Serial Poem: Poem Noir Part VIII

T.C. Brown hates rain.
He lets it fall on him
as he makes his way
past people going places.
The constant wet hiss of tyres on wet tar
and the callings of cars compete
with the pounding of the water in the gutter.
He escapes from the noise and weather
into a low murmur of a dark café.

The café is darker than the morgue.
The aroma of coffee curls into his nose.
He watches the steam rise in eddies
and disappear into the air.
He sips his coffee.
He considers Mary
dead at the lamppost.
What did she have?
What did she take from her lover –
apart from his life?
What did she trade it for –
apart from her life?

T.C. considers the courier.
What did he have?
Who took it from him?
And then he remembers
Baritone’s orders.
“Find the diamond,
Find the money,
Find the killer
Or we’ll kill you.”
Are the three killings connected?
He hopes so,
he hates working on two cases at once.
T.C. Brown hates not knowing the connection –
if there is a connection.

Angles makes himself known.
His smile is a Cheshire cat,
all secrets and no solutions.
“Enjoying your last few days of freedom?”
he asks.
T.C. Brown says nothing,
keeps his anger in check,
sips his coffee.
“We’re watching you.
We got evidence
that suggests that it was your gun.”
T.C. Brown finds it hard to control his patience.
“You’re our man, Trenchcoat,
you’re the killer,
you’ll be wearing stripes soon.”
T.C. stands quickly.
“Wear this!” he says
as he pours his coffee
onto Angle’s lap.

The rain is a welcome relief to the heat of the police.


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