Free Long Island Noir by Kaylie Jones

tumble through the air. His mouth opens, tobacco-stained teeth surprised at the sudden shaft of daylight. His gold-ringed fingers clutch at the balustrades, snapping first one, then many. Tumbling under his own weight, he snaps first his arms, then his lean legs, on the marble stairs. With a sickening thump, the mound of fabric and flesh comes to a halt, landing on a broken neck. His acne-scarred cheek lies smooth against the travertine. A single molar dislodges from his jaw and tumbles out, skittering across the floor. A brief sputter, a silent drool. And then blood, still warm, spills from his ear and puddles on the marble floor. Looking on the scene from above, Anjali feels the sudden, shocking throttle of euphoria. An alien roar surges within her, deadening all other senses. In the astonishing stillness, the divorce papers flutter in a current of icy air-conditioning, the unpleasant chill the one trembling remnant of their shared life.
    Anjali looks at her bleeding nails, then again at the body. Trembling yet calm, she picks her way down the broken stairs. Sidestepping the body, she walks across the marble floor where as a young proxy bride she once slipped in cheap, girlish sandals. She finally turns off the air-conditioning and begins at last to thaw. She reaches for the phone and calmly dials 911 and finds her voice. In a clipped accent, she tells the police, “There has been an accident. My husband is dead. Please come.”
    And so, they do.
    I looked at the photo, meeting Anjali’s eyes, marveling that my frail patient had survived on the wiry web we’d once built for her. A death in the delivery room, the destruction of a worn-out womb, the sustained theft of her motherhood, and at the root of it all, the beauty which had sealed her fate. Through it all she had been alone. Everyone had failed her. Yet still she lived, destined to be her own solitary savior.
    I put down the paper and stared at the Atlantic. Distant laughter bounced on the foaming surf. Somewhere across these currents I had left my own fate behind, choosing something better. I thought of Anjali’s tenacious recovery. There had indeed been a purpose to our work, and I understood now why she had survived.
    Anjali had finally arrived in her America. The America that was also mine.

A STARR BURNS BRIGHT
    BY C HARLES S ALZBERG
    Long Beach
    G oldblatt, you gonna tell me what the hell you wanted to see me about?” I said, as I watched him shovel another forkful of pasta into his mouth, or at least in the general vicinity of his mouth.
    “Yeah. Sure. After we finish the meal.”
    “I don’t know if I can wait that long. Watching you eat is making me sick.”
    “You got a problem with the way I eat?” he said, as a few drops of red sauce shot through the air and landed on a glass I’d moved in front of my plate for protection.
    “Exhibit number one.” I pointed to the glass.
    “Huh?”
    “Never mind,” I said, looking at my watch. “Look, I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see.”
    “Yeah. Right. Swann, as long as I’ve known you that ain’t been the truth.”
    “Time passes. Things change.”
    He sucked the last tubes of penne into his face, dragged a piece of Italian bread across his plate, stuffed it into his mouth, wiped his entire face with the napkin that had been tucked into his collar, and leaned back. “Good meal, huh?”
    “Excellent,” I said, not even bothering to hide my sarcasm. I doubted he’d get it anyway. My plate of soggy spaghetti nestled in a pool of oil sat practically untouched in front of me, but I guess he didn’t notice that. Quantity was always better than quality when it came to Goldblatt. “Now maybe we can discuss the business you said you had for me.”
    “I haven’t had dessert yet.”
    “Screw dessert. If I don’t hear the reason you got me here, I’m leaving.”
    “Okay, okay. I need you to do a solid for me.”
    “I don’t do solids. I have rent to pay, food to buy, drinks to pay