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Twenty

A short story

By Jimmy OrrPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
1

Dom hung up his apron, left the kitchen and headed home after another long shift. There was nothing particular significant about the day’s events. There never was. There was never meant to be yet. This was the stop gap job to save enough cash to live the dream. And he was nearly there; just a couple of hundred dollars short of his target and he was gone. Goodbye kitchen. Goodbye dead end job. Hello opportunity!

As he emerged from the alley and onto the lit street he glanced down the road. There she was. Of course she was, she was always there, every night for as long as he could remember. One drunken kiss had forged some invisible bond or created some warped alternate reality in her mind in which, obviously, they were meant to be together.

He pretended not to notice her strolling purposefully towards him and began walking briskly in the opposite direction through the Friday night crowds; an awkward fusion of intent and faux nonchalance. His apartment was only a few blocks away, but instead he ducked down the side road that led to an old, run down garage, two builders yards and a caravan park long out of business. He himself in the shadows and looked back long enough to see her walk past the junction. Should he risk venturing back on the main street or wind his way home the back way?

What happened next made his decision for him.

A man stumbled out of the old garage and fell into Dom, collapsing at his feet. He had with him a cheap, black sports holdall that he grasped tightly in his hands - hands bleeding from deeps cuts and scratches. The scratched hands were the least of his worries.

“Help me, please” the man said. “I’ve been shot.”

Dom knelt beside him and reached for his phone “Let me call 911. Where are you hurt?”

“It’s too late for that. Listen to me carefully. I need to you take this bag to a friend of mine tonight.”

“That’s crazy, let me help-“

“Shut up and listen!” The man cut Dom off and coughed, gasping for air and life. He pulled out a small, black notebook and opened it to specific, bloodied page before handing in over to Dom.

“Here’s the address. Ask for Mr McConell. Give him the bag. Nobody else, just him.” He looked up at Dom with pitiful, greying eyes and pleaded “Please. Please do this for me.”

“Ok. I can do that.” Dom replied, barely believing he was agreeing to this insane arrangement.

“Thank you. Now go! They’re coming!”

“But what about you, I can’t just leave... you here...” Dom’s words trailed off as he realised the stranger had died, right there on the back road. He didn’t even know his name. And now he was charged with this crazy crusade.

Before he had any real chance to process the bizarre encounter he heard footsteps. They approached quickly from the same direction the dying man had arrived. Dom grabbed the bag and held the notebook in his hand and began to move off quickly. The address was a club on the other side of town, and more by luck than judgement the road he was on would lead him right there.

The night had turned cold by the time Dom arrived. He approached the door. The doorman, a mountain of a man, walked a couple of paces to meet him and held out one of his enormous hands. “Not tonight pal.”

“I have to give this to Mr McConnell” said Dom, hoping the magic words would be enough to gain access to the establishment before him.

“You’re not the regular delivery guy. Where is he?” Said the bouncer, looking around for either trouble or a familiar face.

“Shot.” replied Dom bluntly. “I don’t know by whom, I don’t know what for. Man, I didn’t even know the guy’s name. He just gave me this bag and this notebook and told me to deliver it to a Mr McConell at this address.”

Dom waited. The massive man looked him up and down before choosing to believe the story and waved Dom inside.

“Mr McConnell is in the VIP lounge. Up the stairs on the left.”

Dom thanked the gatekeeper and followed his directions which led him into the upper room of a club. Loud dance music and bright lights filled the air and the atmosphere was thick with frivolity and escape. There was a man seated on one of the plush red sofas in the corner. Immaculately dressed, sipping champagne flanked by the most beautiful women in the room with men, orbiting like satellites around the alpha male, trying to appear cool by association. That must be him.

He approached. “Mr McConnell.” He felt all eyes fix upon him in an instant.

“Do I know you?” Came the reply and the obvious once-over from everyone in the vicinity.

Dom had never felt more out of place; dressed straight from work, another man’s blood on his hands and clothes. But he composed himself and spoke again.

“We haven’t met, but I have something for you. Perhaps you would like to take a look?”

McConnell excused himself from his guests, and with two associates close behind, led Dom to another room off to the side.

“Who are you?” began McConnell’s interrogation.

“Dominic Pierce, sir”

Dominic? He hadn’t been called Dominic for years. Even his late mum only ever called him Dominic if he was in trouble. Perhaps that was it. Maybe he was in trouble.

“Do you know what this is, Dominic?”

“No, sir.” Replied Dom. At which point he retold the story of how he came to possess the mysterious black holdall - the shot stranger, the notebook, the plea and the ominous footsteps,

“You’ve done well” acknowledged McConnell, reaching into the bag and pulling out cash. Lots and lots of cash. “So well, in fact, that I should perhaps reward you.”

He turned to his associates and asked “how much were we going to pay Antonio?”

“Twenty, boss” one replied with absolutely no trace of a personality in his voice.

Twenty dollars. Not much, thought Dom, but it would at least buy a couple of drinks to make sure the evening wasn’t entirely wasted.

“Very well.” McConnell turned to Dom. “These gentlemen will give you the twenty thousand to show our appreciation. When you’re done here, Dominic, why don’t you join us for the rest of the evening? We’ll be in the casino suite.”

Twenty Thousand Dollars!!!

Dom still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What started as such a mundane Friday, finishing work and avoiding crazy woman as usual, was now nothing of the sort. Swept up in the environment and atmosphere of the club, and welcomed into McConnell’s inner circle, Dom sat back and enjoyed the ride. The drinks, the women, the energy, all of it fused into the best night of his life and with twenty grand burning a hole in his pocket all sense and rationale was left well behind in games of black jack and roulette.

As he made his way home in the small hours of the morning he began to drunkenly reflect on the evening’s events as all inebriated men do; how easily he’d been drawn into this strange enterprise, how quickly he’d gained, and lost, twenty thousand dollars! That was his ticket out of this life and it vanished so effortlessly on a flurry of black and red numbers.

He turned the corner of his street and made towards his apartment before a dazzling something grabbed his attention. Blue and red flashing lights and the hustle of conversations around the base of his building sobered him up swiftly.

“Step away please, sir” rebuked one of the officers involved as Dom tried to make his way inside.

“But, I live here. This is my building. What’s happening?”

“What number apartment is yours sir?”

“13”

“Unlucky for you. Come this way please.” said the officer leading Dom through the mass of police officials and into the apartment block, up the stairs and to Dom’s front door that had been severely damaged.

“Your neighbours called us when they heard the break-in earlier this evening. There are reports of a gunshot too that we’re investigating. We need you to take a look and see if anything is missing.”

The glass on the door was broken and a forensics technician was taking a sample of blood from the smears left on the shards. Inside the place looked like a war zone. Every room had been ransacked. Every item of furniture damaged. Units emptied. Items discarded and clothes and gym gear strewn across the floor. Most worryingly, the lockbox containing his hard-earned savings had been prised opened and left empty on the sofa. The whole lot gone.

Dom sank to his haunches and put his aching head in his heads.

A female officer approached and, with a soothing compassion in voice, asked “are you alright?”

He looked at her and smiled. How was he supposed to answer that?

“I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.” said to try and cover up the ridiculous nature of her first question. “Do you think anything has been taken?”

He composed himself, stood up, and with a wry smile replied

“Yeah. About twenty thousand dollars and my black gym holdall”.

fiction
1

About the Creator

Jimmy Orr

trying something new...

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