Trash

by moon_custafer

Summary:

Afterwards, and for the rest of his life, Portugal sometimes catches himself scanning crowded rooms for that face, that red hair.

Notes:

• For sovay.

Sure, he saw her die right in front of him, hating him like a little alley cat that doesn’t know how to be anything else but mean; but Margot Shelby had been mixed up with a man who’d died in the gas chamber in front of a dozen witnesses only to die again by bullets the very same night. She’d died at the hands of a doctor, died by the gun of a man who’d hitchhiked all the way back to town with blood seeping from two holes in his chest.

Come down to my level, she’d said; but truth was, where that woman was concerned nothing stayed down.

Why should she?