A Twist Of Noir 464 - Robert Meade

IT CAME UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR - ROBERT MEADE

Slappy Joe hated December jobs because his feet froze. Standing on roof tops at midnight or staking out a corner all day gave him near-frostbite. Nothing helped. Extra socks. Vaseline. Foam liners. Battery-powered heat socks. The blood refused to flow south. He’d kick a wall or slam his feet against the pavement. Nothing.

Normally he would gut it out, but tonight it was so cold he was getting the shakes. He was perched atop a brownstone on 51st Street between 9th and 10th Avenues, looking down at the front of Sacred Heart Church. He was supposed to shoot the Pastor when he came out of the rectory and headed over to church for Midnight Mass. Why? He didn’t know. It was just a job. A job that came straight from the top, though, and was a way back for him, into the good graces of those that mattered. He didn’t ask any questions.

Slappy leaned against the chimney stack, absorbing whatever heat he could, balancing the rifle on a metal bracket sticking out of the bricks. He sighted through the scope at the oak door of the rectory. Nothing was moving, except the scope’s crosshairs, which jittered in sympathy with his shaking.

“Damn!” He stood the rifle against the bricks and clapped his gloved hands against his overcoat, up and down his body. He stamped his numb feet. A night like this got him into trouble. Now he might not get back out.

Roddy McCain was a nice guy. He wasn’t connected to the muscle end of the family. But a year ago that didn’t stop someone from putting a .22 pistol behind his right ear and pulling the trigger. Slappy Joe was supposed to be Roddy’s bodyguard that night, but when he went to take a leak they got Roddy between the appetizer and the main course.

In the weeks that followed, there was talk that maybe Roddy wasn’t done in by Slappy’s weak bladder. Maybe Slappy gave him up, was in on the hit. But Slappy eventually cleared his name. He explained the new car and clothes and all the finery as stuff he bought with money he won in Atlantic City.

Still, for the better part of a year, he was pretty much on the fringe, not getting much action. Then this job came along. It meant that the bosses trusted him again. It could lead to bigger and better jobs. He had to deliver. If he blew it this time, he might as well pack up and move to Albany.

He peered over the façade. People below straggled into church. The organ rumbled to life and the choir tuned up. Their wheezy voices came to him, thin and brittle, on the cold air.

Slappy yanked his wrist up to his face and pulled back the coat sleeve. Twenty to twelve. Slappy smiled. The old man had to waddle out of the rectory soon. Twenty minutes and Slappy could say good bye to eleven months of bad food and even worse whiskey.

Each minute ticking by was an eternity made longer by the sharp tooth of his longing. Why doesn’t this man come out? Slappy wondered. Doesn’t he know I have a job to do?

Slappy heard the rectory door creak. He yanked off his gloves and grabbed up the rifle and positioned it on bracket. He jammed his right eye into the back of the sight. Nothing yet. Wait! The door shivered as someone pulled it back. A final tug and on the top step stood the Pastor, all in black with a biretta perched on his white head. Slappy put the crosshairs right on his nose.

The choir groaned out its song about peace on earth, good will toward men. Slappy focused on the red veins of the Pastor’s nose and put his finger through the guard, readying his shot. He held his breath and counted slowly, feeling the trigger. One. Two. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

An explosion of white and yellow and red clouded his eyes. His head jerked back towards the crippling blow from behind. The rifle fell to the rooftop and strong hands grabbed him under the arms on either side and rushed him to the edge of the roof. He tried to dig his feet in, but he couldn’t feel them.

“This is for Roddy,” a voice growled. They pitched him over the roof. He plunged in a cart-wheeling kaleidoscope of sound and light, feeling the night air rush over his face and down his neck into his groin.

He smashed into the street like a pumpkin. The churchgoers still outside screamed and the Pastor ran over and picked up one of Slappy’s hands, whispering into his ear while making the sign of the cross above him.

Inside, the choir sang about angels and kings, prophets and peace. On the street, Slappy Joe’s blank eyes stared at the asphalt as the blood pooled beneath him in a pinwheel of steaming red.

The police came and put a blanket over him. He never felt the neighborhood urchin removing his shoes to take them home to his alcoholic father.

BIO: Robert Meade is a transplanted Bostonian now firmly rooted in Mohegan Lake, in Westchester County, NY, with his wife and three children. He teaches at Loyola School in Manhattan. A published author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, his work has appeared in Bartleby Snopes, The New Flesh, Microhorror, Angels on Earth, Guideposts and Apollo’s Lyre.

A Twist Of Noir 463 - Michael J. Solender

TWO THINGS I DID NOT KNOW - MICHAEL J. SOLENDER

Previously published at Negative Suck in January 2010

The workmanship displayed on the apparatus was shoddy and certainly nothing to feel proud about. Yet there it was on display for the gathering of notables.

The cuts made in the flooring were jagged and showed burn marks from where the dull blades of the circular saw dragged in their failing. Such inferior work was never exhibited in my shop. Yes, my medium of choice was a much softer material, but still I showed respect for the craft.

The hinges were not even brass. At least they bore the load they were intended to shoulder. Ironically they were stainless steel and my boots, stained and soiled, rested squarely upon them.

My boots were standard issue and had never trod on any surface that was not concrete before today. I liked the way my toes felt inside them as I shuffled up the wooden stairs to the first and only landing. Warm and tingly. They were alive.

I breathed in the air exhaled by the very ones who refused to hold my gaze. Their breath stank inside my lungs and tamped down the very minute amount of remorse I had left. It was replaced with contempt. Their fear warmed my cold sensibility as I steeled myself.

It was in the next few moments I learned two things I did not know.

You can hear your own neck snap, broken like a stale pretzel, when you drop through the trap door.

You don’t die immediately as it takes time to asphyxiate. No pain, though. With your neck broken, your spinal cord is severed and cannot send the pain impulses to your brain.

Maybe you can tell the others.

BIO: Michael J. Solender is editor of On The Wing, the non-fiction online magazine from Full of Crow. A recent corporate refugee, he foolishly turned to writing for salvation. His opinion and satire has been featured in The Richmond Times Dispatch, The Winston-Salem Journal, and Richmond Style Weekly. He writes a weekly Neighborhoods column for The Charlotte Observer and contributes frequently to Charlotte ViewPoint and Like The Dew, Journal of Southern Culture & Politics. Solender’s micro-fiction and poetry has been featured online at: A Twist of Noir, Bull Men’s Fiction, Calliope Nerve, Danse Macabre, Dogzplot, Gloom Cupboard, Right Hand Pointing, Shoots & Vines, The Legendary, Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers, Metazen, Writers’ Bloc and over one dozen other venues. His essay, Unaffiliated, will be featured in the upcoming print anthology TOPOGRAPH, New Writing From the Carolinas and the Landscape Beyond, published by Novello Festival Press in the fall of 2010.

A Twist Of Noir 462 - Richard Godwin

PICK UP - RICHARD GODWIN

She sat in the corner by the vending machine. After last night, she found its lights strangely comforting. The diner was empty apart from the guy in the corner. He had been leaning over his paper for an hour or more and she wondered if he had a cigarette.

This coffee ain’t gonna last much longer.

The waitress bristled past, all swish of starched uniform and the click of over-chewed gum.

She looked at Patty out of the corner of her eye, a slight curl of her lip.

Fuckin’ bitch, she ain’t no better’n me. Who wants to work nights in a motorway stop-off anyway? Maybe she enjoys being felt up by the truckers with their hard-ons.

She stirred the coffee with the brown spoon, and drank some of it, cold now.

“Excuse me, miss, I seem to have run out of matches. I don’t suppose you could spare a light?”

It was the guy from the corner.

Nice eyes.

Up close, he didn’t look quite so washed out. All the night hawks had a used look about them, as if they’d stepped off Desperation Taxi and landed at Border Control with no visa.

“Sure. Think this still works,” Patty said, flicking her lighter and quickly extinguishing the blue flame that smouldered briefly in her hand.

She noticed he was looking at her gloves, black lace.

“Mind if I borrow it?” he said.

“Tell you what. I’ll give you a light if you can spare a cigarette.”

“Sure thing.”

She stepped outside into the mix of ice cold and diesel fumes. After the initial silence, they started the smokers’ chat. Weather, journeys, directions, bitching about this and that, and then he said it. Just like that. No interlude, no build up. As if he was ordering a pizza.

“Last night, I killed a man.”

Patty looked at him.

He winding me up? Doesn’t look like a fruitcake. But then, who am I to judge after that last bastard?

“Oh yeah?”

He took a deep drag and blew it skywards then turned and looking her right in the eyes, said,

“A guy got smart. He was nobody, really. I shot him. Twice.”

“That right?”

Silence. And just two burning cigarette ends in the cold and the smog. A truck whizzed by.

“Why you telling me this?” she said.

“Cause there’s one thing I always feel like doing after I kill someone.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. An’ that’s fuck a sweet young thing like you. You looked good to me in there sitting over that coffee. Thought you was gonna hit that waitress. First I thought maybe you was a dyke, seein’ how you kept lookin’ at her, but I figured what would you want with a used up old whore like that? Then I saw those little gloves you’re wearin’ and I knew for sure you ain’t no dyke. Those hands are made for one thing, sweetheart, and that’s whipping up its head in my pants. That coffee must have been colder than a frigid ass. ’Nother smoke?”

He held up the cigarette packet.

“Thanks. Though, I ain’t gonna sleep with you.”

“No. I ain’t askin’ you to sleep with me, honey.”

“Just so’s we understand that.”

“How old are you anyway, out here alone on the highway?”

“Twenty-six.”

“No shit.”

“I always looked younger’n my years.”

“Well, younger or not, there’s some bad dudes out here. Much badder’n old Uncle Jim. I don’t kill ladies, by the way, just fuck ‘em.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Heard one young lady got herself into a real jam the other night. Out here, alone, just her thumb in the air and only her poontang to pay. Yeah, some trucker picked her up and fucked her and chopped her up and threw all little bitty bits of her all along the highway. Whooee! Jesus! Them po-lice officers were chasing bits of raw meat up’n down the state line for days, all sweatin’n bendin’ down. Ever see a fat man bend too much, darling? It’s a sight to behold and can set a fellow laughing. They’re calling him the Maniac Trucker, although I hear this particular guy drives a pick-up. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Look, let’s get one thing straight. I only came out here for a smoke. Not a fuck, not to get spooked by you. I ain’t a little girl. After this, I’m going back in and then I’m gonna hitch a ride.”

“Aw, don’t take off, darling, I’m only teasin’.”

He chuckled.

She took a drag and looked long and hard at him.

Probably looked okay when he was younger, seen better days. I’ve fucked worse.

“Thank you for the smokes,” she said and walked back in.

The warmth made her feel drowsy, and she ordered another coffee from the waitress who chewed gum at her and said nothing.

Fuckin’ bitch, I’ll show her.

The coffee took so long in arriving, Patty was nodding off when it arrived. She noticed Jim sat back down, this time two tables away. She drank her coffee and ignored him. But the whole time he was giving her the eye and tittering to himself.

I’ll wait till daybreak and leave.

Finally she said to him, “What’s funny?”

He got up and walked over to where she sat and, leaning across the cheap plastic table, set his hands right down, all knuckles and tattoos right in front of her.

“You. I know you need the money.”

She looked away and stirred her coffee with the same brown spoon, shaking something off its edge. When she looked up at him, he hadn’t moved and was staring down her top.

“Come on, darling. We can do it in the john. I know you’s done worse’n me, ain’t that what you’re thinkin’?”

I’m gonna fuckin’ hit him, or take him in there and squeeze his dick so fuckin’ hard it falls off. Wonder how much dough he’s carryin’?

Her stomach rumbled. Jim straightened up.

“Just think about it.”

As he was walking off, the waitress came over to her.

“I want you out of here.”

“What?”

“This ain’t no knockin’ shop, you fuckin’ ho. Get your little ass out of my place.”

Patty stood up.

“I ain’t hookin’, you old bitch. I’ve paid for my coffee and I’m stayin’ till I’ve finished.”

“When you’ve done, get, or I’m callin’ the po-lice,” she said and marched off. Two tables away, Jim sat tittering.

Fuck her. I ain’t gonna let no bitch push me around.

The waitress went out back and Patty walked over to Jim’s table.

“All right, how much you got?”

“Whooee!” He rubbed his hands. “I knew you were a pick-up. What with those cute little gloves, I knew you liked dick. What are you, one of them Goths?”

“Used to be. How much you got?”

“I reckon a hot young thing like you’s worth a hundred and I’ll give you–”

“Hundred and fifty and we do it now and that’s it, no funny stuff.”

“Now, I don’t know what you be meanin’ by funny stuff, but I’m a straight in-and-out man with a little mouth action maybe thrown in.”

“One suck, one fuck, money on the table now.” Jim looked at her. “Take it or leave it.”

“Done.” He peeled a stack of tens out of his wallet, which had some nasty stain on it.

“I’ll meet you in the john,” she said and walked away before the waitress returned.

After a few minutes, Jim made his way there. She waited at the back, past the urinals and outside the only clean-looking cubicle.

Jesus! Why can’t men pee straight?

She listened for footfalls, checking her switchblade in her pocket. The door opened and in walked Jim. He put a broom handle up against it.

“Well, hallafuckinlooya baby, I can smell your sweet lil’ pussy from over here. You got my money and I want it.”

“Come on, then,” she said and watched as he walked straight through the puddles of piss that lay scattered all across the floor.

“I ain’t lying down in this john, it’s against the wall or in there,” she said pointing to the cubicle.

Jim just shrugged and unzipped his fly.

“Don’t bother me, darling, so long’s I get what I paid for.”

She walked into the cubicle and started taking her clothes off.

When she turned round, Jim was right next to her and he closed the door.

“You’re as sweet as cherry pie, ain’t you?” he said, running his hands down her body to her crotch.

She felt calluses and cuts. She knelt down and felt him press his hand against the back of her head. She thought she heard someone trying the door.

“OK, darling, now.”

She stood against the wall and looked over his shoulder at a fly crawling across the graffiti.

Sally’s a ho and Tammy’ll do it for nothin’ written in a childish hand. She followed the scrawl of the letters with her eyes. She could feel her buttocks knocking against the cold wall and then Jim stopped.

After he left, she waited and washed at one of the sinks, hoping no one would come in.

I knew he’d be all right. All mouth.

She spat into the sink, watching the saliva, thick and glutinous squirm its way down the cracked porcelain, holding onto the sides and leaving a trail behind it. Outside, she heard a truck start up and drive off. She fumbled in her pocket.

Run out of fuckin’ mints.

She checked herself in the mirror. Her blade was hurting her in her pocket, so she transferred it to her coat, noticing the mark it had left against her thigh.

I’ll get a room for the night, a good meal, some cigarettes, Jesus, I could use a smoke.

She spat in the sink again and started towards the door when it opened. It was the waitress.

“I fuckin’ knew it,” she said. “Knew you was a hooker. I’m callin’ the po-lice.”

“Why the fuck you such a bitch?”

The waitress stood there chewing, opening her mouth wide and slowly chomping down on that piece of gum she must have had in there all day. Patty could see her cracked make-up beneath the fluorescent lights and the hard lines around her eyes.

“You just made a big mistake.”

“You don’t get to call me no hooker; you’re just a fuckin’ waitress.”

She turned and started to open the door, but Patty grabbed her from behind, yanking her backwards by her hair. The waitress squealed.

“Get off me, you fuckin’ little bitch!”

She turned round and struck Patty hard across the face, making a bright red mark burn there.

“You been checkin’ me out all night. What are you, a fuckin’ dyke or somethin’? All you do is serve up fuckin’ coffee!”

“I’m gonna serve you up to the law.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

Patty grabbed her, yanking her starched white uniform so hard the buttons flew off as she pulled her switchblade from her coat. Flicking it open, she hacked through the cheap bra, slashing first her breast and then upwards catching her throat in a sharp shower of blood that shot its lot in a quick spurt up against the wall and graffiti that covered it like the piss lying all over the floor.

The waitress staggered and reeled backwards, all popping eyes and shock, her mouth moving but uttering no sound. Patty stood and watched her fall, one hand on the floor, one to her throat, reaching for something she never found because she just toppled into the piss and laid there shaking and trembling until it stopped. Then she stepped over the body and hailed a passing pickup truck.

Travelling out of the state, she didn’t see the police cars.

*

Jim went back to the diner a while later and heard the waitress had been killed by the Maniac Trucker. Every time he took a piss there, he thought of the hot little thing in the black gloves as the steam rose from the urinal like a mist and circled the stained men’s room.

BIO: Richard Godwin lives and writes in London, where his dark satire ‘The Cure-All’, about a group of confidence tricksters, has been produced on the stage. He has just finished writing a crime novel. His writing appears regularly at Disenthralled and Gloom Cupboard, among many other magazines. He has a Twitter account and can be found there under the User Name Stanzazone. You can check out his portfolio here. His first crime novel will be published later this year.

His blog, RICHARD GODWIN, is now up and running.

A Twist Of Noir 461 - Alec Cizak

CERMAK, NEAR CHINATOWN - ALEC CIZAK

Donny’s been gone for two days now. One thing I know, one thing I can tell you, is that worthless douchebag better not be holding out. He scored something big, something to make noise about, he better get himself right the hell back here or I’ll beat a nice cavity into the side of his face. You can put half your paycheck on that, bubba.

Hard to believe this shit started with a Bears game. You ain’t from Chicago, you might be asking just what the hell would we be thinking, putting down hard-earned money for tickets to watch a bunch of losers get their asses kicked in their own backyard. Sometimes I might agree with you. But we were Bears fans. We grew up watching Sweetness and heard the legends of Gayle Sayers and Willie Galimore and our dads and their dads passed the worthless myths on to us. We had season tickets since the time we could afford them. Our wives begged us to spend our paychecks on things more useful, like new shoes for the kids and what not, but this was Da’ Bears, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t breathe before you sacrificed for those bums.

So we were sitting in our seats, way up where all the other working joes drown themselves in beer and twist their arteries into knots with brats and pizza and all that other crap we’d been raised on.

Donny and me, we worked construction. Roofers. It was hard to get jobs these days, mostly because the greedy contractors were hiring illegals for less than half of what they once paid us. If we made any kind of stink over it, they’d give us that old line, “You’re not willing to work for eight dollars an hour, you must not need the work.”

I won’t lie to you. I can’t get gigs with a few contractors because I punch them in their grill the moment they dribble shit like that. There was a time a man could work six months and make enough to support his family the entire year. But twenty an hour, well, that’s just too much for the heartless bastards in charge of the world these days.

The gist of it all, the reason I’m bitchin’ and moanin’ at this point, is because Donny and me occasionally took to rollin’ rich folks for their money. Times are fucking hard, bubba, let them that ain’t got fur on their palms be the first to chuck stones. I know what I am and I know what I need and sometimes that requires taking from someone else. You got a problem with it, stick your head in a toilet and gargle. You ain’t fucking Saint Peter.

So we were sitting there, minding our own business, when this rooty-tooty lookin’ sonofabitch crawls up to our section with a Browns jersey on. A Jim Brown throwback. Expensive, trust me. Sweet Jesus. If there’s anything more pathetic than being a Bears fan, it’s tossing your hard-earned dough into bigger pockets for Cleveland’s lousy club. They’ve lost two more games than we have. But I regress. So this uppity chump, he sat there all quiet, didn’t even cheer when those douchebags ended up beating the Bears.

Donny’s level of agg’ergation expanded as the game went on and the Bears played worse and worse. “Who the hell travels to watch the Browns?” he kept asking me. I told him I didn’t know and I didn’t care. “If you got money to fly from Cleveland to Chicago,” he said, “why the hell wouldn’t you have the cash to sit with the rest of them silver spoons?” Then he shook his fist at the rich folks, sitting twelve miles below, the seats you didn’t need binoculars to watch the game with.

“Good question,” I said, and took another drink of my nine dollar beer served in a fancy plastic cup with Budweiser printed on the side of it.

Then, can you believe it, when the slaughter was finished, Mr. Cleveland turned around and offered to shake our hands.

“Nice game,” he said.

Donny stuck his right middle finger in his nose, scraped out a heap of snot and let the guy decide if he really wanted to be so gesticural and such.

He didn’t. He looked at me.

“Get the hell outta here,” I told him. “This is Chicago, not fancy fucking Cleveland.”

The guy chuckled and walked away.

I guess it was that laugh that pulled the final plug. “You see that?” Donny asked.

I nodded.

“Hell,” Donny said, “he’s got money to fly to Chicago, he’s got money to help me pay my rent.”

We pushed our way through the crowd to make sure we followed him just close enough to keep an eye on him. I assumed he had rented a car and figured we’d grab him in the parking lot, beat him unconscious and take his damn wallet.

We walked through the old part of Soldier Field, dodging folks in every direction, pushing people this way and that to make sure we didn’t lose sight of him. Other Browns fans were shouting and whooping it up with each other, sounding like a bunch of animals looking for some Saturday Night Action, if you get my gist. Then I saw the guy duck out an exit opposite the direction of Lake Shore Drive.

We followed him on the walkway towards the city. He veered right and headed for the lake.

“The hell’s the matter with this douchebag?” I asked Donny.

“Don’t know,” he said, “guess they ain’t got water in Cleveland.”

We had ourselves a healthy laugh. We needed it. The Bears lost big. Thirty-seven to ten. Thirty-seven points given up to the worst team in the NFL. Pathetic.

Then he turned around and saw us.

“Hey buddy,” I said, picking up the pace. Donny did the same. “We feel real bad about the way we acted back there.”

The guy didn’t say anything.

I saw that we were closing in on a small patch of trees just off the lake. I looked at Donny and knew he was thinking the same damn thing. As soon as we were within arm’s reach, we both grabbed the sonofabitch and forced him into the brush. We took turns bashing our fists into his face, mostly his nose, until it was clear he was knocked out. I let go of him, Donny did so, too, and the stranger dropped to the ground.

That’s when I noticed the stench. The smell of a man who pissed in public for a living. A genuine bum. Donny grabbed his nose and winced.

“Jesus,” he said, “the guy smells like my neighbor Whitey did when they found him dead in his apartment.”

“Well,” I spoke through clenched nostrils, “he got into the game somehow.” I examined his pockets without actually feeling them. I turned him over with my foot and saw that he had something in his back pocket. I closed my eyes, as if that would protect me from any airborne diseases, and pulled out a fat clip of money with a few credit cards and three different driver’s licenses attached to it.

Donny’s eyes were on the cash. “Is it bunk?”

I flipped through the bills. Mostly twenties and a dozen Franklins. “You weren’t lying about the rent,” I said. Then I looked at the first driver’s license. It was from Florida. The name said ‘Roman Delvecchio.’ The picture didn’t look anything like the guy on the ground. The next license was from California. The man on it looked like Roman Delvecchio, but had a different name. The final one was from Ohio. It belonged to a man called Carter Gore who looked exactly like the old fart on the other two.

“Donny,” I said, “I think we just robbed a thief who must have just knocked over a guy who can’t decide what his name is or where he lives.”

He shrugged. “Big deal. Let’s get to the ‘L and get the hell out of here.”

We took the train back to Hegewisch, smiling. Some urgent monetary issues would be settled.

*

When we got to my place, we shut ourselves into my shitty garage out back and divided the goods. The money added up to thirteen hundred and forty dollars. I took seven and gave Donny the rest. He squawked a bit, so I let him have the credit cards. They all had different names on them as well. There was no telling what kind of fun a man could have with them as long as nobody checked his ID. Donny seemed happy enough. The six would cover his rent. If he was smart, he’d buy his wife and kids some shiny junk and stupid toys with the plastic.

Then we went inside and watched the Sunday Night game. Dallas at Washington. Why the hell they put those douchebags on primetime was beyond me. The Bears were more important than both those teams combined. But I digest. The Sunday night news came on Channel 9 and our friend Carter Gore’s picture was there, just like on his license. Seemed somebody robbed him and pushed him in front of the train.

The story went on. This Carter Gore character was wanted by a lot of interesting people. The FBI. The mob in Cleveland. Prosecutors all across the country were getting weepy ’cause they wanted to put him in jail and now they wouldn’t get the chance. Then a spokesperson for Mr. Gore’s family, some guy named Johnny Rio, looked into the camera like he was gonna try to sell it a used car and promised a huge reward for anyone with half a clue as to how old Carter got snuffed on a casual trip to Chicago to see his beloved Cleveland Browns.

“Mr. Gore had been a fan of the Browns since before they were part of the NFL,” said the made-up broad reporting the story.

“Serves him right,” I said. “Anybody follows the Cleveland Browns for that long should be pushed in front of a train.”

Donny’s little eyes were bright like the Christmas trees at the Museum of Science and Industry. There was some thinking going on upstairs.

Once I heard his idea, I wanted to reject it. Something lurking in my own attic, something you fancy folks might call ‘common sense’ told me we should keep our mouths closed from then on.

Donny insisted he knew better. “That homeless fucker has to sleep at one of them shelters along the shore. They never wander too far from where they mooch.”

I shook my head. “Ain’t a free month’s rent good enough for you?”

“You saw that bastard on television. His family’s loaded.”

I let out a long, dramatic sigh. I looked concerned, mostly because I thought that’s what I should do.

He waved it off. “I seen it in the movies. Gangsters always have money. We show ’em the piece of shit who killed their granddaddy, we’ll be set for, hell, I bet at least two or three more months.”

“Alright,” I said, “but you do the work.”

And then he called the number flashed on the screen and made the deal. Whoever he talked to, Johnny Rio, or whoever, told him to meet him Monday at ten at the warehouse on Lumbert, off Cermak, near Chinatown.

Well, bubba, it’s Wednesday, and I’m starting to think I’m gonna have to get on the train and head north. Make sure that sonofabitch don’t try to disappear with my share of the reward.

BIO: Alec Cizak is a writer from Indianapolis.

A Twist Of Noir 460 - Paul D. Brazill

THINGS TO DO IN DEPTFORD WHEN YOU’RE DEAD - PAUL D. BRAZILL

Previously part of Cormac Brown’s Friday Flash Fiction Challenge in April

The trouble with me is that I never realise how deep in the shit I am until I’m choking on the stuff.

Take last summer, for example. It started, as usual, in a pub and ended up, as always, in a graveyard. But that wasn’t the problem.

You see, I’m a professional killer. A hit man. Twenty years in the business, man and boy. Booze and bullets and bodies are all par for the course in my game. But it was a bird that landed me in it. And not just any bird, mind you. It was the boss’s bird.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking; never shit on your own doorstep. And I’d normally agree. Shagging a married woman is a no-no for survival reasons, if nothing else.

And if that married woman happened to be hitched to an aging psychopath who had aptly earned the nickname Carl Carnage before his balls had dropped, well, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I had some sort of a death wish.

But then you’ve never met Velvet.

*

The Blue Anchor on a Tuesday afternoon is usually about as lively as a Coldplay song. I was zoning out from the barflies' heated conversation – the smoking ban, for the thousandth time – when my phone rang. It was a number that I didn’t recognise, which always set my spider senes tingling.

I answered.

‘Aye,’ I said, wringing out the sleeve of my knock-off Armani jacket, which I’d just plonked in a pool of spilt Stella.

There was a rasping sound, like a heavy breather was bashing the bishop on the other end.

‘Cormac?’ said a voice.

‘Who wants to know?’ I said.

Instinctively, I fiddled for my packet of Benson & Hedges. I had a vision of Christopher Walken as The Man With The Plan in that film with Andy Garcia and the old bloke from Back To the Future. It wasn’t filling me with a sense of well-being, I can tell you.

‘The Shadow Knows!’ said the voice before bursting into a fit of laughter.

‘Kenny, you tosser,’ I said.

Kenny just kept on giggling, starting to sound a bit like Woody Woodpecker. He wasn’t known as Kenny Cokehead for nothing and was clearly on the Jolly Dandruff already.

I gestured to Cameron the barman and pointed to the bottle of Mortlach behind the bar, thinking that if you can’t beat them then at least attempt to join ’em.

‘What’s the craic, Kenny?’ I said once the giggling had slowed down.

‘Business. Work,’ gurgled Kenny. ‘Graft.’

I sipped my drink and gazed up at Phil Collins on the TV in the corner of the room and thought of how much he looked like he was wearing a stocking mask.

‘Where? When? How much? And...who for?’ I said. I’m very choosy about who I work for, professional pride and all that.

‘Last one first,’ said Kenny.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspenders.’

‘Carl,’ said Kenny. ‘Carl Carnage. And he’s paying top friggin’ dollar, I can tell you.’

Cameron changed channels on the goggle box. Noel Edmonds was sat cross legged on the floor while the genius contestant got the old brain cells working, trying to make a life-altering decision.

I didn’t take so long.

*

Carl was out where the buses don’t run in both meanings of the phrase. He lived in a swanky mock Tudor detached house in the depths of Deptford – far away from where public transport ceased. And he was also mental. Barking, and I don't mean the town in Essex.

Of course, Carl had always been a little, er, off the wall, but, over the years, the Old Timer’s disease had spread like a plague and his behaviour was becoming more and more erratic.

I’d worked for Carl a few times over the years and he’d always paid well. The job usually involved a bit of travel, too. I once took out a matador in a bullring in Seville in 42 degree heat; a Helsinki politician ended up in an underground car park. Well underground.

The last couple of times I’d seen him, however, Carl was just gazing out of the window with a Teddy Bear in his arms. Velvet had done all the talking. And I’d done all the looking.

*

Velvet answered the door in a red leather dress that was made with just about enough material to make a wallet, and looking like a long limbed drink of water calling out to a thirsty man.

‘Hello, stranger,‘ said Velvet, leaning forward and giving me a chaste kiss.

I followed her into the main room and thought about my brief fling with Velvet back in the days when she was just an up-and-coming glamour model. Emphasis on the coming.

I walked into the main room. Carl and Velvet’s interior design taste was clearly similar to that of Jimmy Saville and Lily Savage and I considered putting my sunglasses back on.

And then I saw Carl.

Carl sat drooling in a leather armchair, the Teddy Bear ripped to shreds in his arms. He looked old. He was old, true, but he looked a lot older.

We followed the usual routine.

Velvet poured me a drink, I kept my eyes away from her Grand Canyon of a cleavage, and Carl handed me a large brown envelope.

I looked inside. There was a wad of cash, sure, but the prerequisite picture of the target was missing.

‘Carl,’ I said, ‘there’s no...’

‘I know,’ said Carl, sounding weak. ‘I know.’

Velvet sat on the arm chair and put an arm round him.

‘The piece of business,‘ said Carl. ’The hit...’ he coughed, ‘... is me...’

*

So, the upshot was that Carl’s Alzheimer’s was getting worse and he was losing the plot. Shitting himself. Having violent tantrums. Bouts of depression. He wanted taken care of before it he became a drooling wreck.

And so, I did the job. I took him out when he was on holiday in Dublin. Velvet claimed on the insurance - which was a bonus - and everything went tickety boo.

And me and Velvet?

Yep, we got back together. Hitched a few months back. Just before little Stardust was born.

And here I am, all domesticated. Washing up, gardening and learning how to change shitty nappies.

Oh, yes, I’m up to my neck in it now, I really am.

BIO: Paul D. Brazill has had stories in A Twist Of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, Blink Ink, Thrillers Killers n Chillers, Beat To A Pulp, and other such classy joints. He writes for Pulp Metal Magazine and has also had stories accepted for a few print anthologies in in 2010. They are: Radgepacket Four, Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral, Daily Flash, HARBINGER*33, Bats In The Belfry, Flash! He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

A Twist Of Noir 459 - John Winn

KILLER CONSCIENCE - JOHN WINN

Leroy brushes the bangs out of his eyes as he tries to block out the young woman’s screams from the trunk. He’s got more than enough problems on his plate, trying to maintain control of a beat-up Cadillac at 60 miles an hour. A bit of pride swells in him as he watches tiny bits of dust kick up in the rear view mirror. Thank God he had the foresight to bring along a bandanna, among other things.

Unlike some he could name. He glances at Bobby beside him, child-like and grinning, as though it’s Christmas. For a hired gun, the kid doesn’t keep his enthusiasm in check. Leroy flashes a sideways glare at him as the latter combs his hand through manes of blond hair. Why they paired up in the first place is anybody’s guess.

Bobby frowns. “What’s wrong, LJ? Constipated or somethin’?”

Leroy grips the steering wheel tightly.

“I’m not constipated. I’m just not as excited as you are.”

“Why do you have to be such a killjoy when we go on jobs now? I can remember a time when you looked forward to blowing people’s heads off.”

“It’s not that I don’t like what I do. I just see things differently, that’s all.”

“Well, just because you have to be a killjoy, doesn’t mean I can’t get excited about killing some mobster’s broad.” Bobby pats the .357 in his pocket.

Leroy opens his mouth to say something, but the kid has a point. This job’s been taking a toll on him for some time. He’s long since forgotten the names and faces of his victims. Not that he doubts the bulk of them had it coming. But that sense of self-righteousness that used to keep him going is now a stone-cold heart going through the motions. And just when he’s sure this is going to be a hit like any other, he has to question why he has to go and put a bullet in some poor whore’s head just because the Head Cheese in Vegas is tired of fucking her.

Having a conscience is a bitch.

The screams get louder and more desperate. Leroy cranks up the radio to drown them out, to no avail. His head throbs. He wants to make everything go away, Bobby, the whore, the Cadillac. The whole bit. Yet, even as he’s aware of his own piece snuggled against his body, he knows that wouldn’t be an option.

“I wish she would die or shut up,” he snaps.

He pulls the car to the side off the road and stares at the desert for several minutes. Everything feels as though it’s in slow motion. He’s no longer aware of Bobby or the girl, just the constant pounding in his head.

“The fuck’s wrong with you, man?”

Leroy watches as he pulls the gun out of his vest and shoots his partner three, four times. The kid slumps over as his head falls toward his chest, seat coated with blood. It all happens in a manner of seconds.

The assailant snaps himself out of his trance long enough to open the trunk and unties the girl. Her mascara is wet with tears. She’s clearly shaken, but he doesn’t dwell too much on it. He dumps Bobby’s corpse in her place instead, to share space with the ropes, spare tires and other ephemera.

“Get in the back and don’t say a word until we get to Reno," Leroy scolds her. "I know someone there who owes me a favor; he can protect you ’til this all blows over.”

“Why do you care?” she asks in a soft voice. “Aren’t you supposed to kill me?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had a change of heart.”

BIO: Born amidst the rough and tumble streets of Greensboro, North Carolina in the 1980s, the writer known as John Winn grew up admiring the criminal known as William Sydney Porter. After a very short life of delinquency, the budding math whiz later used his smarts to write stories than handle money (thank God). When he isn't banging out stories of the depraved and vile, he can be found enjoying a little mundane past time known as watching TV.

A Twist Of Noir 458 - J.R. Lindermuth

A MESSAGE TO DIE FOR - J.R. LINDERMUTH

A girl walked down the street. All who saw her pass would later remark how resolute she appeared, marching along, looking neither right or left, certain of her destination and not about to be deterred. She was an attractive young woman, well-dressed, decorous, the type who would be noticed and remembered by those who saw her that day.

She continued along until she reached the building housing the offices of Klinger & Englehart. There she paused just long enough to check her reflection in the window of the restaurant downstairs before entering and climbing the stairs to the office.

“Is Mr. Klinger in?” she asked in a pleasant tone.

Carrie Seiler looked up from her desk and scanned the girl standing before her. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Just tell him I'm here to collect what I’m owed.”

Carrie scowled. She’s been secretary to the firm for better than 30 years. Little flusters her and few get past her formidable presence to disturb her employers without her say so. “I don’t know what you want, but...”

“You don’t remember me, do you, Carrie?”

The remark didn't so much fluster Carrie as raise her suspicion this was some devious means of circumventing her vigilance. “Should I?” There were alot of people in and out of the office on a daily basis, the majority of them seeking the attention of poor Mr. Klinger after what had happened with Mr. Englehart. Carrie had to ask the question just to be certain she wasn’t blocking someone who had a legitimate reason to see her boss. Besides, the girl did look innocent enough.

The girl smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Just be a good secretary and give Mr. Klinger my message. She said it with such assurance Carrie momentarily let her guard slip. Maybe she should let Mr. Klinger decide if he wanted to see this person.

“Did she give her name?” Klinger asked, annoyance clear in the tone of his voice.

Carrie nibbled her bottom lip. “No, sir," she muttered. “But I think...”

“Oh, never mind.” Klinger got up, came around the desk and stood by her. The man was barely through the portal when she heard him gasp. “Oh, my God! Carrie. Call 911."

Carrie started for the doorway, thought better of it, crossed the room, banging her shin and tearing a stocking on the edge of his desk. Muttering to herself, she grabbed the phone and dialed.

After making the call, she hurried out to the reception area where she found Klinger bent over the form of the girl who was sprawled on the floor in front of Carrie's desk. “Oh, my, Mr. Klinger. What happened? She was fine when I went for you.”

*

Carrie was still a bundle of nerves later that afternoon when the detective showed up. She darted a sharp look at him. The same one who’d been here before. What did he want now?

“Your boss in?” he asked before she had a chance to say anything.

“He is, but I don’t think you should disturb him now. We had a tragedy here earlier and...”

He nodded. “I know all about it. That’s why I’m here.”

They had to send him? Carrie asked herself. Was he the only detective they had? She despised the man. Short, slovenly, cupping one of those dark evil Italian cigars in his hand just as he had the first time he’d been here. At least he had sense enough not to light the foul thing. Carrie rose and reluctantly moved to Klinger’s door. She knocked softly.

“Yes?” came the response.

“Detective Unger is here, sir.”

She heard Klinger grunt. “Send him in, Carrie.”

Carrie pushed the door ajar and jerked her head for Unger to come forward. She closed the door behind him but didn’t immediately return to her seat. The girl had poisoned herself. What did that have to do with Mr. Klinger?

“You know she died?” Unger asked, taking a seat without waiting for one to be offered.

“She did? The poor thing.” Klinger picked up a pen from the desktop and twirled it round in his hand. He looked over at Unger. “I guess it was just too much for her to go on. You know, what with her father and...”

“What was she doing here?”

“I don’t know. It was strange. She told my secretary she was here to collect. I have no idea what she meant. I hadn’t seen the girl since the funeral.”

The funeral. Carrie gave a little start. That’s who she was. Jennifer. Mr. Englehart’s daughter. Oh, the poor thing. And I didn’t even recognize her.

Unger raised his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

Unger leaned forward, pointing the cigar at Klinger like a weapon. “We found a note in her pocketbook. That’s why I’m here. Not because she croaked in your office.”

“A note? I don’t understand. What about this note?”

“She says you raped her.”

“What?” Klinger dropped the pen and pushed himself back. His chair rolled away from the desk. His face went white.

Carrie went weak in her knees. She brought a hand to her lips to stifle the gasp seeking escape. This was unbelievable. Mr. Klinger was an honorable man. A married man. He wouldn’t.

“Are you here to arrest me? Do I need a lawyer?”

“They’re doing an autopsy,” Unger was saying. “If there’s evidence to support the allegation, you’ll be in deep shit, my friend. I don’t have a warrant now. I’m just here to let you know what’s going on. If you did this, it’d be better for you to admit it now. You got anything to say for yourself?”

*

Klinger poured another drink. He wasn’t usually a heavy drinker, but this wasn’t an ordinary circumstance. He knew he hadn’t raped Jennifer Englehart, but circumstantial evidence had sent more than one man to prison. His stomach twisted in turmoil and his hands shook. He didn’t know when the rape was supposed to have occurred. He didn’t know what an autopsy might reveal to confirm her accusation of rape. Klinger did know he shouldn’t have met with her that day. Appearances. That was what might convict him.

He’d lied to the detective. He had seen Jennifer since the funeral. She’d called and asked him to meet with her. Klinger knew now he shouldn’t have gone. At least not there. He should have had the sense to have her come to the office. Instead, he’d gone to the hotel where she was staying. People had seen him there, damn it.

“It was you,” she’d screamed at him that afternoon. “My father committed suicide. But it wasn’t him embezzled that money. It was you. You planted the evidence and he was falsely accused. You’re responsible for his death.”

Of course he’d denied it. The girl had no proof. He’d been clever about it; all the evidence implicated his partner. The man was too weak. He’d laughed at Jennifer and her accusation.

The girl had flown at him like a tigress, clawing at his face, screaming and pummeling him like a deranged creature. Klinger had fled, running down the hall and across the lobby with her in pursuit. Dozens of people must have seen them. Unger would find out. He would believe that was when the rape occurred. It wouldn’t matter appearances were deceiving.

Someone was at the door. The knob was turning. Klinger had locked himself in his study, not wanting to be disturbed.

“Peter? Are you in there?” His wife. Oh, the shame of it. What would she think? Rape was worse than the embezzlement he actually was guilty of.

“It’s all right, Lois. I just need to finish up something.”

“You’re sure you're all right?”

“Yes, dear. I just need a little privacy. I’ll be done shortly.”

The assurance satisfied her. He heard Lois move away and go down the hall. He was a little surprised she didn’t protest more. It wasn't usual for him to lock himself in his study. He refilled his tumbler and downed another drink.

Klinger opened the desk drawer. It lay there before him. He shuddered. If there was another way. But, no. They’d believe her. He sighed and started to reach in the drawer, then hesitated. Maybe another drink.

*

Unger shook his head. With his hands on his hips he surveyed the scene and shook his head again. What the hell makes a man do such a thing? Unger never failed to be amazed by the stupidity of people. Englehart hung himself before the investigation found conclusive evidence of embezzlement. His daughter took poison and left behind an accusation her father’s partner had raped her. And now Klinger kills himself.

That was the hardest to understand. The girl was obviously out of her head with grief over her father. Why she made the accusation against Klinger was anybody’s guess. What had prompted Klinger to do this, though? He hadn’t raped the girl. Hell, no one had. The autopsy revealed she was a virgin.

BIO: J.R. Lindermuth is the author of seven novels, including three in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. He has published short stories and articles in a variety of magazines, both print and online. Check out Jack’s Place for reviews and sample chapters.

A Twist Of Noir 457 - Rekha Ambardar

BACK SEAT VIEW - REKHA AMBARDAR

Lieutenant Sharples got out of his vehicle just in time to see the CSI unit remove Leo Rodin’s bulky body from where it was wedged on the floor in between the back and front seat of the Ford sedan. The key was still in the ignition.

“Do we have the time of death?” he asked the police officer on duty.

“About twelve-thirty last night,” the officer replied. “His wife says the deceased went out last night and never came home. She found him this morning when she went to get the morning paper.”

Sharples entered the neat, suburban home, where he encountered Rodin’s wife, Louella, by the kitchen sink. She was in her forties, a petite woman, not quite five feet tall.

He introduced himself. “I need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

She pulled out a chair by the kitchen table. “Of course, Lieutenant.”

“When did you see your husband last?”

“Last night, after dinner. We had an argument, and he left in a fit. He has a temper and is not one to talk things out.”

“Mind my asking what the argument was about?”

“His poker playing. I thought he’d give up that habit after we got married. But every evening he’s out with the boys.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Two years. This is the second one for us.” She sighed. “I didn’t kill him. But I’ve often wanted to clobber him.”

Sharples nodded sympathetically, although he privately thought she was one to watch.

A burly man strode in. “Louella, are you alright?”

Louella looked up. “John. Thanks for coming.” She turned to the lieutenant. “This is Jonathan Hale, our family doctor.”

“I’d given her a sedative and came back to check on her,” Hale said, a frown etching his forehead.

“Mind answering a few questions?” Sharples asked him.

“Not at all,” Hale replied.

They stepped into the living room.

“When did you see Mr. Rodin last?” the lieutenant asked him.

“A couple of days ago when I came by to give Louella a migraine prescription,” Hale said.

“Did you see him last night?”

“No. After I left the clinic, I went home, had dinner, then went out for my usual walk.”

“Where do you live?”

“A few blocks from here.”

“How did the victim and his wife get along?”

“I don’t mind telling you Leo was a difficult man, and Louella put up with a lot, but even she has her limit,” Hale said.

“So you think she killed him?”

“I’m not saying that, but anything’s possible.” Hale’s mouth closed in a thin line.

A loud voice in the hall interrupted them. A small-built man with a sullen face approached them.

“This is Leo’s brother, David,” Hale said.

Sharples turned to David. “I’ll need to ask you a few questions, sir.”

Hale stepped out of the room ostensibly to check on Louella.

“Are you older or younger than the victim?” Sharples asked David Rodin.

“Younger, but more responsible.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father left all his property to Leo, thinking he was the responsible son. But after our father died, Leo took up poker,” David explained.

“When did you see your brother last?”

“Not since last Sunday when Louella invited me and my wife to dinner.” David checked his cell phone and then shut it with a loud snap.

“Where were you last night?”

“At the community college where I take classes.”

Sharples made a mental note of that. A call to the college would confirm David’s statement.

He went looking for Louella. She was in the study going over some papers and turned around when she saw Sharples.

“I suppose I am still the suspect?”

“No,” Sharples replied. “That honor goes to somebody else.”

“Why do you say that, Lieutenant?” Louella asked, looking puzzled.

“The driver’s seat of the car in which Rodin was found had been pushed back to accommodate a bigger person,” Sharples explained. “I would say you, ma’am, are not quite five feet tall, and petite, so you would have been unable to move the body or drive the car with the seat where it’s at.

“It would have taken someone stronger and bulkier, like Hale, your family doctor,” Sharples continued. “During his walk, he saw your husband, who stopped the car for him. Hale then killed Leo and wedged him in the car.”

“Why would he do that?” Louella asked.

“You tell me, ma’am,” the lieutenant said. “I suspect that Hale’s in love with you.”

“Yes,” Louella said slowly. “He felt sorry for me – my husband was gambling our savings away, and difficult to live with besides.”

Being in love with Louella, he had decided to do Louella a favor by getting rid of her husband.

BIO: Rekha has published short stories and articles in print and electronic magazines and is also the author of two contemporary romance novels.

A Twist Of Noir 456 - Jimmy Callaway

ALL THE SMART BOYS KNOW WHY - JIMMY CALLAWAY

An entry in NEEDLE Magazine’s First Flash Fiction Challenge

Zero watched the medics put Cynthia on the gurney. The needle that was still stuck in the crook of her arm dangled with the motion, but didn’t fall out. They covered her up.

Then, here came Good Cop/Bad Cop, just like on TV. Sheesh. Law & Order: North Park.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Robinson.”

“Yeah, thanks, man.”

“You were no longer together, you and Miss Gripp?”

“No, we split up a couple months back.”

“She dumped you?” Bad Cop said.

“No, it was really more of a mutual thing.”

“Mutual thing, huh?” Bad Cop sneered.

Zero knew Bad Cop was trying to push his buttons, so he indulged the guy. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Bad Cop said, “It’s s’posed to mean when a woman winds up dead, the first guy we look at is her ex-boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that’s it, man,” Zero said. “I shot her up full of dope and then left her body on my own front stoop to throw you guys off my trail.”

“Listen here, you—”

“All right, Bill, that’s enough,” Good Cop said. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Robinson, we need you for anything.”

They left the front door open. Zero didn’t bother to shut it. It was nice out.

*

Mal’s and Zero’s hands stunk like gasoline, the fumes filling the car. Zero couldn’t stop sniffing his fingers.

“Thanks for doing this,” Mal said.

“Yeah, man,” Zero said. “I didn’t have nothing going on tonight anyways. Bronson had a date, huh?”

Mal snorted. “Yeah. You’d think he was off to prom, he was so excited. Never mind he goes through ’em like Kleenex.”

Zero laughed a little and looked at his watch. 3:14 in the morning.

Mal lit another cigarette. He kept his eyes on the taco shop across the street. “Sorry about Cynthia,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” Zero said.

“She OD’d on your front step, Bronson said?”

“Yeah, man. Came home from an all-nighter at Petey’s and just found her there. Dead.”

“Man.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she was always a little crazy,” Mal said. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

Zero shook his head. He rolled down his window some and then sat on his hands. The smell of gas was starting to make him light-headed.

They sat in silence for a bit. A steady stream of thick smoke began to rise from the back of the taco shop across the street. Mal said, “Kind of a shame, this.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“I dunno, y’know. Guy works all his life, opens a little restaurant, hits a bad streak at the track, and poof. Up in smoke.”

“Yeah, well,” Zero said, “shit happens.”

“Yeah.”

“’Sides,” Zero said, “that joint had a ‘B’ rating from the Department of Health. I’ve worked in restaurants, man, and you gotta have cockroaches bussing the tables to get lower than an ‘A’.”

“I thought their food was okay,” Mal said. They heard a window across the street burst.

“I heard some chick found a needle in her carne asada, man. Imagine? Take a bite out of a taco and end up getting inoculated. Sheesh.”

Mal shrugged. “Yeah, but y’know, shit happens. I mean, what’re the odds that’d happen again after that one time?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Zero said. “But why take a chance, y’know?”

Another window burst, and then another, and then a symphony of broken glass. Flames licked up the sides of the taco shop, up the front.

Mal pitched his cigarette and started the car. “Still,” he said, “I liked their breakfast burritos.”

*

Zero sat on his couch and tried to make himself cry. Nothing. Everything he was gonna miss about her had already been gone a couple of months. And there really wasn’t much of that to start with.

Once, she hocked his TV for drug money. When he came home and saw it was gone, he was kinda pissed. But then he remembered a buddy of his had an old one he’d offered to Zero last week. Zero called him up and he brought it right over. When Cynthia got home, Zero was already plopped on the couch in front of it. Man, she flipped out.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Mick’s old TV. He got a flat screen for himself last week.”

She just stared at him, breathing through her nose. “And that’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Well,” Zero said, “Yeah. I guess.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what does it take to get a reaction out of you? What would—what if I told you I was fucking someone else behind your back?”

Zero looked at her. “I dunno. Are you?”

Man, she lost it. “Yes! Yes, I am! I’m fucking Mick and Petey and Charlie and all your stupid fucking no-count friends! Whadda you gonna do about it?”

Zero shrugged. “I dunno. Nothin’, I guess.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, yeah. It’s already happened, if it’s happened. Nothing I can do. What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know! How about something? Anything, for a change!”

“Like what?”

“I want you to—” And then she started crying. “You don’t even care. You don’t care. Goddammit, why don’t you do something? Why don’t you fight for me?”

“Fight for you?”

“Yes, fight for me! Take a stand, for once in your miserable life!”

And Zero just looked at her. Fight for her. Like, what kind of sense did that make?

So, she stormed out and that was the last time Zero saw her alive.

*

Zero let out a breath and flipped on the TV. Mama’s Family was on.

BIO: Jimmy Callaway still lives and works in San Diego, CA; still owes Cameron Ashley and Josh Converse massive amounts of back pay for line-edits; still would like to thank Steve Weddle and Needle Magazine both for existing; still owes Christopher Grant a back rub; can still be found at Attention, Children. Sequential Art.

NEEDLE Magazine's Needle Flash Fiction Challenge: Christopher Grant

SARAN WRAP AND SYRINGES - CHRISTOPHER GRANT

Fucker came down the stairs in his pajama bottoms and no shirt, went right to the fridge and got himself a bottle of milk. He didn’t bother with turning the light on. I was in the shadows of the little kitchen, a Saran Wrap garrote in my hands.

Just a lesson for you kids out there planning on assassinating that special someone in your life:

Saran Wrap sucks!

At least as far as its usual uses. I should have learned this lesson back when I was a kid and Mom made me cover leftovers with the shit. It sticks to itself two seconds off the roll and becomes useless.

Unless you do what I did and turn it into a garrote. Then you’ve got yourself a weapon.

Johnny Delgado had no inkling I was there, dispatched by Cal, my boss, who said I should do this ‘quietly and discreetly.’

Delgado was our latest soldier. About the same time he came on, a large number of heroin disappeared. Cal thought it over for about two seconds, didn’t even bother to ask the kid, just said, “Tyrone, quietly and discreetly.”

It was like taking down a bull. The glass bottle dropped and broke on the floor, the milk coated the floor. Delgado fought, drove elbows into the side of my head, took me to the linoleum. It felt like I broke my hip. By sheer luck, my knee wound up in his back on the way down and that drove the air from his lungs, helping me with my garrote.

He stopped breathing. I checked his pulse. Gone.

I limped out the back door.

*

Across town, thirty minutes later, I limped into one of the many warehouses that Cal owns. We ship all kinds of shit from these places, from illegal to front shit. It was one of the safer ones, high-quality fashion going out in trucks.

I limped through the door and noticed Grinch and Zander playing cards on top of a crate, with their weapons not more than arm’s length away.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Grinch asked.

I regaled them with what I had just been through.

Grinch, sweaty motherfucker that he is, laughed his fat ass off, his cheap K-Mart suit threatening to split at the seams.

“That’s why I always use this,” he said, reached in his pocket and slapped a roll of bondage tape on the crate.

He bellowed with laughter. Zander joined him.

I ran for the restroom, the laugher continued.

A few dry heaves, whether from the image of Grinch’s naked, greasy body in bondage or the killing of Johnny Delgado, and I was good as new.

I walked out of the restroom, wiping my mouth with a paper towel.

Grinch, his pants down, his right hand gripping a syringe, about to plunge it into his thigh.

Zander, his shoe and sock off, his syringe about to get stuck between the big toe and the second.

Johnny Delgado, dead, on his kitchen’s cheap linoleum, totally innocent.

I reached for one of the guns on the crate and started firing.

Fuck quiet and discreet. Guns are better than Saran Wrap any day.