A Twist Of Noir 629 - David Barber

CRIME DOESN’T PAY...ANYMORE - DAVID BARBER

It was supposed to be an in and out job. Empty the cash register. No casualties, just a standard armed robbery. The only problem with it was the bloke I was working with. Thomas Titts was an arsehole and his name matched his personality.

“Were your parents taking the piss when they named you?” I asked when I first met him eight months ago.

“No, why?” was his reply.

And that’s the thing. He actually didn’t see the funny side of it.

“Tom Titts. It’s slang innit? Another word for the shits. You know, I’ve got a bad case of the Tom Titts.”

Laughter erupted round our table. Thomas just stared at me, his mouth unmoving until he spoke.

“My name’s Thomas, not Tom,” was all he said.

Our boss, Johnny Miles had settled us down that night. He was a bruiser of a man but a good one all the same. And, yes you noticed, even though his name rhymed with another word for haemorrhoids, you never said anything about it unless you liked wearing concrete shoes.

“Okay, lads. Let’s calm down now. Thomas, this is Michael and Kev.”

Thomas shook hands with the two men sat to my right.

“And this is Paul. You’ll be working with him so take in what he tells you. You’ll learn a lot from him,” Johnny finished.

We’d shook hands that night, albeit reluctantly, and had worked together since. Don’t get me wrong, the lad was okay but I wouldn’t trust him with anything, in particular a small robbery for some fast cash.

“So much for plan B then.”

“The fuck d’ya mean?”

I stared at Thomas, sucking on my cigarette. “I mean plan A wasn’t much cop and plan B was even worse.”

“Well, you never came up with anythin’, dickhead.”

“Watch your mouth, boy. I’ve been doin’ this longer than you’ve been jerkin’ off. For some reason Johnny put you in charge of this one and you’ve fucked up royal.”

Thomas looked at me through the holes in his hood. “Well, what do you suggest?”

I sucked hard on my cigarette again and blew out a long stream of smoke. My eyes darted from side to side, taking in everything in front of me. I picked up a can of beer from the counter, opened it and took a large mouthful.

“From what I see, Tommy, plan A was to come in here, hold up the place and empty the cash register. The only thing is, you decided to empty your gun into that bloke lyin’ in front of the fridge.”

“He came run...”

I held up my hand, stopping Tommy from wasting any more of his breath, and said, “So then plan B was to still empty the cash register but no more shootin’, only the owner decides to pull out his shotgun cos you killed his son, causin’ me to empty my gun into the owner. This is so fucked up.”

“So, what do we do now?” Thomas asked.

“Well, Tom Titts, if you were good at your job, which you are obviously not, you’d have counted the number of bullets I put into the owner. I saved this one for you. I ain’t goin’ down for an arsehole who ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.”

I pulled the trigger and disposed of most of Tommy’s brain via the exit wound at the back of his head. As he fell backwards, a small trail of smoke snaked out of the hole in the front of the hood he was wearing.

“I hate working with amateurs.”

I leaned over and emptied the till of notes, making a quick calculation as I did.

“Fuck me, a hundred and twenty a body. This crime game doesn’t pay like it used to.”

BIO: Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with his wife, Lisa, and their two daughters. He wrote some years ago but has recently been inspired to write again by an old friend and the beauty that surrounds him. He has been published on numerous e-zines, including Thrillers, Killers N Chillers and A Twist Of Noir and has a couple of pieces appearing in two forth coming anthologies. He is currently working on a few projects including a novel.

A Twist Of Noir 274 - David Barber

A SPECK OF DUST - DAVID BARBER

Originally published at Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers on October 23, 2009

A mahogany table sat in the middle of the small room, coffee stains and scratches adorned the once polished surface. There was a chair on either side and I was seated in the one near the window, my rucksack on the floor by my feet. The one near the door was empty but would soon be filled by ‘Stilts’, the loan shark. His real name was Kelvin West, not a likeable character. He wasn’t a hard man, either, but he was a nasty fucker and whatever he wanted doing got done by his two henchmen, ‘Shorty’ and ‘Titch’. You see, though, and here’s the ironic part, ‘Shorty’ was six feet five and eighteen stone of pure muscle and ‘Titch’ was six feet three and twenty stone with fists like sledgehammers.

The door opened, a huge hand holding the tarnished brass door handle. The ugly, oversized head of Titch peered round the door.

“Stilts is on his way.” The door closed.

Wish he’d fucking hurry up, I thought to myself. The room stunk. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the smell was but it wasn’t pleasant.

The door opened again and closed shut. A shuffling of feet accompanied the top of the head I could see on the other side of the table. You guessed it, Stilts or Kelvin, was a midget. He climbed onto the chair opposite me, standing on it with his hands on the table and leaning forward. His suit was immaculate, Armani or Hugo Boss or something like that. The only good thing about sitting across from him was the welcome break from the stench in the room that his cologne masked.

“So, let’s get names out of the way. I’m Kelvin, more commonly known as Stilts.” His voice made me think of the times when I’d been at parties and sucked the helium out of the balloons on the tables.

“Erm, yeah, I know, your reputation precedes you. I’m Dave, Dave Preston.”

“Ok, Dave. Now that’s out of the way, what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to borrow ten grand for a bit of business I’ve got coming my way.”

“What business?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Ok, ok,” Stilts said, waving his stubby hands in the air. “None of my business, I know, I know. Well, I don’t know you and you’ve never had money from me before so here’s the deal. Ten grand, forty-eight hour turn-around and I get eleven back. If it’s business, then you’ll be making a tidy profit yourself, Dave.”

“What if I can’t have it back for you in that time? It may take a few more days than that. Can’t you just give it to me and I’ll have it back for you in a week or so? The deal’s not fully sorted yet.”

“Well, that’s not my fucking problem, is it, you lanky bastard? Don’t fuck me around, Dave. Ten grand, two days I’ve said and that’s final!” Pointing a little stubby finger at me, he continued, “You’re nothing to me. See that,” he pointed down at the table, “a speck of dust, you’re nothing but a speck of dust and I could have you wiped away as easy as that.” Stilts brushed his hand across the table then looked back at me, a smirk on his ugly face.

I stared at his oversized head sticking out of the starched, white shirt collar. How the fuck did he get away with all this bravado? I could’ve killed the little shit with both arms tied behind my back, if it wasn’t for the two ‘apes’ outside the closed door behind him.

“Look, Stilts, you’ll just have to put some extra interest on what I lend off you.”

“Don’t tell me what I’ll have to fucking do. You want this money or not? It ain’t my problem that your ‘deal’ ain’t ready yet. I loan you, I want it back. I always get my money back, but when I don’t, I get little pieces of you until you pay up.”

Stilts opened the drawer on his side of the table and pulled out five wads of notes and a small box. He looked at me and then took the lid off the box and emptied the contents onto the table. Fingers fell onto the surface, one of which, I noticed, left a bloody mark as it bounced.

“Ok, ok,” I said, “I’ll take the deal.” I leant down and picked up my rucksack, moving stuff around inside it.

“That’s better, Dave. It makes sense to stay on my good side. I don’t want to have to hurt you, you seem a decent chap ‘n’ all. Let’s just get this sort...”

I cut him short with the Glock I had in my hand.

“Don’t even think about shouting your gorillas. You know, Kelvin, you are one piece of shit and you’ve threatened the wrong person. I guess it’s you who’s ‘a speck of dust’ now.”

Stilts put his hands up just as I pulled the trigger. The bullet went though his right hand and straight into his face. The back of his head exploded onto the door behind him, a fraction before the force of the shot threw him backwards off the chair. The door flew open, pushing Stilts’ dead body like it was a little rag doll, and I fired off two shots, hitting Titch in the chest with both. His enormous frame fell backwards into the hallway. I heard the sound of running and ran to the door just in time to get another three rounds out of the gun, hitting Shorty in the back of the head, blood and skull exploding forwards as he fell to the ground.

“All bravado, ‘n’ no balls.”

I walked back into the room and picked up the money and the bloodied finger from the table. I put the money in the rucksack: Stilts wouldn’t be needing that any more.

“Nobody fucks with my family,” I said, putting my uncle’s finger in my pocket.

BIO: Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland, with wife, Lisa, and his two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Wrote some years ago but has recently been inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds him up in Scotland. Always reading - when not entertaining his girls and working - crime and horror...and now writing. He has had a number of short and flash fiction published on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.

A Twist Of Noir 225 - David Barber

POKER WITH A BANG - DAVID BARBER

Originally published at Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers on October 9, 2009

The gun lay on the table between them, a menacing sight with its wooden handle and silver body. It was an old fashioned six shooter, the type used in the westerns they’d watched in earlier years.

“What do we do with it?” Tony asked.

Laughter.

“What do we do with it? What the fuck do you think we do with it?” Andrew sucked at the thick cigar between his lips and blew out a thick cloud of noxious smoke: a smile on his lips.

It was a Friday night and it was poker night. The four men had been meeting on a regular basis for the past two months. They had a limit of fifty quid per person and beer and spirits flowed freely. It was Andrew’s house where they played and the mood was set for each session. He’d had a pull-down light fitted above the round kitchen table and it hung low, barely illuminating the faces of the four players.

Roger lifted a glass of whisky to his lips and drank some of the fiery liquid, ice clinking in the glass as he placed it back on the table.

“What we do is pick up the gun, put it to our head and pull the fucking trigger,” Roger advised, filling his whisky glass back up with the Jameson’s he’d brought.

“Are you for real, you actually want to play ‘Russian roulette’ with that thing? You mean to tell me it’s fucking loaded?”

Laughter again. The fourth member of the quartet was Adam and he’d bought the gun, ‘to spice things up on a Friday night’, he’d said to Andrew.

“Oh, come on, Tony. Are you a fuckin’ chicken or what?” Adam asked, blowing cigarette smoke across the table at Tony.

“Or what? What do you mean by that, Adam? Am I supposed to just go with the flow ’cos I don’t want to be a chicken? Well, pal, I ain’t no chicken but I ain’t no fucking idiot, either. Count me out if you think I’m playing around with that.”

Tony drained the rest of his whisky, slammed his glass down on the table and walked out of the kitchen to the front door, slamming it shut.

“Aw, Tony. Come back, mate, we’re just fucking around. Tony......Tony?”

“Let the shit bag go, Andy. I didn’t like the twat anyhow,” Adam said, drunkenly.

Roger took another large slug of his whisky, coughing as it went down, “Yeah, let him go. We can always get another player for next week. Come on; let’s give this a trial run.”

“Yeah, ok. Right, we start with me, then clockwise and the ammo’s in the fourth chamber and it should have been Tony, right?”

Andrew looked at the other two men, their faces in half shadow.

“Ok, guys, come on, let’s do it. Right, I’ll go.” Andrew aimed the gun at his forehead and pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed against an empty chamber.

He handed the gun to Adam. Again, an empty chamber: the same for Roger.

Andrew took the gun from Roger. “Ok, this was Tony’s turn.” He pulled the trigger and there was a bang, a cloud of plaster fell from the ceiling.

Drunken laughter erupted in the kitchen, followed by three gunshots. In turn, Andrew, Tony and Roger fell forward onto the table, blood seeping from wounds in the foreheads of the three men. The pull-down light swung above the table from where Roger had knocked it when he’d slumped forward.

In the shadows beyond the table, Tony was illuminated each time the light swung.

In his right hand, smoke still swirled from the barrel of the gun he held. “I didn’t like poker anyway.”

BIO: Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Wrote some years ago but has recently been inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds him up in Scotland. Always reading - when not entertaining his girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing. He has had a number of short and flash fiction published on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.