Smith and Jones were delirious that I had arranged a meeting. It was an early morning sting at the Makeshift Diner. I was already seated when John John walked in pushing someone in a wheelchair. She, if it was indeed Madison, wore a black cowboy hat along with a fake mustache and glasses. Underneath these she wore what looked like a traditional Mexican luchador mask. From the neck down a big, heavy brown blanket covered her.
"Your girlfriend's lovely," I said as John pushed her to the table.
"Shut up, Mike," he said. "I have to protect her identity."
"From what?"
"You know from what."
"How? I didn't know she existed until yesterday."
"Yeah, but you saw the photo on my table and you must have recognized her."
"She's the mermaid."
"Yes. The mermaid," he said then paused. "You wearing a wire?"
"You'd better hope not," I laughed. "You've been talking up a storm thus far. Some identity protector."
"So now you're gettin' smart, huh? About time. I practically had to hand it to you."
"And why, John? Why just hand me the case? Why now?"
"I'm tired of runnin'. I can't do this anymore. I can't be a killer anymore, and prison's no place for a man with flipper hands."
"Where does that leave you?"
"Out in a blaze of glory, like the real Bonnie and Clyde."
"And Jon Bon Jovi."
"Shut up."
"Is that how you wanna go out?"
"Always has been."
"Wish I'd known that before I picked a public place."
"I knew you'd squawk, John. You're the stoolie type."
"Yeah, but I'm gonna be a living stoolie."
"Good for you."
"What about the girl?"
"Prison's no place for a one-legged pretty girl either, Mikey."
We both paused for a moment.
"I'm sorry, John."
"For what?"
"I didn't know. I didn't know about any of this, how hard life has been for you."
"We all have our crosses to bear, right, John?"
"I suppose."
There was another pause.
"Well?" John John said.
"Guess I'd better get the hell outta here," I said.
"Guess you'd better."
"All the best, John John."
"Likewise."
I'd been planning my exit during our conversation. There was a giant man sitting at the table beside us—he must have been seven feet tall and five hundred pounds—who would block John John's view of me should he or the mermaid fire at me as I ran. And that's just what I did. I ran for the door.
Peg or Bonnie or Madison, whoever she was, pulled an AK-47 from underneath the blanket. John John grabbed a second weapon, an Uzi, from the blanket, and the pair of them started shooting up the place.
Just before I hit the exit I passed Smith and Jones, who had been seated by the door.
"This was not how it was supposed to go," one of them, I don't know which, said.
"It rarely is," I said. I don't think either of them heard me. I was already out the door and ducking behind a parked car beside the sidewalk.
There were shots, screams and broken glass aplenty for the next thirty seconds. Maybe it was less. It seemed like forever.
By the time the shooting stopped, other cops had shown up, all a bit too late other than to question the survivors. They wouldn't be questioning me. I slipped out assuming everyone who knew I was involved was dead.
Despite the lie detecting and other interviewing the officers did of me, no one contacted me about the "Baby, Baby" case afterwards.
The packages stopped. There were no copycats. Why would there be? A heinous crime like that.
I settled back into my life, satisfied with my brief brush with navy crime solving. I called my father to tell him about it, forgetting that he had died two years before.
My dreams and regrets about the navy ended after this. I had more than my fill now. I made data entry my career. Watched some wrestling, ate some seafood.
Yes, it was a good life.
Michael Frissore is the author of Puppet Shows, a humorous and absurdist collection of short stories from Writers AMuse Me Publishing.
del.icio.us
