Closing Time
The pistol coughed in Danny’s hand.
The suppressor, cheap as it was, did the job.
Mike Mullens stood behind his bar, a small black hole in the left breast of his white button-down. Blood leaked out and Mike blinked several times, a confused expression on his face.
“Sorry, Mike,” Danny sighed, getting to his feet. He walked to the bar’s door, locked it and switched off the neon ‘Open’ sign.
“That’s the problem with a suppressor,” Danny explained, walking to the bar and sitting down on a stool. “You lose accuracy the farther the shot. This piece of wet garbage was way off. I was aiming for your heart. Of course, it was quiet, and that’s the point, right?”
Mike’s lips took on a bluish tint. He took a step back and leaned against the sink. He spoke, and blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
“Why?”
“It’s always the question, right?” Danny chuckled. He removed the suppressor, slipped it into a coat pocket, and then did the same with his revolver. Danny stripped off the nitrile gloves and put them into another pocket of the coat.
“I could tell you a story,” Danny continued, keeping an eye on the dying man in front of him. “Spin you some yarn about a spurned lover. Something romantic.”
Danny shook his head, pulled out a stick of gum, unwrapped it and added the foil to the pocket with his gloves.
“Wife won’t let me smoke anymore,” Danny confided, popping the gum into his mouth.
“Stupid, right? I mean, she doesn’t know what I do for work. Man, she freaked out when I came home one day, and there was a little bit of blood on me. Not even from a job, just me helping some little kid with a nosebleed. You should have heard her go on and on about ‘blood-borne pathogens.”
Danny sighed and shook his head. “Anyway, at least she’s looking out for me. And, I’m sorry to say, someone was out looking for you.”
“Why?” Mike repeated.
“You remember Peter Ellis?” Danny asked in response.
Mike’s eyes widened.
“Ah, you do,” Danny nodded. “Apparently, Peter’s new lawyer managed to get a new
hearing. What do you need when you have a hearing, Mike?”
The barman sagged to the floor, his face waxy and the glint fading from his eyes. But the man’s mouth moved, forming the word ‘Trial.’
“A trial,” Danny agreed. “You, sir, are a witness to Peter’s crime. We won’t say alleged
because we both know that’s not true. There were two other witnesses, but I took care of them last month. Month before?”
Danny shrugged and stood up. “Anyway. They were husband and wife. They got married after the conviction. You might have read about it. Husband lost control of the car in that last heavy rain we had. As for you, Mike, you’re a robbery gone bad. Nothing much to it.”
Mike’s eyes rolled up, and he slipped forward.
“You all done, Mike?” Danny asked, peering over the bar.
The roar of a shotgun sent him staggering backward, his face numb.
After a moment, Danny caught his balance, looked up and saw himself in the mirror behind the bar.
Blood poured from his forehead, and part of his scalp flapped as he moved.
Above him, he heard someone yelling and caught the only word that mattered.
9–1–1.
Muttering to himself, Danny went around the bar, resisted the urge to kick Mike’s corpse and looked at the top shelf liquors. He spotted a nearly full bottle of 80-proof vodka and emptied it over Mike, the floor, and a pile of paper napkins.
Danny dug out the lighter he still carried out of habit and felt a rush of panic when it didn’t light on the first click. The first faint siren cleared his thoughts, and Danny lit a napkin on the second try. He dropped it, watched the fire start, and then wiped the bottle down.
Danny made his way to the back and, when he reached the door, found a Red Sox baseball hat hanging on a peg. Grinding his teeth, he swept his scalp back into place, put the hat on his head and left the bar.
Keeping close to the darkest shadows, Danny started the long process of getting back to his car. More sirens filled the air, and soon, he knew, a cordon would go up.
Danny moved down alleyways, cut through empty buildings, and made it to an apartment building where he’d left his beat-up Camry. He flipped up the back seat, stuffed his jacket under it, and then climbed into the driver’s seat. His head ached, and he knew he had to get the scalp looked at.
As he slid his key into the ignition and started the car, Danny swore.
What was he going to tell his wife?
Bio: Nicholas Efstathiou is a husband, father, grandfather, teacher and writer. He is also the author of “Killers in Their Youth.” He can be found on Instagram under the handle @crossmassachusetts.
His book “Killers In Their Youth” Can Be Found Through The Amazon Affiliate Button Below.
Read more Flash Fiction On The Yard: Crime Blog
Follow Us On:
Looking for a book to read? Try our Bookstore.
