This Week's Ten Word Challenge is: cardboard box, liquor cabinet, ostrich feathers, longitudinal, hamburger helper, partnership, laundry detergent, magnificent, San Francisco, prognosis
The Mini Challenge: worst case scenario, marginalia, water fountain, specialized, fortitude
Ch .. CH.. Changes
McCool put down the phone, finished off his drink and headed inside to the liquor cabinet. "I need another one of these Paul, how about you?" "Sure, this cigar is only half done; I'll have one more" he answered.
Thomas opened the magnificent antique cabinet, grabbed the whiskey bottle like a jug of laundry detergent and poured equal capfuls (shots in this case) into the glasses. In honor of their longtime partnership the duo would get blitzed together at least once a year and let it all hang out. Tonight seemed like the appropriate time.
Sgt Johnson looked up from his reverie as McCool came back with the drinks. He'd been admiring the sleek longitudinal lines of Zan's legs and thinking about what Tom had said. "I guess you're right about not waiting" he offered as he accepted his drink from McCool. "It's just with this job I never know where I'll be or how long I'll be there."
McCool didn't bother to tell his friend that it just sounded like an excuse and not a reason; Paul was smart enough to figure that out for himself, with a little nudge from his friends. "OK, I know Zan and I have to seriously talk about it, are you happy now?" the Sgt finished. "Yea, I'm happy and sick of talking about you anyway" McCool joked to lighten the mood.
"Let's focus on something less serious, like serial killers" he added. Just then his Sat phone rang and he answered. It was his old buddy Jack Preston returning his call. Johnson sat back and enjoyed watching Zan and Jean on the pool deck below as he sipped his whiskey and pondered his and Zan's future. He picked up bits of the phone conversation, but waited for McCool to finish and fill him in on the information.
Claude returned to the window. He had noticed a bum sleeping in a cardboard box across the street. His instinct told him it was nothing, but his years on the run from the law told him to check it out anyway. He removed his binoculars from their specialized case and pointed them toward the sleeping form. This was truly a homeless person when seen up close. From the looks of the man he hadn't bathed in some time and dental hygiene was not on his list of priorities. Claude noticed the writing on the box now, Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat. What a load of BS he thought to himself, this from Americans who thought hamburger helper was fine dining.
This made him think of his current situation. Someone in this town was trying to frame him for the "Alley Cat" murders. His source inside Miami PD had informed him that the FBI and their dogged profiler Sgt Johnson were on the case as well. What really puzzled him and pissed him off was how someone got hold of his old sword and planted it at Eminem's murder scene. That took some doing. He had not been back to his old apartment for years and really didn't know what had become of his belongings, but he knew now that somebody had stolen his sword and planted it here in Miami.
Claude would find that person or persons and make them pay. He had been retired and out of mind of the police for several years. The party responsible for bringing him back to their attention would be very sorry indeed. Already his sources in the city were looking for the culprit or culprits and Claude didn't doubt that the money offered for information was enough motivation to bring results.
This situation just required patience and planning. Claude excelled in both of these. The prognosis for the cure of this frame-up was good. Since he knew the police were looking for him he had changed his appearance, lost his accent and changed his methods. No one who had known him before would think this blond, biker looking dude was the Frenchman Claude Debaucherrie. No one that is until he found his tormentors; they would learn who they had messed with and what the consequences were.
Worst case scenario, he found them and killed them slowly and painfully; best case, he did that after making sure the police knew who the "Alley Cat" murderer really was. Either way, Claude knew he would prevail. He possessed the fortitude to wait them out, the expertise to sift through all the marginalia to locate the person or persons and learn their identities.
He observed the homeless box dweller walk from his abode to the park down the block. Once there the man took a drink from the water fountain and even washed his face and hands.
Claude returned the binoculars to their case and turned back to the bed. His hooker was starting to wake up. He moved to the bed, removed the headdress made of Ostrich feathers she'd worn at the hooker's ball last night and gently touched her cheek. His cover as a new pimp on the block had some benefits and he felt like enjoying some of them now. She smiled as he joined her on the bed and asked him if she was going to work today.
"Today is a training day baby, I think it's time you learned some new moves."