Internal Affairs Greggory Moore Micro-Fiction

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by Greggory Moore

Published in Issue No. 3 ~ April, 1996

I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
— Shakespeare, from “Hamlet” (V, i, 124)

I told him to go and pick up the money at the bus station. And I guess he got shot. Hell, how would I know what happened? I don’t have the faintest idea. Sure, I feel bad. But I don’t feel guilty. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I was at the restaurant having dinner. A lot of people saw me there. You can check it out.

You lie out on’t, sir, therefore ’tis not yours.
For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
—Shakespeare, from “Hamlet” (V, i, 125-126)

Yeah, she was here. I waited on her. I remember ’cause she was this pretty girl alone, just sitting there, reading some book. And she gave me a pretty good tip. I dunno. What else do you want me to say? I don’t remember what she ordered.

See you now —
To lie: tis true that this is being untrue;
But sometimes to believe a lie can be
divine.
— Shakespeare, from “Hamlet” (II, i, 63-66)

It wasn’t hard to figure out. She did eat there, but her check was cashed out about 30 minutes before the murder. Not only that, but the guy who waited on her got off work three minutes after he cashed out her check. But the thing that really gave it away was what she ordered: coffee. She’d told me that she was eating dinner; and the waiter remembered that she was pretty, alone, and reading, but told me he didn’t remember what she ordered — especially odd, considering he said she’d tipped him well. But this was all circumstantial. So I told her what I knew and threatened to book her and her pal, figuring that she didn’t know much about the law. She offered me a third of the money. I asked for half, but she told me she’d go off with me. I wanted to believe her. She and the waiter disappeared two days later.

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Greggory Moore is a struggling artist whose short work has been published in England, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the United States. He has completed a couple of longer, but unpublished novels. He fancies the work of Nabokov, Stoppard, Borges, and Sterne.