Tag: shady

Day #26

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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

—–

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.

Day #17

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Peirastic: Fitted for trial; experimental; tentative

Catholicize: To make or to become catholic or Roman Catholic

Adrianople: a city in Northwest Turkey a Thracian town that was rebuilt and renamed by the Roman emperor Hadrian

—–

It was definitely the wet slurp followed by the smacking of lips. That was the only way to shut Beaver up; you had to show him you were busy drinking. Buck took another swig of his beer, amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the dirty glass. With each mouthful, the liquid sunk lower and the glass was raised higher, and at some point Buck had started likening the orangey distortion of Beaver’s face in the bottom of the glass to a strange insect stuck in amber. Both of ‘em bloodsuckers.

The two men were sat in the corner of a dive bar out on route 23, not their local haunt, but one that had been chosen for them. The beer tasted different and a dense hum of smoke hung in the rafters like bats. The locals were the dregs you’d expect to find in the bottom of a barrel, leftover flies on a spiderweb. The woman behind the bar, heavyset and stocky, was wearing a leather waistcoat she’d probably found ditched in the toilets; it had a faded motif on the back, a skull with a snake squirming through the eye.

Buck didn’t like the place, but Beaver, well he was happy anywhere he could sit and drink and talk. It didn’t matter who else was around, the man could talk to anyone; in fact it was because of Beaver’s big mouth they were here. Shouldn’t have listened to him, thought Buck glumly.

‘…So that’s why Hadrian didn’t just build walls,’ concluded Beaver. He produced a silver sheet of tablets from a jacket pocket, popped two of the caps and dropped them into his Whisky Sour, which fizzed angrily. Buck didn’t know exactly what the pills were, but Beaver had explained that they were some kind of peirastic benzodiazepine anticonvulsants – “experimental anti-anxiety pills” apparently.

Beaver chucked his head back and let the frothy orange liquid trickle down his throat. He flicked his tongue out, like a cat yawning, trying to get rid of the taste, then signalled to the bar for another round.

Buck’s attention was drawn to a crucifix hanging over the entrance. He hadn’t noticed it on the way in. How the fuck can you catholicize a place like this, he thought. He realised Beaver was staring at him, red-eyed.

‘Huh?’ asked Buck.

‘Adrianople, man! Fucking city named for Hadrian – he ain’t just been building walls. He’s been doing all sorts of shit, man.’

‘What the fuck are you on about Beaver?’ snapped Buck, beer foam glistening in his stubble. ‘I don’t give a shit what this Hadrian’s been doing or what he’s gonna do. You just keep that bag close, y’hear? That’s the reason we’re in this fucking mess.’

Beaver clammed up into a sullen silence and hugged the bag tightly to his chest. He looked like he was about to say something when the sudden eerie yawn of creaking joints made both men turn their heads toward the entrance. A man stood there, the briefcase in his hand stained red by an electric Budweiser sign.

‘I think this is our guy…’ said Buck, his voice tense.