Vittorio Renatti

A Murder at St. Marks Tavern

January 21, 2009 in Uncategorized

It is a quiet, blustery evening. A few local patrons, the regulars of the inn, sit in dimmed bar light, absently monitoring the flickering images of a local sports team on the TV over the bar. Nobody speaks. The words of despair have already been moaned over, and now all that is left is the quiet suicide of the drink.

Suddenly the door bursts open and a chill wind fills the room. There is a blur, an after shadow of color which quickly fades in the minds of the inebriating bystanders. The Tender closes the door, making sure that it is firm against the cold. Warmth returns to the room. One of the men at the bar, an elderly, dour faced gentleman named Hank, raises his hand to request yet another of his beloved whiskeys. Then suddenly, he is startled, something catches him from the corner of his eye. He turns and there is a man, pale white face, almost too pale to be human. And somehow he is sitting on the stool right next to Hank.

He definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. Hank assures himself of this, even as he runs an internal check to see how drunk he actually is. Unfortunately, its pretty drunk. The incident is forgotten. The pale faced man is accepted, and slowly, forgotten, as he receives the fabled whiskey from the hands of his bar tending friend.

About ten minutes later, once again warm and on their way further into oblivion, there is another blur. Most of the patrons don’t notice it this time, as there is no wind, just a flash of color. Hank doesn’t even notice that his pale faced companion has mysteriously disappeared again. He is too busy thinking about how long Marie’s legs looked in those heals earlier this afternoon.

His reverie is broken by the high pitched shriek of a woman in pain. Suddenly, the lethargy on the room lifts. Alert, all eyes peer intensely towards the back room. The source of the disturbance.

Awake or not nobody wants to be the first to rush back there and find out what happened. Finally the bartender grabs a shotgun from a box under the liquor cabinet. Marching determinedly, he races to the back room, followed by a timid line of shivering, curious louses.

Marie was a sweet girl. A waitress, putting herself through medical school, she had a lot to live for. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right what happened to her. So much blood everywhere, what they did to her body was truly terrible. And what was worse is that there was no evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses. It was as if the wind itself came to do this evil deed, and thus done, dissipated into the night.

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