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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Flash Fiction: Noir Story

Chapter 12

I rolled out of bed and wiped the sleep from my eyes, a sort of a dry crust that came from too much booze and too much sweat. Annie was still asleep beside me, clutching a pillow with a faint soft snore. After the attack at the club, Annie and I had ducked out early and made our way home. Annie had been nearly wild last night, my back still a mess of teeth and nail marks. But it had been incredible. Annie always did get turned on when I beat the shit out of someone, it was the one surefire way to get her to forget about being mad at me. I leaned over and kissed her on the neck softly, and got up.

I took a quick shower, washing off the smell of Annie and the alcohol of the night before and changed into one of the clean suits I kept here. A little less threadbare than the last, with dark pleated pants and a dark jacket. I ran my hand over the growth on my face and left it alone, the stubble still not so bad I needed to drag out my razor. I drained the last of the orange juice out of the fridge and set the coffee on as I burnt some eggs for the both of us. I left out Annie's plate and fixed myself some coffee as I ate. The coffee was hot and black an I decided against spiking it and instead tossed a fistful of aspirin down my throat. It was far to damn early for me to be working, yet I knew I had a case to crack.

I gently woke Annie and told her I'd left breakfast and that I'd be back later tonight. I was gonna sniff around my perps last known address and see what I could dig up. I slid my gun under my shoulder and dropped my cell into my pocket and headed down stairs to hail a cab. I got one after a few minutes, the weather was cold and drizzly and I was glad I had my coat with me. I gave the cabbie the address Mike had given me and settled into the back sink with my smokes.

It was a long, uneventful car ride. It seems our boy Roger and Elsa had holed up in the Burrows, a section of the city over run with drugs, robbery and murder. I knew it fairly well as I had done a bit of my beat time in here, as well as from my days in Vice. You could find anything you wanted in the Burrows, if you know who and how to ask. The file I had briefed had been pretty bare, but that nagging feeling was there. The Burrows was the hardest of the hard places, I mean my neighborhood wasn't the fucking Ritz, but you had to have some real balls to live in the Burrow. I was beginning to think that I maybe, just maybe, this feeling in my gut was telling me that there was more to Roger Horner than some pumped up rich kid playing drug dealer.

End of Line.

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