Bullets and Other Hurting Things: A Tribute to Bill Crider

BULLETS AND OTHER HURTING THINGS

A Tribute to Bill Crider

Rick Ollerman, Editor

Collection Copyright © 2021 by Rick Ollerman

Individual Story Copyrights © 2021 by Respective Authors

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Bullets and Other Hurting Things

Editor’s Note

Bill Crider, Man of Mystery

Introduction by Angela Crider Neary

Innocence

William Kent Krueger

Night Games

Bill Pronzini

Promise Me

Joe R. Lansdale

Pretty Girl from Michigan

Patricia Abbott

Asia Divine

Ben Boulden

The Ladies of Wednesday Tea

Michael Bracken

Demon Dogs

Jen Conley

The Strangers in Town

Brendan DuBois

Aunt Tally

Charlaine Harris

Best Man

David Housewright

Bitter Follies

Kasey Lansdale

High Time for Murder

Angela Crider Neary

Hunting Down Clate Shively

James Reasoner

Big Day in Little Bit

James Sallis

Double Exposure

Terry Shames

Gelding Season

S.A. Solomon

Storm Warning

Sara Paretsky

Who Killed Mr. Peepers?

Robert J. Randisi

Chin Yong-Yun Finds a Kitten

SJ Rozan

Los Hermanos Mil Sinto Y El Pinche Mundo

Eryk Pruitt

Books by the Editor

Preview from Wrecked by Tony Black

Preview from Two in the Head by Eric Beetner

Preview from State of Shock by M. Todd Henderson

To Bill—

Wish you were here to read these stories yourself. You are missed…

Editor’s Note

Bill Crider was a wonderful writer and an even better human. His wit, knowledge and charm were only some of his attributes and when he passed away in 2018 he left a gap that will never be filled. His blog, also known as Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine, was filled with book reviews, news of his own writing, and numerous bits of reportage that let us know the latest happenings of various creatures such as alligators, wealthy socialites and the residents of a certain southern state. I invited the contributors here to write about small-town crime, hard-boiled PIs, or really just anything they thought Bill might have gotten a kick out of. Some of the biggest names in crime fiction responded and here is the result. If you’re a fan of Bill’s work you’ll see connections in some of the stories, and if you haven’t sampled any of Bill’s many novels and stories, what’s stopping you? Sheriff Rhodes is waiting down there in Blacklin County, Sally Good is hanging out in the English department of Hughes Community College, and PI Truman Smith is prowling the streets of Galveston…

Introduction: Bill Crider, Man of Mystery

Angela Crider Neary

When Rick Ollerman asked me to write this introduction, suggesting that I might include anecdotes about my father, Bill Crider, his writing career, and a personality that was enamored of both gritty crime noir and the antics of socialite Paris Hilton, I was honored and excited yet perplexed at the same time. Why perplexed? Because Bill Crider was a man of mystery. Not just in the sense that he was the author of dozens and dozens of mystery novels and short stories, but by virtue of the fact that he was often a quiet and private person—even around his own family.

So, even though I’m his daughter, I’ll confess that I know less about him than I wish I did. As he was coming into his own as a writer and expert in the area of crime and mystery fiction, he didn’t share a lot of insights into who he was with me. I was the kid and he was the dad, a dynamic that hung on even into my adulthood. I find out something new about him every time I read an article or a work of fiction he wrote. A lot of us take for granted so many things about our loved ones while they are alive only to find ourselves piecing together the memories of who they were when they are no longer with us.

Dad wrote of himself that he was socially awkward and the very picture of an introvert. You might not believe this if you knew him through mystery or sci-fi conventions or the many writing forums he participated in online (or in print before the internet—think DAPA-Em, the first and only amateur press association devoted to crime and mystery fiction), but I’ll get to that later. He once told me that he was much more comfortable speaking in front of a large audience than being in an intimate setting with a few people he didn’t know well. Invariably I had to warn boyfriends who met him, He’s very quiet. Don’t take it personally, while on the other hand, pleading with him to be friendly to these poor guys. Maybe that’s a bad example since he may have tactically assumed an intimidating posture around his daughter’s romantic interests.

He said in the Acknowledgements for his last Sheriff Dan Rhodes book that his daughter and son had to put up with a father who often sat behind closed doors in the evening instead of watching TV or playing board games with the family. They never complained. Maybe they were just glad to get rid of me for a while, but I like to think they understood what I was doing and forgave my absence.

I don’t know if his recollection was completely accurate. I’m sure we complained. He did spend a lot of time in his office, surrounded by his comforting and overflowing shelves of books and writing about the characters who’d become our friends. But he also managed to spend time with his family, for whom he would have done anything, and do the things he enjoyed. Although I’m missing some of the pieces in the Bill Crider puzzle, I’ll tell you some of my favorite remembrances of him.

He did watch TV with his family—my mother Judy, my brother Allen, and me. Wonder Woman was a favorite. His lecherous Ohhhhhh yeah! every time Lynda Carter did a spin that converted her into a super hero always had us in stitches. We were exposed at an early age to Doc Savage and the campy neon green wigglies in Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze. We never missed the yearly broadcast of The Wizard of Oz. We piled onto the couch together to watch the Mary Tyler Moore and Bob Newhart shows. Dad got a kick out of Larry, his brother Darryl, and his other brother Darryl in the later Newhart show.

He played games with his family and friends. I particularly remember many a game of Triominos and Scrabble—he never lost a round of Scrabble. I still have a score card demonstrating how soundly he thrashed us all. He and my mother played dominoes with my grandparents around a small table in their kitchen. They belonged to a bridge club in Brownwood, Texas, made up of their close friends, many of whom taught with Dad at Howard Payne University.

It’s no secret that Dad loved music. He was an amateur musician, himself. Over the years, he was a member of a folk music group (The Fabulous G-Strings) and a barbershop chorus (The Next Edition). You can find his charming renditions of The Banana Boat Song and Darkness on the Delta, among others, on YouTube.

If I had to pick one, I’d say the Kingston Trio was his favorite band. He was invited backstage at a Kingston Trio concert where he gave each of the band members a copy of his book that he had dedicated to them. Some of my favorite memories of him when I was growing up are of him sitting on the floor playing the guitar and singing La Bamba or What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor, not to mention original compositions like Angela Crider’s Got Sand in Her Shoes, or Allen Crider’s Got Sand in His Shoes, depending on who had been playing in the dirt that day and was complaining about it.

When my brother and I had saved up enough of our allowance money (it probably took months since I can’t imagine that we got more than fifty cents a week) Dad took us to the local record store. He recommended my first ABBA album to me, and encouraged me to buy the Beatles version of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album rather than the 1978 movie soundtrack. I figured out later that he was so keen on the ABBA album because he wanted to listen to it himself, and of course I now understand why the Beatles were the better choice.

But it wasn’t all hearts and rainbows—he could get grumpy. He once ironically dubbed himself Mr. Jolly and posted a sign on his office door that read Mr. Jolly—Fun follows me around, after an old David Letterman bit.

Dad was a lifetime cat aficionado, like his father before him. We always had cats growing up—strays that would show up at the house and choose to stick around. One of Dad’s dearest was Speedo, named for the Cadillacs song (or lead singer, it was never clear). Speedo became an animal character in Dad’s Sheriff Rhodes series, reincarnated there as a border collie. Just when he thought he had reached the end of his cat wrangling days, Dad rescued three tiny kittens from a ditch in 2016. They became famous on his social media as the VBKs (Very Bad Kitties). He named them Keanu, Gilligan and Ginger, after the pop culture figures. Many speculated that they had been sent by my mother to keep Dad company after her death.

Not one to shun technology (before cell phones, he and his friends had CB radios where they used ‘handles’ to communicate—his was The White Rabbit after his white Pontiac), Dad started a blog on his sixty-first birthday. He was a month away from retirement, and I think he started the blog in anticipation of needing something to keep him occupied (more than he was already). But it became so much more—a place where mystery and pop culture fandom communicated every day, sharing their fascination with the subjects. He initially used the blog as a diary where you can find scintillating tidbits about his daily runs, his lawn mowing adventures, and going out for TexMex.

Eventually, the blog morphed into Bill Crider’s Pop Culture Magazine, addressing issues of global concern, such as the media’s persecution of Paris Hilton, gator and croc updates, and items demonstrating how Texas Leads the Way, be it through scientific breakthroughs or less commendable acts like instituting a pole tax on strip clubs. Dad always had an interest in pop culture. For a mild-mannered guy, he was drawn to things that were unusual or absurd. A hint of where the blog was headed came in one of his early diary posts where he discussed what he thought of Anna Nicole Smith’s reality show—spoiler alert, he didn’t like it but he had a soft spot for Smith. She was from the same small town as Dad, Mexia, Texas, where Dad’s brother taught her in high school and she once worked at the Jim’s Krispy Fried Chicken. (Smith was also persecuted, to hear Dad tell it.)

The blog also included a plethora of other things like book and movie reviews, a song of the day, stories about my father’s and mother’s travels, experiences at book conventions and festivals, and more. Something for everyone. He kept up the blog with daily posts until his death at age seventy-six.

And of course, there’s his writing. Dad wrote over one hundred books and short stories, including mysteries, westerns, sci-fi, horror, and children’s books. Some of his first children’s stories were never published but were told to me and my brother to keep us entertained on long road trips. These involved the adventures of Reddy Fox and Cubby Bear, who played among the hay bales we would see in the fields from the highway.

Then there were the cons—AggieCon Science Fiction Convention, ArmadilloCon Science Fiction Convention, and Bouchercon World Mystery Convention, to name a few—physical places where the blogosphere and writing coalesced—venues where he could mix and mingle with fellow bloggers, writers, friends and fans. Dad came alive at these events. My mother, his constant companion, described the book-conference Bill Crider as a person transformed, an extrovert who stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, holding court with some of his favorite people about books and writing. If you knew him through book conventions, you experienced the finest and most contented side of him, when he was in his element and his most true self.

Dad would sometimes take the family along when he attended and I was able to soak in the excitement in the atmosphere and the camaraderie of the participants. I was fortunate to attend Dad’s last three Bouchercons with him. It was heartwarming to be introduced to Dad’s lifelong friends and witness the love and admiration they shared.

In writing this, I realize and appreciate the memories I have to cherish. But to me, Bill Crider was still inscrutable in a lot of ways. There were clues to his personality that he kept to himself, or imparted only to others with whom he shared a specific interest or bond—like the contributors to this anthology. I never found out much about his creative processes, his tricks of the trade. If I asked, he was vague, as if it all somehow came naturally. And perhaps it did—if you love something so much, it seems to come with ease even if it involves a lot of hard work. He encouraged me in my own writing, always willing to assist with editing in his generous hands-off approach. I’m grateful for all that he did share with me, and that he left a part of himself in his writing through which I can walk into his office any time and continue to unravel the mystery of who he was.

Rick told me his intent with this anthology was to organize a collection that would put a solid smile on my dad’s face. He’s more than accomplished this goal, assembling stories in Dad’s most-loved genre by some of his esteemed and adored friends and colleagues. A perfect tribute, this compilation would have put a smile on Dad’s face and in his heart as well. I can see him now, sitting in his recliner, a cat (or three) sprawled in his lap, shaking his head and saying in his humble manner, I’m not deserving of this. But, of course, he is. You have a criminally entertaining time in store for you in the pages of this anthology.

Award-winning and bestselling author Kent Krueger is never afraid to stretch his writing and surprise us with his genuine inventiveness and skill. With this story he takes us along with Nick and Pet as they search for…something. With Innocence Kent tugs at all the right strings and hits all the right notes. Then, in the end, he pulls a few more…

Innocence

William Kent Krueger

Do you like it, Pet? Nick asked.

His daughter looked around the room and, with the dirty finger of a four-year-old, probed her right nostril. Where are we?

Minnesota. Do you like it?

I’m hungry.

So am I. I got us a room with a kitchenette, see? I could cook us something.

I want a hamburger and a milkshake.

Nick stroked his chin and considered. I saw a diner down the road. It looked like just the place for a good hamburger and milkshake. Let me get the suitcases in first, okay?

Nick went outside, lifted the back door of his station wagon, and stood for a moment looking at the lake on the other side of the highway. The sun was going down and the water was like mercury, vast and silver. Pet came out and stood with him.

How long are we going to stay, Daddy?

That depends.

I want to go home, she said.

Nick looked away from her at the lake.

Can we go back to Aunt Ida’s then?

You liked her? Nick said.

Pet shrugged. She had a swimming pool.

I don’t know, Pet. We’ll see.

That’s what you always say.

He looked at the silver lake, where a boat moved lazily, black ripples in its wake.

Maybe we could fish tomorrow. Would you like to fish, Pet?

I don’t know. She scratched at a mosquito bite on her leg.

Nick took the suitcases inside. Pet sat in a white metal rocker under an oak tree in the middle of the courtyard and held Buster, her rag doll clown, in her arms. She was singing to him when Nick came back out.

Let’s go eat, Pet.

Buster’s hungry, too.

Then Buster can eat with us, how’s that? He can eat anything he wants.

He wants a hamburger and a milkshake.

Then a hamburger and a milkshake he shall have.

They arrived during the dinner rush. The place was busy. Even so, Nick found a small table for two next to a front window. They could see the lake from there. The color of the water had changed, amber now, like the sky, and there were more boats, moving as majestic as swans. It all looked so peaceful, like the most peaceful thing imaginable.

Nick said, I always wanted to fish.

Pet said, Buster wants a chocolate milkshake.

Then Buster will get a chocolate milkshake.

The waitress came, a pretty woman, tall, with honey-colored hair piled up in a way that made her taller. Her face was flushed. She seemed out of breath but was smiling. Nick liked the way she smiled.

Sorry about the wait. It’s always busy like this on Fridays. Are you here for the fish fry?

Nick looked at his menu. I think we’d both like a hamburger and milkshake. Chocolate.

Don’t forget french fries, Pet said.

And french fries, Nick said.

Don’t forget Buster, Pet said.

I’m not really very hungry. How ’bout if Buster shares mine?

The waitress smiled at Pet. Your doll’s name is Buster?

Yes, Pet said.

I have a doll named Bonnie, the waitress said. She sleeps with me every night.

Buster sleeps with me, Pet said.

Everything but onions on the burgers, Nick said.

You want the California burger, then.

The what?

A burger with the works we call a California burger. See, there it is on your menu. She leaned over his arm and pointed with her pencil. She was wearing a nice perfume.

Okay. Two California burgers, no onions. And could you bring us some water when you have a chance?

Sure. Water for Buster? she asked Pet.

No, thank you. It makes him wet the bed, Pet replied.

The waitress didn’t laugh. She said seriously, That could be a problem. No water for Buster, then. Be right back.

Nick leaned on his elbows and stared out the window. He imagined what it would be like fishing on the lake for a living. Catching fish for the fish fry every Friday night at the diner. He thought it would be a nice quiet way to live, give a man lots of time to think, to put things together. A good life for Pet, too. She would come with him on the boat. They would sit all day in their boat out in the middle of the lake, just the two of them, gathering fish for the fish fry.

I have to go potty, Pet said.

Okay. Nick stood up just as the waitress came back with water. Could you tell us where the little girl’s room is?

She looked down at Pet. You have to go, honey?

Uh-huh. Pet nodded.

Here, I’ll take you, sweetheart. She glanced at Nick. Mind?

Nick smiled. Thanks a lot.

No problem. You come with Jessie, honey. She took Pet’s hand and led her across the room.

Nick watched them go. He thought Jessie had nice legs. He sat down and looked out at the lake some more. When they came back, Pet seemed happy. They have clean bathrooms.

Nick smiled at Jessie. They say you can always tell a good place by the restrooms.

Jessie smiled back. I’d say the food comes in there somewhere.

Jessie! someone shouted from the kitchen.

Gotta run. She moved off quickly.

She’s nice, Pet said.

Yes, Nick agreed. She certainly is.

By the time Nick and Pet finished eating, the dinner rush was over. The lake was dark. The boats had come in. Jessie returned to clear the dishes.

Can I get you anything else?

No, thanks. We’re stuffed. Say, Jessie, do you know of a place that rents boats and fishing gear? Pet and I might try our luck on the lake tomorrow.

Sure. Lots of places. What do you want to catch?

Are there trout in that lake?

Jessie gave her head a hopeless shake. You don’t fish much, do you? That lake’s the kind for pan fish. Sunnies, bluegill, crappies. Or bass. Some pretty good bass. All good eating, but no trout. She looked at Pet. You ever fish, honey?

No.

It’s lots of fun.

You fish? Nick asked.

I used to all the time. I don’t much anymore.

Nick looked at Pet, then back at Jessie. I don’t suppose you’d consider going fishing with us tomorrow. Be nice if we had someone along who knew what they were doing.

Jessie scratched her cheek with the eraser end of her pencil. Are you staying in town?

We’ve got a room at the Northview Motor Court. We’re staying a few days.

Vacation?

No. Hard to explain.

Just the two of you? She looked down at little Pet. You want me to come fishing with you, honey?

Pet said, Yes, please.

Jessie stuck out her hand. I’m Jessica McDonald.

Nicholas Lynch, Nick said taking her hand. Most folks call me Nick. And this is Petula. Pet to her friends and family.

She shook Pet’s hand.

Pet said, And Buster.

Jessie shook Buster’s rag-doll hand.

How old are you, honey? Jessie asked.

Pet held up five fingers, then crooked her index finger in half.

Four and a half? I think that’s a perfect age to start fishing.

What time’s good for tomorrow? Nick asked.

I work breakfast and lunch, so I’m not off till two. What if I came around five? We can rent a boat and head out for an hour or so before sunset. Fish should be biting about then.

Great. Nick looked at her eyes, shiny and blue. They made him think of a satin nightgown. And thanks. Pet likes to have someone female to talk to. You know.

Sure, I understand.

We’re in number twelve at the motor court. See you tomorrow.

I’m looking forward to it. She smiled at Pet.

In the car, Nick said, A nice lady, don’t you think?

Yes. Pet leaned against him and yawned. I’m sleepy, Daddy.

Me, too, Pet. It’s been a long day.

In the room, they brushed their teeth, then Nick read Rapunzel from a big book of illustrated fairy tales he’d checked out from the library in Rapid City and had never returned. She was asleep before he finished. He stepped outside. Moths and other summer bugs buzzed and fluttered about the yellow light above the door. He looked at the cars parked around the courtyard, checked the license plates. Minnesota mostly, but a couple from Iowa, one of them a brand new ’65 Thunderbird convertible Nick would have loved to own. But it was way too conspicuous. His Rambler station wagon was dull as dirt but just fine for Pet and him. He crossed the road, stood at the edge of the lake looking out over the black water. Tomorrow he’d see what was biting.

She met them at the motor court. She’d let her hair down and was dressed in shorts and a blue work shirt. She’d tied the shirttail in front in a way that showed her flat belly and her belly button. She wore makeup and the perfume Nick had noticed the night before. Her nails were polished a bright red. She had on open-toed sandals and Nick saw that she’d painted her toenails, too. She brought three poles when she came. She said she’d borrowed a friend’s boat, which was tied up to a dock at the marina in town. Nick drove.

On the lake, Jessie sat at the back of the small boat, handling the outboard, guiding them across the water. She let Pet help her. Nick took the bow, peering over the edge at the water sliding past. The sun was low in the sky, and the light glanced off the lake into his eyes and made him squint. Whenever he looked back, he caught Jessie smiling at Pet. To Nick, it seemed like they went a long way, which was fine. He liked the feel of the boat gliding along so easily. After a while, he sat with his back to the bow, watching the wind blow Jessie’s gold hair. She watched him, too. Pet let her hand dangle in the water.

They stopped in a small inlet where reeds grew near the bank. Jessie put a worm on Pet’s hook and cast the line.

Watch the bobber, Pet honey. Soon as you see it start to jiggle, you know a fish is nibbling. Let him nibble a little, that’s okay. I’ll help you set the hook in him. She turned to Nick. Need any help?

I can handle my own worm, thanks.

She grinned and shrugged. Suit yourself.

The afternoon was still and warm. They were the only boat in the little inlet. Nick thought about how it would be to do this every day. To get away from everything. To let it all go, like dropping a big anchor into deep water and watching it sink out of sight. He looked at Jessie. She was studying Pet with those eyes like blue satin.

After a while, Jessie said, Your plates say Utah. That where you’re coming from?

Not directly, Nick said. Been on the road a while now.

My bobber’s jumping, Pet squealed.

Jessie swung around, but the bobber was still. He’ll be back, Pet. Just you wait.

What about you? Nick asked. You a native here?

Lived in Indigo Lake all my life.

Seems like a nice, quiet place.

Quiet’s the key word. Not much goes on here. Next week, kids in Minnesota have to be back in school. All the tourists’ll vanish. Then there’s just the waiting for the snow to come. It’s like that every year.

I’ve heard about Minnesota winters, Nick said. Sounds like something to avoid.

Your bobber’s moving, she said.

Nick laughed. I’ll try to control myself.

They ended up with ten good-sized crappies, which Jessie threaded through their gills onto a stringer she’d hung over the boat in the water. Pet caught one of the fish. Nick caught one. Jessie caught the rest.

The sun was setting when Jessie said, Whyn’t we take these back to my place and cook ’em up?

Nick said, We couldn’t intrude.

Mostly my fish. And I can’t eat them all alone. What do you say, Pet? Want to see my house?

Pet said, I want a hot dog.

Don’t you want to eat the fish we caught? Nick asked.

I don’t like fish. I like hot dogs.

That’s okay, Pet, Jessie said. Hot dogs I’ve got.

The house, old but beautifully kept, sat on a huge corner lot. It had a couple of fat cupolas, a long front porch with a swing, a widow’s walk, and lots of gingerbread lattice. A white picket fence enclosed it all and made it look safe. Nick pulled around to the garage in back, a building that had once been a carriage house.

This place is yours? Nick said.

I inherited it when my folks died. It’s too big for me. I know I should sell it, get something smaller. But I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

Do you have a television? Pet asked.

I sure do, honey.

Aunt Ida had a swimming pool.

Aunt Ida?

Family, Nick said.

Sorry, Pet. No pool, but a very nice television. Come on.

In the kitchen, Jessie offered Nick a can of Grain Belt beer.

I don’t drink, he told her.

She smiled. I kind of like that in a man.

She opened two cans of Pepsi instead and set to work preparing the fish on a cutting board. In the living room, Pet sat on the sofa. The television was tuned to a summer rerun of Flipper, but mostly Pet was playing with Bonnie, the doll that Jessie had brought down from her bedroom.

Know how to peel potatoes? Jessie asked.

I can handle that.

Drop the peels in here. She bent to lift the lid from the kitchen garbage can, and Nick had a pretty good look down the top of her loose shirt at her breasts. She wore no bra.

How many? he asked.

One apiece should be plenty. Potato peeler’s in there. She bumped her hip lightly against the drawer next to the sink.

Nick stood beside her, peeling while she worked on the fish.

Mind if I ask you a question? she said.

Go ahead.

Where’s Pet’s mother?

Dead.

Oh, Nick. I’m sorry.

Two years ago. Nick slowed in his peeling. Rachel woke up with a headache in the middle of the night. I gave her aspirin. In the morning she could barely stand up the pain was so bad. I took her to the hospital. She was dead before the afternoon was out. Aneurysm, they said. They said there was nothing they could do. Nick watched the peelings drop into the trash.

I’m so sorry.

It’s not so bad most times. But sometimes in the middle of the night I wake up and realize how empty everything is and it’s like my heart’s gone and Pet’s the only thing keeping me alive.

Jessie set her knife down and put her arms around Nick. The fish smell was on her hands, but the perfume at the nape of her neck blotted it out nicely.

The worst part is that I haven’t told Pet.

She was sleeping, curled on the sofa, her arms cradling Bonnie. The television was on, turned low, a late-night news show broadcast out of Fargo. A weather map showed clouds swirling through Montana. Nick and Jessie sat on the floor next to each other.

I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Everything was so hard then. I was pretty shook. Not thinking straight. When I left Rachel there, dead on that hospital bed, I left for good. I gathered Pet up from the neighbors, went back to the trailer, collected what clothes would fit in a suitcase and left. Everything. My job, the trailer home, the furniture, everything. I told Pet her mother was lost and we had to find her. We drove away from Salt Lake City and we’ve been on the go ever since.

Oh, Nick. Jessie laid her head on his shoulder. It sounds awful.

Pet used to ask when we were going to find her mommy. She doesn’t ask anymore.

What are you going to do?

I don’t know. Something soon. She starts school next year. I’d like to be settled somewhere then. Nick took a swallow of his Pepsi and studied Pet on the sofa. "Will you look at her? So innocent. I should have told her, but God as my witness, I just couldn’t. Christ, I’d do anything if I