24 hours suds
1209 Words
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# Chapter Five –
The laundromat glowed like a wound in the dark.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too white, too harsh, spilling onto the empty street at the corner of Belgrave and Fifth. The sign read **24-Hour Suds**, one letter flickering like it was trying to blink out a warning.
Ella slowed as she crossed the road.
Her breath came out in thin clouds. Her hands were buried deep in her jacket pockets, fingers tight around nothing at all.
*Come alone.*
She pushed the door open.
Warm air rushed over her, heavy with soap and metal and damp cotton. Rows of washing machines lined the walls, their round glass doors staring like unblinking eyes. A few dryers rumbled at the back, churning emptiness.
No music. No TV.
Just the low mechanical breathing of the building.
“Bob?” she whispered.
A figure shifted near the far change machine.
Bob Castellano stepped into the light.
He looked worse than she remembered.
Unshaven. Eyes sunk deep into dark hollows. A bruise bloomed along his jaw, yellowing at the edges. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and a jacket too thin for the cold.
“You came,” he said.
“You said you knew why he was killed.”
Bob glanced at the door, then the windows, then the shadows between the machines.
“They watch places like this,” he muttered.
“Who?”
“The Joker’s people. Maybe cops too. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
Ella’s stomach tightened. “You said you knew where the footage is.”
“I do. But first you need to understand what Bob Fischer was really doing.”
They sat on opposite ends of a plastic bench between two washers.
The machines thudded and hummed around them.
Bob rubbed his face with both hands.
“Second Chance was real. The rehab meetings. The kids. That part wasn’t a cover.”
“I know,” Ella said quietly. “One of them told me.”
Bob nodded. “Figures. Bob couldn’t help himself. Always saving someone.”
He swallowed.
“But that wasn’t all.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“While he was helping those kids… he was building a case.”
Ella felt her pulse quicken.
“A case?”
“Against the Joker. The whole operation. Dealers, couriers, suppliers, cash drops. Even the guys who wear suits and pretend they’re not dirty.”
Bob let out a dry breath.
“You know why they call him the Joker?”
Ella shook her head.
“He loves cards. Poker, mostly. Underground games. High stakes. Blood-money tables.”
Bob’s eyes stayed on the floor.
“But that’s not the real reason.”
He looked up.
“Every time someone gets close to taking him down—cop, rival crew, politician, doesn’t matter—he plays a joker.”
“A what?”
“A fail-safe. A scapegoat. A burned lieutenant. A fake trail. Something that takes the fall while he walks away clean.”
Bob’s jaw tightened.
“Cases collapse. Witnesses disappear. Evidence turns up rotten or incomplete. And he’s still standing.”
“So he’s untouchable,” Ella whispered.
“He’s survivable,” Bob corrected. “That’s different. He doesn’t win because he’s strongest. He wins because he plans for the moment everything goes wrong.”
He swallowed.
“Bob Fischer was trying to take the joker out of his hand.”
Ella’s chest felt tight.
“He documented everything,” Bob continued. “Video. Audio. Names. Dates. Locations. Patterns. Even the Joker’s backups. The people he sacrifices when the heat comes.”
“The USB drive,” Ella whispered.
Bob nodded once. “That’s the spine of it.”
“He was going to take it to the police?”
Bob gave a humorless laugh.
“He was going to take it to everyone.”
He counted on his fingers.
“Two journalists he trusted. A nonprofit legal group. Three community leaders. And me. He said if enough people had copies, they couldn’t bury it.”
“So why didn’t he?”
Bob’s voice broke.
“Because they found out.”
Silence swallowed the laundromat.
“They knew he was collecting evidence,” Bob said. “Didn’t know how much. Just that he was dangerous.”
Ella closed her eyes.
“So they killed him.”
“Yes.”
“And Caroline?”
“She saw the handoff go wrong. The meeting. The shooting.”
Ella’s hands curled into fists.
“She hasn’t said a word since,” Bob murmured. “They broke her without touching her.”
The dryers rattled louder for a moment, then settled again.
“You said you know where the footage is,” Ella said.
Bob hesitated.
Then reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded receipt.
He slid it across the bench.
“Storage unit. Bob rented it under a fake name. Only told me the number the night before he died.”
Ella unfolded it.
**Unit 317.**
Lockbox inside.
“Why me?” she asked.
Bob met her eyes.
“Because they’re already watching me. And you’re still invisible.”
A beat.
“For now.”
Fear crawled up her spine.
“You want to release it.”
“Yes.”
“Go to the press?”
“Yes. And duplicate it first. As many times as possible.”
Bob exhaled slowly.
“If we do this… there’s no undoing it.”
Ella thought of the kid in the café.
Of Caroline’s empty stare.
Of Bob Fischer standing in that video, holding up a tiny drive like it was a weapon.
“They already crossed the line,” she said.
Bob studied her.
“You’re braver than you should be.”
“I’m tired of people dying quietly.”
For the first time, he almost smiled.
A sudden sound cut through the air.
A car engine.
Slow.
Idling outside.
Bob stiffened.
“You hear that?”
Ella nodded.
The engine didn’t leave.
Bob stood.
“Time to go.”
“What?”
“Now.”
The laundromat door opened.
A man stepped in.
Tall. Hood up. Face half-hidden.
He didn’t look at them.
He looked at the machines.
Then the windows.
Then Bob.
Bob grabbed Ella’s wrist.
“Run.”
The man reached into his jacket.
Bob shoved Ella hard toward the back door.
She stumbled, caught herself, heart exploding in her chest.
“317!” Bob shouted. “Don’t trust anyone!”
Then—
The lights went out.
Darkness slammed down.
Someone yelled.
A metal clang echoed.
Ella didn’t wait.
She ran.
Through the back door.
Into the alley.
Cold air burned her lungs as she sprinted, shoes slapping pavement, fear roaring in her ears.
She didn’t look back.
She didn’t stop.
By the time she reached the next street, her legs were shaking so badly she had to lean against a wall to stay upright.
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
> **If you release the evidence, you die.**
Another followed.
> **If you don’t, others will.**
Ella slid down to the ground, breathing hard.
In her hand, the receipt was damp with sweat.
**Unit 317.**
Bob Fischer’s final truth.
And now—
Hers.
-
- Writer
