Murder on Olympus

by Robert B Warren

  Bellanca stood up and adjusted the bottom of her dress.

  “I should probably be going,” she said. “Thanks, Plato, for everything.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The phone continued to ring after she left. I stared at it, debating whether or not to answer. Then I looked at the fruit basket and smiled.

  “Sorry, Alexis.” I put down the still-ringing phone and ran outside.

  The nearest parking lot was across the street. Bellanca was at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned toward me.

  “Hi, again,” I said.

  “Hello,” she said. Her eyes widened expectantly.

  “This may seem a little forward, but would you like to have dinner with me?”

  Bellanca shrank away from me. Rarely a good sign.

  “It’s alright if you don’t want to,” I said, before she could answer.

  “No, I’d love to. It’s just that . . . Aren’t you dating Aphrodite?”

  Damn. I had forgotten about that little scandal. There was no time for damage control. I was going to have to wing it and hope for the best.

  “She and I went out a couple times, but we were never dating,” I said.

  “Does she know that?”

  “Of course.”

  “The tabloids say you two are madly in love.”

  “They also say that Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster have a secret love child.”

  Bellanca grinned.

  “I know I’m not looking too hot right now,” I confessed, glancing down at my wrinkled blazer and slacks, “but I refuse to pass up a good thing when I see it.”

  “And you think I’m a good thing?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Bellanca crossed her arms and looked me in the eye, her head tilted to the side.

  “One date,” she said after a few seconds. “We’ll see where things go from there.”

  75

  It was Friday evening. The Night Owl was barren, but that would change in about an hour or two, when the first influx of regulars trickled in.

  Herc and I were seated at a table with a bottle of scotch and two lowball glasses. The jazz band was setting up their equipment onstage, while behind the bar, Abas took stemware out of the dishwasher and placed it in a hanging glass rack.

  I sipped some scotch and shook my head, smiling. “Man, that’s good.”

  “If you say so,” Herc said.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Tastes like deer piss.”

  “How do you know what deer piss tastes like?”

  “I don’t.” Herc held his glass of scotch up to the light, frowning at it. “But if I ever tried it, I imagine this is what it would taste like.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, you did it, Jonesy,” Herc said. “You saved the day.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Herc raised his brows. “Really?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Asshole.”

  We both laughed.

  “So what’s next?” Herc asked.

  “Disneyland, I suppose.”

  “Think you’ll take any more government contracts?”

  “Only if the Gods hold a gun to my head.”

  Herc grinned wryly. “What are the chances of that ever happening?”

  I wouldn’t put it past them.

  We raised our glasses and had a toast. To what, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  EPILOGUE

  The sun peeked from behind a veil of clouds, its warm light cascading down the peaks and slopes of Mount Olympus. On the roof of the presidential estate, Zeus and Hera sat at a luxurious patio table, having a lunch of sautéed Wagyu beef and bird’s nest soup. Far below, New Olympia unfurled like a map before them. Hera had barely touched her food. She sat motionless and quiet, staring at the horizon.

  “You’re angry,” Zeus said.

  “How very observant of you.”

  “Is this about Plato Jones?”

  “What do you think?” Hera sneered.

  “He did a good job.”

  “Of course you’d think so.”

  “Be nice.”

  Zeus ate a slice of beef while Hera continued to stare at the horizon. A chilled breeze swept across the roof. The hiss of its passage interrupted the silence.

  “I understand you tried to assassinate him,” Zeus eventually said.

  Hera raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

  “Hades.”

  “That bastard. He swore he wouldn’t mention that.”

  “Why did you go through such great lengths to destroy Jones?”

  Hera sipped her champagne and said nothing.

  “I don’t intend to ask again,” Zeus said, his tone low and even, as foreboding as the darkness before a storm.

  Hera looked at him, her mouth a tight line. Clouds rolled across the sky, covering the sun once again. The air dimmed and grew cooler.

  “You know why,” Hera responded at last.

  Zeus looked down at his plate. “It’s not his fault.”

  “Plato Jones is a perversion of nature.” Hera’s tone grew louder and angrier with each word. “He and others like him don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you and I.”

  Zeus sighed. “I understand how you feel.”

  Hera chuckled humorlessly. “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Zeus shrugged. “Believe what you’d like. But know this: you will not harm Plato Jones.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I won’t allow it. If you so much as scratch him, you’ll be vacationing in Tartarus for the next century. Is that understood?”

  Hera tilted her chin imperiously. For an instant it seemed she might argue. Then her face broke into a smile. “As you wish, Mr. President.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A fan of thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction, Robert B. Warren has been writing stories ever since he could hold a pencil. In 2009, he received a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and creative writing from the University of Alabama—Roll Tide! He currently lives in the South.

  More Plato Jones books are coming soon.