Eglantine: A species of rose Rosa Eglanteria with fragrant foliage and flowers of various colors
Disbar: To expel from the bar or the legal profession to deprive an attorney barrister or counselor of his status and privileges as such
Penholder: A handle for a pen
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The full moon’s pallid light spilled stark shadows over the alleyway, tessellated like a crossword puzzle. Lindburgh kicked a dumpster out of frustration, the throbbing in his toes a nice reminder that he hadn’t frozen to death yet. He checked his watch, gold rim, leather strap, expensive. Too expensive to have a built in glow effect, so Lindbergh twisted his wrist awkwardly into the moonlight – fingers just like short, fleshy petals of a blooming flower – and checked the time.
The bastard was twenty-seven minutes late. How the fuck was Lindbergh supposed to win his case if he turned up looking like shit, face tired and clothes tattooed with yesterday’s wrinkles? This wasn’t a fucking game. He could get disbarred for this shit. What was the point in winning if you didn’t look the part? Fuck man! Where is he?
The wheels of a car purred on the pavement, the crinkle of an immolated crisp packet, the soft slap of rainwater in a pothole being displaced. Headlights sent the shadows fleeing, drowning the moonlight amongst heavyset waves, then dilated like a cat’s pupil as they were switched off. The click-slam of a door opening-shutting followed by the languid clip of Italian leather shoes drew Lindburgh from his hidey hole, a cockroach drawn to the vibrations.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Squeaked Lindburgh.
You could hear the rats listening in the pause that followed.
‘Charles Lindburgh III?’ asked a deep, resonant voice, ignoring Lindburgh’s question entirely. It was the sort of voice that had its own in-built echo.
Lindburgh edged forward tentatively, fully aware that this was it; now or never, fight or fly, do or die…or any number of other empty platitudes. It was a cold, clear night but that didn’t stop a nervous thread of sweat from weaving its way down the small of his back.
‘Y-Yes..’ he replied, voice cracked like the window pane behind the dumpster.
‘You got the money?’
‘Y-Yes…’ Lindburgh’s voice now as flat as the soggy cardboard boxes that lined the alley. He fumbled inside his jacket and withdrew a healthy looking envelope, grasped tightly, his hand walking the fine line between sedition and penholder.
Lindburgh held the envelope out, green bills spread like peacock feathers within. The man produced a larger, thinner envelope and let it dangle loosely between two fingers, a forbidden apple.
The exchange was made quickly, envelopes suspiciously examined and then stashed away inside cars, inside jackets.
‘Non-marked bills, right?’ asked the voice with a sudden reverb of concern.
Lindburgh looked up, taken aback, confused. ‘What? There was no mention of-‘
Cruel, rasping laughter cut him off, each throaty bark as sharp as an eglantine thorn.
‘I’m shitting you man, relax! Your sort…you watch too many fucking movies…’
The man seemed to consider something for a moment, then got back in his car and reversed out of the alley, disappearing into the night.
A cloud passed over the moon and Charles Lindburgh III stood shrouded in shadow; alone save for the rats and the large, thin envelope stashed inside his jacket.
Stories On The Sofa 