Calling Cards


Poor Ms. Dore - Editor

by Stephen Pohl

I was in the Owl Bar, off the Hotel Belvedere’s lobby, working on a prime rib French dip sandwich and fries, when Dolan walked in and scanned the room. He came to my table and took a seat without waiting for an invitation.

“Glad you could join me.” I said, wondering why he was there.

Dolan didn’t smile. He squared up to me, and leaned forward over the table. It had been ten years since we worked together, but he still had the lean and hungry look I’ve traded in for a bulky and bemused facade.

“Name Janice Dore mean anything to you, Moriarty?”

“No,” I didn’t like his tone, “Why?”





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