He tasted like ash, called himself Frank, hired me to look for his wife but a man was dead. A curiosity, how a man smiles so with the back of his head gone. Frank, all sweat and shake, vomit stinging his eyes, seized movements making me nervous. I lit a cigarette and gave it to him, but he dropped it, the blood hissed.
Digging through the dead man’s pockets: came empty.
‘I can’t believe you shot him,’ Frank’s voice creaking, worn and dry.
‘It wasn’t an accident.’
He shook his head, wiped his brow. Continue reading