Shades

'And how do I know that?'

'Because I'm telling you.'

Maria glared at him doubtfully. 'You were the only one who saw the ghost. I have to take your word for it.'

'When the old guy gets out of the hospital,' Michael said, 'ask him.'

'So you chose who you would save.'

'I prioritized,' Michael replied. 'Figured out who was in the greatest danger.'

Maria's eyes flashed. 'You sorted us out.'

Michael knew better than to say anything at that point. The conversation was going south with the speed of an avalanche.

'Michael,' Maria said, 'you don't even sort your laundry.'

'Yes I do.' Michael remembered long, boring arguments on that subject. Something about brightness of colors and fabric density and textures. Those lectures had been about as exciting as taking history class from a football coach. So now, sometimes… especially whenever Maria was around… he remembered to sort out the colors and fabrics.

'Fine,' Maria said. 'People aren't laundry.'

Michael was stunned for a moment. 'People aren't laundry? That's an argument?'

'That's an observation,' Maria told him. 'Evidently a distinction that you aren't able to make.'

Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to talk to her until she'd gotten over being mad, Michael retreated. 'I'm going to take the trash out.'

'Fine,' Maria said, diving back into the dishes.

'Fine,' Michael echoed. He spun around and marched back into the dining area. A half-dozen large garbage bags sat there waiting to be taken out. Still angry, he grabbed two of them up.

Unable to take the strain of the sudden yank, the bottoms ripped out of the garbage bags. Unfinished meals and drinks tumbled to the floor, making a bigger mess than had been there before.

Michael cursed.

'I told you that you should have filled up the garbage cans instead of just using bags,' Maria called from the kitchen. 'Then you could have taken them outside without worrying about them breaking open like that. Guess you didn't prioritize that, huh?'

A heavy sigh escaped Michael. The cleanup suddenly felt hours longer with all the work he was going to have to do again and the crappy mood Maria was in.

Just as he was going for his broom and dustpan, an SUV with a local news channel insignia stopped in front of the cafe. A man in a suit got out on the passenger side, reached back for a jacket, and shrugged into the garment.

A man in blue jeans and a University of New Mexico tank stepped out of the back of the SUV Gazing at the street and the Crashdown Cafe, he took a Spider-Man baseball cap from his back pants pocket and pulled it on. He reached back into the vehicle and took out a Minicam.

'Shoot some exteriors first, Bob,' the news anchor said as he buttoned his jacket. He took a microphone out of a special case on the SUV's dash. 'And check the audio levels on this mike before we film this spot.'

The bored look on the cameraman's face broadcast his irritation at the other man. 'I've been doing my job longer than you've been at this station, Marty. I know my stuff.'

'You'll take direction,' Marty ordered crisply, 'or I'll have the station send out another cameraman in time for the five o'clock show.'

Bob reversed his hat and shouldered the Minicam. 'You do that, Marty. Every cam operator at the station will screw you over. You'll be doing every spot missing half your head or with a zit the size of Mount Rainier occupying center focus. A lot of people can talk in front of a camera. Not everybody can shoot with one.'

The warning didn't go over well with Marty, and Bob obviously didn't care.

'Tommy,' Marty said.

'Yo,' the driver responded.

'See if you can round up some of the locals for interviews. There's always somebody who wants to be on

television. And get me somebody who saw the ghost that did this.'

Okay, Michael told himself, struggling to think calmly and clearly, this is really not good.

'When you walk into one of these decrepit places, what's the first thing you wonder about?'

Kyle Valenti reached for the rag tied at his waist and mopped the perspiration from his face. He lifted the protective mask filter over his mouth and nose and wiped his chin, too. The air inside the condemned building was stale, turgid, and thick with: dust. He felt the grit clinging to his exposed skin. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and a tool belt that still made him walk off-balance because he wasn't used to the weight.

'The first thing I think about,' Kyle replied as he settled the mask back over his face, 'is how soon I can get out of here.'

'Not me.' Doyle Quinlann was a local building contractor. He was a short fireplug of a man who shaved his head. He wore a mask, gloves, a sweat-soaked chambray work shirt, and work slacks. He shone a flashlight around the debris-filled room.

Kyle waited, grateful to take a breath. Quinlann was self-employed and had five kids. The man worked like a machine and seemed invulnerable. He was in his forties and could work most guys in their twenties into the ground.

'Nope,' Quinlann said, sweeping the flashlight over heaps of broken furniture, boxes of old clothes, books, and a lot of other things that people no longer had a use for. 'What I wonder about is if anybody ever died in one of these places.'

'Now there's a pleasant thought,' Kyle commented. He slapped at his mask, knocking collected dust free.

'It's something to think about.' Quinlann turned the flashlight's beam to the walls. 'Real estate companies don't have to tell you that somebody croaked in the house you're hoping to buy. The house you and your father live in? Someone could have died there.'

As if I don't have enough worries, Kyle thought, now I have to worry that ghosts walk through my house.

'Of course,' Quinlann said, 'I'm not the superstitious type. But I've got a healthy respect for ghosts.' He directed the beam at a window covered over with a sheet of plywood. 'Rip that plywood out of the way and let's get some more light in here.'

Kyle hoisted the heavy crowbar from the floor. When he'd first started working for Quinlann a week ago, he hadn't thought much of the crowbar's weight. The tool had been a little heavier than a baseball bat. Now the thing felt like a blacksmith's anvil at the end of a twelve- or four-teen-hour day.

'My mother passed away a few years ago,' Quinlann went on.

'Sorry to hear that.' Kyle shoved the straightest end of the crowbar under the plywood and started pulling.

'Yeah,' Quinlann said. 'She was always onto me about losing things. You know: keys, my wallet, my wedding ring since I don't wear that to work.'

Nails screeched as they pulled free of the wall. Gradually the plywood section came loose. Sunlight split the darkness of the room, playing on the dust motes eddying in the air.

'Anyway,' Quinlann said, 'my mom always had this special place she put my things when she found them and knew that I wouldn't remember where I'd left them. About two years ago, I lost my wedding ring for a couple weeks. I looked everywhere. My wife looked everywhere. My kids even looked everywhere because I offered a reward. Nothing. No doing. Couldn't find the ring anywhere.'

Kyle grabbed the plywood and hauled the section to the floor. The plywood landed with a thump that raised a dust cloud that reminded him of a nuclear bomb blast.

'Then one night,' Quinlann said, 'I have this dream about my mom telling me to look in that little place she had. She'd come to live with us the last four years of her life. Anyway, I get up the next morning, remember the dream, and go to the hiding place. Guess what I found.'

'The ring,' Kyle said.

'Yeah.' Quinlann flicked off the flashlight beam. With the plywood off the dirt-streaked window, more light invaded the room, battling the darkness back and illuminating the surroundings enough to get around without falling. 'What I'm saying is that maybe you should keep an open mind about ghosts.'