the tenth letter

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"whoever did this to you, sammy, i swear i'll get them. i'll get them if i have to unravel the universe to do it" mike mean stood in the rain. water streamed off the brim of his hat, glowing red in the light from the police car's flasher. a couple of uniformed cops got out of the car. they moved into the line of the camera, blotting it out. pete street, chief detective of the suspicious development unit, turned off the projector. he was sitting in the projection room with mike mean, his best friend. a couple of bottles of scotch stood on the table beside the projector. otherwise the room was bare. outside the rain was winding down. pete took a swig from one of the bottles. "you got to watch yourself, mike. do what you got to do, but keep the noise down, especially with the cameras running." "they are always running." "this is true." pete thought for a moment. "unspeakable crimes unit, from parallel 17, contacted us on this. they have some interest." "parallel 17!" mike sneered. "those girly-men! what do i care about them?" he took a hit from his almost empty bottle. "what do you care about them?" "actually they are mostly girlies, not girly-men. and it's not what i care, it's what the brass cares. so i say to you again, be careful, mike." "sammy was a great little guy." mike scowled. " i don't care how many parallels or levels i have to go through to get his killer. you know he played his number every morning for thirty-three years - and never won, not once. but he kept playing. what heart. you've got to love a guy like that." "he played the same number for thirty-three years and never won? how many digits was it?" "there you go - that's the kind of question some pointy-head numbers cruncher down at headquarters would ask. but guys like sammy and alexander the great and st george and danny the dragon - they don't ask about numbers or odds because they've got heart." pete laughed. "ok. but not to win in thirty-three years - that's impressive. what was the number, do you know?" "why, do you want to play it?" "go on, mike." pete waved his bottle. "if you get in trouble, i'll do what i can but it may not be much." mike picked up his own bottle and put it in his pocket. he went out the door of the projection room. he went past the elevators and down the stairs. when he had gone down two flights he stopped and went back up. he went up to the roof. the archangel gabriel was standing on the corner of the roof, looking down at the street. "what's the word on the street, mike?" "not much, gabe, what's the word in the skies?" "st stephen, that's the word." mike nodded. he looked down at the street. the rain had stopped but fog was swirling. tania kelly and larry lyndon were getting out of an unmarked car in front of headquarters.

the eleventh letter