Through the window of the blue ZR-1 Chevrolet Corvette he watched the big boned man step out of the front door of Continue reading PMM’s Birthday Party! – The Switch by B.R. Stateham
She was sitting slumped back in a dinning room chair, a hand holding a cold compress on the back of her head. Dressed in a black skirt, black jacket and white silk blouse, with dark wine-red heels on slim. petite feet. A very expensive looking ruby necklace worth a small fortune adorned her long, perfectly chiseled neck.
She looked like old money.
Not in the sense of time or age. But old in the sense she rolled in dough. Lots of it. And had had it for years.
A mass of brown hair, curly, had been thrown over her left shoulder as she held the compress on the right side of her head. Maybe in her early thirties she was well built, trim. With an athlete’s body.
Frank brought Stevie Toomey into the windowless cubicle of the interrogation room, kicked a chair out from underneath a table and sat the kid’s ass down into the hard wooden chair rather unceremoniously. The room was just four bare walls, a small table sat in the middle of the floor underneath a very bright light, with two chairs facing each other. From the ceiling a single light hung down from a long black cord. The light was powerful enough to look at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. From San Francisco.
The kid—Stevie—weighed about one and thirty five pounds, thin as a bone and as pale as freshly mixed bread dough. The harsh bright light shining down directly on the table made the kid blink his eyes and squint. Sniffling, using the back of one handcuffed arm to rub across his dripping nose, he continued squinting as he bent forward a little to focus and see me sitting across from him.
“Turner! Frank! Jesus, am I glad to see you. Listen , I . . . I’m innocent! I didn’t kill no one. No one! I was just stupid, that’s all. Just stupid!”
The smell of hamburger, onions, and stale cooking oil was everywhere. We, my partner and I, stood in the kitchen of an empty restaurant staring at him in mute silence. Hanging out of the air duct above the fryers—one big bare ass. Glaring white, almost glowing in a neon way, dangling like raw meat in the air above our heads. The idiot tried to rob the till of a restaurant by taking clothes off and rubbing his body with oil so he could slide down an air duct above the deep fryer. I thought I’d seen it all as my partner, Frank, frowned and grunted, “Tough way to order carry-out.”
But there was more.
How do you get a dead stiff out of an air duct?