Safe as Houses
A Sam Heller Interlude by Jacob Seinemeier
The first round of The Flash Fiction Lab had four requirements: the genre was hardboiled/detective and the story had to feature: 1) an irate midget; 2) a broken ballpoint pen; and 3) a femme fatale who defies femme fatale expectations.
How did writers navigate, and innovate within, these constraints? Below is one excellent example. We will be posting others—and will soon be launching Round 2—so stay tuned! And don’t forget: all entries are up for inclusion in the next Vigilante Anthology.
Jellico’s townhouse was in a fancy neighbourhood, so I had to park my dented yellow Datsun down the street. Wouldn’t do to get towed and screw up my getaway plan. Again.
“Okay,” I told the box on my lap. “You know what to do?”
The flaps opened and a small, hairy head emerged. It had goggling, golf-ball-sized eyes and a bulbous red nose that waggled when it spoke. The creature was about thirty centimetres tall and covered with coarse red fur.
“You asking ‘cause you think I am not knowing,” the domovoi asked, “or you are needing reminder?” His voice had a pronounced Eastern European accent.
“Fuck off, Dmitri. Just do your job and we all get paid.”
He descended. A chuckle floated up from inside the box.
I sealed the lid and stuck the tape in my pocket.
I climbed out and pulled on an orange vest with a name tag declaring: Hi, I’m Randy!
I tucked the box under my arm and walked to the front door. I rang the bell and waited.
The woman who answered was blonde and tanned, ample curves squeezed into a green knit dress. She was taller than me and could have whipped her weight in supermodels before breakfast.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“You bet,” I said, and lifted the box. “Package for Mr Jellico.”
“He’s away on business. I’ll sign for it.”
I passed over the pen and clipboard.
Halfway through her signature, a violent sneeze came from inside the box.
She jumped, there was a crack and the pen broke in two. “Did that box just sneeze?”
“Nah,” I said, laughing. Inwardly fuming, I downgraded Dmitri’s share by ten percent. “Just my ringtone.”
“Pretty stupid ringtone,” she said. She reached for the box, then looked down at her hands. They were spotted with blue ink. “Oh, goddamn it!”
“Sorry, lady.” I pulled out a grubby handkerchief. “Here you go.”
“Not on your life,” she hissed. She shoved the clipboard at me, snatched up the package and stalked off, hips swaying prettily. The door had swung shut, so she had to stab her thumb on the keypad. It buzzed open and she disappeared inside.
“Have a great day!” I called, and strolled away.
Hard part was over. Now I just had to wait.
I was partway to the car when I heard the crash. Glass breaking, something hitting a wall. Maybe a chair.
Sonofabitch, I thought, and sprinted back to Jellico’s.
As I arrived, another godawful impact. An upper window broke, tossing glittering fragments into the street.
I tried the door. Locked. My fingers were sticky. I checked the handle, saw the smears of blue the blonde left behind.
I dug out the tape, tore off a square and pressed it to the handle. I peeled away a nice clear thumbprint and slapped it onto the scanner.
The door buzzed and I charged inside.
When I burst into the upstairs office, I couldn’t see Dmitri. I did see a torn-open package on Jellico’s desk, shattered splinters of fancy furniture, and the shapely backside of a statuesque blonde kicking the iron door of a wall safe, broken high-heel dangling.
Thoom!
The safe door held—but I could see the dent left behind.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “you gotta introduce me to your trainer.”
She spun around, snarling. Already tight, the dress was stretched to bursting. Her arms and shoulders swelled. The blonde hair crept down her forehead until it met her eyebrows.
She bared her teeth, exposing curved fangs smeared with lipstick.
She charged.
I sidestepped and the blonde struck the wall, bouncing back and scrabbling towards me across the floorboards.
I dodged and ran—straight for the broken window.
The blonde crouched and loped after me on all fours, howling.
She leapt.
I hit the ground, spun, and jackhammered my legs upwards into her midsection, heaving her not-inconsiderable weight over my head. Claws slashed millimetres from my face. Spittle struck my cheek.
She landed on her back—skewered by a jagged spear of glass.
She opened her mouth to howl but only choked out a bubbling wheeze.
Her claws twitched and she was still.
I hauled myself to my feet. The safe was usually hidden by a painting of a dull brown river through an equally dull brown valley. Now the painting hung open on hinges.
I knocked on the safe. “Dmitri. You in there?”
“Heller!” Dmitri called out. “Dostoevsky’s balls, I am glad to be hearing you. Crazy woman get curious, open package, freak the fuck out. Safe is open, so I am jumping in ‘til is rescue. Get me out!”
“Love to, buddy,” I said. Police sirens drifted through the shattered window. Jellico’s were-secretary was deflating, assuming her former size and shape. “Afraid I’m gonna have to take a rain check.”
“What?”
“See, plan was for you to sneak in, then tonight you’d let me and Figgis in—he cracks the safe, we get the money. The cash is in there, yeah?”
“Of course it is!”
“Cops are on their way, so we gotta revise the timeline. Sit tight. I’ll be back when the heat is off, and I’ll bring Figgis.”
I swung the painting closed.
“Heller!” the domovoi shouted, voice muffled. “Don’t you leave, you ublydok—”
“Careful, Dmitri,” I called out, jogging downstairs. “Wouldn’t want to use up all your oxygen. Stay quiet, the cops shouldn’t even know you’re there.”
I was out and halfway down the street when the first cruiser arrived, lights flashing.
I hopped into the Datsun and drove away.
My phone vibrated angrily. I ignored it. Someone Dmitri’s size would last a good long while in there. What the furious little Russian was going to do to me when he got out—that was a problem for later.
I checked my watch. The Powder Room should be opening for Happy Hour. Just enough time for a couple drinks before I met Figgis.
I turned up the radio, thinking happy thoughts about whiskey.