Bostwick Blues

by Don Blinebry

Margot’s jaw muscles are working overtime. She’d take a punch at me if she was sure she wouldn’t break a nail. She’s sitting in the passenger seat staring into oblivion and I wonder if bringing her along is as good an idea as it seemed when I thought of it.
This isn’t what you want running through your head on a stakeout. I focus on the front door of the Bostwick Hotel fifty feet away. I check everyone. Some punk with a shaved head walks by and suddenly I’m thinking about ammunition.
“Excuse me.” I reach across Margot and open the glove compartment. Without taking my eyes off the hotel, I find the spare clip and close the glove box.
“Forget to load your little gun, Pike? I thought you were a hotshot detective.”
I smile. “Call me Hancock. All my friends do. This is a hot load. I’m not taking chances with ricochets on a crowded street.” She’s staring out the window again.
“You’re really going to kill him, just like that.” Her voice is matter-of-fact and it’s not a question.
“No, not just like that. That’s what you’re here for. You said he might listen to you. He’s an escaped felon. Tell him to surrender and nobody gets hurt. That’s the deal. If he puts up a fight, I’ll take him down.”
“Jake would kill you if he knew you dragged me here.”
“Nobody dragged you and who the hell is Jake? Oh, you mean Eugene? Yes, well, if I had a name like that, I’d change it too. Who you gonna scare with a name like Eugene?”
“He scares plenty of people.” I can’t tell if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
“Really? Like who? Children and small animals? You? Did he scare you when he gave you this?” I touch the scar near the corner of her eye. She jerks away and glares at me. It’s supposed to be her angry look but she’s close to tears.
“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the first woman he’s beat up. He did two years for battery in ’04.”
Silence. I check the hotel. She’s staring out the window but the jaw muscles are quiet.
“You didn’t know about the assault conviction, did you? When he got arrested for armed robbery, the judge came down hard because of the priors. What’s a pretty girl like you doing with that scum?”
She lets the question hang there like wet pantyhose draped over the shower rod. Shorty, my street snitch, walks out of the hotel, rubs his neck and goes back in. Nothing to report.
“I suppose you never had a bad day and went home and beat up your wife or your girlfriend?” Her question takes me by surprise. “All guys do that.”
“No, all guys don’t do that. Hell, even if I had a wife or a girlfriend…just because you fell for a creep doesn’t mean everybody’s a bastard.”
I can see the street lights reflect off damp eyes. I wonder if she’s feeling sorry for me or herself or Eugene. Probably not Eugene.
“Do you really think I’m pretty?”
“You don’t have mirrors?”
“Well, of course. I think I look okay, except for my nose and my mouth is too wide. You can’t hide that with makeup. Jake is the only one who ever said I was pretty until you said it, sort of.”
“He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. Don’t kid yourself. When you’re not around, he says the same thing to somebody else.”
“Oh, like you’d know.”
I take my eyes off the hotel. “I’m the one who brought him in, so yeah, I know what he says when you’re not around. I’m just saying you could’ve done better. When Eugene goes back to the joint, he won’t be getting out.”
“They said that before. The next time he escapes, he’ll be looking for me.”
Shorty is in front of the hotel again. He adjusts his cap and walks into the deli next door. “This is it.” I chamber a round and open the car door. “Get out and stay close to the buildings. Wait for my signal before you tell him to surrender.”
I keep the car between me and the hotel and focus my attention on the entrance. From the corner of my eye I watch her cross the sidewalk.
Eugene pushes through the hotel door, resplendent in a cheap suit and bad haircut. I look at Margot. She’s ten feet away.
Her voice is shrill. “Jake, look out. He’s got a gun.”
Eugene does an imitation of a bobble-head doll, trying to look everywhere at once. I use the car roof to steady my aim while he fumbles for his weapon. Now he’s made me. I’m thinking there should be a warning as I watch the gun come up. “Don’t,” I feel the Colt jump against the heel of my hand, “…even think about it.”
The wall of the hotel breaks Eugene’s fall. Surprise hasn’t had time to register. People are screaming and running but his eyes have never left me. He tries to bring the gun up again.
Margot’s line about a next time comes to mind. The Colt jumps twice and Eugene goes limp.
I move around the car, keeping the .38 trained on my target. Shorty is in front of the deli dialing 911. The smell of Margot’s perfume tells me she’s close. Shalimar and gunpowder and the stench of the city are a heady combination. Her voice is shaky.
“Did I do okay, Pike? Did I get it right?”
“You did just fine, kid. Take a taxi. You’ve been home all night if anybody asks. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
I listen to her heels click down the row of parked cabs. My toe nudges Eugene’s Glock away from him. The wail of approaching sirens mixes with the murmurs of a gathering crowd and from somewhere, the riff of an alto sax punctuates the night.
~
All rights reserved by the author.

The Hunger

by Peggy Nolan

"Without a sense of time, how would we function in this world?" I let the question hang in the air as I stare at my undergraduate class of bright, eager, and yet all too vacant students.
Silence.
"Anyone?" I ask as I look around the room.
One of my students sitting in the back row clears his throat. Another taps a pencil on her knee. I shift my gaze towards three students in the front row. A young woman with brilliant green eyes and glossy red lips twirls her auburn hair. She smiles as we make eye contact. I allow my gaze to linger on the curve of her creamy white neck.
I turn to the black-board; my tweed jacket covered in chalk dust, and write "Eckhart Tolle" in big square letters. "Did anyone actually read the assignment?"
Chair legs squeak on the floor. Someone in the back row giggles. I underline Tolle's name and drop my piece of chalk. I feel slightly queasy. "Did anyone see him on Oprah the other day?"
The girl with the green eyes raises her hand and snaps her gum.
"You..." I point at her as I grab the student roster from the lecture podium. "Sophie Williamson, right?"
She nods and snaps her gum again.
My gaze drops to her delicious neckline for a second time. "She's too young," I think as I feel a thud where my stomach used to be. I brush the sleeve of my tweed jacket across my forehead and breathe in a trail of stale chalk dust.
"Anyone else?" I ask, fumbling for my handkerchief.
Three more hands shoot up.
"Good," I scratch my nose. "At least we've got a quorum."
Sophie raises her hand. I notice her nails; painted a deep purple, almost black, filed short and squared off. "Yes, Ms. Williamson?" I inhale more dust and cough. I reach for my bottle of water, unscrew the cap, and take a sip.
"If I had no sense of time...um...” she pauses and snaps her gum again.
I catch a hint of cinnamon, Big Red perhaps. Or maybe Dentyne.
"I wouldn't know when to go to class, right?" She tilts her head to the right and smiles, showing off her perfectly straight white teeth.
"Riiiiight." I can’t take my eyes off the pulsing blue vein on the side of her neck. Transfixed by the imaginary taste of her oxygenated blood, I struggle to maintain the equanimity that took me nearly two hundred years to cultivate. I can feel my carefully crafted sense of enlightened poise unravel inside my mind.
"And,” Sophie continues, “I wouldn't know how long to bake the lasagna or when to serve the Mellini."
I can hear the sound of her mascara coated eyelashes crash together as she gives me a slow unsophisticated wink. I watch as she shifts in her seat, lifting her skirt as she crosses her right leg over her left, exposing a hint of her well-toned luscious thigh. In the dark recess of my mind, I hear the echoes of my savage past. A past I thought I had banished forever. “A slow drink on her Femoral artery to tempt my taste buds? Or perhaps I should go straight for the jugular and dispense with the formalities of a civilized feeding.” Oh I can taste her now.
“Patience!” I chide myself. My hand shakes with anticipation, releasing tiny particles of even more chalk dust into the air. I notice the miniscule hairs on my knuckles stand up as my cold skin tingles with anticipation. I flick my tongue across the tips of my fangs as the back of my throat and the insides of my cheeks begin to salivate. I clinch my hands into fists…it’s all I can do to maintain control.
I glance at the clock. The sound of the minute hand roars in my ears. “Well,” I say, “It appears that only Ms. Williamson has grasped the basic concepts of the assignment.” I glimpse at the roster and pick a few names. “Davis, Watson, and the rest of you - be prepared to discuss chapter two on Wednesday evening.”
“Professor Gaines?” I’m not sure if it’s Davis or Watson.
“Yes?” I turn. It’s Davis.
“You just want us to read chapter two?”
I nod my head and clear my throat. “Class dismissed. Ms. Williamson?”
“Yes Professor?” she looks up as she gathers her books.
“If you don’t mind, a word before you leave.” A hunger I haven’t felt in centuries burns deep inside my hollow core. I walk from my lecture podium to her front row desk. "Dinner?” I ask. Sophie arches her right eyebrow and shifts her gaze down and then back up at me. She gives a quick nod of her head and I glimpse a half smile. I can smell trace elements of iron as the symphonic sound of her blood dances on my eardrums.
“The Mellini,” I say, handing Sophie her notebook, “sounds delicious.”

All rights are retained by the author.

The Lemon Man From Agerola

by Jo Smith

We clink our glasses and the noise echoes round the restaurant.
'To the birthday girl. May your boobs stay pert until you're at least thirty-five.' I wink and we drink.
Josie leans across the table, looking around. 'There's nobody else here.' She turns to Jenny.
'It's a good job you booked,' she says, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
Jenny lifts her hands in protest. 'Roberto told me it's the most popular restaurant in Agerola.
How was I supposed to know nobody eats out on a Monday evening?'
Josie reaches for the wine and spills droplets on the table as she pours. She begins to giggle and I join in.
'How about ringing Roberto?' I say. 'He can come and join in the fun.'
'Ooh, yes.' Jenny rummages in her bag for her phone. 'He's got a brother as well.'
Josie and I listen as Jenny speaks in rapid Italian, but the wine clouds my understanding.
Jenny hangs up and announces that Roberto will be with us in five minutes along with his brother, Mauro.
'Good,' says Josie and waves the empty wine bottle at the waiter.
'He keeps staring at us,' I say.
'Let him,' Josie shrugs.
'He's creepy. He looks like Eddie Munster.'
The door rattles and Roberto and Mauro walk in, ducking under the low wooden beams.
There are cries of 'ciao bella' and kisses all round. A minute later the candles flicker again as a third man enters and Roberto introduces him as Salvatore, a friend who makes his living from lemons.
'I like lemons,' I say.
'Ah, then you must come to my house, I give you Limoncello.' Salvatore leans close to me
and I smell lemon on his skin.
The boys join us for dinner. They insist on buying our meal and make sure our glasses are
never empty. Salvatore doesn't leave my side and I edge my chair away slightly. Josie and Jenny are oblivious. Josie manages to cover the table with red wine and Jenny snorts with laughter. The waiter rushes over with a cloth while Josie jabs Mauro's chest to drive home her point. I have no idea what her point is and I seriously doubt she does either.
Salvatore stands up and we all turn our heads to look at him. 'I think we go for a drive now,' he says.
I have the vague feeling that I would rather go back to the hotel, but Josie thinks a drive is just what we need and her enthusiasm steam rolls over my qualms.
The fresh air hits me and I sway into Salvatore, who props me up and steers me toward a battered van. He is driving before I realise I'm alone and Jenny and Josie are ahead in Roberto's car.
'Where are we going?'
Salvatore pats my leg. 'It's a surprise.'
I grip the door handle and fix my gaze on Roberto's car. I can see Josie leaning forward,
talking animatedly, Jenny interjecting with helpful vocabulary. They swing from side to side as the car follows the twists in the road.
I check my seat belt and notice that Salvatore isn't wearing his. He lights a cigarette and in doing so takes both hands off the wheel. The van veers to the left and I breathe in sharply.
'Don't worry.' Salvatore grins. 'I know these roads since I was a child.'
I nod, unable to speak. Then, without warning he swerves off the road and bumps down a
rough track. I look over my shoulder at the main road.
'What are you doing? The others have gone straight on.'
'Sure. We make a stop.'
I can just make out a small garage at the end of the track and as Salvatore drives closer, a path leading around the back. Salvatore pushes a button on his keyring and the door opens. We drive in, he cuts the engine and I immediately unclip my seatbelt and open the door. I feel his hand on my arm, gently restraining me.
'Please,' I say. 'I want to find my friends.'
He smiles, then gets out of the van. I try to think rationally. If I run, he will catch me, but if I stay... I swivel round and don't see him. Decision made, I jump down from my seat and rush
outside. I stumble on the grass, curse my heels, but keep going.
Behind me I hear an engine start up. I take off my shoes and begin to run, but headlights
appear out of the darkness and the spotlight is on me. My heart hammers in my chest and I can't breathe. I can see the main road and know I won't make it.
Salvatore catches me up, but he is no longer driving the van. He leans over and opens the passenger door.
'What are you doing?' He frowns. 'I wanted to show you my baby. When I found out your
name, I knew I must introduce you. Joanna, this is Joanna.'
'A car?' I say in high-pitched incredulity. 'You just wanted to show me a car?'
'Not any car. A 1964 Fiat 500.'
I fold my arms and glare at Salvatore. He beams back at me, his teeth as white as his
precious car, and gestures to me to get in. I huff and slide in beside him. Looking round at the Fiat I understand his pride. It looks as though it should be in a museum and I run my hand over the wooden dashboard and admire the cream and red interior. I reach for my seat belt and Salvatore lets out a shout of laughter when I realise there isn't one. There's a twinkle in his eye as he promises to drive carefully and my resolve cracks. Josie and Jenny tell me they heard laughing before they heard the car.

All rights are retained by the author.

(And this is one of our winners!)

I'm sorry about the lack of indents. I tried several things and have no clue how to format this so blogger will do what I'm trying to do. However - what do you think of the icon Joyce, my web designer, made for the winners? That only took her a couple of minutes. Winners Jo, Peggy, and Don may display it on their blogs, websites, or anywhere they can imagine. Congratulations again, Jo!