Blood Money

Previous Flash Fiction

On the third day of the sixth month of his fifty-seventh year, Randall Bass woke up knowing exactly what to do.

For most of his previous thirty-five years, three months, and four days, life had been much the same, punctuated by occasional major events: job in his twenty-second year, marriage in the twenty-fifth, children in the twenty-eight and thirty-first.

Every morning, he had dressed in a blue or gray or brown suit, with a white shirt and a tie striped in shades of brown or blue or gray. Coffee and two slices of white toast, morning bus at seven fifty-three, evening bus at five-fifteen. Home by six, and dinner with the family. At some point, it became dinner with only Gladys. And then dinner alone.

In his fifty-fifth year, Gladys had been diagnosed with cancer.

He’d spent months arguing and pleading and threatening the insurance company as all the claims were denied, excluded from coverage, or considered experimental treatment.
For five months, he’d watched her suffer and die as debt depleted their modest savings and retirement, leaving sixty-six thousand, three hundred twenty nine dollars and fifteen cents in medical bills not paid by insurance.

A month ago, on the four-hundredth day following the funeral, his boss had called him in and explained the corporation had outsourced accounting to the Philippines, then handed him his walking papers. No severance, no benefits, no gold watch. Thirty-five years with the same corporation and nothing to show for it.

Following his termination, he’d endured a month of coffee and toast and dressing in khakis and T-shirts, of sitting in front of the TV, of uncertainty.

A month of foreclosure, repossession, and shame, courtesy of the greedy insurance company and their lack of coverage.

But this morning Randall awoke knowing exactly what to do.

At seven fifty-three, he caught the bus, and transferred downtown. He walked into the bank at nine twenty-six. At nine-thirty, he greeted the teller and made his request, knowing she would have to act.

He had the patrons, the tellers, and the guard on the floor by nine thirty-two, a result of producing his Beretta.

Sirens cut the air ten minutes later, but Randall was long gone.

For twenty days, he thrilled to his new career. Four banks, sixty-six thousand, three hundred twenty nine dollars. He kicked in the fifteen cents himself, from the tray on his dresser.

On the twenty-third day of the sixth month of his fifty-seventh year, Randall dressed in a blue suit with a gray tie, grabbed the duffel, and caught the seven fifty-three bus. He transferred uptown and carried his bundle into the lobby of Advent Insurance. At eight-forty Randall greeted the receptionist and asked for the claims examiner, knowing she would have to act, and she acceded to his request.

Mr. Wilson strode into the lobby at eight forty-three, dressed in a black suit, hands on hips, brows drawn down into a sharp vee and ready to argue, a payment pugilist.
Randall pulled out the Beretta and urged the patrons and the guard onto the floor, and Mr. Wilson front and center.

Randall smiled as he emptied the cash on the floor and stepped into the heap, topping it with two nickels and five pennies and inviting Mr. Wilson to join him.

“My wife is dead. I’m bankrupt. Here's the funds to pay the claims. Now you have your blood money,” Randall announced to the patrons and the claims examiner. He dropped the gun onto the cash.

On the granite floor, the patrons looked at each other but didn’t move. The receptionist peeked around the side of her desk.

At eight forty-five, sirens screeched and red and blue lights flashed in the street outside. Seven cops stormed the lobby, guns drawn. They approached the two men standing in the pile of money.

“Which one’s the thief?” said the lead cop.

“The one in the black suit,” said the receptionist.

Kelly Whitley
Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook ~Blog

Look for more flash fiction in the October edition

Previous Post: Junk Food

Copyright © 2011 Kelly Whitley
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Junk Food

By Kelly Whitley


Think of Robbie.
Shoving his conscience into the closet of justification, he tucked the package of Twinkies under his jacket, keeping his gaze fixed on the fisheye mirror in the corner of the convenience store. Jay’s stomach growled in frustration from two days without food. He couldn’t feed Robbie flour and Crisco.

Saliva filled his mouth as he anticipated the sweetness of the yellow cake and its fluffy cream filling. As he sauntered toward the clerk, Jay kept his arm pulled against his side to support the purloined snack against his ribs.

Nearly to the door. The clerk snapped her gum, then narrowed her eyes. “Hey kid. Whatcha got under your jacket?”

Jay’s eyes popped wide, and he bolted for the front door with everything his nine year-old legs could give. It swung inward, knocking him backward. White light exploded behind his eyes as his skull contacted the tile floor. Pain stole his breath.
A hand tangled in the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. The twin pack of Twinkies skittered across the tile. A hulk of an adult in a Loomis General Store apron loomed over him.

“Where ya going, ya skinny runt? Stealing from my store, are ya?”

Jay’s legs turned to cooked spaghetti, leaving him dangling from the man’s fist.
Behind the counter, the clerk goggled at the two of them, gaze volleying from Jay to the man. “Want me to call the cops, Mr. Loomis?”

No! He couldn’t get arrested. He had to get home to feed Robbie. He was only three, couldn’t get food for himself. The man flumped Jay onto the floor, propping him against the checkout counter.

Scrabbling in his pocket, Jay pulled out two pennies, a quarter, and his cat’s eye marble and offered them to the man. “That’s all I got, mister. Please, lemme go.”

Mr. Loomis parked his hands on his hips.

“Pleeassse, mister.” Jay levered himself upright against the counter. The ache in his head brought tears to his eyes. “I’ll never come in here again, I swear.”

The bell over the door jangled, taking Mr. Loomis’s attention. Jay raced for freedom, blowing by the startled woman. He crossed the parking lot and street in the space of a few heartbeats, and pounded through the empty field toward home. Beneath his shirt, the package of bacon poked him in the ribs.

This ought to last a few days. Maybe Mom would come back from her vacation by then. She’d never left them alone longer than a week.
Otherwise, he’d try the Gas ‘n Go.

Kelly Whitley
Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook ~Blog

Look for more flash fiction in the September edition
Previous Post: Foreplay
Copyright © 2011 Kelly Whitley
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Foreplay

Lila stood on the narrow ledge of the fifth story.

Below, the red and blue lights of law enforcement rioted across the crowd of onlookers.

Above, a news helicopter recorded footage for Eyewitness News at Nine.
Behind her, the curtains billowed out the window, a diaphanous wave in the fading purple of twilight.

Rodney lay dead in the hotel room, a plastic bag over his head, erotic asphyxia gone wrong.

The best sex had turned out to be the last.

Lila stepped off into space.