THE LAST HOUR - JAKE HINKSON
I got off the bus at the corner of Carol Ave and Sale Boulevard, shifted my book bag to my right shoulder, and started walking home. The streetlights along Carol were blinking to life even though the sun still clung to the sky above the trees. I dug out my iPod and scrolled down to find the podcast I'd been listening to earlier, a lecture by a London philosopher about the worldwide financial crisis. I wanted to talk to my students about this guy. Maybe I'd play the lecture for them and have them write a short essay about it. I was still considering the utility of the assignment as I crossed in front of the big Baptist church at the corner of Carol and Boyd and saw a black limousine idling in front of the baseball field on the opposite side of the street.
I stopped. I couldn't make out the driver, but the back door opened and Ray got out and leaned against the side. The back door on the other side opened, and Ugo got out and walked around the back. He stood next to Ray.
Ray motioned me over. I put my iPod away, but otherwise I didn't move. Ugo and Ray both stood up straighter, each tilted in an opposite direction, each ready to break into a sprint if I made a run for it. Behind me, a car turned off Sale and passed us. None of us looked at it. Ugo glared at me. Ray grinned.
"Well?" he said in a normal tone of voice. On my right the Baptist church was dark and empty. Across the street, a large parking lot full of cars separated us from a small hospital up a short hill.
I nodded and walked over to them.
Ugo was black and Ray was white, but they looked like a couple of thick-necked brothers. They each wore a dark blue suit, and each had his suit coat unbuttoned, ready to pull his gun.
Ugo opened the door of the limo and slid in. I got in behind him and Ray slid in beside me. I set my bag down at my feet.
Sitting across from me was Keesling. He didn't say a word, and that didn't surprise me. He didn't look any different than he had nearly four years ago. He was balding, but he had been balding since he was nineteen. His long, smooth forehead seemed to crash down into his face. I could barely see his close-set gray eyes hammered deep into their sockets. His small, lipless mouth scrunched up to a nose grown fat with scar tissue.
"How have you been?" I asked.
His mouth curled up at one side.
"Fine. You?"
I nodded. "I've been okay."
He smoothed the creases along his slacks. "You've been better than okay, Hayes."
"Have I?"
"Sure. First things first, though. Ugo, why don't you go through that bag there? Ray, you pat him down for me."
Ugo picked up my bag and combed through it. Ray made me sit up while he patted me down, felt my armpits, the small of my back, my crotch and my ankles.
He shook his head at Keesling.
Ugo said, "He doesn't have anything but papers and books."
Keesling's lip curled again. "What's he reading these days?"
"Religion, looks like."
"Religion," Keesling said to me.
"I guess."
"You always were a funny guy, you know that? I always liked you because you were smart, but I remember—do you remember me telling you a long time ago that those books were going to make you weird?"
"I do remember that."
"Where were we?"
"We were driving down to New Orleans just before Katrina."
"That's right. Driving down there right as that fucking storm hit." He looked at Ugo. "I ever tell you about that?"
"No," Ugo said placing the bag on the floor in front of me.
I could only see the back of the driver's head, but I didn't think I knew him.
Keesling said, "We were going down there to talk to that fucking Herb. Remember that asshole? We had to talk to him about some fucking Russian business. I hated dealing with the Russians, and I hated dealing with Herb, so I took Hayes down there with me."
"Good times," I said.
"Cut his nuts off with a pair of his wife's garden shears that night. Didn't want to, but the bastard didn't give us much of a choice, did he?"
"He was tough," I said.
"Still is."
"He still around?"
"Oh sure. Nutless freak." Keesling drummed his fingers against his plush seat. "But I don't want to talk about him. I want to talk about you."
I nodded and laced my fingers together on my lap.
He said, "You don't seem too scared, Hayes."
"I'm scared," I said.
"But not too much."
I didn't answer him.
"Why do you think we're here?"
"Not to relive old memories of castrating guys for information?"
He shook his head.
I looked at him. I knew he wanted me to say it. If they had wanted to kill me, they could have done it anytime. They clearly knew where I lived. I'm sure they knew about Gabby. They knew who I was married to, where I worked, where I went running every morning. Keesling would know everything before he braced me. Now he wanted to watch me squirm.
I said, "You want me to tell you why I left."
"I was kind of wondering. I mean, one day, I looked up and you were gone. Your shit was still sitting in your apartment, but you were AWOL. Made us all worry."
"I didn't turn state's," I said.
"I know."
He stared at me.
"I had to go," I said.
"Because you…what? Had a burst of conscience?"
I shook my head.
Keesling spread his hands out. "What then? You can't just fucking leave. You know that. I know you know that. It's not even a matter of wanting to. It's impossible, physically impossible to leave. You'd have to go to the fucking moon to get away, and even then it's not for sure. Leaving is like asking to be found. It's like begging me to come find you. So I did, and it was easy. You knew it would be easy, too. You didn't go that far, only a couple of states over. And you had that asshole Platt work up fake credentials and shit for you so you could get this stupid job teaching religion and philosophy at a community college to a bunch of fucking middle-age nursing students. You got married. Gabrielle Kahane. She teaches yoga. That's it. You fucking left and ran off, and I find you two states over married to a yoga teacher."
I stared at him. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me why."
I sighed and looked down at my hands. It was odd. I talked for a living now, talking to a room full of attentive students who wrote down the things I said and came to my office to ask me questions about them. Now, I had an audience of four people and I couldn't find the words.
I shook my head. "What could I say that would explain it?"
"Give it a shot."
Outside, the world had gone dark, punctuated here and there by streetlamps trailing off into the distance. Ugo and Ray sat on either side of me without looking at me. Their shoulders pressed into me, but they stared straight ahead, waiting to be told what to do. The driver stared at me in the rearview mirror. He had heavy eyebrows and dumb green eyes. Like everyone else, he was waiting for my answer.
"I didn't want to do it anymore," I said. "That's all. I couldn't do it any longer. I thought this world was a cold, godless place, but I couldn't continue to…hurt and kill people. I don't know if you can understand that. It just wore me down. It wasn't a sudden realization. It was a slow accumulation over time, mixed with what I had read and thought about. I just couldn't torture and kill people anymore.
"So I left. Yes, I knew you'd come find me. I knew I couldn't run away, so I walked away instead. I got a job. I started a life. I knew you'd find me, but I thought it would be sooner. I waited. A year. Two years. In that second year I met a woman. She fell in love with me. That was the first time that had ever happened. I fell in love with her, but I held off for a long time. I even broke it off for a while. I broke her heart and told her to leave me alone, but she…didn't."
He smiled. "You thought we'd gone away."
"I don't know. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I didn't think."
"Women do that to your brain. Confuse your thinking. I could have told you that."
"I waited for you, but when you didn't show, I stopped waiting."
He turned his head to the driver. "Let's go."
The limousine pulled away from the curb.
Keesling stared at me.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To the Hilton over by the airport," he said.
"Why?"
"Why do you think we came out here, Hayes? To hear your fucking sob story?"
"No," I said.
"No, we did not. We didn't wait to track you down, either. Ugo and Ray tracked down your dumb ass two years ago. I could have sent them out here to get you, but I wanted to wait until the time was right."
We'd left my neighborhood and we merged onto the interstate heading for the airport. I wondered if they were taking me back to DC. There was also the possibility, of course, that despite what they had said they were taking me out in the woods to kill me.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"What did you think was going to happen when you walked away?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said you wanted us to find you. What'd you think was going to happen when we did?"
For some reason, at that moment I thought of Gabby. She was probably home by now.
Sometimes she made it home first; sometimes I did. She'd be looking through the refrigerator about now, murmuring about the possibility of ordering pizza. Sometime in the next few minutes the cell phone in my pocket would vibrate because my wife would be wondering where I was.
"I thought you would kill me," I said.
"You want to die?" Keesling asked.
"No."
"I know you don't want to die now, but did you back then?"
"No. But I didn't care much about not dying, either. I didn't care much either way."
He nodded and settled back into the seat. "So you ran away. You knew that we were going to come find you and chop your fucking head off, but you still ran anyway."
"Wasn't a matter of what you were going to do," I said. "It was a matter of what I was going to do. I was through killing people for money. I was sick of breaking women's legs and cutting guys' balls off. I wasn't going to do that anymore. If that meant you were going to come after me, then that's what was going to happen. All I could control was what I was going to do. So I walked."
The driver took the exit for the airport.
"You know, it's funny," Keesling said. "It's funny you mention Herb, old ball-less Herb. He's in town. On business. Staying, as it just so happens, at the Hilton over here."
The driver pulled onto the service road, rode down a while and turned into the empty parking lot of a some chain restaurant still under construction. He parked at the edge of the parking lot where, through the clear plastic tarps shrouding the skeleton of the restaurant, I could see the front door of the Hilton across the street.
I stared at Keesling for a moment. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Herb is in that hotel over there. Room 3118. Just sitting there watching television, waiting for a knock on the door. Maybe he's watching television, I don't know for sure. I'll tell you one thing, he's smoking. Smokes all the time now, four or five packs a day. He was always a twitchy fucker, but these days he's like one of those things at the hardware store that shakes the paint cans. Non-stop shaking. Man needs his balls, I guess."
Ray chuckled at that. Ugo chuckled a little, too.
I said, "And you want me to go knock on his door."
Keesling flipped down the seat cushion next to him and removed something wrapped in a white handkerchief. He pulled the edges of the handkerchief back, and I could see he was holding a Glock 19 with a silencer.
"Is that my old gun?"
"You should know. It's been my only memento of you all these years."
"You waited until Herb came into my town to come find me."
"Herb's not here by accident, Hayes." Keesling wrapped the handkerchief around the grip and handed me the gun, barrel-first. I took it and placed it on my lap.
"Why?" I said. "Why do I need to do this for you?"
"Ain't got a choice. I waited for the pieces to fall into place, and then I brought Herb and you together again. You're going to go in there and kill his twitchy ass for me and you know why? Because I told you to. Ugo and Ray could do it. Hell, I could do it. But I'm telling you to do it. So you will. That wife of yours is alive and well right now. She doesn't have to be alive and well, though. You know that. You know because you've been the guy who beats up the other guy's wife. You've killed the odd wife or two in your time, so you know precisely what I'm talking about."
I closed my eyes. I thought of Gabby glancing at the clock on the stove, turning her head to the door, digging her cell phone out of her jeans pocket.
Keesling said. "We're all expendable. You know that. If it wasn't me and Ugo and Ray, it would have been one of the other guys. Someone would have found you and your little wife living in the suburbs. Someone would have found you and reminded you that you ain't Jonathan Woodson. Not anymore. He was born three years ago, but he died tonight, right here in this car."
I opened my eyes and looked at Keesling. His face was as tight as a fist.
I looked down at the gun. I looked at the hotel. I looked back at the gun and pulled the clip out. It felt full. Fifteen rounds. I loaded a cartridge into the chamber and put my hand and the gun over my heart like I was going to say the pledge of allegiance. I closed my eyes for a second.
"Sometimes you ain't got nothing but bad choices," Keesling said.
"I know," I said.
I shot Ugo under the chin and blew his brains over the backseat. Ray tried to pivot on his hip, and Keesling lunged for me. I shot Ray through the chin and blew half his jaw out the window. I kicked Keesling in the chest, and when he flopped back against the seat cushion trying to unholster his own gun, I shot him once in the forearm and once in the chest. Ray howled and clutched his mangled face while the driver threw open his own door and scrambled to unbuckle his seatbelt. I shot the driver once in the back of the head, leaned against Ugo and shot Ray in the ear.
Blood dripped from the ceiling. My hands, the gun, my clothes, hair and face were all red with blood. Keesling, bloody and lying against the cushion staring at the ceiling, was still alive.
He coughed and wheezed and clutched his chest with his good arm. He squeezed his eyes shut. He coughed again. "Jonathan…"
"Don't try to talk," I said.
He shook his head, gulped for breath and said, "Jonathan…Woods…on is still dead."
He died smiling at me.
I dropped the gun and leaned against the seat, and from my bag I could hear my phone begin to vibrate.
I stared at the bag, listening to her call me, until it stopped.
Finally, I went through the pockets of the dead men, dug out their wallets and flopped them on the hood of the car. In the trunk, I found suitcases. I stripped down naked in the moonlight and cleaned myself off the best I could with some water from a cooler on the construction site. I found some clothes that fit me, jeans, tennis shoes that were too small, and a dress shirt. I went through the wallets and pulled out five thousand dollars in cash.
Jonathan Woodson's phone vibrated again from inside the car. His wife, calling earlier just to see where he was on his journey home, was now beginning to get worried. She didn't know he had died.
The phone vibrated, and I wandered away from the car, not knowing where I was going, still thinking about that other man's wife.
BIO: Visit Jake Hinkson's website The Night Editor for more about himself and his projects.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
A Twist Of Noir 019 - J.R. Lindermuth
STICKS AND STONES - J.R. LINDERMUTH
Originally published in the Fall 2006 edition of Crime And Suspense.
"Bugger the man!" Lanigan said.
"No, that's what he was doin'," Kelly corrected, "and him a priest."
Taking time for a swig of beer and to wipe his chin with the back of his hand, Lanigan turned to Fenwick who sat hunched over at the bar, staring into his mug, wishing he'd kept his yap shut.
"Would they let him get away with somethin' like that?"
Donovan's is the kind of place you go to drink, not comment on social issues. But this night - with the weather getting fierce outside, snowing and blowing, and the gossip of the day fresh in their minds - they weren't talking about much else. They didn't know whether it was true, though they had decided who was to blame.
Donovan wiped down the bar between them and whispered, "It's happened in other places. The diocese keeps the cops from doin' their jobs."
"Can you believe it - the diocese and a police department brimming with good Irish cops?" Kelly said, shaking his head. "And they'll let him off with a slap on the knuckles and a transfer."
"But, Father Martin?" Lanigan said. "Christ! We've known the man since we was kids."
"I know. It's hard to believe," Fenwick told him. After a pause to light a cigarette, he went on.
"But it's got to be true. There's talk a boy was molested at the church. The cops was there when I left, talkin' to the priest. Who else could it be?"
Kelly gave a coarse little laugh. "Mebbe it was you."
"Fuck you, Kelly."
"Yeah. Mebbe you're right. You hear about it all the time in other places. Why should our town be any different? Give me a cigarette, will you?"
Fenwick slid his cigarettes and lighter down the bar to his friend. He took a drag on his own cigarette and blew smoke out his nose. "I admit, I always liked Father Martin. It ain't easy to believe something like this. But, I mean, who else?"
The men were silent for a moment, nodding their heads and not looking at one another, each locked in his own thoughts. "If it is true, then he shouldn't get away with it," Donovan said, finally. Not getting an answer, he added, "Who's ready for another beer?" He was always a man for business.
Kelly pushed his mug forward. "Might as well," he said.
The door opened then and Jimmy Spinosa came in, bringing the cold with him and puffing on one of those Italian stogies he favors as though it might help keep the chill off. "Didcha hear?" he asked.
They all turned to face him.
"Pervert priest molested a kid."
"You know that for a fact?" Lanigan said.
"Well, who else could it be?" Spinosa asked. "It happened at the church. Nobody else there." He slid onto a stool between Lanigan and Fenwick. "Unless it was Fenwick here," he said with a grin.
"Watch your mouth," Fenwick said, scowling. "I'm the janitor. I got nothin' to do with the kids."
"Only jokin'."
"Well, it ain't funny."
They all agreed that it wasn't, nodding their heads or muttering affirmations, then the lot of them went silent, nursing their drinks and thinking their private thoughts. It was only a short while later, just after Kelly asked, "Do you really think he could of done it?," that the door behind them opened again, ushering in another blast of cold air. They turned in unison.
"So, whyn't we ask him?" Spinosa said as they saw the priest standing there just inside the door.
"What a day I've had," Father Martin said, stamping snow off his boots and unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. "You wouldn't believe it, boys. What a day it's been."
They stared at him, none of them believing the audacity of the man to have shown up here of all places. No one spoke for a minute, looking at one another, nervous and coughing though there was nothing wrong with anyone's throat. "You've had a day," Fenwick said, finally. "What about that poor boy?"
Father Martin stepped closer. "I know. It's a shame, in'it?" he said. "Christ, what a day. Set me up a drink, will you, Donovan? What a day I've had. Don't know what got into the boy to say such a thing."
"You're sayin' it's not true, then?" Fenwick asked.
"True? Of course it's not true. How could any of you think?"
"Why would the boy lie about such a thing?" Spinosa asked, exhaling a miasma of smoke.
"Yeah. Why would he?" Kelly agreed.
"Now, boys," Donovan put in. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. Let the Father have his drink and his say." He wasn't one to miss an opportunity for a sale, even if the man did prove to be a pervert.
"I can't speak for the boy," Father Martin said, reaching for the shot Donovan had poured for him. "He must be a troubled soul. I'll have to spend some time with him and..."
He didn't get to have his drink or finish the sentence for that was when Kelly, a man of strong passions and weak intellect, slugged him. The priest fell back with a groan. Before he could recover himself, Kelly hit him again and he went down on the floor. As he tried to get up, Lanigan belted him once more. Then he kicked him in the ribs for good measure.
"For God's sake, boys," Father Martin cried, rising to his knees and wiping blood from his chin with the back of one hand, "why are you doing this?"
Spinosa jumped up from his stool, grabbed the priest by his hair and banged his head to the floor. "Creep! You know why. We haint gonna let you get away with it."
"For the love of God, boys!" Donovan shouted, coming around from behind the bar and grabbing Spinosa by the arm. "What are you doing? You'll be killin' him."
"That's what we should do," Kelly said, giving the priest another kick.
It might have got to that point, their emotions were in such a state, had the front door not opened again just then. "Here! What's goin' on?" barked a voice they all recognized. Tommy Boyle, a local policeman, came forward, pushing them aside. He helped Father Martin to his feet, then guided the priest to a booth where he sat him down. "What's got into you lot?" Boyle demanded, turning to face them.
The men shuffled around, looking at the floor, rubbing sore knuckles. "We didn't want him to get away with it," Lanigan said.
"What?"
"You know, what he did to the kid."
"Father Martin? He didn't do anything," Boyle told them. "The boy made the whole story up. Nobody molested him."
"Nobody?"
"Nobody."
"Then why'd he say it?"
Boyle shrugged. "Kids. Sez he was in some trouble at home. Figured if he come up with this tale his Da' wouldn't be hard on him. He broke down and confessed less than an hour after he told us his story."
Kelly walked over to the priest and looked down at him, bloodied and dazed as he was. "Will you forgive us, Fa-ather? We was..."
Father Martin raised a hand and waved him away.
"If we'da known, Father," Lanigan chimed in.
They gathered around, making their apologies and didn't notice when Fenwick slid off his stool and made his way out the door.
Outside, turning up his collar against the cold, Fenwick grinned. He looked up at the dark sky, at the swirling flakes of snow, and he laughed. He owed the boy, owed him big, wondered if he had paid him enough to keep his mouth shut about the rest of the story. He walked on through the falling snow, gloating over the beating the priest had taken. That would teach the man not to threaten firing over a little drinking on the job.
BIO: A retired newspaper editor, J.R. Lindermuth is the author of six novels, including three in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. He has published short stories and articles in a variety of magazines, both print and online.
Check out Jack's Place for reviews and sample chapters of Thin Ice, short story, Amazon Shorts; Twin Stars, short story, Amazon Shorts; Trees and Memories, short story, Amazon Shorts; Schlussel's Woman (2003), Author's Choice Press; St. Hubert's Stag (2004), iUniverse; Something In Common (June 2007), Whiskey Creek Press; Cruel Cuts (Nov. 2007), Whiskey Creek Press; The Accidental Spy (July 2008), Lachesis Publishing; and Corruption's Child (June 2008), Whiskey Creek Press.
Originally published in the Fall 2006 edition of Crime And Suspense.
"Bugger the man!" Lanigan said.
"No, that's what he was doin'," Kelly corrected, "and him a priest."
Taking time for a swig of beer and to wipe his chin with the back of his hand, Lanigan turned to Fenwick who sat hunched over at the bar, staring into his mug, wishing he'd kept his yap shut.
"Would they let him get away with somethin' like that?"
Donovan's is the kind of place you go to drink, not comment on social issues. But this night - with the weather getting fierce outside, snowing and blowing, and the gossip of the day fresh in their minds - they weren't talking about much else. They didn't know whether it was true, though they had decided who was to blame.
Donovan wiped down the bar between them and whispered, "It's happened in other places. The diocese keeps the cops from doin' their jobs."
"Can you believe it - the diocese and a police department brimming with good Irish cops?" Kelly said, shaking his head. "And they'll let him off with a slap on the knuckles and a transfer."
"But, Father Martin?" Lanigan said. "Christ! We've known the man since we was kids."
"I know. It's hard to believe," Fenwick told him. After a pause to light a cigarette, he went on.
"But it's got to be true. There's talk a boy was molested at the church. The cops was there when I left, talkin' to the priest. Who else could it be?"
Kelly gave a coarse little laugh. "Mebbe it was you."
"Fuck you, Kelly."
"Yeah. Mebbe you're right. You hear about it all the time in other places. Why should our town be any different? Give me a cigarette, will you?"
Fenwick slid his cigarettes and lighter down the bar to his friend. He took a drag on his own cigarette and blew smoke out his nose. "I admit, I always liked Father Martin. It ain't easy to believe something like this. But, I mean, who else?"
The men were silent for a moment, nodding their heads and not looking at one another, each locked in his own thoughts. "If it is true, then he shouldn't get away with it," Donovan said, finally. Not getting an answer, he added, "Who's ready for another beer?" He was always a man for business.
Kelly pushed his mug forward. "Might as well," he said.
The door opened then and Jimmy Spinosa came in, bringing the cold with him and puffing on one of those Italian stogies he favors as though it might help keep the chill off. "Didcha hear?" he asked.
They all turned to face him.
"Pervert priest molested a kid."
"You know that for a fact?" Lanigan said.
"Well, who else could it be?" Spinosa asked. "It happened at the church. Nobody else there." He slid onto a stool between Lanigan and Fenwick. "Unless it was Fenwick here," he said with a grin.
"Watch your mouth," Fenwick said, scowling. "I'm the janitor. I got nothin' to do with the kids."
"Only jokin'."
"Well, it ain't funny."
They all agreed that it wasn't, nodding their heads or muttering affirmations, then the lot of them went silent, nursing their drinks and thinking their private thoughts. It was only a short while later, just after Kelly asked, "Do you really think he could of done it?," that the door behind them opened again, ushering in another blast of cold air. They turned in unison.
"So, whyn't we ask him?" Spinosa said as they saw the priest standing there just inside the door.
"What a day I've had," Father Martin said, stamping snow off his boots and unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. "You wouldn't believe it, boys. What a day it's been."
They stared at him, none of them believing the audacity of the man to have shown up here of all places. No one spoke for a minute, looking at one another, nervous and coughing though there was nothing wrong with anyone's throat. "You've had a day," Fenwick said, finally. "What about that poor boy?"
Father Martin stepped closer. "I know. It's a shame, in'it?" he said. "Christ, what a day. Set me up a drink, will you, Donovan? What a day I've had. Don't know what got into the boy to say such a thing."
"You're sayin' it's not true, then?" Fenwick asked.
"True? Of course it's not true. How could any of you think?"
"Why would the boy lie about such a thing?" Spinosa asked, exhaling a miasma of smoke.
"Yeah. Why would he?" Kelly agreed.
"Now, boys," Donovan put in. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. Let the Father have his drink and his say." He wasn't one to miss an opportunity for a sale, even if the man did prove to be a pervert.
"I can't speak for the boy," Father Martin said, reaching for the shot Donovan had poured for him. "He must be a troubled soul. I'll have to spend some time with him and..."
He didn't get to have his drink or finish the sentence for that was when Kelly, a man of strong passions and weak intellect, slugged him. The priest fell back with a groan. Before he could recover himself, Kelly hit him again and he went down on the floor. As he tried to get up, Lanigan belted him once more. Then he kicked him in the ribs for good measure.
"For God's sake, boys," Father Martin cried, rising to his knees and wiping blood from his chin with the back of one hand, "why are you doing this?"
Spinosa jumped up from his stool, grabbed the priest by his hair and banged his head to the floor. "Creep! You know why. We haint gonna let you get away with it."
"For the love of God, boys!" Donovan shouted, coming around from behind the bar and grabbing Spinosa by the arm. "What are you doing? You'll be killin' him."
"That's what we should do," Kelly said, giving the priest another kick.
It might have got to that point, their emotions were in such a state, had the front door not opened again just then. "Here! What's goin' on?" barked a voice they all recognized. Tommy Boyle, a local policeman, came forward, pushing them aside. He helped Father Martin to his feet, then guided the priest to a booth where he sat him down. "What's got into you lot?" Boyle demanded, turning to face them.
The men shuffled around, looking at the floor, rubbing sore knuckles. "We didn't want him to get away with it," Lanigan said.
"What?"
"You know, what he did to the kid."
"Father Martin? He didn't do anything," Boyle told them. "The boy made the whole story up. Nobody molested him."
"Nobody?"
"Nobody."
"Then why'd he say it?"
Boyle shrugged. "Kids. Sez he was in some trouble at home. Figured if he come up with this tale his Da' wouldn't be hard on him. He broke down and confessed less than an hour after he told us his story."
Kelly walked over to the priest and looked down at him, bloodied and dazed as he was. "Will you forgive us, Fa-ather? We was..."
Father Martin raised a hand and waved him away.
"If we'da known, Father," Lanigan chimed in.
They gathered around, making their apologies and didn't notice when Fenwick slid off his stool and made his way out the door.
Outside, turning up his collar against the cold, Fenwick grinned. He looked up at the dark sky, at the swirling flakes of snow, and he laughed. He owed the boy, owed him big, wondered if he had paid him enough to keep his mouth shut about the rest of the story. He walked on through the falling snow, gloating over the beating the priest had taken. That would teach the man not to threaten firing over a little drinking on the job.
BIO: A retired newspaper editor, J.R. Lindermuth is the author of six novels, including three in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. He has published short stories and articles in a variety of magazines, both print and online.
Check out Jack's Place for reviews and sample chapters of Thin Ice, short story, Amazon Shorts; Twin Stars, short story, Amazon Shorts; Trees and Memories, short story, Amazon Shorts; Schlussel's Woman (2003), Author's Choice Press; St. Hubert's Stag (2004), iUniverse; Something In Common (June 2007), Whiskey Creek Press; Cruel Cuts (Nov. 2007), Whiskey Creek Press; The Accidental Spy (July 2008), Lachesis Publishing; and Corruption's Child (June 2008), Whiskey Creek Press.
A Twist Of Noir 018 - James S. Dorr
THE WINNING - JAMES S. DORR
Originally published in Over My Dead Body, Spring 1994
He cashed his tickets in at the window and stuffed the money into his jeans. A lot of money. He smiled at the cashier, a pretty woman perhaps in her early thirties, then elbowed his way through the milling crowd. He left the racetrack and thought for a moment of taking a bus home. He thought of pulling the bills from his pocket, peeling one off to give to the driver, then decided he might as well walk.
He was used to walking.
He thought of stopping in at a restaurant, then decided he wasn't hungry. Time enough to eat in his apartment. He had to make plans.
He thought of the cashier, a curly-haired blonde who had smiled back at him, a little like Betty. "You take care," she'd told him. He'd nodded back.
He thought about Betty.
God, he missed Betty. She'd died just a few years after their marriage and that's when he'd started to go downhill. Drinking. Loss of his job. Other jobs. He was over the drinking now, at least, but not the bad luck that had dogged his footsteps. Until that morning.
That's when he'd found the ten dollar bill crumpled in the gutter. He'd picked it up, smoothed it out in his hands, and thought, "Why not?"
He'd gone to the racetrack, an institution that, like him, had seen better days. Factories had grown up around it, then fallen into disuse. Slums had followed. Tenement neighborhoods, scarcely better, even when new, than the one he lived in across the river. But he had become used to living in slums.
He'd started out small -- he had only ten dollars -- placing his bets at the two dollar window. But one had won for him. He graduated to ten dollar bets as the afternoon wore on, then finally, in a fit of bravado, chose a horse whose name he liked and put all he had to win at a hundred dollar window.
The horse surprised him -- surprised everybody. The odds were long -- he hadn't realized how long when he'd bet -- but it came from behind in the final turn and inched past the favorite to come in first.
He hadn't even counted the money after he cashed in. He'd just nodded blankly as the blonde lady shoved bills out toward him. He'd folded them over, still not believing, putting a rubber band around them and shoving them into his left pants pocket. He'd glanced once behind him, and then he'd smiled.
"Thanks," he'd said.
"You take care, you hear?"
He still couldn't believe it.
All his life, except for the few brief years with Betty, had been unlucky. He'd gone from one bad job to another, from one fly-specked, roach-infested apartment to another, as bad or worse. He realized he hadn't exactly helped himself that much either, but now things were going to be different. He had enough money now in his pocket to buy some new clothes, to pay off his rent, to leave the city. To find a new place where people were hiring -- he wasn't so old that he couldn't still work -- and make a new start.
He glanced behind him. Dusk was falling, but the streetlights were coming on and the evening was bright. He saw two men walking in his direction, maybe half a block behind him. Just sort of strolling, conversing quietly. Too quiet to hear them.
But hadn't he seen them somewhere before? When he'd glanced behind him at the track window?
He shrugged. Probably not, he realized. All he'd seen then was a racetrack crowd. All sorts of people -- most, at the hundred dollar window, better dressed than either him or the men behind him. Still, he began to walk a bit faster.
He began to become more conscious of his surroundings. Night had completely fallen by now and, while there were some lights, there were few people out in the street. This far from the track there was little action. Ahead, where the street sloped down toward the river, it seemed even dimmer, except for the bridge which had its own lights. And the bank across it.
The bank where he lived had its own kind of lighting. Bars. All-night diners. Neon and harshness, a tough kind of lighting, but one he was used to. He hunched up his collar -- the night was still warm, but a breeze was beginning to come from the river. A breeze that, as the city cooled in the night's darkness, blew out to the ocean.
He started to smell the smells of the river -- salt and mud. Dead fish and violence. Not many people lived by the river except for the poor -- people like him -- and the few who liked it. The people who lived by the river by choice, in part because nobody asked any questions.
He felt the heaviness in his pocket.
He looked behind him.
It was the same two men -- it must be the same two. A half block behind him. Now that he'd stopped, they'd stopped as well, one taking a cigarette out of his pocket. The other lit it.
He saw -- he was sure it was one of the people he'd seen at the racetrack -- a face pocked with acne. Not a young face, though. He saw, as the match flared out, a sneer. As if of anticipated violence.
He shivered despite the fact it was still warm. He strode, quickly now, another half block, a full block beyond that, on toward the river. He heard, behind him, the clack, clack, clack of footsteps following on the pavement. He stopped again, whirled to confront his pursuers, still half a block behind him. He saw they had stopped too.
"What do you want?" he demanded. He stood and waited, his hands on his hips, one hand protecting the bulge in his pocket.
The men were in shadow. One pretended to look in a window, making no sign that they'd even heard him. The other began to whistle a soft tune. They were the same men he'd seen at the track -- that much he was sure of. Who'd seen him put the bills in his pocket. Who'd followed him this far, but never approached him. As if they were waiting.
But waiting for what?
He backed off slowly -- the men made no move until he'd turned again, then he was sure he could once again hear their following footsteps. He thought about how, if he reached the bridge, if he crossed the river, if he reached his walk-up apartment, he'd lock the door and hide the money. He'd stay awake and guard it that night and then, the next morning, he'd find a bank and deposit it there.
He'd open up a checking account and write a check to buy decent clothes. He'd buy a bus ticket -- maybe a plane ticket -- maybe look up his sister down south. He'd find a place to stay for a while, away from the city. To make a new life.
He thought about Betty, the victim of sharks that lived by the river. The ones that lived by the river by choice. He remembered the evening he'd had to work late. His foreman calling him to the phone. The trip to the morgue, his wife laid out, her chest ripped open. The big cop putting his hand on his shoulder.
He turned again -- the bridge was only a block away now. He saw only shadows -- no -- something was moving -- a half block behind him. Two men in the darkness, trying to be still, yet subtly moving.
"Is it the money?" he demanded.
He heard no answer.
He thought about running -- the bridge, with its lights, was just one block away -- but he was no longer that young a man if they wanted to chase him. He turned again and just kept walking, the wad of bills chafing against his thigh. The hesitant at first, then steady clack, clack, clack of footsteps behind him.
He reached the abutment, then started up the sharply ramped footpath, the breeze, now that he was on the river, blowing up into a miniature gale. He crossed under the first of the bridge's lights, the first of several as he approached its center span. As soon as he got home...
He heard a booming as his pursuers mounted the bridge too, their hollow footsteps amplified by the wind and the water.
If he got home with his money safely, he'd leave the city the very next day. But sharks lived on both sides of the river.
The ones on his side had murdered his wife for nothing more than her shopping money.
And he had lots more.
He stopped again, under a light beneath the bridge's high central arch, and confronted his followers one final time. He knew they had friends on the other side, friends who would stop him as soon as he crossed. Just as they stopped too, under their own light, their hats pulled low to hide their faces, standing, watching him. Watching and waiting.
"Is it the money?" he asked again, again hearing no answer. He pulled the folded bills from his pocket.
He rolled off the rubber band that was around them. He thought about winning.
He thought about finding a ten dollar bill.
About being lucky.
He looked down below him -- the oily river. Behind him, two shadows, already gliding out of the pool of light that was around them, moving now, ever so slowly, closer.
Ahead, more shapes moving -- now he could see them.
"Here!" he shouted. He threw the money as hard as he could, up, into the air. Watched as the bills peeled off, catching the light as the river wind took them, whirlwinding higher.
He thought of the river. Of water and death. Of shadows melting back into the darkness.
Of flecks of paper, one or two caught in the bridge's cables, the rest of them blowing out to the ocean, ever upward, until he could no longer tell them apart from the distant stars.
BIO: James Dorr's new book, DARKER LOVES: TALES OF MYSTERY AND REGRET, was released December 2007 by Dark Regions Press as a companion to his earlier collection, STRANGE MISTRESSES: TALES OF WONDER AND ROMANCE. Other work has appeared in ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE, NEW MYSTERY, THE STRAND, ABORIGINAL SF, FANTASTIC, DARK WISDOM, GOTHIC.NET, CHI-ZINE, ENIGMATIC TALES (UK), FAERIES (France), and numerous anthologies.
Originally published in Over My Dead Body, Spring 1994
He cashed his tickets in at the window and stuffed the money into his jeans. A lot of money. He smiled at the cashier, a pretty woman perhaps in her early thirties, then elbowed his way through the milling crowd. He left the racetrack and thought for a moment of taking a bus home. He thought of pulling the bills from his pocket, peeling one off to give to the driver, then decided he might as well walk.
He was used to walking.
He thought of stopping in at a restaurant, then decided he wasn't hungry. Time enough to eat in his apartment. He had to make plans.
He thought of the cashier, a curly-haired blonde who had smiled back at him, a little like Betty. "You take care," she'd told him. He'd nodded back.
He thought about Betty.
God, he missed Betty. She'd died just a few years after their marriage and that's when he'd started to go downhill. Drinking. Loss of his job. Other jobs. He was over the drinking now, at least, but not the bad luck that had dogged his footsteps. Until that morning.
That's when he'd found the ten dollar bill crumpled in the gutter. He'd picked it up, smoothed it out in his hands, and thought, "Why not?"
He'd gone to the racetrack, an institution that, like him, had seen better days. Factories had grown up around it, then fallen into disuse. Slums had followed. Tenement neighborhoods, scarcely better, even when new, than the one he lived in across the river. But he had become used to living in slums.
He'd started out small -- he had only ten dollars -- placing his bets at the two dollar window. But one had won for him. He graduated to ten dollar bets as the afternoon wore on, then finally, in a fit of bravado, chose a horse whose name he liked and put all he had to win at a hundred dollar window.
The horse surprised him -- surprised everybody. The odds were long -- he hadn't realized how long when he'd bet -- but it came from behind in the final turn and inched past the favorite to come in first.
He hadn't even counted the money after he cashed in. He'd just nodded blankly as the blonde lady shoved bills out toward him. He'd folded them over, still not believing, putting a rubber band around them and shoving them into his left pants pocket. He'd glanced once behind him, and then he'd smiled.
"Thanks," he'd said.
"You take care, you hear?"
He still couldn't believe it.
All his life, except for the few brief years with Betty, had been unlucky. He'd gone from one bad job to another, from one fly-specked, roach-infested apartment to another, as bad or worse. He realized he hadn't exactly helped himself that much either, but now things were going to be different. He had enough money now in his pocket to buy some new clothes, to pay off his rent, to leave the city. To find a new place where people were hiring -- he wasn't so old that he couldn't still work -- and make a new start.
He glanced behind him. Dusk was falling, but the streetlights were coming on and the evening was bright. He saw two men walking in his direction, maybe half a block behind him. Just sort of strolling, conversing quietly. Too quiet to hear them.
But hadn't he seen them somewhere before? When he'd glanced behind him at the track window?
He shrugged. Probably not, he realized. All he'd seen then was a racetrack crowd. All sorts of people -- most, at the hundred dollar window, better dressed than either him or the men behind him. Still, he began to walk a bit faster.
He began to become more conscious of his surroundings. Night had completely fallen by now and, while there were some lights, there were few people out in the street. This far from the track there was little action. Ahead, where the street sloped down toward the river, it seemed even dimmer, except for the bridge which had its own lights. And the bank across it.
The bank where he lived had its own kind of lighting. Bars. All-night diners. Neon and harshness, a tough kind of lighting, but one he was used to. He hunched up his collar -- the night was still warm, but a breeze was beginning to come from the river. A breeze that, as the city cooled in the night's darkness, blew out to the ocean.
He started to smell the smells of the river -- salt and mud. Dead fish and violence. Not many people lived by the river except for the poor -- people like him -- and the few who liked it. The people who lived by the river by choice, in part because nobody asked any questions.
He felt the heaviness in his pocket.
He looked behind him.
It was the same two men -- it must be the same two. A half block behind him. Now that he'd stopped, they'd stopped as well, one taking a cigarette out of his pocket. The other lit it.
He saw -- he was sure it was one of the people he'd seen at the racetrack -- a face pocked with acne. Not a young face, though. He saw, as the match flared out, a sneer. As if of anticipated violence.
He shivered despite the fact it was still warm. He strode, quickly now, another half block, a full block beyond that, on toward the river. He heard, behind him, the clack, clack, clack of footsteps following on the pavement. He stopped again, whirled to confront his pursuers, still half a block behind him. He saw they had stopped too.
"What do you want?" he demanded. He stood and waited, his hands on his hips, one hand protecting the bulge in his pocket.
The men were in shadow. One pretended to look in a window, making no sign that they'd even heard him. The other began to whistle a soft tune. They were the same men he'd seen at the track -- that much he was sure of. Who'd seen him put the bills in his pocket. Who'd followed him this far, but never approached him. As if they were waiting.
But waiting for what?
He backed off slowly -- the men made no move until he'd turned again, then he was sure he could once again hear their following footsteps. He thought about how, if he reached the bridge, if he crossed the river, if he reached his walk-up apartment, he'd lock the door and hide the money. He'd stay awake and guard it that night and then, the next morning, he'd find a bank and deposit it there.
He'd open up a checking account and write a check to buy decent clothes. He'd buy a bus ticket -- maybe a plane ticket -- maybe look up his sister down south. He'd find a place to stay for a while, away from the city. To make a new life.
He thought about Betty, the victim of sharks that lived by the river. The ones that lived by the river by choice. He remembered the evening he'd had to work late. His foreman calling him to the phone. The trip to the morgue, his wife laid out, her chest ripped open. The big cop putting his hand on his shoulder.
He turned again -- the bridge was only a block away now. He saw only shadows -- no -- something was moving -- a half block behind him. Two men in the darkness, trying to be still, yet subtly moving.
"Is it the money?" he demanded.
He heard no answer.
He thought about running -- the bridge, with its lights, was just one block away -- but he was no longer that young a man if they wanted to chase him. He turned again and just kept walking, the wad of bills chafing against his thigh. The hesitant at first, then steady clack, clack, clack of footsteps behind him.
He reached the abutment, then started up the sharply ramped footpath, the breeze, now that he was on the river, blowing up into a miniature gale. He crossed under the first of the bridge's lights, the first of several as he approached its center span. As soon as he got home...
He heard a booming as his pursuers mounted the bridge too, their hollow footsteps amplified by the wind and the water.
If he got home with his money safely, he'd leave the city the very next day. But sharks lived on both sides of the river.
The ones on his side had murdered his wife for nothing more than her shopping money.
And he had lots more.
He stopped again, under a light beneath the bridge's high central arch, and confronted his followers one final time. He knew they had friends on the other side, friends who would stop him as soon as he crossed. Just as they stopped too, under their own light, their hats pulled low to hide their faces, standing, watching him. Watching and waiting.
"Is it the money?" he asked again, again hearing no answer. He pulled the folded bills from his pocket.
He rolled off the rubber band that was around them. He thought about winning.
He thought about finding a ten dollar bill.
About being lucky.
He looked down below him -- the oily river. Behind him, two shadows, already gliding out of the pool of light that was around them, moving now, ever so slowly, closer.
Ahead, more shapes moving -- now he could see them.
"Here!" he shouted. He threw the money as hard as he could, up, into the air. Watched as the bills peeled off, catching the light as the river wind took them, whirlwinding higher.
He thought of the river. Of water and death. Of shadows melting back into the darkness.
Of flecks of paper, one or two caught in the bridge's cables, the rest of them blowing out to the ocean, ever upward, until he could no longer tell them apart from the distant stars.
BIO: James Dorr's new book, DARKER LOVES: TALES OF MYSTERY AND REGRET, was released December 2007 by Dark Regions Press as a companion to his earlier collection, STRANGE MISTRESSES: TALES OF WONDER AND ROMANCE. Other work has appeared in ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE, NEW MYSTERY, THE STRAND, ABORIGINAL SF, FANTASTIC, DARK WISDOM, GOTHIC.NET, CHI-ZINE, ENIGMATIC TALES (UK), FAERIES (France), and numerous anthologies.
A Twist Of Noir 017 - Mark Joseph Kiewlak
PILLOW TALK - MARK JOSEPH KIEWLAK
Originally published in Hardboiled #35 in Spring 2006
She was chained to the bed. She was gorgeous but she was chained to the bed. I needed information. Just because she was naked didn't mean she was vulnerable. As any man will tell you, rejection by a naked woman is a terrible experience. When that woman is kicking and screaming and trying to bite you the experience is even worse. I didn't want it to come to that. But I needed information.
"I won't tell you anything," Penny said. "I can't tell you anything."
"Not even if I sleep with you?"
"Are you going to sleep with me?" Penny said.
"I'm not going to rape you."
"Are you going to fuck me?"
I lit another cigarette. This was getting me nowhere.
"I need to know where she went. Your sister."
"Who cares?" Penny said. "Fuck me."
"I need you to tell me what you know about the people she was with."
"I won't tell you anything," Penny said. "Until you fuck me."
"Unless I fuck you?"
"If you didn't want to," Penny said, "then what are the handcuffs for?"
I thought about that a moment.
"For my protection," I said.
She laughed. It was a harsh sound.
"We don't need protection," she said. "The hell with protection. The fucking hell with protection."
"Tell me about your sister."
"The fucking hell with my sister. And the fucking hell with you."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. It was closer than I wanted to be, but I almost couldn't help myself. As I came closer she spread her legs for me.
"Do you want this?" she said. "Or do you want to talk about my sister?"
"I'm being paid to find her. Your father is worried."
"He's not my father," Penny said. "He's a fucking pervert."
"You and your sister have different fathers?"
Penny kicked at me. "I don't want to talk about my goddamned sister."
"These men who took her -- had you ever seen them before?"
"Hell no," she said. "But I knew what they were about. I'd slept with men like that before."
"Like what?"
"Animals. Filthy disgusting animals. They sweat and they heave and they lick your asshole with their stubbly little faces. They grow hair because they don't have any chins. They fuck like dogs."
"Did any of them fuck your sister?"
She spit on me. "Fuck you, you bastard. Nobody messes with my sister. Nobody messes with my sister or I'll rip their goddamn eyes out."
"Where is your sister?"
"She's safe," Penny said.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I protect her. I always protect her."
"How?"
She turned away.
"How do you protect her?"
"Do you want to fuck me?" she said.
"I can't. I'm working."
She rattled the handcuffs. "You call this work? What do you do for fun?"
"What did your sister do for fun?"
"Nothing."
"She never had any fun?"
Penny spread her legs again and threw her pelvis at me. "Bring it over here," she said, "and I'll show you some fun."
"Do you have any idea where the men took your sister?"
"To get laid," Penny said. "They took her to get laid."
"Where?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Why doesn't it matter?"
"Because they're dead."
"The men are dead? The men who took your sister are dead?"
"Do you want to fuck me or not?"
"I didn't bring you here to fuck you."
Penny turned away. She shrank in on herself. "Are you ... are you going to hurt me?"
"No."
She pulled her knees to her chest. "I'll... I'll be a good girl."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
There were tears in her eyes. "I promise I'll be a good girl. I promise."
"I'm not going to hurt you. But I want to talk to your sister."
She had shrunk in on herself as much as was possible. Her body was all but hidden beneath the pillows. But there was still a gleam of something feral in her eye.
"I promise I'll be good. I promise, Daddy."
"I'm not your daddy. Now let me talk to your sister."
"Daddy, don't hurt me. Please, Daddy. Please, Daddy, not the men. The men hurt me."
I stood over her. I put my hand on her leg.
"No, Daddy, no."
"Your sister, Penny. Go away and bring me your sister."
"I'm afraid. The men... I'm afraid."
"It's over, Penny. The men are gone. She doesn't need you anymore. Your sister doesn't need you anymore."
She kicked me in the balls. I doubled over and lay sideways on the bed trying to catch my breath.
"Leave her the fuck alone, you fucking pervert."
This was what I was afraid of.
"You can't help her anymore, Penny. She doesn't need you. It's over."
She tried to kick me again but I slid off the bed. I got to my knees then to my feet. The pain was lessening.
I had to try a new tactic. It wasn't what I wanted to do, but I had to try it.
"You stay away from me," Penny said. "You stay the fuck away. Stay back. I'll bite your balls off and shit them back in your face."
"You can't do a thing," I said. "You're helpless. You're mine."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"You're mine and I'm having my way with you."
"Fuck you."
"I'm going to come on your face."
"Fuck you fuck you fuck you."
I slapped her on the ass. "You're mine, bitch."
"Leave me alone."
"I'm going to put out cigarettes on your belly."
"Please leave me alone."
"It's over, Penny. You're dead."
"No."
"You're dead and gone."
"No!"
"You're dead and gone and buried and your sister is alone."
"Nooooo--"
I slapped her across the face. She broke into uncontrollable sobs and buried herself in the pillows. I waited. When she turned to me I could see that the gleam in her eye was gone.
"Penny?" I said.
"Who's Penny?"
"Are you Margaret?" I said.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Your father hired me to find you."
"Are you a policeman?"
"I used to be."
"How did I get here? Why am I chained? Where are my clothes?"
"I found you like this," I said. "We're in a loft downtown. Don't you remember anything?"
"I don't remember."
"I think you do."
"You can't make me remember."
"What happened to the men, Margaret? What did you do with them?"
"I... they got what they deserved."
"I'm not taking you back to your father, if that's what you're worried about."
"He's worse than they were."
"I know."
"He's coming here. To the loft. Soon."
"I know. But the police are on the way too. I called them. No one will hurt you anymore."
"I was waiting," she said.
"Waiting for him?"
"Yes. He makes me wait here."
"Did the men bring you here?"
She nodded. "They would bring me here ... and when they were through they would leave me like this. For him."
"For your father?"
This time she didn't nod. She wasn't even there really. Just a shell. A voice coming from a robot.
"Today was different," I said.
A small nod.
"Today the men didn't hurt you."
Nod.
"Today you hurt them."
"They're gone," she said. "Does it matter where?"
"Not to me."
"Then what do you want?"
"I came to stop you from hurting him. From hurting your father."
"Why in the hell would you do that? Because he paid you?"
"Because he deserves to rot in prison," I said. "Before he rots in the ground."
"Will you ... will you tell what I did?"
"I won't tell," I said. "But someday you might. One way or another you don't deserve to be locked up."
"So you'll let me go?"
"If you keep your mouth shut about what happened to those men."
"They deserved it."
"I know."
"I hear sirens," she said.
"My friends are coming."
"What about my father?"
"He's already been arrested."
"But ... who told you I was here? Who told you about my father?"
"I got a phone call," I said.
"From who?"
I didn't say anything.
"Was it ... was it this Penny person you were asking me about?"
I didn't say anything.
"Who is she? Tell me, please."
I took the key from the nightstand and unlocked her handcuffs.
"Someone who was there for you when you needed it. Just someone ... who used to protect you."
BIO: In 2008 Mark Joseph Kiewlak's work appeared in more than two dozen magazines, including Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Thug Lit, Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, Clean Sheets, and many others. He was privileged to have served as judge of the 2007 Wild Violet Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).
Originally published in Hardboiled #35 in Spring 2006
She was chained to the bed. She was gorgeous but she was chained to the bed. I needed information. Just because she was naked didn't mean she was vulnerable. As any man will tell you, rejection by a naked woman is a terrible experience. When that woman is kicking and screaming and trying to bite you the experience is even worse. I didn't want it to come to that. But I needed information.
"I won't tell you anything," Penny said. "I can't tell you anything."
"Not even if I sleep with you?"
"Are you going to sleep with me?" Penny said.
"I'm not going to rape you."
"Are you going to fuck me?"
I lit another cigarette. This was getting me nowhere.
"I need to know where she went. Your sister."
"Who cares?" Penny said. "Fuck me."
"I need you to tell me what you know about the people she was with."
"I won't tell you anything," Penny said. "Until you fuck me."
"Unless I fuck you?"
"If you didn't want to," Penny said, "then what are the handcuffs for?"
I thought about that a moment.
"For my protection," I said.
She laughed. It was a harsh sound.
"We don't need protection," she said. "The hell with protection. The fucking hell with protection."
"Tell me about your sister."
"The fucking hell with my sister. And the fucking hell with you."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. It was closer than I wanted to be, but I almost couldn't help myself. As I came closer she spread her legs for me.
"Do you want this?" she said. "Or do you want to talk about my sister?"
"I'm being paid to find her. Your father is worried."
"He's not my father," Penny said. "He's a fucking pervert."
"You and your sister have different fathers?"
Penny kicked at me. "I don't want to talk about my goddamned sister."
"These men who took her -- had you ever seen them before?"
"Hell no," she said. "But I knew what they were about. I'd slept with men like that before."
"Like what?"
"Animals. Filthy disgusting animals. They sweat and they heave and they lick your asshole with their stubbly little faces. They grow hair because they don't have any chins. They fuck like dogs."
"Did any of them fuck your sister?"
She spit on me. "Fuck you, you bastard. Nobody messes with my sister. Nobody messes with my sister or I'll rip their goddamn eyes out."
"Where is your sister?"
"She's safe," Penny said.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I protect her. I always protect her."
"How?"
She turned away.
"How do you protect her?"
"Do you want to fuck me?" she said.
"I can't. I'm working."
She rattled the handcuffs. "You call this work? What do you do for fun?"
"What did your sister do for fun?"
"Nothing."
"She never had any fun?"
Penny spread her legs again and threw her pelvis at me. "Bring it over here," she said, "and I'll show you some fun."
"Do you have any idea where the men took your sister?"
"To get laid," Penny said. "They took her to get laid."
"Where?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Why doesn't it matter?"
"Because they're dead."
"The men are dead? The men who took your sister are dead?"
"Do you want to fuck me or not?"
"I didn't bring you here to fuck you."
Penny turned away. She shrank in on herself. "Are you ... are you going to hurt me?"
"No."
She pulled her knees to her chest. "I'll... I'll be a good girl."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
There were tears in her eyes. "I promise I'll be a good girl. I promise."
"I'm not going to hurt you. But I want to talk to your sister."
She had shrunk in on herself as much as was possible. Her body was all but hidden beneath the pillows. But there was still a gleam of something feral in her eye.
"I promise I'll be good. I promise, Daddy."
"I'm not your daddy. Now let me talk to your sister."
"Daddy, don't hurt me. Please, Daddy. Please, Daddy, not the men. The men hurt me."
I stood over her. I put my hand on her leg.
"No, Daddy, no."
"Your sister, Penny. Go away and bring me your sister."
"I'm afraid. The men... I'm afraid."
"It's over, Penny. The men are gone. She doesn't need you anymore. Your sister doesn't need you anymore."
She kicked me in the balls. I doubled over and lay sideways on the bed trying to catch my breath.
"Leave her the fuck alone, you fucking pervert."
This was what I was afraid of.
"You can't help her anymore, Penny. She doesn't need you. It's over."
She tried to kick me again but I slid off the bed. I got to my knees then to my feet. The pain was lessening.
I had to try a new tactic. It wasn't what I wanted to do, but I had to try it.
"You stay away from me," Penny said. "You stay the fuck away. Stay back. I'll bite your balls off and shit them back in your face."
"You can't do a thing," I said. "You're helpless. You're mine."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"You're mine and I'm having my way with you."
"Fuck you."
"I'm going to come on your face."
"Fuck you fuck you fuck you."
I slapped her on the ass. "You're mine, bitch."
"Leave me alone."
"I'm going to put out cigarettes on your belly."
"Please leave me alone."
"It's over, Penny. You're dead."
"No."
"You're dead and gone."
"No!"
"You're dead and gone and buried and your sister is alone."
"Nooooo--"
I slapped her across the face. She broke into uncontrollable sobs and buried herself in the pillows. I waited. When she turned to me I could see that the gleam in her eye was gone.
"Penny?" I said.
"Who's Penny?"
"Are you Margaret?" I said.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"Your father hired me to find you."
"Are you a policeman?"
"I used to be."
"How did I get here? Why am I chained? Where are my clothes?"
"I found you like this," I said. "We're in a loft downtown. Don't you remember anything?"
"I don't remember."
"I think you do."
"You can't make me remember."
"What happened to the men, Margaret? What did you do with them?"
"I... they got what they deserved."
"I'm not taking you back to your father, if that's what you're worried about."
"He's worse than they were."
"I know."
"He's coming here. To the loft. Soon."
"I know. But the police are on the way too. I called them. No one will hurt you anymore."
"I was waiting," she said.
"Waiting for him?"
"Yes. He makes me wait here."
"Did the men bring you here?"
She nodded. "They would bring me here ... and when they were through they would leave me like this. For him."
"For your father?"
This time she didn't nod. She wasn't even there really. Just a shell. A voice coming from a robot.
"Today was different," I said.
A small nod.
"Today the men didn't hurt you."
Nod.
"Today you hurt them."
"They're gone," she said. "Does it matter where?"
"Not to me."
"Then what do you want?"
"I came to stop you from hurting him. From hurting your father."
"Why in the hell would you do that? Because he paid you?"
"Because he deserves to rot in prison," I said. "Before he rots in the ground."
"Will you ... will you tell what I did?"
"I won't tell," I said. "But someday you might. One way or another you don't deserve to be locked up."
"So you'll let me go?"
"If you keep your mouth shut about what happened to those men."
"They deserved it."
"I know."
"I hear sirens," she said.
"My friends are coming."
"What about my father?"
"He's already been arrested."
"But ... who told you I was here? Who told you about my father?"
"I got a phone call," I said.
"From who?"
I didn't say anything.
"Was it ... was it this Penny person you were asking me about?"
I didn't say anything.
"Who is she? Tell me, please."
I took the key from the nightstand and unlocked her handcuffs.
"Someone who was there for you when you needed it. Just someone ... who used to protect you."
BIO: In 2008 Mark Joseph Kiewlak's work appeared in more than two dozen magazines, including Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Thug Lit, Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, Clean Sheets, and many others. He was privileged to have served as judge of the 2007 Wild Violet Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).
Monday, December 8, 2008
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.
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.
An Interlude With Albert Tucher
Albert Tucher is the creator of prostitute Diana Andrews, the subject of eighteen short stories and four as-of-yet unpublished novels. I can't understand what any editor/publishing house is holding back for, though Al does have a bit of an explanation.
I've told Al what I'm about to tell you and that is that I think Diana Andrews is one of the strongest characters, male or female, in the crime/noir fiction game today.
Just go read Dying For A Smoke and tell me I'm wrong.
This weekend, I had an interview with Al.
It was Al's first interview. Guess what? It was also the first that I've conducted that I've ever shared. There are more to come, though, be sure of that.
I hope you find it to be both informative and entertaining.
Christopher Grant: I guess I'll ask you first about process.
Albert Tucher: I have a backlog of story ideas that come from all over the place--news stories, books I've read (there are a lot of prostitute memoirs out there, and they have been useful). I also had a "technical consultant" for a couple of years, a young woman in the escort business who talked about her life and gave me excellent material.
I do most of my writing at the local Barnes and Noble, where I am known as "the hooker guy." At least to some!
I like the comings and goings and commotion around me while I'm there. It helps me concentrate, believe it or not. I can write at home, but I prefer a more public venue.
Although, there is one guy who doesn't know when to stop talking.
I have a friend who steals writing time in the parking lot of the supermarket. She has a family.
CG: If it ain't broke... How did you come to create Diana Andrews?
AT: I took a fiction writing class at the local county college in 2000. Our assignment was an action story. I started with a mental picture of a man and a woman confronting each other on the shoulder of a deserted road. Somehow I decided that she was a hooker and he was a cop, and she was the good guy. That story became the opening chapter of The February Core, the first novel. (The cop became a woman along the way.)
I didn't write short stories until about 2005, when I decided that I needed to build a resume. I have grown to like writing them a lot, though.
CG: Well, they're short, so you don't have to think too far ahead and pray that you don't lose a reader along the way.
AT: True. And they helped me work out Diana's earlier life. The novels start late in her hooking career and follow her in retirement--which is no less strenuous.
CG: Do you work with a character file? Do you have a card somewhere with Diana's vitals on it and anyone else that she might have encountered so you can just pull them out and say, "Here's a story"?
AT: I probably should do that, but I haven't. Sometimes I have to rummage through the novels and stories to remind myself of some detail.
CG: How do you know when a story isn't working?
AT: I usually grind to a halt. And that usually happens when I'm working on a stand-alone. I have only a few of those that work, none published yet.
CG: Did anything like that ever happen with the novels?
AT: Yes, in the fifth one. I put it aside for several months and found that my back brain had figured it out.
At this point the fifth book looks like the last, unless I fit another one into the series before it.
CG: And none of the novels have been published yet, correct?
AT: That's correct, unfortunately. I hear a lot of "It's not marketable," which seems to mean that Walmart won't carry it.
CG: Fucking Walmart.
Are they still being shopped?
AT: As far as I know. I never go there.
As for the novels, yes, I'm still sending queries out.
CG: Why do you like or love crime fiction?
I can tell you exactly why I love the genre and why I write in it more than anything else and that is because there's such a broad base of where you can go with any given story. Even if you wanted to, you could toss zombies and vampires into a story and, as long as it had some kind of crime in it, it would still be some kind of crime story.
You can tell a story about a bank robbery or about a husband that accidently kills his wife or, in your case, an observant prostitute who does the job of a detective better than the detectives themselves.
The range of stories to be told are my favorite thing about this genre and why I continue to work in it.
AT: Why do I love crime fiction? Someone once said about music, "The devil gets the best tunes." In fiction the bad guys get the best stories. And if I put Diana near a colorful bad guy, right away I have a story about an extreme situation that she might or might not be equal to.
My question is, why would anyone write about anything but crime?
CG: Good answer and an equally good question.
What about influences on your writing?
AT: Influences on my work would be anyone who has written a successful series, from Rex Stout to Michael Connelly, among others. I love it when the writer and I share years of experience with a deep and fascinating character.
CG: Thanks for the interview, Al.
AT: Thank you.
I've told Al what I'm about to tell you and that is that I think Diana Andrews is one of the strongest characters, male or female, in the crime/noir fiction game today.
Just go read Dying For A Smoke and tell me I'm wrong.
This weekend, I had an interview with Al.
It was Al's first interview. Guess what? It was also the first that I've conducted that I've ever shared. There are more to come, though, be sure of that.
I hope you find it to be both informative and entertaining.
Christopher Grant: I guess I'll ask you first about process.
Albert Tucher: I have a backlog of story ideas that come from all over the place--news stories, books I've read (there are a lot of prostitute memoirs out there, and they have been useful). I also had a "technical consultant" for a couple of years, a young woman in the escort business who talked about her life and gave me excellent material.
I do most of my writing at the local Barnes and Noble, where I am known as "the hooker guy." At least to some!
I like the comings and goings and commotion around me while I'm there. It helps me concentrate, believe it or not. I can write at home, but I prefer a more public venue.
Although, there is one guy who doesn't know when to stop talking.
I have a friend who steals writing time in the parking lot of the supermarket. She has a family.
CG: If it ain't broke... How did you come to create Diana Andrews?
AT: I took a fiction writing class at the local county college in 2000. Our assignment was an action story. I started with a mental picture of a man and a woman confronting each other on the shoulder of a deserted road. Somehow I decided that she was a hooker and he was a cop, and she was the good guy. That story became the opening chapter of The February Core, the first novel. (The cop became a woman along the way.)
I didn't write short stories until about 2005, when I decided that I needed to build a resume. I have grown to like writing them a lot, though.
CG: Well, they're short, so you don't have to think too far ahead and pray that you don't lose a reader along the way.
AT: True. And they helped me work out Diana's earlier life. The novels start late in her hooking career and follow her in retirement--which is no less strenuous.
CG: Do you work with a character file? Do you have a card somewhere with Diana's vitals on it and anyone else that she might have encountered so you can just pull them out and say, "Here's a story"?
AT: I probably should do that, but I haven't. Sometimes I have to rummage through the novels and stories to remind myself of some detail.
CG: How do you know when a story isn't working?
AT: I usually grind to a halt. And that usually happens when I'm working on a stand-alone. I have only a few of those that work, none published yet.
CG: Did anything like that ever happen with the novels?
AT: Yes, in the fifth one. I put it aside for several months and found that my back brain had figured it out.
At this point the fifth book looks like the last, unless I fit another one into the series before it.
CG: And none of the novels have been published yet, correct?
AT: That's correct, unfortunately. I hear a lot of "It's not marketable," which seems to mean that Walmart won't carry it.
CG: Fucking Walmart.
Are they still being shopped?
AT: As far as I know. I never go there.
As for the novels, yes, I'm still sending queries out.
CG: Why do you like or love crime fiction?
I can tell you exactly why I love the genre and why I write in it more than anything else and that is because there's such a broad base of where you can go with any given story. Even if you wanted to, you could toss zombies and vampires into a story and, as long as it had some kind of crime in it, it would still be some kind of crime story.
You can tell a story about a bank robbery or about a husband that accidently kills his wife or, in your case, an observant prostitute who does the job of a detective better than the detectives themselves.
The range of stories to be told are my favorite thing about this genre and why I continue to work in it.
AT: Why do I love crime fiction? Someone once said about music, "The devil gets the best tunes." In fiction the bad guys get the best stories. And if I put Diana near a colorful bad guy, right away I have a story about an extreme situation that she might or might not be equal to.
My question is, why would anyone write about anything but crime?
CG: Good answer and an equally good question.
What about influences on your writing?
AT: Influences on my work would be anyone who has written a successful series, from Rex Stout to Michael Connelly, among others. I love it when the writer and I share years of experience with a deep and fascinating character.
CG: Thanks for the interview, Al.
AT: Thank you.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
A Twist Of Noir 015 - Albert Tucher
ENLARGE YOUR PENIS - ALBERT TUCHER
Originally published at DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash Fiction
“I can’t go out there. They’ll see me.”
“Who?” said Diana.
“Cops.”
He closed the door. Diana turned the bathroom light off and went across the room to the window. She pushed the heavy drape aside.
Five patrol cars had crowded into the motel’s parking lot. She counted five uniformed officers and two men in suits. One of the two was not exactly a friend, but she got along with him.
“Bill,“ she said, “that’s a lot of cops. Whatever happened must be pretty heavy. I doubt they’ll care what we’re doing.”
“I can‘t get caught here.”
It was already too late for him to go. The cops were knocking on doors and looking for witnesses.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said.
She dressed quickly and headed out into the courtyard parking lot. The door closed behind her. Detective Tillotson didn’t turn his head, but she knew he had seen her. He nodded at the officer guarding the scene, who shrugged and lifted the yellow tape for her.
“Know him?” said Tillotson. He pointed at a motionless form lying in a parking space between a pickup and an aging Buick.
“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “I saw him two hours ago.”
“Alive?”
“Very.”
“So he’s a client?”
“His name is Bruce Fenchok.”
The man in the other suit crouched over the body. He looked up. “The bruise on his jaw is from a fist, would be my guess. But what killed him was probably the back of his head hitting the blacktop. Just don’t tell the M.E. I was stepping on his toes.”
“Would I do you like that?” said Tillotson.
The man stood up and went to speak to a couple of uniforms. Tillotson and Diana looked down at the body.
“Jesus,” said Tillotson.
“Ten inches.”
“You measured?”
“Didn’t have to. He told me often enough.”
“Is something like that a…challenge?”
“Not really.”
“Never mind. I can’t believe I said that. So why was he waving it around in the parking lot?”
Bruce’s jeans and jockey shorts were halfway down his thighs.
“Either he pulled his pants down,” said Tillotson, “or somebody did it for him, or somebody made him do it. But that doesn’t tell us why.”
“He was very proud of himself. I doubt I’m the only one he ever bragged to about it.”
“You think this was some kind of show and tell? Out here?”
“I can think of one way it could happen.”
“I gotta hear this.”
“You can’t see into this lot from the highway. Some people treat it like their living room. Or locker room, or whatever.”
“So?”
“So there’s another guy around. Calls himself Duke.”
“Another client?”
“No, which is why I don’t mind giving him up. But I’ve heard other girls talk about him. They usually see him here.”
Tillotson shook his head.
“This is too weird. If it came from anybody but you, I’d say bullshit.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“When I write my book, …”
“Illustrated?”
He gave her a look.
“Sorry,” she said. “You know, I could score some major points with my client if you let me sneak him out of here.”
Tillotson looked unhappy.
“Come on. We didn’t see anything. We were busy.”
“What the hell. Go.”
Tillotson called her at home just short of midnight.
“You know, this is some kind of first. Reporting to a civilian, I mean.”
“I guess this isn’t your average case.”
“Understatement of the year. Anyway, Douglas Strzelbicki, AKA Duke. Nine and a half inches. He and Fenchok got into a measuring contest in the parking lot. Mr. Fenchok was not a gracious winner, and Mr. Strzelbicki was a very sore loser. No witnesses that we can find. Without your input we wouldn’t have had a clue.”
“So what did he do, just up and confess?”
“We found a tape measure in the victim‘s truck. Prints from two people on it--the victim, and Duke. We told him, and he caved.”
Tillotson paused.
“This makes me glad to be an average sort of guy. If you know what I mean.”
“Detective,” she said, “if you’re glad, I’m glad.”
BIO: Albert Tucher is the author of eighteen published stories and four unpublished novels about prostitute Diana Andrews. Like most authors of hardboiled crime fiction, he is a librarian in his day job.
Originally published at DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash Fiction
“I can’t go out there. They’ll see me.”
“Who?” said Diana.
“Cops.”
He closed the door. Diana turned the bathroom light off and went across the room to the window. She pushed the heavy drape aside.
Five patrol cars had crowded into the motel’s parking lot. She counted five uniformed officers and two men in suits. One of the two was not exactly a friend, but she got along with him.
“Bill,“ she said, “that’s a lot of cops. Whatever happened must be pretty heavy. I doubt they’ll care what we’re doing.”
“I can‘t get caught here.”
It was already too late for him to go. The cops were knocking on doors and looking for witnesses.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said.
She dressed quickly and headed out into the courtyard parking lot. The door closed behind her. Detective Tillotson didn’t turn his head, but she knew he had seen her. He nodded at the officer guarding the scene, who shrugged and lifted the yellow tape for her.
“Know him?” said Tillotson. He pointed at a motionless form lying in a parking space between a pickup and an aging Buick.
“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “I saw him two hours ago.”
“Alive?”
“Very.”
“So he’s a client?”
“His name is Bruce Fenchok.”
The man in the other suit crouched over the body. He looked up. “The bruise on his jaw is from a fist, would be my guess. But what killed him was probably the back of his head hitting the blacktop. Just don’t tell the M.E. I was stepping on his toes.”
“Would I do you like that?” said Tillotson.
The man stood up and went to speak to a couple of uniforms. Tillotson and Diana looked down at the body.
“Jesus,” said Tillotson.
“Ten inches.”
“You measured?”
“Didn’t have to. He told me often enough.”
“Is something like that a…challenge?”
“Not really.”
“Never mind. I can’t believe I said that. So why was he waving it around in the parking lot?”
Bruce’s jeans and jockey shorts were halfway down his thighs.
“Either he pulled his pants down,” said Tillotson, “or somebody did it for him, or somebody made him do it. But that doesn’t tell us why.”
“He was very proud of himself. I doubt I’m the only one he ever bragged to about it.”
“You think this was some kind of show and tell? Out here?”
“I can think of one way it could happen.”
“I gotta hear this.”
“You can’t see into this lot from the highway. Some people treat it like their living room. Or locker room, or whatever.”
“So?”
“So there’s another guy around. Calls himself Duke.”
“Another client?”
“No, which is why I don’t mind giving him up. But I’ve heard other girls talk about him. They usually see him here.”
Tillotson shook his head.
“This is too weird. If it came from anybody but you, I’d say bullshit.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“When I write my book, …”
“Illustrated?”
He gave her a look.
“Sorry,” she said. “You know, I could score some major points with my client if you let me sneak him out of here.”
Tillotson looked unhappy.
“Come on. We didn’t see anything. We were busy.”
“What the hell. Go.”
Tillotson called her at home just short of midnight.
“You know, this is some kind of first. Reporting to a civilian, I mean.”
“I guess this isn’t your average case.”
“Understatement of the year. Anyway, Douglas Strzelbicki, AKA Duke. Nine and a half inches. He and Fenchok got into a measuring contest in the parking lot. Mr. Fenchok was not a gracious winner, and Mr. Strzelbicki was a very sore loser. No witnesses that we can find. Without your input we wouldn’t have had a clue.”
“So what did he do, just up and confess?”
“We found a tape measure in the victim‘s truck. Prints from two people on it--the victim, and Duke. We told him, and he caved.”
Tillotson paused.
“This makes me glad to be an average sort of guy. If you know what I mean.”
“Detective,” she said, “if you’re glad, I’m glad.”
BIO: Albert Tucher is the author of eighteen published stories and four unpublished novels about prostitute Diana Andrews. Like most authors of hardboiled crime fiction, he is a librarian in his day job.
A Twist Of Noir 014 - David Cranmer
A GOLDEN GOD - DAVID CRANMER
His sleek, tan figure gracefully parted the water of the hotel pool and emerged seconds later to the adulation of the gathered crowd. Their cheers were met by a wide, blazing smile of perfect teeth. When a buxom blonde broke from the group and wrapped the Adonis with a towel, he duly rewarded her with a peck on the cheek and a pat to a barely concealed fanny.
The heir to a 1.5 billion dollar telecommunications empire seemed to have it all until the slug from my high powered rifle tunneled into his forehead. Blood splattered the blonde as he hurtled backward into the pool. I popped off several birthday balloons to create confusion. His mother screamed, mayhem erupted… people collided, stumbled and fell.
A crimson halo drifted in the water around his head. Only his brother dove in to help him.
Another $500,000 arrived in my Swiss account two weeks later. I sat in my barren apartment with the shades drawn, stirring a whiskey and ice, waiting for my next assignment. I reflected on the golden god whose life I had taken for a cool million. The brother’s courage made all the papers and as I stared at his narrow bug-eyed face on the front page, I lamented that I didn’t charge the bastard more.
BIO: David Cranmer is from upstate New York. When he’s not working as a contractor for the government, he’s either writing short stories or posting his random thoughts on The Education of a Pulp Writer blog. He has a story in the current Revenge issue of Out of the Gutter.
His sleek, tan figure gracefully parted the water of the hotel pool and emerged seconds later to the adulation of the gathered crowd. Their cheers were met by a wide, blazing smile of perfect teeth. When a buxom blonde broke from the group and wrapped the Adonis with a towel, he duly rewarded her with a peck on the cheek and a pat to a barely concealed fanny.
The heir to a 1.5 billion dollar telecommunications empire seemed to have it all until the slug from my high powered rifle tunneled into his forehead. Blood splattered the blonde as he hurtled backward into the pool. I popped off several birthday balloons to create confusion. His mother screamed, mayhem erupted… people collided, stumbled and fell.
A crimson halo drifted in the water around his head. Only his brother dove in to help him.
***
Another $500,000 arrived in my Swiss account two weeks later. I sat in my barren apartment with the shades drawn, stirring a whiskey and ice, waiting for my next assignment. I reflected on the golden god whose life I had taken for a cool million. The brother’s courage made all the papers and as I stared at his narrow bug-eyed face on the front page, I lamented that I didn’t charge the bastard more.
BIO: David Cranmer is from upstate New York. When he’s not working as a contractor for the government, he’s either writing short stories or posting his random thoughts on The Education of a Pulp Writer blog. He has a story in the current Revenge issue of Out of the Gutter.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A Twist Of Noir 013 - Cormac Brown
STRAWBERRY QUICK - CORMAC BROWN
Originally published at Cormac Writes and the first chapter at Hardboiled Chapters
This is who they send to watch me?
Even over the hyper-fluttering sound of the money counter tallying bills like an amplified flock of vultures, I could hear the snort. I looked over by the door and there he was, the true Lizard King, forget Jim Morrison. This character was a reptile, from his mannerisms, to his clothes and shoes made from snakes and alligators. To his bulging eyes that suggested his brain was all reptilian, with not a dash of ape or mammal to dilute it.
He had an Altoids tin open and there was a light pink powder inside. He was using one of those tablespoon-teaspoon spoons on a ring that your mom used to use in the kitchen when baking pies and the second smallest spoon seemed to be in heavy rotation, today.
I shuffled and stacked some more money like a blackjack dealer in Vegas and fed the pile into the money counter.
I nodded at him and said slowly "What's that, Pixie-stick dust?"
Even though I said it slowly, I figured it wouldn't register and it didn't.
"I said, what is that, Pixie-stick dust?"
He blinked for what had to be the first time since he had been in the room, some thirty minutes, and he blinked again as he glared at me with those cold, reptilian eyes.
He rasped, "What are you talking about? Are you high?"
Talk about the kettle...
"The stuff, what is it?"
"Strawberry Quick, yo."
I banded the counted pile and shuffled up another deck of five dollar bills.
"Don't you want some milk to go with that?"
"Really, are you high?"
I repeat, this is who they send to watch me?
In between sorting singles, "No, I haven't been high since the elder Bush was in office." Fives, "what is that supposed to be..." Twenties, "some new kind of designer drug?"
"No, it's meth. Strawberry-flavored meth."
"And?"
"And it's not as strong as strong as regular meth, so you don't become addicted. Shit, you are so retarded."
Yeah, how dumb can I be? I must be a raging idiot to not want to have my eyes bugging out of my head and my brain bouncing against my ears.
"Interesting."
A light pink plume shot up as he closed the tin. He slipped it into a Ziploc and sealed the bag. He walked over to the water cooler and doused his fingers with water. Then he snorted the wet off of his fingers.
"What, you don't have no vices?" he sneered and nodded towards my ample frame.
"I like a sifter of Jack Daniels every now and then. But, see, unlike you, I like my death to taste like death."
"What?"
"I said, I don't need my death sugar-coated with a parasol, I take mine straight-up."
"Who asked you, any-"
There was a gentle knock on the door that silenced us and got our attention like the rattle of a sidewinder. Anyone who was connected to the money would've called on one of the four of the cell phones that were stationed around this beat-up studio apartment.
The neighbors wouldn't bother us because it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves, that's why it was chosen. It was either cop or criminal on the side of that five-inch, reinforced door.
The Lizard King had his guns out before the second knock hit the door. Now I could see why he was stationed here; his reflexes matched his reptile brain. Me? For some odd reason, I slowly reached for my Street Sweeper from its shelf under the table and brought it up.
The DAO-12 Street Sweeper was a revolver gone wrong. It was a shotgun that had its way with a Roaring Twenties machine gun and this was the end result. A twelve-inch barrel with twelve-gauge cartridges and twelve cartridges in the rotating drum. Fuck thirteen, twelve was their unlucky number.
Though we were three stories up, it occurred simultaneously to the Lizard King and me that someone might be coming through the windows. As we both looked over, sparks flew from the hinges on the door. Whatever they were using, the door was going to come down in seconds, and I was wondering if this was all worth their hassle. I mean, really.
As the Lizard King shifted to the right side of the room to be out of both their line and my line of fire, I realized that people hit liquor stores all the time, often for less than a hundred dollars. So I guess certain death was worth it for them. As a man of peace, it certainly wasn't worth it for me, though I'd send all of them to hell before I'd kill myself.
Before the door hit the ground, the Lizard King must have let loose over six rounds, and two of those idiots fell like leaves in the wind on top of the door. Another idiot jumped into the threshold like he was a kid playing cops and robbers, and in an instant, his brains were all over the door of the apartment across the hall.
This all took place within eight seconds, tops. I got the feeling that the Lizard King was screwing around with them and he could've taken care of things even faster. Then the drugs he was on must have overrode his common sense. He walked over the bodies and stuck his head out of the door. He flew from the right side of the door jamb to the left and hit the ground even faster than any of the three he killed.
Who's the "retard" now, Lizzy? Then the lights in the hallway went out...great. The apartment light switch is right by the front door and I wasn't about to walk over there to turn it off, and expose myself. On the other hand, they could see me and all I would be able to see would be the muzzle flash of their guns just before their bullets hit me.
Then the silliest lyrics from a song from a record that my grandmother used to play hit me.
*If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake*
*Baked a cake, baked a cake*
*If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake*
But instead of *"Howd-ya do, howd-ya do, howd-ya do,"* I was thinking, "what to do, what to do, what to do?" I bit my lip, then decided that they were coming in...
five...
four...
three...
two...
...then I let loose with the Street Sweeper, hitting the wall just to the right of the door, because that's the side where the bullets that finished the Lizard King came from. A squeal and the perpetrator dropped down on all fours, just right above the Lizard King and the idiot's comrade, said that my aim was true. But how accurate do you have to be with a shotgun, anyway?
I pumped another cartridge, squeezed and finished him off. The apartment door across the way was embedded with black buckshot...plus a nasty, visceral, gray, pink, and crimson. I counted again and let loose one just to the right of my first shot...nothing. As I chambered another cartridge, I heard what sounded like a chair sliding across a wooden floor.
One of the windows was slowly sliding open. What ladder from hell could reach this high? Just before the hand could push the window as high as it could go, I pulled the trigger.
The apartment had a new hole in the wall and outside the hole's diameter, was even more crimson and matter. The scream of whoever it was that used to have two hands, descended down, fast and away like a baseball pitch. Then there was the crash of ladder and perpetrator on the pavement.
Judging from the screams, it was a man, though the pain was driving him to falsetto. The very same gene that causes idiots to stare at auto accidents was compelling me to look out the window, but I had more pressing issues.
I didn't hear any sirens, but you know that crap is for TV, anyway. The cops wouldn't want to tip me off that they were well on their way and that in minutes, if not seconds, I'd be ass-deep in blue. The excuse of "self-defense" loses its weight when you have a gun that was banned in America, years ago, thousands, and thousands in illegal money, five bodies on the floor, and one outside that is about to expire.
Not to mention that there still could be more robbers lurking out in the hallway. So I had to work as quickly and best as I could with just one hand. I slid open the large sports bag that I originally brought the money in with, and then I shoveled, scooped, and crammed the banded and loose money. I flinched as I thought I heard a door open somewhere. Fuck it, the cops are coming, get rid of the evidence.
I took out the small gas cans and flare that were under the sink for just this occasion. I doused everything I could with the cans within thirty seconds, then I tucked the flare in my right rear pants pocket. I quickly pointed the Street Sweeper down the hallway and pulled the trigger. I wasn't going out like the Lizard King.
Blowback or something from the shotgun ignited the gas. I had to run back in and get the money before it burned up, or my life would be worth less than these bodies at beneath my feet, and my death would be a lot more painful. I got it out just before the flare-up and I walked out into the hallway. I didn't see any more robbers, so I started knocking on doors and telling people that the building was on fire.
They still didn't open their doors. See? I told you it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves.
By the time I got to my car, there he was. He was still shrieking and clutching the stump that was his right arm. I was lucky that both he and the ladder landed just inches from my rear fender, or I'd be wide open for arrest, on foot.
I pulled the trigger one more time. Not so much as to put him out of his misery, as to keep him from identifying me, and adding to mine.
BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis, and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at Cormac Writes.
Originally published at Cormac Writes and the first chapter at Hardboiled Chapters
This is who they send to watch me?
Even over the hyper-fluttering sound of the money counter tallying bills like an amplified flock of vultures, I could hear the snort. I looked over by the door and there he was, the true Lizard King, forget Jim Morrison. This character was a reptile, from his mannerisms, to his clothes and shoes made from snakes and alligators. To his bulging eyes that suggested his brain was all reptilian, with not a dash of ape or mammal to dilute it.
He had an Altoids tin open and there was a light pink powder inside. He was using one of those tablespoon-teaspoon spoons on a ring that your mom used to use in the kitchen when baking pies and the second smallest spoon seemed to be in heavy rotation, today.
I shuffled and stacked some more money like a blackjack dealer in Vegas and fed the pile into the money counter.
I nodded at him and said slowly "What's that, Pixie-stick dust?"
Even though I said it slowly, I figured it wouldn't register and it didn't.
"I said, what is that, Pixie-stick dust?"
He blinked for what had to be the first time since he had been in the room, some thirty minutes, and he blinked again as he glared at me with those cold, reptilian eyes.
He rasped, "What are you talking about? Are you high?"
Talk about the kettle...
"The stuff, what is it?"
"Strawberry Quick, yo."
I banded the counted pile and shuffled up another deck of five dollar bills.
"Don't you want some milk to go with that?"
"Really, are you high?"
I repeat, this is who they send to watch me?
In between sorting singles, "No, I haven't been high since the elder Bush was in office." Fives, "what is that supposed to be..." Twenties, "some new kind of designer drug?"
"No, it's meth. Strawberry-flavored meth."
"And?"
"And it's not as strong as strong as regular meth, so you don't become addicted. Shit, you are so retarded."
Yeah, how dumb can I be? I must be a raging idiot to not want to have my eyes bugging out of my head and my brain bouncing against my ears.
"Interesting."
A light pink plume shot up as he closed the tin. He slipped it into a Ziploc and sealed the bag. He walked over to the water cooler and doused his fingers with water. Then he snorted the wet off of his fingers.
"What, you don't have no vices?" he sneered and nodded towards my ample frame.
"I like a sifter of Jack Daniels every now and then. But, see, unlike you, I like my death to taste like death."
"What?"
"I said, I don't need my death sugar-coated with a parasol, I take mine straight-up."
"Who asked you, any-"
There was a gentle knock on the door that silenced us and got our attention like the rattle of a sidewinder. Anyone who was connected to the money would've called on one of the four of the cell phones that were stationed around this beat-up studio apartment.
The neighbors wouldn't bother us because it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves, that's why it was chosen. It was either cop or criminal on the side of that five-inch, reinforced door.
The Lizard King had his guns out before the second knock hit the door. Now I could see why he was stationed here; his reflexes matched his reptile brain. Me? For some odd reason, I slowly reached for my Street Sweeper from its shelf under the table and brought it up.
The DAO-12 Street Sweeper was a revolver gone wrong. It was a shotgun that had its way with a Roaring Twenties machine gun and this was the end result. A twelve-inch barrel with twelve-gauge cartridges and twelve cartridges in the rotating drum. Fuck thirteen, twelve was their unlucky number.
Though we were three stories up, it occurred simultaneously to the Lizard King and me that someone might be coming through the windows. As we both looked over, sparks flew from the hinges on the door. Whatever they were using, the door was going to come down in seconds, and I was wondering if this was all worth their hassle. I mean, really.
As the Lizard King shifted to the right side of the room to be out of both their line and my line of fire, I realized that people hit liquor stores all the time, often for less than a hundred dollars. So I guess certain death was worth it for them. As a man of peace, it certainly wasn't worth it for me, though I'd send all of them to hell before I'd kill myself.
Before the door hit the ground, the Lizard King must have let loose over six rounds, and two of those idiots fell like leaves in the wind on top of the door. Another idiot jumped into the threshold like he was a kid playing cops and robbers, and in an instant, his brains were all over the door of the apartment across the hall.
This all took place within eight seconds, tops. I got the feeling that the Lizard King was screwing around with them and he could've taken care of things even faster. Then the drugs he was on must have overrode his common sense. He walked over the bodies and stuck his head out of the door. He flew from the right side of the door jamb to the left and hit the ground even faster than any of the three he killed.
Who's the "retard" now, Lizzy? Then the lights in the hallway went out...great. The apartment light switch is right by the front door and I wasn't about to walk over there to turn it off, and expose myself. On the other hand, they could see me and all I would be able to see would be the muzzle flash of their guns just before their bullets hit me.
Then the silliest lyrics from a song from a record that my grandmother used to play hit me.
*If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake*
*Baked a cake, baked a cake*
*If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake*
But instead of *"Howd-ya do, howd-ya do, howd-ya do,"* I was thinking, "what to do, what to do, what to do?" I bit my lip, then decided that they were coming in...
five...
four...
three...
two...
...then I let loose with the Street Sweeper, hitting the wall just to the right of the door, because that's the side where the bullets that finished the Lizard King came from. A squeal and the perpetrator dropped down on all fours, just right above the Lizard King and the idiot's comrade, said that my aim was true. But how accurate do you have to be with a shotgun, anyway?
I pumped another cartridge, squeezed and finished him off. The apartment door across the way was embedded with black buckshot...plus a nasty, visceral, gray, pink, and crimson. I counted again and let loose one just to the right of my first shot...nothing. As I chambered another cartridge, I heard what sounded like a chair sliding across a wooden floor.
One of the windows was slowly sliding open. What ladder from hell could reach this high? Just before the hand could push the window as high as it could go, I pulled the trigger.
The apartment had a new hole in the wall and outside the hole's diameter, was even more crimson and matter. The scream of whoever it was that used to have two hands, descended down, fast and away like a baseball pitch. Then there was the crash of ladder and perpetrator on the pavement.
Judging from the screams, it was a man, though the pain was driving him to falsetto. The very same gene that causes idiots to stare at auto accidents was compelling me to look out the window, but I had more pressing issues.
I didn't hear any sirens, but you know that crap is for TV, anyway. The cops wouldn't want to tip me off that they were well on their way and that in minutes, if not seconds, I'd be ass-deep in blue. The excuse of "self-defense" loses its weight when you have a gun that was banned in America, years ago, thousands, and thousands in illegal money, five bodies on the floor, and one outside that is about to expire.
Not to mention that there still could be more robbers lurking out in the hallway. So I had to work as quickly and best as I could with just one hand. I slid open the large sports bag that I originally brought the money in with, and then I shoveled, scooped, and crammed the banded and loose money. I flinched as I thought I heard a door open somewhere. Fuck it, the cops are coming, get rid of the evidence.
I took out the small gas cans and flare that were under the sink for just this occasion. I doused everything I could with the cans within thirty seconds, then I tucked the flare in my right rear pants pocket. I quickly pointed the Street Sweeper down the hallway and pulled the trigger. I wasn't going out like the Lizard King.
Blowback or something from the shotgun ignited the gas. I had to run back in and get the money before it burned up, or my life would be worth less than these bodies at beneath my feet, and my death would be a lot more painful. I got it out just before the flare-up and I walked out into the hallway. I didn't see any more robbers, so I started knocking on doors and telling people that the building was on fire.
They still didn't open their doors. See? I told you it was the kind of building where everyone kept to themselves.
By the time I got to my car, there he was. He was still shrieking and clutching the stump that was his right arm. I was lucky that both he and the ladder landed just inches from my rear fender, or I'd be wide open for arrest, on foot.
I pulled the trigger one more time. Not so much as to put him out of his misery, as to keep him from identifying me, and adding to mine.
BIO: "Cormac Brown" is my pen name. I'm an up-and-slumming writer in the city of Saint Francis, and I'm following in the footsteps of Hammett...minus the TB and working for the Pinkerton Agency. A couple of stories that I've stapled and stitched together can be found at Cormac Writes.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Interlude #2
Your Friendly Neighborhood Editor breaking in here to let everyone know that we've had at least a couple of writers experience problems with the MEG5486@aol.com address.
I should have addressed this when we first experienced the problem but hindsight being what it is...
I suggested to them, as I suggest now to you, that if you experience the problem, try sending again to BseeingUFive@aol.com. It should work, as it has with those mentioned above.
Back to the noir.
I should have addressed this when we first experienced the problem but hindsight being what it is...
I suggested to them, as I suggest now to you, that if you experience the problem, try sending again to BseeingUFive@aol.com. It should work, as it has with those mentioned above.
Back to the noir.
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