Noire
Matthew Ryan Fischer
A dark night. The man stares out the window, lost in thought. His cigarette
burns down without him noticing. The headlights on the 101 are constant at any
hour, but as the rain begins to fall, they look like brilliant shimmering starts,
flickering across the horizon. It would be a snow moon, except in never snows
in L.A. He called it a long night, but that name had already been taken.
A red evening gown and a golden broach with a drop of blood in the
middle. If anyone noticed, they might think it part of the design. Cocktails
and soft piano jazz in the background. A dinner party for the elite and a
swimming pool no one ever used. A six-inch ivory cigarette holder perched between
her fingers. She never seemed to ash, but the smoke filled the air with a hint
of mystery.
The man with the pinstripes wore a faded gray fedora. The man with
the vest and tailcoat had a top hat and walking stick. Both smoked cigars and
sipped brandy and whispered hushed secrets to their lovers. Business was good
and their money clips were full. They were men of means with friends in high places.
One might say they were the men behind the curtain. They didn’t discuss their
business in polite society.
The policeman on the corner might look the other way for the right
price. One man in the alley might provide the thrill of pills, while the other
might rob you blind. The girl across the street would be anyone you wanted if
you asked the right way.
A shot rang out. A siren followed.
It was going to be a long night.
No comments:
Post a Comment