I woke up from a nap and started writing this, didn't time it. I checked the prompts, one fit in. Let's call it an accidental flash
“Who the fuck is that?”
“He said he wanted to talk with Mr. Fischer.”
“Whoa, that’s me. Who the fuck is he?”
“Some guy.”
“Christ Boo it’s a wonder you ain’t got that gold shield yet, you’d be a natural for deep cover narcotics.”
“I ain’t a cop Mr. Fischer.”
“See? A natural, you’re like a talking magic eight ball.”
Fischer was maybe five eight in flats but he filled up a room, broad across the shoulders and he looked like a guy who had trouble finding hats that fit. He turned towards me, one empty bar stool between us.
“I’m Fischer, you some guy?”
I looked over my shoulder, looked back and tried to arch one eyebrow. I can’t do that without holding the other one down with a fingertip. There aren’t a whole lot of plays when someone talks about you like you aren’t there, most of them hurt.
“Yep.”
We had an awkward silence show down. Boo lost.
“Bud Jack?” he asked Fischer, raised an eyebrow at me, he was good at it “You?”
“I’ll have a Jack, bud.” I said just to be cute. It cost me the Gold medal in awkward silence, at least I didn’t take bronze in a three man race. Boo shuffled down the bar. Doesn’t matter what you order, it’s never right in front of you. I was going to have to drink a Jack Daniels without so much as a beer back. It takes commitment to be a smartass.
“So, what do you want?”
I pushed the print out at him. I hadn’t thought about much else all week and still I didn’t come up with a better way of doing it. I imagined whole conversations going one way or the other. At least three of them had Fischer and a bartender talking about me like I wasn’t there. In one of those I beat him with a pool cue.
He took a long time reading it. When his bud came he drained half of it without coming up for air and read it again. The pool cues were half-way across the bar blinking red every time the Miller High Life sign cycled.
He pushed it back at me. He didn’t say anything.
“Craig’s list. I was looking for canoe paddles. My kid needs some badge for the boy scouts. I saw this. I---“ I sucked down two fingers of jack and tried not to cringe, I shivered a bit. “I thought it was pretty sick, I mean hell, my kid could have --- So I checked the local news sites, nothing, and …” I just trailed off. I was here. I tracked the man down to show him his own suicide note. His expression hadn’t changed but the blood had drained from his face.
“It looks like a meticulous hand trying to be casual, like maybe whoever wrote it had some kind of mild learning disability as a kid and just gutted it out with willpower and …” I was just babbling. I let the silence fall again. Even Boo had nothing to say.
Jack Fischer rose slowly to his feet, rose with determination. “I didn’t write that.” “I know.”
“You don’t know dick. That’s me, that’s my name, that’s how I’d write that. I’m telling you I didn’t.”
He fished in his pockets for his keys; I shifted my weight to fall back in hurry if I needed too; in The City keys between knuckles made for nasty scars. He just walked out and clicked the remote to his truck, two flashes and two quick honks, zipping his jacket as he shouldered the door. The cool air that rushed in smelled like rain. I put a twenty on the printout.
“Can I have some coke and ice this time?”
Boo picked up the bill and the printout. His lips moved as he read.
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