Noir

Here is an experiment. I know a few read this from time to time.. how does this story continue..

The jangle of the telephone cut through the heavy silence of the night like a knife. An unsteady, nicotine stained hand sweeps through the desk , lifts the Bakelite black monstrosity and disappears behind the desk. After wrestling with overpowering nausea from the mind numbing antifreeze the Spaniards call wine from the night before, I reach for my crumpled overcoat and stumble out into the night.

It was quite late in the night, or too early in the morning, whichever way you see it. Lighting a match I cross the wet cobblestoned streets towards the pier. She said to meet her there. Something wasn't right. Some things are never right when she is in the picture. Still intrigue and an old familiar pang lead me into the mouth of madness like a divining rod. A light April drizzle befriends the mist and further reduces visibility. I stumble through the rubble and rubbish that garnish the pier. She was nowhere to be seen. Turning up my coat collars, I trudge towards an old familiar haunt. The Boathouse.

A sharp crack pierces the monotony of the rain. Gunshot! .. I race , two steps at a time, run towards the sound Instinctively, the right hand was already on my Walter shoulder holster as I burst through the door. The streetlight drew a sharp silhouette … a single rivulet of blood trickled down the steps into the river below. She lay there motionless..