Blonds Are Bad Luck

 

You ever shot anyone?  I’m guessing not. Well, the rules are simple.

 

Load the gun. If the first thing you hear is a click when you pull the trigger, you won’t hear what comes next.  

 

Get close. None of that cowboy crap in the middle of the street, hoping for the best. A long shot is called that for a reason. Aim for the chest. Big target.  

 

Shoot first.

 

Use a stollen gun and leave it behind with no fingerprints. If it’s yours, best of luck. 

 

Your dad?  Yes, I knew him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you. 

 

Don’t have to guess that you want to follow in his footsteps. He was a good man, just had some bad luck on a very bad day. Bad guys don’t play fair. Be careful where you step.

 

And no matter who you are and if you have a good reason or not. I can assure you the prosecution doesn’t believe you. Lots of reasons you shot somebody and even more reasons you shouldn’t have. I learned all of that long ago. The hard way.

 

Hope you have more luck than your dad.

 

 

I wonder if I should have talked to that young fellow, but my mind better focus on today. I’m the one who’s going to put all of my knowledge to good use. 

 

Jack Thorne is the reason, and the best reason is money.  I don’t even know Thorne, but I know of him, what he looks like, where he works, and the best hotel where he plays ‘let’s get naked’ with his girlfriend, Sara Miles, his blond secretary. 

 

His wife is another Sara with dark hair. I don’t know the secretary or the wife more than what they looked like. Maybe both are bitches. Maybe Throne is a good guy or bad guy. That’s not my business.

 

Jason John Thorne is his full name, but he goes by JJ. He made his millions in real estate, mostly in the big city where he and his wife live in a huge condo overlooking Green Park. 

 

People like JJ normally have a bodyguard or a driver. Sometime it’s the same guy. He calls his driver Muscle with good reason. He is truly packed, along with beady eyes. The one time I saw him, those beady eyes were searchlights and the bulge under his black suit carried something that could make a loud bang.

 

Today, as I mingle among the many pedestrians passing by Jack’s penthouse, I’m waiting for JJ to appear. 

 

When he goes to his car, I’ll be close with the other folks on the sidewalk. When they run, I’ll run too. Until then, I pass the time looking around. You never know. There may be others just like me, waiting. I need to know.

 

The first suspicious character was across the street. Doesn’t mean much. Big cities have plenty.

 

Another face popped up. A fat guy. Another nobody, but maybe not. He’d been standing just outside a five-story carpark. He’s been there a while.

 

Scanning the park itself is difficult. Walkers, children racing here and there, with mothers or their nannies trying to keep up, and the occasional father looking. 

 

So far, the traffic was only moving at glacial speed.  A motorcycle was winding through at a good pace, while traffic didn’t seem to give a damn. Horns tried to help the cars in front of them without helping.

 

Another motorcycle moved more slowly and finally stopped close to the curb. All sorts of bikes scurried barely noticing the motorcycle or anything else. 

 

Something about the cycle. The rider kept his black helmet on and lifted something black and long behind the seat. Hard to see exactly, what with traffic barely moving.

 

So here I am, not too close to the condo’s heavy brass entry doors. I’m watching trash on my iPhone and leaning against a large oak tree.

 

A woman comes by, pushing a baby carriage, and a couple holding hands with a kid about three or four. Those were just ones who caught my eye.

 

This is a good place if I wanted to give Thorne a chat with St Peter.  

 

Crazy this time of day. Traffic, pedestrians, horns honking, people chatting, talking on phones, or just walking with something else on their minds.

 

I was casually looking around, just in time to see a car rearending a city bus. 

 

Did I stare? No, I did not. I’ve got to pay attention of the big picture. 

 

Thorne and the doorman were just coming out of the front door as his chauffeur pulled up and rushed to open the car door.

 

The doorman said something that stopped Thorne on the last step. He said something that may have been instructions to the doorman.

 

Strange things were happening. JJ was about to move toward the car. The doorman waved both arms. JJ turned stopped and gave a soft wave.

 

I didn’t pay that much attention. I was close enough and the crowd was perfect. I was about to takes the perfect shot, but another shooter beat me to it. Must have been a rifle, that was a little off, when Thorne turned. Must have caught it on the shoulder. He leaned over, dropping to his knees and braced with one hand. 

 

If others are in on the game, why pay me? Different reasons?

 

I had my gun out, but quickly bent over slipped it down. People were scattering. Sounded like another rifle gave it a try, just as an unlucky cop raced up and took one half way up the steps.

 

Somebody screamed!  “Cop down!”

 

I ran toward the cop, not to kill him of course. And I’d already changed my mind about Thorne.

 

The cop was breathing. I turned around to see two more cops coming. One pushed me away. One was already on his phone. Another cop, standing on the road, decided the small crash wasn’t worth the trouble. He too came running.

 

Within five minutes a good-sized ceramic pot came crashing down from somewhere high up. Must have come from a condo’s balcony or window. I couldn’t tell which.

 

Lucky I’d been pushed away. The force of the pot did a job on one of the cops, leaving a good trail of blood. He yelled something I didn’t understand and grabbed part of his uniform. At least for now he was alive. 

 

The pot must have missed Thorne, but a second was spot on. Bloody face, eyes wide, not blinking.

 

A woman’s voice from high above screeched something. Who could tell exactly from that height and all the turmoil. Cops were yelling, people on the streets were shouting and scattering, others were still climbing out of the bus.

 

An ambulance, no, two, maybe three were trying to break through traffic and what was now a pack of cop cars. 

 

I glanced. All I saw was a big collection of confusion.

 

That’s when a female body came tumbling from on high. I didn’t truly see it. Heard some yelling. Somebody else yelled. Sounded like a woman, screaming on her way down. 

 

The body landed on Mr. Muscles, who probably would have been ok, except for his head colliding with the edge of the concrete steps.

 

Something had me guessing it was somehow woman versus woman. Good reason not to get married. The woman who took a one-way flying lesson had bond hair. 

 

Didn’t matter. I’d gotten paid, by the blond’s husband.

 

Whoever shot Thorne had done a bang-up job, messy job. 

 

It should have been me, but it wasn’t. Cops found my gun. Not really mine. As I’d said, be careful. Stolen piece. It still had all the bullets, and no fingerprints.

 

 No way the blond’s husband would know me. I’m not an amateur. I know what I’m doing. I’m a cop, or was a cop. Different city. Being a killer pays a lot more than trying to catch a killer.

 

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