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This week’s new flash fiction is jailhouse noir.

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“Idiots,” boomed Harley.

The arresting officer parked him, arms shackled, on a long wooden bench in a small holding cell.

“Pardon?” grumbled the old duffer, facedown and prone a few feet down the bench. Harley had nudged him awake with the racket. The disheveled senior looked like he was sleeping one off. Ignored by the cop who had deposited Harley and locked the cell. Too blotto to bother cuffing. Harley figured this doubled as the drunk tank.

“Sorry, gramps,” he offered by way of apology for interrupting the graybeard’s nap.

“What are you in for?” asked the old man, standing up to stretch. He did look rough, thought Harley.

“They got me on a traffic violation. Unpaid tickets.”

Not thrilled with having been roused, the old timer could not resist a little poke.

“A regular John Dillinger,” he grinned.

That was the wrong thing to say to a man like Harley, who fancied himself a dangerous character.

“Well, it’s what they don’t know, am I right, pops.”

Harley grew steely eyed. Leaned over and whispered, almost hissed, his secret. Too proud to keep it swallowed.

“I killed my wife. Perfect crime. These amateurs will never know.”

The rummy yawned. Noted Harley’s change in demeanor but kept with the needle. “Stabbed her to death with an icicle, did you? Evidence melted away?”

“What? No.” Harley sputtered.

“Bludgeoned her with a frozen rib roast, then defrosted and hoovered down the murder weapon?”

“Huh?” Harley reddened.

“No? So, the crime is perfect in exactly what sense?”

Harley paused. Now sheepish. The coot had taken some wind out of his sails.

“I paid an unhoused guy to knock off my wife. In cash. Then I killed him. Airtight. Untraceable. The perfect murder.”

“Murders. Plural. You killed two people. Perfect or not.”

“Ha,” considered Harley. “I guess I did. Yeah.”

At that the old man lay back down, this time on his back, cradling his hands behind his head. Closed his eyes.

The duty officer entered the cell and pointed at Harley.

“You. Richard Petty. You must have a horseshoe up your ass. Halfwit trooper didn’t turn on his body camera. We gotta let you go.”

“Hold on a sec, Red,” said Harley’s downtrodden cellmate to the other cop as Harley rose.

The officer squinted.

“Sully. Is that you? You look like hell. You ever heard of home? Can’t get enough of this place, huh? You know you are gonna find yourself locked in this cell overnight some day using it this way.”

Sully was unimpressed.

“I knew you’d swing by eventually.”

Detective Sullivan, freshly changed back into his rumpled civvies after a long shift, had spied through steel bars the inviting cell, unoccupied and unlocked, on his walk to the motor pool. The vacant bench beckoning. Decided to shut his eyes for a few minutes’ rest before his long drive home. It was the only place in the squad room for a proper lie down.

Sully remained supine but winked at Harley before turning to his colleague.

“Actually, Red, I think we are just getting started here.”