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Life, Death, And A Guitar
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TITLE (EDIT)
Life, Death, And A Guitar
DESCRIPTION
Life can turn on a dime and sometimes the guitar doesn't make it.
[480 words]
TITLE KEYWORD
Crime
AUTHOR
Susan Brassfield Cogan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author of MURDER ON THE WATERFRONT,
Read a review from OVER MY DEAD BODY:
http://www.overmydeadbody.com/ladymarg.htm
Order now from Amazon.com http://countess.notlong.com
Please visit my website: http://www.coganbooks.net

[September 2005]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (12)
A Rainy Night In Baghdad (Short Stories) This rain is the piss of Satan! [812 words]
Jubilee, A Novel (Novels) Paris is in flames and the hungry guillotine waits . . . [4,571 words]
Murder On The Waterfront (Novels) Lady Margaret is an artist and amateur sleuth, Monahan is a hardboiled detective. Together they solve a murder with international implications. [2,358 words]
Nanotech (Short Stories) Alien technology is not for everyone! [971 words]
Path To The Top Of The M Ountain (Short Stories) You never know who is walking beside you. [500 words]
Pick A Pocket Of Sunshine (Short Stories) What a beautiful day for petty crime! [379 words]
She Dances Down By The River (Short Stories) Danger in the firelight. [453 words]
The Assassin (Short Stories) What lurks in the chill of the night? [440 words]
The Honor Of A Lady (Short Stories) Steel is drawn when the honor of a lady is besmirched. [321 words] [Humor]
The King's Best Soldier (Short Stories) Beric races for home, haunted by a Dakhanni demon. [1,270 words]
The Stone Of Immortality (Short Stories) Do you want to live forever? [1,145 words]
Wicked They Come (Short Stories) What is making that darned noise? [2,930 words] [Science Fiction]
Life, Death, And A Guitar
Susan Brassfield Cogan

"The drugs are in the guitar."

He sat across the street on a bus bench, huddled behind the guitar and rocking back and forth. He was strumming the thing, but made no attempt to play it. He was thin and seedy looking, fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Jim and I sat in an unmarked car, pretending to sip cold coffee and read newspapers.

I wanted to go over and bust him now and maybe get him into a program, but this sick adolescent was only a go-between. Jim and I were waiting for a Bigger Fish to arrive.

"I used to do drugs sometimes when I was a kid," I said.

"Marge, there's a big difference in what you did and what's in that guitar."

"True. That stuff didn't even exist when I was a kid." I took a sip of the coffee. The boy was blond, and his short hair looked like he had hacked it off himself.

Finally the Bigger Fish turned the corner and swaggered toward the bus bench with his fists shoved deep in the pockets of expensive bluejeans. He looked like a low-rent James Dean in a black leather jacket.

"There's our boy," I said. Jim nodded. He folded up his newspaper and eased his gun out of its holster. I did the same. Now came the tricky part-- busting them without spooking either of them too early. The Fish was too sharp to turn his back to the street.

I shoved my gun into my jacket pocket and got out of the car, pretending to look for something in my purse. "What's the matter, Hon?" Jim called as he got out of the car. He was a lousy actor, but he got the job done.

"I left my keys in the store," I said, and headed across the street with Jim only a few steps behind me.

The Fish didn't buy any of this; he made us with one glance.

"Shit!" His fist came out of his pocket filled with a Saturday night special. The kid with the guitar turned as white as grade school paste.

"Police," Jim and I shouted at the same instant. The Fish fired three wild shots at us and snatched at the guitar. The kid clung to it, rigid with panic. Without hesitation the Fish put two rounds into the guitar. The thin ashwood didn't stop the .22 bullets, and the kid crumpled like a paper sack in the rain. By then I was across the street.

The Fish took off, and I went after him. When we were almost to the corner, I made a grab for him, but all I got was the neck of the guitar. He ducked around the corner. Jim pounded past me and went after him.

I stopped, puffing, and looked at the ruined guitar with the blood on the back. "Shit," I said and went back to the bus bench to clean up the mess.


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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2003 Susan Brassfield Cogan
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
October 2003
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1981
 

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