It was hot. The flies were circling like spotter planes, and a sweet scent of chlorine drifted in through the window from the hotel swimming pool across the alleyway. I was busy, watching a dark stain of sweat spread slowly down my shirtfront towards the belt of my pants, when she barged through the office door and flopped down in the cane chair I keep the other side of the desk. She looked like someone in a hurry, but the heat or whatever was on her mind had sapped her energy. She had a carry bag on her shoulder that said 'I'm Trouble', and I could see the outline of a small Ruger automatic nestling at the bottom.
'What year is it?' she asked, with startled eyes.
'Are you seeing me in color or black and white?'
'Color,' she said, 'but move so I can see if you flicker.'
I swung a loose fist at a passing fly.
'There,' she said, 'there! You lost a frame.'
A couple of flies started playing hide and seek round the window blind. I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke hover in the hot air. Everyone was home, drawing furlough pay, keeping out of trouble, and I was losing a lot more than frames.
'What's it to you?' I asked.
'There's a guy that's following me, it started a week ago. I wasn't sure at first, but now I'm certain. He wears a raincoat and a trilby hat ...'
'In this heat?' I said.
'And every time I look at him he ... flickers.'
'Lady, you've come to the wrong place, this ain't an opticians.'
'You don't understand,' she said, 'I need to know what year it is.'
She clutched her carry bag, and I could see her hand check the shape of the automatic. I sure didn't want to be in the firing line if the thing went off.
'What year would you like it to be?' I asked.
'He doesn't just flicker, you know, he's following me in the rain. His coat is wet.'
I looked out the window at the sun beating down on the asphalt in the alleyway. The fan of the hotel air conditioner throbbed like the morning after a quiet evening at home. I wondered how a man in a rainstorm could survive out there.
'I need a man who flickers, a man that can warn off the trilby guy.'
She smiled, and I felt the sweat stain meet the top of my pants.
'I can pay,' she said, and reached into her carry bag. The next thing I knew I was staring down the barrel of the Ruger automatic.
'That's a mighty generous offer,' I said, 'I usually work for less.'
'Move for me,' she said.
I reached my hand forward slowly towards the handle of the desk drawer. The drawer that holds my insurance policy.
'There ... there ...,' she said, 'you're missing frames like crazy. What year is it?'
'Lady, it's any year you want it to be.'
She pulled the trigger, twice, and I heard two long, dull pops like champagne corks on steroids. Her eyes moved to the floor beside the desk, and she gasped. I sat quietly watching her. Then she started from her chair, stepped over to the desk and pushed at something with her foot. A moment later she was gone, leaving nothing but the scent of cordite and orange blossom. I leant back in my chair and watched a fly wander over the desktop. It was still hot, but it was the wrong year for that loaded gun.