Chapter 1
Nicholas Bishop named the one-eyed dog Jake even though she was female. Jake seemed like a good name for a pup missing an eye. He couldn’t remember where the mutt had come from. When he awoke on the floor of his room at The Lafayette Hotel, she sat close by, giving him a single eye stare. Strong odds said he stole the dog. She didn’t weigh much, maybe ten pounds, easy enough to scoop under his arm as he staggered home.
He struggled to a sitting position and waited for the room to stop teetering. Vertebrae ground together as he rolled his head, hoping that would end the pounding between his ears. It didn’t. He massaged his closed eyelids. The corneas felt swollen beneath his fingertips. Jake watched all this, never once taking her eye off him.
Bishop took inventory when the world righted itself. Rubbing his chin, whiskers whispered against palm. He tried to guess how long it’d been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three? His shirt cuff was dirty and frayed. He pushed it higher on his arm. The Bulova was still on his wrist, the crystal cracked, hands frozen at 2:30. His pewter-handled cane was on the floor next to an empty bottle of Four Roses. The pain in his right foot stabbed sharper than usual. He wondered if it would swell when he unlaced his shoe. No memory of reinjuring it came to him. He patted his suitcoat and felt his wallet in the inside pocket and the .38 Detective Special holstered near his heart. The wallet was empty. There were four slugs in the snub nose. Not six. He sniffed. It had been fired.
He crawled to bed and pulled himself on the mattress, not bothering with his clothes. Jake hopped up, circled twice, then settled by the footboard, keeping her eye on Bishop as if her doubts about him were increasing now that he was conscious.
Memories were slivered as he tried to recall when he had fired the gun:
Day drinking at the Kitty Kat.
The revolving bar at The Chez Ami.
Perfume.
A blonde.
A car ride.
No recollections about a one-eyed dog or gunshots.
He checked the .38 again. Who had he fired at? Had he hit them? Killed them?
The ringing phone was an ice pick to his ear. The only way to stop the pain was by answering.
“Hello,” Bishop said, his voice raspy.
“Coppers.”
It took a heartbeat for the desk clerk’s voice to register. The line died. When it did, Bishop slammed the receiver into its cradle and swung his legs to the floor. The world again tottered. He swallowed bile until his swollen eyes teared. His damaged foot bore weight but each metatarsal sent ripples of agony with each step. He retrieved his cane and hat from the floor without toppling, something he considered miraculous, and felt grateful to the angel or demon in charge of keeping crippled detectives upright.
The hallway was deserted. He limped to the stairwell before the elevator full of cops arrived at his floor. Bishop didn’t mind talking to the police, but he wanted to know what they were after before he did, certain it had nothing to do with a stolen dog but everything to do with two fired slugs. Guilt, thick and dark, oozed through him but he couldn’t tell if it was old remorse or something new, heavier.
It was slow going down the stairs. He couldn’t outrace the fattest cop, not with his 4-F foot. He gripped the railing and leaned on the cane as he eased down each step, moving like a man much older than thirty. Jake waited on the landing, tilting her head as if to listen for shouts or thunderous feet descending from the floors above. There were none.
Was Buffalo’s Finest tossing his room, rifling through drawers, pulling suits from hangers, checking pockets for…what? His gun? He wished he could walk into The Allendale Theater, buy a nickel bag of popcorn, and watch the last few days of his life projected on the silver screen, certain it would be more informative than any newsreel.
When he reached the ground floor, he pushed open the fire exit and was blinded by sunshine reflected off the sidewalk and car fenders.
So, it’s afternoon, he thought. But was it Monday or Tuesday? Bishop raised his hand to shield his eyes. He didn’t see his Packard anywhere.
Benny The Junk Man stood by the hotel’s dented garbage cans. His cart was loaded with the day’s salvaged items—bundled rags, andirons, dresses, blouses. The clothing looked newer and of better quality than what Benny usually found. Bishop wondered if they’d been pulled from clotheslines. Unlike the mean drunks and meaner children who tormented him, Bishop knew Benny wasn’t stupid. He’d left the best part of himself in the Argonne still fighting that battle two decades later. He spent his days pushing his cart through the streets, crisscrossing Buffalo, searching for discarded treasures. His body passed through alleys rummaging for things to pawn, but what remained of his mind was mired in that burning forest surrounded by the dead and dying. Still, Benny sometimes saw and heard things that were real:
A woman got her purse snatched on Genesee Street.
There was a new girl, a real doll face, working at the Michigan Avenue brothel.
A big card game was going on above The New Genesee Restaurant.
He would whisper these truths to Bishop, and the shamus would pay for the information—a quarter, fifty cents, maybe a buck—even if it had nothing to do with the case he was working. Other times Bishop asked him to keep an eye out for a certain car or dame—nobody paid attention to a junk man lingering on a corner, just like no one had paid attention to a fifteen-year-old Bishop when he’d started working the streets. The information that Benny provided that was relevant to Bishop’s investigation was worth a fin or more—a fortune to a rag collector. Benny was still the good soldier, putting the mission first, and most times getting information the gimpy detective needed. Jake sniffed the junk man’s unlaced army boots.
“Benny, what do you know? What do you hear?”
Benny turned from the garbage pails and squinted as if trying to pick Bishop out of a crowd of gathering ghosts. Recognition registered in stages from the top down—brow wrinkled, eyes widened, mouth curved to a smile. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Bishop.”
“You see her, too?”
The junk man wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Have you seen my car, Benny? The Packard?”
“Your car?”
“The green convertible.”
Benny looked around the hotel alleyway and down Ellicott Street. “There’s no green car here, Bishop.”
“Keep your eyes open for it, all right? You know which one it is, don’t you? Let me know if you spot it.”
“You think someone stole your green car?”
“It’s probably parked in front of The Kitty Kat or The Chez. Hopefully, it’s not in a ditch somewhere.”
“Why would you leave your car in a ditch, Bishop?”
“For safekeeping,” Bishop said. “Say, you hear anything about a shooting or why the cops are looking for me?”
“I haven’t heard about those things.”
“Okay, maybe it’s nothing. But if you hear something or find my car, you come tell me. If I’m not here, leave a message with Corbett at the front desk.”
Benny saluted, his hand slicing the air as sharp as it had in 1918.
“Good man. Carry on,” Bishop said, and the junk man resumed rummaging through the garbage pails.
It was a four-block limp to The Kitty Kat to hunt for his car. Bishop wasn’t sure he could make it. He was considering sticking out his thumb when Lieutenant Darcy rounded the corner. His face, flushed pink from the heat, broke into a wide grin when he saw Bishop.
“Rats are always in alleys, but I found a weasel. You think you can outrun the law with that crippled foot, Bishop?”
“I’m not running, Lieutenant. I’m walking my dog.”
“That’s a dog? It’s in worse shape than you.”
“Me and Jake aren’t morning people.”
“Morning people? The day’s half done, Bishop.”
“Time flies.”
“Not in prison it don’t. Which is where you’re headed, draft dodger.”
Bishop winced and hoped it didn’t show. “Is sleeping late a crime?”
“No, but murder is. What do you know about Pearl DuGaye, smart guy?”
“Never heard of heard of her. Who is she?”
“A singer from The Chez Ami gone missing. We found her purse not far from here. Cleaned out, of course, except for one thing.”
“Trolley fare?”
“Your business card.” Darcy pulled out the card and read, “Bishop Investigations. Civil. Criminal. Missing Persons Located. Licensed and Bonded. Who the hell would bond a coward like you?”
Bishop took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When did this DuGaye woman go missing?”
“Saturday.”
“What’s today?”
“Thursday.”
Jesus.
Darcy wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Funny you never heard of her. Not only was your card in her purse, I got a revolving bar full of people at The Chez Ami who saw you two together. They say you weren’t exactly acting like brother and sister.”
“You ever seen my sister, Lieutenant? She’s a looker.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you. I wouldn’t put anything past a guy who sticks his foot in front of a moving taxi to keep out of the army. Were you working for DuGaye or just working her?”
“I honestly can’t say, Lieutenant,” Bishop said, and wondered if she was blonde.
“If she hired you to protect her, it looks like you did your usual swell job. Speaking of which, how’s business?”
“It pays the light bill.”
“Not at your office it don’t. Heard you had to close that down. Got rid of that good-looking secretary, too. Lucky Teddy Thurston must be rolling in his grave.”
“I work out of The Lafayette now. Teddy would be fine with that.”
“The hell he would. Only whores work out of hotels. Funny how business dried up on you. I guess folks who lost husbands and sons on December seventh and at Bataan don’t want to hire a chicken-shit Jap lover. Makes me wonder why DuGaye hired you. She must be as shady as Fat Ira. I read you work for him these days.”
“I hear you work for Joey Bones. Have been for a long time.”
Darcy took a step forward and jabbed a finger at Bishop. “Listen, you crippled shit. If this Pearl DuGaye shows up dead, I’m pinning it on you. I got a nice frame already picked out.”
“Pleasure talking to you, Lieutenant, but I’m late for an appointment.”
“With which bottle?”
“Say hello to Joey for me.”
“Watch out for taxis, weasel. Wouldn’t want you to have two crippled feet.”
Bishop caned his way down Ellicott as Jake trotted ahead. The sun was hot on his neck. He could smell bourbon seeping through his pores. His stomach cramped and he wondered when he’d last eaten, uncertain he could keep anything down if he ate now. Guilt weighed on him, its cause remained unclear.
***
Excerpt from After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou. Copyright 2025 by Stephen G. Eoannou. Reproduced with permission from Stephen G. Eoannou. All rights reserved.
My existence was as cold as my birth. I was born with both knowledge and will—an inevitability for my kind. Drawn to the final moments of mortal life, we came into being. Some of us became Reapers, tasked solely with ferrying souls to their afterlife. Others craved the power of souls, calling themselves gods of Death—Shinigami. They believed that devouring or absorbing souls granted them greater might, but found that power only deepened their coldness and emptiness. Those gods of Death became husks, bored of their own immortality yet too frightened to end themselves. But being a Reaper can yield the same chill. Though I know the souls would be lost without our guidance, my own existence seems bound to a perpetual winter, drawn to the final beat of each mortal life.
J. Robert Adams has been building worlds in his imagination for as long as he can remember. What began as a childhood escape quickly grew into a lifelong passion for storytelling. By middle school, he was already scribbling down tales of heroes, haunted places, and fantastical realms—stories that refused to stay quiet.
Charlotte Evans has never belonged. Her entire existence has been one wrong turn after another. When faced with a hard look at her future, she decides to change her fate. Desperate to not be the reason her boyfriend doesn’t pursue his dreams, she takes off in search of her own.
