Serial Poem: Poem Noir Part IX

One floor up, two doors down.
T.C. Brown listens to the door,
he hears muffled voices,
someone searching;
breaking the stillness of the corridor;
frantic, restless crashes,
then silence.

The door slowly opens.
T.C. presses himself on the wall,
pulls his gun,
A head peers out.
A look up the corridor,
a look down,
eyes focus on the barrel of a gun.

T.C. pushes the head inside.
Baritone chuckles,
a gun at T.C.’s head.
Soprano smiles.
“Smooth move, Trenchcoat,
but not smooth enough.”
Baritone chuckles.
“You won’t find it here.”
Soprano smiles.
Teeth flash in sunlight.
Gun flashes down onto T.C. Brown.
Fade out.

Fade in.
Musty smell of cellar.
Ropes rubbing on wrists.
Blindfolded darkness
that pierces the back of the mind
with light.
The sound of feet walking up and down.
T.C. Brown is reminded of the lamppost.
All shadows and sounds.
Nothing is definite that cannot be seen.
“Our man is awake,”
says Soprano.
Baritone breathes into T.C.’s ear.
“We have questions.”
“So do I,” says T.C.
The sharp sting of a slap on his face.
“You’re not in a position to ask.”
says Baritone.
“Who killed the courier.”

T.C. swallows.
“I can’t tell you,
I don’t know.”
Another sting.
“Your man was killed in the apartment.
The courier I saw was killed in the street.
You want the diamond and the money.
I saw the money in the flicker of a lighter
The exchange was for the diamond.
I don’t know who had what,
but your man did.”
T.C. smiles.

Another sting,
but he doesn’t care.
Soprano sounds edgy.
“He ain’t telling us something.
Let me rough it out.
He knows something.
Let me beat it out.”
Baritone breathes into T.C.’s ear,
“I don’t know how long I can control him,
tell me something I want to know.”

“Who ever killed your courier,
also killed my client’s sister.”
“We don’t care,” says Soprano.
“Shut up!” yells Baritone.
“But Boss –“
“I say who cares,
I call the shots.”
“Who’s your client?”
Baritone breathes into T.C.’s ear.
He hears the click of a gun.
“You need me,”
T.C. says,
“I find your diamond.
I find your money.”
“We don’t trust you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
Another sting.
“This isn’t the time for insults.
Not with a loaded gun at your head.”

“Give me a day,”
T.C. says.
“We don’t trust you.”
“You have no choice.”
T.C Brown feels the butt of a gun
and wakes up in his office.


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