Two Latex Gloves

8-19-07 New Prompt: Write a poem or story using the following phrases:
         the convenience store manager
         a pimpled face
         a creaking board
         two latex gloves



Webb stared at a pimpled face young man standing on the opposite side of the opened door.

“Who are you?” Webb asked

“Daryl,” he answered with an uncomfortable grin. “We met last week, Mr. Oliver.” His smile faded as Webb pushed past him and stepped inside.

“Do you live here now?”

“No, he doesn’t, Dad.” Webb turned as his daughter walked up to him. “We’re going to a concert.”

“Now?”

“Sorry,” she said as she kissed him on the cheek. “See you next Saturday.”

Web felt the familiar tightness in his chest as he watched her put her arm around Daryl’s. Before they left, she turned and smiled at him and he knew he’d be back next Saturday just to be able to see that smile.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t see her much more than you do.”

He sighed and slowly turned to face his ex-wife.

“Teenagers, huh?”

“Yeah.” Awkward silence tumbled into the space between them. Webb was not comfortable in this place that was once his home and she was afraid to awaken the feelings that brought them together so long ago.

“How about I make you some lunch?” she asked with a tilt of her head, a movement he remembered all too well.

“Sure,” he answered then followed her into the kitchen.



Seth closed the door behind him then turned to go up the stairs to his room. He carefully placed his foot on the first stair, knowing that a creaking board was hiding somewhere in the worm wooding staircase. He found it on the fourth step. He stepped, the board creaked and a door opened.

“Mr. Norwood, is that you?” a high-pitched voice demanded.
“Yes, ma’am, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s two o’clock in the morning. That’s no time for a decent person to be out.”

“I missed my bus and had to wait over an hour for the next one.”

“That’s the third time this month, Mr. Norwood. You just can’t be waking people up at all times of the night.”

“I’ll try to be more careful.”

“See that you do.”

“Stupid, bitch,” he said as he ran up the rest of the stairs.



Sunday morning found Det. Webb Oliver standing in a dingy back alley staring down at the lifeless body of a young girl. A local shop owner recognized her as one of the hookers who frequented this end of the block. He slipped on his gloves before picking up the small black purse lying next to her.

“Do you think it’s number three?” his partner asked.

“Looks like. Her I.D. is fake, says she’s twenty-one.”

“She looks to be about fifteen or sixteen.”

“She could be one my daughter’s friends.” Webb looked away from the body and sighed. Teenage girls should not be lying dead in a dirty alley. No one had claimed the other two. At least this one would be buried with a name even if it was a fake. Hookers don’t talk to policemen and one less just means more work for the others. It’s just a matter of survival.

A crowd had begun to form at the end of the alley; the curious, hoping to get a glimpse of the body, hoping it wasn’t someone they knew, thankful it wasn’t one of them. Webb glanced at the faces and realized one was familiar.

“Jack,” he asked his partner, “isn’t that the guy who recognized the other two girls? The one in the blue shirt?”

“The convenience store manager? Yeah, looks like him.”

As Webb walked down the alley towards the watching crowd, a few of the people turned and left. The man in the blue shirt did not.

“Sir,” Webb asked, “could you come with me, please?” The man looked from left to right and then back at Webb.

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” The man moved past the people in front of him and he and Webb moved a few steps away from the crowd.

“Isn’t your name Norwood?”

“Yes.”

“You work at a convenience store near here?”

“I’m the night manager.”

“You were able to identify two girls who were killed in this area …”

“And you want me to see if I know this one?”

“Would you?”

“I’ll try.”

They walked over to the body and Norwood looked at it briefly.

“Yeah, she’s been in my store. The working girls come in and buy cigarettes, soda, Twinkies. Stuff like that, you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Norwood. You’ve been very helpful.”



“I know he’s the one,” Webb insisted. “He works at night. What was he doing at the end of that alley at six in the morning?”

“I don’t disagree with you Webb,” his partner argued, “but there’s nothing else to link him to the murders. All we can do is try to keep an eye on him. He’s under our radar now.”

“But how many more will die before we catch him?”

“Webb, they’re hookers. It’s a dangerous life.”

“Shouldn’t someone speak for them?”



A couple weeks later, on a sunny afternoon Jack walked down another alley alone. A uniformed officer met him part way.

“Hi, Jack,” the officer greeted him. “Where’s your partner?”

“Webb? He retired. So, is this another young girl?”

“No. It’s a guy. I.D. says he’s Seth Norwood.”

Jack looked down at the man in the blue shirt lying on the ground. Two latex gloves were lying neatly on his chest.


905 words