This Side of Town

Posted: January 9, 2014 by writingsprint in Drama
Tags: , , , , , ,

Boston alley

“Brick alleyway” from fotoblography.com

I was just three blocks away when I heard the shots ring out. Two of them, muffled like inside a pillow or a box.

No silencer. Cheap bastard.

I heard the gurgle, then I heard running footsteps. I started running. I didn’t go for my gun in case someone called the cops. I didn’t want to get shot by the good guys.

The killer wasn’t a cop. I could feel it.

He was headed my way. I got ready to rumble. I ran down a side alley and almost tripped over a bum. He was going down the street crossing the alley on the other side. The wind whipping past my ears and my bare belly felt cold and wet. Every sense in my body was keyed up. Shit, but why did every alley in the world smell like piss?

He ran hard into the alley and yelled as soon as he saw me. He was backlit by the street light behind him, but I flash-photographed him in my mind. I got about half a picture.

He came at me with the butt of his pistol. I was half ready for it. He missed my head and all I got was an earful of his arm, but he was still twice my size. He threw me into the wall and I got the wind blown out of my by the bricks.

You’d think I’d be smarter.

I got a few threads off his shirt. He clubbed me once on the head with the butt of his pistol and kept going. I went down. He had a fucking solid right arm, that was for sure.

I sat there in the alley, night moisture that gathered on the ground seeping into my jeans. I held my head where he slugged me. Wet and sticky.

Shit. I should get myself a helmet.

I felt something move and smelled a bad cheesesteak, BO, and about two fifths of Thunderbird.
“This your spot?” I asked.

“S’okay, baby. I don’t get company as pretty as you very often.” He tried to straighten up his hair. The rest of his body needed more work. He held up a paper bag. “I got a little left, if you want it for your head.”

I took it and gave it a whiff. Even I whoopsed a little. “What the hell is that?”

“‘Shine.”

I put it on my head. It felt like I put a brand on it. “Guess that’ll kill anything. Where’d you get it from?”

“You a cop?”

“I look like a cop?”

“You got a gun. You went after the guy.”

I checked my waist. My gun was sticking out. That’s what I got for dressing hot. Oops. “Private investigator,” I said, shoving the gun back down. “He sounded like business.”

“Buddy of mine makes it. My sister’s husband’s brother.”

I tried to work that over in my head. “Cousin-in-law.”

“Whatever.”

I put some more of his brain medicine on my head. It probably cured cancer, too.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

“A good look?”

“Saw him just before he hit the alley.”

He was so drunk, or whatever he was, that he was about as useful as a wooden nickel in court. But it gave me a description to find him with.

“What’s a pretty li’l thing like you doing in this side of town, anyway?”

“I live here,” she said. God, her head hurt. “This better not be another concussion.”

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