“THE SPIRIT BAR” By Paul Kimpel Ó 2008, 2009

SIXTEEN MONTHS AGO, on the day that changed his life forever, Jimmy “Dutch” Lovine finished his accounting of the previous day’s receipts and looked up at the antique Estonia clock on the wall of his private back office. The certificate of authenticity mounted on a brass plate inside the crystal made Dutch feel connected to the America he never knew growing up in a poor immigrant neighborhood. To Dutch, his newly acquired item of 19th century American memorabilia was not only a symbol of the wealth of those times, but also the wealth of these times. The way he saw it, he had the twenty grand to buy it, and most other people did not. In fact, Dutch only knew two other people who owned authentic Estonias and they both had inherited large sums of money. Old money. The kind of money that could never totally be spent, squandered, or otherwise made to go away. There was simply too much of it, and it was invested and divested everywhere. If the stock market crashed, there was real estate. If real estate went bust, there was a chain of clothing stores. If clothing suddenly went out of style, there was the gold and diamonds.

Always, there was the gold and diamonds.

And now, living among the old-money people in the ritziest part of Brooklyn, was Dutch Lovine, the poor kid from the ghetto who cherished money and the things it could buy. However, since accumulating his own wealth and buying just about everything he wanted, Dutch had recently grown bored with material things and found himself craving something besides antique Estonia clocks and season tickets to the New York Knicks. He wanted something else, something that no one else had. For a few months, he couldn’t figure out what that could be, but last year – after staying home to be with his newborn child and spending the day watching the lost people that inhabited the daytime talk shows—he had realized what he wanted to buy: Human beings. He wanted to own human beings. Not physically, in the manner of slave-owners in the past, but in more of a spiritual way. Kind of like a church, he thought, but more personal. They would be his flock. He could help them, the lost ones; guide them to better lives, lives with meaning. But first, he had to buy them. It was the only way that made sense to Dutch. If he got them accustomed to a certain lifestyle, they would become dependent on him for the money to maintain it and then he could persuade them to do almost anything. During his years dealing cocaine, Dutch had learned firsthand about people and their dependencies. He also learned much about the power of money, and so he began his pursuit using big money and great vigor.

For the next few weeks Dutch’s life was very busy, and his plans for buying people’s souls were put on the back-burner until the day an antique appraiser told Dutch the set of Goebbels bone china he was considering was so named because the source material contained animal bones. Not only animal bones, the appraiser told Dutch in a croaked whisper, but the Goebbels china made from 1942-1944 also contained human bones harvested from Nazi death camps. According to transcripts from pre-trial interviews at Nuremburg, Herman Goering himself shipped the human bones to Malaysia and had a small factory produce twelve sets of “special china.” The small factory, incidentally, was owned by an uncle of Joseph Goebbels, the infamous Minister of Propaganda for the Third Reich. The antique seller assured Dutch that this set was one of the original twelve, and although it revulsed Dutch to think of such an atrocity, he figured what was done was done, and he took the set home.

On that fateful day, the story of dinnerware being made from people’s bones helped move Dutch’s dream to the front-burner; it had given Dutch an idea. He would seek out a tribe from some distant rainforest and make them his disciples. He would bring them to New York, one-by-one, and start his “church.” He certainly had enough money to start his quest, but he didn’t know how or where to begin. He also didn’t know how he would control them, if money didn’t work. He wanted a back-up plan, and soon, he got one.

Now, sixteen months later, he looked at the Estonia clock, but only to see what time it was. The Estonia no longer brought Dutch the kind of feeling it used to. He laughed quietly to himself, amazed that he actually used to get off on antiques. He realized he still had a half-hour to wait until his next appointment, a small girl from Thailand named Desire who was due to arrive at the Spirit Bar at 10 p.m. He locked his office door and went outside for some fresh air, watching the cars cruise the night on Third Avenue in Bayridge, Brooklyn. Dutch loved watching the parade of cars at night, observing that most drivers maintained a lap-car pace, allowing appreciative onlookers to drink in the superb craftsmanship of the Fire-Engine red Corvettes, black enamel Cadillacs, and Steel-blue Camaros. With few exceptions, the automobiles on display were American-produced models from the early 1970s.

“Those might be young people,” Dutch thought, “but their style is classic old school.”

Dutch felt good that he lived in a neighborhood where American pride was still something to be vigorously displayed, not sneered at by the very people who gained the most from its benefits. He watched as the symbols of American ingenuity rolled by: Roaring ferrous hearts embodied in alloyed steel shells that were forged into masterly shapes by creative metallurgists, their shining exteriors carefully coated time and again with high-density polymer substrates of such intense pigmentation that the man-made steel animals appeared to live and breathe.

Dutch watched those colorful stalwarts of American pride motor up Third Avenue, past the numerous bars and restaurants, towards the Verrazzano Bridge, where the owners would park along Shore Road on Upper New York Bay to meet with friends, maybe sew some red thread, and get primed for the late night bar scene.

As he stood on that corner in Brooklyn, the lighted neon signs above nearby establishments such as Horsefeathers, Skinflint’s and Harry’s Lounge, imbued themselves into his mind’s eye. The Dak-Root malange he imbibed in the Spirit Bar twenty minutes earlier was taking full effect now, and Dutch leaned back against the outer wall of his own establishment, letting his mind travel back in time. He recalled the many nights he spent in those very bars, making a fortune dealing cocaine. Dutch pushed further into his reverie, recalling how all of that changed with the events that occurred the previous year.

The first one was the arrival of his newborn child, Maria. That event in itself might have slowed him down a bit, but it probably would not have stopped him from making the easy money that came from selling cocaine, and it certainly would not have stopped him from drinking a six-pack every day, more on the weekends. In fact, he reflected, the stress of a new baby would likely have increased his drinking and his coke dealing, the latter to pay for the baby’s new car seat, a Cinderella-themed bedroom, her college fund, etc., etc. Or at least those would have been his rationalizations. No, it took the second event to cause the final paradigm shift that led to him opening the Spirit Bar, realizing his dream of owning people’s souls, and changing his life forever.

Ten months after Maria was born and a few weeks after his visit from the antique appraiser, Dutch took his wife and first child on vacation to Thailand. He chose Thailand after spending many drunken nights listening to the stories of Frank Crowley, a Vietnam War veteran who had often visited the Far East and had seen people being unconditionally controlled by a Kariang medicine man. After much bribing, begging and boozing, Dutch finally gleaned from Frank the location of the Kariang Tribe, and said he would arrange for Dutch to meet their medicine man.

Dutch knew that he had a good opportunity with this tribal faction, which according to Frank, had rarely been exposed to other cultures and lived high up in the mountains. Frank told Dutch that the Kariang tribe believed that, “a white younger brother will come from over the waters, bringing with him knowledge of writing that had been long ago lost.” After a few weeks of research at the downtown library, Dutch discovered that Christian missionaries in the 1930s had tried to convince the Kariang that Jesus Christ was that “younger brother.” Although the tribe respected the philosophies taught by Jesus, the elders did not believe he was the white younger brother they were seeking.

The door is still open, Dutch thought, and I’m going through it.

His plans to become the “younger brother” were starting to take shape.

After landing in Bangkok, Dutch and his budding family stayed in a stilted bamboo hut on the lower end of the ChaoPhravaRiver, known in Thailand as “The River of Kings” The hut was a cozy bed-and-breakfast built to resemble an authentic Quonset hut, but boasting all the amenities of a modern hotel.

Early on the morning of their third day there, Dutch rose well before dawn and left his two girls sleeping quietly. He walked down the stone path leading to the river and sat on a wooden bench at the water’s edge. The guide arrived a few minutes later, approaching so quietly that Dutch didn’t even know he was there until he was two feet from Dutch’s face.

“Let’s go,” the old man said as he started walking on the dirt footpath that ran along the river’s edge.

“Not much for talking huh?” Dutch said to his guide’s back.

Dutch didn’t really expect an answer, and didn’t get one. The guide, a medicine man known in the Thai language as an Imobe, did not slow down for the better part of the next two hours as Dutch struggled to keep up. Ten minutes into the hike, they had started climbing a steep, densely covered mountain trail, and the old man did not stop until they reached a large stone outcropping just below the mountain’s peak.

“Rest here,” he said to Dutch, more of an order than a suggestion. “I’ll be back,” and with that he disappeared up the remaining trail to the summit.

Dutch was out of breath and sweating profusely, so he didn’t argue with the old man.

“I’ll … be … here – ” Dutch sputtered, loud breaths punctuating his words.

Dutch leaned against the rock wall and took in the sights as he caught his breath. The bright morning sun was just breaching the vast ocean of trees that stretched as far as the eye could see. Dutch soaked in the sights and made a mental note to withdraw his annual contribution to the Rainforest Fund.

His heart rate was returning to normal when the Imobe materialized out of nowhere. He quickly set a handful of orange flowers on the stone floor and began grinding them with a smooth rock. Dutch watched the medicine man as he deftly worked the flowers into a paste and then, taking a small bowl and a bottle of water from a pouch on his belt, mixed the substances together until about six ounces of a bright orange liquid was distilled. Without a word, the imobe’ handed the bowl to Dutch.

“Drink now – go bad!” the medicine man ordered, and with that admonition, Dutch tilted the bowl toward his mouth and let the potion drain into his throat. He felt his tongue go numb, and his throat felt like he had shot it with a spray of Chloraseptic. Dutch drained the rest of the concoction and handed the bowl back to the Imobe who now had a large Toucan perched on his right shoulder. Dutch stared at the bird and wondered if it was real. Frank had warned him that Chintene flowers worked fast, but he wasn’t ready for this! He asked the Imobe where the Toucan had come from and prayed that the old man could see the bird.

“Tree,” the Imobe answered, jabbing his left thumb toward the canopy.

“Thank God for that,” Dutch replied, letting out a little nervous laughter

“Not God – Great Bird Spirit,” the Imobe said matter-of-factly, pointing to the sky.

The medicine man’s words evoked imagery that prompted Dutch’s subconscious mind to embark on a kaleidoscopic jog into the land of mythology. Dutch Lovine, the kid from Brooklyn, stood motionless on that rock precipice in Thailand, his physical body firmly planted in present Earth time, his mind flying through the ages. He mind-traveled back through civilization, to the pre-dawn era of mankind’s debut on Earth, pausing for a moment in the Neanderthal era to watch a surprisingly diminutive and hairless caveman of about twenty years fornicate with a bearded cavewoman who was sixty if she was a day.

“And they say we’re kinky today,” he mumbled aloud, venturing on.

Dutch next encountered a royal gathering of the Great Spirits gathered on a wide beach of pastel blue sand juxtaposed against a banana-yellow ocean with bright-pink foam lapping at its shoreline. As he took in the stunning visual aspects of the natural environment, and stared at the diverse incarnations of the Great Spirits, he realized that his previous mushroom and peyote experiences had been tame compared to this scene. And although the image was in his head, Dutch knew in his gut that it was a physical place, with actual dimensions.

Observing the Great Spirits more closely, he noticed that each one was a perfect melding of either a man or woman, fused with the particular animal he or she represented. He first noticed the Lion Spirit, comprised of a man’s rugged face surrounded by a golden-orange mane, a Lion’s lean, fur-covered midsection, and a man’s two athletic legs ending in padded Lion’s paws. Although Dutch enjoyed the Lion Spirit and many other incarnation, he thought the Dragonfly Spirit was the most impressive with its angelic, female human face perched upon a segmented black body that led to the most visually stunning pair of gossamer wings he had ever seen. Starting at the tip with a luminescent lime-green, the wings changed colors eight times before connecting at the Dragonfly’s ribbed center. Two shades of green melted into two shades of purple, then two of red, and finally, a fade into two shades of orange, the last one prompting Dutch’s conscious mind to remember that he had just drank a magical elixir of orange color, and snapping him back to a semblance of the mundane reality that passes for a “normal state of mind” on Earth.

Dutch realized that he had been taking only short, shallow breaths during the trance, so he purposefully took in some deep gulps of the mountain air. When he turned around, he saw that the Toucan was watching him from a perch in a nearby Baobab tree, holding an exotic cocktail glass in one hand and a large book with a red velvet cover in the other. He also noticed the Imobe was nowhere to be seen.

“Did you see the Great Spirits?” the Toucan asked in a voice that reminded Dutch of Edward G. Robinson.

Then Dutch recalled a scene from Taxi Driver.

“You talking to me?” he asked the bird, who was now on the ground, pacing back and forth, waving the cocktail glass.

“You see anyone else here?” asked the Toucan.

Dutch looked around, seeing only the green forest and the faded yellow stone of the outcropping.

“Uh … no,” he said, letting out an abbreviated laugh.

“It’s just that I don’t talk to Toucans every day,” Dutch said to the bird, and then started laughing hysterically.

The large bird paced back and forth across the length of the outcropping, stopping to peer over the edge before turning back to face Dutch.

“I’ll tell you something pal,” the Toucan said in a way that made Dutch imagine the Toucan wearing a vest, brandishing a gun, and chomping on an unlit cigar. “I don’t talk to humans every day either.”

Dutch got a reply out between giggles.

“I would guess you don’t!” he half-exclaimed.

“Yeah, well. …”

The Toucan didn’t finish the thought. A short silence ensued during which the man and animal stared at each other.

“I’m here because I was told you’re on a serious mission to discover something about your soul,” said the Toucan. “But you don’t seem very serious.”

“No, no, I am serious,” Dutch protested. “It’s just that when I used to take acid – “

“Yeah, yeah,” the bird interrupted. “I know all about the follies of human teenagers on LSD at rock concerts. This is nothing like that,” he said stonily, and turning neatly on one foot, walked away from Dutch.

“I see that,” Dutch replied, feeling like an admonished school kid.

The Toucan turned around to face Dutch. He was wearing spectacles now and had only the book in his hands.

“I will assume you are serious Mr. Lovine, so I will reveal to you the first few chapters of the Book of Spirits, but only if you promise me that you will take your journey seriously from this moment on.

Dutch raised his right hand so it faced palm-out by his shoulder.

“I promise,” he said solemnly. “Scout’s honor.”

A thought popped into Dutch’s head—“More like Prizzi’s Honor.”

He choked back an inner-monologue laugh and tried to look serious.

“Alright, alright,” the Toucan said, waving Dutch off with a wing. Let’s proceed.”

“Okay,” Dutch said.

The big black bird strutted over to a two-foot long stone that jutted out from the mountain face, creating a natural bench. He hopped up on it and turned around so he was facing Dutch.

“Come sit down,” he said, fingering the book’s pages and peering through his glasses.

Dutch complied and sat next to the big bird. He wanted very badly to reach over and touch the animal, to make sure it was real. But he figured that if the Toucan was real, he would be so offended by the gesture that he would fly off and Dutch would never again get to glimpse the dimensions of reality that most humans never see. So he stayed silent as Edward G. Robinson began reading from the sacred book.

“And so it was, in the time of Telo, that all the Great Spirits visited the Earth in material form to dispense sacred knowledge to a small tribe of human beings living in what is now called Mongolia. At that time, they were the only humans on the planet Earth. For three months, the Great Spirits taught the humans about all the things that had come before, and all that was to come. They taught the more adaptive humans how to write on stone tablets with burnt sticks so they could have a manual to refer to when the Great Spirits were gone. But shortly after the Great Spirits left the Earth, a war over who was to control this new dearth of wisdom broke out amongst tribal factions of Mongolians, and the tablets were destroyed in the process.”

“Sounds familiar,” Dutch muttered.

“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Edward G., peering up from under his horn-rimmed glasses. Without waiting for a response from Dutch, the Toucan returned to his litany.

“Upon learning of these events, the Great Spirits decided it would behoove them to impart such important information only to a select few humans from each generation, relying upon the good judgment of those selected to disperse it to other humans they deemed worthy.”

He turned and looked at Dutch, letting his gaze stay upon Dutch’s eyes for a few seconds, and then returned to his book.

“They decided,” he said, “to further limit its dispensation by only allowing access to that information through the ingestion of the Chintene flower, which only grows in this part of Thailand. To any other humans, the words would be incomprehensible.”

The Toucan stopped reading and looked at Dutch.

“You understand so far?” he asked.

“Yeah. I got it,” Dutch answered. “You want me to share this wisdom only with the people I think can handle it and who will do the right thing,” Dutch finished, looking at the Toucan for approval.

“That’s the idea Dutch,” the bird answered.

He laid the book down on the stone bench and removed his spectacles.

“You understand that the only way you can access this information is by taking Chintene flowers,” the Toucan stated.

“Yes. I know,” Dutch answered.

“Okay. Before you leave this place, the Imobe will return and show you where they are located,” the bird said. “But on each visit here, you may only take the minimum amount necessary for yourself and one other person to enter the required state of mind,” the Toucan said. “Any attempt to profit in a material way and you will be banished from all knowledge,” he finished, watching for Dutch’s response.

“Okay …” Dutch said slowly, his mind reeling from the thought of amassing a fortune selling Chintene flowers back home.

“We know of your past exploits in the drug world,” the bird said, “and we will not stand for one second of it with Chintene. You were chosen due to your predilection for seeking higher truths while under the influence of man-made LSD,” the bird said. “We know you’re on the right track. You simply need guidance,” he finished.

“I know!” Dutch exclaimed. “I always knew that psychoactive substances were supposed to be used for more than seeing colors and enhancing Grateful Dead jams.”

Dutch changed his tone.

“Although,” he said thoughtfully, “there were some pretty insightful shows in those days.”

“I agree,” said Edward G., surprising Dutch. “The “spaces” they reached with Brett Mydland on keyboards were especially supernatural,” he said, leaving Dutch only to gape at the bird’s knowledge of such eclectic human experiences.

The bird laughed for the first time, apparently at Dutch’s surprised expression. It was a chuckle that the bird’s namesake would have been proud of.

“You humans are so egotistical,” he said, shaking his large, multi-colored beak. “You think you’re alone in this universe?”

The question was more philosophical in nature than interrogatory.

“Well, you’re not,” said the Toucan, rather snootily. “You are definitely not,” he intoned for emphasis.

“I never thought we were,” Dutch replied plainly.

“Yes. Well, that’s why you’re here,” stated Edward G., opening the Book of Spirits to a page marked with a sticky note.

He cleared his beak.

“Eh-hem. This will be your last lesson for this trip,” said the Toucan, tapping the book lightly with a wing. “I will see you here in exactly thirty days for lesson number two, and every thirty days thereafter, assuming you have taken the proper course with the information we provide you.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Dutch, suddenly apprehensive at the monumental task being placed on his shoulders.

As he listened to the Toucan read, Dutch instinctively reached into the pocket of his shorts to grab a Xanax, but was stopped by the surprisingly strong tip of the Toucan’s outstretched wing.

“You won’t need those anymore,” said the Toucan. “With Chintene flower in your system, you only need to think of calm, and it will come,” he said, removing his wing from Dutch’s arm.

“Focus your attention on that small lizard,” the bird said, pointing to a tree some forty feet from where they sat.

Dutch began to say that he could never see a small lizard in a tree at that distance when the lizard came clearly into focus.

“How am I able to see that?”

“Ah yes, I failed to mention that your eyesight will be acutely improved under the influence of Chintene. All your senses will become sharper, which will require you to re-learn how to interpret your surroundings.”

“How so?” asked Dutch, starting to freak out.

“Well, you’ll not only be able to smell your own dinner cooking when you arrive home at night, you’ll be able to tell what everyone on the block is cooking,” the Toucan said. “Same goes for hearing, and touch. All of your faculties will be enhanced.”

“How am I supposed to handle all that input?” Dutch asked, obviously a bit agitated with the new demands being put on his system.

Not waiting for an answer, Dutch continued. “And what the hell good is it?” he demanded.

“Calm yourself Mr. Lovine,” said the bird calmly. We have it all worked out.”

“Well it’d be nice if you let me in on it, whatever it is!” said Dutch in a markedly raised voice.

“I’m trying my good man,” said Edward G., stoking images in Dutch’s mind of the insurance investigator in Double Indemnity. Dutch stared at the big bird, wondering what surprise was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long.

“It works like this,” the bird explained. “You take the Chintene flowers and for the next eight hours or so, you will be privileged to a world where everything is magnified and brought out of its hidden corner so you can see it, hear it, smell it. It will allow you a glimpse of the Fifth Dimension. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I understand,” Dutch said.

“In the process, you will have the ability to comprehend a language you have not been exposed to in your current Earth incarnation, but your ancient, subconscious mind will recognize immediately as the language I am now reading, the language of the Elder Spirits. And that, my man, is the benefit of expanding your conscious mind, which includes your five senses. That is the it you were referring to.”

“Okay … I think I’ve got it, ” Dutch said slowly, calming a little.

“After your Chintene trips are over, you will feel a sense of calm for several days that you forgot was possible. Calm as an infant at his mother’s breast.”

“I’m down with that!” Dutch exclaimed, looking forward to chucking his Xanax in the garbage.

“Excellent,” said the Toucan, feeling perky about his success with Dutch, so much so that he hopped off the bench and handed Dutch the Book of Spirits.

Dutch looked at the open pages and read a few sentences. He knew it was not English, but he could definitely read it.

“You don’t trust me to take the book back with me?” Dutch asked.

“In the wrong hands, that book could destroy the people of Earth,” the Toucan said soberly. “We cannot let any human being have possession of it.”

“What if you came with me?”

“When I am in physical form, I am only safe in this forest.”

“Why?”

“Because there are people who know about me, what I possess, my powers. They would want to capture me, and I cannot let that happen.”

“What could they do with you?”

“If a person has me and the Book of Spirits, and they know what to do, they can control the minds of every person on the planet,” said the Toucan, sounding nervous for the first time.

Dutch stared at the big bird.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

The Toucan paced for awhile, his hands clasped behind his back. Finally, he spoke.

“The Imobe will be here soon to show you where to get the Chintene flowers,” the bird said, signaling to Dutch that their time together was coming to an end.

“Okay,” Dutch said. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you hang around up here?”

“When I’m in Earthly form, yes. I’ll be here until I’m sure that you’re on the right track. Then, I’ll go back to where the Great Spirits reside, and I’ll give them a progress report.”

“No one else came with you?” Dutch asked.

“Um, no, no one. I have to go now.”

Dutch handed the Book of Spirits” back to the Toucan.

“The big bird said goodbye and flew off into the lush green canopy, disappearing without a sound.

Dutch watched him fly off and mouthed a goodbye.

Within seconds, the Imobe walked up from behind Dutch and with a simple tap on the shoulder, directed Dutch to follow him. They hiked for about ten minutes, and then the Imobe stopped by a small stand of trees that displayed the bright orange Chintene flowers. He showed Dutch how to clip the stem so the tree would re-grow more buds and waited while Dutch collected about an ounce of mature Chintene flowers.

Then, without a word, the Imobe vanished down a barely visible trail that led away from the slope that Dutch had ascended. Dutch hiked back down the way he had come and returned to his life with his infant child and his loving wife. He flew back to New York with a renewed sense of purpose, feeling for the first time in his life like he was doing something important, and right.

Within a few days of his return to Bay Ridge, Dutch took ninety thousand dollars of his stashed cocaine profits and bought Kearney’s Lounge, his favorite watering hole. The Kearney brothers had been talking of selling the place for the past three years, and they figured Dutch was a good choice to carry on the Irish-American traditions of the well-known bar.

However, they didn’t expect Dutch to redesign the whole joint by jettisoning the booze and replacing it with natural herb drinks. But for Dutch, it was imperative to establish a home base for the important work he had to do with Chintene flowers. He came up with the idea for selling herb drinks as a cover for his real mission when he visited the Ping Li Flower and Root Bar in Bangkok. The menu boasted more than three hundred liquid concoctions made from the flowers, herbs and roots of indigenous flora growing in the KhaoSokForest in southern Thailand. After having a long talk and numerous libations of unknown composition with Pridi Bhomyong, the proprietor of Ping Li’s, Dutch paid a tidy sum in exchange for an initial batch of ingredients, instructions for their use, and permission to return to Ping Li’s every three months to restock.

Within weeks, the Spirit Bar became the hottest new hangout for people seeking an alternative to alcohol, a way to let loose and expand their minds without getting depressed. As long as Dutch sold his herbal drinks as “dietary supplements,” the FDA had nothing to say about it.

And now, standing on that corner and reflecting back on the events of the previous year, Dutch congratulated himself on once again having what it took to run down a dream. As his mind returned to normal reality from his reverie induced by the Dak-Root malange, Dutch entered the Spirit Bar and walked back to his office. Within a few minutes, the buzzer sounded and Dutch got up from his desk to greet his ten o’clock appointment.

“Desire, I take it?” Dutch asked, taking her hand and guiding her towards a couch in his office

“Yes,” she said to Dutch, her eyes focused on the large glass coffee table in the middle of the room. A statute of a Toucan stood in the middle, taking up most of the table.

“Oh, you’ve noticed the statue, huh?”

“He seems so real,” she said.

Dutch was silent for a moment as he stared at the bird.

“Yes, doesn’t he,” Dutch finally said, and walked to a side table where he picked up a heavy book with a red velvet cover. He turned to face Desire.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

THE END

**Please let me know through the "comments" capsule whether or not you get this story. Also, if you enjoyed it. Thanks, Paul