Two Mercenaries and Some Skynyrd
Hello readers. This is the second episode in the first season of Genres Not Included, the best Typewriter Improv on the Planet. And in it you will meet two mercenaries, of a sort, negotiating their business, of a kind. Eva Newcastle provided the introduction, and Joe Nelson started this one with the second quoted passage. The cigarette smoke and whiskey were his contributions. But the Skynyrd? That was all Eva.
Pulp Fiction mixing with Magical Realism? How is that supposed to work? Well, it may. Or may not. Ten tweets will tell as I join writing forces with @BooksPointof for this second installment of #GenresNotIncluded or “the best typewriter improv on the planet!” Take it away, Joe! — Eva Newcastle, June 28, 2024
I had three vices: One was in the glass in front of me, one was curling smoke from between my lips, and the third was due to arrive at any minute.
The bar was a throwback to a forgotten time.
But so was I.
For that matter, so was she.
Would this be the last time?
The front door may as well have been a revolving one with the swells coming and going at all hours. But a hush always blanketed the noise from the pool tables and the juke box belting out Skynyrd whenever she entered. “She hates this place.” She took a seat. “Rich,” she sighed.
“Gloria, so glad you could slum with me tonight.” I didn’t need to dig. I needed to be the bigger man, so to speak. But the tequila said otherwise.
She was high class. I was low end.
She never let me forget it. And I never stopped reminding her.
I hoped she had the photos.
A lift of her chin is all it took. On cue, the bartender slid her a martini. She slid a fin across the dark wood. “The least you could do is have my usual waiting.” She set a plastic sword of olives onto a napkin and grinned. Her purse was open. Six Polaroids inside. Teasing me.
I was a lout. She was right. We’d known each other long enough for me to get her a damn drink. But that was another barb, wasn’t it?
I stubbed out my smoke.
She hunted the unlikely. Just like me. Only she was better.
Her camera eye caught the things my vision couldn’t.
“I see you peeking.” She took a sip, avoiding my wandering eye. There was a rustle, her thigh easing her purse close to my leg. Unobserved, I reached inside. The first shot revealed a shadowy figure in moonlight. The second, a shadowy figure dead. Making out the third, I gasped.
Gloria had such an eye.
And one hell of a telephoto lens.
I could make out the detail on the gun, a Walther from the shape, and the operator, a senator by occupation.
“You know I love you, right?” My hand reached for the bundle of tightly strapped Benjamins in my coat pocket.
“Oh!” Hers was a muted squeal of delight. She took cold hard cash and slipped it where the sun don’t shine. “Those photos aren’t mine.”
I froze. Ears burning. Christ, how many times did I have to hear Free Bird in a single night?
“These’ll cost ya.” She waved a second stack.
I paid. Yeah, I dug deep and paid.
And I lost one vice that night. It wasn’t the tequila.
What did I know? Gloria was more a mercenary than myself. Fitting that Cheatin’ Woman came on the jukebox next.
The Polaroids were in my pocket.
That Cheatin’ Woman was Gloria’s sister. And Gloria had the photos to prove it, another tequila-infused night. Sibling rivalry. That night wasn’t about me. Never was. It was about them. I ate her olives and watched those long, gorgeous legs carry that tight ass out of the bar.
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