Distant Fire

"Well, the business in town may have to be put on hold." Tom grimaced. "And—"

"Rhetorical, Tom, you asshat. Mick! Haley!" The gunman and knifer ran over. They had their heads bowed like scared dogs. "You two stay here and keep looking. Something's fishy here. Marty's trying to reach his mad uncle. We let him, all our dirty laundry gets thrown out the top window and we're fucked. You two are gonna catch him before the bosses find out just who we've been working with to meet quota, got it? Get after him!"

They nodded, turned, and ran off.

"They won't find 'im," Tom said quietly.

"Tom, one of these days you're gonna wake up and be dead. And I'll replace you with a bloodhound-collie mutt. Does the same work and sasses me less." Gangra glared at the ground as she stalked back to her vehicle. "Can anything go well tonight?"

She got into the passenger side and waited impatiently. Tom was dallying a moment, looking up at the sky. He shrugged, looked back down, and walked to the driver's seat.

"Well, stars sure are bright this evening."

. . . And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light . . .
—Edgar Allan Poe, "Evening Star"