Sam took the Olds onto Towson Street and into town. Driving seemed like an exercise in rediscovery. He had not been behind the wheel of a car since the night of the accident, and while a week wasn’t nearly enough time to forget how it was done, it sure did play hob with his reaction time. It didn’t help that his attention was taken either. He ran one red light and almost ran the very next one, coming to a screeching halt at the last second. Providentially, no police were around to witness.

            He pulled around the corner of Giovanni’s and to the valet. He had never been here before, never even heard of the place. He had looked up the location in the yellow pages. He had expected it to be one of the seemingly thousands of small, family-oriented Italian joints in this town, but this one was definitely a few notches higher on the class meter. Men in suits escorted ladies in evening dresses along the walkway. He could see a band playing inside, and he felt a queer certainty that they were playing soft jazz, or maybe even light swing. It just seemed right.

            The valet took his car and Sam tipped him. He was still quite angry but this was taking on a surreal quality. He was quite fond of Italian food and he could not believe a place like this had escaped his notice. It was incredible. It seemed totally out of place in a town this small. But, it had been listed, so it had to have been there at least a year or two. He made a mental note to look into it. After he got bailed out.

            He took a minute to absorb the beauty of the place, bright as clarion and filling the crisp air with thin, oily scents. It almost served to soothe his anger, but he didn’t want that. It was fueling him, making him feel truly alive. He realized that it could not end well, but he didn’t care. He needed this.

            He entered the front door, and had to jump aside to avoid colliding with a woman and her man. He excused himself, but they didn’t seem to notice. He was laughing and she was flirting. She was beautiful, her jet-black hair flowed past her shoulders, and her figure was perfect. She was a good match for the guy. They both looked like underwear models out for a night and definitely enjoying each other’s company. It made his stomach clench. Whether it was from disgust or envy, he did not know.

            The restaurant was busy and jumping. The very air itself was full of life and sound, conversation and celebration. It was invigorating just to be there. Even the host had a pleasant smile on his round, decidedly-Italian face.

            “Welcome to Giovanni’s, signor!” he said cheerfully. “Dining alone tonight?”

            “No,” Sam replied. “I have a reservation.”

            “Name please?” the host asked.

            He paused. For a split second he had a good mind to turn right around, run right out of this place, back home.

But only for a split second.

            “Ellington.”

            The host scanned the registry. “Ellington, Ellington… hmm, let’s see. Edwards, Efferbaum, ah, here we are. Ellington, party of two. Right this way, signor.”

            Party of two indeed.

            He steeled himself. This place did seem quite dreamlike, and he doubted whether he had the strength to break it.

            The host led him for what seemed like miles through a mazelike dining area, up to the second level to the balcony. From up here, the place really did look palatial, breathtaking even. But Sam didn’t notice. He was looking for the son of a bitch who sent that letter.

            He did not. The tour ended at a table adorned with a candle, wine basket, a flower in a small vase, two menus and one other chair with no one sitting in it. He sat down and scanned the crowd, very anxious to finally put a face to this. No one came to him, until a young man in a tuxedo showed up.

            “Good evening, Mr. Ellington. My name is Gregory, and I’ll be serving your party tonight. May I interest you in a drink?

            He thought for a moment. A drink would be nice. It was the only thing that made sense so far, actually.

            “I’ll have a blush wine, please.”

            “Certainly, sir. Which would you like? There’s a list on the menu.” Gregory responded.

            Sam could not really be bothered. “Surprise me. I’m not picky.”

            Gregory laughed warmly. “Yes sir, Mr. Ellington. I’ll see what the chef recommends. It’ll be just a minute.” He maneuvered away through the crowd to the back area.

            His head still throbbed from the hangover. He fumbled in his pocket for the small bottle of Excedrin, shook out four, and crunched them, relishing the bitter, chalky taste as it slid dry down his throat. He rested his head in his hand, and waited for the medicine to take effect.

            “Mr. Ellington.” A voice said.

            Sam did not need to raise his head to know that the voice was not young Gregory the waiter.

            He looked up. He was still half-drunk, and the pressure of his palms against his eyes gave everything a weird, discolored quality, but he could see clearly enough.

            A man was sitting in the chair across from him. He was a black man, about twice Sam’s age, judging by the wrinkles and the salt-and-pepper hair. He was well-groomed and dressed in a crisp white tuxedo, complete with the black bow tie. His face was handsome, his smile was warm and his hand was extended. Sam tentatively extended his hand in return, and they shook. The black man’s grip was firm and certain. Sam’s was weak and limp.

            As they did, Sam had another crazy thought. This guy kind of looks like the actor…

            “Morgan,” the black man said.

            “Freeman!” Sam exclaimed. That WAS who he looked like!

            Morgan laughed. “Storrow, actually,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

            Sam only stared, not a little confused. “Mr. Storrow, I don’t understand what this is about, I…”

            “Morgan, please. Yes, I know, the invitation. There will be time for that later. Right now, though, we’re at what is possibly the best Italian restaurant in the entire universe. First, we eat. Then, we can discuss the business at hand.”

            As if by magic, Gregory the waiter returned with Sam’s wine, and a Manhattan.

            “Thank you, good man,” Morgan said. “Are you ready to order, Mr. Ellington?”

            Sam had come in here looking to kick some ass. But this place, this atmosphere, and most of all, this strange and supremely confident man, all served to blunt his aggression. He felt very overwhelmed and out of his league here. Now it wasn’t just a matter of going to jail for assaulting the guy, he felt like he would be in honest physical danger from the whole place if he tried anything. It scared him.

            “Sam?” Morgan repeated, “Have you even looked at the menu?”

            He hadn’t. But he did notice that Morgan had used his first name. Sam did not recall telling him what his first name was, but if he knew his last name and address, it just stood to reason that he’d know his first as well.

            Sam scanned the menu with little interest. He ended up choosing some pasta dish, he really couldn’t be bothered to be discriminate. He liked Italian as much as anyone, and more than most, but his appetite vacated sometime after all that Jack, and left no forwarding address.

            Morgan was much more specific. Three-meat lasagna, heavy on the sauce, pile on the mushrooms and light on the ricotta. Don’t forget the fresh rolls, wheat, not white, and of course you can’t have rolls with butter, real, honest-to-God butter, no margarine if you please.

            The waiter scribbled all this into his small notepad and took off like a happy little puppy fetching a stick.

            Sam sipped his wine and never let his gaze stray from Morgan. Finally, he cleared his throat.

            It seemed like as he did, all conversation in the room had stopped. But only for a split second. Then, the dozens of interweaving discussions threaded themselves back together.

            Morgan looked intently at him, his mouth firm but his dark eyes twinkling and smiling. He did not respond, he simply let Sam know he had his attention. Then he waited patiently.

            Sam looked uncomfortable, and with Morgan’s gaze, he felt as if he were put on the spot. He paused for a second, thinking really hard about what it was he really wanted to say.

            “I want to know what you want me here for,” he finally said. His voice went dry, and he sipped more wine.

            Morgan smiled and wiggled his index finger back and forth, like a mother scolding a child. “Not yet, my friend, not yet. I said there are matters of life and death at stake, and to that, I am sincere. But, such things are serious, and right now, the jazz is playing and I prefer to have a clear and happy mind. After dinner is over, I’ll make everything clear to you.”

            Sam nodded and drank more. Not even fresh from his last hangover and here he was tempting another one into coming out. What a night.

            Morgan sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and hummed the music with a contented look. He knew every song the band played, it seemed. He even kept time with his fingers. He was totally relaxed and, by appearances, having the time of his life. Sam, on the other hand, was a little buzzed, a little nervous, and incredibly confused. He had come here up a tree and pissed off about it, looking to bust this guy in the chops, but instead, he was sitting across with perhaps the most egnimatic human being he had ever encountered. Sam was at good at reading people as anyone, but Morgan was a man whose manner betrayed nothing, showing only what he wanted to be shown and nothing more. He seemed the type that simply could not be taken by surprise, and his eyes were full of laughter, like he knew something incredibly funny and had no intention of sharing it with anyone else. Sam would hate to go against this guy in court, he would be impossible to crack. Hell, he would probably make a fool out of anyone who crossed him, not the kind to just defeat you, but humiliate you, just so you remembered. And that’s why he already did not like Morgan Storrow. He showed no weaknesses, and that scared Sam, scared him quite bad, actually. The Boy Scouts might have told him to always be prepared, but Morgan gave off an aura. Morgan seemed to be everything you couldn’t expect, and Sam had enough of that over the last seven days to last him a lifetime.

            After about twenty minutes Morgan opened his eyes and sat forward. Not thirty seconds later, Gregory returned with two steaming plates covered in silver. Morgan smiled, and started eating with gusto. His every movement seemed fluid and carefully precise, as if he were a machine. He savored each bite, and several times commented on how delicious his meal was.

            Sam’s appetite had taken a hike, apparently. He took a few bites of his chicken pasta, and it was good, very good indeed, but after the first few mouthfuls, his taste buds quit on him, and then his stomach started to rebel. It must have still been unhappy with the whiskey bath it got a few hours prior.

            After Morgan finished, he looked at Sam with seemingly genuine concern. “Sam, Sam, what’s wrong, buddy? This is the best I’ve ever had at Giovanni’s, and you’re not even looking at it!”

            “Stomach’s upset. Got a lot on my mind, and I haven’t been feeling good lately anyway. Big dinners have been a rarity lately,” Sam said. None of that was a lie.

            “Yeah, sure, I understand that, what with the hell you’ve been going through,” Morgan replied. “But, you’re a very intelligent gentleman and I’m fairly certain that you realize that’s why I invited you here tonight, to this paradise of mine.”

            “Yours?”

            Morgan chuckled. “Not mine, I don’t own the thing, though I wouldn’t mind for a minute. It’s just that, it’s my favorite place in the whole wide world.”

            “Ah, okay,” Sam said. “So, we’re done with dinner, and I want some answers, Morgan.”

            “Then give me some questions, my friend.”

            Sam stared him right in the eyes. “What do you want with me?”

            Morgan leaned forward, and the smile disappeared. He looked grave and serious. “I don’t want anything with you, Mr. Ellington. I have something to give you, I am going to give you what you want most.”

            “Another drink, maybe? This whole experience is too unreal to be sober for.”

            Morgan put a hand up. “Let’s keep serious, Mr. Ellington. No games and no jokes, please.”

            “Then what? You seem to be in control here. What are you offering me?”

            Morgan leaned forward more, and spoke almost in a whisper.

            “I am offering you Valerie and Allison Ellington.”

            Sam was dumbstruck. They were mentioned on the invitation, and he couldn’t fathom why, but this certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. He stood straight up, almost knocking his chair backwards.

            “What kind of bullshit is this?” he hissed. “What the fuck kind of game are you trying to play, Mr. Storrow?” He sounded as frightened as he was angry.

            Morgan remained stolid and impassive. “This is not a game, and it is not bullshit, Mr. Ellington. You are being given an offer any number of people would jump at blindly.”

            “Are you trying to tell me you can bring them back to life? That you can raise the dead?”

            “That is not what I am telling you,” Morgan replied, “It is not anything so crude or simple as reviving the dead. I can return them to you.”

            Sam didn’t know what to think. This was too damned unreal.

            “Don’t worry about the details. They do not concern you,” Morgan continued, “All I need from you is a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.”

            “What do you mean, don’t worry about the details? You’re nuts. You’re totally fucking batshit and you’re wasting my time.” Sam’s voice was high-pitched. Now he really was afraid.

            Morgan stood, and brayed laughter. “Nuts? Batshit? No, not at all. I’m perfectly fine. But, time grows short, and I need an answer from you. Keep in mind that either choice you make is one that you will have to live with, for better or worse, for the rest of your life. I told you I can give them back to you and I will do that, and I will not tell you how I will do it. I do not require anything in return from you, the mere act of doing it gives me what I need.” He sighed. “Now, Mr. Ellington, do you want your wife and daughter back, or do you want to sit in your empty, rich white-folks house in Indrey Park, moping and crying and blaming yourself like the idiot you are? Sit there in your plush den with your whiskey bottle, lamenting how you fucked that other woman behind your wife’s back, thinking that was the reason they died?”

            “How… how did you know all that?” he choked out. His voice was very close to failing him.

            Morgan’s was not. “Who cares how I know. I do know, and that’s all that matters. I do know that you cheated on your wife. I do know that you were too much of a coward to admit it to her. I think you hated her. I think you really hated them both. I think, underneath your outward display of the tearful widower, you’re on Cloud Nine, now they they’re out of your miserable life.”

            “You son of a BITCH!” His hand had balled into a fist the whole time Morgan was speaking. His face was full of naked red anger, and he lashed out, aiming right at Morgan’s jaw.

            Morgan deftly side-stepped, caught his arm, and with what seemed like no effort at all, lifted Sam’s entire body over his shoulder and threw him to the floor. Sam hit the ground hard and saw stars, but he wasn’t hurt. Oddly, the other patrons of the restaurant were totally oblivious to this scuffle in the middle of the expansive dining area. They kept going about their dinners and conversations, and Sam and Morgan might as well not have been there at all.

            Morgan reached down and held out his hand. Sam was nearly frightened for his life now, but he took it and Morgan lifted Sam to his feet with one easy jerk. Sam brushed himself off, keeping one fearful eye on the mysterious Mr. Storrow. There was most definitely more to him than meets the eyes.

            Morgan seemed pretty nonplussed over all that had happened. The smile returned to his face, but he said nothing.

            After Sam pulled himself together, as best he could manage, he looked at Morgan Storrow and asked him the one question that most confused him:

            “Who are you?”

            Morgan shrugged. “I am merely a man with an offer for you. Whether you say yes or no makes absolutely no difference to me, because life will go on for us both. If you say no, I will leave, you will never see me again, and you’ll spend the rest of your life remembering a particular dinner meeting with a charming old black man whose name you’ll never quite remember, but you will remember the offer he made you, and you will always wonder what would have happened if you had just said yes. On the other hand, if you say yes, you might forget this little chat one day, because Allison and Valerie Ellington will walk upon this earth once more, breathing the beautiful air of life, and thus, the night you met me may not be of consequence to you. You might be happy, you might not be. I make no guarantees to that end. All I offer you is another chance, to fix what you fucked up and let die.”

“But…” Sam started.

“Quiet a minute,” Morgan interrupted, “No more questions. All I want is an answer. Yes or no.” Morgan was so convincing, Sam half-believed (hoped?) he might actually be able to do it.

“Yes, I want them back, more than anything in the world.” Sam replied.

The ever-present smile re-appeared on Morgan’s face. “Then it shall be done.” And with that, he turned and walked away, into the crowd.

“Wait a minute!” Sam yelled, but Morgan ignored him and continued walking. Sam started after him. Morgan walked faster, and Sam tried to keep pace, and while Morgan seemed to be able to deftly avoid contacting anything without breaking stride, Sam was hardly in a condition to match. He hit a woman, elbowed a waiter, and spilled drinks on someone’s table.

He tripped on someone’s foot and fell headlong onto someone’s table, striking it with his chin. The pain was sharp and sudden, and he spit blood as he tried to make himself stand again. The people sitting at this table stared at him, and their gaze was chilling enough to make him ignore the loose tooth on his lower jaw.

As he stood, he noticed that it wasn’t just them. All conversation had ceased, as had the music. Nobody moved. Everyone in sight of him was staring at him. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes focused on him. All conversation had ceased, as had the music. Nobody moved. It seemed like he had become the focal point of the universe. As he walked away, every set of eyes followed him with mechanical precision, as though they were physically tethered to his body. As he passed the balcony, he noticed that even the people below had their eyes focused directly at him, even though half of them probably could not see him. It was very disconcerting, and it was scaring the hell out him. Sam didn’t care about catching up with Morgan anymore. He just had to get out of here, out of this place. It was dangerous here now. He dashed to the stairs leading down, trying not to notice the piercing gazes of all of these people.

Sam stepped quickly down the stairs, his mind shut off to concentrate on getting out as fast as possible. Perhaps this is why he tripped again, halfway down. He raised his arms in reflex, but it was meaningless. He struck the steps, and felt a dull crack in his chest. He rolled the rest of the way down, seemingly bruising every part of his body in the process. When he at last came to a stop at the bottom, he was in agony and unable to move for a minute.

Then, everyone laughed. Every single person in the restaurant laughed at Sam. It was a terrible, frightening sound, and it was full of blatant malice. And they didn’t stop, if anything, they laughed louder and harder, as if it were a physical attack against a weakening enemy. Maybe in a way, it was.

Sam tried to stand, but he knew he almost certainly broke at least one rib, probably more, and the pain was incredibly searing. It took him several attempts to get on his feet, and when he did, he shuffled to the exit.

The crowd stood with him, laughing the whole time. As he tried to leave, they converged to stop him, blocking his path and surrounding him. Now, they weren’t just laughing. Now, some of them were yelling catcalls, some were whistling. Several of them were yelling “Murderer!”, “Scumbag!”, “Worthless!”. All of them had fearsome, predatory looks on their faces.

Panic overtook Sam and he blindly rushed the group of people directly in front of the exit. He had expected them to resist, to try and stop him, but instead, they just moved out of his way. The impact he expected did not happen, and he overbalanced, falling yet again. This time, though, he was able to cushion the blow, and though his chest burned like fire, he ignored it as best he could. Forcing himself to his feet once more, he ran out of the exit as quickly as his tortured body would allow. The patrons and the staff continued to shower him with laughter and insults, but they made no attempt to follow him.

Sam burst out of the doors, and he turned to where the parking area, and his car. But he did not even get halfway when his body finally gave into the pain and fatigue from his ordeal, and he sunk to his knees and collapsed right on the sidewalk, no longer able to so much as move. His head struck the cement, and his eyes watered. For a few seconds, he lay there, waiting for his body to just shut off and die. He almost had the presence of mind to realize his life was over, and he would be able to join his daughter and wife again.

He only half noticed when a rigid paper object fell on his face and lay still on the sidewalk in front of him.

Summoning all the strength he had left, he moved his right arm toward the object, half wondering what it was, and half occupied by the screaming pain in his chest and head. Finally, he managed to close his fingers around it and bring it close enough for his failing eyes to see.

It was a card. On the flat side, a small message read:

“This is the end of the old and the herald of the new. Turn to look at the silver moon and your life will claim itself. Remember your wish, and the consequences that accompany any major decision.
            “~M. Storrow.”

Sam shifted his weight to his left side and rolled onto his back. He did not see the moon, for the skies were shrouded by a thick blanket of clouds.

But he did see Morgan Storrow, looking down at him, and there was no smile on his face now. Looking into his fierce, dark eyes, Sam knew the deepest, gravest terror he had ever felt in his life.

He watched as one white pant leg drew back. He felt, more than heard, the wet crunch made when the foot struck his chest, shattering God knew how many more of his ribs. His vision faded, the last thing Sam saw was the foot drawing back for another strike. He felt that one too.

Then, Sam Ellington felt no more.