Portrait of a Massacre: Chapter 1

1.

         The sharp teeth of the knife sawed through the grilled edge of the steak and into the bloody meat below. Clint plucked the large chunk of beef with his fork and placed the meat between his lips. He slowly chewed it, savoring his weekly indulgence, and stared out of the diner window. Swollen drops of rain fell out of the inky black sky and pattered on the metal roof above. Streetlamps illuminated the sidewalk, casting cones of light in the darkness. Clint watched a couple walk by. They had an umbrella over both of them, and the boy -- no older than 18 -- was wearing an army uniform while his lady hung off his arm. He was clearly on leave, away from the ruined cities of Europe, or maybe the sunny and bloody beaches of the Pacific, and enjoying some time away from the war. Lucky him, thought Clint, as he cut up another piece of steak.
         The Driftwood Diner sold cheap steak on Thursday nights, even during the war, so Clint ate at the Driftwood on Thursdays. The diner was quiet, the coffee was strong, and the food was cheap -- all things that Clint liked. The waitress walked by. She was a young woman in a red-striped uniform with a coffee pot in her hand. Clint slid his mug to the edge of the table. She topped it up for him, the dark liquid swirling around in the cup.
"Thanks." Clint's voice sounded like a rock tumbler.
"Can I get you anything else?" She asked with a smile. Clint looked past her and towards
the counter where glass domes covered the pies.
         "What type of pie do you got?" He took a swig out of his mug and let the bitter taste of coffee mix with the beef in his mouth.
         "We got cherry and apple."
         "No peach?"
         "Nah, not tonight."
         "I'm alright then," Clint leaned back in his seat and looked out the window. "I only like peach."
         The steak was nothing more than a bloody pool on the white porcelain plate when a little, golden bell jangled over the entrance. Clint pulled out a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. Two men entered the diner from the rain and Clint knew right away they were there to see him.
         Clint worked as a P.I. -- sometimes tracking down missing persons, most times catching cheating husbands and wives. Ever since the war started, most of the missing person cases had violent ends. Violent ends caused by guys like the two who just walked in. Gangsters and crooks ruled Garden City, and the two men looked the part. The Driftwood wasn't a place for those types. No, the gangsters and crooks had money and liked to flash it around, not spend it in dives like the Driftwood. That meant they were looking for someone. Clint looked around, there was no one else. That only left him and the waitress without any peach pie. Sure enough, the two men walked down the checkered floors of the diner and took a seat across from Clint.
         They wore expensive, black suits and had neatly combed hair. One of them was tall and thin, the other short and stocky, but both had a cold look in their eyes.
         "You Clint West?" The tall one said while he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a gold-plated lighter.
         "Who's asking?" Clint took a sip from his coffee, leaned back, and laid his arms on the back of the booth.
         "Ever hear of Herc Buchan?" The short one side while leaning forward -- the lamp light falling onto his sharp features.
Clint had heard of Herc Buchan. It was impossible to do anything in Garden City without hearing about Herc Buchan. He was the king of the crooks and gangsters.
         "What would Mr. Buchan want with a P.I.?"
         "He needs some investigating." The tall one took a long, deep drag of his cigarette. "And he heard you were good at investigating."
         The waitress noticed the other men and returned to the table.
         "You fellas need anything?" She said cheerfully. Clint was impressed she could keep up the smiles and light tone despite the gloomy night out.
         "Just some coffee." The tall one smiled at her with an ugly, crooked smile. Clint assumed he was trying to be charming.
         "Sure thing." She turned around and went to fetch the two men a couple of coffee mugs. After she put them down and topped them up, she turned around to leave and the tall one slapped her backside. The sharp sound cut through the quiet diner. The waitress acted like she didn't notice and the two men chuckled.
         "What a can on that one," His predatory eyes stared at her as she moved away.
         "What does Mr. Buchan need investigating?" Clint didn't appreciate the interruption or the men crashing his dinner.
         "I think it's best if Mr. Buchan tells you that," The short one said sharply. "After all, you never know who might be listening."
         Clint looked around the empty diner.
         "I think it's safe in here." Clint replied. His years on the force taught him a few lessons about men like the two in front of him: don't go into private with them and don't trust them.
         The tall one reached into his coat pocket and Clint's hand instinctively reached for the pistol on his hip. The man pulled out a thick wad of bills.
         "It would be," The man thought hard on what word to use. "Lucrative if you just came with us." He slid the stack of money across the table towards Clint. The money spoke to Clint and thoughts of safety were pushed aside. Clint picked up the stack of crisp, newly minted twenties and slid it into his breast pocket.
         "Let's go talk to Herc."
         The men stubbed out their cigarettes and headed into the rain of the deep, dark night.


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