Chapter 23 -- Four Views

As the sun was going down: From the restaurant, the officer
exits, walks north up the block, passing the dress shop with
the ever unlatched door and ramble of cloth bolts on the floor
still as unviolated as the manikin was naked.
Further up the paved hill to the turn, between the corner of the
bridge and the old merchants' office building, where he'd tucked
his three wheeled 'panda' out of the usual eye range.


A view from within the restaurant's double layer of doors,
through the entry foyer, of the back of the bald and bulky,
badly clothed detective getting into the passenger side of a
green, squared off vehicle, (a cheap import), driven by a
middle aged woman with red hair.


Neither?/both? with a glimpse of the white ambulance van,
(repainted and used to carry evidence), parked in front of
the theatre where the 'body wagon' had been earlier that day;
or of the man in the red shirt standing below the billboard
across the street.


But, all three--officer walking north, turning, sound of small
unseen vehicle leaving; the bald, now yellow orange detective,
(the sunset), being picked up again by the same green car that
had deposited him that afternoon; the second, (evidence) van
awaiting its single occupant's return from the theatre---
all three in the view of the man in the red shirt, standing hip deep
in the overgrowth below the automated, 'beer & pretzel' sign.
Coolly curious, he shlakes through the weeds to look up at the
back of the huge board and the meagre motor generating the
'action', kachucking along quietly in the greying twilight.
What more had he expected??

Chapter 18 -- The Bridge To Nowhere

the 'tourist hit by luggage' sweated and huffed up the last of the Avenue, alone but for
birds he could not locate and the pfuffling in the stronger wind of the red paper lanterns .

the 'tourist hit by luggage' walks onto the Bridge itself now, nearly exhausted by its steep
curve (and all of the earlier, excessive efforts of the day).

at last, cresting its arch, discovering that it stops dead. cut off halfway in midair.


metal tube bars block further progress of the reckless. Relatively discreet warning signs,
placed so as not to destroy the view, balefully glare their advice in three languages.

staggered, he stares uncomprehendingly at the shoreline beyond, the scarcity of roadwork
on that side, and the lime green stone far on the north horizon.

he continues to stay back, well away from the end. turns to take in the eastward side...


standing on the pedestrian's side path, not even daring to lean on the five foot, heavy cement
wall, he immediately takes in the broad bluenesses of the sky and ocean...

the coast road, (the only road really connecting the two ends of the island), bordering and
enclosing a last lap of low water and soft sand way below.


He still could not decide where exactly he was--what island.

There was the declining business 'district' to the southeast, from where he'd just come, (and
spent so much of his time here already, in dubious pursuits). But, no spire visible.
No cathedral of St. Millicent's.

He recalled only fragments of the lost tour guide. Had some sort of block on the island's name.

He ignored the obvious metaphor of the half-bridge for his faulty memory.


Perhaps, the Bridge had been broken off by a massive wave. A tsunami. Or a 'too-sommy',
as the loud old man on the caravan had called it.

The tourist smiled. (Despite everything).


He felt it more likely it was another unfinished boondoggle. And had a vague memory of the
local papers somewhere calling the useless bridge a "promenade".

He wondered if there were any bars sticking out of the end , but would not walk there to see.


Odd that there was still a connecting road, (tho' it was on a rise), at the end of an inlet or
tidal basin. How the water from the ocean to the west (behind him) could just taper off and
end. Not covering the rise, and effectively creating two islands instead of the one.

He realized he was watching a limousine, running on the very road, (already on the north side
of the inlet). Curving 'near' and away again, at what seemed a slow pace, from this distance.

Taking in more of the land, he watched. Might be quite a clip, after all.

Maybe they left something undone.


There was no fencing up, as on continental bridges. A 'good' place for a melodramatic drop...

Chapter 17 -- Plesch

He put the yellow paperback face down, open to his place, on the restaurant table.
He could barely see well enough to read, anyhow, through the head wrappings.

His teeth still hurt. Perhaps he'd been wrong to order the club sandwich, but it was his first
since getting off of the liquid diet.
The restaurant had not changed...since 'The Accident'. Thankfully.

That is, it had not improved nor gained any clamorous clientele. He preferred the quiet,
dining alone, (especially now it was more difficult), even writing here. Or at least
ruminating about his latest novel.

He still knew all the staff. The dust-ridden artificial fronds reminded him of the Crimble
woman, still missing. But, that could be a good thing. Criminal ambiance.
A union of neglect in not removing the 'plant', and opportunism (he had encouraged)
in trying to keep the local story alive.


'Speaking' of local stories, the paperback...he did not like to criticize his competition,
but he was certain now that Ima had skipped a step. She should have had her killer
wander through the town, in a different chapter, and then reach the Bridge.

Instead, there was an unfortunate abruptness in his fleeing the courtyard, then
so shortly appearing, gazing down at the river. 'Would he jump...?', the triteness almost
shouted.

Feeling he already knew the answer, Plesch smiled under the wrappings, hurting his
cheeks a bit.

He would have to paper this over with her, cover his technical disapproval with a barrage
of compliments--so well deserved in other areas.

That is if he ever saw her again. Boris Tate had not heard from her in weeks.


Plesch was well aware of police activity in the neighboring buildings. Doubtlessly, he would
run into his friend "The Inspector"; old Winny and his wife had been so very good about
sending him lots of flowers everyday while he was in the hospital.

And they weren't always easy to come by on the island. Nor inexpensive.


He again studied his butter knife, which he would not be needing.

He did not want to move it too soon. His hands felt hot...he wanted to be sparing in how
often he scuffed them about, trying to use utensils with wrapped up hands.

Chapter 13 -- The Tourist

Could you direct me to St. Millicent's Cathedral?...that wouldn't sound too
bad...if someone was actually around to ask the streets still empty...

recollection of a fragment from the cheap tour guide--'one of the island's more
famous landmarks'...(of course, these things are always relative)... a moving one
apparently, as the guide also over-indicated...and quite free to wander in 'roam to
one's heart's desire...'.

That is, if this is even Tonnalo.
This is the island of Tonnalo...isn't it??

[panic]...(breath)...
I forgot its name from the tour guide...since lost...(of course).


Maybe the view from the hump(ed...arch)...of the Bridge
could see the spire perhaps the blow on the head did do some damage
after all..??
the luggage racks on those caravans all but nonexistent...

clingclang of a flagpole hoisting chain turn to see
down the very south end of street
but the flag is limp blue no air no help to see where am

and midway on the pole the air is so still is someone dead
and important?

of course these things are always relative.


slowness of really becoming a disturbing thing.

surely some vehicle
or other, frequenting this area, likely returning at any moment
and unable to proceed can't just keep standing here in the way

could should walk right up there...to the Bridge...it's 'top'
might see better might be seen

but, in fact, it was none of their business.