And she stood up, ready to leave. I shouted, ‘You want me to thank you for saving me… is that it?’
‘No David, I guess I don’t.’
‘At least tell me what the fuck all of this was for… Did you kill Laura… Why’d you shoot Doc! Who the bloody hell are you?’
She smiled and answered, ‘I’m no big deal.’
‘Wait… I mean… c’mon… was anything true… your bone disease, the daughter?’
‘In Morocco they say the only truth is the love of a child. But hey, maybe that’s a crock.’
Then she was gone. As she’d said, the pain began to fade but it was still two hours before I could move sufficiently to get out of there. I stood for a moment over Letterman and said, ‘Not so hot now eh!’
By the time I got to The Gate, Cassie had three hours on me. How long would it take to walk away with a million quid.
The house was quiet and I had to force the door. I hoped she hadn’t shot the landlady.
The suitcase was on the bed, a white envelope resting on it. I opened the case, the money was gone. Then I grabbed the envelope, one short sheet, it read:
‘ Guess Who
The lady is gone
who stood in the way so long
the hypnosis is over
and no one calls encore
to the song.’
I sat on the bed and tried to see how I’d lost it all,
Doc
Cassie
The money
ME.
Yeah, when those blasts took the cashier, they took me too. I hadn’t been caught but, oh shit, I hadn’t got away. What is it – the bank robbers’ prayer: ‘Lemme get away CLEAN.’
I was dirty to my soul and I felt it began to leak, to seep and fester.
Some line of MacNeice… to wait for the gun-butt… rap upon the door.
I began my sentence, this was hard time all the way.
On the floor I saw a pack of Camel Lights and, way-to-go, a battered Zippo.
Thinking ‘Why the hell not?’ I shook one free, got it in my mouth and cranked the Zippo, one, two, three.
Zip
Nada
Zilch
Outa gas.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1998 by Ken Bruen
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com /Open Road Integrated Media
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