Soul Patch by Reed Farrel Coleman

black-and-white photo of what was described as a gold and diamond-encrusted ID bracelet. The bold block letters spelled out the name MALIK. Malik was described as a light-skinned black male, five-foot-seven inches tall, weighing one hundred and fifty-five pounds, approximately thirty years of age. He had light brown eyes, no facial hair, and a close-cropped haircut. Although these days Malik wasn’t exactly an uncommon name, I suddenly felt very uneasy. I sensed the fan blades spinning faster and that the shit was moving in their general direction.
    Another round of calls to all the people Larry and I had in common netted me nothing. I had avoided getting back to Margaret until
now, but no news plus time equals panic. She took my lack of results well enough, though she couldn’t quite stop the fear and worry from leaking into her voice. I promised to keep looking, and got off the phone before she had time to think out loud. Once she gave full voice to the worst of her fears, they would be hard to shove back down.
    Those calls, the ones to Margaret and my old acquaintances, were easy compared to the one I was about to make. The single condition of my partnership with my brother was that I be allowed to work cases whenever I wished. The reality of it was that I averaged about one case every two years, and even then I used vacation days to account for my time away from the business. In my heart I knew that Aaron had agreed because he believed my passion for the job would fade like the taste of a first kiss. He was a smart man, my brother Aaron. Money in a man’s pocket, a nice house, a new car, and a comfortable life can kill passion as effectively as a thousand different poisons. But what Aaron forgot is that the taste of some first kisses never fade.
    Originally, I’d gotten my P.I. license as a way to salve my wounds, a way to lie to myself that I wouldn’t let myself be swallowed up by the wine business. It was a conceit, a hedge against the “ifs” in life. Now, as I dug my license out of my sock drawer and stared at it, it felt like a lifesaver. I blew the light covering of dust off its black vinyl case and slipped it into my back pocket.
    “City On The Vine,” Aaron answered on the second ring.
    “Hey, big brother.”
    “What is it? Is something wrong? Something’s wrong! I can hear it in your voice.”
    “The Amazing Aaron, four syllables and he predicts all.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “You always think something’s wrong.”
    “So,” he said, “am I usually right?”
    “Yes, you’re usually right about something being wrong. In this world, that’s an easy guess. But, this time, you’re wrong about something being wrong. I’m taking a few days to work on a—”
    “What? Are you completely meshugge ? We opened a new store less than a—”
    “It’s a case. It’s our deal. No going back on the deal.”

    “For chrissakes, Moe, grow up already! You’re off the cops twelve years and your chances have come and gone. This is your business now. This is your life.”
    Ouch! That landed solid as a chopping right hook over a pawing jab.
    “The deal’s the deal, Aaron. Kosta’s in town and he’ll cover for me.”
    “But we—”
    “I’ll be in the store for my shift later today and I’ll arrange everything with Kosta,” I promised. “Don’t worry about it.”
    “Don’t worry, he tells me. Am I allowed to ask what this is all about?”
    “I’m not sure what it’s all about. Maybe nothing.”
    “Why do I ask?”
    “Good question. Why do you ask?”
    The truth was, I didn’t know whether there really was something here or whether I just wanted there to be. I think maybe it was a little bit of both. If Larry Mac turned up tomorrow morning sporting a new tan and this stiff in the paper with the gaudy jewelry was a different Malik than the one I heard being interrogated by the cops, it was back to the sock drawer for my P.I. license and back to my exile in the French reds aisle. Katy, a