Randi wanted, "Hanging by a Thread" and my buddy Rick at Rkv330/aka Bluedevil had his usual great idea. The main characters are from The Long Goodbye, The First Deadly Sin, and The Big Short. It's in LW because nothing I write fits into any category. Plus, my seven regular readers look for me here. I hope you enjoy - DT
THE AGNUS DEI GAMBIT
My wife Kelley plays 16-inch softball in Grant Park. She's the social one. Me? I powerlift at the "Y". We troglodytes don't talk much --just grunt and scratch.
The only fans at a 16-inch game are the significant others, and most of them are drunk. But It's the thought that counts. So, I perch in a lawn chair and quaff a few Old Styles, while my wife imitates Roy Hobbs.
Kelley's on a team of U of Chicago profs. Needless to say, an infield made up of future Nobel Laurates isn't going to light up the Chicago beer leagues. But my Kelley's blood-thirstier than a caged wolverine. And so, she plays the game with all the savagery of Ty Cobb.
The rules require four women and six men. The men play bare handed. The women wear gloves. Kelley would normally insist on going bare-handed. But she's the first baseman and the glove gives her that little extra edge in case the throw's off. Like I said, she's competitive.
Hitting a ball that's the size of a harvest moon doesn't interest me. I mean seriously??! It would be hard to miss something that big. Still, watching my wife bamboozle a team full of macho-man lawyers, or hedge-fund managers, never fails to entertain.
Kelley bats cleanup. There's a method to that madness. Guys on the other team see a drop-dead gorgeous redhead in tight polyester baseball pants. So, they walk in a few steps. That's a mistake.
Hitting a mush ball any distance is like trying to put zip on a cantaloupe. The physics simply aren't there. It's the reason why 16-inch is so popular in those dense old Chicago neighborhoods. The ball doesn't travel very far.
But baseball is a fast-twitch leverage sport where the emphasis is on eye hand coordination and proper mechanics. Kelley's reflexes are lightning fast, and she has the powerful, disciplined body of a dancer. So, the ball is always dead center on the barrel of a bat that is traveling at an uncanny speed.
Watching my wife drive a frozen rope ten feet over the startled left-fielder's head certainly lays rest the old saw about girls and baseball. In fact, I don't think I've ever been to one of Kelley's games where the first inning score wasn't whoever was on base at the time, plus my wife.
********
It was an exceptionally shitty July evening, even by Chicago standards, stifling heat, and humidity. You could just sense the coming storm. Chicago gets the benefit of the lake. But on evenings like this, the hot muggy air and the cool Lake Michigan water don't play well together.
The big greenish-black clouds were building overhead, and the atmosphere had that tingly feeling you get just before life becomes very interesting. The wind began to rise, and the whole world went dead silent. Then, there was a blinding flash and a series of rolling thunderclaps.
All I could hear was my wife loudly arguing with the guy who had just called-off the game. Her team was down two runs in the bottom of the seventh and she was coming to bat with two on. I mean really?!! If Mighty Casey was willing to risk getting struck by lightning, then the rest of those pussies ought to stand out there while she finished off the hapless foe.
I was hotfooting through the formal garden between Upper Hutchinson and South Michigan when Kelley caught up with me. I needed the head start. Kelley's extremely fast. We make quite a contrast. She's, lithe and sleek and pantherish, in a maroon U of C tee, and tight baseball pants. Moi? I look like a hairy rhinoceros in an ancient aloha shirt, old-fashioned Bermuda shorts and floppy red Chuckies.
Kelley had a woman in tow. That was Isobel, the right fielder, and her BFF from the good old days at Hyde Park. Kelley is a woman of infinite contrast. She's Celtic beauty incarnate, flat-out gorgeous, in a healthy Sports Illustrated cover model way. But it's not her beauty that amazes. It's her intelligence. That's' where she and Isobel connect.
Right this second however, it looked like my genius wife was going to get us drowned. We had gone about 200 feet down Michigan Avenue, headed for the parking lot over on Wabash, when God hit us with a bucket of water. I zagged right and into the Hilton. We could all dry off at 720 South.
The restaurant is expensive. But it has a nice collection of Irish whiskey and it's a proven fact that Jameson's can dry wet clothing. Just ask the Irish. It rains a lot over there, and they drink gallons of it, even babies.
The restaurant was a bit upscale for the way we looked. So, the host hesitated for a second. Then he caught sight of Kelley in a drenched t-shirt. That opened his eyes so-to-speak. He discretely escorted us to a little alcove at the far end of the bar. We squished our way into the banquette seating and the waiter appeared.
The waiter looked me over with the usual disdain. I could easily pass for a mob enforcer; glittering black eyes, buzz cut, eternal five o'clock shadow, no neck and about 240 pounds of bulky muscle.
Then his eyes shifted to Isobel. Isobel's presence will answer any questions about your pedigree. It's something in the way she holds herself. She's not consciously trying to project superiority. In fact, she is a very humble little woman. But the power is unmistakably "there."
Physically, Isobel is a tiny woodland creature, slight of frame, brown hair, brown eyes, and brown skin. You might look past her once. But you won't do it twice. It's almost an alien intelligence and it's intimidating.
The waiter coughed and said, "May I take your order?" I ordered three shots of Redbreast 21 and handed him an American Express Black. That convinced him that I was mobbed up. He hustled away like he thought I was going to kneecap him.
Isobel is Kelley's best friend. They've been buds since they were undergraduates over in that southside ivory tower. Which is ironic because Isobel is a sparrow and Kelley's a hawk.
My wife is, and always has been, an eye magnet. She radiates the soul of the Irish; abundantly thick copper hair, huge emerald eyes, jaunty spirit, wholesome beauty and sparkling good humor. While, Isobel isn't, "of this world."
Isobel's the prototypical nerd. Everything she wears is slightly out of kilter. That includes her Pam Grier 1970s Afro. But she is also one of the top geneticists at the University of Chicago's Institute for Genetics and Genomes. That's where Kelley hangs out.
Let me stop you right there!! I know what you're thinking. So, I'm going to put you straight. I don't suffer a shred of jealousy over my wife's eggheadedness, or that of any of her eggheaded friends. It takes nothing off me. It's just who she is, and I love her.
I am who I am. Nobody'd ever mistake me for an intellectual. I've got a different kind of smarts and that's always gotten me by. We're two sides of the same coin, Kelley, and me, and we're inseparable.
Right this second though, my wife and her friend were engaged in an animated conversation that included words like "nucleotide"," adenine", and "parallelized epigenome characterization". I knew none of those words. So, I said jokingly, "Could you clue a poor Army cop in on what you two women are talking about."
Isobel looked embarrassed. The last thing she wanted to do was exclude me. Kelley laughed and said, "We're talking about Isobel's latest project at IGG."
*****
John enjoyed the self-scourging. It was his favorite form of debasement. Just as the Master had taught, "If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross." Bearing that cross was John's only interest.
He DID have one other interest. That was killing. It was expected of all the Apostles. and John was the most ardent of the group. The Apostles had unique access to absolute truths, certainties so perfect that it was their duty to impose them on everyone else. That was John's mission.
The Apostles traced their lineage back to the Sicarii. The Sicarii predated the Hashshashin of Almut, from which the word "assassin" was derived. So, it might be said that the Sicarii were the first organized terror group.
The Sicarii were originally Jewish zealots who were supposedly wiped out at Masada. That was a myth fostered by the Romans so that they could sleep at night. In fact, most of the Sicarii joined the diaspora after Titus's destruction of the temple in 70 AD. In return, it was one of the Sicarii who arranged Titus's untimely demise.
Every subversive sect needs a purpose. For the Sicarii, that was ensuring the dominion of the spirit over the flesh. It wasn't religion. It was a deep-seated fascination with the most absolute form of corporeal independence -- death.
After Rome fell, the Sicarii settled into a mountaintop castellum near Melago in the Italian Alps. That valley was perhaps the remotest place in the known world. Centuries passed, and the Sicarii morphed into an inbred group of mystic absolutists whose single precept was to assure the triumph of the immortal soul.
That might have even been admirable, in a backward kind of way, if it weren't for the methods. The Apostles were born as assassins and that was their defining characteristic. In many ways it was pure pragmatism. If you disagreed with them, then you were eliminated; quick, efficient, and effective.
That had been the fate of the Templars. They were the Apostle's only real competition for ownership of the spiritual agenda back in the day. The problem was that the Templars got too rich and worldly. So, it was easy to engineer their downfall. The King of France was just the means to that end.
The Brotherhood was restricted to twelve Apostles. Those twelve men were privy to the mysteries of Apostolicism. But there was always a thirteenth. Judas Iscariot had been treasurer of the Brotherhood before his betrayal and excommunication. Hence, one Brother named Judas always lived in exile and served as the Apostle's catspaw in the wicked world.
De Nogaret was the Judas in the Templar era. He was advisor to Philip the Fair. It was De Nogaret, through Philip, who eliminated the Templars.
Of course, there were many levels within the order, from novice to enlightened. But there were never more than a dozen Apostles as the Scripture demanded. These men were replaced as the incumbents died. John was always the youngest, just as the original had been, and he was "beloved."
John in turn, was the most fanatical of the Brotherhood. He channeled his passion into utter dedication to the purposes of the group. That meant endless days perfecting himself. The result was a chiseled six-foot specimen who could move like a striking snake. Nobody bested him in physical combat.
John's skills were legendary. He had trained himself to lie motionless for hours in the snow of the Apostle's Alpine lair, wearing nothing but a white Shinobi Shizoku. He particularly enjoyed killing with a sword. It was such a timeless method and it allowed him to exhibit his extraordinary physical gifts.
His weapon of choice was a Fujiwara Kanenaga katana forged in the 17th Century. It was never far from his hand. Yet, John was also adept at every other form of killing. He could poison you with household items or assassinate you with everyday things. But his unique talent was his chameleon-like ability.
