Noir: The Walking Dead

Tugger and I stepped away from his table.

“Kid, there’s something I need you to do for me. The lady that I’m with claims that her husband has stolen a very valuable necklace. The problem is that I don’t know if she’s telling the truth. What I’d like you to do for me is…”

A series of noises, the loud scrape of a chair on marble, the unmistakeable clatter of disturbed dishes, and a woman’s voice, Maryanne’s, interrupted me.

“You’ve got it or you’ve done something with it!” she shouted at her husband who had been spineless enough to wait until she was alone to approach her. Everyone in the club, except for the band, stopped and stared.

I knew what she was accusing him of. He raised his hand and pointed toward the back of the room. My eyes followed the line, scanning tables and faces for what or who he was pointing at. In the booth at the back, I recognized one Mr. Alberto DiSibio.

Otellio and Maryanne weren’t just in over their heads; they’d both already drowned and didn’t know it yet.

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