Hypothetical

This week’s new flash fiction was published Tuesday in “The One That Got Away” issue at Pistol Jim Press. https://open.substack.com/pub/pistoljimpress/p/hypothetical-by-scott-macleod?r=2sz29p&utm_med

Hypothetical

“You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take. I always liked that saying. Joe Montana, I think. Well, I finally took my shot.”

Angie just stared at Ernie. Didn’t say anything. Out loud. Inside she was screaming. It was Wayne Gretzky, of course, who’d said that. You don’t take shots in football. Anyway, she wouldn’t have to listen to this kind of thing much longer.

“I took the loot,” Ernie continued. “Why not? They owe me. The bastards. But I’m gonna be hot for a little while. Red hot. En fuego. We will have to lay low for a bit.”

Angie explained that there was to be no “we” anymore. Nor would there be any “laying”, whether low or otherwise.

Ernie was crushed. Naturally. He began to mount a defense. But even he had the sense to know he dare not tarry. They’d be coming for the money. And him. Fast.

He said, “To be continued,” but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be.

Ernie bought a used Charger with some of the cash. A bucket list purchase. Headed west.

Outside Scranton he stopped at a motor inn for the night. Lugged the trash bags of bills to his room after sundown. Then adjourned to the adjacent tavern to unwind.

It was mostly empty. A few occupied tables. Nobody at the long bar. He took the very last spot hard against the paneled side wall. For once he wasn’t in the mood to talk. He spent a little of his new windfall on whiskey.

An older gent wandered in about an hour later. Sat a couple stools down.

Ernie by now was feeling the effects of corn liquor on his loquacity and, more true-to-form, now desired some company. Or at least an ear to bend. He motioned his neighbor to slide down.

At first the man demurred, but Ernie sweetened the pot. “I’m buying.”

Over he came.

“I’m celebrating,” Ernie explained. “I guess. And drowning my sorrows. Kind of a good news, bad news day.

“I’ve had an interesting week. Big doings at work, made a killing, but my girl left me. I feel like she was the one.”

Ernie drained another Buffalo Trace. Flicked away a tear.

“You know that feeling, I’m sure. Nothing hurts worse than the one that got away, am I right?”

The stranger leaned over, as if to whisper something conspiratorial. Secret advice. Words of support. What he was doing was shielding Ernie from the rest of the establishment’s patrons as he ran a long blade through Ernie’s liver. With his other hand he muffled Ernie’s groans to ensure no undue attention.

He propped Ernie’s head against the knotty pine, leaving the dead man by all appearances to be right as rain. Then the killer stood to leave. He already had the missing bags of cash repacked into his own trunk. He’d head back to the big city to report in after another successful job.

But first he finally answered Ernie’s question.

About the one who got away.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll let you know the first time it happens.”