More Flash Fiction

The Wallet (#nothing)

Martin handed over a bag containing nineteen grams of cocaine and placed the $1900 Mr. B gave him into his wallet next to the dime bag containing the twentieth gram.

Twenty grams. He'd never dealt that much before. But fortune and chance had paid him a favor. He thanked Mr. B for his business. The burly, scar-faced man responded with a grunt. Martin didn't waste another minute in the deserted warehouse. The place set him on edge, plus he had pressing business to attend to.

Martin stopped at a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes. While he tanked up his beat-up Honda he leaned against the hood and lit a smoke to calm his nerves. His phone buzzed.

Shit, he thought, looking at the caller. He steeled himself and took a deep breath before answering.

"Hey DJ." Martin tried sounding relaxed. He held the phone away from his ear. "Calm down, calm down. I got your money. I'm on my way over right now to give it to you."

When he hung up he spun around and kicked a tire in anger. Not a moment of peace. He felt hounded. He scuffed his sneaker in the dirt and swung at the air in frustration and succeeded in tripping over a shoelace and landing on his rear. He hopped up red faced, got in the car, slammed the door, and sped off.

DJ sat on his porch, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. "I should charge you double for waiting so long to pay me back, you assohole," he said.

"I've had enough of your crap," said Martin. "I told you I'd pay you and I'm here just like I said I would be."

"Fork it over dumbshit," said DJ.

Martin reached into his back pocket for his wallet and his mouth went dry. His hand slipped into the loose pocket, the fabric stretched from his wallet's usual spot. "Hang on." Martin ran back to his car. DJ protested with a string of expletives and got up to follow him.

Martin searched frantically under the seat for what he knew wasn't there.

DJ gave him a light shove on the back. Martin pushed him back with one arm and continued pawing through his car, panicked.

"I'm sick of your games. I want my money now," screamed DJ.

Martin turned and faced him, "I'm sorry man, my wallet is gone. I've got nothing."

DJ's fist slammed into Martin's face so fast he didn't even have time to protect himself. Blood spurt from his nose. The back of his head hit the top of the car door. Martin blacked out and crumpled in a bloody mess at DJ's feet. His cell phone bounced and landed face up buzzing.

DJ picked it up. Pulling the cigar from his teeth, he answered with a gruff 'hello.'

A nasal voice spoke on the other end. "Oh hi, I live in the neighborhood and I think I found your wallet at the gas station."