by James T. Coon

I shuffled up to the bar and Angus O’Malley said, “What happened to you? You look like somethin’ a dog chewed and spit out.”

“Long day,” I said.

Angus drew an ale and set it in front of me. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“That’s okay, I’m not pushin’.’”

“It’s just . . . I shadowed this orc who’s been scamming his insurance company and got pictures to prove it. The insurance adjuster and I will confront him on Moonday.”

“Tough break for him.” He wiped the bar with a grimy rag.

“But I got just the thing to take your mind off all that investigation stuff – Slicers’ hockey. They’re on in a few minutes.”

Angus turned and switched on his new two-tube radio. As the set warmed up, the humming of the tubes and glowing dial engulfed me.

Once the game had begun, the excitement and promise of a Slicer’s victory kept me distracted. But after a couple brews, and with the Slicers down by two, I decided to call it an early evening.

“Angus, I think I’ll head out.”

“So soon?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m tired,” I said. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Wow,” he smirked. “What an exciting life you lead.”

“But virtuous,” I replied.

I went out the back door, just minding my own business, when this twinky little elf jumped out of the shadows and leveled a rusty revolver on me. A life of virtue is seldom rewarded.

“I’m gonna kill you, you stupid, rotten half-breed,” he shrieked. He gripped the revolver in both hands like he was afraid it would get away. He had a runny nose and bloodshot eyes. The pointed tips of his ears blazed flame red. He was probably high on sleet or happyweed.

I didn’t recognize him, but lots of people have wanted to kill me. I put my palms out and said, “Whoa.”

“Do you know why I’m gonna kill you?” he screeched.

“Uh, because I’m a stupid, rotten half-breed?”

The twink screamed, “Yeah,” and looked confused for a second. “And ’cause of Marta.”

Marta. Marta. I didn’t remember any Martas, but my memory’s often faulty when somebody’s pointing a gun at me. I said, quietly, “Marta?”

Bad thing to do, that really set him off. “Yeah, Marta, my wife,” he yelled. He moved toward me, raised the revolver, and aimed it at a spot between my eyes. Then, suddenly, the gun wavered and he started blubbering. He lowered the gun and tried to talk but I couldn’t make out the words between the broken sobs.

I figured this was my chance. I stepped to him, grabbed the gun with my left hand, wrenched it out of his grip, and punched him in the face with my right hand. He went crashing back into some garbage cans. I shoved the gun in my coat pocket and went over to him. He looked dazed but awake. I would’ve thought he’d have a china jaw but some guys can take a punch, especially if they’re hopped up. After a minute his eyes focused on me.

“You hit me,” he said in a small voice. His nose bled and dripped onto his dirty blue jacket.

“Didn’t want to be shot.”

“Oh.” He dabbed at his nose with a jacket sleeve. “Can I have my gun back?”

“You going to try to shoot me again?”

“I dunno.”

“Then I think I’ll hold on to it.”

“Okay.” He looked like a lost little kid.

I offered my hand to help him up. He took it. “You got someplace to go?” I asked.

“No. She left, took the kids, after I lost my job.”

“Because of the drugs.”

“Yeah.” He looked down, noticed a fruit peel and some java grounds on his coat, and brushed them off.

Then I remembered Marta. She’d started working at the Starshine Diner about a week and a half before. Always spilling stuff on her uniform. She jumped a league if somebody dropped a fork. On Thorsday she came in with a dark shadow under her right eye and a split lip. I told her to leave the creep that was hitting her.

He didn’t look like a wife beater but you can never tell.

“You sleepin’ with her?” asked the elf.

“No. I just offered her some help. I gave her my name and phone number.”

“I found a Starshine receipt with a name and number on it. Thought maybe somethin’ was goin’ on.”

“That how you found me?”

The elf seemed mostly sober now. “Yeah. I called the number and got the switchboard girl. She asked who I want and I says, ‘Brick’ since that’s what’s writ on the receipt. She says, ‘Oh, you mean Brick Munson. I’m sorry. He’s left for the weekend.’”

That afternoon, I’d shadowed the insurance scammer.

The elf continued, “I ain’t gonna wait ’til Moonday to see you so I says, ‘I work over at the Starshine. I found this money clip. Only thing in it besides a wad of cash is a piece of paper with a name and this telephone number.’”

“The girl says, ‘The clip must be Brick’s. He always eats lunch at the Starshine.’”

“So I says this sure is a lot of money and I ain’t comfortable havin’ it over the weekend. She says she could gimme the phone number for your flat but thought the phone was busted. Then she says that I could take the clip over to your building and she gimme the address. She says, ‘His name is Brick Munson. He’s a big half-orc, more human than orc, around 19 or 20 hands high and about 20 stone. He’s got a moustache, a chin patch, and a busted up nose.’”

The elf’s face became intense. “So I picked up a gun and some sleet from this guy I know and headed over to your apartment building. You wasn’t there. But there’s this old lady sittin’ on your stoop. So I says, ‘Excuse me, ma’am but I’s supposed to meet Brick but he ain’t in. Do you know where he could be?’  She says, ‘He’s probably over at O’Smalley’s. On 191^st.’”

“So I got here, checked out the place, saw you sittin’ close to the back door. I figured you’d come out the back when you was leavin’. I done some more sleet and waited in the alley,” the elf concluded.

“That was good how you tracked me down. What’d you do before you got fired?”

“Assistant manager at a hardware store.”

“You ever do any investigation work?”

“You mean like in the flickers?” He snorted. “Nah.”

“Well, you could. I’m a Private Investigator. I could use some help. But you’d have to be sober. Brother Ned at the Universalist Mission could help.”

“You think she’d come back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

The elf wiped his right hand on his pants. “I’m Eril Tay,” he said as he extended his hand. I shook it.

“Brick Munson.”

“Brick, why you doin’ this? I just tried to kill you.”

“You didn’t succeed,” I said.

“No, really. Why you doin’ this?”

The question hung in the air. I remembered Marta and all the ones like her. I thought about Eril’s life and my own. The past shadowed us but any day we could blaze a new path.

“You know how to find me,” I said, and walked away.

© 2011 James T. Coon
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Tags: fantasy, flash fiction, James T. Coon

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 1st, 2011 at 10:00 AM and is filed under Vol 5 - No 4. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.