The Not So Secret Secret by Jim Harrington

THE NOT SO SECRET SECRET - JIM HARRINGTON

 

The waitress laid the check and two fortune cookies on the table. The candy hearts were an extra treat for Valentine's Day. Kali grinned at the slender woman—a thank you, not an invitation.

 

"What?" Kali asked, as Jeff's smile withered. He handed her the paper from the fortune cookie.

 

"Your life is in danger. Say nothing to anyone. You must leave the city immediately and never return. Repeat: say nothing. . ."

 

"This is a joke. Right?" Kali looked up and noticed Jeff scanning the room. "Jeff?" She touched his arm. "Jeff, you're scaring me."

 

He focused on Kali. "I. . .I don't know," he said, his words swathed in panic. "I hope so." He looked around the room again. "I received a similar note last week at work and laughed it off. Now I'm not so sure." He rose.

 

"Wait," Kali said.

 

"You read the note. It says my life is in danger."

 

"This has to be a practical joke. I mean you haven't done anything to cause someone to want to kill you." She read the note once more, then looked at Jeff. "Have you?"

 

He wiped his moist hands on his trousers and leaned forward. "I must have pissed someone off. At work maybe. I don't know. I can't think. I've got to get out of here." He tossed a twenty and a five on the table and dashed out the door. Kali snatched her purse and coat and followed.

 

"Jeff. Wait." She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "You need to call the police."

 

"What part of 'say nothing' don't you understand?"

 

"Not so loud, Jeff. People are staring."

 

He pulled her into an alley.

 

"I shouldn't tell you."

 

"We've been dating for six months, and now I feel like I don't know you." Kali turned to leave. "Maybe this was a mistake."

 

"No, wait. I. . ."

 

Kali stood, legs apart, arms folded, her head cocked to one side.

 

"Okay, so maybe a few years ago I did something that got someone else thrown in jail. . .and maybe that someone got out of jail last week. . . and maybe he thinks I have something that belongs to him." He inhaled deeply and looked at Kali. "I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd find me."

 

"What are you talking about?"

 

"There are things about me you don't know—and it's better that way."

 

"But—"

 

"I'm sorry. I have to leave town."

 

"I'll go with you," she said.

 

"No." He put his hands on her shoulder. "If he finds me, he. . .. Let's just say you might be in danger, too. God, I didn't mean for it to end like this. I do love you, Kali."

 

She thought about that. "Where will you go?"

 

"It's better if you don't know."

 

"But what if something happens? How will anyone find you? How will I find you?"

 

Jeff put his fingers together and placed them against his lips.

 

"Remember the cabin I took you to on our third date? The one near Grandfather Mountain?"

 

"Off Route 320."

 

"Yes. I never told him about that place. I should be safe there until I figure out what to do and where I can go."

 

"Okay, but I find it hard to believe you'd actually steal. That doesn't sound like the man I fell in love with." She reached for his hands. "Do you really have something this guy might want?"

 

Jeff paused. "Yes."

 

"At the cabin?"

 

He nodded.

 

Kali reached up and kissed him. "Will I ever see you again?"

 

"Probably not. Maybe. I don't know. I hope so once this is over." He pulled her to his chest and kissed her back. Finally, he let her go and dashed out of the alley, looking left and right when he reached the sidewalk.

 

Kali paused at the entrance to the alley, pulled her cellphone from her purse, and called her brother. She turned so her back was to the street.

 

"He's on his way to the cabin." She listened for a few seconds. "He said it's there." She listened some more. "Okay. Tomorrow at noon at the cabin. I'll see you then."

Interlude Stories: Jim Harrington

CLEAVAGE - JIM HARRINGTON

It’s no fun having sex with an alien.

Her name is Jenny. We used to be best friends. We used to be married. Sex used to mean something. Then she changed.

She turned thirty and decided to be somebody else, someone I didn’t recognize. She cut her hair short, dyed it red, got a tattoo of a macaw over her left breast, and started talking funny--like she was on drugs. I didn’t mind the hair or the language. I hated the damn parrot.

She ran away twice, once with her yoga instructor. I hunted her down and welcomed her back both times. When she tried to leave again ... I had to stop her.

It wasn’t always like this. We met at a college frat party. Jenny’s major was art history, mine biology. She acted like she wasn’t interested in me, but I knew better. It was during Spring Break in Cancun our junior year when she finally came around. We married that August, ignoring her parents’ concerns, and were very happy -- despite not having children. The quack doctor said I was impotent.

Jenny is still the prettiest woman I know. She’s lying on the bed, her eyes and mouth open, the look of pain and surprise gone. A sheen of sweat from our lovemaking covers her naked body and glistens in the moonlight coming through the open window, the beacon accompanied by the sounds of the night critters that surround the cabin. Jenny never liked this place. Said she was a city girl and always would be. Guess it doesn’t matter now.

The sun will be coming up over the lake in a few minutes. I’ll call the police shortly after that, or maybe I’ll take a shower first. I’m not going anywhere. Everyone will know I killed her, especially since it’s my hunting knife sticking up from between her naked breasts, blood oozing around the blade. I threatened to harm her every time I had too much to drink, which I wouldn’t have done if she hadn’t turned herself into an alien.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 665 - Jim Harrington

HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER - JIM HARRINGTON

She stepped into the hotel lounge and spotted him. Three men and four women wearing name tags chatted at a table near the door. She didn’t care that the men ogled her, or the women whispered about her short dress and low bodice. She was there to show the conventioneer sitting at the bar a night he wouldn't remember.

“Hi, Tom,” she said, sliding onto a stool and holding out a manicured hand. “Allison. We met last week at the Townsend’s.”

“Yes, I remember.” He imprisoned her hand in both of his. Crooked teeth peaked between puffy lips. “You know my wife.”

“I met Ellen at a yoga class.”

The bartender took her order.

“Tonic water?” Tom said ordering another scotch. “Is that as strong as it gets?”

“For now.”

She sipped her drink and watched his eyes. Long, athletic legs and stocking tops peeking out from the little black dress captured his attention, as they had the others.

He talked about his boring work, his boring life, and how things should have been better for him. After his third round, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. His hand meandered up her leg. She stopped him when it reached bare skin.

“Not here.”

“Let’s get a room.” His thick speech told her it was time.

“Okay,” Allison said, caressing his thigh. “But we need to be careful. We wouldn’t want Ellen to find out.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.”

As soon as they were in the suite, Allison excused herself to go to the bathroom. She took off her dress, hung it on the hook behind the door, and removed her thigh highs. She looked at her profile in the mirror and cupped her naked breasts. Blonds did have more fun, she mused, even if their hair color was from a bottle and their boobs man-made. Maybe Josh would have... She forced him from her mind.

She refreshed her lipstick, admired her profile once more, retrieved the weapon from her purse, and opened the door.

Tom stood naked in front of her. “Wow, Allison, you’re—“

The knuckle thrust crushed his vocal chords. He grabbed his throat and fell to his knees.

Allison moved behind him and lowered him to a sitting position. Using her legs to pin his arms to his sides, she put the knife to his throat and clasped his chin in her palm.

“I forgot to tell you something about Ellen and me.” She pressed the blade into his skin, just enough to draw blood. “She hired me to find out who you were sleeping with and was despondent when I showed her pictures of you with three different women.”

Tom tried to get up, but she was the stronger of the two, and he failed.

Allison lifted his chin, inched the blade across the soft skin of his neck, and watched the blood trickle onto his chest.

“Don’t worry, Tommy, I’ve had lots of practice. That cut won’t kill you.” She leaned away and tilted his head back so she could see his eyes. The fear in them excited her.

“Your wife has quite an imagination. She wanted me to do all sorts of nasty things to you, but I assured her you would suffer in proportion to your level of infidelity. She can’t wait to hear the details.”

Unable to plead for mercy, he tried once again to get free.

Allison lowered the knife to his chest and opened a second gash from nipple to nipple. “Somehow, I doubt this is what you had in mind while you were pawing me in the bar. Am I right, Tom?”

Tom’s breathing slowed. His body went limp.

She repositioned the knife at his neck and sliced a third gash, this one deeper. A gurgling sound caressed her ears as blood entered his throat. She held him to her breasts, waiting for the end, and chanted the same mantra she had with the others. “Why, Josh? Why did you cheat on me?”

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 626 - Jim Harrington

WHY I SHOULD AVOID MARRIED WOMEN - JIM HARRINGTON

I awoke and saw a guy squeezed into the recliner across the room, his feet up. His right eyeball was fake, like an agate. The gun looked real.

“You know my wife, Betty,” he said.

Betty was blonde and petite. This guy wasn’t either of those. His voice came out higher pitched than I expected, given his build.

“How did you get in my apartment?” I asked.

He held up the gun.

I nodded. “Super let you in?”

“Yep,” he said. He waived the gun in anticipation of my next question. “Said he didn’t think the cops needed to know anything.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have the wrong--”

Before I could finish, he tossed four glossy pictures across the room. One of them made it to the bed. I turned it over and saw Betty and me kissing outside a Red Lobster. My hand rested on her ass. My groin twitched at the thought of Betty naked on her hands and knees. I pulled the sheet up and looked at the guy, Rick, I think she said his name was, and smiled. His expression didn't change. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. I inhaled and blew the smoke out my nose. He wasn’t impressed.

“Want one?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Hey, you a Raider fan?” I got up on one elbow. “I got a couple tickets you can have.” I didn’t lack for ideas on how to get out of this, but Rick’s disinterest in my offer made me realize he wasn't the kind of guy who could be bribed. Or maybe he wasn't a Raiders fan.

We stared at each other for a while until he put his hand on the chair arm and pushed himself to a standing position. I opened my mouth, but decided to keep quiet. Not only did he have the gun, he outweighed me by at least one hundred and fifty pounds.

He took a step toward the bed.

“Okay, I’ll stop seeing your wife. It was only six times.”

He stopped. I could tell by the look on his face I’d told him more than he knew. He started toward the bed, again. I slid to the other side next to the wall. The only window in the room was at the bottom of the bed. I would've considered making a run for it, but my place was on the fourth floor of an old building with no fire escape.

He pointed the gun in my direction, stepped to the edge of the bed, and laid a hand on my shoulder.

I had to pee.

“Calm down. I ain’t going to shoot you.” His face tightened. “Unless you stop seeing Betty.”

My mouth fell open.

“Hell, that woman’s a pain in the ass.” He stepped back. “You’ll find out. The others did.” He smiled for the first time. “Sneaking out with you has been the best thing happened this year.”

“But what about the gun?”

“This thing?” He raised the gun in front of his face. “Last couple of guys I spoke to got scared and dumped my Betty. I figure if I tell you I’ll shoot you if you stop seeing her, you won’t.” He lowered the gun. “Least when she’s with you I can watch the ballgame in peace.”

He walked to the door, turned back to me, and held the gun up once more. “If I have to come back, next time it’ll be loaded.” He tapped the barrel to his forehead in salute and left.
I slouched against the wall wondering what the hell I was going to do now. If I wanted to be with a nagging woman, I would have stayed married to Clarice.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 564 - Jim Harrington

GOLDILOCKS IS BUSY IN THE GETAWAY CAR - JIM HARRINGTON

Originally published in February 2010 at The Legendary

Goldilocks. That maggot. Where is he? Probably bare-assed screwing Cinnamon. She’s a damned gluttonous piranha. Shouldn’t have brought her this time. Doesn’t realize friendship is stronger than pussy. Don’t know what to do now. Cops are outside, guns drawn. Goldilocks is the lookout. Bull-horned voice roars. Don’t shoot. Screwed.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 516 - Jim Harrington

THE KILLER STORM - JIM HARRINGTON

Originally published in Clever Magazine

Zachary struggled against the hurricane’s wind and rain to get to the shelter door. He reached for the handle, but a sudden gust hurled him two steps back. He turned his head away from the gale to catch his breath, regained his balance, leaned into the wind as if pushing a great weight, inched forward, grabbed the handle and pushed down. The door, propelled by the wind, flew open and launched Zachary off his feet and into the street. Stunned, he crawled toward the opening and watched as meaty fingers gripped the door and began to pull it shut.

Zachary tripped as he lunged for the entrance, yet managed to grasp the metal panel at the same time his chest slammed the sidewalk. He closed his eyes against the rain and battled to maintain his hold. Without warning, a hand seized his wrist and dragged him inside. As he crossed the threshold, an iPod fell from Zachary’s jacket and landed at the feet in front of him. He looked up, ready to thank his rescuer, but stopped when he saw Sheriff Mumford looming over him.

“All citizens were told to evacuate,” the sheriff said. He spread his legs and placed his hands on his hips.

“Didn’t hear nothin’ about no evacuation,” Zachary said, getting to his knees.

“Right,” the sheriff mumbled. He bent down to pick up the shiny object. “Nice doodad you got here.”

Zachary reached for the iPod, but the sheriff jerked it behind his ear, out of Zachary’s reach.

“I found it,” Zachary said.

“Sure you did.” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to one side. “Where was it? In somebody’s home or still in the store?”

“A guy’s gotta make a living.” Zachary stood. “Besides, the owner’s got insurance. It’s not like he can’t afford to replace it.”

“It doesn’t matter if the owner can afford to get another one. You stole it.”

“Gotta get some money somehow. Daddy needs his medicine.”

“Your daddy needs his daily bottle of Johnny Walker,” the sheriff said, shaking his head.

“We don’t have enough money for real medicine.” Zachary locked his eyes on the sheriff’s. “Ain’t got health insurance like you rich folks.”

“Ever try getting a job?”

“Hell, Momma’s got two jobs and barely makes enough to buy food and pay the rent.” Zachary leaned back against the concrete wall. “Daddy’s workers’ comp ran out, and he’s been waitin’ nine months for the government to approve his disability and Medicare.” He picked mud from a fingernail while he waited for the sheriff to respond.

“You know I’m going to have to arrest you.” The sheriff held up the iPod.

“Won’t be the first time.” Zachary smiled. “I’ll be out in a day or so.”

“You’re probably right,” the sheriff said after a taking a moment to think. He grabbed Zachary’s arm and pulled him to the exit. Fighting the wind, the sheriff forced the door open and flung Zachary into the street.

“You can’t throw me out in this storm,” Zachary shouted.

“Sure I can,” the sheriff replied. “I’m breaking the law if I don’t. See that sign that says Maximum Occupancy 250? We’re at the limit. I can’t let anybody else in.”

Sheriff Mumford closed the door and locked the deadbolt before Zachary could re-enter the shelter. He ignored Zachary’s screams and the pounding on the door. Smiling, he hitched up his trousers, straightened his tie and headed toward the two men fighting over a bottle of water. He had work to do.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 493 - The Wife, The Mother, The Bird: Three From Jim Harrington

THE LAST PARTY - JIM HARRINGTON

Originally appeared at Flashshot

Rachel hovered over Francisco, his head resting on the carpet. He’d promised to cease his garish lifestyle after they’d wed. She’d arrived home a day early—before he’d finished cleaning up from the party. Now the blood puddle, his head, and the sangria stain formed a perfect Venn Diagram. Rachel skipped the eulogy and left.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY - JIM HARRINGTON

Disguised as an old woman, a shawl protecting her from the wind, Patrice marched along the highway towards Orchard Street, her capacious mind a reservoir of vitriol and bile. Just like her father had, Patrice’s husband was cheating. Unlike her mother, or perhaps in honor of her mother, Patrice planned to exact revenge for both.

IT WASN’T THE BUTLER THIS TIME - JIM HARRINGTON

Originally appeared at Flashshot

A savvy-looking macaw wearing an orange beret welcomed me to the aviary. I surveyed the body lying before me, applied my detective’s training, and determined it to be female, dead, and once upon a time gorgeous. A vintage derringer lay next to her right arm. Pecan shells spotted the stone floor near her bare feet. I looked at the macaw. He turned away. You’re under arrest, I told the bird. For what? he asked. I removed the plastic ties from my pocket to secure his beak and talons and answered. Macmurder.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For... blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 477 - Jim Harrington

SONS OF THEIR FATHERS - JIM HARRINGTON

Marisa watched the father and son playing soccer on the parched field as she approached the woman sitting in the second row of the bleachers. Marisa had learned the woman’s name was Damita.

“They’re a handsome pair,” Marisa said, sitting next to the woman.

Damita flinched, but didn’t respond.

“Your husband and son?” Marisa asked, watching the two males run down the field, kicking the black and white ball to each other. The boy wore blue soccer shorts with a white stripe and an L.A. Galaxy shirt. The man wore painter jeans and a white muscle shirt that showed off the arms and torso of an athlete. The boy had on a pair of new soccer shoes. The man wore Nikes, expensive ones like Teo used to wear.

“Son, yes,” Damita said. “And Raphael is his father.”

The two sat and watched. The laughter coming from the man and boy pierced Marisa’s heart. She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt and let the lullaby her mother used to sing repress the anger.

“Your son is about four. The same age as my Javier,” Marisa said. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the boy who would have been five in November. Marisa willed herself not to cry.
Damita continued her silence.

“Raphael is the boy’s father, but not your husband?” Marisa didn’t need to ask this question. She knew the answer.

“He asked. I said no.” Damita looked at the stranger for the first time. Next to her sat a Hispanic woman older than she, with the same street-toughened face. The black miniskirt, low-cut, red blouse and purple pushup bra said whore; but the look on Marisa’s face as she watched the children in the park offered Damita a different opinion of this stranger. A white evening bag hung from the woman’s shoulder. “Raphael’s father was a drunk who beat him daily. I don’t want that to happen to my son.”

“Has Raphael ever hit your son—or you?”

“No, but...” Damita held the rest of the comment inside and faced the field.

“They look happy together,” Marisa said.

Unlike Raphael and his son, her boys rarely played together. Teo worked two jobs and liked to spend time with his buddies. He was just like his old man, a good husband and provider, but a lousy father.

“Are those gang tattoos on Raphael’s shoulders and arms? I don’t recognize them,” Marisa lied.

“He joined the Elm Street Bangers two years ago after he graduated from Westside High. Three weeks later his father was killed in an alley off east Main. The police never found who did it, but everyone in the neighborhood knew the Bangers were responsible.”

“Do you think Raphael killed his father?”

Damita inhaled a long breath and let it out before responding.

“I hope not,” she said, looking at her watch. “Luis. Raphie. We have to go. It’s time for Mass.”

“Can I meet them?” Marisa asked.

Damita looked at Marisa and shrugged. “Sure. Come on.”

After brief introductions, Damita took Luis to the restroom to wash his hands and face.

“Are you a friend of Damita’s? I don’t remember seeing you around.”

“No, I’d say I know more about you, Raphie.”

Raphael kicked the ball into his hands, but said nothing.

“I know a few of your Banger friends. I’ve spent time with Raul, Barto and Felix.” She stepped closer. “Do you know how much they talk after getting free booze and sex?” She rubbed a breast against his left arm, distracting him, as she reached into her purse. “They told me some interesting things. Like how you were the shooter at Jefferson Park that killed three rivals, plus a man walking his son home from school.”

“Yeah. So what’s it to you?” Raphael took a step back, weary.

“The innocents were my husband and son.” If I hadn’t had the flu, I’d be the one lying on the sidewalk dead, she thought.

Before Raphael could react, Marisa pulled the gun from her purse and shot him twice in the chest. She turned and walked back to the bleachers to wait for the police. She never saw Raphael fall to his knees and then on his face. She didn’t hear the screams when Damita came out of the restroom, her hands over Luis’ eyes.

As the sounds of the sirens closed in on the park, Marisa waited with the gun in her lap. The headaches, the tension, the rage were all gone. The police would finally know the truth; and when she pointed the gun at them, her ordeal would come to an end, too. She’d already decided suicide by police was better than what the Bangers would do to her.

BIO: Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For blog provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre.