Noir: Where Angels Fear to Tread

Maryanne was in pain, her slender wrist in the death grip of her husband. That wouldn’t do. I strode back to her table.

With one hand, I grabbed his wrist. With the other, I grabbed at his pinky finger and started to pull it away from her wrist. To Otellio’s credit, he realized what the immediate future held for him and he released her.

I shoved the table out of the way, stepped in front of his chair and placed my foot on the edge of its seat, between his legs. I pushed. The chair slid back, caught on something and tipped backward.

I took Maryanne by the arm and we hurriedly made our way to the entrance.

“Get your coat,” I instructed her.

“But…,” she stammered.


She went to the coat check. I looked around the club. The band had stopped. Otellio, holding the back of his head, was being helped up. Several of the staff were closing on me.

So this is how I die.

I pulled my pistol, levelling it at anyone who approached me. Maryanne returned. I took her hand and we stepped through the door.

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