A Twist Of Noir 605 - Phil Beloin Jr.

SIX-OH-FIVE A DAY A NAMELESS PSYCHOPATH MYSTERY, PART 2 - PHIL BELOIN JR.

Yep, mercy me and my faithless masculine squirting, picking up a half-nudie Mex gal and taking her to my motel room. After showering, I exited the can, refreshed and clean, but the ten dollar whore had stolen my Bel-Air with eight gees of loot locked in the trunk.

The keys were in my pants’ pocket hanging from the shower bar. Had she hot-wired the car? Doubtful.

But someone might have told her where the spare key was magnetized by the left rear wheel.

Only Roy could of.

Roy, my two-timing partner had out two-timed me. It’s clunky, I know, but apt.

After the bank heist and we was hiding out, but Roy wanted his cut, for booze, for pussy. Me, too, buddy. About a week into this, I beat him like pulp. Left him lying in the shack. Took the money and the getaway car.

This was to flesh out any potential Roy cohorts and future headaches.

*

In this instance, it was actually flesh used.

His girl’s.

I stepped out of the motel room and saw the tailfins of the Bel-Air motoring towards the downtown monuments of respectability. You know, stores and folks following all the foolhardy rules of society. Charlatans, if you’re asking.

I went over to the Packard I had parked here last week—telling the motel man I was going into the woods to hunt, don’t expect me to be around much. He had said, “Six dollars a day, plus the state gets a nickel tax.”

“Six-oh-five you say?” I had said.

“Yep’em. That’s your number.”

I had given the codger ten days worth of rent.

Now, I fired up the old Packard and followed the Bel-Air.

No need to hurry, though. Roy didn’t know about the Packard and his gal was probably too giddy about screwing me over to notice it either.

I drove by the bank Roy and I had hit a week ago, fedora pulled low on my brow.

A few miles later, the Bel-Air long gone from my view, I turned onto the dirt road. There was residual dust floating in the dry air, though it could have been from the breeze. I knew better of course.

I had picked up Roy’s hunny on this road. She had been fake hitchhiking—see, this path went only to the abandon shack where Roy and I were laying low. And with Roy whining about girlie parts all the time, I had had my doubts about this Mexy chick, though I hoped she might put out first before any true intentions were blown.

No such luck.

I had to park a good distance away. The motor would have carried.

I ran to the cabin. I didn’t beat Bannister’s four minute mile, but that English sissy wasn’t wearing a rakish fedora, a seersucker suit and carrying hardware, either.

I let my breathing slow down as I approached the shanty, the trunk of the Bel-Air open.

Those two dupes were making frenzied whoopee when I peered through a crack in the wall. Jesus, that swarthy gal was a perpetual motion machine, but sadly, Roy’s machinery didn’t last, breaking down and leaking all over. During their post-coital bliss—which was more like some mop up action I had seen in a Seoul cathouse during the Korean War fiasco—I stepped inside, waving my rod around.

“Hola, amigos,” I said.

Then I noticed the swag spread under their butts.

I mean really.

I’d like to say it was a struggle, but they were speechless, and I didn’t have a lot of words left in me either— emotionally, ha, ha—so I shot them both dead.

BIO: Phil Beloin Jr. still claims mental stability. His novel, The Big Bad, is on Amazon and you can even read a page or two. Phil suggests page one. The book is also in independent bookstore in the Connecticut New York border area. E-mail Phil for a list of places, zipp@snet.net.