I arrived early for a 1:00 pm drop on the corner of Tanglewood and Lamont. The intersection was congested, the late Friday lunch crowd scurrying like rats from one restaurant to another. The search for an empty two-top was on.
“Good luck without a reservation,” I mumbled. I leaned against a brick wall, lit a cigarette and stole a drag. And another. Just enough time for small pleasures. Cool menthol excited my taste buds. Sweet smoke burned my lungs and billowed out my nostrils like a dragon in a kid’s storybook. Only problem was I quit smoking two weeks ago. Oh, well. At five past, a cook from Antonio’s, our crew's favorite haunt, lumbered out. He had dark curly hair and wore a white apron marred with grease and marinara. He placed a plastic trash bag on the sidewalk and shuffled off. The bag had a large bouquet sprouting from it: roses, lilies, baby’s breath. It was easily a forty dollar arrangement. Perfect for the missus. What a waste. I adjusted the white rose in the lapel of my black suit and sauntered over to the bag like I had all the time in the world. I didn't. Three blocks away, on Hanover Street, a blue car was waiting for my 1:15 delivery. The cops had eyes on Antonio's, so my boss, Tony “Boots,” concocted an elaborate plan: flowers, black suits and multiple drop sites. Theatrics. “Everyone on the team has been hand-picked,” Tony had said. Challenge was, he left out some important things about his plan. And he did it on purpose. “You won’t know everyone involved,” he had said. “And you’ll only know your piece of the puzzle. That way you can’t screw me over or go to the cops.” I wanted to tell Tony where to shove his plan, but I decided against it. I was broke, not stupid. Afterall, Tony was an established hood with a nasty reputation. Even his nickname, Tony “Boots,” had an ugly backstory. It wasn’t just that he always wore designer dress boots. Leather to the ankle, with the zipper on the side. No, he really got the name because if you crossed him, he’d give you the proverbial boot. That could mean a hard kick to the ribs or a one-way jaunt down the Scarborough River. It all depended on how bad you screwed up. Sounds cliché, but that was Tony. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan of Tony’s methods. Especially since I was the mule du jour and the cargo was probably a brick of cocaine, or worse, a guy’s head. “Keep it simple,” was my motto. Less things can go wrong that way. But I was in debt. Horses, cards, dice—you name it. And working it off with Tony was the fastest way to get out from under him. No one wanted to be under Tony. He weighed over two-twenty and looked like a professional wrestler. Besides, planning wasn’t my strong suit. I was a doer. My left hand slipped to my side; I snatched the trash bag and headed south, my heels clicking on the pavement like passing seconds. Before long, an aquamarine coupe filled my view. I walked up to it, deposited the bag in the open trunk as planned, and turned to go. Easy as an after dinner stroll. A few more gigs like this and I’d be flush again. But I didn’t get very far before the driver rushed out. “Hey!” he hollered. “Wait a second.” He had a wiry build and stood a few inches taller than me. He wore a black suit that looked two sizes too small and a white rose in his lapel. I didn’t recognize his face, but we were dressed the same. Exactly as Tony had planned. “Why’d you dump trash in my car?” he said, his face scrunched up like a prune. I stopped and stared at him, my mouth gaping. I’ll be honest, it wasn’t my best look. Then on the opposite side of Hanover Street, I spotted another blue coupe. Its driver was leaning against the passenger door. His name was Mickey, like the mouse. He also wore a black suit, only it fit better, and a white rose through his lapel. I had worked with him a few years back on some small-time shenanigans that didn’t pay off. He waved me over. I grabbed the trash bag from the open trunk. “Sorry, buddy. Wrong car,” I said. “Stop!” the wiry guy replied, flashing a silver badge. He drew a .38 revolver from underneath his jacket. “Police.” My eyes darted left and right. There was nowhere to go or hide. I dropped the bag. It landed on the sidewalk with a thud. Busted. I flicked my cigarette to the curb. Sweat drained from my brow. “What are the odds?” I muttered. Across the street, Mickey slid into his car. I bit the inside of my cheek as he slowly drove away. The undercover cop tossed me his cuffs. “Put these on.” I did. He opened the trash bag with one hand and peered in. “Coke,” he said with a sneer. “Unless you cut a deal, you’re going away for a long time.” Then he grabbed the bouquet, put it up to his nose, and took a deep breath. “Flowers? Nice touch, pal. You shouldn’t have.” I shook my head. “What can I say? I never know when to quit.” © 2025 James Patrick Focarile About the author: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer and Derringer Finalist 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: Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com
9 Comments
Timothy A Carter
6/15/2025 11:58:34 am
I defplan to read more by this author. Very enjoyable.
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Gary Allen
6/16/2025 03:45:19 pm
Kept me on the edge of my seat as usual!
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Kevin McNeill
6/16/2025 04:20:35 pm
Good fun as we’ve come to expect with James!!
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Linda
6/16/2025 11:06:17 pm
Masterful writer who creates tension and interest instantly! More, please. 👏
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Tim
6/17/2025 10:40:08 am
Always a good day when one of James’s stories “drops.” Well done!
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6/17/2025 12:43:39 pm
Whoops. Details matter. Good character development in a flash piece. Nice job !
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Brad Mauzerall
6/18/2025 12:34:51 am
Fantastic writing! Enjoyable, gritty and terrific tempo.
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Ray E. Morse
6/19/2025 03:12:39 pm
Great use of tension and humor. A wonderful noir-ish ending.
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