Who Is Madison Alley?

Victim Sixty-Seven
A Short Story 
             Her hair looked shorter face to face than on the news. A long cut that looked like it came from an old witches finger nail was shining under the lamp above her head. You would think a big fucking cut on a broads face would kind of mess up her face you know? Not this broad. The whole department had been; well shit, the whole city of New York had been on this bitch’s tail. I grinned and looked at her in a way that told her I had won. She locked eyes with mine, and I could feel a lump creeping up my gullet. I scratched the back of my head and hit my hand on the table to grab my pack of cigarettes. My hand bounced off the table, and I noticed my pack of Kools was missing. I stood up not taking my eyes off the crazy bitch for one second and reached for Johnny’s cigarettes in his jacket on the file cabinet.
I hit my nervousness with a bat and thought to myself, we got this bitch. We fucking got her.
Madison Alley.
             I couldn’t wait to get this whole mad tea party over with. I silently wondered which pot bellied bullock they had for me today.  I yawned and rested the back of my head on the base of the hard wooden bench. I yawned again, this time hard enough to feel the long scratch on my forehead expose itself a moment. Finally, three uniformed frightened little blokes grabbed the back of my wrists and pulled me into the interrogation room. It was dark and all you could see was the warm glow from the lamp above the table. The light was cheap looking and looked like the lights that are used to showcase buffet dishes in Las Vegas. The wee little soldiers left before the sweaty, tubby little bastard who was going to grill he stood up.
 “That’ll be all guys.” The merriment of this idiot was shining off his sweaty brow. He pulled up his pants that were too tight, and began to try and makes himself look busy.
            I walked three feet and sat on the metal chair. I looked at the fucker’s round butterball ham head and waited for him to check me out, they always do. The twit took his free look at me and turned around quickly to grab the voice recorder. Before he could blink I silently swept my foot across the table and bent my knee to allow the piglets pack of Kools to drop into my lap. Mr. Brilliant sat down and slapped his hand full of chubby stumps on the table like a fool. He then began looking for his cigarettes like a blind scallywag before giving up and fetching some from his blokes pack behind him. He smiled at me and said nothing. I pushed my eyes toward the tape recorder as if they were my hands pressing the little black box towards him. He paused and popped his suspenders before pressing play, just to make sure I knew it was his idea to start rolling the tape.
             “Name?” he said while taking a puff from his cigarette as if it was a Cuban cigar. The ingrown hairs on his face peeked out from under the over head lamp like dead ants, as his little mouth exhaled with tootsie pops of smoke. I cleared my throat, and leaned towards the recorder like it was a microphone.
            “Madison Ali.”
            “Cut the bullshit Miss Ali. You wanna fuck wit me? Just talk without movin ya head! You know where your head is right? About three feet about that tight little ass of yours.”  
            “Madison Ali.” I breathed while slowly sitting up in my chair.
            “Thatta girl.” He put his cigarette out already like a dancing buffoon.
            He sniveled and I noticed his tities were about to start producing sweat under his un- tailored shirt. One faded red strip caught some of his sweat and brightened up the color. My wrists smiled.
            “So Miss Ali is there anything you want to tell us that we don’t already know?” He kicked his feet up on the table looking dreadfully uncomfortable.
            “I killed Mr. Fitzgerald.” His eyes bogged out of his head like a funny looking ape at the zoo.  He threw his feet off the table like bedroom covers. Trying his best to keep composure he paused and cleared his throat full of saliva smacked cob webs.
            “May I?” I pointed to his borrowed box of Reds on the table with my nose.
            “Just one.” He said as he placed a cigarette into my mouth. His hands were shaking so hard he barely touched the cigarette as he lit it. He almost dropped the lighter, while looking all the way through me towards the door.
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