Scarry Night Challenge

Here's my entry in Patti's latest challenge. Find the links at pattinase.blogspot.com     

Scars

I stood outside the tiny mom and pop coffee shop counting my change. Althought I was still pretty new at this, I’d worn out my welcome at the bigger chains. Maybe if I had almost enough they might let me have a cup. The hand lettered sign in the window announced a small for seventy five cents. Forty five…fifty…fifty one…two…three. Worth a try.

            The bottle-blonde at the counter watched me plop coins on the polished wood.

            “Fifty two, fifty three…” I made a show of rummaging through my pockets. “Not quite there. I could fill the cup three quarters.”

            “We don’t do that.” The waitress pushed the coins back, pointing a neon green nail toward the sign on the till. “No purchase. No table. Your kind aren’t welcome here.”

            I slumped back. Is this who I am now?

            “I’ve got it.” The strong male voice hovered near my ear. Several bills slapped the counter. “A large for the lady and the usual for me.”

            Lady. I turned to smile my thanks and couldn’t restrain the gasp when I saw the scar. It slashed from his eye, across his cheek, mouth and chin. It wasn’t new, but it hadn’t healed well, jagged, puckered, grayish-pink. With those eyes he must have been good-looking once.

            I blushed, forcing myself to look away. “Thanks.”

            “Welcome.”

            With a nod, I grabbed my cup and hid in a corner table, forgoing my customary cream and sugar.

            Sipping at the bitter stuff, I did not allow myself to glance up when I heard him leave a few minutes later. As an engine roared to life, I peered through the smudged window at the police car backing away. The man wore the blue uniform and shiny badge of his breed, but I’d only seen the scar.

******

            I showed up at the coffee shop the same time the following morning to buy him a cup. Although I wasn’t fond of cops, the guilt over my reaction to his scar had gnawed at me all night as I’d huddled in my cot at the warming center. A big guy in a camo jacket gave me a trash bag of soda cans I turned in for nickels. Maybe I could treat him today. To show him I wasn’t that kind of person.

            The cold air pricked my skin, but I waited outside until he arrived.

            “Oh, hi.” I tried a casual act but my heart pounded like giants stomped in my chest. “Can I return the favor…from yesterday?”

            He stared at me, clearly searching his memory. “Yeah. Yesterday. I mean it was a gift, no returns needed.”

            “I’d really like to-”

            About to refuse again, he paused. Maybe he saw the last vestiges of pride in my eyes. “Okay.” He pulled open the door and gestured me through.

            The same waitress scowled. “Got a dime for a thimbleful today?”

            “A large for me and the usual for him.” I felt just a little like my old self as I laid out three crisp ones.

            “Five seventy five.” Little round eyes drowning in mascera slid up and down. “You’re short.”

            I sucked in air to chase away the invading dizziness.

            “I got it.” He topped my ones with a five. “Keep the change.”

            “Sorry.” I readied to bolt.

            His big fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Wait. Your coffee.”

******

            A wave of shame washed over me, but I held my ground as the police car parked in the same spot. I canned all day yesterday so I could do this. I couldn’t chicken out now. Someone lent me a dress and I’d found a scarf to belt it so it didn’t hang. I snatched a look in the coffee shop window. I’d once been called beautiful and that was in the bones, so it couldn’t all be gone. And skinny was in, wasn’t it?

            I grinned as he strode up. “I can treat you today. I have the money.”

            He returned the smile with one side of his mouth, the other side stretched into a grimace of sorts.  “You don’t need to do this.”

            “But you bought me coffee and I want to buy coffee for you.” I displayed the money in my hand.

            “This isn’t a date, you know.” His voice roughened.

            It had probably been ages since a woman had shown interest in him. I knew he didn’t mean to be hard. I gazed into his blue-blue eyes. “I really don’t mind the scars.”

            “What?” He stared at me as if I’d sprouted Medusa snakes. “Are you feeling sorry for me?”

            I watched my fingers pull at the scarf, afraid to affirm or deny. Pity could be part of what I felt, but there was more.

            “Try to be nice-” He grabbed my wrist, fingers not gentle as they were the day before. I saw a glimmer of who I had become in his eyes.

Bills scattered in the wind, coins clattered on the sidewalk. I gathered that precious pride about me and walked away.

Christmas Noir

 Do Some Damage is running a writing challenge for Christmas Noir Flash Fiction. The following is my entry. Check out others at http://dosomedamage.blogspot.com (on my blog list)

Room at the Inn

Red on white glowed, holiday festive, in the halogen alley light. Blood on ice behind the mission. A big splash near the back door and a wide trail to the dumpster. My second thought is call the cops. I act on my first thought instead- check it out myself.

            It’s not like I hate the cops but they don’t do their best work in this part of town. Even the few who mean well never get the truth out of anyone they question. All of us here have something to hide.

            I get to the dumpster, being careful to stay on the hard flat parts where I won’t leave much of a footprint. I pull out a stray plastic bag and use it to lift the lid. Yeah, I gave my gloves away yesterday. What can I say, a sucker’s born every minute and in one of those minutes my mama had me.

            Sure enough, the body’s there, lying on the fixings of Christmas dinner like a big turkey. Carved like one too. Blood indistinguishable from cranberry sauce. Even with the cuts on his face, I recognize him. He’s unmistakable. Ricky Cagney, wannabe big time hustler, real life small time creep.

            Without thinking I can name off half a dozen folks who’d want him dead. When I’m through with that six I come up with a dozen more. There are at least four ex-girlfriends who’d love a little payback for injuries inflicted. The numerous drug dealers he stiffed or robbed would like a piece of him. And who knows how many snitched-on co-conspirators would happily take him down. Even his own sister would probably smile as her knife sliced through his flesh.

            I fumble to unzip his coat, plastic bag still in use. The wallet’s there in the breast pocket. Not a robbery, but better if it looks like one. I slip it in my own pocket and roll the body, looking underneath for the knife. Damn, he, she or they were sloppy. The bloody weapon lies half imbedded in the remnants of the green bean casserole. I find another plastic bag, drop the knife in it and pocket it with the wallet.

            Seeking anything incriminating, I sort through the rest of the holiday dinner refuse. Only a comb and nail clipper seem out of place in the stuffing and gravy. They join the other items in the bag in my pocket. I roll Ricky on his back, like I found him, satisfied that I made it harder for the cops to find their culprit.

******

            The blood swirls down the sink. I feel a bit like Lady Macbeth washing again and again to get rid of it all. I dab at my sleeves with a wet paper towel. This coat is doomed to hit the trash along with the bag in my pocket. Luckily I have a few bucks to get a new one at Goodwill. I smile my thanks to the lady manning the desk at the warming center and get rid of her by claiming an overflowing toilet. A quick punch of 911 and I’m on the line giving directions to a cold dead body.

            The sirens should be announcing the arrival of the cops, but as every quiet second goes by I get more anxious thinking I’ve missed something important. “Frosty the Snowman” plays on the radio. Colored lights twinkle in the building across the street. I have to check. It’ll take just a moment.      

******

            My stomach turns as I pull up the dumpster’s lid. Knowing what’s there sickens me now as it didn’t before. I glance at the body as I turn it. Ricky’s mouth pops open like he’s smiling at me, a big toothy grin. I push around the Christmas detritus, nearly snagging a needle I hadn’t spotted before. 

            “Hands up! Turn around slow. Real slow.”

            “It’s not me. I called the cops after I found the body.” I lift my hands and turn, because that’s better than getting shot.

            “They all say that.” The man in blue nods back the second cop behind him. “Look in the dumpster. I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

            I notice the plastic bag I used to open the lid earlier laying on the ice inches from the first cop’s foot. I had missed something.

            “Boy, this is sick.” Cop number two is gagging near the dumpster. “Damn, if it isn’t Ricky One-ear. Somebody finally done him in.”

            I gulp down my own vomit as I think of the things stuffed in my pocket, the blood on my sleeves.

            “You did the world a service, bud.”  Cop one pulls the cuffs off his belt as a distant choir sings “Blue Christmas.” “But you guys never learn. You always return to the scene of the crime.”