Execution in 750 Words

Mike liked the local bar. He had a few of the guards in before the shift at the prison and a few more came in after the shift, but not much after that. For sure the guys inside weren't going to drop by.

He had a few of the picketers in earlier, but now that midnight was only an hour away, they were on the lines. He washed the last glass and decided that the evening was done and started to close when a lady walked in.

High heels, tailored gray slacks, expensive blue silk blouse and neatly coiffed hair, make up perfectly done, he thought she might be one of the on site broadcasters. Maybe that was why she was wearing the wrap around sunglasses, didn't want to be recognized. She appeared to be in good shape with nice tits and narrow hips.

She placed her small purse on the counter and he noticed her gloved hands. He didn't think anybody wore gloves anymore. He wondered if maybe she had some kind of skin problem.

"What can I get you?"

"Martini, straight up. And can you turn on the TV?"

"Sure, but there's not much on but the execution."

"Yeah, I know."

He brought the drink with a lemon twist. She was watching the interviewers. There were those for execution and those against.

On closer inspection, her make-up appeared to cover a cut scar on her chin and maybe one above her left eye. But it might just be the light.

Normally, especially when the bar was empty, customers started conversations. Usually that's why they come in. To find someone they can tell their troubles to. The ol' bless-me-bartender for I have sinned or, been sinned against gamut. And usually, they were the ones who instigated a conversation. But since this didn't seem like it was going to happen, he nonchalantly asked, "Think they're going to do it?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh, yeah. The new governor promised law and order. And promised to put the guy away forever if he was elected. But I don't think he should get the chair."

She frowned, "Why not."

"I don't doubt he's a bastard. Maybe he beat her or whatever. But sometimes, a wife needs a little discipline."

"Discipline? Is that what you think? I heard he did worse than that; tied her up, beat her, let his friends use her. Brought home other women and made her watch while he screwed them. Wouldn't let her go out, wouldn't take her out. Yeah, he was a bastard."

"But they never found her body, just some bloody rags with her DNA It was her sister, the country and western star, pushing the governor to do it."

"She contributed to his campaign."

"Yeah, her sister even wrote a real tear jerker about how even though her sister was gone, she was still with her. It went gold, got a lot of play. The governor will be hard pressed to pardon him at this late date."

It was nearing the midnight hour and he wondered if she was going to broadcast a last minute clip, but she remained there sipping, smiling.

At midnight, he could have sworn the lights dimmed, but was sure it was just his imagination. Shortly, a man in an ill-fitting suit appeared on the TV at the gate and announced that the execution had taken place.

The lady at the bar slapped her gloved hand on the bar and took a deep breath.

She smiled. "I'm going to make you famous." She took off a glove, ran her finger across the makeup on her cheek and grasped the glass. "Give that to a detective and tell him I was here."

She tossed a twenty on the bar, put on her glove and slipped out the door.

He lifted the glass by placing his fingers inside and setting it on a bar towel and lifting it up for inspection. Yes, the fingerprints were very clear.

Well, damn. If that was her, then the state had fried an innocent man. If the fingerprints on the glass proved she was still alive, he would be famous and the bar would be famous. There would be people in here at all hours.

His picture might be in the paper. And someone might recognize him; maybe even his ex. Well, she would have been his ex if they'd divorced.

He dropped the glass in the dishwater, lifted and wiped it clean.

Fame is for others.