Read Online The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories by Robert Chazz Chute - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Chazz Chute
Tags: Fiction
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he said, patting his chest shirt pocket through his sports jacket. “It’s been…very profitable. The circle is complete and all that.”
She laughed. “Well worth it,” she said. He made his way to the door awkwardly. “It’s funny,” she said. “I complained about how I was paying all the people around me and the first chance I get, I turn you into someone else I write a check to.”
He looked ashen and grasped at the doorknob. When he looked in her face though, he saw that she hadn’t meant it unkindly. “I guess it’s different when you’re helping out a friend. Uh, Ms. Minor. Have a great escape.”
“You, too.”
She watched him shamble out to the porch and down the hill. “Bye,” she whispered and turned back to the bar and the view of the Atlantic.
He found his car but decided he shouldn’t drive. Instead he sat on the hood and looked back up the hill at the dead cop’s house. There were so many things he wished he had known when he was seventeen. He patted his shirt pocket again, checking to make sure it was there in a superstitious motion.
Marcus pulled out the bent check, smelling it as if it might be scented like a love letter. He opened the check and his jaw dropped. She had made it out to him for the sum of $1,000,000. The bottom of the check read, “For therapeutic services.”
He sat frozen for a long time, shaking his head and smiling. He folded the check neatly and put it in his wallet for safekeeping. Then he dug into his shirt pocket again and pulled out the small digital voice recorder. After a moment’s hesitation, he put the device under his left rear tire and when he pulled away from the curb he made sure he crushed it twice. “Coulda made two million out of that recording,” he said to himself in the rear view mirror, “but how much does one guy need to start fresh…and let an ex-girlfriend escape?”
He laughed all the way down the hill and out of sight.
If Marcus had been looking in the rearview mirror, he might have seen the bloom of flame that shot through the living room in the house at the top of the hill.
Asia Minor, silver screen idol to millions of B-movie fans and object of lust to many more, walked down the steep stairs to the dark beach below. At first, she thought she would rig a Molotov cocktail to throw into the middle of the living room but reconsidered. Odds were better than even that she would set herself on fire, as well. She had always feared dying in a fire, so she wasn’t about to attempt anything fancy.
However, Uncle Joe’s well-stocked bar yielded several bottles of Jack Daniels and some high proof scotch so she threw them to the floor and tossed a flaming matchbook in the open door as she walked out the back. She didn’t look back as the fire spread and climbed and clawed through the house. Instead, she kept moving, leaving a trail of her clothes.
Periwinkles and sharp stones cut the soles of her feet but her straight course to the water did not waver. As she waded out into the surf, the cold shocked her. She was glad of it. The cold would soon numb her wounded feet and she thought if she could swim out far enough, she could finally feel clean.
“Tonight I’m going to fulfill a dream I’ve had from when I should have only been sleeping with teddy bears,” she announced to the whitecaps. The chill water was just below her bare breasts now. “Tonight, for the first time, I’m moving toward something instead of always running away from something, always looking back!” she yelled. The sea floor dropped away suddenly and she went under and came up laughing and treading water.
The buzz in her head from all the booze didn’t matter anymore. She was a good swimmer, “a natural,” her father said. She slipped under the waves into the dark and came up gulping crystal air. She pushed out in a crawl, legs and arms working smoothly, her stroke confident and strong.
This would be a binary choice, she told
She laughed. “Well worth it,” she said. He made his way to the door awkwardly. “It’s funny,” she said. “I complained about how I was paying all the people around me and the first chance I get, I turn you into someone else I write a check to.”
He looked ashen and grasped at the doorknob. When he looked in her face though, he saw that she hadn’t meant it unkindly. “I guess it’s different when you’re helping out a friend. Uh, Ms. Minor. Have a great escape.”
“You, too.”
She watched him shamble out to the porch and down the hill. “Bye,” she whispered and turned back to the bar and the view of the Atlantic.
He found his car but decided he shouldn’t drive. Instead he sat on the hood and looked back up the hill at the dead cop’s house. There were so many things he wished he had known when he was seventeen. He patted his shirt pocket again, checking to make sure it was there in a superstitious motion.
Marcus pulled out the bent check, smelling it as if it might be scented like a love letter. He opened the check and his jaw dropped. She had made it out to him for the sum of $1,000,000. The bottom of the check read, “For therapeutic services.”
He sat frozen for a long time, shaking his head and smiling. He folded the check neatly and put it in his wallet for safekeeping. Then he dug into his shirt pocket again and pulled out the small digital voice recorder. After a moment’s hesitation, he put the device under his left rear tire and when he pulled away from the curb he made sure he crushed it twice. “Coulda made two million out of that recording,” he said to himself in the rear view mirror, “but how much does one guy need to start fresh…and let an ex-girlfriend escape?”
He laughed all the way down the hill and out of sight.
If Marcus had been looking in the rearview mirror, he might have seen the bloom of flame that shot through the living room in the house at the top of the hill.
Asia Minor, silver screen idol to millions of B-movie fans and object of lust to many more, walked down the steep stairs to the dark beach below. At first, she thought she would rig a Molotov cocktail to throw into the middle of the living room but reconsidered. Odds were better than even that she would set herself on fire, as well. She had always feared dying in a fire, so she wasn’t about to attempt anything fancy.
However, Uncle Joe’s well-stocked bar yielded several bottles of Jack Daniels and some high proof scotch so she threw them to the floor and tossed a flaming matchbook in the open door as she walked out the back. She didn’t look back as the fire spread and climbed and clawed through the house. Instead, she kept moving, leaving a trail of her clothes.
Periwinkles and sharp stones cut the soles of her feet but her straight course to the water did not waver. As she waded out into the surf, the cold shocked her. She was glad of it. The cold would soon numb her wounded feet and she thought if she could swim out far enough, she could finally feel clean.
“Tonight I’m going to fulfill a dream I’ve had from when I should have only been sleeping with teddy bears,” she announced to the whitecaps. The chill water was just below her bare breasts now. “Tonight, for the first time, I’m moving toward something instead of always running away from something, always looking back!” she yelled. The sea floor dropped away suddenly and she went under and came up laughing and treading water.
The buzz in her head from all the booze didn’t matter anymore. She was a good swimmer, “a natural,” her father said. She slipped under the waves into the dark and came up gulping crystal air. She pushed out in a crawl, legs and arms working smoothly, her stroke confident and strong.
This would be a binary choice, she told
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