Crooked

Changes.

2009-07-24T03:30:00.003-04:00

This site is now an archive.

Good news, however! Over at my sister site, Eastern Standard Crime, big things are happening and they are looking for crime fiction stories. Go! Go! Go!

"Sidework" by Stephen D. Rogers

2009-07-03T01:50:00.001-04:00

He was one of those creatures who hunt through store catalogs for the perfect storage unit, foolishly believing it was necessary -- even possible -- to put a life in order, never mind keep it that way. My client in a nutshell.

So many of my clients in a nutshell.

I leaned back against the row of beer kegs, feeling the cold metal through my shirt. "You were right. Your wife is seeing somebody."

The muscles along his jaw tightened. "Do I know him?"

"I couldn't say. Didn't want to interrupt."

Jeremy kicked at the flooring. "Probably that coworker of hers."

"If you're interested, I can find out. I can also keep it from happening again."

He paled. "I don't believe in violence."

"That's not what I meant. I can put a scare into them, create the impression I'm coming at them from his end. Debra will be so relieved you never found out, she'll stay honest."

"Have you done this before?"

I nodded towards the building outside the walk-in refrigerator. "You manage a restaurant. Have you learned yet what keeps the place going, something they might not even have mentioned in that hospitality management program you aced?"

"What's that?" He puffed his chest, probably attempting to regain some shred of his manhood.

"Sidework. That's where your cooks, your bartenders, your servers spend two-thirds of their time. When it gets busy in the restaurant, you can't have your people prepping sauce and filling saltshakers. All those tasks are done at the beginning of their shift or at the end for the next."

Jeremy chewed that over. "Okay. Okay, just do it."

"We'll use a verbal contract for this portion, and I'll need the cash up front. That way, if anything goes wrong, you can't be implicated."

"What could go wrong?"

This from a guy who managed a restaurant, land of one crisis after another. "There's always a slight chance her boyfriend will try to mix it up with me. I might have to slug him a few times."

Jeremy's grin wasn't pretty. "Where do I not sign?"

The next day, I took photographs of Debra and her lover as they crossed from the office building to his car, and then another set as they ran from his car to the motel. Wouldn't it be ironic if the manager of that fine establishment graduated from the same school as my client?

Parked behind lover boy, I called an ex-client and waited for him to finish the traffic stop before running the tags. Then I drove to the address he gave me.

Timothy Ward lived in a brand-spanking new development that went up twice as fast as its neighbors, thanks in no small part to words I'd whispered in some people's ears. I owed a gal a favor and I always paid my debts. She made ten thousand when the last unit was completed a full seven months sooner than the earliest possible date claimed by the man she bet against.

Timothy's house boasted a two-car garage. Neither bay was filled with the oddball possessions that would collect if a car weren't parked there every night.

There was no sign of toys, bikes, or any other child-related minutia.

How unfortunate. Children always added weight to the prospect of blackmail.

"Can I help you?" A short-haired brunette watched me from her front step, one hand on the open door, ready to flee if she determined I was dangerous.

Walking to the edge of Timothy's driveway, I acted surprised. "Nobody seems to be home."

"Tim gets in about five-thirty. Eli a little past six. Are you a friend of theirs?"

"We were schoolmates." I threw out my arms with just a twinge of dramatic flair. "I guess our reunion is just going to have to wait. After all these years, what are another couple of hours?"

We smiled at each other, and I returned to my car so she could go back to whatever she'd been doing on the other side of that window when she'd spotted me.

Adjusting the plan to accommodate this new information, the following morning I went to work with Eli, two cars back and then in the same elevator. People deferred to him.

The fact that he had his own office was even more promising. His assistant said Mr. Graham had a few free minutes at ten o'clock. I said I'd wait, and leafed through corporate propaganda until I was told he could see me now.

Eli Graham shook hands before motioning me to a seat. "You told my assistant we had some business."

"I'm a professional photographer in that I sell pictures that other people would pay to keep from being seen."

He measured me with his cool gaze. "It sounds like you're talking about blackmail."

"No, I'm a private eye. In the course of a current investigation, I took some pictures that might interest you."

"Let me guess. Tim with some skirt." Eli sniffed. "They don't mean anything to him. That's all you need to know."

So much for that idea. "I apologize for taking up your time."

"Good day."

My surveillance switched to Eli, and I shot dozens of pictures detailing his home-life and partner over the period of a week. I was finally rewarded for my patience when he escorted another friend to an AIDS clinic. The friend didn't look good.

While I would have preferred to make a little extra money off one of the players, I'd settle for fulfilling my obligations. Even after all the hours I had spent chasing down possible opportunities, I'll still come out ahead.

Calling Debra, I arranged to meet her that night while Jeremy worked at the restaurant.

Debra paused as she stepped inside the laundromat.

"Mrs. Carpenter?"

Yes?"

"We spoke on the phone." I smiled warmly. "There are seats in the back near the dryers."

"You said something about Timothy."

"Why don't we get comfortable first?" I led her to the waiting area.

Debra sat across from me. "What do you want?"

"I'm hoping you can help me." I paused, took a deep breath. "I know you're having an affair. That's not what's important to me. I'm concerned about Tim."

"Tim?"

I nodded. "His partner, Eli, has been sleeping around. Perhaps he senses that you and Tim.... Anyway, one of Eli's lovers has been diagnosed with AIDS."

"Eli?" Debra blinked rapidly as she struggled to keep up.

"I can't tell Tim what's going on. He'd never believe me." I handed her an envelope containing selected pictures. "But you, Tim will believe you."

Debra glanced down at the envelope. "What is this?"

"Photographs. I don't know how you'll explain them to Tim, but you have to convince him to break off the relationship with Eli before he also becomes infected."

"And if it's too late?" The envelope trembled in her hands.

"We can only pray it's not." I stood. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Debra barely nodded as I left her there with her thoughts.

That night -- at 2:32 AM to be exact -- I received an enraged call from my client. "What did you do? I just got home and Debra is gone! Cleared out!"

"Did she leave a note?" I rubbed my face with my free hand.

"Nothing! But her clothes are gone, and she's taken some items of sentimental value."

"At least it doesn't sound as if she's planning to jump off a bridge. I'll be at your place first thing. Since you're probably not going to sleep anyway, keep looking for a note. Check all your voicemails, emails, everything."

"What did you do to me?"

"I'll bring coffees." Hanging up, I rolled over and immediately fell asleep, trusting in my internal clock.

I woke at noon, jumped into a quick shower, and finally caught up with Jeremy at the restaurant.

"You said first thing!"

Not bothering to remind him I'd also promised coffee, I raised my hands in surrender. "You're not my only client."

He slammed his office door closed behind us. "You promised you'd take care of things!"

"So, did she leave a note?"

"Nothing. Why? Is finding farewell messages another service you offer?" Sitting behind his desk, he glared at me. "For an additional price?"

"If she didn't leave a note, she's expecting to come back. Debra doesn't want a piece of physical evidence to come between you, harming the reconciliation process."

Jeremy had been slopping tomato sauce into a pan when I found him in the kitchen, and I couldn't take my eyes off the splatter pattern.

His eyes went wide. "I don't believe this. You'll say anything, won't you? I suppose Debra leaving me is actually part of your plan to keep her faithful."

"Where might your wife have gone?"

Jeremy leaned forward. "Why do you want to know? So you can bill me for checking up on her? Or maybe you're offering to pick her up because -- just coincidentally -- your car contains a taxi meter."

I kept my voice level, trying to defuse the situation. "There's a good chance that she only wants a little time to think over what she's done. Once she realizes what she's missing, she'll be back."

"I don't want to hear any more of your self-serving theories." He stabbed his finger towards the door. "Just get out and stay out. I don't want to ever see your face again."

I honored my client's request, assembling the rest of the story from assorted news items.

Debra must have actually given the envelope of photographs to Tim before she disappeared. While she was probably trying to be helpful, all she did was incite a screaming match between Tim and Eli that quickly escalated into violence.

The neighbor who called 911 was not identified, but I pictured the brunette who'd spoken to me as I fleshed out the events in my mind.

By the time the police arrived at the house, Tim had beaten Eli so badly that he slipped into a coma. Apparently, Eli and the man he'd escorted to the AIDS clinic were ex-lovers, a five-year-old relationship that still obviously threatened Tim for some reason.

The following day, that ex-lover shot Tim to death as Tim was being escorted to the courthouse. The police immediately subdued the killer who did not resist arrest but laid down his weapon and raised his hands. As he later told reporters, there was no point in running since prison was as good a place to die as anywhere else.

After completing a thorough investigation, and exhausting all possible leads, the police were unable to determine the origin of the photographs. Imagine that.

Jeremy didn't leave a note, so I can't say whether it was the loss of his wife or the attendant tragedies that pushed him over the edge. While he was usually the last to leave the restaurant on Friday nights, this past Friday he then locked himself in the walk-in refrigerator and mixed three gallons of bleach with three gallons of ammonia.

While Jeremy's professors may have skipped the more mundane realities of the restaurant business, at least they'd covered the very serious dangers of accidentally producing chlorine gas while trying to clean and disinfect.

I tracked Debra to her folk's place in Kansas. She'd suffered some kind of nervous breakdown, complicated by heavy drinking. Despite all the attention the story generated, nobody ever stepped forward asking me to find the missing widow.

Just as accidents seem to unfold in slow motion, I watched in dismay as one possible revenue stream after another was lost to me.

Sure, Jeremy's check had cleared for the original infidelity investigation, and he paid cash for my follow-up work, but I still felt cheated. The whole situation had been so ripe with possibilities that it didn't seem fair I hadn't been able to tap additional resources.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, it didn't look like the case was going to generate any referrals either.

Why me?

BIO: Over five hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have appeared in more than two hundred publications. His website, stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

The Bullet Awards

2009-07-02T00:29:00.003-04:00

Check out this new fiction competition for stories under 1,000 words at Eastern Standard Crime.

"Castrating Firemen" by David J. Keaton

2009-06-26T05:04:00.002-04:00

I will leave work to get you a cigarette because you’re crying. Being broke, I’ll consider stealing one, but instead bum two off of a man filling our vending machine on the sidewalk. I’ll have to smoke my first one as I walk away to cover my ruse. It will be hard to hold with my bad hand. This mad dash home in the middle of my shift will force me to skip lunch with my parole officer, but it’ll will feel like it was worth it when I see you light it, smoke it, and your eyes finally clear to see me again.

On the way back to work, I will turn up the radio to celebrate, not caring if I’m in trouble or not. I’ll pass a church with a sign that says, “God’s favorite word is ‘come’!” and turn the song up louder, smiling and wishing there was time to take a picture to show her.

Then I’ll hear a siren behind me, but notice that its howl is choppy and broken, stuttering with feedback at the peak of its wail. Reluctantly, I’ll move over as the shrieking vehicle blows by. It will be a volunteer fireman, of course, not even a real one. Leaving near the fire hall, I’ll know all their names and plates. Convinced I’ve been gone too long to successfully sneak back to work, I’ll follow the siren instead. Luckily, my fellow telemarketers notice little with their headphones and horse blinders. A mile later, I’ll be rewarded with a new mission when I see the truck swerve to clip the back legs of a small animal crossing the road. I’d follow him over a waterfall after that.

Eventually, the truck will pull into a driveway. I won’t even look for smoke, knowing immediately that the fireman is home. He’ll get out and go inside as I look up and down his neighborhood street. I’ll count six trucks on this block with red domes, yellow strobe-light bars… and fake plastic testicles swinging off their trailer hitches. Inspired, I’ll run to the fireman’s cab and find it unlocked. Pushing the driver’s seat forward, I’ll find the toolbox I expect and inside a pair of wire cutters.

* * *

It’s no accident I hate these fuckers. Never mind my hand. The best kept secret where I’m from is that they’re the worst thing you can have show up when you have a fire. Not just because they won’t get there in time if you need them and their general incompetence when it comes to navigating a smoke-filled room, but because, if you look real close, there’s nothing coming out of those hoses they‘re holding. Some people might call that a sexual dysfunction. All would agree that these assholes are just there to give the illusion of a rescue.

I will begin with a gleaming candy-apple red 4x4 three doors down, raising the fake testicles gently so that the truck remains sleeping (never has there been a more obvious symbol of what these trucks are supplementing), then clipping them high near the hinge that makes them swing. Just like they teach you at the slaughterhouse. Then I’ll walk across a yard to another one. The fake testicles on the next truck will be metal instead of plastic, and the wire cutters won’t be able to castrate them as effectively. So I’ll pull out a magic marker and scribble a tumor on the left testicle, the one that always hangs lower, and I’ll move on. Three doors down, I’ll geld another truck without waking it. Bright pink, of course, always sparkling Easter egg colors (“Pascua huevos!” my daddy calls them), and I’ll clip and toss the testes up into the bed next to a pile of plumbing supplies and kneepads. I’ll move further down the block, remembering a documentary I once captioned about bats and how they preyed exclusively on sleeping cattle. One gruesome shot in particular framed a bat hanging off a bull’s scrotum, licking furiously as the mixture of blood and saliva around a wound. I attached a “(Somber Music Plays)” caption to the scene, even though the audio was silent. Because of the natural anticoagulants and anesthetics produced by the bat, the bull never knew what had happened until the farmer tried to milk it by mistake.

I’ll work my way across the street to neuter two more sparkling all-terrain utility vehicles, then circle back to the fireman’s driveway just in time to see him exit his house. I’ll toss a handful of rubber testicles at his feet for a distraction, then kick out a headlight and duck around his truck with him screaming fast after me.

“What the fuck!”

“So, where’s the fire, asshole?”

* * *

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Why did you run over that squirrel back there?”

“What squirrel?”

“The one you swerved to hit while you pretended you were on your way to a fire.”

“What? That was a rabbit! Well, not really a rabbit. A toy! And it was my daughter’s. It’s been there for a month.”

“Well, who the hell runs over their daughter’s rabbit?”

He’ll almost catch me before I elbow off his side mirror. He’ll stop to cradle it sadly and give me time for more questions.

“Why do you have this “I Brake For Trains” bumper sticker? That’s like saying you brake for dinosaurs. Of course you’d stop for a fucking train, stupid. Otherwise it would kill you. Why do you feel the need to brag about this?”

He’ll let the mirror slip from his hands and shatter on the asphalt as his eyes narrow and he loses some contractions in his sentences to sound as serious as possible.

“It is to save lives, so people do not run the crossing gates when they are coming down.”

“Oh. Maybe it should say that on the sticker instead. Of course that would cover your whole goddamn bumper.”

I’ll begin kicking heel marks into this bumper, hoping to loosen it from the frame, then I’ll settle for smashing a tail light because he’s running out of wind on our fifth lap. I’ll slow a bit, and he’ll surprise me with a lunge. I’ll laugh at the sky as he misses and crash lands in the road, backwards and confused like a grasshopper after a jump. When he stands, he’ll be holding his arm away from his chest at an odd angle, and this will give me time to hop into the bed of his truck and talk even longer. I’ll tell him my well-worn list of the World’s Top 100 dangerous occupations (“Loggers, dude, I’m telling you!”) and where he most likely stands (“Number 97 on your worst day!”) then I’ll talk about a typical firefighter’s physical condition (“Fat fucks that wear more jewelry than baseball players!”) as I dwell on the seventh to last show I captioned before I was fired:

“...they were interviewing some of these firemen and their families, and the wife or kid would smile proudly and say smug stuff like, ‘You know, it's just his job.’ Such bullshit. The only reason these words are spoken is because they want to be clear that it's not just a job. What they’re really trying to do is boast about these dangerous, heroic things their fathers is doing. You know what's really going on when your son says these words? It's the equivalent of some dumb bitch spending six hours getting ready for a party, then saying to the first person who compliments her on the dress with her tits hanging out, ‘Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on.’ See, that's what you’re really hearing, and seeing, when your boy, or you, says, ‘It just my job.’ You’re seeing a bitch with his tits hanging out. So fuck 'em. Did I already say ‘fuck 'em?’ Well, fuck ‘em. And why are you wearing dog tags!? Holy shit, do you think you’re in the Army?! How funny is that?! You know what? I want them. Come here...”

I’ll start to climb down, and he’ll be backing up, still holding his arm by the elbow, now truly concerned that I’m dangerous, possibly recognizing me finally. So I’ll keep talking. And talking.

“Okay, since I got you here to listen, one of them said the words ‘It’s what we do,’ one said, ‘Anything to save a comrade’ like you guys are cosmonauts or something, one referred to fire as a ‘monster,’ one collected photos of his cosmonauts in dangerous situation and covered his refrigerator with them, one used the word ‘proud’ no less that eight times in as many seconds, one claimed to have gone ‘nine days without sleep,’ a medical impossibility by the way, one had a ‘Great Chicago Fire’ pinball machine that he clearly played with more than his kids, and one kept all the dog tags off friends of his who had died, most of natural causes, of course. Which reminds me...get the fuck over here!”

He’ll try to hide inside his truck, but I’ll pull him out. He’ll wince when his broken arm rebounds off his front tire and crumple again, but he’ll leave this arm vulnerable when he covers his dog tag protectively. He’ll almost be pleading.

“Why do you want it?”

“No, the question is, why do you have it? I’ll tell you why. The only reason you have a dog tag is to pretend that you’re somehow at war...with fire! Are you serious? Do you dream of clutching this necklace and weeping as you trip over a hose and extinguish a burning doghouse? Wait, I’m sorry, a burning doll house? Yeah, dude, you're a warrior. Thanks for looking out. That's why you’re the same fighting weight as a Major League pitcher, 220, not a muscle in sight. Hold still. I think I want to try to take a shit on your head...”

Inspired by that, he’ll get a good, quick punch into the soft meat of my neck, so I’ll punch him harder in the voicebox in return. While we cough and I roll off-balance into the street, he’ll be trying to crawl under his truck while I pull on his ankles.

“...oh, you’re so brave! A house is on fire. Whoopty shit. You remind me of my dad’s brother’s ex-girlfriend's sister's husband who was a cop. He told me that he kept obituaries of dead cops on his ‘fridge, too. I didn't say this to him at the time because I honestly didn't think of it back then, but you know why he did this? Not for any type of memorial. He did it for the same reason a kid draws a picture of himself in a burning spaceship for Christmas. He just wanted his wife to see what a dangerous job he had every time she opens the door for a juice box. Just so he could then downplay it and say, ‘Don't worry, baby, it's what I do.’ Fuck him. Cops and firefighters ignite! Er, I mean ‘unite!’…”

I’ll try to twist his ankle out of its socket.

“…Hey, you know why I say, specifically, ‘Fuck him?’ Because I played backyard football with that cock, I mean, ‘cop,’ and his other two brothers one Christmas morning, and they gave me a concussion. The ground was frozen, and we were stuck running around between about five brick buildings. It was like playing football on roller skates in a drained pool but, you know, dangerous. I thought my brain was going to squirt out my ears before the end of the first quarter. I was ready to drill a hole over my eye to let the pressure out. I’m completely serious. Maybe if I had both hands, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but who knows how much brain damage that football game caused me. I don’t think I can even do multiplication tables anymore. Forgot most of my piano lessons. Can't finish my...”

I’ll get a knee then a foot on his ear and pin him down long enough to yank the chain off his throat.

“Let me explain something. My daddy was cooking something to keep our family afloat. That smoke was supposed to be there. You were nothing but a fucking distraction that day. Nobody called you.”

Then I’ll roll him down his driveway and stand up behind his car to shake the gravel out of my elbows, pausing to rip his license plate off, convinced it reads “Transylvania” instead of “Pennsylvania.”

I’ll hesitate, then go back for those wire cutters one last time.

And as I run back to my car to hang his dog tags on my rear view mirror with the rest of them, I’ll see that he finally notices my bad hand, red as the blood behind my eyes. Maybe this one remembers being in the truck that blocked us in the driveway that day to wait for the cops. Maybe this one remembers me holding the door shut when the ax came down, trying to warn my daddy through his gas mask while his tattooed arms kept working those bottles and burners like a mad scientist’s drunk uncle. Maybe this one finally understands the need to cull the herd and why creatures like him have no business pretending to save lives.

BIO: I am in the MFA program at the University of Pittsburgh and a full-time
closed-captioner. I am also a contributor to The College Rag and a
reader for Hot Metal Bridge.

"Elephant" by Kieran Shea

2009-06-22T04:35:00.002-04:00

A loft in Jersey City, fourteen years ago....

Heaven was an asshole.

Heaven planted a cold engineer boot on Pat Flood’s neck and slowly fanned the room to a freeze with a .45. The girls, Heaven’s “talent”, gathered their frilly things and shouldered past Heaven’s draped open leather coat—out the condo’s front door.

“Keep passing the bag.…” Heaven said.

Pat never saw the blow. Typically he prided himself on his fighting instincts, playing things street smart, being one of the last of the Irish raised in Flatbush and all. But nerves were slowed by hours of tilted stout and a couple bowls of good weed. Christ. Wasn’t this bad for business? Taking off a bachelor party?
And man, he was just negotiating for more time, nothing more. For crying out loud, the ten of them in that condo had enough money slaving in Manhattan day-in and day-out they could have paid the girls to stay for a year and then some. But that had never been Heaven’s plan apparently. Heaven chopped him down.

“Keep it comin’. Yo, Charlie Sheen Wall Street! Watch too, bitch.”

Pat squirmed his cheek in the greasy empty clam of a discard pizza box, elbows cocked as if he were resting between push-up sets. Out of the corner of his bloodied eye he saw the plastic shopping bag sway between the passing hands of his friends. The thin white skin of the bag was dark with wallets, jewelry and loose bills. Finally, the bag was handed over his head to Heaven. The pressure from the boot increased on Pat’s neck as Heaven looked in the bag.

“Nice. Might wanna take a minute to pull together your story an’ shit before dialing any police, seeing that I now own these wallets. Couple wedding bands ‘round the room too. Good times, huh? Went to college together an’ shit?”

Somebody mumbled.

From the shift in pressure on his neck Pat could sense that the .45 in Heaven’s hand had swung back across the room.

“Yeah, well. You college pussies oughta know better.”

*

Two weeks later....

Pat did the bench squat next to his cousin Mikey, both of them rolling paper cups of coffee between their hands. Pat stared absently at the impatient 6:40 commuter shoes and felt the chugging vibrations of the Staten Island Ferry deep in his spine.

“What do you want me to say, Pat? Yeah. Of course the guy has a sheet, d’fuck you think? Jesus. Petty this, couple of pops, nothing major. But then he finally screwed the pooch and did six and a half in East Jersey State for a liquor store robbery. So, what? So now he’s pimping strippers and you guys fucked up and lied to the Jersey City cops because a couple of you were stupid enough to buy blowjobs and nobody wants to ruin their precious life? Big deal. Grow up. Buncha babies. Chalk getting’ robbed to experience. Get back to your MBAs, your jobs, your fiancés, whatfuckin’ever. I’m telling you, a douchebag like this character? S’not worth it.”

“Just gimme the paper, Mikey.”

Mikey sighed, slurped his coffee, then warned, “This comes back to me, I swear to God, Pat…”

“Yeay, yeah. I got it.”

Reluctantly Mikey fished a folded-up square of paper from his breast pocket. Pat snatched the paper and gave his cousin an envelope.

They both drank their coffee for a while after that and said nothing. When the ferry finally bumped into the Manhattan terminal Mikey stood.

“So. These good seats or what?”

Pat looked up at his cousin adjusting his creaking duty belt.

“They’re gold. Third base line, fifteen rows up. Company seats. Make sure your kid brings his glove and pays attention.”

The masses of humanity shuffled past.

“Fuckin’ kid,” Mikey said, “He’s like half a fag for Mr. November, y’know?”

*

Present day—Bergen County, New Jersey....

“Honey, what’s this?”

Pat poked his head around the corner into the master bedroom. He had a half a beard of shaving cream and a thick, black towel cinched around his waist.

“What’s what?”

“This,” his wife Jeanie held up a faded swatch of paper, “This was in your junk box on your bureau. I’m cleaning it out. Is this important?”

Patrick padded over and plucked the paper from his wife’s scissored fingertips, giving her a puzzled look. He unfolded the paper, read the handwriting and felt a surge of memories rise behind his eyes.

“Who is Raúl Gomez?”

Pat tsked dismissively. “Um, just this guy… wow. Phew. Long time ago. Forgot I even had this piece of paper anymore.”

“Is that a Social Security number?”

“Umm…kind of. Yeah.”

“Why do you have his Social Security number?”

“It’s a long story.”

Later that day in midtown, Pat swiveled in his desk chair and stared out at the canyons of Manhattan. Rain leaked jagged streams down his office window.

It had been over ten years since he asked his cousin Mikey in NYPD for that favor, a wild young hair up Pat’s ass…looking for some payback. He had no idea what he’d do and in the end ended up doing nothing. Once again Pat was amazed at the banal dross of life accumulating around him like so much cold, wet sand.

Nothing really came of the stolen credit cards and missing driver licenses from that night. After all, the robbery was back in the salad days of the Internet, back when identity theft was just a faint notion on a far back burner.

A couple of gas charges, a restaurant bar tab, and poof—it was over. Cops said cards were probably buried deep in a landfill somewhere.

Pat swiveled back and picked up the piece of paper from his desk blotter.
Raúl Gomez. A.K.A. Heaven.

Pat unclipped his personal cell phone from his belt, shut his office door, and made some calls.

*

“He owns a what?”

The private detective next to Pat trolled a finger down his report and squinted. They were perched in a Starbucks window on West 56th.

“Ahh…a small auto supply house in South Amboy, New Jersey. Actually they just sell high end rims. Fancy chrome accessories, that sort of thing. The detailed, bass thumping 808 crowd, if you know what I mean.”

“And he’s no longer doing anything criminal?”

The detective smoothed his tie. “From all outward appearances, no. After his last jolt for aggravated assault, nothing comes up. Rents an average looking townhouse, has a wife who runs a nail salon and a daughter in private preschool if you can believe that. It seems the correctional system has rehabilitated Mr. Gomez. Joined the rate race as it were. Here’s a current picture.”

Patrick looked at the photograph taken from a distance. Older, yes, softer, yes, eyes of menace still. Hair gone and a shaved dome, dipped a bit more in ink and a tad on the jowly side, but it was definitely him.

“Heaven.”

“Yes, sir. Raúl Gomez. Heaven.”

Pat snorted and shook his head in wonder. He then shook the private detective’s hand and wrote him a check.

*

The following Saturday, Pat Flood opened the glass door to Heavenly Hubs a sharp electronic deet-deet-deet announcing his entrance. Heavy plodding hip hop vibrated the air and hard April sunshine blasted through the barred windows, flashing up the chrome.

A clerk at the front with a flat-brimmed purple Yankees cap, wet-looking Lil’ Wayne dreads, and an oversized Nets jersey cocked a fuzzy chin at Patrick, “S’up, can I do y’fo’?”

Pat’s heart raced. Gingerly he made his way forward down the central display area, his mouth drying. At the counter he drummed his fingers on a glass case near the register. An aisle over, two wannabe bangers in white skull caps and droopy shorts were snickering.

“Owner around?”

“Wha?”

“Is the owner around?”

“Depends, dog. You sellin’ shit?”

“Selling shit?”

“Yeah. You a salesman? Sign front window says, like, no solicitation.”

“No. No, I just would like to speak to the owner that’s all, please.”

Purple Cap leaned back on his stool and scratched the neck of a panting Rotweiller the size of ottoman resting on the floor behind him. Patrick noticed the dog’s collar was a hand tooled black leather belt with the word PRIME on it in raised, sharp studs.

“I’ll check if he’s available.”

“Thanks,” Pat said, the dog looking up and appraising Pat’s presence. Purple Cap paused at the doorway and turned back.
“And who’re you?”

Pat crossed his arms and forced a smile, “I’m Patrick.”

“Patrick...”

“Yeah. Patrick Flood.”

“A’ight. Watcha register, Prime.” The Rotweiller whined.

After a bit a man emerged from behind a doorway with the Purple Cap trailing behind. The man smelled of onions and vinegar was chewing open mouthed, wiping his ring adorned hands with a yellow paper napkin.

“Can I help you?”

Pat let his memory roll backward then forward. It was him—Heaven—the guy who brokered the strippers for that bachelor party oh so many years ago and brutally pistol whipped him to the floor.

“Are you Max Hernandez?” Pat asked, floating a ruse.

Raúl looked at Purple Cap then back at Pat standing there. There was an exchange of rough, smoky laughs. Pat felt sweat on his upper lip. There wasn’t even a flicker of recognition in Raúl’s eyes.

“Naw, man. My name is Raúl. I’m Raúl Gomez.”

Yeah, Pat thought, old anger tightening in his chest.

I so fucking know who you are....

*

What happened next was possibly the dumbest, mid-life crisis play of all time.

Pat figured he’d wait a week, come back and case Gomez’s closing routines. Then he’d seize the right moment, get a couple of shots in and settle the ancient score once and for all.

Meanwhile at the gym Pat signed up for a couple of early a.m. private sessions with one of the martial arts instructors to beef up his arsenal of debilitating quick strikes. Catch Gomez off guard, unleash the barrage, and drop some knowledge on his gangsta ass.

It was a crazy idea, dangerous. But Pat had seen the photos from the detective. I’m in way better shape than that scumbag, Pat thought. He’s gone doughy, looked slow. Plus he’ll never expect it or see me coming.

Pat’s grandfather, a strict off-the-boat mick who drove for the MTA for forty-five years, always told him—they may beat you down and it may take a while, but the Irish? The Irish always have a way of coming around. Memories like elephants.
God damn right.

But Pat’s vision of justice didn’t go down that way.

What Pat remembered was the parking lot behind Heavenly Hubs tilting. He remembered being kicked and stomped and beaten and rolled over, a thick worming hand fishing free his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Then nothing for a while as a car alarm chirped and a door was opened. Then footsteps before the hot shot of a baseball bat caved in his front teeth. Pat passed out.

Later there were flashes, bursting snapshots…like when he used a View•master back when he was a kid, the toy with the waffled disks of images you advanced by fingering a lever. The dark blue coats of the EMTs, himself using his thumb and forefinger to tweezer out a bloody piece of glass the size of a diamond from his chin, stay with me, stay with me, the doctors at Raritan Bay Medical Center with their minty smocks and that syringe the size of a sixteen inch screwdriver.

Oh yeah. And the screaming.

His.

Pat cracked his left eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut like a leaking fig. His wife Jeanie was at his bedside. Pat’s throat was on fire but he managed a croak.

“Jea …”

Jeanie snapped to, her watery green eyes flicking desperately back and forth as she leaned closer, touching his chest, “Oh thank God, you’re awake!” She cried over her shoulder, “Nurse! Nurse! He’s awake!”

Pat weakly clasped his wife’s hand. “Did you…ulkk… say…anything?”

Jeanie turned back, “Say anything?” She stroked his matted hair above a bristling
wedge of fresh stitches, “What? Say anything about what, baby?”

“Who….”

“Who? Who did this to you? They don’t know. Police are saying you got mugged. What were you doing in South Amboy anyway, Pat baby? I don’t understand, why were you down there, honey pie?”

Pat tried to shake his head but could barely manage an agonizing drift. Jeanie started sobbing. Smiling and sobbing.

As the nurses buzzed around him Pat fought the pull of the medications insisting that he slip back down into the cool, black zero. Sweet freakin’ Christ, he hurt, how can he be forty-one and hurt so God damn much?

If Raúl Gomez had his wallet, well, then Gomez had him. He may have forgotten Pat from the robbery more than a decade past, but he sure as shit knew where Pat lived now. Lived with Jeanie. With his two kids.

Jeanie kissed his cheek, her breath hot and sour, lips dry as a paper.

Man, Pat thought miserably. Payback such a bitch.

BIO: Kieran Shea scratches at the crime fiction eight ball like a lot of sordid lots. He blogs his struggle at BLACK IRISH BLARNEY (kieranjamesshea.blogspot.com)

"The Natural Order" by R.A. Zilber

2009-06-18T04:51:00.003-04:00

Before leaving work on Friday, Rachel zipped a flash drive loaded with the Current Population Survey Data into a small compartment of her purse. Saturday morning she drove to Brooklyn to meet an old friend who reconnected with her on Facebook. Brighton Beach locals paraded the boardwalk. Young women walking fur clad dogs, cocky teenagers huddled in groups, fat eastern European ladies with their overindulged grandchildren.

A man in his early forties with a dark receding hairline approached her, “Raych!” Smiling, she placed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans forming a barrier between them, after a momentary embrace they walked along the boardwalk.

“So how have you been?” Michael asked.

“Well, hanging in there. You heard Leila died?”

“Yes, I am sorry; so young and all those children. I don’t know how you and Jake manage. I couldn’t do it with one”.

“After Leila died, I adopted her children, and have since come to look upon them as my own. It’s not easy. We do what we have to.”

“And how has life treated you?”

“Well, I had my moment to shine, but I didn’t make tenure. After ten years at Stern, the academic senate voted me out because I didn’t publish in the appropriate journals. I received offers from lesser schools, but after NYU everything seemed minor-league”.

“Yeah, the bureau has its share of washouts, but they didn’t washout of NYU, if you know what I mean. A diller, a dollar, a tenure washout scholar”, Rachel threw her head back in laughter.

“A diller a dollar, switched to statistics, sucky math scholar”, Michael retorted with a wink. “To be honest, I was relieved to leave the academia. There is no going back, but when I began turning into a windbag with a ‘Hey Day’ from NYU, I licked my wounds, and took a job with an investment bank, eventually making triple the money,”

“And your family?” Rachel asked.

“What family? My bed was still warm when the chair of Stern moved in with my wife and son.” “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. That’s just how it is sometimes. Love belongs in fairy tales,” he said, resuming composure. “A few years ago I met a Swiss banker, originally from Israel and educated in London. After fulfilling his military obligation, he studied economics in London, and before accepting a position with a Swiss bank, worked for the Mossad. Adam formed a wealth management group employing eastern block talent; economists, programmers, and mathematicians, a manage-a-tres made in heaven.” Rachel recoiled at the visual. “He calls them ‘Oracles’ and that’s how he got his nick name—‘King Solomon’. When I mentioned your name --Adam insisted on meeting you, he is a scrupulous businessman.”

“You mean scruple-less businessman,” she said laughing. It began to rain, “Remember ocean beach in San Francisco--how the waves grew bigger curling into themselves before striking shore?” Pointing toward the hovering seagulls, she said, “In contrast to humankind, animals live in nature’s prime real estate. People pay to live in slums surrounded by garbage; their by-product --misery and ugliness.” Feeling a chill move down his spine, Michael turned up his collar, and walked Rachel to her car.

Later that evening, Michael appeared somber when he picked up Rachel in a rented black BMW. Before ariving at the restaurant, Michael said “Adam insists on having a personal relationship with his clients. It’s his trademark”. Rachel remained silent. “Raych, everything will work out, one way or another it will work out.”
“Of course it will, and let’s hope that it works out one way and not the other,” she replied.

The elevator doors opened into a glass walled lounge overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The maître d’ led them to a table occupied by a large bearded man in his late forties with reddish hair in. Michael smiled as Adam stood to greet them. While they chatted, Adam studied Rachel through his crystal goblet.

“Well, let us not waste time”, he smiled revealing small white sharp teeth.
“Rachel, ever played 21 questions?” Adam asked in an indistinguishable accent.

“Yes, I know it”.

“Ok, let’s begin then,” he said. “What distribution has the same mean and variance?” “Pardon?” Rachel said, startled by Michael’s nudge. “Oh, never mind. The Poisson.”

“Very good. Now, tell me what the central limit theorem says about n large?”
“Well, if n is large, the distribution of X (the thing we are estimating) will approach a Normal distribution, also known as the Gaussian distribution, and the Bell Curve,” she answered smiling. “Good.” he said.

“How likely am I to win a game against you, if you won 15 out of the last 20 games we previously played?”

“You are three times more likely to win.”

“Tell me something that you didn’t memorize from a flash card.”

“Ok”, she said. “I believe Gauss used the Mispar Kidmi to arrive at his formula for summing all numbers, she said.”

“Gematria. The Mispar Kidmi is a form of a Gematria.” He said, stroking his beard.

“Yes! Each letter is the sum of all the letter position respectively, up to and including itself. Forming a series of sums where A=1, B=3, D=6, E=10 and so on. Notice the pattern of the difference is n plus 1. Now we find an appropriate scaling coefficient, which gives us Gauss’ result; the quantity, n plus 1 times n and the whole thing divided by 2. Maybe Gauss was Jewish”, Rachel grinned.

“I will accept this as a conceivable hypothesis.” Adam said. Rachel exchanged glances with Michael and excused herself.

“I don’t follow you”, Michael said.

“Michael, decent mathematicians become actuaries, the rest become statisticians. Since she is the latter rather than the former, I had to check her level of statistical understanding before starting collaboration”.

When Rachel returned, Adam asked, “Now, please tell me about your data.”

“Well, I have access to the Current Population Survey—the mothers of all surveys, from which key economic indicators are born. The Bureau collects, processes and delivers the data to the sponsor—the Labour department.”

Adam said, “Yes, I know the Labor department construct economic indicators out of the survey”.

“The bureau is not a research institution; its primary function is collecting and processing data.

Typically it’s the PhD program washout with a chip on his shoulder, claiming to be doing “high level work. I have yet to find someone who published beyond their graduate program. In all fairness to the Bureau, what it lacks in statistical talent, it compensates with geographers” Adam scratched his temple with a manicured finger, revealing a brass ring set with four jewels inside a hexagram.

Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Rachel, name your price.”

Rachel hesitated, and then said, “Mr. Brahms, unauthorized disclosure of confidential information carries a penalty of two-hundred fifty thousand dollars and five years in prison. How much is five years of life worth?”

“Please—call me Adam,” he said. “If it is agreeable to you, let us employ a risk aversion formula to determine an appropriate payment for your services. Please trust me to provide you with the details later.” Reaching inside her purse, Rachel produced a flash drive.

“Gentlemen, one year of CPS data, for the Oracles to practice their skills,” like a well-trained dog waiting for his treat, Adam’s gaze moved from Rachel to the flash drive and back again.

The waiter brought a 1999 Vintage Dom Perignon Rose and chilled Beluga Caviar on mother of pearl plates. Optimism about the future warped her thoughts. Surrounded on all sides by wrong, at that moment, Rachel believed --she was doing right. While Michael was on his cell, Adam moved closer to Rachel and slithered his hand up her back making his way to the nape of her neck, she wriggled, forcing his hand to release, and slither away. Clearing his thought, Adam said, “I owe much of my success to Hedonic principles. For example, optimism bias; an exaggerated idea about how much control we have over outcomes. Most people are far more optimistic about their own circumstances then someone else’s.”

“In other words”, Rachel said, “Optimism bias is a combination of arrogance and a desire to be an individual rather than a statistic.” Afraid of what Rachel might say, Michael raised his glass and said,

“To a lucrative collaboration!”, the clanging of the crystal produced a clear resonating sound.

Surprisingly enough, Rachel was satisfied with the outcome of her trip. It pleased Rachel’s internal sense of order to formulaically establish a price for her services. She sensed omnipresent perfection--keeping the money a secret gave her time to try and understand its purpose. Rachel loathed thinking of herself as a consumer unit. She liked Plato’s ideas from “The Republic”. Plato described an ideal state and the abandonment of the typical family structure. A matrilineal dynasty came to mind; “the House of Rachel”, she whispered. The dynasty would have to wait, and so will Jake, she thought smiling. Rachel wasn’t about jeopardize Jake’s security clearance, it’s too early for him to quit his day job, she thought.
The following morning, Rachel woke to the smell of coffee that Jake made for her before leaving for work. Each sip increased her feelings of disappointment. An inner voice said, ‘you are a mediocre person-- living a mediocre life’. “No! Today is a beginning, “she thought, “it’s a sign of things to come.” She hurled the coffee toward the sink, breaking the cup and splattering the creamy brown liquid against the steel. She tossed the broken cup fragments into the trash, rinsed the sink, and ran upstairs to wake the children.

After meeting with Adam, Rachel’s desire for professional advancement began to wane. All work at the Bureau, she thought, was essentially the same-- cleaning and processing data. She remembered a professor from her graduate program, saying in a thick Russian accent, “Only excellent statisticians analyze data, most of you, one way or another will be cleaning it.”

She didn’t doubt that the Oracles will reverse engineer Labor’s algorithm. Michael called with the news, “Raych, the Oracles can consistently match Labors economic indicators, and they also found evidence of a data-fudging algorithm that intentionally distorts economic indicators”

“Really!” she exclaimed

Michael said, “Well, it extends time for the rich to convert to cash. Adam is anticipating a market adjustment. Economically speaking, the US economy is going to hell in a hand basket and he is preparing to take advantage of fallout”.
To construct a username for the Swiss bank account, Rachel used the Kabalistic method of calculation she described to Adam previously. She calculated her Hebrew name’s minor Gematria to be 9. She reasoned, nine is three to the second power, a pair of triplets, three points in a triangle; two triangles form the Star of David. She used the census of the twelve tribes from the “Book of Numbers,” for the password. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a pending deposit of two million.
Rachel executed her scheme with mechanical precision. Each morning she copied the survey files, and keeping only the variables Adam requested, created new data sets, which she transferred to a flash drive, and sent to Adam by overnight mail. Rachel’s scheme provided an escape from commonplace existence. Possessing a natural inclination toward solitary activities, Rachel found most social interaction aversive and hoped that within a few years she could quit her job and live a bohemian life.

Though their family had a common history, it was the study abroad program that brought her and Jake together. Drunk with infatuation, they agreed to marry once Jake fulfilled his military obligation. Even the best-laid human plans are flawed. When she returned, her father Laban, was diagnosed with inoperable colon cancer; he said to Rachel “Some things are beyond our understanding when we must do them. During such times, the internal aspects of our character are tested. There is a natural order to things. In it lies truth. Just as it is natural for a parent to precede her child in death, it is natural for the eldest sister to precede the younger in marriage. Before I die I want to see Leila married.”

Rachel’s distressed state prompted Jake to make his intentions clear to Laban. During the engagement festivities Laban pulled Jake aside saying, “my dear boy, though it’s customary for the bride and groom to be engaged for one year, given the state of my health, I have made arrangements for you to marry my daughter tonight”. Jake in a drunken stupor agreed to everything. After Laban prepared a marriage document, enumerating Jakes requirements to his future wife, two men witnessed Jake sign it. Under a stretched tallit held by four men, the Rabbi read the Ketubah aloud, and placed a ring into Jake’s hand, he then eased the ring onto his bride’s finger, saying, “You are consecrated to me through this ring, in accordance with the religion of Moses and Israel.” The Rabbi recited seven blessings over the couple, each time refilling Jakes wine glass. In remembrance of the loss of Jerusalem and the Temple, with a little help from Laban, Jake broke the wine glass placed under his foot. Jake’s intoxicated state prevented his fingers from lifting his brides’ veil during the ceremony. Joyously Jake surrendered to the men that carried him and his bride to a private room to consummate their marriage. When Jake realized he was tricked into marrying Leila, his mind drew a parallel to a time when he tricked his father.

His mother said, “Isaac is asking for Edom, I beg you, he is blind, if you speak in a whisper, he will think you’re Edom. Don’t let your father die with a broken heart.”

On his deathbed, Isaac said, “Edom my son, I made a secret agreement with Laban, when the time comes, you will marry Leila, and by virtue of being a firstborn son—inherit your birthright”. Isaac touched Jake's face, mumbled some words, closed his eyes and never regained consciousness.

Laban’s voice roused Jake from the trance, “Jake, my son, Leila is your wife, not Rachel. Your father made a promise-- yesterday you fulfilled it. You restored your fathers honor, so that I may genuinely say, ‘May his memory be for a blessing’”. The last six words reverberating in Jakes mind, may his memory be for a blessing, and in some such way, in his inexplicable situation, Jake found comfort in Laban’s resolve.
In the next ten years, Leila bore seven children, six boys and a girl. After the birth of her last child, a routine mammogram revealed breast cancer. After chemotherapy and radiation treatments, she and Rachel listened to the oncologist’s polished, apologetic, and kind utterance, “Despite our best efforts, the breast cancer has returned and is no longer treatable“. Rachel moved in with Leila and began taking care Leila’s children. Toward the end of Leila’s illness, she said to Rachel, “Jake loves only you; I know how much you sacrificed. After I die, promise me you’ll marry Jake and raise my children.” They hugged, and for the first time Rachel cried.

After Leila died, Rachel devoted herself to the care of Leila’s family. With Jake working long hours, Rachel developed an evening ritual that included Leila’s pain medication. After a long day with the children, she took comfort in small doses of the liquid opiod. Rachel accepted her role when Leila’s oldest son swallowed hard, puffed out his little chest and said;

“We want you to be our mother.” Rachel and Jake soon married, adding two children to their household.

In a restaurant on the top floor of the Mandarin Oriental, Adam said to Rachel,
“My clients are quite pleased with the results. We are holding large amounts of cash, in a cash poor world.”

Rachel interrupted saying, “Within the year, the Bureau’s computer security policy will disable the USB ports, rendering our data transfer method useless and Jake’s clearance reinvestigation is approaching. I feel that this is a natural place for an ending.”

“Rachel, I guarantee that if Jake agrees to accept a detail in the Jerusalem office, there will be no reinvestigation.” Ignoring Rachel’s look of discomfort, and refilling his glass, he said, “I suggest you encourage Jake to accept. Tell him to bring the children, and you will soon join them.” His features gravely set, he said, “Rachel, I must warn you, snitching in never an option” Adam produced a small box with a digital pad, saying, “It opens when you key the letters of your name. Because they are bitter I recommend you take them with a sweet drink. Death will come quick and painless.”

Rachel gasped, “And what about Michael, was he also bestowed with the same benefaction”?

Adam smiled, “Rachel, there is no free lunch. Take what you want—but pay for it.” Before leaving, they agreed to conclude their collaboration within six moths.
That evening, Jake said, “I had a strange dream, a woman-- maybe Leila, was standing tall, her head above the clouds. An angel began clambering up her body, but after a short time he fell and broke into pieces, followed by a second, and a third. But the fourth angel managed to reach the top and disappear into the clouds.”
Rachel felt goosebumps, “And then?”

“Nothing, then I awake.”

“Jake, each person has a unique destiny--a spiritual path. In the dream the angels symbolize four stages of your spiritual struggle and you will come closer to God, by the auspices of a woman.”

Jake with his eyes cast down said, “I believe you’re concealing something, and I must reach beyond myself to discover it.” Rachel pretended to fall asleep, and Jake stopped talking.

Jake accepted a detail in Jerusalem, bringing his children and a housekeeper. One evening, Rachel received a call.

“Hello, this is investigator Ryan Noonan with the department of treasury, is this Rachel Laban?

Rachel’s heart pounded, “Yes”.

“I am investigating a case involving foreign investments in targeted sectors of the US economy.”

Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. Rachel agreed to meet the detective the following afternoon in a coffee shop across the street from the Marriot Residence, where she was staying. That night, she dreamed that she and Adam were walking through a pomegranate orchard, planning to pick 613 pomegranates. An old man appeared saying, “Pick only the fruit on the trees, leave the fruit that’s on the ground, and don’t pick the fruit from the four corners of the orchard.”

Detective Noonan approached Rachel from the back of the shop.

“I will come straight to the point. I have evidence pointing to your involvement with a central figure of my investigation. We suspect Adam Brahms made investments using illegally solicited data.” Rachel felt bolts of adrenalin shoot through her body.

“Do you have a court order, Detective Noonan?”

“Would you like me to obtain one?” he asked. “Ms. Laban, I can prevent your leaving the country.”

Rachel remained cool saying, “You are going after the wrong person.”

“Are you denying that Adam is your brother in law?” Rachel felt dizzy; she had never met Jake’s brother. The brother’s haven’t spoken since their father died.” He handed Rachel his card, “when you are ready to talk, call me.” Rachel ran back to the residence, and called Adam cell, “Adam”, she hissed, wanting to scream.

“Yes”, Adam’s unemotional voice answered.

“The treasury is investigation us. I know you are Jake’s brother.”

“I returned to collect what is mine.” Both of us lost. You gave everything to Leila’s family, your youth, your love, and your time. Now, you are alone—an orphan—forsaken by the very ones you love. Rachel, with me, you can have whatever you want.” In a low, deliberate voice, he said, “I have a passport and a ticket to Switzerland.”

Rachel interrupted, “No, Adam, that’s not how I am. My answer is and always will be--no”.

When Michael called Jake to tell him everything he set an avalanche of events in motion. All night Jake wrestled with guilt about taking his brothers place at his father’s deathbed. When he met with Adam, he told him about Rachel, Leila, and his children. But the moment of clarity came when Jake said, “Greater civilizations fell before ours and it is inevitable that ours will follow suit. Without society’s constraints, people become like animals capable of eating their young. By observing traditions and rituals of the book and teaching them to our children, regardless of the circumstance—we will remain rooted in humanity”. Before the brothers parted, Adam confessed to Jake that he gave Rachel suicide pills, he said, “if the pills are swallowed whole they will harmlessly pass through the digestive tract producing only an appearance of death, but if they are crushed between the molars -- they will release a fast-acting poison. I told her to swallow them”, Adam voice filled with remorse.

Jake was minutes away when Detective Noonan knocked on Rachel’s door,

“Ms. Laban, I know you’re in there. It’s useless to stall; I will have a search warrant within the hour. Open the door!”

Her nerves wound to the highest pitch of tension, she emptied the contents of the box, remembering Adams words, “death will come quick and painless”. In a moment of weakness Rachel swallowed the rubber-covered ampules. She stretched out on the floor, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Shema Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad,” but the last word came out as “Ehath”. As her breath became quick and shallow, she experienced an overwhelming feeling of regret.

Detective Noonan’s rookie partner Davis sprung out of elevator, waving the warrant,
“I got it! I got it!” Noonan grabbed the warrant,”

Let me see”. Forming a fist with his hand, he pounded the door, blaring, “Open up, I have a search warrant. Open the darn door, I say.”

Davis produced a plastic room key and opened the door. Rachel’s lifeless body was sprawled across the floor, next to her lay a sheet of paper, and the brown rubber ampule. Noonan, grabbed the sheet and read aloud,

Detective Noonan,
Stalemate! You win!
-R

“Bitch! Bitch! Goddammit”, Noonan raved while Davis checked Rachel for signs of life. The rookie detective flinched when Noonan kicked Rachel’s body spitting, “All my work came to nothing! Nothing! I have no goddarn case with that bitch dead. Uhg! Noonan picked up the brown rubber ampule, and said, “She’s dead—these are cyanide pills. I’ve seen them when I was an OPS officer with the CIA,” Noonan said in disgust. “And don’t even think of calling the cops, a scandal like this can cost me a career. I want a promotion not a demotion Leave this trash for the garbage collectors—the Metro police. Understood! Now let’s get the hell out of here.” Davis bowed his head and followed Noonan out of the room.

Minutes later, in the residence’s basement two men pushed a gurney into the rear of a service van and closed the rear gate. Inside the van, a woman positioned one electrode hand over Rachel’s right breast and the other under the left breast. The man stood back as Rachel’s body jerked from the voltage. The woman produced an auto-injector syringe, made a fist around it, swung back her fist, and thrust the syringe into Rachel’s heart. For five long minutes they took turns administering CPR before Rachel’s vital signs stabilized. The blows from Detective Noonan’s sharp pointed shoe caused agonizing pain in Rachel’s hip. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, she heard words: “passport”, “today”, “no time”.

Four hours later Jake wheeled a heavily sedated Rachel through the security gate at JFK airport. The TSA officer returned the passports to Jake, and in a thick southern accent, mispronouncing their new names, said —Isra-El, take good care of that there Lee-Ah. Ya’ll come back now. Y'hear!”

"Justice" by B.R. Stateham

2009-06-09T02:12:00.003-04:00

The windows of the warehouse stared down at my partner and me with a sullen, gray insolence framed in moving shadows and simmering anger. As Frank and I climbed out of my car and closed the doors our eyes never left the ominous pile of brick and battered windows.

It was a slumbering slum of discarded stonework on the south side of town. It sat empty in a long row of empty buildings just like it. Most of the windows were boarded up, the wood weathered and splintered from maleficent neglect. A security fence, with faded signs in big letters saying “Keep Out” hanging from it in thirty foot spaces, did nothing in keeping people at bay. Weeds, coated in a starling silver-white luminescence of moon light, jutted up rudely from several cracks and crevices in the empty parking lot facing it. From somewhere the hot breath of summer was playing with an open door. The door’s hinges squealed; the noise adding a tint of grim reality to an already grim night. As I watched shafts of bright moon light race across the front of the building a thought crossed my mind;

Not a warehouse.

A mausoleum. A tomb.

From underneath my left armpit I pulled out the .45 caliber Kimbler and slid the carriage back and clicked off the safeties as I thumbed the hammer back. The weight of the big gun felt reassuring in my hand. Reaching inside my sport coat I felt for the spare clips. I would need them tonight. Laying the Kimbler on the hood of the car I reached behind me and pulled out the small framed Walther PPK .380 I carried as a back up. It didn’t have the knock-down power of the Kimbler if you hit someone in the chest with it. But if I had to use it I wouldn’t be aiming for the chest. To my right I knew Frank had his 9mm Glock in hand and would be checking the snub-nosed .38 caliber Smith &Wesson he had for his back up.

Someone was going to die tonight.

There was no other way around it.

Debts had to be paid. Justice had to be metered out.

Inside the warehouse were four men and a woman. The men, Mick O’Toole, Chucky Mickelson, Bobby Hardaway, and ‘Beep’ Nickles, were together. A gaggle of young toughs who thought they were good at knocking off jewelry stores and small time bookie joints. Most of the time they were successful. They would target a jewelry store, cut the power to the alarm systems, drill a hole through the roof of the building and slide down ropes. Beep was a talented safe-cracker. He could crack a safe’s tumbler faster than I could pour a cold beer from the bottle into a glass. If he couldn’t, Bobby Hardaway was good at explosives. He knew how to use just enough plastique to shape a charge and blow open a safe door making the least amount of noise. When it was time to get away Chucky Mickelson was the driver.

But the man who was the brains of the outfit was Mick O’Toole. A true Irishman, said to be on the lamb from the IRA. Somehow he had pissed them off. Pissed them off enough to force Mick to leave Britain permanently.

That takes talent. How do you piss off the IRA that much and still live?

All four of them had two things in common. Two traits which made them hook up together and work as a team. Greed was one trait they shared in common. Meanness the other. Each one them wanted dough. Each one wanted to hurt people getting the dough. That’s why they liked knocking off small fry bookies. They’d stroll into a bookie joint, splatter the bookie with a shotgun, kill anyone else who got in the way, grab the take and leave.

The woman in there with them was a young girl by the name of Lois Hogan. Nineteen. Her father was Gill Hogan. Bookie—or more precisely, dead bookie. About a half hour ago Mick and his boys walked into the small restaurant Gill ran for his boss just as the place was closing up for the night. They pistol whipped Gill and then shot him three times in the chest before throwing the night’s bets into a bag and leaving. Gill’s daughter had been sitting out in the restaurant waiting for her father. Mick and his thugs grabbed Lois and threw her into the van they used for a getaway car and came out here. We knew this because twenty minutes ago a guy by the name of Caesar Ortega called me on my cell phone and told me he wanted to talk to Frank and me. Told us to meet him underneath a burnt out lamp post on the corner of Monroe and 113th Street South . Just two blocks away from where we now were standing.

And as the old saying goes, when Caesar calls, one answers. If they valued living.

Caesar Ortega was Gill Hogan’s boss. Gill ran one of Ortega’s bookie joints plus the restaurant. Ortega played the numbers, ran a string of strip joints and whore houses, had his hand in smuggling illegals up from Mexico . He stayed out of the drug business because he didn’t want to butt heads with larger crime syndicates and/or the crazy drug lords coming up out of Mexico and South America . He was a tough hood who knew the streets. A smart businessman who knew how to make a profit and stay out of a police lineup at the same time. That was Caesar Ortega.

When we pulled up to the curb we saw Ortega leaning against the grill of his black Mercedes, dressed in white slacks, a yellow Hawaiian print shirt, and white tipped loafers. He looked tan and in shape. And—from the frown on his face and the way he had his arms crossed—about as pissed off as a man could get.

“Turner. . . Frank,” he grunted, nodding his head, as we stepped around the front of our car and faced him.

“Caesar,” I said, nodding.

“You two working on the Hogan killing?”

Frank almost smiled and nodded.

“Word gets around fast, Caesar. Gill was killed only ten minutes ago.”

“I know, I was there when it happened.”

That was a surprise. I grinned as Frank popped off the obvious line.

“A confession, Caesar? From you?”

A dry, cruel smile stretched across Ortega’ lips as his hot, blazing dark eyes stared at Frank. It wasn’t a smile one would call humorous. Unless the smile of a Great White just before his attack could be considered humorous.

“I was setting across the street when those four creeps came in and wasted Gill. They killed him, took the cash, and threw his daughter into the back of a van and drove off. I know who they are and I know where you can find them.”

“Why are you telling this to us, Caesar?” I asked as I looked at the expensively dressed hood standing alone in front of his Mercedes. “What’s your game?”

“It’s vermin like that that gives a man in my position a bad name, my friend. People in town think these guys work for me. They think I give the orders to hit this joint or kill that fool. Word gets around. People higher up in the food chain start to get nervous and ask questions. When they start to get nervous I start to get nervous.”

Feeling a little pressure from the mob are you Caesar? Starting to look over your shoulder some? Interesting.

“So why don’t you take them out?” Frank asked bluntly.

Ortega flashed us that shark’s mirthless grin and spread his hands out eloquently as he shrugged.

“I’m just an honest businessman, Frank. My organization tries to stay away from trouble like this. But suppose, god forbid, someone in my organization took it upon themselves to clean house and take out the trash? A situation would arise which could easily spiral out of control. These four punks do have friends in certain parts of the city. These friends could become irritated at me. Rivalries could be established. It would be an unfortunate time for all of us.”

“But if we cleaned up the mess for you . . . ,”

“Exactly, Turner. If the police took care of the situation my hands are clean. There’s no room for doubt. Everybody remains friendly. Know what I mean? But Hahn, Morales . . . I gotta tell you. These guys are not going away peacefully. All of’em are fucking crazy. They’ve been in and out of the slammer so many times they’ve got permanent reservations waiting for’em. I’ve been told all of’em have said they’d rather die than go back in. Your work is cut out for you.”

So here we were—standing across the street in deep shadows which kept prying eyes off us as we checked our weapons for the second time and then slipped into our bullet proof vests. Frank, my no-neck lookalike Neanderthal clone flicked open his snub-nose .38 and checked the cylinder before flicking it close and glancing at me.

“How you want to play this?”

I shrugged, curled a finger around the trigger of the Kimbler and gripped the Walther in the other.

“They’ve got the girl. We can’t wait for the tac squad to arrive. She could be dead by then. We go in and take’em out as fast as possible.”

Simple.

Yeah, right.

Getting into the building was easy. We moved from one dark shadow to the next, slipped across the big parking lot and found an open window. Slipping into the darkness of the warehouse we paused until we heard sounds of men laughing and bottles rattling on the floor above us. We found stairs and moved quietly up the rickety thing making as little noise as we could. On the second floor we found lights burning in a room which was away from any exterior windows. We also heard the moans of Lois Hogan. Moans coming from a woman who had been beaten and abused. Moans from a woman who was alive but knew she was dead.

Our backs against the wall I motioned to Frank I would circle around and enter the rooms where our friends were from the opposite side. He nodded as I moved off and slid around the corner at the far end of the hall. So far we had not been discovered. So far no gun play had happened. So far no one had died.

It all changed in the blinking of an eye.

Leaving Frank, I made a right hand turn down a long hall moved down it without making too much noise. I came to an intersection of a third hall and carefully peaked around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. Seeing it was I slid around the corner and took three steps before Beep Nickles stepped out of an office door unexpected and turned toward me. Beep was a tall straw of a man with thin arms and thin legs. He had a face that a weasel could appreciate and slick, oily black hair. When he came through the door and turned toward me he was looking down at the shotgun in his hands, an oily rag stuffed into the belt of his slacks, chewing on a toothpick and grinning to himself. Apparently he had just finished cleaning the shotgun. But looking up and seeing me his mouth dropped open in sheer surprise and instinctively he pumped the gun once and brought the barrel around and toward me.

The Kimbler in my right hand exploded twice in two rapid shots. The noise of the .45 was loud enough to chip plaster off the walls. Both slugs smacked into Beep’s chest so close together one could put a quarter down and cover both holes. He flew back into the wall and slid down to the floor leaving a long red trail on the faded plaster wall behind him in the process.

Men began screaming. Guns were going off in rapid succession. I hard the sharp bark of Frank’s Glock go off twice. Someone had grabbed a shotgun and was pumping double-0 buckshot through the cheap plaster walls in front and behind me. I ducked and slid into the room where all the commotion was going on.

On the floor to one side of Frank was the body of Chucky Mickelson. There was a 9mm hole in his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. Where there had been the back of his head now was nothing but blood, brain matter and pieces of flesh surrounding a gaping hole about the size of a man’s fist. On the other side of Frank was Bobby Hardaway rolling on the bare linoleum floor gripping what was left of his right knee cap with a set of bloody hands. He was screaming in pain and bleeding like a broken bowl of cherry jello. In the opposite corner from Bobby was the trussed up figure of Lois Hogan lying on the floor. Hands and feet were tied together. Her face was nothing but a bloody mask She was alive. Barely.

But there was no Mick O’Toole.

“That way,” Frank said pointing the barrel of his Glock toward a door I had not seen entering. “I’ll stay here and make sure he doesn’t double back. Be careful, buddy. Be careful.”

I nodded and went after the Irishman. It didn’t take long to find him. He was four rooms away trying his best to open a window. But the old window had been welded shot from years of neglect. So Mick used the shotgun in his hands to blow the window out just as I entered the room behind him.

“Drop the gun and hands above your head, O’Toole!”

For an answer the Irishman whirled around, stepped to one side and let go a round of double 0 toward me. He was fast. Unfortunately for him I was faster. The moment I saw him begin his move I leapt to one side and rolled on a shoulder, coming up on my feet in a squatting position. The roar of the shotgun filled the room and a huge chuck of the wall behind and above my head disintegrated into a fine white powder of plaster and sawdust.

I didn’t let him get a second shot off. The Kimbler barked two more times in my hand. The slugs found their mark. Each leg just above the Irishman’s knees caught some lead, buckled visibly, and collapsing the madman onto the floor in howling rage and pain. But he still wasn’t finished. He rolled onto his back, slid himself back to lean against a wall and reached inside his shirt for a weapon. But too late. I was too close to him. He brought a 9mm Smith & Wesson auto out and started to lift it up toward me. I used my left foot to kick the weapon from his hands and then brought the foot down hard onto the gaping hole of his left leg.

“Not getting out of prison time today, boyo!” I said, grinding my foot into his wound.

The pain was too much. The Irishman’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he slid down onto floor unconscious. I cuffed him, searched him, then grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him back to the room where his comrades were.

“Jesus. What a fucking mess.” Frank grunted, a wiry smirk on his face, coming to his feet after checking the woman’s wounds. “We’ll be up all night with the fucking paperwork. And the lieutenant’s not going to be happy we had to use deadly force.”

“Yeah, it’ll just tear him up, won’t it,” I said, grinning.

Our lieutenant down at South Side wouldn’t say a damn thing about the use of deadly force. The Irishman’s gang was well known to us. Nobody was going to be second guessing our use of force tonight. No one.

BIO: I am a sixty year old ex-teacher who currently has two novels out on the market. One is a police-procedural called Murderous Passions. The second is a fantasy novel called Roland of the High Crags: Evil Arises.

"A Slight Adjustment" by Glenn Lewis Gillette

2009-06-04T01:04:00.003-04:00

The heavy man carried threat in through the restaurant door. Alarms bristled up my spine. Were they alarms from my last five years as the lover of a gay-liberation activist? From the last twelve years since I'd admitted I was a faggot? Or from the previous six years as an Army Ranger? Did it really matter?

Yes, I decided. Threat determined response.

I regretfully and quietly laid knife and fork onto my steak: regretfully because I liked to eat it piping-hot; quietly so I wouldn't draw premature attention. Then I leaned back in my chair and watched the heavy man.

Ignoring the young hostess, he lumbered to a stop and planted his feet, trenchcoat scrunched back so he could stuff his pants pockets with meaty hands and look everything over slowly and thoroughly.

When his eyes found mine, he leaned into the stare like a linebacker poised at a line of scrimmage. His hesitation cued me, and I swallowed a sigh. He had come after Ivan and here I sat, a six-two, 220-pound signpost wearing olive-drab fatigues sans insignia. Oddly, I didn't recognize this dick -- though I'd been sure I knew all of Red Lake's detectives on sight.

Why Ivan insisted on living in this family-mummifying, right-warped Christian, scripture-threshing, whatever-happened-to-a-loving-Jesus, homophobic town where he got arrested for blowing limp-wristed kisses at City Hall (and other things) ... well, I did know why: precisely because it was a family-mummifying, right-warped Christian, fag-hating town.

I held the stare, right shoulder quivering with my urge to look over it. Ivan had strutted his stuff in that direction just moments ago, disappearing around the corner that bent the dining room into an L-shape, as he searched for something new on the salad bar.

I didn't follow that urge, trying to catch a night-backed reflection of Ivan in the restaurant's waist-high wall of windows. Instead, I pictured the sprawling salad bar right beside the flimsy door leading to the restrooms -- and the rear exit. There'd be one more dick covering that way out. Probably a couple more out front as well, hidden by the restaurant's brick entrance. As backup, ready to hop to, depending on which way we ran.

And run we would. Ivan made it a policy never to surrender to a cop who wasn't breathing hard.

Normally, I didn't mind the game -- arrests meant Ivan had struck a nerve -- but tonight ... something deep, maybe from my Army days, muttered to my adrenal glands and they started getting all worked up. I decided that, this time, Ivan would get away from these dickheads. I owed him that much for the everyday calm he brought to my heart.

That meant I had to divert them all -- before he waltzed back around that corner.

Shrugging for show, I broke away from the heavy man's stare and looked down at my dinner. It beckoned to me, oozing the aromas of grill and grease and A.1.® Sauce. Before I could do anything about it, though, the heavy man strode up to my table. His leather soles slapped the shiny linoleum. His trenchcoat swooshed. His hands hung clenched at his sides.

"Theodore Roosevelt Azzarrio?"

I didn't look up. "Just call me 'TR.'"

"Where's Ivan Zaporizhia?"

I reached out with my combat boot and jerked it back hard, hooking his ankle. He dropped right there on the glistening floor. His chubby mouth flopped open, dark and wet like a slab of raw liver. I leaned right, dodged his big, shiny shoes, and swooped away, low, down the aisle till I could rise into a sprint.

Sitting at tables lined up around me, people jerked their heads up. I flung my arms high. "Everybody down!" I shouted. "Ivan, Ivan, Ivan!" I fired his name three times in warning, then came our code: "Escape!" Hide. "Escape!" No, run out the back. "Escape!" Better yet, wait and slip out the front.

Again, I didn't glance in Ivan's direction: don't remind the heavy man of his primary target; get him to focus on the bird-in-hand getting away.

I braked and slid up to an open table. I took two seconds to peer through the evening-mirrored glass above it. Headlights from the parking lot beyond swung past, broke the reflection, and showed me a clear sidewalk outside.

I flung a glance behind me. The heavy man had gained a knee, one arm braced across the remains of my dinner. Between us, abandoned tables sprouted an occasional curious face.

Straightening, I launched a chair at the window. It crashed outward with a satisfying burst of shards. I followed it.

No phony Hollywood dive for me. I stepped precisely but quickly up to the window-sill, ducked under the jagged edge, finally down to the concrete. Cars nosed the dirty-gray strip like curious steers along a roadside fence. I straightened to the sound of pounding foot-steps.

To my right, a cop popped out of the alley into parking-lot light. To my left, two more wheeled around the corner, their arms flailing as they swung toward me. Behind me, still inside, the heavy man plodded through a field of tabletops.

Done and done! I could rely on Ivan to sneak out the front door while I led these minions of Red Lake City Hall through ranks of parked cars, then on down the strip-mall lining Highway 63.

I darted between two cars, but a blue-and-white woke up in front of me, its rooftop lights flickering dizzyingly. I veered left, and another patrol car, flashing abruptly, roared from the highway to block that way. I jigged again. The back-alley dick -- Detective Merkins, I could see now -- filled in that gap. I spun, but the backup twins -- Gonsaglio and Ferguson -- arrived, puffing, and snared my elbows.

They held me while the heavy man strode up, his flat feet snapping glass shards like small-arms fire. When he could, he reached out a plump finger and poked my shoulder.

"Theodore Roosevelt Azzarrio, I am Public Health Inspector Symington. Pursuant to Colorado statutes and my responsibility to protect the Public Health, I must arrest you."

I gave him my best unimpressed-with-authority shrug, though my stomach swam with misgivings. Public Health?

The heavy man -- Inspector Symington -- stepped closer. "Where's Ivan Zaporizhia?"

"Somewhere else," I snarled. "Phoning our lawyer to bail me out."

He arched back with a booming laugh, then peered at me through his amusement. "Yore a'hollerin' down the wrong well. I'm not puttin' you in jail." He sent sharp looks at the three detectives beside me. "I'm puttin' you into quarantine." He jabbed a fleshy thumb over his shoulder, then spun on his heel.

I lurched back, fear juicing up surprise. "For what?" I yelped.

With a pitying glance, he said, "Yore queer, son. We're gonna fix that."

The heavy man led the way to his car. The cops followed. I, of course, went along.
***

Dawn licked at me, over my cheeks and forehead, through my eyelids. I opened them, then squinted at the pinkish-yellow sunlight poking through a barred square in the opposite wall. Not the first time I'd arranged for the Giver of Life to awaken me in a strange place. I rolled upright, sock-feet on concrete floor, and glanced around.

Wall with the only window and the craters where I'd ripped the cot loose from it. Back wall with toilet and sink. Wall behind me -- I checked it: I'd missed nothing important last night in the dark. Front wall with solid, stout door interrupted only by a wide, high hatch above a shallow ledge; no handle on this side.

Time to get to work. I fetched the obligatory tin cup from the sink and approached the door. Cells in the City Jail, fronted by metal bars, made this part easy. Here, however ... I ambled back to the cot, traded cup for a laceless boot -- the heavy man had taken my watch and belt and cleaned out my pockets, too -- and picked a spot on the latch-side of the door. I decided on an Art Taylor rhythm: "Tanya" with Donald Byrd on trumpet and Dexter Gordon on tenor sax. Would Art use toe or heel? I went with the heel for higher impact.

More than two hours of jammin' with no reaction, allowing myself a ten-minute break each hour, before a squeaky voice interrupted: "Hey in there!"

"Yeah?"

"You TR?"

"Yeah."

The hatch opened. A short, buzz-cut prune of a man thrust a cell phone at me. "Punch redial," he said and turned away, closing the hatch again.

I followed instructions; I just hoped the owner of this gift horse was on my side. After the first ring, Ivan said, "Teddy-bear?"

The unnamed knot in my chest vanished. Joy rushed into its place, spreading warmth through me. Words of relief perched in my throat, but I had to know about him first. "Are you loose?"

"Not since I met you, darling. At that luncheon buffet--"

"Ivan!"

"Remember that day, Teddy-bear? I've been true to you ever since."

"Yes, I do. Do you remember what's going on here and now?"

"Of course."

"I'm not in jail, Ivan. A different building entirely, a couple of blocks south of City Hall and a block east. 'Public Health Inspector Jesse Symington' stuffed me into some kind of --" I scanned the room again "-- isolation ward. No Miranda, no phone call, no rights at all."

"I know," Ivan huffed.

That was my Ivan. Leave me twisting in here till he knew what was going on. He probably spent the night doing it. I could almost see intense crows' feet setting off the smudges under his soft brown eyes. Will generated his stamina, not his body. Heavier, stronger, meaner a lot meaner -- he'd have made a great Ranger.

I made way for his explanation with silence.

"TR, have they stuck you with anything?"

My hackles bolted upright. "No."

"Have they taken pictures of your head?"

"No."

"Tied you down with your head inside a ring-shaped device?"

Honest, you can be so tedious! "I told you 'No'!" Or are you trying to distract me? Didn't work.

"Well, they want to, TR. They want to inject your brain and ... and cure your homosexuality."

My hackles had nowhere else to go. They were already giving their all to the cause of getting me ready to flee or fight, but the rest of the organism joined in now: adrenaline flowed, sweat cropped, stomach clenched, lungs heaved.

Ivan continued, "I've been aware of research projects -- funded by the Religious Right -- that focused on the so-called gay gene and its expression in the human hypothalamus. Are you with me?"

Sometimes, his tenderness rankled me because he was showing off his intelligence. Today, though, I appreciated it. "Yeah," I grunted.

"I never thought they'd try to do anything about it, I mean, try to find a fix for, uh, our condition." His voice tightened. "But I was wrong ... apparently.

"Listen. Lots of legitimate researchers think that the size of a certain part of the hypothalamus -- the third, out of four --" he drew a breath "-- 'Interstitial Nucleus of the Anterior Hypothalamus' -- determines what gender people are attracted to."

Brilliant, insecure, Ivan didn't make points; he constructed them -- then dropped them on his enemies. I had learned to admire the process, which wasn't always easy. Like now.

"If these areas are small or not present, a person likes males. If large, he or she likes females. These neurons affect attraction only, though, and not sexual roles or behavior. Cross-dressing comes out of a different place."

I wouldn't admit I was lost, but I did say, "Yeah, so?"

"So they think if they can make these parts of your hypothalamus larger, you'll be attracted to girls and not guys."

Oh.

Pain flared behind my eyes. Where is my hypothalamus anyway? The rest of my brain spun furiously. "How are they going to do that?" I said. "Aren't adult brains, well, fixed in size already?"

"Good, TR, keep thinking." He sent a kiss down the line. It helped. "Here's where the Remorseless Right have made their own progress. They've adapted an avian neuron-growth hormone to fit cells in other brains -- it seems, birds change the size of their brains according to the season. Add a bit of testosterone and in a matter of days, you've got more neurons wherever it's been injected. They've tested it on ferrets, like several studies already published. Now, apparently, they're ready for people."

"Is this legal?" I demanded.

Ivan paused, way too long, then sighed. "Depends on how you read the law. In this country, a lot of responsibility for public health gets delegated all the way down to the towns. Colorado statutes give this man Symington more than enough authority. They say he may 'exercise such physical control over property and people as he may find necessary for the protection of the public health', or words to that effect, at least four times."

"But I'm no threat to public health!" I barked. I needed more from him right now than quotes from law books.

"TR! You, me, all gays, are a threat to Red Lake's 'public health,' so to speak. You know how they feel about us around here. They're afraid we'll 'give' homosexuality to their impressionable youth."

"State authorities are not going to look at it that way." Suddenly not so sure, I added, "Are they?"

Ivan sighed again and I knew he'd been avoiding something. "Our guess, TR, is that the city thinks they can cure you, which means you're infected, which means you're contagious, which means you can be quarantined, so that they can cure you. The same kind of reasoning they use to pick and choose among Scripture to condemn us.

"Look, I'm going to drop the Fourteenth Amendment on these people like an anvil. I've called the U.S. Attorney and the F.B.I. They'll get back to me soon." Maybe being hooked up with a celebrity is worth something, after all. "I'm hoping Red Lake didn't count on me being loose to make these calls. I am, thanks to you." Of course, that's what got me in here in the first place. "Still ..." Another one of those way-too-long pauses. "I don't know if I can awake the Federal hounds soon enough.

"Just in case, I've also called the Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment, the Governor's Office, and four TV stations in Denver. No point talking to the local rip-and-read crews; they know when to turn blind eyes."

Swatting at his implications like swarming bats, I tried to drive past them with, "Will it work?"

My Ivan continued with cool dispassion. "We don't know. I've had two medical researchers reviewing the literature since midnight. They can guess what these guys have been trying, but they don't know how successful they've been. Our people have also been kibitzing the URnet -- Ultra-Research Network -- so we've got internal memos, too, but we haven't cracked their encryption yet." He swallowed noisily.

"God, TR! Even if it doesn't affect your sexuality, what else could this thing do to you? Your hypothalamus sits smack in the middle of your brain in a veritable soup of hormones." A sudden storm of words. "It regulates the pituitary gland! Body temperature! Appetite! Water retention!" A spiraling plunge from the heavens of purpose, logic, and resolve into self-doubt and -pity.

"Ivan," I broke in.

"TR, they're after me, not you, always have, always will."

"Ivan."

"Where'd you say they took you? I'll come right over."

"Ivan Sergeivitch Zaporizhia!" That shut him up, as usual. "They won't let me go even if you do come in. They won't leave me the way I am because then, I might 're-infect' you once they let both of us go. And they'll have to let us go. This is still the United States, even if the Religious Right runs Red Lake City Hall. You're too well-known in the national gay community, and I'm part of the publicity package. Stay away, Ivan, far away. I'll handle this."

"Right." Meekly, ashamed now of his emotional outburst, as usual.

"You work on getting me out of here." Pumping him up fed back into my own attitude. The room around me no longer seemed so grim.

"Right."

"You stay the hell away. Just send lawyers and TV crews."

He snapped, "I've got it, TR!"

I grinned, then said, "That's my Ivan. Sic 'em, boy!"

"Do what you can to stall them, TR. Use those big feet of yours to good advantage.

"Look," he went on. "They'll need at least a robotic arm to deliver the hormones." I heard him gulp. "It'll stick you right behind the ear, no anesthetic necessary, just a skin prick. Once it's inside, the brain doesn't feel a thing.

"They may use a CAT scanner to guide the arm, or they may just clamp your head in a vise and go from there."

My Army training echoed through me. Capture on a black operation meant secret interrogation, which meant anything goes, and there's not much anybody can do against the human genius for giving pain. The point: don't get captured. Well, too late for that.

"TR? TR?" Ivan sounded scared.

"Yeah," I said gruffly.

"I love you." Gentle again.

We'd both started with the same hex on our bodies, but I'd grown up mean and only recently, with his help, turned easy. He'd started easy and all by himself, turned ... smart. "Love you back," I whispered.

The connection clicked away. I was alone again. Echoes from my past came back louder, trying to match my present. A black op into Chile where I'd performed rear-guard in a gully till the chopper whiffed my team and me out of there. That awful week twelve years ago when I confronted -- and accepted -- my sexuality. But none of them measured up. I just wanted Ivan safe, far away and safe, slapping the world silly until it gave us our due, maybe, but safe. If that left me here, in a stew without a carving knife, then so be it.

So, I punched through the gloom of reality. Meeting come to order. Any Old Business?

The cell phone. I knocked gently on the door. The hatch popped open, and buzz-cut smirked at me through it.

"You're one of Ivan's boys?" I asked.

He stretched the smirk into a grin.

"You work here?"

"We're everywhere." And that prune of a man poked out his left pinkie, stropped it across his tongue, slicked down an eyebrow, then flipped it to the side in a queenly salute.

"Thanks," I said.

He picked up the cell phone, bounced it once in his hand, then with a nod, closed the hatch gently, but firmly.

New Business? I turned to the room, dark once more.

"Hey!" I yelled through the door. "Can you turn the light on?"

Two overhead banks flickered into stark white life, washing away the window's narrow sunlight. Now I could see what I had to work with.

***

The detectives did spot-check things, but I'd counted on that. I lunged at them, hollering "Yew-ha!" They slammed the hatch, waited a moment, then threw open the door and charged me. The cot, on its side across the doorway, caught the three of them by surprise. They went down. I dived over their stunned heads into the hallway, tucking, rolling, banging against the far wall. I came up fast -- and took a nightstick in the solar plexus.

The heavy man followed up with two sets of manacles. All I could do was stare, limbs buzzing with nerve overload, while he grinned at me, jumped to his feet with hands raised in victory, then walked on down the hall.

I could hear him hollering: "Get that mCAT going ag'in! Is that robot needle on-line yet?"

A female voice challenged him: "Is the patient hurt?"

"He's fine," the heavy man blared. Detectives Gonsaglio and Ferguson appeared at my elbows, lifted me, scurried me along, sock-toes dragging over carpeting. "Let's get this show on the road!" They pulled me into a room.

A cot, its head encircled by two whirling gizmos, one wide, long, and curved, the other aimed at it across the diameter like a furious peach-pit. Cables sprawled from there to a computer box and a squat metal torso with an arm, like a saluting amputee. Beside that, a chrome trolley proffered instruments on a white cloth. In the middle of it all, the heavy man faced a statuesque blonde and a petite brunette in nurses' uniforms.

The detectives dumped me on the cot, cuffed my wrists and ankles to it, stood back to glare at me.

At least they were breathing hard.

The heavy man leaned toward me, careful of the gizmos whizzing around my head. "Yore friend Ivan is playin' hard-to-get. I'm not goin' to wait for the cops to roust him from his hidey-hole." With a sweep of his meaty hand, he sent the detectives from the room. Then he beckoned at the nurses.

I rejected an attack on the gizmos. Ivan had indicated that this mobile brain-scanner wasn't critical to the procedure. I couldn't waste my one chance at disruption on it.

The brunette, dainty, but plain, flicked electronic switches while the other one marched toward me with a thermometer-gun. She filled out her uniform very well, from flaring hips to full breasts. She'd wrapped her long blonde hair into a chignon, severe but serving to emphasize her other charms. (Hey, even a fag can appreciate an attractive woman. She just didn't turn me on.)

I peered past her business-like approach to the trolley. It probably held the bird juice, Red Lake's new weapon against us "scourges of humanity," and the syringes to deliver it. I had to destroy that trolley. Failing that, I'd appeal to these "angels of mercy." Yeah, right, sisters in homophobia more likely. Anything was better than lying here, letting this fat bastard steal a part of my soul.

I rolled away from the blonde, as far as the cuffs would let me. She had to stretch over the cot. I threw myself at her, harsh twinges in wrist and ankle rewarding my lunge. The cot went over. I thudded to the floor. The blonde staggered back, taking the brunette, then the trolley, down as a clanging, sprawling, glittering mess. Missed the robot, though. Yew-ha!

The heavy man took a step toward me, but caught himself. Leaning into a glower instead, he ordered, "Fetch the other kit."

"I don't want to risk it," the brunette shot back. "This isn't Patient Zero."

Who? What?

"Do it anyway," the heavy man said.

"The police said they've located him."

Ivan? Is she talking about Ivan?

"He's slipped them before. He'll do it again."

Damned straight he will. I grinned at him.

He sucked in air as though mustering patience, then stated flatly, "Go unpack the other kit. Prepare the injection, but don't bring it until I call you. And order a replacement from the Lab." He followed with a glare that made even me twitch.

The brunette hustled out, pulling the blonde with her. So much for Plan B.

The heavy man's gaze followed them. Without looking around, he whispered, "A healthy man would go after that with his cock and tongue hard."

I rattled my manacles. "Lose the bracelets, and we'll just see who's healthy around here."

"Don' tempt me, or I'll forget my duty to protect yore health."

The hard floor pressed against my side, aggravating the bruises it had inflicted. Cuffs twisted an arm and a leg behind me. The other limbs stretched out above me, leaving my belly open and vulnerable. I had to get out of them and onto my feet.

My favorite hand-to-hand technique started with a circle feint to lower the other guy's guard, then a charge right up his middle to throw off his focus. Words had to get me there now, and when I'd talked the heavy man into letting me go, I'd kick him so hard he'd sneeze through his pecker and jack off his nose.

I said, "Let me tell you a little story first."

He sneered, but didn't object.

"You ought to relate to this," I said breezily. "A new weight-loss clinic opens in town. A guy goes in, says he wants to lose ten pounds, and pays his money. They send him to a room on the first floor. Inside sits a nude blonde that would make your nurse friend look like a broomstick. She wears a sign: 'You catch me, you fuck me.' She gives him a good run, but he wins in the end. Plus, he loses the weight."

The heavy man grinned.

"The next week, he goes back, says he wants to lose twenty pounds. This time, they send him to the second floor. He finds a redhead more luscious than the blonde, with the same sign: 'You catch me, you fuck me.' Same story: he catches her and loses the weight on top of that."

His tongue flicked across his upper lip.

"The next week, he wants to lose thirty pounds. He goes through a door on the third floor and it locks behind him! In the middle of the room stands a huge gorilla."

I paused. He glanced around, another grin lurking in his eyes. I smirked up at him. "This time, the sign says: 'I catch you, I fuck you.'"

He sniggered, acknowledging a good straight joke, but then he strangled on its homosexual undertone. He spun toward me, his big, shiny shoes large in my floor-high vision.

"Get my drift?" I pressed him, jabbing at his macho pride. What homophobe thinks a queer can beat him up? Actually, it's what they're all afraid of. "Who's the guy and who's the gorilla? Are you man enough to find that out?"

He stomped over, then squatted to face me. "Is that what you think this is about? Fuckin'?"

Good feint, nice charge, but a total zilch in results. Where do I go next? Desperate, I kept provoking him. "Sure it is." I leered at him. "You fuck one way. I fuck another."

He sank a fleshy knee to the floor and leaned toward me. "This is not about the physical. It's about the spiritual. Whether we're followin' God's plan or Satan's."

"And how do you know which is which?" I asked, guessing his answer.

He thumped the floor. "The Bible tells us God's plan."

"Which part of it?"

"All of it."

"So you obey every single verse in the Old and New Testament?"

He reared back with a lop-sided grin. "We're not goin' there, old dog. Slick words are Satan's weapon."

My top arm tingled. My bottom leg had already gone numb from the pressure of cot and body on it. Never in my life had I depended so much on words over action.

I scrambled after more of Ivan's standard attacks on these people who hide behind scripture to justify their own bigotries. Do these people who quote Leviticus eat bacon and shave? Do the panderers of Paul and his naïve words in Romans buy the rest of his "divinely inspired" proscriptions?

I peered up at the heavy man, but he seemed prepared for that line of patter and so confident about victory that he would allow me a little debate before he plugged me with straight juice and fixed all my problems.

If he fixes me, what will happen to Ivan? I jerked as I thought, What will happen to me and Ivan? I'll lose him! Or rather, he'll lose me because I won't want him anymore. Even a hetero who didn't hate homos was still hetero, wouldn't -- couldn't -- love one.

Making love. Surely Symington can relate to that. After all, there's nobody here but us guys -- and our cocks. I tried again: "Doesn't it come down to love?"

"Of course. God's love for us. Our love for other people and their souls."

I wriggled vainly to get more comfortable. "Do you know what it's like for one man to love another?"

He flinched, his jowly face blanching.

"There's the physical part, of course. It's not all blowjobs, you know. People -- guys -- need to fuck. We gays are not equipped to do it normally, yet we have the same instincts as you. Instincts for ramming deep, plunging our hard cocks as far in as we can, rutting hard to give our sperm a good jump-off, even though they're on a suicide mission, even though I know it's tearing him up inside. I can't help myself. It's what feels good, feels natural. You get that too, don't you?"

He nodded, one curt act, eyes puzzled by his agreement.

I nodded back, sharing that part of our basic selves. "I give myself to Ivan in that way too, knowing it's good for him, letting the residual pain be worth his pleasure. It's easier now, after all these years, but I'll never have a cunt."

He jerked his head up, suddenly alert to where he knelt, what he was listening to. Disgust pushed away that trace of sympathy. He lifted his knee.

Lord, why did I think queer-fear would ever let up enough for him to see what we have in common? My gut shriveled with regret -- over my own stupidity. Lord, why did I think that part was most important?

"Wait!" I cried, driven by insight. "Making love isn't really about the physical! You know that, don't you? Physical love is just a means to carry us to a spiritual plane, a transport to that place where nothing else can take us."

He froze, but my gaze drifted off him, looking beyond this trap of a room. "At least that's what Ivan taught me. Or gave me. Or showed me. Or ... all of that." I found the heavy man's eyes again. "You see, as a guy, I was taught to be stoic and defensive and violent in order to protect family and society. As that guy, I was never happy or even content. Always alert, watchful. Know what I mean?"

He nodded, less reluctantly this time.

"In all my life, only Ivan drives that away. Whether I'm in front of him or in back of him, he lifts me above all that macho bullshit. He enables me to be ... vulnerable." A sigh of remembrance escaped me. There's no greater peace in this life than soaring within your lover's embrace, coursing with your body's electricity, completely free, completely open, completely at his mercy. "Within his arms, I am purely me, unique, pristine, offered up to the Universe for the approval of God.

"Your woman does that for you, doesn't she?"

His face set hard, snapping from ruddy, yielding flesh to gray, rugged stone. He levered himself to his feet.

Unbelieving, I followed him with my eyes. Does he not know what I'm talking about? "Don't take that away from me!"

He flapped a vague hand. "You'll find a woman to do that."

I took my last shot, vain, but I couldn't hold it in. "Like you did, eh? Fat chance!"

He slashed me with hate-filled eyes. "'Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.'"

"I love Ivan! If you change me, I won't be able to anymore!"

Without another word, he plunged out the door. He charged back with the nurses and the detectives. They knew what they wanted. I, of course, went along.

***

A matter of days, Ivan had said. Where have you gone? Sick days smeared together as I sweated, barfed, pissed every whip-stitch, while the blonde measured me and the mCAT spun about my head. What's the brunette doing? I wondered and caught myself fantasizing about the two of them, my hard-on straining against my hospital pants.

On my first clear day, the door to freedom stayed shut, though the heavy man's face appeared more often at the hatch. The second also dragged by, with only the blonde's tantalizing body stirring my imagination, though her demeanor gave me no hope in that direction. The third one started slowly as well, though it shone bright through my small window.

The door clacked and swung open. The heavy man beamed at me. "Yore cured. Time to go home!" he announced and sent in the blonde to escort me.

"Will I ever see you again?" I asked her longingly.

She gave me a sidelong glance and a mysterious smile. "See, you are all better now." She took my elbow, her fingers cool and precise. I wanted them touching me someplace else. It lurched again inside my pants, wanting that too.

In the hallway, the heavy man beckoned, his eyes dancing with expectation. Behind him, another door stood open. A man stepped out, escorted by the small brunette. I glanced from her tight white ass to his face.

Ivan stood there, squinting back at me, slender, a bit shorter than I expected, brown eyes shiftier, but still ... he had something -- carriage? intelligence? depth? -- that made him crisp and clear even in that dim corridor.

"I believe you two know each other." The heavy man covered us both with a smirk, then sauntered away, his laugh booming.

Then I remembered: a peaceful breakfast in our cozy nook, yellow sunlight caressing his t-shirted shoulder; joyfully watching him laugh, his head back, mouth relaxed for a nice change; my pride as his hand scribbled madly across a legal pad in the fierce light of his desk lamp; playfully lathering his back in the shower; in bed, his arm limp across my belly, his leg entwined with mine, both of us sweaty, exhausted, languid, soaring and happy.

But they were memories adrift in my brain. I could not deny them: they seemed so real. Yet how could I believe in them: they seemed so untrue. Me, love a man? Touch him? Let him touch me? Never! My stomach rebelled. Now I understood the heavy man's reaction.

Yet ... My past with Ivan lingered in a soft chamber, the remains of my betrayed heart, displaced and fading while I grew a new one.

I searched his face, down the hall a half-dozen paces. He searched mine and quirked his brows, forming those puzzle dimples between them. ... as if ... he could read my expression, could know my mind ... after all these years ...

The brunette gave Ivan a gentle shove. He turned to her with a smile and a groping hand. She batted it away nonchalantly and stepped into the room. He shrugged good-naturedly, then looked back around at me.

Nothing in his face now. I was just another guy. Who flung a mean Frisbee and liked trout-fishing ... someone good to spend time with ...

The blonde nudged me, murmured, "Go out that door," then broke away, leaving me lonely. She walked toward Ivan, an efficient, no-nonsense walk that could not disguise the lushness of her hips, the flex of her shapely calves, the strength of her thighs and the promise of what lay between them.

She passed him with a nod and I noticed him watching her too. He twisted to follow her with his eyes as she marched into the room after the brunette.

Safe out of her sight, he leered, his eyes still tracing those rolling hips. "Got anything going on with her yet?"

"Ice queen," I declared. "Gave me a cold shoulder that frostbit my toes. You and the brunette?"

He looked around and shrugged. "Not my type. Care for a beer?"

I nodded and he led the way out. Ivan Zaporizhia, my drinking buddy.

BIO: In the early '70s, Analog published two of my stories; another appeared in Lone Star Universe. More recently, The Jewish Spectator published one of my stories, and Speculations published my article on "Writing Good Computer." My mainstream short-short story "Downstream from Divorce" appears at Flash Fiction Online as part of their March, 2008, issue. More stories appear at or are scheduled for The Monsters Next Door Issue #4, Bards and Sages, Morrigan E-Zine, a Guest-Quarters story at Edge Of Propinquity, mbranesf.blogspot.com, and Sorcerous Signals as well as the Mystic Signals print anthology. You can read more at www.glgwrites.com.

I also moderate SFWA's Online-Update and SFWA-News newsletters.

"A Gentleman Caller" by J.F. Juzwik

2009-05-23T00:56:00.003-04:00

Penelope Francis Maitland was a handsome woman. No one had ever remarked to her, or about her, that she was beautiful, or even attractive. Handsome was the word they used to describe the way she looked. But it was always coupled with an attestation of her impeccable personal hygiene. Father had always stressed the importance of maintaining an immaculate state of one’s mind and body at all times. The sessions of intense prayer provided the necessary cleansing of the soul, and the time she spent with Father in his corner room had truly purified her. His big, strong hands on her--in her--preparing her, exorcising the demons that held her captive.

His assuming sole charge of her salvation was what she was most grateful for, and proud of. Mother had never shown any interest in her to speak of, even when Penelope was a child. But, Mother had really begun to distance herself from Father after Sissy was born. By the time Penelope was twelve, and Father had begun her training, Mother was already occupying a separate bedroom, and would only remain in the same room with Father during meals.

Mother had fawned over Sissy some after she came along, but then pulled away from her after the accident, into her own dark, little world. Penelope believed Mother had been lost long before either of her daughters were born.

Margaret Kittering had been a beautiful, young woman of nineteen when she and her parents moved to Lake Meade. Her father had retired with a comfortable pension, and was looking for small-town charm and quietude. Lake Meade certainly had an abundance of both. The residents were very community-oriented, but not averse to newcomers. The Kitterings were welcomed with open arms by all the townsfolk.

Margaret’s mother was a homemaker who really enjoyed caring for her family, and her father derived great personal satisfaction from hanging a birdhouse he had made himself, and seeing the roses he had planted bloom in the spring. Margaret had been concerned as her father’s retirement approached. She had read articles and seen documentaries about men who retired, and a lot of them simply couldn’t cope with it. They no longer felt needed or necessary, and just wasted away and died. Their spouses followed soon after. Margaret’s parents were very close and, even after being married almost 40 years, very much in love. She knew if anything were to happen to Father, Mother wouldn’t be able to go on.

But her fears were totally unfounded. Jeremy Kittering had worked hard all his life as a floor supervisor in a manufacturing plant. He had also been looking ahead and planning how he would spend his time once he no longer had to work. There would be no wasting away for him. He had a tremendous love of the outdoors, and gardening. He loved to read and even tried his hand at writing a bit of poetry now and again. Not that he ever had any plans to get anything published. He would write lovely words just for the pleasure of writing them.

Her mother, Anna, was an elegant woman. That was the word Margaret felt best described her: elegant. Whether she was washing dishes, hanging laundry, or playing the radio and singing along with the lilting ballads, her eyes were always bright, and she always wore a warm smile. She filled their home with love and sunshine, and no matter where they lived, Margaret knew that if her mother was there, all would be right with the world.

Margaret adored her parents, and being with them. She always felt safe and content. She did want, at some time, to meet someone, fall in love, and begin a family of her own. Her greatest hope was that her life with her own family would be as full of happiness as her parents’ had been. When she met Daniel Maitland, she believed her prayers had been answered.

Daniel’s parents had been of loose morals--drinking, smoking, always groping each other like a couple of dogs in heat. He was determined when he was on his own, and had his own family, life would be very different. Prayer would be in their lives on a daily basis, and they would not be corrupted by the evils of the world. There would be no record players, or television, or magazines. The Bible. That was all they needed.

His parents, for all their flaws, had provided well for their son. When they died, the house was paid off, and there were no debts outstanding. There was also a generous annuity, which oddly enough, paid out in spite of the manner of their death.

Daniel was 18 when they committed suicide. He had been staying overnight at a youth retreat sponsored by the church, and a neighbor had heard the shots. No one ever really understood why they had shot each other. They were found close to each other in the sitting room, on the daybed. It appeared as though they were sitting and chatting. They were turned toward each other, leaning against the wall. Only the fact that their faces had been shattered by the gunshots, and the blood spray covering them, confirmed this as a double suicide.

Daniel remained calm when he was told. Everyone thought it was his deep faith that kept him strong during this tragic period. But Daniel was glad they were gone, as now he could begin to live life as it was meant to be lived. Discipline. Hard work. And prayer. When he and his family lived in this house, evil wouldn’t be permitted a place at their table. He would see to that.

Margaret’s parents didn’t care for Daniel Maitland. He was too severe a person. Margaret was accustomed to receiving affection and kindness. It appeared Daniel possessed neither of these qualities. But Margaret knew in her heart that he was just being respectful toward her. He wanted a decent, moral woman to manage his home and raise his children. How she wanted to be that woman. She knew he would loosen up after they were married and in their own home. She would have him laughing and smiling in no time at all.

Margaret’s parents had decided to relocate to Miami after the wedding, leery of leaving their daughter with that cold shell of a man. They had really enjoyed Lake Meade, but now that Margaret would be on her own, and since Daniel had made it abundantly clear that they were to be left to their own devices without interference, perhaps it was time to just enjoy each other. Besides, it was what Margaret wanted, and she had insisted they go, and begin their lives together. She, in turn, would begin hers.

Margaret had been right about one thing. After they were married, Daniel’s attitude toward her did change. He became even colder and more distant. He informed her that they would ‘couple’ only to conceive a child. Couple. When he talked that way, it made her feel as if she were some sort of animal being used to breed. Margaret never told her parents how bad things really got; she knew it would just break their hearts. They had both passed on before the birth of her second daughter anyway. God moves in mysterious ways, she thought at the time. Best they didn’t share the time that followed.

Penelope was a horrid child. Margaret felt guilty at first when she viewed her first born that way, but there was no other way to describe her. She was just horrid. Her appearance was acceptable, at best, but it was her attitude toward her mother, and people in general. The child treated Margaret as if she were in the way in her own home. Constantly following her father around, wanting to be alone with him. Margaret could almost tolerate that, except for the fact that Daniel went along with it. All that time alone with her in his corner room. God knows what was going on in there. In her heart, Margaret knew, but she never went in. Seeing would be too much.

Daniel never touched Margaret. Never put his arms around her. Never kissed her. Margaret prayed hard during their evening sessions. Not for the exorcising of evil that Daniel was ranting about, but for her husband to seduce her. Margaret could feel herself dying inside a little each day, and she wasn’t quite sure what she could do to stop it. She needed somebody to love her. Or at least go through the motions. She resisted temptation over and over again, but being a beautiful woman, young men coming through town would often approach her on her walks or while shopping. One Saturday, she decided to resist no longer.

Who he was didn’t seem important. He was young, good looking, and showered her with compliments. That most wonderful thing about him was the way he put his hands on her. Everywhere. Gentle and warm. He made her feel alive again. Their afternoon together only lasted a few hours, and then he was gone. That was alright with Margaret. She believed she could get by for quite some time on that memory alone. Then she realized she was pregnant. Penelope was ten, and they hadn’t discussed having any more children. But Margaret knew she had to convince Daniel it was time to ‘couple’ again because she wanted another child. Time was of the essence.

When Johanna Marie was born, or ‘Sissy’ as they later called her, Margaret couldn’t have been happier. The timing was a bit off, but she had managed to convince Daniel that Penelope needed a little sister or brother for company. Penelope didn’t want a little sister or brother for company, of course, but Margaret felt that perhaps once the little one came along, maybe she could make some sense out of their lives. Perhaps achieve some balance. Something.

Johanna Marie was a beautiful child. Happy and loving. Nothing like Penelope or her father. Margaret thought, this one is like her father, whatever his name was. It brought a smile to her lips when she remembered that afternoon. Things just might be alright after all, she thought, they just might be alright.

No one knew how Johanna Marie had hit her head so hard when she tumbled out of bed. She was a little past two, and sleeping in a bed by then. But it was low to the floor, and to have hit her head with that much force… The doctor said it was an accident. Things happen like that all the time, he said. Really a shame, though, such a pretty little girl. Probably won’t do much but remain in the home. She’ll have to be cared for and all, and get some sedatives regularly to stop the seizures. Probably live to a ripe old age, but won’t develop mentally or emotionally much. Real shame.

Penelope watched her mother crawl inside a deep, dark hole in her mind after Sissy’s accident. She never came out. Father found her one morning, dead in her bed of an overdose of Sissy’s sedatives. Since life had obviously become just too much for her, Penelope thought, she may as well just pack it in. That’s best.

Sissy wasn’t too much of a bother to care for later on. She didn’t wet the bed or anything, thank goodness. Penelope really didn’t think she could cope with that. Just keep her sedated and quiet in her room. Sometimes when Penelope would walk in, Sissy would just be sitting by the window just staring out. Who knew at what though, since there probably wasn’t much of a mind in there anymore. But she would come down for meals to the kitchen and be able to feed herself. Penelope couldn’t stand the thought of feeding her. It was bad enough cleaning her up now and then with a soapy washcloth. When Father was alive, he told Penelope he would take care of that, but Penelope wouldn’t have it. She just knew Sissy, probable footstool that she was, would try to get Father’s attention and convince him to train her too. Train her for what, mind you. No decent man would want such a thing as she had become. No. Penelope would care for her. She promised Father she would. Always.

When Father died, Penelope took it as a sign. He had taught her that after he was gone, she should seek a decent, moral man as her husband, but never to let him have his way with her. Father had tried for all those years to purify her and prepare her to be clean enough to take her husband, but it was to no avail. Father had told her that Mother had been unclean, and so it passed on to her. He knew when they married that she had been with others, and that if they had daughters, he would have to work very hard to try to erase all the evil that had been born in them. Sissy was a lost cause--the ultimate punishment for Mother’s sins. Penelope had come along quite nicely, but in spite of all of Father’s efforts, she would have to maintain a celibate, childless marriage. Do not pass the evil on, he had told her, keep it unto thyself, and let it die with you. She knew Father had been right--he always was.

Penelope was on her way home from the Pharmacy with more of Sissy’s medicine when she saw him. He stood at the end of the driveway to the house on the hill and waved to her. She nodded and continued on her way home. She had heard someone finally bought that house. It had been so long since anyone lived there, Penelope couldn’t remember the name of the former residents. No matter. Noisy and Godless, they were. Playing music into the night, laughing, children running around in the front yard at all hours. The house was just across the road and had a long driveway as did hers, but one could still hear all the commotion coming from that house. This man looked about 50-ish, and there wasn’t anyone outside with him. Maybe he lived alone. Penelope hoped so. She had gotten used to the peace and quiet, with that house and hers the only ones at the end of the cove.

She had put Sissy’s medicine in the kitchen cabinet and was going to start making lunch when there was a knock on the door. Penelope wondered who would bother them at lunchtime. Once in awhile a salesman would get lost and knock on the door to get directions to find his way back to town, but that was a rare occurrence. Penelope preferred her solitude and made it clear to anyone who showed any sort of interest in socializing, that the Maitlands did not. They kept to themselves, and believed others should do the same.

The town’s folk respected that, and didn’t come around, except to hand out invitations to that annoying Harvest Ball of theirs. Some ridiculous function held each year in early October at the town square. There were streamers, and lights, and music; as if Penelope would allow herself to attend such a blasphemous thing. The story was that new love was revealed on Harvest Ball night. Anyone recently becoming engaged, going steady, or keeping company, shared it with the rest of the town on that night. Everyone would applaud and drink a toast and congratulate them. New love was found there too, as couples danced the night away, romances were born. Penelope knew what went on there. She had heard their noisy ritual. Now it was coming up again next week. Well, she and Sissy would do what they always did on Harvest Ball night. Eat an early supper, pray, and go to bed. Perhaps she’d give Sissy an extra pill tonight so she could get some rest. Sissy was so annoying when she woke up in the middle of the night. Crying and whining. Penelope couldn’t do anything to settle her down. She certainly had no interest in holding her. Yes. Another pill tonight. She’d done it whenever she needed to rest and didn’t want to be awakened in the middle of the night. Surely it won’t do her any harm.

Penelope went to see who was at the door. She moved the curtain ever so slightly to see who was standing there. She would never just open the door. You just never knew these days who could be at your door. Penelope was startled to see the man from the end of the driveway. As soon as he saw her peeking through the curtain, he began to smile and wave again. Penelope opened the door a couple of inches.

“Yes?”, she said quietly.

“Hello,” he said, his voice deep and calm. Like Father’s. “I’m your new neighbor, and I wanted to come over and introduce myself. My name’s Chester Wilming, and I’m new to the Lake Meade area. I’m originally from San Diego, but now that I’m retired, I decided to make a real change. Come and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. Goodness. Here I am just chattering away. I just wanted to introduce myself, Ms. Maitland. Not to be a bother to you or your sister. Just to say hello.”

Penelope opened the door wider, letting a cool rush of air into the stale kitchen. Strange feelings were coming over her, and she didn’t understand them. She felt embarrassed by them. But there was something about this man…something familiar…something warm…

“How do you know my name?” she asked. “And how do you know about my sister?”

Chester smiled and said, “Oh, I asked around, Ms. Maitland. I like to know who my neighbors are.”

He looked past Penelope and saw the place settings on the kitchen table.

“Oh, I’m intruding on your lunch. I’m terribly sorry. We can talk another time. Perhaps you and your sister would like to come by some evening to sit on the porch and have some nice, cold lemonade? I think it’s always good to get to know your neighbors. And if I do say so myself, I make a mean glass of lemonade!” Penelope noticed his eyes sparkled when he smiled. Like Father’s.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “my sister doesn’t go out. She’s… well, she’s ill. She had an accident when she was a child, and she wouldn’t… I mean, she isn’t… She doesn’t go out. I don’t generally… perhaps I could if it was very early evening. Just for some lemonade and conversation, you understand. I don’t get involved with card playing or music or anything like that. Just for some lemonade and conversation. If it was very early.”

Chester thought to himself, what an incredibly sad lady. He had heard talk in town about the two of them, and the whispers about their parents. Still, it’s always good to get to know your neighbors. Since he was making a real change and starting over here, he wanted to start off right. Just lemonade and some conversation. He figured he could handle that.

“Well, well,” Chester smiled. “Is this the other Ms. Maitland? I’m happy to be able to meet you too.”

Penelope turned around and saw Sissy standing there in her gown and robe. Sissy. With that idiot grin on her face. Doing it again. Trying to interfere. Just like when she was little. With Father. Didn’t even bother to put some clothes on. Her gown and robe were flannel and floor-length, but she shouldn’t have come to the door in them. She should have put on some clothes before she came to the door. No. She shouldn’t have come to the door at all.

Penelope grabbed Sissy’s arm and pulled her away from the door.

“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Wilming,” she began.

“Chester,” he said, “please.”

“Well, Chester, then,” she continued. “It’s time for Sissy to have her lunch and her medicine. Perhaps I will find time to stop by for some lemonade and conversation in a little while. Perhaps.”

“I’ll count on you then, Ms. Maitland,” Chester said. “Why don’t we plan for around seven? Supper is finished, and things settle down about that time. Is that alright with you?”

Penelope felt flushed. She prayed hard it didn’t show. Why was this happening to her? Now, after all these years. What kind of evil did she carry in her that she should get so flustered when a man knocks on her door. But, it wasn’t just any man knocking on her door. This one was different. There was so much of Father in him. She could see it. She could feel it. Perhaps he is the one. The one she will spend her life within celibate bliss as Father foretold. Perhaps. Sissy began squirming in her grasp.

“Yes, Chester,” Penelope said quickly. “Seven will be just fine. I’ll be there at seven. Just me. Thank you, and we really to have to get lunch now. Goodbye.”

Penelope quickly closed the door and latched it. She pushed Sissy against the counter, and slapped her face so hard it left the mark of her hand on her cheek.

“No!”, she snarled. “You will not get in the way this time. You had no business being with Father because he was mine. Mother tried to get in the way, but he didn’t want her. You tried to get in the way, and well, you know what happens when you interfere. Or maybe you don’t.”

Penelope grabbed Sissy by her shoulders until Sissy began to flinch.

“You were told you fell out of your bed. You were told you were a clumsy dunce, and you fell out of your bed on the hard floor. But that’s not the way it happened. I caught you watching Father and I through the keyhole in his corner room. That was our private time. I made up my mind you would pay for sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. So, after you went to sleep, I came in your room and pulled you out of the bed and slammed your head on the floor. Hard. Harder than even I had realized. Guess I didn’t know my own strength. You didn’t know any better, you idiot. You were always stupid anyway. And after your ‘accident’, well, let’s just say we didn’t have to worry about you snooping anymore.”

“Don’t even think about doing anything like that this time, little miss, if you can think. I won’t have it, do you understand? I think from now on it probably would be better if you had your meals in your room. I’ll bring your meals to you and your medication, and you just stay in there. You have your own bathroom so you won’t need to come out. When it’s time to wash you, I’ll come and take care of everything. We’ll just keep that door of yours locked so you can’t get out and hurt yourself on anything. We wouldn’t want that now, would we? Why, it would be just awful if you had another accident.”

Penelope dragged Sissy upstairs and pushed her on the bed.

“I’ll bring your lunch up in a little while with your pill. You just rest there for awhile.”

Penelope pulled the heavy door shut and turned the key until it clicked. There, she thought, that should keep you.

The lemonade and conversation on Chester’s porch was just as enjoyable as Penelope thought it would be. Chester was very respectful toward her, and behaved like a perfect gentleman. He is the one, she thought, he is. Father said I would know when the proper man crossed my path. She hadn’t been inside his house, nor he inside hers yet. That would never do. Alone with a man in any house wouldn’t do. Not until they were married anyway.

Chester had said that he had come to Lake Meade because he had heard about it from Sheriff Sydney Todd. Penelope wondered why, when Chester had said he was from San Diego, it triggered something in her memory. Sheriff Todd was from San Diego. Evidently, they had known each other there, and when Sheriff Todd decided to come back to his hometown to finish his career in law enforcement, he told Chester about Lake Meade and what a beautiful place it was. Chester had been some kind of engineer, and when he took early retirement, he packed everything up, came to Lake Meade, and bought the house on the hill.

Penelope wondered which house they would live in. She could use a change. Besides, his house seemed larger and a bit more cheerful. Perhaps they would live…

Sissy. My God, she thought. What to do about Sissy. Sure, he would take her in out of kindness, but what kind of a life would they have with her around all the time? ‘She’ll probably live to a ripe old age’, the doctor had said after her accident. What to do, Penelope thought, what to do about Sissy.

The sedatives, she thought. She had just refilled the prescription anyway, so there were plenty. They had worked with Mother years ago. Everyone had believed Mother had taken her own life; just too full of despair. Well, Sissy was capable of taking too many. Penelope only gave her one in the afternoon like she was supposed to. It wouldn’t be Penelope’s fault if Sissy got hold of them from the kitchen cabinet. People knew she wandered about the house--Chester had seen her.

Penelope came in from another pleasant evening on Chester’s porch. Sheriff Todd had been there as well. They were old friends, but Penelope was hoping they would be alone again. The more time they could spend together, the sooner he would see that she was the one to manage his home and share his life with. In prayer and discipline. In that big house. Just the two of them. When she opened the back door, she saw Sissy closing the refrigerator.

“What are you doing in here?” Penelope screamed and slapped Sissy so hard she fell on the floor. “How did you get out of your room? Well, I guess we’ll just have to take care of our little situation, then. Can’t have you wandering around and all, upset and depressed that you are. I told Chester all about it tonight. How worried I was and how I needed to leave early to go check on you.”

Penelope reached down to grab Sissy’s arm and felt the pain go through her arm like it had been set on fire. Sissy had plunged the carving knife in Penelope’s forearm almost all the way through. Penelope grabbed the handle and pulled the knife out, feeling her legs start to give out from under her.

“You bitch!” she screamed. “What is this? A temper? Getting even maybe? I should have finished you off when you were two. Well, now’s as good a time as any!”

Penelope sat at the kitchen table shaking. She had wrapped her arm and the bleeding had stopped. This was going to be hard to explain to a doctor. Maybe she would go to the city to one of those minor emergency places and make up a story. Yes. That would work. And Sissy? She would dispose of her tomorrow. She would clean everything up and just tell people Sissy wandered off. They would search and search, but she would not be found. Perhaps someone picked her up in a car, Penelope would suggest. You just never know what kind of people are out there these days, do you.

She poured another glass of her ‘medicine’. Father would have understood. All the stress and everything. She kept the gin in the refrigerator because it was easier to drink all cold like that. It did have a funny aftertaste tonight though. Oh well. No matter. She felt warm and relaxed and believed she’d sleep well tonight in spite of all the commotion. After she emptied this pitcher, she would rinse it out good and get rid of whatever that funny taste was.

Her vision started to blur, and as she looked at the pitcher, she saw some white powder that had settled to the bottom. Now, what could that be, she thought. She picked up the pitcher and decided to pour the rest out and rinse it. She almost fell walking to the sink. What’s going on, she thought, I only had a couple of glasses. She started to giggle, until she noticed the cabinet next to the sink was open. The only thing in that cabinet was Sissy’s medicine bottle. The one she had just refilled the other day. But the top was off and the bottle was empty. Empty!

That bitch, Penelope thought as she struggled to stay on her feet. That’s what she was doing in the refrigerator. She put her pills in my medicine. And just to distract me, she cut me with the carving knife. That bitch. Well, I fixed her… I did. I…

Sheriff Todd forced the back door open. Chester hadn’t seen either of the Maitland sisters for several days, and they didn’t answer the door, so he called his friend to make sure nothing had happened to them. Nothing could have prepared them for what they found. Penelope Maitland was on the kitchen floor, a glass in her hand that had contained gin and triple the lethal dose of sedatives, they would later learn. And Ms. Sissy Maitland was upstairs on her bed with a carving knife in her throat. Judging by the cut on Ms. Penelope’s arm, it appears they had fought, Ms. Penelope had murdered her sister is a fit of rage, then taken her own life with the overdose.

Sheriff Todd wondered if they would ever find out what Ms. Penelope had done with her sister’s eyes. Perhaps some things are best left a mystery though.

Sydney Todd put the flower in his lapel. He was really ready for Harvest Ball tonight. What a sad week this had been, with the Maitland deaths and all. Such pitiful ladies they were, he thought, and so alone. They really should have attended the Harvest Balls. He had gone to every one since he came back to Lake Meade. Of course, it was only to share the happiness of others until he could share his. But tonight, he would announce his love and share his happiness. He and Chester Wilming had found each other in San Diego. Now, Chester was here, and they would proclaim their love at the Harvest Ball. The people in Lake Meade were an understanding sort. Some people already knew Sydney preferred the company of other gentlemen, but they treated him just like everyone else. Sometimes the high school boys would say rude things when he drove by the school, but they didn’t mean anything by it. It was just to show off or something to each other. They would outgrow that.

He was so happy tonight. Chester was here to stay, and they would be together, and everything would be out in the open. He still felt bad though for those Maitland sisters. If only they had come to the Harvest Ball once in awhile. Perhaps they could have met someone. But if they especially could have come tonight, when Sidney and Chester announced their love to the town. Then, those poor, sad ladies would have seen just what a beautiful thing love can be.

***

BIO: J. F. Juzwik has had a crime fiction novel (King’s Bishop Takes King’s Rook’s Pawn) published by DiskUsPublishing, a horror short ("Too Late a Lesson Learned") published in the anthology, Deathgrip: The Legacy, and a crime short ("Byline") published here on Crooked. She has written numerous crime fiction and horror stories, and is currently working on a thriller short and two crime fiction novels. She is a member of several writers’ networks, and maintains a blog for both writers and readers at jfjuzwik.blogspot.com. Information on all her projects can be found on her website at jfjuzwik.webs.com.

"Brunette In Black" by Jake Hinkson

2009-05-13T23:21:00.000-04:00

The human body contains about ten pints of blood, and Adam Nicola’s body hadn’t been any exception. The problem for me was that his blood was all over my bedroom floor, soaking into my carpet, and I didn’t have much time to do anything about it.

I ran into the bathroom. My left eye was starting to swell, and my vision seemed to be melting. I sat down on the edge of the tub and held my face in trembling hands. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, trying to let my vision clear a bit.

In my bedroom, though, Adam Nicola kept bleeding on my carpet. I didn’t hear anyone outside the house yet, but I knew they were on their way.

I stood up and looked at myself again. My hair hung down like old party decorations, dabbed here and there with blood, and my bottom lip was filling up like a water balloon. My expensive black dinner dress was torn.

“What a fucking disaster,” I muttered.

I walked back into the bedroom. It already smelled like the dead man’s whiskey-diluted blood. I wasn’t surprised by that; he’d shown up at my door so drunk I was surprised he was walking.

I eased over to the window and peeked through the drawn shades. Adam’s car was embedded in the dogwood in my front yard. The neighbors stood on their porches, cell phones pressed to their ears, but no one approached the house.

I walked back to Adam and leaned over him. His graying hair was matted with blood, his eyes rolled back.

My entire body convulsed, and I moved away from him. I didn’t know where to go, though. Leave the room? Stay? Run outside?

That seemed like a good idea.

The neighbors gawked at me as I bolted out of the front door. One thin, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses approached me like a timid professor.

“Are you alright?” he asked. For a year or so, I’d seen him go in and come out of his house, but I had no idea what his name was.

“No,” I said. “I think he’s dead.”

“Oh my god,” he said looking to the house.

Two teenaged girls eased over to us. One of them—I think her name was Jenny or Penny—said, “I called the police. They should get here any second.”

She’d barely said that when a patrol car turned down the road, stopped in front of us, and a big cop with a crewcut climbed out.

The neighbors pointed at me, and I told him, “There’s a man in my house. He’s drunk and he has a gun. I think…I think he’s dead.”

“Everybody get back to their homes, please,” the cop barked. He pulled me over to his car, and said, “Why do you think he’s dead?”

“He said he was going to kill me. He beat me up, but then he just…shot himself…” I choked up and started crying. The funny thing is, it wasn’t an act. I mean, I wasn’t really overwhelmed the dumb bastard had shot himself—he was better off dead, god knows, and the world was better off without him—but I stared crying anyway. Maybe it was just the stress of the moment.

The cop must have been new to his job because he was clearly affected by my tears. “You’re safe,” he tried to assure me. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“Where’s the gun?”

“I think it went under the bed. I’m not sure.”

The cop crept toward the house, took out his gun, and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, a few more cop cars showed up, as well as an ambulance and a fire truck. The whole goddamn world. I cried then, too.

They took me inside, sat me down at the kitchen table, gave me an ice pack for my face, and questioned me. The main cop was a hard-faced blonde woman in slacks and a man’s business shirt. Detective Steed. She was six feet tall and had cold blue eyes, and she did not give a shit about my tears.

“Adam Nicola. Fifty-two. This a boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“We were seeing each other.”

“How long were you seeing each other?”

I shrugged. “A few months.”

“How many is a few?”

“Three or four, I guess. Since about February.”

“How long have you known he was married?”

That felt like a trick question, but I didn’t have time to think about it. “He told me right from the start that he was getting a divorce.”

“Uh huh.” Detective Steed looked down at her open notepad and tapped it with her pen. “He come over here often?”

“I guess.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know. Every…week, I guess.”

She looked back up at me. She didn’t have much in the way of lips, but there was a tiny scar in the corner of her mouth. I pressed the icepack against my bottom lip.

“Every week since February sounds serious,” she said.

“It was mostly sex, okay? I like sex. So does he. Did he. So did he.”

“He ever get violent before today?”

“No.”

“You know he was arrested in January for beating up his wife?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Not that he would have told me, I guess. But he was never violent with me before.”

“So what happened today?”

I shook my head. “He called me this afternoon and said his wife Gina had left him. He wanted to move in here, and I said it was a bad idea.”

She watched my eyes when she replied, “I thought he told you right from the start he wanted to divorce her.”

“Yeah, well, I figured that was just something he was telling himself. And me.”

“So then what?”

“I said that moving in here was a bad idea. I liked having sex with him, but I wasn’t in love with him or anything.”

I stopped, pressed the icepack to my mouth, and looked at her. She kept looking me in the eye and didn’t say anything.

I said, “I hung up on him. He showed up—”

“When was that? When did you hang up on him?”

“I don’t know. Three or so.”

“And according to the neighbors he slammed into your tree and ran in here about four. Any idea what he’d been doing?”

“Well, he smells like a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

“What were you doing when he got here?”

“Nothing really.”

“What’d he say when he got here?”

“Not much. He was crying. He started slapping me around. He’d never hit me before, but he beat the shit out of me today. I ran into the bedroom, and he came after me. He had a gun. I thought he was going to kill me, but instead he just pressed the gun against his head and shot himself.”

Detective Steed nodded and wrote down what I said.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I told her.

“Just one second,” she said. “We’re almost done. I just wanted to ask…I notice he ripped your dress.”

“Yes.”

“Nice dress. Looks expensive.”

I shrugged. “It was on sale…”

“You said earlier that you weren’t going anywhere.”

“No. Well, I mean, I might go to dinner. I was thinking of going to dinner.”

“You dressed up at four in the afternoon just in case you might go to dinner later?”

I pressed the icepack to my mouth. I wished I could shove the whole thing down my throat.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You dressed up at four o’clock in the afternoon just in case you might go to dinner later on,” she said.

I nodded. “Yes.”

She stared at me.

I shrugged. “All dressed up and no place to go, I guess.”

Detective Steed clicked her pen a couple of times and dropped it into the pocket of her shirt. She said, “You can go use the bathroom now. The boys are almost done.”

I went to the hall bathroom and peed. Through the small window above the sink I could see the crowd around the house beginning to disperse. The ambulance and fire trucks were gone. Adam’s body was gone. Most of the cops were leaving. I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and went to find Detective Steed. She was standing on the doorstep.

“Are you done?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Am I going to need to…I don’t know, come down to the station or anything?”

Detective Steed looked at my scarred but standing tree, and then she turned to me and flipped open her notebook.

“Well, it seems pretty clear cut what happened. Gina Nicola says her husband Adam left about twelve this afternoon after she told him she wanted a divorce. We have people at a bar who say he was there getting drunk an hour or so before he showed up here. His cell phone shows he called you at three twenty-three. On his way here, he knocked over a mailbox and clipped a couple of side mirrors. Witnesses all say he plowed his car into your tree, staggered out with a gun, walked up to your house and kicked the door in. A few minutes later a shot rang out. From the look of the scene, it all happened like you said.”

“Well, I’m just glad—”

“Here’s the thing though,” she interrupted. “That dress.” She nodded at my sleeveless black dinner dress. “I’m confused about why you were laying around in a five hundred dollar dinner dress at four in the afternoon.”

I shook my head. “I just put it on,” I said flatly. “I was thinking about going out. Maybe I didn’t make that clear. I didn’t have any definite plans, but I was thinking about it.”

“Yeah,” she said. She slid her notebook in her pocket. “Well, that’ll be all for now. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She gave me a curt nod and walked to her car.

I went back inside the house and sat down on the sofa.

The sun went down and the stars came out. Cars eased up and down the street, and parents flipped on the yard lights for their kids. A man walking a dog paused at my yard, and while his mutt pissed in my grass the man inspected the damage to my tree. He left, and I sat on the sofa in the dark.

I was still sitting there when the back door slid open and Gina’s footsteps crept through my kitchen. She found me in the dark.

“Are you okay?”she said.

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“I told you I would. You said it’s what you wanted.”

“It was,” she said. “It is. I just can’t believe it. He’s dead.”

“He’s better off. And so are you, and so am I, and so is everyone else.”

“Did he know about us?” she asked.

“He didn’t say anything about it.”

I looked up at her for the first time, standing there in the moonlight in an expensive dinner dress. She sat down next to me on the sofa, and her long brown hair swept across her bare shoulder.

“I told him I wanted a divorce this afternoon, just like we planned. Then he left, and the police say he went to a bar.”

“He called me from there,” I told her. “It’s almost funny if you think about it. Our whole plan—you break it off with him and then I break it off with them and then we tip him off that he can find us together at the restaurant—all that planning to set up a self defense killing…all of it was for nothing. He called me drunk. I was getting ready to go to the restaurant when he showed up here, rammed his car into my tree and started waving a gun around. When he shot himself, I wasn’t even touching it.”

“I got ready to go the restaurant like we’d planned,” she told me. “Then I saw my little gun was missing. I just went cold inside. I knew he’d taken it. I almost called you.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t. The cops would have wondered about that.”

“I know.”

“But it’s over now.”

She nodded. “And I still get the insurance money,” she said. She placed a hand on my knee. “We get the insurance money.”

I nestled back against the cushions.

She leaned forward and kissed me. “It’s so crazy. To plan…you know, to plan something like that, and then to have it turn out this way.”

I said, “I wouldn’t have planned to kill him if I knew we could get him to kill himself.”

“Do you feel bad?”

I shrugged. I thought about the light going off in Adam’s eyes when the gunshot exploded into his head. Even as his eyeballs bulged out, his pupils had imploded.

She touched my bruised cheek. “Are you okay?”

I took her hand. “They’re just bruises.”

She smiled. “They heal.”

I touched her pale, delicate, beautiful face. “You should know,” I said.

"The Devil In Disguse" by Randall Pretzer

2009-05-05T01:50:00.002-04:00

I hadn't written a short story in a few days. It may have been a month or more. I couldn't remember. I didn't feel like checking the dates on the word processor to find out when I last wrote anything. It didn't seem to matter. The publishers would tell me the same thing. They enjoyed it but can't use it. It doesn't fit their current theme. They would wish me well and told me not to let their rejection discourage me. They never considered how many rejections I may have had before the one they just gave me. I didn't really have anything and if I did I wouldn't know where to start. I broke my rythmn. I had been writing a short story a day for a month or two almost but then gas prices went up. I found myself without much money and I had my computer at my parents house. I couldn't afford to go back and forth from my apartment to my parents and my cycles of writing was disrupted. I never really gained it back. I gave up. I got another rejection and thought what was the use? I went to sleep at my parents that time after I turned off the computer.

I woke up an hour before I had to go work. It wouldn't have been a problem except I forgot I had stayed at my parents. It meant I had a longer way to get to work then if I had been at the apartment. I had to skip a shower and only brush my teeth, shave and put on deodorant. It took me a few minutes. I liked getting to work at least 30 minutes before I had to go in to chill and listen to my music. It prepared me for the day. I loved working the nights but I hated just going straight into work right when I got there. It just felt as if something was missing. So I waited until about 10 minutes till or so and headed to the time clock. I had to be at work around 4 pm and I got there around 3 30 pm. It was perfect. I was excited for yesterday I had finished up a book called Man Of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov. It was written in 1840 and seemed to feature the first existentialist character. The more original aspect about the book was the attitude of the character. My brother said it sounded modern with such lines as "I was bored with her…..I sometimes despised myself….I had the misfortune of being born…" I would not qoute me on those lines for I don't know if they are exact but it is those kind of words that make it ahead of its time. It was sort of the Rebel Without A Cause of the early 1800s and I had finally finished it. I was able to start a new book at work called The Man Who Was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton. I couldn't wait. It was about the police attempting to inflitrate a local anarchist cell to break it up. It sounded really good and I would finally get to start it at work in about 20 minutes.

I got out of the car at 5 minutes till and checked my tires. They were okay. I checked to see if any of the lights were on in my car and they were not. I was good to go. I headed to work. I walked in and it felt as if I had not been there for years. I was not sure why. I was off only the day before but that was my only day off until Sunday. It was strange. There had not been much happening yesterday. I just went to the mall and bookstore as I always did on my days off. I didn't understand it but I didn't mind going into work. I loved working nights and was so glad I was finally made the night person. I just didn't understand this feeling of alienation I seemed to have from work. I am gone one day and it feels like an eternity since I had been here when I come back. It felt like an episode from the twilight zone and what a great tv show that was. They didn't make any like that anymore. I checked my watch as I headed to the time clock and all that thinking wasted 3 more minutes. I had 2 minutes before I was late. I was not too far away from the time clock but I would remember to clock in before I let my mind wonder.
I clocked in just in time. There was about twenty seconds before I had been late. I got on the freight elevator and headed to the dock. The two dock guys ready to relieve me were waiting. Our boss was not there today. She was never there on Thursdays. We never had any trailers on that day. It use to be only on weekends we didn't have any trailers but they changed that. The docks guys greeted me.

"What is up, Gilbert?" Roland said.

"Not much….happy to be working nights." I said.

"Yeah….makes it easier on us….we hate nights." Robert said.

"So what is going on for tonight?" I asked.

"There is nothing. No truck so no boxes and we have not had any pick ups…..no furniture pick ups should be an easy night." Roland said.

"All right…thanks…I can get started on this one book." I said.

"You finished the last book all ready?" Robert said.

"Yeah…I finished it this morning….around 4 am." I said and we laughed.

"You are prolific reader…" Roland said.

"I am not really…it took me too long to finish this last book…"

"I see you always with a book…you read a lot…" Robert said.

"I try to read as much as I can.." I said.

"That is good….well see you later….truck tomorrow…" Roland said.

"All I will have the dock all ready." I said.

"Thanks….see ya…" Robert said and Roland waved as they went on the freight elevator.

I went to a nearby stool we had and sat down. I opened up The Man Who Was
Thursday and the phone rang. I picked it up agitated. They couldn't let me get settled in first.

"Hello receiving this is Gilbert?" I said.

"Hey Gilbert….do you think you could bring us a rounder?" She said. It was Amanda. She worked right next door to the dock.

"Sure be there in a minute." I said.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." We hung up. I headed to our supply room to get the rounder. We had plenty of them made so I didn't have to worry about putting it together. They were just rough to push through the store sometimes. Some of them had messed up wheels and it was hard to keep them steady while pushing them. They would just want to go all over the place. I found one and it was a breeze to push luckily and so I got it to her in no time. I brought up near her register.

"Here you go." I said. She looked up at me and seemed startled.

"I am sorry I didn't mean to scare you." I said. She was silent.

"Is this the right fixture?" I asked. She went up to the rounder and grabbed a hold of it. She didn't say anything and moved it to where she needed it.

"Did you need anything else?" I said.

"Thank you for the rounder. No, I don't need anything else." She said indifferently. She had never talked to me with indifference before. What was going on?

"You're welcome for the round, anytime. Just let me know if you need anything else." I said. She just nodded her head and went to pick up some clothes to hang on the rounder. I disguised my doubts and confusion caused from her reaction. I went back to the dock and sat down. I was depressed. We had been talking for almost a year now and she had always been friendly. I couldn't understand her change in behavior. I think I sensed fear now that I think about it. I decided to wait until next time we saw each to her to see if she would react the same way or back to the way before. It could have been just a bad day for her. We were all entitled to bad days.
I sat back down in the dock and picked up my book. I couldn't read. I couldn't concentrate. The way Amanda reacted to me just had me all messed up. I couldn't think of anything I had done. She was friendly with me over the phone. It seemed as if nothing was wrong. You can't tell everything from someone over the phone but she always sounded the same way on the phone. I got up and started pacing around thinking about it. I was afraid to go back out there to see if she would react the same way or not. I was scared that she would and it would tell me our friendship was over. I knew it was too soon then to go out there so I waited. I would go back out 40 minutes later. She would still be working. She worked until 7 pm. I had time. I just didn't know if I could wait 40 minutes. I was really worried. I could find out right now just by walking out there I thought to myself. She would be in the same area most likely for she was doing something that took sometimes an hour. I didn't want to seem to eager. We had been talking for 30 minutes to an hour each day we worked together for the past year. It was just so baffling and sad. I wish I knew what had happened. You always get worried when a friend acted differently towards you than before.

I sat down on the stool for I was exhausted from pacing around. I checked my watch and only 15 minutes had gone by since I decided I would go back out to see her in 40 minutes. I was out of shape and getting old. I should have kept up the running. I shouldn't have been so tired after just pacing around for 15 minutes. Oh well, I would try to run again when I could but at that point I tried to read the book again but the phone rang. I had barely sat down for 2 minutes.

"Hello receiving this is Gilbert."

"Hello Gilbert this is Rachel. I was wondering if you were not too busy could you come pick up some boxes?"

"Sure." Rachel and I went further back then Amanda. We always got along. I may have had a chance to date her but it was a .000000000001% chance. I was too modest and lacked an ego to consider even a woman I had a crush on having a crush on me. Rachel was always receptive to me and she had started talking to me first. I was nervous around because I liked her I never knew what to say. I did want to talk to her but her area never needed anything. There was not a chance for us to talk because of that fact. She eventually started dating someone and it became serious. I gave up but we remained good friends. I went to pick up her boxes. I grabbed a flat bed. It took me a minute or so to get to her area.

"Hello Rachel…are these the boxes over here?" I said. She looked up at me and didn't say anything at first. She looked back down at the computer screen on her register.

"I am sorry…" I said. She looked up at me.

"The boxes are over there. Thank you." She said indifferently. Her reaction was the same as that of Amanda. I couldn't believe it. I never would have expected this reaction from Rachel. I was shocked enough from Amanda but Rachel? We went so far back. I examined her as I picked up the boxes. I sensed fear in her. Why? What had I done? The same questions I had about Amanda went through my mind again with Rachel. She normally would be talking to me as I would be picking up the boxes. She remained silent and just continued with her work. She was never like this even when she was having a bad day. Some handled their bad days differently and it was fine. Some stayed the same and others kept to themselves. It was okay we all had our own ways of doing things but Amand and Rachel were out of character. Why would they be afraid of me or indifferent? I picked up the rest of the boxes and pushed the flat bed back to the dock.

"I will see you later." I said.

"Thank you." Rachel said indifferently without even looking at me. I didn't know what was going on. I had not even bothered to ask them if I had done anything wrong. I was afraid to. There may not have been a problem and it could have just led to a fight. Why should I think anything is wrong? I don't know how to have explained it to them. I didn't want to make them feel like they were being rude. I didn't want to offer criticism of them or anything. I stopped thinking about it and headed to the dock. There was nothing more to really say about it. I just realized as I went to pick up her boxes I didn't even look to see how Amanda would react to me if I said hi. I close to her area and I would say hi and see how she reacted.

I was by her area in a few minutes. I looked around for her at one of the registers as I pushed the flat bed to the dock. She was the one nearest to the dock entrance. I thought here goes nothing.

"Hi Amanda." I said. She looked up at me and just made a weak smile. I had never seen her do that before with me. She always said hi Gilbert. She was always so friendly about it. This time she didn't even say anything. She just gestured towards me. It was not a fluke the first time. There was something wrong. I didn't ask her though. I was too afraid. I had hopes that maybe she was just having a bad overall and didn't feel like talking to anyone. It meant I had to wait for the next day we worked together and that was two days from now. I am not sure I could wait that long. I would probably go in the next day or so on my day off to see if things were okay between she and I.

I went back into the dock and sat down depressed. I couldn't read. I just sat there looking at the floor thinking. I had lost two friends today it looked like. I didn't even know why. I just know it seemed as if it was over between myself and Amanda and Rachel. The phone rang. I was the worst day for a busy day. It seemed like no breaks.

"Hello receiving this is Gilbert."

"Hello Gilbert…I am new here….I needed someone to break my lock….are you the ones I call?"

"Yes…."

"Can you meet me at my locker now if you are not too busy?"

"Sure…I will be there in a minute."

"Thank you." I hung up and went to the freight elevator. I got to the locker area before she did. I should have been depressed more often I seemed to move faster than usual. She came by about 1 minute later.

"Hello…dock right?" She said.

"Yes…." I just realized I forgot the locker cutters.

"I am sorry I forgot the locker cutters…."

"Oh…that is okay…I am on my lunch break..I will wait here…"

"Okay…I will be right back sorry."

"That is okay."

I went to the freight elevator and as I turned to push the button to close the door I saw the locker cutters. I laughed a little and went to pick them up.

"I found them they were right here." I said.

"I am forgetful too." She said. We both laughed.

"I thought I was just getting old." I said. She didn't laugh. It was silence.

"Which one is your locker?" She didn't say anything but pointed to where it was.

"Now those are the kind of locks I like." I said and laughed a little. She remained silent and shrugged a little. It seemed everyone was having a bad day. I remained silent and broke the lock easy.

"Piece of cake."

"Thank you." She said indifferently and opened her locker.

"Did you need anything else?"

"No, thank you." She said and I sensed some fear in her voice. I turned around and headed back to the freight elevator. What did I do her? I had never seen her before in my life. This was strange. I guess maybe to her I came off as trying to flirt with her. I wasn't but I could understand how she might think that. I would remember not to do that next time. I sat back down in the dock hoping for a break. I couldn't read I was just too depressed. I felt like music though. I had brought a Jimi Hendrix compact disc and I put it in. It was his album Electric Ladyland. I put it on the song Little Miss Strange. I loved the opening and I just sat on the stool and listened to it and stretched out my arms. I heard his voice sing out the lyrics. It was his bass player singing and I liked his voice.

"No one knows where she comes from maybe she is just a devil in disguise." I couldn't understand the rest after that but I loved the sound of his singing and the music so it didn't matter. I would get the lyric sheet for it when I got home.

I got out of work a little early and left the compact disc in the cd player. I just realized this after I left the store. I really wanted to hear that song while driving in my car. I needed it and wanted to drive for awhile. The way the women reacted to me told me I needed a night drive. I had other compact discs and I figured there would be one there to fit the mood. I would do it after the bookstore.
I got into my car and started the engine. My gas was low. I had to head to the book store and then home. I didn't have enough money to fill up. I got paid two days from now. I went home and was so tired I fell asleep. I woke up a little frustrated. I had a plan each night after work to go to the bookstore, come home, do some reading and writing and watch some situation comedies I had on dvd I had not seen yet. It was about 1 30 pm. I didn't have much time to get a situation comedy watched. I had to take a shower and eat. I listened to a record when I ate and well I was little too tired to get up just yet to try to get the situation comedy watched. I laid there for a few minutes. My phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Are you busy right now?" Rensen said.

"No."

"You mind if I come over?"

"No, just I have to be at work at 3 pm…just be for a little…"

"That is fine."

"I will be here." We hung up.

He got there almost after I hung up. I put on some underwear, jeans and socks and went to the door. I slept in my shirts. I didn't even check to see if anything I had put on was even clean or something I wore from the day before. I answered the door.

"Hey…" I said.

"What is going on?"

"Not much…was frustrated I didn't get much done last night…no reading…writing or situation comedies watched…."

"I didn't get much done last night either…I was too tired from work…didn't get out until midnight or so…"

"Late night customers…"

"Yeah as always."

We headed to the living room. I sat on the chair and he sat on the couch.

"I got to get out of this town….."

"I am fine with it…..but not for everyone."

"I just can't focus anymore. There is nothing here. What is there to write here?"

"I have been writing pulp fiction lately….autobiographical type stuff bored me…."

"This town is boring me." His phone rang.

"Hello……okay…….I will be there in a minute." He hung up.

"I got to go. Duty calls at home. Off today. My turn to do the housework. I took a break to get some lunch."

"Sure."

"I will see ya later."

"See ya." He got up and left. The clock on my vcr read 1 40 pm. I had plenty of time. I took off my clothes and left them on the couch. I went into the bathroom to get ready for work.

I didn't even think to tell him about what had been going on. I was one to let someone confide in me first and then get to myself. I headed to the bathroom to take a shower, brush my teeth, shave and put on deodorant. I was going to then watch a situation comedy as I always do. This one episode of Seinfeld I loved. The pilot episode. There is not an episode were George and Seinfeld discuss things in depth as they do in this episode. I could related for I discuss things in depth too and over analyzed as they do in that episode. It was great stuff. I had all but two seasons on DVD. I was too broke to get any more but I would get the rest one day.

I went into the bathroom and I looked in the mirror. I yelled in fright as I saw myself and ran out quickly. I shut the door. What was it that I just saw? I couldn't understand. I felt my face and my body. It felt the same. I had not changed. What was going on? I went back into the bathroom and looked at the mirror. There was nothing. I wonder if I had just been working myself too hard? I was depressed about my friends who got distance all of a sudden. It must have been stress. I grabbed my toothpaste and toothbrush. I put the toothpaste on the brush and I turned the water on and wet the toothbrush briefly. I looked up and I saw it again. I spit out the toothbrush and ran out again. I couldn't take seeing it. I felt my face again and still it felt the same. There was nothing with my face. What was it in the mirror? I went back in slowly. You had to face your fears they say. I looked in the mirror and there was nothing. I looked away briefly and looked back. I still saw nothing. I couldn't be crazy. I saw it. I saw it twice. I couldn't be dreaming. What was going on? I looked down for a few minutes and then looked up again at the mirror. There was nothing. I attempted to brush my teeth again. I don't know why I was being so casual but I had to be at work soon. I didn't think this was anything real. I was just overwhelmed with things. I looked down at the toothbrush and then looked up. I saw it. I was not going crazy. I moved my head and it moved its head. I looked up and down and all around and so did it. It was mimicking me. I yelled at it.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Leave me alone." I screamed almost at the top of my lungs. It moved its lips as I moved mine. It mimicked me perfectly in every sense. I picked up the toothbrush and wailed it around. The thing in the mirror did too. It didn't go away this time. It was permanent. What was it? Why was it doing this to me? Was it anything? Was it alive? It seemed to just be copying me. I moved my arms and hands and walked back and forth. It did the same. It was like it was a mirror image of me. I felt my face and my body. It felt the same as before. There was nothing wrong with me physically. There was just this thing in my mirror. It was harmless so far but what was it? I walked out the bathroom and looked for something to show my reflection. I found a clean butcher knife I had but never used. I looked into it and I saw the same thing. I moved my head and it moved its head. It was what I looked like to the outside world. How could I go out in public like that? How did I get rid of it? I called my work.

"I am sorry I can't make it to work today. I am not feeling too well. I am sorry. I will be out for a few days."

They understood. It was pretty smooth. I may need a doctors excuse they told me depending on how long I was out. I didn't know how I would get one. They would not believe me on this. They have to have seen it though. My friends who became distant. It explained everything. They didn't see me but what I saw in the mirror. How come my friend didn't say anything? I wondered about something. I immediately called my friend Richard.

"Hello Richard…could you come over?"

It was good that he finally was free. He was the only one available. This couldn't wait. I knew my friends schedules and he was the only one off. I didn't have the gas to go over to my parents and didn't want to ask a total stranger. I am sure I had other options but couldn't think of them at the time. I was trying to be as logical as I could. However, under the circumstances logic didn't come easy. I waited for Richard.

He was there sooner than I thought. He usually took about an hour or so. I opened the door and he didn't react as one would seeing what I saw in the mirror.

"Hey Richard…."

"Hey…so what do you want to do?"

"Just hang out…chill.."

"Cool."

"Let us go in the living room….maybe we can watch the new Rambo I got it yesterday.."

"Sounds good."

We headed to the living room and he sat on the floor. I never knew why but he did. I sat on my futon.

"Richard..do I like look different to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you see of me right now?"

"What I have always seen. You have not changed since the last time I saw you…granted that was only yesterday but you look the same……why?"

"I was just curious." I could tell him the real reason. He would think I was as crazy as I thought I was when I first saw that image in the mirror. I had no other answer.

"Just an odd question…."

'"I know…Richard….just forget it…"

"Sure."

Richard's phone rang.

"Sorry…hold on….Hello? Sure…I will be there in a minute." I was curious now about something.

"I am sorry I have to get going." Richard said.

"Are you sure I don't look different to you?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?" He was different than I saw him before now. He never used that tone with me. Was I just paranoid? I didn't know. It was just odd that is phone rang and he had to get somewhere. I know things come up but the same thing happened with Rensen.

"Richard…..hold one minute…."

"I have to go…."

"Just hold on…."

Richard rolled his eyes. What was with him all of a sudden? He never showed such impatience no matter if he was in a hurry or had to get somewhere. I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. I saw it. I was right. It explained Richard's behavior. I came back out. Did it disappear when he first came over? Why would it disappear and then reappear? What was going on?

"I am sorry about the Richard….something felt wrong…"

"The world is wrong…..I am late…..I got to go…." He walked away and out the door. He didn't say goodbye. His tone was completely different than anything I had heard from him and he never showed such cynical attitudes either about the world or anything. He saw the thing in the mirror and not me. I can't blame him for not telling me but why didn't he just scream and run out? Why didn't my friends at work just scream and run away? Why didn't they report me or did they?
I called up work.

"I am able to make it to work today. I will be there at the regular time." I hung up.

I looked at the time and I had about ten minutes to get to work. I had no time to get ready. I was all ready dressed luckily. I headed out the door.

I hurried through the employee entrance and up to the time clock. It was a one the second floor. You had to hit a button so they would know to beep you in and open the door. It was for security reasons. This would be the test. I was let in. I must have looked like myself again. I immediately went to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. I briefly checked rhe reactions of everyone I came across making eye contact. There was not any. It looked good so far. I made it to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was nothing. Maybe it was gone. I didn't know but surely I figured it would have shown itself by now. It didn't. I smiled and left the bathroom to get to work. I wanted to be able to check without having to go to the bathroom so I bought a mirror they had in the handbags section. I was surprised they had any for sale. It was a small one and it did the job. I didn't see anything so far for I was checking after I bought it on my way to do the receiving area and there was still nothing. Why did it not come out now? Why did it come out at all?
I sat in the dock for three hours and no one called. I like it that way. I wanted to read but it was not the time. I kept checking the mirror and nothing. It was still me. I was about to maybe try to read and the phone rang. I picked it up immediately.

"Hello receiving this is Gilbert."

"Hello Gilbert this is Amanda…I was wondering if you could bring us a four way?"

"Sure."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We hung up at the same time. It was strange but she was not distant this time. She was as friendly on the phone as she always had been up until that last time I saw her. I looked in the mirror quickly but nothing. It was still me. I may have just gone insane for a few days or just plain became disillusional or was it just a lack of sleep? I didn't know. It seemed all right now. I went up to our room and got the four way. I brought it out to her area. I placed it near where she was at register.
"Here you go." I said. She looked up and ook back down without saying a word.
"I am sorry I didn't mean to interrupt you." I looked at the mirror quickly and there it was again. I was not dreaming. This was not a nightmare. What to do to now? I didn't know. I waited.

"Where you left it is fine." Amanda said indifferently almost ice cold without looking up.

"Sure. Is that all?"

"Yes." She said without looking up and she said it almost like that of an automated voice. I looked at the mirror again and it was there. I had to get out of work. What would be my excuse? My boss was all ready gone. I would go to tell the assistant store manager. She was always good about these things. She was very understanding. I hurried up to her office. I kept glancing at the mirror and it was gone once I was away from Amanda. I hope it didn't return again when I would be talking to the assistant store manager.

It took me only five minutes to reach her office. I looked at the mirror right before I went in and there was nothing. It was me. I went into her office.

"Hello." I said and looked at the mirror. It was there again. I wanted to leave but the assistant store manager all ready had looked up at me and she looked back down.

"I need to go home. I am sorry but something has come up."

"I was going to send you home."

I was confused. Why was she going to send me home? I looked at the mirror and it was still there. She saw it. Again, why didn't anyone scream when they saw it? Why was she not screaming now??

"Did I do something wrong at work? I didn't mean to be sitting around but there were not any calls and the dock is clean."

"We always understand that. It is not that. We are overstaffed in the dock and we have to cut down on labor. I am sorry. We will call you back when we need you. However, you don't need to report into work until we call you. I am sorry." She told me all of this without looking up.

"I am sorry to hear that. I will be here when you need me." I said.

"Thank you. Goodbye." She said this just as Amanda had said like an automated voice. I left and glanced at the mirror again. It was just me in the reflection. I just didn't understand. How was I to find out what was going on? There had to be a way but I was sensing a pattern. I wondered now if I still had a place to stay. I hurried to my car and to my apartment. I didn't want to risk living out in the street. I am not sure I could get another job. This thing just seemed to pop up at certain times. It was selective. My Rent was due. I had the money saved up for that luckily and I didn't have to give to them in person. I could just drop it off in this box they had like they did at the video rental stores. I would not let the management see my face until this thing was gone. I would lose the place for sure if they saw me. I had just lost my job more or less. I had a month to figure stop this thing and then I would be thrown out. It may still be a fluke. I will try to get a job and see what happens. I will try everywhere just to test to see if it comes out then too.

I was correct. I looked in the mirror at each job interview or place of employment I applied at and all the employers who interviewed me were distant and cold as the assistant store manager was. It was not permanent. I was not myself now. The image in the mirror never left me. I didn't know what to do or where to go or why this was happening. I tried to buy a supply of food that would last for a month but everywhere I went they refused to serve me. I was forced to dig I dumpsters and anywhere else I could find food. I went to the homeless shelters and they threw me out. The food at my apartment would have to do. I am not sure how much I had left nor how long it would last but I had no choice at this point. I headed back to my apartment from the third homeless shelter I got thrown out of and laid on my futon mattress. I had to find out what was going on. Was this some kind of attempted possession? I was so tired I fell asleep at that last thought.

I woke up at 7 am the next morning. I immediately went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. It was not me. It was that thing. I tried putting a towel over my head and it made no difference. I couldn't even see the towel over my face through this thing. It looked the same. I tried putting on everything that I could over my face. I tried shaving cream, deodorant, soap and etc. It made no difference and yet when I moved my lips or my head in one direction or another the head and lips of this thing would move in sync with mine. It just didn't make any sense. I couldn't cover it up but it was able to mimic my facial and head movements. I was glad no one had seen me come in or out of my apartment. It was amazing no one had. I was sure no one had because the tenant didn't try to throw me out or anything. I was lucky to still to be here. I didn't know where to go or what to do. Was someone behind this? Why would they be doing this to me? My life was just about ruined. I laid back down on my futon. What else could I do?

I couldn't sleep. I got up a few hours later and checked the mirror again. It was not me. I left the bathroom and sat down on the couch and put on the Seinfeld episode I had watched the other day. I left the dvd in there. My cell phone rang. I answered it.

"Hello."

"Is this Gilbert?"

"Yes, this is Gilbert."

"Have you seen Tom?"

"May I ask who this is? I am not trying to be rude but I don't recognize your voice."

"I am his wife."

"Oh….well I only know one Tom….he works at Bells…"

"Yes…he is my husband….have you seen him?"

"I have seen him at work….maybe two days ago?"

"I called his work two days ago…he was not there…"

"He may have been out of work by then…"

"No…he told me he was closing…and he also let me know when his lunch break was…I called him at the time he told me to call…he wasn't there…"

"Well…I am sorry I don't know….but I should have asked you this sooner…why are you asking me about him and…how did you get my number?"

"I can't tell you…..but I know you know him….and if you are covering up for him…"

"I am not covering up for him….I only have talked to him while at work…and even then…it was just a hi or a few comments about how work could be rough….I really don't know him…."

"Can we meet somewhere?"

"Sure."

"Meet me at the Pancake Palace in 30 minutes."

"All right….but I don't look normal….there is…"

"I don't care…..it doesn't matter to me….this is important…30 minutes Pancake Palace."

"Sure…" She hung up. I was confused and lost. I was also surprised at myself. Why did I talk to her for so long? Why did I agree to meet her? I wanted to be be kind. I always made an effort to be kind but considering what I look like currently what will happen? I should not have agreed to meeting in a public place but it happened so fast. There was not any logic to this. I know. Who was she? Why did she ask me about Tom? I didn't really know him. It was strange. However, she sounded sad or like she was in trouble. I always willing to help. I checked my watch and ten minutes had gone by. It took me fifteen minutes to get there. I left the apartment and ran to my car in hopes of no one around seeing me. I headed to the Pancake Palace. I made it there in 10 minutes. I went inside and they threw me out. I should have known. I forgot or something. I waited outside for her.

She got there about five minutes after I did. I got up to meet her. I expected her to get distant and tell me she had to leave.

"Hello…I am sorry I was kicked out for some reason."

"Right…I forgot….come with me to my car and will talk. We will just drive around."

"All right." I couldn't believe it. She didn't get distant or anything. She invited me into her car. I was afraid to ask her if she knew about it or something. I followed her to her and she opened up the door for me and I got in. She shut it quickly and got in on the other side.

"I am sorry I should have got the door for you…it is my job…"

"It is all right…" She smiled at my comment and started the car. We drove down Waterfall Avenue. My favorite place to go driving at night. I was just one long road from one end of the city to the next. It was near the beach. I looked at her and I saw the same thing on her as I did on me. I jumped a bit.

"He is on to me." She said.

"You have the same image over your face that I have over mine. I was afraid to say something and I don't know why."

"This is the work of Tom."

"Tom?"

"Yes. What is over our faces is a holagram."

"So that explains why nothing covered it up."

"Right."

"How does he do it? He couldn't project it this far."

"He found a way somehow. He is a wizard when it comes to this kind of thing….incompetent when it comes to relationships."

"Amanda said something about that."

"This is about Amanda."

"Amanda?"

"He is in love with her. He saw you and her talking and got jealous. He got this crazy idea to mess up your life because of it. He wants to mess up mine too because I am telling you everything."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"He told me about it all. He wanted me to be his partner. I refused but promised I would not tell anyone."

"The million dollar question is why you told me?" She smiled at that.

"Amanda told me about you. She and I are like sisters…but actually just good friends….feels like sisters…"

"I know the feeling…I have a few friends who feel more like siblings we are so close…"

"Anyway….she told me you were a very kind person.."

"I will thank her for that…and I thank you for telling me…"

"You're welcome….anyway…..she told me after Tom decided to pull this on you…I agreed not to tell anyone because I thought you were out to hurt him….I love him and didn't want to see him get hurt so I let him do it to you….however after what Amanda told me….and what others in the store were telling me about you…I decided to stop him….you wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone…I came to believe that…."

"Thank you for everything you said and for helping me….I am sorry if I came off as wanting to hurt him or anyone…."

"You didn't…..Tom told me you were out to hurt him…since I love him so much….I believed him….I was wrong…I am sorry…"

"I understand…..human nature…"

"I am having a lapse of logic here….how is he able to see us…can hear us too?"

"He can only see us. I don't know he is not able to hear us yet."

"What do we do now?"

"I am going to give you the address of where he is at. It is the only thing I can do."

"It will be enough. Thank you."

She slowed down and pulled up into someone's driveway. She pulled out a pen and paper. She wrote down the address and handed me the slip of paper.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I have to let you go here. His place is not too far from here. I don't want to risk him finding out what I am doing. He just knows we are talking."

"He has no time to move anything….how far away is he from here?"

"He is two houses down. Excuse me." She reached over and pulled out what looked like a television remote. She handed it to me."

"What is this for?"

"I planted a bomb in his place. The bomb will go off when you hit the top red button. You can get him out of there and destroy the building or you can get within 20 feet of it and hit the red button. I don't care at this point. I love him and if I can't have him no one will but I refuse to let him take anyone down with him….that is why I helped you….:"

"Thank you….I can't kill anyone….what he did to me and you was wrong but not worth killing him for." I handed her back the remote.

"You take my car…forever…..I won't be back." She took the remote and got out of the car. I got out of the car and walked up behind her and got in front of her. She walked fast and almost plowed into me.

"Look….this is not worth dying for….I know you love him….he loves Amanda but…." She held up the remote.

"I will hit the button right now if you come any closer…" I backed away a bit.

"Please think about what you are doing…..he needs help…I forgive him for what he did…he doesn't deserve to die….you don't deserve to die…"
She put her finger on the button.

"You don't shut up right now and get back into that car I will hit the button right now. He will be dead."

I had not much time to think. I could charge her and she would hit the button. There would be only one person killed instead of two but someone would be dead. I couldn't think. I then thought of something.

"All right…." I caught her. She had told me I could either get him out of there or kill him while safely outside.

"You told me that I could lead him out and destroy the building or do it when he is in the building. I told you I couldn't kill anyone and you took the remote from me and are now heading over to kill him….You gave me the option of either killing him and his contraption or just destroying the building….why don't you let me just lead him out of the building and destroy the contraption he uses to create these images in front of our faces?"

"I thought you would kill him…..I was wrong so I took back everything said….I want him dead and I wish to die with him….a romantic suicide…" She took off running after she made that last statement and I went after her. She was fast. I never got within four feet of her. She made it into the building and it exploded shortly after. I fell to the ground and pieces of debris landed near me. It was a miracle that none landed on me. I slowly got up and looked at the wreckage with sorrow. I felt so bad for both of them. They needed help. Their pride wouldn't allow it. I checked my little mirror and it was me again. I wiped away the tears but they kept coming.

BIO: My name is Randall W. Pretzer. I have been writing since I was 15. I started off writing short stories and then I moved to writting plays and poetry. I recently got back into short story writing in 2006 and I have primarily just been a short story writer from then on. I live in Texas and currently work at a department store in the receiving area. I am currently working on about three short stories. My favorite authors are my father, my brother, Knut Hamsun, John Fante, Charles Bukowski, Anne Bronte, Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson.

"Skinner" by Joseph Winter

2009-04-29T00:11:00.003-04:00

In the early evening in the middle of July, Eric Brewer pulled into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot on his Suzuki dirt bike. He had just finished working a 10-hour day on a roofing crew, hauling tar up ladders and pounding nails in 90 degree heat. He parked the bike along the side of the building and took off his helmet. He rotated first one arm in its socket, then the other, trying to work out the stiffness in his muscles. Then he pulled a bandana out of his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his eyes. A few of the teenagers loitering in the parking lot regarded him with neutral expressions. Eric recognized their faces and knew most of their names. He stuffed the rag back in his pocket and walked over to where Scott Harris lay sunning himself on the hood of his Cutlass Supreme.

Since it had replaced the ARCO station five years ago, the Dunkin Donuts at the intersection of High Street and Route 138 was a popular summer hang out spot with the local teenage crowd. Beginning in the late afternoon, they would congregate in the parking lot, smoke cigarettes and type text messages on their cell phones. Come 7 p.m., there were usually a dozen or more milling around, waiting for something to happen. Scott Harris, 30 years old, was the group’s senior most member and its chief supplier of pot. On a strictly limited basis, he also dealt small quantities of coke and the occasional OxyContin. But Scott’s primary business was buying and selling clams wholesale, which was very lucrative in the summer months when the tourists arrived. Eric hated digging clams, but every year he renewed his license, and on days when the price per pound was high enough, he’d go out to the mud flats and dig a few bushels. But only once did he ever sell his clams to Scott, and this because his usual buyer was getting married that day and his only other option was in jail on a DUI.

Sipping iced coffee and leaning back against the windshield of his Oldsmobile, Scott Harris saw Eric pull in on his Suzuki and said something to Brian Sullivan, called Sully, who leaned against the driver side door smoking a cigarette. Sully was 22, the same age as Eric. He often served as the middle man on Scott’s pot deals and certain other ventures. What he got in return for his services was unclear.
As Eric approached the Oldsmobile, Sully roused himself and stepped to the front of the car. Behind him, Scott closed his eyes and went back to resting his head on the windshield.

Eric Brewer is eating tuna fish sandwiches and Doritos over his friend Brian Sullivan’s house. Eric is tall, over 5 feet, which is tall for his age, says his father, who is very tall, but the gift comes at a cost. Eric is uncoordinated, awkward, and is afraid when the older pitchers throw the ball at the plate where he stands holding the bat barely off his shoulder, frozen with a fear he knows even then is misplaced. But he can’t do anything about it. Standing there the only thing in the world is the ball. He dare not swing the bat. But Sully, he is not scared. He misses more than he hits, but he is not afraid of the ball or the older boys who throw it. He is a good four inches shorter than Eric, at least, but he moves his body like he owns it, whereas Eric feels like his body belongs to someone else, that it was given to him by mistake and someday its rightful owner will come calling for it.

“You need something?” Sully said, but before Eric could answer two boys nearby started roughhousing, knocking the cigarettes out of each other’s mouths and throwing headlocks. Sully watched them as they laughed and grappled and drifted closer to Scott’s car.

“Hey faggots,” he said, his voice level but authoritative . “Suck each other off somewhere else.”

“Sorry Sully,” one said, his head wrenched sideways against the other’s chest.
Sully turned back to Eric. He gestured impatiently with his hands and shoulders. “Well? What do you want?”

“A quarter ounce,” Eric said. “Plus three Oxies, 40 milligrams -- or two 80 milligrams, if you got them. That’s something you can do, right?”

Sully glanced over at Scott. “What do you think?”

Scott didn’t seem to be paying attention. He brought the straw of his iced coffee to his mouth. Thin droplets of condensation ran down the side of the plastic cup.
“Looks like you’re enjoying that,” Eric said.

Scott smiled. He sat up on the hood of his Oldsmobile, stretched out both his arms and yawned. “Shit,” he said, and laughed. “I’m getting too comfortable here.” He swung his legs over the side and arched his back.

“A quarter ounce plus three Oxies,” he repeated to himself. “40 milligrams -- or 80, if I got them.” He looked down at his shoes and stroked his chin, taking time to weigh various factors and degrees of feasibility. Finally he nodded his head and slid down off the car.

“Yeah, alright. Meet Sully behind the bleachers at Memorial Field in one hour. Hundred seventy-five bucks.”

“One seventy-five?” Eric said. “How’s that?”

“That’s the price is how,” Sully said, quick off the mark.

Scott put a calming hand on Sully’s shoulder.

“Those pills aren’t as easy to get a hold of as they used to be,” he said. Then he moved in closer. “But I’ll tell you what -- bring me a couple bushels this weekend and I’ll see what we can do in trade.”

“I’m not clamming this weekend,” Eric said. “I’m roofing.”

“Roofing, huh? Well, you better be careful up there boyo. Don’t go popping Oxies with your ass in the wind.” Scott brought his index finger up over his head and dropped it straight towards the ground while making a high pitched whistling sound. “Break your fucking neck, you could!”

Eric ran his tongue across the back of his teeth and said nothing. Scott threw his iced coffee in the trash and walked towards the door of the Dunkin Donuts.

“Where you going?” Sully called after him.

“To take a shit,” Scott yelled back.

Scott Harris lives in a house down the street from Brian Sullivan. Scott is tall, too, almost as tall as Eric’s father, but Scott is sixteen years old and goes to high school and in high school kids get acne and grow to the size of adults. Sometimes on weekend afternoons, Brian’s parents and Scott’s parents get together, drink beer, and play cards for hours. Sometimes Brian goes with them and plays Nintendo in Scott’s room. Brian says Scott’s awesome at Mortal Combat.
Eric goes with Brian and his parents to Scott’s house. The adults sit around the kitchen table with their cans of Coors Light and play a card game that somehow involves moving little metal pegs around a perforated wooden board. Scott gets Eric and Brian a couple fudgsicles and asks them if they like fireworks. “I got M-80s.” he says confidentially. He takes them down into the cellar and the boys stand sucking their fudgsicles while Scott kneels down in front of a refrigerator, snaps off the metal kick guard, and slides out the drain pan, in the middle of which is a plastic pencil box. Scoot grabs a loose rag and dries it off. Then he snaps open the latches and reaches into the box. He turns to Eric and Brian and opens his hand, revealing three thumb-sized, red paper tubes with short green fuses. The two boys come closer and admire the M-80s. “You like this stuff, huh?” Scott says. “Well, check this out.” He reaches back into the box pulls out a rolled cellophane bag containing what Eric, at 8 years old, already knows two or three words for. “What is that?” Brian asks. “What the hell do you think it is?” Scott says.

Later in his bedroom Scott leans his head out the window and exhales a cloud of smoke from the joint he’s holding. “What’d you guys think of my hiding spot?,” he says “That’s where I hide all my shit. I saw this TV show where this dude, an ex-burglar or something, said you should never hide your jewelry and money in obvious places, like in your bedroom or anywhere too close to where you live. He talked about this cool trick called Diversion. That’s where you hide stuff in places where people don’t normally think to hide shit, like underneath a kitchen sink.” Scott takes another long drag from the joint. Holding in the smoke, he passes it to Sully, who takes it hesitantly between his thumb and index finger. Sully brings the joint to his mouth and takes a series of quick puffs and blows out the smoke. “No, no” Scott says. “Take a deep hit and hold it.” Sully tries to do as he’s told. He squints his eyes and sucks hard on the joint. The burning ember at the end crackles and glows bright orange. Then Sully’s eyes pop open, his face goes red, and he explodes in a fit of throat-searing coughs, almost dropping the joint. Scott laughs. “You’ll get the hang of it. Now pass it to your friend.”

Eric sat on the top row of the bleachers standing along the third base line of Memorial Field. He saw himself standing at home plate dressed in the red little league uniform, the stretch polyester jersey barely reaching down to his waist. He saw himself gripping the aluminum bat, staring past the pitcher, never watching the ball, even as it sails past him, lands in the catcher’s mitt, and the umpire calls strike one, strike two, strike three. The pitcher’s mound seemed a hundred feet away back then. Now Eric saw that it couldn’t be much more than forty feet.

Twenty minutes later, Sully drove up in his Chevy S-10. He got out of the truck and slammed the door. Eric heard the gravel crunch beneath his boots but he didn’t turn around. He heard Sully’s voice.

“What are you asleep?”

“Not anymore,” Eric said. He stepped down off the bleachers and faced Sully, who was gazing out at the field.

“Man, “ Sully said. “I remember playing here when I was a kid. It seemed a lot bigger then.”

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”

“Oh yeah? You think now you could manage to actually swing the fucking bat? You were such a chicken shit at the plate.”

Eric breathed hard through his nose. “You got my shit?”

Sully laughed. “Take it easy, slugger. I’m just messing with you. Hold on a second.”
Sully reached into his jeans and pulled out a sandwich bag half full of pot. Then he fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a miniature ziplock bag holding three white tablets. Eric saw right away they were the wrong color and the wrong shape. Sully extended both bags to Eric, one in each hand. Just then Eric caught a slight whiff of some odor. Shellfish, his mind registered, almost unconsciously. Clams. The smell came from Sully, from the bags he was holding. Eric took the pot but he left Sully holding the pills.

“What the hell are those?” he said, pointing.

“Yeah. Sorry bro,” Sully said. “It’s a no go on those oxies. But these will take care of you. They’re practically the same.”

“What are they, I asked you.”

“Vikes,” Sully said. “Vicodin.”

Eric groaned. “Ahh, fuck.”

“You don’t want them? No problem.” Sully made like he was about to put the baggie back in his shirt pocket.

“No,” Eric said. “Give them to me.” He reached for the twenties he had folded up in his own shirt pocket. “How much?”

“Same price,” Sully said, grinning. “Twenty-five a pop.”

“For Vicodin? Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” Sully said, dropping the grin.

“I’ll give you forty,” Eric said. He counted out seven twenties and held them out. “One forty for the lot. The weed and the pills.”

Sully looked skeptically down at the money in Eric’s hand.

“I don’t know, man. I’ll have to run it by Scott.”

“Then run it by him.”

Sully pulled a cell phone out of the same pocket that had held the bag of weed. He punched in a number, held it to his ear, and waited for an answer on the other end.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s that? Can’t hear you . . .” He stuck a finger in his other ear. “Huh? Yeah. Now I can hear you. Right. . . . I did. I’m there now . . . Listen, Eric ain’t happy.” Sully shot Eric a disappointed look. “Yeah. He says he’ll go one forty, one forty for everything. . . . Huh? I know it. I told him. . . . Yeah? OK.” Sully turned his back and walked a few steps away. He lowered his voice, but Eric could still hear what he said. “I’ve done it enough times. I know where to put it. I’ll go over there right after I’m done here . . . .Where are you going to be? . . . .I’ll let myself in. . . . Oh, yeah? How much you want me to bring? . . . . What time? . . . .” Sully laughed, listened, then laughed again. “Those fucking bitches! . . . Alright, man. See you then.”

Sully flipped his phone shut and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Scott says he can go one sixty.”

Eric stared transfixed at the outline of the cell phone in Sully’s jeans and tightened his grip on the twenty dollar bills in his hand. Sully stood waiting for an answer. Then he looked down at his pants, trying to see whatever it was Eric kept staring at.

“What the matter with you?” he said, taking an uncertain half step back. “What’re you staring at?”

Eric released his grip on his money, raised his eyes and smiled.

“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. I was just spacing out for a second.”

“Well knock it off, “ Sully said. “Don’t be looking at me like some kind of faggot.”

Eric added another twenty and to the money already in his hand.

“One sixty,” he said, handing Sully the cash. Sully counted the money and then handed Eric the mini ziplock with the three white tablets.

Eric turned the baggie over in his fingers. “What you got going on tonight?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

“What do you care?” Sully said.

“No reason. Forget it.”

“I’m heading over to the pub for some drinks. After that, who knows?”

Eric nodded as if this information confirmed something. Then he walked over to the chain link fence surrounding the ball field and pointed to home plate.

“You had a pretty good swing. I remember. Knocked a few out, didn’t you?”

Although he wasn’t looking at Sully, Eric sensed his compliment was accepted.

“Yeah,“ Sully said. “I did. Hit eight home runs my last year. Led the league.”

“You weren’t much good at Mortal Combat, though.”

Now Eric sensed something else. He waited, keeping watch on home plate.

“What did you say?” Sully asked, although the way he said it, it didn’t sound like a question.

Eric turned and looked him in the eye. “Mortal Combat. You know. The video game? At Scott’s house when we were kids? Don’t tell me you don’t remember.” Eric laughed and looked up, as if somewhere above the pitcher’s mound the memory was being reenacted. “You never could beat him, could you?”

“Shut up, Eric,” Sully said.

“Maybe, Brian. Maybe I’ll shut up.”

“Shut your mouth!” Sully shouted. He wheeled around and marched back to his truck.
Eric took the bandana out of his back pocket and wiped away the sweat that was starting to bead on his forehead. Sully climbed into his truck and slammed the door. He backed out, threw it in drive, and gunned it, his rear wheels throwing up sprays of dirt and gravel.

Eric cupped his hands to his mouth. “You never beat him, Brian!” Sully tore through the parking lot and disappeared down the street.

Eric dropped his hands and watched the dust cloud kicked up from the S-10 drift across the parking lot.

“Come on,” Scott says. “I want to show you guys something.” Scott leads them quietly into his parent’s bedroom and over to a bureau standing in a corner. He pulls open the top drawer, reaches underneath a pile of men’s underwear and pulls out a stack of Polaroids. He waves Sully and Eric to come over. “Check these out,” he says and holds the Polaroids out in front of him like they’re a winning hand of cards. Most of the photos show Scott’s mom either holding a cock in her hand or in her mouth. One picture is an overhead shot of a cock penetrating a woman from behind, her ass nearly filling the frame. “Pretty crazy, huh?” Scott says.

Eric drove his Suzuki through the woods along the bike trail that skirted the edge of Pinehill Road. The night was cloudless, and with the full moon overhead he barely needed the beam of his headlight to see the trail. When he reached the turnout he braked and shut off the engine. He pushed his bike into some bushes, and took a Maglite and a can of mace from his backpack. Then he headed off through the trees, shining the light in front of him.

After about 500 yards, he clicked off the light and stopped, listening and peering into the darkness. He knew he was close even though he could not see any lights or hear anything other than the night calls of crickets and bullfrogs. He advanced a few more steps and saw a faint yellow light shining through the branches.

Scott lived on a secluded acre of land in a dilapidated, single storey cabin with a detached garage. His property was enclosed by a six foot high chain link fence and guarded by his 75-pound pit bull mix, Buzzer, which he kept outdoors tied to a nylon rope. Scott ran his wholesale clam operation out of the garage -- weighing, rinsing, and buying the clams that he bought from local diggers and in turn sold to fish markets and restaurants.

Eric crept closer to the perimeter fence. The porch light above the door illuminated the front of the cabin, but everything else was silhouetted in bluish-grey moonlight. The driveway was empty and nothing stirred inside the cabin. Rows of rusting lobster traps were stacked against the side of the garage. There was no sign of Buzzer. Eric checked his digital wrist watch and did nothing for the next ten minutes but breathe and wait and watch. He did not move. Somewhere the crickets and bullfrogs continued their nocturnal mating calls, but Eric did not hear them. When his wrist watch displayed the time he waited for, Eric closed his eyes and breathed the night air deep into his lungs. He did this three times. On the third exhale he opened his eyes and walked over to the fence.

Dozing in a shallow dirt hole behind the lobster traps, Buzzer snapped awake and tore across the yard in a barking frenzy to confront the intruder. Ten feet from the fence he played out the length of rope and was yanked violently backwards off his feet. But in a flash he was back up, growling and straining against his leash.

Eric waited to see if Buzzer had alerted anyone in the cabin, but he did not wait long.

“Hey there, Buzzie,” he said.

He grasped the top of the fence and pulled himself up, swinging one leg up and over. Outraged by this provocation, Buzzer wheeled up on his hind legs and barked even more furiously. Eric straddled the fence. Looking down at the snarling dog, he felt a fear instinct flutter through his body, trying to freeze his limbs. He focused again on his breathing and waited for his body to relax. Then he lifted his other leg over the fence and dropped to the ground. He stood up and took out the bottle of mace.

He bent over and aimed the nozzle three feet from Buzzer’s rage-filled face.

“Quiet down Buzz,” Eric said, and shot two mace streams into each one of Buzzer’s eyes.

The effect was both immediate and satisfying. Buzzer dropped and rolled on the ground, pawing at the chemical fire burning his eyes, his barks given way to yowls of pain.

Eric circled wide around the stricken dog. Once clear, he hurried past the lobster traps and over to the garage.

The wooden double doors were chained together and padlocked, but their hinges were exposed on the outside and weakened with rust. Eric took a screwdriver and hammer out of his pack and knocked the pins out of the hinges on the first door. The last hinge on the bottom, though, put up a fight. The pin would not budge. “Fuck this,” Eric growled. He wedged the claw end of the hammer beneath the screws that fastened the hinge to the garage and pulled up on the handle with both hands. The screws screamed as they were extracted from the wood, but they finally gave way and the door swung free.

The first thing Eric saw when he entered the garage was the refrigerated truck Scott used to deliver clams. He walked around the truck and scanned the rest of the garage. Lined up along the side of the opposite wall were the pieces of equipment Scott relied on to conduct his clamming business: the beam-type platform scale he used to weigh the clams he bought from diggers, the tank he sometimes used to rinse the sand out of clams he sold to the higher end restaurants (at an extra 20 cents a pound), and standing upright between these two items, a large capacity refrigerator. Eric recognized it as the same refrigerator that fifteen years earlier had stood in the cellar of Scott’s parent’s house. “You cheap prick,” he muttered, and training the beam of the Maglite, he saw fresh spill marks and boot prints on the dirty concrete floor directly in front of the refrigerator.

Eric got down on one knee, holding the Maglite in his mouth. He ripped the kick guard off the bottom of the fridge, and slid out the drain pan. Laying in two neatly stacked rows were ziplock freezer bags. Brownish water from the refrigerator’s drain pipe formed a shallow puddle at the bottom of the pan. But the bags all appeared to be carefully sealed and water proofed. The only issue was maybe the smell. Like his father before him, Scott used the refrigerator exclusively to store clams, and over the years the odor of shellfish had permeated the internal workings of the appliance and became concentrated in a bilge-like runoff that collected in the bottom of the unit’s drain pan.

Eric upended the pan and dumped the freezer bags on the floor by his feet. There were a total of six bags. Four bags were full with what Eric knew right away was weed, maybe a pound or more in each bag. The other two bags were double-wrapped and their contents varied in size and weight. Eric could not see through the plastic and tell what they contained. He grabbed a towel hanging over the side of the tank and wiped the clam-smelling moisture off each bag and then stuffed them inside his backpack, along with his hammer and screwdriver. He slung the pack over his shoulders, and holding the Maglite in one hand and the mace in the other, he retraced his steps around the truck. He stopped just the inside the garage doors and looked out into the yard. One end of Buzzer’s leash was tied to the trunk of a tree and from there it ran across the yard and disappeared behind the stack of lobster traps. Eric called, whistled, and waited. He whistled and waited some more. There was no response. Buzzer had retreated to his dirt hole where he lay quivering in a ball, pink mucus dripping from his stinging eyes. The man that had thrown the fire in his face could go where ever he wanted.

Sitting side by side on pillows in front of the TV, Scott holds the Nintendo controller in his left hand and slips his right hand into Brian Sullivan’s shorts. Brian keeps both his hands on his controller. But even with this advantage, Scott is still beating him. His Liu Chang back flips over Brian’s Sub-Zero and nails him with a round house kick to the head. Scott looks over his shoulder at Eric. “You play winner,” he says.

Eric stood in his studio apartment with the six freezer bags spread out on the table in front of him. Earlier he had opened one of the four bags containing the weed and realized they probably contained closer to two pounds each. The fifth bag contained over $11,000 in cash, mostly in twenty dollar bills, plus two bottles of pills, 27 Vicodins in one, 15 OxyContins in the other. The sixth bag contained three computer CDs in plastic jewel cases and four M-80s. When Eric saw the miniature explosives he clenched his jaw and muttered a curse under his breath.

Each CD was labeled in black Sharpie with a first name and last initial: Steve P., Josh S., Mike S. Eric turned the CDs over in his hand, frowning at the correspondences the names suggested in his mind. The polycarbonate surface of the disks refracted the overhead light into prismatic waves of color. Eric selected the Steve P. CD and went over to his computer, an old Dell he picked up second hand three years ago. He rarely used it anymore since he stopped paying for an internet connection, but sometimes he still used it to play Flight Simulator, sometimes Quake.
In the photos stored on the CD, Eric recognized the face of Steve Pulawski, one of the teenage losers that hung out in front of Dunkin Donuts. Steve was naked in each photo. In some he was masturbating, either by himself or with Brian Sullivan. In others he was sucking the cock of the person holding the camera.

Eric is tall for his age but not as tall as Scott. Eric tries to control the movements of Johnny Cage but the controller feels heavy and unwieldy in his hands. He can’t block kicks and he can’t time his punches. Scott’s Liu Chang locks him up in an iron grip and flips him on his back. Liu Chang leaps high into the air and comes down fist first into Johnny Cage’s chest. Johnny’s heath meter blinks red: Warning, Warning, Warning. But Eric can’t do anything about it.

Eric drove to the pub on his Suzuki and parked it between the Cutlass Supreme and the S-10. Inside crowds of people stood around the bar holding pints of beer and eating onion rings, laughing, shouting. The late innings of a baseball game was broadcast on the TV above the bar. Eric took off his helmet and jumped on to the hood of the Oldsmobile. He stood facing the window, but no one inside the pub noticed him. Not yet. He took an M-80 and a lighter out of his pocket and lit the fuse. The gunpowder coating the cotton twine sparkled in his hand. Eric threw the firecracker at the door of the pub where it exploded in a deafening report. He smiled at the faces and reached for another M-80.

BIOGRAPHY: Joseph Winter is a writer and editor born and raised in Massachusetts and currently living in Orange County, CA with his wife, daughters, cat, and tarantula. He has work that will be appearing in forthcoming editions of Word Riot, Thuglit and Bartleby Snopes.

"The GI Gas Can" by Tom Sheehan

2009-04-22T00:19:00.002-04:00

Jake Gibson, PI extraordinaire and a man of diverse talents, was two houses away, in the attic, in free space without a hit on his budget because it was the house of an old teacher of his, had the volume set at mid-range to the pipe he had set into the other house more than 17 months earlier. Perhaps all that dirty work on his part, the ultimate in sneaking, was going to pay off in spades. The words were coming in clear as a Sony mike. He’d sure use them for motivation.

For more than those 17 months, he had been snaking his way along in life with Chas and Jimbo. He owed them as others, he was sure, owed them. Either Chas Dykens or Jimbo Lavery, or both, had hit his secretary Bonnie Duval, the most hidden woman he had ever known, and the clear love of his life, or the one most missed for sure. They had dropped her off her balcony with two silenced rounds. The “Why” was never announced, never came off in ink, nobody uptown or downtown saying a word, which they had often done to jerk his chain, no masked call on his phone saying reparation had been accomplished. But he knew Chas and Jimbo had gone extra-curricular. Working outside the bounds. That kind of stuff usually didn’t pay, not in the end. They’d be payback he knew.

Her body, over the rail in free fall, hit the cement walk the way old ironworkers say the stop is sudden, conclusive and sudden. And bloody awful. The police had recovered a single expended casing, with no fingerprints, in a nearby apartment of a guy who had won a trip to Disneyworld. Gibson had been chasing “that fix” too, but so many loose ends made it like a live wire in a puddled street. Nothing had been nailed down in that direction. Not a whisper. Not a phony tip, the way tipsters try to keep all four lanes open.

Gibson, almost giddy at times, fed himself with images that leaped up from all his past observations of the pair, from close range as well as under a Palomar-strong telescope. He knew them like characters in the final act of a play as it came to an end, the curtain ready to drop, the resolution about to happen, hope or demise on the threshold. Or an old black and white movie where he could recite the dialogue like he was reading text. Dick Powell without a song. Humphrey at his best cowing other hard characters. Chester Morris as Boston Blackie clearly tailing a suspect in the darkness.

Chas Dykens, in the cellar of the house where they kept their guns, had complained generally about the new hit they were to get paid for. In most things he was dumb as mud, Jimbo Lavery was thinking, but he never missed what he shot at … turkeys, wild bores, deer, all up-country or, down here in the city, a contract hit silhouetted behind a shade, shadowy in a window, sitting on a lonely bench in the park feeding the stupid pigeons.

“Blow it out your ass, Chas,” Lavery said, “it ain’t counting here. Complain all you want, but a job’s a job. You knew that when you signed on. We don’t do it no other way, ‘cepting something different like The Man says.”

He patted the .38 Special sitting in the shoulder holster as if it was a toy. “But we got to get more inventive here. That’s what The Man keeps saying. He says too many fingerprints come off of guns, shell casings, et cet like they say down home. So, we gotta think about a new way of knocking this guy for the count. 1-2-3 you’re gonzo, baby. It’s just a job we’re doing, and nothing personal. If only all those dead suckers know, it’s just a job.”

Dykens, brothel-groping a Uzi, thumb working like it was on a lifted, stove-pipe nipple, getting nervous and excited all at the same time while sitting in a hard-back chair, said, “You talk like it’s Murder Inc. It’s just an everyday hit on a damned asshole what’s screwing things up for the whole city. No big deal in that, just like you figure it. We could pump him once or twice, lead or juice. Let him bleed or get hooked on the juice. Make his whole friggin’ crowd sweat out their ass.” Then, thinking it all out a little more, looking for something hard, real, said, “What’s his name? You ain’t told me yet.”

“Chas, you got to be the dumbest shit I ever knew. No names. Never say a name no matter what. No matter where you are. I don’t care if you’re thinking to yourself, if you could, don’t say no names. People are always listening to what’s being said. Don’t let one word, or one hit’s name, hang you or get the friggin’ chair for you. It ain’t worth it.” The pause he let hang out spelled it all: “I don’t get to even see The Man myself, not really face to face. I talk to him through a screen, a dark mesh screen, him on the other side.”

“It sounds like a damn confessional. You gotta say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned?’”

“Don’t be no shithead on me, though it’s like that, almost. He don’t trust nobody, way I look at it. And he came after me. I didn’t go after him,” and the balance came out like a song, “and then there was you.”Dykens laughed and then said, “Can we say the place? Hell, we’re in the dark almost down here. Nobody knows nuts about this place.”

“Chas, you don’t listen none. No names. No nouns. No nothing, but we got a job. A new payday’s coming.”

“Good,” Dykens said, “I might need a new suit.”

“What the hell do you want a new suit for? I’ve never seen you in a suit.”

Dykens snickered loudly, like the mike was down his throat, nuzzling his diaphragm. “I was thinking,” he said with some joyous deliberation, “I’d maybe go to the hit’s funeral.”

Gibson could see Jimbo Lavery leap into the air. “Don’ be a shithead, Chas. I swear, you’ll be the death of me yet. Clues will kill us too. You got to keep remembering that. No clues. No clues ever. No free-for- the-taking profiles like on them TV movies.”

Gibson measured the ensuing silence, Dykens admonished, Lavery deep in thought. He could see the pair of them. “I ought to write plays,” he said to himself as the silence continued and he saw his characters in a mindful study, their moves in a kind of slow motion gait but center stage every minute. It was Dykens who broke the silence. “Know what I was just thinking about, Jimbo? This gas crunch. I saw a Jeep go by the other day and with two GI gas cans strapped on the rear end like we had in the army, the 5 gallon kind, but these were chained and locked, the guy ascared they’re going to be swiped or siphoned off. Had friggin’ chains right over the top of them, gas near $5.00 a gallon’ll do that.

There was more silence, then Dykens said, “What if we pour gas all over the outside of the place at night, soak down the doorways, set it off from a car or from down the street, like a flipped butt or a cigar, and just keep riding or walking. That place’d burn like a Roman friggin’ candle, chances it’s so old and dusty. Pop goes the weasel and it’d be gone up in smoke and neighbors a mile away would find their gutters jammed with leaves all on fire. It’d be friggin’ electric.”

His pause was also deliberate, like added punctuation. “Just like this place. A guy wants us, soaks it, we ain’t got a friggin’ chance. Poof goes Puff the Magic Dragon.”
Jimbo Lavery, suddenly awake at the other end of the pipe, said, “That’s inventive, I got to say, Chas. No guns with no prints and no old bullet casings. I’ll ask The Man what he thinks.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Nobody talks to The Man but me, the same way as always, like a one-way street almost.”

Gibson, more than four years work floating in his mind, knowing he had never successfully tailed Jimbo Lavery, who was as alert as any perp he had ever tailed, knew he had to stay put again, at the end of the pipe, in an old teacher’s house, the space for free for a few old-time favors if he could stomach it any more, her age really catching up with his appetite. He checked the fridge, the small stock of crackers, chips, Doritos, his tongue at remembering. Oh, the memories. For a bare instance he tasted Bonnie, remembered a favorite pose, saw her waiting in that pose, then watched her quickly disappear.

He’d stay to the end. He’d stay for Bonnie and justice, one way or the other. All the perps in the world couldn’t match up to her.

Lavery, he knew, would leave the other house and space himself out in two or more hours of sly movement until his scheduled meeting with The Man.

That irony swelled in him like a pan of yeast-ridden dough in an old pan.

He’d let Jimbo go his way and sit by while he waited for Chas Dykens to shoot off his mouth. Now and then, over the long haul, old Dykens would oblige him. “Dumb as mud,” Lavery had said, and he was right smack on the nail head.

Gibson saw both hitters in a variety of poses, like they were shining up to a photographer. Dykens was always ready with a shit-eating grin like he’d just beat his bookie out of a grand or two and all he owed on his tab. Lavery, on the other hand, played it like an old Hollywood bit player, a character actor, a support man like Paul Fix, Noah Beery Jr., doing just enough to get through the scene, do his professional bit, take his pay, and bow out until the next scene came along. Quick images rushed him, like Jim Brown coming off-tackle on the old slant play, and he saw Walter Brennan and Walter Huston and Roscoe Karns in black and white glory. Lavery and Dykens were different, and that was to his advantage. With Bonnie sitting in the wings waiting for payback.

His sixth sense set him up; he could feel it coming. Dykens had been in absolute silence for well over an hour after Lavery had left, except for a cough or two, one sneeze, and then, finally, a click. A solid give-away click; Dykens had picked up the phone, dialed a number, heard the reverse clicking away, paused, heard a female voice, sweet, delicious, dripping, like it was a house full of her sisters, say, “Is that you, sweetbread? Where you been? You on another stake-out? Don’t the ‘partment ever give you a break?”

“Hon, you wear the badge, you take the breaks. It’s in the blood.”

“I know what’s in your blood, sweetbread, and where it likes to spend its time. When do I see you? I’m getting there in an awful hurry every night now, all on my own.”
“We have a big one now, watching a big bookie what ain’t a big bookie, if you get my drift. But he’s got the numbers right, way I see it.”

“Sweetbread, you’re always full up with mystery, but you ain’t answered me yet… when do I see you?”

“I can tell from my partner that we’re closing in on the big one. Might take me a week, maybe less, but the payday is big and I’m promising a week at Disney or wherever wings can take us. You free to travel, I’d bet?”

“What you up to, sweetbread, so full of mystery and staying away from me. That’s not fair. How long you gonna be away?”

Turkey Fulture, at The Man’s orders, sat on a rickety chair on a nearby rooftop, an old Ought 3 GI issue sniper rifle, with silencer, in his hands. He looked the assassin type. Thin composite of anger and pure hatred. His childhood on full display. His eyes shining like embers in the thinning daylight. Waiting like he was in a hunter’s blind. (Huh! Fucking dumb deer deserved it every time out; stupid is as stupid does.) Commission money was at hand. A piece-of-cake job. A couple of rounds point blank (like he could miss anything!!), drop the clean weapon, scatter his way out of there, no trace on the lip of anything. Done and gone. He had done it close to 50 times. The real count would come to him, the exact count, when he was paid off, when he arrived at the cabin in Maine, got his boots, hit the stream, let life carry him away for a solid week of nothing but chasing brookies and bigger stuff.

He fired at the gas can one of the guys was carrying and it blew up, the three new assassination candidates gone in a searing flash and some unhealthy screams. The fire ran around the whole building like it was an arrow out of a hot quiver, a hot spot if there ever was one. The flames shot up the sides of the building. A woman screamed down the street. A child answered. Someone yelled, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
“That clears the ticket for The Man,” Turkey said, his voice soft and clear as he moved back to the door to the stairs. He’d be out of there in the matter of a minute, down three flights of darkness, into an alley of darkness, into the subway system, swing around the horn a few times, disappear for a few weeks in Maine going after those tiny brook trout smothered in cornmeal and butter. And a beer for breakfast! He could taste the beer for breakfast. He’d make that happen every day he was deep in the woods.

The shot from the rooftop doorway hit Turkey directly in the forehead and splattered his brains like pigeon shit. The Ought 3 fell away from Turkey’s gloved hands. The Man said Lavery or Dykens had last handled it, only the day before. “Let the cops screw with that one,” Turkey had muttered to no one in particular at that time.
The final shooter, who had shot Turkey from about eight feet away, taking him out of the loop, was only three steps down the stairs when the bomb under his feet went off.
Across the street, in another apartment, The Man marked events, heard gunfire, saw the explosion, counted all the witnesses having gone down the drain.

He went back to the pipe, disconnected the wires, packed it all away in a trash bag, dumped it, in the dark, in a dumpster way up-town, then lit it up, “A bonfire for Bonnie,” he muttered, walking away and looking back once, liking fire since he was a kid, using it.

BIO: Tom Sheehan’s books are Epic Cures, 2004, and Brief Cases, Short Spans, November 2008, from Press 53 of NC; A Collection of Friends, 2004, and From the Quickening, March 2009, from Pocol Press of VA; a proposal for a collection of cowboy stories, Where the Cowboys Ride Forever, is in the hands of a western publisher. Epic Cures received an IPPY Award and A Collection of Friends was nominated for the Aldren Award. His work is currently in or coming in Ocean Magazine, Perigee, Rope and Wire Magazine, Qarrtsiluni, Green Silk Journal, Halfway down the Stairs, Ad Hoc Monadnock, Hawk & Whippoorwill, Eden Waters Press, Milspeak Memo, Ensorcelled, Canopic Jar, SFWP, Eskimo Pie, Lyrical Ballads, Lock Raven Review, Indite Circle, Northville Review, Pine Tree Mysteries, etc., and in books coming from Press 53, Home of the Brave, Stories in Uniform, and Milspeak Anthology. He has 10 Pushcart nominations, a Noted Story of 2007 nomination, the Georges Simenon Award for fiction, and will be included in the Dzanc Best of the Web Anthology for 2009.

"Something For Nothing" by Brian J. Smith

2009-04-11T00:07:00.002-04:00

I WAS PUTTING IT TO A SKINNY LITTLE REDHEAD IN THE BEDROOM OF A nice hotel room when Pink Floyd burst from my cell phone, singing about money. I ignored them, hoping whoever it was would call back later and went back to work on the redhead. Three minutes later, she screamed like a rabbit in pain, released her legs from around my waist and fell beside me on the bed. Our bodies speckled in bright beads of sweat, we laid there for sometime, her head on my chest, my fingers gliding gently across her olive bronze skin.

As I hoped, Pink Floyd made an encore performance on my cell phone. We climbed out of bed. I threw my legs over the side, picked it up from the bedside table and answered it. She must’ve just rolled over and went back to sleep because the room was so quiet it was as if she never really existed.

“Yeah.” I whispered.

“I’m looking for a professional.” The voice on the other end was Russian, no doubt about that.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for someone to---.”

I terminated the call and kept the phone loosely in my hand. The redhead rolled over and stroked the middle of my back with her tender fingertips. The bed shifted and I turned around to see what she was doing. When the phone rang again, she was walking over to the chair in the far right corner of the room, shrugging into my favorite white shirt without bothering with the buttons. I swung my legs back over the side of the bed like I’d done before and flipped the phone open again.

Looking at the long strip of skin exposed by the open shirt, at the sides of her plump breasts, at the tuft of pubic hair between her legs, I said into the phone: “Hello.”

“What the hell was that all about?”

“What?”

“You hung up on me.”

“I know.”

“Well, then why did you do it?”

“Because you never talk about what you want on the phone. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Are you telling me---.”

“Unless you want the cops to catch this on their cee bees then you’ll do what I say or you’ll find someone else to do the job better than me. If you can even find someone else better than me in the first place which you can’t so are we cool or is this gonna get hotter than a furnace?”

It’s not always wise to treat a client like that. They’re liable to hang up on you and leave you holding your dick in the dark. I don’t really consider myself a hit man, although I am. I like the term “professional” a little better; it sounds way cooler than “hit man” or “killer”. This way here, when the cops intercept my call they won’t know my real occupation.

With a deep sigh, the Russian said: “Okay. What do you suggest?”

“We meet someplace where there’s not much attention and plenty of privacy.”

“Where would you like to meet?”

“In the bar down by the lobby. You sit at one table with your back turned and I’ll sit at the one behind you. You do not turn around in your seat to face me. You stay right where you’re at. If you need to hand me something, then you hand it to me from behind your back or you can slide across the table to me.”

“How will I know it’s you?”

“I’ll be wearing blue jeans, an Ohio State Buckeyes tee shirt and hat. The hat will be pulled down to cover my face, which you don’t need to see. All you need to see is my hat. When you know where I’m sitting you come over to the table behind me and sit down. We’ll talk from there.”

“But how do you know the cops won’t be listening on their how you say it,” The Russian’s smugness toward his words. “bee-cee.”

“It’s cee bee and no asshole.” I said and hung up.

Rude people get on my nerves. They think they’re so fucking better than us that they have to talk to us regular people like that. Think the world should roll out a red carpet for them every time they do something right for someone; think the world owes them a debt they could never settle. What do they know? Their blood is just as cold and red as mine---if not colder.

The redhead--whose name I had yet to know--rolled over and sat with her legs around my waist again, her flat board of a stomach pressed against my back. Having gone one round with her already, I could sleep until next week. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek; her lips tasted of cherries and her perfume reminded me of the ocean I longed to see but only dreamed of. Putting the phone on the bed, I picked her up like the groom carrying the bride through the threshold of their honeymoon suite and carried her into the bathroom. We had round two in the shower. I left her curled up in bed, knees halfway to her chest, hands pressed together and tucked snugly under her right jaw.

Looking at her now, I felt bad about not being able to promise her the life she deserved. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe that beautiful women should always have the finer things in life. And at no cost to them. Nothing would be different for her; she would never fully experience life for what it truly is and the world for what it truly holds. I was just a guy she screwed and I was no different than the next guy and the next one after that.

Like every other girl I’d encountered in my twenty-four years on this planet, I got dressed for my meeting and closed the door on my way out.

* * *

AFTER a long talk with the obese drug representative about how quick the world was going to hell in a hand basket because of high gas prices, I stepped out of the elevator and made it to the lobby in five minutes. The Madison was twenty stories of tinted glass with a set of revolving doors that gleamed like the edges of sun kissed gold. With its rich knotty pine walls, gleaming marble green floors and a narrow stretch of maroon carpet laid between the front doors and the spacious gray front desk, it reminded me of something I’d seen on Access Hollywood as one of the best hot spot for all the vacationing celebrities. Just yesterday, the front desk clerk decided to inform me that ‘the’ Paris Hilton had once stayed here. I took his information kindly, pretending that I actually gave a shit about something like that and went up to my room.

Since the left side of the lobby was crammed with long hallways and boring conference rooms, I walked to the right, toward the stretch of gift shops, tie-in restaurants and a small bar. I’m not one for alcohol but when I’ve had a bad day I want as much as I can get my hands on. Most of the places I go, there are as much bars on the block as there are churches in Mississippi but this place is nothing close to Miami, Louisiana or Los Angeles. None of the places I’ve been to are better than the ones I visit next. I’m not there as long as I’d like to be so I can’t really say which one is my favorite.

My occupation diverts my enjoyment and I despise that. But it’s not like a fast food worker who slaves all day in the hot sun to endeavor the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas. They come back to work and go through the rituals just like everyone else. But where they serve foods high in cholesterol, I serve death with a high caliber weapon. Or whatever I can get my hands on; anything.

I’m a hit man, not by choice, but by fate. I once worked for some people in Langley and it went sour. I got tired of the cover ups, got tired of the red tape and got out as quickly as I could. They try to call me every once in a while, try to get me back in but I give them the runaround each and every time. I get a laugh at how many times they try to get hold of me, knowing that the Deputy Director is probably sitting at his desk, face redder than a beet as he slams the phone down in anger.

By the time I got to the bar, my watch said three minutes till seven. Through the tinted transparency of the first four windows, the moon burned faintly inside a thick, coffee black sky. Squeezed between a glass and brick gift shop, the tavern had rich tinted windows and a baggy green awning above the front door, the word TAVERN stenciled across the front of it. Two neon beer signs gave a rainbow finish to the marble floor outside; the left one was a blue Budweiser sign and the other said that they were open.

I stepped through the door and followed a narrow strip of dark green carpet straight into a large dining area. Its paper white walls were speckled with framed photos from years unnoticeable until now; the soft blue-carpet was dotted with lacquered brown tables with matching chairs; snippets of conversation rose and fell like gossip in a high school cafeteria. Small bowl lamps glared down from large ovals etched into the rough white ceiling. At the north wall, facing the front window was a boomerang shaped bar the color of mahogany with six stools and a tall shelf behind it. Varies of liquor bottles were on display behind a massive mirror like baseball cards at an antique shop, their lustrous brown liquid gleaming brightly.

There were three tables set against the wall leading toward a pair of oak brown doors that I guessed led into the kitchen. I sat at one of them, but I was facing the front of the tavern. I slipped the front of my hat down farther on my forehead and folded my hands neatly together on the tabletop. The whole tavern had been silent, save for a Benny Goodman classic spewing from the jukebox in the far left corner. It was my favorite one: “Waitin’ For Katie”.

A sexy and seductive voice asked: “Can I get you anything, sweet heart?”

“A tall glass of milk.”

“Is that it?”

I raised my head and peered up at her from under my hat. With a voice like a female disc jockey, I had to see whom it belonged to. She stood five foot five and probably weighed about one ninety, one ninety-two. She had long canary yellow hair that drowned the tops of her shoulders, big jade-green eyes and freckled brown skin. Her hourglass figure fit snugly inside the black slacks and white blouse.

“That’s all.” I said and gave her my best Paul Newman smile from Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.

“What’s wrong with milk?” I asked. “It’s good for the bones.”

Sighing, she rolled her eyes at me as if I were a waste of time and padded away. I lowered my head back down onto the table like a child who’d been told no and waited. Three rapid minutes later, a tall glass of milk was set down in front of me. And I didn’t even get a “thank you”, let alone a “have a nice day”. Bitch.

I slid the glass of milk toward me and took a giant swig so cold that it sent a chill through my gums. Three rounds of sex can make you hungry and thirsty, but I was always thirsty so the hungry part wouldn’t come in until later. Besides, I’m not your average cold-blooded killer; I don’t devour entire entrées that weigh more than a bear. If I had a choice between a cheeseburger with fries and three pieces of chicken with a large Diet Coke, I’d choose the chicken, minus the skin.

The glass was halfway empty when the front door opened and light poured in, only to disappear when the door was shut. A squat man with short dark hair wearing a white suit stood before the entrance into the dining area as I’d done a few minutes ago. Two hefty, young gentlemen in black leather jackets and expensive clothing flanked him on both sides. They looked as if they could pick up a car and throw it two blocks down. Maybe I’m over exaggerating, but their arms were huge.

I lowered my head back down to the table so as to show them my hat and continued to drink my water. Their footsteps were pin-drop quiet and their shadows slipped stealthily pass my table like storm clouds in a once blue sky. I waited for them to pass me before I raised my head again. The wooden partition between the tables along the wall would make the perfect conversation piece. All the intricate little shapes etched out across it would easily hide the darkest of faces, including mine.

“Is this good enough for you?” asked the Russian whom I spoke with on the phone.

“It’s perfect by the way.” I said. “And while you’re at it you can dispense with the rudeness.”

“I’m not being rude,” he stopped long enough to bask in his sarcastic glory. “I’m being courteous.”

“Yeah, right.” I replied, crossing my left ankle over my right knee. “And George Bush is the greatest president alive. But I guess politics is not why we’re here now is it. You need me for something so let’s get to it.”

“I need you to kill my ex-wife.”

In all my years in this business, this one was a repeat offender. There’s always some guy who needs his ex-wife, wife, girlfriend or secretary killed. It’s the same thing every time. There’s always a woman involved, never a dog or anything. What happened to marriage counseling?

Not that I support the destruction of innocent animals, I refuse to kill animals although I master the perfect techniques to subdue them without hurting a hair on their fragile bodies.

“Trying to get out of paying child support,” I whispered. “or what?”

“I don’t even have kids. She couldn’t have them and I didn’t want them. But that’s not why I want her killed.”

“Then why?”

“You know Jason Hill?”

“The soccer star Jason Hill?”

A small chorus of chuckles erupted from their table. I could just see them now, the two brawny bodyguards laughing through their thick red mouths. The Russian’s face crinkling with hysterical laughter.

Once the laughing ceased, the Russian said: “No. The other--.”

“Why him. Why her.”

“My ex-wife is currently wooing Mister Hill in this very hotel room, right now as we speak. She’s coming after me for two years unpaid alimony.”

“Why is she coming after you for money when Jason Hill will have plenty of it to go around?”

“What’d you say?”

“Guess it’s my turn to laugh, huh?” I said, pressing my hand against my chest. “Looks like I know something you don’t.”

When I didn’t get a wink from them, I said: “Yesterday, he signed a two hundred million dollar contract with another soccer team. Why does she need it---.”

“Because she’s greedy. Mina was very greedy when it came to financial matters. I could never control her about her obsessive shopping. Constantly buying this and that and this and that. I tried to get her to stop---.”

My turn to intercept: “There’s nothing wrong in making your woman happy. But when you cut her off, she left you. Am I right?”

“Never a dull moment with you is there, Mister.” He stopped as if he were trying to figure something out and said: “You never told me your---.”

“It’s Patrick. And that’s all you need to know.”

Something whirled over the top of the partition, flew over my head and landed on the table next to my glass of water. If it hadn’t been an envelope, I might’ve pulled out my gun but I picked it up and peeked inside of it. I thumbed through the thin stack of bills and plucked the picture leaning against the last hundred-dollar bill. Tucking the envelope into my front pants pocket, I held the picture between thumb and forefinger and surveyed it like a vulture overlooking a sun-drenched desert.

She really was beautiful; bubble-gum pop star beautiful.

Too bad she was going to die. Too bad it was going to be by my hands.

Her long russet brown hair, tight cheekbones, thin pink lips, heart shaped face and vivid brown eyes gave her the image of a former Spice Girl. As the picture told me, her toothpick frame made her look as if anorexia was a girl’s best friend. She looked plastic. Way plastic for my tastes. The last thing I need is a gold digger for a girlfriend. That and irritable bowel syndrome.

After I recounted the money, I said: “You’re about forty thousand short.”

“Ten thousand now and you get the rest when she’s dead. Deal?” He sounded like a car salesman who tried to sell you something you’d never drive if you were dead.

“I guess.” I said, tucking the picture into my back pants pocket and the envelope in my front pocket.

“When will you do it?”

"You’ll know when I--.”

“How will you do it?”

“A magician never gives away his secrets.”

“So true.”

Leaving a tip on the table, I said through the holes in the partition: “Don’t follow me out. Leave ten minutes after I do, got it? Suspicion never leaves a cop’s sight. Let alone anyone else’s.”

“Don’t you need to know the room number?”

“No.” I said, getting up from the table. “I can get that myself.”

When I was halfway to the front door, I knew they were watching me. Strangest thing was, unlike all the other times, it started to bother me.

* * *

WHEN I got back up to my room, I took my cell phone from my pocket and leaned back against the headboard. At least she made the damn bed. Most of the women I fuck and forget leave the bed in a twisted mess. She even left me her cell phone number and a mint on one of my pillows. I ate the mint, tossed her number in the trashcan and used my cell phone to call the front desk.

Three rings later, a cheery voice came on the other end: “Thank you for calling The Madison. My name is Claire, how may I help you?”

I opened my mouth, but my voice froze. I’d never frozen like this before. Never. This is the moment where I put on one of my many impressions in order to fool her. When she repeated the last part about how she could help me, I shut my mouth, harrumphed into the phone and switched on the old Southern charm.

“Yes, my name is Nathaniel Bouregard and I’d like to speak to Jason Hill.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But we at The Madison prohibit all outside calls to our popular guests unless you’re a member of their family.”

“Well, I’ll be a snake in a bird’s nest.”

“Is there a message I can deliver to him?”

“I just wanted to thank him for everything he’d done at the Boys and Girls camp over here in Strausbaugh, Ohio. He’s been such a big influence on those boys that I couldn’t help but send him something.”

“You can always send him something up from room service.”

“Are you sure? I mean I don’t want you getting into--.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Claire gave a small giggle. “We let our guests’ families do it all the time.”

“Well, that’d be mighty fine idea.” I couldn’t believe she was actually falling for this and I pulled my mouth away from the phone so that I could laugh and rejoined her. “Is there anything you suggest, darlin’?”

“We have a lovely crab cakes combo. Comes with broccoli spinach dip, an order of baked asparagus sticks. And a lovely desert called Peanut Butter Explosion. It’s a scoop of white ice cream sandwiched between two giant chocolate peanut butter wafers with a light sprinkle of crushed peanut butter cups on top.”

Rubbing my stomach, I said: “Mmmm. That sounds mighty good right now. But just hearing it come from you makes my stomach grow another nine inches. I like dessert, but it don’t like me.” I stopped rambling like an idiot. “That would be fine, ma’am. Send that up to his room, if you would please.”

Computer keys rattled in the background. Rhythmic breathing attempted to muffle it with no luck.

“Okay, sir. Your total is forty two five nine.” She said. “Is that cash or debit?”

“Could you hold on there while I get my credit card?”

“Take your time, sir.”

I set my cell phone on the bed and went through my suitcase, looking for the right card for just this occasion. I found it tucked in with a pair of socks and raced back to the cell phone.

After I gave her the number, she said in her eerily happy voice: “ Everything seems to be in order, Mister Bouregard. We’ll send this up to his room as quickly as we can.”

“Thank you, miss.” I said and grunted as if I were hitching up my jeans. “Have a nice day.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Could you tell me what room he’s staying in?” I pleaded. “I mean for the kids’ sake. They’ve been meaning to come see him and I’d like to tell--.”

“Room Two Forty Nine.” She whispered. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, okay.”

“It’ll just be our little secret.”

“Okay.” She said, not whispering. “Have a nice day and thank you for calling The Madison.”

I killed the call and dropped the cell phone on the bed beside me. I shrugged out of my street clothes and into a pitch-black suit with a matching tie and a pair of bat’s wing black shoes. I dropped my cell phone into my left pocket and took the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, I took a seat on the couch at the far left corner. There was a glass-topped table with black rubber framing placed in front of me and a mess of month-old magazine scattered across the top.

I chose a People magazine with last year’s Sexiest Man Alive on the cover and pretended to read it. I perched my left ankle on my right knee and set the magazine on my lap. I kept one eye on a lovely picture of the beautiful Keira Knightley that would make a preacher forget his vows--when does she not do that--kept the other eye on the elevators. Small clusters of travelers, drug representatives, middle aged tourists, college students in the midst of winter break pushed through the revolving doors of The Madison. A young couple carried an unpleasant child to the elevators, his plump pale legs kicking and screaming and purposely going dead weight so as to have made matters for his parents even worse, angry for being dragged to a place it didn’t want to go.

The kid wasn’t an obstruction, but a reminder. It reminded me why I didn’t--and never would--have kids.

People magazine still sprawled across my lap, I turned and stared out the window, at the city glowing beside me. Traffic crawled at a slow pace, as headlights and taillights flickered and died, flickered and died. According to the flow of people crossing the street, it was five o’clock and everyone had been let out of their cages, only to be led straight into another one. The sun dipped behind the horizon, behind the wall of buildings and casinos, painting the sky with a fiery orange light. Scantily clad women between the ages of eighteen and twenty trotted past the window, smirking and whispering behind closed mouths, their incoherent whispers telling me what their sexually polluted minds had in store for me while some just smiled and went on walking.

I don’t consider myself the hottest thing this side of the world, but it’s always reassuring to know someone still cares. I’m twenty six and I weigh two hundred and thirty two pounds, all of it pure muscle. My ex-girlfriend once told me that I looked like a young Peter Fonda, but then her mother told me--after I had sex with her--Hugh Beaumont from the show Leave It To Beaver. My hair is slick and black, without one little niche of gray and combed to the crest of my forehead like Cary Grant’s. My doe brown eyes, filled with wonder and mystery, were the magnets that lured the women.

From the reflection in the window, a pale apparition glided behind me. I turned and saw the waiter guiding the cart toward the pair of elevators. I set the magazine down, got up from the couch and followed him into the elevator. He stepped in before me, I asked him what floor and pushed the button. He placed the cart between us and watched the doors clamp themselves shut.

Rule number one. Leave your emotions and your remorse at the door.

The elevator shifted and glided its way up. The kid beside the food cart looked too young to be pulling minimum wage at a three-star hotel (at least in my book it was a three star hotel no matter how many others they had in the rest of the country). He could’ve been my little brother, save for the acne splattered across his cheeks and forehead. On the cart between us was a trio of sparkling silver domes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was underneath them. I crossed my left hand over my right and placed them both across my lap. I held back a breath, let it go and uttered a small reply of panic.

“Oh shit. I lost my contact.” I knelt down toward the floor, cupping my left hand over my supposedly lens-less eye. “Could you please help me find it?”

With most hotels, all the elevators come equipped with security cameras. Thanks to the petite redhead I had in my hotel room, the hotel never installed them. Which was exactly what I was looking for. Exactly what I needed. Especially for this particular job.

As the young waiter knelt to the floor, searching for my imaginary contact lens with frantic hands, I slipped the vial of poison out of my inside jacket pocket, twisted off the cap, raised one of the domes--it really doesn’t matter when it comes to this stuff--and poured the poison into the entrée. Once I knew I had enough, I set the dome down, slipped the vial back into my pocket and pretended to pick something up from the floor.

“Here it is.” I said, standing back up from floor and pressing my finger against my eye. “Damn things are always shooting out of my eye.” I turned back to the busboy. “Thank you for helping, though.”

“No problem, sir. It happens all the time.”

Three minutes of silence passed by when the elevator gave a violent shudder and the doors parted. The young busboy wished me a nice day and pushed the cart off the elevator. He waved at me as the elevator doors clapped to a close. I hit the button and headed back to my room. Any other circumstances would’ve permitted me to wish that young man the same nice day he had granted me, but there was one thing you always know in this business.

Never give praise to the suckers.

* * *

THE first thing I did when I got back to the room was use my cell phone to book a midnight flight back home. It was two hours till and I had plenty of time to goof around. I shrugged off my suit and jumped in the shower, suffice to the fact that I’d already taken one two hours ago. Strong jets of hot water pounded the pain from the backs of my shoulders and neck and slid down my spine; thick blankets of wispy white steam rose up from the tub and warmed my skin like the vapors of a roaring campfire.

When I got out, I wrapped a towel around my waist and was walking toward my luggage when my cell phone rang. This time, Justin Timberlake echoed through the room, talking about his sexy back. I sat on the edge of the bed, took it off the bedside table and answered it on the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

“Is this, Mister Patrick.”

“Depends upon whose asking.” I sighed, thinking who the hell would be stupid enough to give my name over a cell phone.

“You know who this is.” The woman on the other line had a smooth Russian voice that was quick-to-the-point. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

Sighing, I said: “Hello ma’am. Or should I say, the future Misses Jason Hill.”

“Did everything go as planned?”

“Right down to the tee. Your husband was as gullible as you said he was.” I shook my head. “He got rude with me on the phone and I got rude with him right back. Even though you told me not to.”

“Ivan always was an asshole.”

“And a rude one at that.”

Silence went by before she said: “I hope my asking you to do this for free wasn’t an obtrusion.”

“No ma’am.” I said, staring out the window to admire the shimmering landscape that cities always have at night. “Not everybody gets paid for doing something. Just do me a favor, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Be there when I need you. We scratched your--.”

“And you want me to scratch your in return.”

“Yes.”

“Consider it done.” She said, her voice now a mere whisper. “Anything you need in the future, just let me know.”

“Thank--.”

She cut me off again with: “No, thank you. With your help, Ivan’s entire two hundred and forty million dollar estate will revert over to me. There’s no need for you to thank me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I said and killed the call.

I got up from the bed to go to my luggage when I heard the sound of hurried footsteps by the door. I sighed, clueless as to when the world was going to let me get dressed, and looked through the peephole. Head and eyes darting this way and that, the guy outside my door was taller than me but twenty pounds stronger, too. His blunt nose, thick lips, blue eyes and beige skin were the usual traits of a Russian bodyguard so this was definitely one of Ivan’s boys. Paying me a little visit for poisoning their boss.

I crept over to my luggage, pulled something from it and carried it back to the door with me. I reached over with my free hand, slid the chain free and leaned back behind the door. The door gave a whine as it open, slicing the carpet with a silver of warm golden light. A hand came through first, bulky and brown; the fingers clutched to the grip of a silenced Tec-9 pistol. After the hand had come through, the rest of him followed.

Was he really expecting me to open the door and let him shoot me?

Please. I know dogs who weren’t that stupid and they’re full bred.

Eyes pointed toward the bathroom, gun clenched tightly in his hand, the bodyguard approached the foot of the bed before I reacted. I crept up behind him on quiet, spider-quick legs, wrapped both ends of the wire around the palms of my hands, reached over the top of his head and wrapped the wire around his neck. I pulled as strong as I could, forcing the knuckles on both my hands to come together, pinching the man’s jugular vain, cutting off the air supply to his brain. I kicked his legs out from underneath him and eased him to the floor; he gurgled like a bucket under water and kicked for what seemed like three minutes before he gave up the fight he was never going to win in the first place. His fingers went limp, the gun clattered onto the floor and out of sight; the stench of expended bowels wafted through the room like fog after a bad rainstorm.

I released the wire from his neck, threw it on the bed and carried him into the bathroom. There, I put him inside the bath tub, filled it halfway to the top and shut the door behind me. Before leaving, I dropped the DO NOT DISTURB sign around the doorknob. I don’t know when they’ll find him, but I’ll be long gone and so will my assumed name.

I took the elevators back down to the lobby and trotted to the front desk. The pasty faced brunette was an enticing replacement to the pimple faced prick who checked me in yesterday. When she took my key, she bared the smile of an angel and passed me a slip of paper. Walking away, I opened the note and saw her name and cell number scrawled across the front of it. She winked at me and greased her top lip with her tongue.

Tucking the note into my front pocket, I returned the wink, pushed through the revolving doors and into the cold, dark city.

BIO: Brian J. Smith has been published in The Forbidden Zone Magazine and his story “A Day With Daddy” can be downloaded on I-Tunes. He lives in Chauncey, Ohio where he is at work on a horror novel.

"Byline" by J.F. Juzwik

2009-04-04T02:38:00.001-04:00

Ralph noticed the room was chilly, and sparsely furnished. He supposed that it was probably intentional on the part of the decorator since no one actually spent very much time in here while they were waiting. The waiting – now, that was the worst part. Listening to the ticking of the clock, wondering what it will feel like when the chemicals start coursing through your veins, wondering what it’s like when you cross over to the other side… In anticipation of the commencement of that final journey, Ralph leaned back against the splintered slats of the wooden chair that had been provided for him, gazed indifferently at the colorless walls, and his thoughts began to drift back to where it all began.

* * * *

Ralph Debumarsey picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and took a long, deep drag. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and blew the smoke out of his mouth in quick, short puffs. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his face as it shone brightly through the window directly in front of his desk. He had opened the curtains all the way, as he always did when he was writing his column. His column? There’s a laugh. No such thing as ‘his column’ here in Swaying Falls. The columns were written, the advertisements were strategically placed, and the local news was ready to roll. Anonymity seemed to be the catchword in this burg, Ralph thought, God forbid the folks knew the reporter’s name. Like his having a byline would violate national security… And, what was with calling this outpost of the damned ‘Swaying Falls’? First and foremost, no falls of any size or shape were visible for hundreds of miles. As far as the swaying crap was concerned, trying to figure that out made Ralph’s head hurt.

Feeling the sun on his face while he was typing helped him to fantasize that he was somewhere else, anywhere else, preparing the final draft of the hottest story his newspaper had ever run. Next to him was a FAX machine that he would use to send it on to his editor, who was waiting on his end, planning to run it down to the presses to make the midnight deadline. His story would headline the morning edition and the calls and telegrams would start pouring in as soon as the paper hit the streets. He would be congratulated for getting the scoop no one else could or had, and his colleagues would regard him with awe at the tremendous personal risks he had taken to get the story in the first place. Just another day in the life of a newsman, he would respond to them all, just another normal day, and he would smile that haunting smile of his, get into his Jag, and head out to his next assignment. Maybe a nuclear missile site in Beirut? Perhaps a revolutionary camp in Central America? Or what about right here in downtown Swaying Falls covering a bank robber who was wearing a bomb and holding a pregnant teller hostage in a second story suite of the Main Street Hotel? Yeah. Uh-huh. Right. Ralph began to laugh out loud, and then caught himself. Crazy people laugh to themselves out loud, he thought, and I’m not quite there yet; the day was still young though.

He looked at the paper in his typewriter, and wasn’t terribly surprised to see it was still blank. The ‘hot’ story he had to crank out in time to meet his editor’s (the owner of the town’s only general store, Chester Mankowsky) deadline (whenever Chester decided to close the store and go home for dinner) so as to appear in the first edition (the only edition, that became available whenever Chester finished running off a couple hundred copies on his two hundred year old printing press) was difficult to put into words. After all, it wasn’t every day that Spengler’s Feed Store began to carry a brand of feed previously available only in the state of New York. What a coup for Jeremy Spengler and frankly, for Swaying Falls. That will put us on the map, Ralph thought. Hopefully, anyway, since we aren’t on any maps at present. He had to laugh again at that. Well, at least he could still laugh. He figured if the day ever came when he couldn’t find any humor in how ridiculous this town and even himself were, he’d probably end up in the loony bin. Not that that would be such a drastic change…

Ralph decided to heat up another cup of instant on his hot plate. Mrs. Franovsky technically didn’t allow hot plates in her rooming house, but she had never said anything to Ralph about it. He was sure Mrs. Franovsky kinda had the hots for him. Kinda. Maybe? No. Not really. Truth was, Ralph kept peculiar hours mostly, and his esteemed landlady wasn’t too crazy about climbing all those stairs to reach Ralph’s loft to say much of anything to him. Loft? There was another laugh. Ralph’s digs were what had once been a large attic used for storage. The ceiling was level almost all the way around, but in one of the corners, there was a low spot where Ralph had to duck down to get to his small bookcase. He wasn’t sure why it had been built that way since the roof did slant in from the outside in that spot and made the house look lopsided, but, since beggars couldn’t be choosers, he simply adjusted. After all, it was a clean, quiet place to live and he was able to pretty much keep to himself. Not that Swaying Falls was exactly a real estate developer’s dream.

Most of the folks lived in small pre-fab homes scattered in and around town, or in the town’s one apartment complex. Right. Apartment complex? It was one building with eight units in it. While they were cozy, two-bedroom apartments, they were inhabited primarily by twenty-something’s in transition. Their transition being having graduated from high school and not really having any plans to attend community college or begin a career in the family business in town, whatever that may be. They wanted to get out from under mom and pop and have their own place so they could come and go at all hours. They would drive the two plus hours to the city to find work where they could make a decent salary, then come back to Swaying Falls and pay next to nothing in rent and living expenses. This was done, not for any noble reason like saving to buy a home and settle there and begin to give back to their community. Oh no. True, they did save what money they didn’t spend on liquor and partying, but that was so they could afford what they considered to be a real apartment in the city. Once they could afford to move, they did just that, at record-breaking speed frankly, and neither looked nor came back. This town was dying, Ralph knew that. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot anybody could do about it.

* * * *

He had had his chance a lifetime ago. He had been young, had saved his money and had left Swaying Falls for the big city life and his dream of a career as a newspaper reporter. He possessed good instincts and a flare for the dramatic. He knew he would have to start at the bottom and work his way up, but all he needed was the chance to prove himself to an editor and he would be on his way. When he first arrived, he had picked up a newspaper and checked out the classifieds for a room to rent. He was surprised to find how many there were; most of which were in the most expensive section of the city. Since he had his own car and didn’t have to be concerned with public transportation, he decided he would seek a place to stay in one of the gated communities that skirted the downtown area. Every room that he checked out though was inside the glitzy home of a widow or a divorcee, who was looking for just a little bit more than a paying border. Never really having pictured himself as a ‘boy-toy’, Ralph had felt extremely uncomfortable during each application process. Whether he was employed or had a steady paycheck always seemed irrelevant. He could feel their hungry eyes groping every inch of him as he tried to present himself as a decent, hardworking, moral human being. He envisioned being defiled by these Harpies in the dead of night and then locked in his room, never to be seen or heard from again. Or, at least annoyed when they tried to show him the film of their first, and only, failed screen test from 20 years ago while he was trying to do his laundry.

Ralph thought life had beaten these ladies up pretty badly. After meeting the seventh or eighth one (he’d lost count), their faces, with the drawn-on eyebrows, lopsided fake eyelashes, surgically-implanted cheekbones and chins, and lips that had received about four too many injections that week, became a blur. It was as if they were all the same woman who just beamed herself from kitchen to kitchen throughout the subdivision just waiting for him to arrive. After a couple of days of this, he just knew he couldn’t swallow any more vanilla-flavored coffee and scones, or look at any more polyester jumpsuits with open-toed spiked heels and toenails painted with blood-red polish and dotted with glitter. Maybe this was not the way to go, he decided; time to look for a ’Y’.

He found a clean, quiet room at the back of the second floor. It didn’t take him long to realize that while this was a starting point for him, he’d better make sure it stayed just that. This was not somewhere he needed to remain for long. The other residents were all ex-wannabe something or others, and Ralph believed they were destined to remain that way, but not him; he was different. He was going to set the print world on fire with his dynamic reporting style and controversial commentaries. All he needed was an ‘in’. He would take any position that was available in the newsroom – anything at all, even errand boy to the big shots. Wouldn’t take them long to see what he had to offer. Wouldn’t take long at all…

Eight months later, Ralph was still in his quiet room at the back of the second floor at the “Y”. He had become quite close, in fact, with some of the ex-wannabe something or others. Most of them weren’t all that bad, really. When Ralph’s savings dried up because he couldn’t seem to get on at any of the local papers, a couple of them hooked him up with a position at the burger joint on the corner. It only paid minimum wage, but it wasn’t like Ralph had to spend any of his meager paycheck on gas to get to work. A couple of minutes’ worth of walking and he was there. On his off days, he stayed in his room and slept mostly. What was the point of staying up, after all. No newspaper, periodical, magazine or flyer shop in the city would hire him. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t get a job as a reporter. He couldn’t even get a job mopping floors in any of the media buildings.

Ralph didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. He had personally walked into the office of every editor of every publication in the city. No one had tried to stop him as he made his way through the maze of secretaries and reporters, and as he got closer to the editors’ offices, the excitement in the air was palpable. He could hear the tick, tick, tick of the typewriters, phones constantly ringing on every desk, men and women literally running with articles in their hands trying to meet deadline. He could picture himself as one of them, a pencil behind one ear, a smoke behind the other, sipping on his twelfth cup of stale coffee, his editor putting everything on hold waiting for his brilliant headline copy… By the time he arrived at each editor’s door, his head was swimming. This was the life he was born to live – this was his destiny. Unfortunately, no one had let any of the editors in on that little tidbit of information.

Every ‘interview’ was a carbon copy of the previous one. Ralph would knock on the door and a voice would tell him to ‘come on in’. Friendly, but professionally detached. The voice of someone who controlled the dissemination of daily city-, state-, and world-wide occurrences. Ralph had never met or spoken with an editor, but he just knew they were the heart and soul of the newsroom. They decided who covered what and when, and how much of it actually hit the streets. So much responsibility – so much power. Ralph wasn’t sure if he should sit down or remain standing once he entered, but decided to take his cue from the man he came to see. Once he did enter however, it didn’t quite turn out the way he had anticipated.

In every newsroom, in every editor’s office, he encountered a basically well-groomed, but extremely psychotic individual, sitting behind a desk covered with several stacks of papers at least 15 inches high each. When Ralph would walk in, the man would glance up with a look of utter confusion on his face, and say ‘what’. Interestingly enough, it was not spoken as a question, but more on the order of a brutal declarative. Once Ralph regained his composure, his response was always the same. He would state, quietly and respectfully, that he was a fledgling reporter looking for an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. He would begin to explain how that had been his dream since he was a youth, and, it was at that point, that Ralph would receive the universal sign of dismissal – the sweep of the raised hand in his direction – and the man behind the desk would retreat back into one of his stacks of papers. Ralph figured it was a bad time; too close to deadline perhaps, so he alternated days and times and kept trying, but to no avail. After months of what he perceived as beating his head against a wall, Ralph decided it was time to go home, and crawl inside the black hole that was Swaying Falls.

Maybe he could speak to Chester Mankowsky about taking him on as a reporter, and about possibly spicing up the town’s paper. While it would be difficult to come up with anything newsworthy there, it would be a beginning – a launching pad of sorts. Perhaps the timing just wasn’t right – planets not aligned right, or some such other thing, Ralph wasn’t certain. But, one thing he knew for sure. He had given it his best shot and since nothing was clicking for him, he’d just go back home and bide his time. He’d save his money, and head for the city lights again. Only this time, he’d probably skip the “Y”, with all its resident losers. There was no way he was going to be the backdoor boy-toy of some divorcee either. Maybe he’d just save up a bit more and he’d get his own apartment or maybe buy a condo. Give it a few months, maybe a year, Ralph thought, and I’ll get on with a paper. I’ll be a bit older, have more experience under my belt, yeah. I’ll just bide my time…

* * * *
Twenty years worth of biding his time later, there he sat. Shortly after Ralph’s homecoming, Chester did take him on, but was adamant about having him forego the byline thing. His was a newspaper of, by, and for the town, and it somehow just didn’t seem moral to try to take credit for sharing important information with one’s family and friends. Ralph knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Chester was completely crazy, but, since beggars can’t be choosers, he decided against an altercation. Nothing would be accomplished; he was certain of that, and no sense making an enemy out of his only employment opportunity in the tri-state area.

And so, he still sat, staring at a blank piece of paper in his typewriter, still trying to figure out how to spark up the feed story. Lord knows it was a hot topic thereabouts and once word got around that was the headline, the papers would be off Chester’s shelves like hotcakes. Ralph decided to wait until he had a second strong cup of coffee. Maybe that would get the juices flowing and he could dig up some shred of enthusiasm for this story. He seriously doubted that, but anything was worth a try. This article did have to be written, and it did have to be written today. Best to finish it and run it over to Chester’s. That way, he could stop thinking about it and head over to that new place that opened just outside of town.

He had heard it was a pretty decent place to eat; of course, anything was a step up from Molly’s Diner. Molly MacDill was a decent enough dame, and Ralph didn’t really have anything against her, but that diner of hers was something right out of a bad movie. Ralph ate there, like most of the townsfolk, but that was because it was the town’s only eatery. Ralph however, preferred to get most of his meals from Molly’s on a to-go basis. The place was usually packed with the I-can’t-wait-to-leave-this-dump twenty-somethings chattering on and on about their hopes and dreams and plans – yes, plans. They actually had plans, and Ralph hated them. He hated each and every one of them with their plans to leave Swaying Falls, get high-paying jobs in the city, buy townhouses and condos, live the good life, live a real life…

Ralph finished his second cup of instant, lit another smoke, sat down at the typewriter and began. No sense in agonizing over it anymore, he thought, just write it. Nobody’s going to read it anyway since Jeremy Spengler already bragged to everyone within earshot of his store’s doorway about carrying the big city brand of feed. He pulled the paper out of the typewriter, folded it and shoved it in his pants pocket and headed over to Chester’s. Drop the article off and head on out to have dinner, he thought, shaking his head in disgust; this was going to be yet another magical night.

Ralph took Main Street going north toward Tippettville. He kept checking both sides of the road looking for the new joint. He couldn’t recall the name, but since it would be the only other place to eat in that part of the county, he was sure he’d recognize it. Tippettville was the closest town to Swaying Falls, but all they had was a soda fountain in their drug store. You could get a burger and some chips and maybe a root beer float, but chances were slim to none of getting a complete meal. Lights appeared in the distance on his left as he crossed the bridge over Wildon’s Creek and as he got closer, Ralph could see the place. The sign was on the roof of the building and flashed the name in alternating red, green, and yellow lights, some of which had already burned out. My, my, my, he started to laugh, another high class joint to be sure. The name, when all the lights came on together, appeared to be Soldano’s. Ralph wasn’t sure what the significance of having the different colored lights was, but there were a lot of cars in the lot, and as far as he was concerned, that was recommendation enough.

The place was pleasant enough, and Ralph recognized several couples from Swaying Falls. He figured the others had to be from Tippettville, since no one in their right mind would drive 50 plus miles from surrounding towns or from the city to come and eat here in Nowheresville, USA. It was classier than Molly’s though; they had a hostess here who seated you. Ralph hadn’t been in a restaurant that had a hostess in years. Maybe tonight wasn’t going to be all bad after all. He was shown to his table, which was in the back of the dining room and next to a table at which a young man sat, alone. Ralph noticed the young man was looking around and jotting things down in a notebook, sipping his iced tea, taking a bite of his meatloaf, a quick drag off his cig, and then jotting again. Ralph had never seen him before and wondered what he was up to.

“Excuse me”, Ralph tapped the young man on the shoulder. “Could I ask you something?”

The young man replied, “Sure, something you need?”

“Oh, no”, Ralph continued, “I was just wondering. I don’t mean to be nosey, but I noticed you looking around and writing things down and I was just wondering if you were one of those, like, food critics or health department people, or something like that?”

The young man smiled broadly.

“Oh, I wish I were something that important. No, actually, I’m a reporter.”

Oh great, Ralph thought, a freakin’ twelve year old Clark Kent.

“A reporter? For what publication?”

The young man looked down and shook his head.

“Well, none to speak of at the moment. You see, I have always wanted to be a reporter for a newspaper or a magazine, and I haven’t had much luck getting on with the city papers, so I thought maybe if I tried some small town papers, they might give me a chance to prove myself. I don’t know what kind of stuff goes on in this area, so I thought I’d start with the restaurants and write up a sample column rating them. The problem is, this is the only restaurant around for quite a ways, except for the small diner over in Swaying Falls. Are you familiar with Swaying Falls?”

Ralph felt stomach acid creeping up into his throat. Boy, am I ever familiar with Swaying Falls.

“Yes”, Ralph said quietly, “I live there, and you’re never going to believe this, but I’m the reporter for the local paper there.”

Ralph could see the change come over the young man’s face. He was impressed alright – sitting up straighter and eager to hear more. Oh so eager.

“Wow, a reporter? A real reporter? This is fantastic. Oh, what am I thinking? My name’s Basil. Basil Hamner.”

He extended his hand and Ralph did the same.

“Ralph Debumarsey here. I report all the news in Swaying Falls. I’ve got kind of an exclusive territory there. You should come by sometime and I’ll show you an issue. Right now, it’s just local stuff, but I’ve got plans to go county-wide and then cover state events. I’ve just got some details to work out.”

Ralph hoped Basil wouldn’t ask too many questions about his plans to go ‘global’ with the Swaying Falls newsletter.

“Wow”, Basil had turned his chair to face Ralph’s table. “I would love to come by sometime. I know it’s in the early stages, but I’d still like to see your operation, your office, you know. Do you think it would be possible for me to accompany you on your rounds some time or when you go out on a call? I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise. It’s just that I’ve never met a real reporter before and I know I could learn so much from you if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along. Not all the time, mind you, I wouldn’t want to bother you, but just sometime? Do you think that would be at all possible, sir?”

‘Sir’. This young man called him ‘sir’. No one had called Ralph ‘sir’ in…, well, no one had ever called Ralph ‘sir’. It felt really good in an odd sort of way. He wondered what the young man would call him if he accompanied Ralph on his ‘rounds’ to the grocer to pick up that week’s specials, to the motel to pick up that week’s continental breakfast menu, to the elementary school to pick up that week’s dessert offerings… Not only that, Ralph couldn’t wait to have Basil tag along with him to his ‘office’ while he wrote his columns. He wondered if the young man would knock himself out on the lower ceiling while climbing over Ralph’s bed so he could sit next to him at his desk. My God, Ralph thought, what the hell am I going to do now?

“Gee, Basil, why don’t you let me have your number and I’ll give you a call and we’ll set something up, okay? Right now, uh, temporarily, I’m working out of a small boarding house attic. That’s a laugh, huh? Anyway, it’s cozy and gives me a place to hang my hat and write undisturbed. When I get a hot lead, I’ll call you and we can meet. It wouldn’t take you long to catch up with me. So, if you’re able to pick up and go on a second’s notice, because that’s how the newspaper game operates, we’ll play it by ear. What do you say?”

Ralph hoped this pain-in-the-ass-eager-beaver would accept him at his word.

“That would be fantastic”, Basil was beside himself with excitement.

He wrote his mobile number on a napkin and handed it to Ralph. Basil dropped some bills on the table and put on his jacket.

“I’ve got to get going, got some calls to make, but you call me any time, day or night, and I’ll be there in a flash. Thanks so much, Ralph. Uh, is it okay if I call you Ralph?”

‘There in a flash’, Ralph thought. Kid must be pissing himself with excitement by now.

“Absolutely”, Ralph said, “wouldn’t have it any other way. You take care, and I’ll be in touch. ‘kay?”

Ralph would swear the kid was glowing as he exited the restaurant – yeah, glowing. Ah, the fervor of the young. He remembered the passion of his youth - one with which he used to view life in general, but now? Well, maybe I can find something to interest this kid, he smiled to himself, something a little more exciting than Spengler’s New York City feed. But where?

Ralph finished his meal, which wasn’t half bad actually, took part of the tip the junior copy boy had left and added it to his own, and left a fiver on top of his bill and made his way outside. He decided this was going to be an all-nighter, trying to figure out some way to keep this Basil character believing he was a real newspaper reporter, and not what he really was: a broken down, old, never-used-to-be, nobody. But, first things first. Ralph realized he had to seriously pee, and no way was he going back inside just to use their bathroom. People knew when you did that, just went in places to use the toilet, and they’d talk about it after you left. He decided to head around to the back of the building and just relieve himself in nature’s own backyard. No one would see him back there, so what harm could it do?

The man came out of nowhere, stumbling, and mumbling something about God and white sand beaches. Ralph was just finishing zipping up his pants when the man shoved him up against the wall. The man smelled like he vacationed in the sewer, and Ralph was terrified he’d faint, and then the man would touch him or worse while he was out. That picture was too much for Ralph to accept without a fight, and he pulled himself up firmly on his feet, grabbed this creature that crawled out of the swamp, and pushed him away with all the strength he could dredge up. A terrible cracking noise filled the air and seemed to echo throughout the valley. Ralph looked down and braced himself, expecting to have to dodge a fist, but the man didn’t move. A pool of blood was beginning to form around his head and shoulders. Even in the dim light, Ralph could see the man’s partially open eyes were fixed in a vacant stare.

“Oh my God”, Ralph gasped, “hey? Are you okay? You pushed me and I couldn’t let you get away with… I thought you were going to… Hey! Answer me!”

Ralph began to nudge the man with his foot, but still the man remained still. Damn, Ralph shuddered, I’ve killed him. He saw part of the large rock the man’s head had hit when he fell and noticed the pool of blood was getting bigger. I’d better not get any of this on me, he thought, I’ve got to get out of here, got to think. Ralph looked around and not seeing anyone, went back, sat in his car and lit a butt from his ashtray. Got to call the Sheriff and just explain, Ralph was telling himself, I mean, it was just an accident. The guy’s probably a nobody, clothes all messed up, hasn’t had a bath in God-knows-when, hanging out by the dumpster in back of a restaurant… Wait a minute! Wait just a freakin’ minute! Why should I set myself up for a lot of grief here, he thought, going to the Sheriff’s office, telling the same story a hundred times, and what am I going to get for all this? Absolutely nothing but a headache and a sleepless night, and tomorrow morning, nobody’s going to remember any of this. But, now, if I went inside the restaurant and hollered for somebody to call the Sheriff because I had just witnessed a, shall we say, murder out back, but can’t identify the killer, well, things might turn out a bit different then. Sure, I’d have to still go to the Sheriff’s office and tell the same story a hundred times, but tomorrow morning, everybody would know about it because I’d go home and write about it for the paper. Oh, yeah, Chester, then you’d sell your weight in papers with that story on the front page, and I would have to put my name on that one so everyone would know it happened to me.

Making sure no one was around, Ralph went back to where the man lay, still bleeding. He looked down and spoke quietly.

“Look, you shouldn’t have come at me like that, but what’s done is done. I can’t afford to screw up what little of a life I have over a stupid accident. Besides, we’ll find out your name and you’ll become kind of immortal when I identify you in my column. Can you even hear me, or are you all the way dead?”

Ralph continued to look down at the man for a moment longer, and tried to figure out how he was going to handle this. He grabbed his own shirt and pulled so as to tear one of his sleeves. This happened, he would say, when he struggled with the assailant. He smudged his face with some dirt, messed up his hair and tore one of his jacket pockets. Yes, indeedy, this will work, he thought, this will work just fine. He started to yell and stomp and pound on the wall at the back of the building, then ran around the corner and in the main entrance, breathing heavily, and flung himself on the candy counter at the front. Everyone in the place was looking at him now. Here we go. Lights, camera…

This was the way it should have been all along, everyone crowding around him, patting him on the back, asking him if he was alright, trying to counsel him after his traumatic ordeal. Ralph was in his element now. He had taken the hands of the cashier in his and, holding back a tear, asked her to call the Sheriff because there was an unfortunate soul out back who had been murdered, yes, he did say murdered, right in front of his very own eyes. She had gone all pale and looked about to keel over, but had managed to hold herself together long enough to pick up the phone and call the Tippettville Sheriff’s Office.

Ralph had never met anyone from Tippettville, with the exception of his newly acquired admirer, Basil, and this lawman of theirs was a real piece of work. He arrived around ten or fifteen minutes after the cashier had called him, and Ralph had been directed to a chair and was sipping a warm glass of some kind of bitter purple wine the manager had given him. As soon as he entered, everyone pointed to Ralph, their hands trembling, all remembering the life and death struggle the two men had just engaged in; the one sipping wine inside who had obviously triumphed over the attacker and the other one lying behind the building who obviously had not.

“I’m Sheriff Dan Posner, from over Tippettville. Someone called in something about an assault?”

He looked over at Ralph, who was holding up his hand.

“Sir, I asked them to call you since we’re closer to your town. There’s a man out in back of this building, dead, I believe, who was murdered by this man I fought with, but he pushed me down and then ran away.”

Ralph believed that was a good start; not too hysterically told, fairly sequential, and vague enough not to trip him up later. The Sheriff motioned for him to remain seated and went out back to investigate. He returned and used his cell phone to call for the town doctor and the funeral home’s hearse to come and pick up the body. He walked over to Ralph, who finished the glass of odd-tasting wine with a shudder.

“Listen, fella, I know you’ve been through a lot this evening, but I’m going to need you to accompany me to the office and give me a statement. Maybe you remember more than you think you do, and maybe you could give us a description of the guy who did that out there. Then again, maybe not, but sometimes there are small details that people think don’t mean anything and they can end up being very helpful. Do you need to see a doctor first? Are you able to drive over, or would you like to leave your car here for the time being and ride over with me?”

Ralph knew he had died and gone to heaven. It’s about time I was treated like I was somebody, he thought, it’s about freakin’ time.

“No, sir”, he tried very hard not to laugh, “I’m able to drive and I don’t believe I’ve been injured. Not like that poor man outside. I don’t know what provoked that confrontation out there, but it’s all just so tragic. Certainly, I’ll follow you over and provide whatever assistance I can.”

Ralph took great pleasure in all the pats on the back he received on the way out, and especially enjoyed the winks he received from a couple of the women. He couldn’t wait to get all this over with and get back to his room so he could write it all up and get the article, his article, over to Chester, so a special edition of the paper could be run. This time, it would be a special edition because it wouldn’t have an anonymously written copy. This time, Ralph’s name would be all over it.

When he arrived home, he immediately got the hot plate going since this was most definitely an occasion for a hot cup of instant. His time in the Sheriff’s office, providing his statement, had been brief, which surprised him. Ralph had thought he would be given the third degree, as it were, but to his delight, the officer didn’t ask him too many questions. It was more a matter of ‘do you take cream and sugar in your coffee, here’s a legal pad and a pen, just write down what happened and sign and date it, and you’re free to go’.

Ralph was stunned. True, he hadn’t murdered anybody; well, killed maybe, but not on purpose, but still, somebody ended up dead. He wondered why that didn’t seem to be too big of a deal. Possibly, the man was homeless and didn’t have any family or friends as Ralph had originally thought, but one would think that wouldn’t matter to law enforcement. After all, a killed person was still a killed person, regardless of their station in life, right? Evidently not here in Tippettville. Odd behavior on the part of a policeman to be sure, but certainly beneficial to Ralph. He had been able to get out of there lickety-split, and would have plenty of time to write his column and get it to Chester so he could get the edition printed by breakfast-time. Residents of Swaying Falls began their meandering right after they had their morning coffee and oat flakes and Chester’s was where the congregating commenced. Everyone would see the paper and Ralph’s column and then they would know – then they would all know.

Ralph wondered if he should call the kid and let him in the big scoop. Yes, but after the paper hit the street, definitely after. He’d tell Basil he’d been traumatized and needed to rest, but of course, the second he’d arrived home, he knew he had to get the column in the hopper. That’s what a reporter does, he’d say, get it down regardless of what you’ve been through. That would impress the hell out of the little boot-licker, but it would also keep him out of Ralph’s hair.

Ralph plumped the pillows on his daybed, put his hands behind his head, laid down and took a deep breath. He closed the curtains by his desk, but the sun was still shining brightly through, although he didn’t care. He was exhausted and it felt great. Sitting at his typewriter to write this column – his column – had been the easiest thing he had ever done. The words flowed smoothly and when it was completed, he didn’t even bother to go over it to make any edits. He could feel the power of it as he held it in his hands. This was what he had been waiting for these past twenty some odd years; this was the beginning, and there was no way Ralph was going to let this slip away from him. No freakin’ way.

* * * *

Swaying Falls is alive and prospering now solely because of me, Ralph laughed out loud, and didn’t care who heard him this time. Coming home to his new digs at the downtown hotel was just another reminder of all he had done for the sorry-ass residents of this fly-speck on the way to oblivion. Those in transition weren’t transitioning anymore. They were putting down roots, and expanding the family businesses. Funny how murder draws them all in, he thought; one would think murder in, and around, a town would drive folks away. Well, ‘one’ would be oh so wrong.

It occurred to Ralph that, after the third or fourth one, this whole process was getting easier and less stressful. The latest was what, number six? Let’s see, he thought, first there was the disgusting creep behind Soldano’s, which technically was an accident. If only he could have known the phenomenal effect his passing had on Ralph’s career. As it turned out, the weirdo had been homeless, and no friends or relatives could be located. Those who had been in the restaurant the night it happened had all contributed so he could have a decent burial with a headstone. Ralph, naturally, had been the most generous donor.

Then, there was the old broad in the support shoes, toting the canvas grocery bag, who needed help climbing the stairs in the rundown tenement in which she lived. Ralph had helped her climb the stairs alright; almost made it to the top too, before she tripped over that heavy canvas bag she’d been dragging. Too bad, and messy too. Nasty way to die.

The jogger in the park had been next. He had been hydrating himself from a full flask he carried. Ralph had guessed Crown Royal when it had fallen and spilled on the grass. The approach had gone smoothly with Ralph joining him for a friendly late afternoon jog on the deserted trail. They had shook hands, laughed a bit and the man had even offered Ralph a sip right before he stepped into a hole and fell and hit his head on that water fountain – hard. You could never be too careful; holes in the ground sometimes just appeared out of nowhere.

The hooker and her john turned out to be Ralph’s daily double. They had been getting to know each other behind the sales office of the used car lot on the edge of town. Ralph knew that spot was utilized at that time of night for happy hour, and took a chance. He parked his car at the business next door and crept around and sure enough, there they were, getting ‘happy’. Their focus was not exactly on the world around them, and it had been no problem for Ralph to come up behind the girl and hit her over the head with the pipe he had found leaning up against one of the sheds. When she fell, the man just stood there and looked at Ralph; didn’t make a move or say a thing. Crazy how some people react in a crisis, Ralph thought. When Ralph swung the pipe at his head, and connected, the man didn’t make a sound then either. He just fell over, quietly. Easy peasy; two for one.

Yes, tonight, number six it was - the dried up old man on his way to the drug store to pick up his asthma inhaler. Old people shouldn’t be out alone at this hour, Ralph thought. Why, something bad could happen to them, couldn’t it? Well, something bad did happen to this one – that’s for sure. Beaten to death with his own cane right there on the sidewalk ten feet from his front door. Darn shame. What’s this world coming to…

What the hell, who’s counting anyway. He already had his book deal signed, sealed and delivered, and he was confirmed on three cable crime documentaries. He was thinking this might be a good time to start scaling back, what with that bottom feeder dogging him all the time. Good ole boy, Sheriff Dan, had mentioned it in passing that he found it suspect that Ralph was always the first on the scene of all those deaths he was reporting on. Ralph had responded, also in passing, that it all came down to a reporter’s instinct, but the flatfoot had appeared less than convinced. Measures would definitely need to be taken.

It had been kind of a kick in the beginning, making those calls to the station, alternating between claiming to be a witness and claiming to be the killer, and leaving tantalizing clues at all the scenes that, of course, led absolutely nowhere. Ralph wouldn’t see Danny Boy for a couple of days, and then, out of the blue, there he’d be: On the street in front of the hotel, a couple of tables over while Ralph was having lunch at Molly’s, sitting in his car staring at Ralph coming out of the grocery… This rummy had hit on Ralph’s last nerve two bodies ago. Time’s come to leave his life as a reporter behind, Ralph thought, and cross over and assume his role of international correspondent. Interviews, film cameos, and possibly a movie of the week; shouldn’t keep them waiting. Ralph knew it just didn’t get any better than this.

The kid was coming along nicely too, following him around like a lapdog hoping to be thrown a scrap. Contacting Basil following each murder and allowing him to type the articles while Ralph dictated had been a brilliant move. It allowed the little suck-up to feel involved without having any real input or being able to steal any of Ralph’s thunder.

* * * *
The arrest, indictment and trial did all occur with unanticipated precision. He had been charged with six counts of first degree murder. That the death of the perv behind Soldano’s had been added as Murder One truly surprised Ralph. That one, at most, should have been ruled as accidental. At arraignment, he had entered a plea of not guilty, as expected, having been advised by the best the Public Defender’s pool had to offer.

Interestingly enough, bond had been requested and granted; not the norm for a capital case. Of course, this was Tippettville – not the norm by any means. The case was being prosecuted there since the deaths all occurred in, or near, their jurisdiction. The jury, however, was hand-picked from Ralph’s main stomping ground of Swaying Falls, and quite the vindictive bunch they turned out to be. As he watched and listened to them during the selection process, the air was thick with bias, but the judge was deaf, blind, and most assuredly, dumb as hell. There were no jury instructions about not discussing the case until deliberation, and the street corners and shop doorways were constantly abuzz with detailed descriptions of evidence presented and testimony obtained.

From the perspective of these two towns, this was the trial of the century. From Ralph’s point of view, this was the century’s biggest practical joke. Seeing as how a man’s life was hanging in the balance so to speak, that did seem to detract somewhat from the humor of it all though.

The exhibits and photographs filled the pint-size courtroom vestibule, while most of the spectators stood along the walls and crouched in the aisles between the rows of benches. People brought boxed lunches and coolers filled with soda pop and ice cream bars. Ralph wondered if they were permitted to witness the execution whether they’d bring hot dogs and their toddlers’ bouncy seats along.

The testimony now, that was brutal. People he’d known all his life as quiet, unassuming small-town mopes, suddenly became hateful, accusatory vipers. Ralph had to admit though, it did surprise him that they obviously took great relish in the fact that their words could send a fellow human being to his death. Talk about not being able to judge books by their covers…

When the verdict was read, everyone in the courtroom cheered, including the judge and all the members of the jury. While Ralph deemed this totally inappropriate, he did find it humorous, in a grotesque sort of way. It was, of course, guilty on all counts, and the sentence was indeed pronounced to be death. No real shock there either, he thought, bloodthirsty bastards, all.

* * * *
So, here we are in the now, he thought, in this limbo, this portal between life and the everlasting. The sedative’s already been administered and soon, his eyes would close for the last time, but no sweet dreams would invade his slumber this night. He remembered the struggle and all the heartache, all to win what prize? A deadly cocktail administered in the State’s death chamber? Did this end justify those means?

Oh, hell, yeah, Ralph thought, hell freakin’ yeah. He did briefly feel a weak tug at his heart for young Basil whose life would be coming to a supposedly painless conclusion soon, but hey: It wasn’t as if he didn’t really know how the game was played. Come on, everybody did. Didn’t they?

It had been laughably easy to set the chump up to take the fall, considering his irritating way of fawning over his self-appointed mentor. The fool had developed tunnel vision from the second Ralph had taken him under his wing. Leaving his butts everywhere, ripe for the taking, only to be strategically placed at the crime scenes… What’s the matter, newsboy, never heard of a new thing called DNA? You pick up a bag and a flask to move them so you can sit on the only chair made available to you, and they show up later on or near a murder victim… Oops, kid, you got to keep up with the times – they do fingerprints these days. Ralph had never visited his protégé on Death Row, and his presence had never been requested. Odd how the boy seemed to passively resign himself to his fate. He had wanted to learn from the best, and he had to know that he did learn from the best. And, at approximately seven minutes after midnight, the kid was about to learn the most important lesson of all.

When all was said and done, it was all about getting the byline; yes, the byline. That was all that really mattered.

* * * *

BIO: J. F. has had a crime fiction ebook published by DiskUsPublishing and a horror short story included in the collection Deathgrip: The Legacy. She is currently working on her second crime fiction novel and several flash fiction pieces.

"Have You Got Any More Apple Pie?" by David Price

2009-03-28T00:42:00.000-04:00

Brrrrr - Brrrrr - Brrrrr.

Damn alarm clock. I hate that sound. It wakes me up like I’m in a fire station. My heart starts to racing like a dragster burning rubber. It takes ten minutes just to settle down.

Tried to catch a little nap before tonight’s fight. Sometimes I wonder what the hell has happened to my life. I learned long ago that life is lived day by day. Find some pleasure in the small things and find it every day. Doesn’t really pay to look too far ahead. You may never get there.

As I look in the mirror, I see my sorry face. Haven’t shaved in five days. Never shave before a fight. In close that stubble can annoy when scrapped across a face, especially eyes. Always keep the hair short so there is nothing to grab hold of. All my scars are well healed. Doc will fix me up good just before the fight. He’s my best friend, actually my only friend. We’re both ex-USMC and way past our prime. We served together in Desert Storm. He was the best damn medic in the Corps. He’s been my personal physician ever since. Kind of a symbiotic relationship. We need each other to keep from sliding over the edge and off the world.

Need to eat something. Fight is set for 11:00pm. It’s now 6:00pm. I get a little steak to toss in the frying pan with some hash browns. When it’s done I throw it on a plate and pour on the catsup and Tabasco. It’s my little pre fight treat. The best eating I get. Never know when it’ll be my last meal.

The fights seem to be getting tougher. I don’t know how long I can keep this up. If I didn’t need the money, I’d have given this shit up a long time ago.

Tonight I’ll pick up $750 for “showing” and $1500 if I win. Doc always gets $250, win or lose. Sometimes he has very little to do, other times he has to put me back together again like Humpty Dumpty after the fall. It all evens out. I would never even try it if Doc wasn’t with me.

Tonight I’m ready. I’ve trained hard on the mats at the Y where every bad ass that drifts into town passes through looking to test the local talent. I do my own weight workout with dumbbells. I stopped the heavy lifting years ago. Now it’s speed work with perfect form, high reps and very little rest between sets. Stamina and explosion are the secrets. As Vince Lombardi once said, “Fatigue will make cowards of us all”. I work the hell out

2

of those fast twitch muscles so I can explode again and again like a human threshing machine. I have seen so many hard muscled, power guys fade completely if they don’t win in the first two minutes. I love the “Big Punchers” with the consecutive knockouts. They have never been really tested but they get so full of themselves that they stop training for stamina and then they’re mine.

I go about 225 lbs. on a 6’ 1” frame. I’m pretty solid but I’m no freak. My neck is my power and I can take a punch. Never been knocked out but I sure staggered something fierce when I caught a spinning back kick to the jaw from that Korean kid with the steel toed boots a couple years back. I was definitely on Queer Street but I hung on for dear life until the cobwebs cleared. He backed away to head kick me again but I knew his game, side stepped his attack and delivered my own “extra point” special right up to his family jewels. He was still puking an hour later. Doc and I beat a hasty retreat as his brothers, cousins and every pie face in town looked to turn us into kim chee any minute.

I’ll go by Doc’s boarding house about 9:00pm where he’ll begin to put me together for tonight’s event. Boarding house? Well, maybe I’m being generous. Perhaps half way
house is more like it. The place is full of alkys and dopers trying to get it together. Doc gets free room and board for being the on-site medic and part time counselor. He’s a guy every body can relate to as he has seen and done it all. They even look the other way when he falls off the wagon every now and again.

Knock. Knock.

“Hey Doc it’s me”.

Doc opens the door and welcomes me in. “Hey Sarge, I guess it’s about that time. You know this shits gonna kill us one of these days.”

“I know, but I need the dough. And anyway, you know I still love it.”

“I know, you’re one crazy dude. Sit down and let’s get you ready.”

I sit in the chair while Doc gets supplies out of his little cabinet. First he gets the liquid tough skin and carefully paints several coats over my eyebrows, covering the scar tissue until a protective layer is built up. I hate it when they split. Trying to see through that red curtain is a real drag.

Before I pull on my pants, I step into a custom hip girdle and rigid jock cup that Doc has constructed for me. The girdle has a hard cushioned plate for my tail bone and a jock cup that will disperse a direct blow but nothing can prevent that pain that makes you want to

3

roll into a ball. But, it sure helps. The best protection is not to take a straight punch or kick to those defenseless hanging oysters.

Then Doc tapes my hands to provide a little protection. These baseball mitts I have for hands are one of my best weapons. They are half again normal size and equivalent to a pair of rocks. The tape job is just to limit the split knuckles and torn ligaments.

“Thanks Doc. I got a bad feeling about tonight. I can’t shake it. Something bad is gonna happen. I’m really gonna need you tonight.”

“Man, you know I’ve got your back. Do you want me to stash my Colt in the gear bag?”

“No, they may search us going in and they have a “no gun” rule.”

“Ok, amigo, we’ll be alright. I’ll strap on Angel just so we won’t be alone.”

Angel is my custom fighting knife in a shoulder harness rig that places her right against the neck between the shoulder blades. She had saved my bacon too many times to count. Her element of surprise leveled many a playing field. Even a gun that isn’t actively firing is no match for her fury. When we connect, I damn well think she takes control.

In my jacket I carry my little “Persuader.” She is my version of a ju-jitsu pain compliance tool. Mine is homemade, a piece of steel rebar 8 inches long and ¾ inch in diameter. When clutched in my fist, she is like holding a roll of quarters with the exception of the one inch piece extending below my hand. A well placed strike with the hard edge focuses all the power I can deliver in one spot. Such a strike can easily break bone and even kill like the compressed air driven steel rod used to kill cattle. Yeah, we are ready for just about anything.

“Well, I guess it’s that time, Doc. Let’s go.”

He grabs his first aid bag. “Okay, where we headed this time?”

“Downtown, a private parking garage on Dearborn. We’ll grab the “El” and get off at Madison. It’s only a short walk. We’ll grab our pre-fight coffees at Mary Ann’s place.

Mary Ann is my current crush only she doesn’t know it, probably never will. She manages my favorite late night diner, “The Last Cup”. She always has a nice smile for me and it really picks me up. We’ve been friends for years. I’m afraid to let her know how I feel about her. Afraid it’ll ruin this perfect romance. She really seems to care. Last year when I lost bad to a Russian mob enforcer, she let Doc sew me up in the kitchen. She hates the fighting business but she respects that I need to survive and it’s my only trade.

4

I zombie out on the “El” sinking into a trance. Plenty of time left to get my adrenaline jacked. Now I almost sleep while Doc keeps track of the stops.

I feel a nudge at my ribs, “Sarge, we’re here.”

I come to, look around and we jump up and step out of the door. The El’s fairly quiet this time of night. Very little commuter traffic going into the Loop. All the night club action is moving to the River District. For me, I like the Loop, tall buildings and alleys. A man can disappear down here simply by stepping back into the shadows.

Couple of blocks and we’re at “the Cup”.

This place is just a little hole in the wall. Mary Ann keeps it open till 2:00am for all the night owls. It’s one of those places that are a throw back to the thirties. Four booths on either side of the front door and a long counter with a dozen stools. No fancy food here.
Just the basics and plenty of pie and strong coffee. During the day Mary Ann has a short order cook in the kitchen but this time of night she runs it alone. She keeps it real clean but you can smell the scent of frying bacon hanging in the air anytime you enter. Some guys hang around a bar, even have a favorite stool. I learned the hard way that was no way to treat your body. No, a little diner like this is a perfect hangout for me.

“Hey Doll, how are you doing?”

“Sarge, Doc, don’t tell me you have a spot in that action on Dearborn?”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

“Sit down boys and I’ll get the coffees.”

It’s a pre-fight ritual. A couple cups of Mary Ann’s strongest coffee with plenty of sugar to wash down my little pick-me-up. This is Doc’s own special concoction, ephedrine and aspirin washed down by caffeine. It never fails to jack me up. I don’t need much as my own adrenaline always kicks in at these things. Put it all together and I’m 25 again and ready to rip.

10:00pm. Time to check in. Doc and I wave goodbye to Mary Ann and we hit the sidewalk. Six blocks and we’re there. Up the elevator to the sixth parking level and out.

Soon as we step out, we’re met by the security manager. He knows us well. With a nod he waves us in but not without a comment, “Hey Sarge, when you gonna knock this shit off? You’re old enough to be my dad.”

5

“As long as I win more than I lose and I can still walk. I’m always up for a good rumble. You know that. Besides, I love it when a new guy blows into town and thinks he has a walkover when he sees me.”

“Knock em dead, old man.”

I’m set to go on just before the main event. The card started at 9:00pm with some new comers trying to make a name. These underground fights have been going on for over 100 years. There are always kids coming into town trying to earn some dough and ride the fight circuit. They come from all over. Parole jumpers, bodyguards, bouncers and just plain bad asses who don’t care if they live or die. A few bucks, some drinks, a woman and on to the next gig. For them it’s just a form of slow suicide. Nothing left to lose just like Bobby McGee.

On the other hand, I actually train, have a plan, a personal medic and a love of life even a small life like mine.

Geno sees us and comes over. He’s been setting up these cards for the last ten years at least.

“Sarge, Doc, you’re looking good. There’s quite a buzz about your match. This kid from Breaux Bridge has been doing a lot of jawing since he arrived and he sure looks the part. Right now we’re getting more action on your fight than the main event. Seriously, how are you feeling? You’re a big underdog. I’ve been taking 10 -1 on the Cajun. What do you think?”

“Geno, I always tell you, there are no guarantees. On the other hand, this guy could be made to order for me. It’s all about how he takes a punch, cause he’s gonna get hit.”

“OK, OK, sorry I asked. Go on down about 100 feet. I’ve got a screened off area for you to get ready. We’ve got a good crowd, maybe a thousand or so and they have come to spend.”

Geno has taken a section of the sixth level and set up quite a little venue, complete with bleachers and a bar. I can smell the oil and gas fumes clinging to the concrete pillars. The black tire marks reveal years of screeching starts and too fast turns. I love these outlaw setups. In a few hours all this will be gone just as if it never existed.

We walk down a ways and find the screened off ready room. Pretty big but all the fighters are in the same area. Always makes for a lot of whacked out psycho acts as most guys try to spook their opponent. As for me, I totally ignore em, never look at em except a stolen sideways glance. Actually turn my back on em as though they don’t exist. That really gets under their skin and pisses em off.

6

I’m always billed as “Sarge” and wear surplus cargo pants and an old Marine Corps tee shirt with my steel toed boots.

In the tent an EMT is tending to a fighter with a couple of broken ribs and an ear hanging by a thread. And he was the winner.

I see my guy in the far corner. He’s playing Jolie Blonde on his boom box. Asshole. Acts like he owns the place. He hasn’t seen me yet so I sneak a look. He’s big, thick with a bull neck and cauliflower ears. Word is he was an NCAA finalist on LSU’s wrestling team a few years back. He has a shaved head except for a Mongol topknot. Sure looks fierce enough but that topknot is his first mistake. It’s just the handle I’ll need to ride this bull.

Doc and I find a little corner where I can relax and get stretched out. These days I need to really stretch those muscles and joints. So many guys are ju-jitsu trained and they love those joint locks.

I’m a guy who survives by having a hard head, harder hands and a few tricks these young guys don’t expect. If I can’t finish the match in the first five minutes, I’m in trouble. The stamina just isn’t there any more despite my training. But for five minutes, I go all out and I can give you a hell of a fight which is more than most of these guys can handle.

Once I’m stretched, Doc holds up the padded mitts and I get some punches and kicks in till I feel good and loose and break a sweat.

My opponent tonight goes by the name “Gator”. He supposedly wrestles gators in a little road side attraction just outside Natchitoches.

He finally sees me and hollers, “Hey you, Sarge, you, ready for your lesson?” I pretend not to hear him and keep on pounding the mitts.

Again he yells, “What’s the matter old man, you scared aready?”

Now I turn to him. It’s time to provoke him and get in his head. “You can call me Daddy,
cause I’m gonna whip you just like you was a big mouth, wise ass little boy”.

He erupts, “Fuck you! You’re gonna cry for your momma when I get a hold of you.”

I turn away and ignore him but not before I yawn big like I’m real sleepy.

I’ve got him ready now. He will come out fast and angry. I hate those guys who dance around, feinting and dodging and looking for an opening. Give me a bull’s rush any time.

7

Geno comes over and says, “You’re on in five minutes. Be careful, this boy is real mean.”

“Ain’t they all?”

I step into the ring, actually a circle surrounded by a six foot high chain link fence around inter-locking rubber gym floor mats. It’s better than most. Anyway, if I go down to the ground I’m going to be hurting.

As we take our corner, I can see a real commotion as the betting on this one gets fast and furious. They delay the match a good fifteen minutes til all the bets are down. I had Geno put my last $200 on myself. At 10-1 odds, I’ll make some pretty good change if I pull it off. If not, I still get the $750 show money.

Here we go. The announcer calls the match and the ref yells, “Fight.”

There are very few rules to these matches; no eye gouges, no biting and no use of striking implements. We all wear boots or work shoes. No hard casts on the hands which can be wrapped. A mouthpiece is always a good idea if you like your smile and want to keep your tongue.

Gator is wild-eyed and head slapping himself into a frenzy. I do believe that boy has taken a little “speed” for this match. Okay with me, it just means he won’t know how bad he’s hurt until well after the match is over.

Gator comes right for me but with his head up in a semi crouch and under control. I momentarily take a boxing stance. He shoots for a single leg take down just as I had expected. I let him come and then in a flash, I push his head down to meet my right knee coming up hard. I catch him flush right in the face. It stops his forward momentum and he drops to hands and knees. I come down with a full force elbow on the back of his head.

Stunned as he is, he still manages to grab my heel and drive forward into my thigh. I expect him to drive me into the chain link fence but he rises up in a power squat leap that brings his head straight up to strike my chin.

A hell of a blow but I shake it off. He has me in a bear hug and is about to lift me in a suplex throw over his shoulder when I stomp hard on the arch of his foot. I can hear a snap as the bone cracks.

He roars, then smashes a hard right punch into my kidney. He follows immediately with an overhand right that catches me on my right eye and opens an old scar.

8

He has me reeling as he steps back and delivers a high knee strike to my stomach. Damn. That hurts.

I move in and deliver a right uppercut to his chin with my elbow. I catch him solid and he is rocked. I reach up and grab his top knot and pull it down to meet my right knee coming up hard. I connect good. I deliver the knee again and again pushing his head down with the built in handle. I can hear his jaw break and then I feel his teeth dig into my leg as his mouthpiece falls to the mat. Two more knee strikes to his face and I release my hold and deliver a full force elbow strike to the back of his head as I drop from above.

It’s over. Gator is unconscious and bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose. It will be months before he can fight again.

The crowd yells, then boos. A lot of money changed hands and there are some very sore losers.

Doc rushes in and grabs me. We exit the ring quickly as the EMTs tend to Gator. As we pass Geno on the way to the corner of the dressing area, he says, “God damn Sarge, couldn’t you have drug it out another couple of minutes at least?”

“You know my matches are fast, one way or the other.”

Geno reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of cash. He peels off $2000 for my bet and $1500 for the fight. I grab it and give Doc $500 and stuff the rest into my coat.

We grab our gear and glide out passed the security guy who comments, “Sarge, you are still one bad mother fucker.”

We’re on the street in a minute and moving away fast. I learned long ago to never hang around after a fight. Nothing good ever happens. Somewhere, some one is always pissed.

I’m holding a sterile pad to my eyebrow. Pressure stems the flow for now.

Doc inquires, “Mary Ann’s?”

I reply, “Yeah.”

A couple more blocks and we see the neon sign, “The Last Cup.”

I’ve never met a woman who understood me, but Mary Ann accepts me as I am, faults and all and that is as good as I may ever get. I have nothing to offer a woman but we have a special relationship without the romance.

9

I guess I’m kind of a hovering guardian angel, she just doesn’t know it.

We enter and there she is. A big smile crosses her face. “Hi Sarge, you don’t look too good. Had a tough one?”

“Yeah, but I’m still walking so I got no complaints.”

“That eye needs some attention. You guys come on into the kitchen. I’ll get some hot water.”

She never asks about the fights or whether I have won or lost. She is just there when I need help.

We go into the kitchen and sit at the little table along the wall.

Doc says, “I’m going to need to sew this one, butterfly bandages won’t stop the flow.”

Mary Ann boils some water so Doc can sterilize his needles. In a couple of minutes he begins and sews me up good as new. I’m sore but all in all I feel damn good.

Mary Ann inquires, “Are you guys hungry?”

I reply, “I’m always hungry at this hour.”

We seat ourselves at our favorite place on the two counter stools nearest the cash register. We order our usual, ham and eggs, toast, black coffee and her famous apple pie for dessert. We sit and talk a bit but mostly we just eat and drift into our own private worlds. Good friends don’t need to jaw all the time. We know each other’s moods and thoughts and idle chatter just ain’t our style.

We’d been sitting there a while when I notice three ugly characters talking noisily in the corner booth. They are kinda skinny, wiry, with dirty hair, unshaven faces and tattoos showing on their hands, arms, and necks. They are twitchy and nervous acting. Definitely on something or in need of something. Meth addicts. They are totally unpredictable. Definitely people to stay away from.

I notice Mary Ann come back from their table and roll her eyes at me. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but their voices were getting louder and the profanity was increasing.

Man, I hate it when my internal radar goes off and I know trouble is on the way. I can feel my adrenaline enter my blood stream; my stomach goes a little sour, my pulse

10

quickens and I feel a little light headed. In a moment I will settle down to an acute state of readiness. With a little luck these fools will pay their bill and disappear into the night.
But somehow, I don’t think so. I get that feeling I had earlier in the day. Something bad is gonna happen. They just better not harass Mary Ann. I won’t take kindly to that bullshit.

I feel Doc nudge my leg. He has picked up on their action and knows from my pulsing jugular vein that I am already in attack mode. I nod. No words are spoken. We are on the same wave length.

If this blows, it’ll be three against two and they don’t stand a chance unless they are packing heat. Damn, I wish Doc had his Colt.

I know he has Angel strapped in her rig so either of us can reach down his neck and set her free. I reach into the pocket of my fatigue jacket and grip my little persuader. I squeeze her in my pocket. I am ready.

I stare blindly into my coffee and wait for the punks to leave or show their hand.

It don’t take long, they rise together and approach the cash register. They hand Mary Ann their bill and she rings it up. The tallest one hands her a $20 bill. She hits the register to make change and when it opens, they play their card.

The tall one reaches into his waist and whips out a Glock and places it inches from Mary Ann’s forehead.

“Step back from the register, bitch! If you play this right, you may live to see tomorrow.”

Mary Ann makes eye contact with me. I can see her anger. I only nod. She knows I’m in.

She steps back and says, “Take it all. Just don’t hurt anyone.”

Bad play on her part. Don’t engage punks like this in conversation. Just do what they tell you to do. You don’t want them even thinking about you.

The short weird looking one grabs her wrist and coos, “We wouldn’t think of hurting you, now would we Rings?”

Rings, the tall one, replies, “Well we could take her into the kitchen for a little one on one, get-to-know-you session. Would you like that sweetheart?”

Mary Ann’s face shows defiance but I can see the fear creep in. She answers, “Quit while you’re ahead. Take the money and go.”

11

Two customers in a front booth dash out the door. Only Doc and I are left, sitting just inches from the punks.

I look up and say, “Leave the lady alone. Those customers will have the cops here any second.”

The weird one pulls out a switchblade and pops the blade for effect as he points it at Mary Ann.

The tall one turns his head to me while leaving the gun pointed straight ahead.

“Maybe you should just shut your mouth old man before I split your other eye”.

Mary Ann leans just a few inches to her right so the Glock is pointing off her left shoulder. I lift my right hand holding the persuader out of my pocket and hold it at my side. I rotate my stool to face him and say in as meek a voice as I can muster, “Hey man, I didn’t mean nothing”.

Just as he smiles, I strike. I direct a full force right cross to the side of his head. All of my energy and weight come to bare as I launch myself from the stool. I make contact with the hard edge of the rebar directly on his temple. I can feel the bar break bone and penetrate his skull.

The gun fires into the wall. He drops as if shot by a high powered rifle. His gun falls under the counter away from the two punks. I know instantly that he is dead.

Doc has stood up during the commotion and released Angel from her womb. He stands directly behind me, obscured by my loose oversized jacket.

The switchblade punk squares off on me. “You’re dead, mother fucker.”

I open my hand and allow the rebar to drop onto my boot where it rolls off. Doc slips Angel into my now open hand just like a baton handoff in a 400 meter relay race. I never turn but lock on switchblade’s eyes keeping myself facing him. Doc and I have practiced this hand off from many positions. The secret is to never look down or back and give away the action.

I feel the parachute cord covered handle slip firmly into my palm. I feel Angels heat. She comes alive the instant we touch and now she wants to be fed.

Switchblade never sees the handoff. He is focused on my eyes. Eyes will never hurt you but what the hands are doing will. That mistake will cost him his life.

12

He jabs at my stomach like a fool. Don’t ever get into a knife fight if you don’t know what you’re doing.

With my left hand I slap his arm wide to my right. In an instant I sweep Angel on an arc into his exposed neck just above the collar bone and into the carotid artery. In less than a second I deliver two or three short jabs like the strokes of a jackhammer. His artery is shredded beyond repair and gushes like an Oklahoma oil well. He is unconscious as he hits the floor and bleeds out in just over a minute.

Doc is holding the Glock as the third punk crashes out the door and disappears into the shadows.

I look at Mary Ann and see the “thank you” in her eyes.

“Have you got any more apple pie?”

BIO: David Price is an ex college jock and retired probation officer residing in California. Writing crime fiction has been a recent hobby in his retirement. His work can be found on Thuglit, A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive at UP From The Gutter and Darkest Before The Dawn.

"Workday" by Brian Haycock

2009-03-23T01:34:00.003-04:00

It was Thursday afternoon and I was in a mood. I could feel the tension building inside me. I needed a drink. I needed to go out and run about ten miles in the heat. I needed to break something.

I was unloading pallets of crushed glass off the back of a semi. There was a thick cardboard box on each pallet with about a ton of glass inside. Rodrigo was in the trailer, setting them up for me. I’d pull up, shoot the forks into the pallet, lift, back off, turn around, drive a few hundred feet across the yard and set it down for Briscoe, who’d put the clamps on the box and dump it onto the conveyor that would haul it to the furnace. It was hot work. We were out in the sun, with clouds of exhaust smoke and glass dust in the air, the smell of stale beer and spoiled food hanging on everything. We were wearing long sleeves, jeans, respirators and sound suppressors. Thick gloves. Steel toed boots. We were sweating buckets. I couldn’t imagine why they would put a glass factory in Texas, but that’s where it was.

Gorelick walked across the yard. Mr. Gorelick. He liked to hear that. He was the foreman. He thought he was big stuff, bossing the help around. I pulled up on my way back to the trailer I was unloading and waited.

Gorelick came up to me and pushed his respirator aside. “Malloy, can’t you move it along out here? We’ve got three trucks in the yard and we can’t be paying them to sit around.”

“I’m working as fast as I can. I can’t help it if the trucks all came in at the same time.”

“Well, try to pick it up.”

I wanted to tell him I’d get more done if he’d quit bugging me, but I just nodded.

“And keep an eye on Rodrigo. He looks kind of woozy. I don’t know, the guy’s Mexican, he ought to be able to handle a little heat.”

I looked up at Rodrigo. He was leaning against the trailer wall, sucking air through the respirator.

Gorelick started to walk away, then turned and said over his shoulder. “I know you wanted Tuesday off, but I can’t do it. It's a workday. I don’t have anyone else to do your job, so you’ll have to come in.” He slid his respirator over his mouth, but not fast enough to hide a nasty grin. He turned and walked away, fast, as if that settled it. It didn’t.

My father was on death row in Huntsville, scheduled to be executed on Tuesday night. I wanted to go up there and see him one last time. I wanted to talk to him, but I was having trouble thinking of something to say. I figured something would come to me. I didn’t plan to stay for the execution, but I thought I might if he wanted me to.

I didn’t plan on spending the day driving a forklift.

I got back to it. We finished the trailer we were working on and Rodrigo stumbled out onto the pavement. He didn’t look good. It was hotter in the trailer than it was in the lot, and it was plenty hot there. Plus, there was no breeze in the truck. Rodrigo walked over to the spool table we had set up out there and hit the ice water jug while I unloaded the pallet jack from the trailer and set it up in the next one. I watched him pour some of the water on his head and push his hair back with his hand.

The horn sounded for coffee break. Rodrigo climbed on the side of the forklift and we headed across the yard to the picnic table in the shade of the overhang. Briscoe and the other guys from the yard joined us. Mulgrew, J.D. and Bubba. Every yard in Texas has someone named Bubba. We pulled off our respirators and gloves and sat there with our cigarettes and our dollar Cokes. Everyone was hot, tired and bored. Mulgrew started talking about his softball team, but no one was interested and he gave it up.

Then J.D. asked, “How’s your old man doing?”

I took a few seconds. They all knew how he was doing. “He’s all right, I guess. He’s had time to prepare himself.”

“Any chance of a reprieve?”

“There’s always a chance. He’s gotten two of them already. You know, there were problems with the trial, evidence that was thrown out, lost. His lawyer was a waste of skin. The guy was drunk half the time in court.”

I’d said all this a thousand times, but I knew the truth. The old man was guilty. He’d been a deadbeat who’d never done a thing for my mother except smack her around. He’d been a violent, abusive drug addict who never cared about much past his next fix. Including me. There were a dozen witnesses who’d seen him shoot that clerk in the Quickie Pickie up in Dallas. He shot the poor son of a bitch six times, then couldn’t shoot anyone else because he was out of bullets. He’d gotten a couple reprieves on technical grounds, but there wouldn’t be any more of those. Even the lawyers who were filing appeals for him knew the world would be better off with him not in it.

And if he got out, he do it all again. No question there. He’d told me that himself.

Even with all that, I wanted a miracle. I wanted him to live. I wanted him to go free.

“He didn’t do it,” I said. “It was all mistaken identity. Prosecutors know it, too.”

Everyone sat and thought about my old man. What he was going through. What it would be like to know that on Tuesday you would be strapped to a gurney and shot up with chemicals that would grab your heart and squeeze the life out of it. What it would be like to lie there listening for the sound of a phone ringing while your chest exploded. I’d been thinking about it, too. For a long time.

The horn sounded and everyone looked at their watches. We were supposed to get a fifteen minute break, but Gorelick had fixed it so the horn would sound a minute early. That was so we’d actually be back at work when the break really ended. Everyone got up and started heading across the yard.

I told Rodrigo I had to hit the men’s room and went inside. It was a warehouse facility with overhead doors into a large bay, storage rooms, no air conditioning. It had to be a hundred ten in there. I went in and splashed water on my face, just killing time. I came out and ran into Gorelick.

“You’re supposed to be working,” he told me.

“I had to use the facilities.”

“You do that on your break. You don’t sit around the whole break, then come in here when you hear the horn. Tell, you what, the world’s full of people who can drive a forklift. It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t be in Tuesday. You know why. Deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it right now. You don’t come in Tuesday, you don’t have a job. How’s that?”

“I’ll take it up with Mr. Ravenow. He’ll tell you to lay off.” He was the general manager. Gorelick’s boss.

He didn’t like that. “You better watch yourself, Malloy. You’re going to blow this job like you blow everything you try. You’ll wind up right where your father is. Or worse. I could see you going into a conveniece store with a gun, coming out in a box. Fuckup like you, I could see that real easy. Tell you what. Get your ass back to work, and I’ll start thinking about whether you still have a job. Right now.”

I went out in the yard and started in on the next trailer. Rodrigo was fading, but he kept setting the boxes up and I kept moving them around. I thought about what I would do about Gorelick. If he wanted to push it, I’d be out of a job, and I couldn’t afford that. There weren’t that many of them around. But I’d have to see my old man, and the way they had it set up, I’d have to do that during visiting hours. I couldn’t go up there after work and get in, unless it was to see him die at midnight. I didn’t want to talk to Ravenow. I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere with him. He wasn’t big on helping out the workers. I thought maybe I could offer to come in, work the morning and leave at noon. Maybe put in a couple hours off the books to help catch up. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t think I had much choice.

We worked our way through one trailer, started in on another. Three-forty, Rodrigo had to go to the men’s room. He walked across the yard like a dying man in the desert. I climbed up on the trailer, set up a pallet at the back, climbed down and hauled it away. I did that a couple more times, but it was taking too long. I wondered what had happened to Rodrigo. The way he’d looked I was worried. And I didn’t want more trouble with Gorelick. I did a couple more boxes, went to look for Rodrigo.

I found him in the men’s room, sitting on the floor with his back against the tile wall. His head was rolled off to the side and his eyes were closed. He was soaked. He’d been pouring water on himself to cool down, but it hadn’t helped. I shook him, but he barely responded. I thought Rodrigo would need an ambulance. I thought maybe heat stroke. That can be fatal. I went out to find Gorelick.

I found him coming out of the offices. That was where he spent most of his time in the afternoon. With the air conditioning. I told him about Rodrigo.

He thought for a few seconds. “I can’t do anything about that. The guy’s a wetback. We can’t call him an ambulance. He isn’t even supposed to be working here. Besides, what’s the big deal? He’s hot, he’ll cool off. Simple as that. I’ll just dock him until he gets back to work. You’ll just have to get out there and set the pallets up yourself. I don’t have anyone to help you. Get on it.”

“Rodrigo looks really bad. He’s barely awake.”

“He’s screwing around. Tell you what, you get back to work and I’ll go over and check on him. Right now.”

I went back out in the yard. Briscoe was leaning on the forklift, having a smoke. He’d pull the respirator aside, suck the smoke down and blow it out, then put the respirator back until the next hit. When I got there I told him about Rodrigo.

“Yeah, this is one mother of a hot day and he’s been in the trailers all afternoon. He going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. He looked bad, and it doesn’t look like Gorelick is too interested. He’s just pissed off at Rodrigo for slacking off. He said he’d check up on him, but I don’t know.”

“He won’t.”

“No. Probably not. How about, you give it ten minutes, then go in and check on him.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Well, we ought to get something done out here. At least Rodrigo is out of the heat. He’ll probably be all right.”

I got back into the trailer and set up a pallet, then climbed down and moved it over to Briscoe with the forklift. At this rate it would take the rest of the day to do this one trailer. I didn’t care. I was worried about Rodrigo and I was worried about how I would get to see my old man the day of his execution. And I was pissed at Gorelick. I could feel the anger building. Every time I set a pallet down I dropped it hard enough to watch it jump. I kind of wanted a pallet to crumple under the weight of the glass, just to see it happen. Fifteen, twenty minutes went by, I was lightheaded and dripping sweat.

Gorelick came out and walked across the yard as I was climbing down from the trailer. He walked up and pulled his respirator around to the side. “You haven’t got this trailer done yet? What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s hard out here. You see me, I’m working on it. How’s Rodrigo?”

He paused. He’d forgotten all about Rodrigo. All he cared about was that the trailers weren’t being emptied. “He’s fine. I’ll tell him to get his ass back out here, get to work.”

I knew better, but there wasn’t much I could do. I said, “One other thing. About Tuesday. You know, I really have to be there to see my old man. What I was thinking, I could work the morning, then put in a little extra time, you know, Wednesday evening. A couple hours off the books to make it up. How about it?”

“You don’t get it, do you, Malloy? No one cares about your shitheel old man. He’s a scumsucker. He killed one guy he got caught for, who knows how many others. He’s getting what he deserves, except it ought to hurt a lot more than it will. No one cares about him and no one cares about you. I talked to Mr. Ravenow. He doesn’t care about either of you or your lowlife problems. It’s simple. You come in Tuesday and do your job or you go home and stay there.”

He grinned at me.

I went white-hot with rage. Everything around me went red. I knew I couldn’t keep the anger down any more. I had to break something. Gorelick. I fought to stop myself but I knew I couldn’t. I could hear someone yelling. I thought they were yelling at me to hold myself back but I didn’t care.

The other men in the yard were running toward the warehouse. I forced myself to look over there. Just for a second. J.D. and Mulgrew were standing by the doors with Briscoe and a couple of the suits from the office. Bubba was lumbering toward them. Something was very wrong. They all went inside.

I knew it had to be Rodrigo. I started running. I ran into the warehouse. The men’s room door was propped open. They were all standing there, inside, staring down. I got there and pushed my way through.

Rodrigo was lying sideways on the floor where I had left him. He looked like he had settled onto the linoleum and tipped over. He looked like he’d melted. One hand was drawn up to his mouth, one knee bent. His skin was loose and gray. His eyes stared across the linoleum at the bottom of the stalls. He looked like he’d fallen asleep before he’d died.

I hoped he had.

“We called an ambulance,” Briscoe told me. “I don’t think it’s going to matter.”

“No, it won’t.”

I backed away. I walked into the yard and stood in the shade of the overhang. I‘d only known Rodrigo for a few months, but he was all right. He’d come up from Mexico and worked, tried to make it in a strange world. It was my fault he was dead. I should have tried harder to get help for him, but I’d let Gorelick push me around. I’d known Gorelick wouldn’t help him, but I let it go. I felt beaten. Hopeless. My life felt as mean and hard as the crushed glass that lay across the yard in boxes.

I opened my eyes and Gorelick was standing there.

“Listen,” he said. “We need to talk. You can have Tuesday off. Go up and see your old man. Do what you need to do. I was going to let you have it off anyway. I was just screwing with you, you know, pushing your buttons. Thing is, I need you to do something for me. Don’t tell anyone about what happened. You never saw Rodrigo in the men’s room. You never told me about him. It won’t help anyone to bring that up. We’ll both look bad. And I’ll just deny it anyway. Are we clear on this? You help me. I’ll help you. Right?”

My right fist felt like it would go right through his face to the back of his skull. It took him on the side of his mouth and drove him back into the tin warehouse wall. He bounced toward me and I hit him again. Then I threw a couple of left-rights into his ribs and followed that with another right to the face. I lost track. I was just going to keep hitting him until something stopped me, and there wasn’t anyone around. I stopped when he was lying on the asphalt in a pool of blood. I looked around. The yard crew was standing in the doorway with the suits, staring out at me. No one moved. I looked down at Gorelick again. He wouldn’t be getting up. Then I turned and walked away.

I didn’t hurry. I walked out to the parking lot. I thought I had a couple hours before the police got serious about picking me up. They’d spend some time at the scene, getting the details. They’d talk to the witnesses. They’d run me, put out an alert. It would take a while.

It was a two-hour drive to Huntsville. I could still make it during visiting hours. I could get in to see my old man one time before they took me in. It was the best I could do. I didn’t think I’d tell him about killing Gorelick. I wouldn’t want him to worry about me. I wouldn’t want him to think it was his fault the way I ended up. He had enough to deal with. Enough to carry with him.

I thought I’d tell him I had to work Tuesday. That would be enough.

BIO: Brian Haycock lives in Austin, Texas, where he has worked mainly for nonprofit organizations. He enjoys running (especially in the summer heat), hiking and reading stories of all kinds. His stories have appeared in Thuglit, Nefarious, Yellow Mama, Crime and Suspense, Blazing Adventures and other publications. Unlike the people he writes about, he is law-abiding and reasonably sane. Really.

"Exile" by J.E. Seymour

2009-03-17T00:39:00.002-04:00

“Shaping up to be a hot one, right?” This question came from a large black man curling a dumbbell in each hand. His shaved head was glistening with sweat.

“Seems that way, Teddy,” responded a smaller guy. “What’d you think, Duke?”

Kevin Markinson placed the barbell he was lifting onto the supports and sat up on the bench, slipping his wedding ring onto his finger. “It’s July, what’d you expect?”

“This far north though,” the kid persisted. “How hot can it get?”

He snorted. “You don’t want to know.”

All three of them turned when a scuffle started on the far side of the yard.

“What’s going down?” Kevin asked the two in general, not directing it to either of the men with him.

“None of our business, old man,” responded Teddy. “Six years, you haven’t learned that yet?”

“You know what it’s about?”

“New meat.”

Kevin glanced up at the corrections officers in the three towers, none of whom showed any interest in what was going on down in the yard. He got to his feet to watch, looking for any involvement by the screws, but there wasn’t any sign of that. The disturbance didn’t last long anyway, whatever it was. He went back to the bench, removed his ring again and lay flat on his back. “Joey, you wanna spot me?”

“Sure thing, Duke.” The little guy ran to the bench and stood, one hand on the end of the barbell, while Kevin lifted the weight, counting aloud as he went.

“75 pounds, old man? You trying to hurt yourself?” Teddy asked.

Kevin offered an obscenity.

Teddy laughed, and continued curling 75 pounds on each dumbbell.

When Kevin found his way back to his cell at the end of the day there was a young man sitting on a cot in the middle of the little room. Kevin blinked and looked up at the man lying on the top bunk.

“You have any idea what this is about, Robbie?”

Robbie rolled on his side and leaned over the edge of the narrow bunk. “They say the place is crowded, Duke, that’s all I heard. They stuck the new guy in here.” He rubbed his shaved head and grinned, showing off his missing front teeth.

The new guy was fairly light-skinned with dark hair cut close in the typical new guy style. Maybe 20 years old, with a brand new black eye. Kevin didn’t like the way they kept throwing him youngsters. Robbie had been sharing Kevin’s cell for six months now, and was just the latest in a whole line of baby-faced kids. He was pretty sure the staff thought he’d keep them in line, but this kid didn’t look like he needed anyone to keep him in line. He looked scared.

“What’s your name?” Kevin stayed on his feet while he asked.

“Miguel.”

“You don’t look like a Miguel,” snorted Robbie.

“Shut up Robbie,” Kevin said. He directed another question to the kid. “What’re you in for?”

Miguel looked up now, his dark eyes showing defiance, the fear gone for a moment. “I killed a man in a robbery.”

“Did you really?”

Miguel nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty years old and you’ve already screwed up your whole life.”

Robbie laughed.

“Shut up Robbie.” Kevin glared at him, then spoke to Miguel again. “And they sent you up here, to little Siberia. A million miles from anywhere.”

Miguel looked around, as though scanning for the nearest exit.

“You know who this is, little boy?” asked Robbie, leaning down even further, almost to eye level now.

Miguel looked from Robbie to Kevin and shook his head.

“Big man here. Duke used to kill people for the CIA, didn’t you Duke?”

“Shut up Robbie.”

“So why’re you in here?” asked Miguel, his eyes wide.

“Some punk set him up, ain’t that right Duke?” Robbie rolled back onto his back and cackled at the ceiling.

“Shut up Robbie.”

“How many did you kill, old man?” Robbie was giggling.

Kevin stepped over the cot and leaned into Robbie’s face. “I’m willing to add to the count right now if I have to. Get it?”

Robbie laughed louder. “Silly old man. You don’t have the nerve.”

Kevin laid a hand on Robbie’s neck, right on the pulse. “All I have to do is squeeze.”

“Yeah, but you won’t. You’ve gotten soft, listening to the boss, following orders. You don’t have it in you anymore. I heard that you used to break out all the time, that there wasn’t a prison that could hold you. They sent you up here and look at you now, babysitting the new meat. The boss actually trusts you.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Have I lost your respect, Robbie? What do I need to do to get it back, go after a cop? Cause problems for the boss? Get myself hurt?” He turned away. “It’s not worth it.” He knew what the rumors were. He’d been in the warden’s office way more times than anyone had any right to be there, but he also knew that the rumors were way off.

“Did you really kill people for the CIA?” Miguel asked.

Kevin sat on the stool in front of his desk. “If I did, do you think I could talk about it?” He studied the books lined up on the metal shelf. He’d spent the last six years collecting these, always first in line for donated books from local libraries, snatching the discards from the prison library as soon as they were available. He knew he was testing the rules by accumulating them, but so far nobody had moved to take them away from him.

Miguel finally noticed what Kevin was staring at. “What’s with all the books?”

“Some people actually know how to read,” Kevin muttered.

Robbie giggled.

The whistle announcing lights out in five minutes sounded, and the lights themselves blinked once, but stayed on.

“What, they frying somebody?” Robbie asked.

“They still do that?” Miguel responded.

“He’s messing with you, Miguel. They haven’t fried anybody here since 1914.” Kevin got to his feet, pushed his canvas shoes off with his toes, dropped the green pants to the floor, and pulled the green tee-shirt off over his head, all in one motion.

“You were here then, weren’t you Duke?” asked Robbie.

Kevin ignored him as he picked up his clothes and draped them over the foot rail of the lower bunk. Then he closed his eyes and started stretching, reaching, moving slowly through his Tai Chi workout.

“Don’t mind him,” Robbie said, twirling his finger next to his ear. “He’s nuts.”
Kevin resisted the impulse to tell Robbie to shut up. Instead, he worked on his breathing, slowing his pulse, relaxing. He shook each arm out, right down to the long fingers, then climbed into the bottom bunk and lay flat on his back, staring at the springs sagging under Robbie’s weight, waiting for something to happen.

***

Miguel was admiring Kevin’s vegetable plants, bent over, studying the green pods while Kevin pulled weeds.

“These are peas?”

“Yeah.” Peas were the only thing ripe up here, even this far into the summer.

“But they look like beans.”

“The peas are inside.”

“Oh. So how come you own this spot?” He waved his arms to indicate the small plot of land that Kevin was tending.

“It’s my court. I pay a lease on it. Only prison in the state that does this. Might be the only one in the country.” Kevin straightened up. “See that guy over there? He’s got a way to cook in his court.”

It was at this moment that Kevin spotted Jesus Montenga.

“Hey kid. Watchyou doing here?”

Kevin stepped forward. “Leave him alone, Mr. Montenga.”

“Get lost, old man. This is none of your business.”

“You’re making it my business.”

“What, cause the kid was standing next to you? Walk away.”

“Can’t. You’re on my property. You know how it works. This is my court.” Kevin figured this had something to do with gangs, Miguel was from the wrong one or some such nonsense. Kevin had no tolerance for gangs. He usually believed in letting people alone, but he was not willing to stand by and watch his new roommate get knifed in the yard, especially not here, in his garden.

Jesus Montenga turned his dark eyes on Kevin. “Get lost, old man. Less you end up like he’s gonna end up.”

Kevin evaluated Montenga. He was short, but muscled. Looked to be about 25, 26 years old. He’d been here almost as long as Kevin had, and fancied himself the boss. Montenga outweighed him, but Kevin thought he was probably not as smart. Kevin let his eyes drift away from the younger man to check the towers. The COs were looking bored, but watching. That was good. It wouldn’t go too far. He knew those guys wouldn’t cut him a break, but they probably wouldn’t let him get killed, either. That would mean too much extra paperwork.

Montenga’s gang was closing in now, four other guys, all dark-skinned like he was, all younger than he was, all probably armed, like he almost certainly was. Kevin was not armed, he knew better. He really was trying to get along in here, trying after so many years to just serve his sentence and get out in one piece.

“Look, I don’t want no trouble, man.” Miguel backed into Kevin as he retreated from the group. “I just came up here to say hello, that’s all. I didn’t know about no rules.”

“You’re stepping on my pea plants, Mr. Montenga. You need to remove yourself from my property.” Kevin lifted his eyes to the closest tower once more and saw the corrections officer up there talking into his radio.

“I don’t care about your stupid plants.”

“We’re both going to walk out of this, understand?” Kevin directed this to both Jesus and Miguel, although he wasn’t looking at either of them.

“I’m sick of you thinking you run this place, old man.” Jesus stepped forward, ground another plant deliberately under his foot and raised a shiv that had started life as a toothbrush, pressing the sharpened edge against Kevin’s throat.
Kevin wanted to lash out, wanted to sidestep and bring a fist down into the back of the kid’s neck, but he kept his eyes on the tower. How far were they going to let it go?

“Do it,” he whispered. “Go ahead and stick me.”

Jesus stepped back, his eyes clouding with confusion. Kevin took that moment to step sideways, raising his right arm to block and grabbing Miguel with his left at the same time. When Jesus swept with the homemade knife, he caught Kevin across the back of his right arm, just above the elbow. Miguel was not as fortunate. One of Jesus’s pals stuck him in the chest, and he doubled over. As Jesus and his crew slithered off, Kevin dropped beside Miguel, eyes still on the tower. The siren finally went off as he pressed his bare hands against the bloody wound at the bottom of Miguel’s chest. Every other prisoner in the yard dropped to the ground on their faces, hands looped behind their heads, while Kevin remained bent over the young man, who was starting to lose consciousness.

“Get down on the ground.”

Kevin heard the order barked through the loudspeaker, but he ignored it.
“Prisoners on the ground, face down.”

“Yeah, sure,” muttered Kevin as he maintained direct pressure on the wound, watching the blood ooze around his fingers. At least it wasn’t spurting. His arm was throbbing, and he could feel blood running down it, but he wasn’t going to let up on the job he was doing. He heard the booted footsteps before he saw them, the special operations team coming into the yard in their face masks and body armor.
“Get down on the ground.”

“This man is bleeding, you idiot. If I remove my hand, he will bleed to death.” Kevin lifted his eyes now to see the end of a short barreled shotgun. A shotgun. In the yard. His vision was getting fuzzy. That wasn’t right. Maybe he was bleeding harder than he thought. Or maybe they had used gas, but he couldn’t smell any gas. He was so focused on the corrections officer with the gun that he didn’t notice the one with the club.

“On your face, asshole.” This CO brought his club down across the back of Kevin’s neck and he fell forward onto Miguel’s chest.

He came up spitting blood as yet another booted officer kicked him off the kid, and he could actually feel the blood flow increase as his hands came away from the wound. He could hear somebody talking about medical attention, but the voices were fading. He didn’t understand that. He wasn’t hurt that bad, was he? The CO that had kicked him onto the ground was standing over him now. Kevin looked up into the man’s face. He was a seasoned cop, looked nearly as old as Kevin himself. He almost looked scared, but he was barking more orders.

“On your face, roll over onto your face and lock your hands behind your fucking head.”

Kevin looked at Miguel, ignoring the CO for the moment. The blood was spurting now, bright red. Arterial. Kevin reached for the wound, wanting to stop that bleeding. Then somebody whacked him on the side of the head with a club and he passed out.

***

When Kevin came to, he figured was in the hospital ward. He opened his eyes and shuddered. His arm hurt, his head hurt, he felt like he was going to throw up and there was not another human being in sight.

In a minute though, as he licked his cracked lips and considered trying to reach the call button, the big black man, Teddy, walked over.

“Hey old man, you’re awake.”

“I’m going to be sick.” It came out in a hoarse whisper.

“Not on me you’re not.” Teddy reached for a silver pan and Kevin leaned to the left and vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach.

He lay back on the pillow, drenched in sweat, and studied his surroundings. His right arm was bandaged. There was an IV dripping into the back of his right hand. The bed was completely surrounded by closed curtains, which explained why he hadn’t been able to see anyone.

“What you want to be a hero for, Duke?”

“I don’t. I didn’t want to be a hero. I was just in the wrong place.”

“You saved that kid’s life. He nearly bled out, but they patched him up. He’ll live.”

“What are you doing in here, Teddy?”

“I work here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m a nursing assistant. It’s a good job.” Teddy grinned. “Listen, I’m supposed to let the nurse know you’re awake.”

The nurse turned out to be a big white man, well into his fifties. He was carrying a clipboard and making clicking noises with his tongue. “Mr. Markinson. Feeling better?”

“Better than what?”

“Ah, smart guy. I get it. Okay. How long do you want to be here?”

“What?”

“I can keep you here as long as I want. You understand? This is easy time, in here. All the drugs you want, no work, get it? It all depends on what you’re willing to pay."

“I don’t want any drugs. I don’t want to be here.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “You’re here for tonight anyway, because you’ve got a concussion. We put some stitches in your arm, it should be fine.”

***

He didn’t understand why a CO came to get him when the nurse said he could go. It was a youngster, with pimples on his face, no less. That was unusual here. There wasn’t a lot of turnover at this prison.

“Mr. Markinson?”

Nobody ever called him Mister. Well, okay, the nurse had, but nobody else who worked here had ever shown him that much respect. “Yep.”

“I’m going to need to put these on you.” The kid held out a full set of shackles, complete with leg irons and everything.

“Why?”

“Because we have to go see the warden.”

What was with this kid, with his apologies and his respectful attitude? Kevin glanced over at Teddy, who had just come in for his shift, staring open-mouthed.
Kevin decided to try to appeal. “Do we really have to do the shackles?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Fine.” Kevin brought his hands together in front of his body and stood while the kid slapped the handcuffs on, fastened the leg irons, and ran the chain around his waist.

“This way, please.”

Please. That was a hoot. He shuffled down concrete hallways, all of them smelling of mold and bleach at the same time.

The warden’s office was wood paneled and lined with bookshelves. It didn’t smell of bleach, more like cigars. Kevin stood by the door and waited as the young CO backed out as though he was afraid to turn his back on him. The warden didn’t look up, just continued writing. Kevin stood. Finally, the man behind the huge oak desk looked up over the top of his glasses without really looking directly at him.

“Mr. Markinson. Please, have a seat.” The man motioned to a large leather chair in front of the desk. “I’m sorry about the shackles. You know the policy.”
Kevin shuffled across the room and lowered himself into the chair.

“Would you like a cigarette? Camels, right?” The warden produced a pack and held one out.

Kevin got back to his feet and bent over as the man placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. Then he sat back down.

“How’s your head?”

Kevin shrugged.

The warden focused his gaze at Kevin’s chest now, as though someone had told him never to look a dangerous criminal directly in the eye. “That was quite a little adventure you had yesterday. You gave us enough to take Jesus Montenga out of here and get him sent to a different prison. He’ll be doing hard time in the special housing unit at Attica for a while. I appreciate that.”

“Sure you do.”

“The video we took will also result in suspensions for at least two of the SOG officers who showed excessive force in resolving the situation. There was no need for what happened to you. You were clearly not resisting, but trying to provide first aid to a wounded prisoner.”

Kevin didn’t respond, just kept staring at the man.

“The issue of prison brutality has been discussed for years, and nobody has ever tried to do anything about it. This is one of my personal pet peeves. I appreciate your efforts.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’ll remember your sincere appreciation when I get my head kicked in by one of their buddies tomorrow.”

The warden hesitated. “I assumed you’d think I wouldn’t come through.” He held up the pile of papers he’d been signing. “This is your transfer. You’ll be going downstate, closer to home, into medium security with a population more like you, older, more sedate. It’ll be a nice change for you. Easy time. You’ve got less than half your sentence to finish and you’ll be done. Piece of cake.”

Kevin pulled against the shackles to lift his left hand and take the cigarette out. He leaned forward and tapped the ash into a glass ashtray shaped like a duck. "Sure. Piece of cake.”

“The kid will live.”

“That’s good to know.”

“I’m writing up a report to go in your permanent record, explaining how you saved the man’s life.”

“That and five bucks will get me coffee, by the time I get out.”

The warden laughed, but still wouldn’t meet Kevin’s eyes.

“When do I leave?”

“They’re sending a van for you today.”

“Can I get my stuff?”

“Yes.”

Kevin hauled himself to his feet again.

The warden got up as well. “I really do appreciate what you did. I know you got hurt doing it.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He dropped his eyes. “Can I go now?”

BIO: J.E. Seymour lives in a small town in seacoast NH and has had short stories published in two anthologies of crime fiction by New England writers - “Windchill,” and “Deadfall,” and in Thriller UK Magazine, Shots Crime and Mystery Magazine, A Cruel World, Shred of Evidence, Mouth Full of Bullets, A Twist of Noir and Mysterical-E.

"Trooper" by Justin J. Smith

2009-03-09T23:40:00.004-04:00

I got a clear conscience about the things that I've done.

Outside the city the highway stretched like her arms begging for the needle. In the passenger seat she smoked a cigarette. Cancer out the window. Her lipstick left a pink mark on the filter. The sun was crawling back over the hills. Clouds in the sky. The horizon was on fire. We were hurtling towards it.

"How much further?" she wanted to know.

"We're meeting the guy at a spot about 40 minutes up," I said.

She was nervous.

"Can't you get us there any faster?" She scratched her arms.

"Do you want us getting pulled over with all that shit in the trunk? Do you want to go to jail?" Silence. "40 damn minutes, Cynthia. That's all."

"You need a shave and a haircut," she said. She looked out the window and sulked. Her body twisted and I caught a glimpse of smooth olive skin between her jeans and her polka-dot blouse. Always pretending she walked out of the 50s.

We'd switched the license plates on the car before we left town. A stolen avocado-green Cadillac didn't need any help getting attention. The chop shop had torn out the radio. The wind was our music, and there was no changing the station. The sunset threw golden amber at the landscape. We were flies caught in the sticky tree sap.

"Do you even know how to shoot?" She reached for the glove compartment.

"Don't fuck with that." I tensed up. "You never know. You don't know what's gonna happen when we get there. I don't know this guy. Only thing I know is he's a guy called Jimmy. That's all. Better safe than sorry, right?"

We were supposed to meet him at this burger joint up the road, a place called Skinny Steve's. I'd bet good money that Steve wasn't as skinny as we were. I hadn't had a full meal in months, and I wasn't sure that I could stomach a diner for much longer than a few minutes. All the sizzling and the smells made my skin crawl. Something awful about hearing flesh pop and sputter over a grill. I couldn't eat a burger no matter how much mustard you slathered on it.

"You're a real bitch, you know that?"

"Yeah, well you're a real asshole," she said. She had a pair of guns tattooed on her chest. They pointed down, like they were ready to take out her lungs any minute. Once there were mermaids on her arms. By then they were pock-marked demons. She gave them names. This is Lucretia, that's Criseyde. They were damned women. Made sense. They leered at me as the white traffic lines flew past. "Drive faster."

"We need gas."

"You didn't fill up before we left?"

"No, Cynthia, I didn't fill up before we left because we didn't have any money! I've barely got enough in my wallet to get us there as it is. I'll fill us up on the way back as soon as we've got the money."

She'd had curves not too long ago. Back when she was 19, writing poetry and falling for every guy with a five o'clock shadow, she had a habit of passing her love around. One of those guys stuck her with a habit. Another one stuck her with a baby. When it came time to choose between her blood and her veins, the kid got dropped off at Grandma's house and Cynthia went to go chase down some more brown.

I met her in a thunderstorm not long after that. I was sitting at my window watching the lightning when I saw her running through the rain like a wet dog. I grabbed my umbrella, gave a shout, and tossed it to her. Then I invited her in for coffee. She'd been following me around ever since. I didn't like the quiet much anyway, and you always needed more than one person to run a good scam, so I didn't run her off. There was a tattoo across her shoulders that said "Hard Luck Woman," and it was no joke.

Couple years ago I'd tried to help get her clean. I put all the heroin on the coffee table and took the lock off her door from the inside. I stayed awake for four days, every moment keeping an eye on her, the baggie on the desk, and the little black bag with the little black spoon and the little black lighter inside. I thought I could wait her out. I was stupid. By the end of the week she had me tying her off. Within a month she was tying me off. How? Why? It's her smile.

I pulled off the highway to a podunk gas station announced as "The Last Gas Before Baker," which is where we were headed. I went inside and gave the man my ten dollar bill. It was the last thing I had in my wallet. Everything else was spent, pawned or burned.

I leaned out the door and yelled to Cyn "Did you want anything?" She laughed for the first time in months. She winked at me. I got warm inside. She's the only girl that could ever make that happen to me. A look like that and I think maybe there's a reason to keep driving, a reason to keep breathing. We were going to get this money and pay off our debts and check into rehab. If we could stand each other long enough to get to Baker. This guy called Jimmy didn't know it, but he was our ticket out of the gutter. Salvation. Like my Dad used to say, Jimmy and his money were “the light of things hoped for.” I got the tank as full as a ten would do it, and then it was back out on the road.

I didn't see him at first. You'd think that black and white would be hard to miss in all that brown and gold, but I didn't see him. Wish I had.

It happened quick: flashers in the rear view, the siren, the panic.

"What did you do, Kevin? What did we do wrong?"

"Dammit, Cyn! You kept telling me to speed up and look what fucking happened!"

"Shit. Shit. Don't stop. We can't stop."

"Look, just calm down and I'm gonna handle this, OK?" I pulled over. She opened the glove box and pulled out the gun. "Put the--" The State Trooper was already making his way towards the car. "Just keep your mouth shut."

A tap on the window. I rolled it down.

"How's it going today, officer?"

"Well, I'd be doing better if I didn't have to pull you over, son. Do you know how fast you were going?"

"I'd guess about 70, maybe 75, sir?"

"I clocked you at 88." Cyn was fidgeting in the passenger seat. Sweating. "You all right there, ma'am?"

"Oh she's fine, she just gets a little carsick. Not real good on long road trips."

"I was addressing the lady, son. Are you all right?"

Say something. Anything. Say a word and get us out of this.

"You mind if I take a look around the car, sir? Pop the trunk for--"

A bomb went off a foot from my face. Couldn't see. Ears ringing. When I could make out shapes again I saw there was blood. Everywhere. On the car, on me, spurting onto the road. Trooper on the ground writhing. Instinct. Grabbed the gun from Cyn and took aim at the Trooper as he laid on the ground.

He might have been reaching for his gun. Maybe he was reaching up to stop me. I'm still not sure. His eyes were wide. He made a noise from the bottom of his throat, and I thought of those cows in the slaughterhouses.

I fired three more shots solidly into his chest. He convulsed for just a second, then stopped moving.

"What the hell are you waiting for? Let's go!"

I watched the color drain from his face. I thought the blood might never stop.
"Kevin!"

Eventually it pooled like our need and sat impotently, waiting to be swept away or, at best, absorbed into the dirt.

Back on the road. Pedal on the floor. Hope nobody saw us. We had to get to Steve's fast. And then? No idea. Take a back route home with the money? Maybe. We had to get to Baker, get the money, then we could stop and think.

Half an hour down the road Skinny Steve's came into view. Wonderful, a “classic style diner.” Cyn would fit right in.

“You're staying in the car.”

“Like shit I am!”

“Cynthia that was not a suggestion! I don't need you doing anything nearly so stupid as you did back on the road.”

“If I hadn't done what I did we would've been hauled in!”

“If you had answered the man's question we would've been fine! But you flipped! You're staying in the car. He's here in 10 minutes, I'm going inside to wait. I come back out, we open the trunk and trade it for the money, then we go. OK?” She sighed. “OK?”

“OK, you asshole, OK.”

Inside I sat in a booth. Waitress in an impossibly blue dress asked me if I wanted sugar in my coffee, I said I liked it black. Told her that if a guy called Jimmy asked, I was waiting on him. 5 minutes went by. The coffee showed up and it had a layer of oil floating on top. I saw myself reflected in it. I stirred and it disappeared into black and I couldn't see myself anymore. It was hot and bitter. 5 more minutes went by. I bounced on the balls of my feet. 5 more minutes. Half an hour. I told the waitress I'd be back and stepped out the door.

I was rounding the corner to tell her he hadn't shown yet when she ran into me. There was blood coming out of her nose. Hot tears. She threw herself against me and started sobbing into my shoulder.

“He took it.”

“What?” I took off around the corner towards the car, dragging her with me.
The trunk was popped and swaying with the wind. A red car was racing into the distance. Couldn't breathe. Maybe heard her yelling behind me. Ran to the car and looked into the interior of the trunk. With the avocado green color it looked for all the world like an umbrella blown inside out. Our package was gone. Jimmy was gone. We had nothing. From behind I heard a low moan.

I turned and looked at her. She was sitting on the dirt with her arms stretched toward me, looking at her empty hands.

BIO: Justin J. Smith lives in Texas. His work has been featured in the Rio Review and has been rejected by numerous prestigious literary journals.

"Vig" by Dana King

2009-03-03T01:50:00.000-05:00

Frankie Donato said, “You got Tommy Vig’s thirty large?”

“Sure,” Swede Forsberg lied. “You think I got a death wish or something?”
Frankie was one of those friends, Swede didn’t remember why he called him a friend. “Associate” was probably a better word. Frankie was all right to have a beer or three with, maybe head down to The Meadows and bet some sulkies. Not someone to confide in.

That was why Swede had no intention of telling him about how he’d lost the thirty thousand he was supposed to deliver to Tommy Vig tomorrow. Tommaso Vignarelli was his real name. No one called him that. Tommy Vig was easier and more accurate. Tommy was the strictest and most powerful shylock in Pittsburgh. “Vig,” he’d say. “Call me Vig.” Like there was no difference between his name and his income. The three points he charged everyone he carried paper on. The Vig. Juice. Points. Not interest. Bones don’t get broken over interest.

Three points didn’t sound like much to Swede when he went to Tommy after his cut of a hijack came up short. Mortgage companies got – what? – six, six-and-a-half? What Swede forgot – what he always forgot – was why he went into criminality in the first place: because he wasn’t a financial analyst. Mortgage companies get six percent interest a year. Vig’s juice was three percent a week. Every week, payable Thursday afternoon by three. Nine hundred bucks a week. Miss a week? No problem. The new balance is $30,900. The new vig is nine hundred twenty-seven bucks a week. Every week, payable Thursday afternoon by three.

Tommy gave Swede a chance to work off his vig for this week. Go to Baltimore, see a guy owed Tommy money for some flat panel televisions fell out of a container at Patapsco docks. Thirty grand. Tommy told Swede it would do him good to carry around that precise amount of dough. Give him a concrete image of how much he owed.

The trip was worth nine hundred to Swede. Drive four-and-a-half hours, see the guy, drive back four-and-a-half hours. Not counting expenses like gas, tolls, and lunch, Swede could gross a hundred bucks an hour. Not that he’d see any of it. He just wouldn’t have to give Tommy any of his own money.

“Meet me at Pimlico,” the guy told him. “I’ll be in the grandstand, paddock side.” Swede found him by the bar. Real boozer. Even his Daily Racing Form smelled like scotch.

“Have a drink,” the lush said after they were both sure who the other was and the money had changed hands. “On me.” Swede – who only drank when liquor was available – agreed, just to be sociable. One drink led to three, which led to an impromptu meeting of the Council of Those Who Drink Too Much and Stupidly Besides.

About the time Swede lost track of how many drinks he’d had, Vern Hanley – that was the drunk’s name, Vern Hanley – draped an arm over Swede’s shoulders and looked around the bar to make sure no one was listening to the pearl of wisdom he was about to share.

“You wonder why I spent all day in the bar? Haven’t put down a bet all day. You wonder about that?”

Vern answered all Swede’s questions before he had a chance to ask them. “I’ll tell you why. Seventh race. That’s why. Lucky seven.” Vern slurped down the rest of his drink and signaled for two more. “Sure thing. Horse is feeling fast today. Got some extra Wheaties in his feed, you know what I mean. Soapy Feet, or Soapy Wheat, or some soapy thing. Short odds, so no one will suspect a thing.”

The horse’s name was Soapy Pete, and he went off at 2–1. Even Swede’s limited math skills could figure this one. He owed Tommy Vig thirty thousand. He had thirty thousand in his pocket. Bet this thirty, win maybe sixty, pay Tommy the thirty he was picking up plus the thirty he owed him, maybe have a few bucks left over for a steak and some companionship.

Never take gambling advice from a drunk you met half an hour ago.

The horse with the extra incentive was a filly named Sophie’s Sweet in the eighth race. She won by three and paid three-twenty. Soapy Pete ran a gallant race and made up a lot of ground down the stretch. Came from six lengths down to catch all but the head of the seventh race’s winner, a chestnut named Box Cutter.

So when Frankie Donato asked if Swede had Tommy Vig’s thirty large and Swede said, “Sure,” he wasn’t really lying. It wasn’t that Swede didn’t have Tommy Vig’s thirty grand; Swede didn’t have Tommy Vig’s sixty.

Frankie hadn’t come up for air. “Still owe him thirty, right? I mean, besides the thirty you’re carrying for him.”
The last thing Swede needed was for Frankie Donato to remind him how much was half of what Swede owed. “Yeah, Frankie, I still owe him thirty, even after I hand over the thirty I’m carrying. That thirty’s not mine, has nothing to do with me, except to work off my vig for the week.”

“Take it easy, Swede. No need to get testy on me.” Frankie sipped an IC Lite and lit a cigarette. “It’s gotta hurt. What are you paying? Nine a week?”

“You know it’s nine. You just busting balls, or do you have a point?”

Frankie slid his empty glass across the bar for a refill. “What if I knew a way to get you out from under?” Real cool about it, like asking, “Is it raining out?” or, “Is your sister busy Saturday?” Trying not to sound too interested.

“Go on.” Swede’s last time listening to someone else’s bright idea was fresh in his mind. No point being too eager.

“I know a guy might be able to help out.” Frankie pulled his fresh beer toward him with one hand and pushed a buck across the bar with the other. Efficient.

“What kind of work?”

“No work. There’s this guy, he wants to get some money on the street. Willing to knock off some of the juice to build a customer base.”

“How much?”

“Half. Says he’ll only charge a point and a half.”

“You telling me you know a discount shylock? Does Vig know about him?”

“Not yet.” Frankie had this way of drinking, never lifted the glass more than he had to, brought his head down to the beer. Made him look like one of those toy birds, bobbing its head in the cold water forever. “Like I said, this guy’s just starting out.”

“All he’ll do is start out. Once Vig hears about him, he’s gone.” Swede thought about the possibilities. “Unless he brings some juice of his own.”

“What do you care?” Frankie said. “You borrow thirty from Sid, pay off Vig, then you pay Sid half as much each week. Or you pay the same and actually pay down the debt. So what if Vig hears about it? Even if he runs Sid off, or clips him, you’re out clean.”

This had potential. Frankie didn’t look nearly as drunk as Vern Hanley had, and Swede knew Frankie. They weren’t kissing each other on the mouth, but he was a stand up guy, as far as it went.

“He hangs in Wilkinsburg. Joint called Klimo’s. Look for him around nine. Tell him I sent you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why can’t I just be doing a friend a favor?”

“I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe because you’ve never done it before.”

“Go ahead. Be that way. If you must know, Sid says he’ll split the first week’s vig with me. You happy now?”

As a matter of fact, knowing Frankie would get two and a quarter from the deal did make Swede happy. It was nice money for no real work – free, really – and not so much that Frankie might be inspired to color outside the lines on something that might roll back on him if it went bad.

Swede thanked Frankie – not too much, kind of like that “Is it raining?” thing – and beat feet over to Klimo’s. Place was pretty busy for a Wednesday. Bar about half full, four empty booths out of the dozen. Lights on the half-shell made sure no one was identifiable from more than a few feet away.

Sid Kresge sat in the last booth, across from the men’s room. Hair combed straight back, moderate to heavy grease. Pinky rings on both hands, class ring on his right ring finger, diamond crusted wedding band on the left. Held an unlit cigar as thick as his thumb, never put it in his mouth.

Swede sidled up to the booth. “You Sid?”

“Am I Sid? Am I Sid? I don’t know. It depends. Are you in need of cash? Now?” Kresge looked Swede right in the eye through the whole act. “Yes, I see it. A man looking for cash always has that look. Yes, I am Sid. Sid Kresge. Have a seat, my new friend. I can feel it, the start of a wonderful relationship.”

Swede sat down and Kresge ordered a couple of drinks. Straight bourbon for Swede, B and B for Sid. Sid paid.

“I always pay for my customers. You’re going to be giving me a lot of money for as long as you want to. I can afford a drink.”

Swede sipped his drink while Kresge carried on about a woman at the bar, Arabs, how much do you think this ring is worth, why the Pirates never win, Israel, and whatever else crossed his mind. Swede looked around for some people, a crew, something to show Kresge had muscle. The man sat in a bar doing everything but wear a sandwich sign said “Shylock.” He either had juice from on high or he was the dumbest schmuck in the world.

“Let’s talk money, Swede.” Somewhere in Kresge’s ten minute monolog he’d got Swede’s name. Swede didn’t remember giving it to him. Swede didn’t remember saying much of anything during the wall of sound Kresge used as small talk. If he had, he didn’t see how Kresge could have noticed it. Maybe Kresge had more on the ball than Swede figured.

“How much you need?” Kresge looking straight at him now, all business.

“It ain’t like I need it, like needing it, you know,” Swede said. “It’s just I got some opportunities.”

“Right, I understand.” Kresge had a voice that made everything sound sincere, then ruined it with eyes that said whatever came out of his mouth was sarcasm, if you were lucky. “You don’t need it, like needing it, I know. You just like to support small businesses and would rather pay me fifty times what you’d pay a bank.

“Don’t say it. Banks and you don’t get along. That’s fine, Swede. You and I have no problem. We’re going to get along fine. You know why? Because I’m only going to charge you half as much as that guinea crook Tommy Vig. You know why? The golden goose, that’s why. There’s more money out there than any of us can spend, Swede, if everyone just takes their cut. Big if, I know. People are naturally greedy. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Tommy Vig’s bleeding you dry. Think of me as Sid, The Tourniquet. I’m here to stop your bleeding. Tell me how much blood you need.”

Swede figured he might as well. There was no other way he’d get to talk. “Sixty.”
“That’s a pretty deep hole, Swede. You’re smart to quit digging. I think you may be in luck.” Kresge fished around in a briefcase on the booth beside him. “Slow night tonight. I’ll bet I got that much on me.”

Swede almost spit a mouthful of bourbon across the table. He had it with him. This guy either had the heaviest connections in the world, or he was even dumber than Swede thought.

“Point and a half a week. When are you paying Tommy?” Swede told him fast, while Kresge snuck in a quick breath. “Pay me Thursdays at three, then. Make it easy to remember. Not tomorrow, right. Might as well keep the nine hundred, I’ll do that much for you.

“Here’s ten.” Kresge rummaged in his case, came out with a wrapped stack of bills. “Count it.” His hand disappeared back into the case.

“Here?!” Swede felt his bowels loosening. “You want me to count it here?”

Kresge stopped fooling with the bag long enough to hit Swede with a stare that would’ve done Tommy Vig proud. “I’m not going to let you take it home and claim later I shorted you.” The semi-retarded smile came back as fast as it had gone. “It’s okay. It’s dark back here, no one’s around. How long have you been doing this? You got to relax.”

Enough shylocks had bled Swede over the years for him to know they didn’t carry briefcases full of hundred dollar bills to pass out in public places. He really did have to regroup now. Kresge kept pulling money out of the case, piling it on the table, away from the light of the sconce. Thirty grand now. Swede excused himself to go to the can.

Kresge never looked up. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

“All right,” Swede said between his teeth, “but put that money away.”
Kresge gave a look like Swede’s comment had been another in a long line of insults to his professionalism. He held the briefcase in one hand and swept the piles of cash into it with a flourish. “If it will make you feel better.”

Personal business concluded, Swede threw cold water on his face at the sink. He could be out from under when he saw Tommy tomorrow afternoon. Almost out. He’d still owe the nine hundred vig from the week just ending. What the hell, hit Kresge up for it when he got back. It would only add – drop the zero, add half what was left – a hundred thirty-five bucks to the weekly nut. No, not one thirty-five. Thirteen-fifty. Thirteen dollars and fifty cents. Peace of mind every week for the price of a cheap CD.

Tommy Vig would kill him if he found out. Kresge must have protection, or he’d be dead already. If Vig couldn’t whack Kresge, he’d dry up the pool of customers. Unless Kresge was so well connected his umbrella covered his customers, too. Not likely, Carmine Bevilacqua favoring a Jew over a paisan, but money was thicker than blood with these guys. The fact that Kresge was still walking around, flaunting his business like he did, was all Swede needed to prove he was connected. Whether he was connected enough to cover Swede wasn’t important. Vig might kill him for taking the loan. Vig would kill him – tomorrow – if Swede walked in without the thirty large he’d been sent to pick up in Baltimore.

Some concentrated thought, and world without debt called to Swede. At a point and a half he could pay off the principle. No more weekly juice. This kind of thinking had allowed Swede to pay $51,300 in interest on a thirty thousand dollar loan and still owe thirty thousand. It never occurred to him his weekly payment would still be as heavy a load as what Tommy Vig had been killing him with for over a year, because now he owed twice as much.

Swede spent more time in Klimo’s men’s room thinking on these prospects than he’d thought about anything since he’d spent that weekend with Carla Mitchell after she told him there was a chance she might – probably didn’t, but could – have herpes. The results would teach the value of patient thought – even faulty thought – to any man.

All that thinking saved him twice. Deciding to take Kresge’s cash would keep Tommy Vig from killing him for being short on tomorrow’s delivery. It also meant he was in the men’s room when Sal Imperioli came to Kresge’s booth.

* * *

Sal Imperioli had made a lot of money from the restaurant unions and Carmine Bevilacqua thought he was a comer. Problem was, Sal couldn’t get made until he broke his cherry, and legitimate hits were hard to come by in modern Pittsburgh. Established guys got what work there was. The territorial dispute between Tommy Vig and Sid Kresge was made to order. Carmine would loan Sal out to Tommy Vig to clip Kresge. Vig loses a competitor, Sal gets made, and Carmine solves two problems with one solution. A true win-win. Except for Sid Kresge.

There was a catch: not even Sid Kresge was dumb enough to operate out in the open without some muscle behind him. He paid a percentage of his weekly take to Carmine for protection, and to outsource the collection of delinquent accounts as necessary. A true Twenty-first Century solution.

Carmine didn’t mind taking pieces of both Kresge’s and Tommy Vig’s action, as long as they were both good with it. Carmine didn’t see any direct competition, thought Kresge was going after niche work, nickels and dimes here and there, accounts beneath Tommy Vig’s attention. Worst case scenario, Vig would clip Kresge himself, and no one but Carmine would be any the wiser.

No one could have figured Kresge would try the discount shylock bit, and undercut Tommy Vig’s rates. Even worse, that lazy prick Tommy decided he wanted some service for all the street tax he’d paid over the years, and came back to Carmine to get rid of Kresge.

Carmine Bevilacqua didn’t get to be the boss of western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio from Youngstown south, and the parts of West Virginia worth having rackets in by failing to seize opportunities. Tommy Vig was bitching, Sal Imperioli needed a notch on his gun, and Sid Kresge had broken the deal he had with Carmine by infringing on Tommy Vig’s action. The fact that Sid had no such arrangement with Carmine never entered into it. Tommy Vig was a made guy, and even the boss couldn’t afford to get caught screwing with a made guy’s income. Sid was just some schmuck who made extra cash from running a chop shop out the back of his car lot, wanted to put his money to work, and saw too many episodes of The Sopranos. He had to go, and Sal was just the guy to do it.

Disappointing Carmine was not an option for Sal. It didn’t matter that neither Carmine nor Tommy Vig told him why Sid Kresge had to go. Just knowing he had to go was enough for Sal. He followed Kresge for a week, learned his habits. The habit Sal liked best was the one where Kresge sat in the same booth in the same dim bar for five hours every night. Kresge talked to everyone who came by, never know who your next customer’s going to be, right? So Kresge never flinched when Sal slid into the booth and told Sid he had something for him. Two in the side of the head from a silenced .22 was what he had. The untraceable gun he left in the booth. Shell casings could be linked to the gun, but not to him, since he’d wiped them down and worn gloves when he loaded the magazine.

The contents of the briefcase Sid’s mortal remains were slumped over held no mystery for Sal; he’d watched Sid take cash out of it for a week straight. He wanted to move Sid’s body to get at the cash, but this was Sal’s first hit. Everything went smooth as Gina Feroce’s ass until Sal actually pulled the trigger. Now it seemed as though everyone in the joint was watching him. The waitress caught his eye. Two of the guys shooting pool looked up. Sal had almost convinced himself no one had heard anything – they hadn’t – when the men’s room door opened and Swede Forsberg came out.
Sal was in his car before anyone but Sid knew for sure he’d been in Klimo’s. Sid wasn’t saying.

* * *

Swede missed all this, practicing his thinking in the john. He threw more water on his face, hitched up his courage and pants, and left the men’s. Someone was talking to Kresge, maybe giving him a story the way they were huddled together, so Swede hurried himself over to the booth while Kresge still had enough money to bail him out. The other guy left before Swede got a good look at him and Swede slid into the booth next to Kresge. “Okay, I’m in. Better make it sixty-one even to get me out completely.”

Not getting an answer surprised Swede a little. Kresge must have heard him, hunched over the briefcase like maybe he was playing with the cash again. Swede noticed Kresge wasn’t moving at the same time he recognized the new smell in the booth. Swede lacked a head for figures, but it didn’t take Stephen Hawking to figure Kresge not moving plus the smell of cordite equaled one dead shylock. It crossed Swede’s mind this might be the longest Kresge had been quiet since he was born.
Swede’s first thought was to look unobtrusive and get the hell out. Then a second thought sparked somewhere in the far of reaches of his crocodile brain. Dim, but Swede’s brain didn’t have enough fuel for any idea to burn too bright. It was Swede Forsberg’s eureka moment, his apple falling from the tree, lightning hitting his kite. The only thing that could keep Swede from becoming Sid Kresge’s celestial pinochle partner was still in the booth: the briefcase with the money.
It took this previously unexercised part of Swede’s brain a minute to sort out the possibilities. The money had to be in the case. The shooter would’ve taken the whole case; he wouldn’t go picking through it. Everything Swede needed to pay off Tommy Vig forever sat in a briefcase not three feet away. The briefcase with a dead man sprawled across it.

The options were clear: move the dead man, or become one. He screwed up his courage for the second time in five minutes – the second time in thirty years, and first since the Carla Mitchell weekend – and pulled Sid’s body upright. Good thing Swede had just come from the john. Sid exhaled when Swede stood him up, scared him so bad anything not already deposited would have been public knowledge. He composed himself again, reached around, and took the briefcase. Left Sid where he was. He hadn’t bled much, and the best light was on the intact side of his head. No one would know until the waitress came by with a refill and learned a whole new meaning for the term deadbeat customer.

Swede didn’t dare look in the case until he had it in the car. He wanted to drive away first, but a man who’d bet thirty thousand dollars on a fix he heard of from a drunk he’d known for half an hour doesn’t have that kind of discipline. He counted the money, figured out he had almost sixty-five hundred to spare, and almost knocked himself out bumping his head against the roof of the car.

Happy ending, right? Tommy Vig gets his money. Swede gets out from under. Sal Imperioli earns his button. No losers. (Except for Sid, rest in peace.) Swede was so happy, he was thinking divine intervention. His luck must be turning, and he knew to ride a lucky streak. He rode this one all the way to the Meadows, where a tout he knew put him onto a sure thing in the third race. And the fifth, to recoup the unfortunate events of the third. And then the eighth.

A couple of strip car thieves found Swede Forsberg in his trunk the next Tuesday. He’d been shot twice in the side of the head with a .22 and his pockets were turned inside out, the mark of a deadbeat. Tommy Vig had his best collection week ever.

BIO: Dana King lives in Laurel MD and works at an undisclosed location in Washington DC. He has previously had stories published by New Mystery Reader and ThugLit, and has over 100 reviews and several interviews published by New Mystery Reader. This is his first story for Crooked.

"A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing" by Cormac Brown

2009-02-26T00:38:00.000-05:00

“Hey, ‘Spinner,’ come sit on my lap!”

Whew.

If Delia had a dollar for every time that she heard that…well, she wouldn’t be a millionaire. She would, however, be able to afford dinner at the most expensive restaurant back home in Enid, Oklahoma.

“Come on over here ‘Spinner,’ the man chimes again and he pats his lap. That is, what could be almost considered a lap. Some people talk about double-chins, he has a quadruple stomach.

She does her best to stifle a shudder and she moves past him. Irritated as she is, she lets his remarks and smooching noises slide, because she doesn’t want to attract the unwanted attention that would come with putting him in his place. She is under the radar and she wants to stay that way.

Delia has on the standard off-duty uniform for a place like this; her hair is up in a ponytail, very little or no make-up, sweat pants, a tight t-shirt, and usually a sweatshirt, though in her case, a hoodie on over that. She could easily be going to a health club instead of here, including the oversized gym bag, and that bag is crucial.

She knows the required walk for this joint, too, which is Marilyn Monroe on a treadmill set to 8 MPH. This way the men will notice her for the wrong reasons and so will all the women. All the better to get over on people and to get out when it counts.

Another man makes a “spinner” comment, and she recalls that the first time she ever heard that remark, she believed it to be a term of endearment. That is, until she saw the look in the eyes of the degenerate that said it. As much as she’s dying to know just exactly what that means, she won’t look it up on her computer. If these economic times weren’t as difficult as they were, she would never, ever, be in a place like this…doing what she is about to do.

As a matter of fact, she grew up in a house where dancing was strictly forbidden and wearing anything more than a little lipstick meant that you were a harlot that deserved to be lashed at with a belt. Since then, both of her parents had passed on, and while she would never miss her father with his propensity to punish her for everything that she did, no matter how minute…she really missed her mom.

Delia figured that despite her designs, her mother would be right there next to Saint Peter to welcome Delia right through the Pearly Gates. Just as you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet, maybe it was okay to commit a small sin in order vanquish the many greater sins of others.

***

Lamont Hubble likes to keep his office neat, but his business is messy by nature and things get away from him. Right now he is trying locate a medical form in a sea of papers. The music that constantly plays in the background here usually doesn’t bother him, but today is the exception.

“I can’t find it, Bianca,” he mutters into the telephone. Between the music and the phone bouncing around in the crook of his neck as he searches for the form, Bianca can’t hear him.

“I said I can’t find it! What do you mean, you can’t hear me? I said it in English, I-can’t-find-it! No, I didn’t take it out of the room…none of the dancers are stupid enough to come in here. I’d shit-can them away. No, Bianca…honey, I’m sure of it, I have security cameras and all the employees know that. That’s why they stay the hell out.”

Lamont puts a cigarette in his mouth, and it struggles to stay there as he searches through the piles of paper.

“The point is that she told the hospital to bill the club…why don’t I pay it? Hey there, missy, this place puts a roof over your head, food in your mouth, as well as a new pair of shoes and a new purse every single week. They are independent contractors! If I had to pay every time one of my dancers twisted an ankle or ruptured an implant, you’d be living out of a car, and it wouldn’t be your Mercedes anymore, because that would be repossessed!”

Lamont clicks a mouse, types in a password and a program opens up on his computer. He clicks an arrow and the footage of his office for the last twenty-four hours appears on the screen. He clicks the fast-forward and the footage speeds up. As he keeps one eye on the footage, he tries to light the cigarette in his mouth, but his lighter is out of butane.

“Bianca, please, I sure as hell don’t tell you how to shop, so don’t tell me how to run my business,” he grumbles. He madly thumbs his lighter in vain and if he’d calm down, he would remember that there are matches in his top drawer.

“Yes, honey, I am a Christian, but I am a businessman too,” Lamont whines. His cigarette falls out of his mouth as he notices something on the screen. “Bianca? I gotta go…no, really, I gotta go,” and he hangs up the phone.

The footage almost goes to the end, but there is a flicker. He cues it back and he sees that the office door has opened up and somebody has come in. Lamont tilts his head and peers under his desk. There is a beautiful petite woman down there, and while she looks like she could be one of his club’s strippers, he knows that he’s never seen her before.

Lamont leans back in his chair and tugs his zipper. “Hey, baby, as long as you are down there…”

It’s Delia.

She leans forward and Lamont pulls his zipper down, but the smile on his face vanishes like that of a lap dancer when a trick runs out of bills, because she points a .45 right at his crotch. His pallor turns from tanning machine rustic brown to pale goth.

“Whoa, whoa, there’s no need to take it like that! I thought someone sent you as a present. I didn’t mean anything untoward.”

“Move back slowly and don’t get any ideas about kicking me,” Delia says firmly, “unless you want to find out just how fast I can put all eleven bullets into you.”

Lamont notices how steady her gun hand is and he’s worried. If there is something that he’s learned through all the years of having various businesses in both the marginal parts of town and shady dealings in the good parts of town, a shaky gun hand is bad because that means they might shoot you accidentally, and a steady hand usually means that they have no problems shooting you.

So he gets up slowly. She motions to a sizable poster of a sizably-enhanced woman.

“Open the safe and don’t pretend that you don’t know the combination, because I know that you own this place. Oh, and if you think I won’t kill you just because you refuse to open it? I can just shoot you and nobody will hear it over the music. Then I’ll rob the dancers instead.”

Lamont swallows hard as he runs through the combination. He knows that he could knock her out with just one little tap; he’s just picking out the right moment in his head.

“You shouldn’t tense and flex like that. Your body language says that you’re doing math in your head, and that’s bad. You may have ten inches in height and 100 lbs. over me, but the trigger on my gun is very sensitive, you understand? It might even be worse than a hair-trigger. So what that really adds up to is I might just sneeze and empty half of the clip into you before I even realize it.”

Delia presses the .45 into the middle of Lamont’s spine and he shivers. He opens the safe and-

“All right, step back from there slowly; I don’t want you pulling out any weapons you might have stashed.”

Lamont backs up slowly and-

Ah-chooo!

“Oh, God!” Lamont yips.

“Whew, must be my allergies.”

Delia faked a sneeze to keep him in line. She surveys his office; she sees something suitable for her purposes and motions for Lamont to get down. He gets down on his knees and she shakes her head.

“No, that’s not going to work. All the way down, flat on the carpet.”

Lamont blinks hard and stifles a snivel. He hyperventilates.

“Close your eyes and you will get a big, big, surprise,” Delia says in a way that is so sultry that she even surprises herself.

Lamont’s eyes squeeze so tight that he looks like a constipated prospector who has spent all of his life in the sun. Delia tucks her .45 in her left arm and puts gloves on. She quietly grabs one of Lamont’s bowling trophies and he cries out at the sound of her rapidly approaching high heels. She hits him on the head, hard.

After a few seconds, he lets out a groan and she hits him again. He’s out cold, though she gives him a swift kick between the legs to make sure.

She pulls the oversized gym bag out from under the desk and makes her way to the safe. Well, one thing she has to say about Lamont; unlike most strip club owners, he keeps his money bundled in five neat stacks. Of the fourteen jobs that she has pulled, this looks like it is going to be her biggest haul ever.

***

Delia tries desperately to not look like the cat that swallowed the canary and her walk is more subdued, though that is more in an effort to counter balance the money.

“Sweet spinner, come talk to me, I have plenty o’ money and nothin’ but time,” coos the man with almost no lap.

She stops, she sneers and she is on the verge of giving him a piece of her mind. Then the bigger picture gives her a mental kick in the rear and she walks on.

“My name is Baron,” says the man lacking a lap. He almost falls off the bar stool with his poor effort to pour the sugar on.

Delia allows herself a smile as she finally gets outside. Her eyes adjust to the setting sun and then a partial eclipse happens right before her eyes! It’s one of the club’s bouncers, a muscle-head that is so large that his neck is almost as big as both of her thighs put together.

“You, new girl, you have to go on.”

Delia looks over her shoulder in hope that this poster child for too many steroids is talking to someone else, but she knows better.

“I don’t work here-”

“-And I don’t care. Madison called in sick, so that means that you have to replace her.”

He grunts and grabs Delia’s right arm…the arm carrying the money. Before she knows it, he has almost dragged her past the length of the bar. She knows it would be futile to dig her heels in, so she gives him a couple of light kicks in the back of his legs, to get his attention.

“For the last time, I-don’t-work-here!”

“Madison’s spot has to be filled…look, me and you are going to talk to Mister Hubble about this.”

The bouncer resumes yanking her along, Delia unzips the bag and pulls out her .45. She mulls whether she should shoot him in the back when the dancer that is onstage screams.

Unlike in the movies, the music doesn’t stop with a scratched record…only because the DJ has ducked under his turntables. Baron and a few other people flee for the front door, and he almost trips over one of them.

The bouncer’s head follows the dancer’s eyes and he realizes he’s facing down the barrel of Delia’s gun. Because they are right by a speaker, she has to shout, “I told you that I don’t work here!” The bouncer’s eyes go wide; he lets go and puts his hands up.

The very thing that Delia doesn’t want, happens. From under the bar, the bartender pulls a revolver out. Before he can take aim and before she can even think about it, her survival instinct kicks in and she shoots him twice. The bartender swoons, and as he enters his death throes he squeezes his trigger. The bullet narrowly misses Delia and hits the stripper onstage, killing her instantly.

The bouncer tries to rush Delia and she puts three slugs into him, knocking the giant back on his ass.

***

Baron gasps and wheezes as he reaches the parking lot. He panics because he can’t find his truck, as there are a dozen more vehicles that weren’t here when he came in.

***

“Get back and sit down!” Delia yells to stem the tide of fleeing people. She herds the crowd back with her gun and they trip over themselves. “I said, get back!” and she fires one in the ceiling to send the stampede back towards the stage.

***

Baron finally locates his truck and he opens the door. He tries to unlock his shotgun from its rack, but he feels like an elephant is standing on his chest and he wonders if he is about to have a coronary. He hears the clacking of heels and he nearly breaks his key trying to get the rack’s lock open.

With her eyes so full of tears, Delia can barely see where she’s going. In the thirteen other strip club robberies that she has pulled, she has never hurt anyone but the owners, and she’s never shot a human being in all of her life. All of her rationales have gone out of the window, “the small sin that vanquishes the greater sins of others.” “The Robin Hood.” She is just a common murderer now.

She worries that maybe she might have made someone else an orphan just like herself. She knows that this time around, the police will double their efforts to hunt her down…maybe the FBI will get involved, too. She worries that after this, she won’t be able to see her momma in Heaven.

She contemplates turning the gun on herself…then her flight instinct kicks in and she kicks her heels off and puts them in the bag.

No one has come out of the club by the time she reaches her car and she has yet to see a police car. Her car is a convertible, the on extravagance that she has allowed herself in life. She panics as she starts it and floods the engine. Delia pounds the steering wheel in frustration and her tears pour forth.

She sobs for a few moments, wipes the tears from her mascara-streaked face and starts her car. She doesn’t notice the still-panting Baron sneaking up on her with his shotgun in hand. She pulls away before he can raise it. He follows her out into the street and he takes aim.

Delia catches a glimpse of something in her rearview mirror and then the shotgun roars. She flinches as the pellets strike the back of the convertible’s top, shattering its small glass window and ripping over a dozen holes in its fabric. Baron racks another shell in his shotgun and is about to take aim, when something more pressing needs his attention…a semi.

The sleep-deprived driver of the truck has just woke up from the shotgun’s report. He is in full panic. The truck’s brakes are locked up and the truck is skidding. He wonders just where he is and just what the hell is this man doing, standing in the middle of the road?

For some odd reason, Baron’s adrenaline does not kick in and his life does not flash before his very eyes. Instead, he has just enough time to wonder just where the fuck did this truck come from? Baron’s bulk actually bucks the truck’s left front tire up four inches in the air as it bounces off of him. The next two sets of wheels rock as they go over the human speed bump that was formerly known as “Baron.”

The sun has almost set on Delia as she turns the corner. She winces and lowers the top on the convertible.

***

As the sun sets over the horizon in outer Fayetteville, Marco Turner’s mind is still stuck on where he can get his first meal of the day. Tall for his thirteen years, panhandling has been getting him nowhere because he is past the “cute stage.” He doesn’t want to steal and he definitely doesn’t want to go home tonight. Right around this time, his Uncle Gene goes from his “Mr. Hyde” stage to “Mr. Hyde on a drunken psychotic episode” stage.

A car has been following him for about a quarter of a block now, and he knows from extremely close calls not to get into cars with so-called “friends,” much less strangers. He considers doubling back to shake whomever it is when the car pulls up. Even though the top of the convertible is already retracted, the driver rolls the passenger window down. He sees that it is a woman, weakened and pale as a ghost.

“Hi,” Delia says, barely above a whisper. She turns her engine off.

Marco looks back. He believes her to be some kind of bait and that a bunch of guys are lurking near by, waiting to beat the shit out of him. He scans the street.

“Look…you have no reason to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I just want to help someone out?”

“No thank you, Miss, “ Marco says and goes back the way he came. “Wait!” Delia pleads and the genuine pain in her voice, gets Marco’s attention. He returns.

“I don’t have…much time,” she sighs and holds up the bag. She pulls the gun out and Marco freezes with fear. Delia throws the gun in the backseat, but Marco is still justifiably wary.

“Please…take this,” she mumbles and offers up the bag. Even as dark as it is, Marco can recognize the familiar green and white of the paper he so seldom sees. He scans the street one more time and he reluctantly takes it from her hands.

Delia smiles, then her eyes flutter and she slumps into her steering wheel. With her head and back now exposed, Marco can see that she is wounded. The driver’s seat is soaked with blood that looks almost purple in this limited light.

Marco zips the bag up and he makes one final scan of the street. He goes around to the driver’s side and he gently pushes her back toward the seat. He sees that she has a cell phone in her cup holder. Marco reaches in, dials the phone, wipes his fingerprints off of it with his shirt, and puts the phone in Delia’s lap.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Marco gently touches Delia’s cheek and walks away.

“Hello? What’s your emergency?”

BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. Some of my stories have appeared in Flashing In The Gutters, Powder Burn Flash, Six Sentences, and A Twist Of Noir. My story "Tit-For-Tat," appeared in the premiere issue of Astonishing Adventures Magazine and I have two stories coming up in the next two issues of that magazine.