Short Story - Critique Please
Posted: February 26th, 2010, 2:48 pm
Incorrect Assumptions
MISSING BARTENDER FINALLY FOUND...DEAD
That was the headline of the magazine article. Richard looked down at his watch: six o'clock. Late enough for him to leave unnoticed. Silently, he made his way to the cafe door.
"Did you hear about the guy they found at the bottom of the river?"
Richard stopped. Two women sat behind in the corner table, gossiping at the volume of sports announcers.
"Tragic, wasn't it?" said the first. "And he was only 28 years old."
"It's that woman's fault," said the other. "If she'd kept her legs to herself."
Richard didn't want to hear anymore. Roxanne had nothing to do with the matter. Her job required her to dance, to kick her legs. He'd always found them attractive, and so did everyone else.
The doorbell rang, momentarily letting in the sound of lawyers and traffic, and an elderly man entered, messenger bag swinging by his hip.
"A bagel and a cup of coffee," he said to the waitress behind the counter. She disappeared into the back. He took out an envelope of pictures.
Richard peered over his shoulders. Smiling back at him was a picture of Roxanne, and then one of Anthony. They both looked so happy in that shot. He wondered what they were doing now.
The waitress returned with the coffee and bagel. "Three seventy," she said. The cash register clinked. The man put away the photo, swiped his card, and then left.
Richard watched him hurry away. Another newspaper reporter covering the story. It's been three years already. No one cared anymore. Anthony and Roxanne were married. He'd gone to their wedding.
Someone turned on the TV.
"The recent discovery of the body has led to the arrest of Anthony Perkins, the victim's brother and former partner. Authorities have not yet revealed the details of the case, but the trial date has been set for this Saturday."
Richard fell back in his chair. They were still wrong. Anthony was passed out under the bar that night. Richard had seen him there. Richard had been there.
"I told you it was all because of that woman," said one of the women to the other.
"I still think it's for money," said the other. "Either way, that man's the only one without an alibi, and there aren't any other suspects."
Richard got up. They were right. There was nothing left for him to do. They'd found Anthony's car keys on the body. They would never find the actual weapon. That was sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Richard checked his watch again. It was nine o'clock. Time to leave.
As he opened the door, one of the women in the back of the cafe looked up. "Look!" she cried. "The door is opening by itself!"
The waitress stopped wiping the counter. "It's just the wind," she said. "Nothing to get upset about." She closed the door behind him and returned to her work.
So much for leaving unnoticed…
Richard made his way to the side of the street. A red taxi pulled up.
"Destination?" said the driver.
"Nowhere," said Richard.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Alright," he said. "But you know there's no coming back."
Richard climbed in. "Sure," he said.
"Any last regrets, ghost boy?" asked the driver.
"Yeah," said Richard. "I wish I'd shot myself somewhere else."
MISSING BARTENDER FINALLY FOUND...DEAD
That was the headline of the magazine article. Richard looked down at his watch: six o'clock. Late enough for him to leave unnoticed. Silently, he made his way to the cafe door.
"Did you hear about the guy they found at the bottom of the river?"
Richard stopped. Two women sat behind in the corner table, gossiping at the volume of sports announcers.
"Tragic, wasn't it?" said the first. "And he was only 28 years old."
"It's that woman's fault," said the other. "If she'd kept her legs to herself."
Richard didn't want to hear anymore. Roxanne had nothing to do with the matter. Her job required her to dance, to kick her legs. He'd always found them attractive, and so did everyone else.
The doorbell rang, momentarily letting in the sound of lawyers and traffic, and an elderly man entered, messenger bag swinging by his hip.
"A bagel and a cup of coffee," he said to the waitress behind the counter. She disappeared into the back. He took out an envelope of pictures.
Richard peered over his shoulders. Smiling back at him was a picture of Roxanne, and then one of Anthony. They both looked so happy in that shot. He wondered what they were doing now.
The waitress returned with the coffee and bagel. "Three seventy," she said. The cash register clinked. The man put away the photo, swiped his card, and then left.
Richard watched him hurry away. Another newspaper reporter covering the story. It's been three years already. No one cared anymore. Anthony and Roxanne were married. He'd gone to their wedding.
Someone turned on the TV.
"The recent discovery of the body has led to the arrest of Anthony Perkins, the victim's brother and former partner. Authorities have not yet revealed the details of the case, but the trial date has been set for this Saturday."
Richard fell back in his chair. They were still wrong. Anthony was passed out under the bar that night. Richard had seen him there. Richard had been there.
"I told you it was all because of that woman," said one of the women to the other.
"I still think it's for money," said the other. "Either way, that man's the only one without an alibi, and there aren't any other suspects."
Richard got up. They were right. There was nothing left for him to do. They'd found Anthony's car keys on the body. They would never find the actual weapon. That was sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Richard checked his watch again. It was nine o'clock. Time to leave.
As he opened the door, one of the women in the back of the cafe looked up. "Look!" she cried. "The door is opening by itself!"
The waitress stopped wiping the counter. "It's just the wind," she said. "Nothing to get upset about." She closed the door behind him and returned to her work.
So much for leaving unnoticed…
Richard made his way to the side of the street. A red taxi pulled up.
"Destination?" said the driver.
"Nowhere," said Richard.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Alright," he said. "But you know there's no coming back."
Richard climbed in. "Sure," he said.
"Any last regrets, ghost boy?" asked the driver.
"Yeah," said Richard. "I wish I'd shot myself somewhere else."