Coastal Hell

The coffee is lousy and the waitress is cheap, but she’s too wise for his patter. “Ditch him and meet me after,” he growls at her on the dance floor. “I don’t walk out on a date,” she sneers, and he goes back to dancing with the mousy church organist he’s insulted into going out with him. The organist can’t dance, and isn’t very impressed with him either, but at least she’s there.

On the porch he tells the organist he’s not going to kiss her. “You’re the type of woman who wants somebody to walk to church with her on Sunday; save your kisses for him.” It’s not a compliment.

“What makes you think I wanted you to?” Her face is cool and insulting as she closes the door on him.

He nearly wakes the neighbors trying to get into the waitresses apartment, but she throws him out on his ear. “Come with me,” he pleads, “I’ve got big ideas. Ones that pay off.”

“Come back when they do,” she says, and turns out the porchlight. Murder, slow and bloody, lights in his colorless eyes.