almost always bad. It's evolutionary. Flies and rats know that sudden movement means predator. Same with people. Especially people with guns. You either have to move very slow or very fast--faster than they can react. Guns fire pretty fast.
"Now then, what would some street punk like you want with Morarty?"
"I need his help." A long silence.
"With what? Spit it out before I shoot you to relieve the boredom."
"My father. Two weeks ago someone broke into his house and murdered him I need to--"
"Oh, boo hoo. Little boy lost his daddy and now he goes around trying to dig up old ghosts to get some romantic idea of justice! You have no idea what you're getting into, kid."
"My father was Peter Rosenkov." A sudden inhale. Another silence. For a moment, I think he might pull the trigger right then and there, but he doesn't. He grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around--remarkable strength. It's the same old man I had seen just seconds before. Gone is the lazy, dazed expression. His eyes are sharp like a hawk's. Every part of his body seems primed, like a hammer just waiting to come down on the bullet. He stares me down for a long time.
"Liz. Coffee. Arnold. Take care of my patient. I'll be in my office." And with that he turns me around and leads me down the hall, always training the gun on my back.
***
I'm sitting in the patio of a cafe on some gaudy shopping street. My coffee is lukewarm and half-finished. I can't drink too much. Ordering too many cups makes me look suspicious. But I can't linger either. I've been flipping through a newspaper to pass the time and lower my profile. My partner--a couple tables away, of course--has been applying makeup and texting absurdities to people who don't exist.
I ogle her for a bit. Partly to keep my cover, partly for personal reasons. She is brutally good looking. Bobbed black hair. Supple skin. Fierce but gentle face. Well-proportioned. Her womanly physique is not at all marred by the daily workouts. Her hands are delicate like a child's as they play with a burning cigarette. They were stained with blood only the night before. Everything about her is like a well-honed knife--elegant, flowing curves, culminating in a ruthless edge. I can see myself falling for her. Crazy bitch.
She looks up. Her eyes widen. 45 minutes late, the mark has arrived. She pays the bill and gets up. I return to my paper and set my watch. Five minutes and I'll join the hunt as well.
"Now then, what would some street punk like you want with Morarty?"
"I need his help." A long silence.
"With what? Spit it out before I shoot you to relieve the boredom."
"My father. Two weeks ago someone broke into his house and murdered him I need to--"
"Oh, boo hoo. Little boy lost his daddy and now he goes around trying to dig up old ghosts to get some romantic idea of justice! You have no idea what you're getting into, kid."
"My father was Peter Rosenkov." A sudden inhale. Another silence. For a moment, I think he might pull the trigger right then and there, but he doesn't. He grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around--remarkable strength. It's the same old man I had seen just seconds before. Gone is the lazy, dazed expression. His eyes are sharp like a hawk's. Every part of his body seems primed, like a hammer just waiting to come down on the bullet. He stares me down for a long time.
"Liz. Coffee. Arnold. Take care of my patient. I'll be in my office." And with that he turns me around and leads me down the hall, always training the gun on my back.
***
I'm sitting in the patio of a cafe on some gaudy shopping street. My coffee is lukewarm and half-finished. I can't drink too much. Ordering too many cups makes me look suspicious. But I can't linger either. I've been flipping through a newspaper to pass the time and lower my profile. My partner--a couple tables away, of course--has been applying makeup and texting absurdities to people who don't exist.
I ogle her for a bit. Partly to keep my cover, partly for personal reasons. She is brutally good looking. Bobbed black hair. Supple skin. Fierce but gentle face. Well-proportioned. Her womanly physique is not at all marred by the daily workouts. Her hands are delicate like a child's as they play with a burning cigarette. They were stained with blood only the night before. Everything about her is like a well-honed knife--elegant, flowing curves, culminating in a ruthless edge. I can see myself falling for her. Crazy bitch.
She looks up. Her eyes widen. 45 minutes late, the mark has arrived. She pays the bill and gets up. I return to my paper and set my watch. Five minutes and I'll join the hunt as well.
