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Grusome Murders Solved by Detective Rufus Bradford


Chapter 1 
The Lucky Bastard
Slam door. Enter Rufus Bradford. Trench coat, fedora, two bullet wounds scars in a diagonal going from the throat to the chest. The corner of his mouth holds tightly a unlighted rolled cigarette. The tobacco is falling out from the tip. His eyes are sharp and they quickly scan the area, hands in trench's pockets. Four police officers, one victim. Begin ritual. Detective Rufus Bradford pulls out his hands from the pockets of his coat. The left one is holding a small metal lighter with no inscription, the only thing that remained of his father after a useless, long fought war. The right hand carefully holds an open cartridge. The left hand thumb opens the lid of the lighter then proceeds into synchronizing with the right hand, as it's pouring the content of the open cartridge on the old emptied lighter, rolling the small spiked wheel. The gunpowder ignites in a powerful and spectacular red flame, the only color in the room, which ignites the tip of the cigarette. It dies out immediately after that. All this time, detective Rufus Bradford's eyes don't stop the examination. He puts his hands back into his pockets. His throat makes a strange but silent roaring noise and his right hand now reaches into the coat's chest pocket, grabbing a small notebook with a pencil attached. Ritual stops, begin analysis. He goes to the only window in that room. There is not much traffic. He looks at his watch: 9:03. The sun's first rays cannot pierce through the heavy clouds. The city is gray, cold. The city of New York: cold as death at night, hot as the inferno in the afternoon. He flips a few pages and begins to write. First entry:
"The body was found in a fetal position, sitting on a chair which is balanced forward making a 48 degrees angle with the ground."
He looks behind him again. Second entry:
"The head is leaning against the corner of the table sustaining the whole body and balancing the chair - skull is fractured, corner of the table penetrated between the two brain lobes."
For the first time he approaches the body. Putting away the notebook for a moment, he puts on his leather gloves and removes the collar. No signs of strangulation or any other lesion. He looks closely at the head. The corner of the table is half way inside. He picks up his notebook, he flips a few pages and closely analyzes a brain diagram. Below it, a skull. He flips the pages again to the current case and once more he adds an entry:
"The part of the brain that ensures survival: heart functioning and breathing - heavily damaged. The victim died in an instant. Time of death:"
He looks again at his watch: 9:04. He notices a few drops of blood dripping from the victim's forehead. He follows one swiftly. It lasts only for a glance. It drops on the floor below. He calculates the interval of dripping blood drops then compares it with the size of the accumulated blood on the floor. He breaks the silence:
"How was this crime reported?"
"A neighbor called accusing angry shouts and, generally, a lot of noise." the oldest officer answers immediately.
"How fast did you get here?" he prompted.
"My patrol was at 2 minutes away from this apartment, this time the youngest officer proudly replied, Sergent Tim got here a couple of minutes after me."
Detective Bradford checked his watch one more time then looking straight into the eyes of each police officer he said in a resolving tone:
"Right when he called me. I got here in ten minutes. We have accumulated together about a quarter of an hour."
He was looking as if he wanted them to place the next puzzle piece. His stare was long and cold. Cold enough to make they're bones thinner and thinner until they crumbled. Under the pressure, Sergent Tim reacted:
"Where are you going with this?"
"Is the body making any noise now?" Bradford asked as any other reasonable question.
"It's not! What do ... "
"Fifteen minutes ago, the neighbor called to complain about a disturbance in this apartment. Thirteen minutes ago, two of your officers found a dead body: silent. The size of this blood pool, according to my calculation, indicates the time of death exactly thirteen minutes ago, leaving the murderer with no chances of escaping, looking at Sergent Tim's expression he quickly added, considering the body position and the unusual circumstances, yes, this is a murder!". Detective Rufus Bradford always knew how to make things short and how to continue an impolite interruption with a polite, critical and accurate piece of information. One of the young officers changed his expression and the color of his face to a pale green.
"What is that?" his voice trembled pointing at a small pink-yellow piece in the shape of a heart, all covered in blood, lying on the desk.
Bradford didn't break the eye contact and he talked slower then usual, emphasizing every word:
"It's a piece of his brain."
The officer covered his mouth with his both hands. Green-yellow liquid started dripping through the spaces between his fingers. Sergent Tim knew there was no time to waste:
"You are saying that ... "
"The killer is in this room, Sergent!"
As if someone ordered it, Sergent Tim and his officers  placed a hand on they're holsters, except for the sickened officer and for the detective. He preferred resuming his scanning and his eyes quickly stopped on a nearby sturdy wood drawer. The following second it blew into tens of splinters and a perspiring fellow made his way out. He looked into the eyes of the detective like a snake ready to make his swift attack. He then took a plunge out the window, falling eight stories with a finishing crumbling metal and broken glass sound. The impact would have been surely deadly. The detective resumed to saying a whispered: "Lucky bastard" then after a short glance out the window he stated, his voice echoing in the mostly empty room:
"Buick 41"
The answer came from Sergent Tim, almost like an angry shout: "Dam bastard!".

Chapter 2 
Dame in Scarlet
It was another one of those suffocating, hot New York days. I was in my office, climbed on one of my leather covered chairs, donation from one of my grateful clients, trying to fix the sun blinds. It was no easy job, so I had my shirt untucked, with five buttons opened. I was almost done tinkering those damed cheap blinds when my screwdriver slipped and the right part of the blinds fell completely on the ground. Thus, I could see the whole building in front of the building where my office was and the whole street. I had to make an effort to bear the unbearable sun rays and the heat that they were generating. However, I could see between my half opened eye lids the enormous amount of cars and the unhealthily heavy dense crowd. A world of black and white, melted by the furnace-like heat. I was often wondering if we were in hell already or yet to be. Because the real world could never be like this.
My mind started spinning again. The blood was pumping with an increasing speed through my veins, as if trying to escape. My head was exponentially growing bigger and bigger and my eyes were dangerously out of orbit. I decided to leave the screw driving business for later. I sat at my desk and took out my Colt M1917 from one of the drawers. Opened the cylinder and stared a bit at the whole construction. I could see through each of the six slots how my life could have ended. My superstition indicated that I shall not be granted any more chances. I wasn't a superstitious, nor a man of faith nor any of that bulls... nevertheless, I was ready to follow this belief. I was sure that Death was tired of postponing his meeting with me, though we looked each other in the eyes more often then a man should and could in a lifetime. I looked into the open drawer. It had a handkerchief full of greasy spots and black spots. I took it and started to clean my gun. Inside the drawer there were some empty boxes, not a wise thing, and a handful of .45 ACP bullets. However, loading my gun was not my business now. I opened the other drawer. I took a small tin box, emptied its content on the table, which didn't just happen to be a few too many pills. I had one for every psychological, physiological and other ilogic diseases. I held the revolver by the barrel and started smashing all the pills with the gun's end, just below the grip. I had my glass full of tap water prepared into which I dropped the newly obtained "medical dust". Since I got those two beautiful scars on my neck, I couldn't speak, eat or breath properly. I held the skin of my neck as far away as physically possible from my throat and proceeded into taking small and fast sips from the composition. Did I feel better? Not even if I were to glide with the stars. I resumed the cleaning of my gun. The cliche knocks on the door. I knew I should have placed a door that had a window like any other office in my trade. I looked in the bullets drawer. The knocks repeated themselves, this time harder and with much more sound. Call it detective intuition, but I knew exactly what hides behind that door, so I looked away from the gun's drawer.
"Come in!" I tried to shout but I found myself without voice. I tried again, but the door was already opening. By the time I met my visitor's eyes, I had my shirt neatly tucked, all the button closed and the tie probably a bit too tight around my neck. With one quick hand gesture, the cylinder swinged back inside the double action, solid frame six-shooter, then almost instantaneously I pulled the hammer back, a reflex I wished I didn't have right now. I could barely breath and I was cursing all the late nights I spent and all the unhealthy mornings with coffee, cigarettes and scarcely breakfast. In spite of all, I placed the hammer in its initial position, placed the gun back inside the drawer and closed the drawer with my lap while standing to greet my visitor.
Well, you haven’t seen anything ... wait for me to get back with my feet on the ground and I’ll tell you. Right after this cigarette. Fortunately, I had it already rolled and lighten between two folders containing case files. Picked it up between the thumb and the index, placed it between my lips in the corner of the mouth, holding it tightly. I sucked from it and the unbreathable hot air went through the burning tip of the cigarette, through the tobacco carrying chemicals through my throat, where it burned awfully, straight into my lungs. It felt so bad that I had to put it back. One of the folders was opened and I had a strange feeling of knowing too much about a newly acquired case. It was a silently murdered postman. The investigation was done mostly by the police and, when they ran into a dead end, they did what they always do. The way that I got my money every day. They send it to a private investigator: to me. I somehow knew already the things that were written in the raport, though it was clearly not my writing: style or calligraphy. Murder weapon: TV cable. I knew I was never there and I just got the case. This strange feeling of me loosing it was a little too often lately to be overlooked and the drugs just didn't work anymore.
"I came to you because they say you are the best. They say you know everything. Even before you see it!" a female voice interrupted my flow of thinking and scrambled my thoughts. For a second I forgot who entered and the shock and amazing feeling that were challenging me - I must have had a really stupid expression because it followed:
"I'm sorry to interrupt you. I decided on my own to jump straight to conclusions since you decided on your own to jump over the greetings and formalities. I hear you're a difficult person. Quite a strange individual. I really don't see what they mean." she ended sarcastically. Dozen of strange vibes were traveling my body. Was this losing my minds again, or was this something else? For once, I felt embarrassment not knowing if any words could come out when I will try to speak. The other feelings I could not describe. Something was there, on my forehead, right between my thoughts. Something that I felt even from before the opening of the door: perfume.
"Roses?" I finally managed to get out of the complex situation I found myself in - not in the perfect way.
"They really are right about you! I'm impressed, even if you deformed it a bit: Rosie! Nice to meet you!" she maintained the position of her feet, but her torso and right arm were pointing at my chest. What was this? Few moments followed. Total blank. Then I realized.
"Oh, Jesus! I'm so sorry! Rufus Bradford is my name. I'm so very sorry, it's a rather difficult day for me. I was asking about you're perfume if you don't ... mind" I made a pause while touching our hands. Her soft grip, her gentle palm, the beautiful -
"Ha ha! Roses, yes!" she said finishing as started with a gentle and polite giggle.
- roses perfume! It was staggering! Everything about her matched. The perfume, her name, her scarlet dress, the beautiful elegant hat with a delicate and modest pink feather, her ginger hair ... the beautiful expression. For the first time in many years I was astonished. My face was not neat any more - it had many lines dictated by the sands of time. My voice was not as before - it had an involuntary harsh and violent noise attached. My hands, the scars. Twenty years of work. Was I becoming soft? Was I losing my mind? Women were for me a mere occasional flirt. A rich diner, a night at the cinema, a drink at the local pub, a walk in the park. Never have I felt in such ways.
"Excuse me, sir!"
"Rufus!"
"Excuse me, Rufus! I might have came in a wrong time, or maybe the wrong -"
"Right time, right place! How may I help you?"
"If you don't mind, we could start with changing the tone and the atmosphere of our encounter considering the reason of my arrival and, if I don't mistake, detective, the nature of your trade."
I soon realized the stupid grin on my face. Wiped it out clean.
"Certainly, madam! I am most humbly sorry and I beg of you to accept my sincere apologies." was that a drop of a cynical remark in my speech? Why was I angry about?
"I need your undivided attention, detective!"
"Rufus!" I answered a bit pushy.
Her eyes fixed mine. Her eyes were begging, almost wet.
"But yes, you have my full concentration! Please, sit down, and I shall follow you!"
Done as said. The information I received was detailed and concrete. I was writing it down to her last word. Letter by letter went through my ears, into the processing unit of my brain and from there, traveling as an impulse straight into my arm and fingers which wrote the results. Her voice, her diction, her way of telling things, all amazing and -
"Detective? Are you listening?"
I decided that I will not embarrass myself anymore. I changed the approach. I stood.
"I have all the important pieces of information that I need. I'm on my way to the morgue now. I wrote down your address, so I will visit you with any further information or progress."
I was categorical about it and I left no space for a reply. She just stood, said a soft and gentle: "Thank you, detective! And good luck!" then she left. I picked up the leather holster from the gun drawer in my desk, took the leather strap and placed it across my chest. On it, the holster, on the left side. I took my Colt opened its cylinder, loaded six .45s, closed the cylinder with one quick swing gesture, pulled the hammer and placed the gun in the holster. The trench coat and fedora were part of the trade's tools, so I couldn't leave them. Not even on this hot temperate day. I picked up the notebook, indispensable, and placed it in the chest pocket where it belonged, along with its attached pencil. Took another look in the office and I was on my way out.

Chapter 3 
Private Investigation

In the turmoil and stifling hot air outside , my minds went on different paths. My nostrils still retained that roses smell, intensifying with every breath I took. The crowd today was overwhelming, the sidewalk was crying under the weight of the many sinking pedestrians going both ways. I managed to make my way to a phone booth. I placed my hand in one of my pants' pockets, trying to feel the handkerchief, pulled it out and picked up the small receiver with it, placing it against my ear. Doctor Montgomery's office telephone number was commited to my memory as a result of thousand of investigations. I had some unfinished business at corner to Main St., so I decided to set my leads before making useless trips.

“Saint Clarissa Morgue, Doctor Montgomery speaking!”

            I was ready, pressing the small notebook against the phone booth window with a pencil over it, ready to spread its graphite all over its blank page in recognizable letters.

            “I've got a missing person, Monty!”
            “And I miss the days when you used to stop by my office and say hello before you started a conversation. How's it going, Rufus?”
            “Aged 35, moustache, glasses...”
            “Yes, the body just came in. Soft injuries on ...”
            “Does he have a wedding ring?”
            “Excuse me?”
            “Answer the question, Monty!”
            “No... however!”

            I placed my fingers on the telephone's fork, prematurely ending the conversation. I switched the hand back to holding the small notebook, made a quick note and straightened my head, releasing the pressure on the telephone receiver against my shoulder. The wire connecting the telephone to the receiver made a few winding shapes before straightening under the weight of the hanging receiver.
            No time to lose, I had another mystery at hand, for the usual fee – plus expenses. As I sped up towards corner to Main St., past my office, past the Pawn Shop, past Jon's Pub, I quickly flip through the pages of my notebook until I reach the desired page. Mrs. Annabelle Marple, aged 83, missing husband. I hadn't had any time to dig up on this case, no reports, nothing in the archives, no records. My instincts point towards murder, but no motive to support it. I had some classics in my old notebook – treachery and treason – there's always an excuse for it. I was in front of a... by the color and resonating sound, mahogany door... open. I grab the door knob, gun in right hand and, with a devotion towards my calm, I make my entry. A white dog on the floor and a woman on the couch, both looking strangely stiff. Did I mention the smell? Bye bye roses perfume!
            It was too late! I holster the weapon and make my approach. Handbook ready. My heart stops for one minute. It lets three heart beats bounce off my chest then stops again for one second before resuming its usual rate. The woman was staring at my eyes, looking straight into my soul, with a look as lively as a four year old's.
            Permit me to explain myself. In my trade, I meet more dead people than alive ones. Dead men tell no tales? Wrong! Dead men tell you everything you want to know, you just have to carefully read all the signs. Bruises? Blunt weapon. Wounds? Sharpened edges. I had more “conversations” with the dead than with the living. Anyways, they have these... eyes. The look! That's what I'm guessing that will get me in the end, if it's not a .45. And what have I got at the end of the day? A bottle of whiskey and enough to cover the rent.
           
            “Hello, dear!” the woman bursts as calm as the night, as generous as the Sun, as lovely as chocolate bon-bons.
            “Mrs. Marple?” I respond in astonishment.
            “Yes! Yes! Oh, where are my manners! Coffee, dear?”

            She didin't wait for an answer. She lift herself up faster than a bullet would traver my Colt's barrel, heading towards the kitchen.

            “Josie! You're always sleeping! Look how fat you got!”

            Was she talking to a fallen pillow? She seemed as if searching for something... ah, yes! The glasses. Time for my first entry: “Blind as a bat.”. I raise my eyes to observe her again. With glasses almost falling off her nose, she makes a quick swirl. A quick and confused swirl. Now she sees the dog, she points and waves her fingers at it.

            “Josie! Come and eat something!”

            She makes her way to the kitchen, giving me enough time to study the dog in detail. I decide to begin the procedure with a few soft kicks with the tip of my shoe. Second entry: “The mutt is dead. Judging from the decomposing flesh, utterly and completely dead – for long.”. I pull out my gun and shoot it in diagonal. I scratch the graphite tip of the pencil on the notebook: “Deaf.”. Mrs. Marple appears with two cups on a silver tray. She places the tray on the coffee table, places her cup aside, picks up the second cup and gives it to me.

            “Sugar, dear?”

            Last entry on this case: “The old hag is nuts.”. One more thing before I declare case closed.

            “Yes, please!”

            The woman slowly reaches for the tray, utters: “Where is that darn sugar?” then goes for the kitchen once more. With Mrs. Marple out of side I quickly place the sugar back from my pocket on the silver tray, place my empty cup next to her empty cup, scan the room, spot the telephone, pick up the receiver and dial the second number commited to my memory. Lucky she was able to pay the telephone bills.

            “Chief Inspector Fullard speaking.”
            “Rufus. I have something you need to take care of at corner to Main St.”
            “What is this about, Bradford?”
            “How fast can you look someone up?”
            “It depends on...”
            “Mr. Marple. I'll be at Jon's, call me there when you get something!”

            I place the telephone receiver back into its fork and dissapear from the appartment. Looking with the corner of my eyes, I see people getting out of they're appartments, checking out Mrs. Marple's open door. I see two police vehicles, through the side windows, in front of the building. I hear Mrs. Marple crying: “Dear?”. The old fire exit trick, never gets old, never fails. I'm outside speeding for St. Clarissa but something stops me.
            Rufus, Rufus, Rufus! Again with the rushing of things? I open the notebook once more and review everything below “…missing husband”. But, of course!
            In a second I’m back inside the apartment, flashing my badge around.
            “Step aside, officers!”
            I start scanning the room, when…
            “What are you doing here? We were assigned to this case!” one of the two fat officers interrupts me.
            “Detective Bradford? How do you always arrive so fast?” the other officer, who I did not recognize, asked me.
            I choose to ignore them whilst I scan the room patiently. The kitchen table has dinner served for two. The dog is still lying there, on the floor, officer unsuspectingly. Mrs. Marple, in shock from all the commotion. A door sealed with a big lock. As the impatient, soon to become annoying officer tries to interrupt my stream of thoughts again, I look at him, smile and while making my way towards the door I shout:
            “I’m sorry, officers, I’m way ahead of you!”
            Near the door, the smell I felt the first time I got into the apartment intensifies.
            “Mrs. Marple? What can I find behind this door?”
            “Oh, just memories.”
            “Memories?”
            “Old things that me and Ben didn’t need anymore, but wanted to keep as memories. We decided to put a lock on it so that we may never have to worry about them standing in our way anymore.”
            Somehow I felt that the line that Mrs. Marple uttered was telling me too much. I went on:
            “And the key to this closet?”
            “The key… Oh, Ben used to keep the key. I never saw it again since he left. He said he will keep it as I was, and forgive me, Detective, but still am, a very forgetting woman. He also wanted to check on his old skis periodically, as he was not so sure he wanted to give them up to the memory-vault just yet.”
            “Detective, but we were called here about a loud gun-shot-like sound. We don’t know what…”
            “Please, Officer, you were called here on my account as I was merely testing the sound suppressing capabilities of this chamber, following my suspicions of a possible murder with the use of a handgun. As my first supposition proved wrong, I absolutely must see what lies in this closed, emphasizing the word <<lies>>. Now, if I may.”
            My vocal cords were already over used and I felt the scars burning. With gun in hand, perpendicularly held upon the lock, pointing downwards, I felt the need to end my speech with a grand, loud explosion. And there he was! Buried under a pile of old wooden skis, the body was so swollen up, so decomposed and so… unnaturally blue-black purple-ish, that no one could have ever recognize him again as Ben Marple.
            “And voila! Officers, this is now you case! Tell you chief to send me a check!”

Chapter 4

Old Pub, New Customers

When I entered Jon’s Pub, it was the same bell clapper that hit the edges of the bell, announcing a newcomer, the same welcoming mat, full of dusty foot prints and whatnot, the same bar, the same music, the same feel. But something was out of place, something I could not quite put my finger on.
            Jon was irish. He was as irish as his father and his father was as irish as his father. Thus Jon, was as irish as his father’s father, whose name was on the sign outside. That’s right, Jon O’Hara, was actualy Jon O’Hara the third. And there he was, behind that old wooden bar, doing what he was doing all the time – wipeing a beer pint clean. That, when he wasn’t wipeing the entire bar. I sat on a high chair.
            “Hello, Jon!”
            He glanced in my direction only once, avoiding my eyes. Then he started talking to the beer pint.
            “Oi, oi!”
            “Whiskey, please!”
            “Ye demand me a whiskey as if I asked ye wha’ ya wanna drink. Are ye here to pay ye tabs, old mate?”
            Now he starts looking at me.
            “Oh, common, Jon! You know I always pay them when I got the cash. And I pay them good!”
            “Well fook me straight if ye paid them now! How long has it been since ye were here last? One, two months? Three months tops? I wan’ed to send the fooking micks after ye, mate. And now ye come here like this is yer fooken house, or what?”
            “Jon, don’t get me wrong… “
            “Bloody fooken sorries, guv’nor, I’m not ye fooken dust wipe!”
            Jon seemed to be calming down. That was just his temper, like a soda. However, it was funny to me how he always compared things with wipes. And not just one type of wipe. Actually, I never heard him using the same type of wipe in any sentence. Or in a day, for the matter. Dust wipe, sink wipe, “arse wipe”, he was shooting with them all, like an agitated Thompson. I knew Jon from the…
            “Are ye shuttin’ ye gutter now? Open ye fooken pie hole and say something!”
            “Whiskey, please.”
            He stares at me for a second then he cries:
            “Fook me sideways, yer a fooken character, Roofie, ye are! Ye know that? A fooken character!”
            Then he starts laughing and muttering words under his moustache while still giggling and pouring a single-barrel into a glass.
            “So, how’s business, Roof?”
            “Same. You?”
            Jon leaned over the counter towards me and looked me in the eyes.
            “I’ve got meself some bodies right here!”
            “What are you talking about?”
            “Look behind ye. But shhhh!”
            I turned my head and at four separate tables, four separate men with four separate beer pints in front of them. They looked tired, I wouldn’t go as far as saying they looked dead, though immortal was more appropriate. Jon started giggling again.
            “What did you give them?”
            “Same piss yer drinkin’. Everybody drinks the same piss here.”
            Jon could not stop giggling.
            “Oi, solve me this one, Detective, and the next whiskey is on the house.”
            I knew that Inspector Fullard was going to call any moment, interrupting his gibberish. He was going to tell me that there were absolutely no written records on the Marples, that since they’re immigration from the islands and they’re borrowing of they’re nephew’s apartment in New York, resolving in him going back to Britain to get a Bachelor of Science degree, a copy of which he would send back to the States to his grandparents, and taken in consideration the devastating state of Mrs. Marple’s descending mind, the Marples did not get out of the apartment other than for a carton of milk every day, two loafs of bread and food for the whole week. Yes, I could tell all this from the stack of junk they called memories. The copy of the BaS framed and nailed on one of the closet’s wall, the british flag on the skis along with the lack of skiing from the regular New Yorker, Mrs. Marple’s accent, the kitchen table, the pictures of the nephew spread around the house, and the empty hands of the officers present at the scenes, who were supposed to hold some sort of identification from Mrs. Marple, which, in this cased, was inexistent, thus virtually impossible to produce.
            But I needed that phone call for something else. I had to start my investigations on the lady’s in red case and that body from the morgue sounded awfully promising.
            “Oi! Oi! Are ye paying any attention?”
            “Yeah, yeah! Common, I’ve got to be somewhere.”
            “Ye better be somewhere! Getting’ me money, that’s where ye’d better be! So hear me out. I go to this booze, this… alcohol auction. Dusty, old stuff. Really expensive. Keep that in mind, okay? Now… ye followin’? The auction goes on, uninterrupted, until they bring out a… pay attention here! A one. Hundred. Years. Old. Pure pot still whiskey! Ye gettin’ me?”
            The bar phone starts ringing. And what a pleasant sound it makes to my ears. I hear Fullard’s voice from my high chiar. Jon passes me the phone.
            Bradford. Absolutely nothing, no written records of the Marples. We found, however, they’re nephew registered as residing at the address we have attached to the Marples case. He left for Britain quite some time ago. My suggestion would be that the Marples…”
            “Rest you breath, Inspector Fullard, I know the story. I need you help with something else right now. “
            But what was it I was needing? I took out the notebook, I flipped the pages as quickly as I could, I went through the whole notebook – twice. Nothing. Nothing? Nothing! Nothing! But I wrote it there, in front of her! I remember perfectly, on the exact same notebook. Even if I couldn’t remember what was it that I wrote, I wrote it! I knew it!
            “I’ll get back to you, Inspector Fullard, sorry!”
            I gave Jon the phone. The color of my hands changed and I felt cold chills. My palms were perspiring. I looked at Jon who began to watch me with a worrying look on his expression. This was a novelty for me, Jon with a worried look, but I’m guessing I was the cause for it. He didn’t dare say anything. I tried to seem as calm and as normal as possible.
            “What’s with them here, anyways?” pointing at the separate tables behind me.
            “It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, Ruf man. And you’re drinking whiskey.” Jon’s answer came with a slight tone of mercy and a tremor in his voice.
            Now my whole worry, panic and attention switched to the whiskey glass. My right hand still held the glass in a strong grip. I had to make my exit. Jon shouted after me:
            “Bring me the money ye owe me! Tenfold!”


Vorbe scurte

Nu aştepta tot timpul să apară ceva nou. Sunt sigur că sunt unele vorbe care ţi-ar plăcea, ascunse prin arhivă. Un pic mai jos sunt secţiunile şi acolo ai ce citi cu siguranţă. Aceeaşi filozofie o poţi adopta şi în viaţa de zi cu zi. Poate ceea ce-ţi doreşti cel mai mult stă lângă tine, chiar sub nasul tău, de atâţia ani.

Vorbe scurte

Când vei fi bătrân blogul ăsta va fi vintage.

Vorbe scurte

Am un pahar de plastic. Şi în paharul de plastic mai am un pahar de plastic. Am pus două ca să nu mă frig de la ceaiul fierbinte. Ce interesant că "frig" poate exprima căldura extremă.

Prognoza meteo: Lună prezintă