By Sloan Richman
Harlan took a final drag on his cigarette, pondered whether to use the dying ember to light another or go back inside. The extra two minutes required to smoke the thing could make a difference. Erring on the side of caution, he dropped the butt to the ground, stomped it out, then readjusted the cuff on the left sleeve of the hooded sweatshirt to make sure his laminated ID bracelet was obscured.
He strode back through the sliding doors, pointing at the visitor’s pass affixed to the sweatshirt, barely making eye contact with the guard, who waved him through. He headed to the elevator bank and patiently waited along with two other “visitors.”
He extended his bracelet-free right hand, making the ‘after you’ gesture when the elevator doors opened. The couple exited on the third floor, and he was alone for the remainder of the ride up to five. He ambled down the long corridor to room 5133, where he was greeted by Earl.
“Get your nicotine fix? Took you long enough.”
“Addiction is a bitch, my friend. You’d think a hospital would understand this and we wouldn’t have to go to such extreme measures.” He removed the hooded sweatshirt and handed it back to Earl. “Thanks for the loan, buddy.”
Earl slipped his sweatshirt back on, then took a closer look. “What’d you bleed on it?”
“Sorry. Probably from when they took blood before. I yanked the bandage off my hand so I wouldn’t look too suspicious.”
“Right. Like you didn’t look suspicious enough with that hoodie covering your face?”
“Anyone come by while I was gone?” Harlan asked.
“Nope. Nurse was busy with the old lady down the hall.”
“Perfect crime.”
“Except that you stink of cigarette smoke. They’re bound to ask.”
“If they do, I’ll just blame it on you. Your sweatshirt reeks of it.”
“That’s fine. Blame me for everything.”
“I plan to.”
Harlan crept back into his hospital bed and pulled the blanket over him. He patted the wad of bills that were secreted in his waistband. When the cops came looking, Earl would be wearing the hoodie with the victim’s blood on it.
* * *
Sloan Richman writes mystery and crime fiction. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, Sloan now lives across the East River in Manhattan. He works as a technical writer by day, but at night, prowls the mean streets of the city looking for wrongs to write. He graduated from University of Pennsylvania with a bachelor’s degree in chemistry and received a Master of Fine Arts degree in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. His debut novel, Small Town Symphony (in Four Deadly Movements), is the first in the Daniel Cole/Nat Gilliam music and mystery series. His short stories, including the Detective Oswald Cox mysteries, have appeared or are forthcoming in Mystery Tribune, Big Smoke Pulp, Sci-Fi Lampoon, and The Bookends Review.