An Evening with
Mrs. Folley

          Mr. Dommery walks as casually as a man can with a gun resting on his spine. He keeps his hands out of his pockets and his head still so as not to provoke Ms. Terry. His eyes dart back and forth looking for anything he can use. They exit the abandoned building and step out into the dark and rainy city. Dommery can’t help but feel as if her still wearing his coat is a little unfair given the circumstances.

          “An affair, I take it?” he asks keeping his head forward.

          “How could you possibly know that?”

          “There was a mattress in the room. I presumed you didn’t visit for vacations.” She nudges the gun a little to the left of his spine. He takes this as a cue to start walking that way.

          “You’re a real smart one, aren’t you?”

          “I simply observe. I take it your lover is tall, blonde hair?”

          “You got that from the mattress? Maybe you are a smart one.”

          “No, ma’am, I got that from the man that’s been following us for the past few minutes.” Ms. Terry turns around to see the stalker, shocked to learn they had a tail. Except, there isn’t one.

          In one quick motion, Dommery knocks the gun from her with one hand and pushes her off her feet with the other.

          But not before she gets a shot off.

          Dommery’s been shot before, but of the three times, twice had been in the leg, the other in the foot, and all of them were just meant to scare, not to kill. His side, though, that’s a new one.

          Ms. Terry collects herself for a second on the floor. In a brief moment she processes that she’s not only shot a man for the first time, but she also lost her upper hand in the process. She also realizes that if she’s going to run, now is the time to do it.

          Dommery, in that same moment, processes he’s been shot, and also realizes that this is her window to escape. However, Dommery’s got a bit more experience under his belt when it comes to quick thinking, and he manages to plant a solid foot on his jacket. The one that Ms. Terry is still wearing.

          She tries to shimmy out of the jacket, but Dommery expects as much and delivers a blow to the back of her head, right where she’d already injured herself with the gun.

          “Apologies, Ms. Terry,” he says, reaching down for the gun. Ms. Terry is curled up on the ground, her hands over the back of her head trying to comfort herself through the pain. “I try not to hit women. But I also try not to get shot by them. It seems I’m O for two today.”

          “How did you know?” Ms. Terry asks once the worst of the pain has passed. Dommery reaches down for her purse, wiggles it off her quite easily.

          “Know what?” he asks, unzipping the purse.

          “That he was tall with blonde hair.”

          “Oh, that’s easy.” He takes out one wallet, opens it to see a man’s I.D., and grabs the other one. He opens it and sees Ms. Terry, only a few years younger and less writhing on the floor. “Mrs. Folley, you see, Mr. Folley back there was a rather short man. Women don’t typically fall for short men. Believe me, I’ve struck out enough to know. To have an affair with an even shorter man? Unheard of.”

          “And the blonde hair?” she asks, her head still turned towards the concrete.

          “Lucky guess. Lots of guys have blonde hair. We all get a bit lucky sometimes.”

          “Drop the gun! Drop the purse! Hands up!” a voice yells.

          “Oh, help me!” Mrs. Folley shouts.

          “You have got to be kidding me,” Dommery mutters.

          “I said hands up!” The officer is close enough now that Dommery can see the officer’s a bigger guy with lighter hair. His gun's already drawn. Dommery looks to the gun in his own hand, the purse in his other hand, and the woman writhing in pain that Dommery’s standing over and comes to the conclusion that it’s perhaps best if he puts his hands up.

          “Okay, officer, I know this doesn’t look great. But I’m the victim here, I swear.”

          “You alright, hon?” the officer asks.

          “You call all your muggers hon?” Dommery asks.

          “I’m okay, yeah.” Mrs. Folley says from the ground.

          “Oh, you were talking to her. That makes more sense.”

          The officer steps closer, gun still drawn. Dommery knows procedure all too well and drops to his knees on the way to the floor. But the officer isn’t going for his handcuffs yet. He hasn’t radioed anyone either. And his gun is still drawn.

          Then Dommery clocks it.

Blonde hair.

          “Shit. I always forget something.”

          The officer fires a shot into Dommery’s chest, knocking him back a moment before he falls forward onto the pavement.

           “Asshole,” he vaguely hears Mrs. Folley say. Then, with a sharp pain to the back of the head, everything goes dark for Mr. Dommery.

 

          “Sir, do you know your name?” Dommery’s vision is blurry, and pain wracks his body. He can’t decide what hurts most—his chest, his side, or his head.

          “Ms. Terry,” he wheezes, barely able to think let alone speak.

          “What was that, sir?” He can now make out the shape of what is likely a nurse above him.

          “Just mark me down as John Doe for now.” His head falls back, and the room goes dark once again.