“Eddie Walton looked at the locked door before him. No warrant, no reason to kick it in other than an itch in the back of his brain, the kind of itch that said “What you want is close, so close you can feel it wrapped around you like her arms were.”
After all the times he’d covered for his lieutenant’s “errors in judgment” – the kind that left young girls with swelling bellies and afraid to say who the father was – he had no doubt he could kick in the door, set the room on fire, and go on a tri-state bankrobbing spree and the lieutenant would cover for him.
Or have him killed.
So he’d just kick in the door, that should be safe enough.
The apartment door wasn’t too flimsy, but Eddie had plenty of practice making an entrance.
Inside, cheap decorations, and a cheap girl sprawled out on the cheap sofa, a cheap bottle of whiskey on the floor giving the carpet a drink.
The girl wasn’t the woman he was looking for, although there was a family resemblance. Pity she was as dead as they come, a bullet hole in her chest, another in her head, and enough of the red sauce soaked into the couch so no one would touch it no matter how long it sat on the curb.
So Mae had a daughter… or maybe a younger sister. If he could put a name to the girl, he might be able to catch Mae at the funeral.
Or like everything else in this investigation, he might just be jerking his dick.”
another bit of a story that will never be written…
listening to: Feelin’ Bad Blues – “Crossroads” soundtrack