document into small pieces and threw them in the air.
Standing still for another moment, he righted the overturned chair. He decided he didn’t feel any better and so he went over to the sink and washed his face for longer than necessary, and as he dried himself, the reason for his inability to focus dawned on him. He was fighting something that he had never felt before.
After all the physical and emotional strain encountered during thirteen years on the job, and seven years of marriage, something was different. Something made him feel like nothing mattered anymore. It was depression. Doc was smothered by it.
Throwing the towel in the basket under the sink, he walked back over to his desk and opened a wall cabinet behind him marked Classified Files . He withdrew a rocks glass and a bottle of Irish Whiskey. Pouring a full measure into the glass, he adjusted the chair and sat down.
Glancing around the room, which he realised contained the sum total of his life, he sank deeper into his depression. He saw the steely simplicity with which he used to approach life methodically eroding away and became lost in the resulting mist of confusion called apathy.
His lifted his drink and his eyes drifted off to the right, settling on a picture of a middle-aged man in a policeman’s uniform sitting on a shelf next to some shooting trophies. The policeman’s photo had a black ribbon tied around the upper left hand corner of the frame. A gold NYPD badge was mounted on a dark wooden plaque, and stood next to the photo. Doc stared at the picture and after a minute he smiled.
“Alright! You were right. I shoulda stayed on the force.” He threw back his shot. “But ya gotta admit, it ain’t nuthin’ like the god-damn movies!”
Reaching underneath the desk and into a specially constructed compartment under the drawer, Doc removed a snub nosed .38 and a .45 Colt. After a functions check on both weapons, he loaded them and placed them in separate desk drawers.
He sat forward, leaned on the desk and slowly let his gaze drift until it fell on a picture of a woman, sitting on the shelf below the policeman’s photo. She was a semi-attractive brunette, late twenties and wore some sort of graduation gown. The handwritten inscription read, To Hubby, Love Forever, Mary . Doc downed his second drink and shook his head in the direction of the photo. He leaned back, put his feet up and turned off the desk lamp, leaving himself and the room bathed in the alternating shadows of Jimmy O‘Sullivan’s neon sign.
Like in those god-damned movies.
Chapter Four
The syncopated rhythm of the Smith-Corona keys reminded Shirley of the Morse code radio messages she had heard in an Alan Ladd war movie last week. Alan Ladd! Now there’s a man! The engaging, eccentric black girl indulged her fantasies as she trudged through her work day. With instinctual dexterity, her well-manicured fingers floated in mid air, coercing the keys to perform.
Perhaps without the weight of a wedding ring to encumber the fingers, they moved faster, Shirley mused. Although attractive by any standard, she was, by her own reckoning, an old maid at twenty-six.
“Ouch! God-damn it!” Shirley cried out, quickly putting her index finger to her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” It was Nikki Cole, the receptionist stationed with Shirley at the oversized reception desk.
“I busted a freakin’ nail!”
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Maybe I got potty mouth, but there are worse problems to have!”
“Like what?” Nikki challenged.
“Like gettin’ the hiccups when you’re horny!” Shirley giggled.
“I told you that in confidence, damn it!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell nobody. Besides, I kinda think it’s cute.” Shirley smirked as she turned back to her typewriter. “This way he always knows when you’re ready.”
Nikki reached under the desk and produced a large pickle jar, nearly filled with nickels, and held it out to her
Standing still for another moment, he righted the overturned chair. He decided he didn’t feel any better and so he went over to the sink and washed his face for longer than necessary, and as he dried himself, the reason for his inability to focus dawned on him. He was fighting something that he had never felt before.
After all the physical and emotional strain encountered during thirteen years on the job, and seven years of marriage, something was different. Something made him feel like nothing mattered anymore. It was depression. Doc was smothered by it.
Throwing the towel in the basket under the sink, he walked back over to his desk and opened a wall cabinet behind him marked Classified Files . He withdrew a rocks glass and a bottle of Irish Whiskey. Pouring a full measure into the glass, he adjusted the chair and sat down.
Glancing around the room, which he realised contained the sum total of his life, he sank deeper into his depression. He saw the steely simplicity with which he used to approach life methodically eroding away and became lost in the resulting mist of confusion called apathy.
His lifted his drink and his eyes drifted off to the right, settling on a picture of a middle-aged man in a policeman’s uniform sitting on a shelf next to some shooting trophies. The policeman’s photo had a black ribbon tied around the upper left hand corner of the frame. A gold NYPD badge was mounted on a dark wooden plaque, and stood next to the photo. Doc stared at the picture and after a minute he smiled.
“Alright! You were right. I shoulda stayed on the force.” He threw back his shot. “But ya gotta admit, it ain’t nuthin’ like the god-damn movies!”
Reaching underneath the desk and into a specially constructed compartment under the drawer, Doc removed a snub nosed .38 and a .45 Colt. After a functions check on both weapons, he loaded them and placed them in separate desk drawers.
He sat forward, leaned on the desk and slowly let his gaze drift until it fell on a picture of a woman, sitting on the shelf below the policeman’s photo. She was a semi-attractive brunette, late twenties and wore some sort of graduation gown. The handwritten inscription read, To Hubby, Love Forever, Mary . Doc downed his second drink and shook his head in the direction of the photo. He leaned back, put his feet up and turned off the desk lamp, leaving himself and the room bathed in the alternating shadows of Jimmy O‘Sullivan’s neon sign.
Like in those god-damned movies.
Chapter Four
The syncopated rhythm of the Smith-Corona keys reminded Shirley of the Morse code radio messages she had heard in an Alan Ladd war movie last week. Alan Ladd! Now there’s a man! The engaging, eccentric black girl indulged her fantasies as she trudged through her work day. With instinctual dexterity, her well-manicured fingers floated in mid air, coercing the keys to perform.
Perhaps without the weight of a wedding ring to encumber the fingers, they moved faster, Shirley mused. Although attractive by any standard, she was, by her own reckoning, an old maid at twenty-six.
“Ouch! God-damn it!” Shirley cried out, quickly putting her index finger to her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” It was Nikki Cole, the receptionist stationed with Shirley at the oversized reception desk.
“I busted a freakin’ nail!”
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Maybe I got potty mouth, but there are worse problems to have!”
“Like what?” Nikki challenged.
“Like gettin’ the hiccups when you’re horny!” Shirley giggled.
“I told you that in confidence, damn it!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell nobody. Besides, I kinda think it’s cute.” Shirley smirked as she turned back to her typewriter. “This way he always knows when you’re ready.”
Nikki reached under the desk and produced a large pickle jar, nearly filled with nickels, and held it out to her
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