BACON - CORMAC BROWN
Go over what went wrong in your head all you want; it won’t change a damn thing. You gave a well-rounded and nuanced performance. You lived it, you breathed it, and hell, you probably could’ve taught Stanislavski a thing or two about “The Method.” You didn’t go over the top the way that Brando or Dean would have, but no one hands out acting awards for this kind of thing. Instead of an Oscar, you get to live another day, and instead of fame, another thug goes down.
The two guns pointed at you get the adrenaline going, and you think faster, maybe even a little clearer. Ah, maybe it was something you said when you were trying to win Mad Dog 20/20 over and he saw that cop.
“Let’s get out of here, 20/20. Cops are like roaches. You see one, that means there are a dozen more hiding out nearby.” You oversold that one, and just when he was finally going to let you call him “Mad Dog,” instead of 20/20. Street names are supposed to strike fear, but his just makes you think of passed out bums.
So, he picks you up from your other apartment, before you get a chance to grab your gun or call anyone on the phone. You get into that hoopty because you have to earn trust in this business, even if it means that you might disappear off the face of the Earth. The two of you wind up at a deserted factory on the outskirts of town, with not a soul in sight. You have company when you get there and 20/20 may be a mad dog, but it’s the other guy that angrily eyeballs you.
This new guy says, “He’s a narc.” You want to say that this nut is on crack, but he holds up a picture of you getting that commendation just before you made detective. You want to claim that it's Photoshopped, but it’s over. That look, now you know why he’s called “Mad Dog,” as he aims the 9mm right between your eyes.
Blam-blam-blam!
Three shots in quick succession. Maybe the first bullet was a kill shot, because you don’t feel anything. Is death this peaceful? Apparently not, as Mad Dog dies painfully, and the other guy kicks Mad Dog’s gun away...like a cop would. You’re dazed, and you wonder if the next bullet is for you.
The shooter takes the gun that he shot Mad Dog with and he puts it in your hands. He cups his gloved hands over yours and he forces you to squeeze the trigger. The shot goes off into the dark distance. This unknown man drops the gun on the ground. He opens the bag lying at Mad Dog’s feet, and in it is a shitload of money. The fucker counts the money, and you pick up the gun when he counts the money again.
“How much is your life worth to you, Detective William Moran?” he asks with a grin. He puts the money in the bag and he adds, “I’m guessing $16,755. I saved your life, but only you and I need to know that.”
“Who do you work for?” you groan.
“My jurisdiction is none of your business. You will find a suitcase with a kilo of ecstasy inside of it and Mad Dog’s fingerprints on the outside. I can see your report now; how you have killed a major drug dealer in self-defense. This was just a meeting between you and him, and there won’t be any mention of me.”
You fire the gun at him and click, it’s empty. He pulls a backup .32 from an ankle holster.
“Always check your ammo, Bill. You don’t want to wind up getting killed in the line of fire because you don’t have the bullets to back it up. Be the right kind of hero, Moran. The kind that’s smart enough not to get in over his head. The type that knows when he’s goddamn lucky enough to be alive and that he should be grateful. So long, Bill.”
So long, asshole. We’ll meet again.
Friday, September 30, 2011
A Twist Of Noir 688 - Patricia Abbott
WILLIS DUMPHREY AND CARLA BATISTA STABBED IN AN EARLY MORNING HOLDUP - PATRICIA ABBOTT
The only convenient— no, make that the only possible time—for them to have sex was before eight A.M. And to top it off, they had to do it on a narrow cot in the boss’s office. It took Carla back to her high school days when she made love on her mother’s double bed when Mom was at the Chrysler Plant on Jefferson. Travis kept the cot for similar purposes if that was Vera Wang perfume in the fiber. If their wages were any indication, Travis was too cheap to spring for a room.
Travis Gallagher, former ballplayer and now businessman, never came in much before nine, and most days didn’t show up at all. He was about to run for City Council or so the Metro paper said. He never confided in his bartender and cook. Sometimes she worried the scent of their mornings would seep into the room and trip them up, but at some point in the past, it’d become part of it.
The two of them were supposed to come in before nine to set things up. The bar attracted an early lunch crowd—people from downtown offices, the courts, or the stadiums if there was a game. The waitresses and dish-washer started work at ten when things picked up, giving the lovers a nice chunk of time. Carla and Willis finished their shift at six and went home to their spouses. But there was this first—this magic—and almost every day.
It was not a love affair exactly or if it was she was kidding herself. It felt more two lonely horny people taking comfort in each other. Too bad it had to be at this hour, though at some point, it began to seem right. When one of them took a vacation or got sick, the other one grew antsy. Making love with her sixty-year old husband at night twice a month—that’s what seemed odd now. That’s what seemed cheesy or stale.
“You’re going to invite Sweetie in here while I’m gone, aren’t you?” Carla asked, curled up in Willis’ arms. Sweetie was a waitress who’d just turned 22. Willis laughed. They were dressed now but couldn’t quite say goodbye. They had a few minutes. She was going to Lapeer for a few days to help her daughter out with her new baby. It’d be her first grandchild if the kid ever got itself born. Trixie was a week late and showing no signs of an imminent birth and going bonkers waiting. Of course, there was no husband on the scene to calm her down. The lunatic father had hit the road long ago.
Willis was about to say something funny—she could tell from the smile that was beginning to form on his lips—when the door to the office swung open and two men wearing masks pushed into the room, obviously startled to find the two of them. Carla started to scream but then thought better of it. The larger man shrugged and without saying a word, yanked the cord from a lamp, motioned for them to get up, and herded them toward the cold storage unit down the hallway. They could hear the other man rifling the safe as they moved in single file down the hallway. Once inside the storage room, the man inadvertently rubbed up against Willis and his mask slipped down. They saw it was Travis and glanced at each other in shock.
“Too bad,” he said. Just those two words. Looking indecisive for a second or two, he shrugged, pulled a knife from his pocket, and quickly stabbed Willis in the chest and stomach. Willis slid to the floor as blood spurted. His eyes went blank in seconds.
“Travis,” Carla started to say. “You don’t...” She could see terror in his eyes, but also heartlessness. The coldness shut her mouth.
“Money for a campaign’s hard to come by.”
His arm rose over his head as it came down hard into her breast. His ballplayer days were behind him, she thought as she died, but he still had some power in those arms.
BIO: Patricia Abbott has published more than fifty stories in literary and crime fiction outlets. Check out more from Patti at Pattinase.
The only convenient— no, make that the only possible time—for them to have sex was before eight A.M. And to top it off, they had to do it on a narrow cot in the boss’s office. It took Carla back to her high school days when she made love on her mother’s double bed when Mom was at the Chrysler Plant on Jefferson. Travis kept the cot for similar purposes if that was Vera Wang perfume in the fiber. If their wages were any indication, Travis was too cheap to spring for a room.
Travis Gallagher, former ballplayer and now businessman, never came in much before nine, and most days didn’t show up at all. He was about to run for City Council or so the Metro paper said. He never confided in his bartender and cook. Sometimes she worried the scent of their mornings would seep into the room and trip them up, but at some point in the past, it’d become part of it.
The two of them were supposed to come in before nine to set things up. The bar attracted an early lunch crowd—people from downtown offices, the courts, or the stadiums if there was a game. The waitresses and dish-washer started work at ten when things picked up, giving the lovers a nice chunk of time. Carla and Willis finished their shift at six and went home to their spouses. But there was this first—this magic—and almost every day.
It was not a love affair exactly or if it was she was kidding herself. It felt more two lonely horny people taking comfort in each other. Too bad it had to be at this hour, though at some point, it began to seem right. When one of them took a vacation or got sick, the other one grew antsy. Making love with her sixty-year old husband at night twice a month—that’s what seemed odd now. That’s what seemed cheesy or stale.
“You’re going to invite Sweetie in here while I’m gone, aren’t you?” Carla asked, curled up in Willis’ arms. Sweetie was a waitress who’d just turned 22. Willis laughed. They were dressed now but couldn’t quite say goodbye. They had a few minutes. She was going to Lapeer for a few days to help her daughter out with her new baby. It’d be her first grandchild if the kid ever got itself born. Trixie was a week late and showing no signs of an imminent birth and going bonkers waiting. Of course, there was no husband on the scene to calm her down. The lunatic father had hit the road long ago.
Willis was about to say something funny—she could tell from the smile that was beginning to form on his lips—when the door to the office swung open and two men wearing masks pushed into the room, obviously startled to find the two of them. Carla started to scream but then thought better of it. The larger man shrugged and without saying a word, yanked the cord from a lamp, motioned for them to get up, and herded them toward the cold storage unit down the hallway. They could hear the other man rifling the safe as they moved in single file down the hallway. Once inside the storage room, the man inadvertently rubbed up against Willis and his mask slipped down. They saw it was Travis and glanced at each other in shock.
“Too bad,” he said. Just those two words. Looking indecisive for a second or two, he shrugged, pulled a knife from his pocket, and quickly stabbed Willis in the chest and stomach. Willis slid to the floor as blood spurted. His eyes went blank in seconds.
“Travis,” Carla started to say. “You don’t...” She could see terror in his eyes, but also heartlessness. The coldness shut her mouth.
“Money for a campaign’s hard to come by.”
His arm rose over his head as it came down hard into her breast. His ballplayer days were behind him, she thought as she died, but he still had some power in those arms.
BIO: Patricia Abbott has published more than fifty stories in literary and crime fiction outlets. Check out more from Patti at Pattinase.
A Twist Of Noir 687 - Michael A. Gonzales
ONE MORE CHANCE - MICHAEL A. GONZALES
Everybody remembers the first time they had a gun pointed at them. Although it’s been months, sometimes I’ll be lying next to my woman and suddenly flashback to that black nine millimeter aimed at my skull.
It was the summer of ’88 and I was still living uptown where shattered glass crunched underfoot and the bustling boulevards were electric with vice. To strangers unfamiliar with the wildness of Harlem, my decaying tenement on 145th might’ve looked dangerous.
Yet, no matter how many crack cowboys and toothless hookers sat on the stoop, I was never scared. My girlfriend Zoë was a different story. Every time she came to Harlem, she acted as though poverty was contagious.
Zoë and I were 22-year-old seniors at the School of Visual Arts. Wanting to be the next Robert Mapplethorpe, but without all the dicks and homo shit, I was a photography major. Zoë was an abstract painter with a loft on Gramercy Park.
Coming from Detroit, her rich mother paid the bills. Though she proudly talked about, “Da D,” it was obvious from her Goth make-up and all-black wardrobe that she was more of a Depeche Mode suburban chick than an inner city Motown girl. “I don’t know why you can’t just let it go, Andre. Your old neighborhood died years ago. There is no renaissance, only ghosts. You should just move downtown with me.”
“You don’t understand, I was raised up there. Uptown, that’s where my peoples at.”
“Your peoples?” Zoë laughed, shoveling the last piece of sushi in her mouth. “Why you always talk like you’re more street than you are? When we met, you were reading Kafka and talking about Wim Wenders. Now, you Mr. Ghetto? Mr. Keeping It Real.”
“I’m just saying, it’s going to take more than a few whores and dope boys to make me move.” After knocking back a few sakes, I stumbled to the A Train and nodded out until reaching 145th Street.
According to the subway station clock, it was almost midnight. Walking the two avenue blocks to my building, I was shocked when I ran into my old buddy Darryl Jenkins sitting on the steps of the abandoned school PS 186. Recently graduated from Syracuse University, Darryl was one of the few old friends not in jail or the graveyard.
“Man, so good seeing you,” I said.
“I just came down for a few days. Figured if I hung out in front of this dump long enough, I’d run into you.”
Darryl pulled out a phat sack of weed and a few Phillie blunts. Like old times, we decided to go to my building and smoke.
Standing in front of the door, I realized I’d left my keys at Zoë’s and randomly pressed the intercom. Somebody buzzed us in and we ran up the back staircase; since I rarely wore sneakers, my hard-bottomed dress shoes click-clanked on the marble steps.
Sitting on the top stair rolling the blunt, I faintly heard something downstairs, but when I looked over the banister there was nothing. “Ain’t even smoked and already paranoid,” Darryl laughed.
Lighting the blunt, I thought I heard creeping footsteps, but before I could say jack, a midget murderer everybody called Inch was aiming his burner at my head. “Word, Gotti, you got to stop ringing my bell! I thought you assholes were cops.”
We had all grown up together, but last I heard, Inch was serving a stretch in Rikers for blasting three drug dealers a few years back. Word on our street was he dragged the corpses into the closet and stole a suitcase of bloody money. How he got out so fast was beyond me.
“Yo, we’re sorry,” I stuttered. Darryl was silent. “Believe me, it was an accident.” From the way Inch’s left eye blinked, it was obvious he was doing everything in his power not to kill us. Blinking a few more times, Inch finally put the gun down.
Scrambling down the stairs, I ran to the payphone. Fishing a quarter out of my pocket, I dialed Zoë. “I changed my mind,” I yelled. “I’m moving downtown. Tonight.”
Everybody remembers the first time they had a gun pointed at them. Although it’s been months, sometimes I’ll be lying next to my woman and suddenly flashback to that black nine millimeter aimed at my skull.
It was the summer of ’88 and I was still living uptown where shattered glass crunched underfoot and the bustling boulevards were electric with vice. To strangers unfamiliar with the wildness of Harlem, my decaying tenement on 145th might’ve looked dangerous.
Yet, no matter how many crack cowboys and toothless hookers sat on the stoop, I was never scared. My girlfriend Zoë was a different story. Every time she came to Harlem, she acted as though poverty was contagious.
Zoë and I were 22-year-old seniors at the School of Visual Arts. Wanting to be the next Robert Mapplethorpe, but without all the dicks and homo shit, I was a photography major. Zoë was an abstract painter with a loft on Gramercy Park.
Coming from Detroit, her rich mother paid the bills. Though she proudly talked about, “Da D,” it was obvious from her Goth make-up and all-black wardrobe that she was more of a Depeche Mode suburban chick than an inner city Motown girl. “I don’t know why you can’t just let it go, Andre. Your old neighborhood died years ago. There is no renaissance, only ghosts. You should just move downtown with me.”
“You don’t understand, I was raised up there. Uptown, that’s where my peoples at.”
“Your peoples?” Zoë laughed, shoveling the last piece of sushi in her mouth. “Why you always talk like you’re more street than you are? When we met, you were reading Kafka and talking about Wim Wenders. Now, you Mr. Ghetto? Mr. Keeping It Real.”
“I’m just saying, it’s going to take more than a few whores and dope boys to make me move.” After knocking back a few sakes, I stumbled to the A Train and nodded out until reaching 145th Street.
According to the subway station clock, it was almost midnight. Walking the two avenue blocks to my building, I was shocked when I ran into my old buddy Darryl Jenkins sitting on the steps of the abandoned school PS 186. Recently graduated from Syracuse University, Darryl was one of the few old friends not in jail or the graveyard.
“Man, so good seeing you,” I said.
“I just came down for a few days. Figured if I hung out in front of this dump long enough, I’d run into you.”
Darryl pulled out a phat sack of weed and a few Phillie blunts. Like old times, we decided to go to my building and smoke.
Standing in front of the door, I realized I’d left my keys at Zoë’s and randomly pressed the intercom. Somebody buzzed us in and we ran up the back staircase; since I rarely wore sneakers, my hard-bottomed dress shoes click-clanked on the marble steps.
Sitting on the top stair rolling the blunt, I faintly heard something downstairs, but when I looked over the banister there was nothing. “Ain’t even smoked and already paranoid,” Darryl laughed.
Lighting the blunt, I thought I heard creeping footsteps, but before I could say jack, a midget murderer everybody called Inch was aiming his burner at my head. “Word, Gotti, you got to stop ringing my bell! I thought you assholes were cops.”
We had all grown up together, but last I heard, Inch was serving a stretch in Rikers for blasting three drug dealers a few years back. Word on our street was he dragged the corpses into the closet and stole a suitcase of bloody money. How he got out so fast was beyond me.
“Yo, we’re sorry,” I stuttered. Darryl was silent. “Believe me, it was an accident.” From the way Inch’s left eye blinked, it was obvious he was doing everything in his power not to kill us. Blinking a few more times, Inch finally put the gun down.
Scrambling down the stairs, I ran to the payphone. Fishing a quarter out of my pocket, I dialed Zoë. “I changed my mind,” I yelled. “I’m moving downtown. Tonight.”
A Twist Of Noir 686 - Laurie Powers
MOVING DAY - LAURIE POWERS
Art used to read the foreclosure notices in the papers like other people read box scores. Then he’d do a drive-by. After the owners left and before the banks came in, we would swoop in and strip out all the security systems, built-in electronics, copper wiring. These houses in Malibu were full of them.
When he told me about the job in Topanga, I swore it would be my last, but Art had me by the balls and he knew it. The race track had not been good to me lately. I had lost my own house a few months ago.
“What time will we be done?”
“I dunno,” Art said, mouth full of burrito. “How the hell do I know? Why do you care?”
“Post time.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “You really should watch that gambling.”
“Maybe you should shut up.” I wanted to take my piece and splatter his brains out.
The house was on a lockbox, which are about as secure as luggage locks. We picked it, pulled the keys out, opened the front door lock and stopped short. The place was full of furniture.
“What the fuck?”
“Man, these people must have been in a freakin’ hurry to get out.”
Art’s plans changed instantly. “We’re gonna take the furniture,” he said, licking his lips.
We started with the sofa. Art in front, me behind. Art opened the front door. There stood the realtor, holding the open lockbox like a dummy.
The two looked at each other for a second, startled. What a pair. The realtor, a puny little guy with greasy hair and Art with goatee, glasses and a western shirt with long sleeves to hide the track marks.
I dropped my end of the couch, the heavy thud reverberating on the wood floors.
“Hello?” More of a question than a greeting from Mr. Realtor.
“Hi there,” Art said, recovering. “We’re the movers for the bank. They want all the furniture out of here.” You gotta hand it to Art; he was fast on his feet.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Oh, that’s ok,” Art said, smiling. Probably the first time someone had apologized to him during the middle of a break-in.
“I had an appointment to show the house?”
“Oh, okay.” We all stood there. Mr. Realtor and his client, carefully casual in his polo shirt and khakis. Couldn’t hide that freakin’ gold Rolex, though.
“So, if you don’t mind, we’re going to continue working here, if that’s ok?” Art asked.
“Oh, sure.” Mr. Realtor, feeling magnanimous.
“Let’s go.” Art turned and gave me a look. “Let’s go, Mike.”
We hefted up the couch and continued out to the truck.
“Com’on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No fucking way, Mike. I want that big screen!” Art was already striding back.
We began to cart the T.V. through the living room.
“Yeah, you guys need some help?” This from Mr. Casual walking by.
“Actually, we probably could use an extra set of hands,” Art responded, grinning.
What the fuck, Art? I glared at him.
“Not at all,” Mr. Casual said, glad to be one of the boys. He trotted over and picked up the middle section of the big screen. Mr. Realtor stood by, not really quite certain what to do with a client that bonded with the help.
“Careful, now.” Mr. Casual couldn’t resist giving directions. He must have been some kind of CEO.
“Hey, thanks, man,” Art said after it was loaded. They shook hands. Mr. Casual went back in.
“NOW can we go?” I asked, climbing in the cab.
“Wait a sec,” Art said, pulling his piece out from behind the driver’s seat. “Be right back.” I heard two pops inside and knew my life had just taken a big dump.
Art opened up the driver’s door and tossed the Rolex in. “Score!”
“Not this time,” I said, pointing my own piece between his eyes and firing. He dropped like a ton of bricks.
I pocketed the Rolex before sliding over and slamming the truck into gear. There’s a good pawn shop on Pico on the way to the track.
Art used to read the foreclosure notices in the papers like other people read box scores. Then he’d do a drive-by. After the owners left and before the banks came in, we would swoop in and strip out all the security systems, built-in electronics, copper wiring. These houses in Malibu were full of them.
When he told me about the job in Topanga, I swore it would be my last, but Art had me by the balls and he knew it. The race track had not been good to me lately. I had lost my own house a few months ago.
“What time will we be done?”
“I dunno,” Art said, mouth full of burrito. “How the hell do I know? Why do you care?”
“Post time.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “You really should watch that gambling.”
“Maybe you should shut up.” I wanted to take my piece and splatter his brains out.
The house was on a lockbox, which are about as secure as luggage locks. We picked it, pulled the keys out, opened the front door lock and stopped short. The place was full of furniture.
“What the fuck?”
“Man, these people must have been in a freakin’ hurry to get out.”
Art’s plans changed instantly. “We’re gonna take the furniture,” he said, licking his lips.
We started with the sofa. Art in front, me behind. Art opened the front door. There stood the realtor, holding the open lockbox like a dummy.
The two looked at each other for a second, startled. What a pair. The realtor, a puny little guy with greasy hair and Art with goatee, glasses and a western shirt with long sleeves to hide the track marks.
I dropped my end of the couch, the heavy thud reverberating on the wood floors.
“Hello?” More of a question than a greeting from Mr. Realtor.
“Hi there,” Art said, recovering. “We’re the movers for the bank. They want all the furniture out of here.” You gotta hand it to Art; he was fast on his feet.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Oh, that’s ok,” Art said, smiling. Probably the first time someone had apologized to him during the middle of a break-in.
“I had an appointment to show the house?”
“Oh, okay.” We all stood there. Mr. Realtor and his client, carefully casual in his polo shirt and khakis. Couldn’t hide that freakin’ gold Rolex, though.
“So, if you don’t mind, we’re going to continue working here, if that’s ok?” Art asked.
“Oh, sure.” Mr. Realtor, feeling magnanimous.
“Let’s go.” Art turned and gave me a look. “Let’s go, Mike.”
We hefted up the couch and continued out to the truck.
“Com’on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No fucking way, Mike. I want that big screen!” Art was already striding back.
We began to cart the T.V. through the living room.
“Yeah, you guys need some help?” This from Mr. Casual walking by.
“Actually, we probably could use an extra set of hands,” Art responded, grinning.
What the fuck, Art? I glared at him.
“Not at all,” Mr. Casual said, glad to be one of the boys. He trotted over and picked up the middle section of the big screen. Mr. Realtor stood by, not really quite certain what to do with a client that bonded with the help.
“Careful, now.” Mr. Casual couldn’t resist giving directions. He must have been some kind of CEO.
“Hey, thanks, man,” Art said after it was loaded. They shook hands. Mr. Casual went back in.
“NOW can we go?” I asked, climbing in the cab.
“Wait a sec,” Art said, pulling his piece out from behind the driver’s seat. “Be right back.” I heard two pops inside and knew my life had just taken a big dump.
Art opened up the driver’s door and tossed the Rolex in. “Score!”
“Not this time,” I said, pointing my own piece between his eyes and firing. He dropped like a ton of bricks.
I pocketed the Rolex before sliding over and slamming the truck into gear. There’s a good pawn shop on Pico on the way to the track.
A Twist Of Noir 685 - Chris Deal
REAPER MAN - CHRIS DEAL
The parking deck wasn't warm, but it provided enough of a barrier from the cold winds blowing down Charlotte’s streets so I could have one last smoke before I went up. My fingers shook as I held the cigarette to my lips, but with the influx of smoke they relaxed, stayed still for a few heart beats. Up on the sixth floor, in the Coronary Care Unit, Rask's heart was giving him trouble. V-tach, last I heard. Still irregular after the attack. He didn't call me until he was stable, a day after he entered the hospital. Over the phone his voice was tinged with whiskey sours. When he said what he wanted from me, I nodded even though he couldn't see it. He took my silence for the acquiescence it was. Whatever he wanted, I’d do.
The thing about hospitals is that you can walk around most parts like a ghost, not even an afterthought to the staff, if you wear the right disguise. Before getting in the car I dressed up as a concerned son. Shaved the week's worth of growth along my jaw and put on a thrift-store suit. Ran a few fingers though my hair to give it a look of concern. I walked through the labyrinthine corridors holding the bouquet of flowers like it was the most important thing in the world. From the parking deck, you took an elevator down to the first level, then into the hospital right by the cafeteria, past the atrium. Take a left there and you find the public elevators. Go up to the sixth floor and follow the signs until you reach Mecca.
Going through the halls, all the doors to the patient’s rooms were open. Many beds were empty. Just up the hall from Rask’s room an old woman, thin bones pressing against the skin, lay in her bed, the machines keeping her alive. Her eyes caught mine, two small embers embedded in her skull, fighting against the Reaper Man who was stalking her. I took a step inside and put a hand to her burning forehead. She smiled toothlessly and fell asleep. I wasn’t her Reaper.
I stood outside of Rask’s room for several minutes, memorializing the visual cacophony, the fire doors and mirrors at every corner, multicolored signs warning for quiet. There weren’t any cops hanging around his door. A tiny nurse with curly brown hair pulled back over her scrubs stood behind me and I watched her watching me in the glass of his door. She didn't say anything, just watched. After the illusion of a son grieving for his father's health was complete, I went in.
Rask looked like seven layers of shit compressed together. His body was covered with tubes that pricked through his skin, connecting him to the machinery that loomed over his bed. He saw me and nodded. Every few moments the machine would let out a harsh note that coincided with a painful beat in his chest.
“Thanks for doing this, kid,” he said. His voice was quiet, smothered by his closeness to death.
“Was it bad?”
“A complete mother fucker. If I’ve taught you one thing, take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“Thank you. You going to be good?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Makes one of us, at least. Keep doing the good work for me, as long as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
I handed the bouquet to him and he caught my hand in his, squeezing tight, the skin cold and dry, before he picked through the flowers and found what I smuggled hidden inside: a syringe, perfectly empty.
He pulled back the plunger, filling it with air.
“Want me to do that?”
“Hell, I’ve killed more than enough people in my day, might as well go out by my own hand. If I see anyone on the other side, hope they’ll understand.”
I let him do it in peace. Walking back to the elevator, the tiny nurse ran past me to his room, a look of panic in her eyes. The job was done. Brushing away tears, I knew the disguise wasn’t necessary.
The parking deck wasn't warm, but it provided enough of a barrier from the cold winds blowing down Charlotte’s streets so I could have one last smoke before I went up. My fingers shook as I held the cigarette to my lips, but with the influx of smoke they relaxed, stayed still for a few heart beats. Up on the sixth floor, in the Coronary Care Unit, Rask's heart was giving him trouble. V-tach, last I heard. Still irregular after the attack. He didn't call me until he was stable, a day after he entered the hospital. Over the phone his voice was tinged with whiskey sours. When he said what he wanted from me, I nodded even though he couldn't see it. He took my silence for the acquiescence it was. Whatever he wanted, I’d do.
The thing about hospitals is that you can walk around most parts like a ghost, not even an afterthought to the staff, if you wear the right disguise. Before getting in the car I dressed up as a concerned son. Shaved the week's worth of growth along my jaw and put on a thrift-store suit. Ran a few fingers though my hair to give it a look of concern. I walked through the labyrinthine corridors holding the bouquet of flowers like it was the most important thing in the world. From the parking deck, you took an elevator down to the first level, then into the hospital right by the cafeteria, past the atrium. Take a left there and you find the public elevators. Go up to the sixth floor and follow the signs until you reach Mecca.
Going through the halls, all the doors to the patient’s rooms were open. Many beds were empty. Just up the hall from Rask’s room an old woman, thin bones pressing against the skin, lay in her bed, the machines keeping her alive. Her eyes caught mine, two small embers embedded in her skull, fighting against the Reaper Man who was stalking her. I took a step inside and put a hand to her burning forehead. She smiled toothlessly and fell asleep. I wasn’t her Reaper.
I stood outside of Rask’s room for several minutes, memorializing the visual cacophony, the fire doors and mirrors at every corner, multicolored signs warning for quiet. There weren’t any cops hanging around his door. A tiny nurse with curly brown hair pulled back over her scrubs stood behind me and I watched her watching me in the glass of his door. She didn't say anything, just watched. After the illusion of a son grieving for his father's health was complete, I went in.
Rask looked like seven layers of shit compressed together. His body was covered with tubes that pricked through his skin, connecting him to the machinery that loomed over his bed. He saw me and nodded. Every few moments the machine would let out a harsh note that coincided with a painful beat in his chest.
“Thanks for doing this, kid,” he said. His voice was quiet, smothered by his closeness to death.
“Was it bad?”
“A complete mother fucker. If I’ve taught you one thing, take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“Thank you. You going to be good?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Makes one of us, at least. Keep doing the good work for me, as long as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
I handed the bouquet to him and he caught my hand in his, squeezing tight, the skin cold and dry, before he picked through the flowers and found what I smuggled hidden inside: a syringe, perfectly empty.
He pulled back the plunger, filling it with air.
“Want me to do that?”
“Hell, I’ve killed more than enough people in my day, might as well go out by my own hand. If I see anyone on the other side, hope they’ll understand.”
I let him do it in peace. Walking back to the elevator, the tiny nurse ran past me to his room, a look of panic in her eyes. The job was done. Brushing away tears, I knew the disguise wasn’t necessary.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Interlude: Joe Lansdale’s EDGE OF DARK WATER
http://www.joerlansdale.com/
http://www.facebook.com/JoeRLansdale
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: Jojo Coats: infojojo7@gmail.com
Mulholland Books releases the latest Joe R. Lansdale novel.
EDGE OF DARK WATER
Mark Twain Meets Stephen King with a Lansdale Twist
March 25, 2012-New York, NY- Mulholland Books an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group brings you the latest crime novel from cult favorite, award winner Joe R. Lansdale.
Joe R. Lansdale is the author of over twenty novels, the Edgar Award winner THE BOTTOMS, and the ever popular Hap and Leonard series to name a few. He has penned countless short stories, chapbooks, graphic novels, screenplays, animated series work, and comic books. His work spanning western, horror, science fiction, suspense, and mystery has won him numerous awards including the British Fantasy Award, the American Mystery Award, the Grinzane Cavour Prize for Literature, and an impressive eight Bram Stoker Awards to name a few.
Iconic author and pioneer in transcending genre, Joe R. Lansdale blends lost dreams, death, thievery, and a trip down river on a raft with a Southern flair that only he can manage. With a plot that is reminiscent of the classic Mark Twain and Stephen King works combined - Edge of Dark Water is crime fiction at its best.
May Lynn was once a pretty girl who dreamed of becoming a Hollywood star. Now she’s dead, her body dredged up from the Sabine River. Sue Ellen, May Lynn’s strong-willed teenage friend, sets out to dig up May Lynn’s body, burn it to ash, and take those ashes to Hollywood to spread around. If May Lynn can’t become a star, then at least her ashes will end up in the land of her dreams. Along with her friends Terry and Jinx and her alcoholic mother, Sue Ellen steals a raft and heads downriver to carry May Lynn’s remains to Hollywood.
Only problem is, Sue Ellen has some stolen money that her enemies will do anything to get back. Including avoiding a strange and relentless hired assassin called Skunk. What looks like a prime opportunity to escape from a worthless life will instead lead to disastrous consequences. In the end, Sue Ellen will learn a harsh lesson on just how hard growing up can really be.
· "Joe R. Lansdale has a folklorist's eye for telling detail and a front-porch raconteur's sense of pace." (The New York Times Book Review )
· "Lansdale has created a landscape of broken dreams, skewed personalities and hope still clinging to the inside of the Pandora's box of problems they all share. . . . He has been called a folklorist, and Leather Maiden makes you want to sit on a porch listening to him spin a yarn that you know doesn't contain a true sentence." (Los Angeles Times)
· "One of the greatest yarn spinners of his generation: fearless, earthy, original, manic and dreadfully funny." (Dallas Morning News, on Vanilla Ride )
· “A storyteller in the great American tradition of Ambrose Bierce and Mark Twain.” (Boston Globe)
· “Joe Lansdale simply must be read.” (Robert Crais)
· “One of the greatest yarn-spinners of his generation: fearless, earthy, original, manic, and dreadfully funny.” (Dallas Morning News)
http://www.facebook.com/JoeRLansdaleChampionMojoOfficial
http://www.facebook.com/JoeRLansdale
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: Jojo Coats: infojojo7@gmail.com
Mulholland Books releases the latest Joe R. Lansdale novel.
EDGE OF DARK WATER
Mark Twain Meets Stephen King with a Lansdale Twist
March 25, 2012-New York, NY- Mulholland Books an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group brings you the latest crime novel from cult favorite, award winner Joe R. Lansdale.
Joe R. Lansdale is the author of over twenty novels, the Edgar Award winner THE BOTTOMS, and the ever popular Hap and Leonard series to name a few. He has penned countless short stories, chapbooks, graphic novels, screenplays, animated series work, and comic books. His work spanning western, horror, science fiction, suspense, and mystery has won him numerous awards including the British Fantasy Award, the American Mystery Award, the Grinzane Cavour Prize for Literature, and an impressive eight Bram Stoker Awards to name a few.
Iconic author and pioneer in transcending genre, Joe R. Lansdale blends lost dreams, death, thievery, and a trip down river on a raft with a Southern flair that only he can manage. With a plot that is reminiscent of the classic Mark Twain and Stephen King works combined - Edge of Dark Water is crime fiction at its best.
May Lynn was once a pretty girl who dreamed of becoming a Hollywood star. Now she’s dead, her body dredged up from the Sabine River. Sue Ellen, May Lynn’s strong-willed teenage friend, sets out to dig up May Lynn’s body, burn it to ash, and take those ashes to Hollywood to spread around. If May Lynn can’t become a star, then at least her ashes will end up in the land of her dreams. Along with her friends Terry and Jinx and her alcoholic mother, Sue Ellen steals a raft and heads downriver to carry May Lynn’s remains to Hollywood.
Only problem is, Sue Ellen has some stolen money that her enemies will do anything to get back. Including avoiding a strange and relentless hired assassin called Skunk. What looks like a prime opportunity to escape from a worthless life will instead lead to disastrous consequences. In the end, Sue Ellen will learn a harsh lesson on just how hard growing up can really be.
· "Joe R. Lansdale has a folklorist's eye for telling detail and a front-porch raconteur's sense of pace." (The New York Times Book Review )
· "Lansdale has created a landscape of broken dreams, skewed personalities and hope still clinging to the inside of the Pandora's box of problems they all share. . . . He has been called a folklorist, and Leather Maiden makes you want to sit on a porch listening to him spin a yarn that you know doesn't contain a true sentence." (Los Angeles Times)
· "One of the greatest yarn spinners of his generation: fearless, earthy, original, manic and dreadfully funny." (Dallas Morning News, on Vanilla Ride )
· “A storyteller in the great American tradition of Ambrose Bierce and Mark Twain.” (Boston Globe)
· “Joe Lansdale simply must be read.” (Robert Crais)
· “One of the greatest yarn-spinners of his generation: fearless, earthy, original, manic, and dreadfully funny.” (Dallas Morning News)
http://www.facebook.com/JoeRLansdaleChampionMojoOfficial
Monday, September 26, 2011
A Twist Of Noir 684 - Albert Tucher
THE FULL MARY ALICE - ALBERT TUCHER
Sequel to LITTLE MISS PERFECT
“I can’t believe you’re going to hire him.”
Tillotson sat across from Diana in her office at Litvinov Associates.
“I think he’s the right man for the job,” she said.
She and Tillotson went back a long way, but he needed to remember that she was the boss.
“I don’t think I can keep working for you if you bring Romero in.”
“That’s your decision. Hiring and firing, that’s my call.”
“Romero’s a thug. He’s also a fat slob.”
“There’s a niche in this business for fat slobs. Right now I don’t have anybody who fills it.”
Some body guarding jobs called for someone who could blend into the scenery. Others needed an intimidating presence. Romero could do intimidating.
“Seems to me you’re forgetting your roots,” Tillotson said. “You know the side business he used to have.”
“Sure. He shook hookers down.”
“Did he ever get you?”
“Once for a couple of hundred, but that was because I let him. I was getting Mary Alice out of a jam. He took a whole day’s pay from her.”
“What happened to solidarity?”
“Well, he’s not doing it anymore, because he’s retired from the police. Like you.”
“Not like me. I did it the right way. He had to go, or Internal Affairs would have gone after him.”
“Ancient history.”
She looked across her desk at Tillotson. He was taking this worse than she had expected.
“Okay,” she said, “maybe this will help. I have a special initiation for him. He’s going to hate his first job.”
She turned the business section of the day’s New York Times around and pointed to a headline below the fold:
AUTHOR FACES THREATS, PUBLISHER SAYS.
According to the story, author Mary Alice Mercier was touring to promote her memoir about life as a prostitute. Threats had come from someone claiming to represent a militant Christian organization.
Mary Alice’s jacket photo accompanied the story. She looked studiously hot.
“So the threats are real?” said Tillotson. “I thought it was publicity.”
“The publisher was concerned enough to hire us.”
Tillotson read the story.
“Okay, just out of curiosity. Did she really write the book?”
“Definitely. I watched her write a lot of it, but I didn’t know what she was doing, scribbling in her spiral notebooks. Turns out that was it.”
“And Romero’s going to have to put up with the Mary Alice treatment?” A grin spread across his face. “Diabolical.”
Two days later Diana sat in a visitor’s chair and looked at her new hire. Under a crisp white hospital sheet Romero’s bulk resembled a natural landform.
“The doc told me an interesting thing,” she said. “If somebody has to get shot with a thirty-eight, it should be you.”
“Thanks.”
“No, really. The bullets just gave up before they reached anything vital.”
“Because I’m so fucking fat.”
“Well, he did mention some muscle underneath.”
She dropped the smile.
“That was good work. Taking three bullets for the client--that was the job, and you did it. Taking the shooter down was extra.”
“I basically fell on him.”
“Whatever.” She grinned again. “How was it going up to then?”
“Talk about bossy. Do this, do that. I was almost hoping something drastic would happen.”
“You weren’t surprised she gave you a hard time, were you?”
“Every time she read, she made a point of picking the part about me shaking her down. And she kept reminding me that she could out me any time.”
“That’s Mary Alice. She wouldn’t do it. She never ratted on anybody, no matter what.”
Out in the hall Mary Alice’s voice started barking orders. The gist was, the nurses needed to take better care of their patient. Romero groaned.
“Didn’t you tell her to get a few hours sleep?”
“She’s a hooker. We can go days without sleep where there’s money involved.”
Diana gave him her most malicious grin.
“Or love.”
“Get that guy to shoot me again. And do it right this time.”
“I warned you about the Mary Alice treatment, didn’t I?”
“I guess.”
“Well, that wasn’t it before. This is the full Mary Alice.”
Sequel to LITTLE MISS PERFECT
“I can’t believe you’re going to hire him.”
Tillotson sat across from Diana in her office at Litvinov Associates.
“I think he’s the right man for the job,” she said.
She and Tillotson went back a long way, but he needed to remember that she was the boss.
“I don’t think I can keep working for you if you bring Romero in.”
“That’s your decision. Hiring and firing, that’s my call.”
“Romero’s a thug. He’s also a fat slob.”
“There’s a niche in this business for fat slobs. Right now I don’t have anybody who fills it.”
Some body guarding jobs called for someone who could blend into the scenery. Others needed an intimidating presence. Romero could do intimidating.
“Seems to me you’re forgetting your roots,” Tillotson said. “You know the side business he used to have.”
“Sure. He shook hookers down.”
“Did he ever get you?”
“Once for a couple of hundred, but that was because I let him. I was getting Mary Alice out of a jam. He took a whole day’s pay from her.”
“What happened to solidarity?”
“Well, he’s not doing it anymore, because he’s retired from the police. Like you.”
“Not like me. I did it the right way. He had to go, or Internal Affairs would have gone after him.”
“Ancient history.”
She looked across her desk at Tillotson. He was taking this worse than she had expected.
“Okay,” she said, “maybe this will help. I have a special initiation for him. He’s going to hate his first job.”
She turned the business section of the day’s New York Times around and pointed to a headline below the fold:
AUTHOR FACES THREATS, PUBLISHER SAYS.
According to the story, author Mary Alice Mercier was touring to promote her memoir about life as a prostitute. Threats had come from someone claiming to represent a militant Christian organization.
Mary Alice’s jacket photo accompanied the story. She looked studiously hot.
“So the threats are real?” said Tillotson. “I thought it was publicity.”
“The publisher was concerned enough to hire us.”
Tillotson read the story.
“Okay, just out of curiosity. Did she really write the book?”
“Definitely. I watched her write a lot of it, but I didn’t know what she was doing, scribbling in her spiral notebooks. Turns out that was it.”
“And Romero’s going to have to put up with the Mary Alice treatment?” A grin spread across his face. “Diabolical.”
Two days later Diana sat in a visitor’s chair and looked at her new hire. Under a crisp white hospital sheet Romero’s bulk resembled a natural landform.
“The doc told me an interesting thing,” she said. “If somebody has to get shot with a thirty-eight, it should be you.”
“Thanks.”
“No, really. The bullets just gave up before they reached anything vital.”
“Because I’m so fucking fat.”
“Well, he did mention some muscle underneath.”
She dropped the smile.
“That was good work. Taking three bullets for the client--that was the job, and you did it. Taking the shooter down was extra.”
“I basically fell on him.”
“Whatever.” She grinned again. “How was it going up to then?”
“Talk about bossy. Do this, do that. I was almost hoping something drastic would happen.”
“You weren’t surprised she gave you a hard time, were you?”
“Every time she read, she made a point of picking the part about me shaking her down. And she kept reminding me that she could out me any time.”
“That’s Mary Alice. She wouldn’t do it. She never ratted on anybody, no matter what.”
Out in the hall Mary Alice’s voice started barking orders. The gist was, the nurses needed to take better care of their patient. Romero groaned.
“Didn’t you tell her to get a few hours sleep?”
“She’s a hooker. We can go days without sleep where there’s money involved.”
Diana gave him her most malicious grin.
“Or love.”
“Get that guy to shoot me again. And do it right this time.”
“I warned you about the Mary Alice treatment, didn’t I?”
“I guess.”
“Well, that wasn’t it before. This is the full Mary Alice.”
A Twist Of Noir 683 - Kevin Michaels
CANDY’S SMILE - KEVIN MICHAELS
“If you love me, you will do this for me,” Candy said.
Bobby checked the clip in his nine millimeter and slipped it inside his jacket, thinking that love had nothing to do with it.
Candy’s red shirt had been unbuttoned and her head between his legs when she said that - with his Levi’s around his ankles, Bobby would have agreed to anything.
His black Chevy Nova was parked a block away, hidden in the shadows of the overpass where nobody could see it. Candy was in the front seat waiting for him, car engine running as fast as his heart was beating, holding out promises of things she was going to do once he returned.
She was a thrill junkie – a girl who got off on risk and danger.
Bobby was pretty sure he liked that.
He made his way across the street. Keeping his head down and eyes straight ahead, he walked into the all night convenience store with the gun in his pocket. He remembered that kiss, the adrenalin pumping to his brain and the blood rushing in his veins as her lips touched his.
The last thing she said when he got out of the car was “I like it when we get wild.”
There was a kid behind the register with acne-scarred skin and long, stringy blond hair – no older than him, wearing one of those red Kwiki-Mart shirts and a matching cap. He was busy refilling coffee pots and wiping away a night’s worth of grime from the counter when Bobby walked in. He barely looked up until Bobby got his attention by pulling out the gun and pointing it at his head.
“Empty the register,” Bobby said. “And gimme’ a couple packs of Camels while you’re at it.”
The clerk turned. Something in his face looked less like surprise and more like disgust.
“Out of Camels,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“So forget about the cigarettes,” Bobby said. “Just get me the money.”
The gun shook slightly in his hand but he sucked in his courage and pushed out his cool, the way he figured Candy would like.
“Ain’t got no time to waste,” Bobby told the clerk. “Give me the cash and that bank deposit bag underneath the counter, too.”
The clerk shook his head from side to side. “Don’t know nothing about no bank deposit bag,” he said.
Bobby braced his free hand on the counter and leaned forward, inching the gun closer to the kid’s face. “You don’t want to be dead, do you?”
With a weak shrug and a sigh, the clerk finally popped open the cash register. Bobby reached inside the drawer for a handful of tens and twenties while the clerk went underneath the counter.
Candy was the one who told Bobby about the money they kept stashed in the bank bag – it was cheaper than a safe and nobody except employees knew it was there. Bobby was thinking how happy it would make her that he remembered it when the clerk came up fast with a sawed-off double barrel and aimed it at Bobby’s chest.
“What the hell?” Bobby asked, dropping the bills.
“Boss got tired of getting robbed all the time,” the clerk said, curling his finger around the triggers. “Guess we got two ways this can play out. The first is you walk out of here and both of us forget this ever happened.”
“The second is me and you see who’s faster pulling the trigger. Take our chances that way.”
Bobby stared down both barrels of the shotgun.
Taking a deep breath he thought about Candy waiting for him in the Nova – how disappointed she would be if he came back empty-handed. That little pout of hers that said more than words. Bobby eased the Nine slowly into his pocket. He took a few steps backwards before turning quickly for the door, leaving the money on the counter and wondering what he was going to say to Candy.
He didn’t really love her that much.
Hell, it’s not like she ever told me about the shotgun, he thought.
“If you love me, you will do this for me,” Candy said.
Bobby checked the clip in his nine millimeter and slipped it inside his jacket, thinking that love had nothing to do with it.
Candy’s red shirt had been unbuttoned and her head between his legs when she said that - with his Levi’s around his ankles, Bobby would have agreed to anything.
His black Chevy Nova was parked a block away, hidden in the shadows of the overpass where nobody could see it. Candy was in the front seat waiting for him, car engine running as fast as his heart was beating, holding out promises of things she was going to do once he returned.
She was a thrill junkie – a girl who got off on risk and danger.
Bobby was pretty sure he liked that.
He made his way across the street. Keeping his head down and eyes straight ahead, he walked into the all night convenience store with the gun in his pocket. He remembered that kiss, the adrenalin pumping to his brain and the blood rushing in his veins as her lips touched his.
The last thing she said when he got out of the car was “I like it when we get wild.”
There was a kid behind the register with acne-scarred skin and long, stringy blond hair – no older than him, wearing one of those red Kwiki-Mart shirts and a matching cap. He was busy refilling coffee pots and wiping away a night’s worth of grime from the counter when Bobby walked in. He barely looked up until Bobby got his attention by pulling out the gun and pointing it at his head.
“Empty the register,” Bobby said. “And gimme’ a couple packs of Camels while you’re at it.”
The clerk turned. Something in his face looked less like surprise and more like disgust.
“Out of Camels,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“So forget about the cigarettes,” Bobby said. “Just get me the money.”
The gun shook slightly in his hand but he sucked in his courage and pushed out his cool, the way he figured Candy would like.
“Ain’t got no time to waste,” Bobby told the clerk. “Give me the cash and that bank deposit bag underneath the counter, too.”
The clerk shook his head from side to side. “Don’t know nothing about no bank deposit bag,” he said.
Bobby braced his free hand on the counter and leaned forward, inching the gun closer to the kid’s face. “You don’t want to be dead, do you?”
With a weak shrug and a sigh, the clerk finally popped open the cash register. Bobby reached inside the drawer for a handful of tens and twenties while the clerk went underneath the counter.
Candy was the one who told Bobby about the money they kept stashed in the bank bag – it was cheaper than a safe and nobody except employees knew it was there. Bobby was thinking how happy it would make her that he remembered it when the clerk came up fast with a sawed-off double barrel and aimed it at Bobby’s chest.
“What the hell?” Bobby asked, dropping the bills.
“Boss got tired of getting robbed all the time,” the clerk said, curling his finger around the triggers. “Guess we got two ways this can play out. The first is you walk out of here and both of us forget this ever happened.”
“The second is me and you see who’s faster pulling the trigger. Take our chances that way.”
Bobby stared down both barrels of the shotgun.
Taking a deep breath he thought about Candy waiting for him in the Nova – how disappointed she would be if he came back empty-handed. That little pout of hers that said more than words. Bobby eased the Nine slowly into his pocket. He took a few steps backwards before turning quickly for the door, leaving the money on the counter and wondering what he was going to say to Candy.
He didn’t really love her that much.
Hell, it’s not like she ever told me about the shotgun, he thought.
A Twist Of Noir 682 - Richard Godwin
GO HANG A SALAMI - RICHARD GODWIN
Go Hang A Salami is the sequel to I’m A Lasagna Hog. You are strongly urged to read it before sitting down with this one.
Vic Rogers looked at himself in the mirror and said, ‘I’m not going to kill anyone.’
Jack Gnocchi and Salami Harry were looking for him.
He wanted them dead after they killed his brother and hung him up at the meat plant, hung him up like salami, but he had to get out.
He picked up the phone.
‘Pedro? It’s ready? The cops are after me. Jack tipped them off. I got the money. No, they froze my accounts. Let me figure out how I’m gonna get it out of the country.’
On the table lay a pile of cash in $100 notes.
He locked these in a cupboard just as the intercom buzzed.
A tall lean man entered carrying a bag.
‘Beer?’ he said.
Vic handed him a Heineken.
‘You know what the schedule is, Jim.’
‘Put your leg in plaster, call them, turn up in my best suit when you call and do it again tomorrow.’
‘That’s it.’
Vic removed his trousers.
Jim prepared the plaster cast and covered Vic’s leg.
When he finished, he stood back admiringly.
‘Always said my nursing training would come in handy.’
Later that day, Vic manoeuvred the wheelchair carefully out of the door and into the lift.
He got a taxi to JFK airport and passed through security.
As he was waiting at his gate, two police officers approached.
‘Sir, come with us,’ one of them said.
‘Why?’
‘We have reason to believe you have contraband on you.’
‘What?’
He followed them to a security room.
‘I have a plane to catch,’ Vic said.
‘We received a call. We’ll have to remove your plaster.’
‘This is ridiculous, I’m calling my attorney.’
An hour later, Jim turned up in a pinstriped suit. Vic demanded he explain they had no right to do this.
‘I’m afraid they do,’ Jim said.
They removed his plaster and found nothing.
‘I’ll sue you and the airline,’ Vic said. ‘I’m calling the papers, I’m going to expose you as the biggest bunch of losers, you cost me a fortune.’
They apologised while an official from the airline offered him a complimentary first class ticket for the next morning.
Vic went back to the flat and slept.
The next morning, he took the cash out of the cupboard and laid it on the table before Jim turned up.
‘Think it’ll all fit in?’ Vic said.
‘Should do.’
Jim put the plaster cast on Vic’s leg, this time with the cash in it. He put a few layers of newspaper on top.
Vic used the few remaining bills to pay him.
Then he made his way to the airport.
This time, security escorted him onto the plane.
Vic enjoyed a quiet flight to Mexico.
*
At the other end, Pedro met him and drove him to the villa.
He removed Vic’s plaster.
‘You get me the guns?’ Vic said.
‘Over there. Why d’you need them?’
‘Just in case.’
Pedro left him and Vic went to bed.
The next morning, as he was having coffee on the terrace, he heard a noise.
Jack Gnocchi and Salami Harry were entering the villa by the back. Harry was sweating heavily and pulling at his tie.
Vic saw them in the mirror in the hallway and dropped Harry with the first shot. Then he shot Jack and stood over him.
‘I’m a hit man, and this is Mexico. You think you can do what you did and get away with it?’
‘We hanged your brother, didn’t we?’
‘Fuck you.’
He shot his face off.
He walked out onto the terrace and breathed. He admired the beautiful gardens.
Behind him, Harry stumbled into life.
Vic felt his heavy hand on his shoulder and, as Harry leaned into him, Vic shot him, tipping him over the terrace.
Harry’s tie caught in the railings and he dangled there, hanging and choking, his face turning blue. He was clutching at his jacket and his throat and, as he struggled, a sausage fell out of his pocket and rolled down the grass below.
‘It’s over, Harry,’ Vic said, ‘go hang a salami.’
Go Hang A Salami is the sequel to I’m A Lasagna Hog. You are strongly urged to read it before sitting down with this one.
Vic Rogers looked at himself in the mirror and said, ‘I’m not going to kill anyone.’
Jack Gnocchi and Salami Harry were looking for him.
He wanted them dead after they killed his brother and hung him up at the meat plant, hung him up like salami, but he had to get out.
He picked up the phone.
‘Pedro? It’s ready? The cops are after me. Jack tipped them off. I got the money. No, they froze my accounts. Let me figure out how I’m gonna get it out of the country.’
On the table lay a pile of cash in $100 notes.
He locked these in a cupboard just as the intercom buzzed.
A tall lean man entered carrying a bag.
‘Beer?’ he said.
Vic handed him a Heineken.
‘You know what the schedule is, Jim.’
‘Put your leg in plaster, call them, turn up in my best suit when you call and do it again tomorrow.’
‘That’s it.’
Vic removed his trousers.
Jim prepared the plaster cast and covered Vic’s leg.
When he finished, he stood back admiringly.
‘Always said my nursing training would come in handy.’
Later that day, Vic manoeuvred the wheelchair carefully out of the door and into the lift.
He got a taxi to JFK airport and passed through security.
As he was waiting at his gate, two police officers approached.
‘Sir, come with us,’ one of them said.
‘Why?’
‘We have reason to believe you have contraband on you.’
‘What?’
He followed them to a security room.
‘I have a plane to catch,’ Vic said.
‘We received a call. We’ll have to remove your plaster.’
‘This is ridiculous, I’m calling my attorney.’
An hour later, Jim turned up in a pinstriped suit. Vic demanded he explain they had no right to do this.
‘I’m afraid they do,’ Jim said.
They removed his plaster and found nothing.
‘I’ll sue you and the airline,’ Vic said. ‘I’m calling the papers, I’m going to expose you as the biggest bunch of losers, you cost me a fortune.’
They apologised while an official from the airline offered him a complimentary first class ticket for the next morning.
Vic went back to the flat and slept.
The next morning, he took the cash out of the cupboard and laid it on the table before Jim turned up.
‘Think it’ll all fit in?’ Vic said.
‘Should do.’
Jim put the plaster cast on Vic’s leg, this time with the cash in it. He put a few layers of newspaper on top.
Vic used the few remaining bills to pay him.
Then he made his way to the airport.
This time, security escorted him onto the plane.
Vic enjoyed a quiet flight to Mexico.
*
At the other end, Pedro met him and drove him to the villa.
He removed Vic’s plaster.
‘You get me the guns?’ Vic said.
‘Over there. Why d’you need them?’
‘Just in case.’
Pedro left him and Vic went to bed.
The next morning, as he was having coffee on the terrace, he heard a noise.
Jack Gnocchi and Salami Harry were entering the villa by the back. Harry was sweating heavily and pulling at his tie.
Vic saw them in the mirror in the hallway and dropped Harry with the first shot. Then he shot Jack and stood over him.
‘I’m a hit man, and this is Mexico. You think you can do what you did and get away with it?’
‘We hanged your brother, didn’t we?’
‘Fuck you.’
He shot his face off.
He walked out onto the terrace and breathed. He admired the beautiful gardens.
Behind him, Harry stumbled into life.
Vic felt his heavy hand on his shoulder and, as Harry leaned into him, Vic shot him, tipping him over the terrace.
Harry’s tie caught in the railings and he dangled there, hanging and choking, his face turning blue. He was clutching at his jacket and his throat and, as he struggled, a sausage fell out of his pocket and rolled down the grass below.
‘It’s over, Harry,’ Vic said, ‘go hang a salami.’
A Twist Of Noir 681 - Matthew McBride
A MONTE CARLO, A DEAD HORSE, AND A BOTTLE OF STEROIDS - MATTHEW MCBRIDE
He slid the key in the ignition of the beat up Monte Carlo and the old piece of shit coughed and sputtered. After several failed attempts, the engine came to life and the sounds of soft decay escaped the muffler.
That was his first mistake. NEVER USE A CAR WITH MECHANICAL ISSUES ON A JOB.
T.J. turned the radio up, spun his hat around backwards, and headed to the end of county road 681. That’s where he’d meet the girl. The rich girl whose Daddy called himself The Colonel.
The Colonel was a breeder of champion horses. Except he didn’t call them horses.
“These are thoroughbreds, boy.”
That’s what The Colonel told T.J. the day they first met. The day his mind began wondering and he cooked up his plan. The plan to boost the steroids the Colonel kept locked up in the tac room. The steroids the girl said would be there.
*
She was standing by an oak tree when he pulled up to the road. T.J. took a good look as she stood there in the headlights. Short shorts, long legs, and a tight, flat belly.
She opened the door, climbed inside, and they drove the two lane blacktop for another few miles before he turned off on a dead end road.
“This is the place, right?” he asked the daughter.
She nodded.
Of course this was the place. He was just making small talk because he was nervous.
She asked if he brought the gun.
Now it was his turn to nod. Of course he brought the gun. Never know when a Sig Sauer will come in handy. Besides, what if there was trouble?
“You shoot The Colonel if you get the chance,” she ordered.
Why did rich girls always hate their daddies?
T.J. didn’t know and he didn’t care. He just wanted the Winstrol, and she promised him a stockpile would be waiting.
Mistake number two. NEVER DO BUSINESS WITH A GIRL WHO HATES HER DADDY.
He climbed the barbed wire fence and made his way across the pasture.
*
The Colonel sat on the porch swing of his plantation style home and nursed a tumbler full of Southern Comfort. He felt the cool summer breeze tickle his whiskers as he dropped a match into his Meerschaum pipe. He lit a bowl of half and half and watched the small clouds of smoke escape his lips and float up to the ceiling fan.
That’s when he saw a light come on in the barn.
*
T.J. used the key the daughter gave him with little regard for the consequences. Who cares if she got caught? He didn’t know her that well anyway. He just wanted the roids.
When he opened the door to the cabinet, there was just a single bottle of Trenbolone. Not the small arsenal of muscle enhancement products he had been promised.
Oh well, it didn’t matter. One bottle was better than nothing, but as he turned, he heard The Colonel charge through the door with a shotgun in his hand.
T.J. dove out the window, landed on his back and a shotgun blast sprayed through the window frame and covered his head in splinters. He forgot to grab the Tren.
T.J. returned fire, he started blasting holes through the wall with the Sig. He shot The Colonel’s horse.
He made it back to the car, but he knew The Colonel was behind him, and The Colonel was pretty fast for an old bastard.
When he opened the door, she was playing with the radio and chewing gum.
T.J. hit the key, but the Monte Carlo wouldn’t start. As he worked the gas pedal, he heard the daughter scream. T.J. looked up to see The Colonel standing before them, wearing boxer shorts and cowboy boots and he was pumping lead into the windshield. The air was filled with muzzle flash and broken glass, as The Colonel murdered T.J., his own daughter, and then shot the fuck out of the Monte Carlo.
NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A MAN AND HIS HORSE. That was his last mistake.
He slid the key in the ignition of the beat up Monte Carlo and the old piece of shit coughed and sputtered. After several failed attempts, the engine came to life and the sounds of soft decay escaped the muffler.
That was his first mistake. NEVER USE A CAR WITH MECHANICAL ISSUES ON A JOB.
T.J. turned the radio up, spun his hat around backwards, and headed to the end of county road 681. That’s where he’d meet the girl. The rich girl whose Daddy called himself The Colonel.
The Colonel was a breeder of champion horses. Except he didn’t call them horses.
“These are thoroughbreds, boy.”
That’s what The Colonel told T.J. the day they first met. The day his mind began wondering and he cooked up his plan. The plan to boost the steroids the Colonel kept locked up in the tac room. The steroids the girl said would be there.
*
She was standing by an oak tree when he pulled up to the road. T.J. took a good look as she stood there in the headlights. Short shorts, long legs, and a tight, flat belly.
She opened the door, climbed inside, and they drove the two lane blacktop for another few miles before he turned off on a dead end road.
“This is the place, right?” he asked the daughter.
She nodded.
Of course this was the place. He was just making small talk because he was nervous.
She asked if he brought the gun.
Now it was his turn to nod. Of course he brought the gun. Never know when a Sig Sauer will come in handy. Besides, what if there was trouble?
“You shoot The Colonel if you get the chance,” she ordered.
Why did rich girls always hate their daddies?
T.J. didn’t know and he didn’t care. He just wanted the Winstrol, and she promised him a stockpile would be waiting.
Mistake number two. NEVER DO BUSINESS WITH A GIRL WHO HATES HER DADDY.
He climbed the barbed wire fence and made his way across the pasture.
*
The Colonel sat on the porch swing of his plantation style home and nursed a tumbler full of Southern Comfort. He felt the cool summer breeze tickle his whiskers as he dropped a match into his Meerschaum pipe. He lit a bowl of half and half and watched the small clouds of smoke escape his lips and float up to the ceiling fan.
That’s when he saw a light come on in the barn.
*
T.J. used the key the daughter gave him with little regard for the consequences. Who cares if she got caught? He didn’t know her that well anyway. He just wanted the roids.
When he opened the door to the cabinet, there was just a single bottle of Trenbolone. Not the small arsenal of muscle enhancement products he had been promised.
Oh well, it didn’t matter. One bottle was better than nothing, but as he turned, he heard The Colonel charge through the door with a shotgun in his hand.
T.J. dove out the window, landed on his back and a shotgun blast sprayed through the window frame and covered his head in splinters. He forgot to grab the Tren.
T.J. returned fire, he started blasting holes through the wall with the Sig. He shot The Colonel’s horse.
He made it back to the car, but he knew The Colonel was behind him, and The Colonel was pretty fast for an old bastard.
When he opened the door, she was playing with the radio and chewing gum.
T.J. hit the key, but the Monte Carlo wouldn’t start. As he worked the gas pedal, he heard the daughter scream. T.J. looked up to see The Colonel standing before them, wearing boxer shorts and cowboy boots and he was pumping lead into the windshield. The air was filled with muzzle flash and broken glass, as The Colonel murdered T.J., his own daughter, and then shot the fuck out of the Monte Carlo.
NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A MAN AND HIS HORSE. That was his last mistake.
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