Della sat curled on her sofa watching the news. The announcer gave a stern-faced report of the body of the man found in the bushes of his front yard shot to death - the man not the bushes, his co-host clarified, equally stern-faced. They immediately went to a noisy commercial break and Della gave a start as her door buzzer sounded.

She roused herself and went to the speaker on the wall. "Yes, who is it?"

"It's Tony, Della. Can we talk? We need to talk."

This was not the way she wanted to spend her evening. She was still considering her options after the fuss at the office and whether she could safely detach herself from Peter and the hit man blunder.

"I was getting ready for bed, Tony."

"It's only seven-thirty!"

She cursed and pressed the door release then sat back down, waiting.

Tony arrived looking beleaguered and almost comical with his huge lip, and he came right over and sat beside her, wringing his hands.

"You look awful."

"Thank you, I hardly need a reminder I can see this damn lip in my peripheral vision all the time."

"What did you want, Tony?"

"You know I know what you and Peter planned-"

"That was Peter." Decision time landed and detachment was the plan. "It was all his doing."

"I don't recall you rushing to warn me."

Della started to get up. "Look, if you just came here to blame me-"

"No, I didn't. Please." He held out his hands. "I'm here to see if we can help each other."

She lowered herself back down, blowing out a resigned breath. "Help us how? And what help do I need?"

An hour later and a bottle of South African Merlot, Tony had posited several scenarios where he and Della could both be in big trouble if the police found out somehow.

"Who's going to involve police? Don't be redicu-"

"Della, there's Peter, the detective, the bartender, that other guy . . . and Pope! God knows how many people in the office that day! Some even got injured! What if they complain?"

Della looked at her empty glass and frowned. Peter would lower the lifeboat without her in a minute if his job was threatened. Tony could be right . . . so many people . . . "So what can we do?"

"First, we get rid of the picture. I deleted my cloud file and my account so all that's left is the print you got. Do you still have it?"

"Well I can see where this removes you from the picture but how does it help me?"

"You said yourself it was all Peter's idea. Where did he get it anyway?

"I thought it was Harold that took the picture . . ." She paused and bit her lip.

Tony's face registered surprise.

"That's how Pope's name was on the message Peter gave the bartender? That was you, Della! You convinced Peter-"

"No! It was you telling me that Harold was stalking me. I didn't know anything."

"So now it's all my fault?"

"You took the picture in the first place then left it on my desk!"

"Yes okay, but it was just because I was jealous."

"So jealousy made you try and blame Harold?"

"I'll work something out with Pope. It was just to put a scare into Peter . . ."

"Peter wanted you dead, Tony. Did you miss that? He probably still does - more than ever now."

"If that happens he'll lose the Betts account."

Della gaped at him, dumbfounded.

********

Gunther jumped up and exclaimed loudly in frightened surprise at the apparition that entered his office. Menacing eyes peered from either side of a massive white bandage containing two fangs.

"Holy shit, man, what are you?"

"The worst day of your life if I don't get what I want." Came the garbled reply." Staines flashed his badge and Gunther collapsed back into his chair, groaning.

"I told you everything-"

"I want your copy of the picture, and don't tell me you didn't make one." The breathing tube fangs bobbed ominously.

"I uh- I . . . oh alright." He slipped a fresh party pick into his mouth, this time with red cellophane curls on the end. "Give me your number and I'll send it to you."

"Do I look like some kind of idiot to you?"

"Now that you menti-"

Staines snatched the phone away and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Hey!"

"One word, Morse, Just one word." The threat was obvious. "And if another copy ever shows up anywhere, that box of party picks will show up everywhere on your corpse - got it?"

Staines didn't wait for an answer. He was on a mission. The bartender was next then the rest of the friggin' crew. Harold Pope was going down and he didn't much care how.

********

George entered the office and Gunther threw up his hands in dismay.

"Another freak come to make my day?"

"A rather poor welcome if I were a prospective client, Mr. Morse."

"Ah, shit - it's been a bad start . . . were? You mean you aren't a prospective client?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm here to gather all the information you have on the Peter Braxton file - all of it, Mr. Morse, and that would include the extra print you made." George smiled.

"Just who the hell are you?"

"Your best friend or more trouble than your previous visitor could ever be."

George waited patiently while Gunther found every bit of information he had and passed it over. "Is that all?"

"All I had."

"Good, because that will be your epitaph if I find out differently." George smiled and left.

Gunther sat staring at the pick in his fingers. Things had not gone well lately and didn't look too promising down the road. He let out a groan and snapped the pick in half then took out his detective's license, tore it in half and left the office. He didn't even close the door.

Gunther Morse, private Investigator was no more.

********

"Hello . . . Jim."

Jim stood up from behind the bar and nearly left his skin. His mouth opened and closed like a fish - no sound.

"Where is this Marty friend of yours?"

"St- still off s-sick . . ."

"And where does he live, Jim?"

The address was quickly written out, the words stuttering on the paper like his speech.

"Now listen closely, Jim. You never saw me or spoke to me ever. You never passed messages for anyone to anyone - ever. If bartending is what you want to keep doing . . . Jim, you'll remember this conversation and nothing else - got it?"

Jim watched the man leave then poured a tumbler of vodka and sat on the floor to drink it down.

George followed the Taurus away from the hotel. He knew there was nothing to gain from speaking to the bartender - that hole had been closed.

He pulled to the curb and stopped, watching Staines skip up the few steps and ring the bell on the townhouse door. It opened and after a slight pause, Staines went inside. George opened the case on the seat beside him and took out a couple of items, holding them in his lap and sighing as a woman pushing a carriage passed his car, nattering at a toddler leashed to her arm.

It was only about twenty minutes before Staines left the townhouse, striding to his car and driving quickly away. George pocketed his items and went up to the door.

"What now, man, I got your messa-?"

George pushed inside, screwing the suppressor onto his gun.

"Hey! What's this?"

"Nothing personal, Marty but you are regrettably operating a business in competition with my employers. Not a good idea."

Two silenced shots and Marty was competition no more.

19,523 Word Total (Microsoft Word Count)