Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus/ Art by Bernice Holtzman
“Melody?” Bingo Joe said. “Who’s she?”
“That Cowell dude,” Georgie said. “Who was buying this building. ‘Cept he’s a chick.” He looked anxious. “Where is she?”
In the foyer, there we were: Georgie, our boss, in his flowered shorts. All Jimmy Buffett. Bingo Joe and me, the soon-to-be fired supers. Or so Georgie thought.
“What’s so funny?” he asked me.
“You went out to get beer,” Bingo Joe said. “You see her come in?”
“No,” I said.
That blonde, Barbie-like bitch in the blue suit. With eyes to match, I bet. I hadn’t looked into them . . .
Like Bobby G. had.
“George?” she’d called him. Smiling, he hadn’t corrected her.
Bobby G., who’d been right there when two tenants were found dead. Both chicks: Looney Tunes hanging from the shower bar in 1-E; Kissy-Face drowned in a vanilla bath in 2-D. For hours, the hallway had smelled like wet Nilla wafers.
“I don’t get it,” Georgie said. “Melody texted she’d just pulled up outside.”
The twelve-pack was downstairs, on our kitchen table, getting warm. I wanted to go crack one so bad, but I couldn’t leave this.
“I flew all the way from Florida to meet her!” Georgie whined. Like the love of his life had stood him up. “And she ghosted me.”
“She’s gotta be somewhere,” Bingo Joe said.
Up in 2-B, I thought. Bobby G.’s place.
How had he done it this time? Or maybe she was still alive. If there’d been screams, every tenant would be down here, eager for blood. Ghouls, every one.
“I keep texting,” Georgie said, “but no answer.”
If her phone was upstairs, would we hear it?
“Too soon to call the cops,” Bingo Joe said. “Just a few hours, tops.”
Again, I thought of that beer. By now, our cat Noodles would be sitting on top of it.
Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Why you so quiet?” he asked me.
“I’m thinking,” I said, “Somebody had left here right before me. A lady. Nobody I knew. Kinda dressed up. Got in a blue car.”
“What kind of car?”
“But the new ‘owner’ . . .” I tried not to smile at that word. “Was a guy.” I jumped as the lobby door opened behind me. “Like you said.”
“I wasn’t sure!”
“What’s up?” Bobby G. standing behind me gave me chills.
“But why would she leave?” Georgie suddenly turned and bolted outside. Shrugging, Bingo Joe followed him.
Wearily, Bobby G. lowered himself onto the stairs. Like whatever he’d done had sucked up all his energy. His face might’ve been flushed.
“I could use a beer,” he said. “Even a warm one.”
For the first time ever, I sat down beside him.
“It was a done deal,” he said. “She wanted this place bad. But not you two.” He edged closer. “You two’d be sleeping in the park. Cats in shelters . . .”
Downstairs, I pictured Noodles stretching, yawning, on top of the beers.
“You owe me,” Bobby G. said, in a dreamy voice.
Wanted, he’d said.
Outside, Georgie and Bingo Joe searched for a faceless woman in an imaginary car. A blue Beamer, I should’ve said.
“Nahh,” I said, smiling. “Actually, you owe me.”
Bio: Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in places like Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and has published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
Artwork: Bernice Holtzman
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Cindy Rosmus!!! Wow!!! Cindy Rosmus, queen of the flash, never disappoints. It’s great to see her hail The Yard straight from The Garden State.
Thank you!