The phone will ring, a knock will come at the door “tattarattat,” a voice on the other end of the line will mention murder, and Sorenson’s partner, a detective he has been working with for the past fifteen years, will ask him to come down where the squad car will be waiting.  This is routine, an almost nightly event—ten years.

Crime of passion.

Stabbing.

Triple homicide.

Denise kicked me out of our apartment two weeks before my 30th birthday, and Roy said I’d always have a place to crash with him, no problem.  But my habit of working late into the night, of getting phone calls when he was trying to soak his feet, and the fact that I’m a terrible wing-man all added up fast.  A week later I was going to a conference, and he offered to drive me to the airport, and Roy told me, on the way, that he’d be changing the locks while I was gone and giving my stuff to Shane to hold on to.  I was leaving Chicago a homeless man.

A solo sailor is one thing. A solo flyer is one thing. People get used to the idea that a girl in her mid-teens can face air or water or wind on her own. They don’t trust her to face people. Not without being overborne in some way or other. A girl needs a protector on land. That’s what they tell her, sometimes they’re right.

Correction, March 17:    A March 15 article on immigrants affiliated with the Russian Mafia purchasing real estate in New York City erroneously stated that Pavel Dostoyevsky is not related to the great Russian novelist.  In fact, Mr. Dostoyevsky is the great, great grandson of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, author of such books as Crime and Punishment.

The long stretch of beach toward the tip South Padre Island was known for its shimmering white sands.  My sister and I would play in the sand dunes and slide down as if it were fresh-fallen snow. Then, most days, we would run along the beach and bob in the water’s soft, translucent, green waves. Under our toes we would feel the hardness of sea shells and reach down to pull them up. Some would have turquoise and pink stripes, red sunbursts, blue spirals, yellow and chartreuse edges—all specimen to behold in our tiny hands and carry back to the pile on the beach’s edge.

It seems, throughout his life, that numbers played a vital role in his day to day. By counting to 1,357, he could awaken from a catatonic framework to find the entire downstairs completely spotless.  By counting to 254, a clockwise motion of his tongue (matched precisely to the metronomic seconds) could bring his wife to climax without extra rigmarole and only cause minor aches and pains in his aging jaw line.

The first time I saw the word “Pontypool,” I was in the bathroom at Chicago’s Music Box – a famous, old movie palace – attending the annual 24-hour horror-fest known as The Massacre.  A slanted poster with the complete running order of the festival was taped to the tile wall.  Though I knew most of the fest’s schedule, I had overlooked one film…

The one that was next.  The one that had the prime slot.

Pontypool.

Mr. January is at least 43 now. He is the face of clean living and resolutions kept. In his fireman’s suspenders, he has the kind of muscled, but not overly muscled chest that reveals a good year of conscientious workouts at the gym. He’s acquiring that barrel-shape very strong men get as they age. His chest hair, blond of course, has become wiry and coarse. There’s more of it now.

EDITOR’S NOTE:  John Hay was one of two secretaries who were like adopted sons to Abraham Lincoln.  He and John J. Nicolay assisted Lincoln, kept visitors at bay, and were always available as the 16th President managed the country’s greatest crisis. Together, Hay and Nicolay wrote an authoritative Lincoln biography, based on access to the presidential papers.

In the end, it wasn’t the knights in shining armor or the friendly dragons that did it:  it was the pink bunnies that made my wife divorce me.  I write children’s books, you see, and so I’m always coming home with something new to put in a story.  At first she thought it was cute:  “Oh,” she’d say, “look at the little-biddy-friendly hedgehog!  Come over here and give me a kiss.”  And at night, after  eating a steak dinner with snow peas and Pepsi, we’d all sit around the fire and cuddle while I’d write about how even hedgehogs need love.  Or why hedgehogs should listen to their parents.  Or