Kickbacks

Heather Randolph stubbed out her Camel unfiltered, tossed back the last of the Johnny Walker Black straight from the bottle, then grabbed her tattered faux leather purse before heading to the door. As she closed the beaten oak monstrosity behind her, she patted her bag to check for the reassuring bulk of her mother-of-pearl handled six shooter. ''Today is gonna be a good day,'' she muttered as she strode down the grey-green hallway.

Heather Randolph stood across the street in the shadows watching people in the phosphorous glow of the street lamps walk in and out the seedy motel. She rummaged in her bag for a moment, closed her hand around the soft pack of Camel unfiltered, and dragged the smokes out. She pulled a bent butt from the crumpled package, stuck it between her lips, raised her lighter then stopped...
Heather Randolph did not light the cigarette. The lighter wouldn't give her away but the warm glow of the cherry as it burned toward her lips would be like a beacon in the dark.

Heather Randolph moved closer to the edge of her hiding spots as the moon lazily slipped away in the distance. ''The less light, the better,'' she thought as she crept ever closer to her mark.

Heather Randolph tried to stay focused on the motel entryway as she listened to debris nearby rustle. There was no breeze relieving the dry and dusty night heat. ''Please. Please do not be a rat,'' she thought over and over. She reached into her torn bag hoping to find a nip buried in its lining. ''I need to calm down,'' she thought as she gulped down the tiny bottle of scotch.

Heather Randolph raised the Canon 35mm she had slung about her neck when she saw her mark emerge from the decrepit depths of the motel. After a few rapid fire bursts she let the Canon drop to her chest and pulled a compact point and shot from her cleavage. She set it burst and took a long series of photos of him in the doors of the motel then stowed the camera back in her boobs. ''Gotcha,'' she muttered.

Heather Randolph woke up with the sun warming the backs of her legs. White hot pain slammed down the back of her head into her neck and shoulders as she pushed herself up off the pavement. Her Canon lay a few feet away - smashed. She felt under her left breast and found the point and shoot still hidden away. "Goddamnit I need a smoke and booze," she thought as she tentatively touched the epicenter of pain at the back of her head.

Heather Randolph sat in a dimly lit bar down the street from the motel with her dried blood matting her hair. the bar's walls were stained a deep yellow brown. She imagined decades of old men and women sitting there drinking away the memories of their broken failed lives under a haze of acrid smoke. She banged her filthy rock glass on the cracked bar. When the bartender turned around, she held up her glass and said, "More. Now."

Heather Randolph swung her bar stool to faced the man speaking to her. Hidden within the depths of his wrinkled face, behind spectacles with lenses like the bottoms of bottles, were jaundiced little eyes. ''I don't think I heard you right sir,'' she said motioning to her gun. ''Perhaps you should repeat yourself.''

Heather Randolph smiled when she saw caution in the old man's beady eyes. ''I thought you had something to say," she whispered as she slipped the mother-of-pearl handled six shooter in her purse. "Nuttin dat needs peatin," he murmured as he slithered off his stool and stole away into a distant corner of the gloomy bar.

Heather Randolph watched the bartender walk towards her. His eyes flicked between her and a spot further down the bar. She banged her rock glass on the bar, "More. Now," she said. "I think you've had enough," he growled. "I decide when I've had enough." "You did when you pulled a gun on Old Jim. Get out," he said.

Heather Randolph walked up the stairs to her apartment rummaging through her purse for her keys. As she reached the apartment, Heather saw that her door was ajar. Instead of her keys, she pulled out her gun, ticked the safety off, and slowly pushed the oak monstrosity open the rest of the way. She took a deep breath, raised the gun, and walked into the apartment.

Heather Randolph leaned against the wall outside her apartment. She jabbed the speaker button on her cellular and listened to the soft trill of the ringer as she waited for the police to pick up. Her apartment had been tossed but all her valuables, except the laptop she left out, had been left alone. Before leaving the day before she had hidden her work laptop between a loose wall panel in her closet. It was still there.

Heather Randolph smiled as she lied to the police officer. "Of course I didn't disturb the crime scene." She stared passed him into the mess. After verifying that whoever had tossed the place had left, she looked for evidence of what they could've been looking for then took a quick shower. Somehow being covered in blood - even her own - when the cops arrived seemed like a very bad idea.

Heather Randolph leaned on the rotting sill as she watched the police cruiser pull away into traffic. Flecks of ancient paint fell away from the sill when she righted herself and turned to face the room. Torn fabric and cotton badding covered the floor. Hidden among the cushiony mess were bits of broken glass and wood from photo frames and other momentos. "Even if the cops don't, I know the difference between Search and Scare."

Heather Randolph rifled through her purse for her point and shoot. She paced the length of the apartment snapping several photos of the place. She used the camera's grid feature to capture accurate images of the mess in 3' X 3' sections. "I don't need cops to work out who's behind this," she mumbled. "Useless bastards."

Heather Randolph sat in a diner down the street from her place. On the table in front of her were a cup of coffee in a chipped mug, a plated of over cooked eggs, burnt toast, and disintegrated bacon; and a list of friends and family whose photos were missing from the debris and whose addresses had been on the stolen laptop.

Heather Randolph held the phone to her ear and waited patiently for her turn to speak. Eventually she said, "I know Ma, you don't like the idea of dropping in on anyone, but I really think--" Ma interrupted. "Danger Will Robinson!" Heather shouted. "Ma, get out of Dodge! These are violent people who know your face, where you live, and that you are important to me," she yelled. "Of course you're important to me," she sighed.

Heather Randolph tossed back the last of her tepid coffee and scooped her papers off the table into her bag. "Leather is murder," said a wavering voice from behind her. Heather turned and stared at the girl. "It's fake like your tits."

Heather Randolph pushed passed the girl and headed for the door. An image flashed into her head of a slow girl of about10 with big doe eyes and a sad hopeful smile. Heather turned back and saw those same eyes, that same smile. "Leather is murder?" The girl yelled yes and started to cry.

Heather Randolph reached out and touched the girl on the shoulder. She flinched away, "No! No touch! Touch bad!" the girl yelled. An old woman on the corner booth turned and glared in their direction. Heather motioned to a booth, "Come, sit, tell me about your father's murder."

Heather Randolph sat in her apartment on the floor among the bags of debris that used to be her belongings listening to the tapes of her interview with Anna. The girl's father had worked in the auto industry for more than twenty-five years working his way up the ladder. He was a philanthropist who was supposedly loved by everyone who met him yet someone had run him over with the prototype of CCR's newest eco-friendly SUV.

Heather Randolph poured through the transcriptions over and over for any clues as to who would want to kill Anna's father. From all accounts he had no enemies. Yet he was dead. Heather pulled prints of the news story out of a binder and laid them out along with the transcripts. She knew there was something here to direct her. There had to be.

Heather Randolph reached for a news article from two years before. An employee, Robert Martin, was fired from CCR for selling proprietary information to the highest bidder. Anna's father had issued a public statement condemning Martin's actions as a "heinous breach of ethics and trust." He went on to describe Martin as "the worst kind of criminal" thus blackballing Martin from any further position with security clearance.

Heather Randolph tossed some Advil into her mouth and washed them down with a slug off a bottle of Jack. Anna's interview tapes were driving her bat shit. The kid was sweet, but she was brain damaged. Her wires were crossed in a way that made her damn near impossible to understand without an interpreter. And someone had killed him with the prototype of his latest eco-friendly SUV.

Heather Randolph sat quietly with the phone pressed to her ear waiting. Eventually she said, "Yes Mother. I know. It is a weird coincidence. However, I really don't think that the guy I was trailing to and from a sleazebag motel and the CEO of CCR's murder have any-" Mother interrupted. She was convinced that if Heather "would only get her head out of her ass and the bottle out of her mouth" she would see the *obvious* connections.

Heather Randolph said to herself, "If the booze is keeping me from doing my job, *it* is the Bad Guy." She went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet over the sink. Dozens of assorted nips and a half handle of Jack stared down on her. "I never let the Bad Guy win," she told the hooch.

Heather Randolph sat at the kitchen table. She stared at the scattered assortment of empty bottles. Most were various flavors of nips - scotch, vodka, whiskey, cordials - but one stood out among the rest. The handle bottle of Jack. At the beginning of her cupboard cleaning expedition, the handle bottle had been half full. It now stood empty. "What day is it?" Heather asked the fallen soldiers.

Heather Randolph poured herself a glass of water and dropped a couple of Alkaseltzer tabs into the chipped glass. The concoction's effervescent fizz cut through Heather like thousands of tiny jagged daggers - they ripped, tore, caught, and ripped again.

Heather Randolph used the fizzy concoction to wash down just shy of a half dozen ibuprofen and sat at the kitchen table. She looked at the bottles arranged in front of her then swept them away into a large plastic bag. She laid out prints of the photos she took at the motel on her point and shoot chronologically. "What could the two cases have in common?"

Heather Randolph got up from bed and went into the kitchen. She put coffee on, poured a bowl of cereal and sat down at the table. She stared intently at the array of photos and crunched on dry cereal. Her mother was right, something in all the photos was similar. Something was wrong. Three days after her last bender and Heather still couldn't think clearly enough to piece the puzzle together, but she was getting closer.

Heather Randolph had eaten her cereal and drunk her coffee but didn't feel closer to an answer. After hours of staring and analyzing, all the photos still looked the same. Heather got up from the table and went to the kitchen window. "Maybe all of them looking the same is the clue," she thought.

Heather Randolph lit a smoke and hung out her third floor kitchen window. She missed the fire escape; it had rusted away and fallen off the building about two months ago. She took a long haul off her Marlboro and tossed the spent butt into the street below. She turned back to the table, grabbed her red Sharpie, and headed for the photos.

Heather Randolph said, "Yes, Officer Parker please." A few moments later her camera's memory card was copied and the line rang back to life. "Darrin! It's great to hear your -" She was interrupted. "Just some info. I don't need docs...A pro-bono case...Well, pro-bono if this turns out like I think," she said. She leaned out the window and put the camera's memory card into the empty space where a brick had been before it fell away.

Heather Randolph looked through the notes she took over drinks with Darrin. He told her that the investigation was going to closed and Anna's father's death labeled an accident. Darrin told her, "Something here ain't right. That kid knows something. Wish she wasn't a tard." Heather had just nodded. She never told him who her client was.

Heather Randolph sat on the floor of her apartment. The ashtray and Camel unfiltered smokes were to her right. The unopened bottle of Jack she'd bought three days before sat on her left. Before her, the mini-recorder with the tape of Anna's interview inside it. "The girl isn't retarded. She speaks in code," she said. She pressed play on the tape, and listened. A notebook lay waiting.

Heather Randolph waited for Anna at the table they had shared when the girl told her about her father's murder. On the table were several photos, handwritten transcripts, a mini-tape recorder, a cup of coffee and cold, congealed eggs. Anna was nearly 45 minutes late. Heather checked her phone again. No calls. "Five more minutes then I call Darrin," she muttered.

Heather Randolph put her phone down, microphone up, after telling Darrin to stay on the line and listen. MaryBeth, Anna's maid and almost constant companion, walked down the diner's aisle and sat opposite Heather. "Hello MaryBeth," Heather said through clenched teeth. "I wish I could say I'm surprised to see you here. Where is Anna?"

Heather Randolph put her hands on the table palms down as instructed. She eyed the small gun MaryBeth had trained on her. "Is Anna still alive?" Heather asked.

Heather Randolph watched Officer Darrin Kimball approach the diner. He did not draw his gun. Nor was he in uniform. He made several quick motions to the few other people in the diner and ushered them away without too much noise. Heather smiled. MaryBeth spat, "What are you smiling about?!"

Heather Randolph glanced to her left and saw that the call timer on her phone was still running - Darrin Parker was still connected. "I'm smiling because I know you aren't going to shoot me. At least not in here," Heather replied. MaryBeth squeezed her finger slightly tighter on the trigger but let it slide back into place without firing. "Oh, and I've already sent damning evidence to the police," Heather added.

Heather Randolph forced herself to keep her eyes on MaryBeth as Officer Kimball walked up behind her silently. Heather slid her phone out from behind the paper napkin dispenser and pressed the speaker button. "Officer Parker, are you still connected?" she asked. The phone buzzed and Darrin's voice came through the speaker. "You get all that?" Heather asked. MaryBeth screamed, raised her gun, and squeezed the trigger.

Heather Randolph watched as Officer Kimball came up behind MaryBeth. Her gun had made a dull popping noise, but had not fired, when she pulled the trigger. The few other patrons ran for the door in a panic. "Drop the weapon!" Officer Kimball screamed at the startled girl. Heather sat frozen staring at MaryBeth's gun waiting for the girl to pull the trigger again. "Drop your weapon or I will shoot!" Kimball yelled.

Heather Randolph sat stunned watching MaryBeth's gun waver in front of her. As Officer Kimball began shouting, MaryBeth's concentration shifted. Her eyes turned from Heather to the sound of Kimball's voice. Heather felt her arm pull back and watched as her fist flew forward at MaryBeth's face. She felt bone and cartilage shift under the blow. Blood poured from MaryBeth's destroyed nose.

Heather Randolph watched Officer Kimball put MaryBeth into his cruiser from her perch on the edge of the ambulance. "I'm fine," she told the paramedic who was insisting that she need her hand X-Rayed. "I punched a psycho in the face. Hands will swell." Heather's phone chirped from deep inside her faux leather purse. She pulled it out and looked at the display. "Well, hello Officer Darrin Parker. Nice to hear your voice," she cooed.

Heather Randolph stubbed out her Camel unfiltered. The burgundy calf skin of her new leather couch enveloped her as she snuggled down. She pulled papers from a folder and a pen from her purse. She began filling out the papers to file a suit against a client who hired her to ensure her husband wasn't having an affair then decided Heather was sleeping with him because she knew all his goings-on. "Crazy bitch nearly broke my skull."