We met at Marciano’s in Midtown at 8:00 p.m. on Wednesdays. Hump Day. We sat at the long mahogany bar and drank dirty martinis. She was in her mid-twenties and called herself Anna. She had long legs that ran like the interstate to red, slingback heels and wore short skirts. After three months, I figured it was a standing date. But a glance at my phone indicated 8:15 p.m. and still no Anna. No messages either. That was unlike her.
I hope she’s safe, I thought. I paid for her time. Cash. And I paid well. Especially since all we did was talk. No, really. Since my wife Mary had passed away over a year ago, I needed someone who’d listen. Anna was that someone. At 8:30 p.m., Anna walked in with an athletic guy half my age. He was boyish looking, but probably close to thirty. She strolled right by, didn’t even give me a nod. Her musky perfume hit me like a cinder block to the head. At 9:15 p.m., after downing two cocktails at a corner high top, they left arm-in-arm, her face nuzzled in the nape of his neck. Her hot, breathy voice singing sweet nothings in his ear. I followed them closely for a few blocks and slipped into the apartment building they entered before the main entrance swung shut. I skulked up the stairs behind them and hung back until they closed their apartment door. But they didn’t. They left it half open. Why? I didn’t surprise them when I finally entered. They were waiting for me. The main room was empty, not a single furnishing or decoration. Anna stood at the center under the warm glow of a dome-shaped ceiling lamp. She held a pocket-size .22. Her male companion was off to her side. He had a snub-nosed .38 pointed at my gut. My heart pounded in my throat. Anna broke the silence. “Close the door, Don.” I held fast, my feet planted on the hardwood floor. “Now,” she said. I pushed it shut. “What’s going on?” I said, my voice wavering. “I thought we had an arrangement. Then you show up with this clown. And now guns?” Anna cleared her throat. “You’re getting excited. That’s not like you.” I took a step forward and her companion moved closer. I stopped. “You’ve been playing me.” “It’s not like that,” she said. “Be smart. No one needs to get hurt.” I raised my voice. “It’s a little late for that.” “Calm down.” “What do you want?” “What do you think? “Money?” I said. Before she could answer, her partner spoke up. “Ten grand.” His voice was thin and didn’t match his muscles. I laughed. “You can afford it,” he said. He was right. “How do I know you won’t kill me after you get it?” He smirked. “You don’t.” “I don’t carry ten grand on me.” He gestured with the .38. “But you can get it.” Anna glared at him. “We don’t have time for that. I told you to keep it simple.” She turned to me. “Hand him your wallet, Don. At the end of the month, you can cancel the credit cards. After that, I promise you won’t hear from us.” “You ‘promise,’ huh?” Her jade eyes turned dark. “I’m in trouble. I owe some people money.” I grinned. “Really?” “It’s the truth. We’re leaving town tonight.” “And I’m an easy mark.” “I need a fresh start.” “Then you should’ve come to me.” “It’s too late for that,” she said. “We could’ve figured this out. You wouldn’t have had to run.” “These people want their pound of flesh.” “I could’ve—” “Enough!” her lover said. “One old man can’t solve this.” I fixed my eyes on Anna. “Have you really thought this through?” She nodded but it lacked confidence. “How do you know I won’t cancel the credit cards tonight? Or call the cops?” “The same way I knew you’d follow us. You’re a good guy, Don. But you can’t let things go.” I shook my head. “After three months,” she said. “I know you.” “I’m not so sure you do.” “You’re no regular john. I know that.” “No,” I said. “I’m not.” Anna stepped out of the light. “Help me now. Please.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m going to reach for my wallet.” I slid my hand into my inside blazer pocket. I grabbed my wallet, opened it, and handed her partner the credit cards. “The cash too,” she said. I handed him ten hundred dollar bills. “Now forget us,” she said. “And remember, it’s just money.” “It’s more than that.” “Don’t be dramatic. This isn’t personal, it’s business.” “Everything’s personal,” I muttered. Anna raised her .22 level with my chest. “Don’t let pride force me to do something we’ll both regret.” I let her words hang there. Then I walked out and down the stairs to the street and headed south. The 9mm Sig Sauer holstered under my left shoulder dragged me down. Why hadn’t I pulled my gun when I reached for my wallet? Why hadn’t I put Anna and her boyfriend down? I was a professional. Retired, but with years of hits under my belt. It would’ve been easy to kill them: a nice Sunday stroll on a cool autumn day. But she’d listened to me for three months. Twelve Wednesdays. She’d softened the edges of my loss and heartache with her comforting words and smiles. Even if it was all an act, she’d helped me to heal. Maybe this was a small price to pay to ease a broken heart. Maybe I owed it to her. Maybe I got what I paid for after all. I slipped my hand to my weapon. The grip was comforting, an old friend. Then I let it go. If Anna shook me down again, she’d get more than she bargained for. She didn’t know me. Not really. Not my heart. Next time, I’d have no trouble settling up. About the author: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer who resides in the Northwest, U.S.A. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Guilty Flash, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com
8 Comments
Linda Clark-Santos
10/7/2024 01:31:30 pm
JPF is no regular James! His short works do NOT disappoint.
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Mary Pat Smith
10/7/2024 01:39:01 pm
I've been turned around by James' writing style. Never a fan of short stories or fast fiction, I've come to see that less is often more. James conveys emotions and deep character development in a few short words. And he always leaves me wanting more.
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Mark
10/7/2024 01:42:12 pm
I love James' flow. To me it is the syntax of old radio crime. I can almost hear the baritone narrator promising the next meeting would not be as pleasant.
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Kevin
10/7/2024 02:20:14 pm
Always a pleasure reading James’ crime fiction! And he has a talent for building tension, followed by a surprise twist - so good, and never disappoints!
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David
10/7/2024 04:00:58 pm
A good short story to me is one that leaves me caring about what might be next for these characters, or how they got to this snapshot in time. This is a good example. Left me wondering and interested.
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Tracy
10/8/2024 12:57:20 pm
It’s hard to develop characters, build a plotline, and even include a surprising twist in short stories, but James manages to do that… and more.
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Gary
10/8/2024 10:46:04 pm
James' stories pull me in every time. I'd like to see chapter 2 of this story!
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Ray E Morse
10/17/2024 09:55:02 am
Fantastic story! Fast-paced and hardboiled with a great surprise reveal at the end!
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