Flash! Fiction 3 by Peter McMillan - HTML preview

69

“They'll never talk to me that way again,” muttered a frazzled young woman with two battered suitcases. Before I could ask “Who,” I had been hustled out the door.

I handed him my wallet, and he looked at me in surprise then in amusement.

“That's very good, but I'll need your briefcase, phone, ticket, and keys, too.”

“Why do—“

You'll get it all back. I'll put it in a locker at the next station. The name—let's see, Ira Kessler. That's a good picture. Some people take lousy driver's license photos.”

“But—“

“You'll be delayed a little, long enough for me to leave without any further interference. Here's a cab. I'll give the driver $100 to take you straight home—that means no stops, understood?

“What—“

“Once you've got your things back, forget about me, forget about this conversation. But you know all this already.” He texted something. “I don't think I need to say anything else, do I?”

But he did, because as suddenly as it had come on, it vanished. I couldn't read him anymore. Grabbing my arm firmly, he shook me out of my daze then escorted me to the waiting yellow cab where he gave the driver an unfamiliar downtown address.