Frank “Shorty” Biggins
Frank roamed the sterile hospital hallways as if he’d been there for weeks waiting for the good news about a critical loved one. Ears perked, he took a deep Qi-clearing breath and listened as if listening for church bells on a cold Sunday morning. He listened for the tell-tale hyperventilated moans, tears streaming, chalkboard grind of stretcher wheels, doctors abandoning their even keel façade for alarmed commands as if life itself depended upon it, for tentative condolences, the whoosh of sheets pulled over the face and most importantly the sound of death.
The smell of speed screeched rubber drifted in with the wind. A gunshot wound to the abdomen, late 40’s, male, black-haired caucasian, EMT’s frantically applying pressure, blood soaking down the sheets, a 1990’s Rolex sparkling on his wrist. The staff immediately transports the victim to surgery. Frank bounces on the tops of his toes peeking through the door’s window, watching nurses declothe him and stuff the belongings in a white paper bag.
For forty-two minutes Frank paced waiting for the stranger to stop breathing. He followed the veiled body as it rolled down to the elevator on its way to the mortuary. The gurney driver momentarily sets aside the white paper bag repeatedly jamming the big yellow button. Frank makes his move darting his fingers through the clothes as easily as ghosts walk through walls, extracting a red wallet with fly speed.
The driver jolts backwards finding Frank in a hair’s width, his small head floating belt high, smiling with lips like shriveled bacon. He nods good day, then walks outside where the doctors smoke pulling out a long effeminate Virginia Slim. Frank opens the wallet, flashes a picture of a woman for the two doctors present and exclaims “Beautiful, she’s beautiful.” And she was, spot lit by blue lamps. Both men looked curiously at each other, shoe-crushed their glowing butts and politely extracted themselves.
Frank pocketed the wad of fifties along with the credit cards, a spare key and several prized chinese fortunes, slipping the dead man’s family photo inside his boy-sized cap on top of the others. He sat across the street with his knees slightly knocking together on a bus stop bench mugging a cold beer bedded in a paper bag, waiting; ears perked, taking a deep Qi-clearing breath.
Great story! God bless
Ha ha... If you're going to do the deed, might as well do it right. Poetry noir... it works for me.