This song broke us big time in the States and all I could think was how disappointing it was that it wasn’t a hit in the UK. (Joe)

Chapter 2:

Photograph

I’m outta luck, outta love
Got a photograph, picture of, uh
Passion killer, you’re too much
You’re the only one I wanna touch

Doug Penhall sighed again and glanced down at the photograph of Marta, his recently-deceased wife, that he held in his hands. The trip down to El Salvador hadn’t been entirely worthless though: He’d been able to bring his nephew, Clavo, back with him Stateside. While he loved spending time with Clavo, it didn’t really change the fact his wife was dead and he missed her fiercely. Never to be able to see her, talk with her, touch her again . . . He’d never felt that with Dorothy—but then again, they’d had an on-and-off relationship since they were fourteen. Or was it twelve? Ah well. That part of his life was over, never to be revisited.

“¿Tio?”

Doug looked up from the picture in his hands to see Clavo standing in front of him. Forcing a smile, he asked, “What is it, Clavo?”

“Tengo hambre.”

“Oh, you’re hungry. So, what would you like to eat?”

“Quiero comer la hamburguesa.”

“A hamburger?”

Clavo nodded. “Si.”

Doug heaved himself to his feet. “Okay, McDonald’s it is. C’mon, buddy.”

His nephew beamed and followed him to the door.

…

Meanwhile, for the first time in a couple years, Tom Hanson was flipping through his old high school yearbook. He hadn’t thought about his old flame in years until a recent case at a ’80s nightclub had brought them face-to-face. After the case was closed, he’d begun to have second thoughts about working as a cop undercover. His old flame was part of the reason he’d become a police officer in the first place.

Finally he found the picture he wanted: one that showed the two of them together, young, happy . . . and she’d signed it with that much-hated nickname, Tommy.

Yeah, they’d gone their separate ways after he’d arrested her husband, but right then he wanted to feel her touch, to touch her. Groaning softly, he thought, Passion killer, you’re too much.

I see your face every time I dream
On every page, every magazine
So wild, so free, so far from me
You’re all I want, my fantasy