Eriksen liked to stand out in red short-sleeve scrubs and extra-long gloves, blasting ZZ Top as he sawed, hammered and sewed on the orthopedically damaged suburbanites hoping to improve their less than stellar golf or tennis games. On occasion, especially in summer, I’d catch him in shorts. “Bjorn,” I’d scold him like a recalcitrant kindergartner, “put your pants on, Infection Control.”

Across the alley I see her, lathering, sudsy soap rolling down her back. A joint, a Diet Pepsi and the hopes for a hard on from a woman who knew he spied on her and didn’t pull the shade down.

I committed my first murder on Christmas Day 1958. I was eight.

She hated people who needed clarification. “Do you need clarification often? Are you frequently confused?” He was lost and she didn’t care. She decided then to pursue his demise.

Why? I’ll tell you. Because my wife ain’t a wife anymore, my fiancé dumped me, and my kids have their own lives.

Fat Louie the butcher had thick arms. Short and covered with hair. A bloody apron draped over his barrel chest.

I met her eight years ago at Holy Cross Hospital where I worked in West Englewood. A poor people’s hospital on Chicago’s south side.

My son Paul was starting to come through. His cocky smugness began to vanish. The good kid I knew that was deep down inside him was starting to peek out from behind his veneer of twelve-year-old arrogance.

The visitor’s eyebrows arched at the sound of his name and he entered the room. He took Mary’s hand from C, then turned his head upwards exhaling blue smoke to the ceiling. And with great fanfare Massimo kissed her hand, precisely on the wedding ring she still wore. 

On the ninth month after Joe had died of natural causes, Mary was in St. Francis reciting her novena for the dead, quiet like, lips moving, nothing coming out, holding her rosary. A shadow crossed her sightline to Jesus. She looked up, lips still moving, thumbing the beads.

"God bless you."