Killing Shore by Timothy Fagan

Author:Timothy Fagan [Fagan, Timothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781732459601
Publisher: Fireclay Press
Published: 2018-06-26T22:00:00+00:00

Oliver and Croke were hunkered down at the Sanddollar Motel on that Saturday, waiting until they got a further assignment or else the 'all clear' to split. Sitting in Croke's room, each on one of the twin beds, watching crap on TV. Sitting up like those puppets on Sesame Street. Ernie and Bart?

"I think some of these rooms are being rented by the hour," muttered Croke.

"Huh? Who cares?" Croke was getting on Oliver's nerves, clicking through the TV channels aimlessly.

"It's just a lot of traffic. Couples checking in for a few hours, taking off. More people to see us. Maybe remember us." Croke finally stopped clicking when he saw baseball.

"Those people aren't dropping a dime. What'll they tell the cops? I was giving my mistress a nooner and I saw two shifty guys at the Sanddollar? Live and let live, that's what I say. Unless someone pays me otherwise."

"I'm getting a bad feeling about Cape Cod," said Croke. "Kinda real bad. Maybe we should take off, huh?"

Take off, and leave the big money and glory that Oliver was certain would soon be his? Not damn yet... "Let's go to that burger place with the fat pickles you like. Talk it over."

Oliver had him at pickles. "Okay," said Croke reluctantly. "But first I gotta piss." Croke slid off his bed and shadow-boxed into the bathroom. One of his quirks, showing off what he claimed had been pretty good boxing skills, back in the home country, in his youth. Just ask him, he'd tell you. At length.

Another of Oliver's annoyances with Croke was the man was a slow pisser—he took longer than anyone Oliver had ever met. He needed one of those medicines from the Golf Channel. Oliver didn't want to loiter outside among the adulterers so he just lay there on the spare bed, closed his eyes and tried to close his ears. The Croke situation was getting on his nerves and giving him a headache.

When they finally went outside to get in the Taurus, they found their way blocked by a woman. A woman in what appeared to be a bathrobe. She stopped Croke with an angry gesture. "This your car?" she asked.

"Is something wrong?" asked Croke. Looking a little confused and maybe amused.

"You're parked in my spot." She gestured to room thirteen.

Croke was staying in room sixteen and Oliver was in ten. Croke had split the difference when he'd parked last night, smack in front of room thirteen. Had done it most days since they first arrived at the Sanddollar Motel. He remembered that earlier in their stay someone had rubbed the word ASHOLE in the dirt on the back window of their last car, but when Oliver had noticed it he'd just wiped it away, assuming some stupid kid had been showing off his bad language and worse spelling. Maybe instead it had been a stupid woman? Whatever…

"These are not reserved," said Croke to the woman. He waved an arm. "People just park."

Two kids, maybe between four and six years old, had spilled out of room thirteen and were watching.

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