His forehead might have accused his long locks of flagellation had there not been the wind to blame. The day had proven impudent in its ugliness. Surt Zeller popped the tan collar on his long coat and continued towards the black tails of the storm with all the finesse of noir’s Philip Marlowe, though Padre Pio’s stigmata burned under his skin. “We understand each other,” Surt muttered miserably to the unfavorable weather.
A thousand Bougainvillias with pouting pink lips kissed his side, as he marched alongside a black iron gate set against the north wind, stopping only to read a swinging plank overhead as he turned to enter the estate: Rhinestone Villa. Not that there was a need to read it, except perhaps to excite some renewed passion against his own freshly embalmed hatred for the place; he had glanced over the sign many times in his haste. “Beast of a man!” he shouted skyward, though he was speaking of himself. It began to rain.
He solidly rapped the door with the brass dolphin knocker. The maid, Duchessa, answered the door, and the smell of guacamole momentarily snatched Surt’s breath.
“Oh, I ca-an’t open the door for you, sir! – The Captain would have your head and mine too!” Her red curls stole all the color from her face, and she moved to leave Surt out.
“Please,” he stalled, “he must understand that I didn’t mean for her to – to.” He didn’t finish.
“To kill herself?” exclaimed Duchessa. “Well, she did, and that’s done – And the Captain understands that his daughter understood that you meant your words, Mr. Zeller – There’s no denying that now! Your baneful rhetoric is most unwelcome here!” She successfully slammed the door with enough force to rival the wind.
In attempting to rid the world of its blackest pebbles, the detective, Surt Zeller, had hung a millstone around Ms. Rhines’ innocent neck and pushed her over the edge with his accusations. It was then that he learned sincerity meant nothing in a world full of fallible judges. The truth was uncloaked one hour after Ms. Rhines’ untimely surrender to despair. Instead of saving the world, he had put out one of its brightest lights. “I deserve a fate worse than death,” Surt muttered quietly.
All of his words were mutters lately. Before the incident, he spoke like thunder, pointed like lightening, and rained mercilessly upon all, but now he was the eye of the storm, silent and still as the grave, as his life – a wicked funnel of wind – wobbled around him.
Surt still faced the brass knocker. He fumbled inside one of his pockets, pulling out a silver lighter and then a cigarette. He lit the poison and turned to face the storm. He stood puffing for a few moments longer. “All men who play God share this fate,” he murmured, as he put out his light and descended the stairs.
