Two Bad Decisions and A Little Bad Luck

Dzinski knew he shouldn’t get involved. Knew it would be nothing but trouble. Just like the last how many times. Knew he should’ve stayed out of it last time too.

Before that, he hadn’t been quite so smart.

Nothing left between them. More than a lifetime ago. And here she was again. Asking for help. Begging. Doing whatever she could to make him do whatever she needed done.

Not this time.

He sat back at his desk and took a quick pull from the bottle. Then he got up and put on his coat and hat, and started after her.

Reunion

“I could have gone to the boys downtown, you know.”

“But here you are.”

“Here I am,” he said, scratching at the side of his nose. “Look, Frank…”

Dzinski waved whatever he might’ve said away. “You get out here much?”

Tom Finley’s curled mouth down on the right side, quick as a comma.

“Every couple of weeks. Take ma, my mother, to church. Have lunch somewhere,”

“Changed a bit,” Dzinski said. He pushed himself up from his desk and walked to the window looking out across Notre-Dame. “Face of it, I mean. Underneath, it’s still the same as it ever was.”

Happiest of Happy Hours 2

Dzinski had recognized the cackling of the two punks from the bar. They’d followed him for two blocks now, and when he took a quick right, he heard their hurried steps. He ducked in a darkened doorway.

“Where the hell did he go,” one of them said. But before the other could answer Dzinski slammed the butt of his revolver over his ear.

“Shit,” the first one said, and then made to charge.

Dzinski levelled the piece, slowly, and the kid stopped.

“Guess it’s my turn to offer you some advice,” he said. “You want to hear it, or what?”

Happiest of Happy Hours

“What you got there? Your heart medicine?”

Dzinski crushed the uppers between his teeth, and washed them down with the rest of his bourbon.

“Something like that,” he said, looking over at the kid who asked.

There were two of them.  Both cackling. Both dressed in the same too-small suits. Both of their faces just aching to get beat in. Dzinski swivelled away from them, deciding neither were worth the effort and ordered another drink.

“You should watch that stuff, pops,” one of them said. “It’ll kill you.”

Dzinski lifted his glass, smirking at their reflections in the bar mirror.

Never Said Anything About Benevolence

The man at his elbow had the long drawn face of someone who wakes up every morning disappointed that he did. Dzinski watched him in the mirror behind the bar. His head hung down, only raising when he steadily brought another shot glass to his lips.

Grey hair, cropped down short around the ears, but long on top. The leather skin that always looks like it needs a shave.

“You all right there, friend?”

“Right enough,” he said, signalling for another drink.

“Have a good night then.”

Dzinski left the bar, crossed the street and convinced himself to get home.

Any Job You Can Walk Away From Is A Success, Apparently

Dzinski set the pot, caked in day-old, baked-on, burnt coffee, in the sink, and let it fill with water. Dirty plates, stacked any which way, filled the small counter. A housefly, fat and slow-moving in the cold apartment, buzzed by.

He pulled a bottle from the cupboard and filled a teacup. The radio played chintzy Christmas songs between blaring hysterical advertisements for the local department store.

His ears still rang. Head still sore. His shoulder stiff, he fingered the bandage, and they came away wet.

Dzinski leaned against the window and watched the people stampede along the barely-shoveled streets below.

 

Prompt courtesy of the Friday Fictioneers. Read more stories here.

Just Another Walk In – 2

A buzzer sounded, and the secretary stopped ignoring Dzinski long enough to press the button.

“Where’s that file,” a voice said, cutting through the static.

“On your desk,” she said. “Where you told me to leave it.”

“What? Oh, all right, I see it. Thank you.”

Dzinski figured they must be married. He coughed, just to bother her.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said.

“Who is it?”

“Says he’s a private investigator.”

“What does he want?”

“Ask him yourself,” she said, disconnecting their conversation.

The door to the office opened, and a man stepped out, straightening his tie.

 

Just Another Walk In

The woman behind the desk had the same colour as week-old Wonder Bread.

“If you don’t have an appointment,” she said, “I don’t see how you’ll get in to see him.

Dzinski thought her attitude reminded him of stale bread as well.

“I’ll wait,” he said, walking across the office and sitting on the stiff sofa. He picked up a housekeeping magazine and flipped through the pages. “Besides, I’m feeling lucky. I’ll bet it won’t be too long.”

Her eyes narrowed, concentrated, down the thin ridge of her nose.

“What was the name again?”

“Dzinski,” he said, “Private Investigator”.

Mid-Night Ramblings

Dzinski awoke, and after a tense moment of confusion, realized he’d fallen asleep in his armchair. His half-empty glass almost slipping from his fingers, and the screen in front of him showing nothing but static.

He heaved himself up and stood in the darkened living room, then crossed and turned off the television.

Muted yelling came from somewhere. He guessed his neighbour had just gotten in and his wife was giving him a piece of her mind. Laying his ear against the bathroom wall he heard that he was right.

“Keep it down,” he hollered, before shuffling off to bed.

Highs and Lows

Dzinski was almost halfway across the bridge, driving slow, with an almost empty bottle held between his knees, listening to a man croon about lost love on the radio. Bright lights, squealing brakes. Then the impact. He fell against the steering wheel.

He woke up. Taste of blood. Sharp pain in his chest. Everything was bright. Unnatural. He slid out, wincing, and moved on shaking legs back towards the other car, shielding his eyes with one hand, as the other rolled comfortably into a fist.

It was empty. He turned away, stunned just as something big hit the river below.

 

Prompt courtesy of the Friday Fictioneers. Read more stories here.

 

Scrambled

“So just the eggs then?”

“Just the eggs.”

“No sausage? No toast? Nothing?”

“Fine. Brown with butter,” Dzinski said. “And raspberry jam, if you got it.”

The waitress took off, as though she wasn’t used to fetching things, and he felt low about the way he’d spoken. She set the jar itself in front of him, with the knife resting across the opening.

“We don’t usually serve breakfast past noon,” she said, looking for high ground to stand on, and finding it suitable. “And don’t think for a second that I haven’t seen that bottle itching out of your pocket.”

Raise A Glass

© G.L. MacMillan.

The barman placed another bourbon in front of him, and set about wiping glasses with his rag. Dzinski lifted the drink and made a silent toast, something about the past, and missed opportunities.

The bells over the door rang, and through the mirror behind the shelves of half-empty bottles, a woman walked in.

Her scent came before her, like horses drawing a carriage. She sat down three stools away. Dzinski watched the bartender sidle over, lean in and prepare her cocktail.

“From the lady,” he said, sliding another in front of Dzinski.

He lifted his glass, this time to possibilities.

Prompt courtesy of the Friday Fictioneers. Read more stories here.

Shallow Dive

Dzinski walked out the double french doors and across the yellowed, brittle lawn towards the woman sitting as calm as a well fed lioness, in the shade beside an empty pool.

“Have you found my step-daughter?” the woman asked, sipping from a sweating, tall glass.

He stood looming, his shadow falling across her like a executioner’s blade.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Not alive, anyway.”

He wanted to say more, but the words were bitter, so he spit into the shallow end, and made his way back into the house. Dzinski nodded at the two arresting officers as they crossed paths.

Unmoored

Dzinski felt like he was at sea.

Huddled together, under the gunwales, the salty water splashing, soaking the wool-lined jackets, already heavy on their slumping shoulders. He heard the waves slamming the side of the boat, the whistles of the bombs falling, the staccato of the machine guns firing, the distant screams from the beach.

His hand shook as he reached for the bourbon. He drank.

Another beach, another lifetime. High, hot sun, a hand tugging him across the soft sand, into the water until they couldn’t touch bottom, then her bright smile disappearing as the waves crashed over them.

 

Prompt courtesy of Friday Fictioneers. More stories here.

People to See

Dzinski emptied an ice tray into the middle of a tea towel, brought the ends together, lifted it off the counter and spun it. He handed the ice pack to the man sitting at the kitchen table.

“Put that on your knee,” he said.

He sat down, pulling the gun from his waist and setting it on the table.

“Thanks,” the other man said, wincing as he reached over. “You should get the landlord to fix those goddamned stairs, somebody could get hurt.”

Dzinski lit a cigarette, and leaned back.

“I’ll call him first thing in the morning,” he said.