Interlude Stories: Andy Henion

DANDELION - ANDY HENION

They lie on the floor, naked and intertwined, like the couple on the painting above the fireplace. He’s still inside her, wilting now, hands wrapped around her slender throat. This is not his house, but he adores the painting. Man and Woman in Garden. Plans to take it when they leave.

After many minutes she shudders and pushes him away, gasping. Curls into a freckled ball.

He laces his fingers behind his head and stares up at the painting. It’s bigger than anything he’s seen, life-sized, so big he’ll have to remove the gold frame to get it in the trunk of his Pontiac, parked down the street off a weedy two-track. From here he plans to head west to Kalamazoo and down into Chicago, where he’ll find them another house or garage or outbuilding to stay for a few nights, but even in the big city he’ll fight the urge to pawn the painting, the way he pawns just about everything else, for he means one day to put it above their fireplace, in their house, on their woodsy lot. Somewhere down in California, maybe even Mexico, three or four kids running about. A storybook setting that belies his upbringing.

“Do you see them?” he says, pointing to the painting. “The dandelions?”

She ignores the question, holding her throat. She was raised in a house like this, but only in theory. Her own little hellhole. When they met, on a cool, rainy day, she was working at the bookstore and he was stealing books, this slick, longhaired stranger with a definite intensity about him. She followed him to the parking lot and climbed in the rusty Pontiac with the out-of-state plates, and when he looked into her dark eyes he knew better than to ask questions.

“You’re my dandelion,” he says now.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“They’re fucking weeds,” she says, thinking, for the hundredth time, she’s made a terrible mistake hitching her wagon to this Neanderthal.

He’s reaching for a fistful of her long brown hair, ready to teach her another lesson, when they hear the garage door. He scrambles for his clothes, more specifically for the nine-millimeter atop the pile, but she’s already there, she already has it.

Pointing it at him.

“Nice recon job,” she says. “Gone another week, huh?”

“We gotta move,” he says. “No fuckin’ time for this.”

“Sure there is,” she says, and shoots him in the face. But she’s never fired a gun, and the slug travels low and tears through his cheek, exposing teeth. He makes a sound, somewhere between a growl and a gurgle, and holds his arms up, pleading. Two hands on the grip now, easy breaths, and the next slug finds its target and drops him where he stands.

She looks over to see the homeowner standing there. He’s a tall, well-built man, more than twice her age, but regal looking, with a strong chin, powerful hands. And cufflinks: She’s never seen a man with cufflinks.

Instead of terror on his face, there’s only curiosity as he takes in her bruised, naked body.

“Better off dead, I take it?”

She shrugs. They’re out in the forest, no neighbors for miles. The recon said he was divorced, kids grown, a frequent business traveler with money to burn.

“I can help with this,” he says, motioning to the gory heap on the floor. She understands his meaning, but holds his stare in a desperate attempt to see through to his true nature. He has an easy way about him, kind blue eyes, but even at nineteen she knows it’s an impossible task, reading men.

The gun in her hand gives her choices. But she better make one soon, because the regal man is easing toward her with a familiar look in his eye.

A Twist Of Noir 360 - Andy Henion

RANDOM - ANDY HENION

1

It is just after five on a hot summer day when the car rumbles up the drive. Two men get out, a tall passenger and a bowlegged driver with red hair. The windows are shut, the air conditioning on, so no one in the house hears their approach. Still, it would not raise suspicion. The house sits on a corner lot a half mile from the interstate and people regularly use the driveway for a turnaround or to stop and ask for directions. Anne Parr and her son have lived here only three weeks and cable men and drain inspectors still come and go. And then there are the men from Anne’s past, men like these with ink sleeves and earrings.

Anne is standing in the dining room with her back to the window. She is addressing Steven and his younger cousin Jack, who is staying a few days while his mother and her latest boyfriend get acquainted. The boys want to ride their bikes four miles to the theater. Anne has agreed to let them go, but only if they are back before dark. Steven is asking his mother for money when he stops to track the movement just outside the window. Following his cue, Anne turns and watches each of the men pass by, trying in vain to make a mental identification. And in this sliver of time, she knows she has made a terrible mistake.

2

The men enter through the unlocked door. Without a word the red haired man grabs Anne and throws her to the couch, tearing her sundress. The tall man points at the boys and orders them into the kitchen. The boys back against the sink, looking from the tall man to the couch where the red haired man has crawled on top of Steven’s mother and is working at his jeans. Steven takes a step forward but the tall man pushes him hard in the chest and his back strikes the counter. He winces from the pain but more so at the image of the rose tattoo on his mother’s pelvis.

Anne Parr screams. Jack slides to the floor and begins to cry. The tall man is sucking air through his teeth and rubbing his chin over and over. Steven is not sure how to interpret this. The tall man’s pupils are messed up and he is sweating heavily. Steven knows high when he sees it.

This time it is the red haired man who screams. Steven’s mother has clawed his face and broken free. She makes it two steps before he clubs her to the floor and descends upon her from behind. The tall man has turned, still stroking his jawbone, and Steven slips past him and darts around the corner and into the master bedroom where his mother sleeps. She keeps a gun in her nightstand for men like these, men from her past. Anne Parr has always been open about the weapon, and the two of them used to fire it together down at the river. Steven opens the drawer and withdraws the gun, then turns it on the tall man as he enters the room. The man swears and holds up his hands and bolts from the room. He runs down the short hallway and into the garage. Steven hears the garage door going up and wonders if the man knew the layout of the house or just took a chance.

3

Steven exits his mother’s bedroom with the gun held out in front of him. To his left he sees Jack curled up, a puddle of his piss spreading across the kitchen linoleum. The red haired man is oblivious to his partner’s departure. He is thrusting and grunting on the back of Steven’s mother, holding her head up by the ponytail. Steven walks up behind him and says, loudly, You. The man turns and Steven fires. Part of his head is splashed across the glass of the fireplace. As the man goes limp Anne’s head is dropped and her cheek bangs off the floor. Steven hears his mother groan and nods to himself that she is alive and goes for the tall man.

4

The rusty car is rolling backwards down the driveway. The tall man cannot get it started. Across the street the bald neighbor and his wife have come onto the porch. They frequently watch Steven and his mother from this vantage point, but they have yet to come over and introduce themselves. Anne Parr calls them rich assholes. When they see Steven running with the gun they hurry back into the house. Steven can hear sirens in the distance and wonders if the rich assholes are the ones who called it in.

Steven makes it to the car as the engine revs. He opens the rear door and jumps in, shutting the door behind him. The tall man says, No no no, but keeps driving, backing onto the street and accelerating toward the interstate. Steven points the gun at the back of his head. He is thinking about the man sucking air through his teeth and rubbing his face. He is wondering about the man’s intentions.

5

The tall man looks in the rearview and says, Listen kid—how old are you, anyway?

Steven says, Thirteen.

Fuck, thirteen? No shit. Okay, listen. Whaddaya like to do?

Steven is used to this question from adults. He says, I like to play baseball. I like to fish, but there’s no river here. Oh, and I like to sit and stew in my own juices—that’s what my teacher says.

The man’s laugh sounds like a bark. Juices, he says. No shit, little man.

The tall man has entered the interstate and is heading east toward the city. Steven watches him tap the steering wheel with long, leathery fingers.

Okay, man, listen, the tall man says. You don’t wanna do this thing. You seem like a good kid. Let’s just—

I blew that fucker’s head off, says Steven.

The tall man wipes sweat from his forehead and says, Goddamn.

Steven says, Why did you come to our house?

Okay, shit. Okay. Junior there, my friend? He’s just. Listen—

Why? Steven says firmly. He holds the gun in both hands and feels a strange sense of calm, of power. He pulls the hammer back.

It’s random, man. Junior—he saw your old lady in the yard, working in her flowerbed or what have you. The other day? Said he had to have her. I am so sorry about that, you know? Junior, he’s—

You don’t know my mother?

Never saw her before, man. Until that day, like I said—

She used to do what you do. Get high. But then she quit and went to the meetings and got a better job.

I don’t—listen, man—

Then my grandpa died and we bought the house. My grandpa had his own company that makes foam cups. He disowned my mom because she got high, but he still gave us money and we bought the house.

Yeah? Sorry about your granddad and all that. But, you know, your old lady? Good for her, right? I’ve been tryin’ for somethin’ better like that, little man. Believe that shit.

The tall man is pushing the old car as fast as it will go. They are passing vehicles, swerving on the interstate. Steven glances out the window and licks his lips, unfazed by the erratic driving. He has a feeling nothing will ever be the same again.

He says, Your friend hurt my mother.

Listen, kid—

Shut up. I want to know something.

Anything, little brother, I’ll tell you. Straight up.

What were you going to do? When he was done?

The car drifts toward the ditch. Their eyes meet in the rearview. And before the tall man can open his mouth, Steven has his answer.

BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.

A Twist Of Noir 230 - Andy Henion

HOUSE CALL - ANDY HENION

Granny Povich, eighty-six, two fake hips, alone since the old man passed the day after Elvis, opens the door on a messy November night. Stares us down, all four-foot-nine of her, knowing our purpose and not giving a damn. Points her bony finger at me, since we go back a ways, and says, “You gonna take them muddy shoes off.” It’s not a question, and I comply and nod to Smelt and Burgess to do the same. Granny Povich turns her back on us and hobbles back to the kitchen counter.

“Batch in the oven,” I say, savoring the aroma. “Best cornbread muffins in the city.”

“Hmmph,” she grunts, whipping batter. “Five minutes. You boys might as well sit down, get you some.”

“First, clear the house.” At my order, Smelt and Burgess pull their weapons and disappear into the living room in their stocking feet.

I take a seat at the same oak table where I had bellied up as a boy. Sweep my jacket aside, revealing my piece. Granny Povich is pouring out batter from a glass bowl, her brown-spotted arms shaking from the modest weight. Finished, she wipes her hands on her apron and makes her way over, remaining standing behind a chair. Granny Povich may run a multimillion-dollar numbers operation but at heart she’s the consummate homemaker, compelled to serve the men around her.

She says, “Alec’s long gone.”

I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Some things have to be said.

“My only family, that kid.”

As close to pleading as Granny Povich will come.

She puts her hands on her hips, cocks an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you made house calls, Terrance. Heard you moved up.”

“If it’s gonna be done, Granny, it’s gonna be done by me. I owe you that much, at least.”

From upstairs, a scuffle, the sounds of furniture overturning, someone hitting the floor. I look to the ceiling and place the ruckus in the secret space next to Alec’s bedroom, a great place to play as a kid, hide as an adult. Granny Povich had it built for the latter purpose a few years after her husband passed and she got hot and heavy into the business.

She says, “You told them where to look.”

“He’s half of the equation,” I say. Then: “How bad is he?”

Granny Povich can only scowl, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes and mouth. Alec is her only grandchild and for all intents and purposes, her son. She raised him from an infant. But as an adult, the dipshit can’t stay clean.

The Alec my boys drag through the door is as cocky as ever, flashing those pearly whites even as dual lines of blood run from his nostrils. They shove him hard in the chair and stand guard like a couple of Rotts, waiting for sudden movement. “Sit,” I say, and when they don’t obey: “The fuck down.”

Alec tips his head back and pinches his nose. To the ceiling, he says, “Back to bite the hand that fed you, hey, Terry Boy?”

I wait until he lowers his gaze before responding. The dark circles around his eyes tell his story.

“I’m here out of respect for Granny. I’m here because you brought me here. I’m here because you’re an eternal fuckup.”

“You’re here,” he says, “because you’re Big Al’s bitch.”

A right jab from Smelt sends him backward in his chair, arms flailing, the back of his skull popping off the kitchen floor. Alec rolls to his side and holds his wounded head in his arms, moaning. Granny Povich sighs. “Just stay there, kid,” she says, and limps away to retrieve the cornbread from the oven. I stare at Alec’s huddled form for a moment, then reach out and uncover the butter dish.

She puts the muffins on a plate and brings them over, steam rising from the pile. She says, “Those are my customers, Terrance, and you know it. Hell, you recruited them before you jumped ship.”

“Were your customers,” I say. “And you were warned multiple times, but your kid here still shows up to collect from our people, using Big Al’s name to boot. And now you both will pay for his stupidity.”

Granny sets the plate on the table. Smelt and Burgess glance at me, and I nod. They each being scarfing down a muffin, grunting their approval as if they haven’t eaten in days. I watch Granny fold her arms and purse her lips.

“Well, go on, then,” she says. “Make an old woman happy one last time.”

As my childhood friend groans on the floor, I butter a muffin and take a bite. It’s good stuff, though not as tasty as I remember. Maybe Granny Povich is losing her touch. Still, the old broad will be dead soon, at my hand, and I show her one last sign of respect by cleaning my plate.

That’s when my fingers and toes go numb.

I’m suddenly aware of Smelt and Burgess fumbling for their guns like a couple of drunkards. I hear their heads hit the table a few beats before my own muscles turns to mush. My cheek smacks the crumb-filled plate.

From there, I have a perfect view of Alec, who stands and draws out a switchblade. Sneering, he clicks it open and pulls Smelt’s head up by the hair. Smelt’s eyes are bulging, pleading—the only part of his body working. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing what’s coming but unable to move. Unable to defend yourself.

“Let’s take ’em downstairs,” says Granny Povich. “You’re not making a mess in my kitchen.”

BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.

A Twist Of Noir 196 - Andy Henion

LOOKING FOR MARIA - ANDY HENION

Originally published in December 2007 in the Australian print magazine Skive


The man comes to the house looking for Maria. He’s tall and broad shouldered and eating a package of French fries. I tell him Maria’s not around. He appraises my silk bathrobe and looks beyond me into the living room.

You the new guy? he says. This your place?

Come on in, I tell him. No big deal.

I silence the newscaster who’s blathering about the latest rash of home-invasions and take a seat on the couch. The man walks around the house eating his French fries. I hear him rummaging in the bathroom vanity, opening dresser drawers. When he returns his pockets are bulging with pill bottles. He wads up the French fry package and tosses it to the floor.

This is just a start, he says, patting the pill bottles. What Maria owes won’t fit in my pocket.

The man comes over to the couch and jabs a finger at me. It’s shiny with fry grease and shaking slightly, like the rest of him. His other hand pulls back a shirttail to reveal a black handgun.

You’re on the hook, little man. Maria’s debt is your debt.

Fair enough, I say, and very slowly reach into my bathrobe pocket and pull out a bag. I pat the couch and urge the man to sit down and partake, but he remains standing while I make the preparations. I ignite the finished product and offer it up. He motions for me to smoke first, and I do. Eventually he takes it and sucks liberally and after a few moments seems to relax. He sits down on the opposite end of the couch and looks again at the bathrobe, which is open to the waist, exposing a hairless torso. It’s a rose-patterned garment, but familiar and comfy on my slight frame.

The fuck are you, Helen Hefner?

Hah, I say. Same size as the old lady, believe it or not.

The man frowns. That Maria’s?

Our girl, I say. She loves those roses.

He nods and smokes deeply, keeping it for himself. Five minutes later, when the blunt is nearly gone, he puts his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. The shaking has stopped. His hand eases away from the gun.

I tend to fill silence with chatter, a nervous habit. I say, You hear about this maniac on the news? I tell you, I was a bit freaked when you first showed up. The way he goes from house to house? They say he ties people up, takes a knife to them and then makes himself at home while they bleed out.

The man doesn’t seem to hear me, or worse, care that a killer is terrorizing our citizenry in the privacy of their own homes. He smokes the last of the blunt and then, in a sing-song voice, says, Marr-ee-yaa ... Marr-ee-yaa. Doan do me lack dat.

What did she do, exactly?

The man snorts and sits coma-like for a good while. Finally he opens his eyes with considerable effort, pupils blooming. A sheen of seat covers his forehead and his jaws seem a bit loose. When he speaks, it’s jabberwocky.

Shtook id, jif. Leffy dowd.

Huh, I say, sliding down the couch so we’re thigh-to-thigh. I retrieve the file from my bathrobe pocket and work a cuticle, another nervous habit, as I watch his face shift and contort. At once, his chin bounces off his chest and an orange stew splatters onto his lap.

Damn, I say, wiping my bare arm on his shirt. Too much of a bad thing, fella.

He’s hunched over and unmoving, a line of rust-colored saliva hanging from his lip. I reach out and hold my palm in front of his mouth, letting it hover, feeling his wet shallow breaths, before moving it around to the earlobe. Thumb and forefinger close on the hanging flesh and remain there, caressing. Slowly, gently, caressing.

The man paws feebly for the gun and begins to weep. I move my lips to his ear and in hushed tones describe the concoction of chemicals flowing through his bloodstream and offer a snapshot of his immediate future.

Maa, he manages... Maa-ree-ah...

Who’s Maria? I whisper.

BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.

A Twist Of Noir 101 - Andy Henion

HENSON COMES HOME, PART 4: CAROL ANN - ANDY HENION

Three weeks after the wedding, Jax brings Carol Ann to her knees with an efficiency that says he has done this before. Hit them where you don’t leave a mark. She gasps at his feet until she can crawl into the bedroom and lock the door. There, she curses and screams, hurling possessions against the wall and thinking brutal thoughts.

An hour later, she emerges, showered and dressed in her waitress dress, the pain a razor in her ribs.

“Be gone when I get back,” she says.

He isn’t. Instead, he’s holding council at the kitchen table with a bearded man and two of his goons. They speak in vagaries but the gist is clear, and Carol Ann grabs a beer and retreats to the tiny back porch. When the men are gone, Jax comes to her, green eyes dancing.

“I’m going to take you out, right now, and light this town up.”

It’s clear he has prospered from the meeting, just as it’s clear he is becoming a man to reckon with, albeit in the wrong circles. Still, the way he pulls her close and looks into her eyes—his is a passion she has never encountered, not even with her first husband. And truth be told, it’s difficult to hold the man’s anger against him. He was jealous of the others, after all, and who wouldn’t be?

Carol Ann can only promise her whoring days are over.

The club is packed, but Jax and his bride are ushered through the waiting horde and shown to a table. The manager brings free drinks. Men drift by and fist-bump; women whisper in his ear, even sit on his lap, with barely a look at the little brunette sitting beside him.

Carol Ann sips her beer and watches the band play. Jealousy isn’t part of her makeup. An only child, she was raised by her military father after her mother was killed in a crash before Carol Ann could know her. Master Sergeant Tower retired early and hit the bottle; Carol Ann spent her teenage years playing homemaker to his wino. Then, the summer after graduation—five years ago now—Tower drowned in his vomit and Carol Ann married Private Alex Bowman. They assumed the old man’s modest home in Humble and Carol Ann waited tables during the day and took psychology classes at night. Alex went off to war and came back wrong.

When they’re alone, Jax puts his tongue in her mouth and his hand between her legs. The beer has loosened Carol Ann a bit, and she permits his thrill. Fighting the man, she is learning, only excites him.

Jax had showed up at the restaurant earlier that summer with a buddy and two barely-dressed blondes. Five in the morning, sloppy drunk, ordering omelets and pancakes. Jax zeroed in on the little waitress with the big brown eyes and said, “Honey, you should join the party.” Carol Ann eyed the blondes and said, “I’ll save myself a trip to the clinic.”

He was back the next day, alone this time, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. He convinced her to take her break with him and proceeded to work his charm. He had come down from Boston two years ago to work in logistics, he explained, and quickly moved up the ladder. What ladder would that be? Carol Ann inquired. The one with gold at the top, he said, winking, and later that night, after a dizzying hour on her living room floor, she told him about Alex’s suicide and then about the men—the soldiers—she had since fucked for money.

“And for other reasons, I suppose, but I’m done with that,” she said, and waited naked and exposed for his reply.

He smoked a cigarette and stared up at the water-stained ceiling. Finally, he said, “Honey, we all have our crosses.”

They were married a week later by a long-haired justice of the peace. He moved his belongings into her place, promising they’d find something better, that the sky was the limit, all that.

Now, after a night of partying, the sun is sprouting above the treeline as they pull in the crumbling driveway. There’s a hotrod at the curb and a zit-faced soldier waiting behind the wheel. Carol Ann turns to Jax and places her hand on his arm.

“This guy doesn’t have a clue. I’ll take care of it.” She’s out of the car before he can respond, leaning into the kid’s window, waving her hands about.

When she enters the house five minutes later, Jax is standing in his boxers, vodka in hand.

“Stupid kid didn’t—”

“Once a whore, huh?” he says, and straight-arms her in the forehead.

Carol Ann goes down, straight down, smacking her head on the futon arm and again on the hardwood floor with enough force to damage nerves.

Jax looks down at her limp form and drinks deeply from the vodka. He hasn’t spilled a drop.

*

She dwells in darkness. He builds his reputation. Hours on end, she lies on the bed and listens to heated discussions of shipments and payoffs to bosses and bureaucrats. It’s obvious he doesn’t need to be here—he could afford just about any place in town by now—but it’s a good location to avoid attention, this ramshackle ranch house on a street where the neighbors have scant interest in summoning the law.

She doesn’t eat, her nightclothes sag. She showers only when forced. He calls her a waste of oxygen, tells her to get her act together.

“Now I know,” he says, “why G.I. Joe swallowed his gun.”

One day, a man is brought to the house. From the living room comes pleading and screaming as his punishment is carried out. “Hand me the pillow,” Jax says, and then a muffled crack and a thud as the body hits the floor. Carol Ann pulls her own pillow over her head and sobs herself to sleep.

*

He lets them take her. The first to come is his right-hand man, Rico, a wiry Italian with a permanent wad of tobacco in his cheek. The weight of his body jolts her awake. She doesn’t fight back.

*

Life and death, it’s all the same. When she was in the hospital with her head wrapped in gauze and a cop at her bedside, Carol Ann knew better than to confess, his words still fresh in her ears: I’ll cut you to pieces.

But no longer does she fear pain, or dying, or the bastard who took an oath to honor her.

She’s going to ruin him.

Her cell phone expired long ago and there’s no landline in the house, so Carol Ann bathes and dresses and sits on the edge of the bed. Running a brush through her hair, she’s waiting for him to leave, figuring she can find her way to the convenience store two blocks away and wing it from there.

A knock on the front door. She hears the familiar voices of her coworkers, Keisha and Barb and Warren the manager.

“We want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Guys?” She makes it into the living room, where they see her for the first time since the accident.

“Oh, Carol Ann.”

The women come and put their arms around her and cry. Warren explains how she can come back to work—not as a waitress, of course, but as a hostess. He’s looked into it, he says, and the county has free training services and even will pay part of her salary, which is just fine with him.

No one laughs. They shift nervously as Jax smokes and eyes them from the table.

“Whatever,” he says, flipping a hand. “Go make me some fucking money.”

*

“Table for one, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Smoking or non?”

“Non.”

She leads him to a booth along the back wall.

“You’re blind.”

Carol Ann smiles. “So much for small talk,” she says, thinking, There’s something about that voice.

“What happened to you?”

Again with the directness. “Do I know you?”

“I doubt it.”

“You doubt it, huh? Well, mystery man, enjoy your dinner.”

*

Keisha, the head waitress, says she just knows evil is alive in that godforsaken place. She warns Carol Ann to get out.

“Hell, child, come stay with me. I got the room.”

But Carol Ann is stubborn, her spirit renewed. Even if Jax would let her go, this is her family’s home, full of memories, her father’s war medals, and goddamn if she’ll let them take it. She reactivates the cell phone; keeps a steak knife under her pillow. Makes it clear the next motherfucker who enters her room will leave castrated. For his part, Jax seems to have lost interest, offering her hope that he’ll move on soon.

Then the cops come. They raid on a weekday, while Carol Ann is at work, hauling in Jax and three of his cronies. When the bus drops her off, a patrolman posted at the house places a copy of the warrant in her hand.

“I know you can’t read this, ma’am. Just a formality.”

“Did you find what you were after?”

“I’m not supposed to discuss that, ma’am, but no. We got them on possession.”

“They’ll be out tonight.”

“No, ma’am, tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

She laughs in disbelief, grinding her fists into her temples. Now is the time to tell him, she knows. Take her chances on the legal system. But even if they do put Jax away, she’ll always be waiting for one of his minions to come calling.

In the dark.

Waiting...

“Well, ma’am—”

“Why this?” she says, meaning the courtesy call. “And why not me? It’s my house.”

“Our tipster explained your, ah, situation,” the cop says. “You’re lucky. You have some good friends out there.”

Good friends, Carol Ann thinks, who just fucked me.

*

She goes to work the next day because there’s nothing else to do. No matter how much she denies it, Jax will blame her. She considers getting on a Greyhound and heading west—L.A. , maybe, or Seattle—and starting a new life. But then there’s this: She’s a blind woman with no access to cash, whose only skill is seating people in a restaurant she knows inside-out.

She considers whoring again, this time seriously. But just as quickly she realizes she’d rather die.

He shows up in the early afternoon, after the lunch rush. The quick squeak of the hinge tells her it’s a single patron; the boot on the floor says it’s a man.

“Table for one, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, the mystery man.” She leads him toward the booth in the back.

“You’re anxious about something,” he says. “Scared.”

Carol Ann stops. “Okay, Sigmund, what’s your deal? Who the hell are you?”

“The name is Collins.”

Carol Ann makes a means-nothing-to-me face, shrugs her arms.

“You know me as Henson.”

There it is: the voice. Carol Ann extends an arm, pulls it back quickly.

“Follow me.”

She leads him to the table in the southwest corner, generally hidden from sight, and takes the seat next to him. Leans forward and runs her fingertips down both of his cheeks.

“The face is wrong.”

“I had a change.”

“A change,” she says, although she knows it’s true. She shakes her head.

“I read about you shooting those people,” she says. “That cop.”

“Yes.”

“And here you are, revealing your darkest and deepest. What can that possibly mean for me?”

“I come to see you, that’s all.”

“Now you’ve seen me. So go away.”

“I thought—”

“Christ, man, it was just a handjob.”

He makes a face she cannot see. She stands and presses a fluttering hand to her chest, her face a mask of worry. Henson is the least of her problems.

He says, “You’ve lost something besides your sight.”

“And what, you’re going to get it back for me?”

“I can help. No strings.”

“Oh sure, trade one maniac for another. No, thanks.”

*

She gets a ride home from the manager, has him swing by the hardware store. Warren’s been married nineteen years, has three kids, but still sniffs around like a horny teenager. He’s harmless enough and, as Carol Ann suspected, easy to manipulate.

Thieves have hit twice in the past week, she tells him. Jax is gone half the time and she’s scared shitless of what they’ll will do if they catch her alone. While Warren installs the heavy-duty lock on her bedroom door, he praises her bravery for coming back to work like she did, explaining how her presence brightens the whole restaurant.

Then he’s up against her, sour breath in her face. As his lips slide down her neck, Carol Ann says, “Need a rain check, Warren, it’s that time of month.”

He gets a breast free, cups it with hungry hands. “No worries,” he says, teeth closing on a nipple, and Carol Ann laughs and pushes him away.

“I’m flattered, really. But not now, okay?”

She gets him out of the house and immediately regrets it. She runs to the porch only to listen to his minivan chug away. She locks the door and tries Keisha’s cell—voicemail. Hangs up, calls work, gets the chirpy night hostess. Not sure what to say (my gangster husband’s coming home to kill me?), she asks her counterpart to check the schedule, apologizing for her memory.

Now what? She takes a bag of carrots and a six pack into the bedroom and engages the padlock. Jax has been sleeping in the other room, when he’s here at all, so there’s a chance he won’t even come for her. Carol Ann munches a carrot and guzzles the beers one after the other, trying to make herself believe this, until she’s groggy-brained and sprawled on the mattress with the cell phone in one hand and the steak knife in the other.

As the night wears on, bad dreams, beer-fueled and tragic, mix with the real thing, though Carol Ann will not distinguish between the two. She slashes at the shadowy figures, but her knife is too slow and they are too powerful. There are ropes, a gag, and in the morning a busted door and an empty house, and Carol Ann is so bruised and battered she cannot walk the few feet to the toilet.

*

Carol Ann stands in the parking lot, frozen. It’s been four days, yet she cannot make herself go inside the restaurant.

“How much will it take before this ends?”

She jumps at his voice. Then, holding herself: “Goddamn you.”

He doesn’t apologize. “How much?”

“How do you know?” she says.

There are no visible marks.

“You’re favoring your lower half. You know he’s keeping you alive to torture you.”

“He’s not coming back.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Carol Ann puts her face in her hands and screams into the flesh. She does it again, and again, and when she’s finished she looks up and says, “No strings, right?”

*

Henson is sitting on the couch when he enters. Jax pulls a gun—slow as hell, Henson observes—and glances around the room, making sure the intruder is alone.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Henson has a coat in his lap, the black silencer poking out. Jax finally realizes this—some gangster—and makes a face as if the man is certifiable.

“You come into my home and point a gun at me? Do you know who I am?”

“It’s not my game,” Henson says.

Carol Ann slips from behind the door and puts a pistol to her husband’s back, a move she’s practiced countless times over the past two days. Henson rises from the chair and moves to sandwich him.

“The gun,” he says.

“How about I frag you and take my chances with her.”

“Either way. Make up your mind.”

Jax snorts and tosses the weapon to the floor. Henson pats him down and finds a blade and a fancy cell phone, puts them in his pocket. He steps back and motions toward the bedroom. “Go,” he says, and Jax complies, looking back at Carol Ann and shaking his head.

“Y’all have no idea what you’re into.”

In the bedroom, Henson orders Jax to take off his clothes. Jax laughs and tells him to go fuck himself. Henson grabs the man’s wrist and shoots a hole in his hand. Jax hoots and hollers for awhile, then strips down to nothing, a relatively slow process without the use of both hands.

“Lie down,” Henson says. The ropes still hang from the four corner posts; her blood has hardened on the sheets. Jax makes to protest and Henson goes for his wrist. He pulls away and gets up on the bed. Henson ties him up, good hand first, and exits the bedroom without another word.

“All yours.”

Carol Ann is drinking a beer with an unsteady hand. The other holds a knife. Watching her little arms quake, Henson doubts her resolve. But then she drains the can, sets it on the table and walks into the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her.

As the talking turns to yelling and then something far worse, Henson walks around the living room and looks through the windows. Two of the neighboring houses are red-tagged for demolition. Across the street he sees a silver-haired woman watching television from a wheelchair. She doesn’t look up, even when the massacre reaches a crescendo, and Henson figures it would take a bomb blast to get her attention.

It’s over in a matter of minutes. Carol Ann comes out with blood splattered on her face and arms. When she speaks, her voice is high and tinny, trance-like.

“I left the knife in him. Couldn’t tell you where, of course. It was like playing darts in the dark with a moving target.”

She heads into the kitchen. Two packed suitcases sit by the table. From the get-go she’s been particular about the plan: afterward, she’s going to stay with a friend, and she’s never coming back. Henson will take care of the cleanup. Then she’ll pay someone to pack the place up, put her crap in storage and put it on the market.

Henson comes up behind her and says, “There are three more.”

She turns on the faucet and begins washing away the gore. “There will always be more, Mr. Henson, but I’m done.”

“They’ll come for you.”

Carol Ann turns to face him, her tormentor’s blood dripping from her chin.

“Then they’ll come,” she says.

*

The idiots have been exchanging texts for months. Pack for Dallas three or four days...Dill says it’s a go...$80 large gets us in...Henson doesn’t know how the cops missed it. If he were FBI, he’d have a hard-on.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Jax’s good Russian vodka on his tongue, he works his thumbs over the tiny keyboard. He starts with Rico, the right-hand man.

Bitch ready for more, he types. Midnight.

The reply comes quickly, as he knew it would.

Let’s do this.

Henson slips the phone in his pocket. He considers the little waitress and her tough luck. With his new face, his new identity, he had come down here expecting...well, something. Instead, he got caught up in this train wreck.

Maniac, he thinks, for that’s what she had said, comparing Henson to her lowlife husband.

“Maniac,” he says softly, as if testing its validity.

Then he finishes the vodka and gets up to prepare for the gangster’s arrival.

BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.

A Twist Of Noir 085 - Andy Henion

HENSON COMES HOME, Part 3: A MATTER OF TRUST - ANDY HENION

Henson is leaning against the wall of a radiator shop when the Mexicans pull up in a tricked-out Toyota. There are two of them, Joey Torres’ lieutenants, with their wife-beaters and porno mustaches and gold medallions. They ease out of the low-rider and sidle up to this goofy-ass white boy with the nerve to peddle smack on Joey’s turf.

"Was’sup, holmes?"

The Mexicans take spots along the wall, surrounding him. Henson pulls at the flaps of his hunting cap and rocks in place.

"Hear you got the good shit."

"Nuh," Henson grunts. The horn-rim glasses make his eyes appear twice their size.

"Shit, holmes, we’re not five-oh. We just want the good shit." A roll of cash is produced.

"Nuh."

"Yo, fuck this." The smaller of the two attempts to grab Henson only to have his arm knocked away. The little Mexican sneers and reaches for his waistband; his partner stops him with a signal. A lunchtime crowd is milling at the burger joint across the street.

"Ease back, ease back. Big man respecting his space is all."

This one, the apparent leader, steps in front of Henson and smiles. A toothpick protrudes from his wet lips. "So tell me, holmes, you ever hear the name Joey Torres?"

Henson stops rocking.

"Motherfucker sure has," says the smaller one.

"Si, si. Sure you have. And you’ll be happy to know that Señor Torres is impressed with your, ah, productivity."

Henson pushes the meat of his tongue through his lips, bites down, leaves it there. The leader raises his eyebrows and glances at his partner.

"Lo que sea, holmes. Lo que sea." He flicks the toothpick away and inches closer to Henson. "Listen to me now. We got this little problem to address."

Henson says, "Wha," and bends his knees as if to bolt. The leader holds up his hands, palms out. "Easy, holmes, it’s not like that. Joey wants to talk is all. A man with your, ah, talents, he’s thinking maybe there’s a spot on the team."

Henson is rocking again.

The leader opens the back door of the Toyota, sweeps his hand like a game show host. "Take a little ride with us, come meet the man. We’re gonna treat you right, guaranteed."

Henson looks at each of them in turn, tongue extended, then shuffles to the vehicle and climbs in. On the sidewalk the two lieutenants laugh and chatter in Spanish. The door is slammed behind him.

The smaller one drops into the backseat with Henson. They pull away in silence and drive past gas stations and pawn shops until they hit the highway. At this point the little Mexican extracts a switchblade and flips it open after some fancy handwork. He jabs the tip into Henson’s shoulder and draws blood.

"You fucked with the wrong Latino, half-wit."

"Rique," says the leader. "Not yet. When Joey’s done with his ass."

The little Mexican turns away as if deciding his next move. When he turns back, Henson shoots him in the face. A flap of cheek slaps the window like pulpy leather.

The Toyota swerves; the driver curses and shouts, full of emotion. Henson suspects the little one was his cousin, maybe his brother.

"Shut up and take me to Torres," he says, pushing the barrel of the Glock against the driver’s shuddering back. When he calms, finally, Henson says, "Now hand me your piece by the barrel." The Mexican looks slit-eyed into the rear-view and Henson belts him in the neck. The cursing returns but this time he does what he’s told, carefully passing the weapon back.

Henson leans back with the silver Beretta and goes about emptying the magazine and chamber, dropping the bullets on the expired Mexican. Then he puts the handgun on the seat between them and removes the horn-rims, rubbing his eyes.

"You won’t make it through the day," the driver says.

"Then consider these precious moments and shut the fuck up."

But the babbling continues, and Henson ignores it, staring out the window at the passing Texas countryside. At one point the Mexican slows for the wrong exit, forcing Henson to correct him with gun butt.

"I know the place," he says. "No more fuckups."

The Torres ranch sits on two hundred acres in the Texas Hill Country. Henson has scouted the hacienda for the past week, hiding among the limestone formations with a pair of night-vision binoculars he bought at an Army surplus store with his old friend’s money. As the chiggers gnawed his ankles, he watched the drug couriers come and go in the darkness, a steady stream of activity tapering to nothing by late morning.

It’s shortly after noon when they pull up. No vehicles are in the driveway. Henson puts the glasses back on and drops the Beretta over the seat. "Walk me to the door with this, side by side. Don’t wave, don’t run, don’t cock an eyebrow."

The Mexican obeys, opening the back door and ordering him out with a flick of the gun. Henson keeps his hands in his jacket pockets, fingers wrapped around the Glock. As they walk, the Mexican pulls the trigger over and over, the Beretta clicking with impotence.

"Smart ass," says Henson.

When they pass the reach of the security camera and make it to the porch, Henson withdraws the Glock and drops the Mexican. He throws open the door, whips off the glasses and heads for the glass-walled kitchen, where Torres should be lounging in his silk bathrobe, mimosa in hand.

He’s there, but holding a gun instead of a drink.

They fire. Torres goes over backward, gun clattering to the tile. Henson’s heart seizes in his chest. Doubled over and gasping, he pounds a fist against the bullet-proof vest once, twice, a third time: a savage form of CPR. But the slug has simply stolen his wind and, within fifteen seconds, he’s standing above Torres, watching him bleed.

"Some retard," says Torres. Reddish-black fluid dribbles from a hole near his right armpit.

"Anyone else in the house?"

"Two others. My muscle."

Henson bends down and hits him in the mouth.

"Okay then. Let’s go with no."

Henson pockets both guns, then helps Torres up and puts him in a chair. He hands him a roll of paper towel before taking a seat. The drug lord presses the entire roll against the wound.

"Keeping me alive," Torres says. "So tell me a story." He’s as Caucasian as they come, with pasty skin and thinning blond hair.

Henson pulls off the hunting cap, revealing his mangled face. Torres laughs and shakes his head.

"Well, holy shit," he says.

"An old man named Burl Crenshaw," Henson says. "He died coming for you. Your shit killed his son."

"Is that what the old shyster told you? How about this version: Burl Crenshaw ran the northern operation for us. If anything killed his kid, it was his own product."

"Bullshit. He was coming—"

"Coming to kill me? Wrong, Sergeant. He was coming to turn you in. You see, there’s a hundred-thousand-dollar bounty on your ass, but only if you’re breathing. Seems that bouncer you snuffed was connected to some very bad people."

It doesn’t make sense. The old man a drug dealer?

"A hundred grand," Henson says, trying to get his brain around it. "And, what, you planned to split the take with the old man?"

"Something like that. But then Burl drops off the map."

"Fuck that," Henson says. "Too many coincidences. The old man just happens to run into me in bum-fucking-Michigan and sets the whole thing in motion?"

"Life is full of coincidences. How about this one: the retard moving in on my territory just happens to be the wanted war vet. And I don’t put it together."

"That’s not a coincidence," Henson says. "That’s stupidity."

Torres’ laugh comes out as a weak cough. "Hey now. The old man never told me about the retard shtick." He closes his eyes for several beats. The paper towel roll is soaked nearly through with blood.

"Listen," he says. "I need a doctor. What’ll that cost me?"

"Sounds like my price has been set."

Torres nods and stands gingerly. "I can do better," he says, and leads Henson into a den. Henson stands behind him as he opens a safe in the wall. When the door swings open, Henson pushes him aside and withdraws the stacks of cash.

"There’s a hundred seventy-five there, maybe a little less," Torres says, falling into the seat at his desk. He slumps over, fighting to remain conscious.

"Now’s when you slip out the back," he mumbles, reaching weakly for a phone on the desk. "Make your escape while I call for help."

"Something like that," Henson says, and pulls out the man’s pistol.

*

The massive garage is stocked with gleaming sports cars and sport utilities. Henson picks a rust-plagued grounds truck and heads back to town. On the way, he dials his old company commander, Lars.

"I got it," he says. "And a bonus for you."

"Out-fucking-standing, Sergeant. No surprises on this end: The man’s on board."

As an officer in the United States Army, Lars has access to a national network of disgruntled soldiers: the kind of people who have no problem helping Henson get along. The man in question is a recently discharged surgeon who runs a reconstructive practice in Macon, Georgia. He’s agreed to manipulate Henson’s face for six figures and put him up in one of his investment properties.

"I’ll be there in two days," Henson says. "I’ll let you know what I’ll be driving."

"Roger that," says Lars.

*

The plastic surgeon, Lawrence Shaumburger III, runs his baby-soft fingers over Henson’s face, kneading and pinching the damaged flesh to the point that Henson wants to jump off the exam table and throttle his ass. The chubby little surgeon wears rubies in both ears, keeps his skull shaved clean and smells like a fucking prom date. Henson has met plenty of military docs in his time, but never one like this.

Shaumburger clucks his tongue and wheels back from the table.

"You’re looking at three surgeries. Spread over nine months, a year. My price just doubled, Mr. Henson."

That would be a quarter million. Henson sits up and settles his gaze on the man. Shaumburger is his only chance, and they both know it.

"I’m a hundred short," Henson says.

Shaumburger rises, walks to the sink and begins soaping his hands. It’s late and the building is empty save for the two of them and a seven-foot Filipino sitting corpse-still in the corner. Shaumburger washes each finger vigorously as if scrubbing away disease, then takes a hand towel and turns to Henson.

"I’m sure something can be worked out."

Fuck this, Henson thinks, imagining what the flake has in mind. But in the end he knows he’s powerless to the freedom of Shaumburger’s scalpel, and so he simply nods.

"Yes, then. Marvelous. We’re going to run a week’s worth of antibiotics before the first procedure. In the meantime, Saymo, my assistant, will get you settled and tend to your needs."

*

Henson spends his time digesting bad television and seafood dishes simmered in coconut milk. By day the Filipino cooks, cleans and watches old game shows. At night he disappears, apparently to do Shaumburger’s bidding, then perhaps home to a wife and kids. He doesn’t say and Henson doesn’t ask.

On the fifth night, after the last of the quiz shows, Saymo says, "Get your hat, we’re going out."

He drives to an upscale bar and parks in an unlit corner of the lot, under a low-hanging live oak. It’s Thursday and there are ten or twelve vehicles scattered about. Industrial buildings surround the property.

"A white man will pull up in a black Lexus. This man is the leader of the City Council. This man is denying Dr. Shaum his permit to expand the practice."

He shuts off the Cadillac and they sit in the near dark. Because of his height, the Filipino keeps his seat tilted all the way back, yet his head nearly scrapes the ceiling. He does not look at Henson as he speaks.

"You will send this man a message. A very strong message."

A car pulls in then, a black Lexus. Henson watches the City Council president park and says, "The doctor wanted this?"

"Yes," says Saymo.

"Bullshit. I’m too easy to identify. He’ll collect after the facelift."

"You will send this man a message."

"Fuck you. This is your deal."

Like most big men, the Filipino is cocksure of himself. Instead of pulling a weapon, he comes for Henson barehanded. Henson knocks the long arm away with his left and comes across with a right hook, bracing his foot against the door for purchase. Something cracks in the Filipino’s jaw, but he’s no amateur—pain is part of the game—and he keeps scrapping. Henson is in close now, however, and he gets a hand around his neck and uses the other for more face work, bouncing the Filipino’s head off the window with each punch.

When the fight has left the big man, Henson is basically in his lap. Panting, he says, "You will get out of the car and find your way home. You won’t say a word of this to the doctor. You understand?"

Saymo manages a slight nod, eyes vacant and glassy: concussed. Henson scoots back to the passenger seat and watches as he stumbles out of the Cadillac and goes to a knee, emptying his stomach on the asphalt. Eventually he rises, wobbly, grabbing onto the car for support, and when he shuts the door Henson is left staring at a thousand pieces of the Filipino through a bloody spider web of glass.

*

He lies on the operating table with an IV in his arm and a head filled with doubt. Shaumburger will perform the surgery with a single nurse, a stocky, close-cropped woman who fiddles with a bag of medication and tries not to stare at the infamous hit man. What’s to say she won’t whisper the story to her lesbian lover this very night and put them all at risk?

And Saymo. The Filipino hasn’t come around the apartment since the beat-down two nights ago, which means he’s out there stewing in his own bitter juices, just waiting for the right time to strike. When Henson is recovering and vulnerable, no doubt.

Then there’s Shaumburger, the funky Dr. Frankenstein who’s about to transfer the first patch of skin from Henson’s neck to his face. Say the Filipino spins a tale for the good doctor, convincing him Henson is more trouble than he’s worth? Or perhaps Shaumburger botches the operation altogether? There’s a reason he’s practicing in backwater Georgia, after all.

It all boils down to a matter of trust, and Henson trusts none of them.

"Put me under," he says.

"In time, Mr. Henson. In time."

"Do it now, before I lose my nerve."

Shaumburger looks down at the patient, whose teeth are clenched and whose hands clutch at the sheet, and nods at the nurse. She reaches up and starts the flow of propofol. Within seconds Henson feels the heaviness spreading through his limbs and panics, pawing at the air and attempting to sit up. He wants out of here—needs out—but the drug has taken control, and the last thing he remembers is the surgeon’s fat little hands pressing down on his shoulders with surprising strength.

BIO: Andy's short fiction appears in Plots With Guns, Thieves Jargon, Pindeldyboz, Hobart and other publications. He lives in Michigan.

A Twist Of Noir 069 - Andy Henion

HENSON COMES HOME, PART 2: ON THE RUN - ANDY HENION

Henson shoots the young cop in the bicep just as he gets his service pistol clear of its holster. The kid howls and drops the weapon, stomping on the gravel driveway as if his feet are on fire. Henson kicks the gun away, grabs the keys from the ignition and opens the trunk to the cruiser.

“In,” he says.

There is no protest. The cop looks into Henson’s eyes and understands the score. As he climbs into the trunk he smacks his wounded arm on the spare tire and cries out. “Fuck motherfuckin fuck,” he says.

“Use your belt as a tourniquet,” says Henson, slamming the lid and hurling the keys into the neighbor’s trees.

He gives a last look to his brother and ex-girl staring wide-eyed from the picture window, then gets in his car and drives away. After a few miles, he hears a siren, then another, and suddenly the city is full of them. He’s never been so popular. Shoot a cop, get your fifteen minutes.

They’ll be looking for a disfigured male driving an early model green Cutlass. Henson knows he can do nothing about the former but he can change the latter, so he drives to the Lansing airport, cutting through subdivisions and at one point ducking into a strip mall when two state cruisers blow by on the cross street.

He chooses the long-term lot and idles along until he sees what he wants: a man walking toward the terminal with suitcase in tow. He pulls next to his vehicle, a black Dodge Ram, steps out and begins working the slim jim. Henson learned the trade as a teenager after his father’s death, in the years when his mother couldn’t pay the mortgage. The owner of the garage where he apprenticed, a man who called himself Big Rick, paid five hundred per car—a thousand for a Beamer or Lexus—and Henson would become Big Rick’s best before he even earned his driver’s license.

Within five minutes, he’s got the Ram hotwired and is heading for the gate.

In the extended cab is an array of hunting gear. Bow season is two days away and Henson figures the owner plans a beeline for his blind the moment he returns from whatever mind-numbing conference he’s flying to in Baltimore or Indy or Raleigh.

He pulls on a pair of black wraparounds and a bright orange cap, checks himself in the rearview mirror. The hunting cap has a long bill and side flaps that hide his face. The effect is Elmer Fudd meets the Terminator, he thinks, and nearly smiles.

“Afternoon,” he says, extending the ticket. The booth attendant is a fat, expressionless man who takes the ticket with barely a look at Henson, his attention focused instead on the red and blue flashers to his immediate rear. The incoming sheriff’s deputy slows at the booth to examine the Dodge, staring straight into Henson’s dark shades, before continuing into the airport proper.

The attendant watches him for several more seconds before turning back to tend to Henson.

“Some bad voodoo going on,” he says.

“Looks like it,” Henson says. “Glad I’m heading the other way.”

*

Henson intends to head south. And they’ll expect him to head south, back the way he came, or perhaps east through Detroit and then into Canada, a ninety-mile trip. So instead he goes north and west, sticking to the secondary roads, planning to follow the lake up and around the Upper Peninsula and then down through Wisconsin. Take his time, let the trail cool. Boost another vehicle when the time comes.

Snow begins to fall through the waning sunshine. October in Michigan, he thinks. Goddamn. At the tourist town of Manistee he picks up the highway to cover some mileage. Traffic is sparse but he keeps to the speed limit, passing only the occasional semi. On the passenger seat is a soft case of compact discs and he thumbs through them: mostly bullshit country. There’s no one on the road behind him so he drops the window and flings the discs one after the other, keeping only a select few: old Hank, Skynyrd and Seger, the hometown boy. He slips in a disc and leaves the window down, invigorated by the cold air and mouthing the words to the familiar anthem.

Working on our night moves. Trying to lose the awkward teenage blues …

It gets him thinking. Henson can’t help but love this iceberg of a state, the raucous memories of his youth, the people from his past. But such nostalgia cannot last, and before long his knuckles are white on the wheel. For he hates them also, hates them all, for not protecting him from what he’s become.

*

He pays the toll and makes it across the Mackinac Bridge without incident. The snow has become a blanket in the night sky, cutting visibility to a matter of feet and forcing most of his fellow motorists off the road. He puts the Ram in four-wheel drive and continues at a snail’s pace as far as Escanaba, where he pulls into the parking lot for a Wal-Mart.

He rummages around in the glove box and finds a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses.

Together with the orange cap they seem to provide suitable cover—just another anxious hunter—and Henson tracks through the snow toward the entrance, dreaming of deli chicken and barbecue chips and a cold six pack. It’s after midnight and the place is all but empty. He collects the food and beer and wheels the cart to the back to pick up a few more discs. He has to remove the glasses to read the titles. As he does, he notices an old man staring at him from the wall of televisions.

“Nice hat,” the man says, offering a two-fingered salute. He’s wearing a similar cap, only black, and flaps up.

Henson returns the gesture. When the old man turns back to the televisions he reapplies the glasses and pushes off for the checkout, thinking, Dumb fucking move. In and out, Einstein, in and out.

He has to wait for a cashier. A baby-faced woman with pigtails and a humpback finally hobbles up. She could be twenty for all he knows; she could be fifty-five. She snaps her gum and stares at Henson the entire time she’s ringing up his order. It’s a skill, to be sure, although the scrutiny makes him feel claustrophobic, itchy, and the sweat rolls from the furry flaps down his neck.

“Nice hat,” she says finally.

“So I’m told,” he says.

He drops his cart off in the entryway and takes his bags. The man with the black cap is leaning against the wall near the doors. Henson makes an effort to avoid eye contact, lest he encourage the old guy, though he understands it’s probably too late for that.

“Come with me if you want to live.”

Henson is in his face before he can draw another breath. He jabs two fingers into his fragile ribcage and says, “They won’t find you when I’m done.”

But the old man doesn’t flinch. A corner of his mouth curves up and he nods slightly, as if Henson has met his expectations. “Saw you on the TV news back there, Sergeant. And guess what? If I can recognize you, they can too.”

Henson stares into his wrinkled face. “Fuck you want, old man?”

“Buying records in the Wal-Mart? Christ, son, you might as well paint a bulls-eye on your chest.” He shakes his head like a disappointed father. He’s nearing seventy, Henson guesses, with sharp gray eyes and the rigid posture of a military man.

“Soldiers stick together, Sergeant. My place is just down the road. I assume you’ve lost the Cutlass by now?”

Henson backs up an inch, squinting through the glasses. What’s his angle?

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m in a red Bronco. When you pull in the driveway, come around back, behind the house.” The old man adjusts at his collar and steps through the doors. Henson follows him out, staring at his leathery neck, thinking how easy it would be out here in the driving snow, no one in sight. He’d make it clean, leave the old man slumped over his steering wheel. By the time they figured out it wasn’t a heart attack or stroke, he’d be long gone.

Then he considers the cashier’s intense gaze and the nearly impassable highway. But more so he thinks of his desire to sit down and eat his chicken and drink his beer in a warm dry place, maybe put his head down for a few hours.

He’s tired; so bone-fucking tired. One way or another, he decides, the old man will provide him some rest.

*

The black Lab’s name is Barry, the old man explains, after the Lions’ only decent player of the past half century. The dog sits like a statue next to Henson on the futon, eyes straight ahead. He will not lie down, he will not nuzzle the stranger for attention.

“He doesn’t trust you yet,” the old man says.

They sit across from one another nursing glasses of scotch.

This isn’t what Henson expected: a big modern house with surreal art lining the walls and a sunroof. The old man, who goes by Burl, says he recently sold the business he had built from scratch, imports-exports, although his wife of forty years is the one who has brought meaning and substance to his life.

“She’s here with us now,” Burl says, rubbing the gold box on his lap.

“My darling Rae, meet Sergeant Henson.”

“Just Henson,” he says, before he can stop himself.

They drink the scotch and Burl caresses the urn. For the first time in days Henson is sated, and despite the dog sitting rigid next to him he finds the futon more than comfortable enough to sack out. At this point he’s simply waiting on the old man to come out with it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m guessing you’re taking the long way down the Mexico, gonna disappear in the jungle or some such.”

Henson says nothing.

“You’ll never make it alone. Every cop from Michigan to Texas wants a piece of you. That young officer lost his arm, you know.”

Henson didn’t know. He exhales and sets the scotch down. “So you’re proposing to come with me. Why is that? And don’t give me that all-for-one bullshit.”

“Fair enough,” says Burl, standing. “A business proposition, plain and simple.” He strides to the bookshelf and pulls down another gold urn, hands it to Henson.

“Sergeant Henson, meet Charles. Twenty three years old, smart as a whip, whole goddamn life ahead of him.”

Revenge story, Henson thinks, reading the dates on the box. The kid’s been dead a year.

“A bad man cut him down, Sergeant. A man who lives like a king off the backs of others.”

“And you aim to end his reign.”

There’s a pair of crossed wooden swords on the far wall. Burl takes one down and holds it out in front of him, two handed, sight-lining the blade. The dog whimpers and adjusts his stance on the couch.

“The bad man lives in luxury in Waco, Texas.” Burl swings the sword with surprising speed and spins closer to his guest. The dog jumps down and begins to growl. Henson stays where he is, slouched on the sofa, motionless.

“All I need from you is backup, Sergeant.” The sword cuts through the air, the dog barks. “The bad man is mine.” Another arc, the old man spins gracefully, and now he’s at the couch holding the tip of the sword a half foot from Henson’s face, samurai style. The blade is sharp as a razor.

Henson says, “Backup, right,” as the old man snaps the sword away and continues his swinging dance across the room, the dog circling him, yapping continuously. This goes on for some time, to the point Henson believes it to be the old man’s daily regimen, and eventually he puts his head back and closes his heavy eyelids and simply listens to the commotion until it fades to nothing.

*

He sleeps for thirty hours, waking only to piss twice and kick off the blanket the old man has draped over him. Smelling sausage, he sits up and watches the old man moving around the kitchen. The dog jumps on the couch and resumes his sentry duty, just out of Henson’s reach.

“He lives,” Burl says. “Eat some breakfast, get yourself cleaned up and we’ll hit the road.”

Henson makes his way to the dining room where the old man meets him with a pot of coffee and a newspaper. He drops it on the table and Henson looks at a picture of himself staring up from the front page.

“You’re a star,” Burl says.

Henson sits down and sips his coffee and reads the story.

Fallen Solider: Did War Vet Kill For Money?

Tim Hoffman and Corey Kerr
Associated Press Writers

LANSING, Mich. – Three weeks before he turned 18, John Henson stood before District Court Judge Harold Robinowski and was given a choice: five years in prison for grand theft auto or a stint in the military.

“Your father died and you went out and made some money to help your mother. That’s admirable,” Robinowski said, according to court transcripts. “What’s not admirable is the way you made that money, by stealing cars. Nonetheless, your record is otherwise clean and you strike me as a young man who learns from his mistakes. Because of that I’m giving you the opportunity for a second chance.”

Seven years later, Henson, now 25 and recently discharged from the Army, faces homicide charges in Houston stemming from the death of a nightclub bouncer, as well as attempted murder charges in Lansing after authorities say he shot a city police officer. The officer, a 22-year-old father of two, lost his right arm.

The charges raise the possibility the judge made an error in judgment. The same Ingham County prosecutor who recommended the full sentence for Henson seven years ago, William Laughlin, now says he is a “cold-blooded murderer” who killed the bouncer for money.

“No offense to the judge,” Laughlin said, “but the evidence says this suspect was a rotten seed from the start. And now he’s graduated from car thief to hit man.”

Judge Robinowski would not comment for this story, but several of Henson’s friends and colleagues characterize the former solider as a misunderstood war hero. Joanie “Soshanna” Johnson, an adult dancer and college student who is charged with hiring Henson to kill the bouncer, said he “only took the case because of what that (expletive) was doing to us.”

Johnson and three other dancers at the club where the bouncer worked have come forward to say he was sexually assaulting them. Johnson, 20, said she didn’t go to police because the bouncer, Javon “Bertrand” Washington, had threatened to inform the authorities the dancers were having sex for money, a felony.

Prosecutors in Houston have publicly questioned the dancers’ stories.

Johnson said she’s speaking out for Henson against her lawyer’s advice “because the man went through hell over there (in Iraq ) and now he’s being hunted for doing society a good thing.”

“Yes sir, we made some mistakes,” said Johnson, a sophomore education major at the University of Houston. “But no one should get away with what that animal did. If you want my opinion, Sergeant Henson should get a medal.”

War hero?
Not long into his second tour of combat duty, Sgt. Henson’s patrol was ambushed by armed militants in Fallujah. A grenade was thrown into his armored personnel carrier, killing three fellow soldiers and wounding Henson.

Henson was captured and taken to a militant stronghold where he would be held for nearly a year, according to military sources who spoke on condition of anonymity. There, he was beaten and denied food and medical care, the sources said. As a result, a shrapnel wound on his face became infected, leaving him severely disfigured.

Henson escaped and was discovered by allied forces stumbling along a rural highway, delirious with dehydration. He would spend more than a year in several Army hospitals before receiving a medical discharge.

The Army would not release Henson’s records, but several sources said he didn’t necessarily establish himself as a hero. He received a Purple Heart for his injuries, but beyond that was given only basic service commendations, they said.

In addition, it took Henson six years to get his sergeant’s stripes, about two years longer than the average. He was punished at least once, as a private first class, for striking an officer in a non-combat setting, the military sources said.

But Ernie Ward, who served with Henson in Iraq and now faces conspiracy charges in the murder-for-hire case, said he was “the best (expletive) leader I ever served under.”

“I’d follow Sarge anywhere,” he said.

Ward, 22, lost his legs and now talks through an electronic box after sustaining injuries in a roadside bombing separate from the explosion that injured Henson. After Henson was released, he spent time at Ward’s home in Houston —and it was there, authorities say, that the plan to kill the bouncer was hatched.

Ward, who’s accused of serving as Henson’s go-between with the dancer, faces life in prison if convicted. During his preliminary hearing he claimed he and Henson were being set up by Middle Eastern terrorists hell-bent on exacting revenge, a theory prosecutors call absurd.

“We serve our country with our blood and our guts, and now we’re hit men?” Ward said in court. “That’s crazy. Y’all are (expletive) crazy.”

On The Run
Henson came back to Michigan to confront his younger brother and former fiancée, according to the fiancée, Sylvia Kubiak.

Kubiak said she and the brother, Leonard “Red” Henson began dating not long after she received a phone call from an Army official in Virginia informing her that Henson had been killed in the war. The Army denies making such a call, saying it goes against procedure.

“They lied to us,” Kubiak said. “They ruined my life. They ruined Johnny’s life.”

On Friday, Henson returned to his childhood home on Kalamazoo Street , sent his widowed mother to a casino in northern Michigan and waited for his brother and Kubiak to return from the supermarket where they work, Kubiak said.

When they arrived, he pulled a gun, she said.

“I knew Johnny wouldn’t hurt us, and he didn’t,” Kubiak said.

During the confrontation, the younger Henson apparently contacted Lansing police by text message. Leonard Henson refused to comment, other than to say, “You make your bed you lie in it, that’s what I know.”

Officer Larry Erb, a two-year veteran, responded to the home and was shot once by Henson in the driveway, police said. Henson then shut him into the truck of his police car, threw the keys into the woods and drove away in his dark green 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass.

Although Erb remained in the trunk for less than 15 minutes, his arm sustained massive nerve and muscle damage and surgeons were unable to save it. He remains in the hospital in stable condition.

Lansing police wouldn’t comment on where Henson may be heading. But Chief Joseph Wills vowed he will be captured, noting that there’s a nationwide alert out for his arrest.

“You don’t shoot a cop—one of my cops—and get away with it,” Wills said. “We will use every resource in our power to bring this man to justice.”

Henson puts the paper aside and glances around the table. There’s a spread of scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, buttered toast. He looks up at the old man, who is well into his breakfast, fork gripped like a club.

“So,” he says around a mouthful of food. “What is it: Rotten seed or misunderstood hero?”

Good question, Henson thinks, and drains his coffee. Instead, he says, “Does it matter?”

*

They ditch the Ram at a park-and-ride lot and set out in the Bronco, the old man taking charge. Henson is to wear the getup even in the vehicle and, if trouble surfaces, act the fool. “You know, drool on yourself, beat your chest, whatever.”

The sun is out, the highway clear and Burl keeps the speedometer at seventy. On the seat behind them is Barry, nose against the cold glass. The urns are packed in the back, along with the wooden swords, a rifle and a thirty-eight: the old man’s personal arsenal.

He’s letting it out. His son, Gregory, got him a full ride to play baseball down at Baylor but hooked up with the wrong crowd. Booze, drugs, the whole shebang. Next thing, he’s calling home for money and Burl decides to intervene. He flies down to find the kid hooked on the smack, and selling for the bad man. Joey Torres. Gregory is dead within a year. Police rule the stab wounds self-inflicted, but Burl knows better. He goes back down, actually gets inside Torres’ home before he’s hauled out and beaten bloody by his cronies.

“It won’t happen again,” Burl says.

Two hours later, near Green Bay: a roadblock. Burl sees the buildup too late to get off. “Play it cool,” he says.

Traffic’s being routed through an off-ramp, the line of vehicles fifty deep. Henson sees multiple sets of flashing lights and a crew of cops questioning two cars at a time.

“This can’t be for you,” Burl says.

“Unless they found the Dodge, put it together.”

“No chance.”

Nothing more is said until they reach the checkpoint. The head cop engages Burl while the other circles the Bronco, peering in the glass. He stops at Henson’s window, motions for him to unroll. Henson obliges, hearing the head cop tell Burl about a prison break.

“Nice dog,” the cop says.

Henson nods and pushes up the glasses with a knuckle. Staring at the passenger, the cop gets a look in his eye, actually tilts his head, and says, “Sir, can I see some identification?”

Henson pauses for a second to look over at Burl and then lets loose with a bellow. He lurches forward and smacks his fist off his forehead. The cop steps back and puts his hand on his weapon. Henson keeps it up, bellowing and twisting in his seat. From the back, Barry begins to bark.

“Boys!” shouts Burl, and puts a hand on Henson’s shoulder. “Officer,” he says, “I’m afraid my son here don’t carry identification. Perhaps you’d care to see mine?”

The dog continues to bark and Henson rocks slowly in his seat, moaning and tugging down on his hat flaps. The head cop shakes his head and waves Burl off.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. You gentlemen have a nice day.”

*

Passing through Chicago, the old man says, “I did some things in Korea I’m not proud of. I was a sniper, you know. The power of God at my fingertip.”

Henson chews on a beefstick, listening.

“That warped me for some time, after. But then I met my wife and I could breathe again.”

Henson knows the old man is trying to help him. But the truth is, he doesn’t get it. They are nothing alike.

“I killed a man in Texas for mocking me. For mocking me.”

“Listen, kid, I’m not your priest. When’s the last time you got laid anyway?”

Henson looks over, baffled at this old man with his gold urns and robot dog and wooden swords.

“That’s what I thought,” Burl says.

*

Henson knows what the old man is up to, but still he lets it happen. It has been too long, indeed. Sitting in a brown-paneled room in a St. Louis motor court, he hears the knock and gets up to encounter a blonde in a short red dress.

She looks at him and says, “Damn, buddy.” Henson steps aside. She’s a knockout, young and fit, and he can’t help but wonder how much Burl shelled out.

“Is that leprosy?”

Henson sighs.

“Okay, buddy, whatever.”

She turns from him and goes to the bed. Crawls up on her elbows and arches her back. Her heavy breasts fall free of the dress. Henson lifts the material and thinks, Wow. He fumbles a bit and just gets going, fingers digging into her hips, when there’s a thump against the adjoining wall. Then a dog barking—yelping—and Henson withdraws and runs for the door.

“Hey buddy,” she says, but he’s already outside, cock wilting. He busts open the cheap door and stumbles into Burl’s room. The pimp is rifling through a wallet thick with cash. Burl is sprawled on the bed, a wooden sword in his chest. The dog is nowhere in sight, though Henson can hear it whimper.

He waits a beat to see if the pimp pulls a gun and, when he doesn’t, steps back and lets the whore enter the room. He pushes her to the floor. The pimp grabs the other sword from the dresser. He’s a forty-something playboy, well dressed, with slicked hair and a goatee.

Henson walks to him, ducks the sloppy swing and knocks the pimp to the bed, next to the old man. He takes the sword from his hands and drives it two-fisted through his abdomen and into the mattress. The playboy sucks wildly for air and paws at the handle.

The whore breaks for the door. Henson catches her by the back of the dress and flings her back down. “Stay or die,” he says, and turns back to the pimp. He’s pulled the sword free and is attempting to rise from the bed. Henson retrieves the weapon and finishes the job, a swath of arterial blood spraying the whore in the face. She makes to scream until he drops to her eye-level and says, “No you don’t. We’re going to walk out of here and drive away. You stay quiet, you stay alive.”

The whore surprises him by asking about the dog, what about the poor dog? Henson looks over to see her stroking the panting, broken heap on the floor.

“Leave it,” he says.

*

The whore needs to die. They both know it. She cries hysterically as he drives through a barren industrial park in East St. Louis, Glock in hand. Twice she’s tried to hurl herself out of the moving Bronco, gun be damned, and twice he’s pulled her back in. “One more time and it’s over,” he says.

Burl didn’t need to die. No fucking way. Just a strange old bird trying to make amends.

The old man had checked them into the motel, Henson remaining hunched down in the Bronco, meaning only two people had seen his face. The pimp was dead. The whore needs to die.

He stops the vehicle. The whore cries out, begs for her life. Henson wonders if she was part of the action or if the pimp simply saw the old man’s money and took his shot. He also knows that if all goes as planned, if his face gets changed, she’ll never recognize him.

That’s too many ifs.

“Pleease,” she says.

Henson turns and puts the barrel to her forehead. The whore reaches up and ever so gently wraps her hands around the gun, Henson’s fingers. Snot runs down her nose.

“Pleease,” she says again.

Henson relaxes, takes the gun away. The whore breathes like a baby for the first time. He pulls out the old man’s wallet, withdraws three hundred-dollar bills and drops them in her lap.

“Get out,” he says. “And keep your mouth shut or I’ll find you.”

The whore takes the cash and climbs out. Shaking, she stands at the side of the road and glances around at the decaying buildings, with their knocked-out windows and graffiti. Henson imagines the type of vermin that must inhabit such a place as he drives away.

BIO: Andy spent three years as a cavalry scout in the U.S. Army, although not, thank God, under W. He lived for a stretch in South Texas but now is back in his native Michigan. His crime fiction has appeared in A Twist of Noir, Plots with Guns, Hardluck Stories, Pulp Pusher, Lynx Eye and elsewhere. For a different slice of his prose, try this one in Poor Mojo. The first part of HENSON COMES HOME won third place in the first-ever A Twist Of Noir Contest and can be found here.

A Twist Of Noir 022 - Andy Henion

NIGHT OF A LIFETIME - ANDY HENION

Hollins masturbated on the bed next to his third wife. He was careful not to shake the mattress, for such undulation, no matter how slight, would wake her without fail. “What are you doing?” she would say, and Hollins, unfailingly close to orgasm, would slap the pillow and respond through his teeth, “Rolling over. Do you mind?”

But this one went off without episode, Hollins ejaculating from a half-limp penis onto a dirty work sock as Marcia purred away. He dropped the sock to the floor and rolled to his side, ready for sleep to take him…and heard the pug dog lapping at his paws. “Stop it,” he hissed, and Ollie, camped on the floor, put his head on his paws and stared up with buggy cataract eyes. Hollins drew a batch of air into his lungs, released it slowly…and heard the ceiling fan ticking away, once every eight seconds, meaning it wasn’t the rotation of the blades but the pull-chains clicking together, something he’d meant to correct for weeks...

He gave up and looked at the green digits: 1:36. Five hours and he was up for work, five and a half if he pushed it. Hollins rose gently as to not wake Marcia, and stepped on the gooey sock.

“Fuck,” he said, aloud this time, and her eyes opened.

“What is it?”

“Twisted my ankle.”

“Where are you going?”

“Heartburn. Need to sit up for a while.”

“Need to quit the popcorn,” she said, and Hollins frowned at her tight little figure under the covers.

“I didn’t eat any popcorn,” he said, but her breathing had turned heavy. “And I don’t have heartburn. But I am rotting inside.”

He made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. On his counter was the remainder of his birthday cake: marble with cream cheese frosting, his favorite. He removed the aluminum foil, which brought the dog hobbling down, and scooped a massive piece onto a dinner plate. Licking his fingers, he carried it to the easy chair and settled in. Flicked on the big screen and in the corresponding glow saw the man sitting on his couch. He started, making a small noise in his throat as the plate fell to the floor.

The man’s face was his face, thirty years younger. Hollins put his palm on his chest as if to contain his hammering heart while Ollie went about the business of cleaning cake from the carpet.

“Nice watchdog,” the man said. “Big house like this, nobody for miles, you might consider an upgrade.”

Hollins nodded absently.

“So,” the man said, “how’s the plastic surgery racket these days?”

“It’s. I. Just.” Hollins exhaled and forced himself to focus. “It’s been better.”

The intruder sniffed as if he didn’t believe the older man. He wore neatly pressed fatigues and spit-shined combat boots: a common sight with the military base outside the city. His chin was squared and his hair dark, like Hollins’, but bristly. The insignia on his collar meant nothing to Hollins. The nametag on his chest read Steinman.

“A little background is in order,” the man said. “Thirty years ago a medical student passing through Cherry Hill, New Jersey, stops at an all-night diner. It’s two in the morning, he can barely keep his eyes open, but still he chats up the waitress. See, the young stud can’t turn it off. Next thing you know he’s got her knees pinned back at the roach motel next door.”

“Hey there—”

“Oh, I forgot to mention that he was a newly married man, a fact he conveniently chose to keep from his conquest.”

Of course Hollins remembered. When he masturbated next to his latest wife, that long ago night, with its grappling and shrieking, was a frequent vision. Her name was Devora, a nineteen-year-old ivory-skinned beauty with dreams of writing Broadway plays. Hollins had been an English minor himself, yet they didn’t leave themselves much time to discuss literature. It was, for him at least, the night of a lifetime.

When Hollins had finally managed to return to the diner, three years later during a training conference in Philly, he learned from another waitress that Devora had married and moved south with her traveling salesman husband. There was no mention of a child.

“How is she?” Hollins asked.

“No,” Steinman barked, jabbing a finger. “Not something you get to know.”

Hollins held up his hands. “Fine. Tell me about you then. Army, is it?”

Steinman simply looked at him. Ollie had given up on the cake and wandered over to sniff at the visitor’s boots. Hollins raised an eyebrow. The dog, rescued years before from an abusive environment, rarely went to strangers. Steinman picked him up and stroked his sagging jowl.

“Losing your muscle,” he said. Then, to Hollins: “You know, we shoot ’em over there. Mercy killings, mostly.”

Mostly? thought Hollins. He took in the crude skulls and blazing cannons on the soldier’s muscular forearms; the thick scar below his temple. Hollins shifted in the easy chair. Ollie looked at him expectedly.

“He’s twelve,” Hollins said. “Pretty fragile. You have dogs growing up?”

“Old man didn’t allow animals.”

“No? What’s he do?”

“Lies in a grave,” Steinman said.

Hollins was careful with his expression. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Steinman said. “He was not what you would call a pleasant man.”

Ollie was squirming. Steinman had stopped petting and was staring down at the dog, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Better let him out for his last potty,” Hollins said, rising.

“Sit down.”

Hollins hesitated, considering the order, and his options, and did what he was told. Keep it civil, he thought. No need to burden Marcia with this.

Ollie was released and jumped down, whimpering from the blow to his arthritic limbs. Steinman watched the dog limp away without seeing, back in his trance. Hollins decided it was time to address it.

“When were you over there?”

“Half my adult life and counting.”

“They’re sending you back?”

“Isn’t that what you and your country club buddies want?”

Hollins held the conservative leanings of his father, an obstetrician, and his father before him, family practice. He felt no need to apologize. “I don’t play golf,” he said, “and I don’t wish for anyone to die.”

“You don’t wish for anyone to die?” Steinman said. “That’s rich.” He reached into the rucksack and withdrew a snub-nosed pistol. Held it up for display, turning it over and again as if it were up for auction.

“The shrink told me I may never feel safe again. In my own fucking country.”

Hollins had never served, but he was pretty sure the military didn’t issue silver thirty-eights.

“Maybe he’s wrong,” he said. “They say time heals all.”

“Is that all you have? Clichés?”

“I’m not a therapist,” Hollins said. “I’m doing the best I can here.”

He waited—hoped—for the gun to disappear back into the rucksack, but Steinman lowered it and held it against his thigh, loosely aimed at his host. Hollins’ face tightened.

“So you break into my house in the middle of the night and now you’re holding a gun on me?"

A bed groaned upstairs: Marcia rolling over, maybe going to the bathroom. Hollins held his breath. Steinman glanced at her picture on the wall and gave him a smart-assed look.

“She’s a looker,” he said. “So, what, keep ’em in sports cars and Louis Vuitton and they forget about the age difference?”

Was that the size of it? His business partner had once said boob jobs would make them kings and Hollins had lived the life for decades, snorting, drinking and fucking at will. Marcia was simply the latest silicone trophy, an aspiring actress without a sliver of irony. He had augmented her body but couldn’t do the same for her mind. What she didn’t know was that the money was gone, he was emotionally spent and all he desired at this point was a stimulating companion to spend Saturday nights sipping Sangiovese and discussing Proust in front of the fireplace.

“Why don’t we get to the heart of it?” Hollins said. “How long have you known about me?”

“Since I was old enough to hate,” Steinman said.

Then why now? Hollins wondered. And then he understood: Steinman was being sent back, only he wasn’t going. Instead he was taking care of business before...before what? Before taking himself out? Before fleeing the country? He thought suddenly of the stepfather lying in his grave.

Steinman grinned. “You’d make a shitty poker player,” he said. “The answer is yes. I smoked that chump and dumped his ass in a swamp.”

He didn’t blink, and Hollins knew it was true. “When was this?”

Steinman looked at his watch. “Twelve hours ago.”

The young man was homicidal, possibly psychotic, but Hollins clung to his one advantage: the same blood flowed through their veins.

“You know, my own father could be a real bastard,” he said. “But he—”

“Don’t give a rat’s ass about your old man.”

“No, I can’t imagine you would,” Hollins said. He leaned forward and opened his hands. “Listen. Your mother. Devora. What we shared—”

“I told you,” Steinman cried, dropping to his knees. “Off. Fucking. Limits.” The gun came up in both hands, a marksman’s move, but behind it the eyes bulged and the jaw quivered. It was a mask of both rage and anguish, as if he dreaded the very killing for which he hungered.

“Son.” Hollins said it, for there was nothing left to say. “Son, please.”

“I’m not your goddamn son!”

Marcia came then, approaching the soldier from behind with such purpose that Hollins checked her for weaponry. Steinman took the unintended cue and swung around on his knees, gun leading the way. Hollins emitted a breathless no, squinting his eyes in anticipation of the blast that would surely come.

There were no shots, though, just an unarmed Marcia placing a hand on the soldier’s head.

“That’s not the way, Michael.”

Steinman wrapped his arms around her waist. She moved her fingers through his short hair and looked at Hollins. After a moment the soldier hoisted her teddy to nothing underneath, pushed her legs apart and buried his face there. Marcia was lifted off the floor awkwardly and when she closed her eyes and bit her lip, Hollins thought, Another shitty performance.

It was time to move, yet he was melded to the chair putting it all together. Steinman had mentioned Louis Vuitton, a common enough brand but also Marcia’s favorite. Then there was the dog, clearly familiar with the soldier. How long have they been at it? He wondered. And what’s their plan for me?

Hollins lunged from the chair as the soldier ate his wife. Marcia tapped her lover on the head and he came up cat-quick, clocking Hollins above the eyebrow with the thirty-eight before he could even extend his fist. Hollins fell on his ass already closing his right eye against the blood. It ran down his cheek and pooled on the carpet between his legs.

Marcia threw up her hands. “Goddamnit, Michael. No blood in the house, remember?”

Steinman said, “Let’s go to Plan B then,” and shot her through the left breast. Marcia looked down at the wound, then up at the men in succession. Her venom was reserved for Hollins. “Rotting inside?” she rasped. “Asshole.”

Steinman shot her twice more and she toppled back onto the recliner and convulsed a bit before lying still.

“Fuckin’ nag, anyway,” he said, and took a seat on the floor, Indian style, directly in front of Hollins, who had rolled his shirt up on his head to soak the blood.

“Nice turban.” He placed the thirty-eight on the floor like a peace offering. Clapped his hands together and made a face of surprise.

“You know, in all the hubbub I forgot it was your birthday. The big six-oh. Sixty years young. How does it feel?”

“Hurts like a cocksucker,” said Hollins, fingering the bloody shirt, and Steinman put his head back and laughed, ignoring the weapon between them. Hollins smiled despite himself. Kid’s got an infectious way about him, he thought with an odd rush of pride. Then he snatched the thirty-eight, took aim at the cackling lunatic and pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click. And another. And another.

“Just enough bullets to do the job,” Hollins said. He set the gun back down and nodded, as if he had been simply testing the younger man. “Efficient. Just like your father. Just like me.”

Steinman lost it at this point, rolling to his side and pounding the floor. It was a deep laugh, a familiar laugh, and soon Hollins joined in, laughing until the tears streamed down his cheeks and pooled with his blood on the carpet, a pinkish smear.

BIO: Andy lives somewhere cold but beautiful with three females, eight legs between them. His fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, including Plots with Guns, Thieves Jargon, Hobart, Spork and Hardluck Stories.