. At this particular meeting, Nausea had a strong presence. That fucking burger was like 8 Euros.

Back at the hostel, I did some writing. As Bukowski once noted, "I can't stop writing, it's a form of insanity." Lost in my own madness, the safest place for a mad man, I began to feel better. J and A (ladies let me hear you now) found me and we decided it was time to go to the beach. The three of us, the Swiss boys, and a clutch of big Moretti went to the shore. Of course I couldn't say no to the beers. I'm still desperate to fit in. The beach was nice. We sat in the surf and drank beer and fucked around. Man, those European boys love grab assing. We made jokes about Holland and America. As my spirits were on the rise, I made a joke about how all the Swiss kid's grandparents still had Nazi gold. Not funny. Well, they didn't think it was funny. Still kind of a sore subject, I suppose. So much for healing. 

As Moretti went down and we began to grade the, "vlees," to which there was a bounty, the day felt better. The Swiss boys began to fill their empties with sea water and sling them around. One red headed woman was caught in the fray of such grab assery. As we all turned to each other and giggled, we agreed she probably hated us.

"I do hate you," she called in her American accent. "You just got beer all over me." 

We told her it was just ocean water, but it didn't matter, she wanted to join us. A dancer, actress, singer combo from New York she now lives in London. She had spent the summer in some Italian town taking a language course. She talked tough, didn't take shit, and had an attitude. Good woman. 

As we dried off on the shore, we discovered that we all stayed at the same hostel. Next came the age exchange. She was 21. After a bevy of 18's, 19's and 20's, it came to me. 

"40," one of the Swiss boys sneered.

"Really, 40?" she chirped.

"I'm 30," I corrected. 

"You look pretty good for 30."

"I moisturize."

We made our way back to the hostel. I showered and changed. Yes, I'm going to the foam party.

When I got downstairs I found J. I needed some water and he needed to find an ATM, so we ventured out into Rimini. The first ATM was out of cash, so a short trip turned into a goose chase. A woman with her face painted white wearing an all white dress accosted me for water from my bottle. I finally filled her cup and then she demanded another. It was the first time I'd raised my voice in months. We wandered around and discussed the finer points of Murphy's Law. J occasionally stopped a person on the street and asked  in Italian if they knew where to find an ATM. He lamented how he has to take care of A whenever they travel. Like his mother he said, having to mind all of the passports, itineraries, and tickets. He was, despite what I might think from our time together, the quiet and responsible one back home. His home, Rotterdam, we talked about that, too. On this particular subject, he was passionate.

"We have a saying in Rotterdam, and it's like, 'shut the fuck up and do your work.' We're a builders town. A strong town. After the Nazis bombed during World War II, the whole city was destroyed. There was no place to go, and lots of people died. But even the next day, we started rebuilding. It's one of Rotterdam's most famous stories."

Good kid. He finally found an ATM. 

By the time we returned, a small band was playing on the hostel stage. They played mostly American songs, lots of Pearl Jam, with the occasional English rock standard peppered in there. I found A and the Swiss boys on the terrace. They'd acquired a couple of blonde Canadian girls. Red was there, too. We drank. We drank beers and drank vodka-red bull from a bucket and took shots. At some point A lost hist ticket for the foam party. He had to buy another one. Properly lubricated, we sang along with the band. At one point, the band played, "Blister in the Sun." As I'd been hooting the words to every song, a mic was suddenly pointed in my face. It was the break down.

When I'm a walkin' I strut my stuff, and I'm so strung out. I'm high as a kite, and I just might to stop to check you out. A-na-na A-na-na. Body and beats, I stain my sheets, and I don't even know why. My girlfriend, she's at the end. She is starting to cry. Let me go on, like a blister in the sun.

I was cheered in my effort. The lead singer was thrilled and tried to drag me on stage. Even the party maven looked down from his high heeled perch and was pleased. I guess this old American had a flicker of something similar to fun left in him after all. 

At one point or another we added a Scottish kid who was born in Moscow. He now lives in Glasgow. Under his mop of curly black hair, he kept his eyes trained on Red. He lived and died for her attention. They'd been part of the same summer course in Italy, and he followed her to Rimini. Uninvited. It was clear who was chasing who. And on the other side, who had no interest in said pursuit, much less pursuer.

Around midnight we all filed out of the hostel and caught a bus. Once on the bus, uncut pandemonium. The bus must have had testosterone pumped into the air ducts, because the guys went berserk. The bus shook under the cacophony of competing soccer chants. People banged the windows and pounded the roof and smashed the overhead lights until one of the screens fell from the ceiling. Some chants would start, be drowned out with jeers, and another chant took its place. At any given point the bus seemed like it would split open, launch every screw, exploded from the inside by boys intoxicated on booze and anonymity. One person tore the emergency window hammer from the wall. Someone else used it to smash a window. When the bus finally arrived, J had bloodied his knuckles from pounding everything in sight. 

Where conventional certainty led everyone to believe this foam party would be held at a club, we pulled up to a water park. We made our way through the turnstiles in staggering fashion, and the group disintegrated. I ended up with the dark haired kid, Glas-Cow or Mos-Gow--depending on which combination of his homes you prefer--and a former Navy man with a busted skull. We snaked through the park and followed the thump of bass. Eventually we found a low in the park where the wave pool was located. The crowd was shirtless and massive. Down the stairs and into the throng, we could hardly get our beers before the first foam drop fell from a tower erected in the middle of the dance floor. We quickly got separated as house music and taut, tanned revelers and trips to the bar wedged their way between us. All alone, I thought, "Well, shit..." stripped off my shirt, and pushed into the thick.

Squeezing past sweaty bodies--clad in little more than bikinis and thin films of foam residue--I didn't stop until the low end felt like it might shatter my coccyx and the tweeters shrieked in my ears. I danced my ass off. I danced like I haven't danced in years. I danced with the fecklessness of a long forgotten 18 year old who used to go to raves with his cool older brothers. Arms flailing, feet off the ground, shouting along in a language I didn't speak, it all spun into a climax. A column of fire. 

The DJ started a count down, and in my best Italian, I chanted down from ten with the masses. At, "UNO," the beat dropped and foam spilled from the sky. On the tower supports were spinners casting off rainbow halos of foam. Wide mouthed tubes hung over the edges spewed drifts of aerated soap. Suddenly a mound of foam was on top of my head. I turned, and it was the Navy man with the busted skull. We hugged, chest to chest, and danced. 

It was a baptism of Euro house and Palmolive in a font of sweaty young flesh. Excpet on the other side, instead of some Phoenix returned to his youth, it was a 30 year old who was relieved. Relieved he didn't have to battle through his 20's again. Relieved he could still cast himself on the tide of heavy beats with no regard for elusive cool. Relieved he got to be on some far off coast--a place once relegated to untouchable daydream--doing something utterly ridiculous. The DJ rounded out his set, and I emerged from the pit a man in full. Well, as close as I'd ever let myself get.

The party moved into an area in the middle of the park, a covered amphitheater where another DJ rattled off some deep trance. If that's what the kids still call it. I turned in one side and saw Red making out with one of the Swiss boys. I made my way further in and found J and A. We hugged and danced and bought each other drinks. The Canadian girls danced on a barrier and looked down at me with big smiles. One ran her hands through my slicked back hair and laughed. The American girl who judged me for not having a degree was being soundly ignored by the Swiss kid who plugged her the night before. He'd found someone better. It made me happy. A drink got knocked onto one of the Swiss guys. For some reason, he got real bent out of shape at me. My drink was intact. His friends told me to ignore him, so I did. Eventually Glas-Cow found us. Exasperated and shirtless, he had one predictable question. Have you seen Red?

"Yeah, I saw her over at the edge making out with one of the Swiss dudes," I guffawed out of my shit eater. 

Instantly, like I offered him the answer on his mother's gravestone, he was devastated.

"I'm gonna see if I can go find her," he replied broken to bits.

"Why?" I called, but he had already pushed past me.

A few minutes later he returned to me, his face darkened into something degrees deeper than a scowl. "Will you come have a cigarette with me?"

Sure, why not. I followed him out of the dome. We settled on a patch of grass largely reserved for the league of heavy petters. One guy had his hand buried so far in his girl's yellow bikini bottom you couldn't see wrist. 

Glas-Cow sat and smoldered for a minute. I waited for him to talk.

"You know, it doesn't piss me off she didn't choose me, but why that asshole?"

"I think it does piss you off she didn't choose you," I replied.

"She's just so smart and so confident, why would she...settle for that?" He spit the last few words from his mouth like poison.

"Man, you can't let it bother you. We're in the middle of a fantasy. An illusion. We're all allowed to live outside of our respectable selves for a few days. In real life, that Swiss cat might not stand a chance--I don't know--but tonight..." I shrugged. "I mean, he's got a six pack." 

There was no humoring him. "No, fuck that. It's because I'm not an asshole. People think I'm a nice guy, but I'm not. I can be a real..." his voice trailed off.

"How old are you?" I asked.

He turned his face to me, downcast. "I'm 16," he whispered.

But a young thing. "No offense," I measured my words, excelling at insult and injury, it was clear he couldn't stand much more of either, "but a 16 year old and 21 year old, that's...it's ambitious, brother."

"I didn't expect her to be in love with me, but I expected her to at least get with someone...worthy of her."

"Well, that's not for you or me to decide."

"To be honest, and you can't tell anyone this, if we got to the hostel and she was crying because something bad had happened...I'd be happy."

I like to write, kid. You can't tell me anything. "That's...well, that's pretty harsh. But I'd be lying if I said I haven't felt equally insane things about the women I've loved."

He lit a cigarette, the flame like the fire under his rolling boil. 

"Are you, and feel free to lie to me, are you still a virgin?" I queried. 

He lit up like a Roman candle. "Not since two weeks ago!"

"Good man," I patted him on the back.

"A girl from the program. We went out one night, got wasted, got back to the dorm, and just decided to go for it."

"Well, hell, young'un, you've done better than me this summer." I could see his mind purge the small victory and switch immediately back to Red.

"We hung out all the time. When it's just us..." he dismissed the ill got fantasy, "I thought she had character. But not anymore. I wish I was enough of an asshole to not feel anything. She'd LOVE me then," he sneered.

I saw his disgust, his stupid, angry heart scattered in pieces around his hunched frame. Instead of trying to gauze his wounds with bullshit "Good Advice," brand advice, I put my arm around this trembling fawn and told him what I wish someone had told me at 16.

"Yeah man, it's good to be an asshole sometimes. Every now and then, you should wanna watch the world burn."

"Believe me, I do," he replied.

"And feelings and shit, fucking awful. Other people, especially the people you like, the worst. You're either gonna be trapped, beholden to someone who likes you too much, or you're gonna be grasping at someone going the opposite direction. And you'll try to keep them. But you can't. And you won't. Equilibrium is fleeting, almost like a myth."

I talked with my cigarette, waiving it in the dark like I was conducting a symphony.

"And it's gonna turn to shit right in your mouth more times than it doesn't. You know a zero of an nth of a percentile of a person. Even the people you give the most. People talk about love, like its some constant, but it's not. Gravity is science, love is... Really, it's a pretty cruel expectation. It's not even a thing, not in a quantifiable way.. It's happy coincidence. At best!"

He tried to interject a couple of times, but I was on a roll. Preach.

"No, at best, it will all end in hurt. Even if you find the love of your life, and it's perfect, one day you'll stand over her grave. Or, if you're lucky, she'll be left to cry over yours. You'll never be accountable for anyone else's choices. You've just got to take what they give you. That's all you get to keep. But, in that, they can never take it from you."

I paused and he looked to me, eyes wrought with teen tragedy. I tightened my grip on his shoulder and brought him in for whatever condolence my sweaty, bro half-hug could count. Good kid.

"Unfortunately, you've still got the worst part of it in front of you. But..." I sighed, "if all of that madness doesn't make you want to pull your heart out of your chest and dive into the fray, you don't deserve to be human."

I took my arm from around his skinny white shoulders, his concave chest pointed inward, and added one last piece. Maybe the only part that matters. "Oh, and get a couple of girls and just hurt the shit out of their feelings. You'll be better for it. And trust me, you're gonna get yours. Might as well make it count."

After a few moments, he chuckled, "Is there anything good?"

"Sure there is. But we've all heard enough about that. Maybe too much."

"Shite," he grumbled in his Moscow come Scottish brogue. 

I planted my hand into his naked back, "It sure is. The stuff of life, my boy."

And as we sat there, the far off repetition of bass and treble tossing sexually charged drunks into one another, I felt really good. I'd turned a corner. I got to be the Elder Statesman, the shepherd doing my best to guide the children through the craggy pass of youth. Even if one word found purchase in his young, uncertain soil, that's kind deed enough for me. And as my words played back in my head, as all advice we give is really advice for ourselves, I uncovered a long imprisoned feeling. I want to love again. This time, with feeling.

Me and Glas-Cow made our way to the bus and headed back into Rimini. In a cafe by the hostel, we found J and the two Canadian girls. J had almost gotten into a fight with the terribly named Seattleite who worked at the hostel. Was it...Thadson or Ketcherly? I forget, but it was that terrible. As it turns out, one of the Canadian girls had hooked up with him the night before, and she had no interest tonight. He saw J as a natural rival and they had it out. It didn't come to blows, even though J would have rolled that jerk off, but threats were uttered. The fellow with the terrible name's parting salvo was, "Well, no new friends." The dreaded Drake diss.

They ate, Glas-Cow had a coke, me and the other Canadian girl talked about country music.

"You like old school country?" she asked. 

Oh boy, a kindred spirit of sorts? "Sure, I love, like, Jimmie Rodgers."

"I mean, like, Garth Brooks."

I was seven when his first album came out, old school indeed. "I'm more of a George Strait man." 

A wandered through the door with hugs for everyone. Glas-Cow began to shift his irrational admiration to one of the Canadian girls (who he would follow to Rome. Uninvited). J grinned surrounded by his no new friends. And I sung, "Carrying Your Love With Me," to my country loving Canadian friend.

"Oh my God! Do you know every word?" she asked, sure to be part of an effort to get something else to come from my mouth.

"Man, Monte knows, like, everything," J added.

"Yeah, you're like an encyclopedia, man," A chimed in.

"I don't know about that," I added, eager to hear more. "Maybe Wikipedia, poorly sourced."

"Well, you have knowledge on all sorts of things. It's cool," J offered. 

"How long are you traveling, Texas?" the other Canadian girls asked. Their name for me was Texas. I won't waste the words telling you how much I loved that. Or maybe I will.

"Six months," I replied.

"That's amazing. By yourself? I couldn't do that," she returned with what little admiration her indifferent character would afford me.

"Well, kids..." I said putting my arms around the ones I could reach, "maybe someday when you're all grown up like Uncle Monte, you can hope to be so cool, too."

They laughed. That's right, I'm 30. About to be 31. 

And with that, as I laid on the beach detoxing in Puglia two days later, Birra Moretti in hand--cause you can't just stop all at once, that's how you die--I realized it was time for me to leave Europe. 

This old continent has given me enough. And there is a lot of world to see.

Vienna and the Third Man

I

I didn't think much of it the first two days. A man doesn't need to be accounted for. And what a man this lug was. I only had an abandoned pack to go on, but he had the extra large Deuter pack with a blue and yellow Swedish flag sewed to the front. Set next to this size 48 sandals, he had to be a seven footer. Had to be a big Swede. A big, seven foot Swede with hair as blonde as the swimsuit girls. I'm not a concerned person, people get themselves in messes and I'm not inclined to even be on the edge of the spill, but damned if I'm a curious sort. When a man hasn't been seen in three days, when his sheets haven't even so much as shifted a square inch, like I said, I'm a helluva curious sort.

I woke up, mouth sour from all the cheap Viennese beer I'd taken to, and I looked at his bed still laid out like an exhibit. Travel book by his pillow--something about traveling Europe for cheap if Google translate's Swedish is worth a damn--a pair of flip flops half showing from under the bunk, a few well folded shirts, and his hat. Who leaves without their hat? Three nights I'd been in this flop and not so much as whiff of lutfisk from the big fella.

Vienna is a nice town. Nice as any burg on this old continent, I guess. They keep the streets clean and every garbage can has a long cylinder attached to it made up to look like a smoke, cause that's where your butts go. Visual association, and all that. The kebab is cheap, the waiters are rude, and the German is queer. More queer than regular kraut anyway. Vienna is a nice town.

I went to the common room and ate some breakfast. Two cups of coffee and toast, which is all these damn Europeans seem to eat. Didn't their mothers ever tell 'em about breakfast? I scanned the room for Sven, my nickname for the big fella. There was a Kon Tiki group traveling together from Australia. 55 strong. They filled the bar every night, wrecked the place, came out half soaked, three quarters naked, and full drunk. A mess the damn kids, but without them there'd be no sullen drinkers at the end of the bar, my spot. These Aussie girls seem real kind, too. Let 'em pile on the bed like chickens on a roost. Maybe Sven had just gotten to climb in the old kangaroo pouch, but there was no sign of him.

"What is that in centimeters?" Behind the desk was a smug French kid in a cabbie hat who looked like a young Paul Newman.

Centimeters. "Around 210, give or take."

He creased his brow impressed at the prospect of a thing so big. "It is all the same, we can't share any information about our guests, sir."

"What if the bum's gone missing?" I returned.

"Are you saying he's missing?"

"I'm saying I don't know, just a curious sort is all."

"Well, if he is...seven foot tall, as you put it, he shouldn't be so hard to find." His satisfied grin could hardly fit behind his cup of tea.

I turned from the counter and saw a girl staring over her laptop at our little tango. Her computer looked like it was as regular to her as an arm or leg, covered in stickers riffing on tech jokes that, to me, were Greek, or French, or German or some backward language they got here. We regarded each other. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and went to the terrace for my morning smoke, another coffee in hand. This one had a dash of coat pocket magic in it, I could tell it was gonna be a day.

I knew she'd follow. She had something to tell me. But you've gotta let them come to you, or they'll know you want to know it too bad. Dark hair and light eyes, a wrinkle in the middle of her nose, she'd broken a few hearts, but not enough to let her fall into just being pretty.

"Olivia," she said with her hand extended, "since you don't have the manners to ask. But my friends call me Olive."

I forget which name I gave her.

"I heard you asking about my friend," she continued in her toned Aussie accent. She set down her Fjallraven Kanken bag all stitched up like a corpse. Flags and patches from all over the big blue marble. Belgium, South Africa, Peru, America, Indonesia, Japan, and on and on. She'd been on every continent. The decent ones anyway. 

"You Aussies sure travel," I replied. She looked at her bag and smiled. "Are bratty Kon Tikis and rich parents the only natural resource they got down under?"

She slanted her mouth. "Please, my parents run a barely profitable shipping company in Brisbane. Also, I'm not with that foul roving orgy. I work for my money, I travel alone." She shifted on her hips, "And if you want to sound like you know what you're talking about, it's 'Ozzie,' not Aussie. With a Z."

"For you, I'll say it with a 'G'day' if I have to."

"Cute. So that must make you an American."

"We are a pretty cute lot, aren't we? What's with the gadget?"

She looked down at the laptop she had hugged to her like it was a bouncing baby boy. "He's my friend. We talk to each other."

"And here I thought you'd be playing with Barbie dolls."

"The only barbie I play with has meat on it," she sung. "Don't you wanna know about my friend?"

"You want me to know about your friend. Otherwise you wouldn't have come up here. Tell it, sister." I offered her my pack of cigarettes and she slid one out.

"And how about some of that truth serum you've got in your coat pocket? Might make sure I keep honest."

"Sharp girl," I said. I poured a little brown in her coffee and we talked.

It was a friend of a friend of a friend story. She knows Vienna well, spent lots of time here, and they met up. He'd been on the road for a while and some thread between the two of them made an introduction. They'd had a nice day, seems like a nice guy, then the Swede came up missing. 

"I normally wouldn't think anything of it," she said as a wisp of blue smoke curled from her red lips,"that's what travelers do. They get into to subplots and adventures and no one is any the wiser, but then there's this..." She pulled a credit card out of her bag. "He came to me late the night before he disappeared and told me I needed to hang onto this in case he got into a spot."

She handed me the card. It read 'J P Troutman.' "A spot, huh. He could be a real jungle leopard by now. And what kind of name is Troutman for a Swede?"

"What should it be, Anders Lindstrom?" she quipped.

"Curious. Damn curious." I rolled the card around in my hand. "Got anything else?"

She pursed her pretty mouth and turned her blues up unto her dark hair searching for a memory. It clicked, and she reached in her bag. Out came a tourist map, the kind with goofy pictures and not much in the way of directions. This one was pretty pleased with itself. "Made by locals," it read, and was filled with anti-tourist sarcasm and obnoxious little descriptions. She unfolded it.

"This is his, he left in my bag. He seemed to know Vienna pretty well, but he asked me to show him a few places that were a little different."

"Maybe too different."

She looked at me, her pale blues hardened a bit. "He's my friend. I feel responsible for him. You gonna help, or not?" She smiled, "If you help me, then you can be my friend."

"You sure use the word 'friend' a lot." Her laugh was an easy one, I'd been wondering where she kept her surplus charm.

"They say diamonds are a girl's best friend. Well, I'm of the mind you can't have too many of either."

I took the card and map, put them in my coat, pulled down my hat, and stood to hit the pavement. "Girlie, you can just pay me in diamonds."

II 

An inferior gray hung over the morning. Not grey enough to be Prague or London, but Vienna's self conscious grey. It looked like it could rain, but the city couldn't muster the effort.  

My first stop was the MuseumsQuartier. Not that I'm putting on airs, it's just how they say it. In what used to be some king's horse stables--before all these kings and dukes and ladies and whatnots became obsolete--it was converted into a row of museums. From a barn to a bunch of art houses, not much of a stretch if you ask me.

I walked through a corridor painted up red with monsters and let out into a courtyard. A bunch of tourists reclined in asinine plastic furniture. Big blocky stuff, all solid colors, it's the kind of junk you'd see in a rich sucker's house who liked jazz too much. One museum was circled on the map, the MUMOK. Or Museum Modern Kunst as your friend in the coffee house might say. Futuristic looking thing, it stuck out of all the old buildings like a blue word in a Sunday sermon.

I made my way inside and paid too much for a ticket and looked at what passes for art these days. I'm no expert, but I've seen a no account barkeep do more beautiful things with a bottle of gin, a siphon, some lemons, and cracked ice. After a stroll through the, "space,"--as I heard it called by some fella in a hat I wouldn't wear even if it meant I had to go out uncovered--I found a girl at a desk. 

Red on top and fair as clean cotton the rest of the way through, she sat in front of a funnel of sorts. A grossly shaped plastic tube like a tornado in the midst of a conniption, it stretched from floor to ceiling and churned quietly. Thousands upon thousands of confetti sized paper bits shifted and whirled about, some clinging to the exposed surface. In the colors of a manic rainbow, half of the funnel was covered. The other half would hang on to some bits while others came unstuck and whipped back into the whirlwind. 

Under her tight bun of ginger threads she gave me the look. How men and boys must throw themselves on that look like rocks at the bottom of a seaside cliff. Hung off of arched eyebrows, it's the look that says, "I've been expecting you." Her brass name plate read, "Audrey."

"Can I help you, sir?" You could barely hear her German accent under that veneer of perfect English.

I tipped back my hat. "You must be security." It managed to crack a slight smile, enough to move her glasses.

"No, but I can throw you out of here myself if I have to," she chirped through her china plate face.

"Might be the most fun I've had in this joint," I replied. We both waited for the other to say something, but I went ahead and sat on the edge of her desk.

"So, you needed something?" she finally broke the silence.

"I was wondering, well I'm a curious sort and all, I was wondering if you could help me find a friend." She arched her eyebrows again, little saffron bows launching arrows through this thin skin. I handed her the card. "I need to know if he's been here. Not hard to miss, must be a seven footer. A Swede."

She took the card from me, eyed it like a bad penny. "Well, sir, I'm not sure I could do that." Each word came out dripping with consent, I just had to punch in the right combination.

"Shame that. You'll just have to buy me a coffee instead."

She reclined in her chair very unimpressed. "You ever had a coffee from Sumatra? Best coffee in the world. Best I've had anyway."

"The only thing I figure I've had close is coffee after Karmer Sootra."

She rolled her eyes, reached into a fridge under her desk, and pulled out an energy drink. "I'd say this might jump start that brain, if I thought you had one in there."

I waived her off. "Never touch the stuff. Coffee, beer, whiskey, and water--and only when I have to. Only drink things have been around for thousands of years. Time tested."

"Well, aren't you quite the Neanderthal."

"Too bad I didn't bring my love club. I think I could stand to shoulder you back to my cave."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Single as a dollar bill. Or Euro coin, I guess."

"Then she's a lucky gal."

Like a ten ton truck. "So what's this thing they got behind you?" I asked as I pulled a smoke from my pocket.

"You can't smoke in here," she chided me.

"But this is Vienna." I held my pack out to her. She took one and dropped it in her purse.

"You still can't smoke in here."

I slipped it behind my ear and motioned toward the plastic behemoth. "As you were saying."

She looked at it like she didn't know it was back there. "This 'thing', as you put it, is art. Perhaps the most daring piece of art in the world."

"Like how, you dare me to like it?" She ignored that.

"This is a conceptual piece by avant garde French mulitmedialist Nicholas J. Pelletier. The work is titled, 'The House We Didn't Build.' It's commentary on the illusory nature of our world economies. All those bits of paper in there are money. The world markets fluctuate, they change, they go up, they go down, but it all exists in a void. A void of belief, a void of greed, a void like the bottomless pit of the dream--or nightmare, really--foisted on us by the image makers enslaved to this false reality." Her voice dimmed as she stared at the big damn tube like she really believed it.

"Did Mr. J Pelletier make all this stuff himself?" 

She scoffed. "No. He's a visionary. Engineers and an independent software designer did the rest."

"Just like Vincent Van used to do, eh? So people just put their money in there and chop it up to nothing?"

She smirked at me like I was but a little lost lamb. "Patrons. Of the arts. Make donations. They slide their plastic card through here," she showed me the machine like I'd never heard of credit before, "and I hand them the equivalent amount of their country's currency." She motioned to a shredder of fierce black teeth mounted on the tube, "and they insert it into the art project. Because some of us like to contribute to something larger than ourselves."

I pushed my hat back further with my thumb and scratched my head. "But that still don't figure with me. If they make the donation, as you call it, and then destroy the equal amount, isn't it a zero sum sort of thing?"

Her eyes twinkled. "It's really quite clever. We made an agreement with our sponsor bank. As long as we ensure the piece is secure as a vault, they'll honor the transactions as donations to the museum. Most bills get recycled anyway." She continued with boiling passion. "And, the transactions the customers make stay in queue for 72 hours. The software we use--designed specially for us--notches the transaction into every high point of the patron's respective currency over that period. When the transaction finally goes through, we cash out at the highest value in the last three days." She tilted her head and made sure my eyes were on hers. "We always come out ahead."

I whistled through my teeth. "So people just put their money in there and chop it up to nothing..."

"You're a real no class lout, you know that?"

"I could've told you that. But I knows enough to know that you've got all the financials there in your little gadget." I slid JP Troutman's card back toward her. "For once, why don't you say something sweet to me out of those ruby reds."

She smiled and took the card. After punching God knows what into that glowing screen, she looked up and said, "A single adult ticket purchased yesterday at 14:23. No donations, no concessions, no purchases at the shop." She handed me back the card. "Does that help?"

I slid the card back into my pocket, righted my hat, and took her hand. "Well, corpses can't buy museum tickets."

I kissed her hand real gentleman like, dropped it, and walked out the door.

III

The rest of the day was a bust. I wandered around Vienna like a beggar looking for a meal following that damn map. I walked past the graffiti wall by the Danube, and no matter what old Johann says, there ain't nothing blue about it. Concrete slabs lining the riverbank were spray painted with strange, wild things. Cartoon wolves, and unhinged robots, and names spelled out in vivid colors with jagged edges, it was quite a sight. It makes a sensation in a man, but none of these kids stand in a gallery sipping wine using words to give it some meaning that ain't there. 

Odd thing that, the meaning that ain't there. You walk around this burg, or any of 'em for that matter, and thoughts like that began to take hold of you. People go missing, another cigarette goes into your lungs, and you wonder what it's all for. What's the play you missed somewhere along the line? You jump from city to city, country to country, look at old buildings, ride another train, and fool yourself into thinking the lonesome click of steel wheels on cold rails will take you somewhere. Maybe if you peel enough shoe leather on the face of this old world, she'll finally let you in on the big secret. You'll step off the train, the women will be good to you, the drink don't stop running, and there's a big, goofy, seven foot Sven waiting with a tray of Queen Anne cherries. Where are you JP Troutman? A hell of a name for a Swede. But maybe that is the secret, there is no secret. 

Afterward, I followed the map to a tour of the canals under the city. I had to take the tour in German because the English tickets were sold out. The guide kept shining his flashlight on used condoms, and half decomposed BM all made smart and gone up river. The underground stream was dense with thick clouds of brown and green at one edge. All that churning waste must've been the most straightforward character I've seen in this town. They even projected black and white images of Orson and Joe Cotton right on to the walls. Vienna's alright. 

That's one thing Vienna does right. They love being in the movies. You go to towns in France or Italy, they don't think two bits about their history in the pictures. Vienna and The Third Man, they're inseparable. The canal tour was part of a Third Man tour, so was a museum dedicated to the picture. I even went to a showing of the flick at the Burg Kino. 

As dusk got near, I went to the next spot circled on the map, the Prater Amusement Park. They got this big Ferris wheel going round and round and round where Orson gave his famous speech. If one of those dots down there suddenly stopped moving, would I care? Should I care? Holly Martins was right to be curious. Who is the third man? Round and round and round we go.

Now that I think of it, one thing did happen that only struck me just now. I went to an old Nazi antiaircraft tower the Viennese converted into a museum and rock climbing wall. Ate a falafel and drank two Stiegl beers as my pocket warmer had gone and gotten itself empty. Too much thinking, I guess. 

I went and found the man to talk to. Sweet kid, nice enough to tell me he was from Ghent. The sort of fella that leads with his name. "Marcus," he said. I forget which name I gave him. He was all yes sirs and how do you do's until I pulled out JP Troutman's card. He suddenly got real cross and then disappeared with the card. Came back some five minutes later, shoved the card in my face and said, damnedest thing now that I put my mind to it, he said, "it's done."

I pressed him for more, but all he shouted at me was, "no more favors! It's done!"

I would have turned him over, but he wasn't acting like a suspect. More like a little kid being forced to wear a Sunday suit. Just some poor sap doing something he felt he had to do, but didn't want to. As I walked away I saw a phrase they has painted on the top of the tower in German and English, "Smashed to pieces (in the still of the night)"

When I got back to the flop, the Kon Tiki Aussies had already stormed the bar. Olivia was nowhere to be found. I made quick work of two tumblers of brown, nice and neat, and went to my room. Three sow eyed Irish girls had taken over the dorm. I asked them if they'd seen Sven, but they said no. I could tell by looking at his bunk, as undisturbed as a frozen lake. Not to tell too much on a lady, but one of that gaggle of lasses could destroy a bathroom. Lay waste to the the joint like she'd exercised an evil spirit in there. Nice enough girls, I suppose.

After they split, I sat on my bunk and tossed cards into my hat. I couldn't help but look at JP's stuff laid out in perfect form. His confession, his story, mocking me right to my face. There was such an absence of the man, his things couldn't even gather dust. 

IV

I woke up in a sweat, my mouth full of cotton. I couldn't remember any of my dreams. The three Irish girls were fast asleep. Must've been a decent night. I dug through my bag, found a bottle of rum I'd stored for just such a special occasion, and pulled until the tin drum in my head gave it a rest. JP's things were just as I'd left them the night before, hat and everything.

I'd slept through breakfast, but it's all the same. If I had to eat one more crust of toast and jam I might cry until it sounded like, "Honeysuckle Rose." I did managed to squeeze a couple of cups of coffee out of the pot. They were grainy as sandpaper.

I looked around for Olive, but she didn't turn up. I've stopped looking for Sven, in the flop anyway. I went to the terrace, had a smoke, and played a round of pool against myself. In a rare turn, I won. A voice sounded over my back as I racked another game.

"Well if it isn't the Continental Op. Or, should I say, the On the Continent Op?" Looks like Olive had found me.

I tipped my hat, "At your service, Miss."

She ran her fingers down the rim of green felt, and then took a smoke from my pack I had laying on the edge. I lit it for her. "Aren't you impressed with my joke?" she asked hardly in need of validation. "I was chatting with a friend and she said it was a real," she made quotes in the air with the cigarette perched between her right pointer and middle fingers, "'deep cut'."

"Eh, it's decent. But I always pictured myself as more of a Marlowe type," I replied as I followed her to the settee. 

"I thought about that," she snubbed out her smoke, "but I couldn't come up with anything."

"All I hear is you've been talking about me."

She laughed, I could get used to that sound. "Don't flatter yourself, you haven't given me a reason to say anything good. But try and impress me, how's the case?"

I gave her the rundown. Not that I felt I owed it to her, but I figured saying everything out loud might unmuddy the waters. As it spewed from me, it sounded like more nonsense than ever before.

The facts hung in the air like smog. Olive quietly processed each one, her spring sky irises fixed into space. After a moment, she spoke, "My advice? You're thinking about it too hard."

"I don't remember asking for you advice," I snorted.

"Well I didn't think you had the gear to think too hard with, so we're surprising each other." Her coy smile was so sharp at the edges it could have cut me open. Girl knows how to handle herself. "You're looking for an answer. All you need to do is find a person. It's convoluted, sure, but it's not complex." She put her hand on mine, "just follow the map."

"Convoluted but not complex," I said as I lit another smoke. "They'll put that on my headstone."

That easy laugh again. Olive looked at me, and a hint--but a flicker--of her well guarded warmth crept through. "I hope that's not any time soon."

"Well, I'd believe 'em if they told me you had something to do with it."

Olive pulled down the brim of my hat and leaned in with her features bunched in a cutesy scowl. And as she lingered, she softened into something I hadn't seen before. She poured her whole pretty face right into mine. Then she stood up, walked out, and floated me a goodbye on four fingers from her half turned hips. 

Maybe she had something. Keep it simple, stupid. I laid out the map and looked where the big Swede would be taking me today. There were only two spots left, a bar and a coffee shop. A bar? Now that's some private dick work I can get behind.

V

Dingy little gin house if I've ever seen one, and I've seen plenty. I sidled up the bar, and some mountain of a halfway Kraut with holes in his grin took my order. Everyone called him Viktor, and I could hear every bit of that, 'k.' For me? Always the same, brown as neat as a politician's haircut. He made it quick, and it was good cup of turpentine. I had another.

"What's your story?" the thick Viennese growled.

"The Quiet American," I leveled over my tumbler.

"Friendly sort, eh?"

"I've got all the friend I need." I raised my glass to him and swallowed the rest. 

I looked around the bar. A couple of TVs, old beer bottles lined the shelves, and a few day drunks hung in darkened corners. A wise man once told me that people think guys alone in the bar are the saddest ones in there. It's because they don't want you to know they are the happiest. He had some random flags from other countries hung from the rafters. Canada, Australia, Denmark, Brazil, and a few others not worth knowing.

"Where's your American flag, friend?" I asked.

"I got no friends there. Never met a Yank I liked enough," he said as he mindlessly wiped a glass.

"Well, don't let me be the first."

"You got a mouth on you." What a pussycat.

"I also got all my teeth. Too bad we don't have more in common"

He chortled, grabbed my bottle from the shelf, and poured me another. We was getting to be friends after all.

"What can you tell me about a seven foot Swede?" I asked as I handed him JP's card. He took it from me and looked at it as natural as I'd given him my business card. "He been in here?"

He let a heavy breath, and walked over to his phone. He stood there punching at the damn thing like it was a typewriter. He'd occasionally look at me and shine his busted smile, then he came back to the bar and slid me the plastic.

"Well?" I was getting a little impatient.

"Well, what?" he asked like I should've known something.

"The seven footer. The Swede. He been in this dump in the last three days." He shrugged and got a real vacant look in his eyes.

"Jesus Christ on the cross, I gotta ask you again, or should I ask the Arch Duke instead?"

His response was a sigh as he reached for that sweet bottle of Cowboy wine. Not a bad answer. As he topped me off, he said in his broken glass voice, "Mister, the only seven footer I know of hangs out in the park by the opera."

I whipped out my map, "show me."

He circled a little green plot on the map. I read the description from the tattered rag. It said something about the park having as many junkies as art types hanging about. Birds and feathers, I suppose. 

I took down my glass. Pretty good bucket of paint he's got on that shelf. When my glass hit the wood, I shot it across the bar, and fished in my pocket for a Euro coin. These Europeans and their coins. Men carrying purses, and they wonder why their economy is so busted. I flipped him the one piece and called back as I hit the door, "and get yourself an American flag. I hear tell the Chinese make 'em on the cheap."

VI

I wandered around the park for a bit and didn't find any action. I finished my lunch of two cigarettes and a Stiegl beer I picked up from the Spar. I freshened up my coat pocket too, just in case. Had to make sure I stayed feeling conversational. After my fourth lap, I saw a real old fashioned lunger slumped on a bench. Dirty clothes, dirty beard, and eyeballs as glazed as a polluted Vienna sky. He hacked and wheezed and didn't even try to hide the flecks of blood. This was a man I could work with.

I sat down next to him, unscrewed my bottle--clear this time as I'd had enough of the rough stuff for breakfast--and took a swig. The sound of the bottle sucking on itself caught his attention. He eyed me up and down like I was a regular four cornered square, so I offered him a nip. He took the bottle and took a hearty pull. Good man.

"Just enough to keep the blood running," he said.

"Better than jumping jacks," I added before I downed another mouthful and put the bottle back in my pocket.

"You're alright," he slurred.

"I got the same feeling about you, friend."

We sat in silence for a moment. I pulled my hat over my eyes. It was a warm day.

"You got any change for an old so and so?" he asked. He was as Dutch as a stroopwaffle. They got that good English up in the Netherlands.

"Nope. I only pay to play. But that doesn't mean you can't help me."

"Aw, mister. You got the wrong guy for the sort of thing. This rotten mouth..."

"I ain't looking for!" I yelped, too blushed to finish. "You goddanmed hop head. I'm looking for a Swede. A seven footer."

"A seven footer?!" It barely qualified as a question. 

"So you know what I'm talking about."

He narrowed his eyes. He knew the play. "How much is it worth to you?"

"One Euro."

"One Euro? Come on now, aren't you American's rich?"

"Not anymore we ain't. Spent too much rebuilding this godforsaken continent."

"You can do better than one Euro," he sulked.

"One Euro and ten Euro pennies. And not a free health care having, socialist state cent more."

"Aw, hell. You're a tight one, aren't you?"

"Like a well made Turk rug."

He sat in silence and grimaced. After a few seconds I got up, I'd had enough of this decrepit needle fiend.

"Wait. Wait..." he said staring at the ground.

I reached in my coat pocket and handed him the bottle again. He worked at the teat until bubbles gurgled through the pint. Closed the deal like a damn Rockefeller. 

"I don't have the information you're looking for, but I know about old Seven Feet." He handed me back the bottle. Don't mind if I do. "You gotta ask..." his voice trailed off as he looked toward a darkened tunnel at the edge of the park.  "You gotta ask the Bridge Troll. Tommy, I mean, but we call him the Bridge Troll."

I could tell it run through his guts he gave me anything. I don't like a man that talks out of turn either, but the creature had him by the throat. I slipped a fin out of my wallet and tucked it in his front pocket. "Don't worry, I ain't no badge."

He looked at the note and his eyes got real wide. "You're a saint! A real saint!"

"Ain't neither one of us too good," I said as I took his shoulder, "but at least the likes of us got each other." And for a second, he almost looked like some sweet mother's honey child with that sad smile showing through his yellow, TB stained beard.

I crossed the park and made my way to the tunnel the old lunger showed me. As I turned in one end, I saw two silhouettes at the other end engaged in a transaction just as shadowy. One stood there with his hands in his pockets. The second stood with one hand out and the fella's cash in the other.They must've seen my long shadow at the other end because they split like cockroaches with the light come on. Always follow the money man.

"Tommy!" I shouted as the junkie ran past me and the money man ran the other direction.

My racing footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Tommy got near the pinprick of light at the other end, and as I caught up to him, he turned on his heels and threw a wild haymaker. Without him being on sound footing, I was able to duck the surprise attack. He just made contact enough to knock the hat off my head. With his midsection exposed, I planted five fingers in his gut and he blew wind like a bagpipe. I figured that'd be enough, but as he staggered, he spun again and landed a hit on my right eye. Just enough to brush me off, I countered with another punch across his mouth. He fell to the ground. 

"Hell's bells, would you just listen? I ain't no badge," I wheezed all out of breath.

Tommy looked up from the dark muck of the tunnel floor and I offered my hand to help him to his feet. He accepted, but we were both beat. Despite my best efforts, I ended up on the ground next to him. As we huffed and panted, I handed him the bottle, and he handed me my hat.

"Not much for hellos, are you?" Tommy said after a fresh mouthful of gin.

"I don't think I know the Emily Post rules on how to approach a junkie in a darkened park tunnel." Another swallow cooled my nerves.

"I'm no junkie, pal. I just sell the stuff." I recognize a North Jersey boy anywhere.

"How's a nice American boy come pusher man in Vienna?" I asked.

"You got a story, and I got mine," he said as he spit in the muck.

"I need information on a seven footer, a Swede."

He twisted up his face, "I don't know if he's a Swede, but I only know one Seven Foot, and, not to offend or nothing, mister--why in God's names would you be after that tramp?"

"I got a story and you got yours."

"Are you family, or something?" the Bridge Troll replied still not sure what to make of things.

"Or something." I let a glug of gin do my talking so my fists didn't have to.

"Well, mister, if you got your story and it involves that piece of skag rotten filth, it's gonna have a real sad ending. The bulls pulled him out of this park last night as stiff as a board."

Dead. Stunned, I pulled my self out of the sludge and turned to walk away.

"Hey. Hey! Who in the hell are you?" the Bridge Troll called after me.

Over my shoulder, without looking back, I said, "Hell, I might as well be JP Troutman." My words bounced all around the tunnel until they were nothing.

VII

By the time I got back to the flop, I was feeling daffy. It took two Stiegl beers to get me back to the metro, and the bottom half of a damn honest bottle to get me back to the lobby. I plunked myself down on a piece of cheap furniture and lost time for a bit. Before too long, a voice broke through the fog.

"Wake up you, souse."

I snapped to, it was Olive. She looked like a bit of Lord have mercy. With all that dark brown hair down around her hair shoulders like a mink stole and a navy blue dress tied around the waist, the polka dot pattern was as though her lovely little string of pearls had dripped the length of her taut figure. She was cross with me, I could tell.

"He's dead," I mumbled.

"What?" Her blue bits hardened, and her mouth narrowed under her crooked nose.

"The Swede. Last night the cops pulled him out of the park with silver dollars on his eyes. Or Euro coins. Or Aussie dollars. Or whatever the hell currency works in your analogy."

She puffed and sighed, "If you can mange, go prop yourself against the bar and I'll be down in a minute."

Olive got in the elevator, arms crossed. I shook out my poor hat and walked to the bar like I was on a swim. The bar man set me up, and I straightened myself out with a couple of nice stiff ones before she could come down.

A few minutes later she crossed to the bar with a satisfied look on her face and her contraption held against her breast. I was in for it. She set the gizmo on the counter with an air of authority, opened it up, and pointed. It was the Vienna police blotter.

"It's in German," I blinked.

"Well, let me help you. It reads, 'Klaus Baer found dead in Karlsplatz Park from a presumed narcotic overdose,'" she read. "Now this is the part you should try and get through your thick skull, if you can, 'Know aliases--Seven Foot Klaus or Seven Feet of...' its a play on words, but you get it. Or should I continue?"

I thumbed my hat off my forehead, "Well ain't that a bit of pickled red herring."

"Some detective you turned out to be," Olive said as she sat herself down and slammed the laptop shut.

"Well, you get what you pay for. And last I checked, I'm working for free."

Olive sat with her chin on her fist an invisible weight bearing down on her. I waived down the bar tender and held up two fingers. He came back with a couple of martinis so dirty he might of mixed 'em with cusses. Olive took a sip and returned her head to it's perch. We sat in silence.

"Aw, come on, doll. It gives me the fits seeing a girl done up so pretty looking so damn perturbed."

Her baby blues glinted like a straight razor. "That almost sounded like a compliment," she said as she flattened her dress on her legs.

"Well, you might want to listen to it again."

She twisted her face and then gave in to a smile.

"I don't trade in compliments, girlie. I just collect the facts and then have the guts to say 'em out loud." I finished my little speech with a sip. Fine cocktail for a flop like this.

She softened. "Facts, huh? I wish all of your detective work was so keen."

"Well, I only solved one half of the case of the blue dress. I just gotta figure out what lucky schlub is on the receiving end of that dishrag."

"Maybe that hasn't been decided yet," she murmured. "Maybe sometimes a gal has to cast the right bait to get a certain fish to pay attention."

"Oh, and you'd have a school of 'em in that get up. But any fish worth a damn is the one who knows how to keep himself off the hook."

She touched my hand, "Why don't I buy you some dinner? A token of my appreciation."

"Sorry, I've got plans. Need to do some thinking. And I might take me bath," I held up my drink, "might take one or two more."

She laughed. "You're a drunk."

"And I think I you're beautiful."

For a second, all the talk and fuss evaporated. For just a moment, we were two real human beings. "You talk and I listen, but I know you, because I know myself..." Her honeyed tones melted right through me.

"Olive, look," I tried to interject, but she put her hand on my lapel.

"You're all alone. You think everyone is trying to take something from you because you used to give it away for nothing, and get just that back, nothing. But you're only half smart, on the being alone anyway."

She took another drink of her martini. I followed like I was her mirror.

"All of us are alone. But sometimes, we get to be alone..." she turned to face me, "sometimes we get to be alone together. " She leaned in and put her fingers as soft as lace around my wrist, "why don't you forget all this stuff, the Swedes and the maps and the tough talk." She tightened her grip and moved her fingertips to the outside edge of my palm. "Let's go out and get lonely." 

She moved closer, her blue eyes big enough to take me in one piece. From outside myself, I could see us like two planets spun out of their comfortable orbit about to collide. "You need a friend, for what that's worth. Don't you wanna be friends with Olive?" Her breath was warm and sweet.

I pulled back, "The only olives I like come on a skewer and soaked in gin." I tipped my hourglass of booze into my throat and stood up.

She sat back, put her hands in her lap, and a shadow seemed to fall across her face. "Just like all the other boys," she whispered, "all you wanna do is put your skinny, disgusting toothpick through sweet, little Olive."

The bar door burst and the flood of Kon Tiki kids poured into the room. I pushed through the crowd and made for the terrace stairs. I felt her eyes burrow into my back all the way. I needed some fresh air.

On the terrace I bounced pool balls against the rails. What can't I see? Why can't I figure the play? I've got every damned answer in front of me, and I'm just too much a fool to piece the puzzle together. The credit card, the museum, the climbing wall, the Viennese bar man, it's all there. Why can't I see the angles?

As I bounced the unlucky thirteen off the far rail and into the corner pocket, two men appeared on the terrace. I don't know how we knew it, me and these humps, but we were looking for each other.

One heavy looked at the other, nodded, and then looked at me, "that's him."

"Sorry, boys. No autographs." I replied. "But thanks for being a fan."

The heavies exchanged looks again like one was incapable of thinking with out the other. "Cute," the one to the left said and they advanced on me. In a flash, I winged the cue ball at them. They flinched and the ball smashed into the wall. I guess the Dodgers will still have to keep looking for their star pitcher. 

They didn't have to exchange looks this time. One planted his fist in my gut, I doubled over, and the other put his wingtip in my chest. As my hat fell off, a hand wrench the hair on the back of my head and turn my handsome mug up to him. They nodded, and the ugly one said, "Yeah, that's him." They led me down the back stairs to a waiting car. I didn't make any trouble. I know when I'm licked.

VIII

We didn't get to know each other on the car ride. Though the wheel man jabbered away like we was on our way to bible study. I learned the ugly one was called Sammy the Czech and the other was simply Drub. If the name fits, keep it I guess. We pulled into the parking garage of a high rise I'd seen from my walk by the Danube. The building reached all the way into the sky and was wrapped in a screen, a piece of what seems to pass for art in this backwards burg. Two women, naked as the day God made them, hairless and painted gold, floated against a blue back drop linking hands almost near the street. The Czech and Drub led me out of the car and up a freight elevator to a penthouse on floor 17.

Spacious place with a bunch of unread books and Asian art on the walls, I would have liked to visit under other circumstances. They threw me into a plastic draped chair set in the middle of the main room. Plastic, nice touch. These two weren't amateurs in the answer finding business. Or the disposal business, as it was pretty clear from when I sat down: they could fit all of me in this tarp if they had to. They stood on either side of me staring at a wooden bedroom door.

I looked at the ugly one, "Czech, huh? You don't sound like any Czech-o-slovakian I ever met."

He looked down at me. "It's just a nickname," and he punched me again in my ribs. "And it's the Czech Republic now."

Eventually the door opened and a guy who looked like the boss came out of the room barking into his cell phone in German. I don't speak a lick of Austro-almost-Hitler, but I know a backside chewing when I hear it.

He turned to look at me. "Where is my money?" he asked as cool as an autumn breeze.

"Aw shucks," I replied, "I left my coin purse in my other coat."

He nodded to the Czech and the Czech unloaded another full swing into my ribs. "I'll ask again, where is my money."

My ribs were sore. I didn't think they could bear the weight of another crack from my smart mouth. "Mister, I know you ain't gonna like this answer, but--from sweet Christ's mouth to my very own--I got no idea what you're talking about."

The Boss tipped his head to one side and made a silly frown. "You know, we call him Drub because his fists hurt a lot more than an average man."

"Yeah," I looked up at the hefty bastard, "I kinda figured that."

The Boss nodded and Drub dropped what was a ton if it was an ounce across my jaw. I spit blood onto the floor. A nice wood floor, too. I've got manners enough, hated to see that crimson streak on such a clean bit of polished wood.

"Sorry about that," I managed to squeeze out, "I know you laid out the plastic and all. If you've got a rag or something..."

The Boss darted across the room and grabbed my cheeks in his vice grip fingers. "You stupid animal..." he growled and then he caught himself. He stepped back. His cool air reclaimed, he pressed the creases out of his wool two button.

"Mister, let me stop you there," I cautiously continued. "You're gonna ask me a few things. You're gonna ask me if I know who you are, if I think this is a game, and if I got your money, but let me jump ahead a few beatings. You're the Boss, the man, the guy in charge. And as sure as I'm sitting here with my rib cage screaming, I do not think this is any kind of game. And I swear, I swear to you, I don't have any money, much less your money. Now, if I can dare to swap you a cliche--and I'm damn upset to do it--you've got the wrong guy. It's a mix up."

The Boss wrenched his mouth into a bemused smirk under his wave of perfect blonde hair. "Well, if you're so smart, such an intelligent fellow--a rare trait in an American--let me tell you what I know." He cinched his tie up to his bulging Adam's apple before he continued. "I know you are a Mr. JP Troutman."

My guts about fell through the floor. He started pacing back and forth.

"I know this because Tommy," he turned and smiled at me, "the Bridge Troll told me you gave him that very name in the park today after you rolled him. I do love that term your ilk uses, 'rolled'. What I don't love is my guys being harassed when they are out doing a job for me. He told me you stole an entire days worth of work from me..."

"That's a bald faced lie," I barked. "I didn't so much as..."

He flew across the room and buried his fist in my solar plexus. I respect any big who can throw a proper punch.

"I'll forgive this...indiscretion," he said as he righted himself yet again. "Some of this is my fault, to be true. I make it a point to never send a package to a man I haven't met face to face, but I liked you. I liked what I heard. Your friend, our friend, vouched for you. To me you were nothing but a bunch of lights flickering on this infernal machine," he pointed to a slick looking computer on a desk across the room. "But I took a chance, and you made it right. You had my money early and often, and who am I too forsake a good thing? But, I was still wary. Even my guys," he turned to the Czech, "didn't you tell me Sammy? Never trust a man I haven't seen."

The Czech shrugged his shoulder and bent his ugly mouth into an ugly, pleased smile, "I just work for you, Boss."

The Boss beamed back at his man. "Sammy the Czech told me--and this is the kind of simple brilliance to which I keep around simple men--he told me, 'A man you've never seen is nothing more than a ghost. And eventually a ghost thinks he can disappear" He motioned to the Czech. "Sammy, please, finish your delightful thought."

The Czech turned all bashful. "Well, Boss, all I says was, I says, 'When you can't see the ghost no more, that's when he can come back to haunt you.'" 

The Boss laced his fingers and placed them across his svelte stomach. "Don't you think that rather clever, Mr. Troutman?"

"Please. I'm begging you to just listen. I'm not Mr. Troutman. I'm looking for Mr. Troutman," I pleaded as much as I have it in me to plead.

The Boss' eyes sharpened like daggers. "I don't mind a thief. Some crude men might call me a thief of sorts, but I hate one type of man. I hate liars. You owe me ten thousand..."

"Ten thousand dollars!" I squawked.

The Boss chuckled. "You only wish it was ten thousand dollars. I use real money. You owe me ten thousand Euros. And if you don't have my money by tomorrow," he thumped the plastic on the chair, "our little friend will have something to eat after all."

Drub's dumb, beady eyes lit up. "Can we, Boss?"

The Boss cracked his cruel smile and hummed, "Yes Drub, it would be my pleasure." As he turned away from the pending grisly scene, and Drub reared back his meat hook, the Boss turned back. "But I like his face. Not his face. Make him bleed on the inside."

Drub dropped his fist and guffawed, "You're too good to us, Boss." 

The Boss reentered his room and closed the door. The Czech crossed to the icebox and pulled out a long tube sock with a row of frozen oranges peeking out from the inside. 

I'd like to say I took it like a tough guy. I'd like to tell you the first swipe against my chest, or across my knees was the only one I felt. I'd like to tell you I didn't weep and moan like a cheap date at a monster movie, but I'd be the damn liar the Boss believed I was. They worked me over, and it hurt like merry hell.

After what surely felt like an eternity, they picked up my sad sack of bones and led me to a long, grey stairwell. As I hung there crumpled between their arms looking at my soon to be fate, all I could think was, "Why'd I have to be so damn curious?"

I tumbled like a puppet cut from its strings. They were at least kind enough to pitch my hat down after me.

IX

When I got back to the flop, the three Irish girls had already gone out on the town. The room looked like a clothing explosion, littered with strappy pastels. Stink hovered about the bathroom door like a one woman garbage strike. The Kon Tiki Aussies practically had the foundation of the building quivering under their revelry. Heyerdahl must be proud of his legacy's namesake. The Swede's things, hat and all, sat on his bunk untouched, unmoved, with their lips pursed just like the first day I met them.

I've gone and gotten myself neck deep in someone else's pile. I ran everything I knew back through my busted skull. It all made less sense than before. Drug deals and shifty characters and big sums of money all danced through my head, but nothing could quite grab hold of the other. How was it so easy for them to believe I was Troutman? Still dressed, my hat placed on my bag, I laid back and fell asleep without so much as closing my eyes.

That night I had a dream. I was sitting in a common room, the common room of any flop, I guess. People kept climbing out the window. Curious, my signature quality, I peered over the sill and watched as they loaded into long black boats like the ones in Venice. Some silent, dark water had run up right to the edge of the windows. These smiling specters crawled in the coffins and floated away so peaceful they couldn't even disturb the reflection of the light on the water.

I sat back at the table and stared into my cup of coffee. The complexion of midnight, deep, it was as though all of infinity could fit in there and still have room to spare. It was ice cold. There were footfalls on the stairs behind me, and I recognized something in them. The way the stairs creaked, the way they led with the balls of their feet, the way they rested their heel on each step, it was someone, something I knew.

"I'd forgotten you existed," I called half joking, like I'd been waiting forever for them to come down from some unseen room. When I turned around, it was someone I knew, someone I'd forgotten, but no one I knew in any way you might tell yourself you know a person. A woman, an object of desire, she was as familair as everything you've always wanted, but just as strange when you finally see it.

"Oh..." I paused with stars hardly hiden in my eyes, "I had forgotten you existed."

She laughed and sat in my lap and gave me a kiss on me check. A riptide of heat surged thorough my whole body. "You're sweet," she said.

We locked eyes, and it was a regular boy meets girl conflagration. A bridge built from brimstone suspended on an unbroken glance. After a moment she slid down to the floor putting kisses on every square inch of my exposed flesh. I tried to change her into Olive, but she had been Olive all along. Though, it wasn't Olive at all. And then, damnedest thing, she started in on my toes. God knows where my shoes had gotten off to. Licking and kissing and using her tongue, she practically gagged on the little piggies. 

It turned into a big slobbery mess down there, a real flood of passion Noah himself wouldn't be able to ford. Suffocated in her tawdry display, I finally came too, looked down, and she stopped. Her eyes were turned up to me as full as morning glories. In all the saliva her hair had dissolved from her head like strands of sugar. What was left lay in a sickly, mangled heap on the floor. I pulled her up by the arm into my lap. She looked at me like she'd done something wrong.

"I thought that would be better than..." her voice trailed off as she looked through me. Hilltop bald, her oval, sad eyes glistened above her trembling lips.

I pushed her off my lap and made for the door. It let out to a long mabrle corridor done up in pink and green and white checkered tiles. The hall was lined with doors and ended at a mirror. In the reflection, I saw all of me; paunch, tired lines, desperate for a shave. I turned away from the mirror and followed the click of my shoes through a door. Which one, I don't know. I worked in and out of passageway after passageway, each bathed in the same incandescent glow. I wanted to get lost, I was desperate to get turned around, but somehow I always found my way back to the mirror. And every time, all the gilded frame and silver skin offered back was me. No future, no past, no answers, just plain old me.

I twisted and turned and tried new combinations of doors. I went up staircases. I went down into basements. I shut my eyes feeling for knobs to open, but no matter what I tried, I couldn't get the labyrinth to swallow me. Every so often I'd arrive at a brass handle, twist it, and sigh knowing on the other side was the same mirror and the same unchanged brute waiting for me. Stubborn, determined to weave my way into this web until I was sure there was no exit, time went away. An epoch slid past on silent hinges and polished marble floor until one time, my heart so heavy I couldn't barely make it beat, I opened the door, and the mirror had no reflection at all.

I moved the mirror out of the way, and the daylight poured in so so bright it was if the sun stood on the ground with the rest of us.

I ran down the street bellowing and raving and cackling, but no sound escaped my throat. People filed through the cobbled streets around old buildings and never so much as flinched at the mad man. I was doing what I was expected to do, and they'd do the same. I grabbed a man in a suit by the shoulders. As he turned to peer into my sweaty teeth, before the horror had time to register on his hollow face, he turned to cold cinders right in my hands. I peeled back and fell on my heels until I collided with building, and as quickly, it evaporated down to nothing. Skirts of dust blossomed out from the remains of the structure. 

I touched a street lamp, I touched a statue, I touched an alley cat, and the result was always the same. Desiccated into nothing with such speed, with such finality, I couldn't so much as catch a handful of what was left. My hands trembled in front of my face, the scrawl in my palms ran deeper than ever before, and I was intoxicated by my terrible power.

The world slowed down to perfect stillness. From everywhere, like the music was hidden in the crumbling bricks and mortar, an old song my rotten excuse for a father used to play hovered through my entire body. "Anytime, anytime, anytime you want me..." Garnet Mimms had answers.

I pushed through buildings so tall I couldn't even make out the top floors. I pushed through palaces. I pushed through cathedrals. As I charged through each and every edifice, happy as an avenging angel, my sinister hands out in front, a rush of chaos would lurch around me. The silt of ruin fell like black snowflakes. It would be dark for a moment, and I couldn't breath, and I'd feel complete peace until I punched through the other side. Once outside, the heavy sunlight on my shoulders, like a ravenous dog, I couldn't quit the urge. I had to see something else undone from its arrogant place. All the while, the people in the streets with nothing in their faces ambled past as if this was the order of things long established.

My muscles burned and acid burbled in my mouth and the buildings began to repeat. Churches, museums, ancient pillars, men cast into bronze perched on their horses, all of it over and over again. All of it rendered into soft, airborne powder. Each one slightly different, but each one so much the same. Then, I turned, and there was nothing left. The only thing I could see was an ocean, once hidden from view, stretched out in front of me.

I collapsed and put my hands on the dunes as white as bone. Nothing happened. You can't turn to sand what is already sand. The sun had receded and forced all but one fiery edge of its blood red fury into the water leaving the ocean the color of wine. 

As the surf scalloped the tiny grains into terraces, the world fell silent save the hush of the waves and that old sad song vibrating in my head. I stepped into the churning tide, and as I knew it had to be, my feet spread out into shadows of ash. I fell forward and my hands splashed into the warm water. As they began to uncurl into murky clouds eroded by the sway of salted sea, my hat fell from my head. It didn't disintegrate. It held its shape, and as I subsided, giving to the steady ebb, I watched my hat float away on the current into the far away bend of horizon.

X

I woke and checked the clock. Noon. Damn, I overslept. My body ached and I coughed until blood splattered into my hand. Not even the best part of a grown man bottle could ease my busted insides. This was going to be a three coffee, two cigarette kind of morning. No bath though, and I was getting ripe. But, hell, I'd only smell worse when they found what was left of me in the Danube. If I didn't put things right with the Boss, anyway.

I drank until I was alive and kept drinking until I felt downright lively. If this was gonna be the first or last day of the rest of my life, I'd do my best to make sure my liver couldn't tell the difference.

With no leads, no clues, and even less conclusions, I roamed through Vienna on the heel and toe searching for God knows what. Would I see the Swede holding a sign that said, 'Hey! It's me!'? If so, it'd probably be in Swede knowing my rotten luck. Stone saints looked down at me from their pillars. Athena's gilded figure seemed to have her back turned to me no matter which way I approached. The flowers in Volksgarten--tarted up in all that spiteful color--turned to each other as I brushed past like a garden of fat gossiping faces. Vienna, she's an okay town.

I began to run. No other reason than it's just what my shoes felt they had to do. Around corners, down streets, across plazas crowded with the shadows of old architecture, I moved so fast I'd turn down an alley and still hear the echo from when my feet had been there before. Every one seemed out of place, all of them working for the Boss with the corners of their suspicious eyes trained on me. My paranoia almost felt like a whole other person inside me, so I figured I'd be a good host and buy him a drink. In the park, with a Stiegl in one hand and a bottle of brown in the other--a taste for each of us--I caught hold of my spinning head.

I crumpled the beer can, pitched it in a garbage can, and as I slid my coat sociable back into its interior pocket, I felt the map Olive had given me. I pulled it out and flattened it on the bench. Me and that poor tattered bastard were really starting to look like one another. I flipped it over, I turned it wrong way round, I retraced all my steps, and a real funny thought occurred to me. What if I am JP Troutman? I mean to say, I know I ain't, but I've only been looking at this map, I need to look through it. Suddenly, the creased pages transformed in my hand. It's not a map, it's a list.

I looked over every square inch with the map pulled all the way up to my nose. Then, the old rag gave up its secrets like sins at confession. I could see he'd been writing things over the map on a separate sheet of paper.The little indentions were faint, but enough to know what I needed. By the bar was an V and a four. Beside the climbing wall there was an M and a one. Beside the museum was a trace of the letter A and the number three. I scoured the map, and next to a coffee shop--a place I'd figured was a dead lead--there was a ghost of a Q and a two. It all added up to 10. My best guess was Troutman intended to put a K after it.

XI

I walked into the coffee shop, real shabby looking joe house, but the Viennese will convince you it's all supposed to be part of the charm. The place was packed. I sat down and eyed the waiters. They made it easy on me and all wore name tags. After a while I narrowed it down to one 'Q' name. He flitted past with "Quentin," pinned on his shirt. I grabbed his arm. He looked at me like I'd dared to touch the hem of Mr. Jesus himself.

"Pardon me, sir," he barked like a put upon high class butler.

"Oh, you're forgiven. G'sprtizer...please," I said as I pointed my grin up at him. 

After a moment he slammed my drink down on the table and I took a sip. Soda and wine, what will these Viennese think of next? I erupted with a satisfied, exaggerated, "Ahhhhhhh."

He turned to walk away and I grabbed him again, this time by the cuff. He was primed to explode.

"I have a question...is it Quentin?"

"How may I assist you, sir?" he hissed.

I produced the card bearing the seven letters that had given me so much grief the last few days, JP Troutman. 

He snatched it from me and turned again, "I will return with your bill."

I grabbed the towel hung over his arm and pulled him back. The gauge in his eyes flickered right on the redline. "Oh, it's not that. You know it isn't mine. I need you to tell me everything you know about that there piece of plastic."

He curled his lips in disgust. "I know not of what you speak, and I am very busy, sir. You have just assured me you are trying to defraud the cafe. I have a mind to call the police--you are no stranger to those I'm sure--but instead I will be kind. I will afford you politeness which will be surely lost on a man of your...station. You will pay your bill in cash and I expect a generous tip. That's 35 percent, as I am sure you do not know." He pitched a handwritten bill on my table. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have several tables with more respectable clientele who require my attention."

He made his last pirouette and walked into the kitchen. Sometimes a guy just got to help himself. I walked behind the little curtain, flipped him around, and pinned him against the wall with my forearm under his chin. He gurgled like a newborn, eyes as wide as the saucers he served over-priced tourist coffee on all the day long.

"I'm tired, Quentin. About every bone in my body I can name hurts like hell. I'm just trying to get out of this damn town with my throat intact, and alls I need from you is a couple of answers. I was trying to be a gentleman about it, but you had to go on and be rude." I pulled out the card and shoved it in his face. "I know Troutman sent me here, I can't figure the game, but I'm tired of playing. Now spill it."

Quentin was practically crying. "Sir, I promise you, I have no idea what you are talking about."

I looked deep in his eyes and saw nothing. Not even a flicker of a well told lie. As I eased up, a voice rang out over my shoulder.

"Hey, what's going on here?"

I flipped around, dropped Quentin, and saw a young, well built Aussie wearing a name tag with "Quaid," etched in black. Damn. How many Q-names could they have in one place? I spun and planted a jab in his belly. He'd have gotten on me quick, so I had to save the questions for later. As the breath left him, I pushed him into a wall and a phone fell to the floor twisting on its curly cord. I put the card in front of his nose, and opened my mouth to give him the business, but before word one could rattle out, I saw a note taped above the horn.

Quaid,

He'll be here. Just dial, wait for the tone, and punch in the rest.

-xo-

...and as I read the name underneath, the round letter, the lines, the dot above the lower case 'i', it finally consolidated into a word. A word I knew well, a name written in simple cursive...

-xo-

Olive

He saw me read the note. I looked at him, and he turned his sorry face to the ground. And, finally, the key kissed the sweet innards of that damn, obstinate lock. Like the choir of the host on high.

I rammed the card into his chest. "Do it."

XII

I went back to the flop and sat myself nice and comfy near reception. I figured this mark would want to make his call from a land line, and they had a real kitschy red English phone booth in the lobby. The most recent transaction wouldn't take long to notice, and I'm sure he'd be ready to hit the warpath. 

Before too long, a fellow, Australian, maybe five feet six, entered the booth and gave the person on the receiving end the riot act. He finished his bout of bellows, walked out of the box, and slammed the door shut. Slumped, he made his way to the bar. I followed right behind him and set myself down on the next stool over. People in these kind of flops are used to being accosted by every stranger looking for an ear to bend. He was no different.

"Why so glum, friend?" I asked.

He looked up from his pint. "Oh, man. Money troubles. Someone hacked my card. Or, hell...I don't know. I lost my card, canceled it as soon as I found out, but it's like some purchase I never made is bouncing across this whole city. It's like it can't be stopped. I just...I mean, hey, it sucks, but my bank will fix it. Or they'd better. I'm stuck here in Vienna until they do."

"Where were you headed to next?"

"Budapest," he grumbled.

This should be easy. If there's one thing every traveler loves to whip out, its their length. "You just doing Vienna and Budapest, or..."

His eyes shimmered. "I'm traveling for six months."

"Wow. That's really something," I added with a whiskey back. "You going solo?"

"Parts of the trip. I came to Vienna to meet up with my sister."

Sister? That's too good. "Huh. She live here?"

"No, she's like a professional traveler. She's been away from Australia for God knows how long. She'll come home for a month or two, and then she's gone again. She's been everywhere. But she's set up here in Vienna. Has a ton of friends." He glumly took a sip of his beer, "just like everywhere else."

Friends, don't I know it. "So your sister travels for a living?"

"Ha! She wishes, but pretty much. She designs software for a living. She's a genius with it. Anywhere she can access the Internet, she can work."

"Jeez," I replied dumb as a dunce cap, "so the work stays pretty steady?"

"It seems like it's been a bit since she's had a major contract, but she manages to stay on the road."

I fingered the card in my pocket, ready to hand it over, but something stopped me. "But your six months, that's pretty good."

"Yeah, it's been great. Until all this, anyway," JP harrumphed.

"Me, I'm just seeing Vienna. It's always been my...dream to see this city." I took a sip of my brown and let the conversation settle. "So, if you don't mind me asking, how much money did you have to save? If you don't mind me asking."

"Well," he took on a seasoned, professorial air, "if you're willing to live cheap, it only takes about fourteen thousand Aussie dollars.

"Fourteen thousand, eh? That's it? How long did it take you to save?"

This answer didn't seem as well rehearsed. His eyes darted for just a split second. "Kind of a sad story, really. My grandmother died a few months back. She left it to me, so I figured I'd do something...something special with it. She'd want it that way."

I swallowed my drink, "Sorry for your loss, friend." I stood up, secured the card in my pants pocket, and turned to walk out. "Well, I'm gonna go see the city for a bit. Maybe I'll see you around."

He grinned, extended his hand, and gave me his name. Like I didn't already know it. "John Paul Troutman, but everyone calls me JP."

I forget which name I gave him back.

XIII

I waited by the back door of the museum smoking a cigarette and the dusk air of old Vienna never tasted so good. I might have snuck a nip or two in there, but just to keep my color up. When Audrey the Red finally walked out the employee exit and read my smug, smiling face, she froze in her tracks. I didn't think a glass of milk could go pale, but I'd never had one figured quite like this.

I snubbed my cigarette on the ground and pushed back my hat. "You still owe me a coffee."

She gritted her teeth and held open the back door. I followed her inside. "Don't worry," I said as sanguine as a preacher showed up uninvited to Sunday dinner, "this is my art form. I'm sure Nicholas J. Pelletier won't mind."

After me and museum Audrey got ourselves nice and square, it was time to see the Boss. And brother, I gotta say it, he's got some nice digs. Nice showy high rise with nice floors and a nice staff and nice elevators. Hell, even the nice hallway with nice lighting leading up to his nice door impressed me. I'm in the wrong business.

I knocked till my damn knuckles were near bloody, and the door flew open. The Boss looked real chafed until he saw it was me. It took me a second, but I noticed he was wearing a Bayern Munich jersey and nothing else. Through the crack in the door I saw two blonde, buxom kittens with matching jerseys held over their blushing birthday suits. Soccer played on his wall sized flatscreen. Maybe why the Boss was at full salute.

"Troutman!" he said and threw his arms around me for a full chest to chest hug before I could even so much as blink.

A little rattled--not much of the hugger, I guess--I cleared my throat and handed him a strap of 10,000 Euros. "This is yours."

"Oh, cool." He took it and pitched into a bowl filled with keys by the front door. He let the door fall all the way open, "Come in, we're watching football. Or, soccer," he really hit that 'r', "as you Americans say it." He laughed, just tickled to death with his observation.

I peeked in the door and one of the blonde lovelies waived. "No," I said, "I prefer my football like I prefer most things, American."

"Suit yourself," the Boss shrugged. He went to close the door, and then stopped. "Hey, you know all that scary stuff was just business." He clutched his member to keep it gorged as causal as he was scratching his nose. "It was not a personal attack against you."

"It never is," I added.

"We can still be...friends?" he asked as innocent as an awkward adolescent.

"Sure we can."

"Friends." He smiled and put his arms around me and laid his head on my shoulder. 

I patted his back, my other hand by my side as stiff as a board. "Yeah, real friends."

 

"Call me when you need another package," he chirped as he closed the door.

"I'll be in touch," I said as I threw a little wave to the ladies. After all, I'm a gentleman.

XIV -- Last Call

JP was at the bar right where I left him about six pints deeper. He looked up at me and smiled, faint recognition showing through the fog of hops and grain. I placed his card face up on the bar. Dazed, he clutched at words.

He finally stammered, "You mother f.."

"Before you go making oaths, you need to go get your sister. Olivia, I already know."

He contorted his face real curious. I'm glad it wasn't me for once. He pulled his beer bloated gut from under the bar and sauntered into the elevator. A few minutes later they both came down. Olive was about to blow, her funny little nose all pinched up like a fuse.

"Miss Olivia Troutman," I said as I finished what the bar keep set me up with, "or Olive, as your friends call you."

"You're a real son of a bitch," she fumed.

JP was in the dark. "Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Why don't you two grab a seat," I motioned to a pair of stools, "this is gonna take a minute." I knocked back another shot of courage and began. 

"Helluva a tale this one. Took me damn near three days to figure it. The main character wasn't me, and that was the hard part, but once I saw who was writing this little epic, it got clear as Swarovski crystal.  From what I can tell, our author is a person of exceptional talent. And not short on looks at that." 

Olive narrowed her eyes. 

"She--it's a she by the way--she used these talents to get herself a little money, and she wanted to see the world. Innocent enough, I suppose. But before too long, instead of the globe getting smaller like it seems it would, it just kept getting bigger and bigger. Friends popped up all over, more places begged to be seen, and before she knew it, she was addicted. If there is one thing an addict can never get enough of, beside their fix, it's money. She had her talents, but people were willing to pay less and less, or the opportunities dried up, I don't know which, but before long she needed another way to get it. Money, I mean. People are practically begging to give it away, so she found an easy out. Sneak some drugs across a border here or there, flip a package back home, and then she never had to stop. But she was smart about it."

I lifted Olive's chin. She was likely to boil me alive with that glare. 

"Because she's damn smart. Instead of being seen, getting her hands dirty, she created an illusion. A man as elusive as a signal sent through a computer. He was real enough, a person who could cast a real shadow, but a puppet version of this poor sap. A friend vouched for this shade to the people who mattered, they got their money like clockwork, and everything was peaches and cream."

I stopped and motioned to the bartender for three rounds. JP looked at Olive, Olive bored holes in to me. She wasn't gonna cry. Hard as samurai steel that one. My heart be still.

"But then, something happened as always happens with easy money. A package came up missing. And in the pusher business, there is no leeway. The money is always due, and excuses count for even less. Trust me," I motioned to Olive with my soon to be empty shot glass, "I already took a beating for you. So she used her special talents and all her friends to put together a new hustle. Another bit of smoke and mirrors no bigger than a bunch of ones and zeroes shifted this way and that. But me, I'm a stupid kind of fellow. I don't know how she did it, but I know she did it with that there card."

JP looked at the plastic in his hand and looked to Olive. "Is this true, Oli?"

Olive turned to him and pleaded, "JP it was never even gonna be a problem. The transactions were all going to register as fraudulent. You were gonna get every penny back, I promise. When.."

I interrupted, "When what, Olive? When the police came kicking in your brother's door for international drug trafficking, what were you gonna do then?"

JP's jaw about fell off his face. "You used my name to ship drugs into Australia!" he shrieked. Everyone in the bar turned at that. I ordered another round.

"No, this is...he's got it all wrong," Olive muttered under her breath. "I only...I used your name to create the contact. I just used you as...a presence. I travel too much. I'm in Vienna too much." JP Groaned. Olive scrambled. "I didn't think they'd sell to me because I'm a woman! He never shipped the packages in your name. He'd use a fake name and shipped to the address at Mum and Dad's warehouse. So many packages go through there, it couldn't be traced to any of us. It would just be a mistake, and then...it was perfect. My plan was perfect. Then, I don't know what happened, a package just disappeared."

They both fell silent. JP looked hurt. Olivia looked even worse, she'd been exposed.

"I can't believe it, Oli." JP breathed, barely audible.

"You were going to get every penny back. I'd never let you go down, or get hurt, I'd already decided that," Olivia gushed.

"But, enlighten this old luddite," they didn't drink their fresh pours, and I couldn't let 'em go bad, "how did it work? I figured out the money was coming from the art thing, but why didn't red haead Audrey just...I dunno, run the card a bunch of times or..."

"You sound as stupid as you look," Olive cut in. "If she ran the card at the same terminal a bunch of different times, it would be impossible to make it look like fraud. Impossible to hide. I had to clone the transaction for different amounts from different points of origin. The number everyone was calling was like a back door."

"Back door, huh. If you weren't saying things so far above my head I'd say you were talking out your back door," I sniffed.

"I'm very good at what I do," she snapped. "I know the ins and outs of everything I do." Her voice rose, "I sit down in a room and find the exit, I design my software so it's always under my control, and I don't get anything taken from me I don't choose to give myself. Not ever again, not anymore."

Olive shook and stared at the ground. I don't know whose chink in whose armor was showing, but it did me no good to see her like that. I had her where I wanted, and, if she didn't know it, she had me right there, too. Part of me wanted to reach for her, but she was better than that. Besides, JP beat me to it.

She turned to her brother, "Eventually the software would recognize the mix up and dump all of them. Every single transaction. Then, when I got a new package, I'd turn it, Audrey would put the missing cash back in the piece of art, and it was over." She turned her eyes to me, hardly mad anymore, "but you were to thick too raise all the money I needed. Quaid told me about the scene you made at Prückel today." That made her smile a bit.

"I've never made much of an errand boy, I guess," I replied. "But pretty slick move sending a nobody to get the card moved around. No trace of little Olive anywhere near the thing."

She firmed up quick and tossed me a sweet glance on those crisp baby blues. "I saw you bored out of your wits playing Junior Detective. Give me an angle and I'll play it. And don't act like you didn't love having something to do."

I registered with that, seemed fair enough. "Well, speaking of angles and such, I got one for you," I said. "The Boss has been paid. Don't you worry about that. You're parton of the arts, Olive. You made a very generous donation of 10,000 Euros to old Nicholas J and his money funnel just this afternoon."

Olive's heart sunk as far as it could go and still be inside her. 

"Your card was still on file from your last visit, and it was your mess. It was the right thing. JP's cash Audrey had set aside has been chopped up into bits." I  popped a smoke between my lips, "For art's sake."

Olive went green. JP was still red. I had another, and if I kept up at this rate, I was liable to turn brown.

"But the last piece of the puzzle is your missing package." They both looked at me with very different expressions. "I know who took it."

Olive scrunched her crooked, button nose, "Who?"

"The man I figure it should have gone to in the first place," I pointed, "Mr. JP Troutman." JP shrunk in his chair, all shoulders and knees. "Didn't you wonder where he suddenly got the money for a six month pleasure cruise? He told me your granny kicked off, left him a sweet chunk of change."

JP turned his face full of sorries to Olive. "I was working some extra hours at Mum and Dad's shop and this package comes in. It took me two seconds to see it didn't belong to anybody in the building. I opened it up, and when I saw it... I just wanna have a couple of pennies to rub together, Oli. I thought it was...providence. You know, a sign."

Olive sat on his words for two whole minutes and cried, "You told him Nana died?!"

For a moment they froze exploring the other's face. All the lies, all the misdirection, all the secrets, and then they exploded into fits of laughter. I never heard two people use so many expletives to describe each other in my life. Family.

"Well, I've got to say it. Pretty good work, Mr..." Olive stopped short. "What is your name? I know it's not any of the half dozen or so you've been handing out."

I reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle. "Tonight, it's Rye." As I unscrewed the lid and passed it around, I only had one final question, "So, who is the seven foot Swede?"

They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. 

JP got up to take a leak. After he'd gone, Olive looped her slender fingers through my belt loop, face aglow like a halo, and said, "You took a beating for me?"

"Won't be the last, either," I winked. 

The three of us drank and swapped travel stories. JP got absolutely bent, ended up passed out in the lobby stripped down to his skivvies. Me and Olive slow danced. She took to wearing my hat and doing her best American accent. Gave out fake names and everything. Kid learns fast. We talked close and shared cocktails and smoked my pack of cigarettes and stayed up late taking turns making the other laugh. We stayed up even later than the Kon Tikis. 

Before we went to sleep, we said a long goodnight. We came up with a plan. It was time to put all of this behind us. Forget Vienna for awhile and go to the beach. We were going to check out at nine, overnight in Milan, and then head to Puglia. She had friends down there. 

So, believe it or not, I did right by the girl. Turns out there's a real feeling left in here after all, and it belongs to Miss Olivia Troutman, my precious Olive. I got out of bed at six, left the flop under a mask of creeping dawn, and booked a train for Croatia. I hear they got nice beaches there, too.

[Ed Note: This is a work of fiction--obviously--written under the heavy influence of The Glass Key, Red Harvest, Miles Davis' 1965 concert album My Funny Valentine, and Chang Beers.]