No Solace in Death: A Hardboiled Detective Novel by Douglas Herle

Author:Douglas Herle [Herle, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798365191112
Google: ntSMzwEACAAJ
Amazon: B0BNZCSCBG
Publisher: Independently published
Published: 2022-12-03T11:00:00+00:00

twenty-four

The first vodka sling was bitter and didn’t settle well, so I had Jim fix me another. The second one failed to make me happier. Three murders. All connected to Beatrice, and the third, of an innocent boy. Something about her corkscrew personality made me think Beatrice was responsible for the bullet hole that tore through Lonnie’s chest. The third drink came and went and still didn’t have the effect I was looking for. The fourth drink tasted sweeter, so I had Jim make me another. Another drink came and went. It wasn’t long before I could no longer see a connection between anything and anyone—all just a bunch of sick people doing sick things for their own sick reasons. They made me sick. I wanted to drive my fist into Sonny’s pale dead face, and I wished I had shot Dr. Vodnar. I’d have done more, stuck needles in his neck and tortured him with his pliers, all while sipping on his Scotch. I wanted to do those things, and I liked thinking about doing them. I wanted him to see me standing over him so that he would know that I had power over him, just like he did with me and Beatrice. Except, I didn’t care about Beatrice. I wanted to push her down a long flight of concrete stairs, watch her neck, like a brittle twig, snap as her head smashed against the concrete. The vengeful thoughts made me feel better. I wanted to remember them, but my thoughts became muddled. I tried airing out the thoughts into words, so they’d become voluble and intelligent, but the letters swirled in the air, rearranging themselves into nothing comprehensible.

A nasty look from Jim came with my next drink. I ignored it and tilted my head back. Vodka and lemon and sugar slid down my throat and into my stomach like a child tobogganing down a snowy hill. I liked the idea of hurting people. My voice grew louder. I called out for another vodka sling, hoping it’d help kill the image of a dead boy hidden away in an old airplane. Jim handed me the drink with conditions that my numb ears couldn’t hear. My hand swiped the glass from the bar and vodka splashed inside like a little hurricane, but it went down smoothly and tasted sweeter than usual. It was the revenge that I wanted, but I no longer knew who I wanted revenge against. I shouted the word murder and then giggled.

Jim pulled the glass from my hand and told me I’d had enough. I yelled at him for acting like my mother. He ignored me, so I carried on yelling at him about his crummy bar with crummy lighting and crummy air-conditioning that never worked and that his bar wasn’t worth puking in. I enjoyed telling him these things, so I went on and told him about his crummy anger management problems and that there is medication for his problem, and I used to know a doctor who would prescribe that medication.

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