Retirement — But When?
An LA cop working in homicide had never found the right time.
Jack cupped his hands, letting the flame of a match dance around the tip of his fortieth cigarette today, then slammed the palms of both hands on the steering wheel.
“Why?” He was quietly screaming. There was never an answer to that question. Never.
Jack Farmer had worked in homicide for twelve years. Today, it was a teenage girl found in a dumpster. Her glassy eyes, her face contorted with a fear that was indeed her final moments.
Jack drove through the streets of LA towards his home in the hills, wondering for the umpteenth time when enough was enough. He had promised himself retirement to Montana, spending his days fly-fishing and writing his memoirs.
LA days sucked Jack dry and tossed him into a bed haunted by faces known.
Jack parked his car on the street outside his apartment block and shivered. The night was cold, and he was reminded of Robbie Burns saying, “Ne-er cast a clout til May is out.”
Dammit, thinking about Scotland reminded him of Danielle, Danny as he called her, and the magical afternoon they’d spent on Loch Lomond, the boat drifting gently on the caressing waves as Danny read Scottish poetry, and him thinking God must have been…
