JOHN SWAN’S the Rouge Murders was published to acclaim in 1996 and his stories have been widely anthologized. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario, where he hosts a web site, www.murderoutthere.com.
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Chapter 1:

She carries the weighted, black-leather sac into the kitchen pinched between her forefinger and right thumb, arm extended. Then left-handed takes the cigarette from her mouth and, after a quick nod to blow smoke at the ceiling, asks "What’s this?"

Steve, bent to sip from a just-filled mug, looks up and blinks. Meg comes as a bit of a shock to him. He rests his coffee on the plastic place-mat that marks his parking spot at the breakfast table and pulls his bathrobe to cover the undershirt he’s slept in, the fabric near as thin as his chest.

"A sap," I say.

Meg drops it on the maple veneer chipboard between Steve and me. It makes a dull thud. "What for?" she asks.

"Sap people," I say.

She crosses to the counter and starts poking through cupboards.

"You sap saps," Steve says then looks to Meg and me with a loopy grin. I'm not the type to be critical of folk's troubles, "walk a mile in another man's shoes," and all that shit, but you'd think his folks could have done something about that mouthful of teeth before sending Steve out to greet the world. "Guys who get sapped must be saps," he spits, "to get sapped. Right?"

Meg looks back over her shoulder. "You should dress when you come down for breakfast. In polite company."

Meg is dressed. She wears the same, basic, little, black sarong she wore last night and must have carefully laid out in my bedroom to keep nice. She’s atop the same heels she strode in on. Not so much as a run in her stockings. Well, I’ve been a good lad, then.

Same as Steve, I'm wearing a bathrobe, sleeping raw of late, seeing it knots the bedclothes less than when I slept fully dressed and relied on Heaven Heather to put me under.

"Hi. I'm Meg Maloney," she says, coming back across the kitchen to Steve, her hand out. "And you must be…" Steve wipes his hands on his robe before taking her soft fingers.

I catch my cue. "Ah this is Steve Young. Rents the spare bedroom. The one next to mine, where you slept. Steve, this is Meg, my blind date of last night, revealed, more or less. You can kill that grin. I slept in the sewing room."

The house is a three-bedroom brick pile opposite a park that looks out over the city from the Niagara Escarpment. Liz and I only had the one daughter, fitted the third bedroom up for occasional guests and as an office for me and sewing room for her. I needed an office like I need another asshole. Liz sewed, until she died. I haven't been in the room since, until last night anyway. It needs dusting.

"It’s a long story that involves drink and lost keys," I tell Steve. "I’ll make up something dirty about it for you later on. For now, all you need to know is Meg’s our guest."

I turn to Meg by the kitchen counter. "Steve is an artist. He’s got a commission from the city, haven’t you Steve?"

She and Steve shake hands, down and up once.

"What's she do?" Steve whispers when Meg goes back to the cupboards. Steve's tone implies he doesn’t believe such a healthy specimen would follow me home. I'm amazed myself. Every strand on her blond head is in place, but not hair-spray rigid. It bounces down her back as if united by some invisible force field invented by Q for the James Bond movies. There’s a lot of it too, enough to fill out a rack-full of glamour magazine covers.

"Scares shit out of the neighbours," is the first thing comes to my mind. "Keeps husbands too. For a while, at least. Maybe gets rid of them for the proceeds," I continue, then raise my voice for Meg. "We didn’t get silly last night, did we, fly to Vegas and tie the knot? Mugs are in the cupboard on your right, since you're looking."

"Mn, you're safe for now." She pokes through my cupboards like she's sizing up my estate, finally selects a proper cup. "Only got as far as the blood test." Turns and gives us the benefit of those big, liquid orbs, which are only a little redder and a little more liquid than I remember them last night. She shows the pearlies again. "That's when you passed out."

I didn't, but I have a reputation with Steve to maintain, and let the accusation stand. Meg flicks ash down the sink and pours coffee. She opens the fridge and finds a carton of milk, pinches out the spout and sniffs. Milk goes in. I swirl the mud at the bottom of my mug and decide to go for the heel still in the pot. She takes my chair soon as I'm up.

"Tell me about this commission you've got," she says to Steve.

"City has a birthday comin'," he says.

I turn to look at him, but that's all there is.

"Big anniversary year. Hundred and twenty-fifth, or hundred fifty. Something like that," I say

"Let him tell it."

He looks surprised. "Yeah, well like Mr. Swan says. They got money for the arts. Commemorate, celebrate, you know. I’m thinking about a proposal."

Several sentences, some with big words. Steve maybe warming to Meg now there’s the possibility she could do me in.

"Thinking? You seemed more definite when you asked me to carry your rent for a couple months," I say from the counter.

Meg looks at me and blows smoke. "Ashtray?" she asks.

I consider going through the backs of cupboards, but find the lid from a jam jar first. "Trade you for a nail."

"Didn’t think you smoked," she says.

"I’m near fifty," I answer. "The fuck am I saving it for?"

She goes to her purse, opens her pack and puts a Bic on the table. I take one, light up and cough.

Meg freshens, lighting from the dwindling butt she brought downstairs. "I could smoke for the two of us, if you like. Second hand is cheaper, and sexier if you ask me. You ever hit anyone with this sap?" she asks.

Steve watches the conversation like it's a tennis match.

"Now and then," I say. "Carried it on the beat. It was good in a brawl. Sorted things quick."

"Ever hit anyone to get a confession?" She's smiling.

"Maybe whack the table top a few times. Usually does the trick." I take a drag and concentrate on not coughing again. "Saps weren’t regulation, but most cops carried one when I was on the force. Safer than a gun. Draw a gun only when you intend to use it, according to regs, and don't get fancy, try to wound, either. That's how bystanders get hurt. Always aim where you're most likely to hit. The torso, where the most damage is done." Meg isn’t drinking her coffee. "So you bring out a sap, doesn't automatically mean somebody has to die. Snap a collar-bone, crack a knee-cap. Puts an end to a lot of shit."

I see it in her eyes. She's going for it.

Until Steve chimes in, "I thought that’s what the sticks were for."

I try a smile. "Backup. Anyway, when you're dicking it, plainclothes, the billies kind of stick out."

"Now it sits in your top dresser drawer," Meg says.

"I'm not a cop anymore."

"Still have a gun?"

"Nope." I stub the cigarette, over an inch from the filter.

"Shouldn’t you carry something? Just in case? I thought you went private." Meg takes the pack and lights another. She keeps the cigarettes on her side of the table.

I pull the flaps of my bathrobe together, retie the fabric belt. "Not my job to make people behave anymore. I poke around other people's affairs now and then, but not carrying a weapon means I think before making trouble."

"Sounds dull if you ask me. Besides, you didn’t throw it away. You still keep the sap at the back of your dresser drawer."

"So?"

"So what is it, like a souvenir of happier times?"

Steve’s eyes come back to me. "What were you doing in my dresser anyways?" I say.

"Looking for condoms."

Jesus.

Steve gets up to leave.

"You haven’t any bacon or eggs by the way, or anything that might be called breakfast so far as I can see."

"Got coffee haven't you? Should be a carton of juice somewhere. Did you look in the back of the fridge?" I’m thinking I’d like another cigarette, but Meg doesn’t offer and maybe I shouldn’t ask. She hasn't lifted her cup since carrying it to the table either. "I suppose there's something wrong with the coffee too," I say.

"No, I expect the coffee's just fine."

Silence again.

"No sugar," she says finally.

"Well I like it black. And that's Steve's milk you just helped yourself to, by the way, and him still a growing boy."

She blows more smoke, not bothering to direct it away from my face. "So how do you use it?" picking up the sap, the narrow end in her palm, thumb along the shank.

"Break your thumb that way. Tuck it in. Otherwise, that’s all there is to it. Watch where you swing."

"It’s rather phallic, don’t you think?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Very macho," stroking the leather sac with a red-nailed finger, "like a scrotum. I see a room full of big men, sitting with their legs open, scratching their Blackjacks. That’s another name for a sap, isn’t it? Black Jack? Is that what you do at the policemen's ball, haul them out for comparison? Do they come in different sizes? Are there competitions?

"Okay, put it away."

"Where would you carry it? Can't be in your pocket. It would show in the drape of your suit."

I reach to take it from her hand. "Hooked on the belt, usually. Here, give it to me."

"At the small of the back, I imagine, hanging down the crack…"

"Just give it me." I grab the sap from her hand. She sets back, starts to pout. Jesus.

"I was only teasing," she says.

Copyright© 2003 John Swan