Free Queens Noir by Robert Knightly

patting his khakis. "And
she's a vet."
    "Then call a priest."
    "I'm callin' the cops is who I'm callin'!" Paul starts rifling
through his suitcases. "If you'd please shut your trap." Sounding exactly like Vin.
    "When you find your weapon, let me know," Rose says, reaching into her sweatshirt pocket to cock the gun. "Then
you can just kill me and get my house."

    "What? Where's my phone. I just had-"
    The kick of the gun knocks Rose down where Paulie is
also heading with a sashay-low twist combination that leaves
him slumped right over his bulbous luggage. The movements
seem so foreign that she actually finds herself wondering, Did
he just get a bad haircut or something? Then she remembers
to thrust the gun into Li's dead-cold hands, their life about
drained from them. Fingerprints, right? Rose didn't endure
years of Columbo for nothing.
    She is waiting for Li to die before crossing herself, a reflex,
and calling the number on the detective's card. Not Kevin or
Kieran but Andrew-her new friend. He'll be the one to do
her the favor. Andrew Volishskya. Not from around here.

     

BUCKNER'S ERROR
BY JOSEPH GUGLIELMELLI
Shea Stadium
    followed him to the platform for the 7 train at Grand
Central, a place so far down below the street that I expected to meet devils with pitchforks on their way up
from Hell. The tail was easy. After a couple of days on the job,
I saw that he always wore the same kind of clothes, like a uniform or that crazy detective on cable. White Oxford shirt with
the sleeves rolled up, beige khaki pants, and brown loafers.
But today he added a cap-navy-blue with an antique capital
B on the front and little red socks at the back. A brand new
Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
    I noticed more people in the city wearing Boston caps of
ter the team had won the World Series. Always brand new,
never faded from the sun or stained with sweat. It was like
they were previously ashamed to walk the city's streets broadcasting their loyalty or were afraid that crazy Yankees fans
would chant "1918" at them when they went for a quart of
milk or to pick up their dry cleaning. I say, your team is your
team no matter what and no matter what anyone says. I wore
a Mets cap that wasn't new when they won the Series in 1986,
and carried a copy of today's Post in my back pocket. The two
of its waited, on this warm June night, for the 7 train to take
its to Shea Stadium where the Mets and Red Sox would play
the first of three interleague games.
    He stood quietly on the platform, leaning against the el evator with his hands in his pockets. He stared off into space
with no paper or book to read. The stale, sticky air did not
seem to bother him. Next to him, a fat guy in a crappy suit
with his polyester tie at half-mast, tired and heading home to
Queens, mopped his face with a rumpled handkerchief. Three
Korean women who could have been anywhere from forty to
seventy years old stood silent and still, holding shopping bags
filled with vegetables and other groceries. I disregarded them.
Further down the platform, college kids wearing black awayjerseys with the name and number of their favorite Mets players on the back were obviously going to the game. The kids
were playful and laughing but I knew they wouldn't get in my
way when the train pulled in. I didn't expect the subway car to
be sardine-can crowded until we got to the Queens stations.

    A blast of cooler air signaled the arrival of a 7 express,
which meant fewer stops and fewer chances for screw-ups.
When the train stopped, we stood in front of the last car. He
didn't move to rush the doors like so many subway riders do.
He followed the tinny, distorted message over the car's loudspeakers and let the passengers off the train before getting on.
I maneuvered my way into the car so that I was standing in
front of him and holding the same pole in the middle of the
car. A little guy wearing blue mechanic's overalls and reading
El Diario had grabbed