Lonely Weekend
Author: Samason Hill

Chapter 3
Real Estate



It could have been worse, Will justified. He guessed she could have murdered his children and pleaded postpartum depression, he was totally out of his element when Michele dropped the hammer, blindsided him like a suckerpunch and filed for divorce.


He didn’t think he was working too much.  He thought he was considerate, watching the kids so she could go out “with the girls”.  Sure the Detective pay was a little less than with the M.E.’s Office, but he was on a fast track and there was still enough so Michele could continue to be a stay-at-home mom.  Hell, he even gave her carte Blanc with the bank accounts so she wouldn’t feel like she was getting an “allowance”.


All the while he was building cases against bad guys; she was building a case against him.


Before Anne’s first birthday, she had a restraining order - fifty yards from her and the children, except on visitation days - two hours, every two weeks, supervised.


Before Willy was four it was done.  The house, child support, alimony - the whole nine yards.  The insult to injury however was The Realtor - his name was Dave Adams but Will couldn’t bring himself to say or even think his name so he just called him The Realtor.


Will didn’t even know where he had come from.  All of a sudden, and after the divorce of course, he was just there. 


In the beginning Will drove by the house several times a day.  This was when he was drinking all day, everyday - his badge the only thing keeping him from being hauled in for D.U.I.


His superiors were patient, understanding -  they’d seen it all before - keep your tin, leave your gun, take some time off.


As the drinking slowed to occasional binges, he went back to work and drove by the house fewer and fewer - it just hurt too much and all he could do was drown the pain…


But last Friday on his way home the steering wheel seemed to have a mind of its own and as he cruised by, honest to God it was just like a scene from “Leave It To Beaver” with Michele smiling at the door, holding a dish towel in one hand and a beer in the other and The Realtor stepping out of a new Chevy SSR convertible - she had never met Will at the door with a cold one...


Captain Rubik was banging on the door when he came out of the shower.


“Christ, you look like shit!”


“Don’t call me Christ, Lord will do - give me a minute, Cube and while you’re waiting, how about some coffee.”


Rubik made his way through the clutter and trash to the kitchen. “I should have the Department of Sanitation in here,” he muttered over his shoulder as he began slamming cabinets.


Captain Geraldo Rubik had been with the City for over twenty years. Having started out with the New York State Troopers - The Empire State’s elite Highway Patrol, Rubik excelled in his job.  Unfortunately, he also excelled at eating and just couldn’t maintain the strict height and weight requirements that made those troopers look so sharp in their Smoky hats.  So he went city and his 180 lbs. on his 5’4” frame together with his name quickly earned him the handle “Cube”.


“Forget it, there’s nothing in here but empties and besides, your already a day late, if you don’t want to be more than a dollar short, you’ll get you ass in gear.”   


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