... ..black and white ....January 1, 2006   As usual, most of the guests had coagulated in the kitchen or near the bar.  Elliott Longstreet wasn’t among them.  He had found an empty hallway and staked a claim to solitude.  With any luck, the claim would remain inviolate until such time as he could make a graceful exit from his client's Christmas party.  The single-malt scotch was excellent and, as he drank, Longstreet studied the family photographs that hung upon the wall.  That every picture was in black-and-white heartened him.  The children in the photographs appeared solemn and strangely dignified as though destined for careers in mortuary science.  Little white funeral directors in black swimsuits building sand castles on a white-hot beach.  A tow-headed child dressed in gray, squatting to deliver a eulogy for something lying in a shoebox.  “Didn't you read the invitation?  It said business casual.”  Elliott Longstreet turned around slowly, his reverie broken.  Standing before him on the fraying Persian runner was Bradley Joyner, modern art dilettante and society page regular.  Longstreet hadn’t laid eyes on Bradley since Joyner’s wife, Sylvia, had hired Longstreet to recover the marble statues stolen from her French Quarter gallery.  Mrs. Joyner was the money behind all of the Joyner enterprises.  She was also the brains.  “The bathroom is down the hall to the left, Bradley.”  “What’s with the dark suit and tie, Elliott?  Posing as a lawyer?  Have you been reading John Grisham again?”  Longstreet sipped his scotch and stared at his assailant over the tumbler’s rim.  Brad Joyner was wearing an expensive black crewneck sweater, sport coat, and matching pleated pants.  His fat feet were stuffed into black leather loafers adorned with tassels.  Longstreet said nothing and returned his attention to the photographs.  “Fuck off, Bradley.” previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2006 by the beastmaster