Corridor Man Read Free

the bartender’s forehead from a distance of no more than two feet. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the bar’s selection of twenty-one different whiskeys as he crumpled to the floor.
    At the far end of the bar, O’Brien remained involved in his phone conversation, oblivious. He casually turned on his stool as his ginger-haired assailant leisurely strolled toward him. Mobile’s Glock spit a round through O’Brien’s cellphone ending the conversation before exiting out the far side of his head.
    Before they had the chance to scream Dubuque had turned from the bartender and shot both women. The bleached blonde was dead before she hit the floor. Her sister sort of jumped backwards in her chair as a slug slammed into her chest so Dubuque fired a second round into her forehead just to be sure.
    Both men quickly walked to the rear of the place, leisurely checked the kitchen area and both restrooms, but didn’t see a soul. They calmly walked to the bar, clicked their frosted mugs together and took a celebratory sip. Dubuque took a couple of French fries from one of the women’s plates, ran them through a puddle of ketchup and tossed them into his mouth before he exited out the same door they’d entered just a few minutes earlier. The brothers climbed into the burgundy Escalade and leisurely drove off down the street.
    The woman across the street was just bringing her lilacs in through the back door, lost in their lovely fragrance.
    It would be close to twenty minutes before the police were called and another four or five minutes before they actually arrived. Kate Clarken was still passed out in the front
    booth when the cops finally entered the gruesome scene.

Chapter Five
     
     
    It was probably a good thing his brother Andrew and Fern hadn’t come up to the third-floor efficiency since there wouldn’t have been enough room for the three of them. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t own any furniture so there was some space to move around in.
    The efficiency apartment was basically one room, barely three times as large as the cell he’d been confined in for four-plus years. Through a grimy cracked glass window it offered a nice view of the dumpster and three recycling containers. There was a bathroom and a closet in one corner and a kitchen area with a stove, an antique refrigerator and a sink in the opposite corner.
    The kitchen counter was a sort of dingy-white Formica with a gray spot worn through on either side of the stainless steel kitchen sink. A protective coating of crumbs that looked like very old burnt bread or maybe chocolate cake were scattered across the counter. Bobby didn’t plan on doing a taste test to find out what the crumbs actually were.
    The kitchen faucet had a drip pattern that dinged audibly as the drops hit the aluminum sink. The former tenants were kind enough to leave half a tomato and some milk in the refrigerator for him. At least he thought it was a tomato, the light didn’t work in the fridge so he wasn’t quite sure.
    Whoever the last person in the bathroom was, they’d forgotten to flush, maybe because the door didn’t close completely and they were just embarrassed. They’d left an open tube of eyeliner and some lip gloss on the bathroom sink, neither one in Bobby’s color palate.
    The linoleum on the bathroom floor was in a paving brick pattern. It almost looked real except where it had curled up and away from the tub. The shower head dripped in time to the kitchen sink and had left a rust-colored stain on the tub that directed ones eye to the drain. Home sweet home.
    Still, it was bound to be better than counseling sessions three times a day at the halfway house. He wasn’t going to miss lights out at ten and living with a dozen other men with a recidivism rate hovering right around ninety percent.
    It took him just a moment to unpack. He placed the three paper bags side by side, then unzipped his suitcase, pushed it against the wall next to the bags and he was finished. All