Not long now, James thought. He sloshed the purple liquid around in the glass, took a tentative sip.
The bed was turned down, the blue and white comforter pulled back to reveal the crisp red flat sheets, nary a wrinkle or errant thread to be found. He smoothed his pants down again. Shined his shoes.
The clock serenaded him as he drank and the gun taunted him from the nightstand. Perhaps an hour had swam by as Jame’s thoughts crawled around his brain, feeding on stray thoughts.
Her shirt had smelled of Polo. James clutched the glass, nostrils flared. Polo.
His loafers reflected the overhead halogen. Moths flocked to the flickering light, swarmed his thoughts. The merlot boiled in his stomach and James popped Tums to keep it down.
It was 7:45pm before she came in and started. Emily noted his sour expression and the gun. He seized it before she could back fully out of the room.
“Jimmy.” she said, voice pleading.
He rose and downed the rest of the bottle. He waved the gun at her. “I thought we had an agreement! Why did you have to pop my brother?”
She relaxed. “He was a rat, Jimmy.”
Emily shoved her hand down her cleavage, and James averted his eyes. She withdrew a set of cassette tapes labeled “Confessions 2/1/46” in red ink.
He stared at the offending object.
“You’re sure?” He was already holstering his gun. Damn him. Damn her.
Emily nodded, “Heard it with my own ears.”
He sat on the bed, smoothing out another imaginary wrinkle. “Who’s next?”