The Cycle of Trust

by Ed Teja

The morning sky was unusually clear. Standing at the end of the deserted pier watching the sun rise, she heard nothing but the incoming tide slapping against the pilings below and the squabbling of three seagulls.

Her back against the wall of an abandoned restaurant near the end of the pier, she waited for Jackson. Arriving early gave her time to stake out this vantage point, but the damp cold cut into her. Annoyingly, Jackson was late.

She passed the time watching the seagulls fight over a piece of fish. One had found it and scooped it up. Immediately, the others began harassing it, keeping it from leaving with its prize. With the other attacking, the bird dropped the treasure, and another swooped down to grab it. No sooner did he have it in his beak than the third dive-bombed him, attempting to wrest it away.

As if there were no other fish to eat.

She watched, knowing Jackson would come. For a crook, he was trustworthy. Besides, the money she’d promised him was safely tucked into a deep pocket of her leather coat.

A dim figure moved up the pier, coming toward her, reflecting streaks of low morning light. She stiffened. This person was too big to be Jackson. Her hand moved under her jacket and her fingers tingled with the reassuring cool touch of the pistol tucked in its holster at the small of her back.

The figure walked past her. “Sharne?” The man’s voice, once she didn’t know, whispered.

She drew the gun and stepped out, pressing the barrel to the back of his head. He stopped still.

“Where is Jackson?” she asked.

“Dead,” the man said calmly.

“Did you kill him?”

The man held up something. A badge. “He got caught opening a safe. The owner called me, and I arrested Jackson. When we got to my car, he told me what was in that safe, what it was worth, that it wasn’t traceable.”

“And you believed him? That it had value?”

“When he told me who hired him to get it, I did.”

She sighed. Jackson’s big mouth.

One of the seagulls took a moment to perch on the railing and watch the two birds who were fighting. He waited. The next time the morsel fell, he launched himself at it. While the other two continued their fight, even before it hit the ground, he grabbed it and darted away, flying low across the sea.

The man shrugged. “The owner was alone, so I took the cuffs off Jackson, and we went back in. I held a gun on the owner while Jackson opened the safe.”

She pictured it. “Then you killed Jackson. Both of them.”

“I couldn’t trust him.”

“He trusted you.”

“The point is that I have what you want. All I want is the money you promised him. Do you have it?”

She glanced in the direction the seagull had gone but saw no sign of him. The other two, the losers, resignedly hunted around, looking for other scraps. The other end of the pier, by the parking lot, was clear. This cop wouldn’t have brought anyone. He didn’t trust people.

“I have it,” she said.

The echo of her shot disappeared low over the water.

The thumb drive with the data was in his pocket and the sun shone down on the cop’s body as she rolled it off the pier.

It was going to be a nice day. You could trust that.

by Ed Teja

At thirty-three, my wife, Paula, had built a reasonably successful criminal law practice. Not over-the-top successful, but it did okay. Even so, she often complained that her life didn’t meet her expectations.

“Whose life does?” I asked her that. I’d point out how much she had. But, because of her dreams, aspirations, she called them, she got frustrated by the real world.

“It sets you back on your ass every chance it got,” she said, showing her disappointment with life. That’s why I’m glad her death was pretty fucking remarkable.

I’m not talking about the fall she took. In these days of sensational events, who’d call taking a plunge from the thirty-fifth floor of the old Signal building and going splat on the sidewalk remarkable?

Remember the real estate crash a few years back?  I looked up the numbers, and we had six jumpers in two weeks.

And her fall? Nothing special. From the videos I’ve seen, the ones people took from the fancy restaurant that sits on the top of the bank building across the street, it probably won’t even go viral. That would disappoint her. All they show you see is a figure falling to the street.

In the course of plummeting that far, she managed a couple of twists and turns, but there was a strong breeze. Those tall office buildings create a vortex (I read that) that whips through them like a banshee’s scream. And it isn’t like she did a swan dive or full gainer or waved at anyone. You see her tossed around by that wind as if she was an oak leaf in fall.

As a result, none of those videos has the appeal of that cool video I saw yesterday of a housecat going after a raccoon that she caught stealing her food. I hope you saw that. It was fucking awesome.

I heard a comic say that it isn’t the fall that kills you but the sudden stop at the end. I’ve also heard that jumpers die of heart failure before they hit. How the fuck would anyone know?

Regardless, it was her landing that proved remarkable, if you can call being splattered a landing. Does it count? Just wondering.

Anyway, it’s midday and Paula falls thirty-five floors onto a busy city sidewalk in the middle of downtown without landing on anyone. That’s something!

I’m sure some passersby will have to spend extra on therapy for a time, and a larger number of them will have big dry-cleaning bills, but they should be thankful. Paula missed them all.

That’s why the newscaster who showed the footage on the news said: “What a remarkable way to die.”

I’m not a sensitive guy, or politically correct, and when the newscaster pointed the microphone at me and asked for a comment, I said what I thought about my wife’s death. I spit out my thoughts.

“All her life, Paula wanted nothing more than to make a splash. I guess she finally did. I’m glad I could help.”

Sitting in this cell, waiting to be interrogated, I have to think my lawyer is right. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I’ve probably said too much already.

Ed Teja is a full-time writer and part-time martial arts instructor. He was editor-in-chief for magazines based in Hong Kong, an associate editor in the US, and freelanced while traveling the world. He now lives in New Mexico, USA.

His recent publications include short stories in magazines such as Mystery Magazine, Thrill Ride, Wyldeblood 13, Anotherealm, Mystery Tribune, and the Crimeucopia anthology, CRANK IT UP!.