Just Right by Rachel Turney, bourbon with one or two ice cubes

When I was a child, I got new shoes every year on the day before Easter. My feet would be measured on the little metal device. Then the selection would begin. The weekend before I would have been shopping for my Easter dress so the shoes would be the final part of the perfectly matched ensemble. My mom would tie the laces tight or fasten the buckles and tell me to walk around. Then she would feel where my toe was in the shoe in the front, making sure they fit. She would tap and squish the heel and sides to see that they hugged my feet just right.

I relished this bit of attention from my mother. I had six younger siblings so the times when she held me feet in her hands and kneeled down to my level were precious moments when I was all she could see. We would purchase the shoes and I would lay out my floral dress and neat new Mary Janes the night before the big Easter Sunday.

I was so excited to show off my new dress and gleaming shoes that it was hard to sleep. By about seven the rest of the house would wake and mom would start doing our hair one by one. I wanted big curls like hers and she yanked and twirled little dagger like plastic rollers with a hot coil center into my mousy brown hair, which I imagined would look just like her long auburn tendrils when she finished.

We were always late to church. Sometimes I sat in the car sweating for half an hour waiting for my siblings to come on. I had a small palm-sized bible in navy that complimented my outfit and very impractical baby blue buckled shoes with a little heel. I looked fabulous. My hair stretched high to heaven. I sang the hymns with the confidence of a beauty queen and looked over at my mom by my side, the coveted spot, as the pastor droned on and on.

By the time we got home my hair was flat and my new shoes were invariably scuffed. Mom would be busy making dinner or sitting in her lounge chair in the yard with her little glass of bourbon, one or two ice cubes, talking to my father. The magic of Easter morning would vanish and I would have to wait through summer, fall, and winter to be taken to the shoe store again where mom would help me find shoes that fit just right. 

About the author

Dr. Rachel Turney is an educator and teacher trainer in Colorado. Her poems and prose are published in The Font Journal, Five Fleas, Nap Lit, Ranger, Through Lines Magazine, Teach Write Journal and Inside Higher Ed. Blog: turneytalks.wordpress.com 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Rich Man Murder by Maxine Flam, bourbon

 

The Rich Man Murder

 

 It was after 10 pm when Ed Sherwin decided to drop in on his general contractor, John Shears, at his downtown office. The building was empty. It was so late that even the cleaning crew had cleaned and left.

‘I’m tired of being milked by you,’ Sherwin said to Shears in an angry southern drawl. ‘I’ve financed three shopping centers and now this…this monstrosity that you fittingly named after me because you want more money. What do you think I’m made of?...You think I’m your own personal bank to make withdrawals from? What did you squander that last five hundred thousand dollars on? Huh? Boy…I’m talking to you.’

Shears didn’t like his tone of voice especially being called boy by this country bumpkin.

‘Well, I’m through…do you hear? Through!  I’m not funding your project anymore. Get someone else to be your pigeon.’

            ‘Wait, you signed a contract.’ replied Shears in his proper British tone of voice. ‘Besides, there were unintentional overruns. The project had unforeseen add-ons. Your wife knew about them.’ Grabbing the file on his desk, he showed Sherwin the papers and said, ‘See, she signed the additional contract.’

            ‘Well, she didn’t have the authorization to do so,’ Sherwin retorted.

            ‘As your spouse, she does,’ said Shears not to be intimidated.

            ‘Oh no, she doesn’t. Not according to the pre-nup I had drawn up or maybe you didn’t refer to that little piece of paper when you asked her to sign the additional agreement. My lawyer will be in contact with your lawyer. We’re through. I’m done. Finished! And you can kiss this project good-bye.’

Ed Sherwin turned his back and as he reached out to grab the door knob to leave, John Shears yelled, ‘NO!’ He never made it that far. With a white hot anger he never experienced before, John Shears, picked up the statue on his desk and shouted, ‘I won’t let you ruin me!’ as he hit Ed Sherwin on the back of the head three times.

##

Sherwin fell to the floor, dead. Shears looked at him and the statue. Now he had to get rid of the body. He wiped the small amount of blood from the statue on to the Persian rug by the dead body, took rug, rolled him up in it, dragged him down to freight elevator, and dumped him into the trunk of Sherwin’s own car. There was more than enough room; he drove a 1978 White Cadillac two-door Eldorado. ‘That trunk could hold two bodies at least,’ said Shears out loud.

            Now what do I do with the body? Shears thought. Where can I bury him without anyone finding it? I need to show he left town and also show that he had never come to the office to see me…Meanwhile, I’ll take him to my ranch and hide him in the gardening shed until I can come up with a suitable place to bury him. It must be a place where nobody will ever find the body.

            Shears got to his ranch, wrapped the body in plastic and placed him upright in the gardening shed. Then he burned the carpet from his office, got back in Sherwin’s car, and drove it to the long term lot at the airport. He bought a one way ticket to Tennessee though a travel agency, found a pan handler at the airport, and paid him to get him on the flight posing at Ed Sherwin. The homeless person fit the general description of Sherwin and the airline wasn’t checking IDs on a night flight. Shears gave the man $1,000 and told him to stay the night in Tennessee but take the next plane back under his own name. Shears paid for the one-way ticket back.

            Three days past. Shears thought, I hadn’t heard anything about Sherwin being missing and as far as he was concerned, no news was good news. So what do I do with the body? I can leave the body where it is a little longer. It's  wrapped in plastic. The weather was cool. The shed was located far from any place on the property and no one has a reason to look in the shed. Think…Think…where can I bury the body???

##

‘Excuse me, is this the Major Case Squad?’ said a shorter older red-headed woman standing next to a younger taller voluptuous blonde one.

            ‘Yes, I’m Bill Kelby and this is my partner Joe Miller. What can we help you with?’

            ‘My ex-husband, which is her current husband, is missing.’

            ‘How do you know he’s missing?’ replied Kelby.

            ‘It’s been three days and no one has heard from him and that’s not like him,’ said the blonde.

            ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be heard from. Perhaps he took a vacation,’ replied Miller.

            ‘He never leaves without calling me. He might be my ex but we’re close friends,’ said the red-head.

            ‘And he didn’t pack a suitcase,’ responded the blonde.

            ‘Maybe he had a business somewhere and went on a short trip and didn’t need any clothes,’ stated Kelby.

            ‘But his car is gone,’ said the red-head.

            ‘So maybe he drove?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Ed doesn’t drive long distances. Even though he has a nice car, he has eye problems. He only drives at night if it’s urgent. Can’t you please check into it?’ said the red-head.

            ‘We’re not missing persons,’ complained Kelby.

            ‘But he has been gone for more than 72 hours. We we’re told that if he met with foul play, you could help,’ replied the blonde.

            ‘Who told you that?’ asked Miller.

            ‘Missing persons,’ stated the blonde.

            ‘Figures,’ said Kelby. ‘Okay, you see that officer over there. Give him as much detail as you can : his full name, any distinguishing features like tattoos, birthmarks, and a current photograph. We’ll talk to our Captain to see if we can take the case.

            ‘Thank you,’ they both said.

##

Excuse me, Mr. Shears, we’re leaving early tomorrow morning on our trip. You sure you don’t want to go with us to Calico Ghost Town.**

            ‘What?’

            ‘You know, the trip the office is taking. We’re going to Calico Ghost Town for the weekend. It should be a fun time for all. Some of us are going to camp there and the rest of us are staying in their hotel.

            ‘No, thank you. Maybe some other time.’

            The wheels started spinning in Shears’ head. I found the perfect spot to leave a body: a ghost town. Why the hell not. I’d have to sneak in and out of the park and if it didn’t work out, I could leave the body in the desert and it wouldn’t be traced back to me. What a perfect plan.

##

**Calico Ghost Town is an actual place that exists as part of San Bernardino Regional Park in the high desert of North of Los Angeles. It is open every day but Christmas. There are tours, stunt shows, and gold panning among the thing that are part of the price of admission.

##

I’m so excited. I used a payphone and found out Calico is open every day but Christmas. Perfect. I’ll drive up after they close Sunday night and dump the body behind in the mine. There won’t be much left of it when they find him. Maybe some desert animal will make a meal of him. HA. They’ll never trace it back to me.

##

‘Joe, I just heard that airport police found Sherwin’s car in the long term parking lot at the airport. The boys are going over it now but it looks like it’s been wiped clean of prints.’

            ‘Not even the dead man’s?’ said Kelby.

            ‘Nope, nothing. This case is looking more and more like this missing man met with foul play. Let’s get out to the scene and see if we can find any clues.’

            Joe and Bill got to the airport just before the tow truck driver jacked the car up to tow it away.

            ‘Please stop for a minute. I’m Detective Kelby and this is my partner, Detective Miller from the Major Case Squad.’ Kelby and Miller both pulled their IDs out to show the truck driver.

            ‘Okay, holler when you’re finished.’

            Bill opened the driver’s door. ‘The car is clean like it had been detailed except look on the floor, on the floor, Joe…there looks to be some dirt or manure like the victim had stepped in something before coming to the airport,’ said Kelby.

            Miller took his hanky and picked it up to start to smell it before he exclaims, ‘Manure! He stepped in Manure and tracked into a newly detailed car. Seriously. Something’s definitely ain’t right. A clean car except for that. I don’t buy he gets his car detailed and then doesn’t wipe his feet? No way,’ replied Miller shaking his head.

            ‘Maybe from the killer’s shoes?’ responded Kelby.

            ‘You’re taking a big leap that he’s been murdered.’

            ‘I gotta bad feeling that Mr. Sherwin is dead,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘Since his car is here, it is possible he went somewhere, said Miller.’

            ‘Let’s check.’

##

‘The records said he bought a ticket to Memphis, TN. And he had no luggage,’ said the ticket agent.

‘One way… Hum…that doesn’t make any sense,’ said Miller.

Kelby asked the ticket agent, ‘Are you sure this was the man that boarded the plane?’ They pulled out a picture of Ed.

The ticket agent looked at the picture for a long time and then said, ‘No, this guy wasn’t dressed up. In fact, he was wearing dirty clothes and smelled bad.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miller.

‘So now we got someone who posed as the missing guy to take a trip to Tennessee with no return flight. I think someone paid someone to pose as Ed Sherwin and make it look like he left town on business. What do you think?’ asked Kelby.

‘Sounds like it.’

            ‘We need to speak to the first Mrs. Sherwin.’

##

‘Yes Mrs. Sherwin. Does your husband know anyone in Tennessee?...No??? We have a lead that he boarded a plane on a one way ticket there. Okay thanks,’ said Kelby.

            ‘We need to backtrack and assume that he never left Los Angeles. This is a false trail. We need to start with the manure left in the car and find out the last place he went to before he was supposed to have gone to Tennessee,’ responded Joe Miller.

##

‘Call the second Mrs. Sherwin and ask if she knew where her husband went the night before he didn’t come home,’ said Kelby.

            ‘So, Mrs. Sherwin, tell me, where did your husband say he was going before he didn’t come home,’ said Joe Miller.

            ‘He said he was going to talk to Mr. Shears. He’s the developer who is building the shopping center Ed’s financing,’ replied the second Mrs. Sherwin.

            ‘Can you give me his address and phone number?’ replied Miller.

##

'Mr. Shears, I was wondering if you have heard from Mr. Sherwin. He hasn’t called home in several days and his wife is worried he’s missing,’ asked Miller.

            ‘I saw him a couple weeks ago. We discussed business and then he left. I’m sorry I can’t help you more gentlemen. You made a ride out here for nothing,’ replied Shears.

            ‘Oh, it wasn’t for nothing. We have to follow up on every lead,’ said Kelby.

            Each one looked around the office. ‘What’s that?’ referring to the model of the new shopping center.

            ‘That’s the development Sherwin invested in.’

            ‘Some place,’ said Miller.

            ‘Nice office you have here. Lots of statues and fine rugs. Looks like one is missing,’ observed Kelby.

            ‘It’s out being clean…Look gentlemen if you are done, I have work to do.’

            ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Miller.

            ‘Hey Joe, did you notice his shoes had dirt on the sides of it. Maybe manure?’

            ‘Yeah, I saw and the rug was gone. Definitely it was long enough to wrap a body up in. We need to stake this guy out. He gives me the creeps,’ replied Miller.

##

It was Sunday night. Unbeknownst to Mr. Shears, Joe and Bill had been following him since Friday night. Sunday evening, he drove to his farm in the country. Shears opened the shed and took out a large item wrapped in plastic out and put it in the trunk of his 1979 Mercedes 450SL.

            ‘Let’s move in,’ said Miller. ‘And close this case.’

            ‘No, let’s wait and see where he’s gonna take it. Keep snapping pictures,’ replied Kelby.

            Shears drove down the muddy country road on to the highway and went up the Interstate to the high desert.

‘Where the hell is he going?’ said Kelby.

‘You wanted to follow him!’ replied Miller.

After a two hour drive, he got off on Yermo road and headed to the locked gate of Calico Ghost Town.

‘Good thing you filled the gas tank or we’d never have made it this far,’ said Miller.

            Kelby called the Highway Patrol. They were following him with their lights off keeping the light traffic at bay.

            He drove to the gate, opened it with a pair of bolt cutters, and drove back to the end of town. Then Shears parked his car at the edge of the mine. He got out, opened the trunk of his car, and took the body of Ed Sherwin out. He dragged it to the entrance of the mine.

            Before he was able to push it further in, the police yelled, ‘Halt this is the police. You are surrounded.’

            Shears brought a gun with him and considered making a stand.

            ‘Don’t be stupid Mr. Shears. You are completely surrounded. The town’s lights came on plus six police car headlights and Miller and Kelbys.’

            He dropped the gun.

            Kelby and Miller went over to put the cuffs on him. Shears said, ‘How did you know it was me?’

            ‘Your shoes,’ replied Miller.

            ‘What?’

            ‘Your shoes. You left manure in the dead man’s car…a car that had just been detailed and your shoes had some on it too when we went to visit you a few days ago like you had just been to your hiding place. If you had cleaned up after yourself, wiped your shoes, and the floor of the dead man’s car, we wouldn’t have had any clues to go on where you hid the body,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘I thought you’d find it where I had stored it so I decided to bury it up here,’ said Shears.

            ‘You should have left it there,’ said Miller.

            Shaking his head, Shears said, ‘I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this.’

            ‘What?’ responded Kelby.

            ‘You found me because I had horse shit on my shoes… Damn.’

About the author 

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and The Metaworker. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Slipping Off

by John T Biggs

bourbon  

John smiled at the security camera while the ATM kicked out fifteen twenty-dollar bills.  Photographs put ten pounds on you, but he’d lost thirty so he’d look pretty good in the video.

He fiddled with his wedding band. Looser now that he was thin. It slipped off his finger easily. That had to mean something didn’t it? Something deep and important about marriage and losing thirty pounds. When a man got skinnier, his fingers got skinnier too, but his wedding band stayed exactly the same size. John had a lot of deep philosophical thoughts these days, especially when his calorie count ran low. He put the ring into his pocket. Stephanie would never forgive him if he lost it.

Now for another transaction. He needed $600 for a pair of diamond earrings, a terrific fourteenth anniversary present for Stephanie, and the Seven Eleven’s ATM would only give him $300 at a time.

He reached into his front pocket, where he carried his wallet since he’d lost weight. Too much pressure on the sciatic nerve if he put it in a back one. John smiled at the security camera one more time and concentrated so hard at looking good that he almost didn’t hear his wedding band bounce on the cement floor.

While the ATM spit out fifteen more twenties, John bent over to retrieve his ring. His butt brushed against something soft. He could tell right away what that something was. A man never forgets what a pretty woman feels like.

“Lose something?” Pretty girl’s voice—it sounded like laughter, and music, and the promise of things John hadn’t thought of since fourteen years ago this coming Saturday.

He hadn’t seen her yet, but he knew what she looked like. She’d be the perfect height. Long hair or short; color negotiable. Well dressed, in clothing that accentuated her ideal figure. Pretty girl face, pretty girl eyes, pretty girl smile—file footage from his youth. Stephanie still looked like that in the dark, but after fourteen years, sometimes it had to be very dark.

Her shoes were the first things John saw. Black mat finish with straps over the instep, three inch stiletto heels. Probably Italian. A man can tell a lot from a pair of shoes.

Her smile was the second thing John saw. Lips the color of a ripe red apple. She moistened them with the tip of her tongue.

John stuttered a little when he told her: “Thirty pounds at weigh-in this morning.”  But too much time had passed since she’d asked if he lost something.

She looked confused—good look for a pretty girl. Her features reconciled themselves with John’s fantasy. Five feet nine, way too tall for him. Blond shoulder length hair, way too soft for him to touch. She wore a white top and a gray pleated skirt—halfway between a cheerleader’s outfit and a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform. Way too young for him.

Confusion could be good. Maybe she wouldn’t figure all the way-too’s out. Not until it was way too late.

“Dropped some change.” He gave her a nervous laugh, in case she’d seen the ring. He stuffed it into his pocket, rolled it between his fingers. It felt like a meaningless piece of gold, hot and awkward, just like him. Maybe she saw it and didn’t care.

John turned to leave before he did something he might regret—not morality so much as the lack of a workable plan.

“Don’t forget what you came for.” She pointed to the tray of twenties he’d been about to abandon.

“How nice. Guess I owe you one.” He figured she was about nineteen years old and well aware of the effect she had on men. He sucked his belly in and tried to look a little more fit, even though he didn’t have to do that any more. No telling how long his new, improved look would last.

“Better make the most of it,” John said out loud without meaning to. The girl looked confused again, but not repelled.

“What?” The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. He was an older man, with six hundred dollars in his pocket. She’d believe him, no matter what he said.

“Perfect in so many ways.” Out loud again, damn it.

He took a deep breath and looked for judgment in her eyes. When he couldn’t find it he told her, “You look exactly like a girl I’ve seen before.” The line was stale enough to grow penicillin mold, but maybe she hadn’t heard it.

“Where did you see her? Maybe it was me.”

“In my dreams,” John told her. “Maybe it was you.”

He got ready to dodge a slap, but she gave him another smile instead.

“I’m waiting for a cab,” she said. “If you’re not doing anything, you could take me where I’m going and tell me all about your dream girl.”

“Okay?” He said as if it was a question.

“Los Hermanos Motel,” she told him. “Do you know the place?”

“What a coincidence. My favorite motel.”

John talked while he drove. He filled the air with words so the girl wouldn’t have a chance to tell him he was old and, out of shape, and ought to be ashamed.

She didn’t say any of those things. She told him her name was Lantana.

“Like the flower?”

She laughed. He wasn’t sure Lantana was a flower name but it was too late to take it back.

“That’s my favorite kind of flower,” he told her. Then it was time for John to come up with a name.

“My name is Charley G. Littlejohn.” There was a little truth in that. He wondered if there was a God somewhere writing all this down. He’d been thinking things like that ever since he started going to Weight Watchers.

“What’s the ‘G’ stand for?”

“Glad I met you,” John told her, just like that.

Her laughter sounded like a wind chime. It struck notes he hadn’t heard for years, but he recognized the melody. He knew what was supposed to happen next, and for a few seconds he was pretty sure he’d find a reason to back out.

He started to tell Lantana about his wife, Stephanie, and how they were celebrating their Ivory anniversary—the big number fourteen. But Stephanie wasn’t into killing elephants, so Ivory was out.

He started to tell Lantana about his son, Phillip, and his daughter Angela. He started to tell her that his parents were watching the kids this weekend so he and Stephanie could break out of their parental roles.

Instead, John said, “This is Los Hermanos,” as he turned into the motel parking lot. He put the car in park, and walked around to open Lantana’s door for her, like he almost never did for Stephanie anymore. He watched Lantana stand up, filing away every detail so he could feel self-righteous later on when he remembered how he didn’t sleep with her.

But then she said,” My room number is 96. Would you like to come in for a while?”

“Ninety Six.” The year he and Stephanie got married. That had to be a sign.

“Sure,” John said, ignoring a clear and concise message from the creator of the universe. “Why not?” A man was entitled to a meaningless affair, just once in his life—and he was pretty sure it would only be this once.

He put his hand on Lantana’s back, just above her pleated skirt, and nudged her in the direction of room 96. John resisted the temptation to slide that hand a little lower. That might come later. The important thing was to keep her moving. Nineteen-year-old girls in motion stayed in motion. Even John knew that much physics.

Lantana tapped on the door of number 96, “So we don’t scare the maid.” But there was no maid inside the room, just a queen size bed with rumpled covers.

“I need to freshen up.” She walked to the bathroom door.

John noticed the bathroom door was closed, like someone might be in there already. But he lost that train of thought when Lantana told him, “Take off your clothes. I want to see you naked when I come out.”

He almost forgot how to work buttons and zippers, but not quite. He folded his pants and shirt over the back of a chair. He put his socks and underpants on top of his shoes. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, trying to figure out which was his best side.

He couldn’t wait to match the girl up to his fantasy. He hoped for a smooth, evenly tanned, well-toned body without scars, birthmarks or tattoos, but right then he would settle for anything. Well . . . as long as things didn’t work out like The Crying Game, or one of those other nineties she-male dramas. And that couldn’t happen, because Lantana’s hands were too small and she had no Adam’s apple.

He’d have to shower after they were through, leave no physical signs for Stephanie. Maybe Lantana would shower with him. John had just fleshed out that image in his mind when a man walked out the bathroom door. A large black man in jeans and a muscle-shirt and a Tazer in his hand.

“Don’t taze me bro,” slipped passed John’s lips while he was deciding whether to hold up his hands or cover his genitals. He never thought of them as genitals unless he was feeling especially vulnerable in that department.

He didn’t know which was worse, the Tazer in the black man’s hand or the look in Lantana’s eyes. She stood behind her armed companion with her right hand on her hip. “Guess you realize, your dreams aren’t gonna come true.”

John was too naked to think of an adequate response, so he fixed his eyes on the man with the Tazer and hoped for the best.

“Sir . . .” That was the best word John could come up with at the moment.

The man with the Tazer smiled—handsome, like Denzel Washington’s psychotic younger brother. His biceps looked like they’d been carved out of a block of frozen prime rib. People probably called him sir all the time. The weapon was a professional courtesy, so John wouldn’t feel obliged to get the crap beaten out of him.

Lantana went through John’s pockets. She took his wallet and his keys. Her partner held out his free arm, and she draped John’s pants and shirt over it.

“You can keep your underwear and shoes, Charley.” After she slid the watch off John’s left wrist she pressed something round and solid into his palm.

“Keep the wedding band too.” The ring still held her body heat. Almost too hot to touch. It was bigger than he remembered. Shinier too.

No clothes. No money. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Sorry, Charley.” Lantana held the door open for her muscular companion. She gave John a finger wave, then shut it.

John slipped the wedding band back on. He practiced telling Stephanie that, “Nothing really happened in room 96. Except a robbery, of course.”

“Still faithful after fourteen years,” he told himself. “That’s the most important thing. Isn’t it?”

He wondered if local calls were free.

About the author

Don’t bother trying to classify John T. Biggs’ stories. They are a genre stew of speculative fiction, anthropology, mystery, and humor written in a mainstream literary style. Native Americans play a significant role in most of John’s narratives. He reworks traditional Indian legends and sets them in modern times, the way oral historians always intended.

Sixty of John’s short stories have been published in magazines and anthologies that vary from literary to young adult speculative fiction and everything in between. Some of these stories have won regional and national awards including Grand Prize in the Writers Digest 80^th annual competition, third prize in the Lorian Hemingway short story contest, and a Storyteller Magazine’s Peoples Choice Award.

John has published four novels: Owl Dreams, Popsicle Styx (Oklahoma Book Award Finalist) Cherokee Ice (Oklahoma Book Award Finalist & OWFI Best Published Fiction Book of 2015), and Shiners as well as a linked short story collection, Sacred Alarm Clock, which includes the OWFI Crème de la Crème winning story, “Twenty Percent Off”.  His series post-apocalyptic novellas, Clementine a song to end the world will be released by Oghma Creative Media in mid 2018.

http://johnbiggsoklahomawriter.com

She's Here

Roger Noons

 

a glass of bourbon

 

‘When was it painted?’ Bradley Ashburn of the Washington Post asked the Director.

    ‘If you ask any ten of those French and Italian art historians, you’ll get twenty different answers, but in the catalogue, to play safe, we’ve said at the beginning of the Sixteenth Century.

    ‘Gee, that’s really old.’

    Both men were silent as they stared at the image. 

    ‘Who was the model?’

    ‘A lady living in Florence, Lisa del Giaconda.  Her maiden name was Gherardini, so take your pick.’

    ‘I’d assumed it would be bigger?’

    ‘Yeah, I was surprised, but as they say, beautiful things come in small sizes. We’re lucky to have it.’

    ‘I wonder what it’s worth?’ the reporter mused, scribbling in his notebook.

    ‘It’s been assessed for insurance at a hundred million dollars.’

    ‘Wow, how much is the premium?’

    ‘This is not for publication, but we’ve not covered it.’ Brad’s chin was still on his chest when the Director added. ‘We’re spending the money on security.’

    ‘But, what if it’s stolen?’

    ‘Then either it would be offered back at a price, in which case the Insurers would pay, or it will disappear into a private vault, in which case they wouldn’t. After all where would we get a replacement? Our aim is to keep it safe.’

    Brad started to move forward but was restrained.

    ‘If you pass that beam all hell will break loose. Lights will flash, bells ring, all doors will automatically close and four armed security guards will rush in. When the Gallery is open to the public the guards will be in the room at all times. At night, just outside the doors.’

    Shaking his head the reporter said, ‘I guess you’ll be glad when the Exhibition is over?’

    ‘You’re not wrong there, my friend.’

 

 

Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa was exhibited in the US for the first time in 1963. The opening of the show at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC was on 8 January.

 

 

Roger, a retired Environmental Health Manager, lives in the West Midlands. He began writing fiction in 2005 and first submitted to Café Lit in 2011. She’s Here is his 106th piece to be published on Café Lit.