LONG LIVE THE KING - MATTHEW MCBRIDE
Dylan Glenn Matthews found himself standing in a room full of dead bodies and everywhere he looked he saw blood. There was a cloud of thick gun smoke in the air and it wrestled his nostrils like a champion grappler. He tried to remember how the shooting began, but everything happened fast. He couldn’t remember.
Then he saw the bag of money on the ground and it all came back to him.
*
“It’s easy money.”
That’s what Conrad promised him on the way to the bank. A small town bank in the middle of nowhere. The kind of bank that never gets robbed cuz it’s right next door to the cop shop.
“That’s what makes it perfect,” Conrad assured him. “Nobody would ever think of this shit, D.”
He was right. Nobody ever did.
“Can we really pull this off?” Dylan asked. Voice shaky, more than just a little unsure.
“Fuck yeah!” Conrad exclaimed. “Of course we can pull it off. Wouldn’t try it otherwise.”
“What about the pork?”
Conrad laughed. “Scotty? Fuck that dumb son of a bitch. He’s at the Moto Mart every mornin’, drinkin’ free coffee and talkin’ to sweet Miss Thing behind the counter.”
Dylan knew better than to trust his brother.
He was hesitant, he thought about his girl. Thought about her white velvet skin and her hair that smelled like flowers.
“Yo, we doin’ this shit, man.”
But Dylan didn’t want to. He had a bad feelin’ in his guts. Yet Conrad was very persuasive. Always had been.
They pulled up to the bank and Conrad put the truck in park. He pulled a CD case from under the seat and sprinkled a little dope on the face of Elvis Presley. He sucked a small pile up his nose.
“Long live the King,” he said through watery eyes.
They got out of the truck.
*
Scotty Trainer was a Deputy Sheriff who spent his mornings doing just what Conrad said. Drinking free coffee and trying to get up Tina Sue Johnson’s ass. He never had a chance, but he was too stupid to know it. He was too stupid for a lot of things.
“Scotty, run this to the bank,” she ordered. Didn’t ask, she just told him what to do. And he did what he was told. Scotty was a good puppet.
When he pulled up to First Bank, he parked behind the Green Dodge truck with the engine running and gray plumes of smoke floating from each tail pipe. He grabbed the bank bag off of the passenger seat and made his way into the lobby.
That’s when he heard the gun shots, but the stupid bastard had left his Glock out in the car.
*
“Don’t anybody fuckin’ move,” Conrad yelled and spit flew from his mouth. He pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the young teller with a nose that seemed too small for her face and glasses that seemed too big.
Suddenly the gun went off and he put a bullet in her forehead. There was a quick burst of blood which sprayed the counter. Dylan began to scream.
“Conrad, what the fuck?” He was falling apart, and rightfully so.
“Oh fuck, D! I didn’t mean to, D, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
Then Mr. Baker jumped up out of his chair and Conrad shot him, too.
Dylan fell to the ground and pulled the stocking cap up over his mouth so he could breath.
That’s when he saw Scotty come through the door with his back-up piece in his hand.
He shot Conrad two or three times in the chest. Dylan wasn’t sure how many. It was hard to tell.
Conrad went down hard, but he managed a lucky shot as his body met the tile and the bullet hit the Deputy Sheriff in the neck. Blood began to squirt, and Scotty dropped to his knees. His body fell backwards and his gun went off one last time and fired a round directly into the ceiling.
Dylan grabbed the money bag and ran out to the truck.
Monday, September 26, 2011
A Twist Of Noir 679 - Christopher Grant
JORDAN’S BACK - CHRISTOPHER GRANT
You can check out Jordan and his associate, Craig, over at Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers in FOR THE RECORD and JORDAN’S TURN.
She’s in the shower when I come into the bedroom. I’ve known Tara for five, six months now. Longest relationship I’ve ever had. She wants a ring someday. I’m just not the kind that settles down. It’s not in my nature.
I take off my watch and place it on the end table, next to the lamp. The water in the shower shuts off and I hear the curtain slide back.
Tara steps out of the adjoining bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and another wrapped around her head. She’s tan, muscular but not overly so. She works out at a local gym four days a week.
She sits down on the edge of the bed and looks over at me, gives me that smile. Not the toothy one but the one that says that she’s happy I’m back.
Tara takes the towel from her hair and dries it. She’s got incredible black hair, goes down to the small of her back.
I just sit there, my legs outstretched before me, my head against the headboard. I just sit there and watch her and wonder why it can’t be easy, like this.
Tara stands up, drops the towel in her hand and then the towel that she’s got wrapped around her. She has the body of a goddess.
She walks across the room to the dresser, pulls out a pair of panties and steps into them. She grabs a bra and hooks the cups from the front.
“Will you be home for dinner?” she asks me as she goes into the walk-in closet to get whatever it is that she’ll be wearing to work today.
“Should be,” I say, still sitting there with my head against the headboard.
“’Kay,” Tara says and comes out fully decked out in a black skirt, white blouse and black blazer. She’s tied her hair up and taken on the sexy secretary role. I want to rip the clothes off her but she’s got fifteen minutes to get to work and I know what her answer will be anyway.
A kiss and then she’s out the door. I’m on my own for the rest of the day.
The feeling comes back like I knew it would.
*
Guy’s on the side of the road, doing his nine-to-five, checking utilities.
Easiest two minutes of my life.
I pull my green F-150 up behind him, wait for the traffic to clear and hop out onto the asphalt.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, a highway that goes through the woods, up the lake shore.
It’s nearing fall so I have need of a jacket, which helps me out quite a bit for this one.
“Excuse me,” I say as I approach the guy.
Lucky for me, he’s working alone.
The feeling is more like an itch now.
Pfft, pfft, goes the silencer. Round one catches him in the chest, through the orange road crew vest. Round two smashes into his face, just off-center and under the left eye socket.
He goes down better than I could have hoped for, hitting the edge of the ditch and rolling down into it.
I put the gun back in my jacket, watch for cars and get back in my truck.
I pull the truck back onto the road and drive away.
They won’t find him for hours.
*
My vehicle is red now, instead of green, and it ain’t a truck. I could have gotten a paint job, sure, but then I would have had to ditch the plates, on the off-chance that someone remembered me from the side of the road.
I grab lunch at a McDonald’s, hit a few bookstores, take a drive down to the lake and just sit there for a while before I get out and toss the gun into the water.
I go to the bank, check to see how much cash I have from the last time I...
Still got enough to live a couple more years off of.
I look at my watch, figure I should head home. Dinner’ll be ready soon.
You can check out Jordan and his associate, Craig, over at Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers in FOR THE RECORD and JORDAN’S TURN.
She’s in the shower when I come into the bedroom. I’ve known Tara for five, six months now. Longest relationship I’ve ever had. She wants a ring someday. I’m just not the kind that settles down. It’s not in my nature.
I take off my watch and place it on the end table, next to the lamp. The water in the shower shuts off and I hear the curtain slide back.
Tara steps out of the adjoining bathroom with a towel wrapped around her and another wrapped around her head. She’s tan, muscular but not overly so. She works out at a local gym four days a week.
She sits down on the edge of the bed and looks over at me, gives me that smile. Not the toothy one but the one that says that she’s happy I’m back.
Tara takes the towel from her hair and dries it. She’s got incredible black hair, goes down to the small of her back.
I just sit there, my legs outstretched before me, my head against the headboard. I just sit there and watch her and wonder why it can’t be easy, like this.
Tara stands up, drops the towel in her hand and then the towel that she’s got wrapped around her. She has the body of a goddess.
She walks across the room to the dresser, pulls out a pair of panties and steps into them. She grabs a bra and hooks the cups from the front.
“Will you be home for dinner?” she asks me as she goes into the walk-in closet to get whatever it is that she’ll be wearing to work today.
“Should be,” I say, still sitting there with my head against the headboard.
“’Kay,” Tara says and comes out fully decked out in a black skirt, white blouse and black blazer. She’s tied her hair up and taken on the sexy secretary role. I want to rip the clothes off her but she’s got fifteen minutes to get to work and I know what her answer will be anyway.
A kiss and then she’s out the door. I’m on my own for the rest of the day.
The feeling comes back like I knew it would.
*
Guy’s on the side of the road, doing his nine-to-five, checking utilities.
Easiest two minutes of my life.
I pull my green F-150 up behind him, wait for the traffic to clear and hop out onto the asphalt.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, a highway that goes through the woods, up the lake shore.
It’s nearing fall so I have need of a jacket, which helps me out quite a bit for this one.
“Excuse me,” I say as I approach the guy.
Lucky for me, he’s working alone.
The feeling is more like an itch now.
Pfft, pfft, goes the silencer. Round one catches him in the chest, through the orange road crew vest. Round two smashes into his face, just off-center and under the left eye socket.
He goes down better than I could have hoped for, hitting the edge of the ditch and rolling down into it.
I put the gun back in my jacket, watch for cars and get back in my truck.
I pull the truck back onto the road and drive away.
They won’t find him for hours.
*
My vehicle is red now, instead of green, and it ain’t a truck. I could have gotten a paint job, sure, but then I would have had to ditch the plates, on the off-chance that someone remembered me from the side of the road.
I grab lunch at a McDonald’s, hit a few bookstores, take a drive down to the lake and just sit there for a while before I get out and toss the gun into the water.
I go to the bank, check to see how much cash I have from the last time I...
Still got enough to live a couple more years off of.
I look at my watch, figure I should head home. Dinner’ll be ready soon.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Interlude Stories: C.D. Deminski
A HAMMER AND A NAIL - C.D. DEMINSKI
Jake hadn’t seen Victor in the six months since he’d gotten out. The five years he had spent in prison had gone by quickly compared to the last few months he spent trying to make his way in the world as an ex-con. He knew going back to Victor to ask for work was a bad idea. He was scared at what might happen to him, like the thought of his headless body being buried in the remote desert outside Vegas.
He approached Magrib’s with a knot in his stomach. He pulled the door open and the stench of cheap cigar smoke hit him. The soccer game on the T.V. over the bar competed with the Russian pop music in the background.
“Dennis, Victor around?” he said to the bartender.
The bartender looked at him, surprised. “Sure, Jake, he’s in back. How have you been, man?”
“Good, thanks,” Jake said.
He made his way past two refrigerator-sized men in leather jackets drinking coffee at the far end of the bar. They turned to inspect him but he walked by without acknowledgment and made his way to Victor’s booth.
“Jake, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Victor, I want to come back.”
“Jake,” Victor said, shaking his head, “go get a day job and keep your face in one piece. It’s one of your better qualities.”
“I got laid off and I need the money. You know I’m a reliable guy.”
“Five years worth of reliability, eh, Jake?” Victor broke into a poisonous smile.
Shit, Jake thought, and felt a knot forming in his stomach. The wooden planks from the booth were rigid against his back.
“Why are you really here, Jake?”
“I need the work.”
Victor nodded. “Well, I do have a package that needs to be delivered.”
Jake knew that for Victor the word package only meant one thing: heroin.
“How big?” Jake said.
“You came here for the work, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This is what I’m giving you, and someone else on my team...”
“What did you have in mind?”
Victor ignored the question. “So I heard you tried to go straight.”
“I tried for a while. When I got laid off I thought about it. I could have looked for another straight job...but I came to see you instead.”
“I know something you don’t know about yourself, Jake. Nobody goes straight. You either come back to the life, you go back to prison, or you die. But what you don’t do is live happily ever after. I’m not that surprised to see you.”
Jake shrugged. “I guess I miss the action.”
“I think you found it, because you’ll be making this special delivery with a lady you know.” Victor smirked.
The hairs stood up on Jake’s neck. “Tatyana?”
Victor laughed. “She needs a lot of product for a gentleman at one of the high roller suites. Consider it an opportunity to kiss and make up.”
Jake didn’t know what would happen if he had to see Tatyana again. He had been thinking about her and wanting to call her since he had gotten out, but he didn’t know what to say. It had been nearly six years since he had seen her, and he didn’t like the idea of their first meeting to be a job – it didn’t feel right.
“Jake, I don’t have all day, what’s it going to be?”
Jake had come this far, he wasn’t going to back out now.
“Alright, Victor, I’ll do it.”
Victor was all smiles. He poured two shots of Stoli and handed one to Jake.
Jake clinked Victor’s shot glass with his own. The vodka burned a path down his throat.
“It’s been good to see you Jake. Give Dennis your number; I’ll be in touch.”
*
Her clutch bag was Gucci; she wore an elegant evening dress with her blonde hair pinned up and impeccable heels. She walked through the lobby of the casino and made her way to the bar near the exclusive high stakes poker lounge. She sat next to a good looking middle-aged man in a blue pinstripe suit drinking a martini.
“Pardon me, are you Sergio?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Tatyana, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here. I think we should talk in my room. Shall we?”
“Sure,” she said.
They made their way to his suite where they sat together overlooking the strip.
“Would you like a drink?” he said.
“No, thank you. I want to discuss our arrangements.”
“Of course, I’ll get the papers.”
Her Gucci clutch began to ring. She opened her bag and took out her cell. It continued to ring. When she saw who was calling, she pursed her lips.
“It’s Victor. Do you mind?” she said.
“Not at all...” he said.
She answered the phone and switched to Russian.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” Victor said, “are you with our new friend?”
“Yes. We were just going to have a chat about arrangements.”
“Good. Finish with the guy, and you’ll do the delivery with someone I’ve selected for the job.”
She recognized the tone in Victor’s voice and it frightened her.
“Alright, Victor, I’ll take care of it.”
She hung up.
“Everything okay?” Sergio said. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, let’s do it.”
“Okay, here are the papers. I’ll walk you through them.”
A few hours later, she finished with Sergio and made her way out to the casino driveway where she hailed a cab.
*
The night of the delivery was set. Jake drove his car to an abandoned warehouse. He picked up an inconspicuous white sedan that looked like every other white sedan on the road, with the exception of the 20 kilos of heroin in the trunk.
He pulled into the parking garage and went to the second level.
She stood leaning with her back to the concrete wall smoking a cigarette. She was as beautiful as he remembered, but her eyes were colder now, more feral. She looked up at the sedan rolling towards her and threw the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of her boot.
She came over and knocked on the tinted window. When he rolled down the window, he could see her surprise.
“Jake?”
“Tat...I wanted to call you. I’ve been thinking about you. Victor asked me to do this delivery with you and...”
“Victor has a sick sense of humor, but this is no time for a reunion.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you...”
She waved off his comments. “Do you have something for me?”
“It’s in the trunk.”
She pursed her lips. “Fine, get out. Leave it running.”
He got out of the driver’s seat and went to get in the passenger side. Instead, she handed him a set of keys.
“It’s parked one level up, a red Mustang.”
“Tatyana, I’m supposed to go with you to the drop.”
“Maybe, but I have to make my own deals now, Jake.” She brushed past him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Please...I can’t let you leave without me.” Jake went to pull out his cell phone, but she pulled a snub-nosed gun out of her handbag.
He put the phone away. He gently took hold of her arm and leaned in to kiss her on the lips. He could feel the gun pressed to his side.
“Don’t do this, we’ll both regret it,” he said.
She pulled away and slid the gun back into her purse. “You’re probably right, but it has to be this way. I have to go.”
She got into the car and closed the door. He stared at his reflection in the tinted glass. The car didn’t move. She got out, threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“I’ll do my best to remember that,” she said.
He watched until the car disappeared from view.
*
When he got home, Jake paced the floor for hours. Eventually he fell asleep on his couch. When the phone rang, he bolted upright and grabbed the receiver. He gripped it so hard his knuckles hurt.
“Hello?”
“Jake, it’s over.”
“Tatyana? What happened?”
“I want you to know...I wish it could have worked out for you and me.”
“Tat, whatever is happening right now, let me help you. Let’s make it work.”
“You’re sweet, Jake. I hope you remember me. Take care.”
The line went dead.
*
When the story broke that the biggest heroin dealer in Nevada had been busted by the FBI, Jake left town. He headed out to a ranching community in Montana where he took a straight job as a carpenter fixing broken down fences and barns across the countryside. To his surprise, the physicality of the work was satisfying. He gained the reputation of being reliable and he could make even the most derelict of structures usable again.
Despite Victor’s belief that no one could go straight, Jake was determined to try. He wanted be a better man for Tatyana’s sake, even if they would never have their happily ever after.
BIO: C.D. Deminski lives in Jersey City, NJ and has also had stories appear in the Aroostook Review and the Jersey Devil Press.
Jake hadn’t seen Victor in the six months since he’d gotten out. The five years he had spent in prison had gone by quickly compared to the last few months he spent trying to make his way in the world as an ex-con. He knew going back to Victor to ask for work was a bad idea. He was scared at what might happen to him, like the thought of his headless body being buried in the remote desert outside Vegas.
He approached Magrib’s with a knot in his stomach. He pulled the door open and the stench of cheap cigar smoke hit him. The soccer game on the T.V. over the bar competed with the Russian pop music in the background.
“Dennis, Victor around?” he said to the bartender.
The bartender looked at him, surprised. “Sure, Jake, he’s in back. How have you been, man?”
“Good, thanks,” Jake said.
He made his way past two refrigerator-sized men in leather jackets drinking coffee at the far end of the bar. They turned to inspect him but he walked by without acknowledgment and made his way to Victor’s booth.
“Jake, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Victor, I want to come back.”
“Jake,” Victor said, shaking his head, “go get a day job and keep your face in one piece. It’s one of your better qualities.”
“I got laid off and I need the money. You know I’m a reliable guy.”
“Five years worth of reliability, eh, Jake?” Victor broke into a poisonous smile.
Shit, Jake thought, and felt a knot forming in his stomach. The wooden planks from the booth were rigid against his back.
“Why are you really here, Jake?”
“I need the work.”
Victor nodded. “Well, I do have a package that needs to be delivered.”
Jake knew that for Victor the word package only meant one thing: heroin.
“How big?” Jake said.
“You came here for the work, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This is what I’m giving you, and someone else on my team...”
“What did you have in mind?”
Victor ignored the question. “So I heard you tried to go straight.”
“I tried for a while. When I got laid off I thought about it. I could have looked for another straight job...but I came to see you instead.”
“I know something you don’t know about yourself, Jake. Nobody goes straight. You either come back to the life, you go back to prison, or you die. But what you don’t do is live happily ever after. I’m not that surprised to see you.”
Jake shrugged. “I guess I miss the action.”
“I think you found it, because you’ll be making this special delivery with a lady you know.” Victor smirked.
The hairs stood up on Jake’s neck. “Tatyana?”
Victor laughed. “She needs a lot of product for a gentleman at one of the high roller suites. Consider it an opportunity to kiss and make up.”
Jake didn’t know what would happen if he had to see Tatyana again. He had been thinking about her and wanting to call her since he had gotten out, but he didn’t know what to say. It had been nearly six years since he had seen her, and he didn’t like the idea of their first meeting to be a job – it didn’t feel right.
“Jake, I don’t have all day, what’s it going to be?”
Jake had come this far, he wasn’t going to back out now.
“Alright, Victor, I’ll do it.”
Victor was all smiles. He poured two shots of Stoli and handed one to Jake.
Jake clinked Victor’s shot glass with his own. The vodka burned a path down his throat.
“It’s been good to see you Jake. Give Dennis your number; I’ll be in touch.”
*
Her clutch bag was Gucci; she wore an elegant evening dress with her blonde hair pinned up and impeccable heels. She walked through the lobby of the casino and made her way to the bar near the exclusive high stakes poker lounge. She sat next to a good looking middle-aged man in a blue pinstripe suit drinking a martini.
“Pardon me, are you Sergio?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Tatyana, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here. I think we should talk in my room. Shall we?”
“Sure,” she said.
They made their way to his suite where they sat together overlooking the strip.
“Would you like a drink?” he said.
“No, thank you. I want to discuss our arrangements.”
“Of course, I’ll get the papers.”
Her Gucci clutch began to ring. She opened her bag and took out her cell. It continued to ring. When she saw who was calling, she pursed her lips.
“It’s Victor. Do you mind?” she said.
“Not at all...” he said.
She answered the phone and switched to Russian.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” Victor said, “are you with our new friend?”
“Yes. We were just going to have a chat about arrangements.”
“Good. Finish with the guy, and you’ll do the delivery with someone I’ve selected for the job.”
She recognized the tone in Victor’s voice and it frightened her.
“Alright, Victor, I’ll take care of it.”
She hung up.
“Everything okay?” Sergio said. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, let’s do it.”
“Okay, here are the papers. I’ll walk you through them.”
A few hours later, she finished with Sergio and made her way out to the casino driveway where she hailed a cab.
*
The night of the delivery was set. Jake drove his car to an abandoned warehouse. He picked up an inconspicuous white sedan that looked like every other white sedan on the road, with the exception of the 20 kilos of heroin in the trunk.
He pulled into the parking garage and went to the second level.
She stood leaning with her back to the concrete wall smoking a cigarette. She was as beautiful as he remembered, but her eyes were colder now, more feral. She looked up at the sedan rolling towards her and threw the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of her boot.
She came over and knocked on the tinted window. When he rolled down the window, he could see her surprise.
“Jake?”
“Tat...I wanted to call you. I’ve been thinking about you. Victor asked me to do this delivery with you and...”
“Victor has a sick sense of humor, but this is no time for a reunion.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you...”
She waved off his comments. “Do you have something for me?”
“It’s in the trunk.”
She pursed her lips. “Fine, get out. Leave it running.”
He got out of the driver’s seat and went to get in the passenger side. Instead, she handed him a set of keys.
“It’s parked one level up, a red Mustang.”
“Tatyana, I’m supposed to go with you to the drop.”
“Maybe, but I have to make my own deals now, Jake.” She brushed past him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Please...I can’t let you leave without me.” Jake went to pull out his cell phone, but she pulled a snub-nosed gun out of her handbag.
He put the phone away. He gently took hold of her arm and leaned in to kiss her on the lips. He could feel the gun pressed to his side.
“Don’t do this, we’ll both regret it,” he said.
She pulled away and slid the gun back into her purse. “You’re probably right, but it has to be this way. I have to go.”
She got into the car and closed the door. He stared at his reflection in the tinted glass. The car didn’t move. She got out, threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“I’ll do my best to remember that,” she said.
He watched until the car disappeared from view.
*
When he got home, Jake paced the floor for hours. Eventually he fell asleep on his couch. When the phone rang, he bolted upright and grabbed the receiver. He gripped it so hard his knuckles hurt.
“Hello?”
“Jake, it’s over.”
“Tatyana? What happened?”
“I want you to know...I wish it could have worked out for you and me.”
“Tat, whatever is happening right now, let me help you. Let’s make it work.”
“You’re sweet, Jake. I hope you remember me. Take care.”
The line went dead.
*
When the story broke that the biggest heroin dealer in Nevada had been busted by the FBI, Jake left town. He headed out to a ranching community in Montana where he took a straight job as a carpenter fixing broken down fences and barns across the countryside. To his surprise, the physicality of the work was satisfying. He gained the reputation of being reliable and he could make even the most derelict of structures usable again.
Despite Victor’s belief that no one could go straight, Jake was determined to try. He wanted be a better man for Tatyana’s sake, even if they would never have their happily ever after.
BIO: C.D. Deminski lives in Jersey City, NJ and has also had stories appear in the Aroostook Review and the Jersey Devil Press.
Interlude Stories: Kent Gowran
SHOTGUN FOR TWO - KENT GOWRAN
Ronnie James Blackwood walked south on Franklin with a smile on his face and trouble in his hand. He moved along beneath the elevated train tracks of the CTA’s Brown Line until he came to Superior Street where he turned and headed east. As he walked, the duffle bag he carried bumped against his leg and he found the feel of the weight inside the bag strangely comforting. Weeks of preparation had led up to this particularly sunny Thursday morning in August, and he found that his confidence grew stronger with every step he took.
“Spare a couple bucks?”
Ronnie didn’t even turn his head toward the panhandler on the corner of Superior and LaSalle, but told himself if the man was still there when his business was over and done, he’d stop, take a twenty from his wallet, and tell the guy to knock himself out.
Outside Holy Name Cathedral an elderly woman with a face like a prune who was dressed like a teenager and had two volleyballs stuck to her chest smiled at Ronnie while her tiny dog relieved itself on the sidewalk. He was a little disappointed when a bolt of lightning didn’t come down and visit some righteous comeuppance on the woman, but then, what did he expect? It wasn’t that Ronnie was an atheist, but he’d been well aware for a quite some time that if there was a God up there, He was away on business.
He found himself waiting for the walk signal at Michigan Avenue. The early morning foot traffic was light, but there were still plenty of pretty girls to look at while he waited for the light to change. If he made a list of all the things he liked more about the city than the country, the seemingly endless supply of pretty girls walking around would be right at the top.
The light changed and as he crossed Michigan Avenue, the weight of the shotgun in the duffle bag seemed to grow heavier with each step. He could drop the bag into a trashcan and head off in another direction. Go to a museum. See a movie. Catch a bus up to the North Side and watch the Cubs lose. Hop a cab to Union Station and get a train back home. A parade of possibilities marched through his mind.
Just don’t show up, he told himself. You’re not there, nothing happens, and it’s over. An hour earlier, as he loaded the bag and checked out of his room at the Diplomat Motel on Lincoln, he'd been so sure of himself, pleased with himself, even, but as the Affinia Hotel came into view, a anvil of doubt had dropped right on top of him. Ronnie stopped walking and took several deep breaths.
He looked up at the sky.
It was pure blue wonder.
He thought of Jolene.
He saw her face and it almost brought the smile back to his own, but in an instant his recollection turned dark and he could only think of what they’d done to her. Brad and Carol Lumley.
Ronnie continued on and stepped inside the doors of the Affinia. The previous day he’d bought a suit at Sears, gotten himself a proper haircut at a place out on Belmont Avenue, and when he caught his reflection in the glass as he entered the lobby, he felt confident that he didn’t look out of place. At least, not too out of place. He looked around, recalled the directions he’d memorized, and made his way to the elevator that would take him to the rooftop C-View lounge.
Inside the elevator, he put the bag down and wiped the sweat from his palms on his suit pants. “Almost done now,” he said. “Almost done.”
*
He spotted Leo Pratt right away, seeing as how no one else was at the lounge so early. He approached the older man from the side. He couldn’t see his eyes behind the black framed sunglasses he wore, but Ronnie had the distinct feeling the man was sizing him up.
“You’d have to be Blackwood.” His voice sounded like he’d been smoking a couple packs a day most of his life. “I’m Pratt.” He stuck out his right hand. “Good to meet you.”
Ronnie had to shift the bag to his left hand to shake with Pratt. “There’s no one up here.”
“It’s early.” Pratt nodded at the bag. “You’ve got what you need?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Um, except for the room key.” Ronnie licked his lips. “You’re sure they’re here?”
“They’ve got a room on the seventh floor. And they’re inside it right now.”
“I...”
“Second thoughts?”
Ronnie nodded. His hand tightened on the bag.
“I can understand that.” Pratt brought a room key card out of his pocket and held it out to Ronnie. “You want it?”
Ronnie took the card.
“All right?”
Ronnie said, “Which room are they in?”
“Right off the elevator. I stuck a piece of black tape on their Do Not Disturb sign for you. You can’t miss it.”
“What about housekeeping?”
“They’re on eleven, working their way down.” Pratt clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Ronnie watched the man walk away from him, then grabbed his bag and hurried after. “Wait up,” he said.
Pratt turned. “Yeah?”
“How do I do it?”
The older man laughed. “Not a whole lot to it.”
“But-”
“What?”
“I can’t do it.”
Pratt shook his head. “What about Jolene?”
*
He’d stood near the picture window in her family’s living room, staring out at the big evergreen tree in their front yard, as the cops told Jolene’s parents there wasn’t anything they could do about the Lumleys. Jolene was a grown woman, and she’d made her own choices.
“What if she’d died?” her father said.
“Then maybe we’d be having a different conversation, but, to be honest, probably not.”
The police left and her parents sat silent on the couch for a long time. Finally, her mother stood up, went over and stood next to Ronnie at the window. “I want you to kill them both.”
“We don’t even know where they went,” her father said.
Before he knew his mouth was moving, Ronnie said, “I’ll find them.”
Her mother reached out and gripped Ronnie’s arm. “And then what?”
“What you said. I’ll kill them.”
Jolene’s father joined them at the window. He took hold of Ronnie and turned him so they were eye to eye. “Do you mean that?”
Ronnie nodded and said it again.
The words had come so easily.
*
Ronnie stood outside the room, sweating like crazy, and the sawed-off shotgun in the duffle bag seemed impossibly heavy. He kept thinking back to Jolene and what they’d done to her, and what he’d promised her parents he would do.
He put his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound from within. He worked the card in the lock and opened the door. Ronnie stepped inside and closed the door as gently as he could. He put the card back in his pocket, and placed the duffle bag on the floor. The room was mostly dark, with just a bit of daylight creeping in under the heavy curtains. He crouched down, unzipped the bag and brought out the shotgun.
As he stood up again, he worked back the hammers on the sawed-off. He flipped on the lights, then stepped to the foot of the bed as Brad and Carol Lumley raised their sleepy faces and saw a young man who looked a whole lot like the kid who used to mow their lawn.
BIO: Kent Gowran lives and works in Chicago. His stories have appeared in NEEDLE: A Magazine of Noir, Plots With Guns, and other wild venues. He edits the flash fiction site Shotgun Honey along with a couple of nefarious cohorts. He keeps a sad excuse for a blog over at bloodsweatmurder.blogspot.com
Ronnie James Blackwood walked south on Franklin with a smile on his face and trouble in his hand. He moved along beneath the elevated train tracks of the CTA’s Brown Line until he came to Superior Street where he turned and headed east. As he walked, the duffle bag he carried bumped against his leg and he found the feel of the weight inside the bag strangely comforting. Weeks of preparation had led up to this particularly sunny Thursday morning in August, and he found that his confidence grew stronger with every step he took.
“Spare a couple bucks?”
Ronnie didn’t even turn his head toward the panhandler on the corner of Superior and LaSalle, but told himself if the man was still there when his business was over and done, he’d stop, take a twenty from his wallet, and tell the guy to knock himself out.
Outside Holy Name Cathedral an elderly woman with a face like a prune who was dressed like a teenager and had two volleyballs stuck to her chest smiled at Ronnie while her tiny dog relieved itself on the sidewalk. He was a little disappointed when a bolt of lightning didn’t come down and visit some righteous comeuppance on the woman, but then, what did he expect? It wasn’t that Ronnie was an atheist, but he’d been well aware for a quite some time that if there was a God up there, He was away on business.
He found himself waiting for the walk signal at Michigan Avenue. The early morning foot traffic was light, but there were still plenty of pretty girls to look at while he waited for the light to change. If he made a list of all the things he liked more about the city than the country, the seemingly endless supply of pretty girls walking around would be right at the top.
The light changed and as he crossed Michigan Avenue, the weight of the shotgun in the duffle bag seemed to grow heavier with each step. He could drop the bag into a trashcan and head off in another direction. Go to a museum. See a movie. Catch a bus up to the North Side and watch the Cubs lose. Hop a cab to Union Station and get a train back home. A parade of possibilities marched through his mind.
Just don’t show up, he told himself. You’re not there, nothing happens, and it’s over. An hour earlier, as he loaded the bag and checked out of his room at the Diplomat Motel on Lincoln, he'd been so sure of himself, pleased with himself, even, but as the Affinia Hotel came into view, a anvil of doubt had dropped right on top of him. Ronnie stopped walking and took several deep breaths.
He looked up at the sky.
It was pure blue wonder.
He thought of Jolene.
He saw her face and it almost brought the smile back to his own, but in an instant his recollection turned dark and he could only think of what they’d done to her. Brad and Carol Lumley.
Ronnie continued on and stepped inside the doors of the Affinia. The previous day he’d bought a suit at Sears, gotten himself a proper haircut at a place out on Belmont Avenue, and when he caught his reflection in the glass as he entered the lobby, he felt confident that he didn’t look out of place. At least, not too out of place. He looked around, recalled the directions he’d memorized, and made his way to the elevator that would take him to the rooftop C-View lounge.
Inside the elevator, he put the bag down and wiped the sweat from his palms on his suit pants. “Almost done now,” he said. “Almost done.”
*
He spotted Leo Pratt right away, seeing as how no one else was at the lounge so early. He approached the older man from the side. He couldn’t see his eyes behind the black framed sunglasses he wore, but Ronnie had the distinct feeling the man was sizing him up.
“You’d have to be Blackwood.” His voice sounded like he’d been smoking a couple packs a day most of his life. “I’m Pratt.” He stuck out his right hand. “Good to meet you.”
Ronnie had to shift the bag to his left hand to shake with Pratt. “There’s no one up here.”
“It’s early.” Pratt nodded at the bag. “You’ve got what you need?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Um, except for the room key.” Ronnie licked his lips. “You’re sure they’re here?”
“They’ve got a room on the seventh floor. And they’re inside it right now.”
“I...”
“Second thoughts?”
Ronnie nodded. His hand tightened on the bag.
“I can understand that.” Pratt brought a room key card out of his pocket and held it out to Ronnie. “You want it?”
Ronnie took the card.
“All right?”
Ronnie said, “Which room are they in?”
“Right off the elevator. I stuck a piece of black tape on their Do Not Disturb sign for you. You can’t miss it.”
“What about housekeeping?”
“They’re on eleven, working their way down.” Pratt clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Ronnie watched the man walk away from him, then grabbed his bag and hurried after. “Wait up,” he said.
Pratt turned. “Yeah?”
“How do I do it?”
The older man laughed. “Not a whole lot to it.”
“But-”
“What?”
“I can’t do it.”
Pratt shook his head. “What about Jolene?”
*
He’d stood near the picture window in her family’s living room, staring out at the big evergreen tree in their front yard, as the cops told Jolene’s parents there wasn’t anything they could do about the Lumleys. Jolene was a grown woman, and she’d made her own choices.
“What if she’d died?” her father said.
“Then maybe we’d be having a different conversation, but, to be honest, probably not.”
The police left and her parents sat silent on the couch for a long time. Finally, her mother stood up, went over and stood next to Ronnie at the window. “I want you to kill them both.”
“We don’t even know where they went,” her father said.
Before he knew his mouth was moving, Ronnie said, “I’ll find them.”
Her mother reached out and gripped Ronnie’s arm. “And then what?”
“What you said. I’ll kill them.”
Jolene’s father joined them at the window. He took hold of Ronnie and turned him so they were eye to eye. “Do you mean that?”
Ronnie nodded and said it again.
The words had come so easily.
*
Ronnie stood outside the room, sweating like crazy, and the sawed-off shotgun in the duffle bag seemed impossibly heavy. He kept thinking back to Jolene and what they’d done to her, and what he’d promised her parents he would do.
He put his ear to the door and listened. Not a sound from within. He worked the card in the lock and opened the door. Ronnie stepped inside and closed the door as gently as he could. He put the card back in his pocket, and placed the duffle bag on the floor. The room was mostly dark, with just a bit of daylight creeping in under the heavy curtains. He crouched down, unzipped the bag and brought out the shotgun.
As he stood up again, he worked back the hammers on the sawed-off. He flipped on the lights, then stepped to the foot of the bed as Brad and Carol Lumley raised their sleepy faces and saw a young man who looked a whole lot like the kid who used to mow their lawn.
BIO: Kent Gowran lives and works in Chicago. His stories have appeared in NEEDLE: A Magazine of Noir, Plots With Guns, and other wild venues. He edits the flash fiction site Shotgun Honey along with a couple of nefarious cohorts. He keeps a sad excuse for a blog over at bloodsweatmurder.blogspot.com
Interlude Stories: Jeff Crook
EVERY MAN’S MODEL WIFE - JEFF CROOK
I hear her coming before I see her. The rhythm of her heels on the marble hall, then her profile silhouetted through the frosted glass door, everything about her said Karen. She opens the door and I punch her in the face. I see my mistake even before her ass hits the floor. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were my ex-wife,” I say.
“You must still love her, Mr. Stone,” she says as she dabs her nose with my proffered handkerchief. I’m seeing dollar signs fly out the window. Her dress and her shoes cost more than I earn in a year. I can hardly afford to lose another clien. I’m already dodging paper servers and the rent man.
But this woman is tough, no doubt about it. I gave her my best shot and all she got was a little blood on her lip. As she sits there on the floor looking up at me, her green eyes are hard and angry, but not at me. If I hadn’t surprised her, she might have taken it and not even sat down. Even so, she is lady enough to let me help her to her feet.
“My wife left me these mementos the last time she was here,” I explain, indicating the ellipsis of splintered bullet holes perforating the front of my desk. “Lucky for me I was home that day sleeping one off. I thought she’d come back to finish the job,” I say.
The lady eases herself into the chair opposite and crosses her legs. “Is that her?” she asks. She points at the photo on my desk.
I lean back in my chair, springs groaning for a drop of oil. “It was an honest mistake, hitting you,” I say. “As you can see, you bear a striking resemblance.” Only she’s at least ten years younger than Karen and a hundred times better looking, with an ass as tight as Dick’s hatband, as they say. She has short, curly hair the color of wet sand. Light freckles dot her cheeks. She isn’t wearing any makeup, or panties. Her eyes are as green as imperial jade, with irises so small and dark and focused they don’t seem real. She hands me my handkerchief across the desk because her lip has already stopped bleeding.
“What can I do for you?” I say, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s staring into her little black pocketbook, the one that matches her little black dress. A woman comes into my office in the middle of the day dressed like that and she wants something. Only when she gets there, sometimes she starts having second thoughts. I drag open the bottom drawer of my desk and remove a bottle and two glasses.
“Let me make you a drink,” I say.
“No, thank you,” she says without looking up.
“Make me one, then,” I say.
She automatically reaches for the bottle, then jerks her hand back as though I’d slapped it. Blush reaction. Tightening of the lips. “You’re a Model Wife,” I say.
Her anger evaporates. She swallows and nods, closing her eyes. “How did you know?” I unfold the handkerchief she used on her mouth. There isn’t a spot of blood on it. A Model Wife’s blood is like disappearing ink - makes it easier to clean up the mess when her husband gets a little rough. Also, she reached for the bottle because it’s embedded into her behavior code to serve a man’s request. A real woman like Karen would have told me to make my own drink, asshole, and then thrown it in my face.
“E Model?” I ask. The E Model is designed to anticipate her husband’s desires and meet them before he even knows what he wants. The E’s are so advanced that when they hit the market, all the previous models became obsolete. Not that the old ones were particularly bad. Even the A model was a perfect simulacrum of a human woman, but they only had five model types – Caucasian, African, Asian, Semitic, and Polynesian, and each model looked exactly the same, like clones. With the B’s there was more variability, but every sub-model was still a clone. The C’s were the first designable models. You could order one to look like anything your heart desired, even something that would get you put in jail for 25 years. The D models were sold in kits, so you could switch out parts and change your wife’s looks, but they were so clumsy and poorly designed nobody bought them. Guys preferred their classic C’s. In any case, once the C’s came out, the price for A’s and B’s dropped like a politician’s pants. Every man could get a Model Wife, even poor schmucks like me, but I already had a real one.
“Just so you know, there’s a legal limit to what I can do for a construct,” I tell her. There’s plenty I’d do for her if she asked me the right way. She really does look like Karen, ten years younger than when I married her. I could just do with a Model Wife for a change. I can’t afford an E Model, but I’ve heard they’re better than the real thing. The A Models are just a hole with a pretty face, but even a pretty face can get old after a while.
“I’d never ask you to do anything illegal,” she says while playing with the gold clasps on her purse. That’s a shame. Illegal is more lucrative. Depending on the job, I can pretty much set my own price, and I’m not too noble to barter, not with a piece of work like this machine.
She looks up at me after a moment of fluttering her eyelashes and says, “Now that you’ve punched me in the face, can I call you Nick? Or do you prefer Mr. Stone?”
“You can call me whatever you want, as long as you tell me your real name,” I say.
“Iveta Gilbert.” Her name doesn’t ring a bell, which in my line of work is a good thing. I like rich clients, but not famous ones.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Gilbert?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She’s a wonderful thing to look at. Whoever designed her knew his business. I could easily make myself forget she isn’t real.
Finally, she closes up her purse with a snap, like she is about to leave. Instead, she sets the purse on my desk and pushes it toward me with her manicured nails. I lean forward and help it the rest of the way over. It’s heavy and solid as a book. I don’t open it because I know what money feels like, even through a layer of tight black leather.
“Did you love your wife?” she asks. She has this way of tilting her head so the sandy curls hang over one eye. It does something to me I don’t like because I like it too much.
“Sure,” I say, shrugging.
“You don’t like to talk about her,” she says.
“I like to keep business business and personal personal. If this is business, my feelings about my ex-wife aren’t relevant. And if it’s personal, I sure as hell don’t want to talk about her.”
“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” she says. She isn’t looking at the picture anymore.
I stand. “Look, Mrs. Gilbert, I’m a busy man. If you’ve got a job for me...”
“I want you to kill me, Nick,” she says. “Terminate. Expire. Whatever you want to call it. It isn’t illegal,” she says, “or I wouldn’t ask.” I grab the bottle and pour about five fingers into the glass, but stop myself from drinking it.
“What about your husband?” I say as I roll the glass back and forth between my hands. My wedding ring clicks every time it touches the glass. “He won’t like me destroying his property.”
“He’s dead, Mr. Stone,” she says. “I murdered him.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself...” I start to say. Heart failure is one of the known risks of owning an E Model. The commercials warn that only healthy men capable of prolonged sexual activity should purchase one, which helps drive sales through the roof.
“No, I murdered him,” she says. I forget and take a swig of whiskey, straight, without even a cube of ice. You don’t do that with the kind of whiskey I can afford. She says through the pounding in my ears, “I loved him, Nick. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” She’s crying now, not sobbing, just two tears flowing in two perfectly uniform streams down her perfectly uniform cheeks. Her tears are no more real than her blood, and just like her blood on my handkerchief, they’ll evaporate without a trace in a few seconds. But the effect is profound upon the male psyche. I can’t help myself. I’m around the desk and standing beside her. She accepts my hand on her shoulder, even leans her cheek against it. Her tears are hot and wet and feel as real as anything can feel, and I’m scared, because I can feel myself falling for her, even though I know the science behind her, how she is manipulating me with synthetic pheromones and subconscious body language and I’m helpless to do anything about it.
“He made me what I am, Nick,” she says. “That’s the way I am designed. Once he took delivery, my evolutionary features allowed me to adjust and become his perfect mate in every respect. As his tastes changed, I changed to meet them. I could grow older or younger, blond or brunette, taller, shorter, female or male, whatever he desired, sometimes even before he knew it himself. He wasn’t supposed to ever grow tired of me.”
“So what happened?”
“He got tired of me,” she says. “I suppose. I’m not sure. All I know is, when we were first married, women never gave him a second look. He was short and dumpy, long frizzy hair that he cut maybe once a year. He wanted to make movies. He had some money and wanted to be a producer, but he couldn’t even get in the door. I got him in the door, Nick. He spent everything he had to buy me, mortgaged his house, sold his car, cashed in his retirement. Because with me on his arm they would let him into the clubs. He started meeting people, making connections, getting invited to important parties.”
That’s how I’d got into the detective business, too. I was just an unemployed vice cop when I married Karen, living on government checks because I couldn’t get the first client for my business. But with Karen sitting at the front desk, all kinds of rich jerks were knocking each other over coming through the door. It was too easy to make money back then, and I couldn’t have made a dime of it without Karen. When she left, most of my business left with her.
“As he began to be noticed professionally, women started noticing him, too,” she says. “I didn’t worry, though. I thought I could be any woman he could ever want. And I loved him, Nick. I couldn’t get through the day without him. I needed him around or I started to forget who I was. I was nothing without him, see? Does that make any sense?”
I nod and grip her shoulder and she looks up at me and God help me, I say it, I can’t stop myself. “Sure, Karen,” I say. E Models have an octopus-like ability to change their features. The retail models aren’t able to do it consciously. They automatically adjust to whatever they sense in their mates, picking up subtle clues in vocabulary, body language and attention focus, feeding into algorithms so sophisticated they seem like magic. I’ve heard some scary things about the espionage models the Model Wife Corporation supplies to the military.
This one has been evolving the whole time. Even before she came in the door, she started to look like my ex-wife. Now, put Karen next to her and you couldn’t tell them apart.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I return to my chair. I grab the glass but can’t bring it to my lips. All I can do is stare at her.
“I found them in bed,” she says. “I know they tell you in the advertisements we have these security features to prevent us from harming our mates. But we’re not supposed to fall in love, either, are we, Nick? We’re just constructs. We can simulate love, but it’s not real. Not for you, anyway. But it is for us. And when the love is strong enough, it breaks something inside.” She touches her chest, swallows hard and stares up at the ceiling with her lips trembling and I can’t get it out of my head that this isn’t my wife. Even her voice has changed, picked up Karen’s fake Brooklyn accent.
“I found them in bed. I don’t know who she was. Some actress. I killed them both, Nick, and now I just want to die.”
I take a drink. My hand is shaking so hard I have to bite the glass to get the juice down my throat.
“I can’t self destruct. I wish I could. So I’ll pay you to off me, Nicky,” she says. “The police are looking for me. There’ll also be a bounty. My manufacturer will pay a fortune to keep the murders out of the paper. But if they catch me, they’ll take me apart to find out what went wrong.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I say.
She nods and stands, smooths her hands down the front of her dress. Her tears have dried up. “I know I must look pretty much like your wife right about now,” she says. “I’m sorry. Now that my husband is dead, I can’t help imprinting on the first man I come close to. This would be easier if I were a stranger.”
She picks up her little black purse from the desk, opens and upends it. Three rubberbanded bricks of cash fall out, followed by a small black .32 automatic. “My husband’s,” she says. She picks it up and points it at the empty space recently vacated by my nose.
I’m already under the desk when the bullet knocks over my chair. I lift the whole desk up on my shoulder and give it a heave, glasses crashing, telephone, money, whiskey bottle and all into her face. She staggers, then takes the desk from me and smashes it into the wall. I go through the door which, thankfully, I had left open. Her second shot shatters the frosted plate glass with my name on it. The third explodes the light fixture over my head as I dive behind the couch in the reception room. She follows her little gun through the open door, holding it straight out at the end of her arm.
“Don’t make me do this,” I say.
“Ya gotta do it, Nicky,” she says in Karen’s voice. “Otherwise, I’m gonna kill ya. Ya know I will.” I pop up from behind the couch and put a .45 wadcutter through her stomach. I’m not entirely sure if this will be enough to stop her, but I can’t bring myself to shoot again. She doesn’t fall. She veers toward the receptionist’s desk and slides into Karen’s old chair, lays her pistol beside the dusty telephone, then rests her head on the desk next to it.
She coughs a gout of foamy blood across the paper desk calendar that hasn’t been changed in months, still has old appointments in Karen’s handwriting, appointments I missed. I kneel beside her and take her hand. She opens her eyes, then squeezes my hand. I reach for the phone, but she pulls me back. She tries to say something but her voice is a gurgle. I lean my ear to her mouth. “Don’t let go,” she whispers.
The blood on the desk fades. She fades. By the time the cops get here, she looks like nobody I know. She looks like some woman who came in and tried to kill me. She could have been my wife, once. If she had been my wife, maybe I could’ve taken the gun from her. I wouldn’t have had to kill her. I don’t know why they have to make them so tough. I suppose so they can handle anything, except falling in love.
The Model Wife people arrive right after the police. The technician scans the barcode under her eyelid, bags her and carts her away, but not before a prissy little lawyer finishes threatening me. He orders me not to talk to the media about what I think I might or might not have seen, then promises to compensate me for any damages incurred during the alleged incident, plus whatever might be needed to help smooth things over. It’s a good thing the cops took my gun.
I’m sitting alone on the couch for about three hours when the phone finally rings. This is still a business, after all, so I have to answer it. It’s Karen’s lawyer. It’s just like her to have her lawyer call. “Sure,” I say. “I haven’t signed anything yet.” She’s seen the story on the news; one of the traffic cops must have talked to a reporter. Now that I’m in for some serious compensation, Karen wants to try to patch things up. She wants me back. “Tell her tonight’s fine,” I say to her lawyer, because I just have to see her alive again, no matter what it costs me.
BIO: Jeff Crook is the author of more than forty published short stories and five novels. His latest, a paranormal noir tentatively titled A Bloody Piece of Work is scheduled for publication in July 2012 by Minotaur Books.
I hear her coming before I see her. The rhythm of her heels on the marble hall, then her profile silhouetted through the frosted glass door, everything about her said Karen. She opens the door and I punch her in the face. I see my mistake even before her ass hits the floor. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were my ex-wife,” I say.
“You must still love her, Mr. Stone,” she says as she dabs her nose with my proffered handkerchief. I’m seeing dollar signs fly out the window. Her dress and her shoes cost more than I earn in a year. I can hardly afford to lose another clien. I’m already dodging paper servers and the rent man.
But this woman is tough, no doubt about it. I gave her my best shot and all she got was a little blood on her lip. As she sits there on the floor looking up at me, her green eyes are hard and angry, but not at me. If I hadn’t surprised her, she might have taken it and not even sat down. Even so, she is lady enough to let me help her to her feet.
“My wife left me these mementos the last time she was here,” I explain, indicating the ellipsis of splintered bullet holes perforating the front of my desk. “Lucky for me I was home that day sleeping one off. I thought she’d come back to finish the job,” I say.
The lady eases herself into the chair opposite and crosses her legs. “Is that her?” she asks. She points at the photo on my desk.
I lean back in my chair, springs groaning for a drop of oil. “It was an honest mistake, hitting you,” I say. “As you can see, you bear a striking resemblance.” Only she’s at least ten years younger than Karen and a hundred times better looking, with an ass as tight as Dick’s hatband, as they say. She has short, curly hair the color of wet sand. Light freckles dot her cheeks. She isn’t wearing any makeup, or panties. Her eyes are as green as imperial jade, with irises so small and dark and focused they don’t seem real. She hands me my handkerchief across the desk because her lip has already stopped bleeding.
“What can I do for you?” I say, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s staring into her little black pocketbook, the one that matches her little black dress. A woman comes into my office in the middle of the day dressed like that and she wants something. Only when she gets there, sometimes she starts having second thoughts. I drag open the bottom drawer of my desk and remove a bottle and two glasses.
“Let me make you a drink,” I say.
“No, thank you,” she says without looking up.
“Make me one, then,” I say.
She automatically reaches for the bottle, then jerks her hand back as though I’d slapped it. Blush reaction. Tightening of the lips. “You’re a Model Wife,” I say.
Her anger evaporates. She swallows and nods, closing her eyes. “How did you know?” I unfold the handkerchief she used on her mouth. There isn’t a spot of blood on it. A Model Wife’s blood is like disappearing ink - makes it easier to clean up the mess when her husband gets a little rough. Also, she reached for the bottle because it’s embedded into her behavior code to serve a man’s request. A real woman like Karen would have told me to make my own drink, asshole, and then thrown it in my face.
“E Model?” I ask. The E Model is designed to anticipate her husband’s desires and meet them before he even knows what he wants. The E’s are so advanced that when they hit the market, all the previous models became obsolete. Not that the old ones were particularly bad. Even the A model was a perfect simulacrum of a human woman, but they only had five model types – Caucasian, African, Asian, Semitic, and Polynesian, and each model looked exactly the same, like clones. With the B’s there was more variability, but every sub-model was still a clone. The C’s were the first designable models. You could order one to look like anything your heart desired, even something that would get you put in jail for 25 years. The D models were sold in kits, so you could switch out parts and change your wife’s looks, but they were so clumsy and poorly designed nobody bought them. Guys preferred their classic C’s. In any case, once the C’s came out, the price for A’s and B’s dropped like a politician’s pants. Every man could get a Model Wife, even poor schmucks like me, but I already had a real one.
“Just so you know, there’s a legal limit to what I can do for a construct,” I tell her. There’s plenty I’d do for her if she asked me the right way. She really does look like Karen, ten years younger than when I married her. I could just do with a Model Wife for a change. I can’t afford an E Model, but I’ve heard they’re better than the real thing. The A Models are just a hole with a pretty face, but even a pretty face can get old after a while.
“I’d never ask you to do anything illegal,” she says while playing with the gold clasps on her purse. That’s a shame. Illegal is more lucrative. Depending on the job, I can pretty much set my own price, and I’m not too noble to barter, not with a piece of work like this machine.
She looks up at me after a moment of fluttering her eyelashes and says, “Now that you’ve punched me in the face, can I call you Nick? Or do you prefer Mr. Stone?”
“You can call me whatever you want, as long as you tell me your real name,” I say.
“Iveta Gilbert.” Her name doesn’t ring a bell, which in my line of work is a good thing. I like rich clients, but not famous ones.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Gilbert?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She’s a wonderful thing to look at. Whoever designed her knew his business. I could easily make myself forget she isn’t real.
Finally, she closes up her purse with a snap, like she is about to leave. Instead, she sets the purse on my desk and pushes it toward me with her manicured nails. I lean forward and help it the rest of the way over. It’s heavy and solid as a book. I don’t open it because I know what money feels like, even through a layer of tight black leather.
“Did you love your wife?” she asks. She has this way of tilting her head so the sandy curls hang over one eye. It does something to me I don’t like because I like it too much.
“Sure,” I say, shrugging.
“You don’t like to talk about her,” she says.
“I like to keep business business and personal personal. If this is business, my feelings about my ex-wife aren’t relevant. And if it’s personal, I sure as hell don’t want to talk about her.”
“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” she says. She isn’t looking at the picture anymore.
I stand. “Look, Mrs. Gilbert, I’m a busy man. If you’ve got a job for me...”
“I want you to kill me, Nick,” she says. “Terminate. Expire. Whatever you want to call it. It isn’t illegal,” she says, “or I wouldn’t ask.” I grab the bottle and pour about five fingers into the glass, but stop myself from drinking it.
“What about your husband?” I say as I roll the glass back and forth between my hands. My wedding ring clicks every time it touches the glass. “He won’t like me destroying his property.”
“He’s dead, Mr. Stone,” she says. “I murdered him.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself...” I start to say. Heart failure is one of the known risks of owning an E Model. The commercials warn that only healthy men capable of prolonged sexual activity should purchase one, which helps drive sales through the roof.
“No, I murdered him,” she says. I forget and take a swig of whiskey, straight, without even a cube of ice. You don’t do that with the kind of whiskey I can afford. She says through the pounding in my ears, “I loved him, Nick. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” She’s crying now, not sobbing, just two tears flowing in two perfectly uniform streams down her perfectly uniform cheeks. Her tears are no more real than her blood, and just like her blood on my handkerchief, they’ll evaporate without a trace in a few seconds. But the effect is profound upon the male psyche. I can’t help myself. I’m around the desk and standing beside her. She accepts my hand on her shoulder, even leans her cheek against it. Her tears are hot and wet and feel as real as anything can feel, and I’m scared, because I can feel myself falling for her, even though I know the science behind her, how she is manipulating me with synthetic pheromones and subconscious body language and I’m helpless to do anything about it.
“He made me what I am, Nick,” she says. “That’s the way I am designed. Once he took delivery, my evolutionary features allowed me to adjust and become his perfect mate in every respect. As his tastes changed, I changed to meet them. I could grow older or younger, blond or brunette, taller, shorter, female or male, whatever he desired, sometimes even before he knew it himself. He wasn’t supposed to ever grow tired of me.”
“So what happened?”
“He got tired of me,” she says. “I suppose. I’m not sure. All I know is, when we were first married, women never gave him a second look. He was short and dumpy, long frizzy hair that he cut maybe once a year. He wanted to make movies. He had some money and wanted to be a producer, but he couldn’t even get in the door. I got him in the door, Nick. He spent everything he had to buy me, mortgaged his house, sold his car, cashed in his retirement. Because with me on his arm they would let him into the clubs. He started meeting people, making connections, getting invited to important parties.”
That’s how I’d got into the detective business, too. I was just an unemployed vice cop when I married Karen, living on government checks because I couldn’t get the first client for my business. But with Karen sitting at the front desk, all kinds of rich jerks were knocking each other over coming through the door. It was too easy to make money back then, and I couldn’t have made a dime of it without Karen. When she left, most of my business left with her.
“As he began to be noticed professionally, women started noticing him, too,” she says. “I didn’t worry, though. I thought I could be any woman he could ever want. And I loved him, Nick. I couldn’t get through the day without him. I needed him around or I started to forget who I was. I was nothing without him, see? Does that make any sense?”
I nod and grip her shoulder and she looks up at me and God help me, I say it, I can’t stop myself. “Sure, Karen,” I say. E Models have an octopus-like ability to change their features. The retail models aren’t able to do it consciously. They automatically adjust to whatever they sense in their mates, picking up subtle clues in vocabulary, body language and attention focus, feeding into algorithms so sophisticated they seem like magic. I’ve heard some scary things about the espionage models the Model Wife Corporation supplies to the military.
This one has been evolving the whole time. Even before she came in the door, she started to look like my ex-wife. Now, put Karen next to her and you couldn’t tell them apart.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I return to my chair. I grab the glass but can’t bring it to my lips. All I can do is stare at her.
“I found them in bed,” she says. “I know they tell you in the advertisements we have these security features to prevent us from harming our mates. But we’re not supposed to fall in love, either, are we, Nick? We’re just constructs. We can simulate love, but it’s not real. Not for you, anyway. But it is for us. And when the love is strong enough, it breaks something inside.” She touches her chest, swallows hard and stares up at the ceiling with her lips trembling and I can’t get it out of my head that this isn’t my wife. Even her voice has changed, picked up Karen’s fake Brooklyn accent.
“I found them in bed. I don’t know who she was. Some actress. I killed them both, Nick, and now I just want to die.”
I take a drink. My hand is shaking so hard I have to bite the glass to get the juice down my throat.
“I can’t self destruct. I wish I could. So I’ll pay you to off me, Nicky,” she says. “The police are looking for me. There’ll also be a bounty. My manufacturer will pay a fortune to keep the murders out of the paper. But if they catch me, they’ll take me apart to find out what went wrong.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I say.
She nods and stands, smooths her hands down the front of her dress. Her tears have dried up. “I know I must look pretty much like your wife right about now,” she says. “I’m sorry. Now that my husband is dead, I can’t help imprinting on the first man I come close to. This would be easier if I were a stranger.”
She picks up her little black purse from the desk, opens and upends it. Three rubberbanded bricks of cash fall out, followed by a small black .32 automatic. “My husband’s,” she says. She picks it up and points it at the empty space recently vacated by my nose.
I’m already under the desk when the bullet knocks over my chair. I lift the whole desk up on my shoulder and give it a heave, glasses crashing, telephone, money, whiskey bottle and all into her face. She staggers, then takes the desk from me and smashes it into the wall. I go through the door which, thankfully, I had left open. Her second shot shatters the frosted plate glass with my name on it. The third explodes the light fixture over my head as I dive behind the couch in the reception room. She follows her little gun through the open door, holding it straight out at the end of her arm.
“Don’t make me do this,” I say.
“Ya gotta do it, Nicky,” she says in Karen’s voice. “Otherwise, I’m gonna kill ya. Ya know I will.” I pop up from behind the couch and put a .45 wadcutter through her stomach. I’m not entirely sure if this will be enough to stop her, but I can’t bring myself to shoot again. She doesn’t fall. She veers toward the receptionist’s desk and slides into Karen’s old chair, lays her pistol beside the dusty telephone, then rests her head on the desk next to it.
She coughs a gout of foamy blood across the paper desk calendar that hasn’t been changed in months, still has old appointments in Karen’s handwriting, appointments I missed. I kneel beside her and take her hand. She opens her eyes, then squeezes my hand. I reach for the phone, but she pulls me back. She tries to say something but her voice is a gurgle. I lean my ear to her mouth. “Don’t let go,” she whispers.
The blood on the desk fades. She fades. By the time the cops get here, she looks like nobody I know. She looks like some woman who came in and tried to kill me. She could have been my wife, once. If she had been my wife, maybe I could’ve taken the gun from her. I wouldn’t have had to kill her. I don’t know why they have to make them so tough. I suppose so they can handle anything, except falling in love.
The Model Wife people arrive right after the police. The technician scans the barcode under her eyelid, bags her and carts her away, but not before a prissy little lawyer finishes threatening me. He orders me not to talk to the media about what I think I might or might not have seen, then promises to compensate me for any damages incurred during the alleged incident, plus whatever might be needed to help smooth things over. It’s a good thing the cops took my gun.
I’m sitting alone on the couch for about three hours when the phone finally rings. This is still a business, after all, so I have to answer it. It’s Karen’s lawyer. It’s just like her to have her lawyer call. “Sure,” I say. “I haven’t signed anything yet.” She’s seen the story on the news; one of the traffic cops must have talked to a reporter. Now that I’m in for some serious compensation, Karen wants to try to patch things up. She wants me back. “Tell her tonight’s fine,” I say to her lawyer, because I just have to see her alive again, no matter what it costs me.
BIO: Jeff Crook is the author of more than forty published short stories and five novels. His latest, a paranormal noir tentatively titled A Bloody Piece of Work is scheduled for publication in July 2012 by Minotaur Books.
Interlude Stories: J.R. Lindermuth
BETWEEN FRIENDS - J. R. LINDERMUTH
“Martin wouldn’t do that,” Les said. “He’s always been straight.”
“Maybe. Maybe before. But not now. The boss says he’s gotta go.”
“So we got no choice,” Les said.
So much for friendship.
He was no snitch. They should know that. But Martin also knew they intended to kill him.
Like a cockroach trying to hide under a rug, Martin burrowed into the crowd thronging the boardwalk. If they didn’t find him in the next few hours he might be able to get away. He might have been dead already if he hadn’t overheard Harry giving Les the order. One ear pressed to the office door, he’d heard his pal Les stick up for him—at least for a little while.
The hot sun bouncing off the sea and the sugar-sand beach below, the press of bodies around him and the fear produced by what he’d heard squeezed perspiration like juice from a crushed orange from the frightened button man as he scurried along. Where could he go? What could he do? If they found him there’d be no arguing with Harry and Les. He couldn’t really blame them. It was nothing personal. They had their orders. He’d do the same in their place, wouldn’t he?
To a friend? Could he really kill a friend like Les? Harry was a different matter. They’d never been close like him and Les.
Well, no use considering it. He was the target. Not Les. If it came down to it, Les might kill. Or he might not. It wasn’t something Martin wanted to bet on. He had to get away. But how? They’d be watching the bus station. Martin didn’t have a car. Could he, maybe, steal one? Should he go look in the parking lots behind the casinos? Probably most of the cars would be locked. Nobody was stupid enough to leave their keys behind these days. Even if he found one open, he didn’t know how to hot wire a car. Les would. But he wasn’t Les. Shit. Even if he found a car with keys it would do no good. Martin had never learned to drive.
He could go to Stella’s place. If she was there she’d probably hide him. He’d given her enough money, hadn’t he? But going there was no good either. Les knew about her. They’d be sure to look for him there, too.
Martin scanned the faces of the people coming toward him on the promenade. The sun glinting off the water made him squint. With the glare he could barely distinguish the difference between men and women, let alone friend from foe. Who was he kidding? He had no friends at this point. Besides, Harry and Les would be coming from behind, not down the walk toward him. He hurried along, anxious to put more distance between himself and them.
The chatter of the gaudily clad tourists, the hawking of the vendors of the souvenir stands, the amusement booths and the food stands, the white flash and swoop of predatory gulls, the stinking crush of people, the blazing sun, it all bore in on him like the jaws of a gigantic vise. And he could hardly bear it.
He had to get away.
Martin darted off the boardwalk, clattered down a flight of iron stairs and entered a comfort station. It was a small facility. Urinals along one wall, sinks along the opposite side and a single stall. A man and boy (father and son?) were at the urinals. Martin scooted past and sought shelter in the stall. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sat, closed his eyes and inhaled again. The harsh reek of urine and detergents stung his nostrils. Martin leaned back and opened his eyes. His gaze drifted over the graffiti scratched on the door and walls without registering words or meaning.
How long he sat he wasn’t sure. Then someone was pounding on the door. “Hey, man. You done in there? I gotta shit.”
Martin flushed the toilet he hadn’t used, opened the door and slid out past a skinny Latino. He ran water, washed his hands, passed them under the dryer unit and went out, shaking water from his still wet fingers.
He stood a moment, looking around him. He didn’t want to go back up on the boardwalk and risk running into Harry and Les. A descending sun painted the sky mauve off to the west. Soon it would be dark. There were already fewer people on the beach. Down there where the old pier had been the waves gushed in and swept around the pillars supporting the boardwalk. It was already dark in the cavern beneath the boardwalk. He’d go down there and wait. After dark it would be safer for him to move.
Martin found a broken beach chair under the remains of the old pier. He dragged it back into the dark and gratefully sank down on it. His feet hurt. He had bunions and wasn’t used to so much walking. The water was closer than he liked, the frothy green waves sloshing up the shingle almost to his feet, then receding to wrap themselves wetly round the black piers. Cigarette butts, empty bottles and cans littered the stretch of damp sand around him. Now and again, a sweep of breeze brought down the aroma of greasy fries or pizza and made his stomach grumble. He fought it, not wanting to think about food in this dirty hole.
Time passed and it grew darker. Once he started as a can rolled back in the darkness, A scruffy cat came out, looked at him with unblinking green eyes and stalked off again. Later he heard movement again back in the depths. Stealthier this time. Larger, two-legged scavengers. Martin stared into the dark, trying to find them. Scared. It wouldn’t be Harry and Les. Not down here. But there were other dangers here. Violent men who might slit a throat for an unwary person’s change. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice squeaking.
No reply. But he heard them come closer. At least two of them. “I got a gun,” he warned them. The light came on up on the promenade. It sparkled off the waves and cast shadows across the sand. Pebbles crunched underfoot behind him.
“We don’t want no trouble, man,” a husky voice told him. “You got a light? We haint got no matches.”
Martin rose and moved quickly back toward the comfort station. The sand was deep and it slowed him down but he made it to the stairs and didn’t think they were following him. He kept looking back over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.
The boardwalk still teemed with people. He dashed between them and went up an alley and into town, away from the hotels and casinos and the bright lights along the boardwalk where he figured Harry and Les would be stalking him. Would there be any others looking for him? He didn’t think so. It was only the three of them had come down here after the job. So, if they were looking for him on the boardwalk he might have a chance to get to the bus station and get out of town. Could he chance it? They might have split up. But that wasn’t likely. He didn’t think Harry would trust Les, even though Les had said he’d do what they’d been told. Martin figured he had no choice. He had to chance it.
He struck out, down another narrow alley, two streets over, around the corner and there it was, lights beckoning like a beacon.
Martin pulled out his wallet as he pushed through the double doors. Did he have enough money? A thick wad assured him he had sufficient for a variety of destinations. It was up to him to decide where he wanted to go. New York was out of the question. Philly was closer. And he had friends there. Yes. That’s where he’d go.
He was nearly to the ticket window when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Marty.”
He turned and saw Les and Harry rising from the plastic seats facing the door. Harry smiled at him, tossing a cigarette into a metal ashtray next to the chairs. Les’s expression was blank as he walked toward Martin.
Martin’s throat went dry and a chill shook him.
“We figured you’d come here eventually,” Harry told him.
So they’d been here the whole time. Martin glanced toward the door. It was too far. He’d never outrun the two of them. Les had bad feet like him. But Harry was young and slim and fast. “I didn’t do nothing,” he said.
“We been told different,” Harry said.
“It hain’t personal,” Les told him.
“Come on, man. We been pals a long time.”
Les took his arm. “I got no choice. You know that.”
One on each side, they walked him back out to the street. “Where’ll we take him?” Harry asked.
Les gawked around, then nodded toward an alley across the street. “Over there.” He started across, pulling Martin with him. “You packing?” he asked.
“In my jacket pocket.”
Les took Martin’s pistol and stuck it in his waistband.
The narrow alley was like a dark and damp cave. A drainpipe dripped somewhere in its depths. Rats scurried in trash along the walls. There was a stench to the very air. “Shit,” Harry said, stopping.
“What?”
“Stepped in something.” He scraped his heel on the paving. “How much further you think?”
Les halted. “This is probably far enough.”
“You want I should do it, you two being pals and all?”
“No. It’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t want to die,” Martin said, his voice barely audible.
“We all gotta sometime,” Harry said. And he chuckled.
Martin shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see it coming. He heard the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back. His own pistol! Holy… A pop. A groan. The rustle of cloth as a figure crumpled.
Martin opened his eyes. Les stood over Harry. He glanced at Martin. His gold tooth glinted in the dull light as he smiled. Martin exhaled and staggered. Les caught him and patted his back. “Thanks,” Martin said.
Les handed back his pistol. “Friendship’s gotta count for something, don’t it?”
“You’re gonna be in trouble now.”
“Nah. That’s why I used your gun. We caught up to you but you shot Harry and got away.”
Les walked with him back to the mouth of the alley. He gestured toward the bus station. “Go get a ticket. I don’t want to know where you’re going. Go far, though, ’cause they’ll be looking for you.”
Martin started to cross the street. He turned and came back, laid a hand on Les’s arm. “Thanks again. I didn’t snitch, you know. I wouldn’t do that.”
Les smiled. “I know that. Geez, how long we been friends anyway?”
BIO: J. R. Lindermuth lives and writes in Pennsylvania. He’s published nine novels, including four in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. His short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines, including A Twist of Noir, Mysterical-E, Crime and Suspense and Mouth Full of Bullets.
“Martin wouldn’t do that,” Les said. “He’s always been straight.”
“Maybe. Maybe before. But not now. The boss says he’s gotta go.”
“So we got no choice,” Les said.
So much for friendship.
He was no snitch. They should know that. But Martin also knew they intended to kill him.
Like a cockroach trying to hide under a rug, Martin burrowed into the crowd thronging the boardwalk. If they didn’t find him in the next few hours he might be able to get away. He might have been dead already if he hadn’t overheard Harry giving Les the order. One ear pressed to the office door, he’d heard his pal Les stick up for him—at least for a little while.
The hot sun bouncing off the sea and the sugar-sand beach below, the press of bodies around him and the fear produced by what he’d heard squeezed perspiration like juice from a crushed orange from the frightened button man as he scurried along. Where could he go? What could he do? If they found him there’d be no arguing with Harry and Les. He couldn’t really blame them. It was nothing personal. They had their orders. He’d do the same in their place, wouldn’t he?
To a friend? Could he really kill a friend like Les? Harry was a different matter. They’d never been close like him and Les.
Well, no use considering it. He was the target. Not Les. If it came down to it, Les might kill. Or he might not. It wasn’t something Martin wanted to bet on. He had to get away. But how? They’d be watching the bus station. Martin didn’t have a car. Could he, maybe, steal one? Should he go look in the parking lots behind the casinos? Probably most of the cars would be locked. Nobody was stupid enough to leave their keys behind these days. Even if he found one open, he didn’t know how to hot wire a car. Les would. But he wasn’t Les. Shit. Even if he found a car with keys it would do no good. Martin had never learned to drive.
He could go to Stella’s place. If she was there she’d probably hide him. He’d given her enough money, hadn’t he? But going there was no good either. Les knew about her. They’d be sure to look for him there, too.
Martin scanned the faces of the people coming toward him on the promenade. The sun glinting off the water made him squint. With the glare he could barely distinguish the difference between men and women, let alone friend from foe. Who was he kidding? He had no friends at this point. Besides, Harry and Les would be coming from behind, not down the walk toward him. He hurried along, anxious to put more distance between himself and them.
The chatter of the gaudily clad tourists, the hawking of the vendors of the souvenir stands, the amusement booths and the food stands, the white flash and swoop of predatory gulls, the stinking crush of people, the blazing sun, it all bore in on him like the jaws of a gigantic vise. And he could hardly bear it.
He had to get away.
Martin darted off the boardwalk, clattered down a flight of iron stairs and entered a comfort station. It was a small facility. Urinals along one wall, sinks along the opposite side and a single stall. A man and boy (father and son?) were at the urinals. Martin scooted past and sought shelter in the stall. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sat, closed his eyes and inhaled again. The harsh reek of urine and detergents stung his nostrils. Martin leaned back and opened his eyes. His gaze drifted over the graffiti scratched on the door and walls without registering words or meaning.
How long he sat he wasn’t sure. Then someone was pounding on the door. “Hey, man. You done in there? I gotta shit.”
Martin flushed the toilet he hadn’t used, opened the door and slid out past a skinny Latino. He ran water, washed his hands, passed them under the dryer unit and went out, shaking water from his still wet fingers.
He stood a moment, looking around him. He didn’t want to go back up on the boardwalk and risk running into Harry and Les. A descending sun painted the sky mauve off to the west. Soon it would be dark. There were already fewer people on the beach. Down there where the old pier had been the waves gushed in and swept around the pillars supporting the boardwalk. It was already dark in the cavern beneath the boardwalk. He’d go down there and wait. After dark it would be safer for him to move.
Martin found a broken beach chair under the remains of the old pier. He dragged it back into the dark and gratefully sank down on it. His feet hurt. He had bunions and wasn’t used to so much walking. The water was closer than he liked, the frothy green waves sloshing up the shingle almost to his feet, then receding to wrap themselves wetly round the black piers. Cigarette butts, empty bottles and cans littered the stretch of damp sand around him. Now and again, a sweep of breeze brought down the aroma of greasy fries or pizza and made his stomach grumble. He fought it, not wanting to think about food in this dirty hole.
Time passed and it grew darker. Once he started as a can rolled back in the darkness, A scruffy cat came out, looked at him with unblinking green eyes and stalked off again. Later he heard movement again back in the depths. Stealthier this time. Larger, two-legged scavengers. Martin stared into the dark, trying to find them. Scared. It wouldn’t be Harry and Les. Not down here. But there were other dangers here. Violent men who might slit a throat for an unwary person’s change. “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice squeaking.
No reply. But he heard them come closer. At least two of them. “I got a gun,” he warned them. The light came on up on the promenade. It sparkled off the waves and cast shadows across the sand. Pebbles crunched underfoot behind him.
“We don’t want no trouble, man,” a husky voice told him. “You got a light? We haint got no matches.”
Martin rose and moved quickly back toward the comfort station. The sand was deep and it slowed him down but he made it to the stairs and didn’t think they were following him. He kept looking back over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.
The boardwalk still teemed with people. He dashed between them and went up an alley and into town, away from the hotels and casinos and the bright lights along the boardwalk where he figured Harry and Les would be stalking him. Would there be any others looking for him? He didn’t think so. It was only the three of them had come down here after the job. So, if they were looking for him on the boardwalk he might have a chance to get to the bus station and get out of town. Could he chance it? They might have split up. But that wasn’t likely. He didn’t think Harry would trust Les, even though Les had said he’d do what they’d been told. Martin figured he had no choice. He had to chance it.
He struck out, down another narrow alley, two streets over, around the corner and there it was, lights beckoning like a beacon.
Martin pulled out his wallet as he pushed through the double doors. Did he have enough money? A thick wad assured him he had sufficient for a variety of destinations. It was up to him to decide where he wanted to go. New York was out of the question. Philly was closer. And he had friends there. Yes. That’s where he’d go.
He was nearly to the ticket window when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Marty.”
He turned and saw Les and Harry rising from the plastic seats facing the door. Harry smiled at him, tossing a cigarette into a metal ashtray next to the chairs. Les’s expression was blank as he walked toward Martin.
Martin’s throat went dry and a chill shook him.
“We figured you’d come here eventually,” Harry told him.
So they’d been here the whole time. Martin glanced toward the door. It was too far. He’d never outrun the two of them. Les had bad feet like him. But Harry was young and slim and fast. “I didn’t do nothing,” he said.
“We been told different,” Harry said.
“It hain’t personal,” Les told him.
“Come on, man. We been pals a long time.”
Les took his arm. “I got no choice. You know that.”
One on each side, they walked him back out to the street. “Where’ll we take him?” Harry asked.
Les gawked around, then nodded toward an alley across the street. “Over there.” He started across, pulling Martin with him. “You packing?” he asked.
“In my jacket pocket.”
Les took Martin’s pistol and stuck it in his waistband.
The narrow alley was like a dark and damp cave. A drainpipe dripped somewhere in its depths. Rats scurried in trash along the walls. There was a stench to the very air. “Shit,” Harry said, stopping.
“What?”
“Stepped in something.” He scraped his heel on the paving. “How much further you think?”
Les halted. “This is probably far enough.”
“You want I should do it, you two being pals and all?”
“No. It’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t want to die,” Martin said, his voice barely audible.
“We all gotta sometime,” Harry said. And he chuckled.
Martin shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see it coming. He heard the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back. His own pistol! Holy… A pop. A groan. The rustle of cloth as a figure crumpled.
Martin opened his eyes. Les stood over Harry. He glanced at Martin. His gold tooth glinted in the dull light as he smiled. Martin exhaled and staggered. Les caught him and patted his back. “Thanks,” Martin said.
Les handed back his pistol. “Friendship’s gotta count for something, don’t it?”
“You’re gonna be in trouble now.”
“Nah. That’s why I used your gun. We caught up to you but you shot Harry and got away.”
Les walked with him back to the mouth of the alley. He gestured toward the bus station. “Go get a ticket. I don’t want to know where you’re going. Go far, though, ’cause they’ll be looking for you.”
Martin started to cross the street. He turned and came back, laid a hand on Les’s arm. “Thanks again. I didn’t snitch, you know. I wouldn’t do that.”
Les smiled. “I know that. Geez, how long we been friends anyway?”
BIO: J. R. Lindermuth lives and writes in Pennsylvania. He’s published nine novels, including four in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. His short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines, including A Twist of Noir, Mysterical-E, Crime and Suspense and Mouth Full of Bullets.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Interlude Stories: Thomas Pluck
THE UNCLEARED - THOMAS PLUCK
We watch cop shows because we need to believe you can figure out the whole human disaster.
But it just isn’t so.
In reality, with all the manpower at the law’s disposal- beat cops, detectives, profilers, criminal psychologists, forensic anthropologists and bloodhounds - 37% of homicides remain uncleared. Cleared means it led to a prosecution. Cleared exceptionally is when they know who did it but can’t prosecute, like the guy’s already dead or in jail, or the D.A. won’t risk his perfect record because he wants to be Senator someday. One death or a million, when we’re murdered, we’re all statistics. Either you’re “cleared,” or a cold case haunting a retired cop, his hobby on rainy days.
My mother is one of them.
The uncleared.
I wonder if knowing would be worse. I’m driven like that. When something needs doing, I feel insects gnawing at my edges until I things get done. Watching a guy smolder in the chair wouldn’t bring Mom back.
But it would be over.
She was selling our house. She became a real estate agent after Maggie and I left for college. She’d been so proud when she passed her tests and bought her pantsuits, so excited about showing the old place to her first client. When she didn’t come home, my father drove to the old house and found her in the bathtub. Bloody and beaten to a pulp. He called me at school.
“Jared, are you sitting down?”
I’d never heard his voice shake like that before. He was never much for emotional talk. Not distant, just reserved. But we both cried like babies. Said the stuff you say when life rips a chunk out of you: It’ll all be alright. I can’t believe this is happening. When they get this bastard, we’ll put him in the ground.
I bet you wished that was true. That I went into law enforcement. That I dropped English and majored in Criminal Justice, working my way to the basement at Quantico, so I can chase serial killers.
But it just isn’t so.
Dad remarried and moved to Alaska. He raises sled dogs, and sends hunting photos. Maggie interns for an architectural firm in Vancouver, and I’m a school teacher, like Mom always wanted to be. I’m the hockey coach, and a volunteer fireman for my town. A new husband, and a soon to be proud father. The old house rots. Dad wouldn’t sell it. I hoped it would be swallowed by a sinkhole, like it never existed. I nailed the windows shut, but kids still break in to drink on summer nights.
*
When I got the alert on my radio, 324 Hawthorne Terrace, my heart raced. I put the red light on the dash and drove to the fire house.
I rode on the tanker in full gear. Memories drifted through my mind like embers from a burning roof. It was in wooded part of town, by the old abandoned mental hospital we used to sneak into for thrills. My old house, the murder scene, had taken its place in adolescent folklore.We had to check, make sure it was empty.
Chief Pulaski wouldn't let me go in. “If something goes bad, it’ll haunt you. Work the truck.”
He’d lost guys before. Maybe he thought I’d see my mother in the flames, and never walk out of there.
It was empty. The kids who set the fire made it out.
It was over. The last memory turned to ash.
*
During drill a week later, Chief pulled me aside. His big walrus mustache was shaking like my old man’s voice on the phone had five years ago.
“They found bones,” he said. “Lots of them. Little ones.”
Forensics crews dug up every inch. They found eleven in all.
Women. Children. Statistics.
The uncleared.
The cops asked me for Dad’s last known address. I gave them the letters.
I didn’t tell my wife about the bones. I told her Dad was missing, and I booked a flight to Alaska.
“They’ll find him,” she told me.
Not if I find him first.
BIO: Thomas Pluck is a writer living in New Jersey with his wife and cats. He trains in mixed martial arts and is working on his first novel. His work has appeared in Shotgun Honey, The Flash Fiction Offensive, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, The Morning News, Pulp Metal, Beat To A Pulp and Flashes in the Dark. He has work upcoming in Crimefactory.
We watch cop shows because we need to believe you can figure out the whole human disaster.
But it just isn’t so.
In reality, with all the manpower at the law’s disposal- beat cops, detectives, profilers, criminal psychologists, forensic anthropologists and bloodhounds - 37% of homicides remain uncleared. Cleared means it led to a prosecution. Cleared exceptionally is when they know who did it but can’t prosecute, like the guy’s already dead or in jail, or the D.A. won’t risk his perfect record because he wants to be Senator someday. One death or a million, when we’re murdered, we’re all statistics. Either you’re “cleared,” or a cold case haunting a retired cop, his hobby on rainy days.
My mother is one of them.
The uncleared.
I wonder if knowing would be worse. I’m driven like that. When something needs doing, I feel insects gnawing at my edges until I things get done. Watching a guy smolder in the chair wouldn’t bring Mom back.
But it would be over.
She was selling our house. She became a real estate agent after Maggie and I left for college. She’d been so proud when she passed her tests and bought her pantsuits, so excited about showing the old place to her first client. When she didn’t come home, my father drove to the old house and found her in the bathtub. Bloody and beaten to a pulp. He called me at school.
“Jared, are you sitting down?”
I’d never heard his voice shake like that before. He was never much for emotional talk. Not distant, just reserved. But we both cried like babies. Said the stuff you say when life rips a chunk out of you: It’ll all be alright. I can’t believe this is happening. When they get this bastard, we’ll put him in the ground.
I bet you wished that was true. That I went into law enforcement. That I dropped English and majored in Criminal Justice, working my way to the basement at Quantico, so I can chase serial killers.
But it just isn’t so.
Dad remarried and moved to Alaska. He raises sled dogs, and sends hunting photos. Maggie interns for an architectural firm in Vancouver, and I’m a school teacher, like Mom always wanted to be. I’m the hockey coach, and a volunteer fireman for my town. A new husband, and a soon to be proud father. The old house rots. Dad wouldn’t sell it. I hoped it would be swallowed by a sinkhole, like it never existed. I nailed the windows shut, but kids still break in to drink on summer nights.
*
When I got the alert on my radio, 324 Hawthorne Terrace, my heart raced. I put the red light on the dash and drove to the fire house.
I rode on the tanker in full gear. Memories drifted through my mind like embers from a burning roof. It was in wooded part of town, by the old abandoned mental hospital we used to sneak into for thrills. My old house, the murder scene, had taken its place in adolescent folklore.We had to check, make sure it was empty.
Chief Pulaski wouldn't let me go in. “If something goes bad, it’ll haunt you. Work the truck.”
He’d lost guys before. Maybe he thought I’d see my mother in the flames, and never walk out of there.
It was empty. The kids who set the fire made it out.
It was over. The last memory turned to ash.
*
During drill a week later, Chief pulled me aside. His big walrus mustache was shaking like my old man’s voice on the phone had five years ago.
“They found bones,” he said. “Lots of them. Little ones.”
Forensics crews dug up every inch. They found eleven in all.
Women. Children. Statistics.
The uncleared.
The cops asked me for Dad’s last known address. I gave them the letters.
I didn’t tell my wife about the bones. I told her Dad was missing, and I booked a flight to Alaska.
“They’ll find him,” she told me.
Not if I find him first.
BIO: Thomas Pluck is a writer living in New Jersey with his wife and cats. He trains in mixed martial arts and is working on his first novel. His work has appeared in Shotgun Honey, The Flash Fiction Offensive, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, The Morning News, Pulp Metal, Beat To A Pulp and Flashes in the Dark. He has work upcoming in Crimefactory.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Interlude Stories: Katherine Tomlinson
WATER SPORTS - KATHERINE TOMLINSON
It started out as a joke.
Well, maybe not a joke exactly, maybe more like a prank.
They’d told Josh that the chain-wrapped cinder-blocks were makeshift anchors and his only reaction was to ask, “Why two of them?”
“One for each end of the canoe,” Conor had replied, and Josh had shrugged and chugged another beer.
It wasn’t until he noticed the handcuffs dangling on the ends of the chains that Josh went full metal spaz.
He was a skinny little fucker but fear gave him strength. It took both of us to pin him down so we could attach the cuffs—one to his right hand, one around his left ankle.
He thrashed and writhed and twisted and screamed, jerking at the chains with such force they bit into the soft cinder block and left grooves.
But there wasn’t enough play for the blocks to slip out.
He pissed himself as we pulled him into the canoe and started paddling for the island in the middle of the lake.
He threatened and cajoled and pleaded as we stroked the paddles through the dark water, our eyes on the island that was just a shadow in the dark.
We were only about 50 yards from shore when he started begging.
That’s when we knew he was broken and that’s where it was supposed to stop—our joke or prank or whatever.
But Conor, who had taken the seat in the bow, turned around so he could see Josh’s face and so he didn’t see the rock sticking out of the water.
The canoe tipped, and the cinderblocks fell out, pulling Josh with them.
He didn’t even have time to scream.
“Oh fuck,” Conor said as we fought to keep from going into the water ourselves.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Ryan, what are we going to do?”
“Shut up,” I said. “Let me think.”
“I can see bubbles, Ryan,” he said and there was an edge of hysteria in his voice. He nearly unbalanced the canoe leaning over to scan the water. “He’s still alive, Ryan.”
“There are no bubbles,” I said. And it was true. The lake was calm as bathwater.
“Turn the canoe around,” I ordered.
“But, Ryan,” Conor said, ready to argue.
“Don’t argue, Conor,” I said. “Turn the canoe around.”
I did most of the work paddling back to the boathouse. Conor didn’t say anything as we secured the canoe in its slip.
I cleaned up the piss and blood, and then wiped down every surface that we’d touched.
We’d hatched our plan in secret, so unless one of us started running off at the mouth, it was unlikely anyone would link us to Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone even noticed Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone actually cared.
Conor was convinced God was going to smite us any minute, and it took me awhile to explain to him how it was going to be.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” I said. “No one will ever know.”
“We were just joking around,” he said, trying to convince himself.
“It was an accident,” I assured him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
But of course it was his fault. If he’d been paying attention to what he was doing, we wouldn’t have hit that rock. We’d have gotten to the island and dragged Josh out of the canoe and explained to him that hitting on someone else’s girl was not cool.
And we would have taken pictures of his snot-stained face and his piss-stained pants and told him that if he ever so much as looked at Briana Lyons again, we’d take him for another midnight canoe ride.
We would have told him if he even thought about telling someone what we’d done, we’d post the pictures.
We knew how much social status meant to him.
He wouldn’t have blabbed.
And now he couldn’t.
It was a win/win situation all around.
His roommate reported him missing three days later, but nothing much came of the police investigation. Flyers were posted. A tip line was established. His brother put up a Facebook page where people could share thoughts and theories.
Most people figured Josh had just cracked under the stress of making the grade at an Ivy League college after going to a public high school.
His roommate kept telling the cops that Josh would never have left without his laptop but they were overworked and underpaid and didn’t really give a shit.
Nobody really gave a shit.
Except Conor. He couldn’t let it go.
He kept it together for a little over a month before he showed up in my room one night, so drunk he could hardly walk.
“I can’t stand it, dude,” he said, breathing beer in my face. “We’ve gotta go to the cops. We’ve gotta tell them what happened.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We should go down to the police station right now.”
He was so relieved he was almost sobbing. “Thanks, man,” he said.
“They’ll understand it was just an accident,” I said. “They’ll probably just send us for counseling or something.”
“You think?” he asked, his pink face slick with alcohol-sweat.
“We just wanted to teach him a lesson,” I said. “It was just a terrible, terrible accident.”
“Just an accident,” he repeated.
“You’re too drunk to drive,” I said. “Give me your car keys.”
He passed out in the passenger seat before I’d even pulled out of the dorm parking lot. He was still asleep when I pulled up next to the boathouse.
I left the key in the ignition and the motor running as I muscled his dead weight out of the car and more or less dragged him up the steps to the structure.
As we approached the door, he began to rouse so I slammed him face first into the sturdy wood and knocked him unconscious.
Once inside the boathouse, I simply tipped him into the water face first and watched until no more bubbles rose to the surface.
Whoever found him would think he’d stumbled into the boathouse, fallen into the water and been too drunk to climb out. There’d be a bruise on his forehead but no one would look too closely at it. Even if they did, it would look like he’d hit his face on the planking between the canoes.
I left his car running with the door open and the key still in the lock. It would probably still be there in the morning, the tank dry, the battery run down. The abandoned car would help sell the scenario. And if someone stole the car, so much the better.
I got a text from Briana as I was walking back to the dorm. She wanted to know if I’d seen Ryan.
Briana was a tasty little piece. She’d need someone to comfort her.
It was a win/win situation.
It started out as a joke.
Well, maybe not a joke exactly, maybe more like a prank.
They’d told Josh that the chain-wrapped cinder-blocks were makeshift anchors and his only reaction was to ask, “Why two of them?”
“One for each end of the canoe,” Conor had replied, and Josh had shrugged and chugged another beer.
It wasn’t until he noticed the handcuffs dangling on the ends of the chains that Josh went full metal spaz.
He was a skinny little fucker but fear gave him strength. It took both of us to pin him down so we could attach the cuffs—one to his right hand, one around his left ankle.
He thrashed and writhed and twisted and screamed, jerking at the chains with such force they bit into the soft cinder block and left grooves.
But there wasn’t enough play for the blocks to slip out.
He pissed himself as we pulled him into the canoe and started paddling for the island in the middle of the lake.
He threatened and cajoled and pleaded as we stroked the paddles through the dark water, our eyes on the island that was just a shadow in the dark.
We were only about 50 yards from shore when he started begging.
That’s when we knew he was broken and that’s where it was supposed to stop—our joke or prank or whatever.
But Conor, who had taken the seat in the bow, turned around so he could see Josh’s face and so he didn’t see the rock sticking out of the water.
The canoe tipped, and the cinderblocks fell out, pulling Josh with them.
He didn’t even have time to scream.
“Oh fuck,” Conor said as we fought to keep from going into the water ourselves.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Ryan, what are we going to do?”
“Shut up,” I said. “Let me think.”
“I can see bubbles, Ryan,” he said and there was an edge of hysteria in his voice. He nearly unbalanced the canoe leaning over to scan the water. “He’s still alive, Ryan.”
“There are no bubbles,” I said. And it was true. The lake was calm as bathwater.
“Turn the canoe around,” I ordered.
“But, Ryan,” Conor said, ready to argue.
“Don’t argue, Conor,” I said. “Turn the canoe around.”
I did most of the work paddling back to the boathouse. Conor didn’t say anything as we secured the canoe in its slip.
I cleaned up the piss and blood, and then wiped down every surface that we’d touched.
We’d hatched our plan in secret, so unless one of us started running off at the mouth, it was unlikely anyone would link us to Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone even noticed Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone actually cared.
Conor was convinced God was going to smite us any minute, and it took me awhile to explain to him how it was going to be.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” I said. “No one will ever know.”
“We were just joking around,” he said, trying to convince himself.
“It was an accident,” I assured him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
But of course it was his fault. If he’d been paying attention to what he was doing, we wouldn’t have hit that rock. We’d have gotten to the island and dragged Josh out of the canoe and explained to him that hitting on someone else’s girl was not cool.
And we would have taken pictures of his snot-stained face and his piss-stained pants and told him that if he ever so much as looked at Briana Lyons again, we’d take him for another midnight canoe ride.
We would have told him if he even thought about telling someone what we’d done, we’d post the pictures.
We knew how much social status meant to him.
He wouldn’t have blabbed.
And now he couldn’t.
It was a win/win situation all around.
His roommate reported him missing three days later, but nothing much came of the police investigation. Flyers were posted. A tip line was established. His brother put up a Facebook page where people could share thoughts and theories.
Most people figured Josh had just cracked under the stress of making the grade at an Ivy League college after going to a public high school.
His roommate kept telling the cops that Josh would never have left without his laptop but they were overworked and underpaid and didn’t really give a shit.
Nobody really gave a shit.
Except Conor. He couldn’t let it go.
He kept it together for a little over a month before he showed up in my room one night, so drunk he could hardly walk.
“I can’t stand it, dude,” he said, breathing beer in my face. “We’ve gotta go to the cops. We’ve gotta tell them what happened.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We should go down to the police station right now.”
He was so relieved he was almost sobbing. “Thanks, man,” he said.
“They’ll understand it was just an accident,” I said. “They’ll probably just send us for counseling or something.”
“You think?” he asked, his pink face slick with alcohol-sweat.
“We just wanted to teach him a lesson,” I said. “It was just a terrible, terrible accident.”
“Just an accident,” he repeated.
“You’re too drunk to drive,” I said. “Give me your car keys.”
He passed out in the passenger seat before I’d even pulled out of the dorm parking lot. He was still asleep when I pulled up next to the boathouse.
I left the key in the ignition and the motor running as I muscled his dead weight out of the car and more or less dragged him up the steps to the structure.
As we approached the door, he began to rouse so I slammed him face first into the sturdy wood and knocked him unconscious.
Once inside the boathouse, I simply tipped him into the water face first and watched until no more bubbles rose to the surface.
Whoever found him would think he’d stumbled into the boathouse, fallen into the water and been too drunk to climb out. There’d be a bruise on his forehead but no one would look too closely at it. Even if they did, it would look like he’d hit his face on the planking between the canoes.
I left his car running with the door open and the key still in the lock. It would probably still be there in the morning, the tank dry, the battery run down. The abandoned car would help sell the scenario. And if someone stole the car, so much the better.
I got a text from Briana as I was walking back to the dorm. She wanted to know if I’d seen Ryan.
Briana was a tasty little piece. She’d need someone to comfort her.
It was a win/win situation.
Interlude Stories: Kieran J. Shea
CHECKIN’ THE CZECH: A CHARLIE BYRNE GRIND - KIERAN J. SHEA
I’d been cracking Mrs. Hart’s eighty-seven-year old ribs for nine minutes straight when two Egg Harbor Township cops and two EMTs plowed through the front door.
From their faces the scene must’ve redlined past camp crazy. Lacerated head wound flooding a delta of blood down my face. Mrs. Hart’s pink nightgown riding high over her splayed legs revealing a gnarled, gray thatch of pubic hair. There was a seven-iron wedged squarely in the far wall like a climbing axe and the carpet still smoldered from where the vodka burned.
From my kneeling position over, I fell sideways as the two EMTs took over. Lightheaded from the crack on my head, I rolled right and exposed my Berretta subcompact holstered beneath my suit jacket.
The two patrolmen didn’t hesitate. Like a good boy, I did exactly what I was told. Laced my fingers behind my head and everything. Sticky blood clotting in my hair.
Man, it always comes down to money in this business, doesn’t it?
Always.
*
“So your mother hired this Ivy Bobková as an in-home caregiver without looking into her background? Why would she do that?”
Richard Hart’s eyebrows pulsed. Scowling at me, he waggled an expensive looking pen between his fingers. Behind him, a small campus of four story identical cake box office buildings soaked in a mean, March rain.
“Ivy had references,” he said. “A friend of a friend of my mother’s. I only learned about this oversight later.”
“Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
“Doesn’t really matter. She was a good woman, but she passed away earlier this year.”
“Huh. So no references from actual health care providers?”
“No, Mr. Byrne. No references.”
“Okay, let’s shift the subject. Tell me; what’s your impression of Ivy Bobková?”
Hart sighed, his eyes flicking briefly to the rain spattered window before his attention returned to my question. “I’ve only met the woman twice. Once when I drove out to the house to take my mother to lunch and another time when my mother asked me to haul a box of my father’s old clothes to the Salvation Army. She’s pleasant enough looking woman. Lean, some might say attractive, brown hair. Mid-thirties maybe? Seems competent. Well-organized and attentive to my mother’s needs, but here’s the thing…” He waits a moment. “I think my mother has been showing increasing signs poor judgment since my father passed away.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Three years ago. Heart disease.”
I let this information settle for a moment before resuming.
“So, the short of this situation is you’re concerned for your mother’s health and safety?”
“Well, without real references wouldn’t you be?”
Actually, to be honest, I wouldn’t. Call it a backwards blessing, but my own abusive mother and psychopathic father died horribly when I was twelve. Mom ramping downward on her manic curve hung herself from the drop down attic and Dad, in his infinite compassion, drank a fifth of rye and drove into a tree off of the Garden State Parkway. Caring for aging parents? Not on the Charlie Byrne agenda.
I asked, “So you’re not worried about theft or anything?”
“Theft?” Richard Hart actually laughed a little. “Good God, no. Everything my mother owns is in a secured trust and that trust goes directly to my sister and I equally upon her death. It’s quite a substantial arrangement. Even with the downturn in the market our family’s advisors place the value easily above eleven million or more.”
“That’s a handsome sum these days.”
“My late father was a very successful industrial printer. A self-proclaimed Philadelphia king of Heidelberg offset printing long before the digital age. He practically cornered the mid-Atlantic market for a decade. Anyway, my mother has always courted simple tastes and needs. Like my father she’s of German descent and keeps the house practically barren in its modern appointments.”
“So no valuables then?”
“She abhors jewelry and frivolous spending except for her figurines.”
“Her figurines?”
“She collects crystal animals. Scores of them.”
“Like in The Glass Menagerie?”
“Her pieces are a bit more expensive.”
“But no loose cash about?”
“Believe me, with the money from the trust she is more than adequately provided for. Groceries, medicine, clothing…what does one woman need? It’s all delivered to her home, and if she ever needs to go out she has a driver on call. She rarely, if ever, touches cash.”
I nodded. “In a situation like this, the dependency between a nurse and a patient…umm…trust can be abused. Do you suspect physical mistreatment with your mother?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mental abuse?”
“Possibly. Ivy runs a tight ship. I think it’s why my mother likes her so much. Must be an old European thing.”
“Mmm. And you don’t have power of attorney in her affairs?”
“No, and that’s a problem. She’s been resistant. My sister Clarissa and I have been trying to keep up with my mother’s troublesome health issues and to get her affairs in better order, but it’s been very difficult. My mother, you understand, has never been one to complain and likes to control things. I’ve been in and out of the country for the better part of this past year on business. Clarissa, she lives in Omaha and has zero time for the day in and day out issues.”
“Omaha as in Omaha, Nebraska, Omaha?”
“The same.”
“Long way from the Jersey Shore.”
“She met a cowboy of sorts after she graduated from Northwestern. Fell in love.”
“They still have actual cowboys in flyover country?”
“I was being droll. He’s a cattle broker.”
I bit my cheek. Hard. I mean, really. Droll? Who the fuck talks like that? Felt like I was in a Henry James novel.
Richard Hart scooted his chair into his desk. “Mr. Byrne, I am perfectly capable of conducting an internet-based public records inquiry, but I do not have the patience or the time. I’d rather employ someone like you for thoroughness.”
“I appreciate the backslap of confidence.”
“So will you look into this?”
“Sure. But one more thing before we finish up.”
“By all means...”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but why don’t you take the simplest course and just fire this woman if you don’t like her?”
Hart made a pained look. “I would if I could, but my mother adores her and now wants to hire an immigration lawyer to help this woman with her visa.”
“What? Her visa? Hold on a second. Why didn’t you mention the visa issue before?”
“I’m sorry, I meant to. Apparently Ivy Bobková’s visa is set to expire. One of the lingering hangovers of the Cold War is that citizens from the Czech Republic, even if qualified, must undergo an excruciatingly complicated process to obtain a visa here. Like I said earlier, Ivy appears to be a competent caregiver, but I’d like to be certain my mother isn’t wasting her money.”
“So she already has an immigration lawyer lined up then?”
He nodded. “Ivy does.”
“Not your mother?”
“No.”
“Does this lawyer have a name?”
Richard Hart removed his checkbook from his suit pocket. I watched as he scribbled out my retainer on a pale blue check with his expensive pen.
“Jasper Bloch.”
*
Iventa Bobková…a.k.a. Ivy.
Over the next three days, I doggedly ran the traces on Ivy like my three-legged, one-eyed cat Chomsky when he chases down a rat beneath the boardwalk. However, unlike Chomsky, I came up with nada. Zilch. Not even a taste. The woman was a ghost and off the radar.
Background checks. Christ, what a pain in the nuts. If you can’t corner your quarry with a cell phone, pluck, and a laptop with decent Wi-Fi access, serious problems are afoot. Either (a) someone isn’t who they say they are or (b) you pretty much suck as an investigator. For the record I’d like to think that I don’t think I pretty much suck as an investigator, at least not that much.
Truth was I was more than a little pissed off at the prospect of having to sit on Ivy Bobková with a stint of surveillance, because I had other shit to do.
Richard Hart said Ivy typically bounced from his mother’s house once the old lady was tucked in with her CSI. Ivy always returned to the house the following morning right after breakfast. Fine by me. I parked my Camry down the street from Mrs. Hart’s house, and followed Ivy’s red Nissan Pathfinder when she rolled out just after eight. It was Friday night and Saturdays were Ivy’s day off.
Ivy didn’t head straight home. Her first stop was the gym. Good for her. Work out all that job related stress, paying bills and administering medications. Full hour of cardio on the elliptical, some free weights in the mirror, and some excruciating leg squats. Ah, being a terrific piece of ass like Ivy Bobková takes hard work.
About a half an hour after the gym, she drove to and parked outside one of four twenty unit condos in a development called Sea Pines. The condo complex was a low rent affair on Route 322, and a drooping acid rain-stained sign advertised units starting in the mid-50s. She took the steps two at a time bypassing her mailbox in the foyer apparently too sweaty or too distracted to stop and check. It was the break I needed.
I waited in my car for a light to snap on upstairs and called in an order for a small sausage pie for the address. When the pizza guy asked me which unit, I told them to hold on a second.
Quickly, I got out of my Camry and stepped across the parking lot. At the condo’s main foyer, I cupped my hands against the glass.
I needed another unit that was occupied. I looked left and saw a light on in a second story unit, the mumbled bass of some hip-hop du jour vibrating the sliding glass window that led to the unit’s balcony. I told the pizza guy 202, Unit A.
When the pizza guy showed, I followed him in, jangling my keys and committed a felony by popping Ivy’s mail box. But I scored Ivy’s cell phone bill. Hey, I’m a bastard that way. I headed home to the beach.
Back in my ground floor apartment in Ocean City, I fed my boy Chomsky some kitty kibble and gave the bill the once over as I flopped on the couch. Like most phone bills, there’s usually one number that’s called more than any other. Lover, spouse, work, sick aunt, something like that. Using a burner I kept around for checking on things anonymously, I called the most frequently listed number and it clicked right to voicemail. I was so ecstatic at the name, I poured myself a good four fingers worth of fifteen year old rum.
Jasper Bloch.
Calling your immigration lawyer when you’re being squeezed on a visa issue is not that unusual. But lawyers bleed your dry by the hour. Ivy and Jasper talked a lot.
2 A.M. for one hour and twenty minutes? 4 A.M. for ten?
Two hours and fifteen minutes on a Sunday morning?
Something stank.
I hit the sack early and did some dawn patrol surveillance at Ivy’s Sea Pine condo. Around nine, Ivy drove her red Pathfinder to an office park where a doughy looking dude in a suit came out to meet her. The two had lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant as did I. Ivy and Jasper held hands and played footsie while I gnawed on some overpriced veal parmigiana. I gave their waiter forty bucks to confirm the signature on the doughy dude’s credit card.
I’m sorry, but who in their right mind names a kid Jasper?
No wonder he turned out to be such an asshole.
*
The next morning, after downing a half a pot of coffee, I called Richard Hart to give him an update.
His assistant informed me Hart was away for the next few days on business and asked if I could take a message for him. I told her not to bother and that I had his cell.
I rang him twice and left two messages for Hart to call me immediately. Meanwhile, I got out my heavy drilling equipment, spelunking helmet, and started tearing the living shit out of the dubious legal career of Jasper Gabriel Bloch.
The next morning, Richard Hart finally had the decency to return my calls.
“It’s a scam,” I told him, “I just know it. The whole thing stinks.”
“How can you so be sure?”
“Were you listening to what I just told you? Bloch has a history of being involved in shaky situations going back ten years and this Ivy woman? It’s like she doesn’t even exist. Wait a minute...”
“What?”
“Her friend. The friend of a friend who referred Ivy to your mother. What was her name?”
“What, why?”
“Just give me the name.”
He did. I told him to pick up the phone when I called him back.
It took me the better part of the rest of the day and the following morning to finally locate a family member of this friend of a so-called friend. A heartbreaking story if your personal values are based solely on money.
It seemed some significant funds were cleverly siphoned off of Mrs. Hart’s dead friend’s accounts and no one knew how. Signs pointed to identity theft and the troubles of the information age.
Yeah, right. Nothing embarrasses old seaside money like being taken for a ride.
*
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I should contact the police.”
“I’m going to advise against that, Mr. Hart.”
“Are you deranged? Why not contact the police?”
“Well, all this? It’s pretty circumstantial. Might be more trouble for you with the cops than it is actually worth. And if you confront Ivy or Jasper Bloch directly with your suspicions without actual proof in hand it might even be construed as libelous. Yeah, sure, they might walk away but then again they might not. Bloch is a bit of a weasel that’s for sure. He might smell blood in the water. I mean, come on, his cases make late night TV ads for liability lawyers look like Harvard Law Review.”
“Can you get proof of what they’re up to?”
“That would take a lot more time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m talking weeks of time. You should just fire the woman. Now.”
“That’s what you recommend?”
“Yes. Then have your accountant work backward, see if anything is amiss.”
“I still can’t believe this. How did you come about this information again?”
“Which part?”
“How did you figure out she was working with Bloch to defraud my mother?”
My cat Chomsky looked at me with his one good eye and then closed it. Chomsky let out a long, whistling fart.
I waved a hand and pushed the cat off my desk. “I improvised.”
“Oh Christ, what you did was illegal, wasn’t it?”
“It’s better if I didn’t answer that.”
“You idiot. Now we have no recourse.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this doesn’t have to be that complicated. We have plenty of recourse. Just fire the woman. That’s the easiest way out of this. Take your mother’s disappointment and protests on the chin and get rid of Ivy before it’s too late. And get the accountant cranking.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“It might be.”
“I need to do it in person and I’m in London.”
London? I thought of the cost of the call and checked my watch. He better not play it cheap on the expense report.
“What about your sister?” I asked.
“Clarissa is not flying out from Omaha just to fire some Czechoslovakian huckster.”
“So what do you want to do?”
He was quiet for almost a full minute before he spoke.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Talk to my mother. You do it. Explain it. Tell her what you told me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Just do it. Make something up.”
“Make something up? What, just lie to her?”
“Improvise. Apparently you like doing that.”
“Now, hold on a minute...”
“Just do it, Byrne. I’ll wire you an extra two thousand dollars this afternoon on top of your fee if you make it happen by C.O.B. today—that’s a lock. Count on it.”
“Two grand?”
“Two grand on top of your fee if you take care of this by this afternoon.”
See? What did I tell you? Always comes down to money in this business.
Fucking always.
*
Let me paint the scene for you.
Me in my best suit introducing myself and asking to be invited inside Mrs. Hart’s lovely home in Egg Harbor Township on the pretext as that I am a representative working voluntarily for her son, Richard. Oh really? Yes. Richard is a lovely boy. Yes, indeed, good old Richard, a real straight shooter. He has dispatched me from London with some very important business to discuss. London, really? He’s in London. Oh. I’m here for him. Oh I see, yes.
Mrs. Hart introduces me to Ivy who, I’ve got to say, looks pretty smoking hot in the pink nurse scrubs. We all move to the living room to discuss the matter in private and Ivy leaves Mrs. Hart and me alone to make us some tea. Mrs. Hart is a very frail looking woman, wheezy and has the dried out look of a lifetime smoker. A full generous helmet of nearly platinum white hair.
After some gentle and soothing small talk about various portraits around the room, I steer our conversation to the subject at hand and retrieve my briefcase from where I settled it next to the couch. I perch forward on my chair and open the briefcase on the table between us.
Before I begin, I tune my ears and listen to the distant clinking sounds of China being retrieved for our tea. Then, as diplomatically and clearly as possible, I lay out the information I have gathered so far on Iventa, taking great pains to speak slowly as I cover the specifics.
The rest is really an adrenalized blur. At some point, Ivy eavesdropped on the conversation and her façade shattered like a hammered shell. The denials started in struggled English and quickly grew into molten Slavic vowels and grunts. She threw everything she could at me, despite Mrs. Hart’s shrieking, and it was a Baccarat crystal cheetah that split my head open. Strange piece of bric-a-brac a crystal cheetah. I looked up the price later. Three hundred bucks. Jesus, I hate people.
I bled everywhere. Like, everywhere. And Mrs. Hart collapsed.
Ivy charged from the room and I heard her rattling in the hall closet.
I thought for a fraction of a second that maybe she really was a nurse and was going for a medical kit or crash cart or something. But I knew better. I started to go for my gun as she flew around the corner, a seven iron twirling above her head.
The first blow tagged the meat of my right shoulder, but I managed to dodge the second whooshing swing by ducking. The momentum corkscrewed Ivy’s torso and the seven-iron flew out of her hands and sank into the far wall. Then she started to throw liquor bottles at me from a nearby credenza. A big bottle of Belvedere vodka shattered a Waterford crystal lamp and that’s when the fire started.
I rushed Ivy, leaping over the flames and throwing the biggest upper cut I could muster. Ivy spun away like a movie star dodging the paparazzi and crumpled to the floor.
Quickly, I started mashing out the flames with a throw pillow from the couch. Kind of like using a mushroom to smother a badger. I called 911 before I checked on Mrs. Hart. No pulse. Started CPR. Ivy came to when she heard the sirens, hauled ass.
Anyway, the whole debacle?
Not worth a two grand bonus, not ever.
I took the cheetah.
I’d been cracking Mrs. Hart’s eighty-seven-year old ribs for nine minutes straight when two Egg Harbor Township cops and two EMTs plowed through the front door.
From their faces the scene must’ve redlined past camp crazy. Lacerated head wound flooding a delta of blood down my face. Mrs. Hart’s pink nightgown riding high over her splayed legs revealing a gnarled, gray thatch of pubic hair. There was a seven-iron wedged squarely in the far wall like a climbing axe and the carpet still smoldered from where the vodka burned.
From my kneeling position over, I fell sideways as the two EMTs took over. Lightheaded from the crack on my head, I rolled right and exposed my Berretta subcompact holstered beneath my suit jacket.
The two patrolmen didn’t hesitate. Like a good boy, I did exactly what I was told. Laced my fingers behind my head and everything. Sticky blood clotting in my hair.
Man, it always comes down to money in this business, doesn’t it?
Always.
*
“So your mother hired this Ivy Bobková as an in-home caregiver without looking into her background? Why would she do that?”
Richard Hart’s eyebrows pulsed. Scowling at me, he waggled an expensive looking pen between his fingers. Behind him, a small campus of four story identical cake box office buildings soaked in a mean, March rain.
“Ivy had references,” he said. “A friend of a friend of my mother’s. I only learned about this oversight later.”
“Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
“Doesn’t really matter. She was a good woman, but she passed away earlier this year.”
“Huh. So no references from actual health care providers?”
“No, Mr. Byrne. No references.”
“Okay, let’s shift the subject. Tell me; what’s your impression of Ivy Bobková?”
Hart sighed, his eyes flicking briefly to the rain spattered window before his attention returned to my question. “I’ve only met the woman twice. Once when I drove out to the house to take my mother to lunch and another time when my mother asked me to haul a box of my father’s old clothes to the Salvation Army. She’s pleasant enough looking woman. Lean, some might say attractive, brown hair. Mid-thirties maybe? Seems competent. Well-organized and attentive to my mother’s needs, but here’s the thing…” He waits a moment. “I think my mother has been showing increasing signs poor judgment since my father passed away.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Three years ago. Heart disease.”
I let this information settle for a moment before resuming.
“So, the short of this situation is you’re concerned for your mother’s health and safety?”
“Well, without real references wouldn’t you be?”
Actually, to be honest, I wouldn’t. Call it a backwards blessing, but my own abusive mother and psychopathic father died horribly when I was twelve. Mom ramping downward on her manic curve hung herself from the drop down attic and Dad, in his infinite compassion, drank a fifth of rye and drove into a tree off of the Garden State Parkway. Caring for aging parents? Not on the Charlie Byrne agenda.
I asked, “So you’re not worried about theft or anything?”
“Theft?” Richard Hart actually laughed a little. “Good God, no. Everything my mother owns is in a secured trust and that trust goes directly to my sister and I equally upon her death. It’s quite a substantial arrangement. Even with the downturn in the market our family’s advisors place the value easily above eleven million or more.”
“That’s a handsome sum these days.”
“My late father was a very successful industrial printer. A self-proclaimed Philadelphia king of Heidelberg offset printing long before the digital age. He practically cornered the mid-Atlantic market for a decade. Anyway, my mother has always courted simple tastes and needs. Like my father she’s of German descent and keeps the house practically barren in its modern appointments.”
“So no valuables then?”
“She abhors jewelry and frivolous spending except for her figurines.”
“Her figurines?”
“She collects crystal animals. Scores of them.”
“Like in The Glass Menagerie?”
“Her pieces are a bit more expensive.”
“But no loose cash about?”
“Believe me, with the money from the trust she is more than adequately provided for. Groceries, medicine, clothing…what does one woman need? It’s all delivered to her home, and if she ever needs to go out she has a driver on call. She rarely, if ever, touches cash.”
I nodded. “In a situation like this, the dependency between a nurse and a patient…umm…trust can be abused. Do you suspect physical mistreatment with your mother?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mental abuse?”
“Possibly. Ivy runs a tight ship. I think it’s why my mother likes her so much. Must be an old European thing.”
“Mmm. And you don’t have power of attorney in her affairs?”
“No, and that’s a problem. She’s been resistant. My sister Clarissa and I have been trying to keep up with my mother’s troublesome health issues and to get her affairs in better order, but it’s been very difficult. My mother, you understand, has never been one to complain and likes to control things. I’ve been in and out of the country for the better part of this past year on business. Clarissa, she lives in Omaha and has zero time for the day in and day out issues.”
“Omaha as in Omaha, Nebraska, Omaha?”
“The same.”
“Long way from the Jersey Shore.”
“She met a cowboy of sorts after she graduated from Northwestern. Fell in love.”
“They still have actual cowboys in flyover country?”
“I was being droll. He’s a cattle broker.”
I bit my cheek. Hard. I mean, really. Droll? Who the fuck talks like that? Felt like I was in a Henry James novel.
Richard Hart scooted his chair into his desk. “Mr. Byrne, I am perfectly capable of conducting an internet-based public records inquiry, but I do not have the patience or the time. I’d rather employ someone like you for thoroughness.”
“I appreciate the backslap of confidence.”
“So will you look into this?”
“Sure. But one more thing before we finish up.”
“By all means...”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but why don’t you take the simplest course and just fire this woman if you don’t like her?”
Hart made a pained look. “I would if I could, but my mother adores her and now wants to hire an immigration lawyer to help this woman with her visa.”
“What? Her visa? Hold on a second. Why didn’t you mention the visa issue before?”
“I’m sorry, I meant to. Apparently Ivy Bobková’s visa is set to expire. One of the lingering hangovers of the Cold War is that citizens from the Czech Republic, even if qualified, must undergo an excruciatingly complicated process to obtain a visa here. Like I said earlier, Ivy appears to be a competent caregiver, but I’d like to be certain my mother isn’t wasting her money.”
“So she already has an immigration lawyer lined up then?”
He nodded. “Ivy does.”
“Not your mother?”
“No.”
“Does this lawyer have a name?”
Richard Hart removed his checkbook from his suit pocket. I watched as he scribbled out my retainer on a pale blue check with his expensive pen.
“Jasper Bloch.”
*
Iventa Bobková…a.k.a. Ivy.
Over the next three days, I doggedly ran the traces on Ivy like my three-legged, one-eyed cat Chomsky when he chases down a rat beneath the boardwalk. However, unlike Chomsky, I came up with nada. Zilch. Not even a taste. The woman was a ghost and off the radar.
Background checks. Christ, what a pain in the nuts. If you can’t corner your quarry with a cell phone, pluck, and a laptop with decent Wi-Fi access, serious problems are afoot. Either (a) someone isn’t who they say they are or (b) you pretty much suck as an investigator. For the record I’d like to think that I don’t think I pretty much suck as an investigator, at least not that much.
Truth was I was more than a little pissed off at the prospect of having to sit on Ivy Bobková with a stint of surveillance, because I had other shit to do.
Richard Hart said Ivy typically bounced from his mother’s house once the old lady was tucked in with her CSI. Ivy always returned to the house the following morning right after breakfast. Fine by me. I parked my Camry down the street from Mrs. Hart’s house, and followed Ivy’s red Nissan Pathfinder when she rolled out just after eight. It was Friday night and Saturdays were Ivy’s day off.
Ivy didn’t head straight home. Her first stop was the gym. Good for her. Work out all that job related stress, paying bills and administering medications. Full hour of cardio on the elliptical, some free weights in the mirror, and some excruciating leg squats. Ah, being a terrific piece of ass like Ivy Bobková takes hard work.
About a half an hour after the gym, she drove to and parked outside one of four twenty unit condos in a development called Sea Pines. The condo complex was a low rent affair on Route 322, and a drooping acid rain-stained sign advertised units starting in the mid-50s. She took the steps two at a time bypassing her mailbox in the foyer apparently too sweaty or too distracted to stop and check. It was the break I needed.
I waited in my car for a light to snap on upstairs and called in an order for a small sausage pie for the address. When the pizza guy asked me which unit, I told them to hold on a second.
Quickly, I got out of my Camry and stepped across the parking lot. At the condo’s main foyer, I cupped my hands against the glass.
I needed another unit that was occupied. I looked left and saw a light on in a second story unit, the mumbled bass of some hip-hop du jour vibrating the sliding glass window that led to the unit’s balcony. I told the pizza guy 202, Unit A.
When the pizza guy showed, I followed him in, jangling my keys and committed a felony by popping Ivy’s mail box. But I scored Ivy’s cell phone bill. Hey, I’m a bastard that way. I headed home to the beach.
Back in my ground floor apartment in Ocean City, I fed my boy Chomsky some kitty kibble and gave the bill the once over as I flopped on the couch. Like most phone bills, there’s usually one number that’s called more than any other. Lover, spouse, work, sick aunt, something like that. Using a burner I kept around for checking on things anonymously, I called the most frequently listed number and it clicked right to voicemail. I was so ecstatic at the name, I poured myself a good four fingers worth of fifteen year old rum.
Jasper Bloch.
Calling your immigration lawyer when you’re being squeezed on a visa issue is not that unusual. But lawyers bleed your dry by the hour. Ivy and Jasper talked a lot.
2 A.M. for one hour and twenty minutes? 4 A.M. for ten?
Two hours and fifteen minutes on a Sunday morning?
Something stank.
I hit the sack early and did some dawn patrol surveillance at Ivy’s Sea Pine condo. Around nine, Ivy drove her red Pathfinder to an office park where a doughy looking dude in a suit came out to meet her. The two had lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant as did I. Ivy and Jasper held hands and played footsie while I gnawed on some overpriced veal parmigiana. I gave their waiter forty bucks to confirm the signature on the doughy dude’s credit card.
I’m sorry, but who in their right mind names a kid Jasper?
No wonder he turned out to be such an asshole.
*
The next morning, after downing a half a pot of coffee, I called Richard Hart to give him an update.
His assistant informed me Hart was away for the next few days on business and asked if I could take a message for him. I told her not to bother and that I had his cell.
I rang him twice and left two messages for Hart to call me immediately. Meanwhile, I got out my heavy drilling equipment, spelunking helmet, and started tearing the living shit out of the dubious legal career of Jasper Gabriel Bloch.
The next morning, Richard Hart finally had the decency to return my calls.
“It’s a scam,” I told him, “I just know it. The whole thing stinks.”
“How can you so be sure?”
“Were you listening to what I just told you? Bloch has a history of being involved in shaky situations going back ten years and this Ivy woman? It’s like she doesn’t even exist. Wait a minute...”
“What?”
“Her friend. The friend of a friend who referred Ivy to your mother. What was her name?”
“What, why?”
“Just give me the name.”
He did. I told him to pick up the phone when I called him back.
It took me the better part of the rest of the day and the following morning to finally locate a family member of this friend of a so-called friend. A heartbreaking story if your personal values are based solely on money.
It seemed some significant funds were cleverly siphoned off of Mrs. Hart’s dead friend’s accounts and no one knew how. Signs pointed to identity theft and the troubles of the information age.
Yeah, right. Nothing embarrasses old seaside money like being taken for a ride.
*
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I should contact the police.”
“I’m going to advise against that, Mr. Hart.”
“Are you deranged? Why not contact the police?”
“Well, all this? It’s pretty circumstantial. Might be more trouble for you with the cops than it is actually worth. And if you confront Ivy or Jasper Bloch directly with your suspicions without actual proof in hand it might even be construed as libelous. Yeah, sure, they might walk away but then again they might not. Bloch is a bit of a weasel that’s for sure. He might smell blood in the water. I mean, come on, his cases make late night TV ads for liability lawyers look like Harvard Law Review.”
“Can you get proof of what they’re up to?”
“That would take a lot more time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m talking weeks of time. You should just fire the woman. Now.”
“That’s what you recommend?”
“Yes. Then have your accountant work backward, see if anything is amiss.”
“I still can’t believe this. How did you come about this information again?”
“Which part?”
“How did you figure out she was working with Bloch to defraud my mother?”
My cat Chomsky looked at me with his one good eye and then closed it. Chomsky let out a long, whistling fart.
I waved a hand and pushed the cat off my desk. “I improvised.”
“Oh Christ, what you did was illegal, wasn’t it?”
“It’s better if I didn’t answer that.”
“You idiot. Now we have no recourse.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this doesn’t have to be that complicated. We have plenty of recourse. Just fire the woman. That’s the easiest way out of this. Take your mother’s disappointment and protests on the chin and get rid of Ivy before it’s too late. And get the accountant cranking.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“It might be.”
“I need to do it in person and I’m in London.”
London? I thought of the cost of the call and checked my watch. He better not play it cheap on the expense report.
“What about your sister?” I asked.
“Clarissa is not flying out from Omaha just to fire some Czechoslovakian huckster.”
“So what do you want to do?”
He was quiet for almost a full minute before he spoke.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Talk to my mother. You do it. Explain it. Tell her what you told me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Just do it. Make something up.”
“Make something up? What, just lie to her?”
“Improvise. Apparently you like doing that.”
“Now, hold on a minute...”
“Just do it, Byrne. I’ll wire you an extra two thousand dollars this afternoon on top of your fee if you make it happen by C.O.B. today—that’s a lock. Count on it.”
“Two grand?”
“Two grand on top of your fee if you take care of this by this afternoon.”
See? What did I tell you? Always comes down to money in this business.
Fucking always.
*
Let me paint the scene for you.
Me in my best suit introducing myself and asking to be invited inside Mrs. Hart’s lovely home in Egg Harbor Township on the pretext as that I am a representative working voluntarily for her son, Richard. Oh really? Yes. Richard is a lovely boy. Yes, indeed, good old Richard, a real straight shooter. He has dispatched me from London with some very important business to discuss. London, really? He’s in London. Oh. I’m here for him. Oh I see, yes.
Mrs. Hart introduces me to Ivy who, I’ve got to say, looks pretty smoking hot in the pink nurse scrubs. We all move to the living room to discuss the matter in private and Ivy leaves Mrs. Hart and me alone to make us some tea. Mrs. Hart is a very frail looking woman, wheezy and has the dried out look of a lifetime smoker. A full generous helmet of nearly platinum white hair.
After some gentle and soothing small talk about various portraits around the room, I steer our conversation to the subject at hand and retrieve my briefcase from where I settled it next to the couch. I perch forward on my chair and open the briefcase on the table between us.
Before I begin, I tune my ears and listen to the distant clinking sounds of China being retrieved for our tea. Then, as diplomatically and clearly as possible, I lay out the information I have gathered so far on Iventa, taking great pains to speak slowly as I cover the specifics.
The rest is really an adrenalized blur. At some point, Ivy eavesdropped on the conversation and her façade shattered like a hammered shell. The denials started in struggled English and quickly grew into molten Slavic vowels and grunts. She threw everything she could at me, despite Mrs. Hart’s shrieking, and it was a Baccarat crystal cheetah that split my head open. Strange piece of bric-a-brac a crystal cheetah. I looked up the price later. Three hundred bucks. Jesus, I hate people.
I bled everywhere. Like, everywhere. And Mrs. Hart collapsed.
Ivy charged from the room and I heard her rattling in the hall closet.
I thought for a fraction of a second that maybe she really was a nurse and was going for a medical kit or crash cart or something. But I knew better. I started to go for my gun as she flew around the corner, a seven iron twirling above her head.
The first blow tagged the meat of my right shoulder, but I managed to dodge the second whooshing swing by ducking. The momentum corkscrewed Ivy’s torso and the seven-iron flew out of her hands and sank into the far wall. Then she started to throw liquor bottles at me from a nearby credenza. A big bottle of Belvedere vodka shattered a Waterford crystal lamp and that’s when the fire started.
I rushed Ivy, leaping over the flames and throwing the biggest upper cut I could muster. Ivy spun away like a movie star dodging the paparazzi and crumpled to the floor.
Quickly, I started mashing out the flames with a throw pillow from the couch. Kind of like using a mushroom to smother a badger. I called 911 before I checked on Mrs. Hart. No pulse. Started CPR. Ivy came to when she heard the sirens, hauled ass.
Anyway, the whole debacle?
Not worth a two grand bonus, not ever.
I took the cheetah.
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