Posts
Happy Labor Day
1 week ago
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 199 - Robert Crisman
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
A Twist Of Noir 198 - Mark Joseph Kiewlak
JOINED AT THE HIP - MARK JOSEPH KIEWLAK
“If you have sex with me, I’ll tell you where the girl is.”
The apartment was dark. I could see the lights of the city far below. There were candles everywhere. Soft music playing.
“I can lead you to her,” she said. “But first you have to have sex with me.”
I didn’t say anything.
I moved toward her. She stepped out of the shadows and I saw that she was naked. A natural blonde.
“You want to find her, right? You want to find the girl.”
I kept moving closer. She held one hand behind her back. She kept her eyes on me all the way across the room.
“Her parents paid you to find her,” she said. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”
She let me move in close then she took a step forward. “What if she’d rather die?” she said.
I stepped forward to meet her and punched her as hard as I could in the belly. She doubled over. A straight razor fell from her hand. I kicked it away. “You prick,” she gasped. “You fucking prick.”
I handcuffed her wrist to mine and yanked her to her feet. She slapped me across the face. “Big macho prick,” she said. “Useless prick.”
I slapped her back.
“I won’t tell where the girl is,” she said. “Fuck you, I won’t tell.”
I dragged her across the room out onto the terrace. The wind was whipping. The lights of the city were everywhere.
“What are you going to do?” she said. “Throw me over the fucking railing? Or do you want an audience to watch you fuck me?”
I yanked her toward the railing. She tried to pull away but we got there eventually.
“Big macho stud,” she said. “You won’t fuck me but you’ll kill me? You can’t kill me. You need me to find the fucking girl.”
I bent down to lift her legs. She started to club me on the back of the head. “Let me go, you fucking bastard. I’ll scream. I swear I’ll fucking scream to wake up the whole world.”
I lifted her off her feet and spun toward the railing. Just then she remembered the handcuffs. “Fuck you, you bastard. You can’t drop me. If I go, you go. You fucking outsmarted yourself, you macho prick.”
I lifted her over the railing and let go. She dropped like a stone. Then the cuffs caught and nearly pulled my arm from the socket. I lost three layers of skin from my wrist. She was left hanging by one arm, naked above the city.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Jesus Christ, pull me up.”
I braced my arm on the railing and held her there.
“What do you want?” she said. “I told you I’d fuck you. I’ll give you what you want.”
My wrist felt numb. Hers might’ve been broken.
“Jesus Christ, pull me up.”
I didn’t move.
“You want Rudy?” she said. “I’ll give you Rudy.”
I let her hang there.
“He’s in the bedroom,” she said. “I’m giving you Rudy.”
Both our wrists were starting to bleed.
“Jesus Christ, I’m giving you Rudy. Pull me up.”
The wind was making my teeth chatter.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “Rudy’s in the fucking bedroom. I’m giving him to you.”
She’d bitten her lip and there was blood running down her chin. “It was his idea,” she said. “It was Rudy’s fucking idea to take the kid. He wanted the fucking money.”
Her fingers were being crushed together and I was afraid she might slip out of the handcuffs.
“It was for the fucking money,” she said. "Where’s our fucking money?”
Her hand slipped a little through the opening.
“Pull me up,” she said. “Pull me up and I’ll tell you where the girl is.”
In a second, I was going to lose her. I pulled her up. Her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn’t speak. She collapsed in on herself, holding her wrist curled to her chest. She began pounding on my leg.
“You fucking crazy bastard,” she said. “You insane prick.”
I started to drag her back toward the apartment. She yelped in pain as the cuff yanked her wrist. I took her by the hair and dragged her. She stood up then and came on her own. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” she said. “Keep them off.”
We moved off the terrace and back into the apartment. I slid the door shut behind us. She fell backwards against the glass, dizzy and unable to stand on her own. I put a hand under her arm to brace her. Her lip was still bleeding. She tried to push me away but she was too weak. I lifted her away from the glass. Her body left a heat imprint upon its surface.
“Fucking prick sadist,” she said. “Fucking torture women for a living.”
We moved into the bedroom. I reached for the light switch but couldn’t find it. I was a bit dizzy myself. She’d hit me pretty hard on the back of the head.
“Rudy’s in here,” she said. “Rudy’s on the bed.”
I found a lamp and switched it on. A middle-aged man was sprawled naked atop the bedspread. His throat was cut. There was a pool of blood seeping into the sheets beneath him. It hadn’t all seeped in yet. He’d been dead only a few minutes. His eyes were wide and staring up at us.
“He was a fucking prick,” she said. “He deserved it.” She moved in close to me. She put her arm around my midsection. She looked up into my eyes. “It’s just us now,” she said. “It can be just us. They gave you the money, didn’t they? Didn’t they?”
I felt her hand reaching around my waist. She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to mine. I tasted blood.
“Forget the girl,” she whispered in my ear. “Forget all about the girl. I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. I’ll fuck your brains out. Then I’ll do it again. I’ll do it as many times as you want.”
There was a gun tucked in the small of my back. She pushed her breasts against me and her lips closed around mine. She put her hand ever-so-gently on the butt of the gun. I put my hand around her throat and lifted her on her tiptoes. Her hand slid off the gun. She gagged once then again. She clawed the side of my face. She tried to say something. I loosened my grip a little.
“There’s a... safe,” she said. “There’s a safe... in the living room. Behind the cabinet.”
I tightened my grip again. “I’ll... I’ll open it... for you.”
I let go of her. I could still taste the blood in my mouth.
I turned her toward the door and maneuvered her back into the living room. The candles gave off a scent of jasmine. The music was jazz.
When we got to the cabinet, she fell on her knees before me. “We can run away,” she said. She reached up and started to unbuckle my pants. “We can run away and we can fuck all day and night. We can do it doggie style. I’ll take it in the ass. Anything you want.”
I grabbed her injured hand and squeezed it in my fist. Her face got red. She tried to pull away. I let her go and pushed her aside. I got hold of the glass display cabinet and shoved it aside, toppling it, sending knick-knacks and china crashing to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces at her bare feet. I yanked her toward me through the shards of glass. I got her by the hair and slammed the side of her face against the cold metal of the safe. The door was six feet tall by two feet wide. It was a walk-in, built right into the wall. I could tell by the furnishings that it was a man’s apartment. Rudy’s no doubt.
“I won’t open it,” she said. “I’m giving you one more chance. One more chance to be with me.”
I pressed the palm of my hand to the side of her face and began to apply pressure. Her face was being crushed against the door of the safe. The lock was right in front of her, at eye level. She raised her hand and began to turn the dial. I heard the tumblers click. I pulled hard on the handle and the door opened a crack. I led her by the arm back out onto the terrace.
“What are you doing?” she said. “I gave you what you wanted.”
I took the key from my pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. I slid them through the railing and snapped them onto both her wrists. I turned and went back inside.
“What are you doing, you fucking prick? Get me out of these. I gave you what you fucking wanted. I would’ve given you everything.”
I grabbed the door to the safe with both hands and pulled it open. I took a candle and stepped inside. It was smaller than a jail cell. It was smaller than a broom closet. The little girl was hunched against the wall, still in her Sunday dress. She’d soiled herself many times. She held her knees to her chest and hid her face between them. I bent and touched her arm lightly. She pulled back. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here to take you home.” She raised her head slowly. She had been crying and now more tears filled her eyes. I held my arms out and, when she didn’t move, I moved toward her and lifted her gently and cradled her to me. I backed out of the safe and held her tight against my chest. I glanced toward the terrace. The handcuffs were hanging empty from the railing. There were startled screams from the street below.
BIO: Since 2008, Mark Joseph Kiewlak's work has appeared in more than two dozen magazines, including Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Thug Lit, Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, Clean Sheets, and many others. He was privileged to have served as judge of the 2007 Wild Violet Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).
“If you have sex with me, I’ll tell you where the girl is.”
The apartment was dark. I could see the lights of the city far below. There were candles everywhere. Soft music playing.
“I can lead you to her,” she said. “But first you have to have sex with me.”
I didn’t say anything.
I moved toward her. She stepped out of the shadows and I saw that she was naked. A natural blonde.
“You want to find her, right? You want to find the girl.”
I kept moving closer. She held one hand behind her back. She kept her eyes on me all the way across the room.
“Her parents paid you to find her,” she said. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”
She let me move in close then she took a step forward. “What if she’d rather die?” she said.
I stepped forward to meet her and punched her as hard as I could in the belly. She doubled over. A straight razor fell from her hand. I kicked it away. “You prick,” she gasped. “You fucking prick.”
I handcuffed her wrist to mine and yanked her to her feet. She slapped me across the face. “Big macho prick,” she said. “Useless prick.”
I slapped her back.
“I won’t tell where the girl is,” she said. “Fuck you, I won’t tell.”
I dragged her across the room out onto the terrace. The wind was whipping. The lights of the city were everywhere.
“What are you going to do?” she said. “Throw me over the fucking railing? Or do you want an audience to watch you fuck me?”
I yanked her toward the railing. She tried to pull away but we got there eventually.
“Big macho stud,” she said. “You won’t fuck me but you’ll kill me? You can’t kill me. You need me to find the fucking girl.”
I bent down to lift her legs. She started to club me on the back of the head. “Let me go, you fucking bastard. I’ll scream. I swear I’ll fucking scream to wake up the whole world.”
I lifted her off her feet and spun toward the railing. Just then she remembered the handcuffs. “Fuck you, you bastard. You can’t drop me. If I go, you go. You fucking outsmarted yourself, you macho prick.”
I lifted her over the railing and let go. She dropped like a stone. Then the cuffs caught and nearly pulled my arm from the socket. I lost three layers of skin from my wrist. She was left hanging by one arm, naked above the city.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Jesus Christ, pull me up.”
I braced my arm on the railing and held her there.
“What do you want?” she said. “I told you I’d fuck you. I’ll give you what you want.”
My wrist felt numb. Hers might’ve been broken.
“Jesus Christ, pull me up.”
I didn’t move.
“You want Rudy?” she said. “I’ll give you Rudy.”
I let her hang there.
“He’s in the bedroom,” she said. “I’m giving you Rudy.”
Both our wrists were starting to bleed.
“Jesus Christ, I’m giving you Rudy. Pull me up.”
The wind was making my teeth chatter.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “Rudy’s in the fucking bedroom. I’m giving him to you.”
She’d bitten her lip and there was blood running down her chin. “It was his idea,” she said. “It was Rudy’s fucking idea to take the kid. He wanted the fucking money.”
Her fingers were being crushed together and I was afraid she might slip out of the handcuffs.
“It was for the fucking money,” she said. "Where’s our fucking money?”
Her hand slipped a little through the opening.
“Pull me up,” she said. “Pull me up and I’ll tell you where the girl is.”
In a second, I was going to lose her. I pulled her up. Her teeth were chattering so badly she couldn’t speak. She collapsed in on herself, holding her wrist curled to her chest. She began pounding on my leg.
“You fucking crazy bastard,” she said. “You insane prick.”
I started to drag her back toward the apartment. She yelped in pain as the cuff yanked her wrist. I took her by the hair and dragged her. She stood up then and came on her own. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” she said. “Keep them off.”
We moved off the terrace and back into the apartment. I slid the door shut behind us. She fell backwards against the glass, dizzy and unable to stand on her own. I put a hand under her arm to brace her. Her lip was still bleeding. She tried to push me away but she was too weak. I lifted her away from the glass. Her body left a heat imprint upon its surface.
“Fucking prick sadist,” she said. “Fucking torture women for a living.”
We moved into the bedroom. I reached for the light switch but couldn’t find it. I was a bit dizzy myself. She’d hit me pretty hard on the back of the head.
“Rudy’s in here,” she said. “Rudy’s on the bed.”
I found a lamp and switched it on. A middle-aged man was sprawled naked atop the bedspread. His throat was cut. There was a pool of blood seeping into the sheets beneath him. It hadn’t all seeped in yet. He’d been dead only a few minutes. His eyes were wide and staring up at us.
“He was a fucking prick,” she said. “He deserved it.” She moved in close to me. She put her arm around my midsection. She looked up into my eyes. “It’s just us now,” she said. “It can be just us. They gave you the money, didn’t they? Didn’t they?”
I felt her hand reaching around my waist. She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to mine. I tasted blood.
“Forget the girl,” she whispered in my ear. “Forget all about the girl. I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. I’ll fuck your brains out. Then I’ll do it again. I’ll do it as many times as you want.”
There was a gun tucked in the small of my back. She pushed her breasts against me and her lips closed around mine. She put her hand ever-so-gently on the butt of the gun. I put my hand around her throat and lifted her on her tiptoes. Her hand slid off the gun. She gagged once then again. She clawed the side of my face. She tried to say something. I loosened my grip a little.
“There’s a... safe,” she said. “There’s a safe... in the living room. Behind the cabinet.”
I tightened my grip again. “I’ll... I’ll open it... for you.”
I let go of her. I could still taste the blood in my mouth.
I turned her toward the door and maneuvered her back into the living room. The candles gave off a scent of jasmine. The music was jazz.
When we got to the cabinet, she fell on her knees before me. “We can run away,” she said. She reached up and started to unbuckle my pants. “We can run away and we can fuck all day and night. We can do it doggie style. I’ll take it in the ass. Anything you want.”
I grabbed her injured hand and squeezed it in my fist. Her face got red. She tried to pull away. I let her go and pushed her aside. I got hold of the glass display cabinet and shoved it aside, toppling it, sending knick-knacks and china crashing to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces at her bare feet. I yanked her toward me through the shards of glass. I got her by the hair and slammed the side of her face against the cold metal of the safe. The door was six feet tall by two feet wide. It was a walk-in, built right into the wall. I could tell by the furnishings that it was a man’s apartment. Rudy’s no doubt.
“I won’t open it,” she said. “I’m giving you one more chance. One more chance to be with me.”
I pressed the palm of my hand to the side of her face and began to apply pressure. Her face was being crushed against the door of the safe. The lock was right in front of her, at eye level. She raised her hand and began to turn the dial. I heard the tumblers click. I pulled hard on the handle and the door opened a crack. I led her by the arm back out onto the terrace.
“What are you doing?” she said. “I gave you what you wanted.”
I took the key from my pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. I slid them through the railing and snapped them onto both her wrists. I turned and went back inside.
“What are you doing, you fucking prick? Get me out of these. I gave you what you fucking wanted. I would’ve given you everything.”
I grabbed the door to the safe with both hands and pulled it open. I took a candle and stepped inside. It was smaller than a jail cell. It was smaller than a broom closet. The little girl was hunched against the wall, still in her Sunday dress. She’d soiled herself many times. She held her knees to her chest and hid her face between them. I bent and touched her arm lightly. She pulled back. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here to take you home.” She raised her head slowly. She had been crying and now more tears filled her eyes. I held my arms out and, when she didn’t move, I moved toward her and lifted her gently and cradled her to me. I backed out of the safe and held her tight against my chest. I glanced toward the terrace. The handcuffs were hanging empty from the railing. There were startled screams from the street below.
BIO: Since 2008, Mark Joseph Kiewlak's work has appeared in more than two dozen magazines, including Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Thug Lit, Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, Clean Sheets, and many others. He was privileged to have served as judge of the 2007 Wild Violet Fiction Contest. He has also written for DC Comics (FLASH 80-PAGE GIANT #2).
Monday, October 5, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 197 - Michael Kechula
BAD INTUITIONS - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published at Powder Burn Flash on July 23, 2008
“How much was in the safe, honey?” Ann asked, while cleaning her pistol.
“Fifty thousand,” said Alex.
“No way!”
“It’s true,” he said. “Not only that. Look what I found in the safe.” He tossed a clump of papers on the motel bed.
“What’s this?”
“A plan for a coin shop heist. It’s supposed to happen in two days. That’s why so much money was in the safe. Probably pay for the driver, and whatever.”
“Oh Hell!” Ann yelled. “You musta robbed mob money. I don’t want my share.”
“But with this you can get that fur coat and diamond tennis bracelet you want so much. Well, that means more for me,” Alex said.
“Yeah. More bullets for you when they find out.”
“How the hell will they find out?” he asked. “We’re unknowns around here. Listen, I stopped for coffee and read the plan. It’s pure genius. Somebody’s gonna hit a coin shop that’s loaded with gold and silver ingots without serial numbers. So, I got a brilliant idea.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll use their plan and pull the robbery before they do.”
“Wait,” she said. “We’re talking heavy stuff here. You rob the safe of a company---probably one of the mob’s legit operations. You get fifty thou, plus a plan for a heist. Bad enough you took their cash, but you also took their plan. Wake up! We’re talking mob, here. They’ll go ballistic. They’ll turn this city upside down looking for us.”
“Let them. We’ll be in Mexico on our honeymoon.” He grabbed her and kissed her hard.
“I love you so much, Alex,” she said. “You know how protective I am about you. Listen to me. I got a bad feeling about this. Please…for me…for the sake of our future life together…take it all back. We got enough to live on for six months.”
“Are you crazy? You want me to go there, open the safe and put everything back?”
“Yeah. Right now.”
“You going soft on me, Love?”
“No way,” she said. “There’s plenty of other jobs to pull. Forget this one. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“Are you having one of your intuitions?”
“Yeah. It’s a bad one. Take it back. Real quick.”
Alex trusted Ann’s intuition. It’d gotten them out of a few pickles over the past few months. Without another word, he dropped everything into a black laundry bag, kissed her passionately, and left.
Intuition or no, Alex really hated to see a good plan go to waste. Why should somebody else get all them gold and silver ingots? Charlie in Fresno can melt them and cast them into palm-sized bars. They’ll be easy to sell. Plus we can use the extra money now that we’re gonna get married. I wanna get her that beautiful band she likes so much.
Passing Kinko’s copy shop, he was struck with an idea.
*
Alex woke Ann. “Look, Sweetie. I copied the plan. Now there’s no link between the plan and us. So there’s nothing to worry about. We can pull the job tonight. And then we’ll head to Mexico and get married.”
Throwing her arms around him, she said, “I’m gonna marry the most brilliant crook in the whole world.”
She didn’t tell him her intuition nagged even worse.
They spent a few hours studying the plan. At noon, they drove downtown to check out the coin shop. Alex occupied the owner by buying a silver commemorative coin, while Ann looked the place over.
“It’s just like the drawings in the plan,” she said. “You were right. That plan is dynamite.”
“We’ll hit it at midnight,” Alex said.
*
“Rise and shine, Honey,” she said. “It’s time to get those sweet ingots.”
On the way to the coin shop, a dozen fire engines raced by.
“Wow. Must be a huge one,” Alex said.
Street barriers blocked them several blocks from the coin shop.
“What’s going on, Officer?” Alex asked.
“Whole block’s on fire.”
“Oh God, my uncle’s coin shop is up that way,” Ann said with faked alarm.
“That’s toast, along with a bunch of other stores,” the cop said.
“Sonovabitch!” Alex yelled as he turned the car toward the Interstate. “Talk about rotten luck. We get a chance to make a real killing, and this happens. It just ain’t right. I had fifty grand in my hands before you made me take it back. Now we got nothing for all that work.”
“Fate,” she said. “It wasn’t meant to be. Let’s leave for Mexico right now. Please.”
As they drove toward the border, Alex tuned the radio to a news station.
A newscaster was interviewing the Police Chief.
“We think it started in a coin dealer’s shop,” the Chief said. “The arsonist used a Molotov cocktail. That’s why the fire spread so fast. Right now, three people are dead, including a fireman who has a wife and four kids. And the fire isn’t out yet.”
“Hear that?” Alex asked.
“Yeah. Tough break”
“What’s that up ahead?”
“Looks like a roadblock,” she answered. “Must be a hundred cop cars.”
“No sweat. They ain’t got nothing on us,” Alex said, as they approached the barriers.
Suddenly, cops brandishing pistols ordered them out of the car.
“What the hell is this?” Alex yelled.
“You’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and murder.”
“You’re making a big mistake. I’m gonna sue you for false arrest!”
“We have a witness. He wrote down your license plate. You have the right to remain silent...”
*
While cyanide gas filled the chamber, Ann wished she’d never gone to the coin store an hour before they were supposed to rob it.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she muttered in the rising fog. “I hadda do it so we could get married and have children.”
Drawing her last breath, she screamed, “If I didn’t burn it down, we woulda got killed during the robbery!”
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published at Powder Burn Flash on July 23, 2008
“How much was in the safe, honey?” Ann asked, while cleaning her pistol.
“Fifty thousand,” said Alex.
“No way!”
“It’s true,” he said. “Not only that. Look what I found in the safe.” He tossed a clump of papers on the motel bed.
“What’s this?”
“A plan for a coin shop heist. It’s supposed to happen in two days. That’s why so much money was in the safe. Probably pay for the driver, and whatever.”
“Oh Hell!” Ann yelled. “You musta robbed mob money. I don’t want my share.”
“But with this you can get that fur coat and diamond tennis bracelet you want so much. Well, that means more for me,” Alex said.
“Yeah. More bullets for you when they find out.”
“How the hell will they find out?” he asked. “We’re unknowns around here. Listen, I stopped for coffee and read the plan. It’s pure genius. Somebody’s gonna hit a coin shop that’s loaded with gold and silver ingots without serial numbers. So, I got a brilliant idea.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll use their plan and pull the robbery before they do.”
“Wait,” she said. “We’re talking heavy stuff here. You rob the safe of a company---probably one of the mob’s legit operations. You get fifty thou, plus a plan for a heist. Bad enough you took their cash, but you also took their plan. Wake up! We’re talking mob, here. They’ll go ballistic. They’ll turn this city upside down looking for us.”
“Let them. We’ll be in Mexico on our honeymoon.” He grabbed her and kissed her hard.
“I love you so much, Alex,” she said. “You know how protective I am about you. Listen to me. I got a bad feeling about this. Please…for me…for the sake of our future life together…take it all back. We got enough to live on for six months.”
“Are you crazy? You want me to go there, open the safe and put everything back?”
“Yeah. Right now.”
“You going soft on me, Love?”
“No way,” she said. “There’s plenty of other jobs to pull. Forget this one. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“Are you having one of your intuitions?”
“Yeah. It’s a bad one. Take it back. Real quick.”
Alex trusted Ann’s intuition. It’d gotten them out of a few pickles over the past few months. Without another word, he dropped everything into a black laundry bag, kissed her passionately, and left.
Intuition or no, Alex really hated to see a good plan go to waste. Why should somebody else get all them gold and silver ingots? Charlie in Fresno can melt them and cast them into palm-sized bars. They’ll be easy to sell. Plus we can use the extra money now that we’re gonna get married. I wanna get her that beautiful band she likes so much.
Passing Kinko’s copy shop, he was struck with an idea.
*
Alex woke Ann. “Look, Sweetie. I copied the plan. Now there’s no link between the plan and us. So there’s nothing to worry about. We can pull the job tonight. And then we’ll head to Mexico and get married.”
Throwing her arms around him, she said, “I’m gonna marry the most brilliant crook in the whole world.”
She didn’t tell him her intuition nagged even worse.
They spent a few hours studying the plan. At noon, they drove downtown to check out the coin shop. Alex occupied the owner by buying a silver commemorative coin, while Ann looked the place over.
“It’s just like the drawings in the plan,” she said. “You were right. That plan is dynamite.”
“We’ll hit it at midnight,” Alex said.
*
“Rise and shine, Honey,” she said. “It’s time to get those sweet ingots.”
On the way to the coin shop, a dozen fire engines raced by.
“Wow. Must be a huge one,” Alex said.
Street barriers blocked them several blocks from the coin shop.
“What’s going on, Officer?” Alex asked.
“Whole block’s on fire.”
“Oh God, my uncle’s coin shop is up that way,” Ann said with faked alarm.
“That’s toast, along with a bunch of other stores,” the cop said.
“Sonovabitch!” Alex yelled as he turned the car toward the Interstate. “Talk about rotten luck. We get a chance to make a real killing, and this happens. It just ain’t right. I had fifty grand in my hands before you made me take it back. Now we got nothing for all that work.”
“Fate,” she said. “It wasn’t meant to be. Let’s leave for Mexico right now. Please.”
As they drove toward the border, Alex tuned the radio to a news station.
A newscaster was interviewing the Police Chief.
“We think it started in a coin dealer’s shop,” the Chief said. “The arsonist used a Molotov cocktail. That’s why the fire spread so fast. Right now, three people are dead, including a fireman who has a wife and four kids. And the fire isn’t out yet.”
“Hear that?” Alex asked.
“Yeah. Tough break”
“What’s that up ahead?”
“Looks like a roadblock,” she answered. “Must be a hundred cop cars.”
“No sweat. They ain’t got nothing on us,” Alex said, as they approached the barriers.
Suddenly, cops brandishing pistols ordered them out of the car.
“What the hell is this?” Alex yelled.
“You’re under arrest for suspicion of arson and murder.”
“You’re making a big mistake. I’m gonna sue you for false arrest!”
“We have a witness. He wrote down your license plate. You have the right to remain silent...”
*
While cyanide gas filled the chamber, Ann wished she’d never gone to the coin store an hour before they were supposed to rob it.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she muttered in the rising fog. “I hadda do it so we could get married and have children.”
Drawing her last breath, she screamed, “If I didn’t burn it down, we woulda got killed during the robbery!”
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Interlude
Just got done reading three stories from the latest issue of THUGLIT.
Jimmy Callaway tells you about YOUR OWN SATURDAY NIGHT. His narrator is one slick son of a bitch. The angle he thinks up, seemingly off the top of his head? Fucking brilliant.
The story's got 7-11s, cartoons, Burger King and fucking Choose Your Own Adventure books (I loved those things as a kid!) in it so what's not to love? Oh, yeah, and Fosters, Australian for bee-uh!
Meanwhile, Mike MacLean hands over a LITTLE GUN. 12 years old and this kid is a better shot than most men twice his age. In fact, his partner, his mom's ex-boyfriend, Ray, lets the kid do all the work while he disposes of all the evidence afterwards.
No one would expect a kid, right?
But there's a trade-off, of course. Kid's more socially awkward than the class nerd.
Them's the breaks, though, right?
Finally, Matthew Quinn Martin talks about CHICKENS. Not those chickens, let me assure you. No, he's talking about the human variety, those that don't stand up for themselves, letting themselves get pushed around.
I wrote Matthew earlier today and told him that his narrator was "ruthless and worthless". Trust me on this one.
And the ending is so right. This is a beautifully dark tale.
Check all of these puppies out. You won't be disappointed.
Jimmy Callaway tells you about YOUR OWN SATURDAY NIGHT. His narrator is one slick son of a bitch. The angle he thinks up, seemingly off the top of his head? Fucking brilliant.
The story's got 7-11s, cartoons, Burger King and fucking Choose Your Own Adventure books (I loved those things as a kid!) in it so what's not to love? Oh, yeah, and Fosters, Australian for bee-uh!
Meanwhile, Mike MacLean hands over a LITTLE GUN. 12 years old and this kid is a better shot than most men twice his age. In fact, his partner, his mom's ex-boyfriend, Ray, lets the kid do all the work while he disposes of all the evidence afterwards.
No one would expect a kid, right?
But there's a trade-off, of course. Kid's more socially awkward than the class nerd.
Them's the breaks, though, right?
Finally, Matthew Quinn Martin talks about CHICKENS. Not those chickens, let me assure you. No, he's talking about the human variety, those that don't stand up for themselves, letting themselves get pushed around.
I wrote Matthew earlier today and told him that his narrator was "ruthless and worthless". Trust me on this one.
And the ending is so right. This is a beautifully dark tale.
Check all of these puppies out. You won't be disappointed.
Friday, October 2, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 195 - Michael Kechula
THE COUGH-UP GUY - MICHAEL KECHULA
Originally published in the April 24, 2008 issue of Thieves Jargon
I remember when he ran into our apartment without knocking. Had a gun. Held his index finger to his lips. Rosa and me were smart enough to point to a closet. And even smarter to keep our mouths shut.
Cops’ whistles blew. Sirens screamed everywhere. Then cops started knocking on doors down the hall.
Right before they got to ours, I pinched the baby. He screamed bloody murder. Rosa’s eyes called me a bastard. But she was a street-smart woman from Palermo. Even she pinched tiny Salvatore’s rump to make him scream louder, right before the knock came.
Between the baby, Rosa raving in double-time Sicilian, and me yelling back at the top of my lungs about her rotten Sidgie family, the dumb Irish cop saw it was useless to ask me anything. He tried. But who could hear him? He turned on his heels to escape the insanity.
Rosa slipped a salami sandwich to our guest. I gave him a jug of Dago Red and a pee bottle. Figured it might be hours until the cops realized it was hopeless.
“Joseph Gogostanza never forgets a favor,” he said, handing me a twenty. In ’45 that fed a family of three for over a month. “You’re a smart man. What’s your name?”
“Snuffy,” I said. Then I started hacking. Spit blood into a handkerchief.
“Looks bad,” he said. Handing me another three dollars, he added, “Go see Doctor Ferrante.”
Then he left.
The doctor said it was TB. He wanted to send me to a special hospital an hour’s drive from Philly. Yeah, sure. Go there for a couple years to recover. What about Rosa and the baby?
Gogostanza musta heard. Some guys came by and took me to see him.
“Hospital for two years? Well, you go there. Right away. You gotta get better for that beautiful wife and kid of yours. Hey, family comes first. Don’t you worry about nothing. Joey Gogo’s gonna take care of you.”
And he did. Paid for everything. Even gave Rosa a wad of cash to live on, every month.
Even when I was released, it was a year before I felt good enough to walk down the block for cannoli. But Gogo’s money still showed up every month.
*
“Hey, Joey. Cough-Up’s here.”
“Don’t mind him, Snuffy. That’s what they call you around here. You know, from when you useta cough up blood.”
“It’s OK. I like it better than Snuffy,” I said.
“They know what you done for me. When the cops coulda caught me. When they didn’t know it was me who shot that two-bit hood from Baltimore. All they knew was that a shooter was on the run. If they’d of found me that day in your place, I woulda been fried in the electric chair by now. Anyway, to show my appreciation, I got a good paying job for you.”
The job was to go around the city and collect protection money. Easy work. Nobody’d touch a little guy like me. If they did, Joey Gogo would blow up their business, or maybe their house.
The guys we squeezed every week called me Cough-Up, too. But for a different reason. When I walked in, they coughed up cash.
One Friday, when I went into Pasquale DiNicola’s pharmacy, the money wasn’t ready. Neither was the free, double-decker tuna sandwich and chocolate milk he used to have ready for me at the soda fountain counter.
“Hey, Patsy. Whadda ya nuts? Where’s the dough? And my sandwich?”
“Ain’t paying today, or ever again.”
“Cripes, Patsy. You better see a head doctor. You know what Joey Gogo will do?”
“He ain’t gonna do anything.”
“Oh, yeah sure. And the Pope ain’t Italian, either.”
“Joey’s dead,” Patsy said. “Heard it on the radio. Now get the hell out of here. If you come back again, it better be with a prescription.”
I’ll never forget that day in 1949. The radio said Joey Gogo got blasted while getting a haircut. Over on the other side of town. Somebody threw a hand grenade into the barbershop. Nasty mess. Even the State offered $100,000 reward for information. Far as I know, the money’s still sitting there.
Suddenly, I was out of a job. While waiting to hear from the new capo, I made a few bucks fixing tickets for neighborhood jerks. Sold beer, Benzedrine tablets, and hot books to high school kids. Hawked hotdogs and cokes at the ballpark.
When the smoke cleared, the new guys offered a job to Dumbo, a mathematical genius. Dumbo’s brain stored detailed records for two decades worth of illegal transactions. Pick any day, and he could rattle off every damn thing bought, sold, won, lost, paid, stolen. No books, no evidence.
Guys like him never go hungry.
They also hired Madman Mancuso. He was twice the size of Frankenstein and a hundred times meaner.
Guys like him never go hungry, either.
But me? Nothing. They said they already had a collector. A leg breaker. I didn’t have muscles enough to break a kid’s little finger, they said. Nor the guts.
“Tell your boss he has a short memory,” I said.
“He got a long memory, so you better keep your freakin’ mouth shut. Take what you get and light candles in thanksgiving.”
They sent small checks every month.
I don’t know why I started to cough up blood again. Maybe it was from the sleazy gossip the old guys whispered in my ear while we played bocce ball. Maybe it was from tossing a grenade into the barbershop when Joey was there. Maybe it was from slitting Rosa’s throat while she slept the day he was blown to smithereens.
Rosa had slipped hard salami to Joey Gogo with bread. In return, he slipped Rosa his hard salami without bread. Every damn day for the two years I was hospitalized.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
Originally published in the April 24, 2008 issue of Thieves Jargon
I remember when he ran into our apartment without knocking. Had a gun. Held his index finger to his lips. Rosa and me were smart enough to point to a closet. And even smarter to keep our mouths shut.
Cops’ whistles blew. Sirens screamed everywhere. Then cops started knocking on doors down the hall.
Right before they got to ours, I pinched the baby. He screamed bloody murder. Rosa’s eyes called me a bastard. But she was a street-smart woman from Palermo. Even she pinched tiny Salvatore’s rump to make him scream louder, right before the knock came.
Between the baby, Rosa raving in double-time Sicilian, and me yelling back at the top of my lungs about her rotten Sidgie family, the dumb Irish cop saw it was useless to ask me anything. He tried. But who could hear him? He turned on his heels to escape the insanity.
Rosa slipped a salami sandwich to our guest. I gave him a jug of Dago Red and a pee bottle. Figured it might be hours until the cops realized it was hopeless.
“Joseph Gogostanza never forgets a favor,” he said, handing me a twenty. In ’45 that fed a family of three for over a month. “You’re a smart man. What’s your name?”
“Snuffy,” I said. Then I started hacking. Spit blood into a handkerchief.
“Looks bad,” he said. Handing me another three dollars, he added, “Go see Doctor Ferrante.”
Then he left.
The doctor said it was TB. He wanted to send me to a special hospital an hour’s drive from Philly. Yeah, sure. Go there for a couple years to recover. What about Rosa and the baby?
Gogostanza musta heard. Some guys came by and took me to see him.
“Hospital for two years? Well, you go there. Right away. You gotta get better for that beautiful wife and kid of yours. Hey, family comes first. Don’t you worry about nothing. Joey Gogo’s gonna take care of you.”
And he did. Paid for everything. Even gave Rosa a wad of cash to live on, every month.
Even when I was released, it was a year before I felt good enough to walk down the block for cannoli. But Gogo’s money still showed up every month.
*
“Hey, Joey. Cough-Up’s here.”
“Don’t mind him, Snuffy. That’s what they call you around here. You know, from when you useta cough up blood.”
“It’s OK. I like it better than Snuffy,” I said.
“They know what you done for me. When the cops coulda caught me. When they didn’t know it was me who shot that two-bit hood from Baltimore. All they knew was that a shooter was on the run. If they’d of found me that day in your place, I woulda been fried in the electric chair by now. Anyway, to show my appreciation, I got a good paying job for you.”
The job was to go around the city and collect protection money. Easy work. Nobody’d touch a little guy like me. If they did, Joey Gogo would blow up their business, or maybe their house.
The guys we squeezed every week called me Cough-Up, too. But for a different reason. When I walked in, they coughed up cash.
One Friday, when I went into Pasquale DiNicola’s pharmacy, the money wasn’t ready. Neither was the free, double-decker tuna sandwich and chocolate milk he used to have ready for me at the soda fountain counter.
“Hey, Patsy. Whadda ya nuts? Where’s the dough? And my sandwich?”
“Ain’t paying today, or ever again.”
“Cripes, Patsy. You better see a head doctor. You know what Joey Gogo will do?”
“He ain’t gonna do anything.”
“Oh, yeah sure. And the Pope ain’t Italian, either.”
“Joey’s dead,” Patsy said. “Heard it on the radio. Now get the hell out of here. If you come back again, it better be with a prescription.”
I’ll never forget that day in 1949. The radio said Joey Gogo got blasted while getting a haircut. Over on the other side of town. Somebody threw a hand grenade into the barbershop. Nasty mess. Even the State offered $100,000 reward for information. Far as I know, the money’s still sitting there.
Suddenly, I was out of a job. While waiting to hear from the new capo, I made a few bucks fixing tickets for neighborhood jerks. Sold beer, Benzedrine tablets, and hot books to high school kids. Hawked hotdogs and cokes at the ballpark.
When the smoke cleared, the new guys offered a job to Dumbo, a mathematical genius. Dumbo’s brain stored detailed records for two decades worth of illegal transactions. Pick any day, and he could rattle off every damn thing bought, sold, won, lost, paid, stolen. No books, no evidence.
Guys like him never go hungry.
They also hired Madman Mancuso. He was twice the size of Frankenstein and a hundred times meaner.
Guys like him never go hungry, either.
But me? Nothing. They said they already had a collector. A leg breaker. I didn’t have muscles enough to break a kid’s little finger, they said. Nor the guts.
“Tell your boss he has a short memory,” I said.
“He got a long memory, so you better keep your freakin’ mouth shut. Take what you get and light candles in thanksgiving.”
They sent small checks every month.
I don’t know why I started to cough up blood again. Maybe it was from the sleazy gossip the old guys whispered in my ear while we played bocce ball. Maybe it was from tossing a grenade into the barbershop when Joey was there. Maybe it was from slitting Rosa’s throat while she slept the day he was blown to smithereens.
Rosa had slipped hard salami to Joey Gogo with bread. In return, he slipped Rosa his hard salami without bread. Every damn day for the two years I was hospitalized.
BIO: Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in 8 contests and placed in 7 others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards 4 times. His stories have been published by 116 magazines and 32 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.
A Twist Of Noir 194 - Brian G. Ross
MY WIFE GLOWS IN THE DARK - BRIAN G. ROSS
Originally published in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine
My wife is following me.
Again.
Lately, I have been distant: hands-off when she wants me to be hands-on, too busy or too tired when she wants to talk. She has suspicious blood, my wife, but she trips over her reckless curiosity. She does the math, comes up with five, and paints herself a pretty picture. Next thing I know, I’m watching my back because she’s on it.
She never stops to ask why.
So we play the game.
She asks me how my racquet-ball practice was and I say, great thanks. I rub my shoulder convincingly as she tells me about her evening of dishes and dirty nappies. Her story is as transparent as mine, but I’m working a lie so I don’t question hers.
She is a poor detective - more Clouseau than Poirot. She thinks I don’t see her - behind cars, in doorways, around corners - but I do. I see everything. She doesn’t move when my eyes try to find her, but she is there just the same, not realising that I have her chasing her own tail.
I’m happy to indulge her, to pretend I don’t notice my new shadow, because she will only ever see what I want her to. And besides, after tonight, she won’t do it again.
*
“It’s work, honey,” I tell her, already shrugging my jacket on. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I’m a doctor, so leaving the house at eleven-thirty on a Thursday night isn’t such a stretch. I have made midnight trips before: I have saved lives at this hour several times. This one though is different. Make up a patient, give him a name, a tumour, two months to live. Shake and stir.
I cross the street and make as if I’m checking for traffic, but there are no cars at this time of night, and it’s really her I’m looking for. She’s still there, hands frightened by her sides, pretending to be interested in the sides of beef Joe has in his butcher’s window.
My wife, the vegetarian. She can’t fool me.
The town is black, but the truth cannot be masked by flicking a switch and killing the light.
I turn up my collar and sink deeper into the gloom.
I pass a guy on the street, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he is digging for answers. His eyes meet mine as our shadows merge under a street-lamp, and he quickly looks back at his guilty feet, as they take him towards the wrong bed.
I turn the corner and there’s the building I’m looking for. Five storeys. There are a few yellow eyes in the wall of concrete and black glass: dozens of numbers on the silver panel by the door. I press forty-two, and say:
“Sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve locked myself out. Can you let me in please? It’s seventeen. Thanks, man.”
He doesn’t say a word. There is a buzz, the lock springs, and I push inside. The door falls closed on my tail.
The outside chill is replaced by artificial warmth. The heating system tick-ticks within the walls of the building like a telltale heart.
I climb the stairs, passing seventeen, and throw a look over my shoulder.
Nothing.
She has learned fast, but not fast enough.
Out of sight, and soon to be out of her mind, I think, almost loud enough to hear outside my own head.
When I reach the third floor, Number Forty-Two is standing in his doorway. Bare feet, wild hair, black pants. His middle-of-the-night curiosity is a dangerous thing, although at this moment he doesn’t realise it. I don’t mind. It saves me knocking or breaking in.
Less noise, more haste.
I walk up to him and say: “I believe you know my wife.”
It’s not a question but he seems to think it is. I can see him wondering who the hell I am and why the hell I’m here. He looks at me strangely - because comprehension is asleep at midnight - then tries to say something, but I am not interested in any of his excuses.
I pull a gun from my inside pocket and shoot him three times in the chest.
Phfft.
Phfft.
Phfft.
Silencers are wonderful. It’s like plugging a pillow.
Forty-Two falls back and hits the carpet, dead before he does. I’m a doctor. These things I know.
I put the gun back into my jacket and make my way downstairs.
My wife is standing in the foyer with her mouth open, looking at me the way people do when they don’t know what to say.
I smile and brush past her into the night.
You see, a cheat is easy to see, and a betrayal of the heart shines like a beacon.
My wife glows.
But not anymore.
BIO: Brian is thirty-three and lives in Scotland. He has over eighty publications to his name - from humour (Defenestration) to horror (Nossa Morte), mystery (Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine) to mainstream (Southern Ocean Review). He appears in the first three volumes of paperback horror anthology, Read By Dawn, available from Bloody Books, and is currently at work on his first novel. He is married, both to his wife and his words, and runs a blog of his literary wanderings at Purveyor Of Imagination.
Originally published in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine
My wife is following me.
Again.
Lately, I have been distant: hands-off when she wants me to be hands-on, too busy or too tired when she wants to talk. She has suspicious blood, my wife, but she trips over her reckless curiosity. She does the math, comes up with five, and paints herself a pretty picture. Next thing I know, I’m watching my back because she’s on it.
She never stops to ask why.
So we play the game.
She asks me how my racquet-ball practice was and I say, great thanks. I rub my shoulder convincingly as she tells me about her evening of dishes and dirty nappies. Her story is as transparent as mine, but I’m working a lie so I don’t question hers.
She is a poor detective - more Clouseau than Poirot. She thinks I don’t see her - behind cars, in doorways, around corners - but I do. I see everything. She doesn’t move when my eyes try to find her, but she is there just the same, not realising that I have her chasing her own tail.
I’m happy to indulge her, to pretend I don’t notice my new shadow, because she will only ever see what I want her to. And besides, after tonight, she won’t do it again.
*
“It’s work, honey,” I tell her, already shrugging my jacket on. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I’m a doctor, so leaving the house at eleven-thirty on a Thursday night isn’t such a stretch. I have made midnight trips before: I have saved lives at this hour several times. This one though is different. Make up a patient, give him a name, a tumour, two months to live. Shake and stir.
I cross the street and make as if I’m checking for traffic, but there are no cars at this time of night, and it’s really her I’m looking for. She’s still there, hands frightened by her sides, pretending to be interested in the sides of beef Joe has in his butcher’s window.
My wife, the vegetarian. She can’t fool me.
The town is black, but the truth cannot be masked by flicking a switch and killing the light.
I turn up my collar and sink deeper into the gloom.
I pass a guy on the street, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he is digging for answers. His eyes meet mine as our shadows merge under a street-lamp, and he quickly looks back at his guilty feet, as they take him towards the wrong bed.
I turn the corner and there’s the building I’m looking for. Five storeys. There are a few yellow eyes in the wall of concrete and black glass: dozens of numbers on the silver panel by the door. I press forty-two, and say:
“Sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve locked myself out. Can you let me in please? It’s seventeen. Thanks, man.”
He doesn’t say a word. There is a buzz, the lock springs, and I push inside. The door falls closed on my tail.
The outside chill is replaced by artificial warmth. The heating system tick-ticks within the walls of the building like a telltale heart.
I climb the stairs, passing seventeen, and throw a look over my shoulder.
Nothing.
She has learned fast, but not fast enough.
Out of sight, and soon to be out of her mind, I think, almost loud enough to hear outside my own head.
When I reach the third floor, Number Forty-Two is standing in his doorway. Bare feet, wild hair, black pants. His middle-of-the-night curiosity is a dangerous thing, although at this moment he doesn’t realise it. I don’t mind. It saves me knocking or breaking in.
Less noise, more haste.
I walk up to him and say: “I believe you know my wife.”
It’s not a question but he seems to think it is. I can see him wondering who the hell I am and why the hell I’m here. He looks at me strangely - because comprehension is asleep at midnight - then tries to say something, but I am not interested in any of his excuses.
I pull a gun from my inside pocket and shoot him three times in the chest.
Phfft.
Phfft.
Phfft.
Silencers are wonderful. It’s like plugging a pillow.
Forty-Two falls back and hits the carpet, dead before he does. I’m a doctor. These things I know.
I put the gun back into my jacket and make my way downstairs.
My wife is standing in the foyer with her mouth open, looking at me the way people do when they don’t know what to say.
I smile and brush past her into the night.
You see, a cheat is easy to see, and a betrayal of the heart shines like a beacon.
My wife glows.
But not anymore.
BIO: Brian is thirty-three and lives in Scotland. He has over eighty publications to his name - from humour (Defenestration) to horror (Nossa Morte), mystery (Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine) to mainstream (Southern Ocean Review). He appears in the first three volumes of paperback horror anthology, Read By Dawn, available from Bloody Books, and is currently at work on his first novel. He is married, both to his wife and his words, and runs a blog of his literary wanderings at Purveyor Of Imagination.
A Twist Of Noir 193 - Des Nnochiri
DUSTED FOR PRINTS - DES NNOCHIRI
The office was spotless. Polished bookshelves, neatly stacked. Plush furniture. Even the knick-knacks on the desktop looked to have been placed there by design.
Only the upturned swivel chair behind the desk gave any clue that something was amiss. That and the circular depression in the wall behind. Oh, and the poor slob sprawled feet up on the fallen chair. The guy with the bloody hole in his forehead.
He didn't look too neat, at all.
Vitale and Garber, wearing surgical gloves, poked around the office as the Forensics guy (it was Clapton, this time) fussed around the body - plotting trajectories, doing scrapings. He was taking forever with it.
"Hey, Matty," said Vitale. "What do you say? D' you think he's dead?"
"It's Matthew," replied Clapton. And that was all he said; he'd dealt with Vitale before.
"So," Vitale was addressing his partner, now. "What's it look like to you?"
Garber frowned. "I'm not sure..."
He prodded the desktop for a moment. Nestled - neatly - behind a drinking bird paperweight was the victim's cell phone. A sleek little model that Garber wouldn't mind having himself. He found the key combination for last number redial and hit it.
A whiny, nasal voice on the other end. "Arnold Gleissner, paparazzo. Hello? Hello?"
Garber cut the connection. Mouthing the word, "Paparazzo?", he turned toward Clapton, who was approaching with a scrap of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag.
"Pried this out of the victim's hand," Clapton said.
He handed the bag to the detectives.
"I had to smooth it out a little. Well, a lot, actually--"
Garber, not really listening, held it up to the light. And grinned.
"Paparazzo," he said, handing the bag to Vitale, who studied the paper. It was a fragment from a glossy photograph, showing--
"Hey!" Vitale said, "Isn't that--?"
He was interrupted by Clapton. "You guys can go ahead. I've dusted for prints already."
A harsh laugh from Vitale. "Yeah. That's what this guy was, looks like."
He pointed toward the corpse.
"Dusted. For prints."
Garber nodded. "Yes, indeed."
BIO: Desmond (Des) Nnochiri spent his early years traveling with his parents, and was educated in England, the USA, and the Republic of Ireland (Eire). He writes freelance now, and has taken his first steps into the world of screenwriting. He has contributed stories to A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Powder Burn Flash. He has just started blogging, at Des Nnochiri's Write to Speak.
The office was spotless. Polished bookshelves, neatly stacked. Plush furniture. Even the knick-knacks on the desktop looked to have been placed there by design.
Only the upturned swivel chair behind the desk gave any clue that something was amiss. That and the circular depression in the wall behind. Oh, and the poor slob sprawled feet up on the fallen chair. The guy with the bloody hole in his forehead.
He didn't look too neat, at all.
Vitale and Garber, wearing surgical gloves, poked around the office as the Forensics guy (it was Clapton, this time) fussed around the body - plotting trajectories, doing scrapings. He was taking forever with it.
"Hey, Matty," said Vitale. "What do you say? D' you think he's dead?"
"It's Matthew," replied Clapton. And that was all he said; he'd dealt with Vitale before.
"So," Vitale was addressing his partner, now. "What's it look like to you?"
Garber frowned. "I'm not sure..."
He prodded the desktop for a moment. Nestled - neatly - behind a drinking bird paperweight was the victim's cell phone. A sleek little model that Garber wouldn't mind having himself. He found the key combination for last number redial and hit it.
A whiny, nasal voice on the other end. "Arnold Gleissner, paparazzo. Hello? Hello?"
Garber cut the connection. Mouthing the word, "Paparazzo?", he turned toward Clapton, who was approaching with a scrap of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag.
"Pried this out of the victim's hand," Clapton said.
He handed the bag to the detectives.
"I had to smooth it out a little. Well, a lot, actually--"
Garber, not really listening, held it up to the light. And grinned.
"Paparazzo," he said, handing the bag to Vitale, who studied the paper. It was a fragment from a glossy photograph, showing--
"Hey!" Vitale said, "Isn't that--?"
He was interrupted by Clapton. "You guys can go ahead. I've dusted for prints already."
A harsh laugh from Vitale. "Yeah. That's what this guy was, looks like."
He pointed toward the corpse.
"Dusted. For prints."
Garber nodded. "Yes, indeed."
BIO: Desmond (Des) Nnochiri spent his early years traveling with his parents, and was educated in England, the USA, and the Republic of Ireland (Eire). He writes freelance now, and has taken his first steps into the world of screenwriting. He has contributed stories to A Twist of Noir, The Flash Fiction Offensive, and Powder Burn Flash. He has just started blogging, at Des Nnochiri's Write to Speak.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Twist Of Noir 192 - Robert Crisman
TWO PHONE CALLS - ROBERT CRISMAN
In some jobs, pink-slipped means dead.
The heist blew up in their faces. They got out of the place and they got what they came for, but they also left three people dead, one an old lady outside the place when the whole thing exploded, and now the town was on fire.
Eddie dropped Dennis off at his house. No warm goodbyes or see you tomorrows. Dennis was cold and remote as a rock on the moon.
Dennis went in the alley in back of his place and ditched the gun in some bushes. He went into the house, and straight to the phone by the livingroom couch. He was thinking about Eddie. Times before, when things had fucked up and Eddie’d looked ready to jump, Dennis had always been able to reel him back in. This time, though, he’d caught Eddie’s eyes. Not good.
He felt a chill, too. He’d lost it back at that house. He’d never lost it before. And now—what? He couldn’t get at it. Whatever it was, this feeling, some kind of displacement or something...
And now, he had to talk to Ramon.
Dennis, 6’5”, 250, all muscle, with cold hazel wolf’s eyes, sweating bullets.
Ramon, mid-30s like Dennis, still trim and pretty—with eyes like black ice seen at night on a trek through the Arctic.
Dennis let out a breath. Nothing to do now but get through.
He flicked on the light, punched out a number, and someone picked up on the other end of the line. “Lupe,” he said, “I need to talk to Ramon. Tell him to call me. Fifteen minutes.”
He headed back out the door, and down to the 7-11 a block-and-a-half from the house, to the pay phone outside. It would be ringing in 10 or so minutes.
He picked up on one ring and said, “Yo.” He kept his voice low.
Ramon: “How’d it go?”
“Not so good.”
“What do you mean, not so good? What happened? You got the stuff, right?”
“Yeah, we got it. Money, everything.”
“Then, what?”
“Shit hit the fan.”
“What do you mean, shit hit the fan?”
“He went nuts, man, him’n his ol’ lady both. He jumped me, an’ then—”
“Wait, wait, he—how did that happen, man? I told you—”
“Ramon, I had the gun in his face, an’ he went ahead an’ come at me anyway. I couldn’t believe—”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I thought, we took care of the dog, it’d do it, but then, the guy—”
“What? What’d he do?”
“Hey, I dunno, man. He went nuts. An’, when I clocked him, his ol’ lady jumped on my back.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, man. It happened, just, bam.”
“Shit.” Ramon was hot. “Where was Eddie in all this?”
“Well, he—lemme get to that. He was there, but, I think we got a problem.”
“Problem?”
“Uh-huh, but—wait. Just lemme—anyway, we got it. The stuff’n the money an’ everything. I had to bitch-slap the broad, an’ she went an’ got it, an’ then we got outta there. An’ then, we’re headed to the car, an’ Mizell comes flyin’ out after us, an’ he had the shotgun...”
“Wait, wait—how did—what’d you do back there? I thought he—”
“I thought he was outta commission. I hit him pretty good, believe me. But, I dunno. Anyway, I had to take him out. Wasn’t nothin’ I could do.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
Dennis said, “There was this broad, too, man—”
“Broad? What broad?”
“This ol’ lady, man. She’s walkin’ in front of the place, an’—”
“What? Dennis—Jesus! What happened?”
“She got caught up in it, an’—”
“Oh, Christ, you—”
“Yeah, yeah, man, I know—”
“She’s dead.” Not a question.
“Yeah, I think so, I dunno. She was—look, Ramon. It happened fast, wasn’t nothin’ I could do. It’s just, Danny firin’ on us, man, an’ she’s, she got hit. It’s just, it fell out that way. Damn, man—an’, okay, so then I had to go back an’ take care of Mizell’s ol’ lady. Wasn’t nothin’ I could do. She saw us, an’ I couldn’t just leave her, you know?”
Ramon thought. “Anybody see you?”
“No. Nobody. I’m sure. No cars, nothin’.”
“What about the other houses?”
“Man—there’s only about five other houses on that block. Most of ‘em are way back from the street, an’ kinda hidden away by bushes an’ trees an’ stuff. I didn’t see no lights, except one house at the other end of the block.”
“Yeah, man, but you guys were—”
“Damn, Ramon! Jesus! I dunno, man! Maybe they did. But, damn—”
“Hey, alright, man, okay. It was dark. Man... We’ll just have to hope, huh?” Ramon was not happy.
“Anyway,” he said, “what about Eddie?”
“Well, that’s the deal. The guy’s flippin’ out.”
“What do you mean, flipping out?”
“Just that, man. He thinks—I dunno what the fuck he thinks. He wasn’t ready for it. In the car, after, he... Jesus, I dunno, man. I dunno what he’s gonna do.”
“He started cuttin’ up in the car, or before?”
“He just, he was freakin’ out, man.”
“Yeah. In the car or what, man, tell me. What’d you do?”
“It was in the car, man. He’s, I dunno what he’s gonna do. He’s freakin’ on me, like, I dunno. It was, he couldn’t hang with it, man, an’...”
“Okay, man, what’d you do?”
“I told him, he fucks up, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Okay. What then?”
“He got real quiet.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, man, but, I dunno... I think—”
“Where’s he at now?”
“Home. He dropped me off here—”
“You know he’s at home?”
“Well...no, I don’t know if he’s home, but—”
“Ah, Jesus. Dennis. We’ve got a problem.”
“Man—”
“He could be anywhere. This isn’t good. You shouldn’t’ve let him out of your sight.”
“What? Man, what was I supposed to do? Stick him in the trunk of the car? Jesus, Ramon—”
“What I’m saying, man, you shouldn’t’ve let him get away from you. When you saw what was coming, you should’ve—”
“Whattya mean? We were already in the car—”
“Man, goddamnit, you remember, I told you about him, man. If he messes up, if he’s gonna mess up, you’re ready for it, man, you—”
“Ramon—”
“And he—”
“He was drivin’ the car, man! We’re out in traffic! Whattya want, off him out at the storage? Jesus—”
“Yeah, man! That would’ve been the place, now that you bring it up! Or, anywhere, man. It’s dark, you pull him over, take him out, and—you see? Dennis. We’ve got a problem here, man! That guy—”
“Ramon—”
“Dennis!”
This wasn’t going anywhere. Ramon couldn’t believe it. This stupid bastard. He decided to leave it for now. There was too much to do, and right now. “Okay, man, to hell with it. We’ll deal with it later. We’ve got to take care of this thing we’ve got, man, you hear what I’m saying?”
No response.
“Man, I can’t hear you.”
“Yeah, Ramon, I know. We got to...”
“I mean, right now.”
“Yeah.”
“You agree with that, man?”
“Yeah, I do. We got to.”
“Good. Now. I’m thinking, we’re supposed to be meeting back there at the storage, right? That is the place to do it. Nobody around. No buildings close by. Take him there, stick him in the room, and leave him.”
“Yeah, man, but they’ll check—”
“So what? I had that space for a year, man, and the guy who actually got it, he’s not even in the country now. There’s no way they can put it on us.”
“Alright...”
“Yeah. Now. We need to take care of this tonight.”
“Ah... You know what? I think that ain’t such a good idea. I think, right now, he’s spooked bigtime. An’ I bet you he’s thinkin’ I might make a move on him. See—”
“Dennis. We can’t wait on this.”
“Man, I don’t—I go over there tonight, he’s gonna know, I’m tellin’ you. He ain’t stupid. He knows it’s tomorrow night. Things could get real messed up—”
“They’re messed up right now, man.”
“Ramon, listen to me! Look... Right now, he’s really freaked out. This was a heavy deal, man. But, I think, tomorrow, I call him, you know, I’m supposed to call him tomorrow, an’ I think there’s a whole lot less chance of him thinkin’ there’s somethin’ funny about it. I just talk to him, man, we’re still a go, cool, calm, an’ I think I can bring him down outta the tree. Tomorrow—see, Eddie freaks, man—”
“No shit, Dennis.”
“Lemme finish. See—he freaks. This was heavy, an’ he wasn’t ready for it—”
“Your old road dog.”
“Yeah, Ramon... Look, you want me to—”
“Go ahead, man. I’m listening.”
“Okay. The thing is, it’s like, he’s in shock now, man, see? But that’s—tomorrow, I think it’ll, it won’t—I mean, this ain’t never gonna be one of his fond memories or nothin’, but the guy—we did stuff before, an’ it’s like he’s, I can talk to him, man. He’ll come around. I mean, tonight he’s freaked. It’s like a bad acid trip an’ he’s in it, you know? But tomorrow he won’t be so messed up. I’ll be able to talk to him. Plus, man, look. There’s still the money. He came for the money. Money’s still there, right? An’, you know, what’s his best option? Don’t nobody know it was us. An’ we got the stuff, man. So, what’s he gonna do, just walk away? All that for nothin’? Plus, where’s he gonna go? Dude’s broke, man.”
“He’ll go to the cops, Dennis.”
“Ramon, uh uh. He ain’t goin’ to no cops. What’s that gonna get him? Cops, man, those’re the last motherfuckers he wants to talk to. After this? No way.”
“Well, hey, man, that’s great. What’re we even worrying about, then? What you’re saying, we’ve got no problem. Why even bring it up? Listen—”
“Look, Ramon! All I’m sayin’, I know the guy. He—look. It ain’t right now I’m worried about. It’s down the road, he gets in a ditch or somethin’. Then, maybe we got a problem. He lets stuff chew on him. I mean, he’ll go along, an’ it’s okay, but then, somethin’ happens, an’ meanwhile, this shit’s been eatin’ away at his ass, an’ it’s, boom. Who knows what’ll happen? Other times, I been there to kinda straighten him out, an’, you know, he comes around. But this one, man, like I said, I dunno. I don’t think he can hang with this. An’ a month, year, somethin’ happens, well, who knows? So, that’s why I agree with you, we gotta do it. But I really think we oughtta just, go ahead an’ do it accordin’ to the original deal. Meet there like we said, an’ do it there.”
“Man—”
“Ramon, I’m tellin’ you, I go up there now, there’s no tellin’ what’s gonna happen. At least fifty-fifty, he’s expectin’ it anyway. He might not even be there at his place—”
“Man—”
“Ramon! Damn, man! What I’m sayin’ is, I dunno. He’s—ah, man, he’s there. What’s he gonna do, sleep in his fuckin’ car? By the side of the road or somethin’? Plus, where else is he gonna go? He ain’t even got enough gas to get outta town. Anyway, like I said, I go up there, he ain’t gonna let me in. An’ I swear to God, man, I don’t wanna go kickin’ his door in, you know what I’m sayin’? Lotta people up there, man, Capitol Hill, on the street an’ whatever, an’, plus, lotta cops up there, too. An’ also, man, I only been up there a coupla times. I don’t know the layout, who’s gonna see me an’ stuff, you know, somethin’ happens. An’, the dude, too, he got a back way outta there. I dunno, he sees me comin’, rabbits out the back, an’ I’m chasin’ him down the street... I don’t like that, man, swear to God. Too much stuff can go wrong, an’ then—”
“Hey, Dennis, you hinky on this, or what?”
“Huh? Well... Yeah, man, I kinda am. This has been, wow, man, an’—Look, Ramon, I got no problem doin’ this, okay? It’s just—an’ also, man, this, somethin’ happens, it could be the one thing that sends him to the cops. ‘Cause then, man, what’s he lookin’ at? No money, right? An’ somebody out there tryin’ to kill him. It’s best we do it the other way, man, I’m tellin’ you.”
“Man...”
“I’m tellin’ you, Ramon.”
Ramon had to think. He wanted Eddie off the map yesterday. But, what Dennis was saying, he had some points. Plus, push him too hard on this, he might just go up there and fuck the thing up. And what then?
Eddie might just have to keep one more night.
“Okay,” Ramon said.
“Okay? Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. But here’s the deal. You’ve got to take care of it.”
“Huh? You ain’t gonna be there?”
They’d originally planned that the three of them would be there the next night.
“No,” Ramon said, “I can’t make it. I was going to tell you. I got some family stuff here that I’ve got to deal with, and—I’ve got to deal with it. I can’t get away till it’s done.”
“But—”
“Look, man, it’s Lupe and mama, and I really don’t want to get into it. Just, believe me, I’ve got to get this straightened out here. And, what I was going to say to you was, I need you to get the stuff and come here with it.”
“But—”
“Dennis, you’ve got to take care of it, you hear what I’m saying?”
“Well, damn, man—”
“Look. I was saying, you should do this tonight. You say you want to do it tomorrow, for all those reasons, and I see your point. But you’ve got to do it. I can’t get there. You’d’ve had to do it yourself tonight anyway, you know what I’m saying? And I, we need to get that stuff out of there. I can’t wait on that. So, you’ve got to get here with it. Might be best you get yourself out of town, too, for a minute or two anyway.”
Dennis chewed it over.
“You there?” Ramon said.
“Yeah, I was just... Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll tell Eddie, an’ he’ll come over, an’ we’ll go there, an’ I’ll do it there. An’ then I’ll be comin’ over.”
“Good.”
“Yeah...”
“Okay, then, I guess that’s it.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Later.”
Dennis hung up, thoughts gnawing away. He wanted something to spike them. A shot or three of whiskey sounded just about right.
*
He called Eddie next morning, nine on the dot.
Eddie’d been tossing and turning all night. He rose, features puffy and blurred. He reached out his hand toward the phone and struggled to sitting position.
His thin frame looked frail and pale. He chewed his thin lips and rubbed his sharp nose, his eyes blinking sleep from deep in a tunnel. His hair, a blond mop, stuck in different directions.
Dennis sounded a little thick on his end of the line. Groggy or not, though, his job was to talk Eddie down out of the branches.
“Hey, man,” he said, “how’re you doin’?”
Eddie sucked up some breath. “I dunno... Not so good.”
“Yeah? So... What’s goin’ on?”
“Just... It’s messed up, man.”
“Yeah. Sounds like it. You gonna be okay, or what?”
“Man... I dunno... I haven’t had much sleep.”
Eddie sounded like he was slated for hanging. Dennis figured that was okay, though. Last night, he wouldn’t’ve answered the phone.
“I know what you mean,” Dennis said. “I didn’t get much sleep myself. It was rough last night. Be better today, you know what I’m sayin’?
“Look,” he said. “I talked to Ramon. An’ he’s, you know, it’s a bad deal, but what can we do? Except, you know, be cool an’ don’t get fucked up behind this. Main thing, an’ I agree with this, is to keep things goin’ the way we had it set up. You know what I’m sayin’? We can still do this, you know, so...he’s gonna be there at the place around nine tonight. An’, I’m thinkin’, why don’t you get here at my place around eight, quarter after, pick me up, an’ we’ll meet him there, get it done. Divvy up, an’, you know... Whattya think? Sound like a plan?”
No response.
“You there?”
“Yeah...”
“So, whattya think?”
No response. Eddie’s visual: Ramon with fangs...
“Hey, Eddie, man, look. Last night, man, it was fucked up. I got a little hot, man. I didn’t know where you were comin’ from. You know, I overreacted. I was wound up, man, you know what I’m sayin’? That was some heavy-duty shit, you know? An’, I know how you’re feelin’, man. I feel kinda the same way. But, this, we gotta let that go. It was messed up. I didn’t know what you were gonna do. But now... It’s today, man, it’s different. My head’s a little clearer, an’... It’s okay, you know?”
A beat, and then Eddie said, “I dunno, man, I just... You hear anything? About, you know, the thing.”
Dennis had heard stuff, alright. Radio, TV, the front page of the morning P-I. Bloody triple murder, ‘possibly drug-related’. Just the kind of stuff to send Eddie toward Mars. Oh well. Dennis had to deal with it.
“It’s in the paper.” He said it calmly, like, nothing here we can’t deal with.
“Where?” Eddie said. “I mean...”
“P-I, man. Front page.”
“Oh, Jesus...”
“Yeah. But, man, I read the story, an’ all it really is, is the cops got three people dead, two in the house, one outside, an’ that’s all they know. Nobody saw nothin’, nobody heard nothin’, an’ they ain’t got squat. They figure it’s drugs. Well, hell yeah. It’s a known fuckin’ dopehouse. ‘Suspected drug traffic’ an’ all that good shit. They got no clue, man. Coulda been 10,000 guys.”
“Yeah, but they don’t always tell you, you know, in the newspapers, man.”
“Well, yeah, I know, but look at it. I believe it, you know. I mean, there wasn’t nobody around there, except that ol’ lady. I was checkin’, man, one house down the block with the lights on. Shades pulled. Nobody saw nothin’, an’—”
“Yeah, but—”
“An’, Eddie. The rest of it—who knew we were comin’, right? Mizell an’ his old lady—an’ she didn’t even know, fucked up as she was—an’ Ramon, you know? That’s all. An’ then, that was the first time I ever even been in that part of town, an’ you too, so it ain’t like we’re a coupla familiar faces or nothin’ like that, am I right? Plus, man, what else? What other possible evidence is there that we were there? Fingerprints? In that place? I don’t fuckin’ think so.”
“Yeah, man, but... I dunno. This is a lot of heat, man.”
“Well, yeah, it is.”
“That old lady, man...” That’s what was chewing at Eddie. And Mona, Mizell’s old lady. And, just the fact that Dennis had lost it. He was supposed to been the man who stayed cool.
Dennis just had to deal with it now. “Yeah, man, I know, but—look. It was fucked up. The whole thing was fucked up. You know, it was like we were sayin’ before. Sometimes, you know, stuff blows up. Mizell went nuts, an’ then take it from there. Who knows, man? He just... I dunno. An’ me, too, man, I didn’t expect it. Him and the broad. An’ then, he comes outta there with that shotgun, an’—I thought we were gonna die. You know?”
“Yeah, man, but—”
“Yeah, man, I know. The ol’ lady. I didn’t even see her. That fucked me up, man. An’ then, the broad—I was freaked, man. I thought we were gonna die. I didn’t know what to do. Jesus. There was Mizell, that ol’ lady, an’ Mona inside there, an’ everything was goin’ so damn fast. I just, I dunno what to tell you, man. It happened. Next thing I knew, it was done. I just, I dunno.”
Somewhere down deep, Eddie knew what a pile of garbage this really was. The old lady in front of the house was an accident, sure. But, Mona was cold-blooded mop-up. That said, though, he was part of it, right? And where did that leave him?
He couldn’t even talk. Just the thought of his complicity in this... Lead filled his chest, the hot kind that makes you want to go jump off a bridge.
Dennis rapped on. “But, okay, now—what do we do? There’s a lotta heat, like you said. Gotta figure there’s gonna be. But, you know, lookin’ at it? It’s, like, okay, you remember that thing a coupla months back, where that girl got shot at that high school? Some drive-by, right? Same deal. The whole town was on fire for those guys. Every time you turned on the news, man, it was just, they wanted to get the motherfucker that did it. Buncha Asian dudes. An’ the whole thing went on for about a week. An’ then, all of a sudden, boom, you don’t hear nothin’. It was like it never even happened. Read the paper, nothin’. Back to the same-ol’ same-ol’. Afghanistan, Iraq, Bill Gates bought Europe, that three-feet strap-on Hillary’s got on, Bill says it works, so elect her or somethin’. You see what I’m sayin’?
“It’s like—an’, oh yeah, every so often there’d be some little somethin’, you know, like, they ain’t caught ’em yet, but they’re tryin’ an’ so forth, you know? An’ that’s it. An’ by this time, it’s hard to remember just what the fuck happened.
“An’ then, when they caught the guy, finally, it was sheer fuckin’ luck. Guy’s down in Portland, deep in the weeds. But he’s braggin’ to all his little gangbanger buddies an’ shit, an’ somebody went an’ ratted him out. An’ that’s how they got him.
“See? An’ that’s what we gotta realize, man. All that dude had to do was keep his mouth shut. The cops’d still be runnin’ around with their thumb up their ass. An’, this here, with us? Same fuckin’ deal. Except, with those guys, there was 10,000 people who saw it! Nobody saw us!
“An’, I know, this, it’s messed up. An’ I wish it was different. I wish it hadn’t fell out the way it fell out. But now, what we gotta do is, stay cool. Just, ride it out an’ take care of business. Nobody knows nothin’. Long as we’re cool, we’re okay. You see what I’m sayin’?
“Now, man, it’s, we go get the money an’ split it, an go on our way. Just like we worked it all out. An’, it’ll be cool. We didn’t come this fuckin’ far to fuck it all up.”
Wow. All that blather. “Just be cool, it’ll all go away.” That old lady. Mona. Would they go away?
Eddie’s mind spun round and round. What were his options? The old lady, Mona, and Mizell were all dead. What could he do? Go to the cops? No way would that bring them back.
It would cook his ass.
What then? Take off? And go where? Without money?
Money. A shot at outrunning his demons...
He said, “I’ll see you at eight.”
Telling the man holding the pink slip he’d be there.
BIO: Robert Crisman writes crime and noir fiction. He spent 15 years on streets in downtown Seattle and has some idea of what really goes on in these realms. He’s had stories posted on A Twist of Noir, and some scheduled on Yellow Mama and Darkest Before Dawn. A movie he scripted, Chasing the Dopeman, is currently in post-prod down in L.A. and, with luck, it’ll be ready to go sometime this fall.
In some jobs, pink-slipped means dead.
The heist blew up in their faces. They got out of the place and they got what they came for, but they also left three people dead, one an old lady outside the place when the whole thing exploded, and now the town was on fire.
Eddie dropped Dennis off at his house. No warm goodbyes or see you tomorrows. Dennis was cold and remote as a rock on the moon.
Dennis went in the alley in back of his place and ditched the gun in some bushes. He went into the house, and straight to the phone by the livingroom couch. He was thinking about Eddie. Times before, when things had fucked up and Eddie’d looked ready to jump, Dennis had always been able to reel him back in. This time, though, he’d caught Eddie’s eyes. Not good.
He felt a chill, too. He’d lost it back at that house. He’d never lost it before. And now—what? He couldn’t get at it. Whatever it was, this feeling, some kind of displacement or something...
And now, he had to talk to Ramon.
Dennis, 6’5”, 250, all muscle, with cold hazel wolf’s eyes, sweating bullets.
Ramon, mid-30s like Dennis, still trim and pretty—with eyes like black ice seen at night on a trek through the Arctic.
Dennis let out a breath. Nothing to do now but get through.
He flicked on the light, punched out a number, and someone picked up on the other end of the line. “Lupe,” he said, “I need to talk to Ramon. Tell him to call me. Fifteen minutes.”
He headed back out the door, and down to the 7-11 a block-and-a-half from the house, to the pay phone outside. It would be ringing in 10 or so minutes.
He picked up on one ring and said, “Yo.” He kept his voice low.
Ramon: “How’d it go?”
“Not so good.”
“What do you mean, not so good? What happened? You got the stuff, right?”
“Yeah, we got it. Money, everything.”
“Then, what?”
“Shit hit the fan.”
“What do you mean, shit hit the fan?”
“He went nuts, man, him’n his ol’ lady both. He jumped me, an’ then—”
“Wait, wait, he—how did that happen, man? I told you—”
“Ramon, I had the gun in his face, an’ he went ahead an’ come at me anyway. I couldn’t believe—”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I thought, we took care of the dog, it’d do it, but then, the guy—”
“What? What’d he do?”
“Hey, I dunno, man. He went nuts. An’, when I clocked him, his ol’ lady jumped on my back.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, man. It happened, just, bam.”
“Shit.” Ramon was hot. “Where was Eddie in all this?”
“Well, he—lemme get to that. He was there, but, I think we got a problem.”
“Problem?”
“Uh-huh, but—wait. Just lemme—anyway, we got it. The stuff’n the money an’ everything. I had to bitch-slap the broad, an’ she went an’ got it, an’ then we got outta there. An’ then, we’re headed to the car, an’ Mizell comes flyin’ out after us, an’ he had the shotgun...”
“Wait, wait—how did—what’d you do back there? I thought he—”
“I thought he was outta commission. I hit him pretty good, believe me. But, I dunno. Anyway, I had to take him out. Wasn’t nothin’ I could do.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
Dennis said, “There was this broad, too, man—”
“Broad? What broad?”
“This ol’ lady, man. She’s walkin’ in front of the place, an’—”
“What? Dennis—Jesus! What happened?”
“She got caught up in it, an’—”
“Oh, Christ, you—”
“Yeah, yeah, man, I know—”
“She’s dead.” Not a question.
“Yeah, I think so, I dunno. She was—look, Ramon. It happened fast, wasn’t nothin’ I could do. It’s just, Danny firin’ on us, man, an’ she’s, she got hit. It’s just, it fell out that way. Damn, man—an’, okay, so then I had to go back an’ take care of Mizell’s ol’ lady. Wasn’t nothin’ I could do. She saw us, an’ I couldn’t just leave her, you know?”
Ramon thought. “Anybody see you?”
“No. Nobody. I’m sure. No cars, nothin’.”
“What about the other houses?”
“Man—there’s only about five other houses on that block. Most of ‘em are way back from the street, an’ kinda hidden away by bushes an’ trees an’ stuff. I didn’t see no lights, except one house at the other end of the block.”
“Yeah, man, but you guys were—”
“Damn, Ramon! Jesus! I dunno, man! Maybe they did. But, damn—”
“Hey, alright, man, okay. It was dark. Man... We’ll just have to hope, huh?” Ramon was not happy.
“Anyway,” he said, “what about Eddie?”
“Well, that’s the deal. The guy’s flippin’ out.”
“What do you mean, flipping out?”
“Just that, man. He thinks—I dunno what the fuck he thinks. He wasn’t ready for it. In the car, after, he... Jesus, I dunno, man. I dunno what he’s gonna do.”
“He started cuttin’ up in the car, or before?”
“He just, he was freakin’ out, man.”
“Yeah. In the car or what, man, tell me. What’d you do?”
“It was in the car, man. He’s, I dunno what he’s gonna do. He’s freakin’ on me, like, I dunno. It was, he couldn’t hang with it, man, an’...”
“Okay, man, what’d you do?”
“I told him, he fucks up, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Okay. What then?”
“He got real quiet.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, man, but, I dunno... I think—”
“Where’s he at now?”
“Home. He dropped me off here—”
“You know he’s at home?”
“Well...no, I don’t know if he’s home, but—”
“Ah, Jesus. Dennis. We’ve got a problem.”
“Man—”
“He could be anywhere. This isn’t good. You shouldn’t’ve let him out of your sight.”
“What? Man, what was I supposed to do? Stick him in the trunk of the car? Jesus, Ramon—”
“What I’m saying, man, you shouldn’t’ve let him get away from you. When you saw what was coming, you should’ve—”
“Whattya mean? We were already in the car—”
“Man, goddamnit, you remember, I told you about him, man. If he messes up, if he’s gonna mess up, you’re ready for it, man, you—”
“Ramon—”
“And he—”
“He was drivin’ the car, man! We’re out in traffic! Whattya want, off him out at the storage? Jesus—”
“Yeah, man! That would’ve been the place, now that you bring it up! Or, anywhere, man. It’s dark, you pull him over, take him out, and—you see? Dennis. We’ve got a problem here, man! That guy—”
“Ramon—”
“Dennis!”
This wasn’t going anywhere. Ramon couldn’t believe it. This stupid bastard. He decided to leave it for now. There was too much to do, and right now. “Okay, man, to hell with it. We’ll deal with it later. We’ve got to take care of this thing we’ve got, man, you hear what I’m saying?”
No response.
“Man, I can’t hear you.”
“Yeah, Ramon, I know. We got to...”
“I mean, right now.”
“Yeah.”
“You agree with that, man?”
“Yeah, I do. We got to.”
“Good. Now. I’m thinking, we’re supposed to be meeting back there at the storage, right? That is the place to do it. Nobody around. No buildings close by. Take him there, stick him in the room, and leave him.”
“Yeah, man, but they’ll check—”
“So what? I had that space for a year, man, and the guy who actually got it, he’s not even in the country now. There’s no way they can put it on us.”
“Alright...”
“Yeah. Now. We need to take care of this tonight.”
“Ah... You know what? I think that ain’t such a good idea. I think, right now, he’s spooked bigtime. An’ I bet you he’s thinkin’ I might make a move on him. See—”
“Dennis. We can’t wait on this.”
“Man, I don’t—I go over there tonight, he’s gonna know, I’m tellin’ you. He ain’t stupid. He knows it’s tomorrow night. Things could get real messed up—”
“They’re messed up right now, man.”
“Ramon, listen to me! Look... Right now, he’s really freaked out. This was a heavy deal, man. But, I think, tomorrow, I call him, you know, I’m supposed to call him tomorrow, an’ I think there’s a whole lot less chance of him thinkin’ there’s somethin’ funny about it. I just talk to him, man, we’re still a go, cool, calm, an’ I think I can bring him down outta the tree. Tomorrow—see, Eddie freaks, man—”
“No shit, Dennis.”
“Lemme finish. See—he freaks. This was heavy, an’ he wasn’t ready for it—”
“Your old road dog.”
“Yeah, Ramon... Look, you want me to—”
“Go ahead, man. I’m listening.”
“Okay. The thing is, it’s like, he’s in shock now, man, see? But that’s—tomorrow, I think it’ll, it won’t—I mean, this ain’t never gonna be one of his fond memories or nothin’, but the guy—we did stuff before, an’ it’s like he’s, I can talk to him, man. He’ll come around. I mean, tonight he’s freaked. It’s like a bad acid trip an’ he’s in it, you know? But tomorrow he won’t be so messed up. I’ll be able to talk to him. Plus, man, look. There’s still the money. He came for the money. Money’s still there, right? An’, you know, what’s his best option? Don’t nobody know it was us. An’ we got the stuff, man. So, what’s he gonna do, just walk away? All that for nothin’? Plus, where’s he gonna go? Dude’s broke, man.”
“He’ll go to the cops, Dennis.”
“Ramon, uh uh. He ain’t goin’ to no cops. What’s that gonna get him? Cops, man, those’re the last motherfuckers he wants to talk to. After this? No way.”
“Well, hey, man, that’s great. What’re we even worrying about, then? What you’re saying, we’ve got no problem. Why even bring it up? Listen—”
“Look, Ramon! All I’m sayin’, I know the guy. He—look. It ain’t right now I’m worried about. It’s down the road, he gets in a ditch or somethin’. Then, maybe we got a problem. He lets stuff chew on him. I mean, he’ll go along, an’ it’s okay, but then, somethin’ happens, an’ meanwhile, this shit’s been eatin’ away at his ass, an’ it’s, boom. Who knows what’ll happen? Other times, I been there to kinda straighten him out, an’, you know, he comes around. But this one, man, like I said, I dunno. I don’t think he can hang with this. An’ a month, year, somethin’ happens, well, who knows? So, that’s why I agree with you, we gotta do it. But I really think we oughtta just, go ahead an’ do it accordin’ to the original deal. Meet there like we said, an’ do it there.”
“Man—”
“Ramon, I’m tellin’ you, I go up there now, there’s no tellin’ what’s gonna happen. At least fifty-fifty, he’s expectin’ it anyway. He might not even be there at his place—”
“Man—”
“Ramon! Damn, man! What I’m sayin’ is, I dunno. He’s—ah, man, he’s there. What’s he gonna do, sleep in his fuckin’ car? By the side of the road or somethin’? Plus, where else is he gonna go? He ain’t even got enough gas to get outta town. Anyway, like I said, I go up there, he ain’t gonna let me in. An’ I swear to God, man, I don’t wanna go kickin’ his door in, you know what I’m sayin’? Lotta people up there, man, Capitol Hill, on the street an’ whatever, an’, plus, lotta cops up there, too. An’ also, man, I only been up there a coupla times. I don’t know the layout, who’s gonna see me an’ stuff, you know, somethin’ happens. An’, the dude, too, he got a back way outta there. I dunno, he sees me comin’, rabbits out the back, an’ I’m chasin’ him down the street... I don’t like that, man, swear to God. Too much stuff can go wrong, an’ then—”
“Hey, Dennis, you hinky on this, or what?”
“Huh? Well... Yeah, man, I kinda am. This has been, wow, man, an’—Look, Ramon, I got no problem doin’ this, okay? It’s just—an’ also, man, this, somethin’ happens, it could be the one thing that sends him to the cops. ‘Cause then, man, what’s he lookin’ at? No money, right? An’ somebody out there tryin’ to kill him. It’s best we do it the other way, man, I’m tellin’ you.”
“Man...”
“I’m tellin’ you, Ramon.”
Ramon had to think. He wanted Eddie off the map yesterday. But, what Dennis was saying, he had some points. Plus, push him too hard on this, he might just go up there and fuck the thing up. And what then?
Eddie might just have to keep one more night.
“Okay,” Ramon said.
“Okay? Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. But here’s the deal. You’ve got to take care of it.”
“Huh? You ain’t gonna be there?”
They’d originally planned that the three of them would be there the next night.
“No,” Ramon said, “I can’t make it. I was going to tell you. I got some family stuff here that I’ve got to deal with, and—I’ve got to deal with it. I can’t get away till it’s done.”
“But—”
“Look, man, it’s Lupe and mama, and I really don’t want to get into it. Just, believe me, I’ve got to get this straightened out here. And, what I was going to say to you was, I need you to get the stuff and come here with it.”
“But—”
“Dennis, you’ve got to take care of it, you hear what I’m saying?”
“Well, damn, man—”
“Look. I was saying, you should do this tonight. You say you want to do it tomorrow, for all those reasons, and I see your point. But you’ve got to do it. I can’t get there. You’d’ve had to do it yourself tonight anyway, you know what I’m saying? And I, we need to get that stuff out of there. I can’t wait on that. So, you’ve got to get here with it. Might be best you get yourself out of town, too, for a minute or two anyway.”
Dennis chewed it over.
“You there?” Ramon said.
“Yeah, I was just... Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll tell Eddie, an’ he’ll come over, an’ we’ll go there, an’ I’ll do it there. An’ then I’ll be comin’ over.”
“Good.”
“Yeah...”
“Okay, then, I guess that’s it.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Later.”
Dennis hung up, thoughts gnawing away. He wanted something to spike them. A shot or three of whiskey sounded just about right.
*
He called Eddie next morning, nine on the dot.
Eddie’d been tossing and turning all night. He rose, features puffy and blurred. He reached out his hand toward the phone and struggled to sitting position.
His thin frame looked frail and pale. He chewed his thin lips and rubbed his sharp nose, his eyes blinking sleep from deep in a tunnel. His hair, a blond mop, stuck in different directions.
Dennis sounded a little thick on his end of the line. Groggy or not, though, his job was to talk Eddie down out of the branches.
“Hey, man,” he said, “how’re you doin’?”
Eddie sucked up some breath. “I dunno... Not so good.”
“Yeah? So... What’s goin’ on?”
“Just... It’s messed up, man.”
“Yeah. Sounds like it. You gonna be okay, or what?”
“Man... I dunno... I haven’t had much sleep.”
Eddie sounded like he was slated for hanging. Dennis figured that was okay, though. Last night, he wouldn’t’ve answered the phone.
“I know what you mean,” Dennis said. “I didn’t get much sleep myself. It was rough last night. Be better today, you know what I’m sayin’?
“Look,” he said. “I talked to Ramon. An’ he’s, you know, it’s a bad deal, but what can we do? Except, you know, be cool an’ don’t get fucked up behind this. Main thing, an’ I agree with this, is to keep things goin’ the way we had it set up. You know what I’m sayin’? We can still do this, you know, so...he’s gonna be there at the place around nine tonight. An’, I’m thinkin’, why don’t you get here at my place around eight, quarter after, pick me up, an’ we’ll meet him there, get it done. Divvy up, an’, you know... Whattya think? Sound like a plan?”
No response.
“You there?”
“Yeah...”
“So, whattya think?”
No response. Eddie’s visual: Ramon with fangs...
“Hey, Eddie, man, look. Last night, man, it was fucked up. I got a little hot, man. I didn’t know where you were comin’ from. You know, I overreacted. I was wound up, man, you know what I’m sayin’? That was some heavy-duty shit, you know? An’, I know how you’re feelin’, man. I feel kinda the same way. But, this, we gotta let that go. It was messed up. I didn’t know what you were gonna do. But now... It’s today, man, it’s different. My head’s a little clearer, an’... It’s okay, you know?”
A beat, and then Eddie said, “I dunno, man, I just... You hear anything? About, you know, the thing.”
Dennis had heard stuff, alright. Radio, TV, the front page of the morning P-I. Bloody triple murder, ‘possibly drug-related’. Just the kind of stuff to send Eddie toward Mars. Oh well. Dennis had to deal with it.
“It’s in the paper.” He said it calmly, like, nothing here we can’t deal with.
“Where?” Eddie said. “I mean...”
“P-I, man. Front page.”
“Oh, Jesus...”
“Yeah. But, man, I read the story, an’ all it really is, is the cops got three people dead, two in the house, one outside, an’ that’s all they know. Nobody saw nothin’, nobody heard nothin’, an’ they ain’t got squat. They figure it’s drugs. Well, hell yeah. It’s a known fuckin’ dopehouse. ‘Suspected drug traffic’ an’ all that good shit. They got no clue, man. Coulda been 10,000 guys.”
“Yeah, but they don’t always tell you, you know, in the newspapers, man.”
“Well, yeah, I know, but look at it. I believe it, you know. I mean, there wasn’t nobody around there, except that ol’ lady. I was checkin’, man, one house down the block with the lights on. Shades pulled. Nobody saw nothin’, an’—”
“Yeah, but—”
“An’, Eddie. The rest of it—who knew we were comin’, right? Mizell an’ his old lady—an’ she didn’t even know, fucked up as she was—an’ Ramon, you know? That’s all. An’ then, that was the first time I ever even been in that part of town, an’ you too, so it ain’t like we’re a coupla familiar faces or nothin’ like that, am I right? Plus, man, what else? What other possible evidence is there that we were there? Fingerprints? In that place? I don’t fuckin’ think so.”
“Yeah, man, but... I dunno. This is a lot of heat, man.”
“Well, yeah, it is.”
“That old lady, man...” That’s what was chewing at Eddie. And Mona, Mizell’s old lady. And, just the fact that Dennis had lost it. He was supposed to been the man who stayed cool.
Dennis just had to deal with it now. “Yeah, man, I know, but—look. It was fucked up. The whole thing was fucked up. You know, it was like we were sayin’ before. Sometimes, you know, stuff blows up. Mizell went nuts, an’ then take it from there. Who knows, man? He just... I dunno. An’ me, too, man, I didn’t expect it. Him and the broad. An’ then, he comes outta there with that shotgun, an’—I thought we were gonna die. You know?”
“Yeah, man, but—”
“Yeah, man, I know. The ol’ lady. I didn’t even see her. That fucked me up, man. An’ then, the broad—I was freaked, man. I thought we were gonna die. I didn’t know what to do. Jesus. There was Mizell, that ol’ lady, an’ Mona inside there, an’ everything was goin’ so damn fast. I just, I dunno what to tell you, man. It happened. Next thing I knew, it was done. I just, I dunno.”
Somewhere down deep, Eddie knew what a pile of garbage this really was. The old lady in front of the house was an accident, sure. But, Mona was cold-blooded mop-up. That said, though, he was part of it, right? And where did that leave him?
He couldn’t even talk. Just the thought of his complicity in this... Lead filled his chest, the hot kind that makes you want to go jump off a bridge.
Dennis rapped on. “But, okay, now—what do we do? There’s a lotta heat, like you said. Gotta figure there’s gonna be. But, you know, lookin’ at it? It’s, like, okay, you remember that thing a coupla months back, where that girl got shot at that high school? Some drive-by, right? Same deal. The whole town was on fire for those guys. Every time you turned on the news, man, it was just, they wanted to get the motherfucker that did it. Buncha Asian dudes. An’ the whole thing went on for about a week. An’ then, all of a sudden, boom, you don’t hear nothin’. It was like it never even happened. Read the paper, nothin’. Back to the same-ol’ same-ol’. Afghanistan, Iraq, Bill Gates bought Europe, that three-feet strap-on Hillary’s got on, Bill says it works, so elect her or somethin’. You see what I’m sayin’?
“It’s like—an’, oh yeah, every so often there’d be some little somethin’, you know, like, they ain’t caught ’em yet, but they’re tryin’ an’ so forth, you know? An’ that’s it. An’ by this time, it’s hard to remember just what the fuck happened.
“An’ then, when they caught the guy, finally, it was sheer fuckin’ luck. Guy’s down in Portland, deep in the weeds. But he’s braggin’ to all his little gangbanger buddies an’ shit, an’ somebody went an’ ratted him out. An’ that’s how they got him.
“See? An’ that’s what we gotta realize, man. All that dude had to do was keep his mouth shut. The cops’d still be runnin’ around with their thumb up their ass. An’, this here, with us? Same fuckin’ deal. Except, with those guys, there was 10,000 people who saw it! Nobody saw us!
“An’, I know, this, it’s messed up. An’ I wish it was different. I wish it hadn’t fell out the way it fell out. But now, what we gotta do is, stay cool. Just, ride it out an’ take care of business. Nobody knows nothin’. Long as we’re cool, we’re okay. You see what I’m sayin’?
“Now, man, it’s, we go get the money an’ split it, an go on our way. Just like we worked it all out. An’, it’ll be cool. We didn’t come this fuckin’ far to fuck it all up.”
Wow. All that blather. “Just be cool, it’ll all go away.” That old lady. Mona. Would they go away?
Eddie’s mind spun round and round. What were his options? The old lady, Mona, and Mizell were all dead. What could he do? Go to the cops? No way would that bring them back.
It would cook his ass.
What then? Take off? And go where? Without money?
Money. A shot at outrunning his demons...
He said, “I’ll see you at eight.”
Telling the man holding the pink slip he’d be there.
BIO: Robert Crisman writes crime and noir fiction. He spent 15 years on streets in downtown Seattle and has some idea of what really goes on in these realms. He’s had stories posted on A Twist of Noir, and some scheduled on Yellow Mama and Darkest Before Dawn. A movie he scripted, Chasing the Dopeman, is currently in post-prod down in L.A. and, with luck, it’ll be ready to go sometime this fall.
Interlude
And it's all over now.
No, not A Twist Of Noir. Not by a longshot.
No, I'm speaking of the hourglass running out of sand for submission time in Eric Beetner's FIST contest.
Everyone that got in, is in and their stories are on their way to the panel of judges.
Everyone that didn't, sorry about that but you had a month. What's wrong with you?
Okay, enough with the phony dramatics.
Good luck to everyone that entered and we should know who took the five-book package in two weeks.
Meanwhile, take a ROAD TRIP with Libby Cudmore and Powder Burn Flash. And don't forget to pack your clown/gardening shoes. Hey, you'll thank me when the mud comes off without a whole lot of fuss.
No, not A Twist Of Noir. Not by a longshot.
No, I'm speaking of the hourglass running out of sand for submission time in Eric Beetner's FIST contest.
Everyone that got in, is in and their stories are on their way to the panel of judges.
Everyone that didn't, sorry about that but you had a month. What's wrong with you?
Okay, enough with the phony dramatics.
Good luck to everyone that entered and we should know who took the five-book package in two weeks.
Meanwhile, take a ROAD TRIP with Libby Cudmore and Powder Burn Flash. And don't forget to pack your clown/gardening shoes. Hey, you'll thank me when the mud comes off without a whole lot of fuss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
