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Coleman Hayes fed another coin into one of the Greektown Casino’s slot machines. The lunchtime crowd was thin but committed, and the electronic boop-de-boop of the machines sounded like mall muzak playing at double speed. Coleman’s phone buzzed as he punched the spin button. He watched the dial whirl as he fished in his pocket. Natasha’s text read: WE HAVE A WINNER. He could hear her voice in his head with her accent, chewing on the Ws like Juicy Fruit and growling out the R to make herself sound American. Coleman left a free play on the tab and made his way to the exit. He stopped at the revolving door to put on his puffer and sunglasses, but stepped outside before he took the big-ass Russian hat Natasha had given him out of his pocket. The wind sliced down Monroe Avenue, flecking his cheeks with grit as he made his way to the Lincoln. He slid behind the wheel, checked the mirrors then reached under the seat for his piece, a blue snub-nose Taurus. The Nikon, already out of the case, lay on the passenger seat. *** The winner was older than Coleman expected, little blue pill old, which made Coleman feel kinda bad for him there with his dick out as the Nikon strobed in his face. Jesus, if Natasha had tipped him that the cat was ready for the retirement home he’d have skipped the shock and awe stage. If the old guy had a stroke or some shit—okay, it wouldn’t make much difference, but it would spoil Coleman’s good mood. “Hey!” the cat kept saying, pushing Natasha behind him like a true gentleman, cupping his junk with his other hand. “Hey!” Coleman kept snapping, making sure to get the props Natasha had laid out—fake fur-lined handcuffs; the rest of a dime bag and the mirror and credit card she’d chopped the coke up with; an eighteen-inch purple latex dildo with dangling rubber balls. She’d turned the TV on for the noise like Coleman told her, so the old guy’s “heys” were just about drowned out by the ladies on The Real, talking about “drugstore deals.” Coleman let the camera hang on the strap around his neck and pulled the Taurus. He didn’t point it at the dude, just showed it to him and put it back in his pocket. “I hate to do this to you, man,” Coleman said. “The money is in coat,” Natasha said, nodding at a black wool trench on the floor in the corner as she reached around her back to do up her bra. “Seven thousand.” “Lucky man,” Coleman said, as picked up the coat. “How much did you start with?” “Two.” “Put your pants on,” Coleman said. He pulled out the banded cash and fanned back twenty Benjamins with his thumb. He tugged the bills out of the stack and tucked them back in the guy’s coat. He folded the other fifty bills in half and wedged the roll into his pants pocket. “What do you do for a living, Jack? Are you in the car business?” “He’s a dentist,” Natasha said. “He tell me I have beautiful veneers.” “Congratulations.” Coleman paused, smiled big, all natural, white enough to sell toothpaste. “Here’s the deal, man. We’re going to take this five thou off you and let you get back to your life. All you gotta do is walk away. Dice money anyway; you were just holding it for a minute. “Door number two: you call the police, tell ‘em the whole story, Russian bitch with one of those cat faces and Beverly Hills tits, skinny ass African-American gentleman with a shaved head and a Carlos Santana mustache.” Coleman caught the cat’s eyes, made sure he got a good look at him. “If that happens, I got an associate who makes sure everybody you know gets a gander at these pictures: your wife, your kids, the bitches down at the Country Club, that hot young hygienist you got working for you because she was the most qualified, all your patients. Five grand is what, two crowns? A week at the office?” “My wallet’s in my pocket,” the guy said. “You want my watch?” He undid the clasp, a stainless-steel job, not a Timex, Coleman presumed, the dude still showing Coleman his hands so he’d know he couldn’t turn thin air into a .38 special. “Keep it,” Coleman said, picking up the guy’s pants. “Save you making up a story for your wife. You can keep the wallet, too. I just need to make sure we’re on the same page.” He flipped open the wallet with his left hand and snapped a photo of the guy’s license with his right before he tossed it on the bed. Before he could complete the motion, the guy snatched that almost two-foot purple dildo off the nightstand and swung the dangling balls around like a bolo, caught the stickup man on the point of the chin as pretty as Floyd Mayweather. The hotel room door was hanging open when Coleman came to and spat four teeth onto the carpet. He heard the water shut off, and Natasha came out of the bathroom with a washcloth pressed to her forehead. “We will need new camera,” she announced. © 2026 Jay Randall About the author: Jay Randall is a writer-editor for a nonprofit organization in Virginia. His short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Dark Yonder and the After Happy Hour Review.
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“When I go, no one will find me,” Sunny said.
They’d been watching a movie involving a woman who disappears herself from her life to start a different existence in a different place under a different name. “What do you mean ‘when’ you go?” Tamra asked. Steph gave a chuckle. “Something you want to tell us, Sunny?” Amaria picked up the empty popcorn bowl and brought it to the kitchen. Silent. As she hand-washed the stoneware bowl, Amaria pictured Sunny responding with a shrug and a smirk as she did when she wanted you to think she knew something you wished you knew. The cat rubbed against Amaria’s leg. She scooped wet food into the cat’s dish. Conditioned to respond. Twenty-four hours later, Sunny was gone. She had threatened to walk out plenty of times. That night was the first time she mentioned it in front of other people, only she’d left out what she usually told Amaria when they were alone: “I can do so much better than you.” Eventually, Amaria would have Tamra and Steph over for another movie night and tell them Sunny was gone. They’d be sympathetic. Not surprised. Not after all the cutting criticism and bruising remarks they heard Sunny level at Amaria. They stopped laughing that off a long time ago. Tamra and Steph were wise enough to figure what went on between Sunny and Amaria in private was worse than what they witnessed. The house felt bigger without Sunny. More light. More air. Yet, sleeping without Sunny in the bed was more difficult than Amaria expected. When they’d spent nights apart recently, it felt like a reprieve to fall asleep without the need to fight through a layer of tension before her mind and body settled. The first night with Sunny truly gone, though, Amaria tossed and turned so much the cat hopped off the bed leaving a disconcerting warm indentation on Sunny’s pillow. The following evening, Amaria watched a Bollywood film that involved a love triangle, a gang war, an exploding helicopter, and people inexplicably breaking into song and dance. It covered pretty much every emotion she was feeling at the moment. The cat jumped up on the couch, yawned, and rested her head and a paw on Amaria’s thigh. Amaria yawned and rested her hand on the cat. They closed their eyes and breathed together. Chests rising and falling. Warm blood pumping. Amaria would have made popcorn, but the bowl was gone. Shame. It was heavy, antique stoneware worth a good deal more than what she’d paid for it at a garage sale. Sunny would sneer and roll her eyes whenever someone complimented it. She’d done it the last time they were with Tamra and Steph. Inevitably, after Tamra and Steph had gone, Sunny picked a fight with Amaria. There was a slap. More than one. Then a thud as Amaria smacked the stoneware bowl into the side of Sunny’s head, connecting first with a steel-sharp cheekbone then with Sunny’s temple. More than once. Sunny went down with a mousy squeak, her fingers scratching the air. Then her mouth slacked and her fingers stopped scratching. Amaria froze. The unblemished bowl fell from her fingers and broke into pieces on the tile floor of the kitchen. The cat had studied her without judgment, lapped up some food, and walked out. Sometime before dawn, Amaria opened her eyes and recoiled at a mouse twitching, not quite dead, on Sunny’s pillow. The cat meowed, announcing her kill. Amaria swore. She might have cried. Then she took the mouse to the woods, dug a hole—another hole—and buried it where even the cat wouldn’t find it. © 2026 Leslie Elman About the author: Leslie Elman is an Edgar Award-nominated writer whose short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Vautrin, Stone’s Throw, and Mystery Magazine. |
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