CONSTIPATION RELIEVED
He looked to the clock over the vanity. 11 p.m. It seemed only a matter of time now, dwindling ticks and tocks, before his mice escaped their maze. In all likelihood, he'd still be on the toilet, stewing in figurative and literal constipation, when the cops came. Bernard had stormed off in the Honda, leaving the Admiral sans chauffeur.
Even if he had someone to drive him, the best the Admiral could come up with was to go and shoot the bastards. Shooting a person (or three) couldn't be harder than picking squirrels off his bird feeder, but alas, without transport, without a working phone or money to hire a cab, his sharpshooter fantasies were moot. The dopey Irregulars, for their vomit of slush, never penned a tale of a three dopey idiots gunned down by sniper fire. And while his skills were more than capable of aping their horrible prose, he hadn’t the time to write a new Irregulars story.
Highley gripped the edges of the toilet seat. He clenched and held his breath. His ocular capillaries popped and flickered like fireflies—but nothing. With a sigh he relaxed, letting his arms dangle. His guts felt like concrete. What a hopeless void of dark and despair.
He closed his eyes and stuffed a hand to the inner pocket of his coat. He rubbed his fingers against the lining. The gentle vibrations of silk against his fingers did nothing to assuage his pain. With any luck he'd nod off on the john and float to the hereafter.
He'd just closed his eyes when a far-off echo quickened his pulse. A faint but unmistakable splash. Then thunks! and pops! Rumbles! The Admiral turned his head to get a better grasp of the sound. A car.
"That buffoon is back."
He was dressing when the sound died. He paused, one trouser leg on. How strange. Why would Bernard stop halfway up the drive? He would go straight to the garage. The Admiral waited in stillness. The garage door didn't shriek.
The Admiral returned to the toilet. It wasn't Bernard. Someone else had come to call on him—how exhilarating! He slid the other pantleg over his bony thigh, scarcely moving lest he miss another splash of sound. How exciting. How utterly exciting.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice. High and grating.
"I'm sorry I know it's late but it's Sergeant Detective Dalkowski, your honor. It's about the Irregulars case! I know it sounds crazy, but I think I can prove they're innocent. I promise I'll only be a moment."
Her voice, though full of vocal fry, played a siren's song. Here she was, singing the Admiral to soothing shores.
"Judge Highley! Sebastian! I promise I'll be brief. It's Alex Dalkowski, your honor!"
The scowl eased from the Admiral's face. How fortuitous! A horrible plan began to assemble in the Admiral's spinning brain. A wonderful, horrible plan.
"Office." The Admiral put on as much 'feeble old man' as he could. "Please come in. I'm in the office, Dalkowski."
The soft pad of careful footfalls indicated only one caller. The cop was alone. His heart rate increased.
"Okay, Judge," Dalkowski's voice trumpeted from just beyond the hall, shaking with uncertainty, "Again, I'm so sorry for coming so late. I wouldn't if it wasn't super important."
The detective seemed oblivious to Highley's hiding spot. Disjointed facts quickly assembled to a beautiful stratagem. He was in dire need of a working phone. The Dalkowski girl most likely possessed one. She likely assumed a solitary Judge in his office. It couldn't be any more perfect. Dispatch the girl. Hire a cab. Kill the Irregulars. Plant a fake story and Bernard's fingerprints. The deed done, he could fly to Mexico, the Bahamas, Bora Bora, and spend the rest of his days assuming his pseudonym.
Ah, but where were his scurrying mice? That he could go kill them? Peh. Details to be ironed.
Careful not to squeak a hinge, not to disturb even a mote of powder, the Admiral pulled a hand mirror from the vanity. He cracked the bathroom door and extended it. The curvaceous woman and her mop of wavy hair crept in its reflection. The Admiral bit his tongue. She examined Written in Blood #152 by the light of her mobile. His breath caught, wondering if she had the acumen to connect the dots. But then he saw her hip. Ah! She carried neither sidearm nor badge. Brilliant! The Admiral tightened his grip on the hand mirror and slipped into the hall behind her.
He walked in the detective's floral wake. He bided his time—precious, dwindling time—for the perfect blow. The gazelle stopped, head tilted as if alerted by a sound. The Admiral cocked back the hand mirror (what an awful weapon) but Dalkowski only looked to another of his Written in Blood magazines. With a sneer she entered the Admiral's office.
Dalkowski crept to the desk. He crept behind. She paused, head tilted, staring at the typewriter. Dalkowski's attentions divested, the Admiral lay the mirror on his shag carpet. He reached into the far edge of the open closet. The rush of cold metal greeted his fingertips. Trusty .22 in hand, he stood to height.
The Admiral bit his tongue, face a tight scowl as her pig fingers violated Underwood's curves. With Alex bent over the desk, hands occupied, the Admiral finally saw beams of golden light. Like a cat he stole forward, looming inches from his helpless squirrel.
"The switch is on the left, love."
Alex straightened her spine and pivoted. Hands already tight to his rifle's barrel, the Admiral swung with all his might. Dalkowski never saw the blow coming. She only turned and fell. With a weak cry, her eyes screwed into the back of her head and she slumped face to carpet. The Admiral wasted no time in retrieving her phone. He smiled to the limp body.
"You should have taken the gloves and run, love."
He reached over her body to the gloves on his desk. Smiling, he began to chew off its evidence-planting fingers.
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