Joe Schwartz Fiction
I looked under the bus. The hand was there. It was curled, palm upward as if waiting to catch something. But what?
Her wedding ring was still on the third finger, an enormous rock big as a large pea. Jack sure as hell knew how to make money and was even better at shitting it down the drain. If he really knew Suzy he would’ve known she could care less about such ostentatious things.
Jack and I had met once when I had pulled him over. His taste in cars was even more reprehensible than jewelry. A fire engine red Corvette with flames and a three barrel blower motor sticking out of the hood screamed asshole but at least it was a stick.
“You know how fast you were going?”
“Pretty goddamn fast.”
He slid a few hundred under his license before handing it to me. I took it, told him to slow down before he killed someone. A moment later he was gone, the blower wide open, the engine whining like a jet.
Suzy’s hand felt soft and cold. Jack had done this, chopped her hand off as she walked outside of a nail salon. The white line of her applied French tips still new looked wet to the touch. The sword he’d used was sharp cutting clean through in one overhand swing. Maybe the doctors could re-attach Suzy’s hand. Maybe, but it would never work right again if they did. The real mystery was where was Jack’s head?