WATER SPORTS - KATHERINE TOMLINSON
It started out as a joke.
Well, maybe not a joke exactly, maybe more like a prank.
They’d told Josh that the chain-wrapped cinder-blocks were makeshift anchors and his only reaction was to ask, “Why two of them?”
“One for each end of the canoe,” Conor had replied, and Josh had shrugged and chugged another beer.
It wasn’t until he noticed the handcuffs dangling on the ends of the chains that Josh went full metal spaz.
He was a skinny little fucker but fear gave him strength. It took both of us to pin him down so we could attach the cuffs—one to his right hand, one around his left ankle.
He thrashed and writhed and twisted and screamed, jerking at the chains with such force they bit into the soft cinder block and left grooves.
But there wasn’t enough play for the blocks to slip out.
He pissed himself as we pulled him into the canoe and started paddling for the island in the middle of the lake.
He threatened and cajoled and pleaded as we stroked the paddles through the dark water, our eyes on the island that was just a shadow in the dark.
We were only about 50 yards from shore when he started begging.
That’s when we knew he was broken and that’s where it was supposed to stop—our joke or prank or whatever.
But Conor, who had taken the seat in the bow, turned around so he could see Josh’s face and so he didn’t see the rock sticking out of the water.
The canoe tipped, and the cinderblocks fell out, pulling Josh with them.
He didn’t even have time to scream.
“Oh fuck,” Conor said as we fought to keep from going into the water ourselves.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Ryan, what are we going to do?”
“Shut up,” I said. “Let me think.”
“I can see bubbles, Ryan,” he said and there was an edge of hysteria in his voice. He nearly unbalanced the canoe leaning over to scan the water. “He’s still alive, Ryan.”
“There are no bubbles,” I said. And it was true. The lake was calm as bathwater.
“Turn the canoe around,” I ordered.
“But, Ryan,” Conor said, ready to argue.
“Don’t argue, Conor,” I said. “Turn the canoe around.”
I did most of the work paddling back to the boathouse. Conor didn’t say anything as we secured the canoe in its slip.
I cleaned up the piss and blood, and then wiped down every surface that we’d touched.
We’d hatched our plan in secret, so unless one of us started running off at the mouth, it was unlikely anyone would link us to Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone even noticed Josh’s disappearance.
If anyone actually cared.
Conor was convinced God was going to smite us any minute, and it took me awhile to explain to him how it was going to be.
“Just keep your mouth shut,” I said. “No one will ever know.”
“We were just joking around,” he said, trying to convince himself.
“It was an accident,” I assured him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
But of course it was his fault. If he’d been paying attention to what he was doing, we wouldn’t have hit that rock. We’d have gotten to the island and dragged Josh out of the canoe and explained to him that hitting on someone else’s girl was not cool.
And we would have taken pictures of his snot-stained face and his piss-stained pants and told him that if he ever so much as looked at Briana Lyons again, we’d take him for another midnight canoe ride.
We would have told him if he even thought about telling someone what we’d done, we’d post the pictures.
We knew how much social status meant to him.
He wouldn’t have blabbed.
And now he couldn’t.
It was a win/win situation all around.
His roommate reported him missing three days later, but nothing much came of the police investigation. Flyers were posted. A tip line was established. His brother put up a Facebook page where people could share thoughts and theories.
Most people figured Josh had just cracked under the stress of making the grade at an Ivy League college after going to a public high school.
His roommate kept telling the cops that Josh would never have left without his laptop but they were overworked and underpaid and didn’t really give a shit.
Nobody really gave a shit.
Except Conor. He couldn’t let it go.
He kept it together for a little over a month before he showed up in my room one night, so drunk he could hardly walk.
“I can’t stand it, dude,” he said, breathing beer in my face. “We’ve gotta go to the cops. We’ve gotta tell them what happened.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We should go down to the police station right now.”
He was so relieved he was almost sobbing. “Thanks, man,” he said.
“They’ll understand it was just an accident,” I said. “They’ll probably just send us for counseling or something.”
“You think?” he asked, his pink face slick with alcohol-sweat.
“We just wanted to teach him a lesson,” I said. “It was just a terrible, terrible accident.”
“Just an accident,” he repeated.
“You’re too drunk to drive,” I said. “Give me your car keys.”
He passed out in the passenger seat before I’d even pulled out of the dorm parking lot. He was still asleep when I pulled up next to the boathouse.
I left the key in the ignition and the motor running as I muscled his dead weight out of the car and more or less dragged him up the steps to the structure.
As we approached the door, he began to rouse so I slammed him face first into the sturdy wood and knocked him unconscious.
Once inside the boathouse, I simply tipped him into the water face first and watched until no more bubbles rose to the surface.
Whoever found him would think he’d stumbled into the boathouse, fallen into the water and been too drunk to climb out. There’d be a bruise on his forehead but no one would look too closely at it. Even if they did, it would look like he’d hit his face on the planking between the canoes.
I left his car running with the door open and the key still in the lock. It would probably still be there in the morning, the tank dry, the battery run down. The abandoned car would help sell the scenario. And if someone stole the car, so much the better.
I got a text from Briana as I was walking back to the dorm. She wanted to know if I’d seen Ryan.
Briana was a tasty little piece. She’d need someone to comfort her.
It was a win/win situation.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Interlude Stories: Kieran J. Shea
CHECKIN’ THE CZECH: A CHARLIE BYRNE GRIND - KIERAN J. SHEA
I’d been cracking Mrs. Hart’s eighty-seven-year old ribs for nine minutes straight when two Egg Harbor Township cops and two EMTs plowed through the front door.
From their faces the scene must’ve redlined past camp crazy. Lacerated head wound flooding a delta of blood down my face. Mrs. Hart’s pink nightgown riding high over her splayed legs revealing a gnarled, gray thatch of pubic hair. There was a seven-iron wedged squarely in the far wall like a climbing axe and the carpet still smoldered from where the vodka burned.
From my kneeling position over, I fell sideways as the two EMTs took over. Lightheaded from the crack on my head, I rolled right and exposed my Berretta subcompact holstered beneath my suit jacket.
The two patrolmen didn’t hesitate. Like a good boy, I did exactly what I was told. Laced my fingers behind my head and everything. Sticky blood clotting in my hair.
Man, it always comes down to money in this business, doesn’t it?
Always.
*
“So your mother hired this Ivy Bobková as an in-home caregiver without looking into her background? Why would she do that?”
Richard Hart’s eyebrows pulsed. Scowling at me, he waggled an expensive looking pen between his fingers. Behind him, a small campus of four story identical cake box office buildings soaked in a mean, March rain.
“Ivy had references,” he said. “A friend of a friend of my mother’s. I only learned about this oversight later.”
“Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
“Doesn’t really matter. She was a good woman, but she passed away earlier this year.”
“Huh. So no references from actual health care providers?”
“No, Mr. Byrne. No references.”
“Okay, let’s shift the subject. Tell me; what’s your impression of Ivy Bobková?”
Hart sighed, his eyes flicking briefly to the rain spattered window before his attention returned to my question. “I’ve only met the woman twice. Once when I drove out to the house to take my mother to lunch and another time when my mother asked me to haul a box of my father’s old clothes to the Salvation Army. She’s pleasant enough looking woman. Lean, some might say attractive, brown hair. Mid-thirties maybe? Seems competent. Well-organized and attentive to my mother’s needs, but here’s the thing…” He waits a moment. “I think my mother has been showing increasing signs poor judgment since my father passed away.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Three years ago. Heart disease.”
I let this information settle for a moment before resuming.
“So, the short of this situation is you’re concerned for your mother’s health and safety?”
“Well, without real references wouldn’t you be?”
Actually, to be honest, I wouldn’t. Call it a backwards blessing, but my own abusive mother and psychopathic father died horribly when I was twelve. Mom ramping downward on her manic curve hung herself from the drop down attic and Dad, in his infinite compassion, drank a fifth of rye and drove into a tree off of the Garden State Parkway. Caring for aging parents? Not on the Charlie Byrne agenda.
I asked, “So you’re not worried about theft or anything?”
“Theft?” Richard Hart actually laughed a little. “Good God, no. Everything my mother owns is in a secured trust and that trust goes directly to my sister and I equally upon her death. It’s quite a substantial arrangement. Even with the downturn in the market our family’s advisors place the value easily above eleven million or more.”
“That’s a handsome sum these days.”
“My late father was a very successful industrial printer. A self-proclaimed Philadelphia king of Heidelberg offset printing long before the digital age. He practically cornered the mid-Atlantic market for a decade. Anyway, my mother has always courted simple tastes and needs. Like my father she’s of German descent and keeps the house practically barren in its modern appointments.”
“So no valuables then?”
“She abhors jewelry and frivolous spending except for her figurines.”
“Her figurines?”
“She collects crystal animals. Scores of them.”
“Like in The Glass Menagerie?”
“Her pieces are a bit more expensive.”
“But no loose cash about?”
“Believe me, with the money from the trust she is more than adequately provided for. Groceries, medicine, clothing…what does one woman need? It’s all delivered to her home, and if she ever needs to go out she has a driver on call. She rarely, if ever, touches cash.”
I nodded. “In a situation like this, the dependency between a nurse and a patient…umm…trust can be abused. Do you suspect physical mistreatment with your mother?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mental abuse?”
“Possibly. Ivy runs a tight ship. I think it’s why my mother likes her so much. Must be an old European thing.”
“Mmm. And you don’t have power of attorney in her affairs?”
“No, and that’s a problem. She’s been resistant. My sister Clarissa and I have been trying to keep up with my mother’s troublesome health issues and to get her affairs in better order, but it’s been very difficult. My mother, you understand, has never been one to complain and likes to control things. I’ve been in and out of the country for the better part of this past year on business. Clarissa, she lives in Omaha and has zero time for the day in and day out issues.”
“Omaha as in Omaha, Nebraska, Omaha?”
“The same.”
“Long way from the Jersey Shore.”
“She met a cowboy of sorts after she graduated from Northwestern. Fell in love.”
“They still have actual cowboys in flyover country?”
“I was being droll. He’s a cattle broker.”
I bit my cheek. Hard. I mean, really. Droll? Who the fuck talks like that? Felt like I was in a Henry James novel.
Richard Hart scooted his chair into his desk. “Mr. Byrne, I am perfectly capable of conducting an internet-based public records inquiry, but I do not have the patience or the time. I’d rather employ someone like you for thoroughness.”
“I appreciate the backslap of confidence.”
“So will you look into this?”
“Sure. But one more thing before we finish up.”
“By all means...”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but why don’t you take the simplest course and just fire this woman if you don’t like her?”
Hart made a pained look. “I would if I could, but my mother adores her and now wants to hire an immigration lawyer to help this woman with her visa.”
“What? Her visa? Hold on a second. Why didn’t you mention the visa issue before?”
“I’m sorry, I meant to. Apparently Ivy Bobková’s visa is set to expire. One of the lingering hangovers of the Cold War is that citizens from the Czech Republic, even if qualified, must undergo an excruciatingly complicated process to obtain a visa here. Like I said earlier, Ivy appears to be a competent caregiver, but I’d like to be certain my mother isn’t wasting her money.”
“So she already has an immigration lawyer lined up then?”
He nodded. “Ivy does.”
“Not your mother?”
“No.”
“Does this lawyer have a name?”
Richard Hart removed his checkbook from his suit pocket. I watched as he scribbled out my retainer on a pale blue check with his expensive pen.
“Jasper Bloch.”
*
Iventa Bobková…a.k.a. Ivy.
Over the next three days, I doggedly ran the traces on Ivy like my three-legged, one-eyed cat Chomsky when he chases down a rat beneath the boardwalk. However, unlike Chomsky, I came up with nada. Zilch. Not even a taste. The woman was a ghost and off the radar.
Background checks. Christ, what a pain in the nuts. If you can’t corner your quarry with a cell phone, pluck, and a laptop with decent Wi-Fi access, serious problems are afoot. Either (a) someone isn’t who they say they are or (b) you pretty much suck as an investigator. For the record I’d like to think that I don’t think I pretty much suck as an investigator, at least not that much.
Truth was I was more than a little pissed off at the prospect of having to sit on Ivy Bobková with a stint of surveillance, because I had other shit to do.
Richard Hart said Ivy typically bounced from his mother’s house once the old lady was tucked in with her CSI. Ivy always returned to the house the following morning right after breakfast. Fine by me. I parked my Camry down the street from Mrs. Hart’s house, and followed Ivy’s red Nissan Pathfinder when she rolled out just after eight. It was Friday night and Saturdays were Ivy’s day off.
Ivy didn’t head straight home. Her first stop was the gym. Good for her. Work out all that job related stress, paying bills and administering medications. Full hour of cardio on the elliptical, some free weights in the mirror, and some excruciating leg squats. Ah, being a terrific piece of ass like Ivy Bobková takes hard work.
About a half an hour after the gym, she drove to and parked outside one of four twenty unit condos in a development called Sea Pines. The condo complex was a low rent affair on Route 322, and a drooping acid rain-stained sign advertised units starting in the mid-50s. She took the steps two at a time bypassing her mailbox in the foyer apparently too sweaty or too distracted to stop and check. It was the break I needed.
I waited in my car for a light to snap on upstairs and called in an order for a small sausage pie for the address. When the pizza guy asked me which unit, I told them to hold on a second.
Quickly, I got out of my Camry and stepped across the parking lot. At the condo’s main foyer, I cupped my hands against the glass.
I needed another unit that was occupied. I looked left and saw a light on in a second story unit, the mumbled bass of some hip-hop du jour vibrating the sliding glass window that led to the unit’s balcony. I told the pizza guy 202, Unit A.
When the pizza guy showed, I followed him in, jangling my keys and committed a felony by popping Ivy’s mail box. But I scored Ivy’s cell phone bill. Hey, I’m a bastard that way. I headed home to the beach.
Back in my ground floor apartment in Ocean City, I fed my boy Chomsky some kitty kibble and gave the bill the once over as I flopped on the couch. Like most phone bills, there’s usually one number that’s called more than any other. Lover, spouse, work, sick aunt, something like that. Using a burner I kept around for checking on things anonymously, I called the most frequently listed number and it clicked right to voicemail. I was so ecstatic at the name, I poured myself a good four fingers worth of fifteen year old rum.
Jasper Bloch.
Calling your immigration lawyer when you’re being squeezed on a visa issue is not that unusual. But lawyers bleed your dry by the hour. Ivy and Jasper talked a lot.
2 A.M. for one hour and twenty minutes? 4 A.M. for ten?
Two hours and fifteen minutes on a Sunday morning?
Something stank.
I hit the sack early and did some dawn patrol surveillance at Ivy’s Sea Pine condo. Around nine, Ivy drove her red Pathfinder to an office park where a doughy looking dude in a suit came out to meet her. The two had lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant as did I. Ivy and Jasper held hands and played footsie while I gnawed on some overpriced veal parmigiana. I gave their waiter forty bucks to confirm the signature on the doughy dude’s credit card.
I’m sorry, but who in their right mind names a kid Jasper?
No wonder he turned out to be such an asshole.
*
The next morning, after downing a half a pot of coffee, I called Richard Hart to give him an update.
His assistant informed me Hart was away for the next few days on business and asked if I could take a message for him. I told her not to bother and that I had his cell.
I rang him twice and left two messages for Hart to call me immediately. Meanwhile, I got out my heavy drilling equipment, spelunking helmet, and started tearing the living shit out of the dubious legal career of Jasper Gabriel Bloch.
The next morning, Richard Hart finally had the decency to return my calls.
“It’s a scam,” I told him, “I just know it. The whole thing stinks.”
“How can you so be sure?”
“Were you listening to what I just told you? Bloch has a history of being involved in shaky situations going back ten years and this Ivy woman? It’s like she doesn’t even exist. Wait a minute...”
“What?”
“Her friend. The friend of a friend who referred Ivy to your mother. What was her name?”
“What, why?”
“Just give me the name.”
He did. I told him to pick up the phone when I called him back.
It took me the better part of the rest of the day and the following morning to finally locate a family member of this friend of a so-called friend. A heartbreaking story if your personal values are based solely on money.
It seemed some significant funds were cleverly siphoned off of Mrs. Hart’s dead friend’s accounts and no one knew how. Signs pointed to identity theft and the troubles of the information age.
Yeah, right. Nothing embarrasses old seaside money like being taken for a ride.
*
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I should contact the police.”
“I’m going to advise against that, Mr. Hart.”
“Are you deranged? Why not contact the police?”
“Well, all this? It’s pretty circumstantial. Might be more trouble for you with the cops than it is actually worth. And if you confront Ivy or Jasper Bloch directly with your suspicions without actual proof in hand it might even be construed as libelous. Yeah, sure, they might walk away but then again they might not. Bloch is a bit of a weasel that’s for sure. He might smell blood in the water. I mean, come on, his cases make late night TV ads for liability lawyers look like Harvard Law Review.”
“Can you get proof of what they’re up to?”
“That would take a lot more time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m talking weeks of time. You should just fire the woman. Now.”
“That’s what you recommend?”
“Yes. Then have your accountant work backward, see if anything is amiss.”
“I still can’t believe this. How did you come about this information again?”
“Which part?”
“How did you figure out she was working with Bloch to defraud my mother?”
My cat Chomsky looked at me with his one good eye and then closed it. Chomsky let out a long, whistling fart.
I waved a hand and pushed the cat off my desk. “I improvised.”
“Oh Christ, what you did was illegal, wasn’t it?”
“It’s better if I didn’t answer that.”
“You idiot. Now we have no recourse.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this doesn’t have to be that complicated. We have plenty of recourse. Just fire the woman. That’s the easiest way out of this. Take your mother’s disappointment and protests on the chin and get rid of Ivy before it’s too late. And get the accountant cranking.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“It might be.”
“I need to do it in person and I’m in London.”
London? I thought of the cost of the call and checked my watch. He better not play it cheap on the expense report.
“What about your sister?” I asked.
“Clarissa is not flying out from Omaha just to fire some Czechoslovakian huckster.”
“So what do you want to do?”
He was quiet for almost a full minute before he spoke.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Talk to my mother. You do it. Explain it. Tell her what you told me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Just do it. Make something up.”
“Make something up? What, just lie to her?”
“Improvise. Apparently you like doing that.”
“Now, hold on a minute...”
“Just do it, Byrne. I’ll wire you an extra two thousand dollars this afternoon on top of your fee if you make it happen by C.O.B. today—that’s a lock. Count on it.”
“Two grand?”
“Two grand on top of your fee if you take care of this by this afternoon.”
See? What did I tell you? Always comes down to money in this business.
Fucking always.
*
Let me paint the scene for you.
Me in my best suit introducing myself and asking to be invited inside Mrs. Hart’s lovely home in Egg Harbor Township on the pretext as that I am a representative working voluntarily for her son, Richard. Oh really? Yes. Richard is a lovely boy. Yes, indeed, good old Richard, a real straight shooter. He has dispatched me from London with some very important business to discuss. London, really? He’s in London. Oh. I’m here for him. Oh I see, yes.
Mrs. Hart introduces me to Ivy who, I’ve got to say, looks pretty smoking hot in the pink nurse scrubs. We all move to the living room to discuss the matter in private and Ivy leaves Mrs. Hart and me alone to make us some tea. Mrs. Hart is a very frail looking woman, wheezy and has the dried out look of a lifetime smoker. A full generous helmet of nearly platinum white hair.
After some gentle and soothing small talk about various portraits around the room, I steer our conversation to the subject at hand and retrieve my briefcase from where I settled it next to the couch. I perch forward on my chair and open the briefcase on the table between us.
Before I begin, I tune my ears and listen to the distant clinking sounds of China being retrieved for our tea. Then, as diplomatically and clearly as possible, I lay out the information I have gathered so far on Iventa, taking great pains to speak slowly as I cover the specifics.
The rest is really an adrenalized blur. At some point, Ivy eavesdropped on the conversation and her façade shattered like a hammered shell. The denials started in struggled English and quickly grew into molten Slavic vowels and grunts. She threw everything she could at me, despite Mrs. Hart’s shrieking, and it was a Baccarat crystal cheetah that split my head open. Strange piece of bric-a-brac a crystal cheetah. I looked up the price later. Three hundred bucks. Jesus, I hate people.
I bled everywhere. Like, everywhere. And Mrs. Hart collapsed.
Ivy charged from the room and I heard her rattling in the hall closet.
I thought for a fraction of a second that maybe she really was a nurse and was going for a medical kit or crash cart or something. But I knew better. I started to go for my gun as she flew around the corner, a seven iron twirling above her head.
The first blow tagged the meat of my right shoulder, but I managed to dodge the second whooshing swing by ducking. The momentum corkscrewed Ivy’s torso and the seven-iron flew out of her hands and sank into the far wall. Then she started to throw liquor bottles at me from a nearby credenza. A big bottle of Belvedere vodka shattered a Waterford crystal lamp and that’s when the fire started.
I rushed Ivy, leaping over the flames and throwing the biggest upper cut I could muster. Ivy spun away like a movie star dodging the paparazzi and crumpled to the floor.
Quickly, I started mashing out the flames with a throw pillow from the couch. Kind of like using a mushroom to smother a badger. I called 911 before I checked on Mrs. Hart. No pulse. Started CPR. Ivy came to when she heard the sirens, hauled ass.
Anyway, the whole debacle?
Not worth a two grand bonus, not ever.
I took the cheetah.
I’d been cracking Mrs. Hart’s eighty-seven-year old ribs for nine minutes straight when two Egg Harbor Township cops and two EMTs plowed through the front door.
From their faces the scene must’ve redlined past camp crazy. Lacerated head wound flooding a delta of blood down my face. Mrs. Hart’s pink nightgown riding high over her splayed legs revealing a gnarled, gray thatch of pubic hair. There was a seven-iron wedged squarely in the far wall like a climbing axe and the carpet still smoldered from where the vodka burned.
From my kneeling position over, I fell sideways as the two EMTs took over. Lightheaded from the crack on my head, I rolled right and exposed my Berretta subcompact holstered beneath my suit jacket.
The two patrolmen didn’t hesitate. Like a good boy, I did exactly what I was told. Laced my fingers behind my head and everything. Sticky blood clotting in my hair.
Man, it always comes down to money in this business, doesn’t it?
Always.
*
“So your mother hired this Ivy Bobková as an in-home caregiver without looking into her background? Why would she do that?”
Richard Hart’s eyebrows pulsed. Scowling at me, he waggled an expensive looking pen between his fingers. Behind him, a small campus of four story identical cake box office buildings soaked in a mean, March rain.
“Ivy had references,” he said. “A friend of a friend of my mother’s. I only learned about this oversight later.”
“Does this friend of a friend have a name?”
“Doesn’t really matter. She was a good woman, but she passed away earlier this year.”
“Huh. So no references from actual health care providers?”
“No, Mr. Byrne. No references.”
“Okay, let’s shift the subject. Tell me; what’s your impression of Ivy Bobková?”
Hart sighed, his eyes flicking briefly to the rain spattered window before his attention returned to my question. “I’ve only met the woman twice. Once when I drove out to the house to take my mother to lunch and another time when my mother asked me to haul a box of my father’s old clothes to the Salvation Army. She’s pleasant enough looking woman. Lean, some might say attractive, brown hair. Mid-thirties maybe? Seems competent. Well-organized and attentive to my mother’s needs, but here’s the thing…” He waits a moment. “I think my mother has been showing increasing signs poor judgment since my father passed away.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Three years ago. Heart disease.”
I let this information settle for a moment before resuming.
“So, the short of this situation is you’re concerned for your mother’s health and safety?”
“Well, without real references wouldn’t you be?”
Actually, to be honest, I wouldn’t. Call it a backwards blessing, but my own abusive mother and psychopathic father died horribly when I was twelve. Mom ramping downward on her manic curve hung herself from the drop down attic and Dad, in his infinite compassion, drank a fifth of rye and drove into a tree off of the Garden State Parkway. Caring for aging parents? Not on the Charlie Byrne agenda.
I asked, “So you’re not worried about theft or anything?”
“Theft?” Richard Hart actually laughed a little. “Good God, no. Everything my mother owns is in a secured trust and that trust goes directly to my sister and I equally upon her death. It’s quite a substantial arrangement. Even with the downturn in the market our family’s advisors place the value easily above eleven million or more.”
“That’s a handsome sum these days.”
“My late father was a very successful industrial printer. A self-proclaimed Philadelphia king of Heidelberg offset printing long before the digital age. He practically cornered the mid-Atlantic market for a decade. Anyway, my mother has always courted simple tastes and needs. Like my father she’s of German descent and keeps the house practically barren in its modern appointments.”
“So no valuables then?”
“She abhors jewelry and frivolous spending except for her figurines.”
“Her figurines?”
“She collects crystal animals. Scores of them.”
“Like in The Glass Menagerie?”
“Her pieces are a bit more expensive.”
“But no loose cash about?”
“Believe me, with the money from the trust she is more than adequately provided for. Groceries, medicine, clothing…what does one woman need? It’s all delivered to her home, and if she ever needs to go out she has a driver on call. She rarely, if ever, touches cash.”
I nodded. “In a situation like this, the dependency between a nurse and a patient…umm…trust can be abused. Do you suspect physical mistreatment with your mother?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mental abuse?”
“Possibly. Ivy runs a tight ship. I think it’s why my mother likes her so much. Must be an old European thing.”
“Mmm. And you don’t have power of attorney in her affairs?”
“No, and that’s a problem. She’s been resistant. My sister Clarissa and I have been trying to keep up with my mother’s troublesome health issues and to get her affairs in better order, but it’s been very difficult. My mother, you understand, has never been one to complain and likes to control things. I’ve been in and out of the country for the better part of this past year on business. Clarissa, she lives in Omaha and has zero time for the day in and day out issues.”
“Omaha as in Omaha, Nebraska, Omaha?”
“The same.”
“Long way from the Jersey Shore.”
“She met a cowboy of sorts after she graduated from Northwestern. Fell in love.”
“They still have actual cowboys in flyover country?”
“I was being droll. He’s a cattle broker.”
I bit my cheek. Hard. I mean, really. Droll? Who the fuck talks like that? Felt like I was in a Henry James novel.
Richard Hart scooted his chair into his desk. “Mr. Byrne, I am perfectly capable of conducting an internet-based public records inquiry, but I do not have the patience or the time. I’d rather employ someone like you for thoroughness.”
“I appreciate the backslap of confidence.”
“So will you look into this?”
“Sure. But one more thing before we finish up.”
“By all means...”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but why don’t you take the simplest course and just fire this woman if you don’t like her?”
Hart made a pained look. “I would if I could, but my mother adores her and now wants to hire an immigration lawyer to help this woman with her visa.”
“What? Her visa? Hold on a second. Why didn’t you mention the visa issue before?”
“I’m sorry, I meant to. Apparently Ivy Bobková’s visa is set to expire. One of the lingering hangovers of the Cold War is that citizens from the Czech Republic, even if qualified, must undergo an excruciatingly complicated process to obtain a visa here. Like I said earlier, Ivy appears to be a competent caregiver, but I’d like to be certain my mother isn’t wasting her money.”
“So she already has an immigration lawyer lined up then?”
He nodded. “Ivy does.”
“Not your mother?”
“No.”
“Does this lawyer have a name?”
Richard Hart removed his checkbook from his suit pocket. I watched as he scribbled out my retainer on a pale blue check with his expensive pen.
“Jasper Bloch.”
*
Iventa Bobková…a.k.a. Ivy.
Over the next three days, I doggedly ran the traces on Ivy like my three-legged, one-eyed cat Chomsky when he chases down a rat beneath the boardwalk. However, unlike Chomsky, I came up with nada. Zilch. Not even a taste. The woman was a ghost and off the radar.
Background checks. Christ, what a pain in the nuts. If you can’t corner your quarry with a cell phone, pluck, and a laptop with decent Wi-Fi access, serious problems are afoot. Either (a) someone isn’t who they say they are or (b) you pretty much suck as an investigator. For the record I’d like to think that I don’t think I pretty much suck as an investigator, at least not that much.
Truth was I was more than a little pissed off at the prospect of having to sit on Ivy Bobková with a stint of surveillance, because I had other shit to do.
Richard Hart said Ivy typically bounced from his mother’s house once the old lady was tucked in with her CSI. Ivy always returned to the house the following morning right after breakfast. Fine by me. I parked my Camry down the street from Mrs. Hart’s house, and followed Ivy’s red Nissan Pathfinder when she rolled out just after eight. It was Friday night and Saturdays were Ivy’s day off.
Ivy didn’t head straight home. Her first stop was the gym. Good for her. Work out all that job related stress, paying bills and administering medications. Full hour of cardio on the elliptical, some free weights in the mirror, and some excruciating leg squats. Ah, being a terrific piece of ass like Ivy Bobková takes hard work.
About a half an hour after the gym, she drove to and parked outside one of four twenty unit condos in a development called Sea Pines. The condo complex was a low rent affair on Route 322, and a drooping acid rain-stained sign advertised units starting in the mid-50s. She took the steps two at a time bypassing her mailbox in the foyer apparently too sweaty or too distracted to stop and check. It was the break I needed.
I waited in my car for a light to snap on upstairs and called in an order for a small sausage pie for the address. When the pizza guy asked me which unit, I told them to hold on a second.
Quickly, I got out of my Camry and stepped across the parking lot. At the condo’s main foyer, I cupped my hands against the glass.
I needed another unit that was occupied. I looked left and saw a light on in a second story unit, the mumbled bass of some hip-hop du jour vibrating the sliding glass window that led to the unit’s balcony. I told the pizza guy 202, Unit A.
When the pizza guy showed, I followed him in, jangling my keys and committed a felony by popping Ivy’s mail box. But I scored Ivy’s cell phone bill. Hey, I’m a bastard that way. I headed home to the beach.
Back in my ground floor apartment in Ocean City, I fed my boy Chomsky some kitty kibble and gave the bill the once over as I flopped on the couch. Like most phone bills, there’s usually one number that’s called more than any other. Lover, spouse, work, sick aunt, something like that. Using a burner I kept around for checking on things anonymously, I called the most frequently listed number and it clicked right to voicemail. I was so ecstatic at the name, I poured myself a good four fingers worth of fifteen year old rum.
Jasper Bloch.
Calling your immigration lawyer when you’re being squeezed on a visa issue is not that unusual. But lawyers bleed your dry by the hour. Ivy and Jasper talked a lot.
2 A.M. for one hour and twenty minutes? 4 A.M. for ten?
Two hours and fifteen minutes on a Sunday morning?
Something stank.
I hit the sack early and did some dawn patrol surveillance at Ivy’s Sea Pine condo. Around nine, Ivy drove her red Pathfinder to an office park where a doughy looking dude in a suit came out to meet her. The two had lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant as did I. Ivy and Jasper held hands and played footsie while I gnawed on some overpriced veal parmigiana. I gave their waiter forty bucks to confirm the signature on the doughy dude’s credit card.
I’m sorry, but who in their right mind names a kid Jasper?
No wonder he turned out to be such an asshole.
*
The next morning, after downing a half a pot of coffee, I called Richard Hart to give him an update.
His assistant informed me Hart was away for the next few days on business and asked if I could take a message for him. I told her not to bother and that I had his cell.
I rang him twice and left two messages for Hart to call me immediately. Meanwhile, I got out my heavy drilling equipment, spelunking helmet, and started tearing the living shit out of the dubious legal career of Jasper Gabriel Bloch.
The next morning, Richard Hart finally had the decency to return my calls.
“It’s a scam,” I told him, “I just know it. The whole thing stinks.”
“How can you so be sure?”
“Were you listening to what I just told you? Bloch has a history of being involved in shaky situations going back ten years and this Ivy woman? It’s like she doesn’t even exist. Wait a minute...”
“What?”
“Her friend. The friend of a friend who referred Ivy to your mother. What was her name?”
“What, why?”
“Just give me the name.”
He did. I told him to pick up the phone when I called him back.
It took me the better part of the rest of the day and the following morning to finally locate a family member of this friend of a so-called friend. A heartbreaking story if your personal values are based solely on money.
It seemed some significant funds were cleverly siphoned off of Mrs. Hart’s dead friend’s accounts and no one knew how. Signs pointed to identity theft and the troubles of the information age.
Yeah, right. Nothing embarrasses old seaside money like being taken for a ride.
*
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I should contact the police.”
“I’m going to advise against that, Mr. Hart.”
“Are you deranged? Why not contact the police?”
“Well, all this? It’s pretty circumstantial. Might be more trouble for you with the cops than it is actually worth. And if you confront Ivy or Jasper Bloch directly with your suspicions without actual proof in hand it might even be construed as libelous. Yeah, sure, they might walk away but then again they might not. Bloch is a bit of a weasel that’s for sure. He might smell blood in the water. I mean, come on, his cases make late night TV ads for liability lawyers look like Harvard Law Review.”
“Can you get proof of what they’re up to?”
“That would take a lot more time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I’m talking weeks of time. You should just fire the woman. Now.”
“That’s what you recommend?”
“Yes. Then have your accountant work backward, see if anything is amiss.”
“I still can’t believe this. How did you come about this information again?”
“Which part?”
“How did you figure out she was working with Bloch to defraud my mother?”
My cat Chomsky looked at me with his one good eye and then closed it. Chomsky let out a long, whistling fart.
I waved a hand and pushed the cat off my desk. “I improvised.”
“Oh Christ, what you did was illegal, wasn’t it?”
“It’s better if I didn’t answer that.”
“You idiot. Now we have no recourse.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this doesn’t have to be that complicated. We have plenty of recourse. Just fire the woman. That’s the easiest way out of this. Take your mother’s disappointment and protests on the chin and get rid of Ivy before it’s too late. And get the accountant cranking.”
“Maybe it’s too late already.”
“It might be.”
“I need to do it in person and I’m in London.”
London? I thought of the cost of the call and checked my watch. He better not play it cheap on the expense report.
“What about your sister?” I asked.
“Clarissa is not flying out from Omaha just to fire some Czechoslovakian huckster.”
“So what do you want to do?”
He was quiet for almost a full minute before he spoke.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Talk to my mother. You do it. Explain it. Tell her what you told me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Just do it. Make something up.”
“Make something up? What, just lie to her?”
“Improvise. Apparently you like doing that.”
“Now, hold on a minute...”
“Just do it, Byrne. I’ll wire you an extra two thousand dollars this afternoon on top of your fee if you make it happen by C.O.B. today—that’s a lock. Count on it.”
“Two grand?”
“Two grand on top of your fee if you take care of this by this afternoon.”
See? What did I tell you? Always comes down to money in this business.
Fucking always.
*
Let me paint the scene for you.
Me in my best suit introducing myself and asking to be invited inside Mrs. Hart’s lovely home in Egg Harbor Township on the pretext as that I am a representative working voluntarily for her son, Richard. Oh really? Yes. Richard is a lovely boy. Yes, indeed, good old Richard, a real straight shooter. He has dispatched me from London with some very important business to discuss. London, really? He’s in London. Oh. I’m here for him. Oh I see, yes.
Mrs. Hart introduces me to Ivy who, I’ve got to say, looks pretty smoking hot in the pink nurse scrubs. We all move to the living room to discuss the matter in private and Ivy leaves Mrs. Hart and me alone to make us some tea. Mrs. Hart is a very frail looking woman, wheezy and has the dried out look of a lifetime smoker. A full generous helmet of nearly platinum white hair.
After some gentle and soothing small talk about various portraits around the room, I steer our conversation to the subject at hand and retrieve my briefcase from where I settled it next to the couch. I perch forward on my chair and open the briefcase on the table between us.
Before I begin, I tune my ears and listen to the distant clinking sounds of China being retrieved for our tea. Then, as diplomatically and clearly as possible, I lay out the information I have gathered so far on Iventa, taking great pains to speak slowly as I cover the specifics.
The rest is really an adrenalized blur. At some point, Ivy eavesdropped on the conversation and her façade shattered like a hammered shell. The denials started in struggled English and quickly grew into molten Slavic vowels and grunts. She threw everything she could at me, despite Mrs. Hart’s shrieking, and it was a Baccarat crystal cheetah that split my head open. Strange piece of bric-a-brac a crystal cheetah. I looked up the price later. Three hundred bucks. Jesus, I hate people.
I bled everywhere. Like, everywhere. And Mrs. Hart collapsed.
Ivy charged from the room and I heard her rattling in the hall closet.
I thought for a fraction of a second that maybe she really was a nurse and was going for a medical kit or crash cart or something. But I knew better. I started to go for my gun as she flew around the corner, a seven iron twirling above her head.
The first blow tagged the meat of my right shoulder, but I managed to dodge the second whooshing swing by ducking. The momentum corkscrewed Ivy’s torso and the seven-iron flew out of her hands and sank into the far wall. Then she started to throw liquor bottles at me from a nearby credenza. A big bottle of Belvedere vodka shattered a Waterford crystal lamp and that’s when the fire started.
I rushed Ivy, leaping over the flames and throwing the biggest upper cut I could muster. Ivy spun away like a movie star dodging the paparazzi and crumpled to the floor.
Quickly, I started mashing out the flames with a throw pillow from the couch. Kind of like using a mushroom to smother a badger. I called 911 before I checked on Mrs. Hart. No pulse. Started CPR. Ivy came to when she heard the sirens, hauled ass.
Anyway, the whole debacle?
Not worth a two grand bonus, not ever.
I took the cheetah.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Interlude: Grift Magazine
John Kenyon has announced the creation of Grift Magazine, a new publication that will feature crime fiction, reviews, interviews and more. Starting in February 2012, the magazine will also have a print edition and will be coming out three times a year.
The electronic edition of the magazine will have flash fiction, reviews, interviews and news from the world of crime fiction.
John Kenyon will be editing both the magazine and the site and Tod Foley of todfoleydesign.com will be designing the look of the magazine.
You can keep up with Grift Magazine at:
Twitter
Facebook
RSS
Submission guidelines and news about the final make-up and layout of the magazine are coming soon.
So go take a look around the joint and enjoy. Always great to see another site to send and read crime fiction.
The electronic edition of the magazine will have flash fiction, reviews, interviews and news from the world of crime fiction.
John Kenyon will be editing both the magazine and the site and Tod Foley of todfoleydesign.com will be designing the look of the magazine.
You can keep up with Grift Magazine at:
RSS
Submission guidelines and news about the final make-up and layout of the magazine are coming soon.
So go take a look around the joint and enjoy. Always great to see another site to send and read crime fiction.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Interlude: Review Of Richard Godwin’s APOSTLE RISING
Richard Godwin’s APOSTLE RISING is something that many novels claim to be but fall extremely short of.
It is a true mystery.
What do I mean by “true mystery”?
Most novels that claim to be mysteries will give you a little bit here, a little bit there and by page twenty, you can either figure out exactly who’s going around, committing the crimes (or murders or whatever the novel’s thrust is), or the novelist has already revealed this important fact.
Richard Godwin gives you a little bit here, a little bit there but he holds his cards so very close to his vest and doesn’t spell it out for you, instead making you, almost daring you to figure it all out for yourself, without ever talking down or treating the audience like idiots.
The murders contained in the novel are not CSI/Law & Order Sanitized For Your Protection murders. They are what police the world over see every day before the cameras show up. Just remember, you’ve been warned.
If you can get past the gore, you will be rewarded by a story that won’t let you go. Even after you’ve put the thing down, read the last word, you’re still going to think about it. Weeks later, you’ll be wondering why you didn’t see that coming. And you’ll be asking what happens next, because, nope, it doesn’t tie up nice and neat with a bow on top.
APOSTLE RISING is quite frankly one of the best novels I’ve read, not just this year but ever.
It is a true mystery.
What do I mean by “true mystery”?
Most novels that claim to be mysteries will give you a little bit here, a little bit there and by page twenty, you can either figure out exactly who’s going around, committing the crimes (or murders or whatever the novel’s thrust is), or the novelist has already revealed this important fact.
Richard Godwin gives you a little bit here, a little bit there but he holds his cards so very close to his vest and doesn’t spell it out for you, instead making you, almost daring you to figure it all out for yourself, without ever talking down or treating the audience like idiots.
The murders contained in the novel are not CSI/Law & Order Sanitized For Your Protection murders. They are what police the world over see every day before the cameras show up. Just remember, you’ve been warned.
If you can get past the gore, you will be rewarded by a story that won’t let you go. Even after you’ve put the thing down, read the last word, you’re still going to think about it. Weeks later, you’ll be wondering why you didn’t see that coming. And you’ll be asking what happens next, because, nope, it doesn’t tie up nice and neat with a bow on top.
APOSTLE RISING is quite frankly one of the best novels I’ve read, not just this year but ever.
Interlude Stories: Colin Graham
SLAUGHTERER - COLIN GRAHAM
Previously published at Paul Brazill’s You Would Say That, Wouldn’t You?
Sequel To The Enforcer
He felt sick with euphoria as he reflected on what he had done in becoming yet another monster in the family line, only this time emerging as by far the worst. He had always known he had this in him, waiting to come out someday.
Lying on the hillside wiping blood from out of his beard, Andrei Klopotkin couldn’t remember being more numb with exhaustion and sheer transgression, with the slaughtered multiplied in his midst. He alone must have accounted for dozens of them, lying there a few metres below, bashed jaws making the faces look even more incredulous, the limbs somehow acrobatic in their lifelessness. Collapsed there, fatigue rubbing into him with its kindly massage in this brand new silence, he felt safer than ever. He had won. And this was in large part because he had blood splattered all over his hands, body and face, after robbing families of their fathers, sons, husbands and brothers. Thanks to Andrei and comrades, many were now without mothers, daughters and wives as well.
Stalinist bludgeoners both, Andrei’s grandfather had dispensed of people, battering them through the door of their doom, and his father had culpably reduced them to gibbering wrecks, aside from the truly defiant ones, a phenomenon he could never quite work out. But now things had taken a different turn and he, Andrei, had engaged in sheer butchery, delighted in it as well. The enemy were just carcasses made to be such. He had mowed and hacked them down with relish.
His father, Sergei, a decrepit bitter wreck, full of vodka, slander and even perhaps a sliver of guilt, told his only born not to go and fight with the monarchist Chetniks in the falling-to-bits Yugoslavia, the notion jolting his Communist sensibilities. But Andrei’s bull-headed defiance pleased him too. He loved his son and adored his will to make a difference, something he had never done, or so he thought.
It was the 1990s, the Soviet Union as Sergei had known it had been ground into dust and he was lost. A dead man slugging contraband vodka, increasingly all that was available to the likes of the ex-KGB man. Poisonings were legion, yet the hooked were indifferent and indeed poured the muck into themselves with boggle-eyed voracity, wanting to end it all the coward’s way.
Andrei had gone through his own phase of self-desecration. He and his friends used to hang around in the courtyard near the block, disturbing the neighbours until the early hours, imbibing that ubiquitous 40% proof sludge that their parents were fatally addicted to. But the younger generation did so hedonistically, with a handle on the future: intoxicating their bodies with a smidgen of hope along with the usual, predictable despair.
With Yeltsin came the possibility of travel, if you had the means, and those could be had by robbing people, Andrei found. Soon, he’d amassed enough dollars to get out of the hell hole he called home and on hearing from an acquaintance that there was money to be made by being a bad boy down in Bosnia, he decided to make his way there. Escape just saw Andrei dive ever deeper into the inferno.
But to begin with he wanted to enjoy himself so he boarded the day-long train to Odessa to get some sea air. But after a couple of trips down to the beach he found himself getting bored again, so he mugged a couple of foreigners whose strange languages had made his ears prick up. It amused him to see them beg so incomprehensibly and fruitlessly for mercy as he smashed their faces in. Then, his libido began nagging him, particularly at the sight of all the scantily clad women around. He picked one up after reeling off his irresistible, sociopathic repartee, took her back to his room and raped and beat her, tied her to the bed to go out and get some beer and cigarettes then returned to repeat the deeds. Andrei certainly had his bit of fun down by the Black Sea.
Soon, however, this wasn’t in itself enough to detain him and he set off again through Hungary where someone was foolish enough to try and steal his luggage while he slept, as always lightly, on the train. The knee in the face that Andrei treated the thief to as punishment sent his features shattering backwards into his skull, concave-like, in one gloriously adept act of assault. The Russian then threw the culprit out of the window.
Alighting in Belgrade, Andrei got himself a room at a hotel he’d been told about by his Moscow acquaintance. It was shabby but Andrei wasn’t one for being unduly concerned about his surroundings, as long as no one bothered him and the place was quiet. He met two fellow Russian men in the bar and learnt that they too were keen on heading south to earn some mercenary cash. They had also made contact with the right people in Belgrade who could sort the logistics out.
One thing led to another and in two days time he was in a jeep heading towards Bosnia with a group of eight other volunteers, four of them Russian, two Ukrainian, a Greek and a Romanian. Two Serbs did the driving in turns. One of his new-found Russian friends, Nikolai, had already grown a thick beard in preparation for joining up with the Bosnian Serb army and advised Andrei to do likewise, which he did without a second thought. Soon, his countenance would look back at him from the mirror and Andrei would wonder what was wrong with it, until realizing that the somewhat sage-like character returning his stare was he himself. He took pleasure in the way the facial hair lent his appearance some moral authority while accentuating his virility, his menace.
Training began at a camp in north-eastern Bosnia, near a village which had recently been ‘cleansed’ of its population of Muslims or ‘Turks’ as his comrades often called them. Despite his wayward ways, regimentation came easily to Andrei, who instinctively knew that out in the field the strong bonds forged by it could be crucial, whilst also being keenly aware that in action discipline wasn’t everything. It was hugely enjoyable to be armed for the first time in his life as well. His weapon felt like an extension of self. It completed him. This was one reason, perhaps, that he became an excellent shot, though his bayonet was much valued, too.
Two weeks later and he was up in the mountains with a brigade of Russians and he had already gunned down two Muslim women at point blank range. He liked watching the matter fly out of the heads, like so much food spewing from a smashed container. It was if it represented him somehow. You couldn’t keep a lid on Andrei, after all.
Then his band got to Visegrad in the south east of Bosnia and the frenzy began in earnest. The noise, the smashed up riddled flesh, the fear, the adrenalin, the sheer unadulterated joy of it. Andrei had found himself at last. There was no turning back. The Klopotkin family had seen the last of its sons.
Previously published at Paul Brazill’s You Would Say That, Wouldn’t You?
Sequel To The Enforcer
He felt sick with euphoria as he reflected on what he had done in becoming yet another monster in the family line, only this time emerging as by far the worst. He had always known he had this in him, waiting to come out someday.
Lying on the hillside wiping blood from out of his beard, Andrei Klopotkin couldn’t remember being more numb with exhaustion and sheer transgression, with the slaughtered multiplied in his midst. He alone must have accounted for dozens of them, lying there a few metres below, bashed jaws making the faces look even more incredulous, the limbs somehow acrobatic in their lifelessness. Collapsed there, fatigue rubbing into him with its kindly massage in this brand new silence, he felt safer than ever. He had won. And this was in large part because he had blood splattered all over his hands, body and face, after robbing families of their fathers, sons, husbands and brothers. Thanks to Andrei and comrades, many were now without mothers, daughters and wives as well.
Stalinist bludgeoners both, Andrei’s grandfather had dispensed of people, battering them through the door of their doom, and his father had culpably reduced them to gibbering wrecks, aside from the truly defiant ones, a phenomenon he could never quite work out. But now things had taken a different turn and he, Andrei, had engaged in sheer butchery, delighted in it as well. The enemy were just carcasses made to be such. He had mowed and hacked them down with relish.
His father, Sergei, a decrepit bitter wreck, full of vodka, slander and even perhaps a sliver of guilt, told his only born not to go and fight with the monarchist Chetniks in the falling-to-bits Yugoslavia, the notion jolting his Communist sensibilities. But Andrei’s bull-headed defiance pleased him too. He loved his son and adored his will to make a difference, something he had never done, or so he thought.
It was the 1990s, the Soviet Union as Sergei had known it had been ground into dust and he was lost. A dead man slugging contraband vodka, increasingly all that was available to the likes of the ex-KGB man. Poisonings were legion, yet the hooked were indifferent and indeed poured the muck into themselves with boggle-eyed voracity, wanting to end it all the coward’s way.
Andrei had gone through his own phase of self-desecration. He and his friends used to hang around in the courtyard near the block, disturbing the neighbours until the early hours, imbibing that ubiquitous 40% proof sludge that their parents were fatally addicted to. But the younger generation did so hedonistically, with a handle on the future: intoxicating their bodies with a smidgen of hope along with the usual, predictable despair.
With Yeltsin came the possibility of travel, if you had the means, and those could be had by robbing people, Andrei found. Soon, he’d amassed enough dollars to get out of the hell hole he called home and on hearing from an acquaintance that there was money to be made by being a bad boy down in Bosnia, he decided to make his way there. Escape just saw Andrei dive ever deeper into the inferno.
But to begin with he wanted to enjoy himself so he boarded the day-long train to Odessa to get some sea air. But after a couple of trips down to the beach he found himself getting bored again, so he mugged a couple of foreigners whose strange languages had made his ears prick up. It amused him to see them beg so incomprehensibly and fruitlessly for mercy as he smashed their faces in. Then, his libido began nagging him, particularly at the sight of all the scantily clad women around. He picked one up after reeling off his irresistible, sociopathic repartee, took her back to his room and raped and beat her, tied her to the bed to go out and get some beer and cigarettes then returned to repeat the deeds. Andrei certainly had his bit of fun down by the Black Sea.
Soon, however, this wasn’t in itself enough to detain him and he set off again through Hungary where someone was foolish enough to try and steal his luggage while he slept, as always lightly, on the train. The knee in the face that Andrei treated the thief to as punishment sent his features shattering backwards into his skull, concave-like, in one gloriously adept act of assault. The Russian then threw the culprit out of the window.
Alighting in Belgrade, Andrei got himself a room at a hotel he’d been told about by his Moscow acquaintance. It was shabby but Andrei wasn’t one for being unduly concerned about his surroundings, as long as no one bothered him and the place was quiet. He met two fellow Russian men in the bar and learnt that they too were keen on heading south to earn some mercenary cash. They had also made contact with the right people in Belgrade who could sort the logistics out.
One thing led to another and in two days time he was in a jeep heading towards Bosnia with a group of eight other volunteers, four of them Russian, two Ukrainian, a Greek and a Romanian. Two Serbs did the driving in turns. One of his new-found Russian friends, Nikolai, had already grown a thick beard in preparation for joining up with the Bosnian Serb army and advised Andrei to do likewise, which he did without a second thought. Soon, his countenance would look back at him from the mirror and Andrei would wonder what was wrong with it, until realizing that the somewhat sage-like character returning his stare was he himself. He took pleasure in the way the facial hair lent his appearance some moral authority while accentuating his virility, his menace.
Training began at a camp in north-eastern Bosnia, near a village which had recently been ‘cleansed’ of its population of Muslims or ‘Turks’ as his comrades often called them. Despite his wayward ways, regimentation came easily to Andrei, who instinctively knew that out in the field the strong bonds forged by it could be crucial, whilst also being keenly aware that in action discipline wasn’t everything. It was hugely enjoyable to be armed for the first time in his life as well. His weapon felt like an extension of self. It completed him. This was one reason, perhaps, that he became an excellent shot, though his bayonet was much valued, too.
Two weeks later and he was up in the mountains with a brigade of Russians and he had already gunned down two Muslim women at point blank range. He liked watching the matter fly out of the heads, like so much food spewing from a smashed container. It was if it represented him somehow. You couldn’t keep a lid on Andrei, after all.
Then his band got to Visegrad in the south east of Bosnia and the frenzy began in earnest. The noise, the smashed up riddled flesh, the fear, the adrenalin, the sheer unadulterated joy of it. Andrei had found himself at last. There was no turning back. The Klopotkin family had seen the last of its sons.
Interlude Stories: Cindy Rosmus
BABY CHICKS - CINDY ROSMUS
All her life it haunted her. She’d only been eight, but told it over and over to silhouetted priests in confessionals. For years. Like it’d just happened that day.
That warm, quivering ball of fluff. So trusting. As her chubby hands began crushing, it panicked. Peered around at the others, who hopped around, peeping, carefree. Wildly tried to peck its way out, but her grip was merciless. Its little heart popped. And she smiled.
Her name was Libra. “And no,” she told Donny wearily, the night they met at the bar, “I’m not. I’m Scorpio.” The worst kind, too: obsessive, jealous. And, secretly, sadistic. “Definitely not balanced.” A real sexpot, and fuck you, I’m forty.
He lit a cigarette. “So,” he said, smugly. “Your folks were astro-freaks?”
“No.” She picked up her drink. Then, without looking at him, “Just freaks.”
She missed the gleam in his eye. “Aren’t we all?”
Lonely, horny. But one hot babe! She knew that, all right. The older she got, the better she looked: firm breasts, and legs. Smooth, creamy skin, with no crow’s feet beneath those hungry dark eyes. Wild black hair that shouldn’t’ve worked, but man, did it! Came off as cool, but like in that Billy Joel song, “was a mark for every shyster.” Just be nice to her. Tell her how young she looks… (Snicker): Tell her you love her.
No one, her Mom had told her, will ever love you but us. Pop was like Norman Bates’ Mom, just alive. A withered Granny Smith, cock in hand, who’d given up, way back. Mom liked to lock her in the closet. It was fun to picture her suffocating. That’s why you did it, one shrink had assured her. To get back at her. That’s why you killed.
The drinks had relaxed her. Donny, she thought, woozily, was so nice! Great to talk to. Better than any shrink. And gorgeous. With hair! She was sick of bald, needy fucks. Donny’s hair was shiny, and dark, real long, like some warrior prince. Hypnotic eyes, he had, too. He just oozed sex, and God, she needed it!
“When I was eight,” Libra said carefully, “I…” She sat there, trembling.
“Wha’ja do?” Donny asked. “Something bad?” He held her icy hand. “Something…” She missed his smile. “Dirty?”
Her brain felt stuffed with yellow fluff. Had he drugged her? Love Is A Drug! Grace Jones had sung. Why did she feel this way? And why did she trust him? “I…” She still couldn’t look at him. “Strangled a baby chick.”
“That’s it?” he said, lightly. Almost disappointed.
“Yeah,” Libra said. In amazement, she stared. He was smiling!
“Some people,” he said, squeezing her hand, tighter, “get pleasure from pain.”
The stiffest penance she’d ever got was Ten Our Fathers, and Five Hail Marys. For taking a life. For crushing a ball of helpless fluff!
Donny’s shit-eating grin should’ve scared her. But it didn’t. And this “priest” rewarded her.
By fucking her.
Then marrying her. And the real penance began.
Their wedding night… Velvety petals covered the sheets. Nude, she’d slunk across them. She sweated so hard, they stuck to her. “Get off the phone!” she begged, finally. “It’s been hours!” He just smirked. Like Emperor Caligula slouched on four satin pillows. In one hand, his cell, in the other, his cock. Breathing heavily, he choked it. “Who is that?” she screamed.
“My…slave!” he gasped. “Says…congra…tu…lations!”
She grabbed the phone. “Fuck you!” she told the phone sex slave.
“Fuck you!” The voice was prissy, male. “And your little dog, too!”
*
She’d slimmed down, grew tits, but like that kid in FREAKY FRIDAY, Libra felt trapped in a grown-up’s body. In that mean, grown-ups’ world. As a teen, her best friends were books. WUTHERING HEIGHTS was her favorite. She was Heathcliff. The wild child, searching for its soul mate in all the wrong places: the rain-soaked moors, sleazy bars.
And, then years later…a tree.
“Who’re you?” she demanded. “What’re you doing up there? In my yard?”
He just smiled. Peter Pan, she thought of. No, Tommy, from The Who’s rock opera. It was the hair. Long, golden-brown curls that went on forever. He had on a thick, gold “Guido” chain that gleamed in the sun. A tight t-shirt and cut-offs. A teen girl’s dream.
“Well?” she said.
Smirking, he held up a book. “Reading!” He tossed it down to her.
In the grass, it fell, flew open. It looked old, with crumbly, yellowed pages. Not the type of book a kid his age would be reading. In a tree, yet! “Why, s’the light better up there?” she said sarcastically.
“Sure!” He looked right at home up there. “ ’Cept…” This smile was a challenge. “Now I’ve got nothing to read.”
Libra felt this wild urge to yell for his mother. Whoever she was. Or Donny. Who was…gone. Tears burned her eyes. Over in the grass, the book blurred. Like a kid, she stamped her foot. “I am not climbing this tree!” she cried. He looked alarmed.
Then he was down, beside her. “You won’t have to,” he said.
They almost touched. There was something…magical about him. He had warm brown eyes. You got the feeling, if you did touch him, he’d have skin soft as a baby’s. But he was no baby. His body was lean, with dangerous, sculpted arms. Libra’s cheeks were wet, and the hand that brushed away her tears could’ve been a man’s her age. But not Donny’s. Never again! Inside her, something tightened.
He stared, then bent and retrieved his book, handing it to her. Inside the front cover was, “Vincent Vitale.” Class of next year. Its title: WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
“’S’ a real good read,” he said.
“So what happened?” Vince asked, Saturday afternoon, in Libra’s kitchen. “With your husband, I mean.”
She froze up. From outside, you smelled heavy rain battering the roses. In the dark, they sat, close, but not touching. “He left,” she said.
“Who could leave you?” he said, so innocently, she beamed.
“He…thought we were…perfect…for each other.” A lie. She’d thought so. “But I was somebody else.” And female.
Lightning pulsed. Any second, it would thunder. Vince leaned closer. “We’re all somebody else,” he said, “Deep down.”
Libra’s heart raced. She held out her hand, but he didn’t take it, peering around the room, instead. “You know,” he said. “We’ve all got…” He twisted his rope chain. “Secrets.”
She could taste fear. Hers and his. Almost in slow motion, she got up. Vince’s jaw trembled. He leaned back, eyes wide, as she slid over, onto his lap. He let go of his chain. Shut his eyes, as she smoothed back his hair, stroked his cheek, the fuzz along his chin. His one acne scar she touched, like she could heal it.
Thunder came, and they jumped. When his head jerked back, she saw purple splotches that circled his throat. Hickeys, she thought, seized with jealousy. He swallowed hard, waiting. Shivering.
When they kissed, her heart swelled, like it would burst. His tongue waited for hers, then fought back, roughly. Soft moans, when she pressed on his bruised throat. That’ll teach you! she thought. She sucked on his tongue and lips, till hers were numb. He squeezed her so tight, she could hardly breathe. She loved it, loved all of this.
Suddenly, she stopped kissing. On his lap, she rocked back and forth, till he seemed ready to explode. “Oh, man!” he gasped. She’d never felt like this, not even with Donny. Between her carnal rawness, and this boy’s emotion, she felt power.
Secrets, they both had. “Let’s keep them,” she whispered.
And got down on her knees.
*
I want to know! his eyes said, stubbornly. Sprawled in her bed, his whole body was waiting. And I want to tell.
Smiling, she looked away. A week later, it was. They’d fucked so much, her own body was constantly flushed.
That first time had been a disaster. For him. As his shorts came down, he’d shot too fast, made a big mess. His legs shook. “I’m…sorry!” he said. Any second, she feared he’d bolt out the door. Be gone forever.
But he’d stayed. For hours. On the couch, they lay close. It didn’t take him long to get hard again. Outside, the rain beat down like machine gun pellets, as he fucked her hard. He knew a lot, for a kid. Knew that special spot, enjoyed licking it till she screamed. She trapped him, choking him with her thighs. But he didn’t seem to mind…
And he came back. Every day. Well, school’s out, said the voice of reason. In September, he’ll probably disappear. Between school work, and chicks… She stiffened. Those…bruises hadn’t faded. In fact, there might’ve been more. “So,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “how’s Vampira?”
Without taking his eyes off her, he sat up, fluffed the pillow. “Huh?”
Irked, she tried again. “Elvira. Buffy. Whoever the fuck she is!” When he still looked confused, she yelled, “Who chewed up your neck?”
Instantly, he covered it, then let go. His smile was hopeful. “Nobody.”
Libra felt like she had, weeks ago, when he’d teased her from the tree. “Keep your secret!” she hissed. As she turned away, he was out of bed, at her side.
He seized her face, made her look at him. His eyes were bright, like an alien’s. She was almost scared of him. “I don’t want to keep it,” he said. “Not any more.”
Libra watched as he knotted the sheet. “There’s a name for it,” he said, “A long one. Kinda hard to pronounce.” He was getting turned on, tying those knots, even just talking about it. “ ‘A…E…A.’ ”
Autoerotic asphyxiation. Talk to Donny. He knew all that shit. Way back, he’d mentioned something about it. When you strangle yourself during sex. Or somebody else. Sometimes you died.
Vince’s eyes made her queasy. “It’s safer,” he said, twisting the rope around his hand, “if somebody helps.” She turned away, but he kept talking, in this hypnotic voice. “I almost died, once. But my Dad cut me down.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “No,” she said, “I can’t.”
Dead silence. Then, “Please?”
She shook her head.
The room felt cold, suddenly. Like summer was over. Like outside, golden-brown leaves had died, and needed to be raked. Too soon, she thought miserably, it would snow.
“I gotta go,” he muttered.
She couldn’t eat. Even bread got stuck in her throat. She couldn’t get warm. That delicious, after-sex glow she’d had all last week, was gone. And forget sleep.
All week, it had rained. Gray, gloomy skies. Vince’s tree was drenched. No chance of running into him there. Or anywhere. She would’ve called, but what could she say? To them, anyway? “Hey, Pops! I fucked your son. Vincent ‘Hang ‘Em High’ Vitale’. Have him call me.” And why would he? She would never do what he asked.
Or would she?
*
Finally, the phone rang. Libra’s heart lurched, then sank. “Miss me?” It was Donny!
“Mm-hmm,” was all she could say.
“Let’s get together!” he suggested. “I need a change.” No, his latest boytoy was sick of him.
The bar where they’d met hadn’t changed much. Same lazy barmaid, same tunes on the CD player. But now, for a buck, you got two songs instead of three. And, as always, Libra’s dollar bill slid back out.
Donny looked awful. Bony cheeks, bloodshot eyes. His dark hair had lost its sheen. He might’ve stopped washing it. Drugs, Libra thought. Or…worse. “It gets old, fast,” he said. Virginia Slims 120’s, he smoked now. His hand shook as he lit one. “Then you’re bored. You look around, and realize…” He took a long drag. “You’re alone.”
No kidding, she thought. But didn’t say a word.
He looked hard at her. Her hand, when he took it, was as icy as that first time. She wondered if she’d ever feel better. “I’d like to come home,” he said.
A warm body, even his, might save her from this horrible chill. Or, maybe she was as sick as he looked. A poisonous seed, he would’ve planted, deep inside of her. Still without speaking, she took a sip of her drink. That seed was in Vince, she thought. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back. But he had a death wish.
Donny stabbed out the cigarette. His smirk vanished, when she slid her hand out of his. “No, thanks,” she said.
And hurried out, into the rain.
*
At home, a loud sob burst out of her. Then another. She cried, shamelessly, like a baby, who’d fallen flat on its face. Buried in the bedclothes, she kicked and screamed, for so long, she wore herself out. She just laid there. And the hiccup-y sobs stopped on their own.
She didn’t know how long she slept. In her dream, Vince was sprawled next to her, watching her. Nude, with his white tee balled up in his hand, he looked like a boy, yet as close to a grown-up as he’d ever be. In her dream-heart, Libra knew that was true.
She didn’t want to wake up. This dream was too real. But no matter how hard she blinked, Vince was still there. She could even smell him, as clearly as that rain that had never let up. His curls were drenched. He was wet, all over. And damn, she was thirsty.
As she sat up, he grabbed her. “I’m…sorry,” he whispered. She kissed him, like she’d never stop. Like if she did, he would die.
He handed her the tee. “Just this once,” he said, without smiling. Then lifted his hair.
Around his neck she tied the shirt, too loosely. But she couldn’t fool him. His eyes narrowed. “Bitch!” he said. “You old fart!” Her heart ached. Tears filled her eyes. She pulled tighter. He smiled. His erection was growing.
Down came her panties. As she straddled him, he pulled the shirt even tighter around his throat. She gasped, as he speared her. They fucked, slowly. His smile was ecstatic, as she tied the knot tighter. Her heart raced, with horrible excitement. She’d never felt so good. This was beyond sex. It was…
She squeezed so tight, his eyes flew open. Searched hers wildly, then…shut. “No!” she screamed. She loosened the knot. His breathing was slow, eyes barely open. As she slid off of him, he groped for her. “No!” she said again, and got up.
He could hardly speak, but his eyes pleaded. He pulled himself, weakly, but he was losing his erection. That she could help with.
But as she lowered her mouth, he smacked her. She gasped. His strength was back. “You…fuck!” she said, rubbing her jaw. “How dare you?”
She jumped back on top of him. “I’ve got jeans…” she yelled, “older than you!” He smiled, as she tied the knot fresh, tight. Tighter. As…tight…as she…could… Then rode him, harder.
Something was different, this time. She didn’t want to stop choking him. Donny, she thought suddenly, You fuck!
But this was Vince. It was Vince she loved now, in that savage way.
His eyes peered around, like he was suddenly scared. When they shut, she pulled even harder. She’d stopped fucking him. But she hadn’t felt this good, this way, in so long! She pulled tighter, and longer, than she believed was possible.
When his head rolled slightly, she felt all wet inside. He’d shot his load. And too soon.
Smirking, she dropped the reins. Slid off, onto her side of the bed. She felt relaxed, delicious. “Next time…” she began, then looked over at him.
The closest to grown-up he’d ever get.
“Baby Chicks.” Collected in Angel of Manslaughter by Cindy Rosmus. Copyright 2006 © Fossil Publications. First appeared in Hardboiled, # 34, Summer 2005.
All her life it haunted her. She’d only been eight, but told it over and over to silhouetted priests in confessionals. For years. Like it’d just happened that day.
That warm, quivering ball of fluff. So trusting. As her chubby hands began crushing, it panicked. Peered around at the others, who hopped around, peeping, carefree. Wildly tried to peck its way out, but her grip was merciless. Its little heart popped. And she smiled.
Her name was Libra. “And no,” she told Donny wearily, the night they met at the bar, “I’m not. I’m Scorpio.” The worst kind, too: obsessive, jealous. And, secretly, sadistic. “Definitely not balanced.” A real sexpot, and fuck you, I’m forty.
He lit a cigarette. “So,” he said, smugly. “Your folks were astro-freaks?”
“No.” She picked up her drink. Then, without looking at him, “Just freaks.”
She missed the gleam in his eye. “Aren’t we all?”
Lonely, horny. But one hot babe! She knew that, all right. The older she got, the better she looked: firm breasts, and legs. Smooth, creamy skin, with no crow’s feet beneath those hungry dark eyes. Wild black hair that shouldn’t’ve worked, but man, did it! Came off as cool, but like in that Billy Joel song, “was a mark for every shyster.” Just be nice to her. Tell her how young she looks… (Snicker): Tell her you love her.
No one, her Mom had told her, will ever love you but us. Pop was like Norman Bates’ Mom, just alive. A withered Granny Smith, cock in hand, who’d given up, way back. Mom liked to lock her in the closet. It was fun to picture her suffocating. That’s why you did it, one shrink had assured her. To get back at her. That’s why you killed.
The drinks had relaxed her. Donny, she thought, woozily, was so nice! Great to talk to. Better than any shrink. And gorgeous. With hair! She was sick of bald, needy fucks. Donny’s hair was shiny, and dark, real long, like some warrior prince. Hypnotic eyes, he had, too. He just oozed sex, and God, she needed it!
“When I was eight,” Libra said carefully, “I…” She sat there, trembling.
“Wha’ja do?” Donny asked. “Something bad?” He held her icy hand. “Something…” She missed his smile. “Dirty?”
Her brain felt stuffed with yellow fluff. Had he drugged her? Love Is A Drug! Grace Jones had sung. Why did she feel this way? And why did she trust him? “I…” She still couldn’t look at him. “Strangled a baby chick.”
“That’s it?” he said, lightly. Almost disappointed.
“Yeah,” Libra said. In amazement, she stared. He was smiling!
“Some people,” he said, squeezing her hand, tighter, “get pleasure from pain.”
The stiffest penance she’d ever got was Ten Our Fathers, and Five Hail Marys. For taking a life. For crushing a ball of helpless fluff!
Donny’s shit-eating grin should’ve scared her. But it didn’t. And this “priest” rewarded her.
By fucking her.
Then marrying her. And the real penance began.
Their wedding night… Velvety petals covered the sheets. Nude, she’d slunk across them. She sweated so hard, they stuck to her. “Get off the phone!” she begged, finally. “It’s been hours!” He just smirked. Like Emperor Caligula slouched on four satin pillows. In one hand, his cell, in the other, his cock. Breathing heavily, he choked it. “Who is that?” she screamed.
“My…slave!” he gasped. “Says…congra…tu…lations!”
She grabbed the phone. “Fuck you!” she told the phone sex slave.
“Fuck you!” The voice was prissy, male. “And your little dog, too!”
*
She’d slimmed down, grew tits, but like that kid in FREAKY FRIDAY, Libra felt trapped in a grown-up’s body. In that mean, grown-ups’ world. As a teen, her best friends were books. WUTHERING HEIGHTS was her favorite. She was Heathcliff. The wild child, searching for its soul mate in all the wrong places: the rain-soaked moors, sleazy bars.
And, then years later…a tree.
“Who’re you?” she demanded. “What’re you doing up there? In my yard?”
He just smiled. Peter Pan, she thought of. No, Tommy, from The Who’s rock opera. It was the hair. Long, golden-brown curls that went on forever. He had on a thick, gold “Guido” chain that gleamed in the sun. A tight t-shirt and cut-offs. A teen girl’s dream.
“Well?” she said.
Smirking, he held up a book. “Reading!” He tossed it down to her.
In the grass, it fell, flew open. It looked old, with crumbly, yellowed pages. Not the type of book a kid his age would be reading. In a tree, yet! “Why, s’the light better up there?” she said sarcastically.
“Sure!” He looked right at home up there. “ ’Cept…” This smile was a challenge. “Now I’ve got nothing to read.”
Libra felt this wild urge to yell for his mother. Whoever she was. Or Donny. Who was…gone. Tears burned her eyes. Over in the grass, the book blurred. Like a kid, she stamped her foot. “I am not climbing this tree!” she cried. He looked alarmed.
Then he was down, beside her. “You won’t have to,” he said.
They almost touched. There was something…magical about him. He had warm brown eyes. You got the feeling, if you did touch him, he’d have skin soft as a baby’s. But he was no baby. His body was lean, with dangerous, sculpted arms. Libra’s cheeks were wet, and the hand that brushed away her tears could’ve been a man’s her age. But not Donny’s. Never again! Inside her, something tightened.
He stared, then bent and retrieved his book, handing it to her. Inside the front cover was, “Vincent Vitale.” Class of next year. Its title: WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
“’S’ a real good read,” he said.
“So what happened?” Vince asked, Saturday afternoon, in Libra’s kitchen. “With your husband, I mean.”
She froze up. From outside, you smelled heavy rain battering the roses. In the dark, they sat, close, but not touching. “He left,” she said.
“Who could leave you?” he said, so innocently, she beamed.
“He…thought we were…perfect…for each other.” A lie. She’d thought so. “But I was somebody else.” And female.
Lightning pulsed. Any second, it would thunder. Vince leaned closer. “We’re all somebody else,” he said, “Deep down.”
Libra’s heart raced. She held out her hand, but he didn’t take it, peering around the room, instead. “You know,” he said. “We’ve all got…” He twisted his rope chain. “Secrets.”
She could taste fear. Hers and his. Almost in slow motion, she got up. Vince’s jaw trembled. He leaned back, eyes wide, as she slid over, onto his lap. He let go of his chain. Shut his eyes, as she smoothed back his hair, stroked his cheek, the fuzz along his chin. His one acne scar she touched, like she could heal it.
Thunder came, and they jumped. When his head jerked back, she saw purple splotches that circled his throat. Hickeys, she thought, seized with jealousy. He swallowed hard, waiting. Shivering.
When they kissed, her heart swelled, like it would burst. His tongue waited for hers, then fought back, roughly. Soft moans, when she pressed on his bruised throat. That’ll teach you! she thought. She sucked on his tongue and lips, till hers were numb. He squeezed her so tight, she could hardly breathe. She loved it, loved all of this.
Suddenly, she stopped kissing. On his lap, she rocked back and forth, till he seemed ready to explode. “Oh, man!” he gasped. She’d never felt like this, not even with Donny. Between her carnal rawness, and this boy’s emotion, she felt power.
Secrets, they both had. “Let’s keep them,” she whispered.
And got down on her knees.
*
I want to know! his eyes said, stubbornly. Sprawled in her bed, his whole body was waiting. And I want to tell.
Smiling, she looked away. A week later, it was. They’d fucked so much, her own body was constantly flushed.
That first time had been a disaster. For him. As his shorts came down, he’d shot too fast, made a big mess. His legs shook. “I’m…sorry!” he said. Any second, she feared he’d bolt out the door. Be gone forever.
But he’d stayed. For hours. On the couch, they lay close. It didn’t take him long to get hard again. Outside, the rain beat down like machine gun pellets, as he fucked her hard. He knew a lot, for a kid. Knew that special spot, enjoyed licking it till she screamed. She trapped him, choking him with her thighs. But he didn’t seem to mind…
And he came back. Every day. Well, school’s out, said the voice of reason. In September, he’ll probably disappear. Between school work, and chicks… She stiffened. Those…bruises hadn’t faded. In fact, there might’ve been more. “So,” she said, trying to make a joke of it, “how’s Vampira?”
Without taking his eyes off her, he sat up, fluffed the pillow. “Huh?”
Irked, she tried again. “Elvira. Buffy. Whoever the fuck she is!” When he still looked confused, she yelled, “Who chewed up your neck?”
Instantly, he covered it, then let go. His smile was hopeful. “Nobody.”
Libra felt like she had, weeks ago, when he’d teased her from the tree. “Keep your secret!” she hissed. As she turned away, he was out of bed, at her side.
He seized her face, made her look at him. His eyes were bright, like an alien’s. She was almost scared of him. “I don’t want to keep it,” he said. “Not any more.”
Libra watched as he knotted the sheet. “There’s a name for it,” he said, “A long one. Kinda hard to pronounce.” He was getting turned on, tying those knots, even just talking about it. “ ‘A…E…A.’ ”
Autoerotic asphyxiation. Talk to Donny. He knew all that shit. Way back, he’d mentioned something about it. When you strangle yourself during sex. Or somebody else. Sometimes you died.
Vince’s eyes made her queasy. “It’s safer,” he said, twisting the rope around his hand, “if somebody helps.” She turned away, but he kept talking, in this hypnotic voice. “I almost died, once. But my Dad cut me down.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “No,” she said, “I can’t.”
Dead silence. Then, “Please?”
She shook her head.
The room felt cold, suddenly. Like summer was over. Like outside, golden-brown leaves had died, and needed to be raked. Too soon, she thought miserably, it would snow.
“I gotta go,” he muttered.
She couldn’t eat. Even bread got stuck in her throat. She couldn’t get warm. That delicious, after-sex glow she’d had all last week, was gone. And forget sleep.
All week, it had rained. Gray, gloomy skies. Vince’s tree was drenched. No chance of running into him there. Or anywhere. She would’ve called, but what could she say? To them, anyway? “Hey, Pops! I fucked your son. Vincent ‘Hang ‘Em High’ Vitale’. Have him call me.” And why would he? She would never do what he asked.
Or would she?
*
Finally, the phone rang. Libra’s heart lurched, then sank. “Miss me?” It was Donny!
“Mm-hmm,” was all she could say.
“Let’s get together!” he suggested. “I need a change.” No, his latest boytoy was sick of him.
The bar where they’d met hadn’t changed much. Same lazy barmaid, same tunes on the CD player. But now, for a buck, you got two songs instead of three. And, as always, Libra’s dollar bill slid back out.
Donny looked awful. Bony cheeks, bloodshot eyes. His dark hair had lost its sheen. He might’ve stopped washing it. Drugs, Libra thought. Or…worse. “It gets old, fast,” he said. Virginia Slims 120’s, he smoked now. His hand shook as he lit one. “Then you’re bored. You look around, and realize…” He took a long drag. “You’re alone.”
No kidding, she thought. But didn’t say a word.
He looked hard at her. Her hand, when he took it, was as icy as that first time. She wondered if she’d ever feel better. “I’d like to come home,” he said.
A warm body, even his, might save her from this horrible chill. Or, maybe she was as sick as he looked. A poisonous seed, he would’ve planted, deep inside of her. Still without speaking, she took a sip of her drink. That seed was in Vince, she thought. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back. But he had a death wish.
Donny stabbed out the cigarette. His smirk vanished, when she slid her hand out of his. “No, thanks,” she said.
And hurried out, into the rain.
*
At home, a loud sob burst out of her. Then another. She cried, shamelessly, like a baby, who’d fallen flat on its face. Buried in the bedclothes, she kicked and screamed, for so long, she wore herself out. She just laid there. And the hiccup-y sobs stopped on their own.
She didn’t know how long she slept. In her dream, Vince was sprawled next to her, watching her. Nude, with his white tee balled up in his hand, he looked like a boy, yet as close to a grown-up as he’d ever be. In her dream-heart, Libra knew that was true.
She didn’t want to wake up. This dream was too real. But no matter how hard she blinked, Vince was still there. She could even smell him, as clearly as that rain that had never let up. His curls were drenched. He was wet, all over. And damn, she was thirsty.
As she sat up, he grabbed her. “I’m…sorry,” he whispered. She kissed him, like she’d never stop. Like if she did, he would die.
He handed her the tee. “Just this once,” he said, without smiling. Then lifted his hair.
Around his neck she tied the shirt, too loosely. But she couldn’t fool him. His eyes narrowed. “Bitch!” he said. “You old fart!” Her heart ached. Tears filled her eyes. She pulled tighter. He smiled. His erection was growing.
Down came her panties. As she straddled him, he pulled the shirt even tighter around his throat. She gasped, as he speared her. They fucked, slowly. His smile was ecstatic, as she tied the knot tighter. Her heart raced, with horrible excitement. She’d never felt so good. This was beyond sex. It was…
She squeezed so tight, his eyes flew open. Searched hers wildly, then…shut. “No!” she screamed. She loosened the knot. His breathing was slow, eyes barely open. As she slid off of him, he groped for her. “No!” she said again, and got up.
He could hardly speak, but his eyes pleaded. He pulled himself, weakly, but he was losing his erection. That she could help with.
But as she lowered her mouth, he smacked her. She gasped. His strength was back. “You…fuck!” she said, rubbing her jaw. “How dare you?”
She jumped back on top of him. “I’ve got jeans…” she yelled, “older than you!” He smiled, as she tied the knot fresh, tight. Tighter. As…tight…as she…could… Then rode him, harder.
Something was different, this time. She didn’t want to stop choking him. Donny, she thought suddenly, You fuck!
But this was Vince. It was Vince she loved now, in that savage way.
His eyes peered around, like he was suddenly scared. When they shut, she pulled even harder. She’d stopped fucking him. But she hadn’t felt this good, this way, in so long! She pulled tighter, and longer, than she believed was possible.
When his head rolled slightly, she felt all wet inside. He’d shot his load. And too soon.
Smirking, she dropped the reins. Slid off, onto her side of the bed. She felt relaxed, delicious. “Next time…” she began, then looked over at him.
The closest to grown-up he’d ever get.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Interlude Stories: Richard Godwin
IT’S ALL IN THE PAPERWORK - RICHARD GODWIN
His charm wasn’t contagious. No vaccines were made against it. He didn’t even know what a Rorschach test was. Dolphins hated him and dreamed of eating him. He tried growing a beard but he looked like a twat. He’d been known to make people throw up just by walking into a room.
Josh Adams started out as a campus rapist. He tied two students to their beds and fucked them with a Dos Equis bottle. He stood in front of the mirror for hours imitating the Dos Equis ads saying over and over ‘I am the most interesting man in the world’. He played the all round good guy in front of his friends and flunked his geography course. Until he found his true career path he’d only ever been interested in geography because he wanted to travel. He’d never left the States, in fact he’d never travelled out of Kansas. When he became a cop he didn’t even own a passport.
He made a lot of arrests and got on the good side of his corrupt racist boss who ignored his misdemeanours and sloppy paperwork. He liked to strip search his female arrests.
One day he was called to the scene of a bank robbery. Two masked men had beaten up the manager. Josh had no interest in catching them and instead looked for records of any recent releases from jail.
He arrested Blake Thomson, one time thief and petty criminal who had got out of jail a few days before. Blake was shopping out of state when the robbery occurred.
‘It’s all in the paperwork,’ Josh said.
Blake gave him the receipts to prove it. Josh buried them and Blake went back to jail.
Josh’s boss retired and he took over. His obsession with Dos Equis returned and he bought a fake beard and kept a supply of the beer at the back of the station. One night he arrested a tall blonde called Cindy.
She’d thrown a glass at the barman in a nightclub. Josh walked into the cell wearing his beard and stuck his hand up her skirt.
‘I am the most interesting man in the world,’ he said, and stopped suddenly.
He felt a dick.
‘What the fuck?’ he said.
‘I’m a boy,’ Cindy said and started laughing.
Josh broke Cindy’s jaw then smashed himself in the face with the butt of his gun.
Cindy was sent to jail for assaulting a police officer. He ran into Blake there.
‘That fucking pig’s scared of trannies,’ he said. ‘He thinks he’s that guy on the Dos Equis ads, dresses up like him.’
‘It’s good to meet you, Cindy,’ Blake said.
When Blake was released Josh was nearing retirement. He’d bought a stable where he kept a horse. He’d ride out on it wearing his beard, thinking of all the amazing things he’d done with his life.
It was a beautiful summer morning when Blake caught up with Josh.
Blake stepped out of his pick up in a long black dress with a police badge on it, army boots, a Colt 45 and a fake beard.
He found Josh sweeping the floor of the stables.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Josh said, staring at the large man in the dress.
‘I’m the most interesting man in the world,’ Blake said, ‘and I’m here to serve you papers.’
‘Get the fuck out of here.’
‘I think you ought to read this,’ Blake said and handed him a piece of paper.
It read ‘Acquisition Notice: you are now my property, I own the police.’
‘It’s all in the paperwork,’ Blake said.
He pistol whipped Josh, opening up a deep gash in his forehead. He removed his police badge and stuck it in the wound.
‘You look like a vending machine, pig. You’re mine now, vend motherfucker,’ he said, kicking the tip of the badge so it jammed deep into his skull.
‘You might be a useless fucking cop who doesn’t do his paperwork, but I’m going to give you an interesting death.’
He turned him over and stuck his Colt up his ass and blew a hole through him.
‘I’m going to have a bottle of Dos Equis,’ Blake said, and headed out into the sunlight.
BIO: Richard Godwin lives and writes in London. His first crime novel is the critically-acclaimed ‘Apostle Rising’. His dark satire ‘The Cure-All’, about a group of confidence tricksters, has been produced on the London stage.
His writing appears regularly at Disenthralled; Gloom Cupboard; Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers; The New Flesh, Media Virus Magazine and Pulp Metal Magazine, among many other magazines and anthologies. His story ‘Pike N Flytrap’ is in the Fall 2010 issue of Needle Magazine, his story ‘Face Off’ is in Crime Factory, issue #5. You can follow him at Twitter here.
His website, complete with information on his novel APOSTLE RISING, also has a special page devoted to the spectacular CHIN WAG AT THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE interviews.
His charm wasn’t contagious. No vaccines were made against it. He didn’t even know what a Rorschach test was. Dolphins hated him and dreamed of eating him. He tried growing a beard but he looked like a twat. He’d been known to make people throw up just by walking into a room.
Josh Adams started out as a campus rapist. He tied two students to their beds and fucked them with a Dos Equis bottle. He stood in front of the mirror for hours imitating the Dos Equis ads saying over and over ‘I am the most interesting man in the world’. He played the all round good guy in front of his friends and flunked his geography course. Until he found his true career path he’d only ever been interested in geography because he wanted to travel. He’d never left the States, in fact he’d never travelled out of Kansas. When he became a cop he didn’t even own a passport.
He made a lot of arrests and got on the good side of his corrupt racist boss who ignored his misdemeanours and sloppy paperwork. He liked to strip search his female arrests.
One day he was called to the scene of a bank robbery. Two masked men had beaten up the manager. Josh had no interest in catching them and instead looked for records of any recent releases from jail.
He arrested Blake Thomson, one time thief and petty criminal who had got out of jail a few days before. Blake was shopping out of state when the robbery occurred.
‘It’s all in the paperwork,’ Josh said.
Blake gave him the receipts to prove it. Josh buried them and Blake went back to jail.
Josh’s boss retired and he took over. His obsession with Dos Equis returned and he bought a fake beard and kept a supply of the beer at the back of the station. One night he arrested a tall blonde called Cindy.
She’d thrown a glass at the barman in a nightclub. Josh walked into the cell wearing his beard and stuck his hand up her skirt.
‘I am the most interesting man in the world,’ he said, and stopped suddenly.
He felt a dick.
‘What the fuck?’ he said.
‘I’m a boy,’ Cindy said and started laughing.
Josh broke Cindy’s jaw then smashed himself in the face with the butt of his gun.
Cindy was sent to jail for assaulting a police officer. He ran into Blake there.
‘That fucking pig’s scared of trannies,’ he said. ‘He thinks he’s that guy on the Dos Equis ads, dresses up like him.’
‘It’s good to meet you, Cindy,’ Blake said.
When Blake was released Josh was nearing retirement. He’d bought a stable where he kept a horse. He’d ride out on it wearing his beard, thinking of all the amazing things he’d done with his life.
It was a beautiful summer morning when Blake caught up with Josh.
Blake stepped out of his pick up in a long black dress with a police badge on it, army boots, a Colt 45 and a fake beard.
He found Josh sweeping the floor of the stables.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Josh said, staring at the large man in the dress.
‘I’m the most interesting man in the world,’ Blake said, ‘and I’m here to serve you papers.’
‘Get the fuck out of here.’
‘I think you ought to read this,’ Blake said and handed him a piece of paper.
It read ‘Acquisition Notice: you are now my property, I own the police.’
‘It’s all in the paperwork,’ Blake said.
He pistol whipped Josh, opening up a deep gash in his forehead. He removed his police badge and stuck it in the wound.
‘You look like a vending machine, pig. You’re mine now, vend motherfucker,’ he said, kicking the tip of the badge so it jammed deep into his skull.
‘You might be a useless fucking cop who doesn’t do his paperwork, but I’m going to give you an interesting death.’
He turned him over and stuck his Colt up his ass and blew a hole through him.
‘I’m going to have a bottle of Dos Equis,’ Blake said, and headed out into the sunlight.
BIO: Richard Godwin lives and writes in London. His first crime novel is the critically-acclaimed ‘Apostle Rising’. His dark satire ‘The Cure-All’, about a group of confidence tricksters, has been produced on the London stage.
His writing appears regularly at Disenthralled; Gloom Cupboard; Thrillers, Killers ’N Chillers; The New Flesh, Media Virus Magazine and Pulp Metal Magazine, among many other magazines and anthologies. His story ‘Pike N Flytrap’ is in the Fall 2010 issue of Needle Magazine, his story ‘Face Off’ is in Crime Factory, issue #5. You can follow him at Twitter here.
His website, complete with information on his novel APOSTLE RISING, also has a special page devoted to the spectacular CHIN WAG AT THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE interviews.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Interlude Stories: John Kenyon
238 - JOHN KENYON
He settled on an old oak door he’d found in the basement. It was heavy and thick. With four straps made from a leather belt bolted in with metal clamps two to a side, and a base made from a couple of sawhorses, it was a solid table on which he would restrain the man. He assembled it quickly but with attention; this was the most important part of the plan. If the table failed, the plan would fail. After pounding the final nail, he climbed onto what he had made and laid back. He thrashed around a bit and found it to be sturdy.
*
238 days. That’s what they took – 238 days of his life, gone. At first, he figured it must be a mistake. He’d been in American jails before. Each time the officers talked tough, and most of the time he served a few days or, twice, was sent back. After the second day turned to night and he still hadn’t seen or heard anyone, he realized this was different. If that hadn’t tipped him off, the dank canvas hood placed on his head before he was driven for what seemed like several hours and then flown somewhere, certainly did.
*
The room was special, secure, with a door like that of a safe. Everything seemed to be controlled by a panel inside the door. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, just a couple of chairs, a couch and a small table. Canned food and gallon jugs of water lined one wall. He wasn’t sure if there would be enough, so he rolled two barrels in from the back yard that were used to burn yard waste, ran a hose in from outside and filled them to the top. The swirling water dislodged flakes of rust that spun lazily on the surface. He coiled the hose and erased any trace of his efforts.
*
The real rub? He’s not even Arab. He’s a Mexican, for Christ’s sake, and anyone with an ounce of sense could see that. Now, he was a bad guy, he’d give them that. But his was the kind of bad that got you sent to prison. Drugs. Armed robbery. A carjacking once. He could do that kind of time, had done it. But this, this was something else, and no matter how much he protested that it must be a misunderstanding, they ignored him. If this was a jail, there were no other inmates. There was no time in the yard.
*
On the day, everything was set. He was too full of energy to sit, so he stood just inside the door of the room, a cell phone in his hand. As he had been assured, the car arrived around 5 a.m. He heard the old man before he saw him, his shadow cutting across the morning light that streamed through the open front door, a shine bouncing off his bald head. The man yelled back over his shoulder that he had to use the can and that they should wait outside. There would be two waiting, according to what he had been told.
*
After working on a fishing boat for several months, he’d made the mistake of trying to cross the border from Canada instead of coming up through southern California like all the unlucky pendejos who are just grabbed and sent back. He regretted that decision each of the 238 days. He could have found a way to make ends meet in Canada; but the lure beyond the border was too great. The man who offered him a ride and forged papers was using him to get through a roadblock, figuring an Arab and a Mexican wouldn’t look so suspicious. He was wrong, which was why they had both been labeled “enemy combatants” and shipped to the island.
*
He took a step back into the shadows of the room and punched a number on his phone. When he heard Carlos answer, he pushed a button and held it for five seconds. He then hung up. This was the diciest part of the plan, but the old man had to need to be in the room if he was to have time to do what he wanted to do. Plus, he knew the man was dangerous with guns around, even when he didn’t mean to be. With the guns outside and the man inside, he liked the odds much better.
*
He couldn’t ever answer their questions because he wasn’t who or what they thought he was. He told them several times: “My name is Jesus Gutierrez. I am from Nogales. I don’t know anything about Al-Qaeda.” It was as if they couldn’t hear him. They asked the same questions again and again, only occasionally bothering to rephrase them in the hope of tripping him up. It never differed: “What is the plan?” “What are your targets?” “Who is leading your cell?” “Where does your money come from?”
*
A minute later, just as the man was coming back through the house, something smacked the front with a metallic clang. Carlos had done it. Two beefy men in dark suits rushed in and grabbed the old man. “Some sort of flying object just hit the house, sir. We need to get you into the safe room,” one said calmly. They pushed the old man beyond the threshold and pulled the door shut, one saying, “We’ll go investigate.”
*
On the island, they kept him cold and dark and alone, 24 hours a day. And that was the good part. The bad? Being laid out on a board and having water poured on your face until you think that this is the time they’re never going to stop. Being kept naked. Being beaten. Being naked and beaten and left huddled in a corner with other men while snarling dogs snapped at any appendage unlucky enough to stick out of the pile. Alone, he couldn’t have kept track of the days, but together, it was their ritual. Some men had prayers. Some remained silent most of the day. But each man had a different number, and he recited it each day.
*
Jesus stepped over to the glowing control panel and pushed a button that sealed the door, making it impenetrable from the outside. A light automatically turned on as the airlock engaged. He turned and looked at the man, gesturing with a handgun that he had pulled from his waistband. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he said. “Now, take off your clothes.” The old man started to object, so Jesus fired a bullet into his foot. The man howled, but Jesus knew the soundproof room would muffle it. “After you are naked, climb up onto that table.”
*
His count stopped at 238, the day they came without a word and threw someone else’s clothes into his cell. A burly guard grabbed him once he’d changed and pushed him out the door. He was taken to a plane that flew him to Matamoros. The officer who discharged him told him two things: never talk about what had happened, and never try to come back into the U.S. Of course, he did both almost immediately. It was so much easier to get across from here than it had been from Canada. Wall? Fence? It didn't matter. The coyotes were motivated by greed.
*
The old man needed help getting up onto the board, but soon Jesus had him on his back and strapped in. He removed the man’s glasses, dropped them to the floor and crushed them under his boot. “Let’s talk about enhanced interrogation techniques,” he said, going over to one of the rusty barrels. He grabbed a two gallon bucket from the floor and dipped it in to fill it. He walked back to the old man and hit him hard in the mouth. “Tell me, do you know where Osama bin Laden is?” he said as he poured the water over the man’s face, causing him to sputter and choke.
*
He’d worked his way around Texas, doing odd jobs here and there. He told his story to some fellow workers over a beer after a day of repairing fence on a ranch. “Hey, one of those old dudes that used to be in Washington has a place around here,” one said. “He stops by on hunting trips. Not the dumb one. You know,” he said, sneering with a growl. “That guy. We do work there sometimes.” A day later, while watching as his friend, Carlos, used a remote control to steer a small plane through the sky, Jesus had an idea.
*
He had been told that it would take even the old man’s guards at least four hours to break into the room once they realized something was wrong. There was no override for fear they could be tortured into revealing the code. Jesus found that funny. The torture was going to happen inside the room, not outside it. All he wanted was 238 minutes. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out. It wasn’t a fair trade, but he was going to do everything he could to make each of those minutes feel like a day of hell.
BIO: John Kenyon is a newspaper editor in Iowa who writes the blog Things I’d Rather Be Doing (tirbd.com). He has published short fiction in Thuglit, Crime Factory, Beat to a Pulp and elsewhere.
He settled on an old oak door he’d found in the basement. It was heavy and thick. With four straps made from a leather belt bolted in with metal clamps two to a side, and a base made from a couple of sawhorses, it was a solid table on which he would restrain the man. He assembled it quickly but with attention; this was the most important part of the plan. If the table failed, the plan would fail. After pounding the final nail, he climbed onto what he had made and laid back. He thrashed around a bit and found it to be sturdy.
*
238 days. That’s what they took – 238 days of his life, gone. At first, he figured it must be a mistake. He’d been in American jails before. Each time the officers talked tough, and most of the time he served a few days or, twice, was sent back. After the second day turned to night and he still hadn’t seen or heard anyone, he realized this was different. If that hadn’t tipped him off, the dank canvas hood placed on his head before he was driven for what seemed like several hours and then flown somewhere, certainly did.
*
The room was special, secure, with a door like that of a safe. Everything seemed to be controlled by a panel inside the door. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, just a couple of chairs, a couch and a small table. Canned food and gallon jugs of water lined one wall. He wasn’t sure if there would be enough, so he rolled two barrels in from the back yard that were used to burn yard waste, ran a hose in from outside and filled them to the top. The swirling water dislodged flakes of rust that spun lazily on the surface. He coiled the hose and erased any trace of his efforts.
*
The real rub? He’s not even Arab. He’s a Mexican, for Christ’s sake, and anyone with an ounce of sense could see that. Now, he was a bad guy, he’d give them that. But his was the kind of bad that got you sent to prison. Drugs. Armed robbery. A carjacking once. He could do that kind of time, had done it. But this, this was something else, and no matter how much he protested that it must be a misunderstanding, they ignored him. If this was a jail, there were no other inmates. There was no time in the yard.
*
On the day, everything was set. He was too full of energy to sit, so he stood just inside the door of the room, a cell phone in his hand. As he had been assured, the car arrived around 5 a.m. He heard the old man before he saw him, his shadow cutting across the morning light that streamed through the open front door, a shine bouncing off his bald head. The man yelled back over his shoulder that he had to use the can and that they should wait outside. There would be two waiting, according to what he had been told.
*
After working on a fishing boat for several months, he’d made the mistake of trying to cross the border from Canada instead of coming up through southern California like all the unlucky pendejos who are just grabbed and sent back. He regretted that decision each of the 238 days. He could have found a way to make ends meet in Canada; but the lure beyond the border was too great. The man who offered him a ride and forged papers was using him to get through a roadblock, figuring an Arab and a Mexican wouldn’t look so suspicious. He was wrong, which was why they had both been labeled “enemy combatants” and shipped to the island.
*
He took a step back into the shadows of the room and punched a number on his phone. When he heard Carlos answer, he pushed a button and held it for five seconds. He then hung up. This was the diciest part of the plan, but the old man had to need to be in the room if he was to have time to do what he wanted to do. Plus, he knew the man was dangerous with guns around, even when he didn’t mean to be. With the guns outside and the man inside, he liked the odds much better.
*
He couldn’t ever answer their questions because he wasn’t who or what they thought he was. He told them several times: “My name is Jesus Gutierrez. I am from Nogales. I don’t know anything about Al-Qaeda.” It was as if they couldn’t hear him. They asked the same questions again and again, only occasionally bothering to rephrase them in the hope of tripping him up. It never differed: “What is the plan?” “What are your targets?” “Who is leading your cell?” “Where does your money come from?”
*
A minute later, just as the man was coming back through the house, something smacked the front with a metallic clang. Carlos had done it. Two beefy men in dark suits rushed in and grabbed the old man. “Some sort of flying object just hit the house, sir. We need to get you into the safe room,” one said calmly. They pushed the old man beyond the threshold and pulled the door shut, one saying, “We’ll go investigate.”
*
On the island, they kept him cold and dark and alone, 24 hours a day. And that was the good part. The bad? Being laid out on a board and having water poured on your face until you think that this is the time they’re never going to stop. Being kept naked. Being beaten. Being naked and beaten and left huddled in a corner with other men while snarling dogs snapped at any appendage unlucky enough to stick out of the pile. Alone, he couldn’t have kept track of the days, but together, it was their ritual. Some men had prayers. Some remained silent most of the day. But each man had a different number, and he recited it each day.
*
Jesus stepped over to the glowing control panel and pushed a button that sealed the door, making it impenetrable from the outside. A light automatically turned on as the airlock engaged. He turned and looked at the man, gesturing with a handgun that he had pulled from his waistband. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he said. “Now, take off your clothes.” The old man started to object, so Jesus fired a bullet into his foot. The man howled, but Jesus knew the soundproof room would muffle it. “After you are naked, climb up onto that table.”
*
His count stopped at 238, the day they came without a word and threw someone else’s clothes into his cell. A burly guard grabbed him once he’d changed and pushed him out the door. He was taken to a plane that flew him to Matamoros. The officer who discharged him told him two things: never talk about what had happened, and never try to come back into the U.S. Of course, he did both almost immediately. It was so much easier to get across from here than it had been from Canada. Wall? Fence? It didn't matter. The coyotes were motivated by greed.
*
The old man needed help getting up onto the board, but soon Jesus had him on his back and strapped in. He removed the man’s glasses, dropped them to the floor and crushed them under his boot. “Let’s talk about enhanced interrogation techniques,” he said, going over to one of the rusty barrels. He grabbed a two gallon bucket from the floor and dipped it in to fill it. He walked back to the old man and hit him hard in the mouth. “Tell me, do you know where Osama bin Laden is?” he said as he poured the water over the man’s face, causing him to sputter and choke.
*
He’d worked his way around Texas, doing odd jobs here and there. He told his story to some fellow workers over a beer after a day of repairing fence on a ranch. “Hey, one of those old dudes that used to be in Washington has a place around here,” one said. “He stops by on hunting trips. Not the dumb one. You know,” he said, sneering with a growl. “That guy. We do work there sometimes.” A day later, while watching as his friend, Carlos, used a remote control to steer a small plane through the sky, Jesus had an idea.
*
He had been told that it would take even the old man’s guards at least four hours to break into the room once they realized something was wrong. There was no override for fear they could be tortured into revealing the code. Jesus found that funny. The torture was going to happen inside the room, not outside it. All he wanted was 238 minutes. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out. It wasn’t a fair trade, but he was going to do everything he could to make each of those minutes feel like a day of hell.
BIO: John Kenyon is a newspaper editor in Iowa who writes the blog Things I’d Rather Be Doing (tirbd.com). He has published short fiction in Thuglit, Crime Factory, Beat to a Pulp and elsewhere.
Friday, July 22, 2011
A Twist Of Noir 678 - Hilary Davidson
SORRY BASTARD - HILARY DAVIDSON
Don didn’t have friends, but on the scale of people who bugged the hell out of him, Leo ranked low. So low Don saw him every couple months for drinks or pool or a game. Leo had a buddy who always scored good tickets.
So what’s with Leo tonight? Don wondered. He drank, watching Leo lurch out of the men’s room for the tenth time, rubbing his nose. Leo ran smack into a big greaseball who looked ready to take a swing at him. But the greaseball stopped dead, hypnotized by something he instinctively recognized. Don watched him ooze away, muttering. Leo sank into the chair across from him.
“Hell of a night,” Don said.
“Yeah.” There was a grayish cast to Leo’s dark brown skin, and the whites of his eyes weren’t white but yellow, like a jaundice victim. Or a junkie. Don’s brain flinched from that thought.
“Not getting a new car, are you?” Don tried to keep his tone neutral.
“Hell no.” Leo’s smile stretched his fleshy face, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Ride I got runs too fast for me.” He downed the double scotch a waitress had set down while he’d been coking up. “Good to see you, man.” He stood suddenly and put out his hand.
Don shook it. “See you around.”
After Leo left, Don tried to finish his drink, but he couldn’t shake the image of a raw, moist cut of meat. That was what Leo’s hand had felt like. It was none of his business, he told himself, but he found himself standing, tossing bills on the table, and heading for the door.
Leo’s red Ferrari was gone, but Don heard its wheels screeching in the distance. Don saw that car as a symptom of all of Leo’s problems. The man used to drive a Jaguar — sleek as anything, but black, which said he didn’t need to show off. Then Leo had tossed it aside — along with his wife and kids — for a ride that came straight out of “Magnum, P.I.” The woman who came with it had fake hair and fake tits. Her nails were so long Don wondered how she wiped her own ass.
The few people who knew Don well thought him cold and calculating, but he counted on instinct. Meticulous planning was important, but instinct had kept him from cops and harm for most of his life. His only regrets were the times he’d ignored his gut. So he steered his navy sedan out of the lot, following the Ferrari.
He found it below a dark curve of the highway, first sighting the break in the guardrail. The Ferrari should have tumbled down the hill, but a tree had caught it. As Don got closer, he saw Leo with his head bowed and hands clasped together, as if praying. “Nice stuntwork,” Don said, opening the door.
Leo stared. Were those tears streaming down his face? Don looked away, giving him space to get himself together. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
“I can’t go home,” Leo whispered.
“Why not?”
“Tammi’s dead.”
“What? Since when?” Don thought of the cheap piece of ass with the talons.
“Two days ago. She was stepping out on me.” Leo’s words came out in breathy gasps. “I gave up everything for her, and she… she…”
“I get it.” How many messes like that had Don cleaned up for other people?
“I keep thinking on it, feeling my hands around her neck. God help me.” Leo started to cry loudly.
Don ground his jaw. “Look, I’ll take care of the body for you.”
Leo sobbed harder. “Wish I was dead.”
“But… you got your kids.”
“You’re not listening, man. Please.”
Something ached in Don’s chest.
“Please,” Leo repeated. “You the only friend I can ask, Don.”
In Don’s vision, Leo was melting away, replaced by a skeleton still covered in flesh. Usually the question was how to maximize suffering. It had been a while since he’d snapped a neck. Don didn’t want to do it, but he said, “Okay.”
BIO: BIO: Hilary Davidson’s debut novel, THE DAMAGE DONE (Forge, 2010), has been nominated for an Anthony Award, a Macavity Award, and an Arthur Ellis Award. Her second novel, THE NEXT ONE TO FALL, a mystery set in Peru, will be published by Forge in February 2012. Hilary won the 2010 Spinetingler Award for Best Short Story for “Insatiable,” and her stories appear in upcoming collections including CRIME FACTORY: THE FIRST SHIFT, D*CKED, and BEAT TO A PULP: ROUND TWO. Visit www.hilarydavidson.com.
Don didn’t have friends, but on the scale of people who bugged the hell out of him, Leo ranked low. So low Don saw him every couple months for drinks or pool or a game. Leo had a buddy who always scored good tickets.
So what’s with Leo tonight? Don wondered. He drank, watching Leo lurch out of the men’s room for the tenth time, rubbing his nose. Leo ran smack into a big greaseball who looked ready to take a swing at him. But the greaseball stopped dead, hypnotized by something he instinctively recognized. Don watched him ooze away, muttering. Leo sank into the chair across from him.
“Hell of a night,” Don said.
“Yeah.” There was a grayish cast to Leo’s dark brown skin, and the whites of his eyes weren’t white but yellow, like a jaundice victim. Or a junkie. Don’s brain flinched from that thought.
“Not getting a new car, are you?” Don tried to keep his tone neutral.
“Hell no.” Leo’s smile stretched his fleshy face, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Ride I got runs too fast for me.” He downed the double scotch a waitress had set down while he’d been coking up. “Good to see you, man.” He stood suddenly and put out his hand.
Don shook it. “See you around.”
After Leo left, Don tried to finish his drink, but he couldn’t shake the image of a raw, moist cut of meat. That was what Leo’s hand had felt like. It was none of his business, he told himself, but he found himself standing, tossing bills on the table, and heading for the door.
Leo’s red Ferrari was gone, but Don heard its wheels screeching in the distance. Don saw that car as a symptom of all of Leo’s problems. The man used to drive a Jaguar — sleek as anything, but black, which said he didn’t need to show off. Then Leo had tossed it aside — along with his wife and kids — for a ride that came straight out of “Magnum, P.I.” The woman who came with it had fake hair and fake tits. Her nails were so long Don wondered how she wiped her own ass.
The few people who knew Don well thought him cold and calculating, but he counted on instinct. Meticulous planning was important, but instinct had kept him from cops and harm for most of his life. His only regrets were the times he’d ignored his gut. So he steered his navy sedan out of the lot, following the Ferrari.
He found it below a dark curve of the highway, first sighting the break in the guardrail. The Ferrari should have tumbled down the hill, but a tree had caught it. As Don got closer, he saw Leo with his head bowed and hands clasped together, as if praying. “Nice stuntwork,” Don said, opening the door.
Leo stared. Were those tears streaming down his face? Don looked away, giving him space to get himself together. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
“I can’t go home,” Leo whispered.
“Why not?”
“Tammi’s dead.”
“What? Since when?” Don thought of the cheap piece of ass with the talons.
“Two days ago. She was stepping out on me.” Leo’s words came out in breathy gasps. “I gave up everything for her, and she… she…”
“I get it.” How many messes like that had Don cleaned up for other people?
“I keep thinking on it, feeling my hands around her neck. God help me.” Leo started to cry loudly.
Don ground his jaw. “Look, I’ll take care of the body for you.”
Leo sobbed harder. “Wish I was dead.”
“But… you got your kids.”
“You’re not listening, man. Please.”
Something ached in Don’s chest.
“Please,” Leo repeated. “You the only friend I can ask, Don.”
In Don’s vision, Leo was melting away, replaced by a skeleton still covered in flesh. Usually the question was how to maximize suffering. It had been a while since he’d snapped a neck. Don didn’t want to do it, but he said, “Okay.”
BIO: BIO: Hilary Davidson’s debut novel, THE DAMAGE DONE (Forge, 2010), has been nominated for an Anthony Award, a Macavity Award, and an Arthur Ellis Award. Her second novel, THE NEXT ONE TO FALL, a mystery set in Peru, will be published by Forge in February 2012. Hilary won the 2010 Spinetingler Award for Best Short Story for “Insatiable,” and her stories appear in upcoming collections including CRIME FACTORY: THE FIRST SHIFT, D*CKED, and BEAT TO A PULP: ROUND TWO. Visit www.hilarydavidson.com.
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