by Jesse Rawlins
I spent my entire Sunday watchin’ Alisha Dunmore’s ass.
And wishin’ I’d brought Dramamine — as she whipped that thing like Jesus in his boat on the storm-tossed Galilee Sea.
Yeah, I was gettin’ paid (for what she undoubtedly thought a privilege). And when you live in a place like Cleveland, there are more painful ways to suffer. Like watchin’ the fuck-nut Browns try to mimic a football team. But keepin’ my head-n-hands out of the stinkin’ gutter proved almost more than I could stand.
I detached my low-light lens, stashed the Canon in its case, and impulsively decided not to call her husband.
Let the sucker stew for at least another day.
I finally rang him Tuesday mornin’, while sittin’ in my Malibu. Still slurpin’ my first coffee … the windshield quickly foggin’ in the cold December air.
“Do you own property, Mr. Dunmore, at 44 Woodrow Drive?”
“Why you askin’ that?”
“Your wife visited there on Sunday — and I think she had a key.”
I stared mournfully at the photos strewn across my lap. Alisha’s ass at a downtown crossing. Alisha’s ass at Blush Boutique. And some dude who looked like Tupac. Rockin’ her ass like Mount Vesuvius — then blowin’ a load to kingdom come.
“So you found the guy she’s fucking? And she’s doin’ him at that address?”
“I’m not sayin’ no such thing, Mr. Dunmore. She spent a coupla hours at this crib on Sunday. But she hasn’t been back since. I finally got inside this mornin’ but there ain’t a lot to see — the joint is almost empty ’cept for a king-sized poster-bed. Which looks like it’s brand new. I hung more bugs-n-cameras there than Christmas lights on the White House tree. So if she is in fact unfaithful, sir — and she’s usin’ that place to do it — then you’ll get the proof you want. But I would urge you: please be patient. Odds are good she’ll soon revisit this house at 44 Woodrow.”
I ended the call with Dunmore. Groaned at those god-dammed glossies —
Blew a volcano of my own. And snagged napkins off the dash. No need to tail Alisha’s tail for the next several days. I’d watched her for three weeks now. She’d boned the Tupac lookey-like for three consecutive Sundays at his honey-snatch on Woodrow.
Instead of doin’ penance and watchin’ the Browns on Sunday, I cruised to Cleveland Heights and that now-familiar hood. Spottin’ Alisha’s Porsche, I rang Dunmore from my burner phone. “She’s here and the news ain’t good.” That’s all I quickly told him, scavengin’ a spot to park the Chevy.
Dunmore must’ve been lurkin’ somewhere near the Heights. Cuz he squealed past in less than ten — and abandoned his black Jag right outside the house. Armed for shootin’ grizzlies that crazed mo-fo shattered the door.
A dozen shotgun blasts exploded. Followed by sudden silence …
I knew Alisha lay dead for sure.
Dunmore had done what I’d dreamed of doin’ for the last six cowardly years.
Addicted to tawdry tales (that sometimes make her blush), Jesse’s trying to craft her own. Red Fez, Shotgun Honey, and Flash Fiction Offensive have graciously published her stories. She lives alone in Parts Unknown (across the pond from England). At the time of this writing, she hasn’t killed anybody yet. You can learn more here: https://www.facebook.com/Jesse-Rawlins-Fiction-Writer.