Nikki Palomino is back to show us that nothing cuts as deep as the scars of the past.
And that if you dig deep enough, sometimes ... you can carve your path to a brighter place.
And that if you dig deep enough, sometimes ... you can carve your path to a brighter place.
Junkyard Dog by Nikki Palomino
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“I’m Presley Painter.”
“You have your mother’s good looks.”
He sized me up. I knew scum.
“Details.”
“Short on words like your mom. Mr. Casey lost his wife six
months ago. Not the type to be alone.” He slammed down the want ads on the
trashy office desk.
“Companion wanted.”
“You want me to apply?”
He didn’t take his eyes off my breasts. Should have worn
sweats but I needed the job.
Wondered why I’d left the last town. Lasted two years there.
Wondered why I’d left the last town. Lasted two years there.
I grabbed the crumpled newspaper. Nothing I couldn’t do.
Scum wanted a fifty-fifty split.
“Sorry about your mother, Presley, but it wasn’t me who slit
her throat.” My eyes dry as bone, I wanted to jump over the desk and crush his
windpipe.
I figured Mr. Casey needed a wife to keep as a pet canary.
Too early to tell. I wiped away the dust along the books Scum kept lined on his
desk.
“Why me?”
“You’re his type.”
“Like Mom was yours.” We shook on the agreement before I
wiped my hand on my skirt.
*
Mr. Casey hired me right away. He didn’t need to taste my
cooking or see a bed made to know I had what it took. He’d been good to my
mother when I was little and she worked a brief time for him keeping books.
He’d even paid the radiator bill when it needed fixing. Scum wasn’t around
then. Mr. Casey handed me a list of duties.
“Your room’s at the end of the hall.” Great Victorian house
with high ceilings. Classy furniture. Even my bed was real wood.
I met Scum at a crossing in the woods. I drove a beat-up
Chevy as part of the deal. He jumped in.
“And the key.”
“You check?”
I waited for the freight train to roar by and the Chevy’s
windows to stop rattling while I shot him an indignant glare. “Bank statement says
he hasn’t made a deposit since his wife passed.”
He laughed, his mouth a funnel to hell. “Don’t get too
comfortable, Presley.”
“That’s not what I inherited from Mom.”
*
I actually enjoyed Mr. Casey’s company. He’d traveled the
world collecting antiques for dealers. His eye for detail a gift from God.
With a solid gold dagger in his hand, he gave his story. “I
grew up dirt poor. I wanted to be part of beauty.” I glanced around, my eyes
resting on the file cabinet. “This dagger is from Medieval Times. Still trying
to get verification.” He paused. “Your mother was hard-working, honest and kind;
a good woman.”
*
“Just like you said.”
Scum picked at his nail. “Friday night while he’s playing
cards.”
Who was I to argue with the man who slit Mom’s throat?
I led him to the room, pulled the key from my apron pocket.
“You ain’t shittin’
me about the amount, Presley, are you?” Sweating, Scum grabbed the key, fumbled
until the file cabinet drawer opened.
“What the fuck?” He turned around as quickly as the strike
of a snake but stopped.
I stabbed the gold dagger into his gut. Blood poured like
whiskey. I must have hit something worthy cause a bubble popped from the side
of his opened mouth. I was right. Scum had noticed nothing, especially the
plastic sheet covering the polished hardwood. Pulseless, he pitched forward
pushing the dagger deeper.
“Got the letter just yesterday. Dagger’s a fake.” Mr. Casey
walked through the doorway to the file cabinet and shut the empty drawer.
“You were right, sir. I do feel better,” I said almost
apologetically since card night had to be cancelled.
Mr. Casey smiled with the gleam of the sun, an invitation for me to live again.
Mr. Casey smiled with the gleam of the sun, an invitation for me to live again.
