One-Minute Noir

by Christian De Matteo

When the rain goes horizontal, you’re best to keep low. I kept low at a dive bar, five steps down from street level in what was once an old Chinese meat locker. That’s where I found trouble. A guy named Jehoshaphat, straight out the Bible. Told me to call him JoJo, which I figure was better than Phat. Said he had woman troubles. I said, “That ain’t too original.” Said she was trying to divorce him. I said, “They got lawyers you can take for that.” He said, “You don’t understand; I’m worth 6 million dollars.” I said, “You got kids?” He said, “Yeah, but they’re worth less than that. I need this to go away. By the way, what do you do?” I said, “Whatever needs doing,” ‘cause maybe I like trouble. Gave me his address and said, “I’d love your take on the situation.”

I waited for the rain to slow. It didn’t, so I went out anyway. Not keeping low. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. Women are a lot smarter than we are. At least, that’s what I’ve found. She had some good words, so we waited for him to come home, cuddling, canoodling and doing a few other things. He stumbled in around 4 in the morning. He looked like a sack of trash hiding 6 million dollars. She did the work. No idea where the gun came from ‘cause I’d searched her pretty thoroughly. I turned to express my admiration for her preparedness and caught a slug in the belly.

I was the intruder. He was the late-home hubby. Hers was the tragedy, and no one will ever know the truth of this tale. I think I prefer it that way.

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