Debt Owed by Patrick Simpson & Brandon Barrows

     ​I didn’t appreciate having to wait a full minute after knocking on Frank Butler’s door. I knew he was home; the sounds of shuffling feet and creaking floor told me that. But useless threats through the door wouldn’t get me anything besides attention from nosy neighbors.
     When Frank finally cracked the door, his eyes widened. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, pulling the door open with a certain urgency. I walked in and Frank stepped backwards like a dog who’d learned to fear his master.
     I’d never been in Frank’s apartment, but it was exactly how I imagined it: clutter across the floor, dishes piled in the kitchen sink, furniture that hadn't been cleaned in years. He kept the blinds closed like he wanted no part of the real world seeping in.
     I brushed loose papers off a mahogany kitchen chair and sat. Frank took the chair across the table and quietly situated himself on top of a wobbly mess of magazines. He was sweating like a pig in August.
     Frank said, “I’ve seen you around the club the last few weeks. You’re working for Mr. Salvatore now?
     “Yeah, and you know why I’m here.”
     He nodded so vigorously I thought his head might fly off.
     “Good. Then grab the five grand you owe, and I’ll be gone. I’ve been asking around and I know you’ve managed to glom onto at least that much.”
     “Well—”
     I was already bored of excuses I hadn’t even heard yet. I took the .45 from beneath my leather jacket. I didn’t need to say a word, just let him stare at the gun long enough to know he didn’t have many options.
     He cleared his throat. “I’ll have Salvatore’s money in two days. It’s true I’ve got the cash, but it’s tied up—”
     I cocked the .45’s hammer.
     Frank raised his hands. “I’m not trying to skip or welsh. I swear.”
     “Good. You wouldn’t make it far.”
     “I’m asking for two more days.”
     There was a creaking sound. We both turned to see a girl of about five with yellow pigtails and bright blue eyes standing at the edge of the kitchen. She wore Kermit the Frog pajamas and held a doll with the same blonde pigtails she had herself. I hoped I hid my surprise.
     Unfazed by the scene in front of her, the girl rubbed her eyes. “Daddy, you woke me up.”
     “I’m sorry, honey. Just go back to bed.”
     She moved her whole body, turning towards me. Her eyes focused on the automatic.
     “Daddy, is that a real gun?”
    Frank forced a laugh. “No, of course not. It’s a toy. My friend was just showing it to me.”
     Slowly, I turned the barrel towards the girl, keeping my focus on Frank. You could have heard a pin drop. Frank rose from his seat to put himself between me and his daughter. His back to me, he said, “Honey, it’s past your bedtime. I’m gonna talk to my friend for a few minutes and then I’ll read you another story, okay?”
     Whatever was on his face was convincing; wordlessly, she turned and left the room.
     “You’re a piece of shit, Frank, but that isn’t news. Do I need to tell you what happens if you keep stalling?”
     Frank looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing, then moved to the kitchen counter. He opened a drawer, rummaging in it. I heard silverware scraping metallically. I tensed as his hand came out slowly, but it only held an envelope, pinched between thumb and forefinger. At a snail’s pace, he pushed the drawer back in, still stalling. Feet dragging, head hanging, he inched his way to me and held out the envelope.
     “Sit down,” I told him, motioning with the gun.
     Frank sat. I counted hundred-dollar bills, watching out of the corner of my eye, wondering if Frank was dumb enough to try anything, thinking I was distracted. He sat still, arms crossed, his wrists together like they were tied—like he was trapped.
     He was trapped and he knew it. He owed Salvatore money. That was cleared, but now Frank would instead owe whoever he got the money from and probably piss off whoever was expecting it.
    Satisfied with the count, I stood, both the gun and the envelope in my jacket pocket. At the apartment door, I looked back to find Frank still in his chair, unmoving, head in his hands.
     “You were a terrible husband, the worst mistake of my life. I don’t know who you conned into actually procreating with you, but I’m sure you’re a terrible father, too,” I told him. “Clean up your fucking act—for her sake, if you don’t give a shit about yourself.”
     Frank looked up at me. There was defeat in his eyes, but maybe something else too, like he actually heard me.
     Whatever, it wasn’t my problem. I had a job to do and I did it. I kept thinking of that little girl though, and what might have been if I’d maybe known how to get tough with Frank all those years ago.

About the authors:

Patrick is a lifelong Maryland resident. He graduated from Southern New Hampshire University with an M.A. in English and Creative Writing. His short fiction has been published in Mystery Tribune and The Penmen Review. His debut novel, Pierce, was published last March. 

Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows