THE WHITE CARNATION

9:45am. I had never visited this particular diner before. Heck, as far as I was aware, I had never even ventured over to this side of town. This was a new experience. A novel endeavour. My first impromptu adventure into the beating heart of the city backstreets…

…and probably my last, too.

Even in the calm hours of the mid-morning quietude, the foul smelling stench from the night before lingered on every corner. It dawdled in every doorway. Stalled at every stop-sign. Persisted in every puddle and piss-stained side-street from here to the centre of town.

It was a grim morning, for sure. With grim tidings everywhere you looked. But this was where the mark insisted on meeting; at Rosie’s Diner opposite the closed-up burger vans and all-night laundrettes. So, in the end, I had little choice but to abide by his wishes.

10:03am. I ordered myself another coffee and took a moment or two, carefully considering what we knew so far. The mark had been predictably elusive with the details over the phone. He had instructed me to meet him at 10:15am, to look smart, to order the waffle-house cheeseburger with fries, and to wear a white carnation upon my lapel.

That way, he was sure to know that it was me.

The white carnation had been the easy part. They were the first bunch of flowers my husband had offered me back when we first started dating. Well, that’s not strictly true of course. They had been the second offering. The first had been a wiry collection of chrysanthemums likely pinched from some beaten up mural by the side of the road. The kind of flowers best intended for a forgotten cemetery on the edge of town somewhere, and not for someone who you are supposed to call your 'lover'.

My husband never was the attentive type. In-fact, he never was the type for anything. But whilst there are many more miseries I could tell you about my sorry excuse for a soulmate, many misgivings and grievances indeed...I suppose I should not be the one complaining. It didn’t change the fact that it was already a few minutes past 10:15am.

And there was still no sign of the mark.

My predictably substandard cheeseburger remained perched in front of me like an abandoned birthday balloon; cold, limp and largely untouched. Yet the prospect of taking another bite from that thing was perhaps the least of my concerns. Instead, I surveyed the surroundings of the diner for any subtle signs of movement. My narrowed eyes emerging slowly above the cushioned seating of the booth...

A blind man sat alone by the far wall sipping his morning brew in relative peace. He was flanked on either side by a young family with two noisy kids, as well as a large stocky gentleman with his face buried behind a minor mountain of fries. Elsewhere an elderly lady peered out of the window next to me, casually inspecting the morning traffic as it came to an abrupt standstill. She proceeded to call over the tired-eyed waitress from behind the counter, who up until that point, had been busy turning the pages of her dogeared newspaper with a set of hastily painted pink fingernails.

"This is useless..." I whispered to myself, ensuring that no one overheard.

But just as the clock above our heads began to approach 10:30am, with the cops outside hunkered down in their squad cars, and the drunks on the corner finally awaking from their mid-morning slumber...my suspected mark finally decided to show his face.

The scrawny looking individual wore ripped jeans and kept both hands inside the pockets of his grimy leather jacket. He bundled into the place with an agitated expression, appearing noticeably jumpy as he approached the counter...

“Where’s Dory?” the man posed firmly, leaning down upon the sideboard with a graceless thud, “…where the hell is she!? I know she works here…bring her to me now!”

He poked his head around for a better look into the kitchen, but to no avail.

“It’s her day off…” the waitress replied, lighting up a cigarette in full view of the customers, “…come back on Friday. Dory’s bound to show her thieving little face around then. But hey…if you happen to bump into her beforehand, tell her those burgers ain’t gonna flip themselves...alright!?”

“Fuck…” he cursed underneath his breath, “…alright, I’ll do that.”

The gruff intruder seemed unsatisfied. I watched the little greaseball rehouse his hands back inside his pockets and swiftly vacate the premises, cursing as he went. It meant only one thing, of course. For this was not the man I had been waiting for.

Subsequently bemoaning my luck and wishing desperately for a better set of fortunes, I proceeded to take to my feet and make my way over to the ladies bathroom. I figured that a change of scenery might have done some good.

Five minutes later I had arrived back on the diner floor with the clock reading 10:46am. The waitress behind the counter stared blankly into the abyss of crooked chairs and unwashed table tops, seemingly undeterred by the smell of burnt onions abandoned on the fryer. Yet something about her demeanour had changed by the time she spotted me. She paused her smoke mid-puff, glancing surreptitiously in the direction of my table.

I followed her gaze diligently, until finally...I saw him. Amidst the half eaten cheeseburgers and the scores of trampled menus discarded on the floor, a mysterious stranger had suddenly housed himself within the booth. The unidentified man had made himself at home in comfortable fashion, beckoning me over as I cautiously made my approach.

This was it, I told myself. This was the guy.

As I sat down he smiled and reached out his hand.

“What’s a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this…?” I heard him ask.

“Excuse me!?”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance…” he grinned, ignoring his previous comment as I eventually took up his offer of a handshake.

I recalled his face immediately. For it was a familiar face. He had appeared so unobtrusive at first. So casual and concealed, quietly occupying his time with a cup of warm coffee amid the rising buzz of the diner.

Now, of course, all of that had changed. Now, the uninvited gentleman had taken up a seat within the confines of my very own booth. Shaking my hand with a set of dark glasses sitting comfortably upon the ridge of his nose...

“You the guy?” I asked abruptly, feeling a little deceived by the nature of the mark’s arrival.

“Yes…” he smiled once more, “…I’m the guy.”

“…and how am I supposed to be sure of that!?”

It was the blind man, you see. The same person I had already laid eyes upon shortly after entering the diner. The same man I had comfortably written off as a mere spectator, an innocent bystander within this whole affair.

He soon reached beneath the table and lifted one of two leather briefcases face down upon the space between us, another wry smile slowly creeping on his face...

“Because, young lady…” he countered smugly, “…you ordered the waffle house cheeseburger, just like I said…and you wore the white carnation too, just like I told you to.”

He was the guy alright. I suddenly recognised his voice from the phone call.

“Ah yes…” he said, leaning in closely to take an extended sniff of the small flower fastened upon my lapel, “…there’s no mistaking the wondrous scent of a fresh white carnation, is there now? It is the symbol of purity, fortune and, of course…love. Takes me back to my younger days, it does. I would recognise that smell anywhere…”

“And the burger!?” I pressed him, “…does the smell of this rotten old thing take you back as well!?”

The man laughed and quickly shook his head.

“No…” he said, smirking, “…in truth, I care very little for the burger. I just wanted to see if you knew how to do as you were told, Miss…?”

“Carlotta…” I revealed immediately.

It was not my real name, of course. I understood that fine well. But nevertheless, I liked the way it sounded. A name like that made me feel young and vibrant again. The way I did before I first showed up here in the Big City. Before I got married. Before I gave birth to two foulmouthed little kids. Before my soul was confiscated by the perennial unpleasantness of places such as Rosie's Diner. It reminded me of a time long ago that was somewhat jaunty and free.

When I could just be, I don’t know…me again.

“And you?” I prompted, asking in vain for the mark to reveal his identity.

He simply shook his head and smiled, again.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you on that front…” he spoke plainly, “…I’m more concerned about whether or not you brought the money, Miss Carlotta?”

“And what about the pictures!?” I asked accusingly.

“…the money first.”

Aha. There it was. Straight down to business.

“Very well…” I agreed, hauling up a briefcase of my own onto the table.

With two swift clicks the case sprung open and into life. Inside were a multitude of healthily sized batches, made up mostly of twenties, fifties and one hundred dollar bills. The cash radiated upon the table in uncompromising fashion, the same way it always does. But this time there was something about the way in which it glowed that was so tempting and true...

...even a blind man could surely see it.

“It’s all there…” I declared, “….you can count it if you want.”

The mark chuckled softly to himself as he sipped back on his coffee.

“You are a funny one, Miss Carlotta…” he laughed happily, “…I am not sure if you have perhaps noticed yet, but I am in-fact...blind. That is, my life is void of vision and colour. Only the sounds and smells remain.”

“I see…”

“Well I don’t…” he continued, “…I will have to take your word for it. Unless, of course, there is another way…?”

After a brief moment the mark stood up and pulled the briefcase over to his side of the table. Leafing through several bundles until his satisfaction had been met, the unnamed individual held the cash firstly up to his nostrils, before shaking each wad closely beside his ears in order to listen out for any undisclosed discrepancies.

“I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Carlotta…” he conceded finally, “…but then again, I have no particular reason to trust you either.”

“So what do we do?” I asked, needlessly throwing up my hands.

“…we come to a compromise.”

"A compromise?"

"Yes, just hold on a second..."

I held on for longer than a second. Several seconds in fact, waiting for the mark to open the first of his two briefcases and reveal the contents within...

“No, no, no!” I whispered fiercely, "...there's no way! You can’t be serious!?!"

My spontaneous friend had been fortunate that no one was watching. Only mere moments prior, the aforementioned waitress had been swanning past us collecting empty glasses and unwanted leftovers. Had she showed up a minute or so prior, unmoved by the multitude of discarded food wrappers hurdled in her path, she would have surely dropped what she was holding in a fit of sudden shock.

And why would that be, you ask...? Well, because of the gun of course. There was now a no-nonsense semi-automatic pistol lying face-down in the centre of the table. Its presence was cold and powerful. And there was no mistaking it.

“That’s right…” the mark proceeded, “…it’s what you think it is.”

I somehow found myself reaching out blindly for the weapon. Wanting to touch it, just to know if it was real...

“Na-ah-ah!” he sniggered, “…hold your horses, Miss Carlotta! There’s something else we must attend to before we proceed.”

Alongside the gun sat two other seemingly unexplainable items. The first of which was a cheaply constructed blonde wig, the kind of garment often found tossed to the side-walk outside local karaoke bars and striptease clubs alike. The other was a tin of mints; breath fresheners to be exact. The mark retrieved the objects and closed the briefcase, popping two of the mints onto his tongue without another moment wasted.

“These…” he began, “…shuffling the mints around his mouth momentarily, “…are for me. A matter of courtesy I think you’ll find.”

I barely reacted this time, ignoring the mark as he chuckled softly to himself.

“I don’t know who you are…” he stated calmly, “…I don’t know what your real name is, who it is you’re working for...or the true reason you decided to pick up my call in the first place. But in reality none of that really matters. All that matters today, is that I can trust you…”

“…and how do you intend on finding that out?” I asked.

“Well…” he smiled, “…with these breath fresheners of course.”

“You’ve lost me…”

“I need to know whether or not you are wearing a wire. Or a camera for that matter.”

“Great…” I sighed, “…well I can assure you mister, I am not.”

Yet the mark would not be satisfied by merely taking my word for it. In-fact, he had a whole different plan in mind. One that involved him skulking over to my side of the table, placing one heavy arm around my reluctant shoulders, and suddenly leaning in for the kill without as much as a subtle invitation or a wink.

“I want you to lean in and kiss me…” he beamed suddenly, “…that way, I can feel under your clothes to make sure you are not deceiving me, and nothing will look out of place.”

"You must be joking..."

“Lean in and kiss me…” he repeated, “…and we can get this over with.”

I shook my head and lightly pushed my unwanted admirer aside.

“I don’t think so…” I grimaced, “…there has to be another way. I know you want the money. I know you came here for a good reason. So you’re going to have to think of something else, something less intimate, ok…?”

“It is the only way I’m afraid…” he spoke softly, gradually leaning away, “…but if it makes you feel uncomfortable, the deal is off. I need to know that you’re not setting me up here.”

“Fine…” I said, placing his rugged hands beneath my shirt and planting a cold, callous kiss upon his equally soulless lips, “…there. Satisfied now?”

The mark hesitated for a moment, running his fingers over his mouth cautiously before pressing on.

“Yes…” he motioned suddenly, “…yes, I think I am.”

His plan had worked like a charm, looking back. So much so, that I had hardly noticed the rather large gentleman hastily approaching from the other side of the diner. The man moved with purpose, albeit clumsily, brushing up against my elbow as he trundled his way back from the bathroom. Soon he would almost slip headfirst on a rogue soda can unknowingly cast in his way, but by then my mind had already diverted back towards the mark...

...and the contents of his second briefcase.

“Very good…” my blind companion proceeded comfortably, repositioning himself on the other side of the table once the deed was done, “…now that particular task had been concluded, it’s time to move on to the next phase of this little trust exercise.”

“You mean that was only step one!?” I proclaimed, “…what’s next? You want to carry me off into a backroom somewhere? Perhaps you need to prepare me for a full body inspection this time!?”

The mark laughed, seemingly an admirer of my rather direct sense of humour.

“No, of course not…” he insisted, reaching below the table in surreptitious fashion, “…I am content that you are not trying to deceive me, Miss Carlotta. But what I need now is a little…insurance.”

The mark subsequently pulled out the semi-automatic pistol and thrust it in my direction. I held the weapon in my hands, reluctant to hear him out.

“It’s empty…” he said, “…you won’t find a single bullet inside the chamber.”

I opened up the clip to see if he was lying. Turns out, he wasn’t.

“You couldn’t harm as much as a simple housefly with that thing. But…that weary looking lady working beside the counter over there…” he whispered, pointing towards the one and only waitress on the scene, “…she won’t know that. She will be none the wiser.”

“Where are you going with this…?”

“Well…” he smiled yet again, “…this is how things are going to play out. We are going to finish the rest of our coffees. We’ll let our stomachs settle for a minute or two, maybe even discuss our plans for the weekend if we feel like it…then, you are going to walk up to the counter with the gun...and you will demand that the waitress hands over the entire contents of the till until there isn’t a single dime left over.”

“You make it sound oh so simple, don’t you?”

“After that…” the mark proceeded undeterred, “…you’ll put on this blonde wig I have procured, so no one will recognise you…and together we will go out to the carpark where we can finalise our deal swiftly and safely with no unwanted surprises. Sound good?”

It sounded far from good. But I had little option but to humour this rather offbeat character and his equally lurid proposition.

“And how do you know I am not already a blushing blonde, eh? Pretty astute for a blind man aren’t you?”

The mark held up the wig and laughed once more.

“Please, Miss Carlotta…” he told me, “…you might be blonde. But I have it on strong assurances that no one can be this blonde, now can they?”

He had a fair point.

I subsequently peered over at the same waitress leaning down upon the counter with yet another flimsy cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

The poor woman seemed overworked as it was. Not only was she currently overloaded with stacks of unwashed dishes piled by her side. But now I was on the verge of strolling over and shoving a freshly gathered gun in her face, armed with the cruel notion that all of her hard earned efforts for the morning had been for nothing.

“Ok…” I finally conceded, “…but on one condition.”

The mark looked back at me with one raised eyebrow and a quizzical stare.

“I want to see the pictures first…” I told him, “…this is what this whole little lunch-date has been about, has it not? I’m not doing anything until I see the pictures with my own eyes.”

“Very well…” he muttered to himself, “…that sounds reasonable enough.”

With that the man nodded and proceeded to lug his second all-important briefcase onto the table. This time the case was much smaller in size. The metal locks were rusted whilst the leather casing had certainly seen better days.

“Here…” the mark motioned, “…the photos, they’re all here."

Now he had my full, undivided attention. This was exactly what I wanted to see. Or rather, those photographs were the precise reason why I had left the house that morning…in order that no other living person would ever lay their eyes on them again.

You might be wondering why I had been so worked up about all of this. You might query, just why those particular photographs had troubled me so, to the point where I would willingly spend my morning down at Rosie’s Diner with an unnamed blind man sitting across from me for company. Well, you would be right to question these things. You and a million others would love to know the truth…

…wouldn’t you?

“Are these the snaps you have been looking for, Miss Carlotta?” the mark asked smugly, already knowing what my answer would be.

"Yes..." I nodded.

Inside the briefcase lay numerous stills of a certain individual named Marty Marshalls; the soon-to-be front-runner for the local mayorship. Now, you may not know Marty by name just yet. You might not recognise his face in his off-duty moments. You may have never even encountered his schoolboy-like charm nor his undeniably perilous wit before. But do not fear. Pretty soon the entire Big City will be unable to separate the name ‘Marty Marshalls’ from their lips. And there will be nothing they can do to stop him.

Marty was a shoe-in for the next election. At least he hoped to be. For when it comes to owning friends in high places, displaying a firm hand during troubling times, and simply possessing that 'everyday man' appeal right when people need it most...Marty certainly knows how to mix it with the best of them. Besides, who could ever forget that goddamned smile of his?

Not me, that's for sure...

“I am beginning to sense why these photographs are so important to you, Miss Carlotta…” the mark announced suddenly, “…I suppose they have the potential to be, how should I put it…very damaging indeed.”

He was right, as much as I hated to admit it.

Most of the snaps centred around Marty leaving a certain hotel in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps on the surface at least, there was nothing spectacularly wrong with that notion. But there were dozens of images in total. And in each photograph there were about a dozen or so different girls leaving the hotel alongside him.

These were pretty girls, of course…charming girls…party girls. The kind of girls that could make most men dance with a mere snap of their fingers. I had encountered many of these women in my line of work before. They were the type with more silicon implants and ghastly lip extensions shoved in their body than fully-functioning brain cells put together. But hey, you have to give them their credit. These were just the kind of women to unsettle Marty’s loving wife and three children back home. And that was something his most ardent competitors and jealous rivals out there would only be too keen to discover...

“There’s more…” the mark proudly boasted, “…a lot more in-fact.”

He subsequently pulled out several more snaps from the bottom of the case. These ones were far more compromising in nature. Some showed Marty with his face buried in piles of white powder candidly placed on his hotel dresser. Others captured Marty topless, running around his hotel room with a whip and a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. There was even one solitary example of the soon-to-be mayor dressed in what could only be described as an oversized baby costume...equipped with a nice blue bonnet, a big white diaper, and an adult sized dummy inexplicably crammed in his mouth.

“We are not quite done yet, let me see now…” the mark began once more, rifling through a side-sleeve for a single photograph that had been separated from the rest.

“Ah yes…” he grinned, “…I think you’ll find this one of particular relevance, Miss Carlotta…”

Of course. The unnamed blind man may have considered himself something of a showman; an overtly cryptic character whose words ought not to be taken without a good old-fashioned pinch of salt. But on this particular occasion, sadly, the set of words that had just left his lips could not have been more accurate...or true.

“Here…” he insisted, handing me the latest photograph and forcing it within my grasp.

It was another one of Marty. Another snapshot capturing him leaving the same hotel as before, under the same cover of darkness...but this time with a different girl on his arm. I must admit that I knew the girl rather well in this instance. Intimately, you could say. She was the current aid among Marty’s backroom staff and handpicked election team. His most trusted adviser and renown ‘fixer-upper’, for want of a better phrase.

This time I knew everything about the girl; from the fiery curls in her dark red hair to the remarkable definition in her cheekbones. For on this occasion, the girl in the photograph was no dumb bimbo wearing reams of fake-tan and more expensive jewellery items than she could count.

This time, the girl in the photograph…

…was me.

“Who are you!?” I demanded suddenly, slamming the briefcase shut as I glared up at the mark from across the table, “…what on earth are you doing with these photographs? And just who the hell are you working for!?”

“Now, now…” the mark smiled sinisterly behind his dark glasses, “…you told me you only had one condition, Miss Carlotta. And that was to see proof of the photographs.”

“I don’t care…” I told him, “…I want to know who sent you here!”

The mark leant in and whispered.

“I’ll tell you this much…” he spoke quietly, “…I’m a private-eye. An honest, upstanding investigator with his finger on the pulse. And as I’m sure you’re probably well aware, Miss Carlotta, a smart private-eye never bites the hand that feeds them. Isn’t that correct…?”

I said nothing, too busy considering the importance of my next move.

“…I could ask the same question of you, Miss Carlotta. I too, am beginning to wonder about the extent of your involvement within all of this...?”

Of course, I could have never revealed what was truly going on. I could not explain how Marty and I had been engaged in an illicit love affair for the past six months. Neither could I confess, that despite my critical position among Marty’s most trusted staff, and despite my own husband and kids back home, that I had feelings for the local mayor-elect that went far beyond anything termed as professional or friendly.

It was simply inconceivable to concede. For I had been sent on this task specifically on the orders of Marty’s own head office; to retrieve the incriminating photographs and make sure that they never see the light of day. That was the only purpose of this strange, eventful meeting with the blind man at the diner.

That was all that mattered.

“Just give me the gun and hand me that wig…” I proposed, “…let’s get this over with, shall we?”

I promptly rose to my feet and collected the weapon in my hands. The waitress appeared predictably blasé in her usual spot behind the counter, sparking her lighter into life and watching the flame die out again as she awaited her next customer. Yet little did she know that her next customer would be; me. The lady with the blonde wig, the semi-automatic pistol, and no interest in ordering from the deluxe super-saver menu...

“Everybody be cool, this is a robbery!” I cried suddenly, mounting an unoccupied table in the middle of the room with the gun now held aloft in the air.

“You there!” I demanded, fiercely aiming my weapon at the waitress, “…give me a bag!”

“I…I don’t have a bag,” she pleaded, eyes wide with unruly trepidation.

“Then give me something! That plastic bag down there, give it to me…and be quick!”

I watched on as the waitress grasped for a loose plastic bag that had fallen at her feet. It was the type of bag usually intended to house fries, hot-dogs, or any other deep-fried spectacle Rosie's Diner could proudly muster up. It even came with a little imprinted logo on the outside, which I thought was a neat touch...

“Good…” I stated, taking the bag with one hand and promptly wafting it open, “…open up the till and put everything you have in here! That’s it, that’s it…”

The poor woman did as I told her, albeit with a pair of shaking hands and several beads of sweat beginning to fall from her hairnet. She continued to load the money into the bag until there was nothing left to plunder, forcing her to take an apologetic step backwards once the task was concluded.

“That’s it!?” I cried, somewhat relieved that the ordeal was already over.

“That’s it…” she stuttered, “…I’m…I’m sorry, it’s been a slow morning!”

I grabbed the bag of greasy dollar bills and looked to make my escape. It was hardly a huge take, admittedly. Not something you would see on the evening news perhaps, nor anything worthy of keeping the local law enforcement up at night. But it was enough to cause a scene. And that was just what the blind man had been hoping for...

When I returned to the booth, however, the mark was nowhere to be found. Instead he could be observed hovering by the doorway. He was smiling yet again, with the briefcase full of cash held aloft in his right hand, and the one with the photographs courteously left behind for me on the table. Just as we had agreed.

“A deal’s a deal…” he concluded, calling loudly across the diner, “…I think you have proven yourself more than trustworthy by now, Miss Carlotta. Keep today’s winnings for yourself, will you? Consider it a parting gift on my behalf…”

“Not so fast…” I called out to him, pointing the gun in his direction.

He grinned back at me for the countless time. A sly grin with the utmost self-satisfaction. Yet, there was something about this latest smile that felt decidedly different to all of the others. Something a little out of place. It had nothing to do with his stance, the smooth tone of voice or the way he held himself. Those things were all in keeping with character. No, it was more about his eyes. Or rather, the way his eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead once he took a closer look at the gun in my hand...

You see, Rosie's Diner had witnessed something of a magic trick that day. A grand disappearing act, if you will, where one seemingly immovable item is replaced with another. For the weapon in my hand no longer resembled the somewhat useless semi-automatic pistol handed to me by the mark. I was now the proud owner a short, snub-nosed 22 revolver. And unlike the previous blaster with nothing in the clip, this one was fired-up with six stone cold bullets ready and willing to make themselves heard.

As a simple matter of authenticity, I decided to fire one steady shot up into the ceiling just to prove I was no longer in the mood for the mark’s silly games.

The jig, as they say…

…was up.

“Well played…” he grimaced, throwing his dark glasses to the floor to reveal a set of beaming, fully-functioning eyes in their place, “…so you succeeded in deceiving me after all, Miss Carlotta.”

He held up the briefcase lined with money and smiled again, “…I suppose you’ll not be content with just the photographs now, will you? I’m sure someone as unscrupulous as you will want to cash too…”

“Keep your damn money…” I replied, “…I just want to know who you are working for.”

“An upstanding private-eye like myself never reveals his secrets,” he snarled, this time with his whole face responding to his eerie smile.

“This one will…” I countered, firing yet another reaffirming shot into the ceiling, “…if he wants to leave this place with his head still on his shoulders...”

There was a moment of panicked silence that suddenly filled the entire diner. The waitress would slowly poke her head out from beneath the counter, frantically chain-smoking her way through her entire pack of cigarettes. She made eye-contact with the frightened family of four still cowering beneath their table. All the while the large man in the corner and the old lady opposite continued to uphold their previous stances, eyeballing us carefully with every move we made.

“Who are you working for!?” I repeated, “…who is paying your wages, eh? You were ready to sell out the photos to me before, why not give me a name?”

“I can’t…”

“Did the order come from Musgrave’s office? He’s surely running for mayor next term too, maybe he wanted to wipe Marty out of his way!?”

“No…”

“What about the press? Are they the ones you’re trying to please!?”

“Haha, not even close!”

“…what about Marty’s wife? His father? His Aunt? Anyone from his extended family!?”

The mark took a moment to observe his surroundings openly this time. He peered across at the white tiles with an air of subtle surrender. He began to read the menu above the counter with a resigned expression, no longer hunkered down with the weight of those dark glasses.

Yet, as he eventually lowered both briefcases by his side, safe in the knowledge that I had successfully cornered him like the little snake he was, one last look of conceit suddenly tricked across those devilish eyes of his.

It told me that he still had one last trick bundled up his sleeve…

“You too have been playing your little games today…” he spoke slowly, “…have you not?”

I stayed motionless, pointing the gun directly at his temple.

“You too…” he began once more, “…have allowed this false affair to continue between us, isn’t that right Miss Carlotta…?”

“…or should I say, Mrs Carlotta?”

With those final few words, my formally sturdy heart began to crumble like a royal house of cards. Of course, I thought to myself. It was so obvious.

Why hadn’t I seen it coming before…?

“That’s right…” the mark continued, “…I have nothing to do with any rival mayor’s office. Nor am I associated with the press or anyone close to Marty Marshalls himself. I have no intention of reaching out to any of them. I care not for any trivial political affairs, Miss Carlotta. I care only for affairs of the heart. And in your husband’s sad case, the man who paid me to follow you, his is most certainly a broken one.”

Suddenly the interior of the diner seemed to cave in on itself. In slow, painstaking fashion…both the gun in my hand and the briefcase filled with money would tumble to the ground like falling dominoes. The weapon lay still and cold, whilst a glorious shower of warm dollar bills had cast themselves all across the dining room floor. Nearby the young family finally seized their moment to escape. They each headed for the exit with their little ones close behind, never to return to Rosie’s fine collection of half-baked hamburgers ever again.

I peered over to my left, and then back towards my right. Both the old lady by the window and the large gentleman in the corner were still in position as we had choreographed. Once I had given them both the signal, they each jumped to their feet and soared into action.

The man sprung like a spritely young gazelle, reaching for a pair of handcuffs that had been hidden beneath his belt since the very beginning. He had been in place throughout the duration of the meeting, of course, surreptitiously handing me the loaded weapon after brushing up against my elbow only mere moments prior.

Meanwhile, the so-called elderly woman threw off her wig and abruptly discarded her grandmother’s shawl, revealing the appearance of a tough young police officer underneath. She wasted no time in joining her undercover partner as they both hoisted the bemused mark to the ground. The pair of them would soon haul him away under the charges of stalking, intimidation and conspiracy to commit armed robbery.

"Nice one guys..." I acknowledged, "...I should be able to take it from here."

Just like me, the two undercover officers had been operating on Marty’s own personal payroll. They would both receive handsome fees for keeping the whole thing under wraps, whilst no trouble would befall them as a result of their actions. Subsequently, the eager eyed waitress would slowly reveal herself once all the drama had subsided, slipping a few stray dollar bills under her bra in the scarce hope that no one was looking.

But of course, her actions were being closely monitored the whole time...as were we all. By the one seemingly innocent aspect of this entire encounter. The one forgotten onlooker behind this strange affair; the white carnation. The same flower first brandished to me by my loving husband way back when…

You know what they say about the famous white carnation, right?

Whilst one can often lose themselves in its tempting scent and pure heavenly glow…

…a white carnation is the symbol of purity, fortune, and of course…love.

And perhaps none of those things, ought to be trusted.