Extract: Bullet Gal by Andrez Bergen

Hardboiled, high-octane noir. Ryan K. Lindsay, Negative Space

by Andrez Bergen

The spiral staircase made me giddy. While it might come across a poor-man’s knock-off of one Hitchcock would’ve deployed to better effect, I was half way up the ancient thing and felt lunch lurch in my gut. Then again, that likely had more to do with why I was here.

I took a breather on the sixth floor, pushed back some loose black fringe and gazed out a dirty window frame with a crack in the glass. Evening had settled over a looming arch of nearby Heropa Stadium.

What was I doing? Why was I here? Age old questions unlikely worth the ticket price.

Thing is, how much should one charge anyway? For admittance, I mean – if we’re going to talk baseball park figures.

I slid off my pumps, dropped them to the floor. Continued on in stockings through which I could feel rough fibres of worn-out shag. A flickering overhead bulb added a certain charm to the place, in case I was missing that already

Let’s take it one step at a time. Think about remuneration later.

I stopped before a discoloured, dented door earmarked 1256. Could hear a TV blaring away the other side of the wood, sounded like that popular Western caper, Have Gun – Will Travel. Richard Boone’s laconic voice pushed through loud and clear.

Wondered again how much admission cost. Could ask. I was sure these bods’d be receptive to queries. ‘Hi, saw your light on, thought I’d drop by for tea and biscuits and check how much you’re asking.’ That kind of approach.

Nah. Nowhere near worth the effort. Not when a pin and gently handled flat, thin piece of plastic unlocked the bolt. Having waited a few seconds, to ensure no one noticed the B&E, I turned the knob, pushed the door forward just a fraction, and placed a pistol in each hand.

That’s all right. I never pay anyhow.