A Momentary Waltz

The derringer emptied into the poor drunkard, Mike took advantage of Lace’s momentary weakness. Snatching up his shot glass into a desperate grip he flung the makeshift weapon with the force greater than anything a Yankee pitcher could ever hope to muster. Taking on a brief life all its own, the glass project stay true to its course, striking the hot-blooded fem-fatale square on the ridge of her left eye. With a harsh high-pitched shrill the aging glass shattered setting free its small splinters deep into the vixen’s eye, murdering her once deadly aim.

Lace screamed out in horrified pain, admitting to the world that she was capable of feeling something. Her hand grabbed at the ribbons of flesh and tissue that once made up her eye and still mostly covered her skull’s crushed eye socket. Her brain flashing bright waves of pain forcing nausea to replace a now distant calm and a deep sense of vertigo fueled panic claimed what was once a narrowly focused center. Helpless, I might be helpless, was the only coherent thought left to her mind, other than a fast smoldering hatred, she could spare no time for Mike.

No, his time would be later.

Unprepared for twisted fate that greeted him on what should have been a friendly holiday shakedown, the beat cop struggled to free his service revolver from its leather holster with one hand while catching the booze soaked corpse with his other arm. With his meat shield held close to his breast the desperate young man brought his pistol to bear. It was only a fraction of a breath that past before he squeezed the trigger, fear and confusion induced panic set in motion actions he might regret someday, if only he lived that long.

The thing called Grady had in that moment of calamity found the last bit of defiance still hidden deep in that remnant of a soul. He claimed the rusting scattergun kept under the bar one last time. Forcing his leaden hands to bring the long barrel up he took aim at his golden-tressed tormentor. Finally, he thought, I will get my peace. As the shotgun’s barrel centered on the blood-splattered cleavage that had been denied to Grady for so long the officers bullet drove deep into his chest, piercing heart and lung as it danced from bone to bone inside the tight space.

Only as the bartender fell back into the great mirror behind him did the officer realize the man he had killed was trying to put down the woman that had tried to kill him “Oh, shit,” muttered the stunned young man. Then after a pause he added, “I killed him.”

Grabbing the uniformed thug’s wrist, Mike twisted the taught limb backward with a violent jerk. Bones were heard to snap and ligaments were torn free. Mike had made some retort to his victim, but the words were lost beneath the legal bully’s screams.

Catching the pistol as it fell from now useless fingers Mike discarded the moaning heap, and dashed out into the sanctuary of the night. Thinking himself armed and free of Lace’s deadly poison, Mike’s confidence kept him warm, despite the ever falling white flakes from above.

Less than a minute had passed from start to finish back there, not bad, silently praised Mike to himself. As he rounded the next street corner he paused only a moment so that the sterile glare of a passing truck didn’t focus on him for too long. Mike was a man of purpose, and he couldn’t risk anymore distractions like Grady’s. Consumed again with his own agenda the restored man reached into his pocket for the poker chip, its cracked face still smooth, the engravings long faded. Time was closing in. Mike knew that Grady’s was over, new it with such certainty that he never bothered to learn of the fate that had fallen on the seedy dive and its cast-off remnants.

By sunrise only ash and the barest hints of its frame would be left, the fire department would chalk it up to bat liquor storage and poor wiring. Others though, those who looked deeper into the truth, would claim that an avenging angel set a holy pyre using watered down booze, stale beer, and dead souls as fuel.