Fat Fingers: A Crime Story
WD February Flash Fiction Challenge — Day 26
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This is my Day Eighteen entry to the Writer’s Digest February Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt is to write a story in a series of text messages.
Jeff slid into the seat behind the wheel of his car, and pulled out his phone. In a series of frantic texts, he filled the Boss in on what just went down:
“Job done, but with complications. Target eliminated, single shot to the head. Nice and clean.”
He paused for a moment, considering, then continued.
“Was target married? Woman came in before I could exit. Had to eliminate. One to the chest, another to the head. She made a lot of noise.”
How to put this? he wondered.
“Neighbor barged in. Door not locked. Big fella. Took three. One missed, one in the shoulder and one in the abdomen. Pistol butt to the head several times did the trick.
“Need a cleaner— 7642 SW 153rd Ct, Apt. 406.
“Awaiting instructions.”
He set the phone down and tapped the steering wheel nervously. He’d been doing this for 15 years — 15 years with out a single hitch — 45 hits all executed flawlessly, until today. He thought seriously about retiring.
His phone buzzed and he snatched it up, glancing at the text.
“DIKY?”
He stared at it a full minute. What the hell does that mean? Had the boss gone soft in the head?
He started to type a reply, when the phone buzzed again.
“WDYM ‘target eliminated?’”
In all the years he’d done work for him, the Boss had never used texting acronyms. Putting his reading glasses on, he saw the number on the screen. It didn’t look right.
Jeff was no luddite, however, he trusted his brain more than he trusted technology, so he committed phone numbers to memory. He wasn’t sure how he’d typed the wrong number. Maybe it was his fat fingers on tiny keys or his aging eyes. Ever since he’d hit forty, his arms needed to be longer. He even had to wear glasses when shooting from a distance.
Time was catching up with him.
Switching to the browser he looked up DIKY and it came back “Do I know you?” And then WDYM came back as “What do you mean?” He knew for sure he had the wrong number.
What to do now?
He had just given details of a triple homicide using his actual phone — he’d never quite seen the use of burner phones — and he’d given the address. Not the city, but that would be easy enough to work out.
Thinking quickly, and using his browser to get the lingo right, he responded to the text. He typed in joking and rolling on the floor laughing.
“JK! ROFL!”
It took a moment before there was an answer.
“OMG! LOL.”
Jeff translated it as, oh my God and laughing out loud. Referring to the website again, he tried to take hold of the situation.
“BTW, how’d you like to meet up IRL?”
That was by the way and in the real world.
The answer came quickly.
“F2F? OFC, where?”
Jeff looked at the website. That meant face to face and of course. He quickly typed back.
“IDK. Suggestions?”
He actually knew that one. It meant, I don’t know.
“Denny’s. Corner of S. Dixie Hwy and SE 1st Ave.”
Was the texter in Miami then? What luck! Jeff thought. Then the phone buzzed again.
“What time?”
He quickly responded.
“ASAP!”
Everyone knows ASAP. It predates texting.
Then thinking that might sound a bit pushy, he quickly added, “Starving!”
“I can be there in 5 minutes.”
Jeff looked up the address on his phone — 45 minutes away, 36 if he took the turnpike, but he hated paying tolls. Besides, they have cameras.
“45 for me.”
“B4N. CYA.”
Bye for now. See you later.
Jeff fired up the motor and drove as fast as he could get away with, taking the Ronald Reagan Turnpike, and pushing his speed to cut 36 minutes by at least a third. That put him in Denny’s 11 minutes earlier than he said. He asked for a seat by the restrooms, his back snug against a corner with an view of the rest of the restaurant.
Setting his phone on silent, he ordered a coffee and a short-stack with a side of bacon and egg. Then he sat back and waited, his phone on the table, the texting screen active.
After about 6 minutes, four men came in, one, a shorter man, looking nervous and out of place, an accountant most likely. He had that demeanor.
The other three all looked like they’d held one position or the other on their college football team. When the hostess came up, they split up, all taking different seats, the short man in one booth, one of the taller ones right behind him, and the other two at tables essentially blocking his exit, if he were stupid enough to go over and introduce himself. They ordered and then began waiting.
After awhile, the nervous little man half turned in his seat and spoke to the man behind him. Jeff couldn’t hear what was said, but he could tell the taller one scolded him and he turned back around.
The server came with Jeff’s food and he dug in, pulling a book out of his bag, which he pretended to read. It made a good prop to hide behind. Breakfast was good, as always. Denny’s was one of his favorite places to eat, and this one had good service.
The appointed time came and went, the accountant nervously glancing at his cellphone every so many often, probably checking the time.
The server came back around and topped off Jeff’s coffee, and he ordered an English muffin. He really needed to lay off the carbs, but he couldn’t help himself. He just loved a good muffin with his coffee.
Every so often, he’d flip a page, to keep up the illusion.
The taller man, casually scanned the room and spoke softly to the accountant, who picked up his phone and typed something.
Jeff looked down at his plate to stab a piece of bacon, taking in the phone screen. It said, “Where are you? I don’t see you.”
He ignored the message, as his muffin arrived. She offered him grape and strawberry jelly, he asked for honey. She left to get it, then returned lickety split.
As Jeff lathered the honey on his English muffin, another message popped up. He didn’t bother to look at it. He didn’t need to know what it said, they were starting to doubt.
Eventually, his meal finished, he packed up his book, pocketed his phone, and left cash on the table for the meal and a tip. The waitress waived as she gathered up the money, and he exited the building, returning to his vehicle, pretending to talk on his phone the entire way.
Another 15 minutes went by and the three taller men left the building, shaking their heads and laughing. Getting into a black Ford Explorer, they drive off.
Jeff waited.
Finally the little man exited, looking glum and surprisingly, got into the Mazda RX-7 parked beside him.
Nice car, Jeff thought.
The man never even glanced in Jeff’s direction. He backed out, followed by Jeff, who tailed him out onto the South Dixie Highway, keeping his distance.
After only about five minutes, he put his blinker on, and entered a parking garage. Jeff followed.
As soon as his vehicle came to a stop, Jeff opened the door, reaching for his Maxim 9, with its built in silencer. He approached the accountants vehicle, just as he began to exit, his feet on the ground, his butt still in the driver’s seat.
The man looked up, startled. Jeff lifted the pistol, and squeezed the trigger. The little man slumped backward into the car, a hole right between the eyes.
Jeff bent over the body and retrieved the man’s phone from his suit pocket, and slid it into his own jacket pocket. Then he positioned the body behind the wheel, like he was just sitting there, and removed his wallet, almost as an afterthought. Maybe it would look like a robbery.
Closing the door to the car, he whistled as he returned to his own vehicle. He set the man’s phone beneath his rear tire, before firing up the engine and shifting into reverse. The crunch had a satisfying sound. He drove the car over it a few times to be sure.
As he turned out onto the street, he tossed the now empty wallet out the window, and decided to keep the window down. The humidity was stifling., and the breeze felt good.
Miami could be tiresome, he thought. Maybe it really is time to retire. Costa Rica was sounding really good right now. Really, really good.
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