Not One Clue

By: Lois Greiman

Micky was standing there, pistol hanging loose by his thigh. “I don’t think I pay you enough,” he said, but I was beyond humor. In fact, I was a little pissed. Go figure.

“That Jackson’s gun?” I asked.

He raised it the slightest degree. “Yeah.”

“Maybe I should have been more specific about where to put it when I told you to put it down.”

“I didn’t want Jamel to get his hands on it.”

“So you gave it to her?”

“Not exactly,” he said, and almost smiled. It’s funny how some people think it’s funny when I’m pissed as hell.

I took a deep breath and tried to see the humor in the situation. Nothing yet.

“Where are Lavonn’s kids?” I asked.

“With their dad.” The amusement was already gone from his face, evaporated from his tone.

Our gazes met.

“They have a dad,” he said.

“Don’t start,” I warned.

“What the hell have I—”

“Micky!” I stepped up to him. Maybe I was past pissed at this point. “Give me the gun.”

A muscle bunched mutinously in his lean jaw, but I had seen him bow to his grandmother, and although I would never be the intimidating little gremlin she was, I was willing to do my dominatrix best.

“Give me the gun or I’ll bitch slap you from here to … Easter,” I said.

“Easter?” One eyebrow cocked up and for a moment a spark of laughter returned to his eyes.

We heard the sirens almost instantaneously.

Our gazes were sucked toward the window. I shifted my attention back to Micky. There was anger in his eyes now. Anger and angst and terror swirling in one toxic blend.

“Please,” I said and after a lifetime of hell, he handed me the gun.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Someone pounded on the door. Someone announced the arrival of the police. I was the one who answered, saying one man was injured but no one was hostile.

They came in guns drawn, nevertheless. Fast and low. All dressed in black, flak jackets in place. I had my hands above my head, pistol drooping from my fingers.

“Put the gun down.” The officer who gave the order had his face half hidden behind his uplifted arms.

“I …” I began, but he barked at me.

“Put it down!”

I did so, already sullen. Chrissy McMullen, sleep deprived.

Another officer snatched up the gun and jerked his head toward Jackson. “He been shot?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You shoot him?” asked the first cop. I could see his face now. It was a good one, like a young Errol Flynn.

“I did.” Micky didn’t step forward when he spoke. I noticed that he had his hands up, too, but his expression was haughty, his eyes hard. I prayed for the longevity of martyrs and fools.

“That right?” asked Hot Cop.

I gave Micky a look. “Mr. Goldenstone would prefer to save his comments for later.”

“Would he?”

“Yes.” Chrissy McMullen. Haughty. And maybe a little protective. Micky had already been through purgatory and come out looking pretty good. Why risk hell?

“You his counsel?”

Counsel? “In a manner of speaking,” I said.


Behind Cop Two, paramedics were rushing into the room. One felt for a pulse. He nodded. Three others hurried over, carrying equipment I couldn’t readily identify. They squatted by Jackson, pushing Lavonn aside. She moved away, teary-eyed and sullen.

“What manner of counsel?” asked Hot Cop.

I dragged my attention back to him.

I raised my chin. “I’m Mr. Goldenstone’s psychologist.”

Hot Cop’s brows had risen. “His psychologist.”

If he smirked I was pretty sure I could take him down. I didn’t care if he did look like Captain Blood.


“What’s your name?”

“Christina McMullen … Ph.D.”

Cop Two, shorter and stouter, glanced my way. His gaze swept my bare legs for a nanosecond, but he kept his pistol trained on Micky. “McMullen?”

I pursed my lips and gave him my best scowl. “Christina McMullen.”

The corner of his mouth jacked up the slightest degree. “Rivera’s squeeze?” he asked, and I believe I cursed.

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