Read They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee for Free Online Page B

City Blues or Howl. It was kind of fun, but facade. It was a fashion for the college kids to try on and discard like miniskirts or love beads. Next year it would be a disco.
    I ordered an Irish coffee. Kira ordered tea. When the waitress left our drinks, Kira pulled something out from her bag and laid it on the table near the candle.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind,” she hid her face, “but could you sign this for me?”
    It was a dog-eared copy of my last book—the one I couldn’t sell as a screenplay— They Don’t Play Stickball In Milwaukee. Too hard-boiled for the 90s, the critics said. Too hard-boiled, my ass.
    When I hesitated, she panicked a bit. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Please—”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” I said and took her pen.
    She read the inscription: “‘Dear Kira, Skin of pearls. Jasmine blooming in the snow.’ It’s beautiful. I don’t understand it, but it’s beautiful.”
    â€œMaybe sometime you will understand.”
    She leaned across the table and kissed me on the cheek. “I like the way your beard feels.”
    â€œThe kiss didn’t feel too shabby.”
    She put the book back in her bag. We ordered more drinks. She had an Irish coffee this time. The waitress carded her. Good thing Kira carried the requisite fake ID. It had been several decades since I’d had a drink with a coed below drinking age. Her attentiveness, enthusiasm, not to mention her physical beauty, all appealed to my vanity. And at forty, my vanity had grown small, weak.
    I asked her MacClough’s questions to no avail. She knew more about Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance than Zak’s. Johnny and I had only been at it for two days, but it was getting to the point where a dead end might’ve seemed encouraging. Kira was good about not asking too many questions I could not or would not answer. She sensed, I guess, my unwillingness to go in that direction.
    â€œI’m an English Literature major, you know.” She was quick to change subjects. “I love writing, but I can’t write. Too much loneliness. Too much looking inside.”
    â€œYou know a lot about loneliness, do you?”
    â€œYes.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So, what’s it like to be a published author?”
    â€œThe fantasy’s a lot better than the reality. Mainly, getting published helps you get in touch with your own obscurity.” She frowned. That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m out of sorts and lonely. Lonely is okay when I’m home at my desk writing. Here . . .”
    â€œI understand.” Kira put her face very close to mine. “Where are you staying?”
    â€œThe Old Watermill Inn. Why?”
    â€œBecause, Uncle Dylan, there is nothing obscure about you and I want to chase our demons together tonight.”
    I had no argument to make that would have convinced either one of us she was wrong.

The World Did Spin
    I lie in the dark listening to the faint hiss of the hotel shower. There is a red-and-yellow neon light flashing through the blinds. I’m up now, an unfiltered Camel dangles from my lips. Reaching into my suit jacket, I come away with a pint bottle wrapped in brown paper. I break the government seal with a twist and take a bracer of the cheap hooch. It goes down smooth as a mouthful of cut glass. I take another swig. The glass is still cut, but the edges aren’t as sharp. I unholyster my .38 and spin the cylinder just because I enjoy the clicking sound it makes. I press my ear against the bathroom door. The shower’s still going. I unclasp her handbag and use the barrel of the .38 to poke around. Never know what a frail might carry in there that’ll jump up and bite you. But this one’s smart. There’s nothing to let me know the real motive for her sharing my bed. The water’s off. I