Friedrich Nietzsche My Sister and I

Chapter 1 Evelyn St. James sat off the bright coast of Portofino on the rear deck of her expensive yacht at her expensive portable table penning something with her expensive Mont Blanc on her equally expensive stationery. She was just finishing a sentence in her graceful and elegant hand with the words “But now . . .” when a servant in forest-green livery appeared. His soft, gray-gloved hand carefully set a fluted glass of golden liquid on the upper corner of her desk. A gull cried out in the distance, and Evelyn momentarily looked up as she followed the sound off the port side of the yacht. As the gull changed direction and soared back over the placid sea, she picked up the glass and brought it meditatively to her lips. A brief quaff of the golden liquid, and she carefully set the wineglass down. Once again the gull cried out, and she turned her head to follow the bird on its flight of freedom through the wide expanse of the sky in the direction of the setting sun. 8 Walter Stewart Suddenly there was a constricted gasp and heavy wheezing. Dirty white foam bubbled from Evelyn’s lips. She raised her hand to her throat—but too late. Her writing hand went slack and dropped the Mont Blanc. The fluted glass tumbled to the deck spilling the rest of its contents and landing with a hollow “thunk” just as Evelyn let out a final gasp and crumpled over the desk where she lie motionless. Her right arm went slack, dropped to her side, and swung back and forth once like sack of raw potatoes. The letter she was writing floated down, down, down to end up soiled by the liquid near the glass. In a moment the servant’s gloved hand retrieved the missive and held it out so that the last line could be read clearly: “. . . But now they’re trying to kill me. Sorry . . .” was all it related, and the “y” in sorry made an uncharacteristically lazy line down the page. The gloved right hand carefully folded the letter and then removed the other glove from the left hand where a star‑shaped, dark-blue tattoo shown on the underside of the wrist. The hand picked up the unbroken wine glass still fresh with the impress of lipstick from Evelyn’s mouth on its edge and unceremoniously dumped it over the side. It floated for a moment like a derelict vessel in distress before being overcome by the sea and sinking to the bottom of the Mediterranean. Again, another gull cried out at a distance off the port side of the yacht. But this time Evelyn no longer raised up 9 Sweet Deadly Dreams her eager, crystalline blue eyes to see it—and besides, by now, the sun had set, and Evelyn St. James was quite dead. * * * “Taylor, I can’t give you no more,” growled the voice of Barney Paisley as he wiped unenthusiastically at the counter with a damp rag as stale jazz wafted through his joint like musty cigarette smoke. “Aw, c’mon, Barn. I’ll tell ya a story about the sphinx,” Taylor offered. Barney considered the request as he swept pretzel crumbs from where the last patron had sat. The bar, let us face it, was a dive where you’d expect lowlifes to end up. Behind the bar several group photos of guys in army fatigues in God-awful locales were taped to the long mirror amid rows of bottles of Jack Daniels and Cuervo and other brands neatly positioned beneath neon signs for Heineken’s and Coors. Paisley was pictured in all of them as the stoic center of the face of war where some guys had made it through to the end and some hadn’t. Those who hadn’t had a black “X” marked on their chests with a Sharpie, and that was about half of the guys pictured. Barney absently swatted at the counter one final time with his cloth. “Sphinx, shit. Okay. But this is the last time,” he warned as he groused to himself and turned to his business. 10 Walter Stewart “Oedipus met the sphinx on the road to Thebes,” Taylor began, but Barney cut him short. “How do you want it?” he fired at him. “Straight!” Taylor shot back. For a second there was only the sound of liquid pouring. “Uh-huh,” the proprietor grumbled and then turned and shoved the vessel across the counter with a scraping sound. No sooner had he done so than the customer grabbed it and put it to his lips. Taylor drank greedily from the depths of the vessel as though it were a libation from the gods. With the bottom tipped upward, the liquid blotted out the light until he slowly drained its contents to reveal a visible world. “Uh, oh God!” he moaned as he slapped the thick mug back onto the bar top with a “bang.” Barney turned to the register, grabbed a slip of paper, and began writing. “Okay, that makes three cappuccinos and one espresso. You owe me $14.75,” he stated as he automatically popped open the register and stuffed the slip into a slot that was filled with brother IOU’s. “Jesus! With friends like you, who the hell needs enemies?” he groused again. Then he slammed the drawer shut. Taylor chuckled from his bar stool. He had dark hair, a face lined from burn out, and a few days growth of beard; still, he looked younger than his years. He gulped another slug of java and closed his eyes as though in prayer. “I’ll have your thirty pieces of silver later,” he promised. 11 Sweet Deadly Dreams “Right,” Barney considered as he screwed up his face. “Y’know, maybe Harry has . . .” “Screw Harry,” Taylor shot back. Barney’s head jerked back from the unexpected vehemence of the remark. “Yeah, the hell with everybody!” he returned with a knowing nod, having had this same conversation umpteen times before. But Taylor relented and gulped the last of his drink before he turned to leave. “Thanks, Barn,” he threw back. “Ya saved my life. Like always.” Barney scooped up the mug as though to dump it into the dirty dishes, but instead capitulated to yet another favor done because he couldn’t help his better self. At last he shook his weary head at his departing guest. “Yeah, and right now that’s only worth fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents!” The functional 1950’s Unemployment Office was one place Taylor hated to go, but he was forced to just to keep body and soul together. Besides, he owed Barney $14.75, and he was never one to welsh on a debt. So once again he stood in one of its interminable lines as he waited once again to speak to the clerk—once again. The place had soiled, yellow walls from age, and the fluorescent light above him buzzed and flickered just like it had for all of the many weeks he’d visited this place. Meanwhile, the joint was filled with folks sitting uncomfortably in stiff chairs, and the lines 12 Walter Stewart of the needy that were queued up collectively produced an odor not unlike that of a barnyard. “Next,” called out the clerk at last, and Taylor shuffled unenthusiastically to the window. The snide clerk sneered at him from the other side of the counter. “Well, well. If it isn’t our very own ex‑Reconnaissance Ground Combat Infiltrator,” she said brightly. Taylor automatically passed her his paper. “Golly, this is your last week. Isn’t that too bad,” she added cheerfully. She shoved him a slip of paper that he signed robotically. The clerk snorted a short laugh. “Window five,” she said in as derisive a tone as she could muster in two words. “Have a nice day and a great life,” she added sardonically. He stepped out of the building into the fetid air of the town. The city street burned with oppressive sunshine like a Hockney as Taylor dragged himself down the pavement from the unemployment office with his weekly government allotment stuck in his back pocket. For better or worse, the building was just a hop-skip from Harry’s, and in light of his future lack of revenue he momentarily played with the idea of checking in for any job Harry might have. Instantly, however, he discarded the idea. Instead, he walked down Peetie’s alley and thought to check in with his old buddy.