White Night
Adjuster: Agent 17
Ref#: 980267G
SSL#: Z7J5E
Type: First-hand Account
Location: New York City, New York
Designation: Level 2
Action: Document and Investigate Claim
——————————1——————————
I knew this dame was trouble the minute she walked into my office...
The irony of a cliché like that in a line of work like this wasn’t lost on me. Though there was something about the combination of an unannounced midnight visit and dirty brunet hair which set off anamnesis of noir classics. And both Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe would tell you any detective whose done any detectin’ quickly learned to trust their gut when judging character. So ya’ better believe it means somethin’ when I say; this dame had me twisted in knots and biting my tongue before there was even a reason to speak.
“Are you Mr. Kobe... Mr. Maverick Kobe? Private investigator?” She spoke in a silky tone that feigned innocence; her vowels dragged on with the hint of a southern accent.
Odd unwarranted instincts started to kick in at the sound of her voice. Like pins and needles, my senses pricked at me, screaming ‘tell her no’ and ‘kick her out, you don’t want her business.’ Yet baseless rationality overwhelmed and promptly answered back; “That’s what it says on the door. How may I be of service, Ms.?”
“Mrs.” The mysterious dame corrected while taking a seat and delicately crossing her legs. Her perfect posture and brand-new Steichen heels a stark contrast to my cheap faux mahogany desk and cluttered office. “You have to help me, sir, I think my life may be in danger.” reaching for the ashtray, she lit a cigarette and placed it between her ruby lips “I can’t help shake the feeling that bad men are following me. Men that mean to do me great harm.”
Instinctively I parted the blinds of the large bay window behind me and glanced around the empty alley my office was in, nothing but trash and rain. “Why is it you think that?”
“Mr. Kobe, I won’t lie to you, my husband is a bastard of a man. When things are good, he’s the silent jealous type. Leaving me at home with my thoughts while he goes strutting around town, wasting money on sex and booze. And when things are bad....” She takes a long shaky drag of her cigarette. “...which they predominantly are. He locks himself in hotels behind a bottle of brown, hiding from debt collectors and loan sharks. When his demons can’t find him, they always come knocking on my door.”
“I see, and have you tried contacting the police?”
“Oh no Mr. Kobe, with the way the police move, I’d be dead long before the investigation is even officially open. These people don’t take kindly to tattletales.”
“I’ve got a buddy at the local precinct I can vouch for. If you speak to him, I’m sure he-”
“I’d really rather not Mr. These fellas have wide connections and ears behind every door.”
“Well, I’m not sure how I could help then. I’m not an officer anymore, all I can really do is investigate, gather info, track someone down, that sort of shtick. Even then, they don’t appreciate me poking around their jurisdiction.”
“What I was hoping for Mr. Kobe, is that you track down my husband; Michael Juliani, and make him sign these papers.” Rooting around her purse, she pulled out a stack of legal documents with the word ‘divorce’ in big, bold letters on the top.
“Now that’s more doable.” Taking the forms, I looked them over suspiciously.
“I believe I don’t have to tell you to tread cautiously if they...”
“If they follow me and get to your husband, he’ll at the very least get beat and bruised... then we’re left with no divorce and an angry man looking for an outlet.” I finished her statement.
“Exactly.”
“Though I can’t ‘make him’ sign anything, I can seek him out and try to persuade him of it. I cut a pretty convincing jib.” Flipping through the papers, I went on mechanically “You should know my fees are 90$ for locating someone, then 50$ for every additional hour spent on things like talking to him or dealing with the cops, and of course I charge for travel expenses.” I started to jut down everything on a yellow receipt slip. “That should be 90 now, and around another 80 when I get the papers.”
“Money’s of no issue.” She opened her designer purse and drew a stack of notes six inches thick. “In fact...” She pulled eight hundred out and placed them under my cigarette pack like it was a paperweight “I’ll give you that, plus another eight if you successfully get those papers signed and back to me by tomorrow morning.”
“Ma’am I can’t-”
“Mr. Kobe, I can’t think of any other solution, my life may depend on this.” She puts her cigarette out, gingerly places a wallet-sized picture of her husband on my desk, and leaves swaying her hips like she knew I was watching.
The door slammed shut, and I exhaled as if breathing was a new concept. Her sweet floral perfume lingered behind, mixing itself with the light musky scent of her tobacco. As it swept its way into my mind, any deductive thoughts playing at the notion of something being not quite right clouded and faded away. Shaking my head, I swallowed any alarms instinct sounded, shoulder strapped my Smith & Wesson, and headed out with my door jacket at hand.
——————————2——————————
A short walk later…
It was witching hour at Harlem. When and where the worlds dirtiest vices were spot lit center stage against the ominous glow of dirty red neon’s. Sidewalks peddled tricks, bars poured watered down drinks, and every back alley was a place to score dope, smack, crack, rock, dust, snow, blow, and even happiness in the shape of a pill. Truly it was the devils trading ground where empty men walked away with pockets full of sand for the price of a soul. A place where piece of mind was a commodity and a piece of ass the best answer for all your problems.
This is where the abandoned lived; laying in gutters, lurking the shadows. Nesting near enough the living to cash-in off pity, yet distant enough to not be bothered by the responsibility of a monotonous daily grind. Though I passed over a dozen beggars with a cold shoulder, I slipped a bill into the cup of a one-legged old man dressed in a tattered army uniform on the principal that not all men are lazy liars, some just have bad luck. Yet I quickly felt the gazes of jealous eyes leering at the weak prey with malicious intent, and it reminded me that in this dog eat dog world, charity is an art form long lost to the greed of savages.
It should come as no surprise that money talked in this part of town. Tossing some coin around hailed the answers I was searching for. A couple beat-up borderline toothless Toms told me Mikey holed himself up at a third-rate motor court on the corner of Cicero and 5th. The only people he had been in contact with were his regular side squeezes and whatever nearby bums he could convince to bring back booze without them simply running off with the given money.
You can tell a lot about a man by what he does with fear. The successful use it as a motivator, an obstacle needing to be overcome. The brave stare it in the eyes with the hopes of growing ever stronger. The vigilant see it as a warning to tread cautiously over thin ice. As for the ones who cower in the dark leaving behind their loved ones, home, and career in order to regain a small semblance of false security. Well, those aren't men, they're rats. Bottom feeders leaching off the light in others and selling out everything they believe in for a few pence of what they mistake as dignity, a concept long lost to these skin bag husks masquerading as if they had heart. Fucking garbage like that makes me ill to the stomach, back then the thought of Mikey made me ill to my stomach. How the hell did a man like that, get a girl like her? Fate is a fickle cunt.
I trudged forward through the filth and debauchery, there was no need for a taxi, the motel was a short hike away. In the distance an array of miniature living units arranged in semicircle around a guard-tower-like head office came into focus. The motor court seemed like a prison, no decent family would ever consider stopping here on their cross-country vacation, no businessman on his conference, and no newlywed couple their honeymoon. It was built solely as a den for vagrancy, a haven of sin and depravity, making money off encouraging the corruption of morals. I spark another fag and take to observing the establishment from across the street.
Time moves slowly on a stake-out, especially if one should be enjoying a good book and scotch by a homely fire instead of watching the scum of humanity from underneath a rusty blown out light post. Yet, a job a jobs and a man's gotta do what he's gotta do, so I stopped complaining to myself and focused on casing this joint. The motel was bathed in an alternating glow of purple and red which radiated from a two-story billboard advertising “The Fuzzy Peach” strip club. The marquee which cast this light from across the street had the neon design of a torso and legs, flashing from a closed purple to a spread-eagle red. I'd say the colors complimented the “Dick's Sleep and Skip Motor Court” sign quite well. Their own sign glowed yellow, accenting the words “Pay by the hour” and “No Id needed. No questions asked” like they were hot selling points. What a fucking waste of argon, helium, and mercury vapor.
Despite the rain not letting up, the motel was getting more traffic than the Savoy. A constant procession of burnouts, sleazebags, and lot-lizards filed in an out of rooms like clockwork. I kept the photo of my mark palmed, scrutinizing every John Doe that strutted by with a whore on their arm and every Joe Blow that peaked their head out form their rented sex-box like a tweaker on a bad trip. When finally like a sign from God telling me that patience in-fact is a virtue, dirty fluorescent light flooded the walkway of room number 306. There pale Mickey popped out his scruffy unkempt head and shoved out a lopsided hobbling Tom like he was discarding an empty can of soda. I shook my head at the sorry sight and stormed across the street right up to the door, slamming my fist thrice.
“Mikey open the door, we gotta have a little chat!” the metallic high-pitched twang of a radio switching off buzzed through the door. Seemingly deliberate rustling subsided into deafening silence. I cocked my head to the side and leaned closer to the frame, knocking softer this time.
“Mike. This is Maverick Kobe, I'm a private investigator hired by your wife. We have to talk about something, could you please open the...” My words trailed off as I heard a feint but familiar clicking noise that caused the hairs on my neck to stand up like soldiers. Then without fully comprehending the decision behind my actions, I side stepped off the grubby door mat and took cover with my back against the neighboring wall. Seconds later the smack of a twelve-gauge shotgun hammer colliding with an ignition pin echoes out, and the ensuing buck-spread splintering the door to toothpicks.
Debris hit me in the face, and I felt on my cheek the familiar warm wet feeling of blood trickling downward against dry skin. I drew my revolver and blindly fired off three shots around the corner before again retreating away from the entryway as another thunderous buck ripped through the air from inside, this time blowing away a chuck of the siding inches away from me. By this point people were scattering all around me, running out and away in every possible direction, but there was a serene calm in my head, one that could only have surfaced for someone who had lived this before. Amongst the panic only thing that crossed my mind was; a gun with that kick has a chamber for only two shells. So I stormed the front door and unloaded a shot straight into Mickey's kneecap.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He yelled dropping to the floor, as his finger itched back on the trigger discharging a freshly loaded shot into the ceiling.
“Drop the fucking gun! I'm telling ya' Mickey, drop the fucking gun or it's the other fucking leg!” Cheap dry-walling fluttered around turning the room into a snow-globe, thankfully Mickey listened and tossed the gun. “Good. Now could you tell me what the FUCK was that?!”
“Fuck you pig!” He spat in deeply seeded rebellion.
“I ain't no pig and I've got every right to gun you down right here and tell them I didn't have a fucking choice! So, you gonna talk or not?!” I cocked the hammer, bluffing like a hardass.
“Fuck hell, FUCK. Christ all mighty fucking hell.” My words bounced right off Michael, who was turning a dozen different shades of sick. I doubt he could've even heard me over the pain.
“Okay, okay, put some pressure on it and straighten out Mickey. You'll live, take it like a man. Someone definitely called the bulls, there'll be an ambulance comin' soon.”
“You don't understand.” He whimpered shaking his head and mimicking the negatory movement with his entire body, sending himself into convulsions. “She's IN me. Under my SKIN. I can FEEL her crawling around.” Wide eyed he began to yell with flared nostrils and clenched fists that hit at his chest with each emphasized word.
“Whoa there Mickey. Calm down. What the hell are ya' talkin' about? What in God's name have you been smoking tonight?” Could this have been an episode of shock I thought
“No, no, no, no, NO, NO, no, NO!” He stood onto his feet despite bits of broken bone piercing pitched skin from the weight of his body. “Don't you see it? Don't you feel it? The green... The green!”
Michael limped toward me like something from a horror novel. The gritty crunching of broken bone, reminiscent of a chipped cog grinding itself, quickly muffled into soggy squishing as blood began gushing out his every wound. Hobbling up to me he grabbed at my collar with an adrenaline-fueled death grip and gazed at me with his sunken crazed eyes.
“Mike... calm down.” My collected demeanor had long since left me.
“She has you too. I can see the green in you. It defines your soul.” Pity rang in his words.
“What the Christ are you talking about... What green?!”
“The green. The green! Turn around and run! Whatever you do don't look at the green of...”
The sound of shattering glass lightly crackled, and Michael’s head exploded clear off his shoulders like a overfilled water balloon. Blood and pieces of brain slopped against the walls, covering my face and jacket in the process. Suddenly PTSD gripped the nerves and wartime instincts took over as the word 'sniper' broadcasted in the back of my mind. I hit the ground like a rag doll and crawled toward the nearest window from involuntary army trained movements. It's been years since my tour-of duty, but muscle memory never forgets.
Laying under the windowsill I snatched the fedora off my head and placed it upon the barrel of my revolver. Then making sure to keep any appendages well under the ledge, I gradually raised the hat into the window frame. Suddenly a faint shot rang out from the distance, and the fedora exploded into bits of cloth that rained around the room much in the same manner as poor Mickey's insides did. What basic training doesn't teach you is that it takes an amateur sniper about half a second to cock a bolt action rifle and another half a second to readjust back on target, and only an amateur would fall for the old hat trick. So daringly I took a quick split-second glance, just long enough to spot lens glare from a scope, then ducked down as shots whistled inches above my head.
I shut my eyes and for a moment was teleported back to the Roer river a couple miles south of Duren. I marched with the 9th USA Army and we were to rendezvous with the Canadian 21st for a united push toward the German frontier. The krauts were running like fucking rats by this point, retreating toward their precious 'motherland'. Though much like a cornered and desperate animal they were fighting harder than ever, they gave us hell for every foot of land we took back. When we finally reached and fortified at their border, those bastards blew their own dams to flood the Roer river, tripling its width and making it impassable. Eleven fucking days we waited for the water to subside, taking sniper fire on a constant basis. Eleven fucking days I laid there in the muck, waiting for the amphibious tanks to show up. Eleven fucking days until I got used to the sound of lead whizzing above me. It's not something a man should ever get used to.
I opened my eyes to flashes of red and blue filling the room. Like the calm before a storm silence crept in as dust and debris began to settle. I glimpsed over at poor pale Mickey, his fingers twitched, and his foot bobbed on a pivot, but there was no mistaking the movement of life when considering the accumulating puddle of blood staining the carpet black where his head should be. The room was punched full of more holes then Swiss cheese. The door was blown off its hinges and laying in the parking lot. Bits of furniture shrapnel and meat embedded the walls like a twisted mural. The place was a mess the likes of which no cleaning service would ever get out, a mess that could only be tidied by gasoline.
“What in God's name... Drop the weapon!” A sudden yell commanded from the ingress. The sight of a couple of boys in blue stormin' in was a relative relief. Putting up no intransigence I tossed my gun and raise my mits but remained laying on the ground.
“The names Maverick Kobe, I'm a private investigator, there's a sniper on the roof across the street!” I frantically belted out a string of words for context and warning, and the husky negro door-kicker instantaneously stooped against the wall, his skinny pasty partner followed the lead.
These two were fresh out of police training. Their movements were cold and calculated, and procedures upheld to the tenth degree. Flashes of tactical hand signs flit as they carefully slunk into position on either side of the window. Then the toothpick with the slicked back hair on the left of me took his cap off and tried the same trick I did, this time fishing no reaction. The two coppers skeptically glanced at one another, and at the unspoken count of three they both peeked out the pane at the sight of nothing. No lens flare, no jarring rustle of movement, and no sniper fire, for all intents and purposes the coast seemed clear and I looked like a crazy person.
“Man get the fuck up with your hands behind your head!” The black and blue kicked me.
“I'm not lying. I'm not lying! look at the wall! Those are .30-03 caliber holes! Those bullets only fit bolt action rifles!” They stared dumbfounded at the shredded and bloodied wall. A touch of green hit their cheeks, then their hostility diminished slightly.
“Come on get up.” Hoisted onto my feet the fuzz wasted no time in cuffing me, taking my shooter, and throwing me in the back of their cherry-topped cruise.
——————————3——————————
The car ride had an ominous air around it. The two officers sat quietly, making no attempt at conversation or questioning. On one hand who could blame 'em, being called out to a dirty motel at one in the morning, to deal with what could have been a bunch of loons with guns isn't the ideal shift. Though on the other hand, they detained a suspect without so much as reading my rights. Despite me doing my best to rationalize and elaborate, I couldn't shake that gut feeling that's kept me alive all these years.
“I gotta say, you guys should be looking for the other shooter.” I broke the silence.
“Keep quiet.” The short one bit back while combing his slick hair.
“Come to think of it, did you guys even call in evidence? Those ballistics will show I didn't break any laws.” I disregarded the order.
“My partner said; keep quiet.” The black cop reaffirmed.
“Speaking of which, you should have waited to secure the location before taking me into custody, God knows what some addict could be doing at the scene.” I go on.
“Quiet!” Yelled Slick.
I mulled over words and decided there's nothing to lose. “You guys are rookies, right?”
“I said shut up! How the hell do you even know so much?” Slick barked losing his temper.
“I was a cop for close to three decades, 42nd precinct, homicide, the Cicero beat.”
“Damn, that's a bad part of town.” The negro said with a hint of astonishment and respect. “That was years ago. Your badge number don't hold no clout no more old timer.”
“I was a damn good cop, why would I get myself in trouble like this?” I debated.
“You ain't the first retired cop that's up shit creek! It's common trade actually. Old bastards think they can pull a fast one just 'cause they know response times and procedures.” The short one added.
“He's right. Besides, what the hell were you doing at the scene of the crime, get lost on your way to the bingo parlor?” They chuckled.
“Ha. ha. I was looking for headless Mickey back there to serve him divorce papers. He got himself into a debt with the wrong people, and those lowlifes were knocking on my client’s door. Here, check my pocket, the papers are there.” Slick reached back and yanked the document out.
“We should pick your client up as well.” He said looking the papers over. “If you're telling the truth, her testimony will do wonders to absolve you.”
“What's her name and where can we find her?” The negro said as if asking for directions.
That's when it hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn't know her name, and I definitely didn't have any way of finding or contacting her. Come to think of it, she never even introduced herself during our meeting. This was very out of character for me, I didn't survive all those years because I had been oblivious to my surroundings, so why was I slipping up now? But I can't say that. “That's not important. My client has my confidentiality. Fact of the matter is Michael Juliani was up to his eyeballs in gambling debts and loan-shark vigs, so the miss's paid me 800 dollars to find and-”
“Eight HUNDERED dollars?!” the giant negro interrupted with bellowing disbelief. “With that kind of money why didn't she just pay the debt off herself and take him out to dinner with the rest?” They laughed at the absurdity of the situation and I sat back as if physically struck by the bolt of solid reasoning... The more I chewed over the logic of the situation I was in, the more the world became out of focus. My brain was fighting against a tide of misfired neurons to try and explain how I got myself into this.
“The green's all up in his head.” The short-tempered Italian jabbed and they both laugh like it was the best joke they had heard all year. Suddenly the car took a left where it should've been a right, and the chuckles simmered back into an awkward silence.
“You guys lost? The precinct was the other turn.” A heavy feeling dropped to the pit of my stomach jabbing at the kidney along the way, and hot flashes of panic turn to cold sweat. The critique stirred no response, but blocks zipped by in the wrong direction. “You guys taking a doughnut detour somethin'?” They glanced at each other and scoffed.
I might have been putting on a dumb facade, but I knew the direction we were heading in damn well. This was the way to the docks, and only two forms of business ever take place at the docks, and we sure as hell weren't gutting any fish. At that point I figured it was essential to my wellbeing to get out of these handcuffs before our arrival. Luckily my sleeves had a thin strip of wiring in them that helped to keep their shape, and with this jacket being over five years old, it didn't take much effort to slip the metal strand out from one of the tattered holes which had been fraying its way up my arm for the last month. With this thin cable at hand I placed the tip of the sliver at the crevice between the outer teeth and the inside ratchet. Then with a strained cough to cover any suspicious noise, I painfully tightened the restraint around my wrist about four clicks while shimming the wire into the mechanism. This pushed the ratchet backwards disengaging the lock, and just like that I was free. Might as well pretend to have them on, I strategized, an element of surprise never hurt a good tactician.
All to quickly we had arrived by the ocean. It was a white night, brighter than one expected be possible this late. Distant ships bobbed in the water by their anchor, and the airy hum of the wind against the water flooded the area in a soothing gray noise. The tranquil setting was undercut by the screech of tires, the slamming of doors, and the onset of dread mixing with adrenaline. Suddenly my door swung open, and there stood the greasy Italian with his piece at hand.
“Get the fuck out the car.” Slick huffed with entitled air, but I didn't move a muscle. “I said get outta the mother fuckin' car, ya piece of shit!” He enunciated his syllables, my inaction enraging him into drawing his '23 Beretta and pressing it against my temple with bone breaking intensity.
“Ok, ok, ok. I'm going.” I pleaded methodically raising my cuffed hands in a way that hid the jack yet kept the shackles from falling off. There was only one shot at this, I had to buy some time and wait for the right moment.
“It's the end of the line ya fuckin' prick.” He whipped me across the face with the grip of his gun, and I fall to my knee’s feet away from the bays edge. A full moon draped across the water, reflecting a rippling blue light onto the surrounding area. Momentarily, I'm hypnotized by the swaying ribbons of white reflections.
“Listen fellas...” A hint of pleading bled through my attempt at a calm disposition. “Whatever this is about, I'm sure we can come to an understanding.”
“I'm tired of tellin' ya to shut the FUCK up!” Slick yelled and slammed the grip against my head again. “I'm sure we can come to an understanding.” he parroted in a falsetto “You want THOSE to be your last words?!”
“I don't know what this about but let me go and I'll give you all the money I have.” At this point I'm ashamed to say, I was begging.
“You think we need more fucking competition?!”
“Competition?” I inquired in confusion.
“What did I say.” He winded up another hit but stopped after seeing me wince. “We don't need any more work. He's lucky I even share her with him.”
“Wait, the fuck you mean SHARE with me?” The black officer interrupted.
“Seriously?” Slicked asked as if it was common knowledge.
“What?” The other one said in genuine intrigue.
“DO ya think YOU'RE good enough for HER?”
“You think you're any better, little man?”
“By fucking miles!”
“You're delusional.” The negro stated bluntly.
“Delusional? You want to talk about delusional? She only keeps you around cause of that giant fuckin' cazzo in your breeches you fuckin' monkey! You have nothing else to offer her!”
“You racist piece of shit. All you fucking gueebos are the same. Tiny men with big mouths.”
“It's pronounced GUIDO you fuckin' moron!” The little guy sneered.
“Oh, my bad, my fuckin' bad.” The black cop mocked with grandiose gestures.
“Why am I even tryin' to teach a nigger new fuckin' tricks, it's a waste of my time.”
“Keep talking like that and I'll knock those 'guido' teeth right out your big fucking mouth.”
“Vaffanculo! Ya scimmia, ya piece of shit.” The Italian yelled flicking his wrist.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” There was a tense pause.
“I don't know why in God's fuckin' earth the captain stuck me with a nigger like you.”
“Maybe he knew you'd like that giant fucking cazzo in my breeches.”
“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up already. You think I'd fucking hesitate blowing your brains out and tossing you in the fuckin' lake with this deficiente...” Slick glanced at where I should be knelt, but I had long since slipped away. “Where'd he go.”
“I don't fucking know.”
“What do ya mean you don't know, weren't you watching him.”
“YOU'RE the shit for brains with the gun in his hand! It's your responsibility to keep the hostages put. Even a nigger like me knows that.” The black officer ridiculed, with a hint of satisfaction in his partners carelessness.
“Don't just stand there ya dumb mook. Spread the fuck out and find the asshole.” Slick screamed at voice crackling levels, brandishing his shooter like a whip.
“Yes master. Right away master. Maybe I should get you a nice cold lemonade too master.” The black cop mocked sarcastically, his cavalier attitude slowly growing on me despite the unsavory circumstances.
I was crouched motionless behind a stack of near-by barrels which I could have only assumed were filled with the catch of the day given their unbearable stench. The dock was wet from the splash of waves crashing against the pier and sleek from fish oil. Furtive footing would have been difficult if not impossible, and risk of running held a high likelihood of me being gunned down like a inmate in-front of a firing squad. Their bickering gave me a chance to flee away, but now with their attention focused on find me, I was stuck, ironically, like a fish in a barrel.
They split up and started checking over every possible hiding spot, turning over every nook and cranny. I had escaped my cuffs and gingerly placed them on the ground without a sound, I knew a fight had been impending, and of course Slick was fast approaching. His muscles were tense, eyes wide and frantic, pistol cocked, I looked around for a weapon to defend myself with, but I was left to fend empty handed. The other one lumbered off far enough to not pose an issue for a couple seconds, but Slick was about to turn the corner. My only chances at defending my self was a strong offense mixed with the smidgen of surprise I had at the disposal.
When he was at arms distance from the barrels, I pounced with an open palm jab at his nose, then as he squinted, his eyes watering up, I with a twist of the wrist I swiveled the gun in Slicks hand 180 degrees. His grip was loose, inexperienced and unsuspecting, despite all the big talk the rookie had no idea what was happening. I could see the fear and confusion in his eyes as they tried to process the actions to find a way to counter gain control again, but it was too late. With the gun was aimed at his stomach, and I pressed his own finger down on the trigger four times. Each of the shots was slightly muffled by the force with which I pressed the barrel against his body, muzzle flashes lit up the area in a white flurry. He started to scream, garnering the attention of his partner, but a fifth shot finally shut him up and he passed out falling to the ground like a wet coat, practically handing me the hardware from his limp mitt in the process.
“Don't move a fucking muscle or I'll shoot you dead and leave you to rot with the fish.” I immediately aim the gun at his partner, who had been reaching for the piece strapped on his side. He froze like a kid playing playground games. “Don't think about even flexing a damn muscle. What the hell was that? Who do you work for? You on mod payroll? Were you sent to collect Mickey's debt? What the fuck is this green everyone is on about.”
“That's a lot of questions man.” He starts to slowly move for his gun. “Questions I can't even begin to explain.” He undoes the holsters and grabs the grip.
“I said don't fucking move god damn it!” I yelled in futility, knowing damn well in the back of my mind I wasn't convincing anyone of shit. “I don't want to kill you.”
“I can't help it, brother. You don't seem like a bad guy...” his speech was filled with a light tremolo as his eyes began to tear-up. “But it's too late... The green.... it's in my veins.”
“Wait. Stop. We can talk this-” My words trickled off, syllables falling short. Thoughts disheveled as he drew his weapon and lifted the pistol at arm’s length. Resonant shots rang through-out the pier, distant rustling of startled birds followed, and the airy hum of the ocean returned shortly after.
Two more were dead. This night was shaping up to be one giant headache, but I had no time to think. Tossing the Beretta into the water, I retrieved my six-shooter from the police car and made sure I left nothing behind that can pin me to this mess. Then it was one last glance at the flowing majesty of the crimson blue expanse before me, it's beauty and peacefulness beckoning me to march into its arrant embrace. Then I jogged far away from incrimination.
——————————4——————————
The devil’s hour rang...
A strange aimless wander lust struck me. Despite there being a hand full of places to be and dozens John Does to talk too, I couldn't help but inexplicably bum around the streets of New York. I had no plan and lost my sense of direction hours ago. It's as if I had been consumed with the concept of turning down intersections I've never turned down before. Left on Jackson's Way, right on Bellum Avenue, then another let on Willow Drive. Inexplicably cut diagonally through an overgrown decommissioned parking lots and even jumping a fence or two.
When my sense finally returned, I ended up by the highway off-ramp on Grand and 9th, miles from the pier and even further from my office. There nestled in the corner underneath the i-80 overpass was some dead-end dive bar with no name but plenty of violet neon open signs. No self-respecting man would set into a hole in the wall like that, but a dry beer and a place to sit for a smoke sounded like just the medicine I needed. That is until I threw the steel door open and saw a sight that made my heart drop out of my sleeve for the hundredth time today.
There she was, perched against the microphone, singing like a jailbird with a broken wing. Rays of light in the dim joint pierced through clouds of cigar smoke and danced against her skin like a hallucination moving in tandem with the music. Unadulterated rage consumed me, boiling over into irrationality. I could've cared less if I’m interrupting the performance of a lifetime by this point. I began to push through the crowd toward the stage, knocking over tables in outrage, plotting to yank her outside for a chat. When suddenly a spark of recognition flooded her big jade eyes before it mixed with something else, something much more sinister that gripped at my soul like cold fingers.
I froze in my tracks like a startled dear in headlights. The more I stared into those green marbles, the more the room began to whirl like night of vodka and darken like just before a play. Finally, I found my knees buckle into the nearest empty seat, and all that was left aside the veiled darkness clouding my world was a dusty ray of light hitting the microphone, accenting those bright, practically glowing, jade eyes. Suddenly the song became all about me and every word revealed secrets long lost to the sands of time. Pressure set about building at the back of my head slowly drowning out the screaming voice warning me to run, fast and far, and pray I don't look back over my shoulder. Like a bad acid trip, my muscles tightened, and the pressure built to a popping point, and the subconsciousness advice of flight was quickly drowned under the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and the bellowing echo of a 20th century war cry.
Out from the bubbled shroud of darkness which covered my surroundings frantically burst a crazed man wielding a splintered broken chair leg above his head. The bloke seemed ordinary enough, average build, deep blue eyes, touch of gray in his hair. He had the look of a husband and father, the features of a nine-to-fiver. Yet his expression was mangled into a knot of predatory anger and jealousy, contorting his face with animistic contours. Before logic could process deduction and catch up with thought to assign consequence to action, I drew my pistol and in one fluid motion slapped the hammer twice, gunning the poor bastard down as if he was rabid. The man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and as the dead weight crashed against the parlor floor, blood splattered across my face, concealing my inexplicable smile and hollow eyes. My soul screamed, but my flesh did not hear it.
The smirk turned to a grimace when two more men came running at me from the silky black abyss. This time they were kids, a couple of punks who probably snuck into the club under the pretense of getting drunk with their newly street bought ID's in the hopes of securing lunchroom bragging rights come Monday morning. Well, they never made it home that night, I fanned another four shots out from a hip draw and flipped the table over to use as cover while I loaded up my six shooter again. Popping the revolver open, the metal twang of spent casings hitting the ground rang in my ears like shellshock. Then while drunkenly pulling fist fulls of lead out of my pocket and haphazardly shoving them into their respective chambers, the bar fills with light as if the mysterious black fog had been blown away by furious winds and my eyes lock onto that skeeving green-eyed bitch.
She sat there on the stage, legs fucking crossed, cigarette between her lips, and a twisted grin of sadism sprawled across the post-orgasm expression painted over her face. The nagging voice from the back of my skull shot forward in a scream like a banshee. No longer suppressed, guilt floods my body in its icy burn as sense returns and the carnage from the ensuing battle royal is fully processed.
My newly found lucidity startled her, with a provoked a fight or flight response she kicked up from the seat and high-tailed it out of the bar. Just as the exit door slammed shut behind her, the room began to pacify as if a collective kill-switch had been flipped off. People began to shake and weep in panic. White with fear, many of the customers dropped to the ground out cold, those that didn't either decided to make a run for it or knelt where they stood and began to pray as if just possessed. My instincts are what kept me alive all these years and for some godforsaken reason I had been ignoring them all night long. So while my gut told me to pocket my spent shell casings off the floor and get as far from this place as possible before the police arrived, I figured why start listening to that nagging voice now, and I took after that damn bitch with the intent of putting her in the damn ground.
The heavens were bleeding outside, the downpour painted diagonal streaks against a pink tinted sky. Her drug had faded away, and just like the residues of a dissociative high, the world appeared through freshly awakened morning senses. Colors popped like a varnished oil painting, smells flooded in on overwhelming levels, sounds appeared foreign and distant, muffled like my reaction time which itself was dragged through molasses. Yet that wasn't going to stop me. I bolted after her half blind and footed down a nearby alleyway. Despite her inhuman cruelty, she ran like the frail rose she feigned to be. It didn't take much for me to catch up with her, upon doing so I grabbed her by the shoulder and slammed her against the wall, seizing my right hand around her throat. She shook like a leaf, scared senseless. Her upper lip quivered from the icy rain, and her eyes pleaded me in ways no words could ever convey.
Those big green eyes... The vibrant green of her eyes... I tried to fight them. Anger consumed me like a shitfaced drunk fighting for sobriety, and the pure rage gushed into my hands as I slammed her against the wall until she gave out the whimper of a hurt animal. I tried to fight the green, but it filled me with its disease... Her hair felt like silk, her perfume smelled like spring, I couldn't help but lean in for a stolen kiss.
When our lips connected, a hot pain seared from my stomach before exploding into paralyzing agony like I've never felt before. Glancing downward, the handle of a knife jutted out from my abdomen... the bitch. In one swift motion before the last of my energy bled out, I drew my shooter unloaded an entire chamber point blank into her chest until my gun clicked empty. She painted the wall behind her red and I collapsed into the gutter.
The rain felt nice on my slowly numbing face. With the green gone, I almost feel happy for the first time tonight. So, with a well-deserved sigh of relief, I black out with a victorious smile..
——————————5——————————
…No, of course I didn't die. How would I be telling you this story if I had? The next day I woke up at Pembroke Hospital with a sheriff stationed outside my door. This time my badge held a lot of clout, he even took off his hat in respect of my service to the force. I was released from my stay at emergency a free man, they never traced any evidence back to me. I know what you're thinking, but no, there's no denouement to this tale, no moral to be gained, only thing I can say, if you ever see a woman whose beauty you can't believe, don't look into her greens.
Good God, look away from those greens...
