Has Anyone Seen Kelly?

	I was standing still, I think, but I was so drunk that stumbled a bit. Since I wasn't moving, it must have looked like shudder.
	"I know," said Ed. "But that's it."
	He gestured to a small man. The man was about three feet tall. He was naked. A black metal collar was clamped around his neck. It was fastened with a dull bike lock the color of tarnished brass. From the collar, a heavy black chain ran to a thick eyelet built into the basement wall. The eyelet was between the white plastic utility sink and the drier.
	The small man didn't look at us. He was staring at some spot that, if you traced his line of sight, would have put you somewhere near the pinball machine in the far northwest corner of the basement; though a glassy sheen in the man's eyes told me that he wasn't looking at anything.
	Ed's basement was what a realtor might call semi-finished. It had irregular scraps of carpet laid here and there. There was a pinball machine, a nice stereo, a pool table, a poster with a tropical bird informing all interested that a certain stout beer was a strength tonic, and several wooden skeletal frames of walls that needed dry wall but, years after Ed had settled, were never going to be completed.
	"Don't get too close. He can't cross that," Ed pointed to a circle of some white powder with small flecks of black in it. Until Ed pointed it out, I hadn't noticed it. Ed looked at me and then did a little stumble of his own. He was drunk too.
	"Salt," he said, slurring the word.

	Ed Hulver used to work with me. We'd been thick as thieves back then. One day he announced he'd given two weeks notice. I asked him where he's jumping ship to. He answered: "Nowhere." He'd laughed and said, "I'm going to do absolutely fucking nothing."
	We'd meant to keep in touch and we even had drinks twice at this dive around the corner from the office. He'd shown up in a Beemer the first time. A limited edition Jag the second. When I asked him what he was doing he'd answer, "Absolutely fucking nothing."
	More than three years after he quit, more than a year since the ever shrinking flow of personal information had dried up and evaporated completely, I got an email from Ed. He wanted to go for drinks. We could knock back a pint at the old standby. I said sure.
	I half expected him to roll up in a solid gold Bentley. It was a red Hummer. He bought round after round, exchanged old jokes, and tipped the bartender generously.
	I looked down at my watch and got ready to make my excuses. I was so wrecked, I had to squint to focus on my watch's face.
	"Don't go yet," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I've got a favor to ask."
	"S'ok. But you do me a favor first."
	"What?"
	"What are you doing these days? Why are you so fucking rich?"
	He smiled. The hand on made shoulder made two quick patting gestures. "Our favors are connected. That's how good friends we are. See?"
	That's when Ed asked me to watch his leprechaun.

	"It'll only be for a couple of months. You can stay in house. Drink my liquor. And we'll pay."
	"I don't know," I said. "Ed, this is crazy. You've got some fucking midget chained up in your basement!"
	The small man scratched his hairy chest absently. He was bald with thick rug of red hair on the rest of his body.
	"He's not human. He's one of the wee folk."
	"He's fucking I don't know how many years in jail and now you've made me an accessory or accomplice or something. Let's let him go and I'll . . ."
	"Listen," said Ed. "This is what I've been doing. This is how I'm rich. He's it. He's the money tap."
	"Don't say this. Seriously, don't," I said. "You've got a pot of gold upstairs in the guest bedroom."
	"Not quite. He doesn't have a pot of gold so much as he leads me to gold. When I ask him, he has to say where some is hid. Though it is always a riddle and once or twice he's tried to lead me into a trap. He's quiet now, but he's a mean fucker." Ed turned to the silent, naked man. "Isn't that right you bitter little shit? Fine. Don't answer. It was rhetorical anyway." Ed turned back to me. "He's been angry since I caught him."
	"Where did you kidnap this man from?"
	"Caught. The verb is caught. He was digging up a patch of the Wilbershire 7th."
	"You caught him on a country club golf course?"
	"Sure. This guy's local. Speaks English. I think these guys show up wherever there's micks around. They're a manifestation of the luck of Irish."
	"You're not Irish."
	"But my wife is. I married into it." Ed said. Suddenly he broke eye contact and looked back at his prisoner. I caught the little man's head snap back to its original position. He'd been watching us. "What the fuck are you looking at?" Ed shouted.

	He told me that the leprechaun ate mostly meat. They gave him uncooked hotdogs, mainly, but he didn't seem particular so long as it was meat.
	He ate once a day.
	He didn't need to be taken out. They'd originally left a kitty liter box down there for him, but as far as they could tell, he never pissed or shat.
	The iron chain kept him docile. They weren't sure whether contact with iron actually hurt him or simply bound him. It wasn't clear. But whatever, he couldn't fuck with it so I shouldn't fuck with it.
	And keep an eye on the salt ring.
	He didn't seem talkative of late, but that was a good thing. "When he talks, it's always in half truths. He's always trying to gain some edge on you, freak you out. Best to just not talk to him," Ed said.

	The first night I spent in the house, I found a yellow Post-it note on the fridge: 
	"Si – 
	      Don't talk to him!
			      EH"

	The first week went by fine. Once I walked down there to find him standing up instead of sitting in his normal position. The shock nearly made me drop the open can of Vienna sausages I was going to toss him. Other than that one surprise, it was actually a bit dull. I'd taken to talking to him absently, like one would a pet. He never talked back and I was certain the proscription referred to conversation, not me talking to myself in his presence, which is what it really was.
	He never ate in front of me. He never spoke. Though I could sometimes hear his chain drag around at night – a disconcerting sound – I never saw him move. I just threw him his food, checked the salt circle, reapplying liberally as needed, and left him in the basement.

	The trouble started on Tuesday of week two. Around one in the morning, he started to sing.

	"She walked the town from Herald Square to 42nd Street,
	The traffic stalled as she cried to the copper on the beat.
	Has anyone seen Kelly? K E double L Y.
	Have you seen him smile?"
	
   
	It was a horrible voice. Like a thousand year old drunkard, a voice filled with the shit luck of a million busted promises, decades of starvation, lifetimes of hate and resignation.

	I ran to the basement. As a flung open the door, he stopped. I stamped down the stairs. He was seated, quietly, that nowhere stare.
	"Don't do that, okay? You singing voice is shit."

	I waked back up stairs. A half hour later, I'd calmed again to the point that I was drifting back to sleep. Then, him again:

	"Has anyone seen Kelly? K E double L Y.
	Have you seen him smile?
	Sure his hair is red. His eyes are blue.
	And he's Irish through and through."

	I shot out of bed. Again, he fell silent as I reached the basement door. I came down the steps, grabbed a pool cue, and made as if to strike the tiny man. He didn't look at me. I held the cue above my head.
	"Shut the fuck up!"
	"What are going to do," he said.
	I felt the strength drain from my arms.
	"You can kill the money tap?" He still didn't look at me.
	"Just shut up, okay? I need to sleep."
	He didn't answer. I put the cue back down on the table. As I walked up the stairs, I could feel his gaze bore into the back of my head.
	That horrible voice, all guilt and hate and heartbreak and greed: "I don't sleep much myself. You could say I don't sleep at all."

	Every night, starting at one:

	"She climbed upon the bandstand
	In hopes she might be seen.
	Five hundred Kellys left the ranks
	To answer to her pleain'.
	Has anyone seen Kelly? K E double L Y."

	Every damn night. Sometimes I shouted back. Sometimes I ran down stairs. Once I tried to gag him, but he rushed me the second I crossed the salt circle. The little bastard tried to bite my fingers off.

	Come Friday, I'd had enough. With the little shit wailing downstairs, I got dressed and left the house. I started my car and started off to the city. I didn't care where.
	I reached the city in about forty-five minutes. I had no destination, so I cruised the Bottom and LoDo. I blasted the radio, as if the volume of the cycle of 70s stadium roc could wash out the scratching, gnawing voice of the little man from my head.
	Circling the still-busy streets, looking for a friendly looking bar, it occurred to me: That clever bastard was trying to run me out of the house.
	I made an illegal U-ie on the Westside, nearly running down a group of staggering college kids, and sped back to Ed's house.

	I opened the door to Ed's house and stood in the darkened entryway. I didn't hear him singing. The place was dead quiet. The lights were out. I walked slowly downstairs. I turned on the lights.
	He was there, sitting quietly, in his circle of salt. The chain was still around his neck. He said nothing. He didn't turn to look at me.

	Relieved, I walked upstairs. I went to kitchen to get some ice for a drink. In the middle of the kitchen floor was an empty sardine tin.

	"Look at me," I said. "We're talking. Now."
	I saw a fresh cut on his right hand. The blood was the color and thickness of tree sap. 
	I held one of Ed's golf clubs in my right hand. A 9 iron. In my left hand, a mesh shopping bag. Ed's and his wife didn't like to waste trees. Very conscientious.
	"You can get out."
	He said nothing.
	"What do I have to do so you'll wait until I leave? 'Cause you're going to kill whoever's here, aren't you?"
	Nothing.
	"I could kill you first."
	Nothing.
	I put down the shopping bag. I took out some salt. I carefully poured the container out in a circle. I made several orbits, just pouring out salt. After I was done, I poured picked up the shopping bag and overturned its contents, several tins of tuna fish, deviled ham, spam, into his circular prison.
	"I'm done," I said. "What happens between you and Ed is between you and Ed. But I'll be keeping this club with me, until I leave."

	I drove away. I never heard from Ed again. We were thick as thieves once. But that was years ago.