Thermos
Flash fiction inspired by @Jon T’s Prompanteau prompt generator
Hail spattered the glass like half-a-dozen submachine gun rounds. I winced and spun my chair around, then relaxed and shook my head when I saw the bullets were fresh from a cumulonimbus and not from one of Diamond Dick DiMaggio’s stooges. There’s a reason I don’t have my desk in front of the window.
“Jumpy, boss.” The kid broke a stick of gum out of the packet he always carries. Offered it to me, I shook my head and growled. Kid chews that stuff like a cow on its cud. Filthy habit. I pulled my packet of Lucky Strike out of my raincoat and lit up, sending a fragrant bluish cloud across my desk and making the kid cough.
My pleasing reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. I raised an eyebrow at the kid, and he slipped over to give the visitor the once-over through the spyhole. Business would be welcome, with rent due and customers mostly frightened off by Diamond Dick, but it didn’t pay to take chances.
Kid gave me the thumbs-up, and I nodded at him to slip the chain from the door. I kept my ass on the cracked leather of my chair and slipped my fingers round the cold steel of my Colt .38 Special.
A tall buxom broad marched in, nearly impaling the kid on the door handle.
“You Lil’ Mikey Curtis?”
“I’m Michael Curtis,” I said, putting a touch of frost into my tone. “But ain’t nobody calls me little.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” said the broad. Her lip was trembling. “Only my Aunt Gertie, that’s your momma’s neighbor from down the street back in Thermos, called you Lil’ Mikey. I don’t mean no offense.”
“Well, have a seat,” I said, after looking her up and down and deciding she didn’t pose a threat. The kid pulled back the chair for her.
“My assistant, Bobby Bavinck,” I explained.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the kid said. He sounded nervous, which I think was the effect of the broad’s perfume (Guerlain Shalimar, if my nose wasn’t deceiving me) and the platinum tint of her hair.
Meanwhile, my interior vision was flipping through the pages of my old life in Thermos, Indiana. Like a leaden echo, like one of Diamond Dick’s slugs in my gut, I could hear my momma’s voice the morning I lit out to make my living in the Windy City.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” said the broad. She stuck out her hand. “Peggy O’Rourke.”
I narrowed my eyes and passed my .38 to my left hand while I shook her hand with my right.
“I don’t remember no O’Rourkes in Thermos,” I said.
“That’s my married name.” She pointed at my cigarette. “Say, can I have one of those?”
I passed her the pack, and flicked her a flame from the brass lighter a grateful client had once gifted me, in the days when I still had grateful clients.
“So what were you before O’Rourke?” The Irish name made me uncomfortable. Italian mafia was one thing. I didn’t want to get mixed up in any other type on top of that.
She took a drag of the cigarette. “Palmer. My Aunt Gertie is a Mitchell.” Her voice sounded steadier.
“All right,” I said. I could picture her Aunt Gertie now. The thin, spiky type of older lady, all hairpins and aprons, but heart like warm gingerbread. I pushed off the other memories of Thermos that came along with that one. I had left the cornfields and dusty drugstore of that one-horse town for a reason.
“What can I do for you, Mrs O’Rourke?”
“You want me to take notes, boss?” The kid was pulling a pad of paper from his desk in the corner.
“No, I want you to jump out the window. Mrs O’Rourke?”
She took another long draw of the cigarette and blew the smoke out real slow, like she’s trying to get a hold of herself. I moved my .38 back to my right hand, under the desk. She was either upset about something, or faking it real good, and my money was evens.
I opened my desk drawer with my left hand and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Medicinally licensed, of course.
“Bobby, pour the lady a drink,” I told the kid. “And one for me while you’re at it.”
The kid jumped to his feet and grabbed a couple of glasses from the shelf, but instead of reaching for the bourbon he picked up the vacuum flask he was always carrying around with him.
“I can offer you a cup of tea if you’d rather, Mrs O’Rourke?” He took a step towards us on the creaky floorboards. The carpet had been repossessed last month.
“Shut up and pour the bourbon,” I snapped at the kid. “Now, Mrs O’Rourke, what can I help you with?” I was running through the likely scenarios. Missing husband, dead husband, threats, the usual. Unless she was really working for Diamond Dick, and this whole thing was set up to lure me down and pump me full of lead.
“Oh, Mr Curtis!” Her eyes kind of misted, and my betting leaned more towards the husband scenario. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Oh, Mr Curtis! I don’t know how to tell you this…”
I slugged back my shot of Old Forester. “Husband disappeared?”
“No! My husband died of influenza in 1919!”
“So what’s the issue?”
“Mr Curtis, I got word from my Aunt Annie — that’s Gertie’s sister, you understand — that the whole Chandler Heights neighborhood got blowed up early this morning!” She shuddered and kind of sobbed and carried on. “An accident at the fertilizer plant, they said! And my Aunt Gertie and Uncle Raymond, and your momma, they’re all gone!”
Over in the corner, the kid dropped the lid of his thermos and spilled hot tea all over the dirty floorboards.
“Son, I guess you better pour us all another bourbon,” I said.
Hooked. The details are lovely. The names! All so good. Thank you for playing.