7. Merciless

I walked to my destination with a freshly pawned gun in pocket. I was ready. Stanley didn't know what was gonna hit him. I came up his street, Brookridge, and noticed his house was dark. He wasn't even home. I had it all planned out in my head of how it would go down, but my scenario always involved him being home. This was going to be too easy.

I figured I'd just waltz right in screaming his name and waving my gun in his face, making demands. That would scare him into submission. At least, that was my theory. That was my plan.

At the door, I picked the lock and decided at the last moment I better go through with my plan since he has a garage and he could just be asleep. I swung the door open,

"STANLEY!"

I slammed the door and turned the light on. My gun was in my right hand, my fedora pushed up just a little. The living room was chilly, thus verifying he probably wasn't home. I stormed to the first room. It was a guest room. I turned it upside down tossing the mattress and checking the closet. I went to the next room, his office. He has obviously just moved in, since the furniture isn't placed in its right place. Pieces of furniture are just sitting in the middle of the floor. I check the closet and nothing. I turn his living room upside down, but still I can't find this leather briefcase anywhere.

The furnace room, the pantry... nothing.

The master bedroom is a challenge, since it is the most furnished. I check underneath bed and master bath, but nothing. I enter the closet and there is large box on the floor in the center of it. I begin throwing everything out of it onto the floor.

A handle.

I grip it with my left hand and pull it out from beneath a shirt. It's a gun. It's loaded, so I slip it into the back of my pants and I'm off to the kitchen.

I check every cabinet... nothing.

As I go to leave the kitchen, something catches my eye. I walk over to the door leading to the laundry room. I turn the light on and what really catches my eye is the door leading into the garage. He just moved, it's probably full of unpacked boxes. I walk in and I'm right. There are so many belongings in the two-car garage, you can't even fit one car. I start to rummage, but then I hear a car. I turn the light off and the headlights hit the wall through the windows of the garage door.

Stanley is home. On a whim, I revise my plan.

I wait. I can hear him running around the house, retracing my own footsteps. I watch the crack beneath the door, as the light shines through it. He's running on the tile of the kitchen floor, heading to the master bedroom. He's looking for his gun.

Silence.

I hear footfalls coming closer and closer, lightly. He is walking and coming closer to the door. He stops. After a moment, he starts again and I can see his shadow approaching the door. Slowly his shadow covers the crack and I have no more light.

The door swings open and he turns the light on.

"Don't be stupid," I order him with my gun pushed into his face, "Come into the garage, slowly."

He steps down into the garage, "Keep those hands up."

He is young, about my own age. He is in a black suit with a dark purple vest and tie. He is obviously returning from an expensive event. I pat his front down, "Spin around!" I pat his backside down; he isn't carrying, "Alright, face me."

He turns and looks at me with a sarcastic expression, I implore, "Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The briefcase?!"

He roles his eyes, "What briefcase?"

"The briefcase! Where is it?!"

He sighs, "You know, you should probably be a little more specific. I have a lot of briefcases."

I'm impatient. I thrust my gun into his stomach as hard as I can and as he doubles over towards my gun, I grab his hair with my left hand and pull his head back and emphasize into his ear, "Where... is... the briefcase?"

"Okay, okay..." he concedes.

"That's right," I tell him and slap him upside the head with my left hand as I back away from him.

He gestures to corner of garage, "It's over there."

"Move over there," I instruct, gesturing with my gun, "Bring it to me."

We walk across the cluttered garage, past some emptied boxes to our right and full boxes to our left. He goes beyond the full boxes and into the corner, he bends over and then back up and turns around. In his hands are a leather briefcase, just as Holly said.

"Bring it to me," I demand of him one last time.

He walks it over to me, slowly and stops.

"No funny business," I instruct.

As he goes to hand me the briefcase he quickly swings the briefcase, knocking my pistol out of my hand and then hits me in the face with the briefcase and I stumble backwards. I fall onto the empty boxes and he quickly kicks me in the stomach and chest, then retrieves my gun and darts back into the house. I rub my chest and leap to my feet, I then sprint after him. I reach around my back and pull out his pistol as I enter the kitchen,

"STANLEY!"

At the front door, Stanley turns around and takes aim at me with my own gun. I aim back with his, gripped with both my hands. He stands with my gun in his right hand, the briefcase in his left. He smirks, then pulls the trigger... nothing. His smirk goes away and he pulls the trigger again and again... nothing.

My plan worked.

I smile at him and he laughs back at me. He looks at the gun and then tosses it onto his couch. He raises the briefcase up and holds it with both of his hands now,

"Toss it to me," I tell him.

He doesn't.

"DO IT!"

He reluctantly tosses the briefcase towards me and it lands on the floor between us. He is visibly upset by it all.

I keep my aim on him while he stares back at me. After a moment of us staring at one another, trying to understand where the other is coming from, I put an end to it. I pull the trigger. I pick up the briefcase and leave.

6. Storyteller

After some reuben on rye and coffee, I was home. I crashed on my sofa, having made my choice of whiskey from bourbon and lemonade. I sipped and slowly washed away the memory of Holly. The memory of Maxim. The memory of what seemed to be ghosts. I shouldn't care, I barely knew her. The more I drank, the less I did. Eventually, I had forgotten and was fast asleep.

I woke near dawn, the room was dark and I heard noises from the kitchen. I looked to the door, it was shut and locked. I wanted that gun now more than ever, but I knew that the cops were probably processing it as evidence at this point. I grabbed my whiskey bottle and sipped the last little bit of it; held it upside down from the neck and slowly rose to my feet trying not to make a sound. The radio turned on and I could hear the sound of the intruder fumbling through the AM waves looking for a station to fit their desires.

Jazz. Sultry jazz.

I heard clinking of glass and footfalls coming towards me, I slid against the wall near the kitchen doorway. A dark, slender figure entered carrying something large and dark in its hands, possibly a Tommy gun. I slipped in behind the figure, breaking the bottom of my bottle which was held with my right hand on the wall to my right and then held the jagged end to the neck of the intruder. With my left arm I reached out and around, crossing left arm and chest of intruder.

"You get one chance," I whispered in the right ear.

"Johnny, darling, it's me, Holly."

Amidst a raunchy, damp sort of smell I could sense Holly's perfume. It was her. She wasn't dead. After releasing her and turning the light on, I could see Maxim had beat her up pretty bad. She had black and blue eyes, bruises on her arms and legs. Her dress was torn, wet and her lip was busted and swollen. In her hands she held a glass and my bourbon, a far cry from a Tommy gun.
"What went down, kid?"

"Let me get a drink first," she started as she went to my couch, "I need to numb the pain."

I joined her, sitting close to her. She started to pour the drink, but her arm was obviously in a lot of pain. I took the bottle and glass from her hands and poured the drink myself. I handed her the glass and she gulped it instantly and handed it back. I poured some more, this time she savored it. She made it last.

"He took me to Buehler Lake," she began her story, "They worked me over. There were three of them, four counting Maxim. He kicked me twice, but stopped because I was scuffing his loafers. What a pity. They had bats and crowbars, but mostly they kicked and punched. They wanted it to last. Eventually I scrambled and threw myself over the dock into Buehler. I swam beneath the dock and waited for them to give up looking for me; they did and left. I waited until nightfall, then came out and made my way here. We gotta show him up, Johnny. We gotta get him back. This has to end."

After a moment of thought, I responded, "I don't know, kid, I'm in enough trouble as is. My little sister is a cop and serious about it, if I keep getting in trouble she'll nail me."

"Johnny, darling, you're all I have," she compelled and placed her left hand on my leg.

"What about your parents? They have money, they can ruin him better than I can."

"They won't listen to me," she starts, "They think I am making this all up."

"Look at you; you can't make this up. Go to them, show them. Good grief, I'll tell 'em what I know; what I've seen."

"No, Johnny," she removes her hand and turns away, hanging her head, "Maxim has convinced my parents I'm cheating on him, they won't listen to me. They've disowned me. I'm not even in the will anymore. I bring too much shame to them. I have nothing. I have no one."

"Well, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you cheat on him?"

After a moment, she responds, "Sort of."

Here I thought I had a chance with her. Here I thought she was digging me. All the Johnny, darlings and batty eyes. I'd fallen for a dame and she had someone else on the brain. I almost went to jail for life for her and I ain't even her daddy. I was ready to kill her myself.

"It's you, Johnny," she looks back at me, "I'm in love with you, though I know we barely know each other and we haven't really done anything. He has pictures of us together and that's all my parents can see and I can't really deny how I feel for you."

I wrapped my arms around her in an embrace; gently, so as to not irritate her wounds. I pulled her in tight to me. She was cold, so I grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her. I held her tightly, trying to warm her body with the blanket and my own heat. I realized now that it was not over. That the plot hadn't even thickened. The villain had to go and I had to be the hero. I was gonna kill Maxim.

"Where does Maxim live?" I began to formulate my scheme, "Tell me where he is and I'll kill the rat myself."

"No, Johnny," she pleaded, "Not Maxim."

"What do you mean not Maxim?"

"I want to scorn him before he dies."

She was cruel, but it was understandable. After what she had gone through, one could see where such notions would come to mind and one might even rationalize them.

"What did you have in mind, kid?"

"There's a man," she started, "His name is Stanley Black. He's got some blueprints in a leather briefcase that Maxim needs to have for some shady deal he's working. If we get those blueprints and destroy them, he'll be in a heap of trouble. We'll let him sweat it for a few days and then we'll kill him."

For the first time since she'd been in my apartment, she smiled. It was an eerie smile, but an understandable one. Vengeance and freedom were within her grasp. She could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and that made her happy. I was happy for her.

"I'll need a gun; do you still have any cash?"

"Yes, Johnny darling, just enough to get us through the rest of this trouble and buy a one-way ticket on a train to anywhere," she smiled in a nice way this time, "We'll live on love."

"For you, kid, sure."

We kissed.

She stayed the night at my place, but not in the lustful way. She was too beat up for any foolishness anyhow. She slept in my bed and I sprawled on the couch, too afraid to lay next to her battered body. Afraid I might roll over in my sleep and hurt her more. I felt relieved. I felt at peace. Tomorrow morning, after my hangover, I'd be buying a gun and paying Stanley a visit. After that, it would merely be a matter of time before Maxim was dead and we were on a train to anywhere. And we'd savor it; we'd make it last.

5. Oblivious

It's a dirty, old shame when all you get from love is a love song.

I had to go and do the stupid thing. I had to go get all emotional and care. Once you care, you listen and when you listen you learn. Ignorance is bliss sometimes, kids. Remember that. I write to teach you, so listen dear reader. Read my story and learn. Care, listen and learn. Don't be like me.

Me.

Here I sit in my perfectly conditioned room. It's conditioned like every other room in this stinking hole. Yeah, here I sit. I sit on the floor, notepad in hand, writing to my heart's content. And for what? I'm not sure.

You're idiots

You're all idiots. Every last one of you. You are all aimless, pointless, shifty-eyed nobodies.

After that bigot drove off with my dame, I sat. I sat all bummed out. Bummed out that my dame was on her way to get hers.

I heard the sirens coming, but I didn't care. Oh, I cared before, but now it's over. I don't care. He won. He came, he played and left with the girl. And now, he will have his way with her. He will kill her and that will satisfy him. That's his pleasure. That's his sex.

A cop car arrived on location and I heard voices of the female persuasion.

"He took off down the alley!"

"Stay inside, ma'am!"

Footfalls came shuffling up the alley; the latter voice spoke again, "Where's that backup?!"

Enter Mercedes, "Johnny, what are you doing?! I almost shot you. Beat it!"

I looked at her, she looked at me and she knew. She lowered her gun and sat beside me on the ground. In the distance, we heard more sirens coming.

"What's going on, Johnny?"

At the station, I sat in a cold, damp room. It was one of those interrogation rooms they try to bring to life on the big-screen. It seemed fake now. I sat alone for 10 or 15 minutes, but then she came in. She looked high-strung. She sat in the chair across the table from me and she asked me again, "What's going on?"

"Why don't you tell me, Mercedes?"

"Cut the act, Johnny! You just caused a serious mess in the streets of Babylon and Bruno wants an answer... I WANT AN ANSWER!"

Needless to say, she was a little peeved.

"Why don't you ask Maxim de Claire? Bring him in here, sit him down and ask him where Holly is?"

She stared at me. You know, one of those stares that says shut up. She turned the cop on.

"Here's what I know... you left your apartment, shot a few bullets into a nearby alley. You then climbed into your car and drove a few blocks, breaking a dozen traffic violations. You then parked your car in the street (abruptly), exited the vehicle, shot a few more bullets into the streets, headed down the alley on foot and waited for me. Care to fill me in on any of those details? Reasons would be nice."

I hesitated for a moment to gather all the errors in her statement, then proceeded to enlighten her.

"First off, you should have three bodies. I didn't drive my own car. I broke six traffic violations, at best... I think that covers most of it. Let's get our details straight, sis, before we jump to reasons."

Her reply was concise, "Your tirade involves no body count, no other vehicle and as far as the traffic violations go," she leaned in, "Why don't you let the law decide when you've broke one or not?"

That's when it really sank in. I was expecting to go to prison for the rest of my life, but come to find out Maxim had cleaned up my mess. What was that jerk up to? He's playing me. Why? Why dispose of the bodies, why replace the car? What is going on?

Holly hired me. I know that. She hired me to protect her from potential attempts on her life. Maxim, her fiance, had it in for her. When he tried to make good on it, he was successful. Though, I made it difficult and created quite a mess. Ah... he's not covering for me, he's covering his own tracks. This guy is good. He's better than good, he's methodical.

"Johnny? Hello?" Mercedes spoke to me, in her sarcastic way, "Are you quite finished planning your future in that little head? Talk to me."

"So, how much do I owe you guys for violations and damages?"

She didn't respond, so I did.

"I would like to think that I have the right to know what I've done wrong."

Reluctantly, she replied, "You can find out about your violations and charges from Meredith at front desk on your way out. We'll have to check into the damages and we'll get back to you on that later."

"Am I under arrest? Or can I go?"

"You can go, but your license is temporarily revoked. You can appeal any and all charges at your assigned court date. You can get the date from Meredith, again, at front desk."

I gloated a bit and smiled at her as I rose to my feet.

"Are you ever going to talk to me?" She inquired.

I stopped at the door and turned back, "I don't talk to cops. See ya, sis."

With that I was out the door, I paid Meredith a visit and left a free man. I cared, I listened and I learned. I was glad the melodrama was over. Good riddance.

4. Extroverted

It was a typical morning. I defied the alarm clock several times, before slowly removing my body from the twin bed in my bedroom to the couch in my living room. There, on the couch, I sprawled out and slept for a few more hours.

A knock at the door.

Great.

I open the door and there's my little sister, Mercedes. She stands in the hall with a look of sarcasm, as usual, and in uniform. Yeah, she's fuzz. A copper. A pain.

"Typical," she says as she waltzes in and takes her hat off, "Would it kill you to get a job? And attempt to do something with your life?"

"I could say the same of you," I reply, "You think because you gotta badge and uniform that means you're a success?"

"Tough love," she starts, "So, what have you been up to, Johnny?"

She takes a seat on the couch, placing her hat on the coffee table.

"Nothing worth mentioning."

"Staying out of trouble?"

"Define trouble."

"I shouldn't have to," she explains.

"Wanna drink?" I ask, "All I have is bourbon."

"Maybe a water," she says, "What are you up to?"

"The water's a little rusty. It's bourbon or bourbon," I start, "And what I do is none of your business. You just keep doing your own thing and I'll keep doing mine."

I grab the bourbon bottle from the refrigerator for myself; I'm gonna need it. I go ahead and let her have it... right between the eyes. Is there anything worse than getting pushed around by your younger sibling?

"Besides, Mercedes, do you honestly think Bruno is ever gonna promote a woman to detective? You're fighting a losing battle, ace. Nobody wants a woman working a homicide. Not yet, anyway. Chill out, get married, make babies and wait for the revolution to come at some other time. You're trying to take a bus to a town that doesn't exist yet. Give it a couple hundred years."

After an awkward amount of silence, broken occasionally by a swig of bourbon and her shuffling on the couch, she picks up her hat, stands and speaks, "Look, Johnny, I just came by to check on you, because I care. I don't know why you feel as if I have wronged you, but I hate to see you fall to pieces. Take some advice and clean up. Get a job, make some dough and think about what you wanna do with yourself. Think about what should be expected of your talents."

"I gotta job helping a prissy dame and I don't owe the world anything."

She walks to the door and opens it. She turns, places her hat on and takes one final blow, "Do me a favor and think twice before making any rash decisions. Catch ya on the flipside, Johnny."

And with that she goes out the door and I hear her footfalls take her down the stairs. After a moment of pondering her words, I take a few more swigs of bourbon and decide I'm hungry.

As I'm leaving my apartment building, I stop at the bottom of the stairs to check my mail. Behind me I hear the doors open and light footfalls from a female.

"Johnny, this is it," says a feminine voice.

I turn around and see Holly.

"This is what?"

"Maxim has had a tail on me all day. He's armed and he aims to kill me. Here," and with that she pulls the Walther PPk from her purse along with the silencer. She begins to screw the silencer on, "You gotta take care of him or it's over for me."

"Now, hold on, Kid," I start, "Are you sure this guy means you harm?"

"What am I five? Of course, I'm sure."

She shoves the gun in my hands.

"Wait, wait," I start stalling and trying to think of excuses, "I'm not just gonna walk out into the street and shoot some random guy I've never met before."

"He's across the street," she grabs me and pulls me to the window, "Do you see him leaning against the phone booth?"

Sure enough, there was a large man in a brown overcoat and fedora leaning against the phone booth. His hands in the pockets of his overcoat, looking left and right, but occasionally looking across the street at my apartment building. He was suspicious and a little obvious, but that didn't make him a killer in my book.

"You gotta take him out, Johnny."

"Shut up, stay here and let me take care of this," I place the gun in my overcoat (I figure it's safer there) and start to walk out the door to confront The Stranger.

"Johnny," she quietly gasps my name and grabs me. She spins me around and plants a kiss on my lips, "I'll never forget this."

In her eyes, I see something. Something I'd never seen in her face until now. I see innocence, love and compassion. I see beauty beyond the facade. For the first time, I can look at Holly as more than just a pretty face with a dirty mind. Maybe she is human after all.

I care.

I step out the doors and stand on the sidewalk for a moment, contemplating the next few moments of my life while trying not to stare at The Stranger across the street. I make up my mind and step into the street. As I cross the street, I watch The Stranger closely. He sees me and casually steps into the booth and places a call. Maybe I was right. Maybe she's just paranoid.

I walk up to the phone booth and stand outside; waiting for him to hang up and step out. I can hear him speaking, though it is muffled and I cannot make out a word of it. More and more I realize, Holly has lost it. This guy doesn't even know her. He's just an innocent bystander.

I turn around and look to Holly who is watching from the window, I shrug my shoulders indicating that there's probably nothing to worry about. The muffled words from the phone booth stop, I see her eyes open wide and she points frantically. I hear the booth door slide, I turn around just in time to see the fist planted in my face. I start to fall over backwards, but he grabs me by my overcoat and flings me against the wall of a nearby building and I stumble, falling away from him towards the alley. He grabs me before I fall flat on my face and gives me a good toss into the alley. This time I do fall on my face.

I push myself up with my hands and see the gun slide from my overcoat and fall to the ground, I look back and see him walking towards me. He pulls a switchblade from his overcoat and swings the blade out ever so swiftly. And then I realize this guy knows what he's doing and he means business.

I hold myself with my left hand and slide my right hand underneath me gripping the pistol's handle. I continue in a leftward motion and flip over, landing on my back with the pistol now aimed at The Stranger. I cock with my left hand and shoot with my right. The slug finds his right shoulder, he drops the blade. He looks at his shoulder and then back to me. He realizes that I know what I'm doing and I mean business.

I plant another slug in his forehead and he doubles back onto the ground.

After a moment, I hear Holly screaming in the distance.

"Come on, Johnny! Come on, we gotta go!"

I jump to my feet and see that she is running to her car. She opens the door and slides into the driver seat. I step over The Stranger's body, but stop and turn back. He twitches a little, so I decide I better leave no stone unturned. I put three more bullets in his chest and then walk quickly into the street. I hear a car start to my right and I look. A car at the end of the street comes pulling out of park and peeling towards me. I run to Holly's car and open the driver's door, "Get over!"

"What?!" She screams, in confusion.

"Scoot!"

She slides across the seat onto the passenger side. I fall into the driver's side and start the car with the keys already in the ignition. Just as I put the gear into drive and step on the gas, the car behind me barrels into our bumper. Holly turns and looks out the back window, screaming, "Hey! What are you trying to do?! Look at the road, would ya?!"

I grab Holly by the head and slam her into the floor of the car and began to speed away again. I look behind me and see the car recovering from it's crashed state.

"What was that for?!" Holly screams at me, positioning her petite body back into the seat.

"You wanna get killed, Kid?!"

She looks back at the car with a startled look on her face, then turns to me, "You mean they... they're part of them?!"

"What did you think they were doing, playing bumper cars?!" I start, "Now, stay down!"

I make a sharp left turn at a red light, cars from oncoming traffic swerve to miss me and ride up on the sidewalk. The car is still in hot pursuit, making the turn just behind me. I get some momentum at the next intersection when I fly through the red light with ease but the car behind clips a Woody driving parallel. I see my opportunity, so I act upon it. I toss Holly the gun, "Reload, kid!" She frantically scrambles for a clip in her purse and loads it.

"Done!"

"Give it here, kid," I start, "When the car comes to a stop, I want you to take off down that alley up ahead, got it?"

"Why?"

"Got it?!"

"Yes, I got it."

"Good... now grab on to something."

In that moment I hit the breaks while sharply turning the car right then left, bringing the car to a complete horizontal stop in the street.

"Scram, kid!"

She jumps out and bolts for the alley.

I get out of the car with gun in hand, I hear the car go up a gear and its speed gains momentum. I aim the gun and take shots at the driver, walking towards the oncoming car. Two bullets lodge in the driver, one in the shoulder and another in the head. The passenger grabs at the wheel, but it's too late. I leap to the right, rolling out of the way just in time for the car to whiz by and crash into Holly's nice, nice car.

I leap to my feet and rush around to the passenger side, open the door and drag the passenger out of the car and into the street. He's cut up bad; I can see his bone piercing through his arm near the elbow. He's crying and balling and screaming all manner of vulgarities.

"You got one chance, pal," I start, "Who sent you?"

He makes his choice and doesn't answer, but instead continues crying like a baby. I put a bullet in his head and put each of us out of misery.

After pocketing the gun, I run for the alley. I'm turning over trash cans, trying doors, looking in windows but I can't seem to find Holly anywhere. I come to the end of the alley and step out into an adjacent alley, I look left and see nothing. I turn right and see a car coming straight at me, Holly is in the passenger seat and is obviously yelling her delicate head off. I get a quick glimpse at the driver. He looks high-class. I'm guessing this must be the notorious Maxim. I scramble into the alley, just missing getting turned into road kill. I hear the car screech against the bricks, just missing me. Some of the bricks fly into pieces. I hear the car driving off and I look at myself. I'm lying face down in the waste from a trash can. A gun in my hand, still hot from its action. But, it's not as pretty as it once was. It's been scraped from the ground. Scratches are all up and down the barrel.

As I stand up, I pull a banana peel that had attached itself to my coat and drop it. As I walk out into the street looking for any sign of the girlish figure I once knew, I realize she's gone. Long gone. I stretch a little, feeling the pain now that the adrenaline is gone. I walk to the curb and hail a cab. All the while remembering Mercedes asking me to not make any rash decisions. I hate it when she's right.

The toughest part of all this... I officially care for the little brat that is Holly. I think I might even be in love with her. She's all I can think about as I get my ride back to my apartment. I think of her delicate, petite frame and realize it won't take much to finish her off. Not much at all. If Maxim's a gentleman, he'll make it quick and maintain her dignity. But, if I had a guess, Maxim ain't much for chivalry.

Good luck, kid.

3. Introverted

What kind of self-righteous introvert etches LOVE GOD into the wall of a bathroom stall? If you wanna have an impact, than get out of the bathroom and meet some one. Get to know somebody. You know, start a conversation?

Holly, the dame, lived in an elaborate house. It was ridiculously over sized; especially considering that she lives alone. Monsieur de Claire, whom we'll refer to as Maxim, bought her the joint. He also bought the furniture and all the house accessories. Everything. Holly comes from a wealthy family and is set to inherit quite a fortune. She'll never work a day in her life. Yet somehow, because of this, Maxim finds it necessary to ensure she never spends a dime of her own. Well, her father's dimes that is.

She takes me through the foyer, past the ballroom and into the parlor. This is where she continues her proposition.

"I have everything you need to carry out the plot," she explains, "I've thought it all out."

"What plot?" I ask.

"Why murdering Maxim, of course."

"A little back story would be nice," I start, "Why does Maxim want to kill you and why do you find it necessary to one-up him instead of going to the police?"

"Don't you wanna see my gun?" she asks, bewildered.

I have to admit, I was a little shocked myself.

She pulls a golden box from a nearby drawer. An engraving his made in the box that reads, "JUSTICE." She opens the box and inside it is a Walther PPk, a silencer and a clip. She removes the gun, loads the clip and screws the silencer on.

The PPk is black and perfectly cleaned to a fine gloss. It looks as if it could be made of glass.

"Wanna handle it," she asks, "Get a feel for it?"

What man doesn't?

I grasp the gun with both hands and take aim at the vase.

"The safety isn't on, Ace," she starts, "And you are aiming at my mother."

"Sorry, Kid," I lower the PPk, "I didn't realize it was an urn. I thought it was a vase."

"Everything in this house is worth more than you," she brags, "And for the record, I collect urns. There isn't a single vase in this house. Only the ashes of my friends and family. Not all grow, but all die. The meaning of life is death."

I turn and look about the parlor and I roughly estimate at least 30 urns. Something ain't right, but schmeck sounds all the more reasonable, if not even justified.

"I'll give you your back story, Johnny...

"We met at a birthday party; Maxim and I. It was his birthday party. It was hosted by his parents and held in their lavish home. My family and I were invited, as we always were to the de Claires' charades, though I rarely met them. There was some work connection between my father and Monsieur Jacques de Claire, Maxim's father. It was distant enough that they barely knew each other by appearance, but they knew they had to be permanent guests to each other's functions.

"On this occasion, Maxim was turning 30 and edging into a confirmed bachelor state. Everyone was talking and revelling, save me. I was getting loose on champagne, which is quote a task.

"Maxim sat next to me, I didn't recognize him and so I confided in him what I thought of the party, his family, his mom's virtues and himself. He then introduced himself and we talked for hours. Rather, he talked and I listened. He spoke of love, relationships, politics, psychology, sociology and even murder... but mostly, he spoke of himself. Naturally, because everything relates to Maxim Jay de Claire. Did you know Maxim isn't even French?"

I reply, "No... I did not."

She obviously has forgotten that I know nothing of her dear Maxim.

"Well, he isn't, though he and his family parade the beret. They're British immigrants who changed their name to gain some stature."

"Has it worked," I ask.

"I suppose it has."

"Look, Kid, I ain't much for love stories so please hurry to the part where I'm suppose to care," she gets a look of irritation and my impatience and then continues.

"We courted for three years, but the love never grew, though our parents bounded," her irritation tripled at this point, "A marriage of convenience was pressured by both of our parents."

I can't help myself and I ask, "Since when does courtship involve buying the honey a new house?"

"My parents prefer the term courtship to dating or relationship for publicity's sake."

"This is boring, Kid. And, I still don't care."

"Maxim and his family are communists," she blurts.

"Still don't care," I start, "And you're grasping at straws."

"I will pay you, did I mention that?"

Alas, she finds my weak spot. Well, that and she was born the right gender.

"How much?" I ask.

"More than you've ever earned."

"You mean more than you've ever earned?"

"There will be more than enough up front to cover expenses and even more after Maxim is dead."

"Alright, Kid, you reeled me in but I still don't care whether you live or die."

"If you want your money, you will."

And with that, she makes a very valid point.

2. Narcissistic

He was full of himself. A real work of art, as it were. He was so stuck on himself, there was no room for anyone else. The world revolved around him. It was once believed that everything revolved around the earth, then they said it was the sun that everything revolved around. Come to find out, they were all wrong. The world revolved around him. Maxim Jay de Claire. An odd name, but a snooty one. And not just in deed. In ear. Just listen to the way that name rolls off the tongue. It's obvious that the owner of this name is nothing but ego. Maxim Jay de Claire, only son of Madame de Claire. A rich snob from birth that was never satisfied. A brat, spoiled rotten. At least that's the way she portrayed him. And it seemed to fit.

I came in for a cup of coffee and a sandwich (turkey on rye) but then suddenly...

Thought interrupted.

Enter the dame. Hair flowing, dress flowing, mind roaming. She looked sweet, innocent, but as if she'd seen enough filth in her time. Maybe an abusive and cheating husband in the likeness of her father. Maybe it was her father that was filth. Maybe... either way, she was a peach. A doll. A real Rita Hayworth, without the facade. This dame was fine to look at because of good genes, as opposed to good grooming and hygiene. She was a natural beauty.

"What a dame," I mumbled to the Soda Jerk whipping up my float.

"What?" he asked with a puzzled look. Youth, they don't get beauty.

"Do your duty, Punk," I started, "And finish my sarsaparilla."

Soda Jerk frowned at me, topped off my black cow by dropping the last scoop in, handed it to me and turned away with a sigh. Good riddance.

"Coffee... black," she spoke softly as she sat on the stool next to me. I looked ahead, trying to ignore her presence. No one heard her voice, but me. Soda Jerk was clear at the other end, helping a Negro by now.

She sat for a moment, then repeated herself as the same as before, "Coffee... black."

Once again, no one hears but me.

"Coffee... black."

"Speak up, Kid," I tell her, without looking.

"Coffee... black," she says again without raising her voice, changing her pitch or changing even the fluctuation.

"Good grief, Kid," I start, "Hey, Punk! Coffee, black!"

Soda Jerk looks at me with prejudice. He sighs, then turns pours some black coffee with ease. He carries it to me and plops it under my chin, asking, "Anything else?"

"It ain't for me, dimwit. It's for the dame."

Soda Jerk smirks and states, "In your dreams." He leaves the mug beneath my chin and walks away. I slide her the coffee.

"Thanks," she says.

"Forget it, Kid."

I hope she doesn't feel she owes me. I hate it when people think they owe you. Whatever she's thinking it ain't hurting me much. She stares. She stares at the black void that she apparently thinks exist in her life. She stares at the bottles behind the bar, on the shelf. No, maybe the wall. Yeah, but that ain't what she's thinking. She probably ain't thinking of one thing; probably a number of things. She thinks they all add up and she thinks that stinks.

Or maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe it ain't so deep.

She hits the schmeck. She's a real schmeck schmuck. Yeah, I bet that's it.

"I don't hit shcmeck, I ain't a schmuck and you're all wet," she affirms out of nowhere.

Great... just what I need. A dame that can read minds.

"You know him?" she asks.

"Who?"

"Maxim Jay de Claire?"

"Never heard of the robber baron."

"You have heard of him?"

"No, it's the name, Doll. It just adds up."

"Forget you," she tells me.

"Good."

She speaks up again, "He's gonna kill me, you know?"

"Good."

"I'm serious," she reassures me.

"Aces up!"

"You got a chip on your shoulder, Bud?"

"Don't call me Bud; it's Johnny and in my opinion this Maxim can't kill you fast enough."

"I don't need you," she affirms.

"Good."

"I need your help," she states.

"You're a trip, you know that?"

"Bite me."

"Maybe later."

"He's a narcissist," she explains, "You know what that means?"

"I wasn't born yesterday, Kid."

"Holly's the name, Maxim's my pain."

Holly come lately.

"Can you kill him for me?" she asks.

"Sure, I'll get right on that."

"Dope, I'm serious."

She hits the schmeck. It's the only way this makes sense.

"Let's not talk here, come to my place," she says.

"Sure, Kid," who am I to say no? She's fine, she's feminine and she's invited me home. She may be crazy, but she sounds like a winner to me.

Her coffee mug is full and cold. She didn't take one sip... I don't get dames.

1. Sadistic

Sadistic. Yeah. That's a word for it. That's a good word for it. Deriving pleasure from someone else's pain. Yeah... sadistic. That's a real good word for it. Perverted? That depends. That depends on where you were born, when you were born, who raised ya. All that culture mumbojumbo. What makes a man or dame. Yeah, that kinda garbage.

So, yeah, sadistic. That's definitely a good word for it. She is one sadistic dame. A very, very sadistic dame. All this time I thought she was in love with me. What a crock. What a shame. What a dud I turned out to be. Can't even tell the good dames from the bad anymore. Maybe I deserve it.

She was good to look at though. I'll give her that. Real good to look at. I remember the first time I saw her she was wearing a red dress, heels, sporting a black purse and that long and wavy blonde hair. She had quite a package and she knew it. She knew it and she used it. She walked me right into it and I came with my tail wagging and drooling from the mouth. A real dog.

But I was a loyal dog. That's one new trick she taught this old dog. Loyalty. Ha, loyalty to a dame. Never thought I'd fall prey. But... I did.

So, here I am. Sitting. Waiting. Bleeding. Slowly bleeding. My life draining. My life ending. By the time I saw what she was, I was in so deep there was no reaching the surface again. And she did it. She did it. She took the money, kissed the crook and away they went. But not without saying goodbye. She knows her manners, she just doesn't know the proper way to put it. They tied me down and took turns.

The pieces of bamboo jammed underneathe my fingernails was pretty creative; I gotta hand it to her there. And it hurt. But, not as bad as when they sawed my toes off. Now that... that hurt. And oddly enough, they cooked and ate a few right in front of me. So, yeah, sadistic.

Then there was the rusty nails. Ah, the rusty nails. They hammered rusty nails into my body. Anywhere. Anywhere you can imagine, I got one or two. So even if I do survive this, I won't survie the diseases they left me. They weren't much into sterilizing. I guess when you know the outcome in the beginning, there isn't much point now is there.

Let's see, what else? Ah, yes, they ironed my skin. Didn't want me being all wrinkled for the mortician I guess. He's got feelings, too, apparently. A little judgmental of those who grace his table. Didn't want to be ashamed to be fondling my naked, wrinkled skin. Everybody has their limits. Gotta draw a line somwhere, I guess. How considerate of them to think of him. How considerate indeed.

I'm having a hard time remembering everything they did to me. After a while you stop keeping track, because you realize you're not gonna live through it. The hair! Ah, the hair. They scalped me. I wasn't a big fan of that one. But you get the point; I'm pretty dinged up. Got a few dents in the old motorcade. I eventually realized the longer I lived, the more pleasure they got. So, at least for spite, I stopped thinking of surviving and started thinking of dying. Just so I could upset them a little bit. But... apparently, my body can put up with a lot. In the end, they ran out of ideas and left me for dead.

The last thing they did before they left was they added a little salt to my injuries. And I mean that literally. They seasoned me well and then they went on their way. So, yeah, sadistic is a good word for it. It was all planned. From the beginning. From when I first saw her walking into the cafe. From the moment she introduced herself. It was all part of the plot.

It was sadistic alright. Real sadistic.