Forbidden Dance (standard:mystery, 1500 words)
Author: kendall thomas	Added: Dec 13 2002	Views/Reads: 3702/2315	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A man wakes up next to a blonde with a dagger in her chest.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


He kind of cocked his head back, lowered his chin and peered up at me
with a mixture of puzzlement and bemused interest. 

“Not a damn thing?” 

“Nothing,” I said.  “Nada.” 

“Whew, that's a real shame.  Nice lookin' babe like that and you can't
remember anything.  What a waste.” 

I thought I detected a tone of derision in his voice. 

“Could you kind of... fill me in on things?” I asked, feeling like an
idiot.   “It's all a total blank.  How did we...uh, meet . . .uh . . . 
.” 

“Simms,” he said, realizing I didn't even recall his name.  “Richard
Simms.  Well, all right,” he said, shaking his head with a look of mild 
astonishment and an odd chuckle; no doubt he was  wondering just what 
kind of nut he was sitting across from. 

“I was sittin' here at the bar last night and you come in after awhile
and take a seat next to me.  We talk, you know, the usual; you buy me a 
couple of drinks; I buy you a couple.  Then in comes this fabulous 
looking blonde babe.  You strike up a conversation with her; you dance, 
then, after awhile, leave together.” 

“I don't remember anything,” I stammered numbly. 

“Well,” he said, rubbing the tip of his tongue at the corner of his
mouth and suddenly giving me a cool, calculating look.   “I finish my 
drink and go up to my room.  Couldn't sleep, though, so I step out onto 
my balcony for a smoke.  That's when I peer out across the courtyard 
and see you and the blonde in your room right across the way from 
mine.” 

I stared into his eyes.  There was a sudden sinking feeling in my gut
like you get on that first loop of a roller coaster going down. 

“You really ought to close your curtains when you kill someone,” he
whispered, leaning slightly forward with a mocking show of concern. 

“What are you going to do?” I asked feebly, feeling the numbness
spreading throughout my body  making logical thought impossible.  I had 
become an automaton.  I saw visions of the police slapping cuffs on me, 
a jury eyeing me contemptuously, a stark prison cell....It was all over 
for me.  My life was over--just like that, and there was nothing I 
could do about it. 

“Well, hey, I guess I could turn you over to the cops.”  He laughed as
if that were a novel idea.  “But, then, I'm not exactly John Q. Citizen 
myself, if you know what I mean.  “No, we don't want any cops mixed up 
in this, now, do we?”  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his 
legs, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, his face in profile. 


“Tell you what,” he said, after seeming to reflect for a moment.  “I
know some people who can clean up this whole mess--make everything 
right.  But...it'll be expensive.” 

“How expensive?” I asked, hope flooding back into my body.  I would have
signed away my soul at that moment rather than go to prison for 
something I couldn't even recall doing. 

“Five grand ought to do it,” he said, blowing a smoke ring and studying
me out of the corner of his eye. 

I didn't have that much on me, but I called a friend, told him I was in
a bad fix and, after begging shamelessly, cajoled him into wiring me 
the full amount. 

Later, I met Simms back in the bar.  He made a phone call.  Then, after
an hour or so, he got a call back, gave me a nod, and we went up to my 
room. 

It was still in a mess, but the blonde was gone.  I gave Simms the
money, and he left.  Minutes later, when I came back down to the lobby, 
I caught a glimpse of the blonde and Simms hurriedly climbing into a 
taxi. 

On the plane back to Miami, I figured them for a couple of scam artists.
  Simms had, no doubt, put something in my drink, while I was dancing 
with the blonde, to make me pass out.  It was all a charade they had 
probably carried out dozens of times on suckers like myself. 

The blonde must have used a fake dagger fixed to a strap under her dress
and had no doubt taken a drug like tetrodotoxin, the zombie powder, or 
a couple of milligrams of benzodiazepine to depress her breathing and 
heart rate to produce a death-like coma.  All Simms had to do was slip 
up to my room while I was on the phone begging for money and give her 
an antidote, return to the bar and wait for me to bring him the money.  
When I do, he pretends to call a fixer; the blonde waits, then calls 
him back with the all clear, and we go up to my now empty room. 

Ah, well, as someone once said, “A fool and his money are soon parted.”*


- - - - - - - - 

*James Howell:  Familiar Letters, Oct. 20, 1629. 


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