M.E. Proctor

Listen to M.E.s story read by Mathew Gostelow

I used to be able to relax after a job. When the vehicle was stowed away in an anonymous garage, when the gun was at the bottom of a river I didn’t need to know the name of. When the money had been wired to one of my offshore accounts. The adrenaline ebbed and I soon felt gently tired, ready for a drink in a heavy square glass that fitted my hand like it was meant to. The unwinding kicked in without me thinking about it, without me willing it to kick in. 

Now it takes a conscious effort and I don’t like it.

I know when this unwelcome quirk started.

It was three months ago, after a hit in Connecticut. The mark was a sleazebag and a moronic thief. You don’t play hide-the-bologna accounting with the Atlantic City guys, spend the dough like there’s no tomorrow, and hope to see tomorrow. Maybe the dude had a huge set of balls, but that generosity of nature didn’t extend to the size of his brain. Hard to say how big that part of him used to be after I put a slug in it. 

I went back to my car, went through the usual disposal procedures, and caught a late commuter train back to the city. That isn’t how I normally make my exit but I hate driving in New York. I also hate to depend on transportation operated by others, and, sure enough, the train made an unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere and sat there for over an hour. 

I was alone in the car. I looked at my reflection in the window. I saw a forty-something man in a sober dark suit, a leather briefcase on his knees, no hat. Banker. Undertaker.

A kid came in, from the compartment behind mine. Fifteen maybe. Tall, dark haired, handsome in a hacksaw way, skin taut over angular features. He looked familiar. He made his way to the next car too fast for me to pinpoint where I might have seen him. I don’t hang around a lot of kids. I don’t pay much attention to them, unless they’re a hindrance on a job.

Then the train got moving again without an explanation of why it had stopped.

A month later, I was in Miami for a clean-up. Witness removal. My clients are under no obligation to tell me why they require my services, yet most of them feel the need to explain their motives. I get it. Justifying their actions to me gives them confirmation that they have no other choice. Criminals are like regular people in that regard. They need an orderly world. Psychopaths thrive on chaos. I don’t work for them. They don’t pay their bills and they can turn on you. I was driving to Tampa, looking forward to a couple of days on the beach, and stopped at a roadside diner for a coffee. A young man was behind the counter, perched on a stool, doing a crossword puzzle. Today’s Herald. I’d done it earlier. “Aloft,” I said. He looked at me. Gray eyes. “The clue, airborne. The answer is aloft.” He smiled. A lopsided, cheeky grin that went well with his thin face. He could have been the brother of the Connecticut kid. It was eerie. I drank my coffee quickly. Suddenly, I didn’t want to linger.

And now this job in Houston, not far from home which is not my favorite set-up. It went well, no snags. I was out of there in three minutes. A rogue drug dealer. Scum I’d do for free. That unwinding glass of whiskey was two hours away and, for once, I drove my own car.

A man crossed the street on a blind curve and I slammed on the brakes. The bumper ended an inch from his legs. He turned to look at me, calm, smiling. I wanted to scream and the curses died in my throat. 

The thin face of the Connecticut kid and the Tampa diner employee had filled in a bit but the hard planes were still there, and those clear gray eyes. The lopsided grin that was almost a sneer. I knew that face, those eyes, and that cocky smile. Add ten years to the frame of this last iteration and he would wink at me in the bathroom mirror.

When the phone rang later that night, I didn’t answer it. I knew it was for another job in another town, where I would again see someone who was so much like me he could be my twin.

I’m not superstitious, it isn’t recommended in my line of work, but I know a warning when I see one. Nothing good comes from seeing your own life catch up with you.

I packed my bags. Time to go check on that offshore account. In person.

And after all these years, I could use the rest.

M.E. Proctor was born in Brussels and lives in Texas. The first book in her Declan Shaw PI series, Love You Till Tuesday, came out from Shotgun Honey, with the follow up, Catch Me on a Blue Day, scheduled for 2025. She’s the author of a short story collection, Family and Other Ailments, and the co-author of a retro-noir novella, Bop City Swing. Her fiction has appeared in Vautrin, Tough, Rock and a Hard Place, Bristol Noir, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Reckon Review, and Black Cat Weekly among others. She’s a Derringer nominee. Website: www.shawmystery.com