<<<< Warning: The Following Story May Not Be Suitable For All Ages >>>>>

<<<<< Writers' Tag #4 - Token Post Thread >>>>>

Writers List (Janice Ivy - Tag Master)

1. Alexie Aaron
2. Margaret Callow
3. Janice Ivy
4. Noelle
5. Eugene Saint
6. A.E. Churchyard
7. T.L Tyson

The MS generated by this thread may be found here:

Link to: Lincoln Park Confessions -- AKA Writers' Tag No. 4

Link to: Discussion Thread

Link to: Info Spreadsheet

Begin -- Writer's Tag #4


Post #4792 by Janice Ivy

For crying out loud Julia, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to see if he’s still breathing.”

“Well from over here it kinda looks like you’re trying to choke him to death. We should just get out of here. Nobody will ever know we were here. Come on, this is creeping me out. I agreed to breaking and entering, not murder.”

Julia stood up abruptly and looked at her best friend, Paul. She walked quickly to the side of the room where he stood waiting by the door.

“He’s okay, I think. He’ll probably have a massive headache in the morning. I wish you hadn’t hit him quite so hard.”

“I’m sorry. We were sneaking around in the man’s office going through his papers, for reasons I’m still not sure I understand, and he appeared out of nowhere. I was a little startled. Forgive me for not knowing the correct amount of force to apply when I knocked him out. I’ve never actually knocked anybody out before. You don’t get a lot of call for that when you teach eighth grade Math.”
Julia took one last look around the office and reluctantly said, “Okay, let’s get out of here before he wakes up. If you hit him again, you’d probably kill him for sure.”

They were both slightly winded when they reached the bottom of the five flights of stairs.

“Okay, tell me again why we didn’t take the elevator?”

“Because there are security cameras in the elevators, they were too cheap to put them in the stairways. I made sure earlier today that the ones in the hallway were out of commission.”

Julia opened the door to the outside of the building and scanned the street in both directions, when she didn’t see anybody; she motioned for Paul to follow her.

Once they were in the car and well away from the offices of Kline, Carter, and Wells, attorneys at law, Paul said, “Alright Julia, spill. You guilted me into that little expedition and I went along, but now if we get caught I could be looking at assault charges. Even worse if Andrea wakes up before I can climb back into bed with her, there will be hell to pay. Especially if she finds out I was with you. Honestly, I think she would rather think I was out screwing around with somebody than hanging out with you. I don’t know why you felt compelled to make a total enemy of the woman I married.”

Julia’s temper simmered at the unfair statement about the relationship between her and Paul’s new wife. “I’m sorry Paul. I’m really tired and you need to get home. I promise I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”
- - - - - - - - - -

When she saw him laying there, her heart leapt with joy. Then he started to stir. She looked frantically around and her eye fell on the heavy plexi-glass award that he was so proud of. She picked it up and hit him in the head with it over and over again, getting lost in the violence for a few moments.

She looked down and saw the mess she had made of his head and a little giggle erupted from her. She looked around guiltily and was relieved to see that she was still alone with her husband.

She floated down the stairs, a small triumphant smile on her face. When she got home she went into the kitchen and spent a lot of time cleaning off the trophy, then she sat it on the mantle in the living room where she would be able to see it everyday.

Post #4807 by Noelle

Pouring herself a glass of her husband's – pardon, late husband's – favorite champagne, she replayed the night again. The strength she'd felt in her arms as she brought the thick trophy down, the satisfying "thunk" when it connected with his stubborn skull, the sheer power over a life or death decision. When the bottle of Cristal clinked against the glass, she looked down to see her hands trembling.

She put the bottle back in the ice bucket, slid the stem of the flute between her first two fingers and twirled in little circles back to the living room. Halting before the fireplace, she raised the glass.

"Rest in turmoil, you slimy bastard." The cold, carbonated beverage went down smoother than she would have guessed and she went back for more. There was no one else to drink it anymore, was there?

The next morning, Veronica woke to a shrill ringing. She grabbed the telephone.

"Hello?" Dial tone. After a few choice words, she looked at the clock on her nightstand. Nine-thirty. Groaning only made her head pound worse. She flopped back on her bed and covered her eyes with her forearm, trying to go back to sleep.

The ringing started again.

"What the hell?" The sound finally registered in her mind. "Oh, for chrissake."

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the intercom. "What?"

"Mrs. Wells?"

"Yeah."

"This is Detective Ross with the Chicago Police Department. Can I come in?"

Last night's events flew back to her and her hangover was forgotten. She should have known this visit was coming. They needed to tell the recently widowed that her marital status had changed.

"Give me a moment. I'll be right down." A glance in the mirror showed her grinning like a fool. She'd have to school her features better while they broke the news to her.

It took a few moments to decide which dress to put on. What to wear when the cops tell you your husband has been murdered? It was an important decision. Plus, Chicago was hot this time of year, even on the lake. She chose a print dress by Diane von Furstenberg she'd picked up at Saks last week. Then she figured Detective Ross wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes more while she cleaned herself up. Though she wanted to look presentable, she was also eager to get the official news.

Thirty minutes later, she breezed down two flights of stairs in the Lincoln Park home she used to share with her husband. The walnut finish to the wood banister seemed to gleam more this morning. Her stilettos clicked rhythmically on the marble steps. Her dress flowed around her tanned legs and she knew there were no physical signs of her indulgence the night before. Of either sort. Satisfied that she was ready, she reached the front door and opened it.

Detective Ross stood on the stoop, frowning. He looked at his wristwatch and then back at her. Dressed in an off-the-rack suit, he looked like any other generic detective. Harried, round at the middle, with non-descript brown hair and brown eyes. A little gray showed at his temples, but that was his most interesting feature.

"Mrs. Wells?"

"Yes. Would you like to come inside?"

"Thank you."

She showed him to the study, located at the front of the house.

"It's about your husband," he said when she was seated.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid he was found murdered last night in his office."

Looking down to hide her expression. "I see. How..."

"We're still working on the details, so I can't say for certain yet. The coroner will have more information when she's done with her examination."

Veronica Wells, In the office, With the trophy. She stifled a giggle.

"In the meantime, I need you to come with me so you can identify the body."

"Of course. My purse is just in the other room."

She followed him to a patrol car in which another, uniformed officer waited. Detective Ross opened the back door for her, closing it after she slid onto the worn-leather seat. As soon as he got in the passenger side, the other officer started driving. They pulled into the parking garage of the nearby hospital and ushered her to the elevator down to the morgue. The mortician required them to sign in and then showed them to the viewing room. When she pulled back the sheet, Veronica gasped.

"Mrs. Wells?"

"That's not my husband," she said, her voice shaky.
- - - - - - - - - -

Paul sat at the breakfast table, staring at the small kitchen TV on the counter. His cereal remained half-eaten, his spoon poised above the bowl, frozen. Andrea finished making her coffee and turned to him.

"Paul, honey, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost." She turned toward the TV, but the news anchor was already introducing the weatherman.

He blinked, his mouth dry. "Nothing. I-I have to go." Pushing his chair back with a screeching sound, he stood and gave his wife a kiss. "See you tonight."

"You'd better. It's my parents' anniversary dinner."

"Oh, right." He grabbed his cell phone and keys and nearly ran to his car. As soon as he was ensconced inside, he dialed Julia.

.

Post #4836 by Margaret Callow

The room fell silent. Light filtering through the slats of the drawn blind threw bizarre shadows, exaggerating the expressions on the faces gathered round the body.

“Say again, Mrs Wells,” Detective Ross said, a line of weariness adding to the already multiple crevices and pouches of his nicotine coloured skin.

“I said, that’s not my husband,” Veronica repeated.

The mortician sniggered, hastily turning it into a cough under the withering look the detective gave her. Ross turned to his uniformed partner.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Fraser?” he snapped.

Swamped by an ill-fitting uniform, the pasty faced policeman held a handkerchief tightly over the lower half of his face. His free hand clutching the end of the trolley, he looked as if he’d pass out at any moment.

“Bodies, sir, I’m not good with bodies,” he mumbled from behind the cotton.

This time the mortician didn’t bother to conceal her merriment and a high pitched squeal of laughter erupted.
Veronica looked from one to another. Her amusement from the previous night’s trophy moment had vanished some time ago. As far as she was concerned, she was now surrounded by half-wit policemen and a certifiable mortician.

“Frank didn’t have a beard,” she murmured.

Detective Ross appeared not to have heard her.

“Well, well, well, Fraser. You join the police force, Homicide no less and you don’t like bodies. Perhaps you should ask for a transfer. Why don’t you apply to help little old ladies cross the road? Pull yourself together, man, and go and look for this guy’s possessions.”

He thumbed in the direction of the grey faced corpse and then pointed to the door.

“Sorry about this, Mrs Wells. We’ll have this all cleared up in no time.”

“Thank you, officer,” Veronica said sweetly deciding contrite was a good way to appear.

The mortician wandered to the bottom of the trolley and flipped the sheet back. The feet which appeared had neither seen soap or a pair of nail clippers for a very long time. From a big toe, a label dangled forlornly attached to the digit with a piece of string.
Veronica’s gasp echoed in the room.

“Do you seriously think my husband would walk about with feet like that?”

Her outraged look accompanied by an obvious shake of her designer dress, set off the charms on her solid gold bracelet to clink and rattle for a moment.
Ross’s embarrassed flush spread rapidly from his frayed collar to his cheeks.

“What’s the name?” he said quickly to the mortician, anxious to divert attention.

Making her job of looking at the label appear important, the mortician studied one side and then another. A fumble in her pocket produced a pair of glasses and she bent to look again.

Finally, she said.“There’s nothing on it, must be a John Doe.”

She retreated back to the other end of the room, humming tunelessly.

“For chrissake,” Ross mumbled. “What the hell’s keeping Fraser?”

Deciding she was the only sane one in the room, Veronica picked up her Givenchy bag.
“Officer, do you think we could go somewhere else? This room...” She gave an exaggerated shiver, her eyes straying to the body on the trolley.

“Of course, ma’am,” Ross said, gesturing to the mortician to replace the sheet.

They met Fraser coming towards them in the corridor, struggling to carry a large plastic bag. Escaping from the top of it, a pair of worn and heavily soiled jeans trailed one leg along the chequer board squares of linoleum. As he reached them, Fraser’s foot caught in the material and the bag vomited its contents onto the floor at Ross and Vanessa’s feet.

“Pick it up, Fraser,” Ross said in a tired voice.

The waiting room was empty. On the table, a disturbing picture was emerging about the bag’s owner. Companions to the jeans were a moth-holed sweater unravelling at the cuffs, a pair of socks, different shades, jockey shorts so stained their original colour had long since vanished and a string vest, pleasantly striped with coffee slicks, cigarette burns and something red. Tomato soup, Ross hoped.
Vanessa stood well back, disgust etched on her immaculately made up face. A fusty smell rising from the table added to her feeling of nausea.

“Undo those,” Ross instructed Fraser, pointing to three small packages visible amongst the clothing.

Gingerly, Fraser reached for the first of them. The half-eaten bacon roll fell onto the table with a clunk. The second package wrapped in a torn KFC napkin revealed some French fries and a tatty chicken wing.

“Do I have...?” Fraser said, looking at the final parcel.

From behind him, Ross reached over, pen in hand and flipped the scrap of glossy magazine away from its contents. This time a curl of cardboard, once a sandwich of some sort, met their gaze. Vanessa glanced at her watch and tapped an impatient foot.

“Officer, I really must insist. Clearly this is not my husband. I need to go.”

Her brain was having trouble making any sense of anything and she needed to make a phone call.

“No, ma’am, you’re right, this here is a hobo, a tramp, wouldn’t you say, Fraser?”

Bemused, Fraser appeared fixated by the food scattered on the table and didn’t respond.

“Fraser, your powers of detection are telling you what?” Ross said, his tone much like a patient parent trying to persuade a stubborn child to find an answer for their question.

“Eh, umm,” Fraser pondered. “A man of the streets, sir, definitely,” he said, his smile wide.

“Yes, Fraser, that’s right a bloody tramp! Go and fetch Mrs Wells a cup of coffee and I’ll have one too.”

Her patience gone, Veronica took a determined step forward.“Thank you, officer but not for me,” she said firmly.

With her ragged thoughts beating a tattoo inside her brain, she needed to escape. Paul, she must speak to Paul, she told herself. Standing on the steps of the morgue, the bright sun fazed her as did her headache. Slipping on her sunglasses, she searched for her cell phone.
Just as her finger hovered over the button, it rang.

Post #4843 by Alexie Aaron

She looked at the caller ID and “Home” all but shouted at her. Taking a deep breath she answered.

“Darling, I just got in from Dallas, and the maid said the Chicago Police have hauled you away. Should I send one of the partners to bail you out?” Frank Wells asked his wife. “Another DUI, dear?”

In her head she screamed, “Dead, you’re dead, I killed you myself, you bastard!” But she said calmly, “Frank you’ll never guess…they found a homeless man dead in your office and thought he was you.”

“Really,” his voice perked up interested, “my office…on Michigan Avenue, that office?”

“Of course that office. If it were the Naperville Office it would have been the Naperville police asking me all these question about my dead husband that isn’t dead,” she snapped.

“Calm down, put one of those men on the phone, dear. I feel you’re overtaxed.”

Veronica spun around looking in vain for Detective Ross. The cold corridor was empty.

“Frank, you’ll have to contact them yourself. I’m late for the hairdresser, and you know how Harvey gets when I’m late.”

“Fine. We’ll talk later, dear.”

Veronica ended the call and fought her nerves as she searched her contact list for Paul’s number.




Frank Edward Wells put the house phone down and returned the ice pack to his head. It had been a most distressing evening. The Dallas office had botched his return trip and put him into Midway Airport instead of O’Hare where his driver was waiting. He had to take a common yellow taxi downtown. The driver was at least professional enough to know he didn’t want to communicate after he refused to respond to “How about them Blackhawks.” He used the silence to try to work out whom in Kline, Carter and Wells was leaking information.

The law firm was dark when he left the elevator on the fourteenth floor. The gentle light from the hall was enough illumination for him to find his office. The plush carpet padded his footfalls, leaving the swish of his leather briefcase against his travel worn suit to accompany him to the overpriced suite.

He had just set his case down when a woman’s gasp made him turn. And then there was nothing. Frank woke up on the floor with one hell of a headache. It took him a few moments to put two and two together. He pushed himself to his feet and got out of the room.

Pulling out his cell he barked, “Boyd, some jackass has been in my office. No, I don’t know if anything is missing. I was knocked out. No, I’m okay but…yes I think I’ll stop at Kline’s. We have to…yes, I agree …we’ll talk later.”

Frank moved quickly down the hall and opted for the security of the elevator over the stairway.


Out of the shadows a lone figure moved. It wasn’t the first time the bum had been in the office building. A faulty door at the garage level made it easy for the man to simply stroll in and move around the building. As long as he kept away from the busy floors he basically had the building all to himself. People left food in the break rooms. Tonight he had scored some KFC on floor ten. As long as he didn’t take anything valuable, if he were caught it would only be a trespassing charge.

Tonight he ventured for the first time to the thirteenth floor, cosmetically called fourteen. But he could count and this was definitely floor thirteen. He followed his nose into a set of law offices. Fortune smiled on him, he found one of the doors was ajar. Law offices meant booze. Lots of expensive booze.

Whether it was the thought of the drink that made him move too quickly or just stupidity, he caught his pant leg on the ornate carved leg of a wing chair and pitched forward hitting his head on the way down.

He smelled her perfume before hearing that odd little laugh and then nothing.

Post #4948 by A.E. Churcgyard

Fraser groaned.

His first day on Homicide and he barfed at the sight of a John Doe. Then I go and almost throw the bum’s possessions at the Detective. I thought I’d watched enough CSI to know the procedures.
He pulled up in front of the little apartment block and hauled his pushbike up the steps to the front door.

“Hey! English Boy! What do you think? Do I wear red or black tonight?” The woman’s voice floated down from above the Deli across the street and Fraser took a deep breath as he turned to face the other building.
As usual, Gina wore nothing, but her long mahogany curly hair and a chiffon robe. It concealed virtually nothing, jutting out over her large breasts, dropping past a tiny waist to hips that screamed Grab me into his mind. A pair of scanty black lace panties concealed the rest of her treasure.

Fraser stared.

He couldn’t help it; Gina was three years younger than him and a hostess down at the Red Devil Nightclub. She was his constant fantasy, especially as his bedroom window looked directly into hers and she never shut the blinds when she was changing. He absorbed her stunning figure and licked his lips.

It took him a long moment to focus on what she was waving at him – two dresses, one long and velvet black; the other short and red, made of some kind of shiny fabric.
“T… the black one. It’ll make your skin look like expensive vanilla ice-cream.” He replied. Oh, how I’d love to lick ice-cream off your skin. From those prodigious bazookas down to… he censored the thought.
It was too late. His body had reacted to the image in his mind and he became painfully aware that his standard issue police trousers were not covering it. Flushing, he turned away from the delectable sight and fumbled with the door key.

“Hey! English Boy! Come and see me at the club tomorrow – I’ll buy you a drink and we can see what else you can compare me to.” Gina called back. She laughed as he stumbled over the doorstep. He’s a sweet boy with such a gorgeous accent, but he’s not rich enough for me. She moved back to her screen and changed into the black dress, studying the effect the black velvet had on her skin. He was right though, my skin does look creamy against the velvet.

A buzzer went off and she glanced at the clock. “Mia Madre, I am late! Papa will skin me alive…” a quick spritz of Chanel No 5 and she slipped into her walking shoes, grabbed her work bag and dashed out of the apartment.

Post #5022 by Eugene Saint

“‘Oh, don’t worry’, you said. ‘She’s good at this stuff’, you said. ‘It’s a run-in, run-out’, you said. ‘We go in. We grab the Maitlin File and we’re out of there. 10 minutes... 15 tops’, YOU SAID.”

“Dammit, Veronica... I’m telling you it was Frank I clobbered. I don’t know who in hell the other guy is but I know goddamn well it was Frank I hit AND I know he was f**king fine when we left.” Paul could sense in her tone, she didn’t believe him for one second.

“Listen here, you fool... they dragged ME down to the police station to identify the body. That was NOT Frank and it was NOT just one whack on the head either. That poor man’s head was totally caved-in. It was horrible.” Veronica Wells buried her anguished face in her hands, lest her grin betray her true sentiment.

After a quiet moment to regain her composure the ex-widow looked up with teary eyes, “I just hate the thought of them chasing after you, Paul.” Placing a sympathetic hand on his arm she added, “You know I’ll do everything I can to protect you,” before self-consciously pulling her hand back at the touch of a murderer.

“Why should anyone come chasing after me? There’s no reason for anyone to suspect me of anything.”

“Look, Paul... they’ll find a reason. They always do. Then they’ll hunt you down and... and... Oh, Paul, this is terrible.” She paced the floor for a few seconds before coming to a resolution. “OK. OK. Paul, you need to get out. Leave town. Now. Right this second.”

“You know I can’t do that, Veronica. For Christ’s sake it’s the middle of a semester. Even if I wanted to, I cou...”

“Paul, they’ll figure it out.” She pleaded with the man while she tried to think of a good way for them to figure it out. Then it occurred to her, “What about Andrea? What’s she going to do while you’re languishi...” The words stuck in her throat as the reality washed over Paul like a white sheet.

“It’ll be OK. It’ll be OK.” For the first time the thought of actually leaving town crossed Paul’s mind.
- - - - - - - - - -

Stepping through the cordoned doorway, crisscrossed with bright yellow ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Cross” tape, Detective Ross studied the office with an experienced eye. Everything was prim. Proper. Ship-shape. Everything except the chalk outline of the vagrant’s body in the middle of the room.

“Ah there you are Detective.”

“Hey, Sam. How’s business? Find anything?”

“Nah... nothing to write home about. Place was empty. Dirt-bag wandered in and got himself killed. You just missed Otis. He took last night’s security tapes with him downtown if you’re interested.”

“That’s it, huh? No smoking gun or anything cool like that, eh?”

“That’s it. The vic had been dead between six and seven hours when they found him. Here’s something a little strange though... judging by the blood on the floor, the vic must have hit the floor, then gotten up and staggered over to where we found him. There he was attacked again. This time fatally.”

“OK. And...?”

“Well, Ross... the footprints and the blood on the soles of John Doe’s feet would seem to indicate he’d walked through it. That makes me think it might not be just his blood. I think he might have gotten in a couple licks of his own before he lost the battle. Lab’s checking the blood samples now.”

Detective Ross studied the bloody footprints. “What about these?”

“Oh, those belong to a Miss Wendy Bancroft. She’s the one standing over there by the coffee maker. She found the body when she came to open-up this morning around seven-ish. I guess she thought the guy was sleeping until she got close enough to get a better look. Says she was going to wake him up and tell hem to get the hell out before the bosses showed up. She’s pretty shaken up.” When Sam looked up Ross was already gone.

“Miss Bancroft? Detective Ross.”

Her blank stare lifted from a cup of coffee.

“Uh... I’m terribly sorry Miss Bancroft but would you mind? I just have a couple quick questions if I might.”

“OK.”

Over the course of the next few minutes Detective Ross established that Miss Bancroft had indeed come to work at just after seven A.M., had opened the office just like every day and found the body. No one lurking in the shadows. No strange encounters of any kind. Normal, every day routine. Nothing out of place. Nothing missing.

“So, nothing strikes you as out of place or missing? Think carefully, Miss Bancroft.”

“Well, Detective...” as she panned around the office, “that file drawer is open. That’s not normal,” pointing to the open file drawer marked “M”.

“Sam! You get the prints off that open file drawer?” the detective yelled across the room.

Sam looked over to the file cabinet then back, “Nope. No prints on it.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd. Are there any more drawers with ‘No’ prints? I mean why would a file drawer not have prints on it? At least somebody’s prints? I’m assuming somebody with fingers opened it,” raising an eyebrow.

“You’re good Ross,” came back from across the room. “Guess that’s why you make the big bucks, huh?” Sam added with a grin as he assigned one of his people to double check for prints.

Turning back to the young secretary, Ross continued, “So... tell me, Miss Bancroft... what would anyone want from a law office in the middle of the night? Is there any cash? Valuables? Anything?”

“No... nothing I can think of. Not really. Unless someone wanted a copy machine or something.”

“Hmmm... and Mr. Wells, he’s your boss?” Detective Ross walked slowly around the perimeter of the room. There’s always a clue. Always.

“Well, yes... but sometimes I think everyone here is my boss.” Miss Bancroft almost smiled.

“I certainly know how that goes,” Ross smiled. This time she smiled back. “So, does Mr. Wells have any enemies that you are aware of?”

“Oh, tons of them.” A raised eyebrow from the detective prompted her to continue. “He has folks swearing to get revenge all the time. Some because the bad guy got off scot free. Some because the good guy got off scot free. It’s that kind of business.”

“Hmmm.... He’s that good, huh?”

“He’s very good, if I do say so myself. Just last month in fact, he won the Bar Association’s Dorsey Award. That’s a big deal,” she added with pride before her face went blank.

“What is it, Miss Bancroft?”

“That’s strange... it’s normally sitting right there on that shelf. I don’t know where it is now.”

Detective Ross walked to the wall shelf for a closer look. Looking at the thin layer of dust it was obvious something that had sat for a long time had been recently removed.

Post #5040 by Janice Ivy

“What I want to know is what the hell is going on at your husband’s office!” The big man’s face was an unpleasant shade somewhere between red and purple as he slammed his fist down on the desk.

Veronica flinched and felt like she might wet herself in fear. Why had she ever gotten involved with this man? He scared her to death.

“Are you going to answer me or are you just going to stand there looking like an idiot?” He walked around the desk.

Veronica backed toward the door, not able to stop a small moan of fear from escaping her lips.

“I…I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I sent somebody to get the file you wanted. I did, but wh…when they got there they saw the dead man and they left. They were afraid to go in.”

“That’s crap and you know it. I don’t give a rat’s a** about some filthy bum. All I care about is that file and you agreed to get it for me and you will. Unless you’ve changed you’re mind and decided to pay up on your debt. You realize that interest has been accruing everyday, right? So right now you owe me and my partners a little over two-hundred thousand.”

“Two-hundred thousand?” Veronica’s voice squeaked the number out.

“Yeah and it’s gonna be more tomorrow unless the file is on my desk.” He rushed toward her and grabbed her before she could get away. He twisted her arm just hard enough to make her cry out. “Nobody gets away with not paying and there’s no hiding from me. I can get to you in that fancy house of yours just as easy as I can get to some guy living on the street. I want that file or I want my money. You’ve got one day. Twenty-four hours. You got that?” He twisted her arm a little harder.

“Yes, yes, let go of me. I hear you. You’ll have the file tomorrow.”

He let go of her and walked back to his desk. He straightened his tie and brushed lint off his sleeve. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Veronica paced around the living room. She stopped by the mantle and her hand reached out to touch the award. One long nail painted OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress Red traced Frank’s name on the base.

“It’s not your fault that Frank’s alive. You did your job. That poor bum, he looked quite crushed.” She began to giggle and then let out a startled squeal when a voice spoke from behind her.

“What are you doing Veronica? Is that my Dorsey award? What in the hell is it doing here?” Frank walked over and took the award from the mantle and stood looking at it.

Veronica wanted to laugh as he stood looking at the stupid award like he was a proud father holding his child. If she had had her way that baby would have taken daddy out of the picture then she wouldn’t have to worry about money to pay off her gambling debts.

“Oh put it back Frank. I don’t know how it got there. You must have brought it home because you couldn’t stand to be separated from it.”

“I didn’t bring it home. I keep it on my shelf at work so the rest of those smucks know who the best lawyer in the office is.”

“Whatever. What are you’re plans? I was thinking of going out for a while.”

“Do what you want. I’m going to bed. I’m tired, that’s what happens when you work, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? All you know about is spending my hard earned money.”

Veronica’s eyes drifted to the Dorsey award Frank had sat back on the mantle. She sighed and then turned to walk away.

Post #5051 by Alexie Aaron

Julia took time to stretch before getting on her bike. She had a problem to work out and the long stretch of bike path along the shore of Lake Michigan was just the thing. It was early and the bike traffic light with local commuters using the only “green” transportation in Chicago with the exception of their own two feet. Soon the path would become a hazardous place with the Seqway tours with lots of inexperience drivers going too fast, and with too little regard for the bikers. Until then she could enjoy the peaceful sounds of the moored boats in the Marina as she passed them heading north.

Paul’s phone message was the first thing she had to puzzle over. His hysterical rambling about a dead homeless man found in the office they burgled, whether they should get out of town, and someone named Veronica putting the screws to him. He ended his call warning her not to call. He didn’t want anything to upset his precious Andrea.

She slowed down to accommodate a standard poodle who pulled away from his owner for a moment and had veered into the path.

“Sorry,” the dog walker called after her.

“No problem,” she answered over shoulder. She sighed, if only she had no problems. First there was her father falsely imprisoned in Joliet, her mother in constant hysterics and now Paul had joined the ranks.

He was a friend, a fellow teacher. Everyday during term they sat together at lunch and discussed this that and everything in between. To augment their salaries this summer, Paul had taken on a summer school math class, Julia a part time job at Barnes and Noble, but still Julia found the time to head over to the school and eat lunch with him and share a conversation or two.

It was during one of these lunches that Paul brought up Maitlin.

“You told me that your father was implicated in the scandal along with Maitlin.”

“Yes, the bastard pinned the scheme on my father, and he got away without serving any jail time. He had some hotshot lawyer…Frank Wells. My dad had nothing to do with double billing the city for the construction of the pedestrian overpass that collapsed killing three people. It was Maitlin’s company that did the work. My dad was just a civil servant pushing the paperwork through. He didn’t get one dime from the supposed payoff. I’m sure Frank Wells is in on it too. If only I had proof.”

“What if I told you that I could get us into Well’s office,” Paul said quietly.

“I don’t know what to say?”

“Could you get the information from his office files?” Paul asked. “Could you get the Maitlin file?”

“If it’s there…I don’t know.”

“You told me that Maitlin was the key.”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts. You need to help your father and…and I’m going to help you.” Paul reached his hand over and touched hers.

“But how do we get in, and then how do we get into Well’s files?”

“Very easily,” he said with a smile, “With these.” He opened his other hand where rested two shiny keys.

“But how did you get them?”

“You don’t need to know…just let’s say there is another interested party in the Maitlin case.”


Julia slowed her bike as she came to the realization that she like her father may have been set up. And it wasn’t a smarmy lawyer that was doing it. It was her best friend.

Post #5113 by Margaret Callow

Mike ‘The Nail’ Mackay wasn’t a man known for his patience. He’d come by his name thanks to a neat little trick he had when he got bored of waiting for an answer. In his desk drawer was a box containing matchsticks, on which the ends were sharpened to a fine tip.
His lips transformed into a demonic grin, he took great pleasure in placing one under the finger nail of his unhelpful clients. He used an ice-pick to tap it home, nice and slow...

“See, I knew that would jog your memory,” he’d say when the screams died down.

When the door closed behind Veronica, he toyed with the pick. He’d noticed she had nice finger nails, long and very red. If she didn’t come up with the money tomorrow, it would be a pleasure to see how fond she was of them.

“What you gonna do, Mikey?” Celeste whined, her nasal inflection a token to being born in the Bronx.

She stood behind him, stroking the nape of his neck, a habit that irritated him. Ducking under her hand, he put the pick in the drawer and slammed it shut.

“That broad needs teaching a lesson, don’t she, Jimmy?”

In the corner ensconced in a leather tub chair, the man he called Jimmy sniggered. “Yes, boss.”

The effort screwed his face up, pushing his one seeing eye high under the lid. Celeste grimaced as the empty socket of Jimmy’s other eye stared emptily at somewhere across the room.

“Why’s this Maitlin guy so important, honey?” Celeste asked, sitting down in the chair recently vacated by Veronica. Her pelmet black skirt rode high up her thighs exposing the pale edge of her lace panties.
Jimmy swallowed hard, moistening his lips. Following the direction of his one-eyed gaze, Mike frowned.

“Get us two coffees, babe and make mine black.”

“Aw, Mikey, I just sat down,” she complained.

“Now,” he said, a creep of heightened colour mingling with the thread veins and mauve blush of his cheeks.

His sausage shaped finger pointed to the door. Plates of pasta and one too many bourbons a day wasn’t healthy his mother told him frequently. Fond as he was of her, advice on his diet was a step too far.
Reluctantly Celeste got up, wiggling her butt to drop the skirt. Teetering on black patent heels she sashayed her way across the room to the door. About to open it, she changed her mind daring to ignore Mike’s coffee order.
Her breasts heaved an inch from his nose as she laid her hand over his.

“Celeste gets frightened when her Mickey doesn’t tell her stuff,” she said breathily. Her over-fleshy lips pursed in a pink pout and her thick mascara flapped a tattoo above her cheek bones.
Hard man as Mike was, her presence still managed to excite him, even when she was being wilful.

“Babe, babe, you worry too much,” he said, in honeyed tones. “Maitlin ‘aint nothing to get bothered about, he’s just a rat-fink who crossed me one time. Now, he gets what’s coming to him. Go get the coffee, babe. You know how Mikey takes care of flies.”

His thumb and forefinger ground against one another. Celeste pulled a face. She’d seen him often enough pulling the wings of the poor little black bastards before he squashed them.
She bent and planted a kiss on his forehead and he laughed, it was a strange sound like a nutmeg on a grater.
When the door closed behind her, the smile turned to a snarl. Jimmy watched him anxiously wondering what was coming next.

“If I get put away for a stretch, that f****r Maitlin goes with me,” Mike said, his eyes smouldering like sulphur pits. “But I’m not going to go in the slammer, am I, Jimmy?”

Jimmy grinned. “No, boss,” he said, his attempt at a wink failing miserably.

“And why is that, would you say?”

“Because Maitlin’s gonna die, boss.”

“Good, Jimmy. You got all the right answers but there’s just two more. Why’s Maitlin going to die?”
Like a well trained monkey earning one more peanut, Jimmy was ready.

“Because I’m going to kill him, boss.”

"And who else has been a naughty boy, Jimmy?"

"Mr Wells, boss."

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

"Kill him, too, boss."

Mike grinned, broad and slow.

"Now you got it, Jimmy."