She floated into my matchbox office. Hair as dark as three-day-old coffee. Caramel eyes that would make any man on earth readily give up his account and routing numbers at first asking. Curves in all the right places. My first thought was Dear Lord. My second thought was DEAR LORD. Though my heart was beating like hummingbird wings, I had to compose myself.
+++++“Cora?”
+++++She stepped closer. She smelled expensive. “That would be me.” Her smile swallowed me whole.
+++++“You said it was about a stolen bag. Your boyfriend ripped you off?”
+++++“My lover, not boyfriend. And yes, he did, that conniving cunt.”
+++++I could be your new lover, I didn’t say. “What kind of bag? Gym bag? Duffel bag?”
+++++Her smirk hit a major artery. “Do I look like a gym bag kind of girl? Louis Vuitton. Calfskin leather. Imported from France. Cost more than your entire existence.” That smile again, like a shark in a Koi pond.
+++++That razor-blade mouth of hers kinda turned me on. “No need for insults. Did you bring the information I asked for? And, more importantly, did you bring the cash?”
+++++She pulled a manila envelope out of her giant purse. Tossed it on my desk. “It’s all there. I need you on this immediately. He’s a grifter. He might be in Canada by tomorrow night.”
+++++“I’ll start as soon as you leave. By the way, what’s in the bag?”
+++++“Photos of me in certain poses and positions and whatnot, if you catch my drift. Lots of photos.”
+++++I put on my baseball glove and caught that heater with no problem. She turned and walked out.
+++++Later that night, after reading through the information she gave me, his usual haunts and friends and whatnot, I parked my car at a bar called The Alibi. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that when a man screws over or screws up with a looker like Cora, he will hit a bar and drown himself in alcohol.
+++++I walked in and saw him at the bar, sat two seats down. Barracuda by Heart was playing on the jukebox. He was handsome, with his wavy hair and Roman nose. I watched him circle the drain with various hard drinks. I wanted to tell him that there ain’t no drink invented yet that will wipe the memory of a girl like Cora.
+++++After two hours of getting bent, it was time for him to pay his tab. He told the bartender he left his wallet in the car and would be right back. I followed him out of the bar. He walked up to a slick Gran Torino. I slid into the shadows and lit a smoke. He opened the trunk and pulled out a bag that Cora had described. He reached in a grabbed a wad of cash. Well, this just got interesting. Cash instead of photos. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting decades for, a way out of this shithole town. I was mildly disappointed it wasn’t photos. I needed some jerk-off material.
+++++I looked around and found nobody but him. I pulled the switchblade out of my coat pocket and drifted over to him like human smoke. I jammed the knife into the back of his neck until the handle hit skin. I grabbed the back of his jeans and slung him in the trunk, then snagged the bag and slammed the trunk. In and out in thirty seconds. Easy money.
+++++I spent the next couple of hours swallowing, drinking, and inhaling any and all illicit substances into my body because I also had to erase the memory of Cora. Not an easy feat. Counting the money helped. Daydreaming about drinking a fruity drink on a Costa Rican beach helped. Me passing out in my car and pissing my pants helped.
+++++When I finally got back to my apartment the next morning, I set the bag on the kitchen table. I grabbed a bottle. A little hair of the dog for this suddenly flush dude.
+++++“I gotta say, your place is a dump.”
+++++What the fuck. “How did you get in here?”
+++++“I’m a slippery gal.” Cora was pointing a gun at my chest. “You were such an easy mark, typical doormat.” Her laugh was like an earthquake.
“Look, we can work something out. What do you want?”
+++++“Besides you being dead? That bag will do. But thanks for killing Johnny. Two dupes, one stone. You’re as dirty as I suspected. Any last words?”
+++++Marry me? “Just let me go. I’ll disappear.”
+++++That heartbreaker smile. “Sorry, Howard. This is where your pathetic life ends. You should be thanking me.” Her finger twitched on the trigger.
+++++Like Johnny, it was time for me to circle the drain.

[Image Credit : Photo by Kevin Charit on Unsplash]

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Chris Milam

Chris Milam lives in Middletown, Ohio. He's been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net. His stories have appeared in a wide range of journals over the years.

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