A Twist Of Noir 693 - Jarrett Rush

LIKE CANDY - JARRETT RUSH

Daring looked in the mirror and ran his fingers through his bangs. They’d fallen forward and tickled when they brushed his forehead. He couldn't have been more uncomfortable.

"What's with the penguin suit?" That's what his grandfather would’ve asked.

Daring hated tuxedos. Too binding, too restrictive, but sometimes required. Besides, if everything went well, the payday would more than make up for this bit of discomfort.

He looked himself over in the mirror. He grabbed the bottom of his jacket and snapped it smooth and straight, gave himself a quick wink, and reentered the party.

There was the typical chatter. He could make out very little of what was being said around him.

“You clean up good."  It was Paisley. She was coming through the earpiece in his right ear.  

“Where are you?"

"Bar. Down the stairs and to your right," she said.

Daring whistled. "Hubba hubba. Never would have recognized you, beautiful."

“Stop it."

"We’re here for a bracelet, right?" Daring asked.

"Yeah. Rubies and diamonds. It’s gorgeous."

"I could do this in my sleep,” he said.  “This’ll be like candy ..."

"...from a baby," Paisley finished.

Daring lifted his first wallet at 12. First watch at 13. Broke into his first car at 15. Paroled for the first time at 20.

He was a natural. The guy who taught him wasn’t. They called him Johnny Thumbs. He had thick fingers that moved slowly. He knew how to slip his hand inside a coat pocket and snag a wallet, or shake someone’s hand and unhook a watch. Knew how, just couldn’t do it.

Johnny Thumbs reasoned that if he couldn’t do it he’d teach a bunch of street kids how. He’d work out a fence and take a cut of whatever was boosted.

Now here’s Daring, twenty years later, still taking things that didn’t belong to him.

The new Mrs. Jonathan McAster would be 24 for another three hours. Tall, red-headed and grossly thin, she was all personality. All of these folks – only the crispiest of the upper crust -- were here to wish her a happy twenty-fifth.She’d been married barely five months but the position of trophy wife fit her like an old hat.

“Samuel. Esther. Wonderful to see you,” Elizabeth said to the Crowes. “Jonathan and I are so glad you could make it.” She kissed both of Esther’s cheeks and patted Samuel’s belly.

“We couldn’t not come,” Esther said. “Happy birthday, darling.”

Elizabeth smiled and nodded. The two couples continued to talk and Daring watched the conversation from the top of the stairs. This was going to be the hardest part. Getting the bracelet was easy. Knowing when and how to approach was what always gave him fits.

“Catch her as she’s leaving a group,” Paisley advised. “Don’t let her see you coming. Just grab her hand. You going to be OK?”

“Like candy,” Daring said.

The McAster/Crowe conversation started to lull and Daring carefully made his way down the steps. Rented shoes were always trouble on freshly shampooed carpet.

“Well, I should probably go say a few more hellos,” Elizabeth said. “Wonderful to see you again.”

She turned from the Crowes and nearly walked over Daring. He reached and grabbed her right hand with both of his.

“Mrs. McAster,” he said, “I just wanted to wish you the happiest of birthdays.”

“Aren’t you kind?” She had no idea who he was, but she didn’t know most of the people at the party. Her marriage to Jacob was a bit of a scandal. The McAsters decided to keep a low profile for the first couple of months of their marriage.

They were just starting to make their way back out into the social scene.

“I hope this year will be as happy for you as I know the last five months have been.”

She blushed and tipped her head to the side. She didn’t feel Dirk’s index finger running the length of her wrist.

“You’re too kind,” she said. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Daring put his hand in his pocket and let the bracelet fall to the bottom. The night was a success.

BIO: Jarrett Rush lives with his wife, Gina, near Dallas. He blogs at JarrettWrites.

A Twist Of Noir 405 - Jarrett Rush

PLAYING HOUSE - JARRETT RUSH

He held the red coat by the waist and stared at the woman in the bed. This was it. This is what he wanted, the life that everyone said was normal. But he knew it wasn’t something he could have, not with her anyway. Theirs was a working relationship. He didn’t even know her real name. He called her Paisley, and the last few days with her had been perfect.

She’d collapsed on the bed in her dress and shoes after their second Christmas cocktail party in as many days. It was the cost of doing business. If you’re going to take the new neighbors for all they’ve got you have to get a look inside their homes.

It wasn’t the best life, he knew it. But most of the time he didn’t care. Most of his conscience had fallen away years ago. But occasionally he’d get these feelings looking at Paisley. He wondered how he’d handle a normal life. A life that started early in the morning and included work, kids, and dinner when he got home. He told himself he didn’t need it. It was just something to ponder when he felt like feeling down.

He met her a month ago and she’d been charming. Could have popped corn she looked so good. Getting to play house with her the last few weeks had been fun, almost normal. It gave him hope, for a moment, that he could be this thing that he wanted to be.

He‘d told everyone his name was Joe McAvoy, a computer engineer who moved to the neighborhood because it looked like the perfect place to raise kids. The new neighbors told him it was. The schools were good, there was a park just down the street, and everyone looked after everyone else. He and JoAnn were excited to be part of it, he told them.

When he’d come in this afternoon to get ready for the party, the scent of her perfume was still in the air. He paused for a moment to enjoy it, and then saw her in the dress and was shell-shocked. At the party, he watched her work the room, bouncing as she walked, and realized that as much fun as he was having playing house it was all going to be over soon. Here she was on the bed, so worn out that she didn’t have time to get undressed and three wallets next to her. She had picked them during the party just for fun, to keep from getting rusty.

BIO: Jarrett Rush lives with his wife, Gina, near Dallas. He’s been previously published at A Twist of Noir. He blogs at JarrettWrites.

A Twist Of Noir 371 - Jarrett Rush

BUYERS AND SELLERS - JARRETT RUSH

“Don’t buy stocks,” the man in the olive suit advised.

I was browsing a nearby table, flipping through a brochure. I turned my head when he spoke. He saw me and called me over with the wave of a couple of fingers. I approached his table and he began again.

“Don’t buy stocks. What you want are whips and chains.” He was standing behind a battered folding table filled with samples of his wares and pamphlets describing his services.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He handed me a thick, metal chain off the table. The weight was heavy in my hand and the metal cold.

“Imagine, if you will,” he said, squinting his eyes and looking to the sky, like whatever he was trying to describe was actually taking place just beyond the fluorescent lights of the exhibit hall. He cleared his throat and started again. “Imagine, if you will, you are in a room. It’s small. It’s dusty. There is a single bulb hanging from a ceiling that is made of dirt and beams. You’ve been working on this guy for a half hour and he’s a pro. He’s not cracking. Can you see it? Are you there with me?”

I nodded.

He rocked on both feet, planting them firmly into the worn orange shag that covered the floor of the entire place. “So this guy’s a pro,” he continued. “He’s not cracking. What do you think is going to make him give it up? Spill the beans? Those things across the way?” He’d stopped staring into the ceiling and was now looking across the aisle. He pointed at the steel stocks they’d set up for display. There was a hole for each arm and one for the head.

The inside of the sleeve on the salesman’s suit had been worn shiny and caught a bit of the light as he pointed at the merchandise in his neighbor’s booth.

“I mean, look at that. That looks downright comfortable. Line those with velvet and a little padding and you could sleep like a baby locked up in there. You can’t convince anyone to give up information putting them in there.”

He turned his attention back to his own booth and pulled the chain from my hands. His knuckles were scarred and misshapen.

He doubled the chain over in his hand then let it swing down by his side. He looked me over.

“What are you? Six feet? 200 pounds?”

“There about.”

“So, imagine with me again that you’ve got your man in the chair. He’s restrained and he’s gotten a bit of a work over already but still won’t give anything up. You’re tired. You’re hungry. You’re ready to go home. Whatever he’s got, you want it. So you decide to step it up. Imagine this across your back.”

He swung the chain over his head and let it fall onto the top of the table. The deafening thump echoed off the ceilings and walls of the warehouse. Several sets of eyes turned to look our way, and I realized why the table looked like it was about to fall in on itself.

“Hear that?” he shouted, like the same ringing that was in my ears was also in his. “Did you feel it? Now imagine that on your back. Each link feels like a little fist. And you can tease him too. Work your way up from little love taps to a full-on home run swing. That’s what’ll split the skin.”

I nodded and took the chain back in my hands. I swung it in a circle and it did feel good. My arm fought the pull. I grinned a bit and he noticed. He brushed his thinning hair back onto the top of his head and gave me a nod, the go ahead.

I let the chain come down hard on the table. More eyes looked at us this time as the echoes bounced around the exhibit floor.

I chuckled and swung the chain again and let it crash to the tabletop. Then I did it again. Harder. Faster. And one last time, throwing my body behind the swing. The chain crashed against the table top and the whole thing buckled. Other chains rattled to the floor. Brass knuckles bounced across the tile into neighboring booths.

The salesman let out a laugh that came from the bottom of his feet. He clapped me on the back and pulled me deeper into his booth, next to the boxes of stock he brought with him.

“Now I know who you are. I thought you were too small to be the muscle. Didn’t look to be carrying anything so I didn’t figure you were a triggerman. But that little display, now I know who you are. You’re the guy without a conscience. You’re the crazy nut who’ll do anything.” He laughed again and clapped me on the back once more. “You’re my favorite guy.”

He pulled a bag out from behind the curtain that was separating the public area from the private area of the exhibit floor. It was small and made of black canvas with a broken zipper across the top and a stitch along the side. He dipped his gorilla hand into the bag and pulled out a manila folder.

“You know, there are a lot of guys around here who are going to ask you to spend a little extra money to get some machine. And it will do a good job. It’ll help pull info from some low-life. But it’s nice, isn’t it,” he asked, “getting back to the old ways of doing things. I mean, you can do a lot of things with a little technology, but this industry was built on the hands-on techniques. We are too quick to abandon them for computer programs, hardened steel and titanium locks.”

I nodded.

“But you can’t replace crazy. Looking someone in the eye and letting them see that there isn’t a soul behind those baby blues. You can’t replace that. That’s true intimidation, and that’s priceless. And you only get it if you are up close and in their face, cutting them with a blade or smacking them with a chain.”

I smiled to let him know I understood what he was saying.

“I’m here selling, but I’m also buying,” he said and handed me the folder he’d pulled from his bag.

I opened it and he continued speaking. “I’ve got a client who needs a guy. Pay’s good. Work’s pretty standard. Possible travel overseas. You interested?”

I skimmed the pages for details.

The client wasn’t anyone I’d worked with before but was a name I recognized. All he needed was an intimidator to stand in the back of the room, someone who could swing the chain but wasn’t afraid to use it.

I handed the folder back to the salesman. He pushed his hair back on the top of his head and looked at me, expecting an answer.

I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m interested.”

“Great,” he said, “let me make a phone call. I’m Bishop, by the way.”

BIO: Jarrett lives near Dallas with his wife, Gina. This is his first published story, but hopefully not his last. He blogs at Jarrett Writes.