Nothing Less of Evil

Steve Brown was a private detective, working out of two rooms on the third floor of a small office building on the edge of downtown Chicago. He worked out of the front office, and lived in the back room. It had been a tough day, grinding out a living on 2 bit cases that even a monkey could have solved. But Steve Brown didn't care, just as long as he could afford to keep company with Jack Daniels.

It was six o'clock; he'd locked the door, left his paperwork sitting on the desk and slipped into the back room. He took off his tie, poured himself a glass full, sat back on the sofa and turned on the television, the only luxury that still remained from his life previous to November 7th 1956, the only thing left that his wife and he had bought together. It had been one of the last things they did together before her appointment with Craig Steffler and his little shooting spree down at the convenience store on the corner. The one that left the owner Benny Moran and Lisa Brown dead from single gunshot wounds, before police ripped Steffler in two with a hail of bullets.

It had been four months now and Steve Brown had managed to return to some sort of normality, if you could call what he had now normal. Two months ago he'd given up the apartment, there didn't seem to be any point in keeping it. He got rid of everything, except the television; and when he sat in front of it, sometimes he didn't feel so alone. He sat watching the NBC newscast and the latest round in the Hoffa/Kennedy bout from Washington.

Kennedy said: - Did you say, "That S.O. B., I'll break his back."?

Hoffa replied: - Who?

Kennedy: - You.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)