Kevin Markinson was sitting on an old leather couch in the dark-paneled den of his boss’s house, sipping at a shot of Jack Daniel’s. His leg throbbed, which meant he hadn’t had enough to drink yet. He was struggling to pay attention to the old man on the other side of the room.
“I need you to do a job for me.â€
“I’ll do anything for you,†he said over the phone.
“You really don’t want to clean my basement, Bradley,†I said. Our first date he insisted I call him Bradley. â€Bradley Humphries,†he’d said, â€not Brad.â€
He stared silently at his glass of beer, the look of an old man who’d made a decision.
His rough worn jeans and flannel shirt were out of place in the bar populated by what he’d invariably call “young ‘uns,†professionals in suits and ties.
“What are you doing here?â€
“Thinkin’,†he told me. “You?â€
Billie Slack was nearly seventeen the summer she found her father’s name in a Detroit telephone directory in a branch of the Philadelphia public library. “Wilton Wist,†she read aloud. “Wilton Wist.†Of course, there was no guarantee this was her father; it was, after all, the third Wilton Wist she had come across.
Wilton Wist #1 lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. She had called him nearly two years ago, and after keeping her on the phone for twenty minutes pretending to some sort of relationship, #1 finally admitted to being in his eighties. No, he confessed regretfully, he had neither sons nor male relatives with his name. “Let me know if you find him,†he urged as she quietly replaced the receiver. “You can call me collect.â€
“Shh!†she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the television.
I stomp into the kitchen for another beer. I’ve already had two and we are only forty-five minutes into the movie. Of course Doug had let her pick it…again.
You’ve just killed a man. He’s lying on the carpet and the gun is in your hand, heavy and warm, and there’s a smell in the air like burnt cork. There’s not much blood because he died instantly, from a bullet to the heart, and dead men don’t keep bleeding.
You swallow hard. Your pulse is racing and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. You’re afraid someone heard the shot, because you’re in a hotel room with paper-thin walls. Someone could be dialing 911 at this moment, the cops could bust in and find you if you don’t haul ass out of here. Of course, they’ll find you anyway, this foolproof scheme of yours is bitched up good, but you’re not ready to be caught just yet.
J.E. Seymour has had crime fiction published in Shots Crime and Mystery Magazine, A Cruel World, Mysterical-E and Windchill, an anthology of crime fiction by New England writers.
A. C. Ellis has two science fiction novels published in paperback editions: Death Jag by Manor Books and Worldmaker by Ace Books. Worldmaker was reprinted in Germany, and was recently optioned to an independent Los Angeles film production company.
Ellis has published two more sf novels as e-books, as well as a handful of short work in both print and electronic formats. His e-books can be accessed through his Web page at www.acellis.net.
Ellis lives in Denver, Colorado.
E.C. Morgan’s short fiction has appeared in Mysterical-e and A Cruel World, and is forthcoming in Crime Spree Magazine. He has also published non-fiction in more than 75 magazines. His writing and mystery blog is http://ecmorgan.blogspot.com.
Patricia Abbott has published stories in journals such as Fourteen Hills, Inkwell, The Potomac Review and The Portland Review. Having come over to the dark side now, forthcoming stories will appear in Demolition and SHOTS.