Interlude Stories: Dana C. Kabel

FREE LIKE SHERRY - DANA C. KABEL

Schiff got the gun and I got the knife, cause that was what they threw in the center of the ring and the knife was the quickest thing I could grab onto.

Course, a gun ain’t nothing but a club when there’s no bullets in it, and old Schiff found that out the hard way when it made that empty clicking sound in his hand. Just steel on steel and the dog fart dry gasp that came out of his mouth when he realized he grabbed the shitty end of the stick.

Mr. Mason started laughing hard in the gallery up above us. I knew that it was him because he has a loud bark...what some people might call a guffaw...and he laughs at a lot of things that most people wouldn’t find so funny.

Even in the life and death situation I was in, I could picture Mr. Mason in his Sam’s Club suit chomping on a fat cigar and grabbing his trophy girlfriend’s pretty little ass while he watched us go about killing each other.

“Kill that pussy sonofabitch!” An angry voice shouted. “Stab him in the neck!”

I looked at Schiff and truly felt guilty about the scared look in his eyes because that was exactly what I was thinking about doing. He started backpedaling as I charged forward with the long blade held high above my head, ready to stab him.

Schiff backed himself against the wall as I closed in and squinted his eyes as he clenched up, cause he thought he was done for. But thinking about putting a knife in someone and actually doing it are two different things entirely, so I guess when it came down to the moment of truth I closed my own eyes up pretty good, too.

Our bodies smacked together and a sharp pain rang up my arm and I heard the knife clang to the floor. That was because I stabbed the block wall behind Schiff and the blade just bounced off.

We opened our eyes at the same time and Schiff pushed me off and came at me with the gun in his hand like the little club it had become. Something snapped in me then and the fear went right out of me.

I guess I was mad that I had missed my chance and now old Schiff was gonna get his turn at me because of it. It didn’t help none that Mr. Mason was shouting all sorts of obscenities at me, calling me a worthless piece of shit and what not.

And it wasn’t just the words he was throwing at me. Mr. Mason had called me lots worse lots of other times. But the fact he was putting me down like that in front of that little gal...

Well, tell the truth that little gal was the prettiest damned girl I’d ever seen in my life and it gulled me from the start to see her under Mr. Mason’s thumb the way she was.

Her name was Sherry, and she was too pretty and young to be with a fat old ugly man like Mr. Mason. Sherry should have been some place nice and clean with someone nice and good who would treat her right.

It...it was an abomination that he was in her life the way he was.

I probably shouldn’t have been thinking about all that when there was a man trying to bludgeon me to death with the butt end of an eight inch .44 magnum. If you never held one of those before, I can tell you it’s a heavy piece of iron.

I snapped out of my own head almost a second too late and dodged just enough so that the butt of that pistol just glanced off my thick skull. Even so, that was enough of a slap to bring my mind back to Earth all the way.

After I staggered back in line, I saw Schiff coming in with another swing and I come up under his chin with my hard elbow and knocked him on his ass.

The wind went right outta him when he hit the ground, but old Schiff held right onto that Smith. That was until I healed back and kicked it away from him like Charlie Brown connecting with Lucy’s football for the first time.

There was a loud crack as Schiff’s wrist broke and the gun went skittering across the floor.

Schiff howled like a gut shot coon hound and old Mr. Mason started his disgusting pig-donkey laugh again.

Schiff got to his feet again, cause giving up ain’t an option in the game we were playing. Mr. Mason makes it clear to anyone going in the ring that one way or another only one man comes out alive. Even if one fella just gives out or gives up, Mr. Mason’s men make sure they don’t crawl out of the pit.

The fella that comes out of that pit alive gets one hundred thousand dollars, which ain’t peanuts from Mr. Mason takes in from all the wagers. But it’s enough for a guy like me to steal away a pretty little thing like Sherry and dust out of town.

If I could have afforded to feel bad for old Schiff I would have. I did give him some room though, while he pulled his sorry self up to his feet with his broke wrist cradled to his body like a lame wing.

“Let’s make it interesting,” Mr. Mason shouted. Then one of his men threw a handful of bullets out onto the floor.

Schiff dove for those bullets like he was trying to cover ‘em all up with his body. I went for the gun.

He was scrambling them all together with his one good arm when I walked up to him with the Smith in my hand. Schiff grinned as he showed me the handful of bullets he had gathered up before he dropped them into his pocket.

Then I showed him the one bullet I had snatched up on my way to getting the gun and his grin went away.

Schiff fell back and closed his eyes and started breathing quick and shallow. Mr. Mason brayed like a damned fool as I held the bullet high above my head for the cheering crowd to see.

I snapped the Smith open and put that lone bullet in the cylinder and snapped it shut again.

“Say your prayers, Schiff,” I said.

He started weeping. I cocked the gun and pointed it at his head.

Then I looked up at Mr. Mason with his fat cigar sticking out of his fat headed grin. He had a drink in one hand and his other dirty hand all over that sweet looking Sherry, who was looking away from it all.

That pig owned that poor girl the same as he owned me and Schiff. Only, Sherry was like his fancy car or boat or plane and me and Schiff was like his dogs.

Mason gave the girl that big shot look of his and I pictured him doing a thousand filthy things to her in my mind and knew that it just wasn’t right. When she turned her head up to look back at him, Sherry gave that pig the darndest little grin and nuzzled tight to him under his fat arm. I knew right then that pretty gal would never go off with me cause that bastard ruint her.

Then he put his drink down and raised his thumb up like a emperor in the Coliseum.

The crowd roared. They all had money put on it one way or the other.

Mason turned his thumb over and pointed it down and the crowd went bat shit crazy with blood lust. Like he was pulling the trigger his own self.

And just like that, I swung the Smith up and fired.

That sweet young girl’s head snapped back and blood sprayed outta the back of her skull. There was one great gasp from the crowd and everything went so quiet I could hear the death fart go outta Sherry’s body. I knew that at that moment the stink of her dead body shitting itself was filling Mason’s nostrils.

He recoiled away from her just as the crowd snapped out of their shock and started mobbing for the exits.

I sat down on the ground next to old Schiff and closed my eyes and waited for Mason’s goon squad. In another minute me and Schiff would be free like Sherry.

BIO: Dana C. Kabel’s stories have appeared in A Twist of Noir, Black Heart Magazine, Darkest Before The Dawn, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Muzzleflash, Mysterical-E, Out of the Gutter, Powder Flash Burn, and Yellow Mama. He blogs at www.thenonstopbullet.blogspot.com

Interlude Stories: Steve Prusky

THE CLUB VEGAS BUS - STEVE PRUSKY

“Chauncey.”

“Sam.” The cellmates do not shake hands.

“Rules: I drive this bus. You ride. Stay quiet. Snore, I’ll slap you. No beating off. Don’t fuck with my shit. Top bunk is mine.”

“Whatever’s clever.”

“What’s your crime?”

“Probation violation; Bigamy.”

Chauncey--amused--coughs, spits up phlegm. “Bigamy! Your first conviction?”

“Possession with Intent to Sell.”

“You don’t divorce wife one before you marry wife two. You’re already on paper. Two snoops some and voilà; home is jail--‘Club Vegas’ we call it. Yup, you’re a crass criminal all right; foot in the gutter, foot in the grave... Scared a you.”

“Wife one lives in Wyoming. State needs her testimony or the judge will dismiss. She won’t. She’s mother to my kids. I’m violated anyway; dishonorable discharge from probation--Two years in Carson City all over a farce comedy for a case.”

“Been to Carson City; Indian Springs, Ely, too. They took my previous cellmate to Ely. Trafficking. Twenty-five to life. Twenty-three hour lock-down. They’ll let us out for dinner soon. You take his seat across from me at chow. At the table we got each other’s back.”

“Eyes in our backs, huh.”

“Smart man!”

An oriental trustee trots cell-to-cell, chimes “CHOW-TINE... CHOW TINE... CHOW TINE.” Chow Tine nods to the bull he is done. Fifty cell door locks simultaneously click open. The detainees form a line on the central floor for their plastic trays heaped with 600 calories of quality soup kitchen nutrition.

“They let us out on the floor eight hours a day. Sometimes fights start for the phone. Gang bangers mostly. They won’t fuck with we unaffiliated ones, though. We’re locked down sixteen hours daily; longer if there‘s trouble.”

“Why’er you here?”

“Forgery. Cashed a bad check. DA’s going for the ‘Big Bitch’. My public defender’s lost in the sauce; hasn’t done shit but help keep me locked up here with asinine motions to discover. Hired a real lawyer. I appear tomorrow; case dismissed--easy. Been shuffling through the system four months. Soon you’ll drive this bus... Oh shit, lamb. I can’t eat lamb. Eating lamb’s as close to eating human flesh as you can get.”

“There’s a little bitch?”

“Habitual Criminal Act. Two parts. Get convicted on the ‘Little Bitch’ it’s seven years minimum, fifteen max. The ‘Big Bitch’? Twenty-five to life. You gotta do the ‘Little Bitch’ to qualify for the ‘Big Bitch’. I’m eligible for the ‘Big Bitch’. Combined, that’s thirty-two years. Here, take my lamb and bread. Makes two sandwiches. Gimme your dessert.”

Sam wishes for mustard to liven the taste of the over processed ash grey fleshy slabs of meat.

“Nevada got the death penalty, too, in case you’re thinking of offing number two over this.”

They convict Chauncey--more so for wasting his life than kiting paper.

*

Sam offers his hand in friendship. “Sam,” he says to his new cellmate.

The stranger ignores Sam’s gesture. “Look, I been to ‘Club Vegas’ before, so listen good; I own this bus...”

BIO: Steve writes, lives and works in Las Vegas. His work has appeared in The Legendary, Flash Fiction Offensive, Whistling Fire, Short, Fast and Deadly and others. All his previously published work can be found at sprusky@blog.com.

Interlude: Submissions Closed

I have to take the step to shut submissions to A Twist Of Noir at this time, due to a gigantic backlog. I want to get to those stories and give them their due respect, as well as finish out the 600 To 700 Challenge.

So if you've recently submitted a story, please bear with me and know that I will get to your story in as short a time as possible.

Interlude Stories - Christine Rains

LADY BLOOD - CHRISTINE RAINS

They called her Lady Blood.

I ran my hands through her red locks and it did not remind me of blood at all. She was the fire that burned me, but if anyone had truly seen death as many times as I had, they would know that the true color of blood was a sickening ruddy brown. There was nothing sexy about it. It was a color to churn even the strongest man's stomach.

I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket in slow motion. She was a predator and she would bite if she felt threatened. I drew out my cigarettes and lit one, sucking back the rich taste into my lungs.

“Light one for me, lover.” The Lady's voice was moonlight over her curves.

I lit up a second cigarette and stretched forward, holding it out to her between my thumb and index finger. I didn't get too close to the gun she pointed at me. The bullet had my name written on it, and I only wanted to enjoy one more puff.

She shifted and took the cigarette butt to return to her lounging position on the hotel bed. The sheets whispered under her nude body as if they could soothe my fears. The Lady inhaled and let the smoke seep out from between her ruby lips. “You should have stopped digging when you were warned. I don't relish having to blast away your pretty face.”

“No one's going to miss my ugly mug.” I knew it as well as she did. “I was helping you.”

“I was helping myself, Detective Ruhl.”

So we were back to being professional. That name wasn't the one she growled such a short time ago. The echo of the sensual rumble still trembled within my ear.

“Your husband is-” I leaned forward, and she made a sharp gesture with the .38, forcing me back in my chair.

“I know very well who my husband is, or, well, was. It's after midnight. The job should be done.” Lady Blood took one more drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the bedside table. It sizzled with unfinished business. “Your gun will be found in a gutter, and witnesses will see a car very much like your beat-up jalopy fleeing the scene. It's a shame you got in too deep, but convenient for me.”

I snorted and shook my head as I forced the smoke out from between my teeth. “Every man's a convenience for you, doll, in one form or another.”

I stared at her, trying to be hard and cold as she made me feel. The problem was that there was still too much heat in my eyes. The dame knew it and gave me a tight smile. Even that stirred up something in me that I'd rather keep buried.

I took another drag and held the cigarette between my lips. I pushed the chair away from the bed to give me enough room to bend over and reach under the edge of it. She was suddenly on her knees with the gun in both hands.

The sheet fell away from her body. A jolt of hot desire went through my traitorous body. Though she was built for temptation, the gun kept me sober. It was too bad that she hadn't flashed the metal earlier in the night before she entranced me with her act. I held up my empty hands. “I'm just getting my shoes. At least allow me the dignity to die fully clothed.”

Lady Blood relaxed back, resting her rear on her heels. “Get on with it then. I have to go play the grieving widow. Tears never came easily for me.”

I slid my feet into my heavy shoes. I tied the laces in double knots and looked up into her dark eyes. “Not for any of us, doll.”

She tossed back her long hair like a magician's crimson cape and leveled the gun at my chest. “You were the best man I ever had.”

Even as I saw her finger twitch, I leaned back in my chair and swung my legs up thrusting my feet towards her. The bullet hit the hard sole, but it didn't stop. It embedded itself in my left foot with a searing pain. My legs kept the momentum as I fell backward, and I kicked at the gun. Her arms weren't locked and her pretty face met with the metal. There was the nauseating crack of snapping bones, and she fell limp onto the bed.

I righted myself on the floor and took another long drag on my cigarette before standing to limp out of the room. If I were truly the best man she had ever had, it was only because I didn't flick my still burning butt onto the bed on my way out.

BIO: Christine Rains is a geek, stay-at-home mom and writer. When she's not playing games with her son, she's playing games with her friends. She has four degrees which do not help at all with motherhood, but all that knowledge makes her a great Jeopardy player. Christine has fourteen short stories published and one forthcoming. She is a member of RWA. Her writing covers all genres of dark fiction, but she loves to lose herself in paranormal romance most of all.

Interlude Stories: Rob Kitchin

CASANOVA SUCCUMBS TO TWO-TON TINA - ROB KITCHIN

The three Dublin cops stared up at the red Georgian door, its paint peeling to reveal a drab, grey undercoat, the semi-circular window above covered in grime.

‘Are you sure this is the right address?’ Harry said.

‘That’s what Lil’ said,’ Pete replied. ‘Number 46, Flat B. He’s been missing two days; never returned from the job.’

‘Some job.’

‘Someone’s got to do it.’

‘Male escort! Just a glorified vibrator. Why the hell would a woman pay for it when blokes like us would do it for free?’

‘Because they don’t want to sleep with fat fucks like you,’ Chloe Gaines bristled. A bright young guard on the up, she’d yet again been saddled with an afternoon of Harry and Pete, a pair of middle-aged, hapless, lazy, misogynist cops wobbling along the slow road to retirement.

‘No need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s a valid question. What’s your problem anyway, Gaines, you not getting any? You need a glorified vibrator?’

‘My knickers aren’t in a twist! And I’ll never need to resort to an escort agency unlike you pair of losers.’

‘They’re after some Chippendale wannabe who’s hung like a table leg,’ Pete interjected, hoping to calm things, ‘and have no complications in the morning.’

‘I’m not putting up with this!’ Chloe snapped. ‘I’m reporting you both for sexist comments.’

‘I’m built like a tripod,’ Harry boasted, ignoring his colleague. She was forever threatening to report him, occasionally making good her promise. His career progression long dead, another reprimand was simply one more on his tally.

‘Only if you’re lying on the floor,’ Pete said. ‘Even then the shorter leg is a bit iffy.’

‘Fuck you. Come-on, let’s check it out.’ Harry set off up the short flight of stairs. ‘Probably just fecked off for a saucy weekend away.’

He pressed the bank of buzzers in order until someone answered and let them in. The wide hallway and staircase was shabby, barely hinting of its former glory as a fashionable townhouse. Flat B was on the right hand side.

Harry hammered on the door, waited a few moments, then thumped it again. ‘Nobody’s home,’ he muttered.

‘Or they can’t answer the door,’ Pete said. ‘Lil’ said the name on the credit card is Clementina Hines. Repeat customer. No bother previously, but isn’t answering her phone.’

‘Great. Well, I guess we better let ourselves in; have a scout around.’ Harry pulled a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘One of these should do the job.’

‘For god’s sake, Harry,’ Chloe said, ‘you can’t just break in! We need to check with the neighbours; find out if she had a landlord.’

‘Feck that,’ Harry said, selecting a key and slotting into place. ‘It’s an emergency, isn’t it? Missing glorified vibrator. We’ll have a quick shufti, then head on.’ He tried another key.

At the fifth attempt the door swung silently inwards. The three guards stepped across the threshold into a largish reception room with a high ceiling which was tastefully decorated and furnished with plush, sash curtains, a set of Pre-Raphaelite prints hanging on the deep red walls. An open bottle and two wine glasses rested on silver coasters on a glass-topped coffee-table. The room smelt of stale potpourri, wine and cigarettes with a lingering hint of something more repugnant.

‘I’ll take through there,’ Harry said pointing to a half-closed door. ‘You have a look that way,’ he said to Pete.

‘What about me?’ Chloe asked.

‘Sit and take notes,’ Harry said dismissively, moving to the half-closed door. ‘There’s only two doors, Gaines; you decide which one you want to look behind.’

Pete rounded the table, followed by a peeved Chloe, and opened a closed door.

The smell of shit rolled over them like a silent fart.

‘Jesus!’ Pete fanned at his nose and entered a bedroom. ‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ He reeled back, bouncing into Chloe and the two of them fell into the reception room.

‘Do you want me to leave so you two can have a bit of privacy?’

‘Fuck off, Harry,’ Pete replied. ‘She’s in there ... she’s ... she’s ...’

Harry stepped past his two colleagues and entered the bedroom. ‘Fuckin’ massive! My god, she must need a crane to get up in the morning! The Michelin Man has less fuckin’ tyres on him.’

‘Harry!’

‘What?’

‘What if she’s alive?’ Pete said, staggering in behind him.

‘What’s she going to do? It’s not like she’s going to be able to chase me, is it? In any case, she’s as dead as a beached whale.’

‘How do you know that?’ Pete asked, staring hesitantly over at the enormous, glutinous body laying prone on a king-sized bed, greasy brown hair extending down her back.

‘Oh my god,’ Chloe hissed, the colour draining from her face.

‘Because she’s cold, she’s not moving, and she’s shit herself,’ Harry said, moving to the far side of the bed.

‘Jesus,’ Pete repeated.

‘And so is Casanova.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a hand here. Our missing glorified vibrator is under her!’

‘Under her?’ Chloe muttered.

‘I reckon the excitement was too much for her, she keeled over and suffocated the poor bastard.’ He leaned down and picked up something from the floor. ‘Jesus, look at this.’ He held up two large circles of thread.

An involuntary shudder ran through Pete as he realised it was a gigantic g-string.

‘Now there’s a fantasy to keep you warm at night,’ Harry joked. ‘You could use these as a skipping rope.’

‘Whatever extends your tripod, Harry,’ Pete said, feeling queasy.

‘Even fully extended it wouldn’t be long enough to make a skipping rope for ants,’ Chloe said. ‘Put it down, you sick bastard. Try and show some respect.’

Harry ignored her and moved to the other side of the bed, standing on a sheet that had slipped to the floor, and lifted up the dead woman’s lank hair. ‘Holy moly! It’s Two-Ton Tina, queen of the flannel pant suit! My god, imagine riding Two-Ton Tina!’

‘Try looking in the mirror, Harry,’ Chloe protested. ‘You’re no picture book.’

‘I’d sooner not,’ Pete replied to Harry’s suggestion, blanching. Two-Tina might have had a nice flat, but she’d been a cranky, sarcastic balloon of a woman who’d waddled, wheezing, from pub to chipper and back again, constantly moaning about something or another. ‘Come-on, we better ring it in,’ he said, turning away.

‘Lil’ is going to have a fit,’ Harry said. ‘Losing one of her star performers.’

‘We should get him out from under her,’ Chloe said. ‘He might be still alive.’

‘You’re joking me, right?’ Harry said. ‘The only thing he’s breathing is flabby breasts.’

‘Well, you’d know all about those. Come-on, we need to roll her off,’ Chloe said, moving to the naked woman’s side. ‘We’ll tip her over that way. I’ll do the feet and legs, Harry the torso, Pete the head and shoulders.’

‘You want me to hold her head and shoulders?’

‘Stop being such a cry-baby. She’s dead, not toxic. Come-on.’

Pete shuffled past Chloe and Harry.

‘Okay, on the count of three,’ Chloe said. ‘One, two, three!’

The three guards lifted and pushed at the cold, clammy skin and fat.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said, struggling to lift and roll her hip. ‘She weighs a ton!’

Eventually she reached a tipping point, resting on her side to reveal a thin, tanned man in his late twenties.

The three of them leaning over, holding Tina in place, stared down, mesmerized by his manhood. Still sheathed in a condom, his flaccid cock was thick and long.

‘Holy moly,’ Harry muttered. ‘Now, that, you could use as a skipping rope.’

‘I guess that’s why women paid to sleep with him,’ Pete replied. ‘But they won’t be any longer; he’s definitely dead.’

‘Harry, get round there and help ease her down,’ Chloe ordered, snapping out of the trance.

‘Just let her roll.’

‘Harry!’

‘Okay, okay, keep your knickers on. Damp or not.’

Harry let go of Tina’s hip and circled the bed.

‘Okay then?’ Chloe asked. She and Pete let go of the body, pulling back from leaning over the prostrate body of Casanova.

Tina teetered for a second and then rolled over onto her back, her flab swaying like a shaken jelly. One of her legs dropped down to the floor next to Harry, the rest of her starting to roll after it.

Harry scrabbled to keep her body on the bed, dropping to his knees to try and get sufficient purchase to lift and push, but he was too late. He slipped to the floor, Two-Ton Tina landing face down on top of him, perfectly wedged between the bed and wardrobe.

‘Jesus,’ Pete said. ‘Two Casanovas succumb to Two-Ton Tina.’

‘Fuck,’ Harry wheezed. ‘Get her off.’

Chloe pushed Pete to one side and draped the sheet she’d picked up off the floor over Tina’s body. ‘Let’s try and give her some dignity. Find something for Mr Tripod,’ she directed Pete, pointing at the male escort.

‘What about me?’ Harry said. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

‘We’ll have to call for back-up,’ Pete said, still transfixed at lumped mass at the side of the bed. ‘There’s no way we’ll be able to get her up on our own.’

‘You’re joking me, right? I’ll never live this down. I can barely breath. You have to get me out from under her.’

‘There’s a lesson for you here, Harry,’ Chloe said, pulling her radio mic towards her mouth. ‘A good woman always ends up on top. Especially with a loser like you.’

BIO: Hiding out in Ireland, Rob Kitchin spends his spare time reading or writing crime fiction. He blogs at http://theviewfromthebluehouse.blogspot.com/ where he publishes reviews and a weekly drabble (a story of exactly 100 words).

Interlude Stories: Paul Newman

BONNIE AND CLYDE GO THROUGH A ROUGH PATCH - PAUL NEWMAN

Nikki heard two sharp pops like firecrackers and Spider ran out of the 7-11. He dove in the passenger’s seat and slammed the door hard.

“Go, Baby! Go! Get the fuck out of here!”

She didn't know it was coming, he was just supposed to buy a pack of smokes. It was too late at night for this shit.

“You gotta be kidding me!”

“Just shut the fuck up and drive. Go!”

She dropped the Tercel into gear and chirped its little tires on the way out. She took a right then headed north to the freeway. Spider reached into a crumpled paper bag between his legs and pulled out a handful of wadded up bills; mostly ones and fives with a few twenties mixed in. He smiled and counted it while Nikki drove. Her hands shook on the wheel but he didn't notice.

“You said you just needed some smokes! What happened? What the fuck did you do?” She was twisted up tight. She talked too fast for the words to come out straight.

Spider stopped counting the cash and turned to look at her. She knew that look. It still made her almost piss herself but she didn’t want him to see the fear-sludge bubbling up inside her. Her hands shook on the wheel but he didn't notice. Spider took a drag on his smoke then he reached down the front of his pants and pulled out a gun and tossed it in the glove box.

“A gun? I’m on parole, Spider! I can’t be around a fucking gun! What did you do? What the fuck did you do?”

Spider looked out the window. He blew a cloud of smoke at the glass and watched it bounce right back in his face.

“You saw how empty that place was. How could I just walk out of there? That stupid son of a bitch should have just opened up the register.”

Nikki felt her gut clench up like somebody was wringing out a dishrag. “You shot somebody! Is he dead?”

“It was me or him babe, he went for something under the counter. He should have just opened up the fucking till.”

Spider reached back into the glove box for the gun and rested it on his lap. Nikki noticed he kept his right hand close nearby.

“Pull over at the next exit. I gotta take a piss.”

She heard something in his voice. She'd heard it before. He sounded hollow, like an echo in a big empty room. Nikki knew what was coming. Spider always started slow; it took a good head start to work into full-blown apeshit, but once he got rolling it was usually too fucking late. She had to buy time. Distract him. Make him believe, at least for just a few minutes.

She lit a Camel out of the pack on the dash and laughed like she didn’t give a fuck. “Next time warn me and I’ll have the engine running.” She reached out with her right hand and stroked the back of his head where it met his neck. She knew he loved it; just like a fucking dog. “You just got out a coupl’a days ago. I didn't think you'd get bored so fast.”

Spider laughed, then he reached up and grabbed her hand and shoved it down between his legs. Nikki knew what he wanted, she knew what she had to do; she unzipped him and grabbed onto him and squeezed. Spider groaned and leaned back into his seat.

Nikki stroked Spider while she drove and tried not to think about the gun just inches away from her hand. Spider always thought with his dick; maybe this time it would catch up with him. She didn’t look at the gun, tried not to even think about it. She knew she’d only get one chance.

She stamped down on the brake and swerved into the emergency lane. At the same time, she twisted Spider's cock in her hand and ripped down on it. He screamed and curled into a ball and grabbed for his wounded prick with both hands. The gun fell off his lap onto the floor.

Nikki dove for it and caught Spider’s knee on the side of her head. The side of her face went numb and hot and swollen but she groped around on the floor for the gun. Something heavy came down on her kidney like a hammer but it didn’t matter. It was too late. She found the grip and twisted around to shoot.

Spider caught her hand and then brought all his weight down on her with an elbow that felt like it speared her to the floorboard. Nikki tried to scream but there wasn’t enough wind, all she could do was gag and heave. She felt his hands close around her neck and squeeze. Her head started to fill with white noise but one sound cut through the static; Spider was laughing. The motherfucker was laughing!

She put the gun against the meaty part of his calf and pulled the trigger. There was a hollow crack then a wet slap like a chunk of raw steak hitting the sidewalk.

Spider shrieked and shoved her away from him. He fell back into his seat and pawed at his calf to try to stop the bleeding.

Nikki’s head started to clear. She straightened up in the driver’s seat and waved at the door with the barrel. “Get the fuck out, asshole! Now!”

Spider winced when he moved his leg but he did what he was told. Nikki saw him look back sideways at her as he opened the door. She knew to watch him close, the bastard wasn't done yet. She eased out her side of the car and kept the gun on him as she limped around. Spider stood with his weight on his good leg. A puddle of blood started to form under his foot.

She didn’t have to pretend anymore. “What the fuck were you thinking, Spider? I already got two strikes! I can’t be messed up with this kind of shit!” She looked at the gun in her hand; ”Aw, fuck me! Now my prints are on this thing too!”

Spider zipped up his pants and sneered at her like he smelled something bad. “What the hell happened to you? You get out a couple months before I do and you think you’re better than me? How’d you turn into such a bitch all of a sudden?””

“People change, Spider! I was trying to change. I’m clean now! You knew that! You said you were gonna change, too!”

Spider shrugged and smiled a toothy, shit-eating grin that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and try to run away. “Looks like you changed enough for both of us.”

Spider lunged at her and missed. Nikki stepped back as he grabbed for the gun. His bad leg couldn’t hold the weight and dumped him face down in the gravel.

“You never knew when to quit.” She fired twice. Both shots dug into the dirt inches from his head and sprayed grit up at his face. She cocked it for one more. Spider brought his arms up to cover his head.

Instead of a shot, Nikki laughed and kicked out with the toe of her boot into his shattered leg. He tried to crawl toward her but it was too much. Spider drew up into a ball and clenched his calf. His screams had broken down to just sobs now; his voice was as raw as his leg.

“Use your belt to tie it off, you pussy. Rush hour starts in a couple of hours. Maybe somebody’ll stop for you.”

She knew she should just put another one in his head and dump him into the bay, but she couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. That wasn’t Nikki; not anymore. Instead, she pointed the car south and left Spider behind her in the dark.

BIO: Paul Newman lives in Northern California with his wife and daughter. He sleeps with the closet light on and a cricket bat next to the bed… just in case. You can find more of his stories at http://www.logicalvoodoo.com/.

Interlude Stories: Albert Tucher

THE WORST THING IN THE WORLD - ALBERT TUCHER

“It could be worse,” said Mary Alice.

“How?” said Diana.

“Instead of a hooker, you could be a kindergarten teacher and feel like this all the time. Six-year-olds spread even more germs than clients.”

“At the moment that doesn’t help much.”

Diana reclined against the three pillows that her friend had arranged behind her. Mary Alice sat beside the bed on a wooden chair from Diana’s kitchen.

“Think you could eat some chicken soup?”

“I know I should, but my head hurts too much.”

It was the worst cold of her life. She couldn’t remember feeling this bad even as a child.

“Speaking of teachers, I hear you’re a good one,” said Mary Alice. “Very strict. And you look hot in glasses.”

“I know the guy you mean. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who gave me this cold.”

“So much for trying to distract you.”

“I know. I appreciate the effort.”

Diana turned her head from side to side on the pillow and felt the pressure in her skull relent for the moment. She knew the virus was only faking mercy, but right now she was grateful for anything.

“Thanks for all your help,” she said. “You must have things to do.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Really. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine. I can stay.”

Diana studied her friend, who usually had a shorter attention span than this. The scrutiny made Mary Alice squirm.

“I guess there are some things I could take care of.”

Mary Alice got up from the chair and dawdled her way out of the bedroom. Her footsteps slowed even more as she neared the front door of Diana’s rented Cape Cod.

This was getting weirder and weirder. What did Mary Alice think was outside?

Diana listened, but she didn’t hear the door open. A long moment later, Mary Alice’s footsteps reversed themselves, and she and appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“I did a bad thing.”

The forty-ish brunette in her skirt and heels looked like a little girl waiting for a scolding. Some clients would pay a lot to see that.

“What?” said Diana.

“I have a stalker.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Tell me about it,” said Mary Alice. “You know how a guy can act like a normal client for months and then get all weird on you?”

“Unfortunately, I do. So how is that your fault?”

“That part isn’t.” Mary Alice took a deep breath to prepare her confession. “I came here to hide out. And I thought I managed to shake him off, but he’s out there sitting in his car.”

“Fantastic,” said Diana. “So now he also knows where I live.”

“Are you mad?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, with you it’s hard to tell.”

Mary Alice had a point. Clients never knew what Diana was thinking. Her poker face helped in her business, but it spilled over into the rest of her life.

“Do I know him?”

“Macho Leon,” said Mary Alice. “With the guns.”

“Great. Just the guy I want following me around.”

Diana sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. A moment ago the exertion would have set her head pounding again, but a surge of adrenaline prevented that for now. She thought about Leon. In her mental filing cabinet his name appeared under two headings: Possibly Scary, and Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. Unfortunately, Mary Alice had moved him into the Active Threat column.

She replayed some of the conversations she had survived with him. They were hard work. Pretending to agree with a client’s opinions was basic business smarts, but with Leon it made her want to take a Lysol shower. One of his views in particular stuck out.

“I have an idea,” she said.

“I hoped you would,” said Mary Alice.

“What’s the worst thing in the world to Leon?”

“I give up.”

“Oh, come on. You know him. Lesbians.”

“Oh. Well, that’s second, really. Gay guys are first on his hate list.”

“That doesn’t help us. But the first thing he ever said to me was, ‘I hope you’re not some rug-munching lesbian.’”

“What did you say?”

“I always tell the client what he wants to hear, but this time it was even the truth.”

“Why you don’t do women?” said Mary Alice “I always wondered. There’s good money in threesomes.”

“I just don’t. Or at least, I won’t until I have to. Which might be now, because we know how to make him run to his mommy.”

A smile spread across Mary Alice’s face.

“You know what that means,” said Diana. “No more of his paydays for either of us. But he’ll be off your back. And mine.”

“That’s if he doesn’t shoot us. He loves his guns.”

“Or he’ll just disappear. I guess we need to find out.”

Diana got out of bed and went to her robe where it hung on the back of the bedroom door. She put the robe on over the T-shirt that she wore for sleeping, which was soaked with the sweat of illness. Before she could change her mind, she took Mary Alice by the hand and led her down the hall. She opened the front door. Hand in hand, she and Mary Alice descended the four steps and turned toward each other.

“Make it look good,” said Diana.

“No problem.”

Diana was out of practice. Clients got a peck on the cheek, but she evaded their lips. With no boyfriend since high school, and few dates that weren’t business-related, she didn’t do much kissing.

She tilted her head to the side. Mary Alice did the same. They stepped in close, and their lips met.

Come on, Diana told herself. You’re supposed to be a professional.

She tried to remember what actors did on TV, but her imagination failed her. Mary Alice put her arms around Diana’s neck. As Diana wondered what she thought about that, Mary Alice snuck her tongue through Diana’s lips. Diana almost pulled away, but she caught herself.

Mary Alice hummed softly as her tongue did some exploring. Diana counted to ten, and then made it twelve just to prove she could. Then she pulled away. She had a vague feeling that she should make some parting gesture to make it look good, and damn, there was her right hand rising to stroke Mary Alice’s cheek.

Mary Alice smiled. She put her hand over Diana’s and held it against her face.

On the street an engine roared, and tires squealed.

“There he goes,” said Mary Alice.

“Now you go,” said Diana. “Or I’ll sneeze on you.”

Mary Alice smiled indulgently.

“And if you catch my cold, don’t complain.”

“I won’t. I’ll deserve it.”

“Yes, you will.”

BIO: Albert Tucher is the author of over thirty published hardboiled crime stories and five unpublished novels about suburban prostitute Diana Andrews. His latest Diana story Value For The Money (and when it’s Al and Diana, it’s always value for your money) can be had at Untreed Reads.

Interlude Stories: Kieran J. Shea

THE VAGUENESS OF MAYBES - KIERAN J. SHEA

I deserved it. You steal and you get caught, you pay. It was as simple as that.

“What were you thinking, huh?”

What was I thinking? Not clearly enough apparently. Thought me and Mike the Spike had the job down neat. It wasn’t like it was either of our first shipping container boost for crying out loud. The scored-off serial numbers—we moved all those Honda outboards two states away and everything, the whole job, it was good to go right out of the box. Or so I thought.

Sitting there I wondered if Mike the Spike had tipped his hand after a similar surprise visit. No way. Mike the Spike was good thief. Mike the Spike was as hard as they come.

I had about my fill of these two rent-a-toughs dispatched by Hunt to send his message. What, did they actually expect me to speak clearly with the three count number they did on my jaw? My head throbbed and my mouth was a slosh of watery iron. I can take a punch but two on one and some doubled-up tube socks full of golf balls? Mmm...not so much.

“Mr. Hunt wants whatever money you got for those engines and he wants the name of the jerkoff you unloaded them to, McCabe. He wants those engines back.”

I nodded and inched back to the wall of my kitchen. Lifted myself up until my shoulders rested against an unfinished section of drywall I’d hung the day before. Planted my hands at my sides on the linoleum and took a bloody, wet breath through the searing gaps of my nostrils.

Just a beating. Those two, no way did they have the horses for bigger risks. I squinted up at the two kids with the one eye that hadn’t completely puffed shut. Couple of gangly buzzcut fucks very impressed with their young buck strength and riding the rush. Unlaced Timberlands and matching hooded Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirts. Shit, I had tools in my truck older than the both of them. Combined.

Slowly I lifted my wrist and motioned to the counter.

“What?”

I gestured a second time, weakly pulsing my hand in a gimme fashion.

“Gig, give this dumbass his cell.”

The one called Gig snatched my Nokia from the kitchen counter. He whipped the cell phone at my chest and the Nokia bounced down between my splayed legs. I shook my head.

“What, you want to write it down for us?”

I nodded and widened my good eye to confirm.

“Get this old fuck a pen and a piece of paper.”

The one called Gig started rifling through the drawers in my kitchen. He found a pen almost instantly but rummaged about some more.

“Can’t find no paper, Carm.”

“What’re you, fuckin’ retarded? Grab a paper towel or something. Jesus.”

Gig ripped off a stream of paper towels from the dispenser affixed to the underside of the cabinets and then walked over and tossed the pen and the paper towels in my lap. Drops of my blood stained the towels as I bent over and bloomed like small roses on the white, dappled paper. Super absorbent Bounty—the quicker picker-upper.

I plucked up my cell from between my legs and, making a show of it, thumbed through the cue. Clicked the pen twice and wrote a lie on the paper towel spread across my aching right thigh. Then I added a note that said I’d get the money back to Hunt by the end of the week and the engines too—promise. Another lie, but fuck them.

The second one, the one who answered to Carm, stood as he swiped the towels from my outstretched hand.

“Gah, blood all over these towels and shit. You better not have AIDS, old man.”

I didn’t say anything as he read what I’d scribbled down. Then I waited for the parting shots.

Old man? I guess so.

Covered up as best I could.

*

An hour or so later Morgan Leary made coffee in my kitchen as I dressed my ribs and tended to my wounds in the bathroom.

“Chock Full o’Nuts? Ugh. Life is short, Dave. You should at the very least buy some good beans and grind them down. Get some Sumatra, some of that flavored spiced pumpkin coffee they do this time of year. Drop twelve bucks and get some Starbuckin’ wage slave to set you up with a good drip blend.”

I groaned and dabbed a wet washcloth to my split lip. Outside the salt-glazed bathroom window a wet onshore wind rattled the lone scrubby tree in the clay pot on my patio.

“Look, don’t worry about it,” Morgan said, “You win some, you lose some. That merchandise was hotter than shit, they know it and we know it. It’s all part of the game. If your friend down Maryland hasn’t unburdened himself by now he’s a total fucking idiot. Even if they find out some other way, Hunt and his guys go beating the bushes for that stuff they’ll be at a dead end. I’ll tell you what, though. I’d love to see the look on Hunt’s face when he finds out what you gave those two clowns was bullshit.”

I stepped into the kitchen as Morgan poured us both a mug.

“Heard from Mike the Spike?” I asked quietly.

Morgan slopped some half and half into his coffee from a carton pint and handed me a zipper locked plastic bag of ice cubes.

“Mike the Spike? He’s good. Mike the Spike is up north.”

I took the ice. “Up north?”

“His relatives or someplace. Trust me, Mike the Spike is well aware of what’s happened so he’s going to be away from Atlantic City for a while until all this Hunt business settles down.”

Morgan took a slurp from his mug and set it down on the counter. He tilted my head with one of his spade-sized hands as he checked my butterflies. I knew about Morgan’s past as a semi-professional ECHL left-wing enforcer more than a decade past, so I trusted his patch and go judgment.

“You’ll heal. Golf balls in a couple of tube socks, man, I never thought of that.”

“Creative.”

“I’ll say.”

“So what’s the deal?”

“With what? You and me? We’re cool. You take some of your end and see the doctor I wrote down for you and make sure there’s no internal bleeding. Zonk back some Percs, take it easy for a few days. Heal up.”

“But they knew.”

“So they knew, big whoop. Maybe there was hidden camera that you guys didn’t know about. Maybe somebody saw you and Mike the Spike and decided to snap a picture.”

“But everything was cold. The truck I ditched, the plates...”

“Of course they were. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you but things have a way of turning to shit, don’t they?”

“Still...”

“Listen to you. Still. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Give me a little credit.”

“I always do, but yet here we are, Dave. Here we fuckin’ are.”

It took Herculean effort to lower myself down at the kitchen table. The adhesive tape around my ribs pulled at my dry skin and my back felt like it had been pole-axed. With Mike the Spike out of the picture I knew I was on my own with Hunt and his goons and my uneasiness must’ve shown through the swollen bruises on my face. Morgan dragged out a chair and adjusted his tan cashmere topcoat as he sat down.

“Look, I know you’re working on this bungalow here. Smart thing that. Putting your cash into something with a long haul value given what’s going on out there and at your age and all, but you need to understand something here, okay? Look at me now. You need to be a ghost, Dave. You need to disappear for a while until all this nonsense levels out.”

I glanced away again. Stretched my stiff neck.

“How long?”

“You have someplace you can go for a couple of weeks?”

“Not really.”

“How about a motel?”

“C’mon, Morgan. I don’t want to spend my days watching crappy cable and jumping every single time housekeeping knocks. I’m in no condition to defend myself and suck at that anyway if you can’t already tell. Those two freaks know where I live, man. They know where I live and when they come up short and Hunt doesn’t get his engines back or the money I got for them they’ll be coming back here.”

“That’s your fault.”

“I know.”

“Listen to me now. You’re exposed and this is a mess, but in the grand scheme of things it’s not that big of a deal. Think about it. You’ve been good to me and for intents and purposes by that you’ve been good to a certain individual we both know across town. This territory comes with the nature of your abilities and while you should’ve been more careful, this first and only time I can remember things ever falling apart on your end. You’re a stand up guy, Dave. We appreciate your services. Hell, I appreciate your services but these low-balling twats and their dirtbag, wannabe honcho Hunt? Him sticking his fingers in our backyard? Those morons have no idea who they’re fucking with.”

Of course I knew who Morgan was talking about when he said a certain individual we both know across town but didn’t dare speak Dante Donofrio’s name. Morgan and I were cordial, but one smack down a decade is about all I wanted to handle at forty-five years of age, thank you very much.

“So where am I at really?” I asked.

Morgan drank some of his coffee and leaned back. Leveled a warm, bemused look.

“In good hands, Dave, in good hands.”

*

As much as it hurt I did what Morgan told me to do. I set fire to my end seeing Donofrio’s special quack over in Somers Point, bought an idiot-proof .38 from another guy Morgan referred me to, and vacuumed a little over two grand from my safety deposit box. Went up north to Seaside Heights in Ocean County to lay low for three and a half weeks until I didn’t lurch about like some gimped-out zombie humping to the convenience store for microwaved food.

After nearly a month of introspective soul kicking and skipping AA meetings for fear that I might come across a rat (it’s a small world don’t you know) I was going out of my gourd. Of course there was a time when I was much younger when I could put trouble like mine out of my head, but outside of meetings no one ever has the balls to admit just how much bad choices gain weight as you grow older. One minute you’re young and the future seems like a dare. The next thing you know you’re taking a fall. Fair enough. Do a small three and a half year jolt and it sucks to high heaven but you do it clean and come out on the other side. You come back and jump through all the shameful hoops. The so-called friends who never had an inkling about your dark sidelines keeping their distance. The contractor jobs hit so thin you find yourself groveling. A couple of lean years go by and life gets back to some semblance of the order you remembered and then one fine day a friend of a friend presents an opportunity you just can’t pass up. Goes well. Helps with the bills and your daily hovering act with the booze and one small score leads to another. Soon you’re lying to yourself again, thinking you’re invincible and eye-balling liquor store specials in the newspaper. Fuckin’-a, I should’ve quit while I was ahead.

On a frigid Tuesday night when I’d had enough of hiding in my motel room up north I drove my pickup truck out to the local mall and bought a pre-paid cell. Making my way down through the thinning rush hour traffic on the Garden State Parkway, I dialed Morgan. Music thumped loud over the line when he answered on the fifth ring.

“Morgan, it’s Dave.”

“Dave McCabe! Hey-hey! How’s the hamburger?”

I touched my face as I drove. “Better. Pills are gone.”

From the sound of his voice Morgan seemed to be moving. The heavy bass in the background abated some as I heard something else, perhaps a door, clack closed.

“Mmm, those pills. Surprised you even took them at all seeing you’re chummy with Bill W. Habit forming those Percs. You should try Aleve.”

“I have and I am.”

“Good. That’s the spirit. In step all the way.”

“So where am I now?”

“Where are you now? You tell me.”

“I’m driving.”

“Oh yeah? Driving? Where to?”

“South.”

Morgan paused. “So I trust you’ve been shopping.”

“Of course.”

“You know there are laws in this state, Dave.”

“It’s seven o’clock at night. Jesus Christ, Morgan, it’s dark out. No one can see me. Everybody and their friggin’ mothers are on the goddamn cell phones. Nobody cares.”

“You get pulled over by a state trooper and you’re on a burner you’ll care plenty.”

“Look, I’m cool all right? And for the record I’m traveling light too. No way am I that stupid.”

“Never said you were. So, if you’re light, where did you make your deposit?”

“Couple of swamps near Toms River.”

“Good. That’s good. Smart. Fight Club is still sitting on your place though.”

I banged my fist on the steering wheel, “Damn it! Fuck. What the—shit!”

“Relax,” Morgan laughed, “I’m just pulling your chain. Lighten up. A week back me and a couple of boys went over and introduced ourselves and shared the gospel. This Hunt character, he’s a regular Chamber of Commerce and Knights of Columbus type family man. Once we put things in proper perspective for him…it was a Come To Jesus in about three seconds, give or take.”

As Morgan spoke the southbound lanes of the Parkway eased left and opened out over the expanded Mullica River Bridge. The bridge was part of a fifty-three million dollar project that spanned the vast westward marshes of the Great Bay and Little Egg Inlet estuary. To the east and south I could glimpse the first low edges of the Atlantic City skyline glowing stark and white like a neon-ribboned jaw. The noxious, sulfuric stench of low tide poured through the vents.

“So what’s that mean exactly?” I asked.

“It means you’re in the clear.”

A bus heading for the casinos streaked past on my left.

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah. No one is going to mess with you so keep driving and come on home. Take care of your house and get your footing. Stop by the place when you get a chance and I’ll buy you a Coke and lap dance.”

I felt lightheaded with relief. Briefly I wondered what the Morgan meant when he said he shared the gospel with Hunt and a chill slithered in my gut.

“Jesus, Morgan,” I said, “thanks. Thanks for everything. I’m really sorry about all of this. I guess I owe you.”

“Forget it. C’mon, didn’t I tell you that you were in good hands?”

“You did.”

“See? There you go. Hey, now that I think about it you know what? If you’re feeling so obliged my sister’s attic needs some new insulation rolled. Her husband, God, he’s a real whiney piece of dogshit and has been putting off the job for months.”

“Of course. No problem. I’d be happy to help her out. Just give me her address and I’ll take care of it right away when I get back, no sweat.”

“Excellent! That’s my man. Dave McCabe, Mister Fix It.” Morgan went quiet for a moment. “Listen, Dave. I know all this business has been rattling to you and all, but once you get settled I think I might have something else you might be interested in too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s not until way after New Year’s,” Morgan added, “but I think the specs on this thing could really use someone like you who’s going to be walking on eggshells and birddoggin’ the corners.”

“So who? Just me and Mike the Spike again?”

“Yeah, you two. Maybe. Maybe another dude on point.”

I wanted to ask who he had in mind for the third. I never liked the vagueness of maybes, but I knew better than to ask.

“You, uh, think that’s wise, I mean, with all that’s gone down recently? You know, me being back on the job so soon?”

Morgan laughed heartily and I nearly missed my exit.

“Guys like you, Dave,” Morgan said, “you’re always on the job.”

Interlude Stories: Gavin Bell

A JOB WORTH DOING - GAVIN BELL

Barnaby lifted the padlock off the catch, prized open the front panel of the wooden crate stamped ‘FRAGILE’, and drew a critical breath through his teeth. Mr Pendergast had done one hell of a job on his girlfriend this time.

Susan was precisely five feet two inches tall, and weighed exactly ninety pounds. She was currently a brunette, and sported a black skirt, jacket and white blouse, as though on her way back home from the office. Around her neck, she wore a small silver cross on a chain. Barnaby bent down so he could examine the damage. A clean, deliberate cut had been made across the latex of her throat, and two smaller incisions had been made in the form of tears, advancing from the chestnut-on-pearl glass balls in her eye sockets to the bottom of her rouged cheeks.

Barnaby shook his head. He’d have liked to be able to say that this was the weirdest thing he’d encountered this year, but then again he’d have liked to be able to say he repaired computers for a living. Different strokes for different folks, he mused, recalling one of his late mother’s favourite sayings. He unbuckled the doll and carefully hefted it over his shoulder.

He was only a little out of breath by the time he’d carried Susan down to the workshop in his garage, which would have struck a casual observer as a cross between a small provincial mortuary and the back room in a shoe repair store. Barnaby flicked the switch for the overhead fluorescent lights, which blinked and flickered until the room was bathed in a slightly green-tinged light. The shelves lining the walls of the garage were piled high with tools and boxes of spare parts. The concrete floor was littered with the debris of past operations: a threadbare wig here, a four-fingered plastic hand there. In the centre of the workshop was a wooden table, about seven feet long and half as wide. The table had four steel rings fitted to the corners, to which were attached straps to restrain the dolls and prevent them slipping off the table during maintenance. At four thousand dollars a pop, you couldn’t be too careful with the merchandise.

Barnaby carefully laid the doll down on the table and removed its clothes and underwear before securing each of the straps around its limbs. As he prepared the patient, he began to mentally plan out the procedure.

Now that he’d gotten the clothes off, he could see that the face was the only area to have suffered severe damage. Standard wear and tear was evident in the usual areas, of course, but that would be addressed as a basic part of the maintenance routine. The cuts meant that the entire fascia would need to be replaced. It looked to be a D14, if Barnaby wasn’t mistaken. He ran his hand along the appropriate shelf until he came to the right box and confirmed his initial judgement. D14 was a fairly popular face: great cheekbones. There were only two left. Barnaby made a mental note to order another box from the company as he went to work.

*

Susan was back in her crate and making her way back to Virginia, good as new, as Barnaby settled down in front of America’s Next Top Model with a microwave macaroni and cheese and a cherry Coke. He took a lot of pride in his work; after all each time one of his clients sent him a doll to be repaired, they were entrusting him with one of their most prized possessions. In some cases, the men who sent Barnaby their dolls even thought of them as their partners.

The company that made them, Living Dolls Ltd., specialized in ultra-realism; using lifelike latex skin and real human hair so that from a distance they could almost be mistaken for real people. Not that many of the customers used their simulacra at a distance, of course. Living Dolls didn’t offer any real after-sales support, but they were happy to refer clients on to Barnaby and one or two other independent contractors for repairs.

As with any of his repair jobs, Barnaby had put a lot of effort into working on Susan this afternoon, so it was not unusual that he dropped into a contented snooze after finishing his dinner.

*

It was several weeks later when Susan returned.

Barnaby’s line of work was highly specialized, and therefore lucrative, but the workload wasn’t particularly intense. In fact, he’d only repaired one other Living Doll in the intervening weeks; an improbably large-breasted six footer with worn-out knee joints. Customers tended to go a couple of years in between getting their girls serviced, so Barnaby was surprised to see a familiar Virginia return address on the packing slip.

When he got Susan out of the crate and onto the operating table, it was clear that much more work would be required on this occasion.

Susan was blonde this time, and her throat was cut and the face mutilated in the same fashion as before. This time, however, the stomach had been sliced open, revealing the belly padding and parts of the silicon skeleton.

This was starting to get unusual.

Deterioration in Living Dolls was a natural consequence of their frequency of use, but intentional, repeated damage like this was unheard of. Quite apart from the high cost of repairs, Living Doll owners tended to treat their products as though they were real people. Barnaby shuddered as he imagined this kind of treatment applied to a real, living and breathing person. He ran his hand over the doll’s face, his fingers dipping into the scarred cheeks, and snapped them back as he encountered a tacky substance in one of the gashes. He examined the small rust-brown patch on his index and forefingers.

Makeup. Surely.

He ran his hands over the doll’s body, peeling back the slashed layers of latex skin. There were traces of rust-brown on the abdomen wounds too, as though the blade that had been used was still dirty from a previous job.

Barnaby sniffed the substance on his fingertips, gathered his thoughts for a few moments, and then wiped them on the chamois he kept nearby to buff the dolls’ eyeballs.

*

When one begins with a person’s last name, full address, and credit card number, it’s often possible to learn pretty much everything worth knowing about them within thirty minutes on the Internet.

Barnaby now had plenty of useful information on John James Pendergast, on his small hometown sixty miles outside Charlottesville, and on the two murdered and mutilated prostitutes that had been dragged out of the river there; one brunette, the other blonde. The website of the state police had a special section on the murders, and a number to call with information.

It was this number that Barnaby now dialled from the payphone outside Freddy’s diner. It rang three or four times before a woman’s bored voice answered at the other end.

Barnaby said, “I think I may have some information about the two women who were murdered.”

The woman’s voice immediately perked up. “Can I take your name, sir?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Barnaby said. “Now before I go any further, I have to ask if there’s a reward for information.”

The woman’s voice took on a more cynical edge. “Well that would of course depend on the quality of the information.”

“I see.”

“Sir, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I was just thinking. Tell me, the two women who were killed, how were they mutilated exactly? I’m sorry to be so blunt, but the newspaper reports were terribly vague, you see.”

“I’m afraid we can’t discuss details like that over the phone. If you’d like to come in and…”

“Were their faces cut?” Barnaby asked, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. “Did the wounds look like… like tears?”

Barnaby clearly heard the woman’s sharp breath on the other end. “Hold on a second, sir.” The line went very quiet, and Barnaby surmised that the woman had depressed the secrecy button. When her voice returned, she sounded professional and calm. “Sir, we’d like you to come in to talk to us.”

Barnaby hung up the phone. Dusk was beginning to fall, and he had to get the repairs completed on Susan as soon as possible if she was going to be shipped back to her owner tomorrow. It wouldn’t do for the letter to arrive too soon after the girl.

*

Sixteen weeks passed.

Susan returned to Barnaby twice over that period, each time with more extensive mutilations. Two more women were dragged out of the river, each with more extensive mutilations than the initial two bodies. And Barnaby’s post office box in a neighbouring state received three brown envelopes, each filled with two thousand dollars in tens and twenties.

The repairs alone paid well, but it was good to have a little extra income on the last day of every month; it took the edge off the bills. When Barnaby felt the vague stirrings of conscience, as he sometimes did in the moments before he dozed off in front of the T.V., he rationalized his new source of income as just one more personal service to a wealthy customer. Confidentiality was paramount in this line of work, of course, but that didn’t mean it had to come gratis.

The world don’t owe nobody a living, Barnaby, his dear departed mother had reminded him on many an occasion.

As for the unfortunate women… well. Virginia was a long, long way away.

*

Barnaby awoke from one of his post-operative slumbers and knew something was amiss even before his consciousness fully returned. There was no noise from the T.V., and the room seemed much colder. He could tell that his body was no longer enveloped in the comfort of his brown leather easy chair; in fact he was finding it difficult to move at all.

Barnaby opened his eyes and saw that he was in his garage, strapped to the operating table. His view was obstructed by one of the tall shelving units, but he could see that there was a figure hunched over his desk. Reasoning that, whatever was happening, he was clearly in an awkward situation, Barnaby decided to try communicating with his captor. He half-whispered out a tentative hello. There was no response. He cleared his throat and tried a more commanding tone.

“Who’s there? Why have you done this?” No response from the figure. Barnaby continued. “I want you to know that my wife is due home any moment now. If she sees something’s wrong, she’ll get the police down here faster than you can say ‘breaking and entering’.”

Still no response. Maybe whoever it was knew his wife had gone out for groceries a decade ago and hadn’t yet returned. Barnaby tugged at the leather restraints to no avail, cursing his own thoroughness in securing them with six-inch bolts. He strained his neck to try and get a better look at whoever the hell had tied him up in his own workshop. In his own goddamn workshop, for Christ’s sake. He managed to arrange his line of sight through a gap between two boxes of fingernails. He could just make out a woman’s blonde hair, sculpted in a too-perfect bob.

Susan?

The lights went out. Barnaby began to panic. Insane thoughts danced across his mind. Suppose the doll itself had somehow come to life and kidnapped him? He began to visualise Susan jerking up from her chair, staggering towards him with the single-mindedness of a car crash victim struggling away from the scene, flashing a grin that revealed her realistic-looking rubber teeth...

With an effort of will, Barnaby managed to corral his imagination and think rationally about the situation.

His captor was obviously behind him, having turned the lights off at the switch next to the doorway. From this angle, he couldn’t hope to get a look at him even if the lights were on. Frantically, his brain put two and two together.

Susan’s boyfriend had come to visit.

“Hello?” he asked again. The only answer was a low, raspy exhalation that sent tiny needles up and down the length of Barnaby’s spine. He swallowed and tried to figure out how J.J. Pendergast had tracked down his blackmailer.

The demand letters had been couched in anonymous terms, letting on only that the writer knew of Pendergast’s nocturnal activities and would withhold this information for a reasonable monthly fee. There was no mention of Susan. The letters had been typed and printed at a library, and mailed from out of state. But even if Pendergast had deduced Barnaby’s identity, how did he get this address? The dolls were shipped to the company, who forwarded them to Barnaby. Could someone at Living Dolls have passed on his details?

Barnaby nearly jumped out of his skin as a gnarled hand passed over his forehead, kneading the flesh of his face like it was warm pastry. The owner of the hand spoke then, in a raspy monotone. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

Barnaby didn’t waste any time on negotiation. “Yes. My God, yes, I’m sorry, I’ll make it right, you can have it all back, I didn’t mean...”

The hand jerked away from his face and a tall, stockily built man in a dirty brown leather jacket walked past him, Barnaby couldn’t see his face, but a miasma of body odour followed in the man’s wake. He smelled like an abandoned garbage truck in high summer. The man continued past the bottom of the table and past the shelving unit. Carefully, he lifted Susan from his chair and turned around so they were both facing Barnaby.

J.J. Pendergast was almost too ugly for a Living Doll. Unkempt, dirty, long grey hair framed a face that was pockmarked and scarred. An overbite revealed a top row of teeth with more absences than presences. At least he had a face, though. Susan’s blonde wig hung down around a blank oval with a round mouth and a rudimentary bump where the nose would be. Somehow the sight of the two lovers was even more terrible than Barnaby’s crazed fantasy of the walking doll.

Pendergast looked at Barnaby with disgust. “How you gon’ give us it back?”

This was good, Barnaby thought, the freak was open to negotiation. “I’ve still got all the money, every penny.” This was a lie, but if it would get him off the operating table, he’d find a way to get it back. “It’s all in my bank account, I can write you a check?” Pendergast looked back at him almost as impassively as Susan. Barnaby licked his lips. “Or we can go get it first thing in the morning, if you’d prefer.”

Pendergast mulled it over for a minute. When he spoke, he sounded confused: “You think this is... you think this is about money?”

Barnaby was taken aback. What else could it be about?

“I don’t care about money. I care about Susan.” Pendergast’s voice started to rise at the end of the sentence. He looked away from Barnaby’s prostrate form and scanned the board nailed to the wall, on which hung Barnaby’s tools.

Barnaby shuddered and tried to divert the man’s attention. “How did you find me?”

“The girl at the company. She told me I’d find you here,” he said, looking around the workshop with something like disappointment.

Just as he’d thought. Living Dolls had set this maniac on him, the spineless bastards.

“She wouldn’t tell me at first,” Pendergast continued. “I hadda persuade her.”

He reached into an inside pocket and pulled something fleshy and shapeless out. He dangled it from his fingertips, the way a ratcatcher would hold a dead rodent, and fixed Barnaby with a thousand yard stare. Barnaby focused on the object and realized it was the face from a Living Doll. Dear God... the face. That had to be it. He had run out of D14s, substituted an E12 on Susan’s last refit. The E12’s were almost indistinguishable from the D14s anyway, just the slightest shade of extra definition around the eyes. An improvement, if anything.

Pendergast gently placed Susan back down on the chair and selected a long blade from the tool board. He tested the point of the blade against his index finger and turned to Barnaby.

“Wait...” cried Barnaby, “what are you...”

“You took Susie’s face. So I’m gonna give her yours.”

Over the course of the final half hour of his life, Barnaby Reddin had ample time to reflect on the folly of cutting corners with his work. After all, as his late mother had been so fond of asserting, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.

BIO: Gavin Bell was born in Glasgow in 1979. He has worked as a petrol station attendant, taxman, salesman, research manager and pizza delivery boy. His story ‘A Living’ was shortlisted for the Quick Reads 'Get Britain Reading' prize, and published in the Sun Book of Short Stories, and his other stories have been published in Scribble magazine and First Edition. His non-fiction commentary Shining in the Dark - Stephen King: Page to Screen is available on Amazon as a Kindle e-book. He currently lives in Glasgow with a wife and two daughters, and is currently putting the finishing touches to a novel, a thriller entitled Killing Season.

Interlude Stories: Chris Benton

CINEMA DRIVE - CHRIS BENTON

The night my daughter Karen disappeared, we had another fight about her mother, who fled from us five years ago with a crackhead lawyer.

I did love my wife once, I truly did. Her laughter calmed lunatics. When I came inside her on that New Years Eve, I knew she would conceive. And she did. And I knew it would be a girl. And I knew what her name would be as well. But after she was born, my wife became distant and restless. Post-partum depression was what everyone kept telling me. But her distance continued to gain miles. Even on Karen’s birthdays she was drunk or stoned beyond repair. She was a highly gifted speed typist, but kept losing job after job until she finally didn’t care.

It was during those years that she finally connected to Karen, and my exhaustion from working double shifts felt earned, and for a handful of years I was happy, tired, but happy. But then, shortly after Karen’s tenth birthday, my wife’s brain darkened again, and she was gone. And soon after, she was truly gone.

Karen missed her mother, missed her bad, and always loved a vision of her which lived in a warm, well-lit space, far away in the darkness of memory.

We were in our kitchen, about to leave to pick up her friend Pattie. They were going to a movie, and I honestly can’t remember why our small talk took a turn for the worse.

“I remember her telling me over and over that she loved me more than Jesus!” Karen screamed. She was a powerful screamer, a clear, steady condemner, just like her mother.

“She did, honey, she loved most everything more than Jesus,” I said as sincere as I could.

Perhaps the birth pangs of our fight had something to do with the guy she was dating at the time, Brian Wilson, a slouching moron who wore eyeliner. It didn’t matter what the reason was, though, it always came back to her mother who plunged into the heart of nowhere when Karen turned eleven.

“I remember mom telling me that you loved your beer and your dumbass black and white movies more than you loved me. You know why I believed her, because I don’t remember one fucking time you tucking me in to bed, or reading me a story. Essential shit, dad.”

Essential was a word she picked up from her mother. I remember Alison throwing that word at me like a hand grenade every time “a talk” became screams. How this was essential and that was essential. I guess Karen thought she was making profound points by wielding this word. Maybe she was.

“Why do you hate me so much, I’m here, ain’t I, honey? I’m not the one who boogied away to Never-Never Land.” My voice sounded feeble, defensive. She had done it again, had triumphed. I felt like I was arguing with her mother again, I felt like a scolded, pathetic child. And for a few seconds, I hated my daughter. I hated her because she saw how I felt and when she shook her head at me with a cruel smile I slapped her, slapped her mother’s smile right off her hard sharp chin. She cradled her face with her left hand and her eyes were filled with final disgust.

“I wish both of you had left, I probably would have been happier in a foster home, being fucked every night by a fake father.”

She marched away to her bedroom and slammed the door. I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer and killed it with four swallows. The stale pizza I had brought home after work looked like my last will and testament.

Ocean Theater was on Cinema Drive just two blocks away from the sea at the north end of Carolina beach. It was a small venue, with only two screens. When Karen opened the car door, I grabbed her arm gently and said, “Enjoy the movie, sweetheart.” She looked at my smile like it was a sick joke, yanked her arm free and slammed the passenger door with vindictive triumph.

I drove over to the Fat Pelican a mile away for a few beers while I waited for them. Inside there were men I recognized, but did not say a word to because I knew their family had forsaken them years ago, for reasons both familiar and deserved. I just drank my beer and listened to their desperate laughter and watched sports updates. On my fifth High Life my phone rang. It was Pattie, asking me if Karen was with me. A long cold moan began racing through my blood.

“Ain’t she with you at the movies?”

“She was, Mr. Melton, but she got up to go to the bathroom, but now the movie’s halfway over and I’m standing out front here and I don’t see her.”

The next forty-eight hours was a terrified blur of cops and questions and suspicious expressions I didn’t deserve. Yes, I had a fight with my daughter; I guess Pattie told them about that one, why did I lie about it? “Because it’s none of your goddamn business.” What did you fight about? “None of your goddamn business.” Their eyes were perched on my shoulder for a few days and after that they just ruled it a runaway, which I knew it wasn’t. I knew Karen hated me in some ways, I guess she had good right to, but I also knew I tried my utmost to give her anything she needed and wanted, and I knew deep down she did love me.

My boss gave me two-week’s vacation, which resulted in restraining orders from her ex-boyfriend as well as from Pattie. I needed them to remember a single detail that could help me, but all they gave me were shrugging shoulders and fearful inspections of their toes. The only person I called a friend stopped by a couple of times with beer and he basically acted the same, just buried his eyes in his crotch, or nodded thoughtfully at the floor.

I went back to Ocean Theater several times and sat in the same screening room my Karen and Pattie did. The movie they watched was still showing, some horseshit about of bunch of vampires wearing lipstick and hopping around in trees. I sat in the back row and studied the back of everyone’s head. Most of the viewers were kids, except for a few. I followed them out and took their license plates. One night a man followed me to my car and flashed a badge. Asked me what I was doing. I told him and he told me he knew. I asked him why the fuck did you ask me in the first place, cocksucker? He told me to go home, to leave it in “their” hands, told me I would be arrested if he saw me again.

I got laid off from my job a month later. I simply didn’t sort shit on the line anymore. I was just taking notes. My boss said good luck and he was sorry. I told him to go to hell. A former co-worker of mine had been selling me these diet pills, told me they would keep me awake if I dozed during my investigations. He was what you called a sympathetic asshole. They worked, though, nothing escaped me. The police had forgotten to bag the crushed corpse of a seagull in the parking lot. I mean, hell, the fucker might have seen something before it died. I put it in a ziplock freezer bag and took it home and tossed it in the fridge for future reference.

It was getting close to Christmas. I put a tree up in the den and wrapped Karen’s pillows with her dirty tee shirts. I laid the bundle on the couch and spoke to it and hugged it occasionally. We watched It’s A Wonderful Life over and over until she finally laughed with me in unison, especially at the part where George is about to leap off the bridge. Later that night I would carry her to bed and tuck her in and read her a story. When she was finally asleep I drove down to the mouth of Cinema Drive and parked in the dark behind Bonnie’s Fish Fry and walked to the shore. The sea never failed to swallow my prayers and screams. When my brain was dry I would walk back to Ocean Theater after it was closed, and gaze for hours at its flat cement skull, full of ridiculous, dead dreams.

I was sitting there on Christmas night, inside my car being slowly crushed by a clear cruel night under a scythe moon. I was sitting there, drinking the last of my pint of Kentucky Gentleman when I saw her. I thought I was hallucinating so I slapped myself several times, closed my eyes and took a deep breath and chewed a couple more diet pills to clear my mind.

And she was still there. And someone was with her. I quietly popped opened the trunk of my car and pulled out the tire iron. They didn’t notice me until I was maybe ten feet away from them. They were huddled together on the curb in front of the ticket booth giggling together and smoking a joint. My daughter was the first to notice me, and her giggles dropped dead in her throat.

“I’ve been worried sick about you; I’ve been dying from the fear of it all. Why didn’t you at least call me?”

Karen looked at me like I was a maniac. The man she was with, whom I didn’t recognize, had long ropey turds for hair.

“Uh, dude, I think you got the wrong person,” he told me, as he slowly rose. I swung the tire iron like a bat and his skull obeyed with a swift, red burst. His face ate the pavement and he laid there, arms outstretched, embracing the earth with a newfound gratitude.

Karen was running; she was a fast runner because she inherited her speed from me. I used to race those yuppie Yankee kids whose parents had bought out most of Whiskey Creek after my grandmother died. I left them behind me, every time. I was quick when I was a boy, and I was quick now. I was running as fast as that faggoty vampire Karen loved so much on the big screen. I tackled her and we went tumbling down the cold, blunt heart of Cinema Drive. She was already clawing my face before I could speak; I felt my left cheek come apart between her fingers as I grabbed both her wrists and shook her. Her head whiplashed from the asphalt and her eyes eloped from the world. She became as calm as a doll, and I whispered my thanks to her, over and over.

I brought her home and wrapped her head with her favorite pillow case and when I pushed play on It’s A Wonderful Life I heard the screeching from the fridge. I got up and opened it and the crushed gull fluttered into my face, nearly slicing off the tip of my nose with its beak before launching itself into the walls of the living room. After a few frantic minutes it finally found its true throne, upon the head of my sleeping daughter.

I fetched my 30-30 from the bedroom closet, and took aim at that dead French fry eating chicken, and when my trigger finger began to curl, it spoke; it was a warm flood of a voice, the voice of an angel. And it told me the truth, and showed me the path, straight out its eyeless, dangling head.

I gathered my false daughter into my arms and took us to my bedroom.

I shattered the picture of my wife her mother took the day before our wedding. I scotched taped it around the face of my fate before peeling off my clothes.

I’m looking forward to my execution. I’m looking forward to it like a boy before Christmas, because I know once my breath has left the earth, my crushed angel will pluck the rag of my soul from my sorry sack and fly it cross-country, where we’ll be waiting for you Karen, from Wilmington, to Wichita, to Seattle Washington, we’ll be waiting for you honey, long after the final credits have rolled.