What A Buck Will Get You

Flash Fiction by J. David Harper

Marie Haddon was sprawled on the floor of the dollar cinema lobby like it was a spa for rich dead people. Dried blood was pooled out for five feet around her head, and Detective Mills walked around it to get a three-sixty of the body.

A couple of uniforms stood by the ticket booth interviewing employees, and a fingerprint tech slathered the place with dust. Good luck with that, Mills thought.

His partner, Danny Consuelo, tugged on his collar with a thick index finger to give his throat some breathing room behind the tight button and brown clip-on tie.

“M.E. says last night sometime, probably around midnight,” Consuelo said. “Give or take.”

Mills knelt down and poked at the victim’s left hand with a pencil.

“You see this wedding ring?” he asked.

“Yeah. Hell of a rock.”

Mills stood and looked around the lobby like there might be something more interesting to find.

“So where’s the husband?”

Consuelo tugged at his collar again, twisting his neck around to buy a little leverage.

“Denver. Business. Flew out TWA yesterday. We left a message with his hotel but he hasn’t called back.”

“Last person to see her?”

Consuelo sighed, pulled off the clip-on tie, and unbuttoned his collar. He took a deep breath like it was his first one in a week.

“Kid who works concession. I talked to him before you got here. Said he left around eleven-thirty, and she was closing up the till. Which is still loaded with cash, by the way.”

“You rule him out?” Mills asked.

“Couldn’t be. He’s got more zits than guts.”

Mills sighed and pulled out a pack of smokes. Consuelo cleared his throat and hitched a thumb toward the wall behind him. Mills looked up to see a stern No Smoking sign glaring down at him.

“Jeez,” Mills said. “Places keep this up, I’ll have to move to the Soviet Union.”

He walked outside, and Consuelo followed. Mills leaned against the wall of the dollar cinema and lit up a Merit Gold.

“Ok,” he said. “So we’ve got a till full of cash and a wedding ring as big as Houston.”

“Yep,” Consuelo said. “So not a robbery.”

“And the husband’s not in the picture.”

“Maybe,” Consuelo said, waving the smoke from Mills’ cigarette away from his face. “He could have hired somebody.”

“Maybe,” Mills said. “Or maybe somebody found out they butcher movies at these places and decided to butcher the owner.”

Consuelo turned to look at his partner.

“What are you talking about?”

Mills dropped the Merit and crushed it out under his shoe.

“Apparently,” he said, “You see a movie at one of these dollar movie outfits, you don’t see the whole thing. They cut bits out.”

“No shit?”

Mills pulled out his cigarettes, clocked the look on Consuelo’s face, and put them back.

“I saw Indiana Jones at one of these places a couple years ago,” he said. “Broad I was dating – “

“Danielle?”

“No,” Mills said. “This was before her. It was Brenda, or Beverly, or Belteshazzar or something. It didn’t last. Anyway, I hadn’t seen it, she said I didn’t know what I was missing and dragged me out to Movie For A Buck over on Jefferson to see this masterpiece. Right in the middle of it, Indiana Jones is kicking the crap out of the bad guys with a leather whip, and this big dude comes out with a sword, so Jones pulls out a gun and shoots him. This chick lets out a gasp, and I say, ‘Right? If he had a gun, why didn’t he use it on everybody else?’ She says, ‘No, you don’t understand.’ Apparently, in the big theaters, the big dude with the sword comes out, making a show of things like he’s going to slice Jones into deli meat. Then Jones shoots him. Supposed to be funny, I guess. I tell her that doesn’t answer my question; he could have used the gun all along, and the whole thing was stupid.”

Consuelo leaned on the wall, waiting. Out on the street the traffic light changed, and someone honked their horn.

“Well?” he said. “What did she say?”

“I don’t know,” Mills said. “She mumbled something. I didn’t see her after that.”

“How did you meet this chick?”

“I busted her sixteen-year-old son for selling hot eight tracks.”

Consuelo belted out a laugh.

“And she wanted to date you after that?” he said.

“She said I might be a good influence on the kid.”

“Were you?”

Mills shrugged.

“Didn’t last long enough to find out.”

“Where was he getting the eight tracks?”

“He was working at the Talamons over on Kirkwood Street.”

“The one that smells like mildew?”

“Yeah,” Mills said, “that’s the one. Every time they got a case of eight tracks, he’d stock the shelves but leave a few behind for himself. Sold them for half price to students at Barton High.”

“Speaking of solving crimes,” Consuelo said, nodding towards the cinema entrance.

Mills scratched the back of his head and eased off the wall.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we should do something about that.”

Consuelo chuckled.

“Who knows,” he said. “Maybe you’ll bust some broad’s kid for murder and get a date out of it.”

Mills smiled and opened the door.

The uniforms were still conducting interviews, scratching notes in spiral pocket pads. The fingerprint tech was busy twisting his brush over countertops like there might be less than a zillion prints on it.

“It was the thirties, right?” Consuelo said.

“What was?”

“Indiana Jones.”

Mills stared down at the body like the answer might be written in blood.

“Yeah,” he said. “During the Nazi buildup.”

“Maybe he was afraid he’d run out of bullets.”

Mills turned and looked at his partner. A slight nod bobbed his head.

“Now see,” he said, “If she had said that, we’d probably be married by now.”

“Sure,” Consuelo said. “And already divorced.”

Mill’s head kept nodding.

“Yep,” he said. “Probably.”

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Bio: David Harper wrote those movies you never saw and those books you didn’t read. His short fiction, essays, and poems have appeared in Altered Reality Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Haven, Potato Soup Journal, Mystery Tribune, Right Hand Pointing, and Front Porch Review, among others. His plays have been produced on both coasts, and his films and web series have won multiple awards.

You can find him at his website HERE

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