Mickey Tomas thought he was the hunter, but the $10,000 bounty just put a target on his own back.
Writer’s Prompt
The Dead Man’s Hand
The rain didn’t wash the city clean; it just turned the grit into a slick, black grease. Mickey Tomas leaned against the cold brick of the alleyway, the shadow of his fedora cutting a sharp line across a face that had seen too many losing rounds.
The text from the street kid felt like a fever dream. Ten grand for Joey Jenkins. It was enough to get Mickey out of the hole, or deep enough to bury him. He checked his watch: 1:05 a.m. The neon sign of the Red Diamond flickered, bleeding crimson onto the wet pavement.
Then he heard it. That gravel-pit voice that had haunted Mickey’s nightmares since the docks.
“Your winning streak is over, Tomas.”
Mickey froze. Joey wasn’t coming out of the club; he was standing right behind him, stepping out from the mouth of the very alley Mickey thought was his cover. The barrel of a snub-nosed .38 pressed firmly into the base of Mickey’s skull.
“I heard there was a price on my head,” Joey whispered, his breath smelling of cheap gin and expensive cigarettes. “And I heard a little bird told a bottom-feeder like you where to find me. Too bad for the bird. Worse for the worm.”
Mickey felt the cold steel bite into his skin. His hand drifted toward the pocket of his trench coat, fingers grazing the brass knuckles he’d carried since prep school. The street was empty. The sirens were miles away.
“I’ve got the ten large in the car, Joey,” Mickey lied, his voice steady despite the hammer clicking back. “The kid set us both up. We walk now, we split it.”
Joey paused. The greed in this city was the only thing heavier than the lead. “The car’s a block away, huh?”
Finish the Story
Does Mickey flip the script with a hidden blade, or was the car actually rigged to blow? Does Joey pull the trigger, or does a third party emerge from the shadows of the Red Diamond? The pen is in your hands—how does Mickey Tomas spend the rest of his night?
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