10-22-2007, 10:35 PM
It was a night just like any other, no more no less. I handed my usual five spot to the bartender in exchange for a much-needed escape from reality and my hand grasped its familiar target. I raised my glass in an appreciative toast to the bartender and tipped the sinful liquid down my throat.
"Excuse me" inquired a soft voice from behind me "Franco Allecandro?"
I turned around slowly detecting an air of fear and forced determination, contradicting the smooth tones of the voice.
She was beautiful, not your usual kind of broad with the short hair and over accentuated features. No, this dame was different and yet I felt a mysterious comfort in the ferocity of her curvaceous figure. She had flowing red hair that touched the center of the exposed curvature of her back. The black dress she wore fell elegantly to the floor and graciously added a mysterious ambiance to her beauty. The most compelling aspect of her appearance was the designer hat and veil that covered only her eyes.
"Who's askin'?" I rudely replied.
She seated herself with out any offers to do so and turned her head so that he could not see her eyes.
"My name is Isabella. I have information you seek. I am no rube Franco, this information comes with a price."
"Oh ya?" I replied, skeptical of her motives "and who's to say you ain't got ringer information."
She turned her head sharply in my direction and her eyes soured into my soul and entangled it until I could scarcely breathe. During that instant I wondered weather the bartender had given my drink an extra kick with out telling me.
"Mr. Allecandro, I did not come to you to trim you, for the price of this information is my life!" The urgency had thickened the air through the quickness of her words.
"What is it you want from me?" I asked.
"I need you to protect me," she voiced calmly, "from whom I can not specify, however I have information and with out it you will not succeed."
I was intrigued and annoyed at the request that this mystery woman had bestowed upon me. My best bet was to agree to this request and hope that the dame would shoot the works.
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There was an intense pounding on the door of my apartment. It had to be early hours of the morning, because the birds were still singing loudly outside my window.
"I'm comin' I'm comin'" I chanted.
I looked cautiously through the peep hole in my door and groaned loudly. I lazily opened the door and regrettably looked into the face of the man who had long gained the title of the official pain in my neck.
"Now what's an old fat cat like you doing at my door?" I asked.
Chief Johnson scowled at my comment and then proceeded into the office portion of my apartment. He sat himself down in Vince's old chair and comfortably lifted his feet to the edge of the table in lounging position. The look on his face told me that he knew exactly where he was sitting and what kind of an effect it would have on me.
"Comfortable?" I sneered.
Every movement seemed to give me a reason to dislike him on a deeper level than what I had before. He picked up Vince's old notebook and began flipping through the pages, an occasional grunt of amusement releasing from his throat.
"Chief Johnson," I inquired, "did you come here to talk about the murder case or to cause another one?"
The page flipping did not cease as Johnson replied, "You ain't qualified for this case anymore." He raised his brow in a menacing fashion. "We have reason to believe that you are so emotionally involved with this case that you would be willing to pick off any old hag, clamp him, and call him a murderer." He dropped the notebook on the floor and stood in an attempt to intensify the words he had just spoken.
"Who's the finger sayin' I'm not qualified?" I asked. "You gee's aint nothin' without my intuition."
I opened the door with out breaking my glare with the chief.
"Take a Mickey before I pop your stool pigeon butt out of here" I forced through gritted teeth.
After the chief left I grabbed my coat and headed for the joint nearby.
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It began to rain just as I reached the bar. The familiar scene made me aware that I had not seen the red haired dame, Isabella, since the previous night. The last recollection I can muster was the both of us sitting in my apartment discussing facts of the case. I walked slowly to the bar wishing that I had been sober enough to remember the information she fed me.
"What'll it be?" asked the familiar voice of the bartender.
The voice triggered something in my gut, Isabella had had inside information that the bartender was indebted to the mafia and owed them heavy dough. How far would this man go to undo his dept heavy connections with the mafia? The mafia has plenty of ways to persuade a man to rub out, especially if his own life is in the mix.
Just as I began to get caught up in my thoughts, the payphone rang on the far end of the joint. An impulse in my chest told me that I needed to be the one to answer its ring. I grabbed the receiver and pressed it to my ear. My eyes scanned the bar for prying ears and suspicious eyes.
"Hello" I said, in a matter of fact tone.
"Franco? It's me, Isabella." The fear she did not try to hide added an alarming sharpness to her voice.
"What's wrong?" I asked, trying to asses the situation.
"Meet me in the park, now! I have something to tell you." She demanded.
Before another syllable had touched my lips she had hung up. I flew out the door of the bar and hailed the first cab that crossed my path.
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