Detective Avery Nichols studied the coffee stand that bore a much closer resemblance to swiss cheese than a dispensary of caffeine and scantily clad baristas. According to witnesses the stand had been attacked by a lunatic dressed as a superhero who had taken the owner hostage after assaulting a customer. The barista, who had inexplicably escaped, called a group of friends she knew were nearby and these four trigger happy rednecks had proceeded to attempt a rescue that ended predictably in a hail of bullets and the perpetrator’s escape.
“You know what doesn’t make sense to me?” Nichols asked his partner Pete Quimby.
“Oh Jesus, Nichols! Don’t start that big brain of yours churning on this one. If Evan Smith and five more stand up local guys say it happened the way the bikini girl says then that’s the way it happened.” Pete shook his head exasperatedly. Nichols had recently transferred from working the inner city of Chicago and his insistence on considering all the possible angles of a crime scene infuriated the complacent Quimby who had been on the Port Haven Police Force for more than twenty years.
“There aren’t any shotgun blasts,” Nichols said, ignoring his partner’s jibe.
“No shotgun blasts,” Quimby mimicked mockingly and rolled his eyes.
“This is a small town-” Nichols began.
Quimby interrupted. “As you’re so fond of pointing out every five minutes, Mister Fancy-Big-City-Pants!”
“I’d expect more shotguns or at the very least rifles or large caliber revolver rounds. You know, the weapons a typical small town hunter or gun enthusiast would have on hand.” Nichols inspected his notes from the witness interviews.
“Just spit it out, ya hoity-toity bastard and call them hillbillies like we all know you want to!” Quimby turned and spat.
“Twenty-two caliber pistols, all six of your upstanding local guys were carrying, even the ones who never got to fire them. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they all had the same guns on hand?” Nichols asked again.
“No, it doesn’t seem odd to me. It’s a very popular gun, for Christ’s sake! Now can we wrap this up so Mr. Smith can get on with his life and rebuild his business?”
Something was missing, Nichols could feel it. He continued ignoring his partner and traced the masked man’s path out the back window of the coffee stand towards where the getaway car had been parked. Something sparkly caught Nichols’ eye at the edge of the nearby woods and he went over to investigate. He found a pair of high heels, one with the heel broken. They did not appear damaged by an extended stay out in the rainy Port Haven weather.
“Hey Pete!” Nichols called. “The barista we interviewed still had her shoes on, right?”
“Of course she did, you damn idiot! You think I’m such a shitty cop that I don’t notice a girl’s shoes are missing?” Quimby shouted back. “Besides, they were the same sparkly high heels that all Smith’s girls wear while they’re working!”
Nichols frowned. Just as he suspected, these high heels matching the witness’ wasn’t a coincidence. “We have a problem then!”
“What the hell is it now?” Quimby grumbled.
“The assailant took a barista with him and all your supposedly reliable witnesses failed to mention it.” Nichols held up the broken shoe with a pen for his partner to see.
+
Arthur stood outside Thomas Varner’s office at the back of Tom’s Supermarket and tried not vomit into the box of dimes he was clutching. Not only was he still nursing a wicked hangover, but he was damn near shaking from nerves at the prospect of bringing Varner bad news. Arthur had spent the rest of the morning minting dimes and had still needed to take some of what he had set aside for Lester in order to put together what he owed Varner. If he kept this juggling act up Arthur knew that eventually something was going to get dropped and he was going to land himself in a world of trouble.
“Mr. Knob,” Varner’s chilly voice called from inside. Varner was in his early fifties, still quite fit, and he wore a neatly trimmed grey beard. Varner’s office was simply decorated and very neat. An orchid sat in the windowsill and clearly labeled file cabinets and shelves lined the walls. “Hank said you wished to speak with me in addition to dropping off your usual delivery.”
Arthur nodded. Hank was Varner’s right hand man as well as the enforcer when people stepped out of line. “I heard about what happened to Mr. Smith’s coffee stand and I thought he would appreciate his delivery a day early to help with the expenses of rebuilding,” he explained.
“How thoughtful of you. I’m sure Mr. Smith was delighted,” Varner said evenly. His blue eyes always seemed to be boring into you, reading your thoughts, and it creeped Arthur the hell out.
“Not at all, actually. He accused me of spying on him on your behalf,” Arthur told him.
“Interesting. And now here you are reporting to me on your meeting with him. While I am sure there is a subtle and important distinction between what you are doing and spying for me, I doubt very much that our friend Mr. Smith will see it that way.” Varer steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips thoughtfully.
Arthur winced and cursed internally. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir.”
“Nevermind. What’s done is done. Why did you feel the need to report back to me what occurred during your meeting with Mr. Smith?” Varner asked.
“He thinks you hired that lunatic to dress up and attack him so he would be distracted and you could ‘muscle him out’ as he put it,” Arthur explained hurriedly, as though saying it faster would make the news less bad.
“Unfortunate,” Varner said pensively. “I assume a series of vulgar threats followed?”
Arthur nodded.
“You may leave now.”
Arthur set the dimes down and rushed back to the Festiva as quickly as possible. His main goal had been to relay the information to Varner and not be held responsible. Not that Varner had a reputation for killing the messenger, but Arthur had not wanted to be the start of a new trend. Seeing as he was walking, well running, out alive then he considered the meeting a success.
No one had come looking for Desiree. Bartlebee had not returned with further bad news. Other than his hangover, this day was starting to look like it might end up being not quite terrible. Arthur headed home to keep cranking out dimes. He was going to have another late night if he hoped to get everything done for the Mayor’s brother Mason by tomorrow. Mason owned a slew of vending machines all over town. By himself Mason was harmless, but his girlfriend Priscilla was another story. Priscilla was convinced that Mason could be as successful as his brother and would stop at nothing to make that a reality no matter how lazy and stupid Mason was. Naturally, when she had discovered Arthur’s dime minting business he had been given no choice but to add Mason to his growing list of clients.
Arthur was in the middle of minting when Desiree knocked hesitantly on the living room door frame. “I don’t want to interrupt you, but do you have any food?”
“Nothing good, but as long as you’re hungry enough it will do the trick.” Arthur stopped the presses and led her into the kitchen. “You’ve got your choice of stove top canned soups, Hot Pockets, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as long as the bread hasn’t gone moldy.
“Thanks,” Desiree said and she seemed to mean it. She was still wearing Arthur’s pajamas and her thick makeup was smeared after her long nap. She wisely chose the soup.
“Hey man, have I got some great news!” Arthur’s other friend Duke burst in without knocking, just like he usually did. “Oh wow. A chick? Nice!”
“Shut up, Duke. It’s not like that, Desiree here just had a...uh, a bad run in with her boyfriend and needed a place to stay last night,” Arthur explained on the fly.
“Shit, you didn’t even get laid, did you? Nah, I can tell you didn’t. Man, I just don’t get you.” Duke helped himself to a beer from the fridge. “Is she cool though? Can I talk crime stuff in front of her?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Arthur said, knowing full well that Duke was going to talk about it anyway. Duke was a beefy idiot whose day job was selling crappy used cars to pay the bills until his dream career of mob hit man paid off. Arthur hated guys like Duke, but on occasion he needed some muscle and Duke had loved Arthur ever since he and Sam had kicked the shit out of him for harassing girls in Sam’s bar.
Duke looked Desiree over, lingering of course on her ass, and shrugged. “She looks cool. You know Priscilla, right? Well get this, there’s this new cop in town and his wife has a serious history with Mason. Like, drive across the country shacking up in every motel along the way kind of history. Guess they were in love way back when and Mason is keen to give the old flame another go. Obviously, Priscilla wants the cop’s wife out of the picture so she came to yours truly to take care of it for her.”
Arthur stared at Duke with his mouth agape. “Why in the name of God would you tell a complete stranger that? Hell, why would you tell me that?”
“I know you won’t talk. You got more secrets in that bony skull of yours than anybody I know!” Duke laughed.
Arthur threw up his hands in disgust. “I can’t talk to you right now! How you and Bartlebee could both be so stupid at the exact same time, I’ll never know!”
“Hey, I’m not stupid!” Duke protested. “I’m a real hit man now, I thought you’d be proud of me.”
“I’m so proud. So proud that I’m kicking out out of my house so I can go have a drink across the street.” Arthur grabbed his jacket and shoved Duke out the door in front of him.
“Awesome. I’ll come too so we can celebrate!” Duke chugged the rest of his beer and threw the bottle into Arthur’s rhododendron bushes.
“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon, you’re usually kinder to your liver than this,” Sam said by way of greeting when they entered the bar.
“My other friends are trying to get me killed,” Arthur groaned as he sat down. “Do you think you could make two copies of yourself so I can replace Duke and Bartlebee?”
“Honey,” Sam smirked playfully, “you couldn’t handle two of me. If there were three of this,” she gestured to her chest packed into her favorite tip-generating t-shirt, “your sorry ass would burst into flames!”
“Sam, do you ever fool around with other girls?” Duke asked, clearly ogling Sam.
Sam grabbed the soda fountain without saying a word and doused Duke with Dr. Pepper. “No!” she said firmly just like she was training a dog.
“Not cool man. This is my favorite fedora,” Duke muttered as he wandered off to hide.
“That’s not a fedora, you asshole, that’s a trilby and it looks terrible on your giant head!” Sam shouted after him. She poured Arthur a tequila sunrise and slid it over to him.
“You always know just how to brighten my day,” Arthur told her.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m amazing. So should I be worried about tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb actually getting you killed or are you just being dramatic?” Sam asked.
“You should probably actually be worried this time.” Arthur drank deep from his sunrise.
“What’d they do now? You probably can’t talk about it here, nevermind. I’ll come over tomorrow morning. How are things going with Abby?” Sam smirked.
Arthur groaned. “Oh, don’t even bring up that trainwreck today. I don’t need any more disasters in my life right now.”
“Wow, things are going that well, eh? I’m surprised, really. Even you ought not to crash and burn that hard all in one go. Usually you like to drag these things out.” Sam laughed.
“You’re cruel, you know that?” Arthur asked.
“Yeah, I do. You ready to play the game?” Same grabbed three shot glasses.
Arthur grabbed her hand as she was setting the shot glasses on the bar. “I don’t think my liver can take it tonight, why don’t we just skip to the end?” He kissed Sam on the mouth, slugged the last of his tequila sunrise, and went home to get some sleep.
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