Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features the neo-Noir Between the Pages. This flash story first appeared in Red Weather, published in 2020. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Between the Pages
by Marco Etheridge
It was a grimy alley in a gritty city slum, and the drizzling rain did nothing to wash clean the filthy night. Detective Ogden Mallory crept through the dismal shadows, his left shoulder brushing one rain-spattered brick wall. Mallory’s right hand was buried in the pocket of a soaked trench coat, his fingers wrapped around the butt of a snubnosed thirty-eight revolver.
The detective knew what he had to do. He was a good cop, and a good cop trusts his instincts. He was following a hunch, chasing it down a dark alley, but Mallory knew he was right. The killer was here, trapped in this narrow dead end with nowhere left to run.
Detective Mallory sidestepped an oily puddle, moving as quiet as a cat. He wished O’Brian were sweeping the other side of the alley, but his partner was in the ICU after taking two bullets to the chest. He could hear O’Brian’s voice rasp around a chewed cigar, as if the hulking Irishman were standing beside him in the rain. What the hell, Kid? You gonna get this guy or what? Yeah, Partner, I got this son of a bitch. Don’t you worry.
The young detective was not completely alone as he ghosted further into that dark alley. Rats skittered around his feet, revenge burned in his heart, and somewhere ahead was the shooter who had capped his partner.
Mallory should have called for backup, a couple of uniforms with shotguns. He should have done a lot of things, but this was not a moment for regret. The Sunset Shooter was in this alley, and Mallory was here to bring him down. This case ended tonight.
Six months they’d been tracking this homicidal maniac. Six months of Mallory being the new shield, the rookie detective, of being called Oggie. Detective Ogden Mallory would rather take ten bullets than hear his dreaded nickname even one more time. So what if he was eager? So what if he showed up early for the daily briefing? Mallory loved his job. He loved being a detective, even the most junior shield. And after he brought the Sunset Shooter down—carted the bastard in horizontal—there’d be no more of this junior shit.
At the end of the alley, a lone lamp sagged down from above a blank brick wall. The hooded lamp buzzed and flickered, casting more shadow than light. Dark caverns opened out of the brickwork on either side of the alley, the seedy backdoors to derelict barrooms and bordellos. Each dark doorway held a deadly peril.
Mallory saw a dull flash of silver rise from one of the hollow pools of blackness. A figure dark as night stepped from the shadow, a gleaming pistol held in one black-gloved hand. The pistol was pointed at Mallory’s chest. The shooter’s face was hidden behind a mask of black silk.
The young detective looked for a play, anything to hold off the inevitable. His hand worried the pistol in his pocket, but the eyes behind the mask saw everything. The Sunset Shooter flicked the barrel of his pistol, indicating the back wall of the alley. The meaning of the gesture was all too clear.
Mallory cursed himself, cursed the rain, and cursed his luck. O’Brian’s raspy voice filled his head. This is it, Kid, the moment of truth. You’re not going to let this murdering bastard put your back up against any wall. Go on, make your play.
The doomed detective spun to his left while yanking his thirty-eight from his trench coat. Three steps to that dumpster, one lucky shot from his trusty revolver, he just might make it.
Before Mallory could shoot or be shot, his feet tangled and he plunged to the pavement. The side of his head caromed off the brick wall as he fell. The pistol flew from his hand and clattered away across the filthy cobblestones.
He landed hard, his back in a fetid puddle. Dark rain pelted down onto his face. Mallory rolled his throbbing head, tried to focus his eyes on the far wall of the alley. The dark figure still stood in the doorway, and the silver pistol still stared Mallory in the face. There was a flicker behind the silk mask, the faintest hint of a smile. Mallory braced himself for the roar of the automatic and the killing bullet.
There was a long moment filled only with the sound of falling rain and the harsh last breath of a man who knew he was about to die. Then a dull plopping sound rolled up the alley, as if a giant had dropped three wet phone directories onto a formica tabletop. The rain, the night, the alley, and everything in it disappeared.
* * *
“What in the hell, who does that? Who closes a book in the middle of the big shootout?”
He was sprawled in a sagging leather armchair. The walls of the smallish room were painted a pastel green, and no rain fell. Mismatched chairs and a well-worn sofa orbited a low coffee table. Across one wall was a low counter which held an automated espresso maker and a chrome toaster. The only other occupant in the room was standing at the bar, fiddling with the coffee machine. The older man half-turned his head and spoke over his shoulder.
“There’s no accounting for readers. What are you gonna do, right? Hey, there’s bagels. You want I should toast you one?”
“No, I don’t want…”
His voice drifted off as he tried to make sense of the room. A trench coat lay over the arm of his chair, bone-dry and neatly folded. He heard the pop of a toaster and looked to the coffee bar. The man standing before it was tall and lean, his handsome head crowned with a shock of silver hair.
He watched the man finger-toss the hot bagel onto a paper plate, then wave his manicured fingers as if he had burned them. The silver-haired gent lifted a plastic tub to his nose, sniffed the schmear inside, spooned a dollop onto his bagel.
“Never pass up the free food, that’s my motto. This business is tough enough. Last call, while I’m standing here. No?”
The man shrugged, threaded his way past the sofa while holding a sagging paper plate and a small cup of coffee. He deposited the fare on the coffee table and lowered himself into the next armchair. After mauling a quarter bagel in one bite, he swilled half the coffee and leaned back.
“Ah, that’s better.”
He turned to the younger man, gave him the once-over. He nodded his head, as if coming to a conclusion. The younger man bristled under the examination.
“What?”
“You seem really tense, am I right? You gotta learn to relax, Kid.”
“I know how to relax; that’s not the point. The point is why anyone would close a damn book at the big finale.”
“You mean right before you tripped and fell flat in a puddle?”
“Hey, it was just a device to heighten the tension.”
“Whatever you say, Kid. Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. Who knows why she put down the book? Maybe she had to pee, maybe the cat jumped on the bed, maybe the boyfriend grabbed her ass. Readers do all kind of crazy shit.”
“Wait, how do you know it’s a woman?”
“It’s an easy guess. Working the averages for fiction, eight outta ten says I’m right. If women ever stop reading, we’re out of a job.”
The younger man ran a hand through his hair, blew out an exasperated sigh.
“It’s just I’ve got a lot riding on this one, you know?”
“Like what, hoping for a series?”
The younger man nodded. The veteran downed the last of his coffee and leaned back in his chair.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that this is your first hero gig. Am I right?”
“If we’re talking main characters, yeah, but I’ve had lots of other gigs.”
“Sure, sure, sidekicks and supporting characters, I get that. That’s how we all come up, believe me. Look, hoping for a recurring character is okay, but don’t get your hopes up too high.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a bad guy, right? Villains don’t get too many return engagements. Sure, there are exceptions, but not many. You pull the heist, murder the girl, or plan to take over the world. Then the good guys chase you around for a few chapters. Last chapter, the axe falls, and justice is served.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Damn, Kid, bite my head off. What I’m saying is that I’ve seen a lot of heroes up close and personal. Usually, they’re pushing me off high places or dragging me around in handcuffs, but you get the idea. Most of those heroes, I don’t see them again. Characters come; characters go. That’s the way it is. Relax and enjoy the gig, that’s my motto.”
“I thought it was never pass up free food.”
The remark made the older man laugh out loud. He wagged a finger at the young hero-hopeful.
“You remember lines, anyway. That’s a good thing.”
“Like that’s what’s important, spitting out lines on command. I want more than that, something with substance.”
There was no laughter now. The older man gave him a long, serious look.
“And you think that a recurring character is going to give you some kind of permanence?”
The would-be hero waved his hand as if trying to grasp something in the air before him. Before he could form an answer, the older man was speaking again.
“Look Kid, I’ve been around a long time. I know this serial gig sounds like a good idea, but I’m here to tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Think about it. Those damn authors are always trying to make the hero interesting. And you know how they do that, right? They scribble in a bunch of character flaws, that’s how. Just look at your more famous detectives. Poirot was a hopeless obsessive-compulsive. Holmes was a cocaine addict. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.”
The young man stared at him and shook his head. When he spoke, his words carried the weight of a declaration.
“I understand what you’re trying to say, but I want more than this.”
He waved his hand around the room.
“I want an identity.”
The older man stared at him with a look of open-mouthed disbelief.
“Jesus wept! An identity? Isn’t that the author’s job?”
Before the hero could answer, the red light over the door blinked three times. There was a pause, then three more blinks.
The silver-haired man pushed himself from the armchair.
“C’mon Kid, it’s showtime.”
* * *
Mallory’s head caromed off the brick wall as he fell to the pavement. His pistol flew from his hand and clattered away into the wet shadows. Bright stars danced in his eye through the rain that pelted his face. He tried to focus his eyes on the far wall of the alley. The dark figure stepped out of the doorway; his silver pistol trained on Mallory’s prone body.
The detective thought he saw a flicker behind the black silk mask, the faintest hint of a smile. There was a long moment filled only with the sound of rain splattering on filthy cobblestones and of a failed hero sucking in a last harsh breath. Then the shooter pulled the trigger. The roar of the pistol shot filled the alley and the last thought of Detective Ogden Mallory.
The rain, the night, the alley, and everything began to fade and blur. As the scene swept away into nothingness, the Sunset Shooter’s last words were swept away along with everything else.
That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:
And… if you desire more flash and micro-fiction, look no further than my collection Broken Luggage:
Broken Luggage Collected Flash Fiction
Broken Luggage: Two dozen flash fiction tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
A man's life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of fiction, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories have been published in reviews, journals, and magazines in Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Broken Luggage gathers twenty-four of his best flash stories into one collection. A man’s life condensed into the broken luggage that will contain it. A young woman alone in the Sonoran Desert. Memories of dangerous eggs, thunderstorms, and a gunshot man. A character tours his self-made hell. Another steps from between the pages. Parables of sand and migration A labyrinth into new love, and the remembrance of love past. These two dozen flash stories tell swift tales of love lost and love found, of darkness at the end of life, and light at the beginning. Unforgettable characters struggle against the tides and pressures of an impersonal world, and against the burdens they carry within. There is joy and despair, defiance and acceptance. The inhabitants of these pages learn who they are, and sometimes, who they are not. Welcome, Reader, to the world of Broken Luggage.
Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine. Website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/