Monday, 19 August 2013

Morigan 3

My hope to update every day floundered when my friend came to stay at short notice. I've had a lovely time frolicking this past week, but back to the grindstone. Here's part three of my slightly hokey noir-esque crime.

As he shouldered the front door open and kicked the mail out of the way, Morigan thought about Frankie and his collection of exes. He’d never met Darlene but he knew she was a whiner. Despite the fact they’d been divorced for eight years, she still thought Frankie was the root of all her problems. Sandra on the other hand was just unlucky-in-love. Of all the ex wives Sandra was the most sane and Morigan actually kind of liked her, or at the very least he recognised what Frankie saw in her originally. Bouncy, blonde and ditsy, Sandra was the poster-girl for what you didn’t want an ex-wife to be: likeable. Morigan knew that Frankie and Sandra were still friends and that if Bex ever found out Frankie would be denied certain husbandly privileges for a very, very long time. Maria of course was everything the other two weren’t. Driven, fashionable, and severe from her manicured talons to her designer accessories. The alimony she claimed must have been out of spite, as she herself had a highly successful business selling off the possessions of the dead.
Morigan struggled to remember the last long-term girlfriend he had and came up blank. He had trouble trying to find his type of woman and so usually went for the type that you didn’t have to call in the morning. Shrugging off his jacket and toeing off his shoes he stumbled towards the kitchen and the stash of bourbon he kept in the cupboard next to the boiler. He wrinkled his nose a little at the way his socks stuck to the tacky floor; he should really hire a more efficient cleaner. 

He grabbed the bottle from the cupboard, retrieved the mail and slunk over to the couch. Junk, junk, bank statement, junk, letter from ‘Anne Acquaintance’?
“Hunh, very cute” he mumbled. He took a swig from the bottle and tossing the others aside, ripped open the inconspicuous white envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with two words typed neatly in the middle: STOP LOOKING. Morigan sighed; it was amazing how creepy people could make something so pathetically un-violent seem threatening. His jaw tightened and his left hand twitched involuntarily as he reached for the phone on the coffee table. He dialled the office.
“Yo, Lisa?”
“What is it now?”
“Hey beautiful,” Morigan said this in an attempt to butter her up of course; Lisa was a wiseass receptionist and not overly reliable. Morigan liked her well enough but although he enjoyed the back and forth, Lisa was definitely not his type of woman. At 55, she was too old and far too cranky.
“Listen buster, don’t go pullin’ that smooth talkin’ bull on me. If ‘t’ain’t in the job description, I ain’t doin’ it.”
“Actually, it is. I need to report a threatening note.”
“Oh really? La di da, what does this threatening note say then?”
“It says stop looking.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me, it don’t even have no bad language in it. Who you lookin’ for anyhow?”
“Mind your beeswax and just put it on file would you?”
“Don’t take that tone with me mister, I’m hard at work and your sittin’ on your lazy bee-hind.”
“Are you goin’ to do it or not?”
“Maybe. You better fill out the report tomorrow though ‘cause I don’t really want to see you now, I might just whoop your ass.”
“’Night Lisa”
Morigan heard the click at the other end of the line and knew that Lisa wouldn’t file the report, she never did. He took another swig from the bottle, propped his feet on the table, switched the phone for the remote and kicked back. The criminals of the world could wait, he thought, he was watching the game.

No comments:

Post a Comment