A Good Day at Joe's

A New York story with a good ending.

   The bartender was in a good mood when he rolled out of bed that morning. He had a good breakfast of eggs, slightly burned dry toast and coffee. He then followed that up with a shave and a satisfying bowel movement. The shave was close and Moon Mullins was especially funny today. The bartender was feeling good about the day when he left his two room flat in his Canarsie neighborhood of Brooklyn and walked the six blocks to his job at Joe’s on East 94th and Ave L . That’s why it was strange that he was so annoyed by the bright light streaming in the barroom door as the silhouetted stranger entered from the street and then just stood there.

“Hey Mack, yous wanna close the door already?” the bartender said annoyed

A tall gaunt faced man walks swiftly down Ave L , his gait and posture were of a military manner. This severe figure was a man out of another time. His out of fashion gray flannel suit and wide brim fedora made stranger looking yet by an overcoat in mid June. It’s almost eleven blocks to his destination from East 108th st., where he had rented a room for the night, down a mostly residential thoroughfare. Few noticed him and most didn’t care. It was 1962 and New Yorkers were more concerned about the Cuban missile crisis, robots taking manufacturing jobs away and Chinese/ American disputes over mineral rights on Mars. So no one was interested until the police, ambulance, reporters and TV news crews populated their sleepy part of the city and started asking questions.

    The tall out of place stranger arrived at his destination. He briefly glanced up at the paint flaked ten foot arrow mounted to the second story of the seedy brick building. On top was an unlit neon Martini glass with an olive over the name “Joe’s” with the arrow pointing to the red padded door. The sour smell of old piss stung his nose as he entered the shallow portico and pulled the door open. The man filled the entrance and just stood there until his eyes adjusted to the dark. As the room came into focus he heard the voice and saw the man. He felt his rage. Former tank commander Oberfeldwebel Jurgen Gosler pulled his 9mm Luger from under his coat as he crossed the empty bar room. When the two men were face to face Jurgen addressed the bartender as Private Harold Reems, The Rapist of Monschau. Harry had little time to react to the spoken truth before his left eye exploded with the first round and then a second hole opened in his forehead as gore splattered the liquor bottles and he crumpled to the dirty floor.

    Jurgen walked three blocks north up East 94th to Flatlands Ave where he called a cab from a phone booth at the A&P. By midnight he touched down in Langenhagen, Germany.

Former Staff Sergeant Gosler was finally in a good mood.

Reviews

[JE Falcon]

I like and write these Flash Fictions all the time; not that I'm an expert. If I was making suggestions, then I'd add hints to the would-be shooter's identity, but not too much. Something like this. "A tall gaunt faced man walks swiftly down Ave L ." He had that walk, you know, that Military sort of cadence to his steps. --- I like the many visuals you have going in this short story, not too many, just right for my tastes.
"The shallow portico smelled like piss. (Paragraph change for reading sake.)
The man pulled the door open. ..." would be another suggestion, if you are open to them. --- As with all my reviews, take it with the grain of salt. I'm not any kind of expert and I don't get into detail, like punctuations, I just make suggestions when it might improve a story, from my point of view. So do what you will, and happy writing.

[R.Guy Behringer]

Thank you very much for the advice. I will definitely incorporate it.

[R.Guy Behringer]

Thanks. It's a new fascination.

[roarke]

Hm..New York, eh? Dug the flash, fun stuff.