tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58688320669255490242024-03-14T14:05:53.712-05:00A Twist Of NoirCrime and Noir FictionChristopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.comBlogger1020125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-84516364555033241132014-04-05T09:55:00.003-05:002014-04-05T09:55:45.351-05:00Bill "AJ" Hayes Remembered<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<strong><em>TEAM PLAYER - AJ HAYES</em></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: red;">An entry in the recent Watery Grave Invitational</span></strong></div>
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Just a trace bar lost in the north desert near Albuquerque. Summer thunder ozoned the air outside and stormfront wind out of the Sangre De Christos made the rat-ass bikes lined up in front shake on their kickstands and blew the trash around in the beds of pick-ups with tribal stickers peeling off rusted chrome bumpers.</div>
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Inside, the lightning of puke and heat and real bad whiskey. The kind that comes sweating out of you the next morning and smells like dead folks. Everclear on the juke and mad dog twenty twenty cooking in the blood.</div>
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He was on the third stool from the right, staring into his glass like he was watching a television show. I dropped in next to him. He had that long distance look you get when the booze has chopped all your strings away.</div>
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“Hey, Skip. What you doin’ this far away from San Antone?”</div>
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“Lookin’ for my starting pitcher,” I said. “Guess I found him.”</div>
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I motioned to the barman. He brought two drinks, sat them down, took my money and walked away without looking at either of us. Two hundred semi-drunk people jammed shoulder to sweaty shoulder and nobody’s seeing a thing. That kind of place.</div>
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“C’mon, kid,” I said. “Too noisy in here.”</div>
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He pushed back from the bar and followed me outside. We stood watching the rain slam down through the feeble neon of the beer signs in the fogged-over windows.</div>
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Distant fire flashed in the Sangres and the soft ta-thump reached us a second or so later.</div>
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“How’d you find me?”</div>
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“I didn’t. Mr. Van Zandt had your cell phone tracked.”</div>
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He laughed soft. It washed away in the rain noise.</div>
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“Leave it to the owner to find somebody don't want to be found,” he said.</div>
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“Somebody’s gotta keep track of the franchise, Tommy,” I said. “Take care of the team.”</div>
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“Take care of the money, you mean. That man don’t care a whit for the team. He—”</div>
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“That your blue truck over yonder?” I interrupted, showing him the gun.</div>
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His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “You too, Skip? He’s got you, too?”</div>
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“He don’t have anybody,” I said. “This is about the team, kid. Let’s go on over to your truck. Easier to talk that way.”</div>
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I kept the old, single-action Colt close on him while he got behind the wheel and I slid in on the passenger side.</div>
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“Why don’t we take a little drive into the Christos while we’re talkin’? Might be nice up there. Maybe we’ll get above the storm. Watch the lightnin’ hit the desert.”</div>
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He wheezed the beat-up old Chevy into life and we bumpty-thumped across the parking dirt and up the two lane blacktop toward the mountains.</div>
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“You don’t have to do this, Skipper,” he said, kind of sad-like. “It won’t make no difference, money-wise. I got the lifetime no-cut, no-trade contract, remember?”</div>
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“Yeah, that’s true, kid. That agent of yours.” I shook my head a little. “Pure pit bull, hell-on-wheels, he was. Said you were the second coming and the end of the world rolled into one. Said you threw hellfire and damnation. Got you that contract. Saddled the team forever with a rag-arm pitcher my three year-old grandbaby could hit outta the park. That money could buy us three brand new rookie arms and a third base and a couple of big bats. It’s gutting us. But with you, ah, gone, we could win. Maybe even get the division. Maybe even the Series—”</div>
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“Not what I meant, Skip," he said. “You’re the manager, you know that even if you...do this, Peggy will get the money. It’s right there in the contract. My only living relative. She gets it. All of it.”</div>
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Ahead, a yellow sign pointed to a flat, viewpoint pull-off. I pushed the barrel into his side.</div>
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“Turn here,” I said.</div>
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We rolled to a stop at the edge. Below us, the lightning spread across the clouds in billowing streaks of white light. The stars were out, bright and hard.</div>
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“You weren’t listening to me, Coach.” His fingers were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “The team still won’t get that cash. You won’t. Peggy will get—”</div>
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I pushed the gun a little harder into his ribs.</div>
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“Tommy,” I said, “don’t you think Mr. Van Zandt knows that?”</div>
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He went sudden still and death quiet. His mouth formed shapes but no words came.</div>
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“She’s gone, son.” I sighed. “Opened the door smiling. Probably thought I’d found you. I got her a good one on the jaw and she went down and out. Never felt a thing. I used that bolo tie you like to wear. The one with the thousand dollar gold nugget for a slide. I left it on her throat. They’ll find her and think you done it.”</div>
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I patted him on the back and moved the gun to his temple.</div>
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“It’ll look like you were a good man who couldn’t live with what he’d done. At least people will remember that about you.”</div>
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I pulled the trigger at the same time he floored the old Chevy and we went flying off the cliff.</div>
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So, I’m laying here in the mud and it’s raining hard and cold and I can’t move because my back’s busted and something’s poked a hole through my chest and I’ve coughed out about a gallon of blood and there’s this cold white light circling my vision and it gets brighter and whiter and tighter and I can see the kid, with most of his head gone, hanging half out of the cab of the truck and I know they’ll find us both and figure out what happened and why and it’s darker and colder now and the white light is fading, pinpointing down to black and it feels like I’m falling into dark water and I think about the team I love and the game I love and wish I...</div>
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<strong>BIO: AJ Hayes is from San Diego and – god help him – good friends with Jimmy (Mad Dog) Callaway and Josh (Gut Ripper) Converse, who provide great advice and the occasional smack in the mouth with the butt of a .45.</strong></div>
</span>Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-4040747255017231622014-04-03T16:37:00.001-05:002014-04-03T16:37:11.069-05:00Bill "AJ" Hayes Remembered<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<strong><em>LAST RIGHTS - AJ HAYES</em></strong></div>
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Father Conner got gunned down on the corner of 19th Street and Grand Avenue yesterday.</div>
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I knew it was coming and maybe I should have warned him.</div>
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But his small, sweaty hands had taught me years ago to keep my mouth shut, so I did.</div>
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<strong>BIO: AJ Hayes is from San Diego and – god help him – good friends with Jimmy (Mad Dog) Callaway and Josh (Gut Ripper) Converse, who provide great advice and the occasional smack in the mouth with the butt of a .45.</strong></div>
</span>Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-29127479992843669622014-04-01T18:10:00.000-05:002014-04-01T18:10:34.114-05:00Bill "AJ" Hayes Remembered<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<strong><em>HOUSE OF BONES - AJ HAYES</em></strong></div>
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Once – when the world was just a little younger and more dewy-eyed – there was a boy. He was twelve years-old and lived in a white house, with blue railings and roof, in a sun-flooded neighborhood of pastel-painted houses and cinnamon-colored sunsets. His summer blonde hair hung down, in shaggy bangs, over blue eyes that seemed to hold every dream of every boy who ever lived. The scatter-smatter dusting of freckles across the bridge of his snubbed nose added random exclamation points to the blue of his eyes. All in all, he was the perfect boy.</div>
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Perfect – except, that he knew something that other people did not know and saw things that other people could not see.</div>
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He had not always known these things. He had not known them when he was younger. He had not known when he used to chase butterflies with his sister (herself a bright, poly-hued, soaring butterfly of a girl) across their oh-so-green front yard. Nor had he known when he went to bed at night, to dream of elves and knights and magic circles in the wild wood. Until, one night, he dreamed a very strange thing.</div>
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He dreamed he woke with a startle to something that felt like a bite from a crystal bee with a diamond stinger on his shoulder. He suddenly felt another sharp pain, a much larger pain – in a different place. He looked wildly around his room. His father was there, but his father looked different. His father’s eyes were not their usual blue. They were green, an emerald, glittering green with yellow starbursts in their depths. The pain made it difficult for him to see things exactly, but he thought that his father’s ears had grown longer, more pointed. His father’s hair had become glossy black and seemed to cover much more of him than the boy remembered. Then, the pain grew so large that it pulled him down into darkness.</div>
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As he had left the house to meet the school bus the next morning, something caught his eye – a gleaming, shiny spot on the porch railing. He crossed the porch to inspect it. It was a white shadow under the surface of the glossy blue paint – a vague, thin shape, slightly curved. It looks like a bone, he thought.</div>
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He had never noticed it before.</div>
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That night or the next night, he did not dream. But, on the third night, he felt the bite of the crystal bee again. This time he saw more clearly the green eyes and pointed ears and shaggy hair – the white, sharp teeth. A picture he had seen somewhere sprang into his mind. A wolf, green-eyed and glossy black. His father was a wolf. Pain blossomed through him again; too sharp to be a dream.</div>
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In the morning, he rushed from the house and straight to Mr. Malley, the crossing guard.</div>
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Mr. Malley, glowing in his yellow raincoat with red stripes, listened to the boy’s frantic babble, patiently. “Well now, lad. So your father is a wolf, is he? In your dreams? I think it’s too much candy after dinner we’re talkin’ about here.” He chuckled and offered the boy a mint. “And your daddy a doctor and all; he should be knowin’ better than anyone about that. There’s your bus,” he said, pointing across the street.</div>
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The bus was too crowded with children laughing and shrieking for the boy to ask the driver for help. His teacher listened to him after school, but offered much the same opinion as Mr. Malley had. He knew that his mother would not understand, either. She loved the wolf, whom she thought a man. No help from the grown-up world, he realized. He was on his own.</div>
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That afternoon, he noticed shadows under the bright white paint of the house – long, slender shadows, knobby at the ends. He knew what they were. Bones – carefully concealed by the wolf, unseeable – unless you knew they were there.</div>
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The boy’s world shrank. He no longer flew kites, played marbles or any of the other things he had done before. He spent every afternoon in the library, reading about wolves. He read about real wolves, mythical wolves and fairytale wolves. He read every book he could find on them.</div>
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He learned wolves are clever and good at concealing themselves; and that the ones with green eyes and black fur and white, sharp teeth are the cleverest of all. He read of the many methods adults and children had used to outwit or kill other wolves. But there were no stories of defeated emerald-eyed wolves. Emerald-eyed wolves always won and usually those stories ended, “So, the wolf ate them all up!”</div>
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The afternoons passed in wolf study. At night, the dreams – and the pain – continued. The boy, though despairing, remained resolute – somehow, he would find a way to stop the green-eyed beast in the house of bones.</div>
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In his desolation, there was only one bright place. After the library, he would return home and his butterfly sister would greet him. Her laughter and squeals of delight, as they chased birds, made faces out of the clouds and played hide and seek, made him almost forget – almost not see the shadows of the bones under the paint of the house.</div>
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Then, one night, the dreams stopped. A week passed, then a month and then a year with no dreams (though he still felt the bite of the crystal bee almost every night). The boy wondered why and began to look for the reason. He pretended to sleep deeply. Sometimes when he did that, the crystal bee did not bite him. When the bee did not sink its diamond stinger into his flesh, he saw clearly. He prowled the house, listening, watching – and sensing the bones beneath the surface of the walls. Late one night, he heard it – the reason the dreams had stopped.</div>
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From the butterfly’s room came a murmured cry – like twigs breaking from dead trees in a winter chill – and the low growl of the wolf.</div>
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It doesn’t want me anymore, he thought, it wants her.</div>
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He raced to the door of his mother’s room, pounding on it, hurting his hand. She appeared in her doorway, swaying. Her eyes were funny looking. On her shoulder he saw a mark he recognized, the mark of a fresh bee bite. He shook her frantically, yelling into her ear. He saw understanding creep into her dulled eyes.</div>
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His mother ran from him, to the door of the butterfly’s room. Throwing it open, she stood in the entrance. Saved, the boy thought, saved.</div>
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“You!” she screamed. “You promised! Never again, you said. No more girls. I’M the only one. You promised me. I’M the one. You need ME! Because you love ME! Is that why you made me have this little whore? So she could be your next? You bastard!</div>
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There was a snarl and a sound like a softball makes when it slams into a catcher’s mitt, a loud, hard, smacking of leather into leather. His mother fell to the floor, crying in a voice like the dusty rustle of leaves blowing in a bleak wind on an icy sidewalk. “You...promised.”</div>
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The wolf stood in the doorway, growling. Its eyes, shining with deep-sea phosphorescence, found the boy. It turned to a corner of the hall and opened a black satchel standing there. It came towards the boy with something glittering in its hand. It growled a warning and the boy stood still, feeling the bee bite his thigh. The familiar darkness took him. But, before it swept him down, he felt a fierce joy. In its red rage, the beast had made a mistake.</div>
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The boy knew where the creature kept the crystal bees.</div>
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A single word sprang into his mind. A word that all wolves fear – even the emerald-eyed ones. His grin as the darkness took him down was a feral one.</div>
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He had a plan.</div>
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The next morning, he opened his bedroom door to find that the wolf had dropped all pretenses. The house glowed white, bare of illusion. The floor was made of overlapping bones as were the hallways and the railings. The stairs glowed with the soft ivory and white of bones. Wrist bones, small and delicate, supported tabletops made of rib bones, curving with a polished grace. The walls were thighbones, hard and strong, reaching for the ceiling, which was made of shoulder blades. The stairs were footbones and knucklebones, inlayed with backbones rising for banisters. Everywhere the hard gleaming white of skeletal purity reflected the morning light. His breath steamed in the chill.</div>
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Downstairs, at the table, the wolf sat – its eyes following the boy as he descended the bleached gleam of the stairway. When, stepping slowly and cautiously, he had reached the table, the Wolf growled softly. Its luminous eyes swept over the leaf - tumble figure of his mother in the corner of the room. Turning its muzzle, the wolf moved its emerald stare lingeringly over the gray moth that the butterfly had become. The beast growled again, low. The boy knew the meaning of that growl: “Tell and I will kill.”</div>
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The boy missed his school bus on purpose. He watched from where he hid in the thick branches of the hedge as it disappeared around the corner. His hand made a small waving motion that might have meant goodbye.</div>
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His father, leaving for work, in a light gray suit and tie, never saw him. His mother, when she rustled by on her way to the store with his sister – held hard by the hand – did not see him either. As their station wagon passed his hiding place he looked through the car window at the gray moth. Soon, he thought, you’ll be a butterfly again.</div>
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When the automobile vanished, he hurried into the house. Straight up the stairs – the knucklebones making a cracking sound under his rushing feet – to the satchel in the corner. He fumbled open the clasp and reached inside. There! He felt the brittle crystal hardness of the bees. Carefully, he removed four of them from their nest in the worn leather satchel.</div>
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He raced back down the stairs, the chill of the house seeping into his body, and opened the refrigerator. There! Slabs of meat glistened in their wrapper. The wolf’s was, naturally, the biggest. (Blood rare, the wolf always said, blood rare.) Quickly and carefully, he opened the wrapper and inserted the shining stingers of the bees into the redness of the meat. His thumb thrust the plungers down one by one and the fluid within the body of the bees flowed into the supper of the wolf. Another trip upstairs and the empty bees were replaced in the satchel. Nodding with satisfaction, he left the house and used the side door to enter the garage.</div>
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In the cool darkness, he found what he sought – a rounded dome, bright red and pungent. When he picked it up, it made a soft sloshing sound. He carried it to the yard and hid its oily metal symmetry behind one of the rosebushes near the front door. The large red and pink flowers, heavily sweet, masked the sharp odor of the can nicely. Now, he thought, waiting is all I have to do.</div>
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At dinner that evening, the wolf tore at the dripping meat, snarling softly, mopping the juices with a thick slice of bread. The boy watched closely. Only when the last of the glistening red moisture had crossed the wolf’s lips did he relax.</div>
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Later, he lay in his bed, ears reaching out in the silence for sound. Wolfsteps approached his door and the knob turned. He held his breath, terror stricken – the plan had not worked. The door opened and phosphorus eyes met his. Fear frozen, he watched as the wolf approached him, its teeth gleaming whitely. It growled, bloodlust in its eyes, then fell with a great thump to the floor, its mouth open and teeth shining, green eyes closed.</div>
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The boy ran down the footbone stairway and into the yard, returning with the sharp-smelling can. He splashed the liquid within it over the floor and the walls and the thighbones and the wristbones and the ribcages and the knucklebones. Down the hallways of glowing ivory, he splashed, and over the backbone doorways, until the can dropped empty from his hands.</div>
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He ran to the butterfly’s room, sweeping her from her bed. He raced to his mother’s room and roused her from her bee-bite sleep. Down the knobbiness of the stairway and out the cold curving doorway to the lawn, they ran. He turned and tossed a kitchen match inside the house.</div>
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Even green-eyed wolves fear fire, he thought.</div>
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Red and orange waves of salvation crashed up the wall and over the ceilings and doorways as the bones flamed, painting a different kind of color on the neighborhood.</div>
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He heard the wolf howl. His mother, startled out of her diamond stung haze, screamed, “John!”</div>
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She screamed again, raced toward the house and disappeared into the brightness within the doorway. He heard, or he thought he heard, her scream again as the flames took her. He thought she cried, “Only ME!” The house erupted into an ocean of orange as the bones took fire and exploded.</div>
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In his arms, the gray moth wakened. Her blank, bee-bitten eyes turned to the house and reflected the flames in a whirl of color – like the wings of a butterfly.</div>
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<strong>BIO: AJ Hayes is from San Diego and – god help him – good friends with Jimmy (Mad Dog) Callaway and Josh (Gut Ripper) Converse, who provide great advice and the occasional smack in the mouth with the butt of a .45.</strong></div>
</span>Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-58667896262097504512014-03-28T19:47:00.000-05:002014-03-28T19:47:02.084-05:00Bill "AJ" Hayes Remembered<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<em><strong>MEXICO - AJ HAYES</strong></em></div>
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<em>Tecate Divide gets cold in December. The Mexican side of the border at night is all sage and rocks and the mountain wind cuts like surgical steel. I turn the heel of my left boot on a tie and damn near go butt over breakfast. A red hot railroad spike of pain punches a hole through my guts. I grab air, catch my balance and put one foot in front of the other. The gleam of steel rails and roadbed stretches in front of me like a thousand miles of midnight. Fuckin’ Mexico, I think. It had to be fuckin’ Mexico.</em></div>
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“Hey, Gomez,” Carter yelled through the jukebox noise. “C’mere.”</div>
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I eased back my bar stool and shouldered through the crowd. The San Pedro sun blasted through the streaks of grease on the windows and cut yellow bars on the floor, light, dark, light, dark.</div>
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“How the fuck many times I got to tell you I’m no Messican,” I say. “My name’s O’Connor.”</div>
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His fat face cuts into the wrinkles he calls smiling. I think it just makes him look old—which he is, but when boss-man calls, you move. Or you get dead.</div>
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“Can’t prove it by me,” he says. “You look more Mex than Mick to me.” He leans in close and I can smell the garlic grease in his armpits. “Got a job for you. You remember Mojo? Little guy with a burn face scar?”</div>
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I nod. “Yeah, sure.”</div>
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“He needs to be gone, know what I mean? Gone.”</div>
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“Okay,” I say.</div>
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“’s why I picked you for the job, Gomez . He’s in Tecate. You know Tecate, south of San Diego? Heard he’s tending bar in a joint down there. The Tecate Club on the square. You know it?”</div>
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“Sure,” I say, “When?”</div>
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“Tonight. Comes on shift at eight.”</div>
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“On my way,” I say.</div>
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“That’s my Messican,” he says.</div>
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I parked my old Ford in a dark shadow side street a block south of the border fence and walked the two blocks to the old wood door of the Tecate Club. The smells from the square hit me like a ton of shit. Took me back.</div>
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<em>I’m not being entirely straight with people when I say I’m Irish. My father was Irish, but my mother was Mexican. He was a sailor. She was a whore. Mom never saw her sailor man after their one-nighter. But, being a proper Catholic whore, she couldn’t get rid of the baby—me—because she figured God would have no problem with whores, Mary Magdalene and all that stuff, but she damn well knew he’d burn her ass in Hell forever if she aborted a baby. So, she raised me as best she could. Took me to street fairs on the square, parades on Cinco de Mayo and all that other stuff they do down south. She even took me to a couple of bullfights. For years after that I dreamed of being a bull fighter. Well, for a couple of years I dreamed of that.</em></div>
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<em>And then one day, when I was thirteen, I came home and found my mother beaten to death. She was cut up so bad I had to wash the blood from her face to make sure it was her. The neighbors told me in whispers that it was her pimp that killed her. So I found him at the Tecate Club and, with a single stroke of a machete, took his head off at the shoulders and lit out for the border. I got lucky and made it to Long Beach and then San Pedro. I hooked up with a couple of crews. Made some dough and honed my natural talent.</em></div>
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I slipped the door open and looked inside. A few men drinking alone and some couples in the high backed, hundred-year-old dark oak booths doing nice things to each other in the shadows. Mojo was on a tall stool at the far corner of the bar staring at the counter top. He never saw me until I slid onto the stool next to him. I leaned in close, staring into his eyes.</div>
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“How ya doin’, Moj?” I said.</div>
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He tensed and I felt the move coming, his right hand sliding slow off the bar top. I grabbed it hard and shook my head slightly, still looking deep into his dark brown eyes.</div>
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“Nah, Moj. Too late for that.”</div>
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I smiled a little and brought the steel up and in. He didn’t try to yell. Wouldn’t have done him any good anyhow, since I’d made sure to cut his diaphragm. Watching, I saw the panic fill his eyes and he wobbled a little. Like always I kept my eyes locked with his. Saw a little hope glimmer in them but when the tip of the steel touched the bottom of his heart, that glimmer left and was replaced, like always, by a flood of light that burned brighter when the rest of the blade followed. It never failed, that light. I’d seen it in all twenty-two pairs of eyes I’d looked into over the years. I’d always wondered what they saw, those guys, when the blade did its job, what they were looking at, what they heard.</div>
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“I am the matador,” I whispered and let him gently down on the bar top.</div>
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I put the knife away, pushed slow away from the bar, walked across the room and out the door. The commotion and crowd spilling out onto the street yelling and pointing didn’t happen until I was in the Ford and headed for the border. Smooth, I thought, real smooth. I thought that—until I saw what I’d forgotten: A barred gate and a sign that read <span style="color: red;">BORDER CLOSED FROM 8:00 PM UNTIL 8:00 AM</span>.</div>
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Winter hours, I thought. Born in this lousy shit hole and I’d forgot fucking winter hours!</div>
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I spun the wheel hard and jumped the center divide, figuring I could bust the entry gate going the wrong way. I didn’t see the car parked there until I was almost on it. Just a flash of green and white. I had time to stab the brake and crank the wheel hard left, so I only hit the fucker a glancing blow that spun him around and stalled the engine in the Ford. “Shit,” I yelled, “horse-fucking-shit!” I twisted the key, yanked the shifter fast into reverse and smoked the tires backing up.</div>
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That’s when the Federale, who up ’til then had been peacefully dozing his shift away, jumped out of the car and blew a gaping hole in my windshield with his single-action .44.</div>
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“¡Alto!” he yelled and pumped another round through what was left of the shattered glass.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Fuck you!” I screamed at him, scrabbled my .45 out of the shoulder holster and punched two fat rounds into his face. He stood, swaying a moment then fell.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
“Take that, cocksucker!” I yelled and pounded the butt of my pistol on the roof of the Ford. “Take that!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
That’s when the Federale’s partner, who had, evidently, been sleeping in the back seat, jumped out and started blasting away at me with some kind of heavy caliber motherfucker. I swung the Colt around and nailed him, but not before the bastard put one straight through my belly button.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The round slammed me back into the front seat of the car. Which fit right in with my plan. I slapped the shifter, spun the wheel and got the fuck out of there: the hole in my guts soaking my pants with blood, screaming the Ford, speedo pegged at one-hundred-thirty-five fucking MPH, up the wide-open, pitch-black, asshole of Mexican Highway Number 2.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I ditched the car at the 80 kilometer sign and cut cross country until I hit the old railroad tracks. I figured I could follow the rails until I was close enough to the two-wire border fence and the small mountain town of Potrero. Not much of a town but there was a pay phone that I could use to call for a ride. Home free, I thought. Piece of cake. Went down smooth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="color: red;">*</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<em>Somewhere along the way, it started snowing. I don’t remember when. I’m too concerned with the right foot, left foot, right foot slogging that’s moving me along. The blood soaking through my pants and down my legs felt warm at first, but now it’s ice. I got both hands holding my belly now, but it doesn't seem to help stop the steady drip, drip, drip of blood. Right foot, left, right, left. Oddly, I’m not cold anymore. It’s quiet up here. Just the wind. And me. And something up ahead. Light. Bright light and a kind of murmuring noise. For a moment I think maybe it’s a train. I mean, I’m on the tracks, right? But the trains on the Mexican side haven’t run for years. I keep walking. Right, left, right... I’m closer to that light now. And the noise. I figure out the noise first. Voices, a lot of voices. A big swelling sound, ¡Ole! ¡Ole! ¡Ole! they’re saying. And the light is the sun. Bright golden sun streaming down on the yellow sand of the bull ring and the crowds. It’s brighter now and louder. ¡Ole! ¡Ole! ¡Ole! Mexico.</em></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<em><br /></em></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<em>I am the Matador.</em></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<strong>BIO: AJ Hayes is from San Diego and -- god help him -- good friends with Jimmy (Mad Dog) Callaway, who provides great advice and the occasional smack in the mouth with the butt of a .45.</strong></div>
</span>Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-18997270413694829982014-03-28T19:30:00.000-05:002014-04-01T18:14:33.971-05:00Bill "AJ" Hayes TributeAs many of you know, we all lost a great friend and outstanding writer recently when Bill "AJ" Hayes passed away unexpectedly. Bill was a true friend in every sense of the word, being supportive of fellow writers (especially this one), willing to talk shop and give advice whenever it was needed. Bill extended himself beyond just the writing, being a voice of reason and a stabilizing force in various people's lives. Though I never met him in the flesh, I felt like we were pretty good friends, closer than most, not as close as I would have liked.<br />
<br />
ATON will be recognizing Bill Hayes' talent by re-running over the course of the next couple weeks just a small portion of what this great man put out into the world.<br />
<br />
I miss you, AJ.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-71032377982488567272013-07-13T08:30:00.001-05:002013-07-14T08:16:29.588-05:00One Lost Summer By Richard GodwinIf you're not reading Richard Godwin, you have no idea what noir is.<br />
<br />
His third novel, One Lost Summer, has been out for a little less than a month now and is getting rave reviews. Duh. Because it's Richard Godwin, whose noir has solid bite.<br />
<br />
You can order One Lost Summer <a href="http://www.amazon.com/One-Lost-Summer-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711340">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
Or <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/One-Lost-Summer-Richard-Godwin/dp/0956711340/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369835613&sr=8-1&keywords=One+Lost+Summer">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Or <a href="http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/One-Lost-Summer-Richard-Godwin/9780956711342">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
You can go to Richard's own page devoted to One Lost Summer <a href="http://www.richardgodwin.net/media/one-lost-summer-media-page">HERE</a>.<br />
<br />
Paul Vogel reviews One Lost Summer for Midwest Book Review <a href="http://www.midwestbookreview.com/mbw/jul_13.htm#vogel">HERE.</a> Scroll down only slightly.<br />
<br />
Tara Fox Hall reviews One Lost Summer at Good Book Alert <a href="http://goodbookalert.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/45-stars-for-one-lost-summer.html">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Richard talks with Nick Wallis on BBC Surrey about One Lost Summer <a href="http://www.richardgodwin.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/01-GODWIN-BOOK-BBC-SURREY.mp3">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
You can look at Goodreads and decide what you think about One Lost Summer <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18142344-one-lost-summer">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
You can read the review of One Lost Summer in the Seattle Post Intelligencer <a href="http://www.seattlepi.com/lifestyle/blogcritics/article/Book-Review-One-Last-Summer-by-Richard-Godwin-4618572.php">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Les Edgerton talks about One Lost Summer <a href="http://lesedgertononwriting.blogspot.com/2013/06/huge-recommend-for-richard-godwins-one.html">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Long And Short Reviews talk One Lost Summer up <a href="http://www.longandshortreviews.com/guest-blogs/one-lost-summer-and-identity-by-richard-godwin/">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
B.R. Stateham talks with Richard about One Lost Summer <a href="http://noirtaketurner-frank.blogspot.com/2013/06/one-last-summer-newest-from-richard.html">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
A Knife And A Quill review One Lost Summer <a href="http://aknifeandaquill.com/review-one-lost-summer/">Over HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Mike Stafford reviews One Lost Summer <a href="http://www.nudgemenow.com/article/one-lost-summer-by-richard-godwin/">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Paul D. Brazill has a short, sharp interview with Richard about One Lost Summer <a href="https://pauldbrazill.wordpress.com/2013/06/29/short-sharp-interview-richard-godwin-2/">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
Tom Gillespie interviews Richard about One Lost Summer <a href="http://tom-gillespie.com/a-journey-through-the-neon-night-of-noir-an-interview-with-richard-godwin/">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
And this is just the tip of the iceberg, folks. If you're not reading One Lost Summer, you're really missing out. Go and get several copies. Give them to friends and enemies alike.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-40116621342132462602013-02-17T09:59:00.000-06:002013-02-17T09:59:09.788-06:00More ApologiesI'm sure you've all noticed a couple more stories have appeared in the last day.<br />
<br />
My apologies go to Neliza Drew and O.M. Grey.<br />
<br />
It wasn't planned but it's kind of fitting, once you move past the fact that I blew it, that O.M.'s story should go up last, considering it's called Final Word.<br />
<br />
I hope I haven't forgotten any other stories and will be combing through my files to make certain that this is so.<br />
<br />
Again, my apologies.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-64151996034883347192013-02-17T09:53:00.000-06:002013-02-17T09:53:12.139-06:00Final Word by O.M. Grey<br />
<div>
<b>FINAL WORD - O. M. GREY</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A note on the pillow read: I warned you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The sounds of the new day silenced, as if she had been sealed in a coffin.
No birds, no traffic, nothing. Just silence. Then the pounding of her heart and
her quickening breath invaded her ears from the inside. She sat up, and he
trickled out of her, wetting the sheets.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Images from the previous night flooded her mind. Pleasure. Passion...and
fear. She could feel his hands grasping her hair, holding her face close as he
said, “If anyone finds out about this, it’s over.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She had known him forever, it seemed, but in reality it had been less than
a year. Theirs has been one of those connections, indescribable. Close. Fast
friends. When it turned more, she fell hard. He had told her how he married
after the army. But even with a wife and a three-year-old son, his need for her
remained, and hers for him. Although she had tried to keep things platonic, she
had been unable to resist when he had pushed toward seduction.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life had damaged him, but then it hadn’t left her unscathed either. The
scars on her arms and legs, self-inflicted, spoke to that. But she nor anyone
but another soldier could grasp the depth of his internal injuries. As former
sniper who had served in Iraq, he struggled with normal life. She could see the
pain behind his eyes because it mirrored her own. Although she hadn’t known him
before, she sensed the war had changed him. Still, they understood each other’s
insanities. Both broken. Both scrambling to survive in a world they didn’t
understand, and more importantly, one that didn’t understand them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A buzzing pulled her out of her thoughts, and she looked over at her phone
vibrating on the night stand, a reminder of an unread text from her best
friend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He must have seen it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That’s how he knew she had told. She must have slept through the first
alert, dreaming. Content in her satisfaction. His senses, honed from his
experience overseas, enabled him to hear the quiet vibration in the night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now he knew. Now it was over.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She collapsed to the floor, holding herself in a fetal position. The fear
that consumed her wouldn’t even allow tears to come. Gasping for breath, she
tried to grasp this new reality.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He was gone. It was over. Surely he couldn’t throw their love away so
easily. But the fear of hurting his family mixed with the unstable nature of
PTSD made him unpredictable. She had seen it, his personality change from
charming and witty one moment to dark and brooding and harsh the next. She had
often wondered if he was reliving something from the war, remembering things
that he quickly pushed back down deep inside the darkness of his mind. Despite
horrors of war, tragedy and loss and savagery beyond comprehension, his greatest
fear now was losing his family. He would stop at nothing to protect his place
with them. He would never talk of them. She had asked repeatedly to see a
picture of his wife, hoping that seeing her as a person, instead of just a
intangible concept, would help her resist him. She would not do anything to hurt
him or his family, but he always made an excuse. Perhaps his fear of losing
them, of being discovered, had turned dangerous and triggered something primal
inside him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A new horror came to mind.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What if he meant over over. Like, over for her. Completely, not just the
relationship?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Get up,” her subconscious screamed at her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But she couldn’t move.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Get up! Get up!” The words burst from her mouth and echoed against the
walls in the silent apartment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Forcing herself to her feet, her instinct took over. Naked and alone, she
ran to the front door and turned the two deadbolts, locked the doorknob, and
shoved a chair beneath the handle. She stepped back, pulling her hands to her
mouth, and trembled. Listening. But the silence remained. The whole world quiet,
save for the pounding of her heart and her ever-quickening breath.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her mind drifted back to a few weeks ago. She could still see him watching
her with admiration. No, adoration. The heat in his eyes had startled her. No
one had looked at her like that in quite some time, and she had thought she
imagined it. An artist, like her, they had gone to an opening together. An
excuse to see each other, of course, in a professional setting without
suspicion, although there had been nothing to suspect at the time. They had just
been colleagues, friends, supporting each other in a tough business. Keeping
each other’s spirits up so that they could continue to create. But his wife was
the jealous type. Older than he, on her third marriage, a scientist with little
interest in the visual arts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That night everything had changed. She had felt him watching her, and she
didn’t quite know what to think. They had embraced, as always, but this time he
kissed her. Just on the cheek. Rather innocent, really; but she had felt
something new in that moment. For her, anyway. The look on his face as they
parted made it clear that he had been taken with her for some time, and that
night he had made his move, subtle as it was.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A door slammed in the hall, making her jump then realize she stood alone,
naked and scared. Lost in her memories. Had she been more aware, could she have
seen the danger that lay just beneath his surface?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Voices drifted through her closed door. She stared at the chair forced
beneath the handle and listened.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Why are you so grumpy this morning?” It was Mr. White, her neighbor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“As if you didn’t know. I hardly slept with all that screaming and pounding
last night.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They must be on their way to church.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Ah, to be young again,” he responded, his voice fading as they moved down
the hall.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then again, silence. Deafening, the kind that muffles every sense. The kind
that fills the entire room with dread.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She still trembled, but the goosebumps on her flesh awakened her to the
cold.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You’re overreacting.” Her voice broke the silence. “Get a grip.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Leaving the chair propped under the door, she returned to the bedroom and
began gathering her clothes strewn about the room. She picked up the purple
panties and the matching bra, bought especially for him, his favorite color, and
slid them on, remembering how he had coaxed them off last night. The soft fabric
of her favorite sweatshirt dried her cheeks as she pulled it over her head, its
folds warming her body and comforting her. She stepped into her PJ bottoms and
slid her feet into her fuzzy slippers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The phone on the nightstand buzzed again, causing the adrenaline to rush to
her brain. She picked up the phone to turn it off, but dropped it. Its face
cracked as it hit the side of the nightstand before crashing to the floor.
Frantic, she looked around then ran toward the window. After she jerked the
curtains closed, she pressed herself against the wall next to it. Her pounding
heart filled her ears, and she could see it moving the material of her thick
sweatshirt. Her breath came faster and more shallow. She slid down the wall and
hugged her knees, trying to consciously slow her breath. Breath in,
one-two-three-four, and out, one-two-three-four. In, one-two-three-four, and
out, one-two-three-four.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It wasn’t helping.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She crawled along the floor, fighting to breathe, toward the bathroom.
Grasping the edge of the sink, she pulled herself up and reached for her bottle
of Xanax. After gulping one of the tiny pills down with a handful of water, she
took comfort in the fact that the attack would soon pass. Her face in the mirror
seemed old, tired. She turned the shower knob to hot, knowing the hot water
would calm her until the pills kicked in. It always did, but as the room steamed
up she saw it again. I warned you written on the glass shower door. Screaming,
she wiped the words off then dashed around the apartment, jerking the curtains
closed over the windows and ensuring all the lights were off. Although, that
didn’t matter in the daylight. Her thoughts bounced around in her head,
obsessive and frantic.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She rushed into the kitchen, opened the silverware drawer, and pulled out
the biggest knife. Then she resumed her position on the floor, in a corner, with
her knees pulled close. She kept her wide eyes trained on the front door and
waited. It’s not enough, her brain screamed at her. You haven’t done enough.
Pile boxes in front of the windows! Call the police, for Christ’s sake!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“The Police,” she said aloud. “Fuck!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Clutching the knife in one hand and forcing herself to take deep,
controlled breaths, she crawled back into the bedroom to her shattered phone.
She pushed the home button and saw the familiar picture pop up. Thank God! It
still worked! She slid the arrow to unlock it and pressed the green phone
button. Dr. Ray’s name filled the top three slots of her recent call list.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She pressed the top one.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Hello,” the tired voice on the other end said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Dr. Ray?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Yes?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Sorry to wake you. It’s Marla.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Following a heavy sigh, he said, “Yes, Marla. How can I help you?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I’m in danger!” she managed between rapid breaths.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Calm down. Are you doing your breathing exercises?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Yes, but they’re not working! He’s coming! He’s coming for me!”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You are having a panic attack again. Keep taking deep breaths. Try a hot
shower until it passes. That always seems to help, right?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“No! You don’t understand! On the shower--” But her pleas went unheard on
the dropped call.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Fucking AT&T!” she shrieked and hurled the phone across the room,
hitting the far wall and denting the sheetrock. There goes the security
deposit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Deep breaths. Deep breaths.” She rocked back and forth, covering her head
with her arms. The knife rested against her back. God! The Xanax should kick in
soon. I’ll be fine. I’ll be just fine. In, one-two-three-four, and out,
one-two-three-four. In, one-two-three-four, and out one-two-three-four.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dr. Ray was probably right; an anxiety attack had caused the paranoia
because she already felt better. How ridiculous for her to be so freaked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I mean really, Marla? He’s just trying to scare you. Abusive SOB.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She was definitely overreacting.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Just do what you would normally do in the morning. No need to freak
out.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She laughed at herself as she made her coffee, and soon percolating sounds
and delicious, fresh aroma of brewed java filled the room. Her eyelids drooped a
little as she poured her first cup. The Xanax kicked into full gear. She felt
relaxed and rather tired. It had been a long, exciting night after all. Was it
really over? She couldn’t fathom never seeing him again, watching him smile,
making her laugh, kissing those soft lips. But the comfortable chemical-induced
calm allowed her momentary peace.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Don’t jump to any conclusions, Marla.” Talking to herself often soothed
her, allowing the thoughts to come out rather than bounce around in her brain
driving her crazier. “I’m sure everything is fine. Just be glad he didn’t see
that level of crazy. Don’t panic. Not yet. No need to panic yet.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She sipped her coffee again and moved over to the large, living room
window. At first, she just parted the curtains a sliver, peeking through them
into the morning. It had snowed during the night, and a beautiful white blanket
covered everything. It was Sunday, so many cars were still on the streets as all
their owners slept in. Only a few tire treads marred the otherwise pristine
white. It was a perfect morning.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I love Xanax,” she sighed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After sliding the curtains all the way open to let in the sunshine, she
settled down on the sofa, pulled her lap blanket over her legs, and gazed out
the window. Across the street some children were up playing in the snow. They
had already formed the bottom of a snowman and were working together to roll the
middle. A blue bird settled on a tree limb just outside. He held a worm in his
beak. A car turned the corner and slid a little, but regained control before
hitting the curb. On the top of the adjacent building, a glint caught her eye,
like sun reflecting off glass.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-26612892550021894142013-02-17T00:22:00.000-06:002013-02-17T00:22:15.682-06:00Meat And Potatoes Man by Neliza Drew<br />
<div>
<b>MEAT AND POTATOES MAN - NELIZA DREW</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He waddled. That was the only way she could think to describe Roger’s
movements through the world. Like a giant, well-fattened penguin. He’d been like
that ever since he’d pulled his back out at the Ford dealership, tossing tires
around the parts warehouse. Two workman’s comp surgeries later, he seemed more
messed up than he had the day they’d sent him to the first quack.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now he’d put on another fifty-odd pounds, quit working at all – even quit
lifting the axe to chop firewood for winter. First year, he’s spent some of his
unemployment money on hiring the neighbor’s boy. This year, he didn’t have that
or a job, so she’d done it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marge finished the stack with a throbbing in her back and shoulders. Even
dragging around the baby, who was a butterball of a kid, was less
work.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He came outside, caught her cooling off with one of his Miller Lites. “What
the hell you doin’, bitch?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She polished off the can, set it on the stump and whacked it flat with the
back of the axe head. “Drinkin’ my beer.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He looked like he wanted to hit her. He’d slapped a few times in the past
few years, especially since he’d stopped working. Instead, he waddled back
inside.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She heaved the axe handle up on her shoulder and cocked a hip. “Damn
straight.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The baby turned three in a week. All she’d ever wanted and the only thing
she’d needed him for. When he’d been born, they’d lived in a nice apartment in
town. Small, but one with heat. And a working stove. She’d found out five hours
after the Csection that Roger’s insurance only covered fifteen percent of the
surgery.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“It covered it all if you’d been able to do it on your own.” The nurse
clucked her tongue. Same one who’d suggested she was too old to be a decent
mother anyway, tried to scare her with birth defect stories while she was still
heaving away in labor. That was how they’d ended up in the trailer just outside
of town. The one with the wood stove in the yard and the drafts where the floor
boards had rotted out.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He’d never hurt her while she was pregnant. Hadn’t much more than called
her names, jerked her around some before. He’d been big and strong, but he
hadn’t used it against her too much. Not like her exhusband, the one who’d never
been able to give her a baby, even after fifteen years of trying.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She stayed for little Jack. Boys needed a father. And, after years of
looking, she’d found one. Maybe not the best in the world, but probably the best
she’d find in the county. And she’d run out of time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marge sat at the table she’d found by the road near the Kirby’s farm. Cheap
vinyl top with cigarette burns, but it fit in the kitchen and held a couple of
plates.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Roger’s butt stuck out of the fridge.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She munched her cheap cereal, bottom of the shelf corn flakes that came in
a bag.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Whatcho lookin’ for?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“We outa beer?” He emerged, holding up a carton of orange juice. “We can’t
be buying this expensive food, woman.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“We’re eligible for aid, still. The baby”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“We ain’t a welfare family.” He slammed the fridge door shut. “We buy what
we can afford. Like real Americans. Not them socialist scum.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You sound like Jimmy Ray.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You leave him outa this.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Sure, so we can’t afford juice, but we can buy beer, right?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Least the beer’s American. You don’t even know where this shit come from.
Prob’ly Mexico or somewhere. You want fancy people food, you better get a fancy
people job.” He left the OJ on the counter and stormed off, probably to sit
around Jimmy Ray’s bar watching the TV until dark.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marge finished her cereal and put the juice away. She had a job. Worked
nights at the gas station at the edge of town. It came with a uniform so no one
wondered why none of her clothes didn’t fit right after the baby. It was walking
distance away since he’d gotten the car repossessed. And it was at night when he
and the baby were sleeping so neither of them could aggravate or hurt the other
one.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Fancy people jobs” was what he called the ones people wore suits to, the
ones that required fancy degrees and rich parents. Even then there weren’t that
many of them in town.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
About three lawyers to handle all the wills and taxes and DUIs at the
county courthouse. And even then, one of them was half-dead.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Old guy had been stacking up paperwork in that home office of his since she
was a baby. Bout two doctors not counting the dentist. One handled the old folks
and one handled the kids. The insurance agent next to the diner and the pastor
were the only others in town who owned a tie. Wasn’t even the kind of place
people wore fancy clothes to church.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She fantasized about what it would be like, sitting at a desk with a
computer and a phone. No shotgun under the counter. No video camera watching her
like a common thief. She smiled at Jack. “One day maybe you’ll have a fancy job,
huh, my little man?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The grocery store sat a quarter mile from the gas station and opened an
hour after she got off her shift. Small, with fixtures as old as she was, the
prices weren’t much better than the gas station, but the selection was better
and without a car to get out to the WalMart on the edge of the next town, it was
the best she could do. Shopping days always left her exhausted and Roger cranky
because he had to feed Jack.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hamburger meat on sale. Dollar off a pound if she bought the stuff so
marbled with fat it nearly started a grease fire to cook it. Bacon cheaper than
eggs. She picked up a sack of potatoes and a loaf of white bread, the kind that
looked like bleached paper, even after she’d toasted it. Roger’s favorite, of
course. Last, but not least, a fridge pack of Miller Lites, that she cradled to
her on the walk home, the half dozen plastic bags digging into her wrist and
hand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She worried about the healthiness of their food. Worried little Jack would
get diabetes, that one of them wouldn’t live long enough to see him graduate
high school. She’d seen all the various reports on the news that played on the
small TV behind the counter at work. She’d heard Dr. Oz in the afternoons when
folding laundry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Roger always told her that was a bunch of sissyass bologna. That those
people just wanted her money. His daddy had been a meat and potatoes man and his
daddy before that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Course, both Roger’s parents were dead as were her own.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Now this is what I’m talking about!” He shoveled runny eggs and
near-expired bacon in his mouth with a fork while mopping up the yolk with a
greasy biscuit in his other hand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” She sipped cold tomato soup from a
glass. Cheaper than the vegetable drinks, which were cheaper still than actual
produce.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“That veggie crap’s gonna kill you.” He waved a floppy piece of bacon at
her, the thin line of meat barely noticeable for the thick vein of fat. Grease
flew off the end of it and splattered the side of her glass.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She cut off a corner of egg white. “One of us has to be around long enough
to raise Jack.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You gon’ raise him up to be a pussy with all that healthy eating junk. He
gon’ be softer’n a pillow. A pillow biter.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She got up to rinse her plate. “Or as soft as your midsection.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“What’d you say, woman?” He jumped out of his seat, fork still in his fist
as he brought it down on her shoulder, the rounded edge of the handle jabbing
the muscle.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The plate jumped out of her hand and shattered on the scarred
linoleum.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Look what you made me do. Can’t even enjoy my breakfast without you
breaking shit I worked hard to earn.” He shoveled the rest of his bread in his
face and stormed out the door.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Snow fell. Drifts piled up around the sides of the trailer. Marge wrestled
the frozen door open and stomped outside in her boots to build the morning fire.
While it got going, she went inside to lay out the eggs and sausage, put
everything on ceramic plates that wouldn’t stick to her gloves and got out the
heavy cast iron pan she used on the open flames. She remembered her daddy having
cast iron for camping when she was little, but she’d never known anyone her own
age to cook with it. Heard tale of some trendy city types buying it up, but
she’d never met one. Sounded like the same kind of fools who moved into
buildings with old pipes and crumbling bricks so they could fix ‘em up.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It’d been nearly a month of his new man diet. He’d put on another seven
pounds of beer gut and decided he no longer needed sleeves. Got too hot, he
said. Marge figured she’d only be too lucky if he’d managed to kill himself in
the cold and handed him another beer on her way out to cook.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He scratched himself on the couch and changed channels.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She felt the hatred burning in her heart, hotter than the old metal stove
in the yard. She felt the cold of her remaining love, wound so tight and small
it would fit in the tip of an icicle and have room to twirl around.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He belched. “Shut the door. You’ll get a draft goin’ in here. Damn,
bitch.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She sat down to mend the hem of her uniform pants and felt the weariness of
three days running hard seep into her bones. She couldn’t remember the last time
she’d had more than a couple hours of sleep in any given day or night. If she
wasn’t at work and little Jack didn’t need her, she was cooking or cleaning or
running errands, hauling groceries the two miles back from town, chopping more
firewood, or lugging bales of laundry up to the Laundromat near the Hardees.And
speaking of Hardees, she could feel the burger she’d had for lunch coming back
up on her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She’d wanted the salad. Even with the fried chicken on it, it seemed
healthier somehow than the fat slab of beef covered in orange cheese, but the
salad had cost four times as much and she’d just spent her last five getting
their clothes clean. In summer, she’d have just put them back in the garbage
back and taken them home wet, saved a few bucks hanging them outside, but spring
was still another week away, and that was by the calendar, not necessarily the
weather.She took a deep breath and stretched. Sipped her V8. Whacked at her
chest a few times like her daddy had done when he’d needed to cough up mucus or
tried to get down another rack of ribs. Went back to sewing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The indigestion got worse, an uncomfortable tightening sensation like the
damn burger was growing arms and legs in there. She sat up straighter and
coughed, thinking it just needed to be loosened.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Roger came back in at five. He’d been out in the woods. Said he’d gone
hunting, and he’d taken his gun, but what he’d really needed to do was get away
from her incessant whining about losing weight and eating better. What he’d
really needed to do was get another sixpack in him so he didn’t have to hear
that baby up babbling and whining for his momma at night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He leaned his rifle against the side of the trailer and shook his head.
Damn kid was already making a fuss. And weren’t they supposed to grow out of
that eventually? Seemed it’d been too long as it was. Damn mother of his had
turned the boy into a pussy. That’s all there was to it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Hey, ain’t you gon’ be late for work?” He nudged her foot with his. Damn
woman sleeping at the table like she had no place to be. Hadn’t even made him no
supper. No wonder the brat was yelling like a fool. Kid’s probably hungry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her head lolled to one side slightly, but stopped before it reached her
shoulder.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Hey! Bitch! You lazy good for nothing…” He reached down and grabbed her
hand and stopped. The thing was cold, almost stiff. Normally, flinchy and hyper,
she didn’t move.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He backed away from her. “What the—?” Then he smiled, realized he didn’t
have to listen to her complaining no more. Realized he didn’t have to worry bout
her turning his boy into one of them faggots no more. Didn’t have to worry about
her wasting beer money on fancy shit.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Told you that veggie shit would kill you.”</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-4630108686535771742013-02-16T20:34:00.000-06:002013-02-16T20:34:04.262-06:00Apology to Larry StrattnerI need to make yet another apology about the V-Day Stories.<br />
<br />
I apparently misplaced Larry Strattner's story The Babysitter but have discovered it and it is now just below this apology.<br />
<br />I'm sorry, Larry, for not getting it up with the rest of the stories on Thursday.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-3857406021733823752013-02-16T20:30:00.000-06:002013-02-16T21:01:38.259-06:00The Babysitter by Larry Strattner<b>THE BABYSITTER - LARRY STRATTNER</b><br />
<br />
What a fat little kid. I could squeeze him all day. He sat in my lap with his tiny chubby feet crossed as I read him his books. He paid careful attention and knew when to turn the page. I’m glad I taught him to read. If they learn young, they enjoy it. A lot of reading makes you smart, and he is that.<br />
<br />
We spent lots of time together when his father was away on business. I will always cherish those memories. Before he even really talked, he would raise his hand when he was dropped off and say, “Hi.” He called me Pa Pa, too, and later Pops.<br />
<br />
These days I sit in the house with the shades pulled, reading under a floor lamp next to my recliner. I stick to poetry, William Blake, Rimbaud and Poe. I can’t read long stuff anymore but I like writing that cuts. Most poetry doesn’t interest me; it’s too sappy.<br />
<br />
He’s out on my front porch right now. He isn’t chubby anymore, still crosses his feet when he reads. He tilts his chair back to stay in the shade. His eyes are startlingly blue. I still love to hug him if I can catch him off-guard. He says, “For crying out loud, Pops,” but I can tell he likes it. He’s always here in the daytime until the folks that watch me at night bring dinner. Mostly he reads and watches the sidewalk. I loved teaching him to read and enjoy the written word. If someone from the bad old days comes looking for me, he kills them.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-80661417656464306612013-02-14T23:11:00.001-06:002013-02-14T23:11:45.643-06:00That's My Baby by Patricia Abbott<br />
<div>
<b>THAT’S MY BABY - PATRICIA ABBOTT</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lulu Stephanides, Manager of Flo’s Escapades on Eight Mile Road hired
the Club’s top headliner when Johnny LeCroix walked through the door one October
day. She’d taken over hiring the acts a few months earlier when her boss, Bill
Steves, began a 3-5 year stint at Jackson for bribing city officials.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was quickly apparent Lulu was better at spotting talent than Steves had
been, and the weekend crowds more than doubled. Although most of the acts
centered on erotic dancing, Lulu liked to vary the bill with magicians, singers,
and standup comedians. Of course, no one appearing at Flo’s Escapades would pull
double duty at a PTA fundraiser. That was a given for joints on Eight Mile.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Johnny LeCroix arrived at Flo’s well on the road to femaledom—a girl except
for the final chop. A pushup bra displayed his best features, which he fingered
self-consciously like a man does a new beard. Luckily Johnny’s wide shoulders
helped him to carry it off. Someone needed to tell him though that the extreme
hip swivel wasn’t necessary and lowering his voice an octave would make him less
conspicuous.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lulu looked him over, wondering why trannies all believed the essence of a
woman lay in things like manicures and mascara. This Johnny, soon to be Joan,
had every superficial attribute in place, but you only had to look at his jaw to
know his sex. No woman ever had a set of teeth like his. And although his hands
were small for a man, they lacked delicacy. His determination to highlight his
expensive manicure (blue nails; glittery tips) by waving his mitts around only
made things worse.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He saw the disinterest on her face and jumped in saying, “Look, my act
ain’t really about the sex thing. That’s just my circumstances at the moment. I
was born in a suitcase, you know.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lulu wondered just how his jaw had fit into one but waved him on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I think the saying goes, ‘I was born in a trunk,” Lulu said, stepping back
as one of the blue balls he had removed from his case escaped. “And there’s no
trick in juggling two balls, my friend. It’s torches and hatchets nowadays. Last
week a fellow dressed like SpongeBob claimed he could juggle grenades. I
declined an audition, of course.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She was turning her back on Johnny when he added. “Wait, Miss, you haven’t
even seen me feed the dog yet. You won’t want to miss that. It’s the grand
finale.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If Lulu remembered correctly “feeding the dog” was an old yoyo stunt. “Come
back when you have something new to show me,” she said. But before she reached
the lobby door, a shrieking yip cut through the room as Johnny removed a black
and white Chihuahua from his satchel.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“This is Baby,” he shouted over the barking. “Everyone loves my Baby.” Baby
confirmed the sentiment by barking all the louder.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Look, this ain’t Letterman, Johnny,” Lulu said. “We don’t put stupid pet
tricks on our stage. Why don’t you come by tonight and get the lay of the land?”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But her exit had already slowed to a crawl.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lulu liked dogs. Even yippers like Baby. Her disdain for human beings was
turned on its head when she looked into a canine’s face. She’d never owned one
though. First her parents, then her ex- husband claimed allergies. And although
there was no reason not to have one now, a nightclub seemed like a poor place
for a pet to spend its days and she was at the club fifteen hours a day, six
days a week. A dog this size, in particular, would really be underfoot. She
shook off this thought and looked away.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I can dress her up if you want,” Johnny said, pulling a frilly doll dress
from his bag, “but most people like to see Baby in action. Her legs go like
little pistons. Wait till you see.” He grabbed Baby’s legs to demonstrate, and
the yipping began again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Feigning ennui, Lulu waved him back onto center stage and sank back into
her chaise. Johnny was an eyeful all right, but it was Baby who grabbed her
attention.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The act turned out to be pure gold, and within days people
flooded the Club to see Johnny feed the dog. There wasn’t much fanfare—just the
two of them bathed in a cool blue light with Johnny starting off by singing some
dip-shitty song about Mexican moons and senoritas. He considered himself an
excellent singer, though most would disagree. But since it set the mood for what
came next, she let it stand. He had an old record player from the fifties to
play his background music—claiming it added more visual interest than a tape
player would. Baby seemed mesmerized by the song and at various points would add
her own soulful accompaniment. Which was a scream. And that might have been
enough but…</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When the last note faded, when their two voices died out, when Johnny had
carefully lifted the needle off the album—the dog grabbed the elasticized neck
of Johnny’s blouse, yanked it down, and proceeded to suckle Johnny’s left breast
with such fervor her entire body shook like a bolt of electricity was passing
through it. And, as promised, her legs pumped like mad. But the right breast
turned out to be the brass ring of the act because once anchored there, Baby
cooed with content for a few seconds and promptly fell asleep. The ending
brought a roar of approval every night. Johnny, cradling Baby, took a final bow
and then tucked Baby back into the bassinet on stage.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I pepper the nipples with a little Ambien,” he explained to Lulu. “The
vet okayed it,” he added when he saw her face. “He prescribes it for hyper dogs
like Baby all the time. I’ve used it myself more than once.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“I gotta admit,” Lulu told Johnny, “it’s the best damned act on Eight Mile
Road.” She gave him a raise after that first night and every month after. No one
ever got tired of watching Johnny feed the dog. Especially Lulu.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She encouraged Johnny to hang around too, even leaving Baby with her when
he had errands to run. Baby was a show biz dog and was content to spend her days
listening with Lulu to the singers, standups and strippers trying out for the
club. Since Johnny’s appearance, they were getting top-bill entertainers begging
for a week rather than the typical night or two between more important gigs.
Flo’s Escapade had become a destination.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Doc says it’s time for the chop,”
Johnny told her a few months later. “So I guess I’ll be moving on. Once I’m all
woman, I won’t be doing dumb-ass routines like this one. I got bigger plans. I’m
thinking Vegas or New York. I’ve been taking dancing lessons, a little acting
too.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Johnny looked like he meant it and Lulu nodded mechanically.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“But I’ll have to keep the dog,” she told him as he turned to go. “You
won’t need her cramping your style as you work your way up to the big time.” Ha,
she thought to herself. “I’ll find another tranny to feed her. Shouldn’t take
long.” She eyed him speculatively. “You newbie girls are like mold on a
showerhead lately.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“Hey, I got a big surgery coming up—you know what I mean. I can’t go
through it without that little dog in my corner rooting for me.” Johnny shook
his head. “She’s all I got.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“You’re not even planning to use her in the act, right? That’s what you
said.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He shook his head. “I’m planning on a classier act. But who says Baby can’t
be a regular mutt. She’s earned her retirement.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lulu watched them perform for the last time a few nights later, weeping
surreptitiously from her chaise. She hadn’t even had the heads-up to advertise
the final show and the crowd was only fair on a Tuesday. She wasn’t that eager
to alert their patrons of Baby’s goodbye.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Later that night, Lulu followed Johnny home to his flat. She trudged up the
stairs and knocked softly on his door, shooting him in the neck the second he
opened the door. The gun was the one kept in the Club’s wall safe. She hadn’t
been sure it would fire.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As Lulu bundled the yipping dog into the satchel and prepared to leave,
she reminded Johnny’s cooling body, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-49007994410326962572013-02-14T14:46:00.004-06:002013-02-14T14:46:53.518-06:00Pizza Face And The Beauty Queen by Katherine Tomlinson<br />
<div>
<b>PIZZA FACE AND THE BEAUTY QUEEN - KATHERINE TOMLINSON</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was Valentine's Day and a teen was dead so instead of spending the day
with her new man--who might possibly could be a keeper--Det. Diana Fitzgerald
was walking around the very high school where she'd spent four miserable
years.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
There was no question it was a suicide.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I'm not really surprised this happened," the dead student's honors English
teacher said, "not after I saw the picture."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What picture?" Diana had asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"The picture on Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr," the teacher said, sucking
her Marlboro Light down to the filter. "It's probably on YouTube by now, backed
by a bouncy Justin Bieber song."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The only thing the teacher had been wrong about what the song playing
behind the photo.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was Britney Spears' "Lucky."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The picture was shot with a cell phone and was more than candid, it was
clandestine. It showed a boy and a girl caught by the camera as they broke from
an embrace. They were, Diana had to admit, an unlikely couple. The girl was
beautiful, A-list celebrity beautiful, with auburn hair and big brown eyes. He
was a geektastic disaster with the worst case of acne she'd ever seen.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He looked like he had kidney beans surgically implanted all over his
face.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Do you think she was kissing him on a dare?" Diana's partner John asked.
"Kind of a reverse 'Dogfight' kind of thing?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I don't think so," Diana had said. She had learned the girl's name was
Lauren and the boy's was Cicero. Cicero. How soon after he entered first grade
did people start calling him "Sissy?" she wondered.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana's older brothers had all been given Gaelic names by their dreamy
Irish dad and Eoghan had changed his name to Owen the day he turned 18. When she
came along, her mother had put her foot down at the notion of calling her Aoife
or Siobhan and she'd been named after her maternal grandmother instead. Diana
was a safe name, it was a name that didn't stand out.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The last thing you wanted to do in high school was stand out.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The girls' gym teacher had found the body. Ms. Brody looked much the same
as she had back when Diana had attended Harkham High.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Go Green Devils!</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ms. Brody had been a bully then and she hadn't changed much in ten years.
Nor had she forgotten Diana.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Fitzgerald. I see you finally lost that baby blubber."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
John gave his partner a look of surprise. She had a runner's body, a lean
130 on a five-nine frame.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yep," Diana said, as some of the worst memories of her teenage years came
back to her in a flood--the time she fell during the knotted rope climb, the
time she passed out in the middle of a field hockey game after Ms. Brody made
her play left wing so she'd be running the whole game. Then there was the time
someone stole her humongous underpants from her locker while she showered after
gym and ran them up the flagpole the next morning so that everyone could see
them. She had always suspected the teacher had had a hand in that particular bit
of meanness but had never been able to prove it.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I understand you found the body?" John asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yep," the teacher said, mimicking Diana.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Did you recognize the student?" she asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Of course," she said. "You've seen the picture, right?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana nodded.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"It was taken in the gym," the teacher said. "They were supposed to be
working on scenery for the school play." Her voice took on an aggrieved tone.
"They shouldn't even have been here but Mr. Wadleigh convinced the principal
that he needed extra room for the construction."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana remembered the drama teacher as a sweet man whose marginal theater
credits and unimpressive guest roles on television series all dated from the
80s.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"They were going to do The Robber Bridegroom," Ms. Brody said, "Lauren was
going to play Rosamund."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She paused for emphasis.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Lauren's boyfriend is playing Jamie Lockhart." She saw they didn't
understand. "The male lead."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What's the boyfriend's name?" John asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His name was Josh Archuetta and Diana could tell he thought he was pretty
hot shit but he was the kind of kid who peaks in high school and then spends the
rest of his life chasing his youth like a refugee from a Bruce Springsteen song.
"That little faggot," he said when Diana asked him if he knew Cicero.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Faggot" and "whore" were just two of the epithets digitally scrawled in
the comments beneath the picture of Cicero and Lauren posted on Facebook.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana had to wonder why no one realized the two terms sort of cancelled
each other out if the two students were a couple.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"That fucking whore," he added.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
That exact phrase had been spray-painted on Lauren's locker in bright
orange paint. You could still see the words despite the school janitor's
attempts to scrub them off. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"We were royalty in this school," he told Diana and John, "we were gods.
And she threw it away for a nothing."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Josh was practically vibrating with anger and loathing Diana found herself
wanting to punch him in the testicles just to hear him scream.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He leaned closer to the detectives.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"But she found out there are consequences for going out of bounds. They
both did."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Tell you what," John said after they'd dismissed Josh to return to his
previously scheduled life. "I wouldn't go back to high school for a million
dollars."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Not this one anyway," Diana agreed thinking about Ben Lindsay, the
good-looking football player who'd taken her friend Anna's virginity and then
bragged about it. Anna had slit her wrists but her mother had found her in time.
Diana's older brother had been in love with Anna and two weeks after graduation,
he'd blown up Ben's beloved GTO. The only person Owen had told what he'd done
had been Diana and she'd kept his secret for 15 years.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Detective Fitzgerald?" a young uniform asked, breaking into Diana's
reverie. "CSI's done if you want to take a look at the body."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Thanks Teddy," she said and signaled for John to join her.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As they walked toward the gym doors, Diana realized there was one crucial
question she hadn't asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She didn't know whether it was Lauren or Cicero waiting for her inside the
gym.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-78071018321160323912013-02-14T14:42:00.003-06:002013-02-14T14:42:54.043-06:00The Not So Secret Secret by Jim Harrington<br />
<br />
<div>
<b>THE NOT SO SECRET SECRET - JIM HARRINGTON</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The waitress laid the check and two fortune cookies on the table. The candy
hearts were an extra treat for Valentine's Day. Kali grinned at the slender
woman—a thank you, not an invitation.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What?" Kali asked, as Jeff's smile withered. He handed her the paper from
the fortune cookie.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Your life is in danger. Say nothing to anyone. You must leave the city
immediately and never return. Repeat: say nothing. . ."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"This is a joke. Right?" Kali looked up and noticed Jeff scanning the room.
"Jeff?" She touched his arm. "Jeff, you're scaring me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He focused on Kali. "I. . .I don't know," he said, his words swathed in
panic. "I hope so." He looked around the room again. "I received a similar note
last week at work and laughed it off. Now I'm not so sure." He rose.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Wait," Kali said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"You read the note. It says my life is in danger."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"This has to be a practical joke. I mean you haven't done anything to cause
someone to want to kill you." She read the note once more, then looked at Jeff.
"Have you?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He wiped his moist hands on his trousers and leaned forward. "I must have
pissed someone off. At work maybe. I don't know. I can't think. I've got to get
out of here." He tossed a twenty and a five on the table and dashed out the
door. Kali snatched her purse and coat and followed.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Jeff. Wait." She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "You need to call
the police."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What part of 'say nothing' don't you understand?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Not so loud, Jeff. People are staring." </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He pulled her into an alley.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I shouldn't tell you."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"We've been dating for six months, and now I feel like I don't know you."
Kali turned to leave. "Maybe this was a mistake."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No, wait. I. . ."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Kali stood, legs apart, arms folded, her head cocked to one side.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Okay, so maybe a few years ago I did something that got someone else
thrown in jail. . .and maybe that someone got out of jail last week. . . and
maybe he thinks I have something that belongs to him." He inhaled deeply and
looked at Kali. "I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd find me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What are you talking about?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"There are things about me you don't know—and it's better that way."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"But—"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I'm sorry. I have to leave town."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I'll go with you," she said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No." He put his hands on her shoulder. "If he finds me, he. . .. Let's
just say you might be in danger, too. God, I didn't mean for it to end like
this. I do love you, Kali."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She thought about that. "Where will you go?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"It's better if you don't know."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"But what if something happens? How will anyone find you? How will I find
you?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Jeff put his fingers together and placed them against his lips.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Remember the cabin I took you to on our third date? The one near
Grandfather Mountain?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Off Route 320."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yes. I never told him about that place. I should be safe there until I
figure out what to do and where I can go."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Okay, but I find it hard to believe you'd actually steal. That doesn't
sound like the man I fell in love with." She reached for his hands. "Do you
really have something this guy might want?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Jeff paused. "Yes."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"At the cabin?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He nodded.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Kali reached up and kissed him. "Will I ever see you again?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Probably not. Maybe. I don't know. I hope so once this is over." He pulled
her to his chest and kissed her back. Finally, he let her go and dashed out of
the alley, looking left and right when he reached the sidewalk.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Kali paused at the entrance to the alley, pulled her cellphone from her
purse, and called her brother. She turned so her back was to the street.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"He's on his way to the cabin." She listened for a few seconds. "He said
it's there." She listened some more. "Okay. Tomorrow at noon at the cabin. I'll
see you then."</div>
<br />
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-26519962364606573792013-02-14T14:40:00.001-06:002013-02-16T12:48:59.617-06:00The Valentine's Day Tap Dance by Richard Godwin<b>THE VALENTINE’S DAY TAP DANCE - RICHARD GODWIN</b><br />
<div>
<br />
I always tell the truth on forms. So when I filled in the dating service
application I wrote under persona details:</div>
<div>
<br />
“82 year old lesbian interested in group sex and bondage.”</div>
<div>
<br />
It asked for my favourite song.</div>
<div>
<br />
“She may be the face I can’t forget.”</div>
<div>
<br />
Aznavour. Remember that? Truffaut, Les Quatre Cents Coups. Mabel used to
put it on after she phoned him. I also wrote:</div>
<div>
<br />
THERE ARE NO AMENDMENTS BANNING THE IMPERSONATION OF DEAD ROCK STARS IN A
LOVE AFFAIR.</div>
<div>
<br />
Right at the bottom of the form. I guess whoever read my information
ignored that bit, or didn’t understand what I was driving at. It was one of
Mabel’s favourite words, ‘amend.’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘I am amending things round here,’ she used to say when she spotted a speck
of dust on the floor.</div>
<div>
<br />
I hated the flat. All the cupboards full of cleaning products. Elvis’s face
stared at me out of the sticker on the fridge. Mabel put it there. She worked
for the IR and told me never to lie to them, ‘Because,’ she used to say,
wagging a bony finger at me, ‘if you lie, they find you and if they find you
they...’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘What Mabel?’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘Say that word, the one I refuse to utter.’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘What word?’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘F-f-f-fuck you,’ she used to say, stamping a tiny pink foot. ‘You know I
hate obscenities, clean kitchen, clean floors.’</div>
<div>
<br />
Out came the finger again. I used to wonder what she did with it when she
visited him smelling of bleach and heartache.</div>
<div>
<br />
The last time she uttered that incomprehensible, nonsensical mantra I said,
‘LIKE YOU FUCK ELVIS?’<br />
<br />
She counted out all her detergents right there. She got down on her hands
and knees and scrubbed, a little foreplay before the tartare with Hound Dog.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘Do you like to get dirty Mabel?’ I said. ‘Is that it, you need a bit of
filth?’</div>
<div>
<br />
She kept scrubbing, removing imaginary swear words from the highly polished
floor. I could see her face staring down, maniacal, lost in the religious
ecstasy of the sexually cleansed.</div>
<div>
<br />
I pounded the wall with my hips. I pounded the brickwork.</div>
<div>
<br />
She was the Queen of comedy with her act, and her pretend demureness. My
frustration felt like boiling water. I tried laughing at her. I took pictures of
her in her outfit, the one she wore when she went to see him between cleaning
shifts. She always put it on in the bathroom and covered it with her overcoat.
She dressed up as Shelley Fabares. I heard her on the phone to him.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘I think smut and do dirt just for the King,’ she said.</div>
<div>
<br />
She refused to touch my tap shoes. She would clean around them, considering
them an object of such deep menace she sometimes screamed when she came near
them.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘Do you have a problem with Mr. Bojangles?’ I once said as she stood
sweating, cloth in hand.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘It’s obscene.’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘And Elvis the pelvis isn’t?’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘He is not, he is not! “He danced a lick across his cell. He grabbed his
pants and spread his stance”. Filth, filth!’</div>
<div>
<br />
She said I had ideas above my station.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘You and those shoes,’ she used to say.</div>
<div>
<br />
Still, a dancer’s life is one of drudgery.</div>
<div>
<br />
I was chief icing controller at the factory, the place where Elvis worked.
He made the fudge. He used to croon of how “it’s now or never” and squirt sugar
at all the young women, chasing them with a cake syringe tucked into his flies.
All the young women lined up for eternity in the waffle factory. He puckered his
lips for the camera. He pumped his hips into their rears as he passed behind
them. He ran his greasy hands through his thick black hair, one eye on the
mirror, one eye on a piece of ass.</div>
<div>
<br />
I knew his reputation, Mabel refused to listen to me. I knew where he
operated. I’d seen the dating service form in his desk.</div>
<div>
<br />
I see the donuts ride the belt to oblivion, all the young minds not
destroyed by madness but diet. The sugar heaves and falls. There are no explicit
revelations in monotony, only the bored yawn of a donut chewing guard.</div>
<div>
<br />
I masqueraded as an aging voyeur to restore order. The factory belt was a
bad trip, and I had to stop him singing anymore. I met him at the Toffee Bar,
dressed in black leather and suede shoes.</div>
<div>
<br />
He couldn’t dance. I took him to my flat, the one I rented at Cheapside.
Elvis strutted and he waddled.</div>
<div>
<br />
I said, ‘Love, Elvis, love is not a song.’</div>
<div>
<br />
He said, ‘Love, do it to me granny.’</div>
<div>
<br />
He removed his tie, his imitation Elvis shirt.</div>
<div>
<br />
I said, ‘OK, honey, I may be some time, but I will never leave the
building.’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘I understand,’ he said, curling his lip.</div>
<div>
<br />
He didn’t see my shoes on underneath the ridiculous dress I bought. I put
them on and entered the room again as Doris Day.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Elvis said.</div>
<div>
<br />
‘I am a legendary actress and singer, I want to perform for you.’</div>
<div>
<br />
He was unzipping his flies when I broke into my routine. I stole his
eyelids. I stole his song, the cheap trick he played on the mornings when Mabel
coughed blood. He’d ring her when I was out and sing down the line.</div>
<div>
<br />
He sang for
me that night.<br />
<br />
He sang, ‘Please, please.’</div>
<div>
<br />
‘Don’t know that one Elvis, try harder you tosser,’ I said skipping across
his head and slamming him into the wall.</div>
<div>
<br />
I removed my girdle and tap danced all over his fat face. He didn’t know
the song I sang nor its precise relevance, I don’t think he even knew
Aznavour.</div>
<div>
<br />
I didn’t want Mabel’s flesh. I only wanted to remove the false idol in her
never ending fall.</div>
<div>
<br />
I asked him to recite the amendments.</div>
<div>
<br />
He sang All Shook Up.</div>
<div>
<br />
I said, ‘The right to Viagra among aging would be singers is not the
eleventh amendment.’</div>
<div>
<br />
I did it to him one more time.</div>
<div>
<br />
And so there I was on Valentine’s Day with Elvis rotting in the deserted
flat. What can a man do faced with such an impasse in his imponderable
maze?</div>
<div>
<br />
I ordered pizza and phoned Mabel.</div>
<div>
<br />
She sobbed, or she tried. Elvis missing, no fudge, what can a girl
do?</div>
<div>
<br />
I found her signed transactions, I found all the statements recording how
they tried to steal my life savings from me. I took her back and fed her fudge
every day, spooning it into her dumb salivating mouth. She stared at me with
grief stricken eyes pondering the hygiene of the flat.</div>
<div>
<br />
Maybe she was my plan all along. Elvis liked her until I kicked his face
across the wall.<br />
<br />
‘Mabel I’m making an amendment,’ I said, putting on my tap shoes and
handing her a bottle of detergent.<br />
<br />
The next day I got promoted, now I hold the cake syringe.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-79498383320759831822013-02-14T14:30:00.002-06:002013-02-14T14:30:49.718-06:00That Fucking Bitch Will Pay by Chris Rhatigan<br />
<div>
<b>THAT FUCKING BITCH WILL PAY - CHRIS RHATIGAN</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny’s doorbell rang. She took a last look in the full-length mirror,
admiring her tiny, red cocktail dress—the one with the little candy hearts on it
that had sayings like “Be Mine” and “Do Me.” </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Which guy had she invited out tonight? Was it Growler? Yardo? </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Hmm…</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Whatever, it was one of those dudes. Either way, she’d be smashed and
screwed before the night was out.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Her stilettos click-clacked on the tile.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She opened the door.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Two dudes.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Growler and Yardo.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Both carried a bottle of champagne and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Both did not seem happy to see the other one there.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Oh, shit,” she said. She went with her first instinct—play the adorable
dumb blonde card—giggling and bobbing her head. “Well this is awkward!” </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Yardo spoke first. “Who the fuck is he?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Hey,” Growler said, “who the fuck are you?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Hold on, hold on,” Ginny said. She closed her eyes, all two gears in her
miniature mind working a double-shift to find a solution. She’d kept the two men
away from each other for a month, but she should’ve known she’d royally fuck
things up sooner or later. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“This is bullshit,” Yardo said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“You’re bullshit!” Growler said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Growler chucked his gifts into the bushes. Drew a handgun.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Yardo did the same. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Both men pointed barrels at the other’s head. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny screamed because she was scared or thrilled or something. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Growler said, “How long you been seeing him?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny said, “What is wrong with you two? Put those guns away—someone could
get hurt!”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Yardo said, “I’ll put my gun away as soon as he does.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Growler said, “Sure you will.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny sighed. Why did she always date these morons? She couldn’t remember
now. All she knew was that she did not want to get blood on her dress. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“How about this?” Ginny said, pleased that she had stumbled on what she
deemed a perfectly simple solution. “Why don’t you both fuck me? How’s that
sound?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“At the same time?” Growler said. “I don’t know, sounds kinda gay.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Doesn’t have to be at the same time,” she said, trying to be
flexible.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Yardo shook his head. “Nah, you don’t get it. This is about pride.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny rolled her eyes at their silly standoff. “You boys and your pride.
Why don’t you just get it over with and see whose is bigger?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Ginny,” Yardo said, “first of all, I would win that contest. Second of
all, you are one cold bitch. Once I deal with this asshole, you’re going to pay
for this.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Growler said, “You shut the fuck up you—”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Someone set off a firecracker down the street. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Both men thought the other had fired and responded in kind.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bang.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bang.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Ginny shrieked as blood sprayed all over her dress. Her fuck buddies
dropped to the ground, their brains scattered across the pavement.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She turned circles like a confused puppy, then sat on the doorstep and
shivered, trying not to look at the corpses. She thought she should call 911,
but then they’d want to talk to her and ask her questions, blah blah blah—it
would ruin the whole night. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
After a couple of minutes, she went over to the bushes and collected her
discarded gifts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said under her breath. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She went inside, dropped the gifts on the kitchen counter, and uncorked a
bottle of champagne. Bubbles flowed over the top and tickled her hands. She
drank straight from the bottle. Took the edge off. She ripped the shrink wrap
off the box of chocolates, used the pictures on the inside to find the ones she
liked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Just as she was lamenting her bad fortune, she got an idea.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Picked up the cell on the counter and punched in a number she had scribbled
on a napkin last Friday night.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Heeeeyyyy Daggitt. It’s Ginny, from the club?” She bit into one of the
chocolates—coconut, her favorite. “Yeah, of course you remember me. Sounds like
you’re all alone. How about we go get a drink?” </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She’d lost a new dress and two decent lays, but maybe this Valentine’s Day
wouldn’t be so bad after all. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<b>BIO: Chris Rhatigan is the editor of All Due Respect and that publication’s
upcoming anthology, which will be released by Full Dark City Press. His novel,
The Kind of Friends Who Murder Each Other, will be released in April by KUBOA
Press. He blogs about short fiction at Death by Killing.</b></div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-10633227270901505362013-02-14T14:24:00.001-06:002013-02-17T09:55:10.793-06:00The Supposedly Philanthropist Zookeeper by Ahimaaz Rajesh<b>THE SUPPOSEDLY PHILANTHROPIST ZOOKEEPER - AHIMAAZ RAJESH</b><br />
<br />
There’s virtually nothing that Manickam couldn’t do or get done. He very
recently helped capture two corrupt undercover cops of his panchayat. Right at
this moment, he is in the zoo un-teething a two-hour-old cadaver. He’d feed it
to the lioness when this craft of his is complete. His accomplice comes and
tells him. He’s rather cut short before he begins.<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Why is it that, Rafeek, you’re good at nothing and why is that I end up
doing everything you’re bad at?’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The accomplice scratches his cheek and tells.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘This Youngness I couldn’t shoo off wants to see you right away. Highness,
looks to me like we’re neck deep in thick soup.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Highness rolls the diamond bracelet up his arm, blinks hard twice so as to
feel his contacts. She’s already here clearing her throat. He knocks the molars
out and pulls the dental speculum off.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Selvi’s not undercover, Brightness. Our clientele, insha Allah! First you
collect the teeth, bury them in the pit, leave the pit be. Let the lion out and
in its cage, then and only then the boars. Don’t you mess it up like last
time!’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It’s past dusk and power out. She stands offish leaning by a tree, takes a
call and swears the first word. Highness comes to her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Everything all right? Guy broke a heart, I broke his head. Nothing
personal.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She clears her throat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Excuse me.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He lights the Petromax lamp and hangs it up.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Oh! Matter is he opened her chest as she still breathed, cut her heart
out, squeezed it with his foot, caught half way eating it, got out with
influence.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She clears throat again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Didn’t work out. Thoma wouldn’t go down first thing on me much as he wants
me to. Gave it ‘nother shot this evening. Same thing – Sweetness wouldn’t go
down first thing much as he wants me to. We broke up. Why won’t I get what I
wanted? Can’t blame you—it’s him.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sweetness Thoma is a good kid. That Highness knew. There’s no reason why
Sweetness wouldn’t want to please Youngness like she wants him to. There’s no
reason why he shouldn’t. There’s a reason he wouldn’t stay married long if he
ever did marry. There’s a reason there should be turbulence if he did.
Brightness, ever since he got married, hasn’t been his old self. It’s time to
seek replacement while Highness is still unconsciously not given away.
Brightness could shift to a sober job. Highness is thinking.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Can’t see why. Don’t know why not. Thought the kid’s good…kid’s good at
everything else he does.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She isn’t mad except a little upset. It’d happened before, might as well
happen again. Highness might want to hook her up with ‘nother lad except he
isn’t certain.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘Leaving town. Can’t stand it here. Nice setup this, by the way,
here—running the zoo and all.’</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Highness will live to sixty-five, plus or minus five years behind bars, and
mete out blind justice until fifty-five. He will face a handful of sour defeats
in the time to come but this is one defeat and the only one he will remember
fondly. Youngness sought after him—she wanted to find some love was all.</div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<b>BIO: Ahimaaz Rajesh lives in India, works for bread, writes to
breathe</b></div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-23760055143049752252013-02-14T14:20:00.000-06:002013-02-14T14:20:04.775-06:00Plan B by Albert Tucher<br />
<div>
<b>PLAN B - ALBERT TUCHER</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“So,” said the client. “What’s the boyfriend got planned for Valentine’s
Day?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana was sorry to see the quiet time end, but the client had bought
conversation if he wanted it. He was one of the men who liked to pry into her
private life. They also liked her to have a boyfriend who didn’t know what she
did to pay the bills. Cuckolding an oblivious nice guy was better than
Viagra.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
So, for men like this one, she had invented a boyfriend.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Nothing much,” she said. “We both think it’s pretty silly.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The lie came easily. She knew that her job went beyond the mechanics of
sex. Men hired her to be the “if only” woman, the low-maintenance one, the one
who didn’t care about Valentine’s Day.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“We might hit the diner,” she said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Which one? I might see you there.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Really?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
That didn’t sound likely. From what he had told her about his wife, she
wouldn’t settle for the early bird special.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I wish. No, we’re going to Chez Thierry.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana didn’t have to fake her sympathetic grimace. The ridiculously
expensive restaurant in darkest Morris County catered to customers with an
expensive point to make.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I feel your pain,” she said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She had been there more than once, and it usually led to a marriage
proposal from a client who didn’t know how to respect boundaries. That kind of
client also booked often and tipped well, which meant that she had to smile
until her face hurt and come up with a tactful way to fend him off, all while
eating food that she didn’t even like.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I was lucky,” he said. “I totally forgot, but I know the owner. Now I’ll
have to let him win on the golf course or something. God, I hate Valentine’s
Day.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He turned on his side to face her. The smile on his face told her that
something was coming, and she wouldn’t like it.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“So let’s skip out. You and me.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
That was the penalty for being the “if only” woman. Guys thought life with
her would be all good stuff.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She decided it was time to try distracting him. She stroked his abdomen,
which was actually kind of fun. He kept in good shape for a balding middle-aged
man. After a few moments of that, she sent her hand lower.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“My boyfriend doesn’t deliver the goods the way you do. Come on, show me
again.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He didn’t seem to notice what she was doing. That was a bad sign. Then his
smile vanished, which was worse.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I’m serious. You don’t love that guy. I can tell. And as for my wife,
well, the last few years have been … Like, I’m in bed, and she comes out of the
bathroom, and my first thought is, who are you? And why are you getting into bed
with me?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana withdrew her hand. It wasn’t doing any good.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I know what’s she’s definitely not coming to bed for. I swear, one day she
woke up and said, okay, I’ve caught my man, I’ve had my two kids, thank God that
nonsense is over. And she put her knees together for the rest of her
life.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana sometimes wondered how she would behave in a long term relationship.
She had no way to know.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He turned on his side to face her.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“So let’s do it. I’ll cash out of my business, and we’ll go. Anywhere you
want. I can afford it. Or I will be able to, after we kill her.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
In almost ten years in the business, Diana had heard all kinds of nonsense.
She had learned to keep quiet and let the man talk himself out of his own bad
idea, but her hooker’s radar was telling her that this was different. And her
radar was never wrong.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“We have a prenup. She’ll kill me in a divorce. Financially, I mean.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She already sensed that if she said no, he wouldn’t even hear it. That left
plan B.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Okay,” she said, “Let’s do it. Leave it to me.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He didn’t flinch.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“She doesn’t know about me, right?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Right,” he said eagerly.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“So you need to set up an alibi, while handle I business. We’ll work that
out.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Fantastic.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He hoisted himself to his knees and looked down at her with a demented
grin. Any moment, he would start jumping up and down on the mattress.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Then we stay away from each other,” she said. “Completely. For at least
six months.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“What? Why?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He reached out and gripped her bicep, too hard for comfort. Diana tapped
his wrist and looked at him until he released her.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“If the cops connect us, they’ll be all over you. And me, too.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Six months?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“At least. You’re grieving. Then you meet somebody who helps you get over
it. It has to be believable, and that takes time.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I don’t know about that.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Trust me. It’s crucial. Also, it won’t look suspicious when we kill my
boyfriend.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“When we what?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Kill my boyfriend. Fair’s fair.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Why do you want to kill him? You always talk like he’s this nice guy. Just
kind of … dull.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“He’s nice when he gets his way. When he doesn’t, look out. Which is why
you better not miss. One chance is all you’ll get.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I gotta think about this.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He was already thinking about it, so hard that it looked painful. She
almost sympathized. Any guy could work up enough resentment to dream about
killing his wife, but a stranger?</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Okay. Think about it tonight at dinner.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I’m not going. That’s the whole point. Not having to do this crap
anymore.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Do you want to be smart, or do you want to do life in Rahway?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The client subsided onto the mattress and came to rest on his back. He
stared straight up, as if the ceiling held the answer to everything. There might
be a ceiling like that somewhere, but not in this budget motel room.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Maybe there’s a plan B.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His tone said that plan B involved forgetting the whole thing. That worked
for her.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Diana glanced at her watch. He had ten minutes left on the hour. It went
against her principles to cut out early, but today he wouldn’t notice. And he
might recover faster without her there to remind him that he had wussed.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She got out of bed and went to her clothes on the flimsy chair by the table
in the corner.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Not a bad day’s work, she thought as she dressed.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
A client in prison was money down the drain, and this client would come to
realize that hating his life beat doing life. He might not call her for a few
weeks, but when he did, he wouldn’t mention what had happened today.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was almost a shame that the boyfriend wasn’t real. She could tell him
how he owed her for saving his life. It might be fun to share a joke like
that.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As long as it stayed a joke.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-16210735602861350392013-02-14T14:12:00.004-06:002013-02-14T14:12:46.157-06:00Water Signs by Chris Benton<br />
<b>WATER SIGNS - CHRIS BENTON</b><br />
<br />
We made love during Valentine’s Dawn.<br />
<br />
I dreamt briefly of a great blue gator, tearing me to pieces. Later that morning I took her fishing in my canoe down The Cape Fear. On the way I bought two tins of Norwegian sardines, a bottle of Gin, and a single rose. Along the river’s long dark shiver, she spoke of the death wish of dolphins and the bowel movements of the Philistine god, Dagon. She told me she drowned her baby brother when she was fourteen. She told me they were both Scorpios. I caught a thirty pound flathead. She embraced me proudly and told me she wished I had grown gills within her mother’s belly. Her breath smelled like a waterlogged Bible.<br />
<br />
I wish I had grown gills within our mother’s belly.<br />
<br />
<b>BIO: Chris Benton was born and raised in Wilmington, North Carolina, where he still resides. His stories have appeared in A TWIST OF NOIR, PLOTS WITH GUNS, THRILLERS, KILLERS ‘N’ CHILLER’S, BLACK HEART, CRIME FACTORY, and SHOTGUN HONEY. He can be found on FACEBOOK</b><br />
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-87771500672201732602013-02-14T14:10:00.000-06:002013-02-14T14:33:12.403-06:00February 14th - Girls' Night Out by Mary Ann Back<div>
<b>FEBRUARY 14th - GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT - MARY ANN BACK</b><br />
<br />
We call ourselves The Marion County Jezebel Society. Our membership
consists of two divorced, semi-pickled cougars – Jilly, a tiny blonde, me -
Roxy, a six-foot redhead, and my saucy little Shih Tzu named Alimony. Don’t be
fooled by that over-processed hairball, she’s a haughty, gin-soaked pocket bitch
who never met a man she wouldn’t bite. Did I mention we elected her
president?<br />
<br />
Each year on Valentine’s Day we meet at an exotic one-star restaurant
serving food-like substances and fermented umbrella drinks aged in
hundred-proof, incendiary pineapples. A token, beer-bellied male, sporting what
appears to be road kill on his head, must be seated at the bar, close enough to
provide wicked inspiration, yet distant enough to remain oblivious to our
discreet insults. Silly rule really. After several cocktails, both our distance
and discretion fade anyway.<br />
<br />
This particular Valentine’s, I suggested Madame Tso’s Tea Room, an old
haunt owned by an old friend, Ming Tso. After sharing a pu pu platter and a
pitcher of Mai Tai’s, I took Jilly to the private VIP room for some excitement.
It had a tiki-hut-turned-opium-den ambience with lighted plastic palm trees and
vintage fishing nets suspended from the ceiling. Paper lanterns and oil lamps
almost lit the room where ceramic dragons stood guard like terra cotta warriors.
The air reeked of incense, tobacco, and old fish, courtesy of a murky lobster
tank.<br />
<br />
Members of the Triad, or “The Boys,” as Ming calls them, stopped by
occasionally to play Pai Gow. They were there that night, crowded around a
gaming table; their conversation cut short when we walked in. One of them stared
a hole through me.<br />
<br />
“Take a picture, it last slonger,” slurred Jilly, who’d had enough liquor
to spontaneously combust. She tried to throw her drink at him but drowned my
Jimmy Choo’s instead. Alimony made a dive for the spilled alcohol, tongue
lapping wildly in mid-air. Undaunted, Jilly snarled and poked a finger in the
guy’s face.<br />
<br />
“What’s your problem, buddy?”<br />
<br />
“Please excuse her, she’s a little tipsy.” I smiled, attempting to shove
Alimony back inside my purse and drag Jilly to a distant table. “Bad dog! Bad
Jilly! Crap on a cracker, are you trying to get us killed?”<br />
<br />
We were settling in when Ming brought us another round. “We didn’t order
those,” I said.<br />
<br />
“No, but Leung Ciao did,” she glanced at the mobster. “He asked me to give
this to ‘the Flaming Goddess’. Watch yourself, Roxy, he’s dangerous.”<br />
<br />
“Oo, Flaming Goddess! It suits me, don’t you think?”<br />
<br />
She handed me a fortune cookie. I broke it in half and silently read the
message.<br />
<br />
‘Woo Tang knows you’re testifying against him before the Grand Jury. Your
life is in danger. Say nothing to anyone. You must leave the city immediately
and never return. Repeat: say nothing.’<br />
<br />
Being a flaming goddess was starting to lose its allure.<br />
<br />
“What’s it say?” Jilly reached for the scrap of paper but I stuffed it in
my pocket. No need to frighten her.<br />
<br />
“I’m going to the lady’s room. Be right back.” I stood up to find Leung
Ciao but froze when a 400 pound mountain wearing a black suit and a fortune in
gold chains appeared in the doorway.</div>
<div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Jilly squealed, “Look, it’s a Sumo!”<br />
<br />
“That’s Japanese.”<br />
<br />
“What do you call a really big Chinese guy?”<br />
<br />
“Woo Tang!” Leung spun around; his eyes darted from the mountain, to me,
and back again.<br />
<br />
One look at me and the mountain erupted. “You!” Chairs flew and tables
toppled as Woo Tang tore across the room, stopping inches from my nose. “Have
you no honor? Have you no shame, Flaming Goddess? Why do you bite the hand that
once fed you?”<br />
<br />
“Come any closer and see what else I’ll bite! I am not your Flaming
Goddess, sir.”<br />
<br />
“You insult me. Ten years is not so long. Have I changed so much, my
consort?”<br />
<br />
“Your what?”<br />
<br />
Jilly’s forehead scrunched like it does when she thinks too hard. “I think
he said you were his Geisha.”<br />
<br />
“Again - Japanese. Please don’t help me. Mr Tang, is it? You’re obviously
mistaken. Please excuse us, we were just leaving.” I grabbed Jilly and broke for
the door.<br />
<br />
“Not so fast, old lover. You cannot kiss and tell my secrets.”<br />
<br />
Gunshots rang and a bullet whizzed past my head. The lobster tank exploded,
spewing water and panicked lobsters onto the floor. Jilly slipped and fell,
smacking her head on the linoleum, coming eye to eye with the tank’s alpha
lobster.<br />
<br />
She heaved. “Oh, Roxy, I don’t feel so good.”<br />
<br />
I threw her feather-weight ass over my shoulder and hit the door on a dead
run. A floor-shaking thud caused me to look back and find Woo Tang lying
unconscious in the sludge. Between the lobsters and the mobsters the place was a
death trap.<br />
<br />
I carried Jilly outside and heard Leung ordering the goons. “Stay here with
Woo. I’ll get the girl.”<br />
<br />
He caught up to us in the parking lot, gun drawn.<br />
<br />
I threw my purse at him. “It’s about freaking time! NOW you and your gun
show up? Where the hell were you when I was getting shot at? And why the hell
did you set the message drop for tonight if Woo Tang was going to be
here?”<br />
<br />
Alimony stuck her head out of my purse and growled at him.<br />
<br />
“Sorry, Flaming Goddess, ah, Rox. He was supposed to be in Hong Kong. That
was close.”<br />
<br />
“You think? Get your ass back inside before you blow your cover. Tell them
you saw us flag down a trucker and get away.”<br />
<br />
“What about you, Rox? He’ll try again. If he finds out you’ve been FBI for
the last ten years, it won’t be pretty.”<br />
<br />
“Is it ever?”<br />
<br />
Jilly, sprawled on the ground, opened one eye. “What happened?”<br />
<br />
“Too many Mai Tai’s, party girl– you passed out and hit your head. You’ll
live.”<br />
<br />
“Next Valentine’s I’m picking the restaurant. This place sucks.
Roxy?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, Jilly?”<br />
<br />
“Who’s Flaming Goddess?”<br />
<br />
I smiled, eyes wide, and answered, “Who?”<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>BIO: Ms. Back, of Mason, Ohio, was awarded the 2009 Bilbo Award for
creative writing by Thomas More College. The characters she creates are often
disreputable and are not to be trusted. She kicks them out of the house every
chance she gets, when some unwitting publisher agrees to take them off her
hands. Her writing has appeared in many publications, including: Short Story
America, Every Day Fiction, Bete Noire, Apollo’s Lyre, Liquid Imagination, 50 to
1, Flashes in the Dark, A Twist of Noir, Flash Fiction Chronicles, and
Screenwriters’ Daily.</b></div>
</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-70128480785927151522013-02-14T13:06:00.001-06:002013-02-14T13:06:09.513-06:00Bird-Dogged by Stephen D. Rogers<br />
<div>
<b>BIRD-DOGGED - STEPHEN D. ROGERS</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As I stood staring out the kitchen window, Cindy came from behind to wrap
her arms around me. "And how is the world treating Fran Rivers
Investigations?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Badly." I reached up with both hands, pressing her arms against my
breasts. "A client bird-dogged me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What's that mean?" Cindy nestled in between my right ear and my
neck.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"She used me to locate someone."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Well you're only the best private eye on the planet."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"She said they were old friends. That after years of not thinking about
her, my client now couldn't get her out of her mind."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Was that not true?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No, it was true. And with the information I provided, my client followed
the woman to a municipal parking lot, ran her down, and left her for dead, which
she was." I sighed. "The witnesses contradicted each other, but I'm certain the
driver was my client."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Cindy nuzzled along the back of my neck to my left ear. "You couldn't have
known she'd do that."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"But I did. Which didn't stop me from completing the job I love. My client
hired me to find that woman, and find that woman I did."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"It's not your fault."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I handed my client the report, I cashed the check, and then, when the news
confirmed what I already knew, I called the police. Hold me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Cindy squeezed. "I am holding you."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No, like this." I turned, buried myself against her, and shut out the
world, almost as if the problem were there.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-78926213835388874152013-02-14T13:01:00.003-06:002013-02-14T13:01:36.849-06:00The Devil's Elbow by Scott Dingley<br />
<div>
<b>THE DEVIL’S ELBOW - SCOTT DINGLEY</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The way it starts, the fragment of memory that forms the shadow of my
rebirth, is hurt. I keep coming back to that; call it ground zero. A searing
sort of pain, not the fleeting kind, the kind that puts unexpected tears in a
grown man’s eyes and makes him smile quickly, embarrassed. Nor the kind that
gets his blood up and sends a shock to his heart that he—that I—actually get a
kick out of.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
No—just a monotonous, quarter million-year-old pain with a sly little smirk
on its red little face. When I hear the slurred words elbow their way through
the hurt I see a dim movie show flickering in the shadows of my shaken skull.
I’m watching an old Driver’s Ed film I last saw one time in High School, stomach
dancing with squeamishness and adolescent nerves again: a buzz-cut Midwesterner
in a plaid shirt, late 1950s, flip-flopping gently in the front seat of a
crushed Edsel; jaw crushed in too, agonal respiration, nervous system on auto.
Signal 30. The narrator, a State Highway Patrolman in mirror aviators I like to
think, speaks with authority, each word coming with less echo distortion.
Comforting in the absence of anything not slick with blood or oil:</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Are you tired, Josh? We can stop. You need rest; you’ve come a long
way.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I’m reborn and the pain is all but gone. I’m dressed in a hospital gown and
when my fingers reach up to explore the band of tightness around my head they
find an eye patch over my right eye and, beneath it, the rough, inflamed tracks
of scarring all down my cheek. If I pushed my finger against the soft fabric of
the patch, the whole thing would sink inwards into the empty socket. I can’t get
used to it. I think only how much I must look like a commandant in a war movie,
and then my remaining eye darts back to the little glass sphere resting on the
bedside table, watching me right back—a lonely glass eye with a sad, blue iris.
I click my Zippo lighter open and shut in my other hand because the brassy
coldness and the solid clicking are reassuring. The Highway Patrolman, who is
actually a Doctor (I know he’s a doctor because there’s a stethoscope hanging
over the collar of his white coat, see), says ‘You know you can’t smoke in here,
Josh?’ and I snap back at him...</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘The sound ... Something about it helps me remember.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I remember. I have my own two eyes, thank God, at the wheel of my lust red
soft top roadster on the Campo Road stretch of State Route 94. Lucy is alongside
me, wrestling with a road map, wearing red John Lennon glasses and behind her,
luggage is crammed in with my Spanish guitar. My arm is rested on the door frame
soaking up the sun and the radio hums gently. Blissful. My blue eyes (which Lucy
adores) flick up to the rear-view mirror to study the road behind intensely, and
it shimmers there in the glass, wide and sleepy. Lucy grows bored of the
unwieldy map and its confusing circuitry of interwoven roads, and she holds it
outside the car where the real road zooms past and lets the whole thing
disappear, whisked back behind us to take flight then tumble along the empty
asphalt. ‘To hell with it,’ she says with a giggle and instead puts her bare
feet up onto the dash and lets the wind catch strands of her hair. We both break
into laughter and the speedometer slowly creeps up as if in measure of my
contentment. The Doctor speaks again and I’m back in the hospital, half-blind.
Not contented.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Wake up Josh ... You’re alive.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Lucy?’ I ask faintly, as I reach up and feel the rough gauze of the
bandages which cover half of my face. A nurse dressed in white, a fleshy out of
focus blob as she peers at me, steps to my side and gently eases my arm back
down, whispering reassuring hush words, and all I can do is groan the word
‘Hurts,’ as the stale air escapes my lungs. I hear the Doctor say, ‘Give him
another shot,’ as if he’s underwater. I settle. You’re alive?</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The medical light box flickers on and reveals the blue-grey horror of my
x-rays: skull, ribcage, leg bone. The Doc sits opposite me and I can tell my
incessant clicking on the Zippo lighter bugs him more than ever. He hands me a
photograph, black & white, and I struggle to judge the distance with one
eye, missing my reach by inches. Adjusting, I seize the photograph and see that
it—and the others like it on the little coffee table below—are of the scene of
the road accident.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘They’ve withheld the more graphic ones,’ he says, and it’s almost as if
he’s trying to make me snap.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Can I see my fiancée?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘That won’t be possible.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘I don’t remember the ... impact. Just ... whiteness ... a blank—like I
short-circuited.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘They moved what was left of the car from the pound to a junkyard. Sporty
little thing,’ the Doc tells me. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Josh, try to
remember that.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘I want to see her body,’ I say.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘No you don’t, Josh.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I look at the images of twisted metal and black stains on blacktop and I
break down, bowing my head and blubbing like a tired kid.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I prefer to sit up, awake, do stuff. I get nightmares at night. When I lie
in bed I stare up at the ceiling and I hear screeching brakes and tyres,
shattering glass, twisting metal; the kind of sounds that cut me up.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I’m pleased when the Doc comes around, closer to getting out. My good eye
is fixed to the TV mounted on the wall on which a Coup de Ville has just
swerved, speeded up, through a barrier and off a San Fernando hillside. It rolls
and explodes, disintegrating. I’m sitting on the edge of my hospital bed and the
Doc, oblivious to the clumsy entertainment in the background, is cutting and
peeling off my bandages with the kind of scissors that jut up at the ends so he
doesn’t stab me in my already tattered face, which I guess is kind of thoughtful
of him. ‘Apart from your eye, the physical injuries were minimal. Bruising
mostly. The medication kept you under...’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Not content, I ask, ‘Did you really have to take my eye, doc?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘The accident did it for us,’ he tells me. ‘You’ll adapt to using just one,
adjusting your sense of perspective.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘When can I speak to the police?’ I ask him.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I can see the Doc frowning. He ignores me. ‘Any flashbacks yet? Nightmares?
Weird déjà vu feelings?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I think back a little before I say, ‘I sold up and hit the open road with
my future wife. We were driving cross country. There was an accident, now she’s
dead. I’m just filling in gaps.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Give it time,’ he reassures me.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘I had a fifty-year marriage ahead of me.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He removes the last of the bandaging and lets it drop to the floor, a tad
too disgusted for my liking. He examines my face close-up—what I can only
imagine to be the black, empty socket of my squished-by-blunt-trauma right
eye.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘We can give you an artificial eye, the glass kind. Match it right up to
your real colouring.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Until then, you might like to wear this...’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I take the black eye patch he’s offered me but I don’t thank him.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I put on my dressing gown and the eye patch too, then I head out to the
payphone and call the police. A bandaged, wheelchair-bound patient rolls past
me, others ambling zombie-like along the corridor. I quickly get agitated as I
try to make a case: ‘Just put me through to a detective. I was involved in a
road accident... My wife ... my fiancée ... was killed three or four weeks ago.
I’ve been out cold in a hospital bed. The wiring of my brain is out of
whack.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I plead with them but I get nowhere. Forget it. After I slam the receiver
down I take out the bottle of pills the Doc gave me and swallow a few dry.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When I sleep I dream of the road and the sun is shining so brightly it
makes my eyes water. Lucy is bored and looking through a cheap souvenir slide
viewer—the kind shaped like a tiny TV set and which houses banal picture
postcard images, faded and thirty years old. The clicking bugs me. She stops and
notices a chip in the windscreen caused by a stone kicked up from the road. She
touches the fine crack in the glass.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When I wake the Doc asks me, ‘Ready to try the new eye?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I stall, nervous and more than a touch queasy at the thought. ‘What if it
rolls around backwards and I don’t notice?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Then you’ll scare little kids in the street and you won’t win any beauty
pageants.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Wise ass. ‘I think I’ll need a cigarette first.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Twenty-a-day man, are you Josh?’ he asks me and, strangely, I can’t quite
recall. I search for even the most fleeting of memory, but they don’t seem to be
there. Not when I’m awake at least.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘I have nightmares ... about Lucy,’ I tell him. ‘In the crash, her head is
taken clean off. Is that true, doc?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He tilts his own head, firmly attached to his neck, and shrugs giving me a
grim feeling that makes me glad I don’t remember more.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I do remember one thing, at least. ‘There was another car that night, tried
to overtake but ran us off the road. It wasn’t my fault, Doc.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘There was no other vehicle, Josh. This is natural—you’re shifting feelings
of guilt to a figment of your imagination, a phantom. Face the reality and
heal.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I shake my head. ‘No.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘The police report concluded that the glare of the sun had made you swerve
off the road. Others have perished there too—it’s known as the Devil’s Elbow,
damn dead man’s curve. The police won’t take it further.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘But they must...’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘I mean they won’t charge you, Josh.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I stare him down as best I can, outrage in my single wide eye. The Doc
hands me a small cutting from a newspaper, which I take and read, holding it
closer to my face to compensate for the lack of vision. The newspaper print
headline reads, "BLINDED BY THE SUN: ROAD TRIP COUPLE IN WRECK, ONE DEAD"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Face the reality,’ he whispers.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I read their choice of words again bitterly: Blinded. I gather my thoughts,
try to be practical. ‘When’s the funeral, Doc?’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘You were unconscious.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Why wasn’t it me?’ I wonder out loud.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘It was her time.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It’s not at all bad. Maybe a chilly stillness to it if you stared too long;
a certain deadness, but ... Hell, what do you expect.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The reflection of my face stares back at me with two eyes and I tilt my
head back and forth, up and down, to test the glass eye. I’m on the road to
recovery, maybe off-road. Enough to get out of bed though, to pull my own
trousers on and zip my jacket over a green hospital scrub top. Too cocky, I
remove the eye and look at it in the palm of my hand as if it’s a weird sea
urchin I’ve caught in a rock pool. I blink first. I glance momentarily up at the
reflection again and when I see the empty blackness of my socket it disturbs the
crap out of me and damned if I don’t drop the puppy dog eye on the floor. It
rolls across the room and I have to chase it, thankful it’s harder to break than
the original.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
On the bed, I lay out the things they salvaged from the wreck. Holiday
photographs, some burned around the edges. There’s a small old suitcase made of
leather with stickers on it, the trendy kind, and Lucy’s glasses, their lenses
shattered. I cradle the broken glasses in my hand gently and take care not to
drop them like I did my stupid eyeball.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I checked myself out of the hospital and I’m heading south, thumbing a ride
by the side of the road, flinching every time a truck roars past.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The suitcase feels heavy and impractical and I hope someone picks me up
soon. When a guy stops I eyeball him apprehensively, then climb in and sit
quietly, staring out of the passenger window and daydreaming while the guy
watches the road, equally silent. He takes me only part of the way and the rest
I walk. I get lost a few times, take a few wrong turns, but eventually I find
the place. It’s a pretty little rural cemetery with rows of graves, patches of
colour from floral tributes here and there. I walk slowly through the maze, plot
serial numbers counting down as I search for one particular grave—Lucy’s. 145...
146... 147... I stop at 148. Lucy.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Beats me what I do now, I hadn’t planned that. I stare at it for a long
moment, a simple wooden marker over a mound of fresh earth. I don’t have any
words or thoughts so I light up a cigarette with the brass Zippo, cough
violently, then open the suitcase and take out the holiday photographs. Leafing
through the snapshots I see Lucy carefree, relaxed, young and beautiful; happy
images of her in the sun, clowning around and posing with the guitar. One
photograph of Lucy is burned, the emulsion melted and blistered.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When I look back to the grave I have some words. ‘I didn’t kill you.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I leave the photograph propped on the grave and hitch-hike away from there;
another vehicle, another reticent journey. I almost climb out as I lean through
the side window, hair blowing in the breeze, face directed up at the vast pale
blue sky. Spots of rain begin to patter on the bodywork of the car and that’s
the only reason I don’t jump.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
By the time I get to the junkyard the rain is lashing down, wet and warm,
hitting the junked vehicles stacked six high in sharp white sheets. It splashes
off twisted spare parts, cubed cars, bald tyres and flows down a wall covered
with hubcaps. Along a miry aisle I pass twisted metal frames in rust brown and
charred black. I see the wrecked sports car on my left, sandwiched between two
other write-offs. I see the crushed bodywork, scorch marks and flaked red
paintwork, jagged broken headlights, and spider web patterns on the
windscreen.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I stare at the wreckage for a long time before stepping in closer to
examine the damage. Without thought, my hand runs along the once-smooth fender
and I peer in through the letter-boxed driver’s window. I see blood on the
windscreen, a single blonde hair glued to it despite the best efforts of the
rain.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I wave off the driver of my third ride and I’m left alone, the road winding
along behind and ahead of me. A flat patch of red and grey fur lies at my feet,
old roadkill. The sun is setting and the sky is a candyfloss mix of yellow,
orange, pink and deep black. Beside me, flowers have been left under a rusting
road sign and they’ve since died themselves and turned brown. The sign above
reads: ‘LAST YEAR: 59 ACCIDENTS, 12 DEATHS.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The surface of the crooked road carries thick black tyre skid marks cutting
across from the middle of the lane and the yellow thermoplastic stripes, off the
side of the road and continuing as double tracks of churned-up scrub and earth.
I look over my shoulder nervously before following the tracks to the edge of a
steep verge and, looking down, I see exactly where we came to rest. I struggle
down to the foot of the bank and then look around me.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
This is where she died: ground zero, off the Devil’s Elbow.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I slip the cigarette lighter from my pocket and begin clicking the lid,
anxiously. Happy, I suppose, that the Doc isn’t here to bitch about it at least.
Wandering around the scrubland below the road, searching the grass with my foot,
I see a small patch of red hidden in the grass. Hesitant at first, I crouch and
pick it up and see that it is Lucy’s little red TV-shaped slide viewer.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The light is fading and the rain has passed. I stumble farther from the
main road, between tall trees, swing the suitcase and throw it into the
undergrowth, thinking Screw it. I fall to my knees, get back up and walk a
little more, steadying myself against a tree trunk which feels cold and damp. I
have to hold my head in pain before taking out the pills the Doc gave me and
swallowing several, spilling the rest to the forest floor. The fleshless lips on
the little red face peel back into a wicked smile, mocking my torture.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘That maniac took everything from me, stole my future...’ I mumble in
despair.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I dream of hypnotic sunlight on the windscreen. Lucy speaks to me, ‘Are you
tired, Josh? We can stop. You need rest; you’ve come a long way.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When I look up at the rear-view mirror, the road behind me is empty, except
for a bouncing blur which resembles a jelly fish under water, trailing tendrils
of blonde and pink hair: a severed head tumbling across the hot road, splashing
scarlet.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I wake up half-dead as well as half-blind, on the forest floor with my back
against a tree. My glass eye has been open the whole time, keeping watch. Aching
and groggy, I get to my feet. Minutes later I’m hitch-hiking again, not fancying
my chances with my clothes and hair in such disarray, but a truck pulls up for
me nevertheless. The driver leans across in his cab to look me up and down, then
flips down the sun visor on his glasses, saying helpfully, ‘You look like you
got hit by a car, buddy.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
We stop at a gas station in the middle of nowhere and I remember that we
stopped there before. Lucy got out to stretch her legs and buy a soda from the
vending machine, while I pumped the gas. She popped the cap with the machine’s
bottle opener, drained it and spun the bottle in the gravel, watching it make
four or five revolutions amid a little dust cloud. When the bottle had slowed to
a halt and the dust had settled, she saw that the neck was pointing back where
we’d come from. A disappointed look appeared on her face and she headed back to
me.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The truck pulls into the gas station and we open its two doors
simultaneously like flapping elephant ears. I climb down from one side, the
trucker from the other, and just as Lucy had done, I stretch my stiff legs,
kicking around at the ground as I wander over to the vending machine. When I
look into the glass front I catch a brief, imaginary reflection of her face
there, before I turn back to the truck, where the trucker is checking his
rig.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Idly I watch a man fill the petrol tank of his car. I crouch down beside
the front bumper and stroke my fingertips over chips of red paint scraped there
after some prang. The owner at the pump looks at me, frowning, until I back
away. I find Lucy’s glass bottle, still there in the dirt, pointing just where
Lucy had left it. Back.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
A kid on a bicycle is in front of me, staring. I stare right back, then
lift my hand to my right eye, fumble with it for a second and hold out the fake
to show the boy. He yelps and pedals away in terror.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Keep your eye on the road!’ I call out after him, and when he’s gone I put
the glass eye back and look down at the bottle again.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The trucker mounts up and I hear the engine cough to life. Back on the
road, I silently take out Lucy’s slide viewer, hold it up to the light and look
through it, clicking the lever. My lips twitch into a faint, bitter smile and I
lower the viewer and clench it in my fist as I did her glasses.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I remember looking over at her and smiling and I am wearing those John
Lennon spectacles myself which give everything a vivid red tint. Lucy is bathed
in lust red. She holds the viewer up for me to see before returning it to her
own eye: a beautiful Mexican sunset over the ocean and a white sand beach. I
smile some more. She lights up a cigarette with her brass Zippo lighter before
she reaches across and takes the rose-tinted sunglasses from my eyes and puts
them on herself. The dying, orange sun shines right into the windscreen, all
dazzling bright white and flare.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The trucker holds a packet of cigarettes towards me, offering me one, and I
think about it, even taking out the brass lighter. Eventually, I tell him, ‘I
don’t smoke. She did.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He shrugs, thinking maybe I am crazy after all.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
In my hand, brought out from my pocket with the lighter, is the Doc’s
newspaper cutting. As I read it, I think of his police photographs of mechanised
death:</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘Blinded by the Sun: Road Trip Couple in Wreck, One Dead ... A police
spokesman reported that the tourists’ vehicle left the road, ploughed down a
steep bank and settled upside down, where the engine caught fire. The driver,
who suffered facial injuries and has been hospitalised, crawled free of the
wreckage, while the passenger—thought to be his fiancée—was killed instantly.
Police refused to comment on suggestions that she had been found decapitated at
the scene.’</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I remember oil and blood dripping in the heat haze; Lucy’s blood-matted
hair against a metal backdrop. I am in a Driver’s Ed film as I lie face down in
the scrub, lifting my head slowly as it glistens with blood, my right eye gone.
Its oozing, egg-like fluid gazes uselessly into the grass nearby and its
unharmed twin sees Lucy’s TV-shaped slide viewer. My head drops back down and I
am unconscious.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
I hold the newspaper cutting out of a narrow opening in the passenger
window. The paper flutters wildly in the wind, before I release it. The cutting
vanishes immediately. The sun is low; the day’s time has come.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
‘To hell with it...’</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-11065832643267384662013-02-14T12:52:00.000-06:002013-02-14T12:52:01.143-06:00Hunted by Brian M. Campbell<br />
<div>
<b>HUNTED - BRIAN M. CAMPBELL</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
A damp November dusk had settled on the Deer Run Trailer Park drawing from
the windows an orange-yellow glow where women could be seen heating up food in
the small spaces that doubled as kitchens.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Only one trailer was still dark. It was the doublewide, standing at the
back of the park looking out over the fallow field and, with one of its windows
boarded up, it looked almost abandoned.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
But Marc Bommel was inside.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He was sitting perfectly still listening for any sound outside. By now he
could identify each of his neighbors’ cars from the sound their tires made on
the gravel or by the setting of the carburetors and when he heard the storm door
slam a couple of trailers down, he didn’t need to look at the clock to know it
was gone five and Rhonda Ramos was taking her three kids to the diner on route
7a for the early-bird special.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When silence returned to the park, he turned on the small lamp, opened the
table drawer and took out the envelope addressed to the insurance company. It
was dirty now, over the past year he’d spilt coffee on it and there was a grease
stain on the back he hadn’t noticed before.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He’d told himself to wait a year before filing the claim but now the day
had come he still hesitated. He took the form out of the envelope and studied
the empty black boxes then opened the drawer, took out a pen and wrote his first
and last name on the form. He was about to fill out the address when he heard a
noise outside; it sounded like somebody had bumped into the garbage can he’d put
in the middle of the walkway leading up to his trailer.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He reached across the table and turned off the light then walked over to
the window where he pulled aside the blind. He looked to the left and then the
right until he was sure there was nobody there, until he was certain that it was
only the wind looking for pieces of paper and plastic bags to toss into the
night sky.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As he stood looking out the window, he thought back to that day exactly a
year ago when he was standing in the same spot watching the Sheriff hitching up
his pants and settling his holster on his left hip before thrusting his hands
deep into the side pockets of his jacket and walking toward the trailer.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He could even hear the Sheriff’s knock on the door, the initial low rattle
until he got the measure of the light aluminum frame and then the hard thump,
thump, thump with the side of his fist.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The Sheriff was a big man in his late fifties, his face set in a permanent
scowl from the scar that ran from below his left eye to his jaw line.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Marc,” he said with a nod of his head when Bommel opened the door. “You
best let me in, son.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When the Sheriff walked into the trailer he filled it with his authority,
and Bommel felt as if it didn’t belong to him anymore. Bommel stood by the door
uncertain of what to do, wondering if he should offer the Sheriff a drink from
the bottle of whiskey sitting on the kitchen counter but thought better of it,
thought the Sheriff would probably say no, say that he didn’t drink on duty and
say it like those cops did on TV; so Bommel stood mute, waiting for the
Sheriff.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The Sheriff told him to sit down, even pointed to the chair he should use
but sitting there he didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he lay them flat
on the cool Formica surface.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I’ve got bad news, son,” the Sheriff said. He was still standing but he
was facing Bommel now, looking down on him, the scar pushing into the white of
the eye, twisting the features of his face until Bommel couldn’t make out what
he was thinking.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“We found her out there in the forest,” he said but stopped and turned away
looking, Bommel thought, at the bottle of whiskey. “She was over there by
Forster’s Creek.” He turned back and looked Bommel in the eye. “Looks like some
kind of accident.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bommel felt he should say something but when he opened his mouth all he
could feel was a tight knot in his throat, so he looked at his hands pressing
down on the Formica.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Probably some damn fool from the city, usually is,” the Sheriff said and
once again Bommel thought he was looking at the whiskey. “You know how it is
with them.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
A couple of years back, Sally MaCalister was out in her backyard playing
with her older sister when she was shot clean through the head and even though
her sister got a good look at the hunter, could describe his clothes, said he
had a beard and brown hair, nothing was ever done because the hunters from the
city brought a lot of money into the county.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
That’s how it was with them.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Well I’ll be getting along, give you some time,” the Sheriff said. He
seemed uncomfortable now and Bommel thought he could feel a nervousness in the
edge of his voice.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“You know Marc, the city cops’ll be down—always do when something like this
happens. I’ll wait a few days before putting in the papers, give you some time
to get yourself together, think about what you want to say.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He looked at the door but didn’t move; he looked down at Bommel: “Is there
anything you want me to do? Phone somebody? Drive you some place?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bommel shook his head.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Well, I’ll be getting along, give you…” He stood silent again and Bommel
could feel him getting smaller, shrinking away from him. “It’s a hell of a
thing, son, I’m just, well I’m just so god damn sorry.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He put his hand on Bommel’s shoulder but it didn’t stay there long and
again Bommel looked up at him but this time he knew he didn’t need to say
anything.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was a couple of hours later that her mom and dad came over. He was still
sitting at the table where the Sheriff had left him but he’d poured himself a
drink.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He stood up and shook hands with her dad then her mom wrapped him in a
tight embrace where he suffocated in the sweet smell of her perfume. When she
let go of him, she took off her coat and put on one of his wife’s aprons then
busied herself in the kitchen with the breakfast dishes before taking three
ready-made meals from the freezer and heating them up.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His father-in-law helped himself to a drink and walked around the room, his
body tight with a restless anger.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“God-damned fucking city assholes,” he thundered and Bommel thought he
should join in but again he couldn’t find the right words so as her dad’s anger
beat on the walls of the trailer, he listened to the cracking of the ice as it
melted in his glass.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Her mom and dad planned the funeral.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The long black cars pulled up outside the trailer under a slate grey sky
that held them hostage to a storm that had broken higher up the valley.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He sat in the back of the second car between his brother and his wife
wearing a borrowed black suit that was tight about the shoulders. When the car
started off, he saw the storm reflected in the eyes standing outside the
neighboring trailers; eyes staring in at him ignoring the show of the man in the
black top hat who walked slowly toward the buck antlers that marked the entrance
to the park.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The storm broke when they got to the church making the tarmac slick with
rain and he stumbled under the weight of the coffin but when he steadied himself
he let her bite into his shoulder and was sorry to put her down on the trestles
standing in front of the altar. The pews were filled with people, it was as if
the entire valley had turned out to stare at him standing there among the
swirling smoke of the incense that the priest waved over the coffin.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
There were speeches at the reception.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Her dad said what a good daughter she’d been then stopped and people
started to clap thinking that he was too overcome with grief to read from the
piece of paper he held in his hand but he crumpled the piece of paper and threw
it on the floor then snarled and cursed about the arrogance of the city.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bommel’s brother spoke next, said how happy the family had been when she
married Marc, and that was true. Then Suzie Mitchelson stood up and talked about
the charity work she’d done in the valley, the food bank, the winter clothing
drive, the walk for the cure.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Others said this and that but he didn’t remember much of what was said—he
knew people were waiting for him to say something, waiting as if words from him
would bring the story to an end and let them go on their way but all he could
come up with were a few scraps about how she kept a clean home, how happy they’d
been that time in Atlantic City but he knew that wasn’t the ending they were
looking for.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
After the speeches he stood in the middle of the room but nobody said much
to him. The women would hug him, tell him what a good wife he’d had, say how
sorry they were, and the men with somber faces would silently shake his hand and
look him straight in the eye as they gave him another drink.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He didn’t remember much of what happened over the weeks following the
funeral. He lay on the sofa half awake, desperate to escape the nagging headache
gnawing at the back of his eyes but every time he managed to fall asleep there
was a man on the TV shouting about the moon and he would wake up in a sweat and
begin the search for sleep all over again.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His brother woke him up one night, standing over him dressed in a white
shirt and a clean pair of jeans. He brewed a pot of black coffee and made Bommel
get off the sofa, shower, shave and get dressed before taking him out to Cody’s
Roadhouse.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Cody’s was a barn of a place but it was always filled with people dancing,
drinking, having themselves a high time, and that night was no different.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The bartender kept putting drinks in front of him, telling him who had
bought them and he would look over and nod his head in thanks. Even the Sheriff
bought him a round. He saw the Sheriff sitting at a table next to dance floor
and Bommel knew there was something he had to ask the Sheriff, something that
had kept him tossing and turning on the sofa but he couldn’t remember what it
was and the not knowing filled his mind, closing out the music, the dancing
girls, even the drinks in front of him.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When his brother slapped him on the back, he turned away from the Sheriff
and saw the girl. She was sitting on the stool next to him but she didn’t stare
like the others, she didn’t look at him at all, she looked down at the bar and
fidgeted in her seat, twisting her hair around her fingers, smoking one
cigarette after another.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When they were dancing, she put her hands on his shoulders and he thought
again about the Sheriff and that day in the trailer but her hands stayed on him
longer so he pulled her close and kissed her.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The rooms were upstairs.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She sucked and stroked his dick until she got it hard enough then straddled
him, leaned back to hold onto his ankles and rocked gently back and forth.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He tried to get excited.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He looked at the arch of her body, the hard nipples that topped the firm
small breasts but no matter what he did or thought about his mind was filled
with the Sheriff.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
After a while, the girl sat up and looked at him.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Maybe you’re not in the mood tonight, sugar,” she said and kissed him on
the forehead. “I’m real sorry about your wife.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He watched her getting dressed in the shadows of the room and when she
settled the thick brown belt on her hips, he remembered that he wanted to ask
the Sheriff about the city cops and when they were going to come.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The next time he woke up on the sofa the only thing he could hear was the
buzzing of a black fly as it flew around the empty cans and bottles that
littered the floor. When he sat up the headache had lifted; he walked over to
the kitchen sink and drew a glass of water that he drank down in one, then
refilled the glass and drank again.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He opened the front door and sat on the top step looking at the sunshine
bouncing off the chrome of his fourteen-month-old bright-red Ford F150
four-by-four. He walked around the truck, trailing his hand along its smooth
lines then went back inside and opened all the windows and blinds.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It took him nearly six hours to clean the trailer from top to bottom. The
only room he didn’t touch was the bedroom because he didn’t know what to do with
her things, the clothes, the make-up, the bits and pieces of jewelry; he thought
he’d ask her mom to clean it all out one day while he was at work.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He took the vases they’d gotten for their wedding and cleaned them until he
could see his face in the silver then went out into the woods and picked flowers
to put in them.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The next day, he put the box filled with bottles of booze and cans of beer
into the back of the truck, drove to the dump and threw it in a skip; then he
drove to the car dealership to return the truck.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Jon Thone didn’t ask any questions. He gave Bommel a couple forms to fill
out and when they were complete said how sorry he was that he couldn’t give him
a better deal but the market for used trucks being what it was, well, he’d done
the best he could.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As Bommel was taking the last of his things out the truck, a few CDs, an
old work shirt, he thought back to the day he bought the truck and the argument
they’d had. She’d said they couldn’t afford it, said they should buy something
smaller, said something about a Toyota Corolla but he told her that no one in
his family had ever ridden in no God-damn foreign car, and he wasn’t going to
start now.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She waited outside in the parking lot while he signed the papers and picked
up the keys but she’d ruined the day for him, taken the edge off what he’d
looked forward to for so long—buying a brand-new truck, a truck that had never
been ridden by anyone else.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
They drove home in silence. She sat there in the leather upholstery, among
the quad stereo system with her arms folded staring out the window. After a
couple of miles, he turned on the lite FM radio station and sang along with the
songs as loud as he could.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He was happy during those first few months with the truck.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When he arrived at work in the morning, when he drove into the parking lot
he could feel everyone looking at him. At lunch times he allowed them to take
turns driving around the l parking lot, and it filled him with such a sense of
pride, a feeling that he was somehow unique, that he was better than they
were.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Everyone who drove it asked him the same question: how do you get to afford
such a fine truck? And that was the problem.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Before buying the truck, he’d calculated how much overtime he would need to
pay off the loan. There was always overtime, there were even times when the boss
begged men to stay after working overtime. It had been that way for the past
five years, and he couldn’t imagine it ever changing.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
But it did.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When the recession hit, orders for the high-end finished stone that the
factory produced fell to the point where it was him who was begging for overtime
but no matter how much he asked and how long he waited around after his shift,
the days of endless overtime were gone. He could make some extra money by
covering for guys who called out but when the boss canceled the late shift, he
knew he was in trouble.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
All he thought about was how he was going to afford the truck. He looked
for a second job down at the mall but there weren’t any and besides they didn’t
pay enough to keep a kid in gas money.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Then the fights started.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He accused her of wasting money, buying things they didn’t need just so he
would have to get rid of his truck; she said that if they’d bought a smaller car
like she wanted to, they wouldn’t be in such a mess.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It didn’t take him long to get behind on the payments. He made sure to pay
something every month but by July he was a full payment behind and a woman from
the finance company phoned to ask if anything were wrong.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
What angered him most was that he didn’t need that much more each month, a
few hundred dollars and if he were careful with mileage and how often he went
out with his brother, he could make it.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He started to think about where he could get the extra cash.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His brother didn’t have a steady job but always had money so one night when
they were at Cody’s watching the girls dancing around the steel poles, he
said:</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I need to make some extra money, what with the slowdown at the factory and
all.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His brother didn’t say anything, kept looking at the girls, smiling at one
that was looking his way, so Bommel repeated what he’d said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“You serious?” his brother asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I gotta make more cash or I’m gonna lose the truck.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His brother loosened a cigarette from the pack and sat back in his
chair.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I know this guy,” he said as he was lighting the cigarette. “He needs
someone to drive up north for him. I’ve been thinking about helping out myself,
only…” he stopped to stare at the tall skinny girl with the blue eyes and
schoolgirl freckles who was grinding her body against the pole as she stared
back at him.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Only what?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Well, he’s Russian,” his brother said still staring at the girl. “Goes by
the name of Mr. Smith, and it’s said that Mr. Smith is one bad dude.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“How much will he pay?” Bommel asked.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Starts out at ten grand, if you prove yourself, it can go as high as
thirty.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Thirty thousand dollars? Just for driving up north? I could do that in my
sleep.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“There’s things to think about,” his brother said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Like what?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Well, shit can go wrong.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“But it’s just driving, what could do wrong?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“A lot,” his brother turned to face him. “Your truck might break down; the
cops might stop you; the dudes up north might rip you off; you might get
hijacked—there’s a lot to think about here, Marc.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Bommel finished his beer and ordered two more.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Why aren’t you doing it?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Me? I ain’t desperate for money.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Over the next few days all he could think about was the thirty thousand
dollars. He would think about as he was driving to work, while he was at
working, even before going to sleep. With thirty thousand dollars, he could pay
off the truck in one go, or he could put the money aside and keep making his
regular payments, maybe take a vacation, go back to Atlantic City or perhaps
even go to Las Vegas.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He met Mr. Smith at a diner out on the interstate. Mr. Smith was sitting in
a booth looking out the window at the semis making their way cross-country; a
tall thin man, going bald, wearing a leather jacket over a black T-shirt, with a
habit of looking over his shoulder before he said anything.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He explained to Bommel what he wanted him to do then said:</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“It’s easy job. You might ask why I pay such good money, to buy your
loyalty. I tell you one very important thing,” he looked around to make sure no
one was listening then said in a quieter voice: “Listen to me carefully now
please: you make mistake and I kill your family. I ask you not to doubt
this.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Mr. Smith told him to take a week to think about it. Told him that if he
didn’t want to help, there would be no hard feelings but when they parted in the
wind-swept parking lot, he didn’t shake Bommel’s hand.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Over the next week he kept changing his mind. There were risks, he
understood that but it would take him years to save thirty thousand dollars. He
asked his brother what he should do but his brother said it was a decision only
he could make. He wanted to ask his wife but he knew she would think him
mad.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Everywhere he went that week he saw kids driving cars better than he’d ever
owned before the truck and the thought of going back to driving used cars made
him depressed.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
But despite the feelings of depression that followed him everywhere that
week, he knew he couldn’t drive for Mr. Smith. He knew it when he was at work
and the fear of jail would overcome him; knew it when he was sitting at Cody’s
and the thought of Mr. Smith sent an icy-cold shiver down his spine.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He realized he wasn’t a crook, he wasn’t some tough guy; he was just a
working stiff who had to make do with the money he made from going to work every
day, day-in day-out, six days a week.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
There was nothing to be done but sell the truck.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It wasn’t all bad, he told himself. He could sell the truck and with the
difference between what he sold it for and what he’d already paid off he might
still have enough money to go to Vegas.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
They kept all their important papers in a fireproof safety box that they’d
gotten as a wedding present. It was at the back of the closet in the bedroom,
behind his wife’s dresses and shoes. He was on hands and knees going through the
box when his wife came into the room to get dressed to go to work.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Where’s the truck registration?” he said.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“Why do you need that?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“I’m gonna sell the truck.”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“What d’you wanna do? Lose us more money?”</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
She told him that new trucks lost their value as soon as they were driven
off the lot and that he’d be lucky to get enough money to pay off the finance
company.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He didn’t believe her and they got in to a fight about it; he followed her
around the trailer as she was getting dressed until she got to the front door to
leave.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
“You’re too damn dumb to be alive,” she said before slamming the door in
his face.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As he was driving to work, he reasoned that she was only saying it to annoy
him, to get under his skin. On his break he talked to a guy who used to sell
secondhand cars and he said that it was true; said that the only way not to lose
money was to trade in for a new model.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The next day he opened the safety box and put the registration back inside.
The papers in the box were a mess from where he rooted around the day before so
he took them out one-by-one refolded them and stacked them carefully one on top
of the other.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
The last document he picked up he’d never seen before; he opened it up but
at first couldn’t make out what it was. It had his wife’s name on it and the sum
of one hundred thousand dollars and he remembered when they got married there
was talk about her dad taking out a life insurance policy but he didn’t think
her old man had done it.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
One hundred thousand dollars, two birds one stone.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He tried not to think about it but it would creep up on him at different
times of the day, random times when he was least expecting it—at the mall, at a
traffic stop, while he was shaving.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Then he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep
and he knew he was going to do it, knew it like he knew the sun would rise that
morning.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He waited until the crack of rifle fire filled the days before climbing up
into the lookout about half a mile from the path she walked every day to work
and back. It was a clear day with a sharp edge to the air that would turn icy
once the sun set.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
When she came into the clearing, he followed her through the telescope for
a few yards then pulled the trigger; the bullet whistled through the distance
between them and she fell.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was a clean kill. He didn’t think she felt anything; didn’t see her
twitching or flopping around or anything like that.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-87183243902678841522013-02-14T12:37:00.000-06:002013-02-14T12:38:09.103-06:00Skeletons Out Of The Closet by R.J. Spears<br />
<b>SKELETONS OUT OF THE CLOSET - R.J. SPEARS</b><br />
<br />
Something inside her turned to ice just as she entered the quiet apartment. She climbed the stairs and stood in the bedroom doorway. She knew but she called his name lightly anyway. She looked for signs of his breathing.<br />
<br />
Could she miss something like that from where she was standing? Was he just sleeping very deeply? Maybe he was sick or unconscious?<br />
<br />
All these thoughts whirled through her mind but the one inescapable conclusion was what she knew to be true. He was dead. It was time to make phone calls.<br />
<br />
I stood in the same bedroom doorway where my client, Stephanie Mason, stood less than one week ago. David Bentley's bedroom. Her heart was broken in this room. A subtle chill slipped down my spine even though this was an unseasonably warm spring day. I left my station in the bedroom doorway, and I took a tour of the room.<br />
<br />
Something to let me in on the reason why David Bentley had taken his own life.<br />
<br />
Bentley kept it simple. A cheap no-frills bed. The mattress was barren, stripped of any sheets and blankets. Probably by forensics in case of foul play. A second hand dresser contained the typical items: socks, underwear, some ratty shirts used for yard work. A lonely, lopsided chair caught light as it spilled in from the front window. His closet was small and, other than a couple suits, an array of shirts and some dress pants, contained nothing of obvious interest.<br />
<br />
I got no real sense of him at all from the room. Nothing struck me other than he lived a rather Spartan life devoid of everything but the essentials. Nothing that revealed any quirks of character or insights.<br />
<br />
Before leaving, I detoured into the study. It was a smaller room, outfitted in the same austere fashion. In the corner was an olive drab desk that looked Army surplus. There was a small press board veneered bookshelf, sparsely loaded with books. Most of the books were either college texts and some mainstream fiction. I turned my attention to the desk and methodically went through its contents, finding a few items of interest. The most obvious of these being manila folders containing some personal papers. I gave them a cursory inspection.<br />
<br />
Stephanie Mason had decided to wait in her car while I was inside. She sat rigidly. When I got in, she was looking to the other side of the street.<br />
<br />
She was in her thirties and was what some would call a big girl. I guessed she was all of five ten, and I would put her hitting the scales at somewhere around one sixty or seventy. Despite her size, her look was healthy and toned. What struck me were her eyes. They were penetrating and full of conviction.<br />
<br />
“How was your relationship with David?”<br />
<br />
“Isn't it obvious, Mr. Daulton? It was good. No, great. We were going to be married in the spring. He had everything to look forward to. He was...he was...we were happy." She looked away for a moment.<br />
<br />
These are awkward moments for me. I'm a private investigator, not a counselor, but I know that a significant part of my job requires a gentle touch. Sometimes I deal with despair and heartbreak as much as I dealt with betrayal.<br />
<br />
"He was more than just a decent person, he was a saint," she said. "And I know almost everyone at church thought the same of him." She had told me the day before at my office that she had met David Bentley at Fellowship Baptist Church just over a year ago.<br />
<br />
“We never argued. We had disagreements but nothing serious. I knew something was wrong from the way he was acting that last week. But he wouldn’t talk about it. That’s what was driving me crazy, Mr. Daulton. I can't think of any reason that he would want to kill himself.”<br />
<br />
"Can I ask you to do something for me? I asked.<br />
<br />
"Sure" she replied.<br />
<br />
"Please call me Dan. Every time you say ‘Mr. Daulton’ I start to look for my dad." A smile slipped from her and I continued my line of questions.<br />
<br />
“What did you know about his past?”<br />
<br />
“He grew up in Columbus. His parents died a couple years apart about ten years ago. They were older, and he was an only child. He went to Ohio State, tried pharmacy, then chemical engineering but dropped out. He was able to use that experience to get a lab tech job at Lily. He had been at the church before I moved to town last year, but from what I could tell, he had only been there about a year.” She paused a moment, composing herself. “What else did I need to know? I fell in love with the guy in what felt like minutes. There was nothing about him not to love.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing you know of. We all have our skeletons. Something was wrong with him. Maybe something so personal that he couldn’t bring himself to tell you.”<br />
<br />
She looked away again and began to cry. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed silently, trying to maintain a degree of humility.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should have reached out to comfort her, but I knew first hand, that no pat on the back was going to make it all better. Grief is a solitary road that we all must travel alone.<br />
<br />
I fidgeted some as she recovered. "Let's change gears for a moment. Let's say someone did kill him. How did they do it?" I asked.<br />
<br />
Her initial conviction from the day before flashed in her eyes. "Whoever did it forced him to take the poison. Maybe they forced him at gunpoint? Maybe they threatened someone he cared about? I don't know. The one thing I do know is that he couldn't have killed himself unless someone forced him to."<br />
<br />
"It's awfully difficult to get someone to take...what was it? Potassium Cyanide. You said that he worked at Lily. Something like that would be fairly easy to pick up there."<br />
<br />
Her face flushed with anger. "The police told me the same line of...of...bullcrap." She clenched her fists. "I don't want you to get the wrong impression of me. Of us. The media is always painting this picture of us churchgoers as Bible beating crazies. I know I said that David was a saint. It's not like he walked on water. He was human with ups and downs just like everyone else. He had his dark times. I know there was something in his past that bothered him, but I told him that the past was the past."<br />
<br />
She paused a moment, taking a couple breaths to maintain her composure and continued. “Maybe what you and the police think is true. I don’t know. There are so many questions. Maybe someone forced him to take the poison. Maybe they weren’t in the room. Okay, I can accept that. But for some reason, the man I loved killed himself, and I need to know why.”<br />
<br />
“Even if the truth might be painful? I asked.<br />
<br />
“What could be worse than this?” she said.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Three days later, I sat in my office examining my notes from almost a dozen interviews. They were from David Bentley’s friends and acquaintances. I decided to handle this investigation like a background check. I had done my share of those, but this was the first time I had done one on a dead person.<br />
<br />
What I found out was that David Bentley was the next best thing to the second coming. I wouldn't be surprised if he could walk on water and cure the infirmed after what I had heard.<br />
<br />
Most of the people I interviewed were from his church circle. They all described him as cheerful, helpful, and an overall nice person. I heard accounts of Bentley helping someone fix a plumbing problem, tending to sick children, and driving the bus that picked up the elderly on Sunday morning<br />
<br />
I talked to his supervisor at Lily Chemicals and he said that Bentley was prompt, efficient, and knowledgeable. He even worked over time without complaining. He told me confidentially that he would like to clone Bentley, hire the clones, and let the rest of his staff go.<br />
<br />
His credit report was sparkling. He had two Visa's which he used sporadically, always paying them off. His checking account balance set in the seven thousand range, and he had a cool eighteen thousand in savings and a tidy sum in a 401K.<br />
<br />
His life was too wrapped up and tidy. Anyone so clean had to have a dark side but when I checked with a friend in CPD, Bentley came up clean. Not even a parking ticket.<br />
<br />
With no leads, I found myself back in David Bentley’s study again. I decided that the items that I had only given a brief inspection deserved a closer look.<br />
<br />
Before I checked the folders again, I picked his yearbook from the bookshelf and perused it. Maybe David Bentley’s ancient history would offer some revelatory clue?<br />
<br />
I found him among seniors, looking gallant in a suit with wide lapels and no tie. He was an active guy. Drama club, the student paper, the Spanish club, track, student council vice president, etc.<br />
<br />
I replaced the yearbook and then pulled a pile of folders from his desk. I picked up a folder marked "Apartments." I opened it and found a series of guides for various complexes around Columbus. There were several newspaper ads listing openings from about two years ago. I sorted through these and found the ad for his apartment in Grandview Heights. I looked at the back of the folder and found a lease agreement signed by Bentley for an apartment in German Village. German Village is an area to the south of the downtown that had gone through a renaissance in the 70’s and 80’s and attracted a lot of yuppies. From the dates on the lease, it looks like Bentley left the place about two years ago and moved to this apartment<br />
I reached into the pile again and found another folder neatly marked “Resume.” I pulled one resume and reviewed it. Before coming to Lily, he worked at another firm called Meditech. It dealt in pharmaceuticals and his job was very similar. I checked the dates of his employment and it coincided with his change of apartments.<br />
<br />
I closed the folder and tapped the edge of it on the desk, leaned back in my chair, and reviewed my mental notes of the interviews. All the people I had spoken to were relatively recent acquaintances of Bentley’s. None more than two years old.<br />
<br />
I saw a pattern emerging here. Bentley made three significant life altering changes, all pretty much at the same time. He changed jobs, he moved, and he joined a new church. People are allowed to change apartments. People are allowed to change jobs. People are allowed to dedicate themselves to the church or synagogue of their choice but it seemed strange that you would do all three things at once unless you were looking for some sort of fundamental shift in your life. And what would cause that? I didn’t know but I aimed to find out.<br />
<br />
Meditech was located in a bleak industrial park on the city's west side. All the buildings were huge metal and concrete squares and rectangles designed with a studied eye to drabness.<br />
After a fairly unproductive interview with a Mid-manager, a husky fellow named Pemberton, I was directed to one of Bentley’s former co-workers. His name was Rusty Solwald. After winding through a maze of corridors and having to ask directions twice, I learned that Mr. Solwald was on a smoke break at the back dock.<br />
<br />
The dock area overlooked an asphalt employee parking lot and looked to be the company’s primary shipping and receiving area. I found Solwald leaning on a concrete yellow cylinder positioned in front the loading dock, dreamily taking a drag off a cigarette. He wore dark pants and a light blue shirt with the word “Meditech” embroidered over the breast pocket. I put him in his late twenties and from my perspective, looking down from the dock on to the top of his head, he was early into male pattern baldness.<br />
<br />
He must have heard my approach because he turned toward me. He had one of those sour expressions that someone gives you when you interrupt an ultimately pleasurable moment.<br />
<br />
“Rusty Solwald? I asked stepping down from the dock.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” he replied.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Pemberton said that I should talk to you. I'm investigating David Bentley’s death and I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind? I asked.<br />
<br />
“What for? Wasn’t it a suicide? He wasn’t killed or anything?”<br />
<br />
“It certainly looks like a suicide, but I just wanted to check why he left his job here. It could mean something or it could mean nothing.”<br />
<br />
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know why he left. I got the feeling that it was something personal.”<br />
<br />
He left it there. I didn’t. “Could you elaborate?” I asked making a circling hand gesture to elicit more information.<br />
<br />
“You see, he was always so organized and during the last couple months he was here, things got a little out of order and he seemed distracted. You know what I mean?”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean he was distracted?<br />
<br />
“Just not all here all the time. I mean, here as in body, but not in spirit. You know what I mean?”<br />
<br />
Rusty Solwald was one of those people that had a tag line. His seemed to be ‘You know what I mean?’ sort of people. “Well," I said, "do you know why he was distracted?”<br />
<br />
Before he answered he did a quick look around to check for other people. “Listen, not many people know this, but I think David was a queer.”<br />
<br />
I was stunned. I found this information incomprehensible at the moment. It didn’t seem to fit, but I tried to keep a neutral expression.<br />
<br />
He continued. “Now, I don’t know this for a fact. You just get this feeling when you’re around someone for a while. It’s not like he was a limp wrist or anything. You know what I mean? He was normal enough but I caught him once out here at this dock talking with this guy and, I just walked out the door, you know. I could swear that the guy had just kissed David. When David heard someone was there, he jumped away from the guy like he was on fire or something. His face was all red and embarrassed like, and he kept looking at me with these quick looks. You know what I mean? What could I do? I just acted liked nothing had happened. They talked for a couple minutes and David walked the guy to his car. I sort of started looking back in the past and I remembered that David had only gotten personal calls from guys. One day I was talking to someone up in purchasing, and they said that they had seen him coming out of this one gay bar downtown.” Solwald tapped his head with a his right forefinger for a moment, trying to bring the place to mind.<br />
<br />
“Whatever its name is, I can’t remember. So, anyway, I put two and two together. It’s not that I mind working with a fag or something. He was just as normal as the next guy. You know what I mean?”<br />
<br />
“I found myself at Colombo’s on Long Street feeling very conspicuous. I really shouldn’t have because almost every other patron of the bar was a man. You always hear the line, “Some of my best friends are...” and I certainly had a few gay acquaintances but I definitely felt out of place here.<br />
<br />
It was a pretty typical bar. None of it was decorated in pink. There was a vacant dance floor in the back. The place was sparsely populated with patrons. A pitted and scarred wooden bar ran along the west wall for about twenty five feet. Behind its expanse was a wall with a vast array of liquor bottles of different shapes, sizes and colors. The place had the stock aroma of other drinking establishments: stale beer and sweat.<br />
<br />
I sat nursing an Uncola, waiting for the evening bartender because the day man had only worked there for a couple months. I wondered if I should have worn an armband that said, “Hetero.” I guess I was playing into a stereotype, but I couldn’t help myself. I was facing my own prejudice, and it was making me supremely uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
I noticed the early bartender at the end of the bar talking to another fellow who looked of a similar vocation. At least it seemed that way since the guy had just put on a stained apron, but maybe I shouldn’t make assumptions. My track record wasn’t too good lately.<br />
<br />
The new arrival started my way with a confident swagger. He was a beefy guy with a round face bisected by a handlebar mustache. “You a cop?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“No, I’m private. I’m just trying to track someone down,” I replied.<br />
<br />
He leaned closer to me as if we were sharing some clandestine information and almost whispered, “I don’t know if I should help you at all. We don’t need anyone coming in and hassling us. We have enough problems.”<br />
<br />
I had to head this off. “That’s why I came to you and your friend first. I thought that if I started interrogating your patrons...well, it might cause a problem, and that’s the last thing either of us want.” I tagged the sentence with my most earnest smile.<br />
<br />
It must have worked because he asked me what I wanted, and I showed him the picture of David. He put on a pair of reading glasses and examined the photo for a moment, then placed it on the bar and slid it across to me.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, this guy used to hang here a couple years ago,” he said as he took off his glasses, in one fluid motion, and put them back in his apron.<br />
<br />
I nodded my head to solicit further information, and he took my cue. “His name was Dan or Dave or something that started with a D.”<br />
<br />
“Did he come in alone? Or do you remember if he hung around with anyone?”<br />
<br />
“Our clientele changes all the time,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He scratched his head and then said, “I remember that he used to drink a lot. And he tipped well. He could have met someone here. I’m not sure.”<br />
<br />
“Are you sure you can’t remember anyone?” I asked.<br />
<br />
He told me he didn’t, and I gave him my card in case anything came to mind. I was out the door with my prejudices and all, feeling a bit ashamed of myself for having them but knowing that there wasn’t much I could do about it<br />
<br />
I hesitated calling in my daily report to Stephanie because I knew that this news would devastate her. Not one of David Bentley’s new circle knew or even suspected his past. He was a knight in shining armor who rode boldly into their lives. Who was I to destroy this image?<br />
<br />
A day went by and I made excuses to be out of the office, only checking my answering machine and returning Stephanie’s calls when I knew she was at work. I sort of felt like a kid who was avoiding telling his parents about a bad report card.<br />
<br />
It was late on a Thursday when I got the call. I identified myself and said hello. A scratchy, deep male voice on the other end of the line said, “Is this the private investigator that was asking about David Bentley?<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I replied.<br />
<br />
“I know who’s responsible for his death,” he said matter-of-factly.<br />
<br />
I asked “Who,” but he refused to tell me over the phone. He gave me the address of a house in Clintonville. I told him I could be there in less than twenty minutes.<br />
<br />
It was twilight, and a cool breeze cut through the air carrying the odors of spring flowers as I got out of my Cherokee. I couldn’t tell a daffodil from a daisy and, unlike most people, I never really liked the aroma of flowers. I found their odor reminiscent of an old woman.<br />
<br />
Clintonville is to the north of Ohio State’s campus and is an authentic, middle class urban neighborhood. All the houses are too close together for my taste. Some of the houses on the south were inhabited by students, but the farther north you got the more the student population thinned out to the normal folk.<br />
<br />
The place was a two-story frame house which needed a paint job. I hesitated before ringing the bell, asking myself if I should expect any danger in this encounter. This person had said they knew who was responsible for David Bentley’s death. Maybe this was a setup?<br />
<br />
Some intuitive sense told me that this wasn’t the case, and I rang the doorbell.<br />
<br />
After a couple moments, a man opened the door and stood wavering slightly as if the breeze might topple him at any moment. He was back lighted by a bright foyer light causing his face to become a collage of more shadow than light. The smells coming from within the house were a stark contrast to the outside aromas. My nostrils were assaulted with the strong smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol.<br />
<br />
The same scratchy voice from the phone asked, “Are you Mr. Daulton?”<br />
<br />
I said yes.<br />
<br />
“Won’t you come in?” he said moving from the doorway to allow me entrance. He seemed to be around six foot and, judging by his silhouette, was painfully thin. The foyer was mostly natural stained wood. A staircase was to the left of the door leading to a second floor. The man gestured to a semi-darkened room off to our right and shuffled into it. I followed.<br />
<br />
The living room had the same stained natural wood, the floor covered with a worn oriental rug. Most of the light was indirect, seeping into the corners of the room. A large flat screen flicker quietly in front of a luxurious, hunter green leather couch. It was covered with a sheet and a blanket. The couch was positioned beneath a bay window with mini-blinds shut tightly only allowing in the smallest shafts of cool, blue twilight.<br />
I still hadn’t had a direct look at my host, although I could now tell he was wearing sweats, a t-shirt and had some sort of baseball cap. He walked around a mission style coffee table in front of the couch, turned and motioned to an overstuffed chair.<br />
<br />
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, and I complied.<br />
<br />
He didn’t so much sit as collapse onto the couch. He emitted a muffled groan as he situated himself.<br />
<br />
“You’re probably wondering who I am and why I called you here this evening,” he said, and then laughed deeply, seemingly delighted with his utterance. The laugh turned into a coughing fit, and after he got himself under control, he continued. “I’ve always wanted to say that. ‘You’re wondering why I called you here this evening?’” he said in a deeper, put-on voice. I was getting a better look at his face now as my eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting of the room. He was wearing was a Cleveland Indians cap.<br />
<br />
His face was gaunt with pallid skin tightly stretched over high cheekbones and his eyes were deeply set, turned into dark sockets by the subdued lighting.<br />
<br />
I told him I was wondering.<br />
<br />
“I told you that I knew who was responsible for David Bentley’s death on the phone. Well, my name is Michael Smith, and I’m responsible for David’s death.”<br />
<br />
We sat in a heavy silence. How do you respond to this sort of revelation? There was a story to be told. I knew this, so I kept silent and waited for Michael Smith to continue. Although I suspected I already knew what he was going to say.<br />
<br />
“Frank, from Colombo’s, called and told me that you were in asking about David." He coughed slightly to clear his throat and continued. "David was my lover on and off for almost six years. It was a turbulent relationship, you see. David was hidden deep in the closet. He would only see me when it was safe for him. I hated his terms, but what could I do? I loved him. No, I adored him.”<br />
<br />
He broke from his story and asked, “What do you know about David?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve interviewed a number of David’s friends, and they all think he’s a saint.” He smiled at this comment. “But noticed there was a big gap in his life. He went from high school to college, then nothing for about six to seven years. He changed his job, moved into a new apartment in a new area of town, turns up in this church, falls in love and gets engaged, all in a very short time span. Those are dramatic changes. I also noticed that there were no photographs or mementos in his apartment that would reveal anything about that time. And no sort of records? I just don’t see someone starting over and erasing a part of their past for no reason.”<br />
<br />
He leaned forward on the couch and said, “Yes, it was too much. Too much for David. I’d like to say that it was too much for me but I know better. David was a deeply spiritual person as you could probably tell from talking to his new friends. In some ways, he was the most innocent person I’ve ever met.”<br />
<br />
“I say I was his lover but did that make him gay? I don’t know what to think? He was engaged to be married. Does that make him bisexual? What do these terms mean? There are some people in my community of friends that say that there’s no such thing as a bisexual. I don’t know, but David was above those sorts of titles. Am I getting too philosophical for you? Are you a ‘just the facts’ sort of detective?"<br />
<br />
I shook my head and he continued, “He wasn’t happy being with a man. He was raised a strict Catholic. All that Catholic guilt and shit. This caused him untold torment. He would see me for a period and then break it off. I don’t know what he would do for those periods. Sometimes it would be weeks, and sometimes it would be months. I may have misstated something earlier. I said I was his lover, and I was in love with him, but I also hated him. The reason I hated him was because I loved him. I wanted him and, worst of all, I needed him.”<br />
<br />
“During those times I would literally pine, but sometimes I distracted myself with others. But they all seemed pale in comparison to my David. You can probably tell that I’m not a well man.” He waved his arm around the living room. “This is my domain now. I don’t have the strength to even go upstairs at night. You know what I have, don’t you?”<br />
<br />
I nodded my head.<br />
<br />
He removed his ball cap, and I could see the Kaposi sarcoma spots high on his forehead. His hair was cut close to the scalp, and the purple blotches were about the size of dimes, intermixed with his hairline.<br />
<br />
“I picked this up with one of my distractions when David took one his vacations from me. I never told him that I had seen other men in his absences. I was worried that he might not want to see me any more. Do you think that’s selfish?”<br />
<br />
I once again remained mute. We sat in silence with the flicker of a muted television washing over us like a fire throwing off splashes of color.<br />
<br />
“David was here last week. I called him. I was feeling guilty about not telling him about the other men. About having unprotected sex with him afterwards.”<br />
<br />
“David did a good job with his final break from me. I hadn’t heard from him for over two years. Of course, my life went on. Then I started noticing the symptoms. I had seen them before in friends. Maybe it was denial because I waited and waited to get tested. For some reason, the doctors can’t get any of the treatments to work for me.” He paused and rubbed his eyes for a moment.<br />
<br />
“Well, when I did, I became so angry and, then, self-absorbed. I blamed David a great deal of the time. If he had stayed with me, I never would have had to have to seek out the company of others.” He paused from his soliloquy and sighed. “Those sorts of vicious rationalizations.”<br />
<br />
“I’m on the downhill slide now. It’s obvious, and I’ve begun to think about the bigger picture. I had some friends look into David’s new life...his new happy life. They filled me in and I kept wondering. It began to nag at me. What if? What if? So, I called him and asked him to see me. At first ,he refused, but then I had to tell him about my condition. He came right away. We sat here just like you and I are sitting now. I talked and talked just like I’m doing now. And he listened. He was always a good listener. I told him that I felt guilty about him. That I was concerned for him. He said that he would be fine. He convinced me of that. He had a serenity about himself now that hadn’t been there when...well, back when we were an item.”<br />
<br />
He tried a weak smile but the corners of his mouth fell. Silent tears begin to run down his cheeks. He leaned forward, put his head in his hands and sobbed.<br />
<br />
After a moment he looked up, tears streaking down his face, and said in a voice thick with grief, “What have I done? Oh God, what have I done.”<br />
<br />
He sobbed inconsolably for a few moments his head in his hands, rocking gently back, and forth while I sat silent.<br />
<br />
After wiping his nose with his sleeve, and composing himself, he looked at me again. “Do you know what he did before he left?”<br />
<br />
I shook my head.<br />
<br />
“He prayed for me.”<br />
<br />
I had my final meeting with Stephanie on Friday afternoon. She was able to get off work around three in the afternoon. The sun was fighting to break through a dark cloud cover as I looked out my office window. There was a chill in the air, a striking contrast to the past few warm days. Columbus’ springs were always flighty and unpredictable like a teenage girl.<br />
<br />
Stephanie Mason entered my office tentatively, and I asked her to sit down. She did. She was dressed in a long flowing dress with a flower pattern on it. The background of the dress was black and the bright flowers stood out, almost life-like contrast with their dark backdrop.<br />
<br />
Now it was my turn to build a case. My case rested on one question and, from there, I had to improvise my answers, but I knew where I would go.<br />
<br />
I filled her in on all the interviews up to the one I had had Rusty Solwald. It was time for me to pop my question.<br />
<br />
“Stephanie, I have a question I need to ask you. It’s going to be very direct and personal, and I need you to answer honestly.”<br />
<br />
She look at me intently as if she were actually on a witness stand, “Okay.”<br />
<br />
“Did you ever sleep with David?”<br />
<br />
She paused, and I could see a myriad of emotions float like a cloud over her face. She finally said, “No. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to, and I’m not a virgin or anything but we had decided that we would wait. Actually, David suggested that we wait.”<br />
<br />
It was all I needed to know. I had made a detour on the way home after Michael Smith’s confession. Of course, it wasn’t a confession. There was no penalty for infecting someone other than the one the carrier shared with the infected. In this case, the de facto penalty was deadly for both.<br />
<br />
I used the key to David’s apartment again. I went through his garbage and found the test results from the clinic. They were wadded up in the bottom of the trash, ready to go to the dumpster.<br />
<br />
So, my improv started. I had designed a pattern of lies that seemed plausible. David had had a history of depression. His parents had really died in a horrible accident in which David had always blamed himself. His Uncle blamed David for his sister’s death. Things must have come to head.<br />
<br />
It sounded okay to me. Of course, if she did any checking, she would probably uncover the truth. I think underneath she knew that it was something else, but she needed the story to be this way. She needed her saint to remain saintly, and David needed to keep his skeletons in his closet. His past would be his past.<br />
<br />
It worked for me.Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5868832066925549024.post-21848143534616181822013-02-14T12:17:00.000-06:002013-02-14T12:17:04.576-06:00Head Over Heels by John Winn<br />
<div>
<b>HEAD OVER HEELS - JOHN WINN</b></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He pushed her off the balcony. He pushed her off the balcony and didn't see
it coming until his hands pressed against her back and she tumbled end over end
onto the concrete patio by the pool. A sliver of moonlight shimmered as the
water bobbed up and down. Brody's sandy hair billowed in the wind as he breathed
in the salt air. The starkness of it didn't fully sink in until he leaned over
the railing to get a glimpse of his wife's crumpled body.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Even in death Skylar struck a pose, skin glistening in her Day-Glo
nightgown. Her form was beautiful, legs posed akimbo like one of the many photo
spreads she shot for the big fashion magazines. Despite the blow to the head,
she looked strangely peaceful down there. Brody half-expected her to get up and
smile as usual, but he knew better.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He only wanted to confront her. The rumors of infidelity had been swirling
for months, first from, then from. Brody assumed it was all lies and
half-truths made up to boost circulation and ratings. Skylar was always off
modeling for some big shot photographer somewhere. Germany, Japan, New York, it
didn't matter. The lengthy separations bothered him, yet Brody of all people
understood the demands such a life entailed.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Only when he stumbled on a clip of her in a three-way with two guys on the
Internet did he seriously question the nature of their relationship.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Even as their court date loomed, he drove over to the mansion they once
shared, hoping to appeal to the better angels of Skylar's nature. Despite his
fearsome reputation as a studio executive, he was a pragmatist by nature. Both
he and his wife had prenuptial agreements. No matter the outcome, a costly
divorce would annihilate them both. The resulting fallout would dog their
careers for the rest of their lives.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Even as he approached the front door, Brody hoped that an eleventh hour
deal would be reached. Skylar's warm smile as she greeted him at least gave
hope that a compromise would be reached before the clock struck twelve.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As they talked in the study upstairs, Brody gradually realized how off the
mark he was. Skylar was calm as always, but there was no trace of the happy,
bubbly model he once knew. Her voice was as icy as her pale blue eyes. In not so
many words, she let him know coldly, dispassionately that she was going to sue
him into the Stone Age. Yet despite the not-so-veiled threat, Brody never let on
about his seething anger.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
His eyes flared as he watched her step onto the balcony. Something odd came
over him as thought of his wife walking away wife his future in her hands. The
forty year-old worked too hard to see his life crumble like this. His legs
quaked as he walked toward her, overwhelmed by his reptilian brain.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Skylar never saw him coming.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Everything seemed to slow down as she tumbled toward the asphalt below. A
visceral scream rent the air as she fell to death. She hit the ground with a
thump, bleached white hair falling over her face. It was all over in a few
seconds.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Brody couldn't believe it.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
He fished his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He could call 911, but what
could they do? There was no point in reviving her. He'd have to explain how she
fell off a three story balcony, not to mention the fingerprints on the back of
her nightgown. Oh, and the pool of blood gathering beneath his late wife's
head.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
But there was person he could call.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Hey, Sam," Brody dialed his lawyer. "It's me, Brody. Look, there's been a
situation. Mind if I swing by your office tomorrow? It's not for the
telephone." </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
As Brody hung up, a gnawing realization tugged at the back of his
mind. Brody let out a howling laugh. When the sun rose tomorrow the whole of
Hollywood would realize how radioactive he was. There would be no more deals to
ink, no more films to green light. As a studio executive, Brody was good as
dead.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
It was mutually assured destruction.</div>
Christopher Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11581243409967241320noreply@blogger.com1