Noir

Chapter Eight – Crossfire (Part 1)

Crossfire – Part 1

A siren wailed outside. Cry on another shoulder, I told it, slugging back another glass. I got my own problems. Baseball-bat shaped problems, lightly seasoned with debt, defeat, and death. The bottle glugged in agreement. The glass tipped back, and the problems faded into one. The blocks swam in front of my eyes, and I clumsily swatted at them, pinging some of them away. Twenty points.

Something swung in front of me, tumbling the blocks to ruin. A face loomed above me. Thin, red crescent. I made to raise a finger, ready to send a steel ball along it, when the crescent moved.

“Hello, Dick.” The syllables went down like honey, cutting through the nicotine and cheap liquor that lined my innards, the purity making me shiver. “I have something for you.”

The image blurred into focus. “A fireman.” Was this some sort of test? I looked up. A female face was swimming in and out of my vision.

“Lord Cinderbottom, to his friends. He’s a bent fireman, burning down properties that owe him protection money. In Bjorn’s gang for sure.”
“Why?” Her perfume cut the dank air like napalm, a faint red glow as a cruiser rolled past.
“You looked like you needed a hand. Your trail is as dry as a flame-grilled desert, detective.”
I squinted as she turned to leave, trying to figure out her features through the alcohol haze. “Who are you?” I asked, unsettled.
She cast me a backward glance, frowning. For a second all the demons in Hell descended upon me in that one instant, before she spoke. “You’re drunk.”
“Oh yeah?” I called back. “At least in the morning I’ll be-” The door slammed shut. “Drunker,” I told the frosted glass, weakly.