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going about their own personal business. There were four men decked out in fine clothes sitting at one table. The Italian equivalent of a bachelor party? Keenan assumed so from their merry making and what few words of Italian he could catch. They were very drunk and kept toasting a cheery faced young man sitting at the middle.
    Over to his right was a wrinkled fisherman by the smell, sitting alone and concentrating on his dinner. Behind him, in the shadows, sat another man.
    Keenan tried to make out his face over his bowl of beans, but the only thing coming across were the glints of the stranger’s eyes and the smoke from a cigarette. It may have been Keenan’s imagination, but it looked like the stranger was staring at him.
    Without warning, a woman plopped into the seat across from Keenan, uninvited. She might have been beautiful once, but several decayed teeth and the leathery hide of an alcoholic smoker made her look as dry as yesterday’s ashes. The micro mini skirt and dangling halter-top she wore left nothing to the imagination; it was all she had on. Her bright blue eye shadow was thick and hypnotic.
    “ Vuoi un buon tempo ?” The checkered smile shooting from behind large strawberry red lips looked predatory.
    Keenan sat back, dropping his spoon into his bowl. His Italian was sketchy. All he could think to say was, “Scusi?”
    From out of the shadows, the strange man rose and crossed to them with assured, graceful strides. He was tall, handsome, with a bushy black beard and piercing black eyes. He took the woman’s bare shoulders into his hands and squeezed. Her smile turned upside down in an instant and the look of terror was unmistakable in her eyes. She shot Keenan a pleading glance then lowered her face to the rough brown table.
    “Questo non si è per voi.” The stranger’s voice was deep and menacing. The woman bolted from the chair and rushed to the door without looking back. The wind and the rain sucked her into the night.
    The man gave Keenan a quick nod and bow. “Enjoy your dinner, signore.” He left the building almost as quickly as the woman had, leaving Keenan to scratch his head and wonder what just happened.
    That memory crept into his thoughts as he watched the beer in his glass disappear, sitting there at Taps . It had always creeped him out. The disconcertion of both nights echoed one another sending a frigid quake up his sides. He was so sick of that feeling.
    After finishing his beer, Keenan left Taps and pulled his collar up around his ears. The heat from earlier had leaked out of his arms and legs. He was freezing. Walking fast seemed the best solution until the wind meandered up his legs and into his balls. But, baby, it’s cold outside…
    Eventually, the moving muscles started to warm up and by the time he rounded the pathway to his front door, it was bearable. He took the painted cement steps two at a time and then stopped dead in his tracks.
    His keys were in his jean’s pocket, sitting on top of his laundry, inside the locked house.
    He tried the door but it was locked tight.
    “Son of a bitch,” he said to the tall green door. The sinking feeling mingled with his frozen head and blasted a pang of panic between his ears.
    Keenan scurried around the house, rubbing his hands together, trying to figure out what he should do next. The cold was getting worse. He searched the blank wall, forgetting there weren’t any entrances on this side. Running more to get his legs warmed up, he sped around the back of the house and then the other side testing every window. No luck.
    When he got to his bedroom, he stopped. From outside, the beached mattress looked like a giant teeter-totter, but it wasn’t obstructing the window. The beer chose that moment to take over Keenan’s reasoning. It apparently figured a little more glass on the floor wasn’t going to hurt anything.
    Grabbing his right fist in his left hand, Keenan lifted his elbow and slammed it against the window as hard as he