Story: "Like the Skin of a Snake"

Gunshots, then a loud crash, then the doors to the casino flew open, a man ran out, gun in hand, three men in pursuit, then more gunshots, the man crumbling into a shivering heap on the wet pavement under the yellow streetlight, rain mixing with dark blood, then the heap stopped shivering, and that was that.

Not my problem.

My deal with the Agency is I only take cases involving good people. Well, the better ones, anyway — no-one’s all good.

Inside the casino, I headed to the Night Guard’s office.

“What’s the rumpus?” I said.

The Night Guard was tall and thin and old, with white hair, long earlobes, bushy eyebrows, big nose, saddlebags under his watery blue eyes, the flushed skin and broken veins of a drinker. His hands were shaking.

“Who are you?” he said.

I showed him my credentials.

“Frank Homer Yarn, P.I.,” he read, then gave me a watery look. 

“Call me Frank.”

His hands were still shaking as he handed the credentials back to me.

“Mr. Moss bring you in for this?” He waved his hand in the direction of the commotion outside the door. “Already? It just happened.”

“Different case,” I said and shut the door behind me. “Mind if I sit?” I sat down in the straight-backed chair across from the desk.

“Don’t mind if you do.” He sat down behind the desk. “Don’t mind if I do myself.”

He reached into a drawer, brought out a bottle of whiskey, half gone, and two glasses, poured them both three-quarter full, then took a long sip.

“Go ahead,” he said. “It’s on the house.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Suit yourself.” He took another sip. “Me, I drink too much, I know it. So, on average, we’re good.” He chuckled. “Name’s Ike. Ike Fletcher.”

“Good to meet you, Ike.” I looked around the small office. He kept it neat and tidy. There was a raccoon on top of the tall file cabinet.

“I stuffed that one myself,” Ike said. “It’s sort of a hobby, taxidermy.”

“You made him look alive.”

“Yup. That’s the trick. You gotta pose’m life-like.”

“He looks startled.”

Ike laughed. “Wasn’t me who shot him, so I guess I don’t know if he was startled, but that’s how I imagine him, his last moment, catching sight of the gun barrels. He got the short end of the stick.”

“You never know when it’s coming.”

“That we don’t.” He took another sip. “They shot that poor bastard, didn’t they?”

“I saw it happen.”

“What’d he go do something so stupid for, trying to rob Mr. Moss' casino?” Ike shook his head.

On the wall behind him, I spotted three frames. Two were photographs — a woman, a young man. 

“Your wife,” I said. “Your son.”

He took a longer sip. The glass was down to a quarter full.

"Frank, do you ever regret — " He shook his head. “Never mind. How can I help you? What’s your case?”

The third frame on the wall held a medal.

“He died in the war,” I said, pointing to the picture of the young man. “And they gave him a medal for it.”

“Lot of good that medal did him. He traded his life for a bit of metal and a ribbon. He got the short end of the stick. I always wondered, afterwards, if he saw it coming. Did he catch sight of the gun barrel that did him in? Poor Jonah.” He drained the last slug of whiskey, put the glass down, started reaching into the drawer for the bottle, then: “You really don’t want that?” pointing to my full glass.

I shook my head. “What about regret?” I said.

“Thing about regret,” he said, pulling my glass towards him, “It’s a liar. ‘If only,’ regret says, and then comes the lie. ‘If only you could have stopped Jonah from enlisting,’ but that was a lie, he couldn’t be stopped. ‘If only you could have been there more for Ellen,’ but she made her own choice, couldn’t keep going, not with our son gone. ‘If only you could have kept it more together afterwards, stayed off the booze, then you wouldn’t have lost every job,’ but then I wouldn’t be here, working for Mr. Moss, talking to you. Talking too much, that is. Now, about your case, Frank, how can I help.”

“I’ve got something I need to show you,” I said and stood up. “Out there.”

“Okay.”

In the lobby there was a large group congregated over by the entrance to the roulette room. The emergency medics had rolled up a stretcher. There was blood on the floor.

“Somebody caught a bullet,” Ike said.

“Yep.”

“What did you want to show me?”

“Let's go outside.” I walked out, held the door open, motioned him to come. “Look out there, across the street.”

Two figures were waving. A young woman. A young man.

“Ellen?” Ike’s voice was choked. “Jonah!” He turned to me.

I nodded.

“Oh.” He said. “Somebody caught a bullet, all right. I remember now. It's me on the floor in that pool of blood by the roulette table. I got the short end of the stick this time.”

“That’s right, Ike. If you want to, I can take you back there, let you see.”

“No need. I’ve seen carcasses before. They ain’t life-like. Just the skin the snake left behind.” He waved at his wife and son on the other side of the street. “So you’re —?”

“Death? No, I’m just someone who helps you across. The name’s my own private joke: ‘Frank Homer Yarn’, it’s an anagram for ‘Kharon, Ferryman’.”

“How do I get across?” He stared at his wife and son, still waving from the other side of the road.

“It’s easy. You’ve already done the hard part — the living, the dying.” I held out my hand, palm up. “Between you and me, this isn’t strictly required, but it is customary to give me a coin. Any denomination. I’m not choosy. Then just walk across.”

Ike reached in his pocket. “Will a casino token do?”

“Perfect.”

He handed me the token, then set out across the street. And as he did, the years and cares and regrets fell off, like the skin of a snake, and he became the young man his wife married.

They embraced under the yellow streetlight, the woman, the man, and their son.

It had stopped raining.

— THE END —

The story was inspired by this Reedsy.com writing prompt:

Write a story inspired by the phrase “The short end of the stick.”

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts