That Fucking Bitch Will Pay by Chris Rhatigan

THAT FUCKING BITCH WILL PAY - CHRIS RHATIGAN

 

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.”

 

Which guy had she invited out tonight? Was it Growler? Yardo?

 

Hmm…

 

Whatever, it was one of those dudes. Either way, she’d be smashed and screwed before the night was out.

 

Her stilettos click-clacked on the tile.

 

She opened the door.

 

Two dudes.

 

Growler and Yardo.

 

Both carried a bottle of champagne and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

 

Both did not seem happy to see the other one there.

 

“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!”

 

Yardo spoke first. “Who the fuck is he?”

 

“Hey,” Growler said, “who the fuck are you?”

 

“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.

 

“This is bullshit,” Yardo said.

 

“You’re bullshit!” Growler said.

 

Growler chucked his gifts into the bushes. Drew a handgun.

 

Yardo did the same.

 

Both men pointed barrels at the other’s head.

 

Ginny screamed because she was scared or thrilled or something.

 

Growler said, “How long you been seeing him?”

 

Ginny said, “What is wrong with you two? Put those guns away—someone could get hurt!”

 

Yardo said, “I’ll put my gun away as soon as he does.”

 

Growler said, “Sure you will.”

 

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.

 

“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?”

 

“At the same time?” Growler said. “I don’t know, sounds kinda gay.”

 

“Doesn’t have to be at the same time,” she said, trying to be flexible.

 

Yardo shook his head. “Nah, you don’t get it. This is about pride.”

 

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?”

 

“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.”

 

Growler said, “You shut the fuck up you—”

 

Someone set off a firecracker down the street.

 

Both men thought the other had fired and responded in kind.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Ginny shrieked as blood sprayed all over her dress. Her fuck buddies dropped to the ground, their brains scattered across the pavement.

 

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.

 

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. 

 

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.

 

Just as she was lamenting her bad fortune, she got an idea.

 

Picked up the cell on the counter and punched in a number she had scribbled on a napkin last Friday night.

 

“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?”

 

She’d lost a new dress and two decent lays, but maybe this Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

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.

Interlude Stories: Chris Rhatigan

LUCKY CONVENIENCE - CHRIS RHATIGAN

Old, shabby men like Tony Marcello came into Lucky Convenience every day. They’d rattle off their lotto numbers and demand a pack of Merits or Chesterfields or Viceroys.

They’d sort through the losing and forgotten tickets other customers left strewn around by the soda fountain or the garbage can. They’d ask me to run those tickets through the machine. “You never know,” they always said.

They’d use one hundred-and-sixteen pennies to buy a cup of coffee.

They’d stink up the place with their farts.

They’d complain I was too slow with the numbers. Like they have so much important shit to do they can’t spare five seconds. They’re the ones pissing away hours a day on something they don’t want.

I’m serious. They don’t even want to win—you ever heard of a happy lottery winner?

Not that it made any difference. None of them ever won anything substantial.

Until Tony Marcello.

*

When Tony didn’t show up that morning, I would’ve bet a week’s paycheck he was dead. It was the first time in my five years at Lucky Convenience that he had missed either of his two daily visits—6 a.m. and 1:30 p.m.

But he made his 1:30. Pulled up in a sparkling, navy blue Cadillac Deville that had magically replaced his Oldsmobile. He still wore those same gruel-colored trousers yanked up to his nipples and the paper-thin polyester shirt dotted with grease stains.

He was whistling “My Way” when he strolled in, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. No one else was in the store. He picked up a dozen cans of mini Vienna sausages—78 cents a pop—and plopped them on the counter.

Already living it up. Usually he only got one.

“So, you went up to Lottery HQ this morning?”

“Yesterday.” He pointed outside at his new car like I hadn’t seen it. “This morning I put a down payment on that hot little number.”

“What’d you hit? Few numbers on Powerball?”

He shook his head, smacked his fleshy lips and smiled carefully. “Cash Five, my good man. Hit it right on the nose. Two hundred thousand simoleons.”

“Holy shit.”

Biggest winner we’d had before was a measly grand. Mr. Chang, the store’s owner, whined that the 7-11 up the street got all the big winners. Lottery players being a bunch of superstitious morons, they all flocked to the spot dishing out the winning tickets.

“Yessiree,” Tony said. He handed me a folded up sheet that listed all of his numbers and stabbed it a couple of times with his forefinger. “I’ll take five on every one. Figure I gotta ride this thing.”

I printed the tickets, presented them to him in a neat little stack, bagged his cans of sausage and preemptively pulled his two Viceroy soft packs.

Usually I’m not much in the way of customer service, but I wanted to pave the way for a hefty tip.

“And for giving me that winning ticket,” Tony said, “here’s a little something for you.”

He flipped through a fat roll of bills and removed a crisp Hamilton.

“Gee, thanks. You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”

“No problem. See, TJ, you stick with me, good things happen.”

Apparently, he didn’t get sarcasm.

“So, your numbers won, huh?” I asked.

“Nah, it was a quick pick.”

“I don’t remember giving you a quick pick.”

“Maybe it was over at the 7-11.” He shrugged. “I gotta hit the road. Buy me some new clothes. Maybe a new wife, too.”

He left. I went to the back office and checked the newspaper from the day before.

Winning numbers for Cash Five: 12-7-3-22-36.

Tony was full of shit. He scavenged that ticket—someone else had played those numbers and left the ticket on the counter or dropped it on the sidewalk, and Tony picked it up. He might have gotten away with it if the ticket had been a quick pick—numbers the machine randomly assigned—or a scratch-off.

But those numbers belonged to someone. And that someone was U.S. Army Sergeant First Class Charles Basilone.

*

I thought it basic human decency to at least warn Tony. For years Basilone had played his wife’s birthday, his daughter’s birthday, and his age. The Sergeant would be expecting at least a cut of Tony’s winnings.

But Tony didn’t want to hear it. Said Basilone could go fuck himself. If he wanted the cash, he should’ve held onto the ticket.

Doesn’t work like that. Told him he should know better than anyone—people who play numbers own those numbers. And Basilone, he was polite and whatever, but he still had that high-and-tight haircut and hit the range every weekend. You didn’t want to fuck with him.

“Just give Basilone something, anything,” I said. “A token of your appreciation.”

“All right, all right,” Tony said.

But he was analyzing the racing form. Like everyone else, he didn’t listen to a word I said.

*

I was on an opening shift about three weeks later. I got there and Tony was waiting for me outside in one of his god-awful new suits, a sherbet orange number with cream pinstripes. He even had a cane that looked like it was made of elephant tusk.

He’d probably already blown through six figures of his winnings.

“Where ya been?” he said. “Thought I was gonna have to bust in and print the numbers myself.”

“I overslept. Luckily your suit was in the neighborhood to wake me up.”

I unlocked the door and started a pot of coffee. The buzzing fluorescent overhead lights made me squint. I flipped on the lottery machine and took a seat on the stool behind the counter.

I was punching in his numbers for the midday drawing when I heard the door buzz.

A guy wearing a John McCain mask pulled a handgun out his leather jacket.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t hesitate. He shot Tony from a few feet away.

I ducked behind the counter. More gunshots. I wasn’t going to bother telling him to take the cash from the register. I knew that wasn’t what he was after.

The door buzzed again. I peeked over the counter. Everything was exactly the same, except Tony was crumpled up like a used tissue, his orange-and-cream suit soaked in blood.

I ran outside. Drizzle and cold. The parking lot was empty. My ears screamed and the acrid smell of gunfire clung to my nostrils.

I didn’t want to go back in, so I got in my car. Watched the beads of water collect on the windshield and roll down. I turned the car on but left the heater off. It would have just spewed cold air.

I backed out and left. Turned on the windshield wipers but they kept squeaking, so I turned them off.

Returned to my dungeon—a mold-filled basement apartment with a crusty beige carpet. I parked it in a recliner, worked my way through a six pack, watched reruns of Judge Joe Brown.

Nodded off in the early afternoon. Woke up cold and nauseous. Barely made it to the toilet bowl and vomited for what felt like an hour. Thought I would feel better after but I didn’t. No matter how many times I brushed my teeth, it still felt like they were coated in grime.

Mr. Chang left at least a dozen voicemails on my cell. “Where are you? Why you miss your shift?” Shit like that.

Far as I’m concerned, he can take that seven-dollar-an-hour job and blow it out his ass.

BIO: Chris Rhatigan is the editor of All Due Respect and the co-editor of the crime anthology Pulp Ink. A collection of his stories, Watch You Drown, will be published by Pulp Metal Fiction. If you dig short fiction, stop by his blog, Death by Killing.

A Twist Of Noir 623 - Chris Rhatigan

KLEPTOMANIAC - CHRIS RHATIGAN

My shoulder twitches as I open the freezer and curl my fingers around the half-gallon of Neapolitan ice cream.

I imagine bringing the ice cream back. Jo would stop by my place and her spring green eyes would brighten—she loves everyday surprises. We’d eat the strawberry and chocolate from the box and mock the first round of American Idol rejects.

I turn to find the clerk staring at me. He kneels next to a box, pops open a box cutter, rips through packaging tape. Judging from his scaly skin and the slump in his spine, he’s been working the night shift at the Pump N Munch for many years. He knows better than to chase me. Protocol is to hit the button, wait for the cops.

Yet he’s challenging me. I’m sure of it. He props his elbows on the glass counter, steeples his fingers.

I try to control my twitching shoulder. No dice.

My heart bumps against my rib cage. Deep down, I hope he’s like the Loss Prevention guy from Sears. That dude chased me through an entire mall for swiping a parka. He didn’t catch me, but I give him points for playing the game.

Back then, I thought I was clever, scraping off security tags with a pocket-knife or sliding a baseball card up my sleeve.

Not anymore. Now my methods are direct.

My first move is quick. Outside in two steps. Bells on the door clanging.

I run past the empty gas pumps, cradling the ice cream in my arm. The bells ring again.

I accelerate down the sidewalk, bounding in and out of the beams of streetlights. Suck down gulps of humid air.

Sirens wail in the distance. Too soon for the cops. Unless there was another clerk or a manager I didn’t see who made the call.

A reflection of a shadow trailing me bounces off the abandoned storefront windows across the street.

Sweat trickles into my eyes. A cramp stabs under my ribs like an ice pick.

The sirens fade, the sound replaced by another set of feet striking the sidewalk, persistently echoing my steps.

What kind of clerk chases a guy who stole ice cream? What would he do when he caught me? That box cutter. He could’ve taken that.

Maybe he’s not just a convenience store clerk. Maybe he’s a serial killer.

Maybe I crossed the wrong guy. Why couldn’t I’ve paid for the ice cream like anyone else would have?

Turning around will slow me down. But I want to see him gaining on me.

I look behind.

And see the Sears LP guy.

What the fuck?

I’m still looking in the rearview when my toe snags a lip between two sidewalk panels. The carton catapults. I fall hard, face-first to the concrete.

My head throbs when I come to. Bruises everywhere. A gash on my elbow. Blood trickling from my temple to my jaw.

The LP guy stands above me, sucking down a cigarette. He resembles a smaller, more wiry version of Mr. Clean down to the white tee shirt tucked into jeans.

I sit up, joints screaming, lean against a slimy brick wall. Realize that he must have dragged me into an alleyway.

“As soon as I saw you on the closed circuit, I remembered you,” he says. “Punk that stole that jacket.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Own that store now.”

“You call the cops?”

“Hell, no. Worse they’ll do is throw you in jail for a night. That won’t teach fuckers like you. You don’t respect a man’s property.”

He slides on a pair of brass knuckles. I scramble, but he grabs me by the scalp with his left.

And pummels me with his right.

BIO: Chris Rhatigan is a student and freelance journalist living in Iowa City, Iowa. He has worked as a reporter for the New Haven Register and the Iowa City Press-Citizen. He always appreciates feedback, and you can reach him at chris.rhatigan@gmail.com.

A Twist Of Noir 451 - Chris Rhatigan

THE BAIT - CHRIS RHATIGAN

Usually I don’t like my job. But the money is good. And it lets me keep acting.

That’s become my mantra lately: The money is good. It lets me keep acting.

*

That night started as many others did, with Lou and me sitting in his Chevy Citation. The neon sign on the bar across looked like it was from Wheel of Fortune, ST_ _ GG_ER_.

“All right, sugar.” Six months on the job and he still couldn’t remember my name. “Guy at the far end of the bar in the backwards baseball cap. The one with the wad of chew in his bottom lip.” He pointed to the motel on the corner and handed me a key. “You’re gonna take him over there to room 27. You know what to do from there.”

Lou only tells me what I need to know to do my job which lets him do his job. I like it better that way.

I flipped down the vanity mirror, applied a thick coat of dark eyeliner and popped in sea green color contacts. I readjusted my strapless top to show an inch more cleavage and slid on a white blond wig I had swiped earlier that night from the prop room.

They always want me to use a different costume. One time I’m wearing sunglasses, a leather skirt and fuck-me boots, the next time I’m a Marilyn Monroe knockoff complete with a mole and double Ds. This time I made myself look like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner—a strange, forbidden wind-up toy.

“Keep it simple,” Lou said. “Ten minutes, tops.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“All right. I’ll be waiting.”

I hopped out of the car. The bar was illuminated by two TVs and a few beer signs. My four-inch heels announced my entrance on the concrete floor. His eyes were fixed on the baseball game until he turned around and looked. It didn’t take much effort for him to mentally undress me.
He wavered back and forth on his stool and tried to take a sip from an empty glass.

“Barkeep,” he said. “I’ll have another.”

I took the stool next to him. “You’re not going to buy me a drink?”

He laughed and a dribble of tobacco juice slid down the corner of his mouth. “All right. What you drinking?”

“Vodka and tonic.”

Though the bartender was only five feet away, he still shouted at him. “And a vodka and tonic for, uh, this pretty lady.”

“My name’s Veronica.”

“Really? I thought I knew you from somewhere, or something, but I don’t know any Veronicas.” He paused. “My name’s Randy.”

I swiveled my stool to face him and crossed my legs. “Randy. That’s a good, strong name.”

“Yup, that’s what my mom thought, I guess.”

I pressed my fingertips against his shoulder like my hand was claw and felt him shudder. “I’ve been looking for someone like you. You work with your hands, don’t you?”

“Sure do. I’m a mason.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Listen, Randy, how about we get out of here?”

Sometimes I feel sorry for them. Sometimes I can actually see the internal war—they know I’m not real, but they can’t help themselves.

Not this time, of course. Randy had the mental agility of a trilobite.

He was so drunk he could barely walk, and I had to prop him up the three blocks to the motel. I fit the key into the lock and opened room 27. Usually at this point my guts start to churn. I know what’s coming and— though most of them probably deserve it for owing money to the wrong people—I still don’t want to think about it. So I run over my lines for whatever off-off-off Broadway production I’m playing a marginal role in.

But on this night, my mind was clear.

As soon as I closed the door, he slid a hand up the back of my skirt and started grabbing. For some reason, I didn’t expect this. I giggled in what I hoped sounded like delight.

He spun me around and shoved his tongue down my throat. The dingy sting of chewing tobacco swam around in my mouth.

I gently pushed him away and placed a finger on his slobbery lips. “Hold on a second there, cowboy. I need to freshen up first.”

I led him by the hand to the bed. Then I kicked off my high heels and scampered to the bathroom.

I sat down on the sink and visualized the whole thing as I rubbed the bottoms of my feet. Randy waiting paitently, a hard-on pressing against his jeans. The suppressor on Lou’s handgun emerging from the crack in the closet door.

When I heard the familiar pop-pop-pop, I saw, in my mind, the brief burst of recognition on Randy's face as he realized what a sucker he was.

It was like eating a soft chocolate chip cookie still warm from the oven.

I left the bathroom seconds later. Randy’s body was splayed across the bed, his eyes blank, three bullet holes across his chest. Lou was checking for a pulse.

“What’s going on?” Lou said. “I thought you hated blood. You usually stay in there until I’m gone.”

“Randy’s an ex,” I said. “And he finally got what he deserved for fucking my sister.”

BIO: Chris Rhatigan is a student and freelance journalist living in Iowa City, Iowa. He has worked as a reporter for the New Haven Register and the Iowa City Press-Citizen. He always appreciates feedback, and you can reach him at chris.rhatigan@gmail.com.