Peter Ingham© 2010 Chinese Angle 1

Chinese Angle

The fairground whir of sirens approaching, auditory tantrum accreting to crescendo off in the middle-
distance. A gun cocked, digit thumbing the steel hammer, sound of a chicken’s neck snapping.

“Not how I wanted to play this babe.” Cigarette jutted out the corner of wetted lips, “Broad like you
don’t give a man much of a choice though.”

Blood from a fresh kill snaked its way down to his shoe, the black leather transformed to navy in muted
light. There were others, three more, dotted around like mannequins displaying their shock faces just
before the big sleep came knockin’.

“You ice me,” Red dress rubbing against a dust laded wall, “Might as well turn that gun on yourself right
after, save the cops the trouble.”

‘And you’d know all about trouble wouldn’t ya?” He shot a plume of smoke out, its pale tendrils
reaching for her, “You should’ve come with a damn health warnin’.”

A choir of tire screeches sounded off outside the building, first verse in an extended symphony of a
night. Boiler doors slammed shut, sirens silenced, the slap of beat cops shoes hitting the tarmac outside.
They wouldn’t come rushing in here, they knew the score, jurisdiction was a word lacking in their
vocabulary, needed it fed to them, and the guy feedin’, he was feelin’ a little tight today.

Using the revolver as an extension of his hand he gesticulated for her vamoose, get away from that slab
of concrete her rear was glued to.

She shook her head; golden locks catching light thrown from the spotlights outside, generously filtering
in through clouded glass, looked like it were on fire. You touch it you get burned.

“I wasn’t askin’ sweetheart. You know what I sound like when I’m askin’ don’t cha, all sweetness, like
your coffee, always too much sugar in there.’

Severing herself from the wall, high heels cautiously navigating a beaten floor slick with blood, one arm
clutching her purse, vintage Mcluskeys—lots of space, she brought herself to him.

He snagged her arm, fingers cold against her skin, gooseflesh rising like she was made out of brail. The
butt fell from his mouth, the violent movement unearthing it from the anchoring of his lips to cascade
downwards like a shooting star, eaten up by one of his pal’s bloody tributaries.

He tried to pull her, she pulled back. “You do this they’ll ice us both, can’t no-one see nuthin’ out there.”
Peter Ingham© 2010 Chinese Angle 2

He pulled harder, “You got it all wrong, I’m the only one haulin’ it out there, you babe, you’re the goofy
one, poppin’ three coppers and then tryin’ to do the dirty on me. Got a special place in hell just for you
types.”

“Wait—wait.” She said, hand clenching round the bag, “How’d you get a handle on me? I—I gotta
know.”

He prodded the gun into her spine, chill finger pressed against the opening in her dress, “There’s always
a sign babe, just gotta know where to stick your nose in so it don’t come up clean.”

Free hand tracing contours around leather, heading for the clasp. “Please...”

Pushed her into a wall, kept the iron focused right between her eyes, “Guess I’ll indulge ya before the
lead gets thrown around. Was the other day, some bo just finished his bit, met up with him at the gin
mill, bump gums for awhile till he stops, like the air’s been clean taken from him.

“That’s when he eyes you from across the box, watches you come over to me bein’ all pally like. Second
you dust he’s all over me, sayin’ you were the broad that nailed him after holdin’ up a liquor store. Some
drop. Dead. Flattie.”

She choked off a laugh, “Guess the jig’s up.”

“C’mon now, you never really thought you could put me under glass. When they break down these
doors all they’ll find is couple’o chilled cops and the ankle that reckoned she was smarter than ‘em all.”

“That what you reckon?”

His arm straightened out, she stared down the barrel of a loaded gun, black hallway trailing on forever,
lead weight itching to kiss her on the lips.

“Sorry babe,” His free hand reaching for another smoke, slid it into his mouth in one practiced
manoeuvre, “If it makes ya feel any better, when I croak, I’ll be sure to look ya up.”

A click, but not a revolvers hammer, of a clasp being undone, the two-step shuffle of a hand reaching
into a bag and grasping a handle, the pump of metal, but not from the shooter in his hands.

The cig escaped his mouth, revolver reaching the floor before his body, though that was swift too. Only
people gettin’ any sleep tonight would be the dead.