Circumstance

Dr. Graham Alan, having recently acquired—under somewhat dubious circumstances—a fine bottle of whiskey, was lounging elegantly in his favorite olive-green armchair. Before swallowing another mouthful of that burning golden ambrosia, he took one last drag of his quickly disintegrating cigarette. He exhaled and adjusted his feet to rest more comfortably on his soft new ottoman-of-sorts—too lumpy, for his taste. Sighing, he knocked back another powerful swig. Trouble, it seemed, liked to find him—trouble and unfortunately incriminating circumstances.

Meanwhile, Karlson, having just procured a steal—ahem, savings—from the local grocer, was carrying a bagful of foodstuffs across the street to the door of Graham’s flop. Just as she raised her fist to knock (a safeguard to check if he was decent—something she’d picked up after an unfortunate incident two weeks back), she spotted a strange substance dripping from above. Her eyes soon settled on a pool of the stuff seeping into the sidewalk cracks. Finding the liquid to be uncomfortably thick and red, her gaze traced up the side of the building to scout out the source. Oh shit.

The door burst open with a startling bang that sent it jittering on its hinges. Graham’s head snapped up to meet Karlson’s fiery expression. She tossed her bag of groceries aside carelessly, the cracking sound of cheap eggs splintering the silence. “I…,” Graham said dumbly, a dumb look of surprise on his dumb face.

“GOD. DAMN. IT,” Karlson gritted out, “I leave you alone for one hour, and, and—this! Graham, you—of all the—”

“Language,” Graham scolded, sounding more calm than he appeared.

“Language?! Coming from you?! Oh that’s—”

Graham slammed back a healthy gulp from a half-empty bottle.

“—rich.” She paused for a moment. “Is that whiskey…? It looks expensive…” He continued to drink. “Oh, nevermind. Just tell me—What. Happened.”

Graham shifted his feet awkwardly on the body that dangled halfway out the window. “Well…,” he started, “it’s kind of complicated…”

“Then simplify it,” she spat.

Graham scratched his forehead, collecting his admittedly muddled thoughts. “Well he—he just sort of…fell.”

“He just…fell?! Oh my god, I’m leaving.”

“No, Karlson!” Graham shouted, lurching out of his chair and stumbling forward slightly. “You gotta”—he hiccoughed—“you gotta listen to me.” And then he collapsed to the floor, followed by the rattling of glass. It was then that Karlson noticed it—a pile of whiskey bottles stacked haphazardly behind his armchair. It looked like he’d gone through three before he’d cracked open the one he was working on now.

“God, Graham, get up,” Karlson sighed, shuffling to help him back to his feet.

“‘M sorry,” he muttered, swiping under his nose. Then all of a sudden he gripped Karlson in his arms, squishing her face against his chest. “Oh god, Karlson, ‘m sorry!”

“Oh, geroff!” Karlson yelled, her voice muffled by his shirt. “Don’t try to distract me from the problem at hand. How, exactly, did this man fall into your living room?”

Graham sighed and flopped back down into his armchair, covering his eyes with his hand for a moment. “He came to the door to sell,” he began.

“Lemme guess: whiskey?” Karlson asked.

Graham nodded. “Except I couldn’t afford his price, so we decided to make it interesting. He suggested a game of Russian roulette.”

“Oh my god.”

“So…,” Graham continued, pulling a revolver out of his waistband, “I obliged.”

“That’s my—that’s for emergencies only! Have you been snooping through my things?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It is not! Now I’ve got to get rid of it, seeing as it’s become a murder weapon!”

“Oh, he did it to himself,” Graham mumbled, dropping the gun to the floor with a clatter.

“Jesus! And you’ve got your prints all over it. You know, you’d make a horrible serial killer.”

Graham shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I’m a doctor.”

“Oh shut up,” Karlson snapped. “Now we’ll have to figure out what to do with the body. And would you please remove it from the goddamn window?!”

“Fine.” Graham hauled up and dragged the body in by its ankles. “Now what?”

“Now,” Karlson sighed, “we hail a cab.”

“Well this worked out better than expected!” Graham said brightly, which Karlson met with a withering glare.

“The way I have to clean up after you,” she bit out, “I swear it’s like you’re the child.”

They bounced along in the backseat of the cab in silence for the rest of the ride, conscious of whenever a bump jostled their sensitive cargo, carefully packed up into a large travel trunk. When they reached the abandoned docks, their cabbie took his fare without a word and drove off.

“Thank god for city cab drivers,” Karslon muttered under her breath. “No questions asked.”

“If only you didn’t ask so many questions, things would be a hell-of-a-lot easier for me, kid.”

“Just shut up, would you? I’m helping you out of a bind here. Now take this,” she said, shoving a handkerchief into his hand, “and wipe your prints off the gun.”

Graham obeyed, and together they hoisted the body out of the trunk and tossed it off the end of the dock with a splash, throwing the gun in after it.

“There,” Karlson sighed, dusting off her hands, “now it looks like a textbook suicide.”

“You know,” Graham replied, “I think you might be too good at this.”

“Well one of us has to be!” she snapped. “You’re lucky I know you’re an idiot; otherwise I’d suspect some foul play. Come on, we gotta find another way home.”

So they each took up one end of the blood-stained trunk and began to hobble off toward the sunset.

Having cleaned up the whole mess and put a very disgruntled Karlson to bed on the sofa, Graham began to stagger off to his own bedroom, sweeping whiskey bottles into the closet as he went. Before he turned in for the night, however, he reached under his bed and drew out a torn pillow, which scattered a few feathers about the floor. Around the edges of the tear, the loosed feathers revealed a spattering of blood.

He tried to shake the image from his mind—holding the pillow over the man’s head, cocking the revolver and shooting straight into it, the bang just barely muffled, the warm wetness of the blood seeping through onto his trembling hand…

The man had brought it upon himself, he thought, over and over. He’d broken in, threatened to do harm—

“Where’s the kid?”

“Never had one. Not really the fathering type, ya see?”

“Don’t play dumb,” the man spat. “Your name is Dr. Graham Alan, and you’ve got a kid working for you by the name of Karlson. My boss’s got guys watching you all over this city. Now why don’t you be a good man and tell me where she is, so my boy across the street doesn’t have to pop over and loosen your tongue.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Graham replied, standing smoothly. “Allow me to check my files for the name.”

“Don’t play games with me, Doctor,” the man snarled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Graham began shuffling through his unused desk drawer until his hand grasped Karlson’s emergency bag, gripping something cold and metallic within the innermost pocket.

“Ah yes, I’ve heard you’re something of a pacifist,” the man continued with a smile. “They say you nearly faint at the sight of blood—some doctor that must make you.”

“I confess, I don’t much like violence. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I think I left my file in my bedside drawer.” He rose from his crouch, discreetly slipping Karlson’s revolver into his waistband.

“Not so fast. I’ll accompany you,” the man replied slyly, following close on his tail as he lead the way to the bedroom.

“Just one question,” Graham asked. “If you do find this kid, what’ll happen to her?”

“The boss’ll teach her a lesson she’ll never forget. That’s all you need to know.”

“I thought as much,” Graham replied softly.

Just as he knelt to open the nightstand drawer, he spun around and whipped the rug out from underneath the thug’s feet, sending him crashing to the floor. Without a moment to hesitate, Graham snatched up a pillow, shoved it into the man’s face, pressed the revolver to his head, and pulled the trigger.

The room quickly beginning to blur around him, Graham removed the bloodied pillow and shoved it under his bed. Then he dragged the man—the body—out to the living room, draping it over the window for his buddy to see. That taken care of, he dug out his reserves of good whiskey, sank down in his armchair, propped up his feet, and began to soothe his frayed nerves, knowing those goons wouldn’t be back for awhile.

Feeling tired and a little woozy, Graham shoved the soiled pillow into the closet with the empty whiskey bottles, resolving to take care of it in the morning—long before Karlson woke up and began to yell at him again.