F-F-F # 35 - The Golden Egg

Thanks to Cormac Brown for hosting Friday Flash Fiction.

* * *

“I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position.”

And it did. I wasn't just bullshitting him. This deal was of the damned if I did, damned if I didn’t variety.

“Delicate position? You kidding me?” Jumberson laughed. “The only delicate position you ever get into is when you let Ms. Ken Landry get on top.”

“You don’t get it,” I told him.

He nodded. “Oh, I get it. You and Longman were tighter than a fourteen-year old. Sweet. Save the waterworks. Should have thought about that before you gave another man’s wife a back rub. Pissed him off right, did you.”

I tipped back the whiskey bottle, let the nectar torch my throat. “So, what is it you suggest I do?” I asked before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Jumberson grinned. “Quite simple, I must admit. Get it done. Or else.”

I frowned. “Or else what?”

He stood, shrugged as he put the chair back. “Or else.”

Jumberson turned and made for the open front door. I looked up at the clock. Five minutes, he'd been in. Such a short time, yet enough to get his point across.

I lifted the bottle again, stopped when Jumberson's head popped back in.

“One more thing,” he said. “Be fast. Gotta be done before sunset.”

Looked like my evening was shot.

*

Patty Longman's ranch sat in the foothills on the western edge of town. The road leading to it was dusty and sineous, one you wouldn't care to navigate while guided only by the faint light of a half-moon.

Lucky for me, it was still light enough to keep my trusty old Ford pickup on the road. It wasn’t fast, but I got there.

All seemed quiet on the ranch and beyond. No sign of Patty. Or of anyone else, for that matter.

I killed the engine, grabbed a shotgun from behind the seats, and walked gingerly toward the ranch.

There was nowhere for me to hide, so I had to rely on my lucky star. And my quickness. I'd always been quick, no problem there. Tonight, I needed to be Kenyan-quick.

I made it behind the main building without being seen. There, I found what it was I was looking for.

On instinct, I raised my shotgun and curled my finger around the trigger. Took me longer than it should to realize how stupid that was.

I approached the target, grabbed it, and dashed madly to the Ford.

There, I dumped my loot into the bed, slammed the door shut, and climbed in.

I drove toward town for a few miles before pulling to the side of the road. I took  my cell phone out and dialed. While I waited for Jumbo to pick up, I glanced at the rearview. Nothing but setting darkness. It appeared I had made a clean break.

“Talk.”

Jumberson's ever-so-kind greeting.

“It's done.”

“Good work. Bring it out by the house. Park the truck in the back, then leave. You can come back tomorrow to pick it up.”

“I'm supposed to walk home?”

Jumberson chuckled. “You can slap the missus and ride the wave home.”

Again with the knock on my spouse.

And I had nothing to drink.

*

When I got to Jumbo's house, I did as I was instructed and waited.

A short time later, a car pulled into the drive behind me and three big men piled out of it. They strutted over to my truck, peered into the bed, and exchanged satisfied grunts.

Jumbo crawled out from wherever he’d been hiding. I joined the party.

The bigger of the men, bald guy with a heavy gait, looked over at me. “Any trouble?”

I shook my head, spit on the ground. “Quietest goat I've ever stolen.”

The man nodded, turned to Jumbo. “He's a good man. Must be why you didn't want him killed.”

Jumbo smiled, shrugged. “I just don't want his missus to get depressed over losing him and start eating her emotions. There's already too many children going hungry, know what I mean?”

Jumbo got a good laugh out of that one. The big man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted off a bunch of bills, too fast for me to keep up, and handed them over to Jumbo.

“Now, I believe this is mine,” said the big man, and he and his buddies grabbed the goat and pulled it out of the truck bed.

While the two henchmen pinned the goat on the ground, the big man locked his hands around the animal's throat and broke its neck. There was a slight yelp, and I turned away.

I finally dared to turn back, but what I saw made me regret it. The goat was on its back, feet pointing up, and the big man was cutting it open, slitting the fur from the neck down. Blood gushed everywhere, and the big man reached into the cavity. His hand travelled inside, searching as he grimaced and grunted. I looked away again, feeling my guts churning.

“Son of a bitch!” he hurled when he withdrew his hand. “Finally!”

“That's it?” one of the henchmen asked, sounding excited.

“That's it.”

Intrigued, I took a tentative look.

The big man held a bloody bag in his hands. It looked so big, I couldn’t begin to imagine how that poor goat must have suffered from having that inside him.

The henchmen congratulated each other, slapping hands like they had just won a Little League game.

The big man turned to Jumbo, nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Jumbo nodded back and the three men piled back into their car, drove off.

“Crazy fuckers.” Jumbo looked down at the goat's corpse, shaking his head.

I had questions. Thousands. “What was in that bag?” was the first one out.

Jumbo looked over at me, shook his head. “You should know better than to ask, Landry.”

“So you don't know?”

Jumbo smirked. “Could be the Colonel’s friggin’ secret recipe, for all I know. Or the love doodles George W. Bush made for Condoleeza Rice. Fuck do you care? You got paid, and your little indiscretion is all but forgotten.”

I scoffed. “Until the next time.”

“Keep your hands to yourself and your pecker in your pants, you'll be fine. Save it for Grimace. Put a smile on her pretty little mug.”

Jumbo looked down at the goat, nudged it with his foot.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to get this back to its rightful owner?”

I shook my head. “Leave it there. Bear’ll come and eat it.”

“Didn’t you say her name was Janet?”

The end

           

                         

            

F-F-F # 32 - Eyes On The Prize

Well, it's been a while since I've contributed to this series. Since March, actually. Yep, I missed it.

Without further ado, here it is.

And, as usual, thanks to Cormac Brown for hosting Friday Flash Fiction.

* * *

Eyes On The Prize

                So much for plan B.

                First, it was Thompson taking a swan dive from the roof porch of a downtown high-rise, splattering his brains all over a Drummond Street storefront.

                Now, on page six of the paper, came the news that the body of a man in his thirties, yet to be identified, had washed up in the St-Lawrence, between the Jacques-Cartier and Champlain bridges.

                Buck Narson would bet his father's stamp collection that it was Jenkins who had been feasted on by whatever creatures swam in that sludge. Narson hadn't heard from the man in more than a week, highly unusual, especially this close to pulling off a job.

                Just his luck. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and the men who would help him pull it off were dropping like flies.

                He'd just have to go it alone.

                *

                Getting tools and a gun was easy. Narson called in a favor from an old connection, who got him what he needed. Cheap, and fast.

                Next up: blueprints. That took a few more phone calls, and cost a few more bills, than Buck cared for. But he had them, and that was all that mattered.

                Things were definitely looking up. But Narson wished he didn't have to do this alone. He did cast a few lines, but nothing bit.

                *

                That weekend, Narson spent Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon casing the museum, learning the lay of the place and getting acquainted with the piece.

The rest of the time, he walked around, getting a feel for the neighborhood. Even for a native, it never hurt to reconnoiter an area before a job.

                He repeated that the rest of the week, varying his hours and costumes so as not to be too conspicuous. His plan began to take shape.

All he needed now was to find the perfect time to pull it off.

                *

                That came a few weeks later. The heads of some African nations were coming to Montreal to attend an economic summit in a ritzy hotel downtown. These guys were the talk of the town, which made Narson feel dumb for never having heard of them.

                Point was, this summit was going to keep the cops busy. That's all Narson was asking for.

                *

                It was a sunny, muggy morning that was only going to get warmer.

                The museum was quiet, until a tour bus pulled up. About forty elderly tourists rushed the doors and assembled around their insouciant tour guide. When their tour started, a chubby man with salt and pepper hair and bottle-thick spectacles joined them.

                Buck Narson followed along, listening half-heartedly to the guide's explanations. When they came into the room he was interested in, Narson hung back, his eyes on the prize.

                His heartbeat quickened and he felt himself get hot under the collar. The wig didn't help, and he was afraid some sweat would run down his cheeks.

                Narson took a few deep breaths and waited for the group to move on to the next room.

                Now, he was alone with it. But he could hardly detach it from its pedestal and run out the front door.

                Right now, all he wanted to do was disable the alarm. Once he was sure nobody would come looking for him, he got down to business.

                The alarm was exactly what he expected it to be, and the work was done in no time flat, as it needed to be.

                He pocketed his tools and quickly walked off to catch up to the group.

                *

                The tour couldn't end fast enough for Narson. Of course, Babbling Betty here, she had questions, questions, and then some. Buck silently cursed her, looking over his shoulder, half expecting to be grabbed by Security and dragged off to a windowless room to be bludgeoned to death.

                Didn't happen.

                He was home within an hour. He showered, prepared his costume for the afternoon run, and lay down for a nap.

                *

                Narson woke just before five p.m., which left him a few hours to kill before the museum closed.

                He watched the local news while dressing. A big grin lit up his face as he watched live footage of the front of the downtown hotel where the summit was being held. Protesters filled the street, some of them waving flags while others threw various projectiles toward the hotel and the cops in riot gear who protected the building.

                This should keep them busy for a while, Narson thought. One less thing to worry about. By the time the museum people realized what had happened to their prized possession, and the cops reacted, Narson would be long gone.

                *

                It hadn't moved.

                The room was too crowded to act on it, so Narson circled, admiring other works, until the room cleared.

                He squatted near the pedestal and looked under it at the alarm. No change there.

                A female voice came over the p.a. system. Mesdames et Messieurs, le musée est maintenant fermé.

                Time to move.

                Narson pulled on his gloves, and delicately lifted the piece from its stand. He kneeled slowly and set it down into the case he had placed in his duffel bag. He zipped up the bag and stood, looking left and right.

                Coast clear.

                He made a beeline for the front door, bumping a couple of Asians on his way out. He'd probably never been happier to see the sun in his life.

                Narson walked a couple of blocks to catch a bus heading west. In his seat, he resisted the urge to peek into the bag. Instead, he held on to it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

                The bus dropped him off on the western edge of downtown, where he had parked his car the previous night. He opened the door and gently dropped the bag on the passenger seat.

                Narson pointed the car westward. While he drove, he scanned the airwaves, looking for a news report. Each one he caught was all about the summit. Nothing regarding a theft in a museum. Narson smiled, exhaled deeply and switched to a Miles Davis CD.

                *

                A lifetime ago, Buck Narson had rented a self-storage unit in the industrial sector of a small suburb off the island. He'd never missed a payment, even when he'd been forced to go away. The unit mostly served as a holding cell for material that needed to cool off before he could put it out on the market.

                And this one was definitely hot.

                *

                Narson let himself in using his access card. Not much had changed since he'd last been in. Walls had been painted, extra cameras added, but that was pretty much the jist of it.

                Narson made his way through the maze and stopped in front of unit # B-117. He slipped the key into the lock and turned the handle.

                He heard them before he saw them.

                Oddly enough, Narson wasn't surprised. In truth, he should have seen it coming.

                Narson reached for the light switch, but he already knew what he'd see.

                Jenkins.

                Thompson.

                Guns. Pointed right at him.

                Fuckers.

               

                

Jason Duke's Red Hot Writing Contest

My entry into the Red Hot Writing Contest put together by ace writer Jason Duke. Details and other entries are here.

Enjoy!

OFFICERS DOWN

Riding shotgun in the blue and white, Ken Best, a barrel-chested 26 year-old patrolman, smiled as the car rounded the corner and the driver goosed it down Beach Avenue.
“She working?” Best asked.
“Don't know,” Lance Grimwood answered. “If she ain't? Plan B. Need my fix.”
They laughed.
Grimwood eased his foot off the gas as they came up on the corner of River.
Best looked out at the girls strutting, the cold breeze blowing on their scantily-clad bodies to no effect.
“Vice boys were here last week,” Grimwood explained. “A few girls are still in the joint, waiting for their pimps to bail them. As if.”
Best laughed as the girls nodded to him, some with defiance, others with plain old fear.
“Explains why it's deader than a nun's cunt. Where is she?”
Grimwood scanned the street, shook his head. “Damnit.”
“Wanna try 7th?”
“Negative. She don't go with Worm.”
Best pouted. He'd been looking forward to spending some time with her, but it wouldn’t happen. Time for something new.
They came up on a pair of girls dressed in flashy micro-skirts, a blonde, wide hips, wider derriere, and a raven-haired, skinny girl with store-bought fun bags.
“Stop,” Best said.
Grimwood pulled to the curb, and Best lowered his window. The blonde he’d seen here before. Her friend seemed new, so he turned to her and smiled. She spat on the ground. “No freebies.”
Best shrugged. “That's alright, Darling. We just like to party. Ask her, she knows us.”
The blonde smirked. “Go, V. They won't leave you alone if not,” she sneered, her eyes gunning down Best.
“Fuck,” V said.
Best winked at the blonde, who gave him the finger as her friend climbed in the backseat.

“Where we going?” V asked.
Grimwood looked at her in the rearview. “Nice place, where nobody’ll bother us. It’s our spot.”
Best nodded, then fetched a brown paper bag from under his seat. Out came a pint of bourbon. Best twisted the cap and brought it to his lips. He took a long swallow, then handed it to Grimwood.
Grimwood took his eyes off the road and drank. “Thirsty?” he asked V.
She sighed. “Let's get this done.”
Grimwood frowned. “Drop the attitude.”
“I fucking hate wasting time with a couple of drunks.”
Grimwood looked at his partner, and pouted playfully. “I think Missy needs to cheer up. Do we have something to get her in the mood?”
“Yep.” Best reached into the bag again, his hand coming out with a plastic baggie this time. He pulled out a couple of tightly rolled joints. Grimwood told him to wait as he pulled car into a dark alley running between two abandoned buildings. It opened up into a deserted parking lot.
“Alright,” Grimwood said as he cut the engine. “Light’em up!”
Best struck a match, put the flame to the tip of one joint. He handed it to his partner. Best lit the other, turned to pass it to her.
“This better be good,” V said as she locked her lips around it and took a deep pull.
“Not as good as what you're gonna get,” Grimwood said, laughing. He opened the door and slid out of the car.
Next thing she knew, both men were opening the back doors, and the one who'd been driving was pulling her out and tearing at her clothes.

The grass was very potent. Or the booze was. So V blacked out. She wasn't sure how long she was out, but when she came to, the driver was slapping her and prying her mouth open so she’d take him in.
He was sitting in the back, legs hanging out. V was bent over him, her naked ass in the air as the other cop stood behind her. They passed a new bottle back and forth, laughing their heads off, calling her names, their screams echoing off the building walls.
Suddenly, a shadow passed over the car.
Seconds later, a deafening explosion tore through the silence, followed by three more bursts.
The shadow vanished.

Detective Al Timlin bent under the tape and greeted Sergeant Luis Clemente, a burly latino who'd been on the job forever.
“They yours, Luis?” Timlin asked as they shook hands.
Clemente nodded, pursed his lips. “Best and Grimwood. I had my doubts about Grim, but Best? I would never have thought...”
The men walked towards the cruiser, which was lit by a portable floodlight and surrounded by CSU techs.
“Where's the girl?”
“Memorial Hospital. In shock.” Clemente coughed. “Needed a shower, too.”
Some scene. The cruiser's doors were open. On the driver's side, Ken Best's body lay on the ground. Timlin knew him from past cases. He’d been hit in the head and chest. The back seat, covered in blood and brains, hosted another officer whose flaccid penis hung out of his boxers.
Timlin sighed. “You notify the families yet?”
Clemente shook his head. “Grimwood's divorced. No kids, ex lives out west. I'll let her sleep, call later. Best has a wife and twins. Madre de Dios, Al, they're barely out of diapers.”
Timlin clasped the man's shoulder. “Lieutenant Cooper is on his way. The Chief of D's too, for all the good he’ll be. I'll let the techs work before the shit hits the fan. I'll be at Memorial. Keep me posted. Sorry about your guys.”
“Yeah.”

Head down, Timlin zipped through the hospital lobby, and climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. He inspected his loafers all the way to room 609, where an Asian patrolman, Vuong, stopped him.
Timlin flashed his badge.
“She’s sleeping,” Vuong explained. “Nurse checks in on her every so often.”
Timlin nodded. “Anyone come by?”
“Nope.”
“Alright. Excuse me.”
Vuong took his seat and Timlin let himself in the room.
Timlin shuffled to the bed, and took a closer look at the sleeping woman. Her black hair was matted to her scalp, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her lips moved, but made no sound.
The room door opened. A nurse grabbed a clipboard at the end of the bed. She glanced at Timlin, her brow furrowed. He showed her his badge, and she nodded. She looked up at the bedside monitor, jotted something down, and put the clipboard back.
She gestured for Timlin to follow her, and they stepped into the hall. “If and when she comes to, you can talk to her. She was quite shaken. I don’t know how much help she’ll be.”
Timlin nodded. The nurse left, and Timlin went back in.
He located the remote for the overhead set, pulled up a chair, and settled in.

“What- where- what am I doing here?”
Timlin shut the television and stood. “Memorial Hospital. Room 609.”
She looked up at him through slitted eyes, frowned. “What happened?”
“Why don't you start by telling me your name? Your real name.”
“Melanie Little.”
Timlin noted it, then described what he assumed had happened.
“Shit.”
Timlin nodded.
“Do you remember anything?”
She inhaled deeply, then rubbed her eyes with slender hands. “Those cops came around, right. My friend Carmen, right, she told me to be cool, she knew them, said they were looking for Kanesha. But Kanesha hasn’t been around all week, so they told me to get in the car, right. They had booze and weed. We went-”
Timlin held up a hand to stop her. “Back up a bit. This other girl? The one they were looking for?”
“Kanesha?”
“Yes. What's her full name? Do you know her?”
Melanie shrugged. “Not to talk to. She’s a bitch, right. Always fights. She wrong up here,” Melanie tapped her temple.
“So, they took you to the parking lot?”
“They said it was their place. We drank and smoked, right, then we--”
She stopped, and her mind seemed to wander. Timlin thought he’d lost her.
“Is that when it happened?” Trying to get her started again.
She turned toward him, fear written across her face.
“Don’t worry, Melanie. You’re safe with us.”
She nodded. “I was going down on the bigger one, right, so my face was in his lap. I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye, and then there was blood all over the place. Shit, brains were in my hair.”
Melanie closed her eyes and let her head fall on the flimsy pillow. “I’m tired, right.”
Timlin closed his notepad. He thought of putting a hand on her arm, but refrained. “Thanks. I'll be in touch.”
She was asleep before he left the room.

Over in the Vice squad room, Ed Spencer scanned the overnight event log while the coffee percolated. The murders were not logged, but it was all the rage this morning.
Al Timlin was waiting for Spencer when he got back to his desk.
“No rest for the wicked,” said Spencer. “You catch it?”
“Who else?” Timlin grabbed a chair from another desk, fell into it. “The patrol boys picked up a pro off the corner of Beach and River. You guys hit that block last week, correct?”
“We did,” Spencer answered as he shuffled papers. “Mayor’s orders. Some Trump-wannabe wants to buy the waterfront, build condos. We drop in, slap the cuffs on a few johns, run some girls in. Hizzonner wants it clean.”
Timlin nodded curtly. “Wanted to run a couple of names by you. Melanie Little. And I’ve only got a first name on another. Kanesha.”
Spencer rolled his chair to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a thick manila file. He skimmed the first few pages before stopping.
He handed Timlin an arrest report.
“Kanesha Lamont's been around,” Spencer explained as Timlin read. “First arrest was in '04.”
Timlin looked up. “Born in 1987?”
“Started young,” Spencer chuckled. “Still looks young. Never a shortage of johns hunting for just that.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Last-known is on there. Ain't been verified, mind you, but give it a shot.”
Timlin jotted down the address. “Anything else I should know about the area?”
Spencer smiled. “Wear a hat.”

Cooper grabbed Timlin as he returned to the squad room.
“Missing Persons called,” Cooper said. “Little's a runaway.”
“Runaway?”
Cooper extended a printout to Timlin. “Left Colorado six weeks ago. Folks waited to report it. Seems she's done it before. Now, get this: she’s 15.”
“Lovely. Spencer knows Lamont, who our guys wanted. She’s a veteran, started out young and still looks the part. Got her last-known.”
Cooper grinned. “Should be an interesting meet.”
“Why we sign up, Coop.”

It took five minutes of negociating for Kanesha Lamont to open.
She did look young, but worn: wrangled hair, chewed-out nails, and hollow eyes. She wore a faded gray hoodie that was baggy on her lanky frame. That and torn jeans left most of her body covered.
“This about Marvin? Because I ain’t seen him.”
“Who’s Marvin?”
Lamont exhaled loudly, tumbled into an old, torn black leather chair. “Better ya 'on't know. What now, off'cer?”
“Detective.” Lamont curled up, knees to forehead. She hugged herself. “Word is you like to party with some of our boys. That true?”
Lamont started rocking.
“Kanesha. Kanesha.” She kept rocking. “Ken Best. Lance Grimwood. They your customers?”
Her head popped out. “Customers pay.” She kept rocking.
“They didn't pay?”
“Nah. Sometimes, they'd share some junk. Jus' weed. Basta'ds be too cheap fo' good shit.”
“You see them often?”
She shrugged. “Coupla times.”
“When was the last time you were with them?”
“Dunno. Before jail.”
Timlin nodded. “Why haven’t you been on this week?”
“Flu or sumpin'. Prob'bly caught it in your shithole.”
Timlin scratched his chin.
“Stay available,” he told her as he let himself out.

As he pulled up to the station, Timlin noticed the satelitte trucks lined up, their antennas deployed, ready for their midday live feed. As if they had a built-in honing mechanism, a dozen reporters surrounded his car as he parked.
Timlin gently but firmly opened the door, forcing a couple of reporters to dive out of the way, and let himself out of the vehicle. Questions flew in all directions, but he ignored them and climbed the stairs to the front door.
On the way up, Timlin stopped for an egg sandwich from a vending machine.
He’d barely taken a bite before Cooper was at his desk, worry on his face.
“Give me something good for my meeting at the Hall.”
“Lamont says Grim and Best were regulars who didn’t pay, only shared dope. Afraid that's all I got for now.”
Cooper sighed heavily. “Let's see how fast the politicos tear me a new asshole.”
Timlin wolfed down his sandwich, then grabbed the phone.
Clemente picked up on the second ring.
“Luis. Timlin. How're you doing?”
Clemente sighed. “Been better. Guys are going nuts. You hear the shit Media is putting out? I'm thinking of cuffing the guys to their desks so they don't go and turn the city upside down.”
Timlin had caught the news on the radio earlier. Media Relations, probably under orders from the Chief, who got his from City Hall, had made no effort to hide the fact that Best and Grimwood were rogue officers who disrespected the badge.
“Have you had a chance to talk to them?” Timlin asked. “Previous partners, maybe?”
“Erik Larsen is the only one still around,” Clemente said. “Larsen partnered with Grimwood when he broke in.”
“And?”
“He knows nothing about Grimwood and hookers. Worst he’s seen was a hand-out from Crown Liquors once or twice.”
“You still see Grimwood as the leader? And Best going along?”
“Yeah. Grimwood, he got hurt a few years back. Got hooked on painkillers while he was off.”
“You get anything from their families?”
“Grimwood ain’t got anybody who’d know anything. And Best, well, his wife and parents never heard him mention any enemies or trouble. Kept to himself. With regards to the job, that is.”
“Thanks, Luis. Good luck with your guys.”
“Okay.”

After getting coffee, Timlin passed in front of Cooper's office and caught the lieutenant snapping his fingers at him as he talked on the phone.
“Someone's asking for you,” Cooper said, cradling the phone. “Downstairs.”
“What about?”
“Your case.”
Timlin put his coffee down and ran to the stairs.

“Ray, you got something for me?”
The sergeant hooked a meaty finger towards a thin man with disheveled hair sitting calmly across from his desk.
Timlin approached the man. “Sir? Al Timlin, Homicide. Can I help you?”
The man looked up at him with dead eyes. He smiled, showing awful dentition. The man whispered something which Timlin didn't hear.
“Come closer,” the man said, slightly louder.
Timlin bent forward and grimaced as he breathed in the man's nasty breath.
“Them two cops?”
“Right,” Timlin said, breathing through his mouth.
“I... killed... them...”

Timlin moved quickly.
If this was legit, Timlin wanted to keep him talking. If it turned out he was getting jerked around, better get it over with and get back to work.
“You want me to sit in?” Cooper asked.
Timlin shook his head. “Watch. Make sure the tapes roll.”
Cooper nodded and the men split up.
“Mister... Radomski, was it?” Timlin said to the man, who sat ramrod-straight in his chair, his dead eyes staring straight ahead.
“Call me Kurt. We'll be linked forever, Al. Might as well be on a first-name basis.”
“I have to read you your rights, Kurt.”
“Cut the crap. I don't care about that shit. I confess. I killed them cops.”
“Alright.”
Radomski's hand went into his jacket and Timlin froze.
Timlin realized that Radomski wasn't cuffed to the table. Had he been frisked?
Radomski's hand came up.
Gun.
Timlin jumped up and pulled his own gun, pointed it at Radomski's chest.
“Freeze!”
Radomski smiled, and slowly dropped the gun on the table, withdrawing his hand.
“A Glock, Al,” explained Radomski with a satisfied grin on his face. “The white coats'll tell you it's the murder weapon. My fingerprints are on it. I bought it, legally. Paper trail. Everything's been done for you, Al.”
Timlin pointed his own gun to the floor, and took the Glock off the table.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking. Guy walks in and hands you everything on a silver platter. It’s your lucky day. I did it, I shot them two cops.”
“Why?”
Radomski shrugged, smiled.
“I felt like it.”

Melanie Little had been moved to the detention ward. A couple of dicks from Denver were flying in on a red-eye to take her home.
She was nibbling at a plate of scrambled eggs when Timlin entered. She looked at him, sighed, and turned to the window.
“Melanie, I'd like you to look at this,” Timlin explained. “Have you seen this man before?”
Timlin held up Radomski's mug shot. She ignored him.
“Melanie, please.”
“You ever gonna leave me alone?”
She tore the picture from him and frowned.
“Who the fuck is this?”
Timlin took the picture. “You've never seen this man?” She shook her head. “He confessed to the murders.”
“That's nice.”
Timlin realized this was going nowhere. Time to cut his losses.
“Enjoy Colorado.”
“Fuck you!” she yelled at his back.
The flying plate hit the wall to Timlin's right, some egg landing on his shoulder.
He brushed it off without breaking stride.

Kanesha Lamont looked like hell. Timlin guessed it wasn't the flu.
“Kanesha, this'll take a minute. Then I'll leave you alone, unless you want my help.”
Lamont scoffed. “Big bad five-oh saving the po' ho. Fuck. What ya want?”
Timlin shook his head, took out the picture. He flipped it to show her.
“Oh! My God!”
Lamont put a hand over her mouth, fell back against a wall.
“Wh- where- what- where did you get that?”
Tears flowed.
Timlin approached her, hoping she'd calm down. “This is Kurt Radomski. He confessed to the murders.”
Lamont nodded.
“You know him?” She nodded. “Where do you know him from?”
“He my father.”

THE END

Patti Abbott's Spring Flash Fiction Challenge: Sweet Dreams

It was early April and I was reading my usual blogs, when I came upon an interesting challenge. This was to be a 1,000 word story that began in a food/drink establishment where Sweet Dreams (Eurythmics) is playing when a red-headed woman wearing an electric blue dress walks through the door.

Sounds like fun, right? I thought so, and it was. My result follows.
If you like it, you've got Patti Abbottt to thank (check her out here).
If not, the blame falls solely on yours truly.

Read on, and do check out Patti's blog for links to other stories, and plenty of other good stuff.

SWEET DREAMS OF RED AND ELECTRIC BLUE

                I waited in a crowded café, as per her orders. Sweet Dreams was on the jukebox. This was all me, my homage to a scene where she screws her male co-star after she kills his wife. Some of them want to use you…

                An electric blue dress hugged her tightly. If I wasn't mistaken, she'd worn it to the premiere of Midnight Shadow Dance, the first film we worked on together. Her hair was red, most likely for a part.

                Our eyes met and she zipped to my table. “Are you any good at stalking?”

                She was a get-to-the-point kind of gal.

                I shrugged as she sat. “Never gave it much thought. Why?”

                Her smile was snow white and her eyes sparkled. “I want you to stalk me. Nothing creepy. Just send letters, emails. Break into my condo, raid my panty drawer, that kind of thing.”

                “Isn’t that illegal?”

                She tilted her head, gave me her Ain’t you cute? look. “I won’t press charges.” She stood. “Hold on.”

                She ordered a coffee while I sat, my mind racing. Yes, this was a golden opportunity, but it was not the way I had imagined it coming to me.

                She sat again, sipping from a steaming mug. “What do you think?”

                “Why do you want me to do this?”

                She scoffed. “Do you remember how much my last movie grossed?”

                “I don’t even remember its title.”

                “Exactly,” she exclaimed. “That needs to change. Fast. My publicist came up with this idea. It’s harmless, and it’ll have everyone talking about me. And my next movie will be a blockbuster. Besides, it’s a lot less trouble than getting arrested or going into rehab.”

                I nodded along. “So what’s in it for me?”

                “What else?” she smiled. “Money. You know that screenplay you’ve been shopping around for, like, forever? Distance? Dispences?”

                “Destinations.”

                “Right. Well, you do your thing, and I’ll get it made. Heck, I’ll have enough coin to make three films!”

                She reached out and took my hand in hers, gave me a reassuring smile.

                “Alright. I’ll do it.”

                * * *

                There is no Stalking for Dummies guide (I checked). So I pretty much winged it. And, I must admit, did a darn good job of it, too. For a newbie, you know.

                For six months, I flooded her inbox with admiring emails, saying how beautiful she was, how much I loved her, and all that. In my apartment, one wall was entirely covered with pictures of her (some of them my own). I even showed up at a couple of her public appearances, making a scene. The worst that happened was that I got thrown out of a screening for a new vampire film.

                One of the big gossip rags picked up the story from the beginning and ran exclusives until it got bigger and all the others joined in. We were the talk of the town. It helped that she went on the morning show on one of the major networks and cried a river, claiming she was terrified, she’d gotten a new security system (which she did, but conveniently left it unarmed so I could let myself in) and was considering hiring bodyguards.

                Now, don’t get me wrong: nobody was ever going to mistake her for Greta Garbo. But that particular morning, she made it work. She was so believable, Spielberg would've hired her on the spot.

She was the flavor of the moment. She had everyone’s attention. And she milked it for all its worth.

                “The movie is being released early,” she proudly told me when we held an ultra-secret meeting in an ultra-secret location. “Got a call from some editor who wants to publish my autobiography. He’s already got a writer lined up.”

                She stopped to catch her breath, looked up at me with stars in her eyes.

                “I couldn’t have done this without you,” she whispered, moving in with her open arms to embrace me.

                “No problem,” I blurted out. “It was fun.” I had a feeling I was grinning like a ten-year old who finds his father's Playboy.

                “Don’t think you’re off the hook, buster,” she laughed. “This is far from finished. Ever been to St-Barts?”

                * * *

                And that’s how I ended up in the French West Indies that week-end.

                It was sunny and excessively warm. There were a bunch of celebrities on the island. I tried not to be too star-struck. If any of them recognized me, they didn’t let it show. But from the way they were all fighting for her attention, I had the feeling they knew nothing about our arrangement. Fine with me.

                My week-end was to be devoted to R&R, soaking up some rays and nailing back cocktails.  I was instructed to give the stalking bit a break.

                I saw her on Sunday, sitting down for brunch. She didn’t look like she’d spent anytime under the sun. And the reason for that was obvious.

                Obvious in the way a 6-foot, olive-skinned, long-black-hair-slicked-back, linen suit wearing hunk can be.

                He was making her laugh. Touching her. Over and over and over again.

                I went back to my room to pack.

                * * *

                Turns out he was a 26-year old actor who’d left his native Morocco four years earlier with dreams of fame and fortune.  He’d gotten minor parts in a few miniseries, as well as some voice-over work in commercials and documentaries. He was not married and had no children.

                So said his obituary.

                Killing him had been simple, but oh so satisfying. That I was able to do it with such ease surprised me. My legs barely shook as I walked up behind him and slit his throat with a steady hand.

                She didn’t return my calls and ignored my emails. I never saw her in the crowd during my brief trial.

                She hasn’t come to visit me in jail yet, though it has been only four months. She’s still got a lot of time to drop in, so I’m keeping my hopes up.

                We've got a movie to make.

                The end

               

               

               

This calls for a drink!

Well, there's a little more than 24 hours left to April, and I've done it.

What began as a crazy idea has now morphed into a (possibly) potent screenplay which tonight stands at 101 pages.

The first think I learned during Script Frenzy is that there was no time to rewrite, no time to question scenes, action or dialogue. When you've got to pour out 100 pages in 30 days, the only thing to keep in mind is write, write, write. Then write some more.

At this moment, Act 3 is practically non-existent. I'll try to get that done ASAP. When it is, I'll let the whole thing rest for a couple of weeks (months) and get back to it later.

I'll try to post an excerpt soon.

Cheers, 

D.