The creaking door catches Ben’s attention. He thought he’d locked it. Who could it be at this hour? A pissed-off client? Someone from his past?
He zips his fly and steps away without flushing, hoping they won’t hear the bathroom window opening. Unlike the front door, it doesn’t creak.
Squeezing his torso through the tight rectangle and into the night’s cool desert air, he thinks he’s made his escape. Unfortunately, he failed to account for his midnight visitor bringing a friend.
Ben says, “Nice gun, fella; mind lowering it?”
The pug-faced brute grins like a schoolyard bully he knew a lifetime ago. Waving the piece inches from his face, he motions for Ben to walk. “Move it, pal.”
Ben has six inches on the guy; the brute has sixty pounds on him.
The pug holds his pistol tightly, marching Ben back to his desk. Sitting down, Ben meets the eyes of the businesswoman across from him. He doesn’t know her personally but recognizes the face. Angela Mercer opened a new casino last year in an attempt to revitalize the downtown area. It seems to be working, much to the displeasure of those who used to run things.
She smiles. “I assume you know who I am.”
“I do, but what I’d like to know is why your pug here is holding a gun on me.”
She waves off the muscle. He drops his aim and steps back. Ben takes his eyes off the brute and brings them back to her.
“Now, mind telling me what you’re doing here, Ms. Mercer?”
“I’d like to hire you for a job.”
“A job,” he motions to the brute, “like this?”
“That’s right. I’ve heard good things about your work.”
Everyone knows he’s a half-assed private investigator. She must want something done poorly. He leans forward, “What kind of job do you have in mind?”
She grins like a spy with a daring secret.
“The kind you did back in Boston.”
Ben doesn’t respond; he doesn’t know how to, just keeps his eyes locked on hers. She pulls a photograph from her purse.
“You know this man?”
“Not personally, but I know who he is.”
She slides an envelope across the desk. He picks it up and thumbs through it. Looks like ten grand.
“That’s half. The sooner this happens, the better.”
She gets up and leaves. Ben only takes his eyes from the envelope to watch the pug exit, still grinning like his childhood bully. The door closes, and Ben reaches for the phone.
• • •
Angela sits facing Ben. Same seat as last week. Same pug, ten feet away—just close enough to piss him off.
She says, “So, I assume it’s finished?”
Ben shows her a photo of his own. She nods in approval, meets his eyes, then slides another envelope across the desk. He doesn’t reach for it this time. Instead, he slips his finger inside the trigger guard and fires a shot from a pistol beneath the desk. The first squeeze unloads a round into the pug’s gut, dropping him. Angela’s eyes dart to the useless muscle. Ben squeezes the trigger again, sending a searing shot into her stomach.
The bathroom door swings open, and Dave McManus, the billionaire from the photo, steps out. Smiling from ear to ear, he says, “Angela, you bitch, I fear you failed to offer our friend here top dollar.”
Her dying eyes race back and forth between them, pleading. Ben aims his pocket-sized pistol and, with one more trigger squeeze, ends her suffering. He moves to the pug, writhing on the floor in an expanding pool of gooey crimson. Ben smiles as he sticks the short barrel inside the guy’s mouth and says, “Who’s grinning now, you prick fuck?”
The second Ben pulls the trigger, McManus pulls one of his own—twice. A pair of 9mm rounds race through Ben’s back and exit through his chest. He collapses, gasping for air but finding none. Ben watches McManus grab the envelope and manages to gurgle, “Why?”
McManus walks to the door, then, before stepping out into the Las Vegas night, turns and says,
“It’s nothing personal, kid, just a favor for Boston.”
~ fin ~
Born and raised in Massachusetts, J.J. Landry left home at eighteen to serve in the U.S. Marine Corps and never looked back. He’s had numerous flash fiction stories published, and is currently working on several new projects. He resides with his wife and their three children, in Northern Kentucky, just outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. He enjoys reading and writing about crime-fiction and WWII.
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