The Case of the Duplicitous Duck

And then the duck nodded, conspiratorially and contemptuously at once, just before he waddled away at a pretty impressive pace without ever once looking back. It was not a good turn of events.

I reminded myself to never trust a duck again.

But I didn’t have time to fret about it…sirens were screaming towards me and the blood on my hands and the sack full of crumpled hundred-dollar bills at my feet made me look anything but innocent.

As the rain beat down on my head…yes, of course it was raining…I wished that I had remembered to bring my umbrella and I was longing for a mocha latte from Starbucks and something glazed and gooey from the bakery down the street from my mother’s apartment building.

It was not a good night.

I shook off my stupor and grabbed the sack and ran into the shadows. As the cops screeched to a screaming halt down the way, I hugged the alley wall like it was sweet Ruby Brown when she was in her cups and frisky as a bunny in heat and prayed they wouldn’t notice me.

The cops’ flashlights stabbed through the rain and the darkness but they couldn’t find me in my soggy hiding place. I was going to make it. I was golden. I was on easy street. I was king of the world.

And then the damn duck snuck up behind me and quacked, forcefully and spitefully at once, and then he turned and melted back into the deeper shadows.

Every police flashlight instantly illuminated me and I stood there, bloody hands grasping the sack full of crumpled hundred-dollar bills, cursing myself for ever having agreed to be part of the caper.

As the cops led me away I reminded myself to kill that duck the next time I saw him.

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