work in progress...
“We got a real humdinger for ya tonight, Catch.” Officer Payne smugged through his cigar at the coroner. Ruddy, round cheeks slick with a day’s sweat. The gurney made a sharp clatter as its metal bars collided with the basement’s cement siding. The body upon it caused the wheels to vibrate in a most unpleasant way. Especially over the grating on the floor. Catch cringed at the ruckus. He straightened his white lab coat in an attempt to regain control.
The symphony was lost on Payne as he casually leaned against the basement wall, flipping through his notebook. The stout cop took the time to get comfortable, adjusting his arms in the blazer he sported. He lifted his brimmed hat a bit, exposing his mussed, dark hair. Plastered to his head with sweat.
Clang, clang, clang went the trolley as it violently escaped the entryway. The muscles behind it? Well, Catch couldn’t be bothered to learn those men’s names. He couldn’t even be certain they were men. They might just as well remain anonymous; merely a vehicle of the showstopper they delivered. Not even an opening act; simply an extension of the gurney.
Catch could barely be bothered to learn Payne’s name. But he had been such a faithful supplier.
The cop landed on a page with an insurmountable collection of scribblings. He took an impressive haul off his stogie. He snagged the cigar with a flourish of his right hand. In his left: the curious details of the gurney jockey. There were so many of them - and yet, not quite enough. That’s where ex-detective, Catch, came in.
“Get this,” Payne exhaled, his voice distorted by thick smoke.
Catch stood, patiently, as the Officer’s words fell down upon him. A sweet, virginal snowfall of completely corrupt text, descending upon his person. Chin raised skyward. Eyes closed. He stood atop a large grate in the center of his cellar. The faceless muscle bustled around him, moving Humdinger to the coroner’s examining table. The faceless team retraced their steps toward the entryway, abandoning the body as one of them dragged the cart out.
Then, there were three. Payne finished rambling through the particulars he had learned hours ago. The officer raised his misleadingly sweet, moussy eyes from his notebook. Chocolate lookers locked on the coroner; awaiting the signal. Could he join his wife for a neat scotch, yet?
Catch lowered his structured jaw to once again join the living. He allowed his bright peepers to regain visuals. For a moment he stood stock-still; frozen under the snowfall.
Payne focused all of his energy on denying his instincts. He could feel his right hand quivering - aching - to snap at the coroner. Anything to speed up this process. It had been a long day. Most of Officer Payne’s days were long. And there was nothing he wanted more than to go home, take the shoes off his throbbing feet. Free his arms from the tweed prison they all-too-often found themselves in. Payne knew better, though. Years of dealing with this nut-job had conditioned him to at least feign patience. Catch was brilliant - there was no questioning it. Along with this brilliance, however, came a slew of curious behaviors and ticks.
Why else would such a dazzling blade be excommunicated from the police force?
“Good.”
“Good?” Payne reacted.
Catch swiveled his head to the cop’s direction; green eyes piercing past his pale skin. He nodded once at the officer. “Good. Thank you.” Catch had come a long way from “Good. Go.” Those days were behind him, now. As were the days of “JUST FUCK OFF, ALREADY. OUT.”
He had come a long way.
Payne became a hostage of his ridiculous smile. Another day done. And the money would come. And the recognition. It would all be worth it in the end. For now; Scotch Time. Payne tipped his cap and silently bolted through the door, ever-so-gently closing it behind him.
“Boys,” he spoke to the dunderheads by the car, each on their third cigarette. The crickets chirped from the property's surviving shrubbery. A cool blue darkness leaked onto the world around them. Payne beamed at his underlings. “What say we drop this puppy off and call it a day?”
Inside the sealed basement remained a tall, lanky, pale ex-detective. He pivoted to face the new arrival on his examining table. Last season’s tennis shoes crunched the salty grime below them on the turn. Well… the season before last, if we’re being honest. Catch’s pressed, fitted bluejeans followed his impossibly long legs up to a poorly-chosen belt he had found in a dumpster months ago. His clean-but-cheap button-up had appallingly short sleeves that his lab coat carefully camouflaged. It was difficult retaining a shirt that properly fit his slim torso without sacrificing sleeve-length. At least his midsection was covered.
Catch could hear music playing as he made his way to the examination table. His battered tennis shoes found a delicate beat as he moved. Lab coat swaying to the rhythm. His days were so somber between arrivals. And he knew they would be again, shortly. In the meantime he decided to absolutely relish every moment of the good stuff.
Another salty crunch followed him, announcing his full spin as he shortened the distance between him and his prize.
“Hello, there,” Catch sang, dramatically leaning one arm over the table, “...Beautiful.”
