My Tommy Gun Ate My Slugs
My Tommy Gun Ate My Slugs
a hardboiled flash fiction tale
This one’s short and sweet. Maybe more short than sweet. Seems like a good one to kick off the subscriptions with. Do you like hardboiled detective stories? Do you like a tongue firmly in a cheek? Do you like ridiculous mixed metaphor titles? Well, you’re in luck!
My Tommy Gun Ate My Slugs
It was late, late enough to be almost light again, and my friends Jack and Joe stopped by for another round. Jack had a way of keeping my insides warm when all the dames ran off. I propped my feet on the desk and stared at the wallpaper peeling next to the umbrella stand. This joint was nothing if not tacky, and dang if I’d have it any other way.
The Sandman almost had me when something big knocked my door down. I’m not exactly fond of surprises, so I drew Rita and cocked her.
Little Henry stood before me like a rhino with a bad back. He grinned, if you could call it a grin. A scowl welded to his face was as permanent as the bowler hat on his bald head. He wore sunglasses over his eyes like underwear. In a place as dark as this hellhole, sunglasses meant you were keeping something private. And who wasn’t these days. The whole city had passed the devil by long ago with his thumb stuck sideways like a patsy's nose.
Little Henry pulled a Tommy from his jacket. He’s lucky I didn’t put a bullet in his brain, but Rita kept her cool. He held the gun out to me. I blew a puff out of Joe and took it from him.
“How was she for ya?”
“Think I broke her.” His voice could have burned the hide off a buffalo. “Somethin’ rattles inside.”
I shook it. Someone's playing dice in there.
I bit off Joe’s end and threw the butt on the floor. “That’ll do fine, Henry.” Never call him Little Henry to his face, unless you favor having pictures hung from the nails he’d plant in your skull.
He stood and tried to grin again. The time-hardened flesh buckled like wood but wouldn’t budge.
Since he wouldn’t leave, I had to find a way to break it to him that his hide better be out of my office, or I’d have to find alternative means--such as quench poor Rita’s dying thirst.
“Get out of here, Henry, scram. I got a client comin’ in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll do that for ya. Give the dame my regards.” He tried another grin and clomped down the steps like an earthquake with feet.
I looked down at the note I’d received earlier. Someone wanted me to investigate a murder downtown, with no name attached. Just the time.
The hand rubbed a quarter off the face before the client showed. Classy dame, slender legs, red lips, fancy cap. I’d have swooned if I hadn’t stuck another Joe in my mouth. She looked around herself like she equated my office with the African wild and a pride of lions nipped on her tail for lunch. Her eyes, deep in the shadows of her cap and my fifteen watt bulb, settled on my name on the desk and those two magic letters--P.I.
“What can I do for you, Miss?”
She turned those eyes on me and Joe betrayed me. I choked on some ash.
“I need you to investigate the murder of my husband.”
I tapped the P.I for show and grinned. “Go on.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of him. Gaylord Torry.”
I almost put Joe where Jack had gone.
I nodded. “He runs that casino downtown, don’t he? With Fat Charlie, and Happy Matt, and... and Little Henry.”
“That’s right. Someone put twenty holes in him this morning. Looks like they beat him a bit first.” I figured I’d take a closer look at Tommy when she left.
I nodded and looked as tough and business-like as I know how. “I’ll get on it in the morning. Keep the place open for me.”
“It’s always open. That’s the way Gray ran things.” Gray--best nickname they could find for Gaylord.
I dismissed her with a wave.
What a way to start a weekend. I don’t fancy getting murders flipped upside down on me like a half-done griddlecake.
I popped open another bottle, let Jack drown me the rest of the night. I’d tackle that tomorrow.
Sooooo…. is that really the ending? Yes, yes it is. The mystery, if there ever was one, is solved. Clearly some inspiration here, not just from film noir and hardboiled tales of seedy underworlds that were so popular once, but from Tracer Bullet himself. That is where the tongue first met this particular cheek. Thank you, Mr Watterson.