A Twist Of Noir 242 - Mike MacLean

SAFE WORD - MIKE MACLEAN

Originally published in Crimespree Magazine, March 2009

Back in high school, I would’ve called them freaks. Would’ve spat the word out like so much phlegm. Now, I’m the one drawing stares.

They pack the dance floor. Lots of black leather and white painted faces, doing that slow-motion slipstream. Somehow moving with the beat and against it at the same time. It’s a grace I don’t have words for.

I take a long pull from my beer and gaze into the crowd. Searching.

Occasionally, I lock eyes with one. The women among them hold my stare, grinning at me in cock-tease defiance. But the men—they take one glance and look quickly away. They know what I am.

I drain the rest of my beer and order another. This next one I’ll drink slow. When it’s gone, I’m gone.

And that’s when I see her. The one.

She’s at the other end of the bar. Little black dress. Milk white skin. Long, silky hair, the color of blood.

She sips wine and pulls a silver cigarette case from a clutch. Once, twice, three times, she fumbles with her lighter, but doesn’t get so much as a spark. Before one of the Goth boys gets to her, I’m across the bar, flashing my Zippo.

“Thanks,” she says.

I flip the Zippo shut. “It’s why I carry the thing.”

She gives me a little squint, looking me up and down, taking in my worn jeans and flannel shirt. “Are you lost or something?”

“I thought I was,” I say. “Until I saw you.”

She bites her lip and stares into my eyes. Her smile is like a slow moving shadow.

*

Her lips taste of rum and sweet clove cigarettes.

My hands tangle in her hair, yanking her head back so I can kiss her neck. I’m not so gentle about it, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“You like it rough?” she asks.

I stop kissing. Shove her to the bed. Watch her tumble across the sheets. I climb on top and try to kiss her again. But she puts a finger to my lips, like she’s shushing a child.

“Wait,” she says. “Let’s do this right.”

Rolling off the bed, she does a slow runway-strut across her little studio apartment. The place is dark, clean, and sparse. A few pieces of furniture, and that’s it. No posters. No photographs. Just blank white walls.

She goes to the closet and returns with a riding crop, handcuffs, and a black mask. The mask is straight out of a nightmare—rough leather, iron spikes, zippers for the eyes and mouth.

“What’s the game?” I ask.

“Pain’s the game.” She lifts the crop and handcuffs like trophies. “Do you want to give it?” She offers the horrible mask. “Or take it?”

“Give it,” I say, hoping the words don’t sound too eager.

She smiles. Dons the mask. Tosses me the crop and handcuffs. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I clamp one ring of the cuffs around the bedpost. The other is open and waiting for her wrist.

She slinks out of the little black dress and comes to me. Her pale, naked skin shimmers in the dark room. If it weren’t for that mask, she’d look like an angel.

Shucking off my flannel shirt, I take the riding crop from her. I slash the empty air then test the thing out on myself, whipping my bare chest.

“No,” she says. A red tongue slithers out of the zipper mouth. She licks the fresh welt rising on my skin. “Leave that for me.”

I watch her slip into the bed, her body full of lazy, cat grace. I take her wrist and start to close the handcuff around it.

“Wait,” she says. “We need a safe word. In case things get out of control. I say the word and you stop. No matter what.”

I nod, like I’m taking it all in. Like it’s all new to me. Then I give her the look. I’ve practiced it in the mirror a hundred times on a hundred sleepless nights.

“I’ve got a safe word for you,” I say, clamping the handcuff tight around her wrist. “How about Sammy?”

Ever-so-slightly, her eyes widen. “What did you say?”

“Oh, come on. You remember Sammy, don’t you? Skinny kid. Blonde. Followed you like a dog.”

She goes quiet. Her muscles tense.

“Took me a long time to find you,” I say. “Sammy left some clues, but it was months before I could connect the dots.”

“Please...”

I cut her off, my words turning to gravel. “Why’d you claw his face like that?”

The mask doesn’t answer, so I slap her. The flesh of my palm smacks wetly against the rough leather.

“Why?” I shout.

Her zipper eyes glare up at me coldly. “He didn’t play the game right,” she says. “He cried for his mother. But never used the safe word.”

“Maybe you just didn’t hear it.”

I think about Sammy’s funeral, his closed casket on a grassy hill. Mom caressed its lid, moaning, “Sammy...Sammy.” It was months ago, but still fresh.

I drop the riding crop and stand tall. One after the other, I crack my knuckles. The “pops” they make are loud in the quiet, little apartment.

“So now it’s your turn,” I say. “Are you ready for the pain?”

Her eyes are vacant. Then she flashes that shadow of a smile again.

“I’ve been waiting for it all my life,” she says.

BIO: Mike MacLean’s fiction has bloodied the pages of The Best American Mystery Stories, Thuglit: Hardcore Hardboiled, The Deadly Bride, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Recently, Mike was discovered by independent film legend Roger Corman. He now writes screenplays for Corman’s New Horizons Pictures. Visit Mike at Mike MacLean.net and check out his story “Little Gun,” over at Thuglit.

A Twist Of Noir 150 - Mike MacLean

STRAIGHT RAZOR GIRL - MIKE MACLEAN

Originally published in The3rdegree, April 2003

I find Rachel in a rundown motel near the airport. It’s noon, but the curtains are drawn, allowing only thin slices of light into the room. I sit with my gun and watch her sleep. Her father's straight razor is on the dresser, folded up and out of reach.

A 747 roars overhead, rattling windows. Rachel stirs then rolls over to face me. Her eyes flick open like switchblades.

"I knew you'd show up sooner or later," she says. She's pretending not to see the Ruger Blackhawk in my hand. Even in a dark room, the big revolver is hard to miss.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"Under the bed."

For once, she's not lying. The briefcase is right there. Waiting.

Rachel is in jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeping with her sneakers on in the middle of the day--on the run for three weeks now. But the clothes don't matter. The girl is as beautiful as ever.

"So what now?" she asks. Those lips curve into that smile of hers.

Once upon a time, I loved that smile. It made me think of late nights and perfume and sweaty sheets. Now, the smile makes me think of Sammy. He was on the sofa last time I saw him, a new mouth cut for him across the soft flesh of his throat. A smile without teeth. The work of a straight razor. There were bloody bills on the floor, next to Sammy's shoes. But the rest of the First National take was gone. And so was Rachel.

The motel room suddenly gets hot and tight. "I would've given you everything," I tell her. Then I'm up, leveling the revolver on her lovely face.

"I wanted more than your everything."

The Blackhawk is an inch away from her nose, yet Rachel doesn't flinch. Instead, she rolls out her tongue, touching my gun with its wet tip. She wraps the barrel with slender fingers then takes the cold steel into her mouth. All the while, she's looking up, her eyes calling to me.

"Not this time," I tell her. And I slide the Blackhawk out of her mouth, placing its muzzle gently against her forehead, a cold metallic kiss.

Her eyes never change. Even when I thumb the hammer back. Even when I pull the trigger.
I lug the briefcase out from under the bed and head for the door. Not once do I look back.

BIO: Mike MacLean’s fiction has bloodied the pages of The Best American Mystery Stories, Thuglit: Hardcore Hardboiled, The Deadly Bride, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Recently, Mike was discovered by independent film legend Roger Corman. He now writes screenplays for Corman’s New Horizons Pictures. Visit Mike at Mike MacLean.net and look for his story “Little Gun,” coming soon to Thuglit.