| Comments welcome at femecrivain at netdot dot com - or
either via the handy form on my website:
Please, no reposting without asking me first. It's "I
write, you read" not "I give, you take."
- - - - - - -
"Sixty Minute Man"
copyright June 2002
(A "flash" in 296 words.)
The inside of the surveillance van was littered with candy
wrappers and chip bags and smelled like a teenager's gym locker.
"How long's it been now?"
Tony had to ask the question again before he got Jim's attention.
"Sorry, forty-three minutes, ten seconds."
"Sixteen minutes and fifty seconds to go."
"How can you be so damn smug?"
"Because I can, that's why. I'm not some new greenhorn, like
Jim hated being called a greenhorn, but the noises coming from
his headset were more than making up for the slight.
"Put it on speaker," Tony instructed.
Jim adjusted a knob on the control panel and the van was filled
with the sounds of masculine grunts accompanied by a woman's
throaty screams: Fuck me, ungh, fuck me, oh yessssssssssss.
"He's gonna around and blow this whole job." Jim switched
the sound back to his headset.
"No, he won't -- never has, probably never will."
"Sixty minutes, that's all he needs, all he ever takes. Sixty
"You mean to tell me that he wheedles his way into their good
graces, comes up for a drink or whatever, squeezes in a quick
'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am', *and* manages to get the goods all
in sixty minutes?"
"Sixty bucks says it does."
"How many minutes now?"
"Fifty-nine minutes, thirty-three seconds." Jim snapped off the
headset, smug grin on his face. "Never happen."
"Uh-huh," Tony countered, grinning back. He gestured to the row
of condos across from their van.
Jim took a look through the binoculars -- a tall figure dressed
in a worse-for-wear tux raced along the bushes toward them, a
brown package clutched tightly in his hand.
Tony just laughed. "Pay up, greenhorn."
It was a bet Jim never took again.