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BOOK: A Week In Hel

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His bullets punched neat
holes in the wooden Mail Room sign that hung two feet above my
head.

Rosales crashed to the floor
where he bled out in a gasping, gagging heap.

I helped Candi get up and we
met the cops at the door. When it was all said and done I took
Candi up to my place, and I gave her the business. Then she gave me
the business. We were at it until we collapsed in what I thought
was mutual satisfaction.

Sometime in the seventh
inning stretch, I dozed off and Candi slipped out. That would have
been a great way to cut that broad off, but she lifted my keys on
the way out.

Next thing I know, somebody
is beating on my door like—well, like it’s the cops. I pulled on my
shorts and went to have a man to meatbag chat with the culprit. I
unlocked the door and jerked it open. And who was standing there?
None other than Patrol Supervisor Mark Spitz, and Mike Lewis,
shitbag detective—crooked bastard.

Spitz says, “What can you
tell me about your relationship with Candace Pinkerton?” He held
out that morning’s edition of the Champion City News
Sun.

The morning paper showed
photos of Candi and Antonio Rosales as they were in life, with
brief and unceremonious explanations of their deaths. It turned out
that William “Bull” McCaffrey didn’t wake up dead after all. He
stumbled up to a black and white parked under a bridge, where he
nearly scared a sleeping patrolman half to death. His statement and
the statements of the barkeeps and waitresses we encountered at The
Grille, White Walls, and The Truck Stop painted a clear picture
that supported my statement. It was Dick Weeks who witnessed Candi
exiting through the lobby, and getting into my car, that saved me
from a ride downtown.

It turns out that after she
hooked my keys, Candi drove my car to White Walls to clean out the
safe. At some point, some drone from the outfit either walked in on
her, or met her getting out of the car. The District 1 patrol unit
found her body in my car, parked across the street from the bus
station. The duffle bag, which supposedly held her retirement fund,
was nowhere to be found. All the money she had on her was $160.00,
enough for a ticket to Chicago.

I don’t know how I feel
about it really. There was something about her, but she was never
really up front about a lot of what was going on. My Supervisor was
bent way out of shape, as was the lieutenant, so I’ll be reassigned
to my same beat on the overnight shift. Good thing I’m off
tomorrow.

Damn! That day was like a
week in hell.

You have just finished
reading

A WEEK IN HELL

By J. Walt Layne

Edited by David White

Copy Editor- Dave Brzeski

Editor in Chief, Pro Se
Productions-Tommy Hancock

Submissions Editor-Barry
Reese

Director of Corporate
Operations-Morgan Minor

Global Relations and Accountability
Coordinator- Beth Alvarez

Publisher & Pro Se Productions,
LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers

Cover Art by Terry Pavlet