Runner-up 1

Charlie Bonner watched Carmen sashay gracefully across the Stadium Club. How could she be so cool and poised while he could feel nervous sweat pooling in the small of his back, where the base of his spine would be if he had one? He got the sinking feeling that he had drastically underestimated this girl.

Who was the guy with her? He had a sort of bookish, everyman countenance, vaguely familiar, but just shy of recognizable.

Carmen kissed Charlie firmly on the cheek. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Charlie. What a pleasant surprise.”

Her dark tresses bounced over her shoulder as she turned toward Charlie’s companion. “You must be Mr. Palmieri,” she said, her voice buttery soft. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“Please, call me Vincent.” Palmieri responded coolly. He noticed the smear of bicycle grease on Carmen’s otherwise perfect, shapely calf. “Who’s your friend?”

Carmen placed her hand lightly on her escort’s forearm. “This is Steve Lopez, from the Los Angeles Times. We’re, um, old buddies.” She smiled brilliantly.

Of course, Charlie thought. He took a long swig of his beer and tried to dissolve into the polished mahogany bar.

Palmieri shifted his weight forward so he was no longer leaning on the bar. The cordial smile had vanished, exposing his stony reptilian features. “A reporter,” he hissed. “You have the cojones to bring a reporter to this meeting? You are crazier and more stupid than I thought.” His tan, silk herringbone jacket fell open to reveal the gun tucked in his waistband.

Most of the club patrons had filed out to claim their seats in the stadium. Carmen slid onto a bar stool and signaled the bartender for two beers.

“I might be crazy, Vincent. But I am not stupid,” she said.

Carmen never took her eyes off Palmieri’s face. “I know all about you. I know that publicity is at least as big a threat to you as the DEA. The feds can offer witness protection. The newspaper will print your picture on the front page -- and from there to every news website in the Western Hemisphere. I know the big dogs in your organization are not known for tolerance or subtlety.”

Palmieri turned toward Charlie. “You brought Falco to her, didn’t you? In fact, the whole Vegas setup was your idea. It was a bonehead, TV movie plot from the beginning. I should have sent Hans after you weeks ago.”

The knuckles on Charlie’s stubby fingers were white, gripping the now empty beer bottle. “How should I know that Falco would have blabbed the whole thing to her?” he whined, as if he were back in junior high.

An unexpected instant of clarity swept over Charlie. He realized that this was the turning point in the plot, the moment where the character everyone thought was a hopeless loser would rise up and show his true, heroic nature. He’d manufactured this climactic moment hundreds of times in his reality shows and read it in thousands of scripts.

This was his scene. All he had to do was take charge.

He saw it all in slow motion. He turned the bottle in his hand and smashed it into Palmieri’s startled, handsome face with all his might.

Kris Kolker is a playwright, director and producer.