Pablo Michaels Week 72: The Peculiar Visitor

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Pablo Michaels' Picture Choice: 1

Title: The Peculiar Visitor

I salvaged this desk, chair, and icons of the past from my mother’s obsession to donate it all to the Salvation Army. I still keep them in my office. The photograph reminds me of the peculiar stranger who wrote poetry on the typewriter. He inspired me to start my writing career, even though I barely remember him. He died when I was young. Wanting to hide his memory, my mother and siblings insisted he died a disgrace, nothing but a drifter and an alcoholic.

Relishing in my only memory of him besides his photograph and book of poems, his image returns from that night when he arrived. As a five-year-old boy I imagined this peculiar visitor, returning from a journey around the world. When my mother ushered him through the front door, he hugged each of us kids while his hands clasped candy into our clutched fingers. His dark clothes smelled musty and his face was in need of a shave, but he intrigued my infatuation, more, as a mystery of who he was. Since I was a child, I was sent to bed, shortly afterward.

I woke when he came into my room in the middle of the night to sleep in the extra bed in my room. Unable to go back to sleep, I peered through squinted eyes him undressing and slipping under the covers in his underwear. I listened to his deep breathing frequently rising into a snore. He, occasionally, mumbled indecipherable words while he slept.

I must have fallen asleep. When I woke his bed was empty, the covers strewn to the side, and the sheet was stained. Having been a bed wetter, I found solace he was one too. I rushed to the kitchen, but only my sisters and mother were there. He was gone.

I asked where the visitor had gone.

My mother mumbled, her face expressing sadness, “He left early this morning,” my mother whispered.

I was terribly disappointed until I asked who he was. She took my hand. A tear trickled from one eye down her flushed cheek. “He’s your father.”

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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike

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Samantha Lee Week 72: Worship & the Pitfalls Thereof

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Worship & the Pitfalls Thereof

Have you ever had one of those moments where you realize there's been a serious miscalculation somewhere along the way and damn but you're screwed? Well, maybe not totally screwed - there's always a way to fix things given enough time - but some messes make a bigger splash than others. Case and point: you ever try getting blood out of shag carpeting? Or fur? Or, hey, have you any idea how hard it is to run PR for a species that tends, for the most part, to be a bunch of arrogant, self-centered idiots? Try it some time; we'll compare notes.

Take, for example, this delightful period where some of my more...I want to say "idiotic" but I'll be nice and go with "ambitious" fellows decided it would be a swell idea to set themselves up to be worshipped as gods. This, in case you're wondering, was a bad idea. Actually, it was an idea so horrible and short-sighted that "bad" is far too pale a word. We actually knew this from past experience but funny thing about living forever; every now and then you have the bright idea to try something you've already tried with horrible results just to see if maybe, a century or ten later, it would go the same way. FYI: it usually does.

Do you know what happens when mortals worship you? Well, it starts off well enough. You show off some power - make their crops grow, or summon sunshine at night, or conjure whole palaces from thin air or - if you're looking to go all out - bring back their dead. I truly don't recommend that last one; death tends to change a soul, for one thing, so what you get back is very rarely what you lost and, for another thing, that sort of magic doesn't happen without demanding a high price in return. Much easier just to heal the nearly dead then undo death itself and just as effective for these purposes.

Anyways, you show off your power and get yourself as established as something more than human. Play your cards right and next thing you know the mortals are celebrating festivals and erecting temples and bestowing honours all in your name. You get parades, prayers, and parties galore, all with elaborate rituals thrown in for effect. It can be pretty thrilling, watching as the mortals think up all the hundreds of minute ways to incur your good graces and avoid your wrath. It's quaint. It's adorable. It's fascinating.

For about ten minutes.

At Court, there's this one Fae who needs to be kept near the ruling Royal because he's completely and utterly broken. He's still beautiful - a lithe yet muscular physique made to tantalize and tease, copper skin that shimmers in the light, lush curls the colour of starlight falling around his shoulders, and eyes like swirling galaxies, twisting, coiling violet and black and red and blue around a burning core. Once he was a warrior. Once he'd strut around Court like a peacock and preen, delighted and entranced by his own beauty, his own power and the effect it would have on those around him. He was vain and selfish, as is our wont, but he was also funny and kind and had a soft spot for children - in an innocent total goof-ball sense not an eats-them-for-breakfast sort of way...which was sort of the problem.

He had a cult - several, actually - and his worshippers had a tendency to be more on the fanatical side than was strictly wise. To put it bluntly, they didn't just border on crazy, they crossed right over the line and colonized whole cities of insanity. Unfortunately, their so-called god had never been very keen on the ways of human psyche and, after a few decades, he grew bored with them and stopped paying them any attention. This, unfortunately, sent the humans in a pit of a tailspin and they got increasingly desperate to regain his favour. Five decades later, one of their priests remembered their god had loved children, had loved to play with them and tell them stories and listen to their chatter for hours and hours on end.

You know how cats show their love for their masters by leaving dead mice at their feet? The idea is to feed the incompetent biped so they don't starve. It's sweet really, unless you're the mouse. Humans tend to think along similar lines when it comes to their gods. Sometimes they actually kill their god, which isn't so bad when you consider how easy it is to use illusion and misdirection to fake it. Sometimes, however, they get the wacky idea to sacrifice their own. Virgins were popular for awhile, not that I've ever understood why. There was that whole witch craze and blasphemy obsession that came and went every few decades and then there was the cannibalism we're not even going to mention any more than need be, thanks very much. Humans are nuts, plain and simple.

Which brings us back to the broken Fae who loved children. His priest happened to remember this little detail one day and in his infinite wisdom and total insanity came up with the plan to sacrifice children to curry his favour. By fire. Live.

The next time the Fae happened by one of his temples...I mentioned the live sacrifice of children by fire bit, right? I think it goes without saying that his visit did not go well. At all. For anyone.

Thus the entire cult vanished completely over the following weeks and the Fae, broken as he was, came to need the constant supervision of his Royal from that day forth. It's was also about this time that the Royals banned their Fae from ever setting themselves up as gods again. It just didn't end well. Ever.

Fast forward a millennium - give or take a century - and some of them start to think it ought to be tried again. After all, the human race has evolved, grown wiser and less violent over time. They apparently forgot that a thousand years after Osiris was chopped into teeny tiny bits, Prometheus was getting his liver eaten by an eagle and a thousand years after that Jesus was getting nailed to a cross, and that was just the treatment being inflicted on the gods, never mind what they were doing to each other and themselves in the names of their gods.

Let the divine deal with the mortals and their worship, I say; the Fae have more than enough problems.

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Lizzie Koch Week 72: Traitor

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Traitor

Picking up a pencil, Claudette scraped it along the desktop, gouging a trail the length of the desk, again and again until the pencil snapped in half. She threw it to the floor, admiring her work on the antique desk. This was Luke’s sanctuary, a place where he contemplated, relaxed, plotted and studied. He allowed no one in unless invited. Invitations were rare. Once behind the large oak doors, Luke shut out the world he had created, the world where the metallic taste of blood hung thick in the air, where the constant groans from slaves murmured throughout the walls, their wails and screams echoing through his bones, where his family laughed, argued, fought and feasted.

It wasn’t a lifestyle choice, being a vampire. He was taken. Murdered. Only to be given life by the vampire who stalked him, wore him down before brutally feeding from his pulsating neck. Life had been good. Luke, an original Knight of the Garter, knighted by The Black Prince himself, the age where chivalry was standard, where knights jousted and fought for honour, love and bravery. Luke loved his life. But Francois set his sights on him, desired him, and hungered for the pure blood that ran through his veins. But Luke didn’t give up easily which only endeared Francois more to his quarry, respecting Luke’s fortitude, his desire to live, his spirit to fight.

Luke still carried these traits now, over eight hundred years later; the spirit of the fight, loving his prey to run, defend, fight to the last which was pointless against a vampire but addictive to his soul. Yes, vampires had souls. Luke’s soul was like any other soul belonging to a vampire; dark, mysterious, black and predatory. He savoured the hunt. He relished each victim on their own merit. But he had only ever taken one into his world; Claudette.

He remembered the evening he first saw her, at the opening of the Louvre in 1793. He followed her in as she admired the limited works on display. He read her thoughts on every painting and sculpture, learnt much, hungered for her more. She chatted politely, curtsied when royalty approached. Her spirit captivated him and he spent the next three nights following her until he could bare it no more. Arm in arm they walked to a quiet spot by the Seine where he revealed his true self. She ran, screaming which only aroused Luke more causing his fangs to extend.

Giving Claudette a head start he strolled along the river bank, her scent in his nostrils; the thick smell of fear, the metallic scent of her blood mingling with sweetness of her sweat. He caught her, mid flight, whisking her off her feet, burying his face in her neck, an insatiable thirst. But he couldn’t finish. He needed a companion since Francois had died. Wanted Claudette. She would forgive him in good time just like he had done with Francois.

Claudette stared down at the desk, at her handy work. Luke would know it was her. Luke would now know what it was like to be betrayed. The etched W in the desk meant one thing to both of them; witch. Luke’s dalliances with the young witch had brought shame on the clan, his own clan. How could he hide the witch from them and keep her powers to himself? It was treachery. And Luke was about to find out how traitors were dealt with in the vampire world. No mercy would be given. it didn’t matter that he was their leader, the head of the family or the most powerful. It just made Claudette more determined for with Luke out of the way, she would have the witch to herself and become head of the family. With Kian by her side, they would be unstoppable.

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I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

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Ruth Long Week 71: Elegy IV

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Ruth Long’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Elegy IV

I do not hear a dirge today
though the clock-tower tolls for one

I do not see a funeral march
though six dark tulips bow to the sun

I do not see your name in stone
though I see your eyes in your son

I cannot cry for what still lives
so I weep for what's left undone

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A reader by birth, paper-pusher by trade and novelist by design, story-telling in my passion. If you enjoyed reading today's story, please consider checking out my blog bullishink.com, joining my creative community sweetbananaink.com or participating in the madcap twitter fun @bullishink.

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JB Lacaden Week 71: Three Days

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JB Lacaden’s Picture Choice:

Title: Three Days

There were four of us that day in the beach – me, George, Sammie, and of course, Henry. The beach was hidden behind a veil of jungle, which we went through while carrying surfboards over our heads. It was a mile long of white sand that burned even whiter when splashed with the rays of the sun. George led us there. Their family owned the island and he said that we would be able to spend the day there undisturbed. It was how each one of us wanted it.

Even before we saw it we knew it was there. The roaring of the waves gave it away. We pushed through the last of the foliage and there it was in all its beauty. The stretch of burning, white sand, the endless number of waves that came and went, backdropped by the infinite blueness of the cloudless sky. For a brief moment, we believed the day would give birth to another one, that what we heard the other day was not really true. For a brief moment we believed that this was just another out of town trip for us. For a brief moment...

“Isn’t that something?” George said.

Henry howled and rushed towards the water. I planted my board in the sand and watched him get on his board and paddle.

“Come on!” George shouted as he went off running after Henry. “This here’s how it’ll all end, ladies and gents!”

Sammie and I stayed. I looked at her looking at the other two. She had her hair tied into a ponytail. Drops of sweat had formed on her forehead and one was sliding down her chestnut colored cheek.

“This is how we’ll go huh?” She said. Her eyes remained trained on the waters.

“You have other plans?” I asked. “Maybe just you and Henry?”

“No,” she smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No. This is nice. Us four together is nice. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” She then looked at me. “Come on. We’re missing some good waves there.”

***

I remember I was at work that day when it was announced. I was finishing up on this project that was due a week after and I was way behind schedule. I heard the news from the radio and it contained only nine words.

“The world is going to end in three days.”

Nothing more was said. No explanations were given, no time as to when it will exactly happen, nothing. After those nine words were uttered, some song by The Cure started playing. It was as if it didn’t really happen. But it did. Everyone in our floor heard it, everyone started asking questions. Some said it was just a practical joke. But you could tell from the laughter and the smiles that they believed it to be true. I know I did.

What would your reaction be when you were told that you’ve only three days to live? Would you cry in fear? Would you panic? Would you accept it openly?

I turned off my computer and left work without saying anything to anybody. I passed by rooms filled with people in prayer. I passed by groups of people huddled in tears. I passed by someone on the phone talking to his wife.

The world reacted much calmer than I expected. What I had in mind was streets of violent people and buildings on fire. When I stepped out of our building, you wouldn’t have guessed that the end of the world was just broadcasted live. What I saw was a few people walking past me with their heads bowed low. Some lifted their faces to greet me a good day. They had their smiles on display. Some looked withdrawn. Some just looked empty. I wonder how I looked.

I picked one street in random and decided to go there. Four blocks had gone by and that was when I noticed that I hadn’t yet received a single call from my parents or my sister. The thought of calling them hadn’t passed my mind until then. I continued on walking.

I walked down street after street after street. Was I in shock? Maybe I was. When I felt the fingers of exhaustion taking hold of me, I kept on walking. When all of daylight had bled out and nothing remained but a sky the color of a fresh bruise, I kept on walking. When the streets had emptied of people, I kept on walking. And I still kept on walking even after my eyes had grown red and swollen from crying.

That was how I spent the first day of my last days.

***

I woke up the following morning in a place I did not know. The room was small containing only one single bed, a table, and a chair. Not long after, my phone started to ringing. I didn't pick it up. The world was ending. Everything about yesterday came to me in one giant wave. I wondered then if I just dreamt it all.

The phone kept on ringing.

I stood up and grabbed it. My feet felt like they were being inserted with needles. I looked at my phone’s display screen and I saw Sammie’s name. I answered it.

“John?” Her voice was mingled with static.

Silence.

“Hello? John, are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I replied.

“Henry and I, we just got back from Hong Kong and we’re wondering...Have you heard the news?”

“Yes, I did. Yesterday.”

“Where are you now?” I could hear the sound of traffic from her side.

“I actually don’t know,” I answered, laughing.

Another round of silence. I looked outside my dirt-stained window and saw an empty intersection with a traffic light that perpetually showed a red light.

"I think I'm still somewhere in Manila. Know what? I don't know."

"Have you called your parents yet?" She asked.

"No."

"Are you planning to call them?"

"I don't know." I replied. “Are you with Henry now?”

“Yeah, I’m in his car. He’s driving me to my place before he goes off to his parents’.”

From the background I could hear Henry calling out my name.

"Listen, John. Henry and I, we've decided to go somewhere tomorrow. There's this island owned by George's parents. We want you to come with. Will you?"

"Yes," I said. Then she started telling me about the details: where to meet-up, what time. All the while I tried picturing her face in my head. Her long, black hair, the lines that form in her cheeks whenever she smiles. Spending the last day of the last days with the girl I love along with the guy who was able to win her from me. I didn't know whether to laugh at that or cry. I ended the call and went out of the room.

***

Dusk had turned the sky to rust. The waters have calmed down, the waves were put to rest. I lay on my board as it bobbed up and down on the water. The heavens had no clouds in them. All was quiet. It was hard to believe that the world would end that day. But it did.

I sat up and looked at the beach. I could see Henry and George busy building a bonfire for the night. Sammie was lying asleep on a white blanket.

I started wondering why I placed myself in that place, in that situation. To spend the day watching the girl I love spend her last days with someone else. Henry's not a bad guy, a bit dense at times, but not bad. And it was my fault why Sammie and I didn't work out. I just wished I could have another chance. I laughed at myself. All the chances of getting back with Sammie was thrown down the toilet the moment it was announced that the world was coming to its end.

George looked at me. "Hey, lazy ass! Come help us here!" He shouted.

I waved my hand at him and I started paddling to shore.

***

We sat around the fire while passing around a bottle of tequila.

"You know? I'm kinda disappointed at how things will end," George said, tossing a piece of dry wood into the fire. "Kinda anticlimactic, yeah?"

"How would you like things to have ended?" Henry asked.

"Who? Me? I don't know. I guess I just think, after the stories we've been fed for years about the rapture and the apocalypse and how the dinosaurs died, it'll be something more...noisy."

"I think something like this is fine," Sammie said. I looked at her and saw her eyes were on me. She smiled then continued, "I like it that it ends so peacefully, you know? I mean, I'd prefer it if things didn't have to end. But, yeah, I wouldn't mind the world ending quietly."

"Looks like someone's starting to pack up," I said, pointing up at the sky.

We all looked up and saw the stars being put out one by one; they were like candles being snuffed out by god's fingers. One by one they disappeared until the silver moon was all that was left. We watched as the moon was folded up in half and then folded again repeatedly until it was no more than a sliver of silver in the sky. And then that too was gone. The only light left was from the bonfire we had made.

"I guess this is it," George said. I looked at him as his body became transparent. I saw the jungle behind him getting swallowed by the darkness. Then George was gone.

I knew this was my last opportunity to say something. The fire started to grow smaller. The sea had been packed away into the chest along with the others. I grabbed hold of Sammie's hands. She looked at me with tears in her eyes. Beside her, Henry had already started to vanish.

"I love you," I said to her. "I love you and I love you and I love you."

She smiled and laughed and cried. I wiped away her tears as the fire died.

In the darkness, I held her hand and her tears.

"I love you too," the ghost of her whispered.

It was ephemeral but it was love. And even just a second of it was more than enough.

The world ended that day, in silence and in darkness. In tears and in laughter, we went away.

I walked out of the universe holding her tears and her words with a smile on my lips.

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JB Lacaden dreams of someday being a published writer. He currently resides in Manila, Philippines. He's a lover of comic books, science fiction, and high fantasy. Check out some of his works at http://www.jblearnstowrite.com/ and follow him at @jblearnstowrite.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 71: Don’t Smoke in Bed; Part 1 of 2

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Don’t Smoke in Bed; Part 1 of 2

The woman at the corner table, under the awning, reminded me of Sabine.

Her sun-bronzed complexion and long, unruly black hair, seen through a cloud of cigarette smoke, sold the image.

The simple white blouse she wore gleamed in the last of the days' light while the creeping shadows blunted the bright reds in her skirt.

I shifted my seat to get a better look at her. If she noticed me she was good enough not to say anything about it.

A waiter with a thin mustache and a prematurely receding hairline brought me a fresh Pernod I didn't remember ordering.

“I see now why Monsieur prefers our little bistro to those on the river,” he whispered.

He set the glass down and poured some water into it.

I watched the liquor turn milky.

“The river stinks,” I said. “Besides, if I wanted to look at Americans all day I'd have stayed home in New York.”

“But the view on the Seine, it is beautiful, no?”

I nodded toward the street in front of the bistro.

“I like the view here just fine, Jean-Claude.”

He looked at the row of shops across the street. I looked with him, spending a little extra time on a red brick building off to my right. The storekeeper of the fish shop on the bottom floor was out front, tidying up ahead of the late evening rush. Lights showed in the window of the apartment upstairs.

Thunder rumbled somewhere over the city, mixing with the traffic noise and bits of conversation from passersby.

Jean-Claude looked to the darkening sky.

“Shall I move you to table under cover, Monsieur?” he asked.

“It's all right. I'm fine where I am.”

“But you will get very wet!”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“Monsieur will not be offended if I retire to the dining room until the rain stops?”

I gave him the stink-eye but my heart wasn't in it.

“Tell you what, Jean-Claude. You go on in. Stay as long as you like. The bottle stays with me.”

He plunked the bottle down in front of me and brought me a full pitcher of water.

“Monsieur is a crazy American.”

“Monsieur is a paying customer, Jean-Claude. And what did I tell you about the, 'Monsieur', business? You know my name. Use it.”

He straightened his apron and leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. It made the corners of his little mustache point up.

“Enjoy the rain, Monsieur Mike.”

He grinned some more, then quick-stepped it through the door.

The brunette finished her cigarette and stood up. She gave me part of a smile as she dropped some money on the table and grabbed her purse.

I saluted her with my glass of Pernod.

She glanced at me and smiled again as the last of the smoke blew away.

That half-smile chased the resemblance to Sabine. Sabine never did anything halfway.

I admired the woman's curves as she walked away, then turned my attention back to the apartment over the fish shop.

The lights were still on.

I drank some of my Pernod and settled in to wait for the rain.

Never in my life had I met someone who smoked as much as Sabine.

I couldn't have picked her out of a police lineup unless they filled the room with cigarette smoke before pulling the blinds.

She smoked everywhere. Elevators. Phone booths. She smoked on the bus, in the street, and at the cafe. She smoked with drinks, smoked before, during, and after meals.

She smoked in bed.

She had a cigarette dangling from her lips when she let herself into my second floor office near the end of a boring Thursday afternoon.

She cut quite a figure in the doorway, lit from behind by what remained of the sun.

I started with her boots, good leather, soft and comfortable-looking, and worked my way up her orange and ochre skirt to the tight black top under an equally black suede crop jacket.

She had a small brown purse in one hand and a larger bag that looked like it might hold a bowling ball in the other.

I got a long stare as she took a heavy drag on the cigarette, then let the smoke out. She tossed her long, untamed black hair over her shoulder.

“They say you are the man to see if one has... problems.”

I looked up from the scattered pile of bills on my desk, rolling her exotic vocal inflections around in my head.

“They say a lot of things in this town,” I said. “Might help if you could tell me which, 'they', we're talking about.”

She sauntered into my office and took the client's chair opposite me.

Neither of us spoke until she finished her cigarette.

I slid an ashtray to her,

“All right. What's the problem?”

She reached into her little brown purse and came out with another cigarette.

I fired up a match and gave her a light.

“All right,” I repeated. “I'll ask you an easy one. What's your name?”

She let the smoke curl out of one side of her mouth, then said, “My name is Sabine. Sabine Durant.”

She told me she was German. Her deeply tanned skin tone and the soft d's and buttery l's in her speech pointed to origins in parts further east.

“We left Munich for Paris before the war. My parents preferred French disdain to homicidal nationalism in the country of my birth. Not many of us got out.”

I couldn't think of anything to follow that declaration so I nodded and watched her smoke.

The phone rang, not giving the silence the chance to get awkward.

I grabbed the receiver.

“Meltzer.”

A man with a deep, commanding voice greeted me.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meltzer. I haven't called at an inconvenient time, have I?”

The King's English, clipped and precise. He'd worked hard to master the language and wanted everyone to know it.

“Would it matter if you had?”

“I'm glad to see that you already understand the nature of our relationship. Mrs. Durant has chosen her emissary well.”

I could hear the satisfied smile in his voice.

“I wouldn't be glad just yet. I'm not really that bright. Who am I speaking with?”

“You are speaking with a man who is not to be trifled with.”

“Keep your shirt on, mac,” I groused. “No one's trifling with you or anyone else.”

“Mrs. Durant has told you of our demands?”

I picked up the phone and took it with me to the window.

Nobody seemed to be looking toward my building-- not the two women in evening dress, not the chubby shopkeeper sitting in front of his store across the street, and not the guy in blue coveralls who hung around the lamp post on the corner every day, rain or shine. Only the guy in the fedora and the gray suit paid us any attention. He stationed himself by the flower cart and worked hard at looking like he wasn't looking.

I glanced over my shoulder at Sabine. She blew out a smoke ring and crossed her legs. I watched the movement with interest.

“We were just getting around to that,” I said. “Maybe you'd like to fill me in?”

He laughed.

“No, Mr. Meltzer. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise. I'm sure Mrs. Durant will tell you everything you need to know. I'll be seeing you. Soon.”

The line went dead.

I walked the phone back to my desk.

“You were followed here, weren't you?”

“Are you asking me or telling me? I took the liberty of telling them you would be assisting me in this matter,” said Sabine. “I trust you don't mind?”

I dropped into my chair and gave my temples a good rub.

“Why would I mind that?”

She lit a third cigarette with the butt of the second, smiling as she did so.

“You're thinking of telling me to go to hell. But you won't.” She dropped the stare on me. “Because if you do, you will never know why I sought you out.”

“Why don't you start by telling me what it is you want from me, Mrs. Durant?”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Sabine.”

“Bully. I'm Mike. Now that we're pals, Sabine, what's the story?”

She smiled at me. It was some smile. Half of me would've done anything in the world to see it again. The other half wanted to hide under the desk and never come back out.

“I want you to get my husband back for me.”

I dug a notepad and a pencil out of the lap drawer and slapped it down in front of me. I nodded for her to continue.

“Husband,” I murmured. “His name?”

“Herve.”

Something shook loose in my memory. Herve.

“Herve Durant? The Herve Durant?”

She nodded.

I opened the drawer and threw the pad and pencil back in.

Herve Durant. Club owner. Entertainer. Man about town. Wanted for a string of crimes committed in four countries. I'd never met the man but couldn't help seeing him around.

“You call the police?”

“There can be no police involvement.”

“Do you know who has him?” I asked.

“He was not taken from from home. I did not recognize the voice of the man who called to demand payment.”

“So this is about money, and only money?”

She smirked around her cigarette.

“What else could it be about?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

She laughed, low and sultry, like I thought it'd be. A guy could get used to hearing that laugh.

I got up and went back to the window. If the guy in the fedora was still hanging around I couldn't spot him.

“How much money are we talking about?”

She told me. A thrifty man could run a small country with the sum she named.

“It had to be more than what they'd get for turning him in, Mr. Meltzer.”

“And you have it? Ready to go?”

She pointed to the bowling ball bag.

I sat down, facing her, on the edge of my desk.

“All right. Give me the lowdown.”

She smiled again and allowed me to light another cigarette for her.

“It is a simple arrangement. Pont Neuf. Eleven o'clock tonight.”

“Which span?”

“Left Bank.”

“Even exchange? Herve for the dough?”

“That is my understanding.”

I got up and walked back behind my desk. I picked up the phone.

“What are you doing, Mike? They agreed to your involvement. No one else.”

“I'm sure they'll have spotters on the bridge. I want one of my own. Trust me. They'll never know he's there.”

She raised an eyebrow at me.

I gave the operator the number and waited to be connected.

“Wilson,” I said when I heard the click, “got a situation. Pont Neuf, eleven o'clock tonight. Left span. I need your eyes.”

I heard two clicks in response.

“Thanks, pal.”

I could always count on Wilson. He'd been a loyal friend since the day I found him bleeding in a Latin Quarter alley and brought him to the hospital. Turned out he had no family so I stayed with him, footed the bill when the time came, and got him set up in an apartment near my office. He didn't take kindly to the assault that put him in the hospital. He spent the next three years doing nothing but learning how to fight and practicing stealth.

In all of that time, the man never spoke a word. Not one.

Sabine went to the window and looked out.

“Who is Wilson?” she asked as I hung up.

“Guy I know. No one's better if your back needs watching. He's a good man to have around when I'm expecting trouble.”

She turned and hit me with that smile.

“Do I trouble you, Mike?”

“You do, Sabine. You do.”

It was my turn to smile. I scored a direct hit.

She joined me by the window. I felt her breath on the sides of my face and neck. Her perfume smelled a little like cinnamon.

“Good,” she said, leaning forward to see what I was looking at.

“Back up a sec, willya?”

I wrenched the window open and ducked my head out. I spotted the fedora man back at his post by the flower cart.

“Hey,” I called down.

I whistled at him until he looked up. The glare he gave me would've curdled buttermilk.

“Listen, Mrs. Durant and I are going to Desaulier's for some grub, then over to the Fur de Lis for a cognac or two before heading for Pont Neuf. You know where they're at?”

He held the glare for a few more seconds, then, honor satisfied, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets and walked away.

I shut the window.

“Desaulier's,” said Sabine. “You have expensive taste.”

“Don't worry. It'll be going on my expense report.”

“I have no doubt of that,” she replied, unable to keep the amusement off her face.

I grabbed my hat off the coat rack and led Sabine to the door.

“It's just after five now. That gives us plenty of time to get to know each other.”

I locked the office door behind us.

“I do believe, Mike, that you are a perfect scoundrel.”

I offered her my arm. She took it.

“Thanks, doll. That's the nicest thing anyone's said about me in days.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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