My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie You'd think running from the law for thirteen years would make a man skinny. It doesn't. Gunther "Grimace" MacGee was fat, fat, fat - weighing over a good three hundred pounds when we finally nabbed him. He was called Grimace because even when he was thinner, he always had a few good folds of extra skin bunched up around his cheeks, like he was meant to be born a dog with a wrinkled mouth and snout. Therefore, even when he smiled, it looked like he was either disgusted or in immense pain. My superior, Evan Schmidt, had been trying to sniff out this enormous hound for a dozen of those thirteen years. The job was passed to him by the chief after Grimace MacGee didn't show up at the courthouse to play witness to a murder case. The victim had been a twenty-something black gentleman, a fairly wealthy son of a more than fairly wealthy business mogul, having invested much of his inheritance in the car industry. The young man had been mowed down by

She knows me. She's seen me. Breathing out wisps of macchiato daydreams, billowing outward in streamers, confetti sparkling in my sultry honeycomb pseudo-golden hair. She smiles at me. Tries to wave, and I try to remember her name. It's a very pretty name, but it's lurking in the corner where it thinks it can't be seen. I want to say something.