About the Author: Alan Orloff has published ten novels and more than forty short stories. His work has won an Anthony, an Agatha, a Derringer, and two ITW Thriller Awards. He’s also been a finalist for the Shamus Award and has had a story selected for THE BEST AMERICAN MYSTERY STORIES anthology. www.alanorloff.com
As you might imagine, the gash on my head hurts like the dickens.
I’ve never been pistol-whipped before, and it certainly wasn’t on my bucket list, but sometimes things don’t go as planned. But there we were last night, in that deserted alley, my lady friend and I, and—oh wait.
Forgive me.
I probably need to explain, so let me start this story closer to the beginning.
A few days ago, my acting buddy, Kev, and I were at his dump in Brooklyn drinking beer and discussing our lives. We’d both auditioned for the same role that afternoon, and judging by the face of the casting director, neither one of us was likely to get a call back. Which ran my unsuccessful auditioning streak to nineteen—twenty-seven, if you didn’t count the part of Background Partygoer that everyone who auditioned booked.
Being a starving actor hadn’t gotten any easier during the eighteen years I’d been trying.
Kev hadn’t been much more successful, although he was only thirty-two years old and still had five more dry years to reach my level of futility.
“So tell me again about this arrangement with your sugar mama,” Kev said, sprawled on his couch, with one foot on the floor and the other flopped up over the back of the cushions.