A dirty mirror, a marked woman, and a countdown to a killing. Can an old-school detective change a script already written in blood?
Shadows in the Glass
The neon sign of O’Leary’s Pub hummed a low, buzzing static that vibrated right through the soles of Joey Santoro’s wingtips. He nursed a stale, lukewarm draft, nodding along as the bartender ran his mouth about the upcoming Yankees series. Joey wasn’t listening. His world was entirely shrunk down to a five-inch sliver of cracked mirror behind the liquor bottles.
Locked in the reflection was the corner booth.
She was a vision in satin that didn’t belong in a dive like this, looking entirely too comfortable next to Gene Marks. Gene was a low-level muscle-for-hire with grease on his collar and grease in his soul. They were laughing. Cozy. She didn’t know she was breathing on borrowed time.
Two hours ago, a reliable rat had whispered the truth in Joey’s ear: the dame’s husband had bought her a one-way ticket to a shallow grave. The hit was scheduled for tonight.
Joey adjusted his trench coat, his hand brushing the comforting, cold weight of his service revolver. He was old-school badge, detective rank, the kind that still believed a cop’s job was to protect people, even the ones who made lousy choices in men. He wasn’t going to let a execution happen on his watch.
Gene checked his wristwatch. The casual smile faded from his face, replaced by a cold, transactional blankness. He reached inside his jacket.
Joey gripped his glass, his knuckles turning white. His heart hammered against his ribs. If he drew his weapon now, he risked crossfire in a crowded room. If he waited another second, the dame was dead.
Gene began to slide out of the booth. Joey stood up.
How does Joey’s play go down? Does he pull his piece in time, or does the darkness of the city claim another victim? Finish the story in the comments below!
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