No Luck of the Dice'--Oren Trough # 3A Story by Michael StevensThe 3rd Oren Trough mystery!No
Luck of the Dice By Mike Stevens An Oren Trough Mystery
The dice
rolled on the table like two drunken sailors on shore leave. My whole paycheck was riding on the
outcome. As they came to rest, I said a
silent prayer to the good-odds god, and shut my eyes. The crowd watching the action, like a
sharp-eyed eagle looking for a good place to land, let out a scream, and I
slowly opened my eyes, and, I saw snake-eyes.
“Damn it
all to Neptune!” I shouted. I had lost,
and was feeling as low as hitting a speed-bump going 80 miles-an-hour in a car
with no left front tire. I stormed up to
the cashier, and said, “I need to borrow some more money.”
He
answered, “I’m sorry, Mr. Trough, but I’ve been instructed by the management of
this casino not to extend you any more credit.”
I felt my
spirits sink like a swimmer wearing 50 pound ankle weights, and begged,
“Please? I’m this close to a big
payday.”
The man
answered, sounding like a broken record in a china shop, “I’m sorry, Mr.
Trough.”
I angrily
stormed away and stomped towards the exit.
That’s when, behind me, gunshots rang out, people screamed, and a body
hit the floor, like a disco dancer on a Saturday night. I yelled,
“My name
is Oren Trough, and I’m a private detective, nobody move! Did anyone see the crime?”
No one
answered, like a crowd of mute’s at a dentist’s convention. Someone must have seen something,
"Did
anyone see what happened? Does anyone
know the victim?” I asked, but I was greeted only with silence. “No one
saw what happened, or knows this gentleman?” I said, pointing at the victim
with a finger like a pointy death deal.
It seemed strange to me that nobody saw who shot him; I guess they were
all afraid they'd be next if they spoke up, and like a cowardly megaphone, they
were silent. Well, it appeared nobody knew the victim; that is almost
nobody. One of the people staring at the
dead man like a hungry dog looks at the dinner frying pan, was the killer!
Someone
had fired two .357 magnum bullets into the unfortunate victim. His blood was everywhere. I started my investigation by questioning
each and every person in this room of death.
The way I saw it, there were two gentlemen who peaked my curiosity. They both wore an “I’m guilty” expression on
their face, the way a homemade doll might, that’s been fashioned out of a bar
of soap. I took the 1st
gentleman into a spare room.
“Have a
seat,” I started out. I wanted to make
him think he and I were close, but in driving terms, I was staying
well-back. Yet, like the way an object
in your car’s mirror is closer than it appears, I was this close. He would think I was following at a safe
distance, when in reality I was riding his a*s. What a minute, I didn’t mean
that the way it sounded. I just meant I
was following his trail; maybe one of innocence, maybe of guilt.
“Why,
thank you,” the suspect answered.
Good, it
was working. He thought I was on his
side, when I was in reality watching him like a hawk on steroids. “Now, buddy, tell me why you did it.”
He
recoiled from me and shouted, “I didn’t do anything!”
Well, I’d
see about that, like binoculars aimed at the truth. “Well, that’s all the questions I have for
you at this time, but don’t make yourself scarce, like cherry pie at a Labor
Day picnic.”
I had
turned my attention to my other suspect, and, as much as I was feeling like a
black cat in a white bag, I was anxious to question the guy. I took the 2nd suspect into the
same spare room, and he marched past me looking like a man with no neck on his
way to a hanging, eyes darting back and forth.
I started to say,
“Have a
sea"...” when he took off running; and as he was running, he was shouting,
“Why are
you asking me and pestering me with all these crazy questions?”
I was
immediately suspicious, as a man would be suspicious of a wobbly wagon wheel on
a cart full of dynamite traveling on a road of flames, and yelled to him as I
was chasing,
“Why so
suspicious? I haven’t even asked you a
question yet. You want to know what I think?
I think you’re somehow mixed up in this, and know something.” Oh, he definitely knew something, and I would
get to the bottom of it, like a homemade go cart with no brakes. Then he turned and took a shot at me, and
yelled,
“You’re
too good, how did you ever figure out it was me?”
I knew
then I probably had my killer. “Because
that’s why I’m a detective, to follow the trail of clues always left behind by
the killer; like a family who leaves on vacation, accidentally leaves behind
their pet, and it gets so hungry, it’s liable to chow down on its own hind leg;
after a while, even the dip-s**t neighbor would notice how the dog is missing a
leg. Answer me this: how are you going
to like being guest-of-honor at a gray-bar party?”
He
suddenly whirled around like the inside of a dryer and tried taking another
shot at me, only I had gotten too close to him.
His arm had no room to rise, and I hit him, so he dropped, as a bad
stock in your portfolio would.
After the
suspect had been hauled off to jail, I finally allowed myself to relax. I needed to unwind. It had been just another day, and as a donkey
with amnesia might, I pawed around for another case.
The End
© 2012 Michael Stevens |
StatsAuthorMichael StevensAboutI write for fun; I write comedy pieces and some dramatic stuff. I have no formal writing education, and I have a fear of being told I suck, and maybe I should give up on writing, and get a job makin.. more..Writing
|