I toss back the last of the fiery bourbon and drop the empty glass next to the single green notes on the counter. With a tip of the hat, my night's just beginning. The taste of burnt caramel on my tongue reminds me of Sunshine. Both the sweet and the bitter.

I miss her.

My footsteps are lonely on the damp street. I relish in the seclusion for many reasons. First, it means the bastards who've been on my heels all week have given it a rest. Second, it gets me out of the dump of an apartment I call home. I'd rather face the dangerous, rain-slicked streets alone than witness the terror that lurks in the shadows of that shithole.

But my soggy shoes give me no choice. I gotta go back.

***

Before entering the apartment, I spin on my heels. "Who's there? Show your face."

The hall holds no secrets. Not even a creak from the settling wood dares to interrupt my suspicions.

I can hear Ms. Sunshine now. You're paranoid, Dig. You need to get it together.

As paranoid as the next when finding butchered cats and bullet casings with your name carved on them in the alley next to your apartment building. Who was responsible? No one other than the Cohen brothers, looking out for their baby sister. Dead animals were a clever way of telling me they knew of me and Sunshine's rendezvous. Spent bullets were their method of preventing me from breaking her heart. Any chance was stripped from me when they took her. Nabbed her in the mid of the night, tore her right from my heart and out of my life. Nothing else would make her suddenly stop seeing me. I had no doubt the twins were involved.

Their constant footsteps at my back were meant to keep me from looking for the voluptuous lady of the night. But dead cats and bullets never scared me.

The hinges screech as I push the door open and enter. A natural trip wire, I call it. At least that was in place to ease my nerves.

Stepping out of my soaked shoes and tossing them near the others, I tap into the reservoir of bourbon running through my veins to help muster up that liquid courage. A half a dozen coats drape the arm of my favorite chair, the hooked end of their hangers still peeking from the necks.

No, cats and bullets didn't scare me. The dead man in my coat closet did.

I dodge that hole in the wall when I could, but when I couldn't, I'd always keep my eyes down to evade looking at his face high up near the ceiling. As much as I tried to pay him no mind, his dangling feet would swing side to side and grasp my attention, letting me know he was still there.

With cold, damp feet, I stand before the closed closet door. There was no wishing it away or closing my eyes to avoid it. I knew this the night Sunshine stroked my forehead with cold, wet fingers and held me to her full bosom. I could hear her now. It's called stress, Dig. You're smart enough to know stress and bourbon don't mix, tough guy.

This "tough guy" opens the door, ducks beneath the swaying legs, and snatches a pair of shoes out of one of the toppled shoe boxes before closing the door again. I want to leave the apartment, but something catches my eye. Something clenched in the dead man's palm.

Beads of sweat cool my forehead. I wipe the moisture with the back of my hand out of habit. I pull the door open and fix my eyes on the object clutched in his fist. Prying it from his cold, stiff hand is the only way to obtain it.

I manage to pull the object from his rigid fingers, and after thorough examination, a brief sense of relief strikes me. It was a clue. I would find Sunshine soon.

***

My footsteps echo down the dark, cold avenue as I make my way toward the dock that harbors the ferries. I look down at the seashell in my hand as it gleams in the streetlights. It makes sense that the Cohen twins would want to meet me there.

That's how they worked, after all. Like the cat and the bullets, they'd send their messages through visuals instead of words—things you can see, smell, and touch—to prevent wasting their breath.

Before dead cats, I had met a newly dismembered finger at the bottom of a glass of bourbon. They considered the gesture a simple reminder for me to pay my dues for being at the losing end of a game of cards. The drunken finger had belonged to another "tough guy" who thought he could swindle them out of what was owed.

It took me a few days to pay my debt to the brothers, but my tardiness had put a sour taste in their mouths. Even more so when they discovered I was screwing their sister.

But like cats and bullets, I'm not afraid of severed fingers either.

I tuck the seashell in my coat pocket. Sunshine must've come clean about our secluded meeting spot along the river.

I can hear her now. You're such a fool, Dig, risking everything to be with me. I swear, you'd never smell another man's cologne on me, especially if you keep spoiling me with midnight walks along the shoreline ... amongst other things.

Footsteps.

I stop in my tracks and listen to the distant splash of boot hitting puddle. If I had a gun I would've pulled it out, but I never had to burn powder to protect myself.

My fists and knuckles were enough.

Just as I peer over my shoulder, the butt of a gun lands near my temple. I stumble back, angry that my reflexes weren't as sharp as they had fooled me to believe.

I rush toward the man and pause when he raises the gun to eye level. "Empty your pockets."

"Screw you." My fingers go up to my temple and come down with blood on the tips.

The man steps closer, and as he does I could make out more of his young features in the streetlight. "I want your pockets inside out, asshole."

"The Cohens sent you?" My hand disappears in the inside breast pocket of my coat and I retrieve my stained handkerchief. "What, they're sending little errand boys to do their dirty work?" I dab the cloth against my temple to stop the bleeding.

"I want to know what you got there in your right pocket."

Damn. I need a cigarette. I huff my frustration. "It's a goddamned mollusk, kid." I finally take it out so he can see it. "You got a sick fascination with seashells, huh?"

"No, but apparently, you do." He nods to my left pocket. "Where's the money?"

"Is that what you're after, a couple green notes?" I save the handkerchief and seashell, take my wallet from my pocket, and pull out the cash. "Here, have at it." I return the wallet to my pocket and toss the money to the wet floor at my feet.

"That's more like it." He grins and kneels to gather the bills.

I swing my foot and my shin connects with his nose. He coughs and collapses to the floor. "That's for trying to rob me." I swing again, this time stomping my shoe against his ribcage. "That's for interrupting my thoughts."

The gun is heavy in my hand. Upon examination, I'm surprised it hadn't be loaded. I tuck it away in my waistband and leave the kid lying on the cold, brick floor.

***

After a while, my shoes finally sink a couple inches into the sand at the Mariposa shoreline. It's quiet except for the sound of gentle waves rushing the beach. The distant ferry lights shimmer off the surface of the water and mimic reflected starlight, and I accept the substitute, especially on an overcast night like this.

Standing still and taking in my surroundings, I shiver and readjust my hat as cold wind blows so icy it chills me to the bone.

Is she here? Is she here with them? Are they watching and waiting for an opportune moment to strike?

I pull the gun from my waistband, and hold it at my hip. Peering in every direction, looking for clues in the sand such as a sunken pair of footstep or three, and finding none for yards in every direction but my own.

I can hear her now: What you gonna do with a pistol, Mr. Harvey Stone?! You're gonna do nothing but attract the wrong kind of attention and embarrass yourself. Now put it away.

I placed it back in the rim of my pants and made my way closer to the water. Sunshine loved to take off her pretty little shoes and frolic in the midnight waves. I had an interest in seeing the moonlight and water glisten off her soft skin. Apparently, I wasn't the only one.

You know, you're quite the jealous man for being such a tough guy. I smirked, remembering her excuse for my paranoia. If you stop throwing hearts at every skirt in town, maybe you'd have some heart left for me. Maybe you'd see this skirt only lifts for you.

I allow the rising and falling waves to hypnotize me as my gaze settle on something bobbing in the water. Some cargo? A crate? Trash left out on the shore that had been swallowed up by the rushing waves and returned?

No. The heap rushes forward with the push of a wave, and a sense of dread hits me when I recognize the dress and the porcelain skinned Ms. Sunshine wrapped in it. I move toward the body as it washes up at my feet. Cold water seeps into my shoes and creeps up my legs as I kneel to turn the beauty in my arms. Fixed eyes stare back at me and anger seizes me. I pull the gun from my waist and aim it in every direction, hoping her assailant would align in the crosshairs and be paralyzed by the sight of it.

The bastard who took Sunshine was still here. I knew it. He wanted me to see her this way. He led me here. Maybe he had some sort of sick fascination with seashells.

I look behind me in the direction I came. That kid! He's the guy that did this to her. It had to have been that damn kid. He was the only person on the street at this hour.

With the gun still snug in my palm, I caress her face. Her eyes don't blink as I hoped they would. Her lips never crescent into a smile. Her bosom never rises or falls. Gradually, an anger forms in the pit of my belly, threatening to take over.

"That kid. That damn kid." I yell out, unafraid of who might bear witness.

I can hear her now. Stop it, Dig. You're really scaring me.

I look down into her frozen gaze. My anger is no longer for the kid or the Cohen brothers, but for her. "That kid? Are you screwing that kid?"

You're paranoid, Dig. You need to get it together.

"Get it together? How's that possible when you're fucking some other creep? And you wonder why the only thing I trust is a good bottle of bourbon."

It's called stress, Dig. You're smart enough to know stress and bourbon don't mix, tough guy.

"Here I am, risking it all for some Sunshine and her kitty, and you call it stress?"

You're such a fool, Dig, risking everything to be with me. I swear, you'd never smell another man's cologne on me, especially if you keep spoiling me with midnight walks along the shoreline ... amongst other things.

"I'm sick from all your lies. All lies." I raise the gun to her.

What you gonna do with a pistol, Mr. Harvey Stone?! You're gonna do nothing but attract the wrong kind of attention and embarrass yourself. Now put it away. You know, you're quite the jealous man for being such a tough guy. If you stop throwing hearts at every skirt in town, maybe you'd have some heart left for me. Maybe you'd see this skirt only lifts for you.

"Lies," I growl through clenched teeth. Allowing rage to take over, I lift the gun and swing it in the direction of her face, but stop an inch from her temple. There was a mark in that exact location, a black and blue indentation in an outline of a gun near her lifeless eyes.

A sense of déjà vu hits me. I drop the weapon in the sand and allow her body to drift from my arms. In complete horror, I stand and look at the similarities between the pistol and the mark on her face. I back away.

***

The creak from the door's hinges does nothing to help my nerves as I open it. Water squelches over the tops of my shoes onto the carpeted floor with each step, but I couldn't care less.

Without as much as a glance around the apartment, I stand before the closet door. In that second of hesitation, I look back over my time with Ms. Sunshine. Although the lively broad knew how to give a good time, she didn't do much to brighten the dark, murky nights like this one.

The more I thought about it, the more unsure I became about why I had been so drawn to such a fast lady of the night. Did my fascination with Ms. Sunshine have anything to do with the twins, and knowing each time I physically screwed their sister I had figuratively screwed them too?

Was crushing her skull in with a pistol and leaving her body on the shoreline my final fuck-you to the brothers?

I reach out to grip the doorknob with my hand. Once snug, I give the knob a twist and a pull. The closet door opens. I stare at the jackets for a minute or more. Finally, I gather them together and toss them onto the arm of my favorite chair. I step inside. After carefully stacking shoe boxes, I balance on top. The suit tie finally attaches to the metal beam, and I slip the noose over my head.

My pulse roars in my ears, reminding me of the sound inside an empty seashell. I retrieve the shell from my pocket, fully content with knowing it would be the sound that would lull me to sleep. I squeeze the shell in my fist hard enough to crush it as I kick the towering boxes over. The ruckus of cardboard tumbling briefly masks the sound of waves crashing the shoreline.

***

I toss back the last of the fiery bourbon and drop the empty glass next to the single green notes on the counter. With a tip of the hat, my night's just beginning. I ignore my soggy feet when the taste of burnt caramel on my tongue reminds me of Sunshine. Both the sweet and the bitter.

I miss her.

THE END