The Woman On The Bed

Here's a story I wrote around Christmas that had nothing to do with Santa Claus, elves, or whether you were naughty or nice. It's called 'The Woman on the Bed,' and I hope you enjoy it.

###

I knew she shouldn't be tied up like that. It wasn't the proper thing to do with a young woman. She was barely in her twenties, and I a hard-nosed sixty. I might as well have been a shriveled eighty as far as she was concerned.

It was half past midnight on a hot Thursday evening. The city of York, Pennsylvania had advised everyone to conserve energy by turning off their air conditioning. I had none to speak of, and the constant sheen of sweat that built up on my skin did nothing to cool me off. That's actually what sweat's for, you know. It's your body's pathetic attempt to lower your temperature. A fat lot of good that did me, sitting on a plastic folding chair, in the middle of a grimy studio apartment on College Avenue.

I heard a siren go down the street, and it hit me like a lightning bolt to the heart. It also made the lady on the bare mattress jerk awake, like she'd been electrocuted by that bolt. She couldn't really sit up with her wrists and ankles bound to the bed frame via handcuffs, but she tried her damndest to.

"You're still here?" she said with a heavy rasp. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Where's the other one?"

"Joshua's getting Chinese takeout at the moment," I told her. Joshua was my brother, ten years younger than I was, and every bit as hard-nosed as I. Perhaps even more so, considering it was his idea to kidnap this woman and spread-eagle her across the bed in cuffs.

"You want to tell me why I'm here?"

I remained silent.

"Oh," she muttered, "there's that look again."

I raised my left eyebrow in her direction. I wasn't aware I had a "look."

"Ever since you brought me here, I've been studying you."

"Didn't know you cared," I quipped.

"I don't." She frowned. "That look I'm talking about? That's the look that says 'I don't know shit.'" She moistened her chapped lips. "So, even if you wanted to tell me why I'm here, you can't, because you never got the memo."

I went silent again. The woman chuckled slightly.

"Oh God," she said, "there it is again."

"You know, you talk pretty tough for a broad without any clothes on," I growled.

It had been Joshua's idea to strip her naked before cuffing her to the bed, and while I wasn't exactly jumping for joy over the idea, it hadn't been all bad. Her skin was a creamy white, and she possessed long legs and fantastic breasts. I hadn't seen a real naked woman in quite a long time, and I hadn't felt the sensation passing through my groin and to my abdomen for longer than that.

"Stop staring!" she shouted.

"Can't help it," I said with a smirk. "Nudity is a crowd pleaser."

"You're nothing but a greasy pig with a fat gut and a small dick!"

"Wow. Did you read that in a comic book, or did you come up with that yourself?"

She huffed and turned her face away. I let out a sigh and looked up at the ceiling fan, hanging precariously from a large hole by a thin array of wires. It was minus two of its four metal blades, and I was not looking forward to fixing that thing should Joshua and I plan on an extended stay.

Three knocks came at the door, followed by two knocks, and then three again. I rose from my chair and let Joshua in before closing it behind him. His hands were full of brown paper bags whose corners were soaked in some sort of grease.

Joshua dumped the bags onto our rickety Family Dollar card table and riffled through them.

"I got you the broccoli and chicken, the lo mein, and the General Tso's," he told me.

"Joshua, we need to have a talk," I told him.

"Can it wait until after we eat?"

"No," I said quietly. "I don't think so."

Joshua turned to me, a styrofoam container in his right hand and a plastic fork in his left.

"You got something you want to say to me, bro?" he said in a politely angry voice.

"Why is she here?" I pointed toward the naked woman on the bed.

"We'll get to that after we eat."

"I think we'd better get to it now, Joshua."

"And I think you'd better sit the hell down and eat your damn Chinese before it gets cold."

My brother dropped his container of food on the table and pulled up a scuffed wooden stool before he sat down to eat.

I was still standing there, looking at him, waiting for an apology that I knew would never come.

"Come on, bro," Joshua said without looking my direction. "Nobody likes cold Chinese."

I turned my chair around to face our Family Dollar special and dug in. Joshua presented me with a large iced tea in a white styrofoam cup, and I took gulps of it in-between scarfing down my Chinese grub. I had no idea how hungry I'd been, and it took me a long time to realize that I hadn't eaten since yesterday. There was something very, very wrong with that.

I was halfway through my meal when the young lady cleared her throat again.

"Can I have something to drink?" she asked, her voice raspy from lack of liquid refreshment.

I reached for my iced tea and went to insert the straw, but Joshua snatched the straw out of the cup and crunched it in his hand.

"You don't deserve a drink, bitch," he said.

"Joshua, come on," I said in a low whisper. "She hasn't had anything to eat or drink in two days."

"Oh, so suddenly you care about her well-being?" My brother gave me a disapproving look. "What's gotten into you?"

"Maybe if you told me why we're keeping her--"

"Hey!" the woman shouted from her handcuffed prison. "It's a studio apartment! I can totally hear you guys and I want some answers! Who the hell are you and why the fuck am I even here?!"

I jerked in her direction, my blood starting to boil from a mixture of her agitation and my own agitation toward my brother. Joshua wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood from the table, and put a hand on my right shoulder.

"You finish your dinner," he said. "I'll handle this."

My eyes were fixed on the naked woman's body as Joshua pulled his leather jacket off and dropped it to the floor. He followed by unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans. Before he went any further, he looked over his left shoulder at me with chilling eyes.

"Go on, bro," he said in his politely angry voice. "Eat up. When I'm done, it'll be your turn." He nodded slowly to me, like a father assuring a child who is learning to ride a bicycle, and straddled the woman on the mattress.

I turned back to my meal as Joshua had his way with her. Sounds of her struggle and his assault splintered through my ears as I shoveled the last of my dinner into my mouth. The worse the sound got, the faster I ate, and by the time Joshua was finished, so was I.

As I took a long drink of my iced tea, one thought ricocheted through the walls of my cranium.

I didn't even know her name.

How could I have kidnapped, stripped, cuffed, and guarded an innocent woman without knowing her name?

More importantly, would I EVER know her name?

#

Joshua threw his jacket on the back of my chair and dropped his stool at the foot of the bed. The mattress had fresh stains on it from where Joshua had conducted his business with the woman, and it was all I could do not to stand up and pound the hell out of him for what he'd done to her. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't her pal or her savior. I just didn't go for kidnapping and rape. It had never been my thing. Joshua, on the other hand...

My brother reached inside his coat pocket and removed a stubby .38 Special from its confines. It was black as the night sky, and as he opened the chamber, I could see it was fully loaded with six slugs. He gave the chamber a spin, snapped it closed with a flick of his wrist, and sat on his stool carefully, holding the .38 in his right hand with his thumb on the hammer.

The woman on the bed wore a face of humiliation and shame as Joshua aimed the .38 at the space between her thighs.

"Hey," I warned him, "what the hell are you doing?"

"You want to know why we abducted Pussy Galore here and tied her up in this shitty apartment?" Joshua motioned toward her with his free hand. "Here's your chance."

"What do you two want with me?" the woman asked in a shaky voice. Her fiery personality had been doused somewhat, courtesy of my brother.

"Do you know a guy by the name of Jim Lydecker?" Joshua asked her.

"Of course I do," she replied. "He's my grandfather."

"And Jim Lydecker knew a man nick-named Goliath, correct?"

"I've...heard my grandfather mention his name," she said warily. "Why?"

"Goliath was our father," Joshua explained, pointing at me. "His real name was George C. Hemmingsworth, but whenever he got in the ring, they called him Goliath."

"Explains a lot," she said. "The three of you must share the same inferiority complex."

Joshua cocked the hammer on the .38. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes widened in terror.

"Now, back to the story," Joshua said with polite anger. "Goliath was on his way to win the U.S. heavyweight title back in his day."

"Can you speed this up? I've got a doctor's appointment in the morning."

Joshua jammed the .38 against her snatch. She quaked with fear.

"You want to be cute?" he seethed. "Be cute one more time, and the first one's going up the pipe." He scowled at her. "Is that what you want?"

The woman shook her head rapidly. I could see tears building in her eyes. My blood boiled again. I couldn't take much more of this.

"Like I said," Joshua continued, "Goliath was set to win the championship. Then he was introduced to Jim Lydecker, a big fight promoter at the time." Joshua's eyes never wavered from the woman on the bed. "Lydecker told our father that if he threw the heavyweight match, he'd double the champ's prize money and hand it over to him once the match was over."

"You never told me any of this, Joshua," I said. "Why now?"

"Because it just so happens that I owe fifty large to a loan shark and I ain't got a dime to pay it with, okay?!" It was the first time I'd seen Joshua lose his cool in front of anyone, including me. His face contorted into a sneer, and his eyes grew wild like a tiger's. I'd never seen him like this before, and I had to admit, I was terrified.

"What's fifty grand got to do with her?!" I demanded, rising to my feet. Another siren went past, and when the lighting bolt pulsed through my brain this time, all of the facts fell into place.

"There's that look," the woman said. "Only it's a little different now." She jerked her chin toward me. "There's a spark of intelligence behind those eyes."

"Dad was supposed to get fifty grand from Lydecker for throwing the fight," I said slowly, "and when he didn't, he went after the douche bag, and ended up being murdered?"

"Oh my God, bro!" Joshua scratched his forehead with the stubby barrel of the .38. "It took you THIS long to put that together?"

"Look, I don't know what my grandfather did with that money!" the woman shouted from the bed. "He did a lot of shady things back then, and whatever he left undone, he took it to his grave!"

Joshua and I exchanged glances.

"You mean he's dead?" Joshua asked.

"That's usually what happens when people are put in graves," the woman quipped, "or didn't your dip shit daddy tell you that?"

Joshua lifted the .38 in one swift motion and put his index finger against the trigger.

"There you go again," Joshua said in that polite anger of his. "Trying to be cute."

I swatted at the revolver as Joshua squeezed the trigger. The clap of the shot filled the apartment and rendered all of us deaf for a brief moment. The bullet passed through the mattress and into the floor, its path taking it centimeters from the woman's left ear.

Joshua backed up on the balls of his feet, steadied himself, and turned to me. His sneer was longer, sharper, and way more intense than before.

"Now you've gone and done it, bro," he said. "Now I'm going to kill you too!"

Joshua lunged at me, tackling me to the floor. The two of us tangled up into a mess of limbs and slid into the card table, spilling what was left of our dinners and drinks on ourselves.

Joshua was on his feet first, smacking me across the face with the .38 and making a solid connection with my nose. He followed that up by slamming his wrists into both sides of my head, knocking me dizzy, before he brought his knee into my solar plexus as the grand finale.

I fell to my knees, desperately trying to fill my empty lungs, as Joshua grabbed me by my hair and jerked my head back. The .38 was in my face before I could utter any sound, and as Joshua cocked the hammer, I had the funny feeling I was going to follow in my father's footsteps.

"You made a big mistake today, bro," Joshua whispered. "You went against my wishes, and NOBODY goes against my wishes!" His breath was hot against my face. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal clear," I said, finding enough oxygen to utter the words. "There's just one problem."

"Oh, I'm dying to hear what it is," Joshua replied in an ingratiating tone.

"The ceiling fan you wanted me to fix?"

"What about it?"

"I never did."

Joshua looked up at the swaying ceiling fan, loosened by our struggle, as the wires holding it in place snapped one by one. Joshua screamed as I shoved him beneath the fan at the moment the final wire severed. The metal blades, sharp as they were, sliced through Joshua's flesh, tearing his chest and abdomen to ribbons.

As my brother's blood gushed out onto the floor and pooled under his body, I turned to look at the woman on the bed, still naked, still handcuffed, still looking at me like I was her enemy.

I fished the .38 from the mess of Joshua's hands and blasted the cuffs off the lady in question, who promptly kneed me in the nuts and slapped me stupid for a good five minutes. Who knew she had that much fight left in her?

As she collapsed onto the floor, I put a hand under the mattress and retrieved her clothes. She looked at me with grateful eyes this time, but as she started to slip into them, a siren blasted out front of the apartment building and made both of us freeze.

"Go," she said. "Get out of here!"

"Are you crazy?" I said back. "I'm not going anywhere!"

"They won't believe anything you tell them! You're still one of the bad guys, remember?"

"I’ll take my chances."

I tossed the .38 on the floor, got down on my knees, and put my hands behind my head.

"Don’t you get it?" she said. "They’ll put away for life!"

"I know."

A look of stark realization passed over her face as pounding footsteps announced the arrival of the York City Police Department. They burst in with Glocks drawn, shouting things I no longer heard, as they read me my rights, slapped handcuffs around my wrists, and drug me downstairs to the squad car.

Six months later, I was sentenced to sixty years in prison, with the possibility of parole in thirty years. By then I’d be ninety years old. I’d probably die in prison, that much I knew, but I felt I deserved whatever was coming to me.

One day before my sixty-first birthday, the woman on the bed came to see me. She was dressed in a Penn State hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and black Converse hi-top sneakers. She didn’t look any different, but I could tell the ordeal Joshua and I put her through had taken a toll on her spirit.

She took her seat across from the glass partition and grabbed the phone. I grabbed mine and waited for her to speak.

"I’m sorry for what’s happened to you," she said. "You didn’t deserve this."

"Yes, I did," I told her. "What I did wasn’t right."

"But you made it right in the end. Don’t you see that?"

I shook my head. I don’t think I’d ever see any of it as "right."

She leaned toward the glass and whispered into the phone. She seemed distraught over something.

"When Joshua..."

"Raped you?"

"...he made me pregnant."

I leaned back in my chair, the air leaving my chest in one long, sad sigh. As if this couldn't get any worse...

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You mean did." A tear trickled down her face. "I aborted it." She stifled a sob and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Do you regret it?"

"Every day...but I didn't want to have a rapist's child."

I nodded.

"Why didn't you testify at my trial?" I asked the woman.

Her eyes widened a bit, as if she were casting her mind back to that awful summer night six months ago.

"I couldn't bring myself to do it," she explained. "I was still too traumatized by it all. I didn't want to relive that again." She closed her eyes. "Please try to understand."

"I do," I said. "Don't worry."

A security guard stepped toward me and pointed to his watch.

"My time's up, I'm afraid," I said. "Thanks for stopping by."

The woman nodded and went to put the phone back on the cradle. I caught her attention and pointed to the phone. She put it back up to her ear and listened.

"I never got your name," I said.

"It's Rachel," she said with a chuckle. "Rachel Lydecker."

"I'm Gus Hemmingsworth," I replied. "Hello, Rachel."

"Hello, Gus."

The security guard stormed toward me and pointed to his watch again. I stood from my chair, as did Rachel, and I looked her in the eye for the first time.

"Goodbye, Rachel."

"Goodbye, Gus."

We hung up our phones at the same time, and neither of us looked back.

Rachel never came to visit me again. I like to think she met a nice guy and is having some kids of her own at the moment. I also think about what I could have done differently that night, in order to make things come out where nobody had to die and nobody gets a sixty-year sentence, but all the scenarios I've played out in my head never end well.

The simple fact is I could have stopped Joshua at any time. I could have stopped him from kidnapping Rachel, cuffing Rachel, and raping Rachel...but I didn't. I was scared of Joshua and what he'd do to me and her. But I've also learned an important lesson: every action has consequences, and while my consequences landed me with this eight by eight cell, Joshua's consequences cost him his life.

And damn him to hell anyway.

The Father & The Gun

Here's a butt-kicking hardboiled story to kick off the new year. It's about a Catholic priest living in a small Mexican border town who gets involved with a bunch of drug traffickers in a very bad way. His name is Father Gibbons, and this is his story.

In El Concito, a little town near the Mexico/California border, there lived a priest. His name was Father Gibbons.

Father Gibbons lived and preached in a small one-room church situated in the center of El Concito. He slept upstairs in the church attic, with its creaky floorboards and rotting wood. The townspeople thought it strange that a white man had been sent to their town to preach in their language. Regardless, Father Gibbons preached every Wednesday night, Sunday morning, and Sunday night, no matter how many or how few parishioners came to hear his message.

Father Gibbons knew the people of El Concito didn't like him. He could see it in their sideways glances, could hear it in their lowest whispers, could feel it when they shouldered past him. They hated him, not because he was white, but because he preached a message nobody wanted to hear.

El Concito served as a stop for drug traffickers. The cocaine, produced in Mexico, was driven through the desert and up into California, where it was sold for profit. The traffickers always spent a night in El Concito before they traversed the sand to the California border.

One fateful night, a trafficker by the name of Suarez entered the little blue church that served as Father Gibbons' home. Father Gibbons, with the oppressive summer heat and the lack of air conditioning, wasn't in a preaching mood. Suarez asked the priest if he could confess his sins. Father Gibbons stepped into a confessionary, and Suarez took his place on the opposite side.

"Please forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Suarez began.

"Cut that shit out," Gibbons replied. "When is the shipment crossing the border?"

"Tomorrow. One o' clock. Two at the latest."

"Where?"

"Toward Yuma. Then Winterhaven. It's picked up by another crew from there."

"What's the signal?"

"I'll piss inside my canteen."

"Shit. Seriously?"

"Seriously, amigo. These fuckers don't fool around."

"Fine. My agents will be waiting for you."

"Should I look for them?"

"No, you imbecile," Gibbons snorted. "You look for them and you'll draw unwanted attention to yourself." He sighed. "Have you got that?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now get lost, my son. Find yourself a whore for the night. There's plenty of them in this dump."

Suarez exited the confessionary and walked out of the little blue church. He made his way up to Rita's, the local brothel, and stepped inside. The townspeople gave him a curious glance and wondered if he had confessed sins he'd already planned to commit.

Father Gibbons stood on the front steps of his church and reached for the flask of whiskey he kept in his robes. A loose chicken clucked at him.

"Go with God," Gibbons told the future McNugget, "and all that good shit." He took a slug of his whiskey. Took another. Replaced the flask. He didn't want, or need, to get drunk tonight.

After all, if everything went as planned, tomorrow would be Father Gibbons' last day in El Concito.

***

Father Gibbons woke with a start when he heard a mighty fist slam against the side of the confessionary he was napping in. Gibbons snatched up the wrinkled Playboy he'd been reading before he fell asleep and stuffed it under his robes.

"Father Gibbons!" a voice called from inside the church. The voice sounded angry and carried enough venom to kill a snake.

"Over here, my son," Gibbons replied in his priestly voice. He slid his side of the confessionary open and waved. There were three men, all of them of Mexican origin. One of them, the angry one, stormed over and dropped into the confessionary's seat.

"Well, we meet at last," the angry one said. "Wait a moment. I don't believe we've been properly introduced." He drew a large revolver from his back pocket and cocked the hammer. "My name is Alberto Ricardo Rodriguez." He grinned. The teeth he had left were all yellow. "But you already know that. Right, Agent Gibbons?"

"Do you have something to confess, my son?" Gibbons said. "If you do not, then please leave this--"

Rodriguez fired his revolver. The weapon roared inside the small church and tore a hole through the confessionary, past Father Gibbons, and out through the wall next to him. Lord only knew where the bullet went after that.

"Let's drop the bullshit, shall we?" Rodriguez said with a twitch of his neck. "I heard all about you from your buddy Suarez. You remember Suarez, right?"

Remember Suarez? In Father Gibbons' eyes, using that word when it came to a person was never a good sign.

Rodriguez cocked the hammer on his revolver again. "You're wondering what happened to Suarez. You're wondering what happened to your little squad of D.E.A. agents." Rodriguez snapped his fingers at his closest comrade. "Julio! Bring me the bag!"

Father Gibbons didn't like the looks of this. Rodriguez was a psychopath and had a gun that could blow a hole through the thickest Bible. He was also blocking Gibbons' only escape route.

Julio returned with "the bag," which was nothing more than a leather sack that looked better suited to Indiana Jones than Mexican drug dealers. Rodriguez laid his revolver down, undid the clasp on the bag, and emptied it onto the wooden shelf in the confessionary. What Father Gibbons saw nearly made him throw up--Rodriguez had gathered Suarez's index finger, and those belonging to Gibbons' squad, and lined them up in a neat display of savagery.

"Well, Agent Gibbons?" Rodriguez said with another twitch. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a sick fuck, Rodriguez," Gibbons replied. "I also think I'm going to kill you."

Rodriguez stared at Gibbons through the confessionary's latticework window. Then he burst out laughing.

"You? Kill me?" Rodriguez asked through his tears of laughter. "That's, that's...what's the word you gringos use?"

"Rich?" Gibbons offered dryly.

"Exactly!" Rodriguez roared with laughter. "How do you plan to kill me when you don't even have a gun?!"

"I don't need a gun," Gibbons said. "I've got yours."

Rodriguez searched his side of the confessionary. His revolver had vanished into thin air.

"What--the hell--?" he stammered.

"Adios, amigo," Father Gibbons said. He squeezed the trigger on Rodriguez's revolver and delivered him into the devil's eager hands. The recoil from the gun threw Gibbons against the wall and made him slide to the floor, as Rodriguez recoiled from the confessionary and blasted across the floor, his blood mixing with the dusty sand that coated the ceramic tiles.

Julio and the third bandito knelt alongside Rodriguez's dead body as Father Gibbons kicked the confessionary open and dove for the floor. Julio spun around and drilled the wall with his Uzi, emptying half of his clip into the picture of The Holy Virgin that hung on the wall.

Father Gibbons snaked across the floor, following the path of the wooden pews, as Julio took careful steps down the center aisle, which led up to the pulpit and the baptismal. The third bandito stayed by the entrance and watched for any escapees with his wild eyes and his finger tickling the trigger of his Ruger M-12.

Julio stepped up to the pulpit and stared at the picture of Jesus Christ on the wall behind it. Sunlight was filtering down from the attic windows, and it landed right on the picture, making Jesus look almost life-like. Julio seemed overcome with the Holy Spirit at that moment, took one hand off his Uzi, and crossed himself. He finished up by closing his eyes and whispering a short prayer in Spanish.

Father Gibbons couldn't believe his eyes. He also couldn't believe Julio could possibly be so stupid as to take his hands off his gun. Gibbons lifted the beastly revolver, cocked the hammer, and fired, the bullet tearing a hole through Julio's head and exploding it. Gibbons slid back against the wall and crashed into a clay pot, which shattered on impact, leaving shards of hardened clay in Gibbons' back.

Gibbons looked up in time to see the third guy sobbing and screaming at the top of his lungs. He took his Ruger in both hands and fired it in every direction but Gibbons', destroying the holy place and everything in it. Gibbons crawled to the front pews, trying desperately not to get shot, and ducked out from his cover long enough to pop a bullet in the bandito's right ankle.

The man fell flat on his face, screaming and cursing in Spanish, while his Ruger slid across the floor and stopped next to Gibbons' feet. Father Gibbons stood, keeping both hands on the revolver, and gave the bandito a kick in the groin before he stepped outside.

The sunlight had never felt better. The stickiness of the heat almost felt cool against his skin. The clucking of that chicken almost made him smile.

That's when Father Gibbons noticed the white Ford Pinto pulling up in front of the church. He sat down on the front steps, sat the revolver next to him, and removed his flask of whiskey. As he drank it straight down, a short, spectacled man in a plaid suit and bow tie emerged from the Pinto and combed his thinning hair back.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Father Gibbons asked.

"Father Gibbons," the rotund man replied. "Who are you?"

The priest threw his empty flask at the chicken and limped toward the Pinto.

"Nobody, apparently," the priest managed to say. He pointed to the church. "She's all yours." He climbed into the Pinto's driver's seat, but stopped and waved for the real Father Gibbons' attention.

"Yes, sir?" Gibbons asked. "What is it?"

"Watch that trap door on the first confessionary," the priest said. "It's a killer."

The priest closed the door on the Pinto as Father Gibbons, carrying three suitcases and a laptop bag, found his way to the church. The priest smiled, put the Pinto in drive, and headed for Yuma. Maybe he could get in touch with his D.E.A. contacts and set up another operation there. Maybe he could find a nice church with a nun who had loose morals. Or maybe he'd just get drunk and dance the night away.

The latter sounded like a good idea. 

It sounded like a real good idea.

Share A Drink?

Here's a hardboiled crime story that takes place on a sweltering summer day in the Louisiana bayou. I hope you enjoy the surprising tale of a femme fatale and the two men she conned in the story "Share a Drink." 

The day I died, the temperature was over one hundred degrees and the humidity was unbearable. We needed rain. The whole continent of North America needed rain. It was the middle of August and there hadn't been any relief from the heat for over two weeks. I'd also had it up to here with swatting gnats, flies, and mosquitos while sitting on the front porch of my Louisiana bungalow with Leanna.

Leanna's official job description was secretary and office manager. Her unofficial job description was sex kitten to the boss, but with this heat, neither of us was in any mood to fool around. Even Leanna was having trouble beating the heat, and had taken to walking around with nothing on but the radio, which was currently playing Jimmy Buffet's "Cheeseburgers in Paradise." I could have gone for a cheeseburger right about then, but my doctor (and damn all of those doctors anyway) had told me to watch my cholesterol and my triglycerides, so I was reduced to drinking strawberry kiwi lemonade through a straw and watching my skiffs bob with the current of the bayou, the mercilessly hot breeze creating ripples along the murky water every now and then.

"Leanna!" I called out, shaking the ice in my empty lemonade glass. "A refill, please!"

Leanna strutted her way onto the porch in all of her naked glory, her twenty-two year-old body fresh and unblemished. Her fire-red hair fell across her teardrop-shaped breasts, concealing their tanned texture. The rest of Leanna was easy on the eyes too, and had also built up quite a tan since she started working for me. A month ago, she showed up out of the blue in nothing but a blouse and bikini bottom and told me she needed a job because Mason, her jack-hole boyfriend, had kicked her out of the house, donated her belongings to Goodwill, and spent all of her money on booze and hookers. What was a man to do except take pity on the poor girl and give her a job?

"Comin' right up, Gil," Leanna said, her voice dripping with honeysuckle sweetness. "Would you like anything else?"

"Not right now, sweet pea," I told her, taking her hand in mine. "How are the books looking?"

"Not good," she replied, holding my lemonade glass in both hands. "If we don't get ten more rentals before the end of the month, we'll be in the red again."

I nodded and waved her off. This wasn't news to me; renting skiffs for a trip down the Louisiana bayou didn't have the same kind of appeal to tourists as it used to, and with the heat, it was something of a crap shoot.

I heard the approaching boat before I saw it, and when Leanna returned with my lemonade, her eyes went wide at the sight of the boat's driver.

"Mason," she whispered. "How'd he find me?"

"Whoa, slow down, sweet pea," I soothed. "He's still got a ways to go before he gets here. Go into the safe and get my sawed-off. I'll keep watch outside."

Leanna nodded and dashed inside the bungalow. I could hear her manipulating the lock on the safe, opening the door, and scrambling to pull the shotgun out of it before Mason arrived. I took a long sip of my strawberry kiwi shit as Leanna handed me my two-barreled side-by-side. By then, Mason's fishing boat had pulled alongside the skiffs, and as he cut the motor and climbed onto my makeshift wooden dock, his eyes fell on Leanna's naked body, studying all of her curves in detail.

"So this is where you've been!" Mason announced as he approached the porch. He was in his late twenties, well-muscled, and tall, with black hair greased back against his head and a set of biceps that were frighteningly huge. He had donned a sleeveless black shirt with a white skull and crossbones on it, along with black jeans and black leather boots.

"That's right," I said to Mason, rising from my chair and cocking my shotgun. "And if you're smart, you'll walk down that dock, get back in your boat, and forget you ever saw her." I stood in front of Leanna and jerked my head toward the bungalow. "Go get dressed, sweet pea." She nodded, backed away slowly, and shut the door behind her.

I aimed the shotgun at Mason and tried to keep my hands steady. I hadn't held the shotgun or fired it in over five years, and the last time I did it blew a guy's arm clean off. I didn't know if I still had the balls to pull the trigger.

"Look, this is all a simple misunderstanding, mate," Mason started. I realized for the first time that he talked with a British lilt in his voice. "If I can talk to my girl, we'll get this sorted out."

"She's not your girl," I said, hoping I sounded menacing enough. "She's not anybody's girl. And last time I checked, you threw her out on her ass with nothing but the bikini on her back."

Mason chuckled, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head.

"Is that what she told you?" he said in apparent disbelief. "You old sod. You stupid, old sod. She's taking you for a ride, mate, just like she took me!"

By now my mouth was hot and dry and my palms were getting sweaty. What was Mason talking about?

"Look, I'm going to lay it all out for you, okay?" He ran his hands through his slick hair. "A month ago, that little tart stole twenty thousand quid from my bank account. She robbed me blind and took off running. It's taken me all this time to find her, and when I do, I see her pulling the same scam with you!"

I wiped a hand over my eyes to clear the sweat from them. What was Leanna doing in there?

"In fact, I bet she's robbing you as we speak!" Mason finished.

"That's a lie!" I shouted. I blinked a few times to clear my vision. The heat was really getting to me.

"You think so?" Mason pointed to the bungalow's door. "Then why hasn't she come out of there yet?"

I turned to the bungalow and considered what Mason said, even though I was having a hard time putting two thoughts together. I walked over to the bungalow's door and rapped my knuckles against it.

"Leanna?" I called. "You almost done in there, sweet pea?"

There was no response.

"Leanna?!" I called again in alarm. "You okay in there?"

Again, there was no response.

Mason barreled up to the door and smashed his right boot into it, sending splinters of wood clattering to the floor. Mason stormed inside the empty bungalow, swore, and ran out the back door and into the bayou, wading up to his thighs through the mire without so much as a "goodbye." When I entered the bungalow, the safe door was open and the five hundred dollars I usually kept in there was gone.

My heart sank to my feet and flopped to death on the floor, waiting for someone to revive it. I staggered a few steps, unable to get oxygen to circulate through my lungs, and almost tripped over some broken floorboards. I steadied myself and realized that they weren't broken, just pulled up, and beneath them was a secret compartment. I kneeled by it, scrounging in the dirt for some kind of clue, and found a soggy hundred dollar bill lodged between two rocks.

"I'll be damned," I said out loud. Mason was right. Leanna had hid the twenty thousand she'd stolen from him under the floorboards of my bungalow. She'd only pretended to be my secretary and lover all this time. "Gil," I whispered, "how could you be so stupid?"

"That's what I asked myself every time I saw your face," Leanna's voice said from the bungalow's doorway. I stood up fast, too fast, and got lightheaded from the exertion. Leanna stood there in her blouse and bikini bottom, the garments soaking wet and clinging to her in just the right places.

"Leanna," I said through gritted teeth, "don't make me do this." I aimed my shotgun at her as my finger tickled the trigger.

She laughed in my face. "Oh, please," she said, "like you actually have the stones." She strutted to the icebox and poured herself a glass of the strawberry kiwi lemonade, my shotgun following every one of her movements.

"Share a drink with me, Gil?" she asked, a wicked smile on her lips.

"I'll pass," I told her.

She shrugged, drank the lemonade down in one big gulp, and smiled. "And now, I bid you adieu." She exited the bungalow and walked toward Mason's boat, which she had already loaded with a vinyl duffel bag that probably contained the twenty grand and my five hundred bucks.

I kept pace with Leanna, following her down the wooden dock that led to the boat, as she snaked aboard and started the engine.

"Well?" she said. "Are you going to shoot me or what?"

"I don't have to, sweet pea," I told her. "You just shot yourself."

She frowned. "How'd I manage that?"

"You poisoned my lemonade," I said. "I don't know what you used, but I feel like shit, and I know I don't have much time left before I leave God's green Earth."

"Your point, Gil?"

"You drank the same lemonade," I pointed out. "Which means you just poisoned yourself."

Leanna gave me this blank look, like she couldn't fathom she'd done something so stupid. She turned her head to the right, looked down at the water, and then started to laugh.

"Shit," she said. "I guess I did, didn't I?" She put a hand to her forehead. "I was so thirsty that I--I didn't even think about--" She stammered for the right words, couldn't find them. "What a way to go," she muttered.

That's when I gave her both barrels in the chest. She tumbled out of the boat and performed a dead man's float in the water, her blood tinging it from green to black. After a few moments, Mason came upon me and ripped the shotgun from my hands. He found his twenty grand in Leanna's bag, returned my five hundred to me, and left in his boat, rocketing down the bayou and leaving me with Leanna's dead body.

I didn't bother telling Mason about the poison. I didn't want to annoy him, and quite frankly, I wasn't sure he'd give a shit. Leanna is still floating in the water, drifting down the bayou, as I sit on the porch of the bungalow and listen to Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" while the unbearable sweat and feverish shivers take hold. It's not the way I pictured myself going out, but then again, none of us knows when and how we'll die; it's all in God's hands. 

But there is one thing I do know: the next time some half-naked girl with a sad story wants a job, I'm giving her directions to the nearest whorehouse.

Father's Day

Here's a piece of hardboiled flash fiction for you guys out there.  It's called "Father's Day," and was inspired by a fanfic written by my good friend, Mindy Owen. 

I jerked the chain on the forty-watt bulb above my head.  Pale yellow light blasted across the mossy stone of the brewery's basement, illuminating kegs of beer, bottles of wine, and a man, a pitiful-looking thing, bound to a wooden chair by chains.  He was in his mid-forties, owned a less-than-average build, and wore horn-rimmed glasses.  His hair was a raven black, and as his blue eyes opened and fought for focus in the damp surroundings, I stepped forward and hit him with everything I had. 

His head jerked to the right and blood spewed from his gums.  My left hand found a handful of that hair, ripped his head upright, and socked the poor sap again.  Some of those black locks came away in my hand as his head snapped backward and his nose answered my fist with a delicious crack. 

"What...?" he mumbled as he regained consciousness.  "Who...are you...?"

"You'll want to save that for the end," I told him.  "But first things first.  I need your name."

"Why...?" he blubbered.

"Checks and balances," I answered.  "Give me your last name followed by your first."

"Dunwin...Miles," the man in the chair croaked.  "Are these...chains?"

"Thank you, Miles," I said, removing my phone from my coat pocket.  "And yes, they are."  I dialed a number and waited until the third ring before I hung up.

A moment later my phone buzzed.  I answered it on the first ring.  "Who is this?" I asked.

"Do you have him?" the male voice on the other end responded.

"He's here," I replied.

"I need his pin number."

I snapped Miles's head upright.  His blues were fighting to focus on my blues, and he was losing the battle.

"Pin number, Miles," I said.  "And be quick about it."

"Why...?" Miles muttered.

"Because I'll bury you in one of these kegs and kick your corpse into the Thames if you don't."  Miles hesitated.  "My time is valuable, Miles, and I can't spend all of it dealing with you."  I brought myself nose-to-nose with the man in the chair.  "Do you understand, Miles?"  He nodded like a disappointed child.  "Then the pin number, please."

"Two, five, eight, nine."  Miles hacked up blood and spat some on the concrete floor.  I observed the sorry state he was in and almost wanted to apologize for not treating him better.

I turned my attention back to the man on my phone and passed Miles's pin number along.  The sound of fingertips stroking computer keys flowed to my ear shortly thereafter.

"Mister Dunwin has half a million quid in checking," the man on the other end said.  "He's also got three hundred thousand in savings."

"Take it all," I told him.  "Leave him penniless."  Miles's head turned toward me, his eyes wide as realization set in. 

"You're the boss, doll face," my man inside the phone replied, and with a few more keystrokes, transferred Miles Dunwin's funds into my account.  "It's done."

I disconnected and returned the phone to my coat pocket.  When I pulled that hand out again, it had a .38 Special inside of it.  Miles recoiled in horror at the sight of the neat little revolver, but the chains kept him from squirming around too much.

"Miles," I said, "I want you to think back to 1989."  I leaned forward and matched his stare with one of my own.  "Do you remember a woman named Deidre Langford?"

The man in the chair was silent for a few moments.  His head rocked back as his cerebellum recalled events from over twenty years ago.  Then he spoke.

"Deidre," he rasped.  "She was...my fiancé."

"A lovely fiancé, too." I leaned in closer.  "Would you care to know how she died?"

"Deidre's...dead?"

"I'm afraid so, Miles."  A scowl took form on my face and blasted into Miles's eyes.  "She died a junkie, strung out on heroin, trying to support her only daughter by selling her body on the back streets of London."

"No...not Deidre..."

"Yes, Miles."  I leaned in much closer.  "And would you like to know why Deidre's life turned so sour?"  Miles nodded.  "Because you abandoned her.  You used her for sex and for money, but never for love!  You went back to America, to your wife and child, and left Deidre penniless and alone!"

"Deidre's...daughter..."

"That's right, Deidre had a daughter.  She was your daughter too, Miles."  I cocked the hammer on the .38 and held the steel death machine in both of my hands.  "And would you like to know where she is?"  Miles nodded.  "She's standing before you."

The blue in Miles's eyes faded somewhat and became darker, duskier.  He appeared disappointed that things had come to this.

"Annabelle...?" Miles questioned softly, and damn if I didn't hesitate.  Nobody had called me by my full name for over a decade, but I had to do this, for Mum and for every woman Miles Dunwin had deceived, robbed, and left to die in cities all over the world.

"Yes, Miles," I said.  "You're my father."

"Annabelle," he whispered, gathering his strength, "you don't--"

"And do you know what today is?" I interrupted.

Miles froze in place for a brief moment.  He stared straight ahead, concentrating, until he closed his eyes and bitter tears streamed down his face.

"Father's Day," he sobbed.  "It's Father's Day...!"

There was a sharp clap of thunder against the stone walls.  My father's head lay crooked on his shoulders, a bloody hole in his forehead, as smoke twirled from the barrel of the revolver and into the ceiling.  I bit back the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes as I tucked the .38 inside my coat, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked up the basement steps and into the drizzle of a chilly London night.

Till Death Do Us Part

 A Valentine's Day noir story for you guys out there.  It's called "Till Death Do Us Part."  Hope you enjoy it, and don't forget to leave a comment in a comments section. 

Killing people isn't my idea of a good time, but you have no idea what atrocities you're truly capable of until you have a reason to commit them...and my reason was as good as any.

The name's Ace, Ace Daniels.  It makes me sound like I'm Indiana Jones or some comic book hero.  My Dad named me Ace after a matinee serial he adored as a kid.  I think it was called Sky Ace or Captain Ace.  I can't remember.  I can't remember much of anything with all the blood on the floor and this headache that's slicing my head to ribbons.

It didn't have to be like this.  That’s what I keep telling myself.  If the British guy in the Yugo hadn’t pulled up to my station, and if I hadn’t gone out to help him, and if my wife hadn’t shown up for lunch, and if the cops hadn’t come in with guns blazing, and if the Brit hadn’t turned out to be a criminal, maybe I wouldn’t be lying on the floor in a pool of blood with a bullet in my chest and this headache that refuses to go away.

Maybe I should back up and start at the beginning.  The trouble is, I'm not sure where everything began...

I run a bus station in Baker, California.  Baker consists of hot sand and prickly cactus.  Our days will burn you and our nights will freeze you.  It keeps a lot of tourists away, and that's how I like it.

One humid Friday afternoon, I was at the bus station cleaning the latrines, trying to wash the old hard-water stains out of the toilet bowl.  The station was just small enough that I could run it by myself, and it's not like anyone's going to take a job in the middle of Dirt Central for less than minimum wage.

As I was scrubbing away, I heard weary tires crunch against the sand outside the station.  I stepped out of the men's room and glanced through the front doors and into the parking lot.  A lime green Yugo drifted up, the engine coughing like a smoker who just needs a healthy dose of Robitussin.  I wiped my hands off with an old rag and stepped into the scorching sun.

There was a guy, mid-twenties, about one-sixty, with black hair that was matted to his head from sweat, standing in front of the Yugo.  He had the hood up and was examining the engine like it was a dead body on a slab at the morgue.

"You need something, mister?" I asked as I approached.  The guy jerked, startled, and whacked his head on the tip of the Yugo's hood.  He bent over and backed away from the car, cussing up a storm.  His blues met my grays and he frowned.

"Do I need something?" he said in a K-Mart British accent.  "You're damn right I need something.  I need a car that works!"

"You're a Brit?" I asked, knowing that the question was almost rhetorical.

"What, did my accent give it away?" the guy shot back.  He glanced at the Yugo's engine.  "Do you know anything about these?"

"A good bit," I said.  "My wife has one she refuses to get rid of."

"They're nothing but shit," the Brit said to me.  Then he turned to the Yugo.  "You hear me?  You're a piece of shit!"

"They're good in the snow," I told him.

"Snow?!" he replied incredulously.  "It doesn't snow in California!"

"Hey, that's what I tell the wife, but does she listen?" I said with a shrug.

The Brit gave me a harsh chuckle.  "I hear you, mate."  He extended his hand to me.  "Roger Bedard."

"Ace Daniels," I said, shaking his hand like a man should.  Roger returned it with one of those limp-fish handshakes.  That should have been my first clue.

"There's a fifty with your name on it if you can get this thing running again," Roger explained.

"Go inside--it's air-conditioned," I told Roger.  "Get yourself a Coke and a candy bar out of the machines.  I'll see what I can do."

Roger patted me on the shoulder as he walked past and entered the station.  I stared at the Yugo's engine and wasn't quite sure if I remembered what I was looking at.  I checked the oil, the filter, the anti-freeze, the fan belt--anything that could have made the poor car clunk like that--and came up empty.  Maybe I wasn't using my head, or maybe this should have been my second clue. 

A car horn beeped in the distance and my wife Clarice's lime green Yugo, nearly identical to Roger's, skidded to a stop on the sand.  She opened the door, slammed it shut, and stood there, looking at me like we were still in high school and this was our first date.

"Hey, Ace," Clarice said.  "Something on your mind?"

"You," I said with a grin.  "What're you doing out here?"

"I brought you lunch," she said, holding up a brown paper bag.  "Well, lunch for you and me."  She saw Roger's Yugo and her face lit up.  "Is this a desert mirage, Ace?  Do my wandering eyes deceive me?"

I laughed.  "Nope.  It's an honest-to-God Yugo, just like yours."

Clarice noticed the resemblance.  "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," she whispered softly.  "What's wrong with it?"

"Can't tell," I told her.  "Think you can lend a hand?"

She handed me our lunch and came around to the front of the Yugo, rolling up imaginary sleeves and adjusting an imaginary cap.  Clarice had been part of the drama club in high school and got accepted to a liberal arts school once she graduated.  She never took one class, and that was probably my fault, because right around that time we fell in love and moved to California. 

I left Clarice with her new best friend and walked back inside the station.  Roger was exiting the restroom, the last swirls of a flushed toilet ushering him out.  I wondered if I'd have to scrub the bowl again.

"What's the verdict, Ace?" Roger asked.  "Is she dead?"

His question caught me off-guard.  For a moment I thought he was referring to Clarice.  Then I realized what he was referring to.

"My wife's taking a look at her now," I told Roger.  "Her Yugo looks just like yours."

"No shit?" Roger said.  "Same color and everything?"  I nodded.  "That's unreal."

Roger walked over to the soda machine and fed it a dollar and a quarter.  A can of Coke tumbled out with a clatter.  Roger took a step to the right and fed the snack machine a single. A Snickers bar took the suicide dive into the bin.  Roger snatched it up and dug in hungrily, like he hadn't eaten anything for miles.  I looked at the lunch Clarice had prepared and felt guilty for not sharing it with him.

"You get many customers up in these parts?" Roger asked between chews.

"Enough to stay open," I said, sliding behind the glass-enclosed ticket counter and having a seat on a rickety metal stool.  The leather on the stool was torn and the padding had come out of it years ago.  It was one more thing I couldn't afford to replace.

Clarice entered the station and wiped sweat from her brow.  She had some grease spots on her hands and one on her sundress.

"Sparkplug wires," she reported.  "Two of them are burnt to a crisp."  She glanced at Roger. "I'm afraid you're stuck here with us for a while."

"There are worse places I could be," Roger said, admiring Clarice's figure beneath the confines of her sundress.  That should have been my third clue.

Clarice laughed a little.  "A Brit in California?  What do you do, star in movies?"

"A little of this, a little of that," Roger said with a half-shrug.

"You're unemployed," my wife said matter-of-factly.

"For the moment," Roger replied, holding up an index finger, "but I've got a gig coming up in Vegas that I'm trying to get to."

"You're a little out of the way for Vegas, aren't you, Roger?" I asked in a hard tone.

"I may have made a wrong turn here or there.  I'm hell with maps."

"Get a GPS."

"Can't afford one."

"Huh!  Story of my life," Clarice interjected, jerking a thumb in my direction.  "This one won't buy a GPS because he thinks he knows everything."

"Excuse me?" I said.  "When we got lost that time in Twentynine Palms, didn't I get us home?"

"After you drove past that junkyard six times?" Clarice retorted.  "Yes, I suppose you did."

"Then we don't need a GPS."  I nodded to Roger, and that settled the matter.

"You know," Roger said as he stood up, "I think I may have left something in my car.  I'll be back in a bit."  He trotted out the door.  The door banged closed behind him.

"Stranger in a strange land," Clarice muttered.  "What's his name?"

"Roger Bedard, he says."

"Really?"

"Really."

"He just drove up here and you decided to help him?"

"He said he'd pay me fifty bucks if I could get his Yugo started again."

"Seriously?" Clarice glanced out the front doors at Roger's Yugo.  "He's jerking your chain."

"How so?"

"Because there's no wallet in his back pocket."

"Maybe it's in his front pocket, Clarice."

"If it was, then it would bulge.  He's not bulging."

"Good to know," I said with a grin.

Clarice smiled back.  "Are we going to have that lunch or what?"

"Let's have it right now."  I reached inside the bag and removed two ham and cheese sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise on them.  My stomach gurgled at the sight of the delicious offerings before it.

Roger returned with a red backpack he was carrying by one strap.  There were luggage lockers along the far wall, and he opened one, shoved the backpack inside, closed the door, and took the key.

"Something important in there?" I asked.

"Yeah," Roger said coldly. "My underpants."

Clarice and I exchanged looks.  Roger's mood had gone from one end of the spectrum to the other.  What had crawled up his ass and died?

The sound of tires crunching against the sand drifted into the station again.  This time, Clarice went to see who it was.  An alarmed look passed over her face as she turned to me with wide eyes.

"Ace, it's the police," she said quietly.  "What do they want?"

"They want me," Roger said, standing up and reaching to the back of his pants.  "And if you both cooperate, there won't be any problems."  Roger's right hand returned to the front of his body with a Ruger .22 inside it.  Clarice gasped and backed away from Roger, but Roger was faster than her, and faster than me, as he snatched Clarice by the wrist and spun her around so her back was against his front.  He shoved the Ruger's barrel into Clarice's temple as Clarice screamed my name, and by that time I had come around the side of the ticket counter with a Beretta Silverhawk in my hands.

"Oh, nice one, Ace!" Roger exclaimed.  "That's a really big shotgun!"  He laughed.  "The problem is, you can't blow my head off without blowing your wife's off as well!"  Roger pulled Clarice against him and I nearly shot them both.  No, can't risk anything happening to Clarice, I told myself.  Just find out what the man wants, and if it's in your power, give it to him in exchange for Clarice's life.

The front doors opened and two middle-aged detectives dressed in suits entered.  I'd never seen the men before, but one was clean-shaven and professional, while the other had a goatee and looked like he slept on his couch.  Roger turned to the two men, and as they drew their Glocks, a shouting match ensued that threatened to blow the roof off the station.  I didn't catch all the details, but eventually Roger emerged with the right to speak.

"Ace, I'd like you to meet my two friends--Detective Massey and Detective Steele," Roger explained.  "They're from the Palm Springs Police Department.  Tell Ace why you're here, gentlemen."

"Sir, we're sorry to have drug you into this investigation," Massey, with the goatee, said.  "We've been looking for our friend Roger for the better part of a week, and the trail led us to this bus station."

"Could you speed this up a bit, Massey?" Roger asked, impatient. "I'm getting old just listening to you."

"Can it!" Steele, the clean-shaven one, shouted.  "I swear, Bedard, you so much as flinch and I'll plant one between your--"

"That's enough, partner!" Massey shot at Steele.  "I think we get the picture."  Massey kept his gun trained on Roger but turned his eyes to me.  "Roger was turning state's evidence against a suspect we had charged with multiple counts of homicide and conspiracy."

"The problem with Bedard here," Steele spoke up, "is that in exchange for his testimony, the district attorney released him on bail."  Steele's eyes narrowed to slits.  "And you want to know how he made bail, sir?"

"Oh, just come out and tell him already!" Roger groaned.  "The suspense will kill him faster than I will!"

"When one of our boys in blue wasn't paying attention, Bedard snuck into evidence and grabbed a bag of money we were holding for another case!"  Steele was practically foaming at the mouth, his jaws snapping like those of a vicious pit bull. "Now our evidence is missing, Bedard is free and clear, and frankly?"  Steele cocked his sidearm.  "We've had enough."

"What are you two fuckers gonna do?" Roger asked, jerking Clarice closer to him.  "Shoot me?"

"For starters," Massey said with ice in his voice.

My head was spinning from too much information and not enough time to process it.  I was sweating in the air-conditioned station, my hands clammy, my pits sticky, and my mouth as dry as the desert outside the windows.  If Massey and Steele were here to kill Roger, then that meant they'd probably kill Clarice and me too, since you can't leave any witnesses behind with things like this.  The fact that cops aren't supposed to kill and their job is to uphold the law never entered my mind as Steele, Roger, and Massey crept around the seats in the station and toward the front doors.

I had to do something, and I had to do it now.  If Roger went out that door with Clarice, I'd never share another lunch with her.  If Massey and Steele opened fire on Roger, I'd never see that look Clarice always gave me, the look that was like our first date.  I couldn't let Roger kill Clarice either, because if he did, then nothing would hold me back from sending him to Hell.

I brought the Silverhawk up and propped the stock against my shoulder.  I cocked both barrels, looked down the sights, and found Roger's forehead.  Massey and Steele were still arguing with Roger, but their voices sounded like they were miles away.  Everything shrank to one great desire--the desire to protect my wife, to keep her from harm, till death do us part.

My finger stroked the trigger of the Silverhawk and a 12-gauge shell blew into Roger's face.  Clarice shrieked and hit the floor as Roger stumbled, his face hanging off of his skull like a slice of lunchmeat, before he tumbled to the floor as well, blood soaking the tile I had just cleaned that morning.

Massey and Steele lowered their weapons and turned to look at me.  They were dazed and a tad perplexed.

"You dumb son of a bitch," Steele said, lifting his Glock toward me.  "Now we have to kill you too."

I took a step back and to the side as Steele fired, his bullet breaking the glass enclosing the ticket counter and sending shards all over the floor.  I lifted my shotgun and spent the other barrel on Steele's solar plexus.  Steele reeled back, blood ejecting from his chest like confetti out of a piñata, until he knocked over some chairs and sank to the floor.

"Wow," Massey said.  "You're not a bad shot, Ace."  He stepped toward me.  I stepped back.  "Your name is Ace, right?"  I didn't acknowledge him.  "I'd say you've just about cleaned everything up here."  Massey kept his Glock at his side as he spoke, his demeanor casual, his gait relaxed.  "Roger's dead, but then again, he wouldn't have made it back to Palm Springs anyway."  Massey took another step forward.  I held my ground.  "My partner's dead, but you see, he was always a little trigger-happy, and truth be told?  I'm glad he's gone.  He was holding me back."  Massey took another step.  We were face-to-face and nose-to-nose now.  "So let's make one thing clear, Ace--I like you...I like your style...but there is no way you're leaving this place alive."

Massey lifted his Glock.  I lifted the Silverhawk.  I squeezed the trigger on instinct.  Massey did the same.  There were two loud barks of gunfire inside the station, and then, Massey fell to one knee, dropped his Glock, and looked behind him.

Clarice lied there on her stomach with Roger's smoking .22 in her pretty little hands.  Massey coughed up blood as his face drained of all color.

"Shit," he blubbered.  "Killed by Mrs. Ace."  Then he slid to the floor and never got back up.

As Clarice stood up and ran to me, I could feel something burning below my heart that worked its way up through my chest and into my throat. I vomited, realized it was blood, and looked down at my shirt.  There was a bloodstain below my left pectoral, and the longer I watched the faster it spread and the worse the burning became.  I fell into Clarice's arms and I heard her sobs of sorrow for her fallen husband, don't go Ace, you're all I've got Ace, don't leave me behind, for the love of God, don't leave me behind...

With my last speck of strength, I squeezed Clarice's hand like a man should and nodded toward the luggage lockers.  She understood and went to Roger's body, searching for the key to his locker.  She found it as little fingers of darkness crept into the edges of my vision.  I couldn't move my head to see what Clarice was doing, so when she appeared above me again, it would be the last time I would ever see her.

Clarice had Roger's backpack in her hands.  She unzipped it as the darkness threatened to drag me down.  The last thing I saw was Clarice holding up stack after stack of plastic-wrapped money.

I wanted to tell Clarice, People will come for that money.  I won't be here to protect you.  No, honey, you'll do fine on your own.  Just take your little Yugo and drive.  Buy a GPS and go some place where it snows.  Prove to me why you held on to that lousy car all those years.  I'm sorry we never got to have lunch today.  Today was a real mess, wasn't it?  Oh God, what a mess.

Just remember one thing, Clarice.  I love you...till death do us part.