COLD PLATE

I hate these long fucking nights,” he thought to himself as he finally left his small, dank rented by-the-month, one-room office on the third-floor old walk-up building near midnight. “But motion deadlines are motion deadlines.” Grossly overweight, three hundred pounds on a good day, he trudged toward the dark parking lot on the corner of two unlit streets, worn briefcase in hand. He reached into the left pocket of his too-small tan suit jacket, retrieved the keys to his ten-year-old Mazda and clicked the unlock button. Expecting the car to beep and the lights to flash as always, he was surprised nothing happened. “Fucking car,” he said aloud to no one. There was a tap on his right shoulder that startled him to the extent he dropped his briefcase to the ground. He did not turn around but froze in his tracks. “Phil!” the voice behind him said, in a friendly, familiar voice. “Phil Bradley, is that you?” Phil relaxed at the friendly tone of the voice and turned around; a half smile on his face. He squinted his eyes trying to make out the face on the six-foot ten-inch figure standing there; shadows obscuring his face. “Do I know you?” Phil asked. The figure gave a sharp chuckle, “Don’t recognize me, Phil?” Phil took a step toward the figure and cocked his head trying to get a better view of the man’s face. “No,” Phil said, now beginning to worry. This guy knew his name, and he had no clue who he was now dealing with and it was midnight for chrissake. He must’ve just come from the bars, Phil thought. “So, look, it’s almost midnight and I have to get home, so,…….” Phil turned his back to the man. “How was work today, Phil,” the voice asked. “File a lot of reports? Talk to the judge a bunch of times? Make a whole lot of recommendations?” Phil froze in his steps and then turned to face the man but did not respond. This was no casual conversation, and Phil knew it. He took a deep breath trying to lessen the growing tension in his chest. “What do you want?” Phil asked him. The voice slowly pulled a silenced Glock nine-millimeter semi-automatic from his back waist. “Oh, I just want to ask you a few questions, and if you’re honest with me, I’m going to just walk away, and you can call the police for all I care.” Despite the forty-degree weather, and stiff night October breeze blowing on Phil’s mostly bald head, his face heated and he broke into a profuse sweat. “Questions?” Phil asked the voice. “Just a few. And oh, by the way,” the man said, his voice now ominous, gravely and dark, “this gun is loaded, and a Glock 9 has no safety, so I promise you Phil, if you make any sudden moves, I’ll empty this fucking thing into your fat fucking body. Understand?” Phil nodded his head nervously and wiped the sweat that had trickled into his eye. “Yea.” He said. “OK, then. Question number one…” Phil swallowed hard, and realized he had no spit. “You know me?” “No,” Phil said, in a low choked voice. “I don’t know you.” “Well, let’s see. You remember Sylvia Blanche?” The man asked. Phil looked down to the ground now realizing he was not getting out of this alive. The name tickled his brain, but no real memory. “No. I don’t know her.” Phil said. “Yea? You remember her kids Phil? —three of ‘em?” Phil shook his head. This was going badly, and he was afraid; his vision began to tunnel. “Where are they now, Phil? Where are they now?” “I don’t know,” Phil answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Well then there’s a problem here isn’t there, Phil? Wrong answer. You see, we don’t know either thanks to your FUCKING reports to the judge! We? Phil pondered, we? The first bullet hit Phil in the sternum, shattering that bone, and driving most of it into his right heart atrium and ventricle and inferior caval vein. The bullet would’ve gone through and through, but it lodged in his spine. The second and third bullets struck him in the forehead and left cheek. He was dead before he fell off his feet.