The Richest Man on Venice Beach

This is a submission for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. I haven’t been particularly purposeful of late, and I’m somewhat out of practice but this idea tickled me. Hope you enjoy.  The title doesn’t really fit, but I can’t think of a better one.

A silver-haired man sips a martini on the balcony, watching the waves kiss the beach below. It takes days like this to remind him how little he misses Greenwich Village. It’s the sort of early summer’s day when he can almost feel himself tan in the breeze. He finishes his drink, sets the glass down in a ring of condensation. He’d fix himself another, but Lisa would only complain. Lately, she’s been shrewish, Manhattan winter transported to the California sun. Her roots are showing, too; now she thinks she’s got her man, she’s let herself go. Still, she shouldn’t let get complacent. He could get rid of her as easily as he did the first Mrs Thorwald.
Lars smiles. Maybe he will have that second Martini after all. He doesn’t know it, but fortune smiled on him the day a second class angel heard L.B. Jefferies wish he’d never been born.


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