Blood on the Snow - Almost.

I stood on the corner for several minutes after the Caddy had pulled off into the snow and the dim light. I must have looked more shabby than I'd realized; an obviously prosperous woman—who I recognized from one of our performances before the war—offered me a couple of bucks. I declined.

I stood on the corner as she walked off, snow and cold completely forgotten. I had never felt so utterly wretched. I'd played for this woman at a soirée when I still had ten fingers. Now, I was just a bum to her. A down on his luck vet.

The war had taken everything from me. My family. My fiancée. My friends. My career.

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I was sure that I'd contributed—in however small a way—to the ultimate victory of good over evil, freedom over tyranny, peace over aggression.

Then I realized, very suddenly, that I had no memory of the enemy we'd been fighting. Or where we'd been fighting. I remembered the trenches. Remembered my buddies, dead in the mud. Remembered waking up in the field hospital with half a hand.

But I didn't remember who our enemy had been. I had no memory of that all.

I didn't have much time to wonder about that unaccountable lapse in what I then thought of as my otherwise encyclopedic memory.

Four young guys—not exactly disreputable, but certainly not the sort you'd invite to a formal dinner party—were shouting insults and pelting a guy in an expensive suit and no overcoat—despite the cold—with snowballs. This didn't strike me as good—or bad—natured fun. These guys were angry. And scared as hell.

I rapidly ascertained that my .38 was still safely in my shoulder holster. Just in case.

When one of the thugs picked up a bottle, and aimed at the guy's head, I thought I'd politely suggest that he depart. Snowballs were one thing, but I didn't particularly want to see a guy's head broken open.

Blood on the snow was somehow deeply disquieting.

I went quietly behind the prospective bottle thrower. Very politely put the muzzle of my .38 in the small of his back.

"You might want to put that bottle down, boyo. And get out of this neighborhood for a while." I had a feeling he'd get the message, without the need for tedious repetition.

I was right. He'd been around, and knew the feeling of a pistol's muzzle in his back. He dropped the bottle, and departed in haste from the site of the confrontation. I re-holstered my gun, no one on the street any the wiser, and tried to hail a cab. I needed to get to my office to develop the pictures of Lorna and the Caddy driver. And then get them to Patterson. I felt more than vaguely sick at that thought.

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Cabs, though, were momentarily scarce—rather surprising in that well-heeled neighborhood. As I waited in the falling snow, the guy on the receiving end of the abuse ran over to me.

It was Al DiGiordano. I'd almost forgotten about him. Tried to, at least. He put a hand on my shoulder, as though we were long-lost childhood buddies.

I looked at him. The same nondescript guy, but now no sunglasses. He didn't make eye contact with me. A very polite guy was Al.

"Yeah. I tripped in the damned snow. Lost the sunglasses. I always carry a spare pair, but I left the office in a hurry.

"I wasn't careful enough getting up, and looked one of those friendly young fellas in the eye. He passed out, and his friends decided to prevent any further complications. Like I told you. The weather makes my life difficult."

"I can see that," I said with considerably more empathy than I'd felt the previous time we'd met. He had no overcoat, and was wearing an identical gray pinstripe, although today with maroon tie and handkerchief.

"Aren't you freezing in just a suit?"

"I don't feel the cold," he said simply, and walked off. As he started to walk away, I saw what appeared, absurdly, to be a fox rapidly disappear down the nearest alley.

I liked the guy. I couldn't help myself. And despite myself—despite every instinct that told me he wanted to turn over rocks that were better left in place—Al reawakened my curiosity about the constant snow in June. I went after him—and said what proved to be the most idiotic and destructive words that I had, or will ever utter.

"Maybe we should talk about this, Al."

He turned, and smiled with deep and very genuine relief, still avoiding eye contact.

"I'd appreciate it, brother." He paused for a moment. "My office is just around the corner from the Café Neon."

I wasn't surprised. The coincidences were piling up like the snow on my black fedora. But what the hell, I thought, I'd never been farther into one of those granite towers than the lobby. This would be a new experience. Broaden my horizons. If I'd had any idea how much the experience would expand my vision of the world, I'd have run the other way. Fast.

We walked the couple of blocks. Everyone was hurrying by, heads down against the cold, so Al didn't need to worry about eye contact. I did notice that he never kept his gaze in one place long. I would have sworn that I saw bright patches of light on the snow wherever he looked.

"This is nuts," I said under my breath. I'm sure he heard me. Didn't say a word. Like I've said, a very polite guy was Al.

We arrived at the same revolving door Lorna had run into, in the building where she'd gone to make her arrangements with the Caddy driver.

The security guard gave me the same look of outraged surprise as had Candy, the hostess at the café. The hired help seemed appalled that their superiors treated me, apparently, with considerable respect.

I wasn't outraged.

Just surprised as hell.

As we waited for the elevator I said, as nonchalantly as I could, "I've got a client—guy named Ralph J. Patterson. He has office in this building. You know him? If you could point me in the right direction, it would save me some real time."

Al was clearly startled, but he quickly recovered his usual calm.

"Can't say I do, Frank. There are several thousand suites here—and I'm not the most social guy in the world."

With that, the elevator arrived, and the elevator operator stood deferentially as we entered.

"120th, Mr. DiGiordano?"

"Thanks, Bill," Al replied without thought.

At least I'd get a hell of a view for my time.

The elevator moved as fast as the Northside cabbies—if considerably less erratically.

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"Your offices, Mr. DiGiordano."

I was getting a strong sense that Al was rather more prosperous than I'd initially suspected.

When the door opened on a suite of offices taking up the penthouse of the building, this impression grew significantly stronger.

I was initially blinded by the overhead lighting; the office was as bright as an operating theater. After the dim outdoor light, it took me a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust. I then saw the sign saying "DiGiordano and Associates, Attorneys at Law."

"Good afternoon, Mr. DiGiordano," said the lovely blond behind the reception desk.

"Sherry, this is Mr. McGill. He's to have complete access to the building, at any time, day or night."

Al spoke to her with an air of command that I wouldn't have expected from the man standing hat in hand in front of my desk two days previously.

Sherry glanced at me professionally—but without the disdain I'd grown used to in the Northside—and replied, "Of course, Mr. DiGiordano. I'll get the keys and passwords right away."

"Bring them to my office as soon as they're complete. And bring me two more pairs of sunglasses."

"Yes sir." She hurried off in a blur of blonde hair and curves.

We walked down one long corridor, turned left into another, right into a third, and continued past dozens of closed, thick oak doors.

We finally reached Al's corner office after what had seemed like a mile hike.

I wondered if bread crumbs would be provided for me to find my way out.

I then wondered if a way out was even a possibility.

As we entered, I saw that everything in that office was angular. Meticulous. Spotless. The desk was a slab of the same polished marble as the entry area. There was a couch with a matching marble table and two large leather chairs. A wall full of leather-bound books that appeared to date from the previous century. The office was about three times the size of my entire house.

The outer walls were nothing but windows. I could see the entire city, downtown, the lake. I stood for a moment, completely lost in the altitude, the view, the money.

"Have a seat, Frank," Al's voice broke in like a waking voice in a dream. The same friendly, cautious voice I'd heard in my office—and in the street. I turned from the snow-covered city, and saw that he'd seated himself in one of the armchairs—not behind his desk.

"I owe you, Frank. If that thug in the street was as good with a bottle as he was with a snowball, I'd be in the hospital now. Or dead."

"I didn't know it was you, Al."

"That makes no difference. I'd have appreciated the help. Even if I were someone else."

He laughed, a kind, open hearted laugh.

I had a difficult time making one guy out this kind, friendly, shy man, and the boss of bosses in the front office.

"When you said you worked in a law firm, I didn't fully imagine the scope."

"I do work in a law firm, Frank. There was no need to mention that I also own the firm. And the building."

There was a slightly different tone, then, one that I didn't quite like. One that I would hear again, and that would lead to less than ideal consequences.

Sherry came in rapidly and quietly, her abundant curves a stark contrast to the angularity of the room. She gave Al two new pairs of sunglasses; he put one on and immediately seemed to relax. She then offered me a heavy set of keys and a complex list of passwords.

"Here you are, Mr. McGill. Please let me know if there's anything else you need from me." She actually smiled at me when she said it. I immediately like Sherry. I sensed kindness, warmth, and a concern for DiGiordano that might transcend a professional relationship.

"When I'm standing on the street in this part of town, I get offered handouts. But when I'm with you, Mr. DiGiordano," I said grinning, "I'm treated a damned bit better."

Al laughed.

"Watch that damned language. After all, I was going to be damned priest."

"A priest?" I asked. Very little was going to surprise me at that point.

"I kid you not. That was my goal, to serve God and his Holy Church. I majored in celibacy and minored in purgatory. Still do, I suppose," he laughed bitterly.

"Celibacy? With Sherry available to fulfill your every wish?"

"She's extremely intelligent, efficient, and very kind. And she's very beautiful. But I don't get involved. For many reasons." He looked away; the moment was uncomfortable.

I decided to try to lighten things up a bit.

"So why did you decide against a vocation?"

"The Church didn’t have enough complex regulations. So I went into Federal Tax Law."

It was my turn to laugh.

"That the only reason?"

"I don't think I'd have been an ideal priest. Churches are dark, Frank."

I wanted to tell him that the eyes weren't so bad. That he was overreacting. But I'd just seen four guys trying to kill him in the best neighborhood in town—for looking one of them in the eye.

I took out a cigarette, and offered one to Al. He silently declined.

"No bad habits, Al?" I asked, trying to smile.

"Not a one." He said in all seriousness.

"You don't need to be a priest. You're a saint already—ignoring the temptations I've seen today."

He looked at me with considerable seriousness through his dark glasses.

"No, Frank, I'm not."

"Let's start at the beginning," I said. My professional and personal curiosity overcame my good sense. As it usually did.

Looking back, I realized that that was the exact moment that Al DiGiordano became my client.