To Begin With...

But Nicholas was chivalrous, above all else. It was well known, like a birthmark you can’t hide with clothing, or a withered arm. His eyes would betray it, in the dark hours, and he would sit in the darkness and watch the first snow falling outside the latticed study windows. A virtue streaked like a character flaw in his destiny, spoken over dim fires and homemade caves in the secret places, marred like Galahad. In the end, it would be his undoing.


  It was as if the whole world was the back of a clock face on some nights. The moon would set in over the residual night fog, Big Ben in wane, foghorns from the harbor like bass notes and baritone sax from the jazz holes lining the basements of 42nd and South Avenue. Shark-tooth smile nights like these, who could your trust? Hoell made it a simple practice — no one.

 Once, he played the ivory with the best at most of these clubs. Now all he had was the Stetson hat and nicotine stains. Removing your fingers from the keys was like snapping from a deep hypnosis, unsure of what you had revealed, and you take the diluted scotch to cover the disorientation; to keep at bay the bottom of the world falling away.

 His fingers still remembered those spells. They danced on air even now, channeling them to the melody of the waterfront.

 Savannah shuffled from the fog like a lost, sodden teddy-bear; if you could imagine the little girl heartbroken over him. “There’s news about,” Savannah growled preemptively, looking over his shoulder. “They say He has come back. . . .”

 “He isn’t due,” Hoell replied.

 Savannah just shrugged, and Hoell found himself wondering how there could be a topcoat oversized for that frame. His own was cobbled together like a Frankenstein monster, bits and pieces of other coats showing through. His fingers moved in the air. “What else do they say?”

 “The usual. Mentioned your name.”

 Hoell peered. “With Him?”

 “Nah. Whitechapel.”

 Hoell nodded, pushing the fedora back and forth across his scalp. “I see,” he said. Then, as if he had suddenly remembered, he drew a small lozenge tin from his pocket. Savannah snatched it up greedily, but cracked open the lip like an angry cat might be inside and ready to announce the state of its existence.

 He glanced up sharply. “You guarantee it’s real?”

 Hoell nodded. “Miles Davis’s own tooth. I promise.”

 Savannah made the tin disappear into his coat, and passed over something bundled in old newsprint. Hoell took it reverently, and then sidled off into the fog.

Concerning Champagne on the Hull

don't stay away any longer!!

http://port-evenus.com us officially online!!

Concerning the Future!!!

A quick editorial note: there has been a slight delay in the launch of the Port Evenus central website, but it should be remedied by the start of the next month. In the meanwhile we will continue to reward your patronage, and our dedication to bring quality programing on this site. Stay tuned for further developments, and please continue your support for this and future broadcast stations. Thank you.

On a partially related topic, as the last post might have hinted, another tale is already being spun into preparation for your delight and amazement. More details and updates to follow.

Concerning Overbearing Humidity

The rain began with gentle percussion on magnolias and elephant ears, only to swell the gutters and sidewalks, floating drugstore vodka bottles and castaway racing forms in a silent migration. Their only witness was the police cruisers slowly passing through the night. Even the hacks were waiting it out, hunched along the boulevard in rows of smoke-filled cabins. Distant thunder rumbled like a shade-tree hot-rodder, never quite reaching a pitch it was satisfied with. And through it all, the telephone kept ringing; insistent, demanding, belligerent. It was the only voice in the apartment.
Down below, three blocks away, its owner was watching his blood fill the floorboard of the Ford coupe from the cut in his throat.

Concerning Future Memorandum

In the interest of better serving our faithful audience, the producers and staff of this establishment would like to announce that the Port, in lieu of upcoming changes at this time we are not able to allude to, will be striving toward monthly to bi-weekly broadcasts. More than this may be appearing upon your horizon-line at one point or another, but this is the minimum intent. As always, we appreciate your patronage, and look forward to sharing further adventures from distant shores.

Concerning the Opera, and End of Our Tale

The theater was essentially all the physical land held by Kitty Rollins. In the public recollection it almost didn't exist, suspended in a pocket of stowaway time on an old brocade of a street, stones clad in moss and mold. Trying to keep out of the open, Tupelo slunk by the trenches of detritus lining the dark buildings and up the columns to the gaping black doorway. There was no light really, just a short warmth from the glowing city skyline obstinately finding its way through the broken ceiling.
Deep smell of mildew and rainwater, of unbidden flora and the sharp smell of bodily waste. A bird roof ceiling, black abyss fluttering movement of feathers, floor home to unruly cats prowling like starving street kids, zombies. His eyes adjusted, and Tupelo could make out a garish staircase spiraling off into the eaves, only slivers and shadows visible in the night. A cat leapt past from darkness into darkness, to a rustle of wings. Tupelo started.
"She's gone to the bird roof," the Ragamuffin King said behind him. "She'll be silver no more."
He was seated on black crates with a styrofoam cup of smelly hot tea and a mangy velvet top hat. Tupelo started breathing again. The King sipped tea. And somewhere above music started, a scratchy echo 78. The King smiled. "Figaro," he said, pointing a dirty finger to heaven.
"What happens now?" Tupelo asked to music and dust from above.
The King gestured with his cup. "When Kitty Rollins came down here, years ago, that was the song she always played. 'Ecco, Ridente in Cielo.' The Count despairs over the heart of his beauty. Kitty would come here and sing on nights when the fog was rising. She had a voice that could call down angels."
His own was almost wistful. Tupelo listened for a few moments, to Italian tenor and restless pigeons. It was beautiful, in a Gaston LeRoux kind of way.
"What, um, what happens now?" Tupelo repeated.
"She has her spirit," the King said softly. Then he angrily hurled the cup of tea into the darkness. Cats exploded out, crashing over the void, and a great rushing in the wings raining feathers down. Then it was silent again but for the barber of Seville self-aggrandizing to a scratchy orchestra.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," said the Ragamuffin King. "Now she is queen."
Tupelo reached to scratch a cat weaving itself around his ankles. He stood back up, took the shoestring from his neck. "Here," he said, handing over the vial. "I won't need this anymore."
And it began to rain.

And deep in the wet night, on an empty avenue of brick buildings stacked on top of one another, the Shadow Man stepped from the darkness itself, old blankets and ponchos blending with the crumbling brick and rusting black iron. He stopped at one doorway mimicked by so many others, peered briefly down the silent black alley. He knelt on the wet pavement and pulled a little leather pouch from his coats, produced three small coins and a smoky votive candle. He placed these on the step, lit the candle with a Harrah's matchbook, and set a headless rat before it.

And the Ragamuffin King would bilk a few midnight tourists of a handful of dollars with a sleight-of-hand that may not have been entirely misdirection of his fingerless gloves, and whistling "Hail, Britannia" stroll off into the fog rolling over the river bank and becoming his long oil-cloth coat.

--finis--

Concerning an Editorial Lull In the Proceedings

We interrupt this broadcast in lieu of pressing developments. The writers and staff of this station are currently engaged in following lost tributaries in search of gold. It is our hope that you will overlook this inconvenience in light of our past service, and stay tuned for future transmissions from lost civilizations. Goodnight Mr and Mrs. America, and all the ships that sail the seas. . . .