A Twist Of Noir 273 - David Price

FIRE RING - DAVID PRICE

He’d always been a leader. As a ten year old he was the one who decided where the rag-tag bunch of surfer kids would go on their bikes. He was the first to get a boogie board and soon everyone had one. They journeyed up the coast to different surf spots but spent most of their time at their own beach, South Beach.

At times there were as many as a dozen in their bike caravans. They all had lived in SB since childhood. They attended SB Elementary and were the scourge of the neighborhood. SB was not exactly your typical beach city. It had a main drag of several blocks heading down to its big wooden pier. Shops along the street featured all the usual business enterprises, bars, beach food of every type, coffee shops, head shops, tattoo parlors and a few Mom-And-Pop antique stores struggling to survive.

What made SB different was a very present sleaze factor. None of the stores or restaurants were up scale. No one from outside SB hung out there, unlike Pacific Beach and La Jolla which were destination spots for inlanders looking for a day of sun or to catch the vibe in a beach bar.

If you knew the lay of the land, you didn’t go to South Beach unless it was mid-day and you wanted a classic burger at Greasy’s.

There seemed to be more homeless men riding old banana bikes and carrying all their worldly goods in a trash bag per square mile than any other place south of Venice Beach.

The houses near the beach were little bungalows often with just plywood walls and under 700 square feet. The rent was cheap for a beach city and it drew a great many dopers, bikers and low lifes of every description.

This was the culture Ace and his cronies grew up in. They named themselves the SB Ratz. None of the Ratz parents were too keen on parenting. The kids mostly came from single parent homes or several families living together in cramped quasi-commune style.

Locals from outside the area referred to it as, “The Peoples Republic of South Beach”. It was a pretty accurate description.

Ace wasn’t his real name but it was the only name anyone used. Even his teachers used it. If you wanted him to answer, you better call him Ace.

His Dad gave him the nickname. When his Mom got pregnant, they weren’t married. They had been living together for three years. He was a musician working part time in any SB bar that needed a fill-in. He sang too and was pretty good. He was a long haired free spirit. Every girl that met him wanted to tame him. Ace's Mom had been a college student at the nearby Mission Christian College. One night, she and some friends went slumming and ended up in a bar where she heard his Dad sing. She was smitten and the rest was a downhill slide. She dropped out of school, rejected her family’s pleas and got a job as a waitress to support her man.

When she told him she was pregnant, she expected a supportive reaction. She was wrong. His true colors showed as he ranted and raved, blaming her for ruining his life.

He demanded she get an abortion. She called up her suppressed morals and refused. He told her that they would each draw a card. Holder of the high card would get the call on the abortion. She said, “No”. He screamed at her and drew a queen. He shoved the cards in her face. He said draw or he would kick the baby right out of her. She knew she wouldn’t do as he directed regardless of the card she drew. To buy some time, she played along. She drew the ace of spades.

Within a year, he was out of her apartment and out of her life. He nicknamed the baby Ace and it stuck.

Ace loved his mother but he had a mean streak that everyone saw but her. He was the first in his group to do most everything that seemed important to a kid with time on his hands and no real direction.

He was the first to get in a big deal fight. When he was in the sixth grade, he agreed to meet an eighth grade bully after school. The bully leaned on almost every kid in SB Elementary for a cut of their lunch money. He intercepted them on the school playground before school. If your parents dropped you off early or you walked to school, you knew Ricky, the neighborhood bully.

One day, Ricky was leaning on one of the Ratz. Ace came upon the scene with his buddies. They surrounded Ricky and told him to beat it. Ricky puffed up but the Ratz closed in on him. He thought it over quickly and then challenged Ace to a fight after school at the dog beach. Ace stepped up. It was on.

At 3:30 P.M., at least a hundred elementary kids were at dog beach. Ace and eight of the Ratz came walking up together.

Ricky and two of his friends were there waiting. The three of them stood there taking deep breaths, clenching and unclenching their fists. They were jacked.

Little did Ricky know that Ace had made a battle plan. He was ready to fight mano-a-mano. But, if he lost and was getting pounded, the other seven Ratz were going to come in like a SWAT team. They had screwdrivers, ice picks and hammers. Every kid but Ace had a weapon and was ready to use it.

None of the counter-attack plan was necessary. Ricky was a pretty big kid and he dressed and acted the part of a punk but he had never really been tested. Ace didn’t need to put on a show. He was muscular, athletic and had a mean streak that Ricky was about to experience firsthand. All that and five years of martial arts training his mom had supported in the hope it would provide structure and discipline to control his rage. It didn’t work but it made him the baddest elementary school kid in SB.

Ricky put on a big show. He took off his jacket and put up his fists and said, “Come on, Ace, it’s time for your whipping.”

Ace stared into his eyes and then spit in his face. As Ricky used his hand to clear his eyes, Ace attacked. He caught Ricky flatfooted with a snap kick to his groin. It was a bullseye. As Ricky bent over, Ace unleashed a barrage of fist and elbow strikes to his face and head. Ricky went down and yelled, “Stop, I give.”

Never did words fall on deafer ears. Ace mounted him and proceeded to beat his face bloody. Then he got up and kicked Ricky three or four times in the kidneys. He said, “If I ever see you around my school again, I will teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

As the fight started, kids cheered Ace on. By the time it was over, they were sick and frightened. They had had just seen evil unleashed.

That fight and several that followed over the years with the same result, made Ace’s reputation. All the way through high school, he was the man to stay away from.

His cadre of fellow Ratz shrunk to five by the time they entered high school. They were all tough, fearless and too ready to fight.

The high school football team benefited from their anger and aggression. They played together through their senior year. It was the best team at SB High in the past twenty-five years. Ace was the middle linebacker and spiritual leader of the team on the field. Off it, only the five Ratz would have anything to do with him.

Ace was also the first to get a tattoo. His junior year, he found an out-of-work tattoo artist who didn’t care he was underage. He proudly wore a large black rat with red eyes and a snarling open mouth on his right shoulder. Above it, the words, “SB Ratz.”

It was soon followed by crossed surfboards with a dagger on his left shoulder. Down his right calf was a series of Chinese kanji. He was drunk when he got it and couldn’t remember exactly what the symbols meant. He knew it said something about courage and honor with the character for dragon.

As a local, he was known everywhere in SB. People steered clear of him even the local bikers. He worked pick up jobs and surfed every chance he got. The Ratz still hung with him as they all drifted into adulthood with no goals or ambitions, except to earn or steal enough to support themselves and surf as often as possible.

As with many surfers, the locals were possessive of the best surf spots. Outsiders were often intentionally hit with surfboards launched as water missiles. If a tourist or inlander was ever stupid enough to cut in on a wave, denying one of the Ratz the ride, they would be harassed and eventually attacked when they came in to shore.

Fortunately for the Ratz, there was a SBHS alum who owned a construction company. After following their football successes, he offered Ace and two others jobs.

None of them worked enough hours to support themselves so they lived at home in the same dysfunctional families where they had grown up.

When Ace and the Ratz turned twenty-one, they were able to continue their years of alcohol abuse in the bars of South Beach.

Their favorite bar was Torchy’s, just a block from the beach and the pier. One summer night, Ace and three of the Ratz were at Torchy’s tossing back way too many tequila shots with beer chasers. They never stopped hitting on the girls, especially the ones from Mission Christian. When they were feeling no pain, Ace and his buddies staggered out and headed to the beach by the pier. There were several fire rings with people around them and a few were unattended. Ace found one with the wood and coals still smoldering and sat down. His buddies joined him.

They sat around loudly telling profanity-laced stories, making rude comments to passersby and generally waiting to sober up while making themselves obnoxious.

Ace was feeling mean and depressed. He started ragging on a group sitting around a nearby fire ring. They just ignored him. This made him madder. Then he started in on the girls in the group.

“Hey, you hos, come on over here if you’re looking for a real man.”

“Say, bitches, I’m talking to you. Say something.”

There was no response from the group but he did draw some over-the-shoulder looks.

“What, you too good to talk to a local? Hey, I’m talking to you skags.”

Finally, a tall rangy guy wearing a backpack walked over to the Ratz. “Say, mate, can’t you just leave us be? Nobody wants any trouble.”

Ace looked the guy up and down. He had a funny accent. Ace couldn’t place it but he gave it a try.

“Hey, you London fuckface, why don’t you go back home where you belong. You’re on Ratz property. Get moving before I kick your limey ass.”

“First, I’m from Austrailia. Second, I didn’t come over here to cause a problem. Can’t you just be cool and leave us alone?”

When Ace was in one of these alcohol-driven depressions, he was always looking to add an adrenaline rush to the mix. A fight was his tried and true method.

Ace stood up and stepped within a foot of the stranger. The stranger didn’t back up, he simply raised his open hands as if say he wasn’t looking for a fight.

There was no stopping Ace and all the Ratz knew it. They all stood up. When trouble started, they always fought as a team, just like gang tackling in a football game

Ace sucker-punched the stranger just as he placed his arms up. It was on the chin and dropped him hard. He hit the sand face-first. The instant he was down, Ace began kicking him. The other Ratz joined in. Then Ace picked up the skateboard of one of the Ratz and swung it hard and down on the stranger’s head. You could hear the thump like the sound of a bat hitting a watermelon.

The girls around the other fire ring began to scream.. A couple of the guys jumped up and started toward the Ratz.

The Ratz peeled off like jet fighters and formed a line around Ace like they were pass blocking for a quarterback. The other guys hesitated.

Ace reached down and grabbed the stranger’s back pack and pulled him right into the fire ring, face first. He was out cold and never reacted to the smoldering embers.

Ace and the Ratz walked off like strutting victors in a professional wrestling match.

That altercation changed Ace’s life in ways never expected. The Ratz had left many victims beaten and injured but they had never been held accountable. This time was different.

The incident made front page news in the local newspaper and was carried on every local TV news report. The stranger was a twenty year-old college student and part-time model on vacation from Australia. The other people around the fire ring were a couple of German students and some girls from Mission Christian.

The victim suffered a devastating skull fracture, broken ribs and third degree burns to half his face. He was in critical condition in a local hospital for six weeks. His parents flew in from Australia and stayed for weeks, holding daily vigil at their son’s bedside. He was in a coma for thirty days.

The local news media carried daily updates on his condition and the ongoing police investigation.

It didn’t take long for the description of the lead assailant to be identified as Ace. Within three weeks, Ace and his fellow Ratz were in custody.

Ace was arrested in a 5:00 A.M. raid at his mother’s apartment. Bail was set at $500,000. He wasn’t about to make the ten percent fee required by the local bail bondsmen.

When the victim was able, his parents flew him back home. He would undergo many months of vocational rehab. The facial burns were extensive. There would be innumerable skin grafts in an attempt to rebuild the once handsome face. They would not succeed.

Ace drew a break he didn’t deserve. With the victim back home and in no condition to return to testify, he was not available for Ace’s trial.

The D.A. had to cut a deal. Ace was facing twenty years to life in prison for attempted murder and mayhem. He plead out to aggravated assault and received one year in county jail as a condition of five years probation. He was ordered to totally abstain from the ingestion of alcohol and controlled substances. He would have to submit to urine testing as directed by his probation officer.

Ace did his county jail time without official incident. He did have a couple of run-ins with other inmates but his violent reaction and all-out maniac attack mode let everyone know he was best left alone. He breezed through the last few months.

When he was released, he was clean and sober for the first time in years.

He took a few days just to relax. It was good to get some sun and ride some waves. He was due to see his PO at the end of the week.

When he reported, he had to drop a urine test first thing. His PO was a crusty old guy who was tired of his job and tired of spending his days looking across his desk at crooks who were trying to run a game on him.

When Ace left the office, he had an appointment in two weeks to check in again with his PO and to provide a urine test. And so it would go for the next two years at least. He also was ordered to get a job or provide documentation of every place he had applied for one.

Damn, he thought. This was going to be hell. Within a week, he got his old construction job back. He was working four to five days a week and earning good money. With random urine testing, he couldn’t spend his money on drugs or alcohol, as he had done in the past. One dirty test and he could be headed to state prison to serve out his sentence.

He quit drinking but he still loved to hang out at Torchy’s. Sometimes the house band would let him jam a little with his guitar. Mainly, he just enjoyed hanging out with friends and looking for girls. Without alcohol fogging his mind, he became quite an observer of human nature. He watched guys get drunk and make fools of themselves, often ending up in fights just as he had done many times before. He noted that there were very few women who wanted to hang out with a drunken fool.

As the months passed, he found he was leading a life he had never seen for himself. At work, he was promoted to a journeyman position. The money was coming in and he putting a little away every payday as well as paying his mom a share for room and board.

He and his Mom were getting along much better. She had a boyfriend who was a lifeguard. He was an old timer but a cool guy. He treated Ace with respect and was very committed to his Mom.

He enjoyed his low-key life but he sure felt something was missing. He no longer was involved in altercations now that alcohol was removed from his live. The only adrenaline rush he experienced was when he caught a big wave and that was enough for him.

About a year and a half after he got out of jail, he found what was missing.

One night, after jamming at Torchy’s, he noticed a very cute beach blonde type watching him.

Never the shy one, he went right over to the bar where she was sitting.

“Hi. I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I just transferred in to Mission Christian. I heard this was a cool place to check out.”

“My name is Ace. It’s a nickname but it’s the only one I use.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Cindy.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from Palm Springs. I got my AA at Desert Community College. I transferred to Mission Christian to be near the beach. The Springs are just too far away from the ocean.”

“Do you surf?”

“When I can. That’s why I came here to school. If I can get my BA in education and surf every weekend, this will be the best two years of my life.”

“Great. Maybe we can surf together. I’m usually down by the pier every Saturday and Sunday.”

“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

She left her beer half-full and smiled as she walked out. His eyes followed her. A cute little body in tight jeans and a MSC hooded sweatshirt, she was a doll.

Ace was up early on Saturday. He ate some mini chocolate-covered doughnuts, washed them down with a Coke. A real surfer’s breakfast. He was on the beach, waxing his board, when he saw her drive up in one of those little non-descript American economy cars.

He watched her unload her board from the roof rack. She already had her wet suit on. She didn’t see him.

He picked up his board and walked over to her. She looked up.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Cindy. I was hoping you’d be around. I didn’t expect to see you so early.”

“I came to catch waves, not the sun.”

“Great. I’ll see you out there.”

“You bet.”

He walked into the white water and then jumped up and onto his board as the next surf swell passed beneath him. A few powerful strokes and he was out past the shore breaking stuff to the open water where a dozen other surfers sat straddling their boards and waited for a good swell. It looked to be a good day.

Soon, he caught a wave and rode by her as she was making her way out.

He was almost back out to the waiting spot when he saw her shoot by him riding the wave in a low crouch, her hand touching the water in the wave’s barrel. Then she kicked out and over as the wave broke near shore. Damn, this girl could surf.

They chatted some as they sat astride their boards. She’d been surfing for years. When she paddled, her strokes were powerful and relentless. For a life long inlander, she was something else.

He asked her if she’d be at Torchy’s that night. She said, “Maybe.”

He was there and brought his guitar. If she showed, he wanted to impress her. He was definitely interested.

Just as he was about to give up, she appeared.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

“I’ve been studying. Decided I needed a break.”

They sat and talked. They made eye contact. The vibe was good.

Later in the evening, he jammed with the band and sang a ballad. He looked at her the whole time. She never stopped smiling.

He rejoined her after. A while later, she said she had to get back to the dorms. He reached gently for her hand, held it and leaned down and kissed her cheek. She blushed.

As she walked to her car, he waited. Just as she got to it, she turned and waved. That was as good a sign as he could expect.

At his request, she had given him her cell number.

He waited three days and called. He invited her to meet him for coffee later that evening. They talked for two hours. He had never been so at ease with a girl. It was like they were best friends.

At work, he found himself thinking about her. He was reminded of his Mom and Dad. If they became a couple, he wouldn't mess it up like his Dad had done. When you find the right person, you need to do everything you can to make it work.

He called her Friday to see if she wanted to surf Saturday. She said yes and they agreed to meet at the pier.

They spent a perfect morning surfing and talking. When it was time to go, he reached and placed his hand on her cheek. She looked up at him and smiled. He leaned down and kissed her lips softy. He felt her hand on his bicep. It was brief, tender and just right.

He asked her to meet him at Torchy’s that night. She said she couldn’t as her parents were coming into town for parent’s weekend.

He told his Mom about Cindy on Sunday night. She was impressed with his taste. He knew she was going out to dinner with her boyfriend on Wednesday night. He told her he wanted to invite Cindy to come over for dinner. He would make his famous spaghetti dinner. It was only famous to him. He made it occasionally for his Mom and she always complimented him on it. Now he hoped to try it out on someone else. His Mom said, “Go for it.”

“Hi, Cindy. This is Ace.”

“Hi, stranger.”

“How are you?”

“Great.”

“I’d like to make you dinner Wednesday night.”

“Really? Where?”

“At my apartment. My Mom will be out with her boyfriend. It’s his birthday or something. Anyway, I make some great spaghetti. We could just kick back, listen to some music. Very low-key.”

“Well, I have a big biology test Thursday morning but I could break away for two hours but only on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to play your guitar for me.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there, just give me an address.”

He did. It was all set. He knew he wouldn’t be meeting another quality girl like this anytime soon. Go slow. Invest the time. He would play this like a total gentleman.

At 7:00 P.M. on Tuesday, he heard a gentle knock on his door.

He quickly checked the apartment to be sure everything was straight and neat. He had one of his Mom’s Sinatra records playing on her little phonograph. His marinara and sausage sauce was simmering on the stove. All he needed to do was boil the water and toss in the pasta.

“Just a minute”, he yelled from the kitchen. Yeah, the place looks great. He opened the door.

“Welcome.”

“Hi, Ace. This is just the break I need from studying.”

He stepped back as she entered. She paused and looked up at him. He closed the door and reached down to hug her. She returned the hug as he kissed her cheek.

“I’ve missed you”, he said.

“You did? How sweet.”

“Please come in and sit down. I’ll start the water for the pasta and be right back. Want something to drink?”

“A Coke would be great.”

He turned to walk to the kitchen. He only made it two steps before he felt his legs buckle and he fell face-first to the floor. Three hundred thousand volts from a handheld stun gun will do that to you.

He felt like he had been shocked but how could that be?

He convulsed on the floor and tried to roll over. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her kneel to help him. Then he saw the arcing blue light from the stun gun in her hand as she touched him again near his heart. He convulsed and was only semi-conscious.

She moved quickly to his feet and pulled a razor sharp curve-bladed carpet knife from her purse. In two surgical moves, she severed both of his Achilles tendons. He could barely generate a muffled scream as the intense pain reached his confused brain. He would walk stiff-legged like a 100 year old man for the rest of his life. He would never surf again.

Then he felt the liquid running down from his hair, over his forehead, into his eyes and down his cheeks to his neck. Damn, it burns. As he regained some body function, he wiped his eyes. Through the blur, he saw the burning wooden match flying toward him. The only word he could utter was, “Why?”, as he squeezed his eyes shut before his head ignited like a human torch.

She capped the lighter fluid can and placed it and the carpet knife in her purse. Using a handkerchief, she opened the door and exited the apartment. A few quick steps and she was down the exterior stairs of the little seven unit building.

Two blocks over and she was in her car and driving away.

Earlier that afternoon, she had checked out of the no-tell motel that she had called home the past two weeks. She paid cash daily for the room. This place didn’t care about names or ID if you had the green.

A mile away from Ace's Mom's apartment, she entered the freeway on-ramp to Interstate 5, which would take her north to Los Angeles.

Sixty miles north, she pulled off the freeway in San Clemente and drove to a chain fast food restaurant that she had spotted two weeks before on her way south. She pulled into the lot and exited her car carrying a food bag with the restaurant’s signature logo on it.

Inside was a wiped clean carpet knife and lighter fluid can covered by a dozen napkins and a day old order of super fries purchased just for this purpose. She dropped the crumpled bag in the outside trash can.

She returned to her car and placed a dirty hand towel in front of her left rear tire. Wrapped in it was the stun gun and the burner phone she had purchased ten days before. She drove forward three feet, obliterating the contents of the towel. She exited and put the towel in her car.

She drove to the gas station just before the freeway on-ramp and filled up her tank. Into the adjacent dumpster she threw two bags. One contained the neatly cut up Mission Christian hoody she had purchased at the campus bookstore when she arrived in San Diego. Her name wasn’t Cindy and she had never been a student at the college. In the other bag was the towel and the broken pieces it contained.

An hour and a half later, she followed the direction signs at LAX to the airport car rental return and dropped off her non-descript American economy car. She had used a phony California Drivers License and phony credit card to rent the car. Now she paid cash to settle her bill. They would never run the credit card.

She took the shuttle bus to Tom Bradley International Terminal to check in for her non-stop Qantas flight to Sydney.

As she settled into the lounge seat at her departure gate, she reflected on the past two weeks. She was anxious to get back to her family and her last semester of nursing school. But mainly she wanted to see her baby brother. She wanted to tell him that he had been avenged. But she knew there would be no point. He had no recollection of the horrible attack. Now and for always, he would have the mind of a small child.

BIO: David Price is an ex-college jock and retired probation officer living in California. His work can be found on Thuglit, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Flash Fiction Offensive, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Darkest Before the Dawn and Crooked.

A Twist Of Noir 142 - David Price

FATE - DAVID PRICE

He bought her when he was just out of basic in 1968. He knew the Army M-6 bayonet was a decent knife and he damn well knew he needed a bayonet in Vietnam. But he wanted a little more. He found it in the Randall 14. He wore her upside down in her custom leather sheath strapped to his web gear and just over his heart. She saw him through two tours. Why the hell he volunteered for the second one, he still doesn’t know. Even to this day. It somehow seemed right at the time but half way through that second tour, he began to question his sanity.

The Randall was his best friend. She became something more than a knife to him. He sharpened her every night when he could. He believed her steel tang would protect him from an AK-47 heart shot. He never had to find out. Oh, he was wounded a couple of times, shrapnel and a thru and thru in the meat of his right thigh. It missed the bone. He came home with two purple hearts and two bronze stars. He didn’t talk about it, any of it.

*

Spider and Mimo had grown up together in the Detroit public school system. They both came from the projects and shared a common bond. They were both losers.

Spider got his name from his tall gangly appearance even as far back as elementary school. He was always tall for his age but it was the long spindly arms and legs coupled with a weird way of moving his arms in cadence with a long stride that cemented his nickname. In those days he wasn’t brave enough to be a bully, at least not to humans. He had no fear of insects and small animals. During the summer following fifth grade, he discovered the power of a magnifying glass. Most every day that summer, he could be found cooking ants, spiders and any other insect that crossed the sidewalk running next to the projects.

In junior high, he progressed to small cats, kittens and birds. The cats and kittens he plain tortured and killed in a variety of disturbing ways. The birds were a much more difficult catch. He borrowed a friend’s B-B gun. He would sit all day, still like a military sniper just to get a chance to kill a robin or a sparrow.

The cat killings bought him a year in a juvenile camp where he then learned to ignore the suffering of humans.

*

After his first tour, he was on R&R in the Philippines. Most guys tried to see how much they could drink and how much ganja they could smoke while trying to get laid every day. Instead, he became introspective and decided he needed to honor his knife by learning how to best use her. He spent most of his leave, training with a Filipino martial arts weapons expert. He learned about stance, weapon retention, stick, parry and slash. He practiced hour after hour until the flow and rhythm of his sweeps and passes were fast, smooth and as natural as throwing a baseball. The blade work was combined with the martial arts techniques of leg sweeps, foot traps and distracting feints. He could arc a carotid strike with jackhammer speed that delivered three or four jabs in less than a second. The result would be a carotid artery shredded beyond repair and a bleed out in less than a minute.

During his second tour, all that training saved his life in a hand to hand fight with a jungle sentry. He let his practiced techniques take over. It ended so fast it scared him.

*

Mimo was a kid others looked up to. He was naturally bright and did well in elementary school where homework was minimal. His smile and quick wit served him well. All of his teachers liked him.

He was a good athlete and a leader. He adopted Spider and allowed him to be his friend. Spider felt accepted and important when he was with Mimo, something he never felt in his dysfunctional home.

By the time they hit high school their lives changed for the worse.

Spider became more bizarre in his thinking and his fantasies. Never a student, he virtually stopped attending school. He spent his days browsing comic books in a variety of stores until he was inevitably kicked out of each one. He had no money so his comic collection was acquired by means of the five finger discount.

Mimo’s smile and charm didn’t follow him to high school where he never studied. Even his natural intelligence failed in classes where specific knowledge was required.

By the time they were both sixteen, they were totally out of school. Their life degenerated to drinking cheap wine, beer and huffing any substance they could get their hands on from glue to gasoline. What brain cells Mimo possessed were slowly killed off.

Now Spider’s dark side was given an outlet in Mimo’s increasingly antisocial disposition.

They began funding their cash needs by strong arming younger kids for their lunch money as they walked to school. Most of the victims knew them and feared them so their criminal efforts went unreported. They believed they had a good thing going. They were able to get high in some manner every day.

It came to an end when they leaned on a precocious little girl who immediately told her parents. Once they were arrested, word spread and several other victims came forward. The end result was they both served eighteen months at the county youth correctional facility.

*

He was discharged as a staff sergeant. When he returned home to the States, he had a hard time adjusting. He was damn glad it was over and that he was safe but, at night, he dreamed of the war and all the things he wanted to forget. When he was awake, he drank way too much in an attempt to quiet the demon inside him who missed the jungle and wanted to return.

The one thing he always kept near him was the Randall. Somehow she could keep him safe even now. He found a custom leather worker who specialized in gun holsters. He told him he wanted a shoulder holster rig that would hold her secure under his left upper arm. No elastic or wimpy straps, he wanted a solid leather shoulder brace that fit like a glove and went over both shoulders and fastened to his belt on the right side. He paid extra for fancy tooling with the little rosettes you see on expensive saddles. It cost him most of what he had in the bank but it was worth it. She was a work of art.

The rig fit like it was part of him. No shoulder ache or fatigue no matter how long he wore her. Many a night, he passed out in an alcoholic-induced fog while wearing her.

He eventually found work as a process server, security guard or bail bond agent. His Randall was always with him. The butter brown leather was quickly stained dark brown from his sweat.

He never married. He had a few girlfriends over the years but the relationships never lasted.

*

Spider and Mimo had learned a lot in the youth correctional center. Things like how to fight as a team, how to spot vulnerable inmates and how to take advantage of them. Spider was no real physical threat but his fascination with making weapons from the most innocuous implements always left him well armed. He demonstrated early on that he was willing to kill or maim with the slightest provocation.

Using a pack of stolen staff matches, he melted down several plastic toothbrush handles into a dirk which he sharpened to a point on the cement sidewalks in the exercise yard during free time.

Later, when challenged by an older inmate who was testing him, he struck out in a rage and stabbed his tormentor in the face and neck. Four or five quick, deep strikes and he dropped his weapon and walked calmly away. The tormentor remained in the hospital for several weeks and lost an eye. Upon his release he was transferred to a different facility. His attacker was never identified. Spider’s reputation was made.

Mimo on the other hand was the cool calculating one. He stayed in the background and was a watcher and a schemer. He discovered the weight pile in the exercise yard and put it to good use. His natural athleticism was enhanced by his workouts. In a matter of months, he was sporting arms that everyone noticed. He was good with his fists and proved it on more than one occasion.

Together they were a formidable pair. Mimo was the brains and apparent muscle while, in truth, the brooding Spider was the feared hit man. Everyone knew he was an assassin waiting for a target.

Shortly after their release, Mimo and Spider both turned eighteen. Now it was a new game. Arrest meant jail and potential prison time.

*

At night, alone in his room, he sharpened his Randall. He worked his way through countless sharpening stones over the years. Always he practiced his slashes and stabs, over and over. It really was a thing of grace and beauty to see his arms flow through so many perfectly executed moves, like a Tai Chi practitioner in high speed.

Now he was in his sixties, living on Social Security and a small VA disability check. The boarding house he called home provided him with a bed, a chair and a half sized refrigerator. He added a little TV and a hot plate. It was all he needed and it was all he could afford. He lived in a rundown section of downtown Detroit.

His days were simple. He brewed a couple cups of coffee in his room upon arising. Then he did a little PT routine he composed of three sets of pushups and three sets of doorway chin-ups. He was in very good shape for a man his age.

He’d go down to the library to read the paper and occasionally check out a book. Maybe he’d see a couple of vet buddies for coffee at a little café a few blocks over. He tried to eat right on his limited budget. He was very fortunate, his health was good.

Once a week, he treated himself to a couple of beers at Formosa, a very low-end Asian bar in his part of town. It was frequented mainly by ex-military, especially ex-navy. It was run by a couple of middle aged Asian women who still spoke English so heavily accented that you could barely understand them even though they had both been in the States for over twenty years.

His age showed on his face with deep lines and crags. To look at him, you might guess him to be in his early seventies, rather than his real age of sixty-six. Then you might notice his erect posture, athletic stride and quiet confidence. But, all in all, you’d probably just see an old man.

*

Back in the community and now adults, Mimo and Spider drifted from pick-up job to pick-up job. So it went for a couple of years. They cleaned up warehouses after hours, worked in a lumber yard stacking wood and cement bags and sometimes found work as part of the cleanup crew after Lions and Tigers games. It all amounted to pocket change. They always had a buck or two but they needed a way to get a better payday.

About the time they were turning twenty, they rolled their first drunk. It was easy, a couple of smacks upside his head and a search through his pockets and they were $80 to the good. The drunk hardly knew what had happened and he sure as hell couldn’t identify anybody.

Then Mimo learned to roll queers. He would hang around outside a gay bar until some guy picked him up. A simple agreement to step into the alley for a quickie and Spider would be waiting with an eighteen inch length of heavy duty chain. On one end was a padlock, on the other was a dozen wraps of duct tape to make a six inch handle. The victim would get on his knees and Spider would step out and swing the modern day version of the medieval ball and chain. These deals usually scored a hundred or two and the victims weren’t about to file a report.

This was their life, day work when they could get it and night work every week or so.

Recently, they learned that Social Security checks came in on the first of each month. Old guys waiting for that check couldn’t resist taking out half the amount the day it hit their bank. They spent way too much early in the month and lived on Top Ramen and peanut butter sandwiches the last two weeks. But that first two weeks they would drink up a storm.

These guys were made to order. If they picked the right victim, they usually scored several hundred. Just scout the herd and find the loners and stragglers, like the big cats of Africa.

*

He was looking forward to tonight. Friday, he pulled several hundred out of his bank. His rent got paid first. Then he bought staples and food for the rest of the month. The balance was spending money till the fifteenth when he would pull out another hundred and a half for the rest of the months entertainment. He never overextended himself. He budgeted down to the penny in a ledger.

Tonight, he was going to Formosa for his weekly visit. He was too old and too poor to have a girlfriend but he definitely favored one of the female bartenders. It was his chance to have a little conversation and do a little people watching. Actually, the bartender was the one he watched the most. For the cost of a couple beers, he could check her out for a couple of hours.

*

Mimo and Spider smoked a little weed and talked over their next caper. That’s what they called their robberies. It made them seem like little adventures.

“We’ve got to get something going Saturday night. The checks came in Thursday. The old boys will be out this weekend.”

Spider looked up and just nodded. He was there for any deal Mimo put together. They were both low on cash and needed a good score.

Mimo said, “Let’s check out a couple of the bars on the south side. There are a lot of those single room boarding houses down there. Almost all of them have stag guys on some kind of disability or Social Security.”

Spider nodded. He liked these little “stings” that Mimo put together. He always got to lump some old fucker and got paid for doing it. They were a perfect stand-in for his abusive old man. It satisfied all his needs in one evening.

*

He got dressed for his big night out. Several years ago, he bought a single rigid soccer shin guard at the Goodwill. It was in a box of miscellaneous sports equipment labeled, “Your pick - $1”.

He adjusted it to fit over his left forearm. Ancient warriors never went into battle without some type of shield. It allowed protection of the opposite hand bearing the sword, dagger or axe. This was his contemporary version. He never went anywhere without the Randall and usually wore his little shield under his jacket.

He pulled out his best pair of faded Levi 501s. He put on a clean tee and a nice flannel shirt. He put on the Randall rig and secured it to his belt. Then he pulled on his arm protector. He ran a comb through his wavy white hair and put on his waist-length plaid jacket. It was perfect. The jacket fit tight at the waist but bloused in the chest for easy flexibility. Terry Malloy in “On the Waterfront”. He was ready for a little relaxation.

*

Mimo and Spider hit a little hole in the wall sports bar around 8:00 P.M. It was a typical dive bar with two pool tables and a couple of overhead TVs tuned to a boxing match. The action was light and most of the patrons were guys in their late twenties and thirties, drinking beer, shooting pool and swearing.

They nursed a couple of beers at the end of the bar. Mimo observed, “No action here. These guys all know each other and look to be scrimping on every beer. Probably don’t have $100 total between them.”

Spider nodded. “So what do you want to do?”

“Let’s cut over a couple of blocks and find some old timers' bars.”

*

He walked the eight blocks to Formosa. Winter was fast approaching and the chill was in the night air. He had a routine and he never varied from it. He’d arrive at 9:00 P.M., hope his favorite stool was empty and proceed to nurse two beers, one per hour, till he left at 11:00 P.M.

He opened the door and stepped in. He looked down the bar and saw the empty spot at the end. Great, this was going to be a good night.

He made his way down and swung his leg over the stool, cowboy style. It was only a few minutes before the routine began. He’d been coming here for several years. It always started the same way.

She said, “Hey, Mr. Jack. What’re you having tonight?”

He always had the exact same thing. But the routine had to be played out.

“Good evening, Suji. I think I’ll try a bottle of your best Bud.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Jack, coming right up.”

The very few people who knew him just called him Jack. They knew no other name. His real name was Jackson Stone. In a little word twist, his father named him after his favorite Civil War general, Stonewall Jackson.

He made himself comfortable, put his boots on the bar railing and took his first sip.

During the next two hours, he would make casual conversation with Suji who always worked this end of the bar.

She was Korean and in her late forties. She married a GI and came to the States about twenty years ago. The marriage didn’t last but they had a son and she had custody. He was a junior in high school. The dad actually paid child support but Suji needed to work all the hours she could get to stay afloat.

She was really the draw for him. He enjoyed talking to a woman who responded as though she was actually interested in him.

He knew the boundaries and didn’t cross them. They each played their part in the little performance.

*

Mimo turned the corner and saw the neon lights of two bars just a block from each other. One was The Lion’s Den, obviously another sports bar. The other was Formosa. Isn’t that some city in Asia, he thought.

“Let’s try Formosa. Sports bars ain’t gonna cut it for what we’re after.”

Spider nodded.

As soon as they entered, Mimo smiled. The place was busy and there was a sea of bald heads and white hair.

They made their way down the bar to the end and took a little table in the corner. It offered a good view of all the action and anyone using the head had to walk past them.

They ordered a couple glasses of Vodka rocks, with two cans of Red Bull on the side.

They sipped and talked. Instead of checking out girls, they looked for potential victims. They were looking for a sign that would identify their next mark.

*

It was a little after 10:00 P.M. when he saw them arrive. They looked out of place. There was no real girl action outside of the female staff and no contemporary music. There were only two TVs and they were small screen and only visible if you were sitting at the bar.

He watched them make their way to a table. They both looked to be early to mid-twenties. The tall gangly one was wearing an oversized black hoody with his head and face partially obscured. He walked funny. It made him think of Icabod Crane. The other one was solid, athletic and carried himself with confidence. Together, they were an unlikely pair. What was their connection, he wondered.

They walked past him and sat down a few feet away.

He had a bad feeling about them but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Soon, he forgot about them as he focused on watching Suji work and their occasional verbal exchanges.

At 11:00 P.M. sharp, he signaled her that he was ready to settle up. The tab always came to $10 for the two beers. He gave her the usual $20 bill and told her to keep the change.

She responded as always: “Thank you, Mr. Jack. See you in a week.”

He got up and walked out.

*

After an hour, they had identified several potential targets. Then, at 11:00 P.M., they watched the old guy at the bar pull a roll out of his pocket and peel off a twenty for the bartender. There was a twenty below that one. The roll was fat enough to hold several hundred dollars.

They shared the same thought. Mimo dropped enough cash on the table to cover their drinks and they discreetly followed the old man out the door. They slowed their steps to give him a half block lead.

*

He had walked two blocks when he became aware of the sound of footsteps behind him. These streets were very deserted at this time of night. His internal radar went off loud and clear.

He walked another block and the footsteps followed. He could tell there were two of them.

As he began to pass the next alley, he turned a sharp left into it and quickened his pace. One side of the alley was lit by the moonlight. The other side was in total darkness. Twenty feet down the dark side, he felt a recessed doorway. He pressed his back to the door and totally disappeared. At that moment, SSgt. Jackson Stone returned to the jungle.

*

The old guy turned left into the alley. What was he doing? Mimo and Spider started to jog. When they reached the alley entrance, they couldn't see anything. No movement. No footsteps. Nothing. Where the hell did he go?

They heard a noise at the end of the alley near several dumpsters pressed against the building wall and illuminated by the moonlight.

Mimo whispered to Spider. “He’s taking a piss behind the dumpsters.”

Spider nodded.

They proceeded toward the sound. Just as they approached, a cat jumped out of the far dumpster and scurried off down the alley.

They turned to look at each other.

He stepped from the darkness into the middle of the alley. He was half-exposed by the moonlight and half-hidden in the shadows.

“Hey, jerk-offs. You looking for someone?”

They turned quickly to see him standing behind them. His hands were in his jacket pockets, his legs apart in a firm stance.

“Say, old man, do you have the time?”

They advanced on him and started to separate with every step. They were going to come at him from opposite sides.

“I’ve got all the time you’ll ever need.”

As they advanced, he didn’t move.

Is this guy stupid, Mimo wondered. Why doesn’t he try and run?

As they closed in on the man, Mimo could see the man had his left hand in his jacket pocket but the right hand was actually inside the lowered zipper of his jacket. Who did he think he was, Napoleon?

Spider was now half-obscured by darkness, while Mimo was in full moon light.

With one step, the man disappeared into the shadows. Spider pulled his hand out of the hoody’s pocket and let the chain fall to its full length with the lock now swinging from side to side. Spider heard a sound and stepped into the darkness and snapped the chain up and then down where he figured the man to be standing.

The man raised his left arm protected by the soccer guard. It absorbed the force of the descending chain which wrapped around the rigid brace as the lock looped it.

He pulled his left arm in and Spider, still holding the chain, came with it. The Randall swung in an upward arc making penetration just below the left rib cage and plunging deeply into Spider’s heart. There was an audible gasp.

Mimo yelled, “Spider!”

Spider’s face appeared out of the shadows as he fell face first into the light.

Mimo removed a razor sharp knife from his pocket. With a flick of his thumb the blade locked into place. There was no sound, except the pounding of Mimo’s own heartbeat. For the first time in his life, he was scared.

“Show yourself, motherfucker.”

And then, a few feet in front of him, the man appeared. He was bent low, in a fighting stance, with both hands forward.

Mimo could see the seven-inch blade in the man’s right hand.

Mimo jabbed quick and straight towards the man’s belly. The man moved as if he anticipated the strike. His body turned slightly and his left hand caught Mimo’s thrusting elbow and pushed it wide of its intended mark. It looked like they were executing a synchronized dance move.

The man thrust low between Mimo’s knees and then pulled left and up. The blade cut through fabric like it was butter until it found its mark: the femoral artery.

Mimo felt a searing pain inside his right thigh. He fell to the ground and pressed both hands to his thigh to stop the flow.

The man pivoted on his right foot and administered a textbook side kick with the edge of his boot to Mimo’s throat. The force knocked Mimo flat on his back. He felt the man step hard on his face, pinning him to the asphalt.

The man leaned down and delivered a jackhammer strike to Mimo’s carotid artery.

Mimo felt very cold and then nothing.

The man stepped over to Spider’s body and used the hood of his sweatshirt to wipe the Randall clean. He would give her a proper cleaning once he was back at base camp. For now, he didn’t want any of the sticky blood to soil his custom rig.

He turned and walked in a purposeful, controlled manner to the end of the alley. A right turn and he had five blocks to go.

The moonlight reflected in the two pools of blood as they ran together from opposite sides of the alley toward the steel grate of the nearby drain hole.

As he walked, he realized he couldn’t go back to Formosa for a long time, if ever.

Then he thought of what had transpired that night. He was surprised to feel a tinge of sadness and sorrow pass through him.

Damn, he thought, I’m really going to miss Suji.

BIO: David Price is an ex college jock and retired probation officer living in California. His work can be found on Thuglit, Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers, Flash Fiction Offensive, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Darkest Before the Dawn and Crooked.

A Twist Of Noir 099 - David Price

SIDETRACKED - DAVID PRICE

1

I want to tell you up front. This story ain’t gonna be cute or tricky or end with a surprise twist, except that I’m here to tell it to you. If you are in the mood to read a real story that tells it just like it went down, keep reading. I know it's real cause it happened to me.

There are people in this world you really don’t ever want to meet. You can avoid an awful lot of grief by just knowing when you are in over your head. You know, shit like never take a canoe ride with Burt Reynolds in the piney woods of Georgia and never stop in the neighborhood of 18th St. in South L.A. after midnight and ask for directions. Stuff that cries, “You should have known better.”

Well, that was me sixteen years ago. Looking for some adventure and a cool tale to tell, I stepped into a pile of shit that almost swallowed me. I’ll carry the scars for the rest of my life. And, yes, I should have known better.

It was 1993. I’d been working at my job as an accountant for a large law firm in L.A. for twenty years. My marriage fell apart the year before. She cleaned me out good. See, in California, if your marriage lasts ten years, it’s called a long-term marriage. The spouse is entitled to half of everything. I’d worked my ass off so she could play Junior League with her girlfriends. When we finally hit the wall, she had never been employed and she got the house and alimony. In short, I was living in a dump with only enough money to squeak by.

Waa. Waa. You get the picture. I spent my time working and working out. I got through college at a Big Ten school on a wrestling scholarship. As a heavyweight, I made my mark. I was second in the Big Ten championship my senior year.

I’d trimmed down since but I still went 235 lbs. on a 6’ 2” frame. For exercise, I just hit the weights and wrestled some with the local JC team. My strength and wrestling background worked well. I loved to free style. Nobody could work me over, even at my age.

I’m telling you this because my background is the only reason I’m here today. That and my trusty Buck Kalinga. I didn’t choose this knife by accident. I did my research.

I wanted a personal knife that I could depend on for self defense during my upcoming vacation. I needed quality, strength, balance and a blade I could shave with and I got it.

2

So that’s my background and here’s my story.

I was coming up on a little seven day vacation on a very limited budget. I was looking for an adventure, something to shake me out of my rut. I’d always been fascinated by stories of the down-and-outers who rode the freight trains in the ’30s and ’40s like Woody Guthrie.

I started planning it weeks in advance. I figured I’d ride the freights north to Seattle and cut over to Spokane. I’d live off the food I could carry. Meet some colorful hobos. Maybe spend a night or two in a hobo camp. I’d have some stories to tell. A great adventure. Yeah, same sentiments as Lord Chelmsford when he crossed into Zulu land on his way to Isandlwana.

To get ready, I studied the rail schedules and mapped the routes of the freights. No passenger trains here. I also let my beard grow for two weeks so I could fit the part. I bought some used pants, boots and a well-worn winter coat.

I even slept in them and then placed them under a bush for three days to give them that well-worn look.

I put one change of underwear, socks, camping supplies, food and a sterno cooker in a ratty backpack I’d had for years. All this and my Buck Kalinga in her nice little custom sheath strapped to my waist.

Had to start this deal at night down in the train yards at Union Station. Seemed simple enough, just find a freight car with an unlocked door and jump in. Well on that night I wasn’t so lucky. Took me a while but I found a freight train about to head north. While checking for a door that would open, a voice from the top of a car yelled down, “Be quiet, dumbshit, or the bulls’ll hear you.”

I looked up to see a head peek over the top of the car. I said, “How do you get in?”

“Sometimes you don’t. Climb the ladder on the end but hurry up about it and be quiet.”

I found the ladder and climbed up and there he was. He looked to be 70 but he later told me he was 48.

He told me to lay flat and not make a sound. The train was to leave in an hour. I lay there in silence as the air turned cold. I was ten feet from him in the open but I could smell him like we were in the same phone booth.

3

We rode for several hours. Once underway, we made our way to a flat car where we set up. We talked a bit. He’d been living life on the margin for twenty years and his dental hygiene was testament to it.

I tried to give him a cover story about being unemployed and living on the street. He saw right through me. He said, “Bullshit, you’re a white collar chump doing a weekender. I’ve seen you guys before. You’re bigger than most.”

I said nothing.

He said, “I’m getting off in Emeryville. If you want a hot meal, follow me, but you better have something to put in or they’ll run you out or worse.”

“What do you mean, or worse?”

“Ever heard of FTRA?”

“No, what’s that?”

“Freight Train Riders of America. They are some hombres you don’t want to meet and, if you do, you better hope all they do is rob you.”

I projected myself into my role and said, “What the fuck you talking? You got some kind of hobo gang?”

“Well, smart ass, that ain’t the half of it. You’ll know ’em if you ever see ’em. They have ways to measure a man. If they think you have anything they want, they’ll either jump your ass right then or they’ll wait til you sleep and you’ll never wake up.”

“Horseshit. Ain’t no such thing.”

“Just wait. The direction you’re headin, you got a good chance to find out.”

“Yeah, sure. They got jackets like the Angels and the Mongols?”

“No, the only sign you’ll ever see is a black kerchief around their neck held on by a silver concho. If you see it, move on pronto.”

“Alright, Jack, you’ve warned me. Now let me tell you something. Me, I’m a past member in good standing of the Buckeyes. Don’t ever come to Columbus talking your shit or you’ll see what bad is all about. A word of advice, never fuck with a Buckeye.”

4

He laughed. I have to admit I kinda liked him. He offered me a toke of his Lucky Strike. I passed.

As the train slowed coming into a switching yard, he jumped off. I followed him. After all, the whole point of this adventure was to savor the experience, not high-ball it to Spokane.

We walked in silence for about a mile or so and came to some pretty dense trees and bushes near a freeway underpass. All of a sudden we broke into an encampment of about ten guys. They looked up and one of them said, “Hey, Spooky, who’s the tourist?”

My new friend replied, “He’s ok. We’ve been riding together since L.A. Just call him Buckeye.”

I’ll tell you there was nothing but hard looks from guys who looked like escapees from a TB ward. They had some coffee in a pot.

Spooky said, “Put some food in the pile and draw a cup.”

I reached in my backpack and pulled a package of dried eggs and pitched them in the pile of food for another meal. None of it looked like anything I would eat. I figured, right away, this is going to be my vacation to trim down.

Soon as they saw my contribution, they knew I was a weekender. They rarely had anything that good. I drew some coffee and sat with my back to a tree. I thought about what Spooky had said and knew that I may have bit off more than I could chew. It was now eleven to one. I wasn’t quite as full of myself as I had been on top of the boxcar.

Conversation was minimal. I drank two cups of coffee and decided I wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. I could feel the handle of my Kalinga pressing on my ribs. It was small comfort but she was all I had.

Long about sunrise, Spooky said, “Buckeye, if you want to move north, Hardluck and Boston Red are catching one in an hour. You can tag along if you want.”

The guy called Hardluck looked like a dope addict. He was skinny and wasted. Certainly no physical threat but the code of the jungle says you don’t stare down the lion. At my size, I was as close to a lion as any of them would ever get but Hardluck locked eyes with me and never looked away.

He said, “Sure, Buckeye, you can ride with me and Red but these tours ain’t for free. What you got to trade?”

5

Now my mind started racing. Getting out of this camp and reducing the odds to a more favorable number seemed like a real good idea. I sure as hell couldn’t pull out any cash from the lining of my jacket. I had to give up something but it couldn’t be too valuable.

I reached in my backpack and pulled out two cans of sterno and tossed them his way. He smiled, picked them up and slipped them in a pocket of his filthy army fatigue jacket.

“Let’s go. We got some ground to cover.”

I walked behind him and Boston Red. When they slowed, I always kept six to eight feet between us. There was no way they could jump me at that distance.

As we approached the train yard, I saw FTRA spray painted on a cement wall. Well, Spooky wasn’t lying after all.

They pointed to our train in the distance. It was a long one, car after car for almost as far as I could see.

Hardluck said, “She’s sidetracked to let a commuter pass by.”

We came at it in a roundabout way, keeping the station on the opposite side of the train. Several times we’d freeze as Boston Red peered around a wheel to see if there are any bulls around.

About a third of the way down the train and a good fifty yards from the engine, Hardluck directed us to a car with the door slightly ajar.

He opened it and climbed in. I was last in. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw a guy sitting in a corner. I recognized him from the camp. Never caught his name, never asked, didn’t care.

Now it was three to one. Much better odds but I knew it was no coincidence that this guy was waiting in this car. Hardluck nodded to the guy and he returned it. They all sat in the shadows.

Hardluck said, “Get over here, out of the light.”

I came over, sat with my back to the wall a few feet away from them. Boston Red took a wood block from his pack and jammed it in the door opening, closing the door all but a few inches.

6

Hardluck said, “Never let the door shut on you. If a bull comes to close the door, he’ll have to open it to get the block out. When he does, we all jump him and run like hell. Never get trapped in a car, it can be days or longer before they open it.”

With that, the camp guy moved over and sat with his back to the door about a foot from the opening.

They knew their shit, I’ll give them that. I looked around the car. Mostly bare steel floors with a few broken wooden pallets. There were a couple of 2x4’s on the far side along with some old food wrappers and empty tin cans. I could smell the stench of urine and feces. This car had been ridden many times. I looked at the 2x4’s. They were about three to four feet long. I immediately thought weapons.

We rode for a couple of hours. Very little talking. I could feel the tension. Hardluck had a tattoo on his throat. All I could make out was “eedo” across his Adam’s apple. The rest was hidden by his long filthy hair. He had a ratty flannel shirt with all but the top button buttoned under his over-sized jacket.

The no-name camp guy was pretty non-descript. Just dirty, worn-out-looking with the letters FTW tattooed on the back of his right hand. Add mean looking Boston Red who had not shown a flicker of emotion of any kind and I knew I was traveling with poster boys for the term, anti-social.

Try as I did to stay awake, the side-to-side motion of the train lulled me to sleep. My head snapped back a couple of times; waking me up but eventually I dozed off.

Whop! I awoke as I fell over sideways with a screaming pain in my head.

Whop! I looked up to see Boston Red strike me again with a 2x4 across my ribs.

I felt the blood run down my neck from my aching head. I was wide awake. I saw the camp guy with the other 2x4 as he stepped from my left to hit me.

Now, I got to tell you, I was hurt but all it did was piss me off. My adrenaline went into overdrive and I knew I was fighting for my life.

I kicked hard from the ground up to the camp guy’s knee cap. I got him solid and it buckled backward as it hyper-extended. His strike just missed my face.

Boston Red came at me with his 2x4 raised high like he was at the carnival and was doing the old sledgehammer game.

7

I pivoted on my hips and gave him a hard nut kick with my heel. He went down fast, bent over and moaning.

I scrambled to my feet to see Hardluck come from the shadows with a blade in his hand. I squared on him and crouched in a fighting stance.

He smiled. “Nice moves, Buckeye. I didn’t figure you to still be with us.”

He lunged with the knife in a stomach thrust. I slapped his hand away and moved to his right and drew my Kalinga. His eyes went real big. Suddenly the camp guy jumped on my back like a monkey. He grabbed around my neck and bit down on my left ear. Goddamn that hurt like hell. I ran backwards into the wall as hard as I could, at the same time bucking my head back so his head will take the impact.

We hit with a thud. As he let go, Hardluck stabbed for my heart but missed and the blade plunged into my left shoulder. I stabbed into his gut hard and got in real deep. He fell backward on his ass as his jacket went crimson. He scurried back into a corner like a sand crab but still holding his knife.

I turned quickly to camp guy who was half conscious behind me and kicked him in the face full force. My boot caved in his cheek.

Boston Red was on all fours and puking his guts out.

I sheathed my knife and grabbed camp guy by the collar and drug him to the door. I pulled it open and then kicked him out. I could hear him scream, then nothing.

I turned to Boston Red who still hadn’t recovered. I grabbed his right arm and pulled it behind his back in a classic chicken wing. He fell on his face as I cranked until it snapped. I moved to his side and gave him two full force kidney kicks.

Then I faced off on Hardluck as he tried to hold his gut to stop the bleeding. I kicked his knife hand, sending the blade across the car. I bent down and drove my fist into his face as hard as I could. He rolled over on his side. He was out cold.

I reached down and ripped open his collar. Hanging loosely below the collar line was a black kerchief with a silver concho ring. I pulled it off and stuffed it in my pocket. I could see the tattoo now. It read: Freedom.

The train began to slow. I decided I’d had enough adventure for a lifetime. I jumped off the train and began walking west to the freeway in the distance. I caught a ride from a hippie-looking dude in an old VW bus. He didn’t ask questions but he could see I needed medical attention so he drove me to the first hospital we could find.

8

In the ER, I got sewn up. I told the Doc I was mugged by some low riders while hitch hiking. He bought it.

I learned my lesson. I caught the next bus back to LA.

I’ve still got the scarf and I’m still missing the tip of my left ear.

I never thought I’d ever see Hardluck again but there he was on the evening news a couple years later when he got arrested for a string of murders. I guess he survived my sticking.

Don’t know anything about Boston Red.

The camp guy died on the tracks. The train severed an arm and a leg. Death by train wheels were an FTRA trademark. I’m sure he was chalked up to the FTRA body count which varied between 200 and 300 depending on which cop you were talking to.

Wondering about Spooky? I didn’t forget him. No doubt in my mind, he set me up. For months, I spent my spare time down at the train yards at Union Station looking for him, a matter of a little unfinished business.

A few months later, I found him or rather he found me. I always went after sundown and walked around the switchyards just to see if maybe he was passing through. About five months after my adventure, I was checking things out one night when I heard a voice say, “What you looking for, Buckeye?”

I replied, “You, Spooky.”

“I heard about what happened with Hardluck. I tried to warn you about FTRA.”

“No, Spooky, you set me up.”

I closed in on his little rest area near some unused track and rusted old freight cars. I looked around and saw he was alone. I came up to him, kind of friendly-like.

He said, “I had nothing to do with it.”

I said, “You had everything to do with it.” Then I hit him upside his head with an axe handle. He dropped like a shot. I checked his pulse. He was dead alright. I opened his jacket and there was the black kerchief. No real surprise there.

9

I threw his wasted bag of bones over my shoulder, fireman style and carried him down the tracks toward a sidetracked freight waiting for a go ahead. I found a turn in the tracks where there were shadows from even the moonlight.

I shoved him under a car with only his head peeking out, laying across the track. I left the scarf on him. I figured that when the bulls found the decapitated body the next morning, they would write it off to a little FTRA dust up.

Well, Spooky, warnings go both ways. I told you, don’t fuck with a Buckeye. We don’t forgive or forget.

BIO: David Price is an ex college jock and retired probation officer living in California. His work can be found on Thuglit, Flash Fiction Offensive, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Darkest Before the Dawn and Crooked.

A Twist Of Noir 016 - David Price

I GOTTA GO - DAVID PRICE

Thank god for my temperamental prostate. I'll tell you up front, aging is a bitch. That damn gland starts to grow for no good reason. That's when your problems begin. The more it grows, the more it squeezes your bladder. Then you can take your choice cause you're going to get both, either you have to pee every hour or when you try to pee, all you get is dribbles like you're a leaky faucet. Ever see those commercials of the old guys playing golf? One guy has to keep leaving the tee to go take a leak. Well, it's no lie.

This condition makes for a long night with many trips to the can.

I never thought I'd be glad for this miserable malady but it saved my life for sure.

It's 2:45 am. I'm awake for the fourth time since 10:00pm. You can't sleep with that nagging need to pee even though you try. Fuck it. Time to get up again.

Wait. What's that noise? I freeze sitting up on the side of the bed. There it is again. God damn, someone is in the house. I can hear a downstairs cupboard open, then close. My ears follow the sound of muffled footsteps as they cross from the kitchen to the living room. The closet door opens. Oh crap.

I always sleep with my bedroom door closed and locked. But, it's just one of those little push button locks built into the door knob. You know the kind, you can open it with a small screwdriver from the opposite side. It's no real protection but I always figured I'd hear the fumbling and wake up if someone tried to get in.

I open my nightstand drawer where I keep my little .357 mag S&W, 5 shot revolver. She's wrapped in a hand towel to keep her warm on these cold nights. I have her loaded with .38 Hydra-Shok rounds for good stopping power without the mag kick. She only has a 2" barrel so accuracy isn't going to be my strong suit. Then again, I don't figure to use her unless I am in a real fix and my tormentor is less than 10 feet away. In that case, I know she will do all she can to protect me.

We're on real good terms and have been for over ten years. Just holding her calms my racing heart.

Got to think. What to do. Geeez, my cell is downstairs and I took my extension phone out long ago so I wouldn't be bothered by pesky callers.

So I'm alone. No way to call out but at least the door is locked. Whoever is down there can have my stuff. Just don't come up the stairs and try and get in this room.

Oh no, I can hear footsteps on the wooden stairs. Lucky choice on my part. Glad I opted for wood over carpet on the stairs. Now I know someone is coming a calling.

My mind races. I've read about these "creepers". They aren't content to just break in your house and rip you off, no, they want to do it while you're home, preferably asleep. They get off on getting in the room where you are sleeping and doing something or moving something to let you know they had the power over you while you slept. Once you wake up, you eventually realize what has happened.

Sometimes they just kill you in your sleep. Anybody who does this shit is crazy. You've got to figure on the worst case scenario and act accordingly. You never want to leave to chance the outcome of such a meeting.

I crawl over the bed to the side farthest from the door. I kneel down to use the mattress and box spring for cover. Wonder if the bastard has a gun?

I wait patiently. Damn, I really have to pee but now is not the time. Can't make a sound to let him know I'm awake.

The footsteps reach the landing. He's at my door. I hear the knob turn. Motherfucker is actually trying to come in. WTF?

The lock holds. Silence, then the sound of jiggling. He's working on my crummy little lock.

Why didn't I get a deadbolt? Shit.

Well there's only one way to play this. There'll be none of that "Freeze" or "Stop or I'll shoot" bullshit. Nooo, I'll wait till he fills the doorway and squeeze off three quick rounds, leaving two in reserve in case I miss.

He never should have come up those stairs. He was home free but now he's going to pay till it hurts.

The knob turns. The door is opening slowly. I wait. Damn, can he hear my heartbeat? Sounds like a kettle drum to me.

There, it's wide open. I can see the shadow fill the doorway.

Blam. Blam. Blam. The first two rounds hit center mass, the last one hits his melon as he falls into the room. Barely a grunt, it's over.

I flip on the light. He's dressed in black and wearing a ski mask. A regular ninja. In his hand is my 8" carving knife from the kitchen.

I step over the body on my way to the can.

Aaaah! Best piss I've had in a week.

BIO: David Price is an ex college jock and retired probation officer residing in San Diego. His first writing effort appeared in Thuglit #28.