Two for Flinching
Authors: Todd Morgan
Tags: #dixie mafia, #crime and mystery, #beason camp
Special Smashwords Edition
Special Smashwords Edition
TWO FOR FLINCHING
Copyright © 2013 Todd
Morgan
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Cover Art Design: Lesli Bass
ISBN: 978-1-939337-46-7
Published by: Telemachus Press, LLC at
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Version 2013.01.21
For teaching me the joy of life.
He was upside down. A dream. Had to be.
There was no beginning, no setting, no background, he was…just
there. And he had that hazy, fuzzy, confused feeling, that things
were going along without him. He tried to move, in the dream, and
found that he couldn’t. His arms hurt, his legs, too, both behind
him and held in place. He reasoned—in real life—that he must be
lying on an arm and that feeling had been transferred to his
dream.
He had a sinking sensation, not falling,
but sort of gently dropping, floating lower and lower. His head
lolled to the side and he felt carpet rubbing his face.
Holy
shit,
he thought,
did I fall off the bed?
He couldn’t
remember drinking before going to sleep, that might explain it, and
if he had gone on a bender, Maggie was going to raise hell when the
sun came up.
Something wet flowed over his hair and for
the first time he became aware of the background noise. Water
running. Maybe it was raining outside.
Was a storm coming?
He had no idea, no recollection of the weather—or even the
season. Spring, summer, fall, or winter? It was probably from his
wife’s sound machine, set to a gentle rain to block out the
noise.
Helluva dream.
He couldn’t wait to wake up and tell
somebody.
Water ran into his nose and he began to
wonder if he would ever wake up.
Chapter One
“It’s Steven.”
“Figures,” she said, “a day late and a dollar
short.”
I looked again, the view distorted through
the fish-eye lenses. Steven was banging loudly on the door. The
door across the hall. Steven was a big guy, obviously in a rage,
and I feared for whoever was on the other side of that door. I
reached for the latch. “I’m going out there.”
“You may want to put some pants on
first.”
I went to the chair, took my jeans and slid
them on. Before opening the door (before committing myself) I
looked through the peephole once more. The door had opened, a
middle aged man stood with it still half closed. A middle aged
woman was behind him, clutching a robe close to her as if it could
somehow protect her. I angled my head and saw a hotel security
guard hurrying down the hall.
“Amber!” Steven screamed.
The man held out his hands, imploring
restraint, saying something I couldn’t hear. The security guard, a
kid really, probably a student at the local college, stood
uncertainly to the side. Steven yelled again, but all I could make
out was, “My wife—“
The man stood back and Steven pushed the
security guard away. He took two steps into the room, quickly
turned, and slammed the door behind him. The kid said something
that started with, “Sir.” Steven hit the door with his fist,
sounding like a rifle shot in the once quiet hallway. He shook off
the guard and stormed away, the kid trailing in his wake.
I went to the table next to the window and
poured an inch of rum into the cheap plastic cup. The window looked
over the front parking lot. Steven stomped out of the main entrance
and got into the BMW he had left in a handicapped space. He drove
through the lot to a Toyota Camry, turned his car around and backed
into the Camry before driving away. I knocked back the rum.
“He wrecked your car.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.” Amber was on the king bed,
leaning against the headboard, her muscular legs tucked under the
cover up to her knees. “That’s it,” she said. “I’ve had it.”
I poured another shot.
“I’m leaving him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m divorcing him, Beason. I’ve put up with
his shit for too long. He has been stepping out on me since we got
married. I finally do the same and he can’t handle it.”
I knocked back the rum.
She folded her arms beneath her bare breasts.
“We’re so upside down on the house, two mortgage payments and we
can barely afford one. The restaurant is bleeding money. I can’t
carry him any longer. I’m going to leave him to stew in his own
juices.”
Steven had pulled out of the lot and driven
away. My Jeep was parked in the back, next to a dumpster, so I was
safe. Probably.
“Come on.” Amber patted the bed next to her
and gave me that devilish grin. “We’ve got time for one for the
road.”
I shook my head in disgust. Disgust at
myself. And peeled off the jeans and climbed into bed.
***
I slipped silently into the house, hit the
button and winced as the garage door rattled down. Blondie came
running, in that peculiar lopsided gait of hers and jumped up on
me. I pushed her down. She jumped on me again. I shrugged her off
and went to the front door, taking the leash from its hook. Her
excitement went into overdrive. She had been cooped up for far too
long, an outside dog trapped indoors with way too much time between
proper walks. I opened the door and she bounded out. I followed
her, holding the leash. It was late and there wasn’t going to be
anybody out for her to bother and she deserved a good run. And it
wasn’t as if I was going to be able to sleep.
Blondie ran down the front walk and turned
left, afraid I was going to hook her with the leash. I walked
behind her, easily following as she tore through the neighbor’s
yard. I carried the leash because I knew she wouldn’t agree when
the walk was over and would most likely have to drag her back to
the house.
It was too cold for the leather jacket, but
it was what I had, so I zipped it tight and made the best of it.
The stars were out, a crescent moon, the night bright and alive and
still. Blondie began barking, howling at either a cat or some other
night creature. I whistled at her and she took off, eager to find
new prey. The subdivision was fairly new, single level and two
story brick homes, the shrubs and young trees hanging mysteriously
in the dark. There was no sidewalk, so I had to stay in the gutter
next to the curb. Headlights flared behind me, shooting my shadow
onto the road.
The car stopped, the engine died and a door
popped open and shut. I kept walking. I knew who it was, who it had
to be. “Beason Camp. I should’ve known.”
I stopped. There was no avoiding it.
“Evening, Steven.”
Steven’s arm was in a brace, from his hand
halfway to his elbow. He wasn’t wearing the sling they gave him at
the emergency room. Must have broken his hand punching that door.
I’d once had a similar injury.
“I should’ve known,” he said again.
“Known what?”
“Known that it was you.”
“That it was me out walking my dog?”
“That it was you fucking my wife.”
I shook my head.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
He was a couple inches taller than me, six
foot two, six foot three, and maybe thirty pounds bigger, two
twenty, two thirty, much of it in his gut, but plenty in his chest
and shoulders. He stepped closer. Even with the rum on my own
breath, I could still smell the whisky coming from his. “I want my
wife.”
“Can’t help you, Steven.”
He took a swing at me, a long, looping,
drunken, punch with his good hand. I easily moved away, keeping my
hands at my side. He threw another, this time with his injured
hand. I should have let him connect, knowing the pain would drive
him to his knees. I didn’t. He swung a few more times, charging
after me. I kept moving back. I had an entire block behind me and
then another.