These Long Nights: Closing Court

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

As Max watched the doctor retrieve the metal crutches and struggled to push himself erect, he was struck by the man's utter strangeness. Everything from the utterly hairless head, to the intense blue eyes that conveyed a sinister omniscience, to the painful looking metal braces that encased his legs contributed to a thorough feeling of wrongness. Yet he certainly had presence. Max admitted that he harbored some jealousy of the doctor's ability to remain in control at all times. If he had half of his authority and mental acuity, Max could take his place behind Sherlock Holmes as a great detective.

“Do you play?” Max gestured at the chess board.

Two crutch steps from the door, the doctor replied, “I'm always in the middle of at least one game.”

"When we both have leisure time, I'd like the opportunity to surprise you.”

“Of course. Although I'll warn you it's been some time since I was last surprised, Detective. We'll speak again in the morning.”

“Good night, Doctor Francis.”

"Good night, good detective."

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