As Santos contemplated his life, he heard a pounding on his front door. Who the Hell is that, he wondered. Wasn't cops, they'd have broken down the door. Can't be clients, they knew he didn't sell direct. And his boys had the word not to come to the house. Always some fool didn't get the message. Well, he'd get the message tonight, Santos decided. Find out who that fool is, then fire him or cut him off. He'll be flipping burgers for his cash and going to the Westside for his stuff.

Santos moved to go downstairs. The banging got louder. Then the crashing of glass. Santos paused, got his nine from under the bed, made sure the clip was good and the chamber was hot. He tucked it in his dip, just in case.

More banging, more glass breaking. Santos got to his door just as the invader came through. "What the..." he started as he saw who it was.

Fast Eddie stood in his doorway, his shirt bloody, clear fluid leaking from the wounds on his chest. His face and arms had a death pallor and he moved with the stiffness of the rigor that had come over him.

"Saanntoooosss," Eddie's voice creaked as he raised his pale hands towards the drug dealer. "I neeeedddd..."

Santos reached into his dip, pulled out his nine. "You're dead," he cried, recognizing the absurdity of his statement while realizing at the same time that it was true.

Eddie ignored the gun, kept coming one step at a time. Santos fired----once, twice, a third time. Eddie's body jerked with each impact, but he kept coming. Backing up, Santos emptied the clip. Eddie slowed, stopped, fell.

Relief washed through Santos; he had stopped the Eddie-thing. He wondered what to do next, Eddie's left hand twitched, then clawed the carpet. His right hand moved, fingers clutched the carpet and pulled his body forward. Slowly, Eddie crawled toward Santos.

Russell and Amberson were just pulling on to Federal Street when they heard the shots. They looked at each other. "I got the back," Russell said as they both bailed out of the unmarked car. Amberson gave his partner time to get around back before going through the open front door.

Russell got to the rear of the house just in time to see Santos run out the kitchen door. Both men had their guns out. Santos saw Russell, made him for a cop and dropped his piece. A good thing. A second later, Russell would have done Santos like the dealer had tried to do Eddie.

"You okay?" Russell heard his partner call form inside the house.

"Okay," Russell confirmed, snapping the cuffs on Santos. "You secure?"

"Under control. Come on in."

"Let's go," Russell urged Santos forward. The dealer balked.

"Not going back in there. Don't take me back," Santos pleaded.

Russell shoved the dealer into the doorframe----hard. "Walk or get dragged. Either way you're going in."

Amberson looked up as Russell came in from the back, pushing Santos ahead of him. "Found him," he said, indicating the mostly lifeless body on the floor.

Eddie was still trying to get to Santos, hands and knees weakly moving him along. Hearing the detective's voice, a distant memory came back. He turned towards Amberson, raised an arm and pointed it towards the dealer. "Saanntoooosss," he croaked out. Then, his appointed task done, and with what could have been a smile, or maybe just the effects of rigor, Fast Eddie collapsed and was finally still.

The detectives were quick to seize the situation.

"Doesn't look good, Antoine. Dead man in your house, your bullets in him," Amberson told Santos.

"Why'd you steal him from the morgue? Going to dig the bullets out?" continued Russell.

"No, no," Santos protested. "He was dead when he came in and..."

"And nobody's going to believe that, Antoine." Amberson interrupted. "Except maybe me and my partner." The sound of sirens in the distant, getting closer. "You gonna deal, deal now, else you get you a manslaughter charge."

Men in blue uniforms rushing the house from front and back, Amberson and Russell, weapons holstered, holding up their hands and badges to stem the charge. "I'm yours," Santos shouting over the initial confusion of men and voices. District detectives then homicide men arriving. Amberson and Russell holding tight to their charge.

By the time morning came Santos had given up his entire network, from suppliers down to runners. In exchange, he was charged as an accessory after the fact in the death of Wallace Cromwell, a.k.a. "Fast Eddie," with minimum sentencing guaranteed.

As for how the theft of Eddie's body was explained, Amberson and Cromwell referred anyone who asked to Dominic Jones. Jones, in turn, told the questioner to ask Santos. Santos, whose reputation was only enhanced by the belief that he had committed such an audacious crime, always denied it, but in such a way as to assure his listener that he had beyond doubt done the deed. The Medical Examiner's Office did get a new state-of-the art security system to keep whatever had happened from happening again.

With no one to claim it, Fast Eddie's body was turned over to the Anatomy Board. Unusually well preserved for an unembalmed corpse, it was used for three weeks before it was cremated and the ashes disposed of.

~

Safe and warm, Eddie again felt the warm embrace of loving arms. He floated, bathing in the warmth of the golden light. It was not for him, not this time. He'd been judged and he acknowledged that the judgment was fair and just. He felt a tug, somewhere a new life was being created. Consciousness faded as the soul that had once been Fast Eddie Cromwell sped off towards another chance at doing things right.

Night of the Living Dead Bingo Women

SIMON MCCAFFERY

Even on her bad days, Edna Mae Brewer was invincible.

She'd won five straight games since arriving at noon, excitedly calling out "Bingo!" after marking the last winning square on her playing sheets. The third time she fairly shrieked it in excitement, though her fellow contestants in the hall paid her not the slightest heed. The woman sitting directly across from Edna stared vacantly ahead like a wax figure, streaks of colored ink smeared across her face like a Maori mask. On Edna's left, an elderly black man in a soiled, ripped turtleneck gazed up at the high ceiling while his outstretched hands groped blindly about on the wide table. He swept his ink dauber and stack of playing cards onto the floor and made no effort to retrieve them.

In a remote way, this total disinterest in her good fortune rankled Edna, who was competitive by nature. In the old days, when a player's numbers came in, folks had not just sat there like stones. Most cheered as the caller checked off the winning numbers. Others groaned and everyone applauded like disinterested businessmen at a luncheon. Some even glared at the winner with genuine hatred, muttering under their breath as they discarded their losing sheets. This was no way for a Christian to behave, Edna knew, but she could commiserate; she herself had sat near a big winner on occasion and felt resentment glow in the pit of her stomach like a hot lump of coal.

Tonight, however, Edna felt just fine, thank you. This was largely due to the fact that she had won every game of the session so far, from the Early Bird up through the Bonus Blackout round. Some of the wins had taken longer than others, but she'd kept at it; hunched over her game sheets, concentrating fiercely while marking off numbers.