A Twist Of Noir 114 - Jim Winter

HIGHWAY 101 - JIM WINTER

If Brian Selkirk had his way, he'd have slept in this morning. He would not be sitting in his car with the busted air conditioner outside a strip mall in Salinas. He looked at his watch. Noon. If Todd ever got his ass out of the bank, Brian could have him in LA by tonight and be back to the Bay Area by daybreak. Why he agreed to drive Todd to LA, he'd never know.

Nor could he figure out why Todd flew to Oakland instead of going straight to Los Angeles. It wasn't like Brian missed him since the Dayton Correctional Facility.

Todd burst out of the bank, hunched over and sprinting across the street like a running back. He jumped up, slid across the hood, and climbed in through the passenger window.

“Drive,” he said through clenched teeth.

“What?” said Brian.

Todd, wide-eyed with his black hair dancing madly around his skull, hissed at him again. “Just drive.”

Brian turned the ignition and pulled out into traffic. In his rear view, he saw two or three people spill out of the bank looking around. He turned the corner and headed back toward 101. “What did you...?”

He stopped. Todd pulled the bank bag away from himself and tossed it in the backseat. Blood soaked his white T-shirt.

He grinned at Brian. “We're back in business, brother. How fast can we get to Mexico?”

“We?”

“You're an accomplice. You think you're going to get off driving away a fugitive?”

A sheriff's cruiser and two CHP motorcycles flew past, sirens going. Brian started to slow down.

“You're not doing what I think you're doing?” said Todd. He held a scarred Glock in his lap, the barrel pointed at Brian. “I can't let you end this ride too soon. Not until we get to the border.”

*

Todd Barker showed up on Brian's doorstep three days before, claiming to be out of prison and looking to start over in California.

“Just like you,” he said.

“You want to tend bar and live in a crappy studio apartment on Treasure Island?” said Brian.

“Actually, I got something lined up in LA,” said Todd. “Think you could hook me up with a ride?”

“I can loan you a few bucks for Cal Train.”

“What the fuck's Cal Train?”

“You can go almost anywhere in California by train.”

Todd laughed, making himself at home in the studio apartment without bothering to ask Brian. “Shit, they keep talking about starting that up in Ohio.”

“Ohio's a dying state,” said Brian. “That's why I came here. But what brings you here? Why not fly straight to Los Angeles?”

“Simple. I got nothing. I barely had enough to fly into Oakland. Thought you could help. Do you know how hard it is to track someone down who's not on parole?”

Brian had deliberately stayed off the radar. It kept the local cops out of his hair and didn't attract unwanted attention from Ohio. The only flaw in that theory was...

“You want to see Marlon.”

Todd grinned. “I miss that old guy. I was hoping he'd be able to hook me up where you work. Where is the old faggot?”

Brian felt ill. The last time he'd seen Marlon, he wondered if he'd ever see the old biker again. “San Quentin.”

“San Quentin. What's he doing there?”

“Dying.”

*

“Pull over on the next exit,” said Todd as they sped down Highway 101. “I need to change.”

Brian looked over at his former cell mate. “Trusting, aren't you?”

Todd smirked. “You won't go anywhere. You're an accomplice.”

“I can cry coercion.”

“An ex-con crying coercion? They'll run your record and decide you're trying to roll on me. Then where would you go to start over?”

“Vegas.”

Todd shook his head. “Don't think so. You're going in with me.”

Brian pulled off the 101 somewhere north of Gonzales at a gas station so old it still had a Pure Oil sign over the lot. Todd neatly hid the blood and his gun and marched Brian into a dirty bathroom. The john stank, and rust coated the sink. Sure, the cells at the Dayton Correctional Institute were disgusting, but this made them look like a room at the Sheraton. He kept his back turned to Todd as he changed into a fresh T-shirt.

“Next stop, Los Angeles,” said Todd. “Then you tell me where Marlon kept his stash.”

“Can't do that, Todd. I promised Marlon.”

“And Marlon's dying in yet another prison cell. How'd that old faggot get busted again, anyway?”

Brian whirled on Todd and planted his foot in the other man's groin. “Because someone like you framed him for a job, just like you're doing me.” He kicked Todd in the knee for good measure. “There's always some loser like you who won't let anyone leave the life.”

Todd started to bring up the gun when Brian lunged and snatched it from him. He shoved the barrel into Todd's nose.

“We're going to LA alright,” said Brian. “But since I'm your accomplice, you're going to do it my way. Understand?”

Todd nodded, his eyes wide. “You leave me, I'll just kill you later.”

“So you don't understand.” Brian pulled the gun away from Todd's face, and checked the chamber. He then popped the clip and got to his feet. “One still in the chamber. Rest stay with me.” He pocketed the clip and waved the gun at Todd. “Let's go. I want to be in LA by tonight.”

Todd shuffled back out to the car, head down. Once in, Brian tossed him the gun.

“Remember, I'm driving,” he said. “You get one shot. You miss, you, the gun, and the money go out the door at seventy miles an hour. If you're lucky, I won't back up over you.”

Todd simply stared at Brian. “Selkirk, you are one crazy motherfucker.”

“I'm a pissed off motherfucker. So don't think that bullet will save you.”

*

Brian's post-prison life actually began on Marlon's last day at the Dayton Correctional Institute. The old biker, with a week to go, found Brian working alone in the prison laundry. He sat down on a bench and watched Brian work, saying nothing for almost ten minutes.

“You gonna help fold?” asked Brian. “'Cuz I don't work with an audience.”

Marlon heaved himself up and limped over to Brian. “You know that big heist in Sacramento ten years ago?”

Brian nodded. He'd heard the story a hundred times before. Three bikers rolled into a small town in northern California, about twenty miles east of Sacramento. The robbers wore jackets with Hell's Angels emblems on the back. A patrol officer was shot. According to Marlon, it wasn't that particular cop's death that outraged local law enforcement; it was the death of a fellow officer. Some, said Marlon, suspected the town's police force set up the cop.

It didn't surprise Marlon. The dead cop had helped arrange the heist.

“What about it?” said Brian.

“That dead cop's share is somewhere in Death Valley,” said Marlon. “And by now, the FBI knows Hell's Angels had nothing to do with that job.”

“So who did it?”

Marlon clamped Brian on the shoulder. “You wanna see my share? Come on out to San Francisco when you get out.”

“What's there?”

Marlon laughed. “My share. My brother and I bought a bar in the Mission District.”

“So why's the dead cop's share in Death Valley?”

Marlon headed out the door. “You gotta put your retirement someplace safe. And these days, that ain't the banks.”

Six months later, Brian showed up at Marlon's, the old biker's Mission District tavern. That night, he started work as a bartender. Six months after that, the Vista City Police showed up with a warrant for Marlon's arrest. They had an anonymous tip Marlon had killed the officer in that bank heist before fleeing to Ohio.

Marlon didn't fight it. With the hacking cough he'd developed, he no longer had the strength.

“You get into trouble, kid,” he said. “Come up to San Quentin and see me. We'll talk about Death Valley and dead cops.”

*

“You aren't the only he told,” said Todd.

To the west, the sun was plunging toward the Pacific Ocean beyond the hills to the west. Brian kept his eyes on Highway 101, the outskirts of San Luis Obispo looming ahead.

“He used to brag about it. What's the name of that town? Vista City?” Todd took a drag on his cigarette. “Punked the feds and Hell's Angels? But they caught him, man. And you know why?”

“I suppose you're going to tell me,” said Brian.

“Because that old faggot couldn't keep his mouth shut,” said Todd. “Had to brag about killing that cop. He was a dirty cop, but once he's dead, that don't matter.” He looked around. “Hey, why aren't we on I-5, anyway?”

“We're hiding from the Chips.”

“Chips?”

“CHP. Highway Patrol. If they're looking for us, they're looking for us to take the fastest route to Mexico.”

“Then why aren't they looking for us here?”

“If you just robbed a bank, would you be taking the scenic route to Mexico?”

“Hell, no. But I wouldn't be taking the most famous highway in California.”

“Neither would I if I'd actually planned this.”

Todd threw his butt out the window, lit another one. “So how would you go to Mexico?”

Brian laughed. “I'd have taken the back roads through Fresno, then jumped the freeway in Bakersfield. But we're not going to Mexico.”

Todd brought up the gun and jerked it at Brian. “So where are we going, smart guy?”

Brian grinned. “If I'm not the only one Marlon told, then you know.”

*

Highway 101 climbed into the mountains as it approached the ocean north of Santa Barbara. By now, the sun sat fat on the Pacific, turning the coastline below a fiery red.

“Looks like one of those wild fires that are always on the news,” said Todd.

“Wrong season,” said Brian. “So Marlon didn't tell you everything.”

“You know he didn't tell me where the stash was.”

Brian sped up as the road became steeper. “Of course not. First thing out of your mouth was 'Where's Marlon?' Now you're holding a gun on me. If you knew where the stash was, you'd have flown straight to Orange or LAX.”

“So you know?”

“I know lots of things.” Brian pushed the car to the crest of the hill.

*

On Marlon's last day in Dayton, he sat Brian down for a talk. “I need to explain about Officer Carver.”

“The one you shot?” said Brian.

Marlon nodded. “He was our inside man, our partner. He covered for us, let us work, sometimes framed a rival to take him out.”

Brian nodded. “I always worked alone.”

Marlon took out a cigar one of the guards had smuggled him, cut it, and lit it. “That's why you're here. Going straight?”

"Hope so.”

Marlon pulled on the stogie and blew a smoke ring. “Thought I was, too. Hopefully, my brother invested wisely so I can.” He blew another smoke ring. “That Vista City score was supposed to be my last hurrah. But Carver got greedy and tried to set us up.”

“So you...?”

“Did what I had to do to put that life behind me.” He waved the cigar around, gesturing. “See how well that worked out?”

“Why'd you kill him, then?”

Marlon laughed. “I'm here because I came here and got stupid. I'd have killed him no matter what.”

“Did you hate him?”

“Brian, my boy, I loved that man like a brother. Those are the ones you have to look out for.”

Todd barged into the lounge and plunked himself down next to Brian. “So, old man, you finally outta here. Got any good weed hidden?”

Marlon hoisted himself up and shuffled off to his cell. “I gotta get ready. They're kicking me out later.” He looked at Todd, then met Brian's gaze. “Remember what I said.”

*

Brian gunned the car toward the sharp turn. Grabbing the canvas bag, he opened the door and flung himself to the pavement, never hearing Todd's reaction. A single gunshot fired, but the only pain Brian felt was from hitting the asphalt. He rolled along behind the car as it smashed through the guardrail. The canvas helped slow him to a stop, but he found himself staring over the ledge as the car crashed into the rocks along the coast. Crawling to his feet, he watched as the car's gas tank exploded.

Two hours later, Brian wandered into Santa Barbara and got a hotel room, paying cash. He'd need to get fresh clothes. Several, actually. If the shoulder still hurt too much to move in the morning, he'd find the local county hospital and give a fake name, no ID. After that, he'd have to start hitchhiking.

It was a long way from Santa Barbara to Barstow, and a longer way back to San Francisco. Assuming he went back to his crappy apartment on Treasure Island. They probably already found his car and assumed the body inside was his. It would probably be hard to explain to the police why he was not dead. On the other hand, a dead man who had not actually died could do a lot of things off the grid.

Just like Marlon, he'd been drawn back into the life. It was more than worth Todd's life.

BIO: Jim Winter is a computer technician by day and a writer and 40+ year old college freshman by night. He is a regular reviewer for January Magazine and Mystery Scene. Jim lives in Cincinnati with his wife, Nita, and stepson, AJ.

Interlude

Lee Hughes' Girl About Town.

Eric Beetner's Bleeding Out.

Yours Truly's Greta At The Track.

All new stories at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers.

Head on over, check them out and let us know what you think.

Interlude

Another of my stories is now up at Flash Fiction Offensive titled JUST BUSINESS.

That's two this week. I must have eaten my Wheaties.

As a bit of an aside, there may be some of you out there wondering why I don't just post something I've written here on ATON.

When I started ATON, I made an unspoken promise not to post my own fiction for two reasons.

Reason one was because I was opening this site for submissions from others. I wanted to help out after a number of other sites for crime and noir closed. I enjoyed reading everyone else's stories on sites like Muzzle Flash and Demolition Mag and when they closed, I missed that. So this site was for everyone else except for me to post at.

I have read every last word that has made its way to my mailbox and enjoyed the hell out of that unique experience. Yes, even when I have gotten some duds or something in need of revision (and those have been very, very few).

Reason two is because it would be unfair to everyone. To say no to someone else while putting my own story up is just slashing my throat to spite my ego.

I also enjoy that roller coaster feeling that you get when you send something out there, to live or die on its own merits, to see it make it and stand out there for comment and scrutiny. It never gets old and I love that feeling.

So, if you ever see anything that I've written on ATON (with the exception of these interludes or a comment about someone else's story or something off-site that I'm helping to promote), worry because it will mean the site is in trouble.

With all of the great fiction that comes into my mailbox on a near-daily basis, I don't think that day will ever come.

So I hope you check out my stuff elsewhere, and while you're at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers or Flash Fiction Offensive or Powder Burn Flash, check out what everyone else has to offer, too.

A Twist Of Noir 113 - Jimmy Callaway

PREMISE, SET-UP, PUNCHLINE - JIMMY CALLAWAY

They’re hanging around my car in the Denny’s parking lot, each practicing his hairy eyeball. Five of them.

And here I was worried I’d have nothing to do tonight.

I walk right up, grinning. “Last time I saw this many Mexicans around my car was at the car wash.”

Nary a chuckle. Tough crowd.

The big boy in the middle has an S.D. tattooed under his eye, the Padres logo. Must be a big fan. He says, “Mr. Bob Romano wants his money. Tonight.”

I nod. “Right, right. And how much was that again?”

“Sixteen-hundred.”

I give a low whistle. Then I shrug. My hands are in my pockets, my shoulders slumped.

They all slightly relax, shift their weight. No action here: a big mouth, but hardly worth the effort, really.

“Let me ask you something, though,” I say.

S.D. raises his chin. “What?”

I point at my car. “How much do you figure to replace that rear passenger’s side window?”

He just looks at me. The other four are murmuring in Spanish to each other, and one giggles.

I say, “I mean, if I called a guy to replace that window, how much do you think—”

“I know what you’re saying, man.” S.D. looks at the window, at me. “I dunno. Sixty bucks?”

“So, let’s see...in that case, that’d be fifteen-hundred and forty. Right?”

“Huh?” S.D. says.

I grab him by the back of the head and put his face through the rear passenger window.

Well, the other four jumped me before the broken glass hit the ground, and let me tell you, they beat the living shit out of me.

Was it worth it?

Fuckin’-A right, it was.

BIO: As usual, Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, Calif. As usual, more hilarity is available at Attention Children. And as usual, credit for much needed revisions goes to Cameron Ashley and Josh Converse.

Interlude

Yours truly has a story over at Col Bury's Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers titled Greta.

Go have a look and leave a comment there, here or both, if you like.

A Twist Of Noir 112 - Lee Hughes

THE BENNY FACTOR - LEE HUGHES

Melissa waved to her daddy before driving off. He waved back with a solemn look and yawned. Neither noticed the car that pulled away from the kerb which began to follow her.

Melissa was singing along to her music and looking forward to buying everything in the new summer collection from her favourite designer, Antoine Gars.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw a car practically up her arse. The car indicated. So she slowed to help make the overtaking manoeuvre easier for the busted-up Ford. The Ford sped up. Then slowed when it got to the side of her car. Melissa looked at the driver and her mouth fell open. The driver was wearing a maximum restraint mask. It hid the majority of his face. The Ford's passenger leant forward, so he too could be seen. He was wearing the same gruesome facial apparel. The driver, without preamble, slammed his rust-bucket into the side of her soft-top Mini. Melissa swerved and parked her pride and joy into the thick bole of a roadside tree.

The brakes from the Ford were jammed on to full screech. Masked men rushed the Mini. One dragged open the door whilst the other dragged Melissa out. She kicked. She screamed. She got hit hard enough in the face to make her hush down. The passenger. He jabbed her in the arm with a needle and gave her a healthy dose of night-night. Melissa went as limp as three-day old lettuce.

Melissa came 'round. It took a few seconds for her to focus. She was in a garage. The place smelt like armpit. Her tongue felt heavy and dead. The rag that had been stuffed into her mouth kept soaking up the moisture. She struggled. She could see the two men. Her abductors had changed attire. Gone were the boiler-suits and the Lector masks. Now they wore suits like the men that fixed the cars in Formula One that her Daddy loved so much. Their faces were hiding behind flame retardant balaclavas.

Melissa tried to speak. It all just came out in the air as a clumsy muffled noise. The taller of her captors raised a finger to his covered lips.

"Shush," He lowered the finger. "We know all that we need to know, so there's fuck-all we want to hear from you."

The captor turned to his cohort.

"Bill. Watch her whilst I go make the call."

Melissa freaked. She began to struggle as if she was fitting. Bill, the one that had been silent, he watched her. His eyes enjoyed her terror.

"Won't be long," said Steve, followed by, "And, Bill, don't lay a finger on her."

Steve headed over to a privacy divider, like the ones they have for people who end up in shared wards because they don't know the meaning of the word BUPA. Melissa still struggled to get free. She could see the silhouette of Steve as he changed out of the racing overalls. A door slammed and the silhouette was gone.

Bill walked back and forth in front of Melissa. Every couple of passes, he would pause and feign hitting her. Melissa fell for it each and every time. There was a look in his eyes, Melissa could see it. The man, Bill, really wanted to follow through and land his hand hard. She struggled some more.

Melissa wept. Her mother had passed away a year ago. The loss had crippled her father. Melissa had not been allowed at her mother's deathbed in the moments before her passing. Her mother wanted some private time to share some words with her husband.

After the funeral, her father had then thrown himself into his work. It became everything. Making money was something that took a hold over him stronger than it ever had. It reflected on his generosity towards his only child. Before the death all of her demands had been met without argument. Then after afterwards getting enough cash for a weekend break to somewhere nice became like pulling teeth. Even the soft-top Mini that was now wrapped around a tree was a slap in the face. She'd wanted a Beemer for her twenty-first. And that pokey, little thing was what she'd gotten. Simply, something had to be done.

Tears streamed down her face. Not today. Why did this have to happen today?

Her crying ceased momentarily as Bill came at her with his hand up again. Melissa had more to worry about than this fuckwit's silly games. She didn't bother flinching. Shame, really, because Bill wasn't feigning. Melissa's head snapped back. Bill hooted with delight.

*

Time went by. Melissa was unsure how much as the smack from Bill had knocked her halfway to the moon. It had appeased the twisted fucker by the looks of it. He was sat down, busily amusing himself with a newspaper. Melissa could see it in her mind. Tomorrow's newspaper, her face plastered all over it.

A fresh breeze brought Melissa's attention back. With the breeze came the silhouette as Steve changed once more into his disguise.

Steve noticed that one of Melissa's cheeks was larger than the other.

"Bill, did you hit her?" He looked from her face to Bill, who was still reading the daily rag in the corner. Bill looked up from the pages.

"Just the once, to keep her in check."

"Once is too many. Keep your hands to yourself." Steve walked over to Melissa and dragged free her gag. "Any reason your dad wouldn't answer the phone? I mean, he's a business man, he should always be available. Wouldn't you think?"

Melissa worked her jaw. She tried to bring spit up into her mouth. None came, she tried words instead.

"He's at home," she whispered.

"Tried ringing there, too."

"He's unconscious," she admitted.

Bill put down his paper. Steve's eyes narrowed. He got a little closer to her. "How do you know this? We saw him waving to you."

"I spiked him," she started to cry.

Steve tried not to show how puzzled he really was, "Why would you do that?"

"Because I want him dead. That's why!" Her eyes were wild. A split-second switch from feeling sorry for herself to being the spoilt bitch that expected the world.

"How?" demanded Steve. With her father dead, there would be no one to collect from.

"I drugged him and a friend is going to make it look like suicide." She was starting to snivel. If it was an attempt to elicit some form of sympathy from him, Steve reckoned there was fuck-all chance of it working.

Melissa cleared her throat, "If he dies, I'll inherit the money. I can pay you then!"

"What, in six months to a year? Screw that." Steve tried the number again. He no longer cared about the triangulation of his position. He let it ring, still nothing.

"Oh sweet..." Steve didn't finish. He was already at a run towards the door.

Bill didn't know where to look. He resembled something from a slapstick comedy. One where an unseen hand slaps the buffoon's cheek. The buffoon looks in that direction and gets another slap from the other side.

*

Steve got out of the disguise as he ran towards his Astra. Every swear word that he knew got an airing as he broke the speed limit in a bid to get to Melissa's house as fast as he could.

Steve gunned it all the way. He left the engine running as he banged on the door. He tried it.

Unlocked.

Steve opened the door.

"Mr. Jackson?" he called.

No answer came. He ventured inside.

The interior was just how he had imagined it would be. Years of there being no issue with cost when it came to the décor had made the place a sight to behold.

The ground floor was empty. He worked his way up the stairs. He kept shouting Jackson's name out. And for each call, he garnered silence. The landing was empty. The bedrooms were the same. It was in the bathroom that he found Mr. Jackson.

Mr. Jackson was no more. The water in the tub was crimson. Melissa's accomplice had opened his wrists for him. Steve lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down. This had turned to shit.
There was no money. The only heir was tied up back at the lock-up. It would be months until she inherited. And besides, he thought, what's to say she'll even cough up then? He supposed they did have the death of her father to hang over her head in exchange for the money. Steve figured that was basically their only option of salvaging something.

He got up and walked from the bathroom. He wasn't expecting the bat to the head.

*

Benny stood over the intruder, his anger burned. He wondered why she hadn't trusted him. Why she'd sent the goon? Melissa had talked him into helping off her old man in exchange for some pussy. And, boy, had he wanted that pussy since the beginning of high school. Then last week, as he'd been working the drive-thru at Maccies, she'd actually talked to him. Something she had refused to do during their high school career. What with her being one of the popular kids and him being the bipolar spotty kid that had tried to burn the school down twice. After his shift had finished, they'd gone for a drink. She'd driven him home. Stopping somewhere quiet on the way, they'd fooled around. She'd given him half a wank and then told him if he really wanted her then he had to do something for her. Something secret.

And now what? Now she'd gone and gotten a second boyfriend? As that was how he saw himself, they were practically a couple. It had been less than a week and she'd been cheating on him. He dragged the bastard outside. The Astra had to be his. Benny had a hard time with the dead weight of his rival. Benny opened the boot and struggled to put Steve in it. But what he lacked in upper body strength he made up for by being a mental case and accomplished it in the end. Benny pulled out a knife and without ceremony removed his love-rival from the equation, permanently.

Benny drove the Astra away.

*

Bill kept looking at her. Melissa had tried not to make eye-contact with the lunatic in case it made him want to strike her again. She began to cry once more. Each tear that fell was one of self-pity. It would have been so perfect if these pair of pricks hadn't ruined it. She stopped there. They hadn't ruined it as yet. The one called Steve had dashed off to be a hero. But he'd be too late. That freak Benny would have done the deed by now. And, by now, he'd be sat at home waiting to do some other deed. It had been bad enough tugging him off a little. But the thought of his scrawny mass between her legs made her shudder. But she would have done it. She changed the way she thought. It might still work out all right. She looked to Bill and smiled. Tried to make it look open and friendly.

Through the oval of the balaclava, his eyes went wide. "What you smiling at?"

"You." Her legs were bound at her ankles but she was able to open up her thighs a little. That was not missed on Bill. He was no longer looking at her face. His eyes were set lower. Bill was a beast and couldn't help himself. It wasn't enough to just look. He walked over. Melissa's smile letting him know it was alright to do so. So he did.

*

Melissa stamped a half dozen times. She didn't stop until Bill's thoughts were spread on the floor. Her hands were still tied but Bill had needed to undo the rope at her ankles to get her jeans and knickers off. His hands were just about to reach the honey-pot when she'd lashed out and kneed him in the balls. Bill went down. Both eyes crossed as he mouthed the word bitch. That was when she started to stamp. When there was nothing left of his knackers, she had stamped on his head until the skull opened. Melissa used a saw that was hanging on the wall to cut through the bindings on her wrist. She got dressed before going through the dead man's clothes for a phone.

*

Benny wasn't looking forward to the long walk back to town after dumping the car up at the quarry. His phone rang. He looked at the name and number and smiled. It was Bunny. Melissa didn't know it yet but he'd already made up a pet name for her.

"Hey, babe." He tried to sound cool; he came across as a twat.

"Where are you?" asked Melissa.

"Out having a stroll after killing lover-boy."

"Who?" Her voice sounded puzzled.

"The prick you sent to make sure the job was done."

"You killed him?"

"I'm not into all that manage a tois stuff, unless it's two chicks."

"Good."

"It's the way I play." he said, smiling.

"No. Good that you killed him."

"I'm a man of many talents, baby. As you'll soon find out." He was strutting along but it looked more like he was walking with a stone in his shoe.

"Sounds wonderful. Now I need you to come get me. You know the industrial estate? The one with the B & Q?"

"Yeah."

"Meet me there."

"We're gonna be rich!" he shouted into the phone.

"Something like that." And she hung up the phone.

*

It barely made the news. A convicted armed robber and sex-offender found beaten to death in a lock-up. Another convicted armed robber found dead in the boot of his own car. The police wrote them up as underworld killings.

A twenty-one year old was found dead on waste ground at the rear of an industrial estate with his pants down. No one really cared about that one when they saw the name in the article. Benny Jenkins, known arsonist and local freak.

Melissa wept. The tears were real and so was the grief.

The lawyer didn't really know what to say. Mr. Jackson had changed his will after his wife had passed away and it was all to go to the charities that he had listed.

It felt as though someone had reached into her chest and wrenched free her heart. The contents of the will disclosed what had been said on her mother's death-bed. Her mother had confessed that Melissa was not Frank's child. That Melissa was the result of an affair that had lasted a couple of years. Frank had then gone and had tests done that proved two things. He was a jaffa and, Melissa, she wasn't his daughter. That explained so much, yet left her with so little. She was entitled to nothing.

The information that wasn't available in the will was the anonymous hiring of thugs to kidnap Melissa by Frank Jackson. And that Frank had no intention of paying to get the bitch back. Each day, seeing her in his home was like a kick in the balls and it had lasted for an entire year. Her spoilt, greedy bitch face. So much like her mother's.

BIO: Lee Hughes lives and works on the Isle of Man with his wife and two fish. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his first novel. His short fiction is to appear in the upcoming Cern Zoo: Nemonymous 9 by Megazanthus Press, regular spots on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers and, of course, here at A Twist Of Noir.

A Twist Of Noir 111 - Eric Beetner

GET GONE, PART 2 - ERIC BEETNER

Career criminals are, for the most part, vengeful sons of bitches. I learned that early on. Here’s one thing I learned just recently: from my last job I drove fast enough, clean enough but I didn’t drive far enough.

My name is Marc. Down here it is anyway. I’d been down just outside of Miami for about three months before I started really looking hard for work. It always starts off slow. They don’t know me, I don’t know them and we’re both looking to do something illegal so you can’t really take out an ad in the classifieds. Or can you?

I shouldn’t be telling you this but people have been putting together robbery crews for years through the classifieds. There’s a language to it. I knew one guy who would place fake obituaries. If the last name Knalb ever came up, the obit would be stacked with clues. (Knalb is blank backwards. Don’t feel bad, the obit guys never noticed, either.)

I’m sure a lot of young guns have moved to Craigslist by now but guys in the know will still scan the newspapers looking for a lead. When all the papers go under (from the looks of it in about a month or so), I’ll be back to slumming it in bars and asking leading questions to the bartender with a Ben Franklin “accidentally” falling on the bar but for now I only needed to pay a buck fifty for a Miami Herald.

I drove for one smash-and-grab which paid me a whopping six hundred bucks, my ten percent on a pillow case full of shopping mall diamonds that any real jeweler wouldn’t cross the street to pick up off the ground. Other than that, it was pretty dry. I think I was too far down into an area that was so controlled by the Cubans that the idea of hiring a gringo like me didn’t appeal so they kept the work to themselves. The real money is further up the coast anyhow. I branched out and started looking one county north to try another big city where there was more action.

I worked a dock job in Lauderdale that didn’t pan out at all. Two guys who worked on a yacht and had a plan to rip off the millionaire who owned it but didn’t have any idea how to sell the weird shit they took. Sure, that equipment is expensive if you know what to look for but the black market is not really the place to shop a doppler radar or shit like that. I never saw a dime from it. They were idiots not to do the driving themselves anyway. I kept saying to just take the whole damn boat. Sail it down to Brazil and sell a million dollar boat for fifty-thousand and you’re still fifty K richer.

I tried the gulf coast in Naples. Old retired money. Even the cops had to be over fifty.

I spotted an ad that seemed to me like a good score. ‘Driver needed to haul expensive merchandise. Very fragile. Must have own wheels. Non-union. Truckers need not apply.’

So, okay, expensive merchandise, we all get that. Very fragile meant it was a public place with lots of innocents and lots of witnesses. Non-union meant it wasn’t mob-affiliated, just a solo job. Truckers need not apply just means no lazy fat bastards not willing to work for it.

I called the number. I sat down for an interview and told tales of some other jobs. I left off the five times now that I drove away with the stash and left town. This last one was the biggest and I still had plenty left but my ass cheeks were getting sore sitting around all day. I don’t much care for the sun, either. Why I came to Florida is a mystery to me. I figured to make this stay a short one, even if the girls were across-the-board sluts. It’s never been so easy to get laid in my life. Still not worth the skin cancer.

The planner called himself E-Z and he liberally quoted lines from Scarface every chance he got so I knew he was a punk and that I shouldn’t trust him. Thing is, I don’t trust anyone I ever work for so it made no difference really.

Without me telling you, you assumed that E-Z was black. Don’t feel bad, you’re right. It was just E-Z, another black guy named L’il Wonder and me. For the meet, I had ripped off an M-Class BMW with expensive rims. That impressed. For the job, I had my eye on a Crown Vic I had seen in the neighborhood where I was renting. These two amateurs would most likely be pissed when I pulled up in what looked like an off-duty cop car but what did I care?

It was a bank job. Sit and wait with the engine running and then get out of town. Honestly, my talents were being wasted.

I knew the scene inside. They go in with guns drawn and shouting like mad, wearing ski masks or Halloween masks but something that still shows enough skin so people can tell they’re black. Hey, if people are going to bring their own fear to the party, why not let them? (Old, retired widows from Ohio still clutch their purse when one of “the negroes” walk past.) They would talk a lot of gangster talk to frighten the old folks. Sure as shit, E-Z would give it a, “Say hello to my little friend,” at some point. Lots of hard talk and bluster for a staff that wasn’t going to resist at all. Money’s insured. Inside a bank, it’s just paper with no real value. The trick is to get it out of the bank.

These days even the trick doesn’t take a magician. Since the advent of the ATM, crowds inside banks are so small and full of old people who can’t figure out the buttons that it makes taking a bank as easy as holding up a toddler’s birthday party.

So I sit in the car, go over my escape route in my head and wait for them to finish the floor show. They estimated four hundred grand. I figure sixty, tops. My share - six thousand. Whatever. At least it gets me out of the house.

The day of the job, sure enough, I get a big “What the fuck?” when I pull up in the Crown Vic. Navy blue, too, the kind these guys see in their nightmares.

E-Z sits next to me and is talking a mile a minute while L’il Wonder waits in silence in the back. They never use my name. I guess it’s not cool enough.

Traffic is light so we land right on time in front. I find a spot in clear view of the door so I’m feeling good about my six grand.

“Let do this!” shouts E-Z as he pulls a red bandana over his mouth Jesse James style. L’il Wonder has slid on leather gloves and he slaps them together twice and lets out a single “Whooo!”, like he’s about to go join the huddle for the opening kickoff.

They get out, slam doors, tuck guns into their belts. E-Z calls back to me, “Five minutes, Rick, man. Then we get money get paid, get money get paid.”

Shit. Rick was my name on the last job.

They both hustled off and my foot almost stomped down the pedal to get gone but my brain hitched a second to replay what I thought I heard. It was enough time for the Camaro to slam into my rear end.

I didn’t hurt my neck in the crash but almost gave myself whiplash scanning the rearview and sideview mirrors to see who the hell was behind me, as if I didn’t know.

Johnny, the planner from the last job. The one I ripped off to the tune of almost $375,000. The one we called Rotten Johnny, like the guy from the Sex Pistols only...well, you get the idea. He had two friends with him. Friends of his, not mine.

E-Z and L’il Wonder had walked right on past the bank. They would collect their finder’s fee later but at least they weren’t going to stick around for the revenge. I guess Johnny wasn’t paying enough.

The door handle rattled but it was locked. I was boxed in by the Camaro behind me and the impact had pushed me up against a Lincoln with curb feelers in front of me. I was a little dazed so my reflexes weren’t at 100 percent, so when Johnny yelled at me to open up, I didn’t respond. I’m not sure if he thought that would actually work or what. Oh, open the door so you can shoot me easier? Why, okay, kind sir. Dickhead.

Johnny used the butt of his gun to smash the window.

He reached in and popped the lock and grabbed my shirt to haul me out but I was belted in so I moved about a foot and then was sucked back into the seat. He aimed the 9mm right at my nostrils.

“Get out.”

Idiot. He should have shot me. Just do it and leave. Revenge clouds the brain but, like I said before, they are a vengeful type of guy. Plus, he probably wanted his money back. There was that.

I undid the belt and slowly slid out and stood up moving the deliberate way you do when you have a gun on you. Once out in the open, he tucked away the 9mm to a more conspicuous position now aimed more or less at my balls. A few people slowed to gawk at the accident but these days people don’t want to get involved so no cars stopped, no one called the cops on their cell. Traffic zipped by us like we were just two poor jerks exchanging insurance info on the way to a higher deductible.

“Thought you could outrun me, didn’t you, Rick?” No point in answering him. “Well, I guess you were wrong.”

“Yep,” I obliged. I certainly couldn’t argue with the man.

“Where’s the money?”

“Back at my place.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

“You kind of got me boxed in here.”

Johnny looked forward to the Lincoln and back at the Camaro to confirm. He nodded to the two buddies and one of them got behind the wheel of the Camaro to back it up. Had it not even occurred to him to just take me with them in his car? This was going to be too easy.

The Camaro detached itself from the Crown Vic’s back bumper with a screech and maybe that metal on metal noise jogged his better sense.

“Wait, you’re coming with us,” Johnny said, like the thought just came to him.

Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I thought.

“My keys are inside. My apartment key is on the key ring.” A lie.

“I’ll get it.”

I held my hands up around my shoulders, showing respect for the gun but not drawing attention to us. With one buddy in the car, the one behind me had moved in between the Camaro and Crown Vic to avoid the traffic rushing past. Douchebag was still in his motorcycle leathers. Why would you wear that shit when you’re not on a bike? Probably thought it made him look badass. He was wrong.

Johnny transferred the gun to his left hand and reached inside with his right to pull the keys from the still-running ignition. He kept an eye on me the whole time.

The engine in the Crown Vic died as he rotated the key. He began to straighten up as he brought his body back out of the car. When his arm was almost out, I made my move. I lifted my leg and kicked forward like a place kicker. The door rocketed shut and caught his hand between the post and the window frame. Inside the body of the door, the latch caught and he was trapped.

The pain was definitely enough of a distraction that grabbing his gun hand, not his dominant hand anyway, was easy. Using his arm, I swung it around and aimed back at the Camaro. I didn’t have to do any work. Johnny squeezed off four quick rounds that smashed through the front windshield. The driver ducked and avoided the shots.

I started plucking at his fingers trying to release his grip on the gun the same way I did with my brother when he stole one of my Matchbox cars and curled it into his fist. Johnny’s screams and the gunshots were finally attracting attention. The second buddy had hit the deck in between the cars but now that the shots had stopped, he was up and moving towards me.

I had to abandon the gun and deal with him. Those old seventh grade Judo classes came in handy for once. I let go of Johnny’s arm and braced myself for impact with the buddy rushing at me. I reached out and got ahold of one of his hands and used it to pull his arm forward as I pivoted my body and took his own momentum, added to mine, and launched him into the street.

A huge F-250 was going past at least 35 miles an hour. It was a 35 zone anyhow. The way the buddy’s torso bounced off the grille of that truck, maybe he was doing closer to 45.

The pickup squealed tires, twisted the wheel and all attention went away from us and onto the body still arcing in the air and the truck driver rapidly losing control of his ride. A voice from the sidewalk blurted an involuntary “Holy shit!”

In the confusion, I vaulted myself, Starsky and Hutch style, over the trunk of the Crown Vic. Johnny fired off two more shots. I knew his aim would be shit in his left hand.

I let him see me as I crouch-walked to the passenger door. He squeezed out three more rounds and the windows popped and rained glass over me. They also let me reach in and unlock the passenger side door.

I ducked two more shots and then heard clicks. He was out. I was in.

His hand that was trapped in the door had dropped the keys and I swiped them up off the seat and revved the engine to life. Like a cop about to chase after a perp I dropped the gear lever into D and took off.

Johnny’s body was quickly taken away faster than his feet could keep up. I made a wide arcing left hand U-turn laying down rubber as I went, dragging Johnny along for the ride. The tips of his fingers were already turning purple just inches from my face where they wriggled, pinched into the door.

About three quarters of the way through my circle, his fingers gave way and detached, letting his body fall. When he came loose, he slid along the side of the car where he dropped to the pavement and was immediately sucked under the rear tire. I couldn’t see it but I sure did feel the back end of the car buck upwards like an angry bull. The purple tips stayed with me jammed in the door but the wriggling stopped.

I came around and completed a full circle so I was head-on with the Camaro.

I saw the driver start to duck again but I slammed on my brakes, stopping short of plowing into his door. The Crown Vic rumbled an angry 8-cylinder sound only inches from scratching his paint. He peeked up, unsure of what my next move was going to be. I knew he got the point and that this was Rotten Johnny’s beef with me, not his.

I raised a finger and wagged it at him like a strict school marm. I even gave him a “tsk tsk tsk” but he couldn’t hear it.

The street was chaos. A crowd had gathered but was clinging to doorways and behind a bus shelter, wanting to see what was going on but understanding that it wasn’t over yet. I heard the first siren in the distance.

I floored it in reverse, did a perfect J turn and was off. I passed by where the driver of the pickup had gotten out and was weeping over the splayed corpse of the man he hit. Built Ford tough, I guess. I’ll say. It nearly split him in half.

I traced my well-practiced escape route. No one ever followed. I dumped the car and got away clean. How? I’m damn good at what I do. That’s how.

So now I head north. New town, new name. Still have over $350,000. I’ll miss the women but not the sun.

Time to get gone.

BIO: More about Eric's writing can be found at ericbeetner.blogspot.com. His crime novel 'One Too Many Blows To The Head', co-written with JB Kohl, is scheduled to come out later in 2009 unless something goes horribly wrong. Something always goes horribly wrong. In the meantime, check out Worth It over at Powder Burn Flash.