Mulroney’s Dirt

Author's note: I was inspired to begin work on this terrible serial novel by a recent trip to the year 1934. This is part 1.

She let them slip, one by one, from her fingers. She knew.

"Why? How could you? How COULD you?"

I paused. I couldn't give her the high hat. Not like this. Not here. My mug ain't much to look at but I don't much fancy shaving with my eyes closed every morning. I had already given her the skids once, out in Alameda, around the time of that Biondi mess. Lord knows I was still paying for that.

"Why, Vaughn?" I don't think she knew if it was my first or last name. It wasn't either.

She was a tough curve, and holding it back well, but she was about to slip. The doe-eyed act was pretty good. Not good enough.

The truth was, I didn't know why, and I had a half-full bottle to crawl into back at El Camino. I took a last look at her ashen hair, the lock that had fallen over her forehead. I thought of a half dozen farewells, but in the end I turned and silently walked away. Sometimes you have to.

When I didn't hear the hammer cock on the derringer I knew she kept in her purse, I was a little disappointed. Half a mile later, a glass or three of rye with a bourbon chaser took care of that, and everything else.