Seeking an Answer in the Night

by David Gower

iced tea

The nights in the Middle East are cold beneath clear sky. Two figures huddle as they peer into the darkness of the desert. A sliver of Moon tonight giving a feeble glow across an arid landscape. Desert may have romance and beauty but not from a hole in the ground far from home. Not on Christmas Eve.

Frank ‘When I get out of this God forsaken lot I am gonna use all this mob has taught me and make a telly series. Just like all them other smug geezers.  I will bite the tail off a scorpion, dip a biscuit made of flour made from grain milled under me size 10 boots into a bottle of water filtered from a muddy pool and then jump into the Land Rover back to me bleeding 5 star hotel.’

Nobby ‘Been a long day then? You are never happier than when you are complaining. How long have I known you? If you stopped griping we would think you was dead’. I have to sit in this OP all night with you. There are people I would rather be in bed with right now than sitting with you in an ‘ole. Did you ever see that cartoon from the First World war? Some geezer with a moustache called Ole Bill sitting in a shell hole. The caption was ‘if you knows a better ‘ole go to it’’

Frank replies grudgingly. “You know what I mean. Sitting here looking like a pair of Peeping Toms, hoping to God no one sees us and breaks our cover. Ready for a firefight but the job is to slip away with intel and no one know we was ‘ere’. Leaving not a sign. Only if we see Target 1 do we act otherwise. Join the Special Forces and be invisible!’

Nobby whispers urgently ‘Quiet. If she’s is gonna scream and shout all night all the women will be in that hut. The blokes will  keep to themselves until the kid pops out. Then they will either jump around firing guns in the air if it’s a boy or commiserate with each other and wonder what sin the father committed to deserve a girl. Poor cow.’

Frank ‘How do you pass the time on observation when you do not have the likes of me to brighten your day?”

Nobby “I think about the Meaning of Life. About what I am gonna do with me pay and invent crosswords.”

Frank “Crosswords?  Well, you never do!. How do you do it?”

Nobby “I like the cryptic ones – you know they make you think a bit. I used to know a bloke who did The Times ones every day in his head on the train. I never believed he could do it but when I asked him he gave me every answer and told me how he had worked it out.’

Frank “I never understood those cryptic ones. I can manage the simple one in the Sun and the telly magazines.’

Nobby “If you are gonna mix with the nobs and film producers of this world you will need to ponce about with the Guardian crossword. At least until you con Piers, Julian or Tarquin to send you and a crew to some flash hotel when you have your scorpion for starters. They like officer class, mate.’

Frank “So give us a lesson then. We got sod all else to do but sit here freezing while she wails through the night.”

Nobby “Blimey, I thought I was the only Wise Man round these parts tonight. Let me see if I can get you to use that blob you call a brain’. Ready for your first clue? Remember these things work in about three different ways. You have your anagrams where you mix letters in a word or phrase to make another word. Let me think now. Here’s one ‘In a hurry on the gent’s lip - 9 letters’.

Nobby “Think of how you might say in a hurry. Must dash - puns so moustache sounds like must dash on a gent’s lip”.

Frank groans.

Nobby “Or there’s anagrams where dogs might be turned to gods’

Another groan from Frank

Nobby “Quotes from Shakespeare and his mates but I never go there!”

Frank “Thanks be to God for that!”

Nobby “Try this one. Sounds like a local alien at Christmas, 8 letters”

Silence in the foxhole and they are unnoticed in the camp below.

Nobby “Have I found a way to keep you quiet at last? Another word for local might be native. An alien could be E.T. Put them together at Christmas and you get Native ET, gettit? Nativity! Just like what’s going on down there.”

Frank spits in disgust but then makes an urgent hand gesture for silence.

Frank whispers; “The women have brought the baby out and given it to one of the men. He’s in better light now. Bugger. It’s Target 1. Orders are if we see Target 1 we take him out. What a birthday for the poor little kiddy.” 

Frank breathes out slowly ready to squeeze the rifle trigger.

Moore's Riverboat

by Phyllis Souza

house red

As Norma drove along the road beside the river, Amy looked out of the open window. The banks were dense with ferns and giant reeds. The scent of anise drifted into the car. A sign reading 'Moore's Riverboat' came into view. Norma slowed the vehicle and turned onto a rutted, graveled parking lot.
"The place is packed. Look for an open space."

"Oh look, people are parked over there." Amy pointed to a lawn around the back of the parking lot. Some cars were parked on it, but there was still space.

"Yeah, I see one." Norma parked between an old pickup truck and a motorcycle.

Amy glanced at the riverboat. People dressed in tank tops and shorts hung near the entrance, listening to the carefree sound of Dixieland Jazz.

Norma, clutching her back, slowly walked up the wooden gangplank behind Amy. She groaned, “Got to lose some weight.”

Amy sprinted ahead. When she reached the deck, she stopped and waited for Norma to catch up. She noticed Norma's baggy polyester pants swung against her ankles and showed her white socks.
Reaching out, Amy offered Norma her hand. She brushed it away. "I'm fine."

They stepped into a paneled passageway.

Along the back wall was a glass showcase filled with boating memorabilia and old photographs from the Gold Rush days in the mid-nineteenth century, when steamboats ran the waterways of the San Joaquin River in Northern California.

Across from it, saloon doors led into the restaurant and bar. Amy walked up to the doors and pushed.
"Look at the bandstand. I see the fat, blind drummer still's here," Amy declared.

"You mean Orlie?"

"Yep. Still here. Come on; let's grab a couple of seats at the bar."

Headed toward the back, they strolled by tables pushed next to a bank of windows overlooking the river.

Ladies' panties of all shapes and sizes were pinned to a clothesline above the horse-shaped bar. They billowed in the breeze from a fan attached high on the wall.

The bartender tossed a couple of napkins on the bar. "Hello, ladies. What can I get you?"

Before they could answer, a man cried out, "Norma."

Norma turned, and so did Amy.

"I didn't see you standing there," Norma exclaimed.

Frank, a robust, silver-haired man holding a bottle of beer, with his back against the wall asked, "Who's your friend?" 

"Oh, this is Amy."

Frank glanced at the bartender. "Give these ladies whatever they want. I'm buying."

He came in closer; so close that Amy could smell the woody fragrance of Ralph Lauren’s Polo. He reached between Norma and Amy and tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. "Keep the change."
The bartender picked up the bill, gave a tapping "thank you" with his fist on the bar, and asked, "Okay, ladies, what can I get you?"

Norma turned in her seat. "Thanks, Frank," Amy repeated the sentiment.

"Excuse me," Frank said. "I'll be right back. Enjoy your drinks." He walked over to a table where several people sat.

"Red wine. House is fine," Norma said to the bartender.

"What about you?" he asked Amy.

"Oh, let's see..." Amy pressed a finger to her cheek. "Maybe... vodka tonic." She smiled at the bartender. "Yes, I'll have a vodka tonic. Oh, yeah, with a squeeze of lime, please."

Just then, an announcement came from the lead guitarist, "We'll be back after a short break."
After ten minutes, the band started its next set.

The elevated dance floor sloped. But that didn't matter, especially to the man wearing nothing but blue spandex trunks and boat shoes. His partner wore a sarong tied around her waist and a flowered bra top. They were doing the twist.

"Norma, look at them."

"That's disgusting," Norma replied.

Amy poked at the ice in her glass with a swizzle stick. "But very entertaining."

"I know that guy." Norma sneered. "His name is Gordo. He's filthy rich and owns a Pontiac dealership in Sacramento."

Amy took a sip of her drink. "Mmm… This is good." She put down her glass. "Do you think Frank'll come back?"

"Who knows?"

The trumpet player blew enthusiastically, the piano player plinked keys, and the singer began a lively rendition of "Goody Goody."

Frank swaggered to the bar, half his mouth in a grin. He extended out his hand. Amy surprised, raising her eyebrows at Norma, hoping for a smile and nod from her. But Norma's face dropped. Amy decided to ignore it.

Keeping time with the music, Frank maneuvered Amy under his outstretched arm. She twirled under and around. He laughed, and so did she.

After the dance, he showed Amy back to her seat, took his business card out of the pocket of his polyester shirt, and handed it to her. In bold blue letters, the card read: Raviscioni Real Estate, Frank Raviscioni, Broker/Owner.

"Thanks for the dance. Gotta go to my boat. I'll be back." Frank passed through the crowd and left.
Amy looked over at Norma. "That was fun. I hope he comes back."

"Well, if he does, you won't be here," Norma said. She picked up her purse. "We're leaving."

"Why? What's wrong?" Amy asked.

"I've got a headache. I'm sorry, but I need to go."

Amy searched the room for Frank. She wanted to tell him she was going. He was nowhere in sight.
Norma was silent in the car on the way home that is until Amy decided to talk.

"Frank gave me his business card. Do you think it would be okay if I called him?"

"No. If Frank wants to see you, he'll call."

"He doesn't have my number."

"Did you tell him your last name?"

"Yeah. But it's not listed."

"He's in real estate, believe me, he can find out where you live."

"I guess. But, I still might give Frank a call."

"I'm warning you. He's a playboy. A confirmed bachelor. Besides, he's too old for you."

"How old do think he is?"

"Around fifty."
"I'm thirty-nine. That's not such a big difference."

"You're asking for trouble. Throw Frank's card in the trash."

"I suppose you're right," Amy said. I'm not throwing his card in the trash.


One week later, when Amy was on her hands and knees scrubbing her kitchen floor, the doorbell rang. She got up, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, brushed a long strand of hair from her face, and looked out a window facing the street. There was a shiny black Cadillac parked at the curb. Whose car is that? She answered the door.

"Frank, what a surprise. How did you know where I lived?"

"I have my ways." He laughed. "Would you like to take a ride to my office?"

"Yes. Just give me a few minutes to freshen up. I must look a mess."

"You look fine. Have you had dinner yet?"

"As a matter fact, I haven't."

"Good. I know a great place. Villa Basque."

"That sounds wonderful. Come in. Take a seat in the living room while I change."

When Amy returned, she had on a pick blouse trimmed in lace and tight fitting jeans. She smiled. "Ready."

Frank got up from the couch. "Wow! You look—" He rolled his eyes. "Fantastic."
"Thank you." She curtsied and smiled.

Amy followed Frank into his real estate office. He flipped on the light. They walked to his private office in the back. The first thing she saw was 'The Godfather' spelled out in bold gold letters and a golden hand pointing an index finger stenciled on the glass window in the door. Her thoughts shifted into overdrive: Godfather. Playboy. Confirmed bachelor. Well... if this wannabe mafia don wants to play, he just found himself a playmate. Confirmed bachelor? We'll see about that!

A Life in Shreds

by Gill James

cold coffee

Gladys switched on the shredder. Why did the darned machine keep overheating and keep stopping? She looked at the pile of papers still sitting on the dining table. Would there ever be an end to it? The intention had been, hadn't it, to do this every January and clear out anything over six years  old. She wished she'd done that. Well, once this job was done she would be more disciplined. And perhaps it wouldn't be so bad the next time. She received most bills and statements electronically these days. Thank goodness. That might help to save the planet. Who needed all this paper?

The papers were strange to touch. They'd gone brittle. Presumably keeping them in a cold but dry garage had made that happen. They hadn't burned to an ugly brown colour like her old paperback books. It was almost as if they were coated in plastic. Was that what made the machine keep overheating?

She counted out four more papers. The manufacturers said that it would take eight at a time but it seemed to overheat more quickly if you put in eight and as it took nearly an hour for the machine to cool down again it was actually quicker if you only put in four papers at a time. She fed them into the machine. It crunched and grunted and what looked almost like smoke filtered out of a tiny hole between the cutters. Paper dust. Better not breathe that in. Then came the familiar clunk that meant it was shutting down. She touched the top. Yes, it was pretty hot. The bin was full too. She busied herself emptying it and pulling the trapped slivers of paper from between the blades. Hopefully the new shredder would come soon. Would she get this all done before it was time to move?

An hour later, after much rummaging through her wardrobe and deciding to throw away two thirds of its contents Gladys sat down again at her machine. She picked up the next four papers. Store card statements from nine years ago. Had she really had that many? And just look at the amounts of money on them. Thousands of pounds. Just a little paid off each month. She remembered the juggling. That awful day when all of their bank cards stopped working. She'd tried to log on to Internet banking to transfer some of her savings into the current account but all of her cards were frozen. Somehow she'd managed to get petrol into the car - one card somewhere must still have had credit on it. Later, she'd gone into a branch in another town far away from home. It was soon sorted. There was enough in their savings account to bring their current account back within its overdraft limit. But it was still tight. It wouldn't be long before something similar happened again.

It was enormously satisfying so watch the papers being shredded. That was all in the past now.

On the next batch she noticed she'd been paying PPI. Scoundrels. At least now she'd got it all back and had used it to help pay off her unsecured debts and in fact some of their mortgage.

"There you go," she muttered to herself as the blades started crunching.

Just why had she needed all that? Now, she hated shopping. She couldn't stand all that fiddling around in changing rooms. She hated looking in the mirror and seeing how she'd aged. She wore things now until they fell to pieces. She only fitted in a bit of clothes shopping if she had to wait for a bus or if she got stuck at the airport. She smiled to herself. There would be even less of that after they moved - eighteen busses an hour would go between their home and the city centre. And Brexit probably meant she wouldn't bother going abroad again.

She guessed the need to spend, spend, spend had had something to do with her demanding job. She had had to compensate for it somehow. Treat herself. Now, every day was a treat: a garden full of birds, a walk along the river with the retired guide dog they had taken on and interesting sessions with her local U3A group. It wasn't difficult finding the five things to be grateful for each day. Her Buddhist friends had taught her about that.

she was grateful for this shredder as well, even if it was limping along. She was putting a questionable life behind her.              

It was sobering when she came to letters about her properties. Failed mortgage repayments, but only once, thank God, on their own home. Repossessions. Some of the properties sold off really cheaply meaning she had to pay bills even though she was getting no income. They should have tried harder, shouldn't they, to sell them for a reasonable price? Does it really help anyone if they do this? How might it affect people who needed to rent? Was there any point in making landlords bankrupt?

Thankfully this was all in the past. She'd paid off those debts too and even got one of the properties back which she'd now managed to sell and she'd paid the capital gains tax. All was in order. She needn't look at that again. Into the shredder then.

Next came a County Court Judgement for non-payment of a service charge on one of her flats. Hmm. The service charges were scandalous. £2000 a year. That was the problem with flats and leasehold in general. The leaseholder could do what they liked and you just had to pay. What happened if you couldn't? Well,here was what happened. How would those ex-council tenants manage? If she couldn't she didn't imagine they'd be able to. A lump sum from one of her pensions had settled that bill nicely and now it was more than five years since the judgement. Into the shredder, then.

Next came that annoying letter from a solicitor. They were demanding £600 + for non-payment of £50 worth of ground rent on a flat she owned - well at least paid a mortgage on. The person she'd spoken to at the solicitor's office had been quite sympathetic.

"I've never been billed for it," she'd said.

"Can you prove the ground rent invoice was formerly sent to you home address rather than the property?" the young woman had said. It seemed as if she'd had quite a few of these queries. Solicitor and head landlord after a quick bit of cash? More scoundrels.  

She probably could have if she'd had the time to go through the garage. In the end, she'd paid the bill. It had been easier than taking the garage to pieces. And yes, as a result of the particular decluttering exercise she was doing now she'd come across the evidence she'd needed back then. Another reason to be tidier in the future.                 

                  

The shredder stopped again.

Next in the pile were her late father's papers. She should sort through those carefully anyway. A lot of them are out of date now. But she should keep the death certificates and the copy of his will.

He'd scribbled on his bills. She noticed the handwriting getting more spidery as time went by. What happened to the notebooks, she thought, the ones where they used to write things down that he needed to know because they couldn't make him hear? Perhaps she'd find them soon. They would make good reading, wouldn't they?

Ah yes. The bill for the nursing home he stayed in whilst they took a week to move house. And then the bills that kept on coming after he'd moved back in with them. It might have been funny if it hadn't been so serious. Was there some other old gentleman sitting there? Still? Had his relations forgotten him?

It had got sorted eventually, hadn't it?

He smiled to herself as she remembered the hankies, underpants and socks she had bought him all labelled with the days of the week.

"So you know which ones to wear, and so that you can figure out what day it is," she'd said.

Her husband had arrived that Friday with her dad and the cat.

"They both snored all the way up here," he said proudly.

"Where are his meds?" she asked as they unpacked.

"What meds?"

Was that why they wanted to carry on charging for her father because they still had his tablets in their drug cabinet?  

There's been a dash to the emergency doctor to get a prescription. At least it had helped her to get to know the area.                  

The doorbell rang. Would that be it? The new shredder.

She heard her husband go to the door. Yes, he was definitely taking delivery of a parcel. Seconds later the front door closed and she could hear him dragging something across the hall.

"Here it is, then," he said as he opened the door to the lounge. 

"It looks sturdy enough."

"Shall I set it up?"

She nodded.

As he moved the old one out of the way, plugged the new one in and switched it on she studied the next batch of papers.

Yes it was getting lighter. Now the monthly payments were going down. Statements were showing a surplus in the bank at the end of the month.  She remembered conversations with the mortgage provider about "spare money".

"What's that?" he'd asked.

"Just what I have left at the end of the month. I want to use it to pay off the mortgage."

"Must be nice," he'd mumbled.

It was. But it was only because she'd had help. There had been some painful conversations, then regular payments and no interest.

Yes, it had been better for a few years now.

And here she was shredding some of the more respectable statements. 

It didn't take long. The new machine was much better than the other two they'd had. It gave a final clunk. The table was now clear.

At that precise moment the phone rang.  She heard her husband go and answer it. What might it be? She hoped it wasn't a problem with the new house. 

She held her breath as she waited for him to finish.

She heard him put the receiver back on its cradle. The he opened the lounge door slowly. He grinned. "We complete on Friday," he said.

They were safe now.

They would soon be living in a house that they owned.

She patted the new machine. Her old life was now in shreds.    

About the author 

Publisher, writer, creative writing lecturer and editor of CafeLit, she likes finding the bizarre hidden beneath the veneer of everyday life. 

Blog: http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/   

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

The Cat Burglar

by Jerry Guarino

martini shaken not stirred 

 

Alex was suave and polished, the type of man women long for.  Prepped and pampered since he was a child, he grew up in a fine New England home to parents of distinction.  He attended the finest private schools and vacationed in Europe.  His hobbies were magic and tennis; in fact he was professionally acclaimed at both of them.  Alex was just about perfect for any refined woman looking for a mate, except for one fact.  Alex was a thief.

            You may remember the David Niven character from The Pink Panther movies.  Alex was a cross between him and James Bond.  Not only did he steal from the rich, but he bedded beautiful women along the way, all while avoiding capture by various law enforcement groups.  He traveled the world stealing from the elite and super rich, in Europe, Asia and the U.S.  He became a minor celebrity, playing as an amateur in tennis tournaments and entertaining the wealthy with magic shows at posh parties.  Alex seemed to have everything. 

            Often, he would sneak out of these parties to look for fine jewelry and other expensive items, only to return innocently to the festivities.  He used his skills as a magician to appear and disappear at will and his sleight of hand to palm valuables from unsuspecting men and women.  He never got caught.  He was never even suspected, proven by the fact that he was invited back to the rich and famous parties everywhere.

            Alex had a criminal rival, about the only person who knew what Alex was doing.  Her name was Sorana, a dark-haired beauty of Italian descent.  Alex and Sorana seemed to run into each other at these wealthy homes.  One night, Alex and Sorana slipped away from the party to make love in an upstairs bedroom.  Alex tried to take a necklace as they were getting dressed when Sorana caught him.  It was either confess or be turned in to the owners.  Sorana told Alex that she was also a thief, that she stole from the wealthy around the world too.  They made a mutual pact, not to turn the other one in.  Whenever their paths crossed in Paris or Belgium or Palm Beach, they would always make time for some romance during the party.

            It was at one of those parties that Alex asked for a volunteer from the gathering for a trick, the familiar make someone disappear act.  Naturally, he chose Sorana and while the crowd applauded with laughter and admiration, Sorana was upstairs stealing jewelry.  When she returned, after discreetly hiding her stolen loot, Alex slipped away to break into one of the owner’s computers and take financial credit information.

            Alex and Sorana seemed like a pair that movies are made about.  The beautiful jet set couple traveled the world, making love and stealing from the wealthy.  If they weren’t criminals, you would even admire them.

            Little did Alex know, but Sorana was a secret agent for Interpol, splitting her time on both sides of the law.  She gathered evidence against Alex, all while stealing at the same time.

            One night in an upper Manhattan soiree, Alex seduced the wife of a billionaire banker, even slipping out to make love with her during the party.  Feeling scorned by her partner in bed and crime, Sorana decided to end this arrangement.  A week later, police planned to raid his home in Greenwich.

            The police surrounded his home around midnight.  Officers with machine guns, dressed in protective gear, announced their presence and then opened the heavy front door with a battering ram.   They threw a flash-bang grenade inside, then rushed through the rooms, laser sighted red lights pointing the way.  They found Alex in bed, cowering with fear.

            “I give up” he said.  “Don’t shoot me.”

            “Where’s the loot, Alex?  We know you have everything stashed here because none of it has been recovered.”

            “In the room in the back of the house.”  Alex was crestfallen, his reign of crime now over.  They led him out in handcuffs and put him in the police van.

            The detectives went to the back of the house, and prepared to see a room full of treasure.  They opened the door, flipped on the lights and were immediately attacked by a dozen cats.

 

About the author

Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "The Best of Café Stories", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

Café au Lait

by L.P.

café au Lait

 

I watch the trees outside my window. Their branches spread to the sky, toward the sun. Their leaves flutter and dance with the wind, capturing bounties of precious nourishment. Cardinals, clothed in their brilliant red coats, dart about the trees. Somewhere above them, a Woodpecker drills for food.  

                  He suddenly appears—not from the sky—but from around the corner of my house. It startles me. He looks around as he approaches my back door. He can’t see through my windows, I know that; but he turns to face me anyway, with his dark and intense gaze, and peers into my soul. I push away from my desk. He turns away and knocks on the door. I scurry to answer it.

                  “Hi,” I say. 

He smiles. It’s nothing less than mesmerizing. His teeth are the brightest white, which pleasantly highlights his deep onyx skin. It absorbs the sunlight that peeks through the cracks in my porch’s ceiling. He wears the collared shirt and khaki shorts of a delivery man.

                  “Sorry. I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. I decided to take a chance and go around back.”

                    I tear my gaze away from his body to meet his gaze. There is a tiny twinkle of amusement floating around in the dark depths of his mahogany eyes that tells me he knows just how mesmerizing his physique is.

                  “It’s fine. I’m sorry, I was brainstorming—and well, I tend not to pay so much attention to anything else.”

He just smiles; a warm and inviting smile. I shudder. 

                  “Just sign here,” he says, handing me an electronic writing pad. 

                 I take it, scribbling my name down. It’s a wonder signatures were ever required. I hardly ever made mine legible enough to make a difference. 

                  “So, brainstorming huh. About what?”

                  I shrug. “Just about writing.”

His eyes widen a bit and his eyebrows quirk toward his hairline. “You’re a writer?”

                    I nod and hand him back the device. He hands me the small package in return. 

                  “Don’t forget that.”

                 His eyes are endless pools of raw cathexis. I avert my eyes, aware that my eyebrows furrow in the slightest because of my confusion. 

                  “Oh,” I say, “I won’t.”

                  A light chuckle flows from my mouth. He shifts his weight to lean against my door frame, which draws my gaze back to him. He pins me to this spot with his unfathomable eyes; I glance away. 

                  “Have a nice a nice day. Remember to open the package,” he says with a wink. 

                 I nod, watching his giant figure recede from view. When his body disappears around the corner, I step back inside and shut the door. I sink to my knees with a sigh. The cracks in my linoleum floor have a chaotic pattern. They stretch from the bottom of the door and into the rest of my home; some branch off into the kitchen, forming an unbroken chain of hairline cracks.  

                  My cellphone rings. With a wistful sigh, I return to my desk. It sits in a corner, adjacent to the window. Papers are strewn everywhere. A blank word document glares from my laptop screen. My phone sits next to it. 

                  “Hello?”

                  “Katie, sweetie.” My mom’s smooth, vanilla voice fills my head. “How are you?”

                    A sharp pain burns my chest. I take a deep breath, and then another.  

                  “I’m ok. Doing well. How’s everything at home? How’s dad?”

                  “Good, darling. Have you been taking--”

                  “Yes. Mom. Don’t worry.”

                  “Ok. Well—” 

                  “I’m actually a little late for lunch with Molly.”

                  “With who?”

                  “A friend. Gotta go, though. I’ll see you for dinner?”

                  “Sounds good. Bye, sweetie.”

                  “Bye.”

                  A little ‘beep’ alerts me that she hung up. I frown at the phone. It takes a few moments to pack up my things and head toward Mike’s Cafe. The cafe’s sign stands out in a sea of other restaurant signs. At night, it glows with neon colors bright enough to blind anyone who drives past. Maybe they secretly hope people would crash, and then forlornly enter into the restaurant with the sole intent to buy food. Whatever the case, the sign is hard to miss, even during the day. I pull into the parking lot, eyeballing a space between two neatly parked cars. The white paint has long faded. No one cares anymore. 

Molly sits in the corner of the restaurant. The black booth swallows up her tiny, pale frame. She wears a wrinkled, black hoodie and pink shorts. The hood sits halfway way on her head, forgotten. 

                  “Hey.”

Molly jerks at the sound. Her shoulders slouch at my approach.

                  “Hey Katie,” she mumbles.

I slip into the opposite side of the booth with about as much grace as a newborn calf. 

                  “Order anything?” I ask, flipping through a menu that sits on the table between us. 

                  “They have a five-dollar margarita special with loaded nachos. You should try it,” she replies. “Treat yourself.”

                  With a sigh, I wave a waitress over. It isn’t often that I allow myself to indulge and enjoying one five-dollar margarita is far from indulgence, anyway. The waitress skips toward the table with the brightest smile I’ve seen in a while. It’s strange that they give these cheery smiles in an attempt to make their customers feel more welcome, but the actual effect is the complete opposite. 

                  “What can I do for you, Katie?” she asks.

                  “I’d like a house margarita with nachos. Thanks.”

                  “No problem. Will get that in right away. Would you like anything else?”

I shake my head. 

                  “So, what’s wrong?” I ask. 

                  Molly’s face crumples. Her eyebrows point downward, and her nose scrunches. Her lips tighten against her teeth; and then it’s just me and Molly, standing toe-to-toe in an empty room with dull reflections everywhere. Her tightly shut eyes ooze gigantic streams of hot tears and her nose drips. She trembles and this time, I can see the tiny, hairline cracks that make up each individual piece of her. Some cracks are bigger, and others are barely noticeable. It’s only a matter of time before she shatters.

                  “It’s him,” she chokes out. 

               “But I thought you moved beyond this?” I whisper, “We locked him away. He can’t do anything anymore.”

                  “It doesn’t—that makes no difference, Katie!”  

                  Her fists are clenched, and her teeth are bared. Her breath comes out in quick, shallow bursts. Her rage pins me down. 

                  “I’m sorry,” I reply. 

                  She sneers. She paces, swinging her arms wildly back and forth. After a moment, she stops and pins me with her enraged glare. She wants to hurt him; she wants to dig her heel into his wounds until he hurts just as badly. But she can’t. She steps closer to me.   

                  “You should be,” she replies, “I mean, where were you anyway? I thought that you were the one who was supposed to have your head on right. I thought you knew how much to drink. I thought you knew how much to smoke. I thought you made sure you always stayed aware! Youfailedus.”

                  Molly’s face inflates until her enraged gaze is all I can see.  

                  “I’m sorry,” I whisper again. 

                  “Sorry can’t change what happened, Katie. Sorry just makeseverythingworse. You thought you knewhim. You thought you knew your limits. You were wrong.”

                  The sound of glass sliding against polished wood startles me. The waitress with the bright smile apologetically places my nachos in front of me. 

                  “Let me know if you need anything,” she says, before floating away. 

                  Molly is gone. It doesn’t surprise me, though. She’s elusive. I sit in contemplative silence, as I shovel the food into my mouth. The margarita and nachos hardly seem like a treat now. The nachos are stale, and the margarita, too sour. 

The sounds of nature are faint in the kitchen. The space in the kitchen is usually small, but today it’s bigger. The ceiling is miles above my body. I left all the lights off; and even though it’s day time, natural light doesn’t reach here. There are several tiny streams of light that filter in through the blinds in the living room. 

                  A knife lays flat on the counter in front of me, away from those of its kind. One stream of light touches it, which makes a part of it glitter and gleam. If knives had mating calls, then the glittering could be it. 

                  “Is today the day?” Molly’s voice rings clear through my head. 

                  “What are you doing here? You left me.”

                  She saunters over and stands in front of me. She still wears the same hoody, halfway over her head. Her clothes are wrinkled, but they always are. Her pink shorts are dirty and bloody. A stream of blood trickles down her leg. 

                  “What happened to you?” 

                  “You know.”

                  I lower my gaze, ashamed to look at her. I close my eyes and I see that night. The images are fuzzy and distorted now, with shadows and demonic faces infused in them. I see myself sprawled out on his sofa. I remember how heavy my limbs felt—like 5-ton weights. My eyes fluttered in pitiful attempts to remain open. The memory always fades to black after. 

                  “I can’t do this. Not anymore, Molly.”

                  “Then don’t,” she replies. 

                  A flash of light catches my eye. The package sits off to the side, about a foot away from the knife. I reach for the package. It’s a small cardboard box with clear tape keeping it sealed. I tear at it with the knife, and peer into it. In it, is just a small card with an address and a name: 

Grant Johnson     
4564 Kindlewood Drive
Jennings, MO 63136

On the back of the card is one word:

Justice.