BAD INTUITIONS - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published at Powder Burn Flash on July 23, 2008
“How much was in the safe, honey?” Ann asked, while cleaning her pistol.
“Fifty thousand,” said Alex.
“No way!”
“It’s true,” he said. “Not only that. Look what I found in the safe.” He tossed a clump of papers on the motel bed.
“What’s this?”
“A plan for a coin shop heist. It’s supposed to happen in two days. That’s why so much money was in the safe. Probably pay for the driver, and whatever.”
“Oh Hell!” Ann yelled. “You musta robbed mob money. I don’t want my share.”
“But with this you can get that fur coat and diamond tennis bracelet you want so much. Well, that means more for me,” Alex said.
“Yeah. More bullets for you when they find out.”
“How the hell will they find out?” he asked. “We’re unknowns around here. Listen, I stopped for coffee and read the plan. It’s pure genius. Somebody’s gonna hit a coin shop that’s loaded with gold and silver ingots without serial numbers. So, I got a brilliant idea.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll use their plan and pull the robbery before they do.”
“Wait,” she said. “We’re talking heavy stuff here. You rob the safe of a company---probably one of the mob’s legit operations. You get fifty thou, plus a plan for a heist. Bad enough you took their cash, but you also took their plan. Wake up! We’re talking mob, here. They’ll go ballistic. They’ll turn this city upside down looking for us.”
“Let them. We’ll be in Mexico on our honeymoon.” He grabbed her and kissed her hard.
“I love you so much, Alex,” she said. “You know how protective I am about you. Listen to me. I got a bad feeling about this. Please…for me…for the sake of our future life together…take it all back. We got enough to live on for six months.”
“Are you crazy? You want me to go there, open the safe and put everything back?”
“Yeah. Right now.”
“You going soft on me, Love?”
“No way,” she said. “There’s plenty of other jobs to pull. Forget this one. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“Are you having one of your intuitions?”
“Yeah. It’s a bad one. Take it back. Real quick.”
Alex trusted Ann’s intuition. It’d gotten them out of a few pickles over the past few months. Without another word, he dropped everything into a black laundry bag, kissed her passionately, and left.
Intuition or no, Alex really hated to see a good plan go to waste. Why should somebody else get all them gold and silver ingots? Charlie in Fresno can melt them and cast them into palm-sized bars. They’ll be easy to sell. Plus we can use the extra money now that we’re gonna get married. I wanna get her that beautiful band she likes so much.
Passing Kinko’s copy shop, he was struck with an idea.
*
Alex woke Ann. “Look, Sweetie. I copied the plan. Now there’s no link between the plan and us. So there’s nothing to worry about. We can pull the job tonight. And then we’ll head to Mexico and get married.”
Throwing her arms around him, she said, “I’m gonna marry the most brilliant crook in the whole world.”
She didn’t tell him her intuition nagged even worse.
They spent a few hours studying the plan. At noon, they drove downtown to check out the coin shop. Alex occupied the owner by buying a silver commemorative coin, while Ann looked the place over.
“It’s just like the drawings in the plan,” she said. “You were right. That plan is dynamite.”
“We’ll hit it at midnight,” Alex said.
*
“Rise and shine, Honey,” she said. “It’s time to get those sweet ingots.”
On the way to the coin shop, a dozen fire engines raced by.
“Wow. Must be a huge one,” Alex said.
Street barriers blocked them several blocks from the coin shop.
“What’s going on, Officer?” Alex asked.
“Whole block’s on fire.”
“Oh God, my uncle’s coin shop is up that way,” Ann said with faked alarm.
“That’s toast, along with a bunch of other stores,” the cop said.
“Sonovabitch!” Alex yelled as he turned the car toward the Interstate. “Talk about rotten luck. We get a chance to make a real killing, and this happens. It just ain’t right. I had fifty grand in my hands before you made me take it back. Now we got nothing for all that work.”
“Fate,” she said. “It wasn’t meant to be. Let’s leave for Mexico right now. Please.”
As they drove toward the border, Alex tuned the radio to a news station.
A newscaster was interviewing the Police Chief.
“We think it started in a coin dealer’s shop,” the Chief said. “The arsonist used a Molotov cocktail. That’s why the fire spread so fast. Right now, three people are dead, including a fireman who has a wife and four kids. And the fire isn’t out yet.”
“Hear that?” Alex asked.
“Yeah. Tough break”
“What’s that up ahead?”
“Looks like a roadblock,” she answered. “Must be a hundred cop cars.”
“No sweat. They ain’t got nothing on us,” Alex said, as they approached the barriers.
Suddenly, cops brandishing pistols ordered them out of the car.
“What the hell is this?” Alex yelled.
“You’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and murder.”
“You’re making a big mistake. I’m gonna sue you for false arrest!”
“We have a witness. He wrote down your license plate. You have the right to remain silent...”
*
While cyanide gas filled the chamber, Ann wished she’d never gone to the coin store an hour before they were supposed to rob it.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she muttered in the rising fog. “I hadda do it so we could get married and have children.”
Drawing her last breath, she screamed, “If I didn’t burn it down, we woulda got killed during the robbery!”
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Showing posts with label Michael Kechula. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Kechula. Show all posts
Monday, October 5, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 195 - Michael Kechula
THE COUGH-UP GUY - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published in the April 24, 2008 issue of Thieves Jargon
I remember when he ran into our apartment without knocking. Had a gun. Held his index finger to his lips. Rosa and me were smart enough to point to a closet. And even smarter to keep our mouths shut.
Cops’ whistles blew. Sirens screamed everywhere. Then cops started knocking on doors down the hall.
Right before they got to ours, I pinched the baby. He screamed bloody murder. Rosa’s eyes called me a bastard. But she was a street-smart woman from Palermo. Even she pinched tiny Salvatore’s rump to make him scream louder, right before the knock came.
Between the baby, Rosa raving in double-time Sicilian, and me yelling back at the top of my lungs about her rotten Sidgie family, the dumb Irish cop saw it was useless to ask me anything. He tried. But who could hear him? He turned on his heels to escape the insanity.
Rosa slipped a salami sandwich to our guest. I gave him a jug of Dago Red and a pee bottle. Figured it might be hours until the cops realized it was hopeless.
“Joseph Gogostanza never forgets a favor,” he said, handing me a twenty. In ’45 that fed a family of three for over a month. “You’re a smart man. What’s your name?”
“Snuffy,” I said. Then I started hacking. Spit blood into a handkerchief.
“Looks bad,” he said. Handing me another three dollars, he added, “Go see Doctor Ferrante.”
Then he left.
The doctor said it was TB. He wanted to send me to a special hospital an hour’s drive from Philly. Yeah, sure. Go there for a couple years to recover. What about Rosa and the baby?
Gogostanza musta heard. Some guys came by and took me to see him.
“Hospital for two years? Well, you go there. Right away. You gotta get better for that beautiful wife and kid of yours. Hey, family comes first. Don’t you worry about nothing. Joey Gogo’s gonna take care of you.”
And he did. Paid for everything. Even gave Rosa a wad of cash to live on, every month.
Even when I was released, it was a year before I felt good enough to walk down the block for cannoli. But Gogo’s money still showed up every month.
*
“Hey, Joey. Cough-Up’s here.”
“Don’t mind him, Snuffy. That’s what they call you around here. You know, from when you useta cough up blood.”
“It’s OK. I like it better than Snuffy,” I said.
“They know what you done for me. When the cops coulda caught me. When they didn’t know it was me who shot that two-bit hood from Baltimore. All they knew was that a shooter was on the run. If they’d of found me that day in your place, I woulda been fried in the electric chair by now. Anyway, to show my appreciation, I got a good paying job for you.”
The job was to go around the city and collect protection money. Easy work. Nobody’d touch a little guy like me. If they did, Joey Gogo would blow up their business, or maybe their house.
The guys we squeezed every week called me Cough-Up, too. But for a different reason. When I walked in, they coughed up cash.
One Friday, when I went into Pasquale DiNicola’s pharmacy, the money wasn’t ready. Neither was the free, double-decker tuna sandwich and chocolate milk he used to have ready for me at the soda fountain counter.
“Hey, Patsy. Whadda ya nuts? Where’s the dough? And my sandwich?”
“Ain’t paying today, or ever again.”
“Cripes, Patsy. You better see a head doctor. You know what Joey Gogo will do?”
“He ain’t gonna do anything.”
“Oh, yeah sure. And the Pope ain’t Italian, either.”
“Joey’s dead,” Patsy said. “Heard it on the radio. Now get the hell out of here. If you come back again, it better be with a prescription.”
I’ll never forget that day in 1949. The radio said Joey Gogo got blasted while getting a haircut. Over on the other side of town. Somebody threw a hand grenade into the barbershop. Nasty mess. Even the State offered $100,000 reward for information. Far as I know, the money’s still sitting there.
Suddenly, I was out of a job. While waiting to hear from the new capo, I made a few bucks fixing tickets for neighborhood jerks. Sold beer, Benzedrine tablets, and hot books to high school kids. Hawked hotdogs and cokes at the ballpark.
When the smoke cleared, the new guys offered a job to Dumbo, a mathematical genius. Dumbo’s brain stored detailed records for two decades worth of illegal transactions. Pick any day, and he could rattle off every damn thing bought, sold, won, lost, paid, stolen. No books, no evidence.
Guys like him never go hungry.
They also hired Madman Mancuso. He was twice the size of Frankenstein and a hundred times meaner.
Guys like him never go hungry, either.
But me? Nothing. They said they already had a collector. A leg breaker. I didn’t have muscles enough to break a kid’s little finger, they said. Nor the guts.
“Tell your boss he has a short memory,” I said.
“He got a long memory, so you better keep your freakin’ mouth shut. Take what you get and light candles in thanksgiving.”
They sent small checks every month.
I don’t know why I started to cough up blood again. Maybe it was from the sleazy gossip the old guys whispered in my ear while we played bocce ball. Maybe it was from tossing a grenade into the barbershop when Joey was there. Maybe it was from slitting Rosa’s throat while she slept the day he was blown to smithereens.
Rosa had slipped hard salami to Joey Gogo with bread. In return, he slipped Rosa his hard salami without bread. Every damn day for the two years I was hospitalized.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published in the April 24, 2008 issue of Thieves Jargon
I remember when he ran into our apartment without knocking. Had a gun. Held his index finger to his lips. Rosa and me were smart enough to point to a closet. And even smarter to keep our mouths shut.
Cops’ whistles blew. Sirens screamed everywhere. Then cops started knocking on doors down the hall.
Right before they got to ours, I pinched the baby. He screamed bloody murder. Rosa’s eyes called me a bastard. But she was a street-smart woman from Palermo. Even she pinched tiny Salvatore’s rump to make him scream louder, right before the knock came.
Between the baby, Rosa raving in double-time Sicilian, and me yelling back at the top of my lungs about her rotten Sidgie family, the dumb Irish cop saw it was useless to ask me anything. He tried. But who could hear him? He turned on his heels to escape the insanity.
Rosa slipped a salami sandwich to our guest. I gave him a jug of Dago Red and a pee bottle. Figured it might be hours until the cops realized it was hopeless.
“Joseph Gogostanza never forgets a favor,” he said, handing me a twenty. In ’45 that fed a family of three for over a month. “You’re a smart man. What’s your name?”
“Snuffy,” I said. Then I started hacking. Spit blood into a handkerchief.
“Looks bad,” he said. Handing me another three dollars, he added, “Go see Doctor Ferrante.”
Then he left.
The doctor said it was TB. He wanted to send me to a special hospital an hour’s drive from Philly. Yeah, sure. Go there for a couple years to recover. What about Rosa and the baby?
Gogostanza musta heard. Some guys came by and took me to see him.
“Hospital for two years? Well, you go there. Right away. You gotta get better for that beautiful wife and kid of yours. Hey, family comes first. Don’t you worry about nothing. Joey Gogo’s gonna take care of you.”
And he did. Paid for everything. Even gave Rosa a wad of cash to live on, every month.
Even when I was released, it was a year before I felt good enough to walk down the block for cannoli. But Gogo’s money still showed up every month.
*
“Hey, Joey. Cough-Up’s here.”
“Don’t mind him, Snuffy. That’s what they call you around here. You know, from when you useta cough up blood.”
“It’s OK. I like it better than Snuffy,” I said.
“They know what you done for me. When the cops coulda caught me. When they didn’t know it was me who shot that two-bit hood from Baltimore. All they knew was that a shooter was on the run. If they’d of found me that day in your place, I woulda been fried in the electric chair by now. Anyway, to show my appreciation, I got a good paying job for you.”
The job was to go around the city and collect protection money. Easy work. Nobody’d touch a little guy like me. If they did, Joey Gogo would blow up their business, or maybe their house.
The guys we squeezed every week called me Cough-Up, too. But for a different reason. When I walked in, they coughed up cash.
One Friday, when I went into Pasquale DiNicola’s pharmacy, the money wasn’t ready. Neither was the free, double-decker tuna sandwich and chocolate milk he used to have ready for me at the soda fountain counter.
“Hey, Patsy. Whadda ya nuts? Where’s the dough? And my sandwich?”
“Ain’t paying today, or ever again.”
“Cripes, Patsy. You better see a head doctor. You know what Joey Gogo will do?”
“He ain’t gonna do anything.”
“Oh, yeah sure. And the Pope ain’t Italian, either.”
“Joey’s dead,” Patsy said. “Heard it on the radio. Now get the hell out of here. If you come back again, it better be with a prescription.”
I’ll never forget that day in 1949. The radio said Joey Gogo got blasted while getting a haircut. Over on the other side of town. Somebody threw a hand grenade into the barbershop. Nasty mess. Even the State offered $100,000 reward for information. Far as I know, the money’s still sitting there.
Suddenly, I was out of a job. While waiting to hear from the new capo, I made a few bucks fixing tickets for neighborhood jerks. Sold beer, Benzedrine tablets, and hot books to high school kids. Hawked hotdogs and cokes at the ballpark.
When the smoke cleared, the new guys offered a job to Dumbo, a mathematical genius. Dumbo’s brain stored detailed records for two decades worth of illegal transactions. Pick any day, and he could rattle off every damn thing bought, sold, won, lost, paid, stolen. No books, no evidence.
Guys like him never go hungry.
They also hired Madman Mancuso. He was twice the size of Frankenstein and a hundred times meaner.
Guys like him never go hungry, either.
But me? Nothing. They said they already had a collector. A leg breaker. I didn’t have muscles enough to break a kid’s little finger, they said. Nor the guts.
“Tell your boss he has a short memory,” I said.
“He got a long memory, so you better keep your freakin’ mouth shut. Take what you get and light candles in thanksgiving.”
They sent small checks every month.
I don’t know why I started to cough up blood again. Maybe it was from the sleazy gossip the old guys whispered in my ear while we played bocce ball. Maybe it was from tossing a grenade into the barbershop when Joey was there. Maybe it was from slitting Rosa’s throat while she slept the day he was blown to smithereens.
Rosa had slipped hard salami to Joey Gogo with bread. In return, he slipped Rosa his hard salami without bread. Every damn day for the two years I was hospitalized.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 190 - Michael Kechula
REVENGE DAY - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published in Powder Burn Flash, July 28, 2008
My thoughts of murdering Holly Spencer were interrupted by rowdy Skinheads, who plowed through Manhattan’s rush-hour crowds. One of them elbowed me in the ribs. He grinned when he saw me doubled up in pain. Enraged, I reached inside my gym bag to grab the silenced pistol. He slipped into the crowd before I could blow his brains out.
Rubbing my aching ribs, I headed up 42nd Street toward the movie theater where Holly worked. I paid a private detective plenty to find her. He said she sold tickets in one of those outdoor ticket booths, and took lunch at 11:30.
I figured I’d shoot her in the face, right through the ticket window. But there were too many people around. So, I decided to follow her at lunchtime and shoot her as she pushed food through her lying, thieving lips. Maybe I’d wound her in the stomach, so she’d suffer every day for the rest of her life. What a great way to get satisfying, never-ending revenge. It’d be like a royalty arrangement—do a piece of work once, and cash in on it for years.
I ducked behind a store window that gave a clear view of the ticket booth. My trigger finger twitched when I glimpsed Holly’s profile. The bitch stole $50,000 from me. Money I skimmed dealing blackjack for an illegal gambling operation. Being my fiancée, she knew where I stashed the money. The day before our wedding, she dug it up and disappeared.
Somebody arrived to relieve Holly for lunch. She left the booth and headed in my direction. Suddenly my plans collapsed. Thieving Holly was sharp enough to bilk me out of fifty grand, but not swift enough to avoid pregnancy. Dammit! I never figured on shooting a pregnant woman.
She waddled by in a puffy, sunflower covered, electric-blue dress that stuck out a mile. My gut urged me to forget her and go back to Dallas. Instead, I decided to confront her.
She entered an eatery, with me not far behind. It was a noisy, greasy dump, filled with down-and-outers. The electric dress was at a small table, way in the back. My stomach was in knots when I reached her table.
“Oh My God! Ed!” Her eyes bulged, her hands shook.
“Take it easy. I just wanna talk.”
She grabbed her stomach and yelled, “Ow! My baby!”
People looked our way. A waitress rushed over. “Are you all right, lady?”
“It hurts so bad. I feel like I’m gonna heave!”
“I’ll help you to the ladies room,” the waitress said.
Holly groaned loudly, as the waitress led her away.
Sonovabitch! How slick to pull that stunt. I wondered what she was telling the waitress. Maybe she’d lie and say I was threatening her. They might call the cops.
I rushed out, headed for the subway, and barely squeezed through the doors of a departing train.
As it sped through dark catacombs, I wondered what to do next. My plan had failed miserably. Holly was alive. She hadn’t even apologized, or asked forgiveness. I imagined her laughing her ass off and calling me a freakin’ loser.
I swore I’d get revenge, one way or another. Maybe I could dream up some dirty tricks to sting her, undermine her sense of security, erode her sanity.
I started to plan something rotten to pull on her. I didn’t get far—my intense, focused thoughts gave way to disconnected fantasies, as the repetitive clacking of the train’s wheels lulled my brain.
“Coney Island—last stop,” somebody said, jolting me awake.
“How do I get back to Manhattan?” I asked.
“Stay on this train.”
New passengers boarded. One was a mangy Skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his forehead. Sonovabitch! My grandpa died during World War Two, ridding the world of Nazis.
Homicidal rage slammed my gut.
The Skinhead tried to panhandle a woman. She shooed him away. So did others. Then he asked me if I could spare a buck. I snickered when I realized fate had sent me a booby prize.
“I don’t give money away. But, if you’re hungry, I’m good for a burger and fries.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. I ain’t et all day.”
“Where’s the nearest burger place?”
“Next stop.”
As the train sped toward our exit, I scribbled a few words in my little notebook, tore out the page, and stuck it in my pocket.
“This country’s turning into a third world shithouse,” Skinhead said, his mouth full of greasy fries. “Only the Master Race can save it. This is who should be running this country.” He tapped a photo of Adolf Hitler in his wallet. “He’d seal the borders, fire up the ovens, and get rid of all the mongrel vermin.”
I couldn’t stand much more of his looniness. I wanted to get him alone somewhere.
“I got some good desert,” I said. “Columbian Gold.”
“Yeah? Let’s go out back and smoke it.”
As he puffed away behind a dumpster, he asked if I wanted to join the Nazi Vengeance Brotherhood.
I answered him by firing one round into his chest and another into his head. Then I removed the slip of paper from my pocket, and stuffed it in his wallet behind Hitler’s picture.
I combed the morning papers for news about Skinhead, but found nothing. Maybe the cops killed the story. I wondered if they hit the panic button after reading the note I’d planted in Skinhead’s wallet.
A bit of disinformation can go a long way in New York these days, if the right words are used:
ANTHRAX IN PLAYGROUNDS. BEN LADEN. NEW YORK CONTACT IS HOLLY SPENCER.
“Welcome to the world of dirty tricks, Holly,” I whispered.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published in Powder Burn Flash, July 28, 2008
My thoughts of murdering Holly Spencer were interrupted by rowdy Skinheads, who plowed through Manhattan’s rush-hour crowds. One of them elbowed me in the ribs. He grinned when he saw me doubled up in pain. Enraged, I reached inside my gym bag to grab the silenced pistol. He slipped into the crowd before I could blow his brains out.
Rubbing my aching ribs, I headed up 42nd Street toward the movie theater where Holly worked. I paid a private detective plenty to find her. He said she sold tickets in one of those outdoor ticket booths, and took lunch at 11:30.
I figured I’d shoot her in the face, right through the ticket window. But there were too many people around. So, I decided to follow her at lunchtime and shoot her as she pushed food through her lying, thieving lips. Maybe I’d wound her in the stomach, so she’d suffer every day for the rest of her life. What a great way to get satisfying, never-ending revenge. It’d be like a royalty arrangement—do a piece of work once, and cash in on it for years.
I ducked behind a store window that gave a clear view of the ticket booth. My trigger finger twitched when I glimpsed Holly’s profile. The bitch stole $50,000 from me. Money I skimmed dealing blackjack for an illegal gambling operation. Being my fiancée, she knew where I stashed the money. The day before our wedding, she dug it up and disappeared.
Somebody arrived to relieve Holly for lunch. She left the booth and headed in my direction. Suddenly my plans collapsed. Thieving Holly was sharp enough to bilk me out of fifty grand, but not swift enough to avoid pregnancy. Dammit! I never figured on shooting a pregnant woman.
She waddled by in a puffy, sunflower covered, electric-blue dress that stuck out a mile. My gut urged me to forget her and go back to Dallas. Instead, I decided to confront her.
She entered an eatery, with me not far behind. It was a noisy, greasy dump, filled with down-and-outers. The electric dress was at a small table, way in the back. My stomach was in knots when I reached her table.
“Oh My God! Ed!” Her eyes bulged, her hands shook.
“Take it easy. I just wanna talk.”
She grabbed her stomach and yelled, “Ow! My baby!”
People looked our way. A waitress rushed over. “Are you all right, lady?”
“It hurts so bad. I feel like I’m gonna heave!”
“I’ll help you to the ladies room,” the waitress said.
Holly groaned loudly, as the waitress led her away.
Sonovabitch! How slick to pull that stunt. I wondered what she was telling the waitress. Maybe she’d lie and say I was threatening her. They might call the cops.
I rushed out, headed for the subway, and barely squeezed through the doors of a departing train.
As it sped through dark catacombs, I wondered what to do next. My plan had failed miserably. Holly was alive. She hadn’t even apologized, or asked forgiveness. I imagined her laughing her ass off and calling me a freakin’ loser.
I swore I’d get revenge, one way or another. Maybe I could dream up some dirty tricks to sting her, undermine her sense of security, erode her sanity.
I started to plan something rotten to pull on her. I didn’t get far—my intense, focused thoughts gave way to disconnected fantasies, as the repetitive clacking of the train’s wheels lulled my brain.
“Coney Island—last stop,” somebody said, jolting me awake.
“How do I get back to Manhattan?” I asked.
“Stay on this train.”
New passengers boarded. One was a mangy Skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his forehead. Sonovabitch! My grandpa died during World War Two, ridding the world of Nazis.
Homicidal rage slammed my gut.
The Skinhead tried to panhandle a woman. She shooed him away. So did others. Then he asked me if I could spare a buck. I snickered when I realized fate had sent me a booby prize.
“I don’t give money away. But, if you’re hungry, I’m good for a burger and fries.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. I ain’t et all day.”
“Where’s the nearest burger place?”
“Next stop.”
As the train sped toward our exit, I scribbled a few words in my little notebook, tore out the page, and stuck it in my pocket.
“This country’s turning into a third world shithouse,” Skinhead said, his mouth full of greasy fries. “Only the Master Race can save it. This is who should be running this country.” He tapped a photo of Adolf Hitler in his wallet. “He’d seal the borders, fire up the ovens, and get rid of all the mongrel vermin.”
I couldn’t stand much more of his looniness. I wanted to get him alone somewhere.
“I got some good desert,” I said. “Columbian Gold.”
“Yeah? Let’s go out back and smoke it.”
As he puffed away behind a dumpster, he asked if I wanted to join the Nazi Vengeance Brotherhood.
I answered him by firing one round into his chest and another into his head. Then I removed the slip of paper from my pocket, and stuffed it in his wallet behind Hitler’s picture.
I combed the morning papers for news about Skinhead, but found nothing. Maybe the cops killed the story. I wondered if they hit the panic button after reading the note I’d planted in Skinhead’s wallet.
A bit of disinformation can go a long way in New York these days, if the right words are used:
ANTHRAX IN PLAYGROUNDS. BEN LADEN. NEW YORK CONTACT IS HOLLY SPENCER.
“Welcome to the world of dirty tricks, Holly,” I whispered.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 184 - Michael Kechula
BEAUTIFUL MARLA - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published in Apollo's Lyre Magazine in 2005
My share of the Phoenix bank job came to $262,000. We met in the busy Greyhound terminal at 10:00 PM so nobody’d try anything stupid when we made the split. Willy passed my share in a scruffy gym bag. We shook hands. His clammy palm and psycho stare unnerved me. Something was up.
I mumbled about keeping in touch, then left. My nerves screamed, “Run!” But I fought savagely against panic, and walked. Gallons of adrenalin shot through my brain, and I died a hundred times before reaching the car. I’d be most vulnerable when opening the car door and sliding inside. If somebody is gonna get you, that’s the time to do it. Especially at night.
The crash of a gun butt against my head never came. Yanking my automatic from the glove compartment, I put it on the seat between my legs. Let Willy try something now.
Driving through back streets in a crazy quilt pattern, I hoped to evade potential pursuers. I kept checking the mirror. Didn’t seem as if anybody was following, though it’s harder to tell at night. But, nobody shot at me, or tried to run me off the road. So far, so good.
The Interstate came into view. Pointing the tires East, I set the cruise control to 75.
Willy would never dream of looking for me 2,500 miles away in an old, dilapidated, Pennsylvania coal-mining town. Especially since I’d announced a hundred times how I’d head for Las Vegas soon as I got my split.
Willy knew my fondness for dice, so he probably bought the lie. I wondered how many goons he’d have waiting to intercept me on that lonely hundred-mile stretch of two-lane, desert road between Phoenix and Vegas.
Marla, the beautiful, knew where I was going. She’d join me after I got settled.
Suddenly, I felt uneasy. Willy saw us together only once. Would he remember her and find her? It was worth a call to make sure all was well. At 5:00 AM, I phoned from a truck stop in New Mexico.
She picked up the phone on the fourth ring.
“Marla—”
She spoke quickly. “OK. I’m awake. Thank you. You guys do a good job. Would you please wake me fifteen minutes later, tomorrow?”
Before I dropped the phone, I heard her say to somebody,” It’s just my wake up call. Without this wake up service, I’d never get up in time for work.”
I hoped they’d bought the lie. I swore I’d marry Marla, if she survived.
Suddenly, going to Pennsylvania was out. Good thing I never told Marla my backup plan, I thought, heading for Wisconsin.
They busted her up pretty bad. Bastards! When I found out, I went back to Phoenix and killed the four of them. Then I married Marla.
A few more jewelry store heists to pay fancy surgeons, and her face won’t be so hard to look at.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com.
Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published in Apollo's Lyre Magazine in 2005
My share of the Phoenix bank job came to $262,000. We met in the busy Greyhound terminal at 10:00 PM so nobody’d try anything stupid when we made the split. Willy passed my share in a scruffy gym bag. We shook hands. His clammy palm and psycho stare unnerved me. Something was up.
I mumbled about keeping in touch, then left. My nerves screamed, “Run!” But I fought savagely against panic, and walked. Gallons of adrenalin shot through my brain, and I died a hundred times before reaching the car. I’d be most vulnerable when opening the car door and sliding inside. If somebody is gonna get you, that’s the time to do it. Especially at night.
The crash of a gun butt against my head never came. Yanking my automatic from the glove compartment, I put it on the seat between my legs. Let Willy try something now.
Driving through back streets in a crazy quilt pattern, I hoped to evade potential pursuers. I kept checking the mirror. Didn’t seem as if anybody was following, though it’s harder to tell at night. But, nobody shot at me, or tried to run me off the road. So far, so good.
The Interstate came into view. Pointing the tires East, I set the cruise control to 75.
Willy would never dream of looking for me 2,500 miles away in an old, dilapidated, Pennsylvania coal-mining town. Especially since I’d announced a hundred times how I’d head for Las Vegas soon as I got my split.
Willy knew my fondness for dice, so he probably bought the lie. I wondered how many goons he’d have waiting to intercept me on that lonely hundred-mile stretch of two-lane, desert road between Phoenix and Vegas.
Marla, the beautiful, knew where I was going. She’d join me after I got settled.
Suddenly, I felt uneasy. Willy saw us together only once. Would he remember her and find her? It was worth a call to make sure all was well. At 5:00 AM, I phoned from a truck stop in New Mexico.
She picked up the phone on the fourth ring.
“Marla—”
She spoke quickly. “OK. I’m awake. Thank you. You guys do a good job. Would you please wake me fifteen minutes later, tomorrow?”
Before I dropped the phone, I heard her say to somebody,” It’s just my wake up call. Without this wake up service, I’d never get up in time for work.”
I hoped they’d bought the lie. I swore I’d marry Marla, if she survived.
Suddenly, going to Pennsylvania was out. Good thing I never told Marla my backup plan, I thought, heading for Wisconsin.
They busted her up pretty bad. Bastards! When I found out, I went back to Phoenix and killed the four of them. Then I married Marla.
A few more jewelry store heists to pay fancy surgeons, and her face won’t be so hard to look at.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com.
Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 181 - Michael Kechula
THE POTSDAM PROTOCOL - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published in Skive, an Australian magazine, in 2005
I spent three weeks in Moscow rummaging through KGB archives. Ten hours a day. Didn’t find what I was looking for.
All the real good stuff is still hidden. Figures. They ain’t gonna volunteer anything about their nastiest black operations.
Waiting for the bus to Moscow’s Rossiya Hotel, I thought about Higgins from our Berlin squad. He was still at CIA headquarters. He’d urged me not to go to Moscow. Said it was all ancient history. What we did during the Cold War didn’t matter to anybody anymore. We succeeded in stopping the Reds, and that was good enough.
“Only we know the ugly things we did for God and country,” Higgins had said. “We got our noses bloodied regularly to make sure America made it to the twenty-first century free of communist totalitarianism. Well, we made it. Now it’s time to rest, Stokes. Time to write sanitized memoirs. Time to make it sound more glorious than it was. Time to let it all fade into the secret annals of the Cold War.”
“Easy for you to say,” I’d told Higgins. “You got to Berlin after Harry Fox was killed. After the CIA and KGB signed the Potsdam protocols where both sides agreed to stop killing each other’s spooks. Bashing, broken bones and maiming were still sanctioned. But somebody up high on both sides decided we were butchering each other at unacceptable rates. And if we lessened our spook power, then third world countries with interests inimical to both America and the Soviet Union could fill the vacuum. Better off finding out who the piss ant countries’ agents were, and kill them instead.”
“As I remember,” Higgins said, “you violated the agreement by killing two more KGB lower-echelon goons. You were lucky the KGB were reorganizing. By the time they got around to dealing with the fact that they had two less on the payroll, they figured to hell with it. They never complained officially. Saved you from hard time at Leavenworth.”
“I did it to retaliate. They violated the protocols first by killing Harry Fox. In fact, I’m heading to Moscow now that they’ve opened KGB archives. I’m gonna check the books. I wanna see if I can find some missing pieces. I wanna know for sure who killed Harry. He was my best friend. I always figured it was that freak, Vasil Pescuda, but couldn’t prove it. If I can find any reference to their operations in West Berlin in ’75, maybe I can make some logical leaps. If I can pin it on Pescuda, I’ll die a happy man.”
“Stokes, you’re a crazy bastard! For old times’ sake, we never had this conversation.”
Honking horns broke my reverie. Moscow’s version of rush hour. Traffic crawled.
The bus stopped where I stood outside old KGB headquarters. Somebody got off. Those ahead of me crammed the bus so badly, I couldn’t get both legs aboard. The driver yelled. With me half in, half out, he couldn’t close the door. I stepped out.
When the bus pulled away, I saw something that made my adrenalin rise. A face that could’ve been Pescuda’s, after 30 years of hard living, peered through a rear bus window.
I followed the bus for two blocks through mired traffic.
Next stop, enough got off so I could board. Shoving my way toward the back, I tried to get a closer look.
The only potential weapon I had was my room key. If I rammed it into his eye socket and pounded hard enough, maybe I’d pierce his brain.
That’s when I spotted a nail. It looked long enough to jam into his temple. Some Russian agents killed themselves with rusty nails to avoid interrogation by the German Gestapo. They’d tape the nails on the inner side of their belts, just in case.
I reached for the nail. Too bad it wasn’t rusty. It’d add a bit of icing.
I worked my way to the back. When somebody sneezed loudly, the target looked my way.
A hideous scar marred his left cheek. That didn’t square with my memory of Pescuda’s dossier photos. The photos I’d studied from every angle to ensure I’d never forget. Dammit! The scar planted a seed of doubt. I didn’t want to kill an innocent.
My mind raced when he pulled a cord to signal the driver.
“Harry Fox,” I yelled.
The target looked at me, then shouted, “Stokes! You bloody bastard!”
“Truce,” I said. “Potsdam Protocols.”
“Da! Truce!” he said.
We left together.
“Vasil, I see a McDonalds. I’ll buy you a Big Mac.”
He agreed.
While he chomped on a burger, I said, “Do you realize, if you’d won there’d be no McDonalds in Moscow?”
“We wouldn’t want them,” he said. “We’d be in America, dynamiting McDonalds and every other bastion of capitalism.” Then he added, “Why did you mention Harry Fox?”
“He was killed. After the protocols were signed.”
“I heard that. Shame.”
“No loss,” I said. “He was incompetent.”
“Then I did you a favor,” Pescuda said.
“Where’d you do it?”
“East Berlin.”
“Figures. How’d you kill him?”
“Drano.”
“It’s the nature of war,” I said. “Only the cruelest survive.”
“I’m glad it’s over and we can be civil,” Pescuda said. “Oy, my bladder’s about to burst.”
He headed for the loo.
Men are exceedingly vulnerable when facing a urinal. Holding urine back too long, and then suddenly releasing, makes their blood pressure drop. Weakens them momentarily.
He’d held it in too long. He shuddered.
I threw him to the floor and slammed the nail into his temple.
“Say hello to Harry Fox, you bastard!”
I propped him on a commode, jammed the stall door shut, and crawled out a window.
He’d pissed all over me. It was a small price to pay for revenge.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published in Skive, an Australian magazine, in 2005
I spent three weeks in Moscow rummaging through KGB archives. Ten hours a day. Didn’t find what I was looking for.
All the real good stuff is still hidden. Figures. They ain’t gonna volunteer anything about their nastiest black operations.
Waiting for the bus to Moscow’s Rossiya Hotel, I thought about Higgins from our Berlin squad. He was still at CIA headquarters. He’d urged me not to go to Moscow. Said it was all ancient history. What we did during the Cold War didn’t matter to anybody anymore. We succeeded in stopping the Reds, and that was good enough.
“Only we know the ugly things we did for God and country,” Higgins had said. “We got our noses bloodied regularly to make sure America made it to the twenty-first century free of communist totalitarianism. Well, we made it. Now it’s time to rest, Stokes. Time to write sanitized memoirs. Time to make it sound more glorious than it was. Time to let it all fade into the secret annals of the Cold War.”
“Easy for you to say,” I’d told Higgins. “You got to Berlin after Harry Fox was killed. After the CIA and KGB signed the Potsdam protocols where both sides agreed to stop killing each other’s spooks. Bashing, broken bones and maiming were still sanctioned. But somebody up high on both sides decided we were butchering each other at unacceptable rates. And if we lessened our spook power, then third world countries with interests inimical to both America and the Soviet Union could fill the vacuum. Better off finding out who the piss ant countries’ agents were, and kill them instead.”
“As I remember,” Higgins said, “you violated the agreement by killing two more KGB lower-echelon goons. You were lucky the KGB were reorganizing. By the time they got around to dealing with the fact that they had two less on the payroll, they figured to hell with it. They never complained officially. Saved you from hard time at Leavenworth.”
“I did it to retaliate. They violated the protocols first by killing Harry Fox. In fact, I’m heading to Moscow now that they’ve opened KGB archives. I’m gonna check the books. I wanna see if I can find some missing pieces. I wanna know for sure who killed Harry. He was my best friend. I always figured it was that freak, Vasil Pescuda, but couldn’t prove it. If I can find any reference to their operations in West Berlin in ’75, maybe I can make some logical leaps. If I can pin it on Pescuda, I’ll die a happy man.”
“Stokes, you’re a crazy bastard! For old times’ sake, we never had this conversation.”
Honking horns broke my reverie. Moscow’s version of rush hour. Traffic crawled.
The bus stopped where I stood outside old KGB headquarters. Somebody got off. Those ahead of me crammed the bus so badly, I couldn’t get both legs aboard. The driver yelled. With me half in, half out, he couldn’t close the door. I stepped out.
When the bus pulled away, I saw something that made my adrenalin rise. A face that could’ve been Pescuda’s, after 30 years of hard living, peered through a rear bus window.
I followed the bus for two blocks through mired traffic.
Next stop, enough got off so I could board. Shoving my way toward the back, I tried to get a closer look.
The only potential weapon I had was my room key. If I rammed it into his eye socket and pounded hard enough, maybe I’d pierce his brain.
That’s when I spotted a nail. It looked long enough to jam into his temple. Some Russian agents killed themselves with rusty nails to avoid interrogation by the German Gestapo. They’d tape the nails on the inner side of their belts, just in case.
I reached for the nail. Too bad it wasn’t rusty. It’d add a bit of icing.
I worked my way to the back. When somebody sneezed loudly, the target looked my way.
A hideous scar marred his left cheek. That didn’t square with my memory of Pescuda’s dossier photos. The photos I’d studied from every angle to ensure I’d never forget. Dammit! The scar planted a seed of doubt. I didn’t want to kill an innocent.
My mind raced when he pulled a cord to signal the driver.
“Harry Fox,” I yelled.
The target looked at me, then shouted, “Stokes! You bloody bastard!”
“Truce,” I said. “Potsdam Protocols.”
“Da! Truce!” he said.
We left together.
“Vasil, I see a McDonalds. I’ll buy you a Big Mac.”
He agreed.
While he chomped on a burger, I said, “Do you realize, if you’d won there’d be no McDonalds in Moscow?”
“We wouldn’t want them,” he said. “We’d be in America, dynamiting McDonalds and every other bastion of capitalism.” Then he added, “Why did you mention Harry Fox?”
“He was killed. After the protocols were signed.”
“I heard that. Shame.”
“No loss,” I said. “He was incompetent.”
“Then I did you a favor,” Pescuda said.
“Where’d you do it?”
“East Berlin.”
“Figures. How’d you kill him?”
“Drano.”
“It’s the nature of war,” I said. “Only the cruelest survive.”
“I’m glad it’s over and we can be civil,” Pescuda said. “Oy, my bladder’s about to burst.”
He headed for the loo.
Men are exceedingly vulnerable when facing a urinal. Holding urine back too long, and then suddenly releasing, makes their blood pressure drop. Weakens them momentarily.
He’d held it in too long. He shuddered.
I threw him to the floor and slammed the nail into his temple.
“Say hello to Harry Fox, you bastard!”
I propped him on a commode, jammed the stall door shut, and crawled out a window.
He’d pissed all over me. It was a small price to pay for revenge.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
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