Tom Courtland walked in wearing a dark brown fedora and a checked green sports coat with matching tie, for chrissake. He wasn’t a cop anymore, but he’d be an asshole until he died. Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened yet. Even more unfortunately, he liked to talk to anyone he’d ever met, and he remembered everyone.
He saw me right away. He’d always been as good a cop as he wanted to be.
“Hey, Marty!” he said, and I had to look up. Hell, he was about to barrel into me. I just had to hope words would stop him.
“Tom.” I looked up from where I sat at the bar, looked up from my drink, looked back at a life I thought I’d escaped.
Why Do We Exist?
Return toHome Page
Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories